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Title: The secret woman
A play in five acts
Author: Eden Phillpotts
Release date: February 19, 2026 [eBook #77979]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Duckworth and Co, 1912
Credits: Tim Lindell, Jack Janssen and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECRET WOMAN ***
THE SECRET WOMAN
THE SECRET
WOMAN
A PLAY IN FIVE ACTS
BY
EDEN PHILLPOTTS
LONDON
DUCKWORTH AND CO.
HENRIETTA ST. COVENT GARDEN
1912
CAST OF THE FIRST PRODUCTION AT THE KINGSWAY THEATRE, ON TUESDAY,
FEBRUARY +20TH+, 1912
+Anthony Redvers+
+Jesse Redvers+
+Michael Redvers+
+Nathaniel Tapp+
+Joshua Bloom+
+William Arscott+
+Joseph Westaway+
+Toby Hannaford+
+Ned Pearn+
+Police Inspector+
+Ann Redvers+
+Barbara Westaway+
+Salome Westaway+
+Sarah Tapp+
+Claude King+
+Hunter Nesbit+
+Harold Chapin+
+E. H. Paterson+
+William Farren+
+Horace Hodges+
+Charles Daly+
+J. E. Daniels+
+Allan Wade+
+Tom Mowbray+
+Janet Achurch+
+Esmé Hubbard+
+Iris Hoey+
+Mrs. A. B. Tapping+
ACT I
+Scene+: _The kitchen of Harter Farm in the Dartmoors._
_A white-washed room with large, open hearth, on which a fire burns.
A flight of stone steps descends into the kitchen. At back, open
two windows with deep embrasures, wherein are set pots of geraniums
and succulent plants. On the left there stands a tall dresser with
‘willow pattern’ and other blue and white crockery. Beside the
stairs, there stands a ‘grandfather’ clock. From the ceiling suspend
hams, tied up in canvas, and a few bunches of herbs in muslin bags.
Upon the mantelshelf are arranged various bright canisters of tin and
brass and a piece of ornamental crockery at each end. Above, against
the wall, hang a gun and a whip or two on a rack, a pair of spurs,
and an old powder-flask. On one side of the mantelshelf hangs a fox’s
mask with a grocer’s almanac under it; on the other side, a stuffed
badger in a glass case. Upon the hearth are pots and pans. A long,
bare, deal table runs down left of centre and benches stand on each
side of it. There is a smaller table between the windows with a board
and rolling-pin, a flour-dredger and a jar or two upon it. A pail,
brooms and dusters litter the floor. A settle stands at right angles
to the fire._
[+Joshua Bloom+ _and_ +Sarah Tapp+ _discovered_.
+Bloom.+ The days of peace are over.
+Sarah.+ [_Rolling pastry._] That’s like you men! That’s the thanks a
woman gets. The missis goes to nurse her sick mother and all of us be
sheep without the shepherd while she’s away. Yes, all of us, Joshua
Bloom--from her husband downward. And now, because she’s coming back----
+Bloom.+ You know what I mean.
+Sarah.+ Yes, I know. A woman like Ann Redvers do gall the common sort
a bit. You want to be fine yourself to mark her fineness.
+Bloom.+ Well, you’d best to tidy up this here rogue’s roost of a
kitchen afore she comes home, else you’ll hear more about her fineness
than like. [_A whistling heard._] Hark to master! When she’s away, he
wants her home again; when she’s home, he’ll soon want her away.
[_Enter_ +Anthony Redvers+.
+Redvers.+ William Arscott be riding down the hill, Joshua. Get over to
him and take him to the stable. The mare’s better since morning by the
look of her.
[_Exit_ +Bloom+.
+Sarah.+ Lucky for her! I pity any beast that gets into that hateful
hoss doctor’s hands. He’s harder than moorstone--that man--for the
granite lets the moss live on it.
+Redvers.+ You’re not fair to him, Sarah. He’s only hard outside.
+Sarah.+ Hard, hard all through. We women know. Ax Barbara Westaway.
+Redvers.+ She might have done worse than take him when he offered;
for, if she had, the family wouldn’t be in such a tight place as it is
now.
+Sarah.+ ’Twill be the workhouse for ’em all.
+Redvers.+ Nonsense, nonsense! They’ve some good friends yet. And the
girls are both fighters. Where’s Jesse and Michael got to?
+Sarah.+ Michael have gone to catch a trout for his mother’s tea.
Jesse’s reading by the waterfall.
+Redvers.+ Dash that chap! He’ll be reading when the Trump of Doom
sounds.
+Sarah.+ Same as you’ll be whistling, master. No doubt each human
creature will be surprised following out his habits. And that’s a sure
reason why us should have good habits and not bad. Not much hope for
them as be catched red-handed in wickedness at the Last Trump.
+Redvers.+ You preach another time, Sarah, or you’ll be catched
red-handed in this muck of a kitchen. ’Tis the missis, not the Last
Trump be coming. [_Enter_ +Jesse+ _with book_.] You’d best to put
that book away, Jesse, and buzz about. Mother’ll be home by tea-time
and I’ve got fifty things to do yet afore then. [_To_ +Sarah+.] Has
Nathaniel started with the trap?
+Sarah.+ He was away an hour agone.
+Jesse.+ I met Barbara Westaway this morning, father. The Westaways are
coming over presently.
+Redvers.+ Ah!
+Jesse.+ They know that mother’s due back, and they’re set on bringing
a little gift to mark her home-coming.
+Redvers.+ [_Whistles while_ +Jesse+ _speaks, and goes on whistling a
few notes after he has finished. Suddenly he stops and speaks._] How
would it do if we asked ’em to tea?
+Jesse.+ Why not?
+Sarah.+ Haven’t you got more sense? Be it likely that missis will want
a pack of strangers?
+Jesse.+ They’re not strangers.
+Redvers.+ Sarah’s right all the same. ’Twouldn’t do. [_Passes flowers
in window._] I wish that geranium had blowed for her--the white one
she’s so fond of; but flowers don’t care no more for people than bees
do for Sunday.
[_Exit whistling._
[+Jesse+ _sits down by the fire and lolls back with his hands
in his pockets and a pipe in his mouth. He takes a feather
from a tin of feathers on the mantelshelf and cleans his
pipe._
+Sarah.+ Now don’t you sit caddling there, Jesse--it ban’t the time for
it. I want your room, not your company.
+Jesse.+ There’s an hour yet.
[_Enter_ +Michael+.
+Sarah.+ Hast caught a fish for mother, Michael?
+Michael.+ Yes, I have--a whacker; a good half-pound he runs. She’ll
have it fresh as fresh. I be going up over to meet the trap in a minute.
+Sarah.+ ’Tis a red-letter day. I always vow that this house be like a
corpse without her.
[_She begins to tidy up, and_ +Michael+ _helps her for a time_.
+Michael.+ So ’tis then; father’s nought when she’s away. All he does
be to make bad bargains. ’Tis my mother has the brains, Sarah.
[_Stops helping_ +Sarah+, _takes a whip from the bracket above
the fireplace and prepares to mend it at the table. To do
so he brings cobbler’s wax and whipcord from a drawer in the
dresser._
+Jesse.+ [_Shutting his book and flinging it across into the settle._]
That’s foolishness, Michael. I know mother’s wiser than the run of
women, and watchful for father, and a saint of God if you like; but in
brains--no. Father’s first there.
+Michael.+ I like father well enough--as well as you like mother
anyway; but mother’s the light of this house. And if you be going to
speak against mother, Jesse, don’t you do it afore me. I care for her
better than you do, and you’re jealous of me, because she loves me best.
+Sarah.+ Hush, you boys! Go an’ get your fish, Michael, and be quiet.
+Michael.+ I won’t hear mother run down by him, or anybody on God’s
earth.
+Jesse.+ D’you think I mind because mother likes you best? Why, ’tis
the proper thing. You’re all mother through and through--save in wits.
And I’m father over again. He understands me.
+Michael.+ If he do, you’re about the only thing he does understand.
+Jesse.+ [_Starting up._] You’re a wicked rascal to say that! But
you shan’t anger me with with your trash. I see your game; you want
to drive me out of my father’s house and be free of me. Well, it may
happen that way. I don’t love Harter, and I don’t love you.
+Michael.+ [_Passionately throwing down his whip._] Jesse, Jesse!
You’ll drive me mad! Ban’t you my elder brother? God, He knows I never
thought of such a thing--never.
+Jesse.+ Oh, shut up--here’s Arscott.
[_Enter_ +William Arscott+.
+Arscott.+ Where’s the whistling man?
+Michael.+ Gone to look for the hoss-doctoring man, I reckon.
+Jesse.+ Father was here a minute ago.
+Arscott.+ Well, give me a drop of cider and then I’ll away. Can’t wait
for him.
[_Exit_ +Sarah+ _scowling at_ +Arscott+.
+Michael.+ They don’t call you Busy Billy for nothing, Mr. Arscott.
+Arscott.+ No, my son, they do not. I’ll send over a ball for the
mare. There’s nothing much wrong. Don’t work her till I’ve seen her
again.
+Michael.+ [_Looking at_ +Jesse+.] Father thought she was going to die.
[_Enter_ +Sarah+ _with jug and mug on tray_.
+Arscott.+ And you’d like to put a pinch of poison in it, wouldn’t you,
Mrs. Tapp?
+Sarah.+ I say you’re hard and I know you’re hard.
+Arscott.+ Must be ’ard if you want to be ’appy. Good luck, ma’am, I’d
sooner have this tap than yours.
[+Michael+ _laughs_. +Arscott+ _drinks_. +Redvers’+ _whistle is
heard. He enters as_ +Arscott+ _puts down mug_.
+Arscott.+ [_Shakes hands._] Well, Redvers, your mare ban’t going home
this time.
+Redvers.+ Bother the mare, Billy; what’s this I hear tell about Joe
Westaway?
+Arscott.+ How should I know? That he’s a silly old fool and wants it
both ways, perhaps. But you can’t eat your cake and have it too. ’Tis
time a few of us saw our money.
+Redvers.+ Don’t you be too short with the man. He’s done a lot of good
in his time.
+Arscott.+ If you was a creditor, you wouldn’t be so large-minded.
+Michael.+ ’Tis all very well to give the children pennies, when you’re
owing the fathers pounds. That’s what Mr. Westaway does.
+Arscott.+ [_To_ +Michael+.] Ah! You’re the chap for me! Money’s
money, and he’s got to face the music--like the rest of us.
[_Exit with_ +Michael+. +Jesse+ _goes back to his book_.
+Sarah.+ A holy terror that man! He’d sell the primrosen off his
mother’s grave. Poor old Joe won’t have a shirt to his back when
Arscott have done with him.
[_Picks up broom and dusters and goes upstairs._
+Redvers.+ There’s no credit for being generous now-a-days. In fact
there’s no credit for anything.
+Jesse.+ [_Putting down book._] Why does mother like Michael better
than me, father?
+Redvers.+ Stuff and nonsense!
+Jesse.+ He’s little better than a fool sometimes.
+Redvers.+ Michael’s no fool. He’s your mother again. You and me ban’t
quite so hard at the edges as mother and Michael--more like to be
broken in consequence.
[_Whistles gently._
+Jesse.+ I don’t care--so long as I am your favourite.
+Redvers.+ There’s the Westaways! [_Goes to the door as the Westaways
pass the window._] Come in, come in.
[_He throws open the door._
[_Enter_ +Joseph Westaway+, _with_ +Barbara+ _and_ +Salome+
_behind him_.
+Redvers.+ Why! Here’s a fine sight for sore eyes! How’s yourself,
flock-master?
[_Both_ +Jesse+ _and_ +Anthony+ _show great pleasure. They all
shake hands._
+Westaway.+ Under the weather a bit and I won’t deny it. ’Twill come
right no doubt, but the means be hid from me for the minute. No matter
about my troubles. Your missis be coming home, so nought would do but
Salome must pick her a gert bunch of bluebells and Barbara fetch along
a brave pair of ducks. ’Tis coals to Newcastle, as I told ’em.
[+Jesse+ _takes the ducks from_ +Barbara+ _and the bluebells
from_ +Salome+.
+Redvers.+ Far from it, Joe. She’ll be properly pleased, I promise you.
+Jesse.+ We’ll get some water for these, Salome.
+Salome.+ Will this jug do?
[_Goes to dresser and takes a jug from it._
+Jesse.+ Mother’s fond of bluebells.
[_Exeunt_ +Jesse+ _and_ +Salome+.
+Westaway.+ [_Sitting in armchair by the fire, as_ +Redvers+
_directs_.] Far be it from me to throw a shadow on the day; but things
be at a climax to Watchett Hill, my dear.
+Redvers.+ So I hear; and I don’t believe it.
+Barbara.+ You ask Busy Billy.
+Westaway.+ Who’d have thought such things could hap? A good while ago
we was cornered for money here and there, and so I just up and signed
a few documents. ’Twas as easy as shelling peas, Anthony, and I made
up my mind, very steadfast from that moment, that my beautiful girls
shouldn’t be pinched--not so long as I could put my hand to a document.
+Redvers.+ A pity ’twas Arscott you went to.
+Westaway.+ Why? The man thought the world of me and my family. He
offered ten year ago for Barbara!
+Barbara.+ You didn’t ought to mention it, father.
+Redvers.+ Everybody knows it, my dear.
+Westaway.+ And he kept single for ever after, because she couldn’t do
with him. But I could; and knowing him for a very deep and clever chap,
where money was the matter, I went to him, in a large spirit, and he
met me in the same--so I thought at the time.
+Barbara.+ Three hundred we borrowed from him on a mortgage.
+Westaway.+ And now the money have mounted up something shocking.
+Redvers.+ Didn’t you pay no interest?
+Westaway.+ Certainly I’d meant to do so. But it slipped my memory,
along of one thing and another, and he was too much the gentleman, as
I thought, to name it. And what with standing him treat at ‘The Hearty
Welcome’ and ‘The Green Man’--scores and scores of times; and what with
sending him many and many a good goose and turkey; and what with fresh
eggs and a bit o’ cream and so on, I thought it would turn out all
right. Then, being uncommon short, I offered to put my hand to another
document again--last week ’twas--and, to my surprise, Master Billy went
so nasty as a rat in a trap and forgot all about they geese and turkeys
and free drinks and all! Properly mazed I was. You see my interest have
gone on compounding all by itself. That’s the worse of money! it won’t
stand still. It always runs from you, or to you.
+Redvers.+ True enough, Joe.
+Barbara.+ And now father will mighty soon be a flock-master without
any flock.
+Westaway.+ And a farmer without any farm.
+Redvers.+ ’Tis a thousand pities you let the interest go.
+Westaway.+ So ’tis then. And us have got to take the boots and shoes
out of the bread-and-butter at Watchett Hill in consequence--ain’t we,
Barbara? But next year will see us righted, I hope. We be going to
retrench.
+Barbara.+ If there was vartue in a word, we’d soon be easy. ’Tis
‘retrench’ with father from morn till night now.
+Redvers.+ The thing is to do it.
+Westaway.+ Dallybuttons! And don’t I do it? Like a hawk I be grown.
Why, I’ll snap the sugar-basin off the table if I think my maidens be
making too free--aye, and the teapot, too! I tell ’em to go out in the
hedges and gather marjoram and brew herby tea--same as our grandmothers
did.
+Barbara.+ Billy Arscott’s the danger. The others be a kindly lot.
[+Jesse+ _enters with_ +Salome+. _Both are downcast._
+Westaway.+ I don’t want mercy nor nothing like that. I’ve gived and
gived all my life, Redvers, and if there’s none to give to me in my
turn--why, I can go without. I’m a patient old blade, as we all should
be at seventy; but justice--justice I’ve a right to claim.
+Jesse.+ Just the one thing you can take your oath you won’t get, Mr.
Westaway.
+Westaway.+ Don’t you be so acid at your time of life, my son.
+Redvers.+ [_Impulsively, after looking at_ +Salome+.] Well, come in
here with me, Joe--in my workshop. I’m wishful to hear a bit more about
this. Don’t you go, you girls; I shan’t keep him long. [_Aside to_
+Salome+.] Bide a bit.
+Barbara.+ Where’s Mrs. Tapp to?
+Redvers.+ She’s busy sweeping and garnishing. The missis was due at
Okehampton afore five. Tapp’s off to fetch her. Come on, Joe.
+Jesse.+ Sarah’s up over, Barbara.
+Barbara.+ Then I’ll run and see her. _Goes upstairs._
+Redvers.+ This way, master.
[_Exeunt_ +Redvers+ _and_ +Westaway+.
+Salome.+ There, mind you tell her I picked ’em for her.
[_Puts jug of bluebells on table._
+Jesse.+ You don’t answer me--you must do that at least, Salome. You
know how things are with me. It’s like coming alive out of death when
I’m alone with you for a moment. Oh, Salome, why not, my pretty bird?
But you say nought--and no news isn’t good news when a chap’s courting.
+Salome.+ [_Treating_ +Jesse+ _as if he were a boy_.] I’m not for a
husband, my dear. We must be sensible. ’Tis all the poor can be. No
time to think about marrying. My sister and me have got to keep father
out of the workhouse somehow.
+Jesse.+ If I could only help!
+Salome.+ You can’t. None can, so we must stir ourselves.
+Jesse.+ If I had money!
+Salome.+ If--if! Nobody’s got no money here, but Arscott. He’s made of
it.
+Jesse.+ My father’s well to do.
+Salome.+ Long may he bide so.
+Jesse.+ I hope Arscott will be generous.
+Salome.+ Not him! I reckon my father can show him where that road
leads.
+Jesse.+ I’m such a useless brute.
+Salome.+ Don’t you say that. You’ve got plenty of brains--if you’d but
use ’em.
+Jesse.+ Salome, would twenty pounds be any use?
+Salome.+ No, nor yet fifty. Keep your savings.
+Jesse.+ I feel I could do things, if I were once out of this place.
’Tis like a prison to me sometimes. If it wasn’t for you here--and
father.
+Salome.+ You can’t do wiser than stick to him, and forget me.
+Jesse.+ Mother’s so----
+Salome.+ Yes--I understand. Well--she’ll be here and wish us at
Jericho in a minute. [_Rising._] You’ve said some pretty things to me,
Jesse, and I’m sure you meant them; but I’m not the marrying sort. I
must be free.
+Jesse.+ [_Gloomily._] The likes of you don’t go free for long.
+Salome.+ I’m far off what you think. There’s a lot of the devil in me,
Jesse.
+Jesse.+ You wake the devil in others. You’re an angel
yourself--all--all angel--to the dinky dimple at the corner of your
mouth. [+Salome+ _smiles, but not at him_.] I’ll win you yet! I’ll live
to do some mighty big thing, and _make_ you love me!
[+Sarah+ _and_ +Barbara+ _descend the stairs_.
+Salome.+ Then set about it. Stop reading books and go into the world.
You’re all boy still.
[_Exit_ +Jesse+.
+Barbara.+ ’Tis no use saying them things against the vetinary, Mrs.
Tapp. William Arscott lent father good money on the farm at a very
ticklish time; and now he wants it again; as we all well knew he would.
And why not? Who shall blame him? I don’t for one. The man’s honest,
and we must be the same.
+Sarah.+ A saint of God like your father! Anybody did ought to be proud
to lend him money--and forget it.
[_Enter_ +Redvers+ _and_ +Westaway+.
+Westaway.+ ’Tis more, far more than I can ask or expect, Anthony.
+Redvers.+ Stuff and rubbish. Wouldn’t you help me at a pinch, if it
had been t’other way round?
+Westaway.+ List, you girls. ’Tis an answer to prayer. Redvers be
going bail for me! He will do it, though I beg him not.
+Barbara.+ You can’t, Mr. Redvers--’tis out of reason.
+Redvers.+ Right’s better than reason, Barbara. You very well know
what your father and you girls be to me. Not another word. I’ll see
Hannaford to-morrow, and Arscott too.
+Barbara.+ [_To_ +Sarah+.] What’ll Mrs. Redvers say?
+Sarah.+ [_Going off with rolling-pin and board, &c._] Same as your
father: that ’tis an answer to prayer.
[_Exit._
+Barbara.+ We can’t thank you. ’Tis high above thanks.
+Redvers.+ I’m properly glad to do it.
+Westaway.+ You’ll reap your reward in this world, as well as the next,
my son. For ’twill _pay_ you, Anthony--over and above the kindness and
goodness and Christian charity and the blessing of it--beyond all that,
there’s the _interest_, and you’ll be just so much amazed as I was to
see the way that jumps up. Pounds and pounds in your pocket in no time!
+Barbara.+ Come on home, father. Mrs. Redvers will be back before
you’ve done talking.
+Westaway.+ Good-bye; good-bye, my dear man; and God bless you and
reward you.
+Barbara.+ We can only feel it.
+Salome.+ I’ll come after. I want to tell Mr. Redvers about they ponies
Tom Bassett takes to market next week.
+Redvers.+ Good-bye--good-bye. Let your minds be easy. Everything’s
going all right.
[+Barbara+ _and_ +Mr. Westaway+ _go out_.
+Redvers.+ [_Looks round to see they are alone._] O lord, I thought I
was never going to get a glimpse of my precious girl!
[_Puts his arms round_ +Salome+.
+Salome.+ Take care, Tony. Where’s Sarah? You darling man to help ’em!
But can you--can you do this for father and not hurt your own?
+Redvers.+ Of course I can, and proud to do it! The money’s safe enough
in the long run, if I take over the mortgage and the life insurance
from Arscott. Leave that.
+Salome.+ I couldn’t speak when I heard, because I knew so well ’twas
for me you’d done it.
+Redvers.+ What better reason? Be all safe for Thursday?
+Salome.+ Of course it be.
+Redvers.+ At the broom patch. There’s a full moon.
+Salome.+ I’ll be there. Whistle and I’ll come to you, Tony. I’ll come
singing--and love to come--always--always!
+Redvers.+ My little armful of joy!
[_Takes her in his arms again._
+Salome.+ [_Sings ‘Widecombe Fair’ very softly for his ear alone._]
“Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thy grey mare,
All along, down along, out along lee,
For I want for to go to Widecombe Fair,
Wi’ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney.”
+Redvers.+ [_Sings softly._]
“Peter Davy, Dan’l Whiddon, Harry Hawk!”
+Salome.+
“Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all--
Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all!”
+Redvers.+ I love that song better’n any music on earth! It means
you--you dinky, grey-eyed thing!
+Salome.+ Our fun’s over for a bit I reckon. A heavenly time we’ve had,
Tony!
+Redvers.+ Better’n heaven, Sally. There won’t be no Halstock Glen in
heaven. There won’t be no little holt for you and your old red fox in
heaven.
+Salome.+ [_Kisses him._] Ban’t you tired of me?
+Redvers.+ When I’m tired of my life--not sooner.
+Salome.+ Are you glad she’s coming home?
+Redvers.+ Yes, I am. I think the wide world of Ann, and you know it.
She’s a grand woman--a wonder among women. She did ought to come home
happy, for she’s nursed her mother into life again after she was given
up by the doctor. Please God all will go smooth, as I like it to. We
can live our lives but once, and ’tis a sad pity to see a woman so
stern and hard with herself as Ann. Terrible high-minded and religious
is she.
+Salome.+ Darkness to your light.... If she knew....
+Redvers.+ I feared once, but I don’t now. What the heart don’t guess,
the soul don’t smart for. She’ll never know.
+Salome.+ Jesse offered marriage to me again by the waterfall just now.
’Tis like hearing a child chirrup about love--after knowing a man’s.
+Redvers.+ I must rattle up Jesse and make him tackle life. He’s always
mooning over his books. [_Embraces her._] Well, get going. [_Kisses
her._] Till Thursday. I’ll make a snug nest for my li’l dormouse!
[_She goes off and_ +Redvers+ _walks to the door and watches her
with happiness in his eyes. He whistles ‘Widecombe Fair’
gently. He then returns to the kitchen and begins to help in
the business of making it tidy._
[_Enter_ +Sarah+.
+Redvers.+ Don’t you say nothing about that matter of helping Joe
Westaway, Sarah.
+Sarah.+ [_Takes tablecloth from drawer in the dresser and begins to
prepare for tea on the long table._] ’Tis no business of ours. You’ll
tell your wife when you choose.
[_Enter_ +Bloom+.
+Bloom.+ The trap be in sight up ’pon top of the hill, master!
+Redvers.+ I’ll run out then. Put they bluebells in the midst of the
table, Sarah. They’ll please her tremendous.
[_Exit._
+Bloom.+ He’s like a play-actor, that man. Be damned if he ain’t
fooling himself he wants her back!
+Sarah.+ You bitter-weed! Here, take they pots and get ’em out of the
way, and fill the kettle.
+Bloom.+ [_Staring round._] My stars! The kitchen ain’t looked like
this since she went out of it.
[_Exit with a pot or two, the kettle and a saucepan from the
hearth. Enter_ +Michael+, _he carries some hand luggage_.
+Michael.+ Here she is--here’s mother, Sarah. And she’s so thin as a
herring and pale as a lily. But she’s all right! She’s all right!
[_Enter_ +Tapp+ _with a yellow tin box. There follow him_ +Ann
Redvers+ _and_ +Redvers+.
+Ann.+ [_Coming down and watching_ +Tapp+ _take her box upstairs_.] Be
careful at the corner, Nat. If that box touches the wall, ’twill leave
an ugly mark we’re better without. [_Exit_ +Tapp+ _upstairs_.] And
how are you, Sarah? [_Shakes hands with_ +Mrs. Tapp+.] You’re looking
pretty well and feel so, I hope. All be suent and vitty, I see.
[_Takes in the room swiftly. Her manner is quick, sharp and
apprehensive._
+Sarah.+ We’ve done our bestest. The house be water-sweet from top to
bottom.
+Redvers.+ Sarah’s been up at cock-light this week past, and everyone
of us has lent a hand.
+Michael.+ Never was a properer spring-cleaning, mother.
[_Exit._
+Ann.+ We shall see as to that. [_Her eyes are everywhere_.] ’Tis good
to be back. But how much to do. Where’s Jesse? He did ought----
+Redvers.+ [_Aside to_ +Ann+.] He’s about, but he’s down on his luck.
There’s a reason. I’ll whisper it come presently.
[_Enter_ +Jesse+.
+Jesse.+ Ah! mother dear! [_Takes off his hat and kisses her._] You
look but poorly though, and pale and tired.
+Ann.+ I’ve only got the headache along of the train. A cup of tea will
cure it. Be you all right?
[_Enter_ +Bloom+ _with kettle_.
+Bloom.+ Good evening, missis. I hope I see you pretty clever.
+Ann.+ Nicely, Joshua, nicely. And your rheumatics?
+Bloom.+ Worse and worse, ma’am. They do gnaw my bones, like a hungry
dog of a night.
[+Mrs. Redvers+ _moves about; her eyes perceive everything. All
are solicitous to please her._
+Ann.+ Take them bluebells off the table and out of that jug, Sarah.
That’s the one I don’t use. ’Tis worth money.
+Jesse.+ Salome Westaway brought the bluebells for you, mother.
+Ann.+ Very kind of her. The window-sill’s the place for them--not the
tea-table. [+Sarah+ _moves flowers and puts them into another jug_.]
The plants do look a bit thirsty to my eyes.
+Redvers.+ Don’t you trouble about them. They’re all right.
+Ann.+ “Don’t trouble!” That’s your old motto, father. I don’t want
to hear that. [+Tapp+ _descends the staircase with a piece of rope_.]
I’ll go and take off my hat and then tea will be ready. Don’t you cook
nothing for me; I’m off my food just now.
+Redvers.+ My life, that won’t do! ’Tis time and more’n time you was
home again.
+Ann.+ [_Going up staircase._] More’n time, as you say, father.
[+Redvers+ _follows her with hand luggage and a parcel or two_.
+Ann.+ [_Turning._] Leave’em there. I’ll go through ’em presently. Just
a little gift or two for all of ’e. I shan’t be two minutes.
+Tapp.+ I’ve took the rope off the box, missis.
+Ann.+ Put it by in the loft. ’Tis new. I want you, Sarah.
[_She goes upstairs._ +Sarah+ _follows her_. +Tapp+ _goes out
and Bloom follows him_. +Redvers+ _turns to exit whistling_.
+Jesse.+ What’s upset the apple-cart now? Was it my fault?
+Redvers.+ She’s only tired and full of thoughts what to do first.
+Jesse.+ And what to undo that we’ve done to please her.
+Redvers.+ Nay, nay. Her quick eye taketh in so much more than we men
know about. ’Tis only the headache; she’ll come round presently.
[_Enter_ +Sarah+ _from upstairs and_ +Michael+ _with a
frying-pan and a fish_.
+Michael.+ Where’s the fat, Sarah? ’Tis time as I cooked my trout for
mother.
+Sarah.+ Missis will be down house in a minute and the water’s near
boiling.
[_Goes off._
+Redvers.+ Brew it strong, Sarah; brew it strong.
[_Exit whistling with_ +Jesse+. +Sarah+ _returns with some
grease for the fish on a plate and_ +Michael+ _puts it upon
the fire_.
+Sarah.+ I doubt she’ll eat it, Michael.
+Michael.+ Yes, she will--when she hears tell that I’ve catched it and
cooked it for her. Don’t forget the water-cresses.
+Sarah.+ There! If I hadn’t.
[_She goes off._
+Michael.+ [_Shouting._] Mother, be you coming? I’ve got a brave trout
frying for’e.
+Ann.+ [_Upstairs._] I’m down in a moment, Michael boy.
+Michael.+ [_Shouting._] ’Tis damn fine to hear your beautiful voice
again, mother!
+Ann.+ [_At top of stairs._] Don’t you use them bad words, my dear.
[_Descends the stairs. She has taken off her hat and jacket._
+Michael.+ Look at this gert fish waiting for you to eat ’un!
+Ann.+ I doubt I can eat it. I be off my food for the minute.
+Michael.+ [_Takes fish off the fire and rises._] You must eat it,
mother. You be wisht. [_Looks at her closely._] There’s something
fretting you. Don’t tell me there isn’t, for I know it.
+Ann.+ Yes, I’m a bit worried.
+Michael.+ Tell me.
+Ann.+ [_Smiling for the first time._] What a chap for finding out your
mother’s secrets!
+Michael.+ I’ll bet ’tis some of father’s secrets more like.
+Ann.+ His secrets be all meant so well that I haven’t the heart--but
there ’tis--his surprises--buying ponies and one thing and
another--they mostly come out wrong side the ledger.
+Michael.+ He’s got ponies on the brain still.
+Ann.+ ’Tisn’t that--but--well, I’d best think no more about it.
+Michael.+ All’s well now you be home again. You’ll soon steady father
down.
+Ann.+ [_Laughs._] I’d be a cleverer woman than I am to do that.
+Michael.+ Cleverer than you be! I’d like to see the cleverer woman
than you.
+Ann.+ [_Now in good temper._] You flatterer! You’ll be a fine
love-maker some day, Michael.
+Michael.+ I shall never see a girl like you to fall in love with,
mother.
[+Ann+ _smiles and goes to table_. +Sarah+ _enters with
water-cress and plate for fish_. +Michael+ _brings his fish
to the table_. +Sarah+ _then goes to door_.
+Sarah.+ [_Calling._] Tea--tea--tea be ready!
[+Tapp+ _and_ +Bloom+ _enter and take their places at the table_.
+Tapp.+ You do look a thought pinnikin and poor like, missis.
+Ann.+ Along of that stuffy Exeter, Nathaniel. Nobody has their fair
share of air in a town, I reckon.
[_Enter_ +Redvers+ _and_ +Jesse+. +Michael+ _takes his place
beside his mother, who sits at the top of the table_.
+Sarah+ _sits on_ +Michael’s+ _left_. +Jesse+ _goes to the
left of his mother and_ +Redvers+ _takes the bottom of the
table. The tea pot is before_ +Mrs. Redvers+.
+Sarah.+ Shall I pour for ’e, ma’am?
+Ann.+ No, thank you Sarah. Ax a blessing, father, please.
+Redvers.+ For what we are about to receive----
_Curtain._
ACT II
+Scene+: _The rear yard of Harter Farm. The house-door with deep
porch opens on the left of the scene, and beside it stands a
grindstone upon which are some tools. At the back, dividing the yard
from the moor, falls a sharp cleft in the hills surmounted by trees.
A gully lies beneath. A low, broken wall separates the yard from this
gully, and at one spot, on the right, there is an opening in the
wall from which steps descend and drop unseen to the water below.
There are two further exits opening on the right of the stage, with
the wall of a barn between them, and an exit on the left below the
grindstone. There is a litter of straw and red fern about the yard,
and a good pile of clean fern beside the barn. Behind the trees, the
undulations of the moor roll away to tors on the horizon. There is
a wooden bench beside the low wall at the back. A cream pan or two
stands near the doorway on a board. The time is evening, and, during
the act the light fades gradually from rosy brightness to the cool,
pearl-grey twilight of June. The murmur of an unseen waterfall is
heard._
[+Jesse+ _and_ +Anthony Redvers+ _discovered_. +Jesse+ _sits on
the bench and looks over the wall to the water beneath; his
father sharpens a scythe on the grindstone_.
+Redvers.+ I can’t understand--I can’t understand dear mother. She
went out last night to see Mrs. Ford, and that late she returned that
I was in bed and asleep afore she came home. But to bed she never did
come--nor have I seen her to-day, though I rose at dawn and hunted high
and low. When I was out of the way she came back, so Sarah tells me,
all weary and draggled--as if she’d been pixy-led.
+Jesse.+ [_Looks up at the house._] She’s home now.
+Redvers.+ I know it--she’s in her chamber and the door fast locked
against me. Never did the like happen afore.
+Jesse.+ If mother’s got anything on her mind, you should hear it, I
suppose.
+Redvers.+ Surely--surely. What be I for but to take the fret of life
off her shoulders? Though, Lord knows, you can’t always do it, when a
person hides her troubles so close.
+Jesse.+ I should have thought a wife would have no troubles away from
her husband, nor secrets either.
+Redvers.+ Nay, nay; we’ve all got secrets. ’Tis part of human nature
to harbour ’em.
+Jesse.+ [_Listlessly._] I can’t keep secrets--must be sharing them.
You don’t think like mother.
+Redvers.+ She’s a strong thinker, and I’m never too comfortable when
she gets thinking.
[+Jesse+ _nods_.
[_Enter_ +Bloom+ _with milk pails_.
+Redvers.+ A faulty, erring man, am I, Jesse; but I do my poor best
for them I care about. But this--this antic of locking herself up. She
never did that afore.
+Bloom.+ That baggering heron be down on the river again.
+Redvers.+ He’s better dead. He eats a lot of trout. I’ll tell Michael
to get his gun.
[_He looks up at the windows and shows uneasiness; but he
whistles from force of habit. Then he goes off._
+Bloom+ [_Putting down his cans._] Be there a thunder planet in the
air? I’ll wager she’s heard about the master helping Joe Westaway?
+Jesse.+ He hasn’t told her yet.
+Bloom.+ But somebody else have. She was in the village last night,
with the Fords, and she didn’t come home till Lord knows when. A
helpless pauper like Joe be born to make trouble--sure as the sparks
fly upwards. And goes his way rejoicing and says ’tis an answer to
prayer! But a cat and a fool always fall on their feet.
+Jesse.+ The prayer to pray is the one you can answer yourself.
+Bloom.+ That’s right. Hard work’s the only prayer as gets answered on
Dartymoor.
+Jesse.+ ’Tis the fools make all the fret and worry, Joshua.
+Bloom.+ You be a fool, too--running after a maiden.
+Jesse.+ How about when you were in love?
+Bloom.+ Never--no more than a caterpillar, I never cared a cuss for
females. Nature tickles us humans into breeding afore we’ve got the
sense to keep away from it--that’s her craft. But she didn’t get over
me.
+Jesse.+ You was never a hopeful man.
[_Enter_ +Sarah+ _from house_.
+Bloom.+ Never, and never shall be.
+Sarah.+ Come on Joshua, I’m waiting for that milk.
+Bloom.+ [_To_ +Jesse+.] But you’ll get your turn--don’t fear. Us all
have the chance to show what we be good for once in our lives.
+Jesse.+ Did you?
+Bloom.+ Yes, I did. And I was drunk at the time and missed it.
+Sarah.+ You be so impatient, Jesse--impatient with humans and
impatient with hosses and impatient with the very growing things in the
fields.
+Jesse.+ Patient people always get left behind, Sarah--’tis no virtue.
[_Exit._
+Sarah.+ He can say that! And brought up a Christian! Ban’t God in
Heaven patient before all things.
+Bloom.+ God A’mighty patient! I should hope He was. ’Tisn’t a very
strange thing, surely, for the father of a large family to be patient
with his own cranky childer? If the Lord can’t bear with us, who should?
+Sarah.+ His ways ban’t our ways. ’Twould be taking the bread out of
parson’s mouth if we understood the Almighty.
+Bloom.+ And well parson knows it! Yonder boy is after Salome Westaway,
and she won’t take him.
[_Picking up buckets._
+Sarah.+ You didn’t lift his hopes, I lay?
+Bloom.+ No man hears me praise matrimony. I’ve got to thank it for all
my troubles.
+Sarah.+ You? You’re a bachelor.
+Bloom.+ Born in wedlock.
[_Exit. As he goes off_, +Ann Redvers+ _comes out of house. She
is dressed in black and looks haggard and very weary._
+Sarah.+ Good Lord, missis--what’s--?
+Ann.+ Tell Michael I’m down, Sarah.
+Sarah.+ I’ll seek him. He’s clamouring for you.
[+Sarah+ _goes off_. +Ann+ _sits on the bench and looks before
her, staring at the picture in her thoughts_. +Michael+
_hurries in. He carries a gun and leans it against wall._
+Michael.+ Mother! Thank goodness you be down house again! [_Kisses
her._] Whatever’s amiss? I’m terrible troubled for ’e.
+Ann.+ Scorched up--scorched up, body and soul. ’Twas like you to fret.
Oh, my God! there ban’t none to fret no more for me--none but you.
+Michael.+ Shall I call father?
+Ann.+ Oh, Michael, Michael, he’s nothing to us no more. A traitor,
Michael--another woman.
+Michael.+ Father with another woman! You’re dreaming--you’re ill!
+Ann.+ I saw with these eyes. False--false as the first snake--deep as
the pit under his eternal laughing and gentleness.
+Michael.+ Be you sure? Be you sure, mother?
+Ann.+ [_Very wearily._] I’ve growed so old to-day--’tis so far to look
back. And you’re my dear son still; and he’s your father.
+Michael.+ If I knowed where he was in me, I’d tear him out!
+Ann.+ You mind, on the night I came home, that you thought I looked
troubled?
+Michael.+ Aye.
+Ann.+ ’Twas along of meeting Farmer Fortescue in Exeter. Your father
wrote that he was going to Crediton market. But he never went.
Fortescue had seen him that very afternoon alone in Halstock Woods.
+Michael.+ What troubled you?
+Ann.+ To know he’d spoke false. Still I put it away and hoped he’d
forgot. But yesterday evening I was along with the Fords--and Henry
Ford began laughing how he’d seen father in Halstock Glen by night.
But why he couldn’t guess. Then I set homeward and remembered father
was out last night. Presently I stopped on the hill and listed to a
nightjar churn out his queer talk. And then I saw Halstock lying dark
over the river, and something made me slip down to the water and across
the stepping-stones and climb up the Glen. Somehow I knew he was there;
and I laughed to myself to think how I’d surprise Anthony if I chanced
upon him. So I went under a rowan and waited for moon-rise. She came up
behind the cleave all silver-bright, and the darkness was full of light
and the silence was full of peace. My last peace in this world, Michael
boy! But I thought ’twas good to be there. I said to myself, “You’d be
wiser, Ann Redvers, if you comed out like this of a night sometimes,
after the bustle of day, and let your soul take rest at the edge of
the dark.” Then I felt small and mean--to be hid--prying--Ann Redvers
prying! My heart rose, and I stood up in the moonlight and turned to go
away. [_Pause._] But all of a moment, afore I could be gone, there fell
a noise out of the night. A man whistling ‘Widecombe Fair.’ It sounded
ugly and broke the fine peace. But I knew ’twas Anthony and thought no
ill.
+Michael.+ Happy or sad he must be whistling.
+Ann.+ I was going straight to him with my tale of being puzzled and
troubled. And then--and then----[_Pause._] The man was laden. He
carried a bundle of fern, and threw it down in a snug place, where
the yellow broom grew high round about. Its flowers were all turned
to whiteness by the moonlight. And he spread the fern and made a
soft couch of it. Presently he laughed--he laughed; and his laughter
touched something deep down in me. ’Twas the laugh that always goes
before a drink of cider with him, and the Sunday dinner, and such good
things. And I said, “What feast be coming to Anthony Redvers here?” And
suddenly I guessed. [_She breaks off and walks up and down._ +Michael+
_stares at her half in fear_.] I came near screaming then--near
screaming I came. He sat down and still he whistled ‘Widecombe Fair.’
And then--far off--scarce louder than a bird, that wakes at night and
sings a little note--a woman’s voice; and he leapt upon his feet. “My
li’l nightingale!” he said. Oh God! I’d fought so hard to save one
spark of hope till then. But that killed it.... She came--just a shadow
out of the light--and I saw the two of them thicken into one, and I
heard his kisses on her face. But she spoke nought. So they sank into
the dark and I rushed off, careless of the noise I made. They heard
nothing. They were glorying and drowning in each other. The Trump of
God wouldn’t have reached ’em. I wandered till light came. I tramped my
feet raw. ’Twas a misty morning and the stars were smothered afore the
dawn. I fell in the river once, Michael, and got wetted and bruised and
never knew it.
+Michael.+ [_Going to her._] Mother, mother! You shan’t suffer this.
You shall leave father and come away along with me.
+Ann.+ At first I weren’t so very angry. Ban’t that strange? ’Twas all
astonishment. Him--so simple and thankful for small mercies where I was
concerned! A man I’d chilled and chastened in his flesh. That he should
look elsewhere! To think how he frisked when I come back, same as a dog
that welcomes its mistress. ’Twas like a window opening into his soul,
Michael--a window that I didn’t know was there. And through it I saw
him clean emptied of me and full of another woman.
+Michael.+ ’Tis a very wicked, shameful thing for certain.
+Ann.+ Death--death’s the least word. The insult the dishonour, the
sin! God judge him--God judge him for it!
+Michael.+ Speak, and I’ll take you away this very night.
+Ann.+ Nay, my work’s to do. He must hear--he must know.
[_Enter_ +Redvers+. _He exhibits great anxiety._
+Redvers.+ At last, mother! For God’s sake tell me what’s gone wrong. I
shall go mad at this gait.
+Michael.+ Mother....
+Redvers.+ [_Impatiently._] You be off; I don’t want you. Get you
gone and try and shoot that thieving heron down the river. [+Michael+
_hesitates_.] Begone, I say!
[+Michael+ _looks at his mother, takes up his gun, and then
goes out. He indicates acute dislike of his father._
+Redvers.+ Curse that boy! He treats me as if I was a bad smell. I’ll
have a whip-thong about his shoulders yet--old as he is. What’s amiss,
Ann? For God’s love get it off your mind. There’s all the woe of the
world in your face.
+Ann.+ [_Standing before him and speaking suddenly in a loud voice._]
What were you doing in the broom patch with a woman last night?
[+Redvers+ _falls back and gasps. He keeps his eyes on her,
draws a red handkerchief from his pocket and mops his face._
+Ann.+ I’d have believed it of any living man before you.
+Redvers.+ [_Very slowly._] Once I thought you was bound to find out,
and I feared it; and then time passed and I feared no more, and I
thought you would never find out. And now you have. And so all’s up.
Thank God you can keep cool about it. No wife ever forgives that--no
woman ever understands. What’s your will, Ann?
[_Sits down quietly on form by the wall._
+Ann.+ Have I been a good partner to you?
+Redvers.+ My pride and glory for three and twenty years--my first
thought and prayer.
+Ann.+ Liar! Cruel liar to talk that trash. False while you kissed
me--false while you--
+Redvers.+ [_Rising._] No, Ann--never. I call God to strike me dead
where I stand if I tell anything but truth. I’ve been so true to you as
I have been to myself.
+Ann.+ True to yourself; false to all others belike.
+Redvers.+ Never. You’ve had my love and worship always.
+Ann.+ I saw you make her bed.
+Redvers.+ Is it false to one woman to be fond of another? Has no man
ever loved two women true and tender? ’Tis a thing in their power, I
tell you--a thing that scores have done. I love you with all my heart
and soul. I’d die for you, and die laughing. Can you call home an
impatient word, or harsh speech, or unkind deed from me in all your
life? I’ve loved you rising and sleeping--year in, year out--and you
know it, Ann--you know it in your heart. And t’other be a dear thought
to me also. I wouldn’t deny it if I could. I know ’tis death to you to
hear me say that; but it shall be said.
[_He sits down again._
+Ann.+ She’s younger than me?
+Redvers.+ Leave her out. There’s no stain on her. The fault be
mine--mine through and through. All went well enough, because none was
hurt by it. But now that you be hurt so cruel, ’tis different. You
won’t understand. An angel from heaven wouldn’t understand. ’Twould
take a devil from hell to do that--according to what you believe.
The way of a man’s body--[_Pause._ +Redvers+ _rises, and beats his
breast_.] This here dust be nought--’twill go down to the pit ere long,
and be forgot. But, afore God, my conscience is clear of evil.
+Ann.+ Conscience! To come to me from cuddling her!
+Redvers.+ Try and grasp hold of my meaning afore ’tis too late, Ann.
I’m built so. My flesh and blood’s a bit too much for you and always
was. And a bit too much for me sometimes. Try and understand that a
man like me be turned on a different lathe from a woman like you.
He’s hungrier--thirstier--beastlier--yet I won’t grant that neither,
for I’ve never been that. [_She looks at him with passionate dislike,
moves from him and goes down by the grindstone._] Well, life’s done. I
won’t ax you to be generous--that would be mean; and yet, if I don’t ax
it, you’ll think that I don’t want you to be. But if it had happened
t’other way round----
+Ann.+ [_Turns in wrath. She has taken a heavy knife off the grindstone
where it lies with others._] You dare! To think that--to harbour such a
thought in your filthy mind against me!
+Redvers.+ No, no, no! I thought no such thing. There’s no common clay
at all in you. Who should know that like I know it?
+Ann.+ [_Dropping the knife._] If I’d been a bad wife----
+Redvers.+ The best ever a man had. I’ve blown a trumpet about my
luck ever since we wedded! ’Twas only the fret and trouble, and the
children, and trifles like that ever came between us. But I was a weak
fool to let such things hurt.
+Ann.+ Ann Redvers to marry a weak fool! What was it to find that out?
[_Staring at him._] But I loved you. I was true as steel and I hid my
feelings deep. You’d never have known them to your dying hour--but for
this.
+Redvers.+ [_Strokes his beard and gives a little laugh._] Did you
think I didn’t know? Nay, nay--’twasn’t hid from me, Ann. I knew what
you thought of me well enough. Your eyes told me. Often--often I’ve
seen you despise me with ’em.... And now the past be past and done. I’m
sorry--bitterly sorry about it--so all’s said.
+Ann.+ Why for are you sorry--you that pretend you did no sin?
+Redvers.+ Sorry ’tis found out. That’s all. It went very well and
offered a little joy for two harmless people.
+Ann.+ Harmless! You’ve killed your soul--that’s what you’ve done--and
her’s--and her’s! Who have shared this masterpiece of wickedness with
you?
+Redvers.+ Thank God you don’t know--and please God you never shall.
That’s so much to the good anyway.
[_He sits down again. He reveals great grief upon his
countenance. He leans forward and puts his hands between his
knees._
+Ann.+ After two and twenty years....
[_Her face indicates that she is thinking of old times. Emotions
cross it. Grief fades to indifference, which anger banishes.
Her expression grows inert, and then quickens into a
momentary happiness. Looking into the bygone years, she
smiles. For a moment she forgets. Then her face grows tender
and yearning. He sees nothing; his eyes are on the ground.
He whistles a few notes, then is silent. He turns to the wall
presently and buries his face upon his arm. She takes a step
or two towards him, then hesitates. She weeps and puts her
hands over her face and goes into the house._
+Redvers.+ [_Ignorant that she has gone._] Don’t tell the boys just
yet, Ann. I’ll do any mortal thing in reason. A hugeous upheaval. You
say ’tis death--’tis worse than death. Death makes an end. But this----
[_Turns round and finds that his wife has gone. The sunset fires
have faded and the light is dying. He walks to the door; then stands
still. He picks up the knife that Ann dropped and puts it back on the
grindstone. Then he goes to look over the broken wall at rear of yard.
He stands where it is lowest and sets one foot upon it. He thrusts
his hands into his breeches pockets. There is heard the sound of the
waterfall._] Poor Ann--poor Salome! _[He whistles mechanically. His
face is unutterably mournful. He looks down into the gully and then up
at the hills. For a few moments he ceases to whistle._] If I could bear
it all.
[_He takes a step or two and then returns to the wall and the
former position. Now he whistles ‘Widecombe Fair’ slowly.
Enter_ +Ann Redvers+ _from the door behind him. She weeps no
more. Her face is bright with the spirit of forgiveness._
+Ann.+ Husband--I be going to pardon----
[_She breaks off and listens to the tune that he is whistling.
It silences her and instantly changes her mood._ +Ann’s+
_expression alters into one of fury. She glares at_
+Redvers+, _and loses her self-control. She flies at him,
and strikes him with both hands together at the back of his
neck._ +Michael+ _and_ +Jesse+ _appear down left_. +Michael+
_carries his gun_.
+Ann.+ [_Screaming._] Lewd, pitiless wretch!
+Redvers.+ [_Putting up both hands._] Ann!
[_He topples forward and disappears. There is a moment’s
silence, then his body is heard to strike the rocks
beneath._
+Jesse.+ You’ve killed him mother!
[_He hurries across to the steps in the wall and descends them._
+Michael.+ [_Dropping his gun and hastening to_ +Ann+.] Oh mother,
you’ve done for him!
+Ann.+ Help Jesse--quick--quick!
+Michael.+ I’ll stick up for you for ever.
+Ann.+ Go!
[+Michael+ _descends the steps after_ +Jesse+.
+Jesse.+ [_Below._] I do think he lives.
+Ann.+ Please God--Please God! [_She goes to the top of the steps._]
Gently. Hold up his head, Jesse!
[_She descends a few steps to help them._ +Jesse+ _and_
+Michael+ _carry up their father_.
+Jesse.+ Lie him down here--heap the fern for his head.
[_They lower him gently on fern that litters the yard, near the
wall of the barn._
+Ann.+ Fetch the brandy, Michael.
[+Ann Redvers+ _kneels beside him and opens his collar and
shirt. While she is thus engaged_, +Jesse+ _starts running
across to right exit_. +Michael+, _who is now near door into
house, leaps to his gun and pricks it up_.
+Michael.+ Stop! Come you back Jesse Redvers, or, by Christ, I’ll shoot
you!
+Jesse.+ [_Turns and walks back. Both young men are trembling with
rage._] Shoot then--shoot me in the back--like she killed my father. I
was going for doctor. But shoot, and be a murderer too. I don’t want to
live if he’s gone.
[_He goes off._ +Ann+ _pays no heed to either of them. She knows
now that her husband is dead._
+Michael.+ [_Calls off to_ +Jesse+.] Bring back any other but doctor,
and I’ll swing for you!
[_Drops gun and turns to his mother._ +Ann+ _places the head of_
+Anthony Redvers+ _back gently and buttons up his shirt. She
takes the red handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his
face. Then she rises and moves away, but does not lift her
eyes from him._
+Ann.+ He’s dead.
+Michael.+ ’Twas justice--and God knows it--and them that wouldn’t
understand never shall know it.
[_She still gazes at_ +Redvers+. +Michael+ _creeps up to her and
holds her hand. There remains the murmur of the waterfall._
_Curtain._
ACT III
+Scene+: _The Parlour, Watchett Hill Farm. A poor room with a blurred
looking-glass over the chimney-piece, and wedding and funeral cards
stuck down the sides of it. The gilded frame is tarnished in many
places. A suite of faded and withered green rep occupies the room,
and some of the chairs, with broken legs, stand propped against the
wall. The table carries a vase of dried grass, a family Bible, a
worsted mat or two and a few books. There is also a small, light
table, with ledgers and pen and ink upon it. Oleographs, hung very
high, and mostly crooked, occupy the walls. The lace window-curtains
are torn. The blind is white and ragged. Under the window stands the
couch of the suite. The carpet is very threadbare, and there are
stains of past leaks on the faded, outer wall of the room. Fir-cones
are piled to fill the empty fireplace. A few withered photographs in
frames stand upon the chimney-piece, and, before the hearth, lies a
mat, made of the skins of sheep-dogs. There is a harmonium in one
corner of the room. Doors to the right and the left._
[+Barbara+ _and_ +Salome+ _discovered. They are moving the
things off the table and piling them on the floor. They also
thrust back the arm-chairs and clear the room as much as may
be._ +Barbara+ _is unchanged_. +Salome+ _is paler, thinner
and perceptibly older. She speaks more slowly and with a
heavy indifference. The lustre of happiness has departed
from her. Both women are clad in print dresses, wear aprons,
and have their sleeves turned over their elbows._
+Salome.+ When do they come to sell us up?
+Barbara.+ Half past four o’clock ’tis to be. I doubt there’s room for
’em all in here.
+Salome.+ I can’t see us away from Watchett Hill, Barbara.
+Barbara.+ Can’t you? You soon will--unless--[_She is at the
mantelpiece putting something upon it from the table. A card in the
looking-glass falls and attracts her attention._] My! Strange ’twas
that one! Poor Anthony Redvers--his funeral card. It must be a year as
near as can be.
+Salome.+ ’Tis a year to-day.
+Barbara.+ Little that dead man thought his money would only put off
the trouble for a twelvemonth. [_Putting back card._] Poor Anthony--he
done his best. He gave us a year more. But now ’tis the hoss doctor,
and devil take the hindmost.
+Salome.+ Arscott was patient enough with all his faults.
+Barbara.+ So’s a lot of other things. For why? They can afford to
be. Well might the man bide patient. His patience be growing gold for
him--same as the patience of the earth grows corn. But I don’t quarrel
with Billy and never have.
+Salome.+ [_Listlessly._] I suppose it will be a cottage for father,
and us in service?
+Barbara.+ No, it won’t. I ain’t going to leave father--not for service
anyway. Something have got to be managed. Since we can’t do it single,
we must see if we can do it double.
+Salome.+ What d’you mean?
+Barbara.+ I mean marriage.
+Salome.+ Takes two for that.
+Barbara.+ Well, and the man’s waiting in your case. Jessie Redvers be
wearing his heart out for ’e.
+Salome.+ ‘Husband’! A queer word.
+Barbara.+ [_Grows very self-conscious and looks cautiously round
her._] Not half so queer as the thing by all accounts. But I’ve got my
ideas. I don’t preach to you what I’m afraid to practise. I mean Billy
Arscott. ’Tis now or never.
+Salome.+ You shan’t do it! You shan’t do it, Barbara. A market
bargain! Never would father have a moment’s peace.
+Barbara.+ Oh yes, he would! There’d be peace, and plenty too. The man
would straighten us out in no time. Safe as a rock for a husband.
+Salome.+ And as hard.
+Barbara.+ But I ain’t the fine thing I was ten years ago, and nobody
knows that better than I do. I feel very friendly to him, however,
though ’tis bitter likely he’s got no more use for me. Don’t whisper it
to father.
[_Enter_ +Joseph Westaway+ _and_ +Joshua Bloom+.
+West.+ Eight or ten of ’em be coming. Toby Hannaford and a good few
others. And Billy Arscott will drop in an hour earlier. [_He looks at
his watch._] He’s going through the books once more, with Barbara, so
as to save time at the meeting.
+Bloom.+ Sharpening his claws--the wretch!
+Barbara.+ [_To_ +Bloom+.] Why do you poke in? We don’t owe you nothing
anyway, Joshua Bloom.
+West.+ Joshua’s an inquiring sort of man and wants to add to his
knowledge. He’s never seen a meeting of creditors afore and may never
get the chance again, so I’ve let him come.
+Bloom.+ I be here in a most neighbourly spirit, miss, and got a whole
holiday for it and all! I can’t do nought, but I can shed the light of
my countenance.
+Barbara.+ If that would fright ’em away, I’d say nothing.
+West.+ ’Tis a trying thing for a man in my position to be pressed
for cash. You’d never guess it, Bloom, but I’ve signed a cheque for
forty-nine pounds, eighteen shillings in my time! Yes--and made no stir
about it. But bankrupt’s not the word. No man can be made a bankrupt
with my faith in God, and my knowledge of sheep, and two such good
daughters as these here women.
+Bloom.+ And when all’s said, us shall soon all be in our graves and at
peace.
+West.+ True again! This life’s no more than the sour rind to a sweet
nut, Joshua. Not so sour, neither. Your poor master, Anthony Redvers,
knowed that well enough. If he’d been spared----
+Bloom.+ ’Tis this day year he dropped. The missis and Michael have
took the wreath to the grave and Mister Jesse’s going to call here come
presently. The wreath be a terrible brave trophy--so bright as the
sun and all in a glass case. ’Twill make his mound the pride o’ the
churchyard.
+Barbara.+ ’Tis a black day for her.
+Bloom.+ Black for all of us. But life’s three parts black days, and
the rest be grey. And no doubt you feel terrible down-daunted with this
rally of creditors hanging over you.
+West.+ ’Tis but a small thing against that widow’s grief.
+Bloom.+ The dead be out of it. The grave be a very cheerful state in
my judgment--but for the getting there. I can see Redvers now--lying on
the fern in the yard--for all the world as if he slept. And then come
the inquest, and blame thrown on that dangerous place in the wall, and
the sympathy with the widow and her sons.
+West.+ Well might the folk be sorry.
+Barbara.+ Nothing but good could any say of that man and none will
ever forget his funeral. The most unexpected folk cried like childer.
+West.+ ’Twas a thing to remember without a doubt. Come, Joshua Bloom.
I must be going to the village; but you’ll be back in lots ’o time for
the fun. Us’ll look at my grass on the way. ’Tis a wonderful crop.
+Bloom.+ Grass be nothing without beasts to eat it.
+West.+ A very true saying. Beasts and grass be the halves of a
flail--one nought without t’other. But land’s the solemn thought--the
land under a man’s feet.
+Bloom.+ And never more solemn than when you be going to lose it,
flock-master.
[_Exeunt_ +Westaway+ and +Bloom+. +Westaway+ _looks in at door
again immediately_.
+West.+ Here’s Jesse Redvers come.
[_Exit._
+Barbara.+ We don’t want him yet.
+Salome.+ His mother kissed me last time I fell in with her.
[_Goes to door._
+Barbara.+ [_Busy at left of room._] Who’d have thought the likes of
her would miss a man so much?
+Salome.+ She loved him. Love takes many patterns.
[+Salome+ _opens the door for_ +Jesse+.
+Barbara.+ I wish I knowed what pattern Billy Arscott’s be like to take.
[+Jesse+ _enters. He is clad in work-a-day clothes with a black
band on his arm. He wears his father’s big silver
watch-chain._
+Barbara.+ You be a lot too soon, Jesse.
+Jesse.+ I can’t keep away to-day. You know that.
[+Salome+ and +Jesse+ _stand at the doorway_. +Barbara+ _pays no
heed to them_.
+Salome.+ Bloom says the new wreath be a fine sight.
+Jesse.+ There’s fairer things on his grave already. A great bunch of
white windflowers lies there. Others loved him beside us.
+Salome.+ Flowers be all you can give the dead.
+Jesse.+ ’Tis strange to see the grass so green. It seems only
yesterday his pit was dug for him.
+Salome.+ But the sorrow’s old--like thicky band I stitched upon your
sleeve.
+Jesse.+ Nay--that’s worn rusty. The torture of my memory is fresh
enough. [+Barbara+ _goes to the window_.] They talk of hell, hell’s
here on earth or nowhere.
[+Arscott+ _passes window_.
+Salome.+ Aye; ’tis the living get hell, not the dead.
+Barbara.+ Here he is! [+Arscott+ _raps at the door_. +Barbara+ _takes
off her apron and turns down her sleeves_.] Here’s Billy Arscott.
[_She opens the door and lets in_ +William Arscott+.
+Jesse.+ With a flower in his buttonhole, as though ’twas a revel!
+Arscott.+ If I’m in the way, say so; but half after three was my hour.
[_To_ +Jesse+.] You and me must knock our heads together for these
maidens when the meeting is over. Have ’e got the books, Barbara?
There’s a dozen men and women coming, and they’ll all be so punctual as
winter.
+Salome.+ You don’t want me?
+Barbara.+ [_Nervously._] I may do. You bide in the kitchen, please,
Salome; and Jesse can go about his business and come back later.
+Jesse.+ [_To_ +Arscott+.] ’Tis understand we meet after.
[_Exit_ +Jesse+. +Salome+ _casts a searching look at_ +Barbara+,
_and then at_ +Arscott+. _She goes off._
+Barbara.+ [_Fetching books from table._] At Quarter Day Watchett
Hill’s yours, William--to the last daisy in the meadow--and we must go
forth--father and sister and me.
+Arscott.+ [_Sitting down at the table and taking out his spectacle
case._] Naked we come into the world and naked we leave it. Nobody’s
more sorry for Joe than I am.
+Barbara.+ [_Putting the books in front of him._] ’Tis the land he
loves so dear. I do pray just the leastest scrap o’ land can be spared
for him. Surely a man that’s owned five and twenty acres--you wouldn’t
put him in a house in a row, with nought but a back fence and a back
garden and a rope to dry the washing on?
+Arscott.+ I want to keep him out of the house that’s got a hundred
windows and no garden at all--the Union Workhouse.
+Barbara.+ He’s helped to save many another from it.
+Arscott.+ Why, my dear woman, you wasn’t used to pipe that silly
stuff! Have time broke your pluck?
+Barbara.+ We can’t all wear like William Arscott. The years pass you
by and never leave a mark.
[_Goes to glass and smooths her hair._
+Arscott.+ That’s true. I don’t feel my age.
+Barbara.+ And don’t look it.
[_She gets some account books from the side table and brings pen
and ink. He sits by the big table and puts on his
spectacles._
+Arscott.+ And my hair’s so thick as thatch yet; and when I was at the
tooth-drawer’s to Okehampton, the man said as he’d never seen a better
lot of grinders.
+Barbara.+ All very good signs.
+Arscott.+ There’s a sight more sap in me than anybody guesses, Barbara.
+Barbara.+ A good husband flung away in my opinion.
+Arscott.+ And who flung him away?
+Barbara.+ I’m speaking about you--not me.
[+Arscott+ _rises and goes to the window_. +Barbara+ _stands by
the fireplace, then she kneels, picks up a fallen fir-cone
and upsets others. She is nervous._
+Barbara.+ You ain’t against marriage as a general thing, however?
+Arscott.+ Good lord, no! The world must go on. Didn’t I ax you to
marry me?
[_They go back to the books._
+Barbara.+ [_Sitting down._] We--we all make mistakes.
[_Shows deep anxiety to see how he will take this admission._
+Arscott.+ [_Misunderstanding._] Well, well--but some might think ’twas
you that did--not me.
+Barbara.+ [_Setting her teeth, frowning and then speaking._] I might
think so myself.
[_A long silence. He turns away from the books. Then he stands
up and looks at her. She turns and sits at the table with
her back to him. He regards her very closely and she is
conscious of it and begins to suffer. She puts her hands up
to her neck._
+Barbara.+ Speak for God’s sake! Don’t creep about like that behind me.
I can feel your eyes in my back.
+Arscott.+ [_Putting his spectacles into their case and then into
his pocket._] Take a easy chair and keep cool. ’Tis for me to grow
warm--not you. Do ’e see all that hangs to this?
[_He draws out an easy chair. She does not move, so he sits in
the easy chair himself, crosses his legs, picks his teeth
and smiles._
+Arscott.+ Ban’t leap year neither, Barbara!
[_Laughs._
+Barbara.+ I’ve said it--though it cost more than any male could ever
know, or dream. I’ve said it, and I mean it.
+Arscott.+ You’re sorry for that ‘no’ ten year agone? [+Barbara+
_nods her head_.] Well, well! What a day may bring forth! and me just
beginning to think serious of Widow Powesland--at the ‘Red Lion,’ over
to Tavistock!
+Barbara.+ I didn’t know that, William.
+Arscott.+ Of course you didn’t--more do she.
+Barbara.+ We’d better do the books.
+Arscott.+ Plenty o’ time. ’Tis a very startling thing for a woman
to propose marriage to a man. It don’t often happen and I’m a bit
flustered accordingly. ’Tis a great compliment--if you be thinking of
me and not your father.
+Barbara.+ You’ve a right to put it so, and I knew you would. Of course
it ain’t poetry, like it was ten years ago.
+Arscott.+ Don’t say that neither. I’m sure ’tis very poetical for a
woman to pop the question.
+Barbara.+ I’ve long larned to make sixpence do the work of a shilling,
William, if that’s anything.
+Arscott.+ The craft of you women! ‘Anything’? Dammy! It’s everything!
How many females know the power in a penny? But there’s fors and
againsts. A man mustn’t forget his duty to himself.
+Barbara.+ You’re not likely to do that.
+Arscott.+ Ten years is ten years; and ten years hits a woman harder
than a man. You mustn’t expect them tearing fine speeches of ten years
ago, Barbara.
+Barbara.+ No--I don’t. The gilt’s off the gingerbread--I know that. I
shan’t think the worse of you if you feel the hour be gone past.
[+Arscott+ _gets up and saunters about the room_.
+Arscott.+ As a rule, your ugly, time-stained people are wiser than the
handsome ones. Cast your eyes over me; I’ve got ten wrinkles to your
father’s one. And as for you--a woman’s face and figure be delicate
subjects; but truth is truth, and this is the time for it, and the
truth is that you--[_Shakes his head._] Thinner round the bosom, to
be plain, and paler in the cheek, and not quite the old crown of
honey-coloured hair that I used to doat on.
+Barbara.+ [_Shivers and lifts her hands to her breast as though to
hide it._] I’ve been hungry more than once since then.
+Arscott.+ And so have I--for you, Barbara! Thin--yes, but you’re
worth your corn to any man. Tough and not frightened of work, and
good-looking and good-tempered, and better’n a barrel-load of young,
giglet girls, that don’t know they’re born. [_Extends his arms as if he
wanted her to come into them._] So, cut it short, and come--I’ll take
you--and proud to!
+Barbara.+ [_Bows her head._] You know how we are placed, William.
Father’s got none to trust to but----
+Arscott.+ Be loverly! Be loverly! Don’t drag him in.
+Barbara.+ I wouldn’t mix business with pleasure, William--don’t think
that.
+Arscott.+ More wouldn’t I. And ’tis a real, proper pleasure, all of a
sudden, like this, to think of marrying you.
+Barbara.+ [_Humbly._] Thank you kindly, William.
+Arscott.+ I’m hard, but I’m sporting. I’ll do my part, and do it
well. But don’t rub in your father just now. Give me a kiss, Barbara!
Be blessed if there isn’t a bit of poetry to it--even after all these
years!
+Barbara.+ I know you’re sporting.
[_Lets him kiss her._
+Arscott.+ Mind and keep dumb for a bit. Let the chaps all come with
their long faces and I’ll burst it among ’em presently. Think of Toby
Hannaford’s mug! And your father’s! So good as a circus I promise you.
+Barbara.+ Oh, William, be a real lover and grant one favour--only one.
I’ll never ask another.
+Arscott.+ Ha--ha--you’re begging early! Come here--let me stroke your
fine arms. Sit on my lap--just half a second! Why not? A bowerly maiden
you be--and--and----
[_Takes her in his arms._
+Barbara.+ Swear to God, you’ll never tell no living creature ’twas I
that axed you.
+Arscott.+ Ashamed of your forward ways a’ready! No, be sure I won’t
squeak about that. They’ll all say I’m a scoundrel and drove a sinful
hard bargain--but let ’em! I don’t care--so long as I’ve got you.
+Barbara.+ [_Very gratefully._] Thank you, William [_Leaves him and
prepares to go_] And, William----
[_Returns impulsively, kisses him warmly, and hurries off._
+Arscott.+ [_Licking his lips._] If I’d only guessed, I’d have made old
Joe gallop before this!
[_Enter_ +Joseph Westaway+. _He carries a black bottle and a
parcel in a paper bag._
+Arscott.+ You’re a lucky old fool, flock-master--and don’t deserve a
pennyworth of it! What have you got in thicky bottle--poison?
+West.+ I’ve bought a cake and wine, William. Cake and wine for the
creditors.
[_Takes a big cake out of bag. Enter_ +Barbara+.
+Arscott.+ You be dying game, my old bird!
+Barbara.+ God’s goodness, father! This ban’t a party.
+West.+ It is and it ain’t. Where the males assemble together, save
in church or at hounds, there’s got to be eating and drinking. For
a wedding or a funeral, solids; for a christening or a meeting of
creditors, just a drop of sherry wine and a nibble of plum cake--to
make the people patient. So get a corkscrew and some glasses and no
more about it.
+Arscott.+ You do what you’re told, Barbara, and be sharp.
[_Exit_ +Barbara+. _Men’s voices heard off and men pass the
window._
+West.+ Here they come.
+Arscott.+ Two and two and all in black--like carrion crows to a dead
oss!
[_Enter_ +Bloom+.
+Bloom.+ The creditors be on ’e, Joe! A proper rally of ’em!
[_Enter_ +Salome+, _who wears a sun bonnet, followed by_
+Barbara+. _The latter carries glasses and a corkscrew on a
tray._ +Westaway+ _puts corkscrew into bottle._
+Arscott.+ Why be you like that cork, Joe?
[_Enter_ +Jesse Redvers+, +Toby Hannaford+, +Ned Pearn+ _and
others, including two elderly women_.
+Hannaford.+ We be come, neighbour--and cruel sorry to come.
+Pearn.+ I wish there was any way out, Joe; but the age of miracles be
gone, I’m fearing.
+West.+ Don’t you say that, Ned. The Almighty’s all powerful still. He
could get me out of this fix with a turn of His Holy Wrist if He willed
it so. [_Enter two more men._] Come in--come in. You’re all welcome.
+Arscott.+ This ain’t fair to the drawing-room carpet. Let’s go in the
yard! Fetch along the books, Barbara, and lend me a hand.
+West.+ A good thought. Hand the chairs out of the window, Salome;
there’s some in the kitchen too. But you folk must have a wet afore we
begin.
+Hannaford.+ Nay, nay--we ban’t here to drink wine.
+Bloom.+ To suck blood more like--eh Toby?
+Arscott.+ Come you all into the yard and hear the figures first; and
then I’ll ax you to list to me.
[_Exeunt_ +Arscott+, +Hannaford+, +Pearn+ _and others._ +Bloom+
_helps_ +Barbara+ _to hand some chairs through the window_.
+Jesse+ _and_ +Salome+ _go off._
+Bloom.+ ’Tis for all the world as if the brokers were in a’ready!
+West.+ [_To_ +Arscott+ _outside the window._] Put ’em on the lew side
o’ the big linhey, William. Lend a hand with the table, Barbara.
[+Barbara+ _and_ +Westaway+ _go out carrying the small table
between them._
+Bloom.+ No doubt this will come after. [_Smells the bottle._] Pretty
drinking by the smell of it.
[_Enter_ +Jesse+ _and_ +Salome+. _He carries two kitchen chairs
and she carries one._ +Bloom+ _and another take_ +Jesse’s+
_two chairs and go out with the remaining men._ +Jesse+
_hands_ +Salome’s+ _chair through the window._
+Jesse.+ You don’t mean to be there?
+Salome.+ Why should I watch ’em fight for our bones?
+Jesse.+ Arscott don’t want me yet. My mother’s wishful to help--if she
can--and----
+Salome.+ [_Flings her sunbonnet on to the sofa._] She’s done enough
already.
+Jesse.+ She only kept my father’s promise.
+Salome.+ I warrant she’s down-daunted to-day.
+Jesse.+ Her sorrow has opened my eyes to the sorrow of all the world.
And to yours--yours too, Salome.
+Salome.+ [_Starting slightly._] What do you mean?
+Jesse.+ You hide yourself from everybody but me; but love makes me see
the truth of you.
+Salome.+ Love’s blind.
+Jesse.+ You’re sad and sorry and the world bears hard on you. You
_feel_ the grief of it--same as I do.
+Salome.+ Yes, but I’d shame to share my griefs.
[_She sits on table near him._
+Jesse.+ My heart’s always crying to share. A shared grief’s the
lighter, Salome.
+Salome.+ Then you’d share for selfishness.
+Jesse.+ [_Starts._] What a thought!
+Salome.+ Work, I tell you. Work your fingers to the bone. Work till
your flesh aches and makes you forget your aching heart. Copy your
mother. Grief have made her sweet, like the frost ripes the sloe. That
kindly she’s grown with young and old--as gentle as she used to be
stern. She kissed me when last I saw her.
+Jesse.+ She’s very fond of you.
+Salome.+ If you could look in my heart, young Jesse, you’d find that I
know more of her loss than any other creature.
+Jesse.+ [_He nods._] I’ve heard you say truer things about my father
than anybody. If I was more like him, perhaps then----?
+Salome.+ [_Shakes her head._] You and me be the sort to die
together--not live together. I’ve loved and I’ve lost. [_Half to
herself._] He called himself my red fox; but he wasn’t a red man really.
+Jesse.+ [_Astonished._] What are you saying?
+Salome.+ He’s gone--like last year’s sunshine.
+Jesse.+ I never heard you name a sweetheart, Salome.
+Salome.+ You make folk blab things--like you do yourself. Why should I
tell you? Water to his wine you are--tears to his laughter; but I love
you, too, you poor, sad Jesse. You be fit company for mourners.
+Jesse.+ My heart’s very full to-day--full and empty both. [_Pause._]
Father thought the world of you. His eye would light when your name was
named.
+Salome.+ [_She looks at him watchfully and shows no emotion._] You
ought to be with your mother--not with me.
+Jesse.+ Michael is with her.
+Salome.+ A tower of strength that man.
+Jesse.+ But he’s no more use to my sad mother than I am.
+Salome.+ He believes like she does.
+Jesse.+ If I could show her truth! I’ve fought to do it, Salome--for
her peace. From many books and much thinking I’ve got to doubt; and
from seeing the ache of the world; and from watching the good and
patient go down to dust and sorrow. To reach her heart with the truth!
I’ve often thought she might take it from you.
+Salome.+ No angel from heaven would shake her trust in God.
+Jesse.+ But a woman from earth might shake her trust in hell. I’ve
talked till I’m weary, but ’tis all vain.
+Salome.+ What have you told her?
+Jesse.+ That ’tisn’t conscience but remorse that’s eating her alive.
Remorse--a hateful, foul poison that kills life and hope. If she could
but take up her life for the sake of the living--instead of hungering
to die for the sake of the dead. She makes the wages of sin life, not
death.
+Salome.+ Sin?
+Jesse.+ ’Tis her word, not mine. Sin’s only a parson’s scarecrow to
fright us human children. You can be guilty and sinless, Salome. And
sinless she is. “We are free, we are free agents,” she says--like a
bell tolling; but ’tis tolling a lie. There’s no free will--none. D’you
understand that?
+Salome.+ Then this God, they tell about, hasn’t the right to judge any
man?
+Jesse.+ There ’tis! Make her see that--make her feel that! No free
will, no judgment. [_Loud laughter outside._] Mother says her immortal
soul is lost. I say, granted she’s got a soul, it isn’t lost.
+Salome.+ Every man’s free to go uphill or down--to eat or starve.
+Jesse.+ Not one! And if no choice--then no sin.
+Salome.+ You poor word-spinner!
+Jesse.+ Suppose you’d done a thing in the past, Salome, and couldn’t
be sure whether ’twas good or evil?
+Salome.+ [_Weary of the theme._] Your heart tells you if ’tis evil or
not.
+Jesse.+ But they lie and say the heart of man is desperately wicked,
so we daren’t listen to our hearts. ’Tis conscience we heed: the things
our mothers taught us. The Ten Commandments--why the rocks they were
writ on are more a part of God’s word than them! I’ve thought ’em to
nothing--every one of ’em.
+Salome.+ You’ll think yourself into a madhouse some day. You can
leave God out; but you can’t leave man out. You can’t get away from
justice. Stealing means prison, and murder means hanging.
+Jesse.+ [_Deeply interested._] But it wasn’t murder--that’s what I’ve
fought to show her ever since my father died. She struck him in a
moment of wrath.
[_Pause._
+Salome.+ Struck him--she--she----?
+Jesse.+ Salome!
[_Looks at her and puts his hand to his forehead._
+Salome.+ ’Twasn’t accident?
+Jesse.+ I forgot--my heart was bursting with it to-day.
+Salome.+ She struck him?
+Jesse.+ Like the flash of the lightning. He fell and the rocks in the
river-bed killed him.
[+Salome+ _succumbs and sits down abruptly on the sofa behind
her. She stares at_ +Jesse+. _Shouts of laughter rise
without._ +Arscott’s+ _voice heard._ +Salome+ _recovers
self-control and assumes a tense, watchful manner, like a
hunting cat._
+Salome.+ Ann Redvers. There’s only one thing that woman would have
done--murder for.
+Jesse.+ Not murder--not murder. Never say it or think it. There was
a wretch got hold of him--some nameless harlot. And mother found
out--and---- [+Salome+ _put her face down against the back of the sofa
and hides her eyes with her hands._] She’ll be thankful to God you
know. She’ll say ’twas her God made it slip out and loosed my tongue.
She’s always on her knees praying to be punished. When it happened,
we made her promise not to give herself up--Michael swore he’d kill
himself if she did. But now--you, Salome. It must come to good. It
must, Salome----[+Salome+ _stares fixedly, but does not display her
emotion._] Speak to me.
+Salome.+ I’m looking at Ann Redvers.
+Jesse.+ By his grave now. The unhappiest woman in the world. Think
what ’twould be to comfort that broken heart.
+Salome.+ Comfort!
[+Bloom+ _comes in._
+Bloom.+ You be wanted, Mister Jesse. There’s signs and wonders
happening in the land, I warn ’e! Laugh! Why, the folk have shook
Dartymoor!
[_Exit_ +Bloom+.
+Jesse.+ If anything was ever sacred, ’tis what you’ve heard this day,
Salome.
[_He looks back to see her still staring, but self-controlled.
Then he follows_ +Bloom+.
+Salome.+ Anthony
[_She sinks into a posture of grief. Anon she steadies herself
and reflects. Presently she indicates anger and a desire to
be moving. She leaps up and looks about her. Then she puts
on her sunbonnet. Without, there are laughter and voices,
that grow louder as men and women pass the window._ +Salome+
_is just about to go to the door but she sees that the
people are there. She hastens off as the other door opens.
There enter_ +William Arscott+, +Joseph Westaway+, +Jesse
Redvers+, _and_ +Barbara+ _with the other women._ +Toby
Hannaford+, +Ned Pearn+, +Bloom+, _and the rest follow, or
remain at the window looking in._
+West.+ What did I tell my unbelieving girls? That an old man’s faith
can move mountains still!
[_Pours out the wine and puts a glass into the hands
outstretched towards him._
+Barbara.+ Sally must know!
[_Runs across and exit._
+Barbara.+ [_Off._] Salome!
+Hannaford.+ Good luck and long live to ’em!
+The other Men and Women.+ Good luck! Long life!
+Curtain.+
ACT IV
+Scene+: _Harter kitchen as before. A year has passed and there are
certain inevitable alterations in the arrangement of the furniture
and minor details of the room. Different hams and herbs suspend from
the ceiling. The grocer’s almanac has disappeared, and there are no
plants in the recesses of the windows. A shawl hangs over the back
of the settle by the fireplace. The time is night. Dark blinds are
drawn. A candle burns on the mantelpiece, and a tall paraffin lamp
with a white glass shade stands upon the table. Under the lamp is the
work-box of Ann Redvers, open, with a litter of white work about it._
[+Ann Redvers+ _discovered, with_ +Sarah Tapp+, +Nathaniel
Tapp+, _and_ +Michael+. +Ann+ _is working_; +Sarah+ _knits
beside the fire, and_ +Nathaniel+ _is near her_. +Michael+
_smokes, sitting near his mother_.
+Tapp.+ No, ma’am, you don’t judge the evil-doer so stern as you did
use to do. But the times call for it. There’s a lot of wickedness
about, and ’tis no good looking t’other way.
+Ann.+ Let each begin at home, Nathaniel.
+Tapp.+ So I say, and so I do. ’Tis a very good thing to sweep the
Gospel broom round the dark corners of the heart.
+Sarah.+ There be many that shake at the thought of not having a spring
cleaning; yet they never think about a soul cleaning from one year’s
end to another.
[_Rises and gathers her knitting._
+Michael.+ You ought to join the Methodies, Sarah.
+Sarah.+ I call a spade a spade, and a sinner a sinner.
+Ann.+ We must do good for evil, Sarah--and think good for evil.
+Sarah.+ I never could do good for evil myself, and I won’t pretend it.
+Tapp.+ More don’t the Law of the land. Justice for evil be the Law.
+Michael.+ What is justice?
+Tapp.+ ’Tis the best that man can do. Mercy be better left to God.
+Ann.+ Maybe His mercy is the highest justice.
+Michael.+ There; you’re answered, Nat. God’s all love, or else He’s
nought.
+Tapp.+ That ain’t my idea, Mister Michael, nor yet Jehovah’s--not if I
know him.
+Sarah.+ [_Lights candle at little table beside the ‘Grandfather’
clock. To_ +Tapp+.] Come, master, ’tis bedtime for you and me.
Good-night, missis; good-night, Michael.
+Michael.+ Good-night, good-night. Pray for charity, Nat.
[_Exeunt_ +Nathaniel+ _and_ +Sarah Tapp+.
+Ann.+ Ban’t Jesse home yet?
+Michael.+ Lord knows--I don’t.
+Ann.+ I’m wishful to hear how it went at Westaway’s.
+Michael.+ Be bright, be bright, for God’s sake, mother! Put your work
by and talk.
+Ann.+ [_Puts down her work and leans forward, with her elbow on the
table and her hand on her forehead._] Ah, Michael boy--I’d talk, if
you’d but heed. If I could make you see--on this dark day----
+Michael.+ Never--never! Don’t begin that no more for I won’t hear it.
+Ann.+ Jesse understands.
+Michael.+ Understands! ’Tis he, with his cursed sighing and groaning
keeps the thing before you and serves it up red-hot on every morn.
Haven’t you suffered enough? [_Bitterly._] But well I know you’d give
yourself up this very hour if I’d let you.
+Ann.+ I’ve tried to punish myself, Michael--with secret rods.
+Michael.+ [_Starting up and walking about._] Curse Jesse for that!
’Tis him that’s the green wound--’tis him that won’t let the dead rest
in his grave. Yet you blame me--not him--me--me, that would cut my
throat to save you a pang. Ban’t I somebody, too? Ban’t my great fight
to count, too? Do I look at you with eyes like a judge? Do I----?
+Ann.+ He can’t help it; he’s built so.
+Michael.+ God keep me from unbuilding him!
+Ann.+ Don’t rage against Jesse. [_Rises and puts her arms round him._]
He loves me as well as you do in his own way. He wants my spirit to be
in peace, Michael.
+Michael.+ Then why for don’t he leave it in peace and look to his own?
I wish he was dead and in his grave. That’s the only peace he’ll ever
know.
[_Breaks from her and strides up and down._
+Ann.+ [_Sighing deeply._] He tries to help me, too. You be both love
mad for your mother. But ’tis blind love--cruel love--love that shuts
the door of Heaven against me.
+Michael.+ Hell’s my home for ever if ’tis yours. [_Enter_ +Jesse+.]
And Harter’s hell, so long as he be in it [_points at_ +Jesse+]. But
I’ll fight you and the devil both for mother--and beat you both.
+Ann.+ Michael!
+Michael.+ Mind it, mind it; and you mind it, mother. So sure as you
give yourself up, I’ll do for myself. And so sure as any other lays a
finger on you, I’ll do for him. From the first I’ve said it and, by
God, I mean it!
+Jesse.+ If you weren’t a fool----
+Ann.+ Don’t have no high words to-night, dear sons; don’t quarrel
to-night. Words won’t change what lies between us three. I sinned--I
took a man’s life--and there’s only Christ between me and eternal
death now. And you hide me from Him--you shield me from the justice of
this world, that might mean forgiveness in the next.
+Michael.+ Trust your God then, through thick and thin. You’re His
child; but you’re our mother.
+Ann.+ Wrong--double wrong was done--by me--by you.
+Michael.+ There was only one right for a son.
+Ann.+ Truth was the only right.
+Jesse.+ You won’t see truth, mother.
+Ann.+ I shall feel it through eternity, Jesse.
+Jesse.+ I’ll help you to win peace yet.
[_Enter_ +Bloom+.
+Michael.+ [_To_ +Jesse+.] Who be you to croak of peace?
+Bloom.+ Hast told ’em, Mister Jesse?
+Jesse.+ I’ve told nothing.
+Bloom.+ Then I’m full of news! Barbara Westaway have took the
hoss-doctor. No doubt to save her father ’twas done. Arscott blazed it
out afore the creditors.
[_Ann returns to her work._
+Michael.+ Old Joe’s weathered the storm again then.
+Ann.+ Have you had your supper, Jesse?
+Jesse.+ I want no supper. I want you.
+Bloom.+ It spoilt the fun, because all ended in laughter and sherry
wine. But nobody offered me a drop.
+Michael.+ You shall drink yet.
[_Gets his hat._
+Ann.+ [_To_ +Jesse+.] Did Barbara bear up pretty brave?
+Bloom.+ She’s so proud as a peacock about it, ma’am.
+Michael.+ We’ll pop across to Watchett Hill. Won’t take a minute. No
talk of devils and hell there anyway. [_To_ +Jesse+.] If I get drunky,
’tis your fault.
+Ann.+ Michael!
+Michael.+ Just to wish Barbara luck, mother. Old Joe will have his
brandy bottle out to-night. Come on, Bloom--stir your stumps!
[_Exeunt_ +Michael+ _and_ +Bloom+.
+Jesse.+ He’s right there. Harter’s a dark hole nowadays.
+Ann.+ Do others find it dark? Be there any darkness but mine?
+Jesse.+ I’m trying hard to bring you light, mother.
+Ann.+ Hope is the only light. Trouble be but froth on life’s flood,
while there’s hope. ’Tis the horror of losing Heaven that makes all
dark. For her that’s lost Heaven, the little trials of saints and
martyrs be nought, Jesse. She envies them.
+Jesse.+ If there’s a Heaven, none can lose it. A great thing’s
happened to me to-day.
+Ann.+ [_Rising._] Eat first and talk afterwards. Get up to your
chamber and tidy yourself. I’ll fetch you some supper.
+Jesse.+ It happened all in a flash. I never meant it. Like enough
you’ll say ’twas a miracle, mother. [_Goes up stairs._] But I pray ’tis
good.
[_Exit up stairs._
+Ann.+ Yes, yes--if you say so.
[+Ann+ _clears a part of the table. Then she goes off. After
a brief pause_ +Salome+ _enters. She looks about her, marks
the empty kitchen and notes Ann’s work on the table. She
goes to door and listens. Then she comes back to the centre
of the room._ +Jesse+ _appears at top of stairs_.
+Jesse.+ You!
[_Comes down quickly._
+Salome.+ Do she know you’ve told me?
+Jesse.+ Not yet.
+Salome.+ Get you gone then. I see her alone.
+Jesse.+ [_Considers._] It might be best. I was just going to tell her;
but----Come to it gently. She’s very sad. A woman’s pity--a godsend to
her to-night.
+Salome.+ Be Michael out o’ the way?
+Jesse.+ [_Picks up hat and prepares to go._] He’s gone to wish Barbara
joy. I bless you for this, Sally. [_Door opens slowly._] ’Twas good to
come to her so quick.
[_Exit_ +Jesse+ _as_ +Ann+ _enters. She carries a tray with
some cold meat on a plate, bread and a heavy knife on a
trencher, a jug of beer, and a mug. There are also a cruet
and a knife and fork on the tray._
+Ann.+ [_Standing still at sight of_ +Salome+.] Why, my dear! What does
this mean? [_Looks upstairs._] Jesse! Here’s----
+Salome.+ He’s gone out. I don’t want him.
+Ann.+ [_Puts down tray on the table._] He’s had no food since noon and
be full of some great matter. So Barbara’s tokened to Arscott? I hope
’tis no ugly buying and selling?
+Salome.+ [_Suddenly._] Ban’t there bloodstains on the linen when you
sew? [+Ann+ _drops her work and stares at_ +Salome+.] I’ve come knowing
the black truth of you, Ann Redvers.
+Ann.+ [_A great breath escapes her._] Poor Jesse--’twas that! I prayed
he’d be led to it--the last hope for me.
+Salome.+ Killed him--killed Anthony Redvers.
[_They stand with the table between them._
+Ann.+ To hear it in another mouth--and that mouth a woman’s. ’Tis like
a dream! I----Be merciful, Salome. Be just. True mercy--not false.
+Salome.+ I’d put the rope round your neck with my own hands!
+Ann.+ Then go to them that will. For a soul’s sake--to save a soul! Do
it quickly--this night--while you can.
+Salome.+ Who was she?
+Ann.+ I asked him and he wouldn’t tell! “Thank God you don’t know,” he
said.
+Salome.+ Know now then, you cold-blooded, man-killing fiend! I--I was
his secret woman--I that stand here! I loved every breath of his voice,
every hair of his head. His good was mine--and his evil. I blessed
my lot that I could kiss away a little of his troubles. I worshipped
him; I prayed to him. He was my sun, and air, and food. I only nursed
my flesh to keep it plump and sweet for him. His very, very own I
was--a part of himself; and all my light and joy you killed when you
killed him--all--all. I’m his widow--not you. ’Tis I that suffered
till my bones very near came through my skin--not you. ’Tis I that
roamed the hills and cursed God--not you. To the light you wear your
black--mine’s hid against my bosom! [_She tears open her cotton frock
and reveals black beneath it._] ’Tis out now--’tis ended--I’ve revenged
him. [+Ann’s+ _intense spiritual excitement and hope give place to mere
interest and astonishment during this speech. She gazes almost stupidly
at_ +Salome+. _When the speech is spoken_, +Ann+ _broods in silence.
Her eyes traverse_ +Salome+ _darkly and curiously. They look through
her and ravish her._] Be you dumb? Be you frozen, you murderess?
+Ann.+ [_Displaying no emotion and no spark of anger._] You--you at
the very gates of Harter! Be what the men like never known to us? Poor
girl! And you hid it after. What is there we can’t hide?
+Salome.+ Nought beyond the time. ’Tis you shall suffer now, you
flint-hearted wretch. They’ll put you away if there’s justice in the
world. I’ve given you up. Your time’s short. They’ll tear you out
of this to-night. [+Ann+ _lifts her hands to Heaven and forgets_
+Salome+.] For hate--for everlasting hate I done it.
+Ann.+ Not the hate of women nor the hands of men can hurt me, Salome.
What be the hate of this world to her that has lost the next? Do you
know what it is to let the devil slip into your heart to steal your
soul? You poor, broken thing, I’ve prayed for this to happen night and
day. And now ’tis come. Dark are the Lord’s ways and wonderful.
+Salome.+ Never name your Lord to me--for hate, I say.
+Ann.+ Your woman’s hate do stand for God’s love.
+Salome.+ What love should you have that killed Anthony? Be your bloody
soul worth saving?
[_Enter_ +Jesse+ _in haste and fear_.
+Jesse.+ Police have driven up from Okehampton----
+Ann.+ The messengers
+Jesse.+ Mother, you haven’t----?
+Salome.+ ’Twas I. Get her bonnet and shawl. They won’t let her out of
their sight no more.
+Ann.+ The Lord have used my son to save me.
[_Enter the police; an Inspector and two constables._
+Jesse.+ Yonder woman’s daft.
[_Points at_ +Salome+.
+Ann.+ God called: she was bound to hear.
+Inspector.+ I have a warrant to----
+Ann.+ I know it, neighbour.
+Jesse.+ It shan’t be, mother!
+Ann.+ Thank God it shall be, Jesse.
+Jesse.+ Michael! Michael!
+Ann.+ [_To_ +Inspector+.] Come, friend. Hate have done what love could
not. So God works. [_To_ +Salome+.] If a sinful woman’s prayer can
reach the Throne for you---- [_Kisses_ +Jesse+.] Tell Michael that his
mother be in peace at last.
[_Takes shawl from settle and puts it over her head. The
Inspector goes out. The two policemen walk one on each side
of_ +Ann+ _and she goes out in obvious joy between them._
+Jesse.+ Mother--mother!
[_Hastens out._ +Salome+ _buttons her dress and stands and
listens. She picks up her sunbonnet and is about to go when_
+Jesse+ _returns._
+Jesse.+ Tell me!
+Salome.+ They wouldn’t believe it, but I made ’em. I hope they’ll kill
her.
+Jesse.+ Are you mad?
+Salome.+ [_Shakes her head._] Only cursed tired. ’Tis funny--I can
scarce keep my eyes open.
+Jesse.+ You traitor!
+Salome.+ Not I. Faithful--faithful to him always. Would that I’d let
her be.
+Jesse.+ Speak clear if you know how.
+Salome.+ I’ve let her out of hell and Ann Redvers be going to pray
to her brave God to forgive me! Better she prayed for you, you poor
slack-twisted shadow. [+Jesse+ _makes frantic questioning gesture._]
You, that can’t keep red secrets--you, that don’t believe in souls!
Here’s a better tale than yours. Meat for your master was I--your
‘nameless harlot’--your father’s jewel--his joy--his own. Ah! Now ’tis
your turn, you poor wretch.
+Jesse.+ Unsay it!
+Salome.+ She went like a girl to her lover. Did you see the light on
her face? Did you see her eyes?
+Jesse.+ ’Tis death, Salome.
+Salome.+ I meant it so. But ’tis life--life for her--dust and ashes
for me.
+Jesse.+ ’Tis death, I tell you. What’s there left now? ’Tis I that
have given her up, not you. ’Tis I have put her away. You hid from
me; you lied to me--you’ve done for me--I that loved you so true. All
gone--all--every hope--every straw to catch it.
+Salome.+ Think of yourself--always yourself. The way of your folk.
The way of your mother and her soul. But it wasn’t his way--not my
Anthony’s.
+Jesse.+ ’Twas for mother I fought, for mother I came to you--that you
might make her burden lighter.
+Salome.+ Be glad then. For I’ve took her burden off. Her God was on
her side, wasn’t He? I meant to break her. But she laughed at me--same
as I laugh at you.
+Jesse.+ I’ll fight no more.
+Salome.+ Fight for your soul. Believe Ann Redvers. Souls be the only
standby for the likes of you. [+Michael+ _and_ +Bloom+ _heard talking
outside._] Here’s Michael!
+Jesse.+ Oh, that I had been a steadfast fool like him.
+Salome.+ Souls are more than sons, or mothers, or lovers. I said you
and me might die together. We shall be dust afore his rage in a minute.
+Jesse.+ Get gone then for God’s sake!
[_Goes to door._
+Salome.+ Be you afeared? Who shall be feared that have a soul? You’ll
be in Heaven afore your mother yet! Let Michael put me to sleep--I’d
thank him.
[_Enter_ +Bloom+ _and_ +Michael+.
+Michael.+ [_Market merry._] Hullo Sally! More good luck--eh? But me
and Bloom have had a skinful with your father to-night. And damned
strong we had it too. Bloom’s a goner.
+Bloom.+ [_Fresh._] He--he--he! A ‘skinful’ be a very clever word!
Brandy’s the boy for me! It goeth for ’e like a tiger!
+Michael.+ Be it good luck, you two?
+Salome.+ You can wish your mother good luck. She’s happy--she’s got
her way.
+Michael.+ Well done her. A brother must have a kiss, Sally!
[_Approaches_ +Salome+ _to kiss her._
+Salome.+ You’ll find your mother to Okehampton in the lock up. I’ve
saved her soul. They’ve took her for the murder of her husband a year
ago. All my brave work! Now kiss me!
[+Michael+ _regards_ +Jesse+, _and his face changes from
happiness to horror._
+Jesse.+ ’Tis truth. I told her.
[+Michael+ _falls back a step to the table. His eyes are
only on_ +Jesse+. _Then he picks up the bread-knife from
the trencher._ +Jesse+ _crosses his arms and waits for his
brother._ +Michael+, _with a loud and inarticulate sound,
dashes at_ +Jesse+ _and catches him round the neck. But_
+Bloom+ _catches_ +Michael+ _round the waist and_ +Salome+
_seizes his right hand with the knife, as he swings it back
to strike. The knife falls._ +Jesse+ _gets clear of the
others_. +Michael+ _struggles_. +Salome+ _helps_ +Bloom+ _to
hold him back_.
+Bloom.+ Run--run for God’s sake--us weak worms can’t hold him!
+Jesse.+ I’ll spare you that, Michael boy!
[_Goes out, leaving the door open behind him._ +Michael+
_throws_ +Salome+ _off. She falls and rises quickly. Then_
+Michael+, _now beside himself, strikes_ +Bloom+ _in the
face and brings him to his knees. He tears_ +Bloom’s+ _hands
away from his legs and is free. He starts for door. At this
moment a gun is heard to fire whence_ +Jesse+ _has gone_.
+Michael+ _stops his rush and stands motionless. The eyes of
all three are turned to the open door. A whiff of smoke
drifts through it._
+Bloom.+ [_On one knee._] He’s done you!
[_He rises and hastens off._ +Michael+ _follows_ +Bloom+
_quickly_.
_Curtain._
ACT V
+Scene+: _The parlour at Watchett Hill Farm. There is a fire in the
grate and a large, dog-eared arm-chair beside it. A kettle stands
upon the hob. Red curtains have taken the place of the old ones. The
walls are newly papered and the room has become comfortable in every
way. The pictures are set straight; there is a new carpet on the
floor. Two small lamps stand on the mantelpiece. In a corner, on a
little table, is a big photograph of_ +William Arscott+ _in a showy
frame. The time is night._ +Joseph Westaway+ _discovered walking up
and down the room. He exhibits deep anxiety and looks at his watch.
Then he goes to the window and throws it open. There is bright
moonlight outside._
+Westaway.+ [_Calling into the night._] Be that you, Barbara?
+Barbara.+ Yes, father. I’m waiting for William.
+Westaway.+ Surely to God the news be out. ’Tis almost more than a body
can bear to bide like this!
[_Enter_ +Barbara+. _She looks round the room, shakes a curtain,
and moves a lamp._
+Barbara.+ He won’t know this room, William won’t. Light your pipe,
father; don’t tramp the new carpet. You can’t hasten it.
+Westaway.+ I’ve a’most lost sight of all our blessings afore these
terrible times at Harter.
+Barbara.+ We must have another lamp--to show up this corner--just for
once. We’ll have a blaze--to please William.
+Westaway.+ [_Going to window._] The verdict and sentence were to be
out hours agone.
+Barbara.+ Don’t fuss yourself, my old dear. Very likely William will
have heard. And I do hope you’ll show him your grateful feelings,
father. There’s more than five pounds gone on this room.
+Westaway.+ He knows all I feel about it. Either Joshua Bloom was to
come over first thing, or else Nathaniel Tapp. Mrs. Tapp promised
faithful one should come the moment they heard.
+Barbara.+ If ’tis good news, Nathaniel will bring it; if ’tis bad, you
may count on Bloom. [_Goes to door and calls off._] Salome, fetch in
the little pink lamp, will ’e? I want a bit more light, to show William
all we’ve done in the parlour.
+Westaway.+ I think more of Michael than her. She’s made her peace with
God whatever happens--but him--poor wretch! The world be very empty for
him now.
+Barbara.+ I don’t pity him. He’d have killed his brother himself in
another moment, and he never denied it. [_Enter_ +Salome+ _with a
lamp_.] ’Tis that poor, dead, weak-witted Jesse I’m sorry for--not
Michael--nor yet his mother. Put it here--to show up William’s photo.
My! we do look fine! Don’t you forget to say a word of thanks, Salome.
+Westaway.+ [_At window._] There’s a man coming now and travelling fast.
+Barbara.+ ’Tis William if he goeth quickly. They chaps from Harter be
slow as beetles.
[_Goes out._
+Westaway.+ Don’t keep him if he’s got the news. It have been a
terrible day. I hope I’ll never be called to live through such another.
All suffer for evil--none can stand alone afore it.
[_Enter_ +William+ _and_ +Barbara+.
+Barbara.+ William hasn’t heard. It wasn’t known when he came away.
[_Exit_ +Salome+.
+Arscott.+ [_Looking round._] Well, my old bird, what do ’e think of
this? ’Tis a bit braver than it used to be--eh? We’ll have a pianer
yet, instead of that ‘roarer’ in the corner.
+Westaway.+ ’Tis a royal palace, William! ’Tis a dazzling scene, and us
shan’t never go or come without blessing you, I’m sure.
+Arscott.+ [_Lighting his pipe._] Pretty clever, no doubt--thanks to my
purse and Barbara’s fingers. Well, the wedding’s in sight, Joe.
+Westaway.+ I know--I know. Thank God my girl won’t be far off. You
must let her come up every day of her life, William--aye, and sleep
sometimes in her old chamber.
+Arscott.+ So she shall. When we quarrel, I’ll pack her off to you.
+Barbara.+ It takes two to quarrel, Billy.
+Westaway.+ I ban’t all I could wish to-night, along of the fearful
trouble in the air. A very terrible thing, and till we know how ’tis to
end, there’s no peace for anybody.
[_Exit._
+Arscott.+ ’Twill be brought in manslaughter--no worse than that.
[_Sits in a big chair by the fire._] Come and pitch on my lap,
Barbara--there’s a dear. I like to feel the fine weight of ’e. Only a
fortnight now! You don’t want to cry off your bargain?
+Barbara.+ [_Puts out the lamp in the corner._] Cry off? Not I--I love
you dearer and dearer, William.
+Arscott.+ A mortal pity you wasted ten years, Barbara.
+Barbara.+ We’ll make up for ’em!
[_She sits on his knee and he kisses her and rubs his face
against hers._
+Arscott.+ How’s your sister going on? This must have shook her a bit.
To think of her nipping down in cold blood to give that woman up!
+Barbara.+ ’Twasn’t in cold blood--’twas in hot. She won’t tell about
it and ’tis too ticklish a subject for father or me. But I can see very
well how ’twas really. Mrs. Redvers hungered terribly to give herself
up--for the saving of her soul.
+Arscott.+ Yes, she’d feel like that, no doubt.
+Barbara.+ But her boys wouldn’t let her. They made her swear she never
would. And then Jesse, poor chap, goes daft and hits upon the thought
to tell Salome and make her tell again--for his mother’s salvation.
+Arscott.+ A very clever thought, I call it.
+Barbara.+ Stark madness, knowing Michael.
+Arscott.+ Your sister must be made of tougher stuff than you, Barbara.
+Barbara.+ She’s a queer girl. I don’t know nothing about her inside
her skin.
+Arscott.+ I wonder Michael didn’t strangle her.
[_The face of_ +Joshua Bloom+ _appears at the window_.
+Bloom.+ [_Clears his throat._ +Barbara+ _starts away, but_ +Arscott+
_holds her tightly_.] I ban’t looking.
+Arscott.+ ’Tis only that old night-bird from Harter. Come in, Joshua,
come in!
[+Barbara+ _leaves her lover and goes to the door_.
+Barbara.+ He brings the news for certain. Oh, I hope ’tis good!
+Arscott.+ It can’t be good. Bad’s the best.
[+Barbara+ _hurries out_, +Arscott+ _rises and goes across_.
+Arscott.+ [_Calling off._] Here’s Joshua Bloom from Harter, Joe!
[_Enter_ +Barbara+ _followed by_ +Bloom+.
+Bloom.+ You must listen patient. I ban’t going to say it all anyhow
and spoil it. ’Tis the chance of a lifetime to tell a tale like this.
+Barbara.+ Father’s cruel put about.
[_Enter_ +Joseph Westaway+ _followed by_ +Salome+.
+Westaway.+ Ah! Joshua--thank God you be here!
+Bloom.+ Sit you down--all of you--and let me stand in the midst with
my solemn news. And don’t you try to hurry me, ’cause I won’t be
hurried.
+Westaway.+ The Law--
+Bloom.+ I be ashamed of the Law! Tapp heard it first. A telegraph
come to the Vicarage a good bit ago, but you know what a close man is
reverence is. However, it slipped out of the back door to the people,
and everybody knows it now.
+Arscott.+ Know’s what?
+Bloom.+ The jury was a bit soft and showed a very great sympathy with
the prisoner, because the woman pleaded guilty. ‘Woman’ I call her;
but of course to us she’s still Ann Redvers of Harter. And leaning
to the side of mercy, they fetched it in manslaughter; because she
said she never meant to kill him. The terrible judge believed it too,
and the upshot is that she don’t die. That’s how the Law gets weaker
and weaker--along of they baggering Dissenters! Five years of penal
servitude Ann Redvers have been sent to; but they say, if she’s as good
as gold in prison, they may let her free in less. I call it playing
with justice and a poor look out for husbands; but that’s how it
stands--a paltry five year!
[_All listen with varying interest._
+Westaway.+ Thank God! ’tis a cruel weight off my shoulders.
+Arscott.+ I’m sorry for her all the same.
+Bloom.+ More than she was for herself. I lay she feels very near as
disappointed as what I do. ’Twas a mean-spirited sentence in my opinion.
+Westaway.+ She’ll sing in clink, like a caged lark, now her soul be
saved.
+Bloom.+ No, she won’t. She’ll spend all her spare time on her knees
praying for Jesse’s soul. His death shook her a bit, I can tell ’e.
+Westaway.+ And t’other woman’s name never come up in the argument?
+Bloom.+ None knows it. She must have found the newspapers pretty hot
reading--eh?
+Barbara.+ She’ve had her wormwood, if she loved Anthony.
+Westaway.+ To think that one, nameless, scarlet female should be
thrown into a family, like a cannonball, to kill off a generation and
send strong men to the grave!
+Bloom.+ And I’ll dare swear the shameless wretch goes to church in her
frill-de-dills with the best of us, and makes eyes at the males and has
’em trailing after her like a comet’s tail!
+Arscott.+ They ought to catch her and stone her. ’Tis she killed the
men: ’tis her damned work.
+Bloom.+ They easy women will be up to any devilries ’tis said. Thank
God I’ve ’scaped ’em.
+Arscott.+ Enough! ’Tis a thirsty subject and I want cheering.
[_Exit_ +Barbara+.
+Westaway.+ Have a drink afore you go, Joshua.
+Bloom.+ [_Picking up his hat._] Nay I’m for the village. This thing
have got to be rolled on the tongue a bit yet.
+Arscott.+ You’re a snarling old dog, Bloom--poor company for a
bridegroom.
+Bloom.+ I never can abide a hopeful fool.
+Westaway.+ But William’s right. Sorrow ban’t spilled over every page
of life and we must laugh with the happy as well as mourn with the sad.
Christ’s self could smile on a wedding.
[_Enter_ +Barbara+ _with glasses and bottle on tray_, +Salome+
_helps her_.
+Arscott.+ Aye, and help the feast and give the folk joy. Bloom
here--he’d turn the wine into water if he could.
+Bloom.+ I won’t cry peace when there’s no peace; but if you ax me to
the wedding, I’ll be there.
+Westaway.+ You shall come, Joshua Bloom.
+Bloom.+ Good-night all, then. And don’t number your chickens till they
be hatched, hoss-doctor. You may be cut down afore the day yet.
[_Exit_ +Bloom+.
+Arscott.+ The tale be told, and us have all got to go on living,
except them that are dead.
+Westaway.+ [_Getting a long churchwarden pipe from mantelshelf._] To
think that big-hearted Anthony--so generous as the sun--so ready to
bring happiness to young and old--
+Arscott.+ A man built of comfortabler mud I never neighboured with.
+Barbara.+ Always whistling, or else laughing. It warmed you to meet
him on a winter day.
+Arscott.+ His light o’ love felt the same no doubt. I’ll warrant he
was good to her. I’d give my best gaiters to know who ’twas.
[_Exit_ +Salome+.
+Barbara.+ [_Pouring water from the kettle._] You’ll have it hot,
father?
+Westaway.+ Hot and strong both. This bit o’ work have knocked the
stuffing out of me a lot. It cuts every way, for us all depend on each
other, like the ears of corn in the harvest field, or the little bees
in the butt.
+Arscott.+ It have hit your girl hard by the look of her.
+Westaway.+ It have. She done her duty and little thought what awful
things would come of it.
+Barbara.+ She’s tongue-tied now. We never hear her voice. ’Tis like a
dumb woman in the house.
+Arscott.+ ’Tis pretty well known that dead boy loved her.
+Barbara.+ But she cared nought for him.
+Arscott.+ Did you think it was right now, to bury the poor chap with
Christian burial beside his father?
+Westaway.+ Most certain sure, William. The Lord turned him daft--poor
soul--so as he should let out the secret to our Salome. That’s how I
read it. Then she went hot-foot. And now she mourns in secret. But God
willed it so.
[+Barbara+ _gives her father his drink_.
+Barbara.+ What will Michael do?
[_Gives_ +Arscott+ _his drink_.
+Arscott.+ Wait for her! Wait--on the prison steps if he could. Wait,
if ’tis till the Trump of Doom. Let the world spin as it may, Time
stands still for that man till he’s got his mother again.
[_Enter_ +Salome+.
+Barbara.+ [_Looking at_ +Salome+.] No more of it to-night, William.
+Arscott.+ You’re right, my sweeting; and if ’tis a crime to be
cheerful, the Lord’ll forgive lovers. Stir my sugar with your finger.
[+Barbara+ _sits by_ +William Arscott+ _and sips his drink_.
+Salome+ _goes to window and looks out_.
+Barbara.+ Draw they curtains and shut out that gashly moonlight,
Salome.
+Westaway.+ [_Going to_ +Salome+.] Us must cheer you up now, my Sally.
’Tis a brave, still night, and Halstock Glen full o’ fairies.
+Barbara.+ Full of ghosts I should think. [_Shivers._] I’ll swear
there’s one haunted woman creeps there sometimes.
+Westaway.+ And belike poor Anthony doth walk, for ’tis said that
spirits turn ever where they had their greatest joy.
+Arscott.+ Leave it, Joe! We don’t want the creeps! Enough, or I’ll be
gone. It might be worse, and it couldn’t be better; so let them smart
that deserve it, and we’ll thank the Lord ’tis nothing to us. Remember
a fortnight hence.
[+Salome+ _still looks out at the moonlight. The other three
talk together. The men drink._
+Westaway.+ Of course I give her away. My Sunday black be equal to
it--with a brave favour in the buttonhole.
+Barbara.+ But you must have a new hat, father. Your best one’s a
disgrace.
+Arscott.+ ’Tis a pity if customers can’t furnish a hoss-doctor with
carriages cheap on such a day. Grey hosses too! Us’ll be pulled for
love by my grateful patients!
[_They laugh._
+Westaway.+ I be going to ask every one of they creditors to the feast.
+Barbara.+ You mustn’t call ’em creditors no more, father.
+Westaway.+ Thanks to William, here. A crown of glory, I’m sure, to owe
no man anything and die so innocent as you was born.
[+Barbara+ _pours more drink_.
+Arscott.+ Let’s have a song! Come on, Barbara. I know you can sing
with the best of ’em. Haven’t I watched you hollering in the choir to
church scores o’ times?
+Barbara.+ Nay--nay--Salome’s our song-bird.
+Westaway.+ A rare gift she hath; but ’tis many a long day since she’ve
sung to us now.
+Arscott.+ Sing Salome! Sing!
+Barbara.+ Do ’e, Sally, for old time’s sake.
[_They turn their heads and look at her. She still stares out
into the moonlight._
+Westaway.+ Sing, my little heart!
[+Salome+ _looks at them, and then looks out again into the
night. After a pause, she clasps her hands and sings, in a
far-away, gentle voice, to ears that are dust. Her listeners
feel an uneasy influence. They are chilled, look into each
other’s faces, and take no joy of the song._
+Salome.+
“Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thy grey mare,
All along, down along, out along lee,
For I want for to go to Widecombe Fair,
Wi’ Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney,
[_Pause._
Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all--
Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all.”
_Curtain slowly descends while_ +Salome+ _sings_.
+Printed by+
BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD
AT THE BALLANTYNE PRESS
+Tavistock Street Covent Garden
London+
Transcriber’s notes
Some of the stage directions are placed at the end of a dialog line,
but right aligned. In order to preserve this right alignment, these
directions are turned into separate paragraphs.
As to spelling: the original is preserved as much as possible, also
when the author is inconsistent. So one can encounter e.g. “armchair
/ arm-chair”, “hoss-doctor / hoss doctor”, “good-looking /
good looking”, “now-a-days / nowadays”, “spring cleaning /
spring-cleaning” etc. Furthermore some dialect is used.
However, in the cases listed below corrections have been made. These
are obvious printing errors.
Page 6 “But you shan’t anger me with with” possibly a printing error.
Not corrected;
Page 7 period inserted after “Michael” in the stage directions;
Page 11 “I’m a patient old blade. as we” _changed to_
“I’m a patient old blade, as we”;
Page 19 “Her eyes are every where” _changed to_
“Her eyes are everywhere”;
Page 19 period inserted at line end after “But how much to do”;
Page 20 period inserted after “Takes off his hat and kisses her”;
Page 34 “What’s your will, Anne” _changed to_ “What’s your will, Ann”;
Page 36 “my meaning afore tis” _changed to_ “my meaning afore ’tis”;
Page 36 period inserted after “There’s no common clay at all in you”;
Page 38 “the knife that Anne dropped” _changed to_
“the knife that Ann dropped”;
Page 45 period inserted after “Don’t whisper it to father”;
Page 49 “like thicky band I stiched” _changed to_
“like thicky band I stitched”;
Page 52 “I can eel your eyes in my back.” _changed to_
“I can feel your eyes in my back.”;
Page 56 period inserted after “including two elderly women” in the
stage directions;
Page 57 period inserted after
“[_Enter two more men._] Come in--come in”;
Page 58 comma inserted after “And to yours--yours too”;
Page 61 period inserted after “And if no choice--then no sin”;
Page 61 small caps removed from “Salome” in the line
“Suppose you’d done a thing in the past, Salome”;
Page 62 open bracket inserted before “+Salome+” in the stage direction
“+Salome+ _put her face down against the back of the sofa”;
Page 64 period inserted after “+Barbara” in the line
“+Barbara.+ [_Off._] Salome!”;
Page 66 apostrophe inserted before “tis” in the line
“Come, master, ’tis bedtime for you and me.”;
Page 71 “Anne” _changed to_ “Ann” (twice) in the lines
“[_Exit_ +Jesse+ _as_ +Ann+ _enters.” _and_
“+Ann.+ [_Standing still at sight of_ +Salome+.]”;
Page 72 “[+Anne+ _drops her work and stares” _changed to_
“[+Ann+ _drops her work and stares”;
Page 73 “know what is is to let the devil slip” _changed to_
“know what it is to let the devil slip”;
Page 73 “[+Anne+ _lifts her hands to Heaven” _changed to_
“[+Ann+ _lifts her hands to Heaven”;
Page 74 “+Anne.+ The messengers” _changed to_
“+Ann.+ The messengers”;
Page 80 “b” inserted before “rother” in the line
“He’d have killed his brother himself in another moment”;
Page 86 “Good night all, then.” _changed to_ “Good-night all, then.”;
Page 89 period inserted after “’em” in the line
“I know you can sing with the best of ’em”.
The following conventions are used to represent markup in the text:
_word_ means that “word” is in italics;
+word+ means that “word” is in small caps
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