Джон Голсуорси
Plays : Third Series
ANN. What did I say, Daddy? Utter! All three.
[Suddenly alive to her presence, they all turn.]
TIMSON. [Waking up and looking round him.] Well, p'raps I'd better go.
[Assisted by WELLWYN he lurches gingerly off the dais towards the door, which WELLWYN holds open for him.]
TIMSON. [Mechanically.] Where to, sir?
[Receiving no answer he passes out, touching his hat; and the door is closed.]
WELLWYN. Ann!
[ANN goes back whence she came.]
[BERTLEY, steadily regarding MRS. MEGAN, who has put her arm up in front of her face, beckons to FERRAND, and the young man comes gravely forward.]
BERTLEY. Young people, this is very dreadful. [MRS. MEGAN lowers her arm a little, and looks at him over it.] Very sad!
MRS. MEGAN. [Dropping her arm.] Megan's no better than what I am.
BERTLEY. Come, come! Here's your home broken up! [MRS. MEGAN Smiles. Shaking his head gravely.] Surely-surely-you mustn't smile. [MRS. MEGAN becomes tragic.] That's better. Now, what is to be done?
FERRAND. Believe me, Monsieur, I greatly regret.
BERTLEY. I'm glad to hear it.
FERRAND. If I had foreseen this disaster.
BERTLEY. Is that your only reason for regret?
FERRAND. [With a little bow.] Any reason that you wish, Monsieur. I will do my possible.
MRS. MEGAN. I could get an unfurnished room if [she slides her eyes round at WELLWYN] I 'ad the money to furnish it.
BERTLEY. But suppose I can induce your husband to forgive you, and take you back?
MRS. MEGAN. [Shaking her head.] 'E'd 'it me.
BERTLEY. I said to forgive.
MRS. MEGAN. That wouldn't make no difference. [With a flash at BERTLEY.] An' I ain't forgiven him!
BERTLEY. That is sinful.
MRS. MEGAN. I'm a Catholic.
BERTLEY. My good child, what difference does that make?
FERRAND. Monsieur, if I might interpret for her.
[BERTLEY silences him with a gesture.]
MRS. MEGAN. [Sliding her eyes towards WELLWYN.] If I 'ad the money to buy some fresh stock.
BERTLEY. Yes; yes; never mind the money. What I want to find in you both, is repentance.
MRS. MEGAN. [With a flash up at him.] I can't get me livin' off of repentin'.
BERTLEY. Now, now! Never say what you know to be wrong.
FERRAND. Monsieur, her soul is very simple.
BERTLEY. [Severely.] I do not know, sir, that we shall get any great assistance from your views. In fact, one thing is clear to me, she must discontinue your acquaintanceship at once.
FERRAND. Certainly, Monsieur. We have no serious intentions.
BERTLEY. All the more shame to you, then!
FERRAND. Monsieur, I see perfectly your point of view. It is very natural. [He bows and is silent.]
MRS. MEGAN. I don't want'im hurt'cos o' me. Megan'll get his mates to belt him—bein' foreign like he is.
BERTLEY. Yes, never mind that. It's you I'm thinking of.
MRS. MEGAN. I'd sooner they'd hit me.
WELLWYN. [Suddenly.] Well said, my child!
MRS. MEGAN. 'Twasn't his fault.
FERRAND. [Without irony—to WELLWYN.] I cannot accept that Monsieur. The blame—it is all mine.
ANN. [Entering suddenly from the house.] Daddy, they're having an awful–!
[The voices of PROFESSOR CALWAY and SIR THOMAS HOXTON are distinctly heard.]
CALWAY. The question is a much wider one, Sir Thomas.
HOXTON. As wide as you like, you'll never–
[WELLWYN pushes ANN back into the house and closes the door behind her. The voices are still faintly heard arguing on the threshold.]
BERTLEY. Let me go in here a minute, Wellyn. I must finish speaking to her. [He motions MRS. MEGAN towards the model's room.] We can't leave the matter thus.
FERRAND. [Suavely.] Do you desire my company, Monsieur?
[BERTLEY, with a prohibitive gesture of his hand, shepherds the reluctant MRS. MEGAN into the model's room.]
WELLWYN. [Sorrowfully.] You shouldn't have done this, Ferrand. It wasn't the square thing.
FERRAND. [With dignity.] Monsieur, I feel that I am in the wrong. It was stronger than me.
[As he speaks, SIR THOMAS HOXTON and PROFESSOR CALWAY enter from the house. In the dim light, and the full cry of argument, they do not notice the figures at the fire. SIR THOMAS HOXTON leads towards the street door.]
HOXTON. No, Sir, I repeat, if the country once commits itself to your views of reform, it's as good as doomed.
CALWAY. I seem to have heard that before, Sir Thomas. And let me say at once that your hitty-missy cart-load of bricks regime–
HOXTON. Is a deuced sight better, sir, than your grand-motherly methods. What the old fellow wants is a shock! With all this socialistic molly-coddling, you're losing sight of the individual.
CALWAY. [Swiftly.] You, sir, with your "devil take the hindmost," have never even seen him.
[SIR THOMAS HOXTON, throwing back a gesture of disgust, steps out into the night, and falls heavily PROFESSOR CALWAY, hastening to his rescue, falls more heavily still.]
[TIMSON, momentarily roused from slumber on the doorstep, sits up.]
HOXTON. [Struggling to his knees.] Damnation!
CALWAY. [Sitting.] How simultaneous!
[WELLWYN and FERRAND approach hastily.]
FERRAND. [Pointing to TIMSON.] Monsieur, it was true, it seems. They had lost sight of the individual.
[A Policeman has appeared under the street lamp. He picks up HOXTON'S hat.]
CONSTABLE. Anything wrong, sir?
HOXTON. [Recovering his feet.] Wrong? Great Scott! Constable! Why do you let things lie about in the street like this? Look here, Wellyn!
[They all scrutinize TIMSON.]
WELLWYN. It's only the old fellow whose reform you were discussing.
HOXTON. How did he come here?
CONSTABLE. Drunk, sir. [Ascertaining TIMSON to be in the street.] Just off the premises, by good luck. Come along, father.
TIMSON. [Assisted to his feet-drowsily.] Cert'nly, by no means; take my arm.
[They move from the doorway. HOXTON and CALWAY re-enter, and go towards the fire.]
ANN. [Entering from the house.] What's happened?
CALWAY. Might we have a brush?
HOXTON. [Testily.] Let it dry!
[He moves to the fire and stands before it. PROFESSOR CALWAY following stands a little behind him. ANN returning begins to brush the PROFESSOR's sleeve.]
WELLWYN. [Turning from the door, where he has stood looking after the receding TIMSON.] Poor old Timson!
FERRAND. [Softly.] Must be philosopher, Monsieur! They will but run him in a little.
[From the model's room MRS. MEGAN has come out, shepherded by CANON BERTLEY.]
BERTLEY. Let's see, your Christian name is–.
MRS. MEGAN. Guinevere.
BERTLEY. Oh! Ah! Ah! Ann, take Gui—take our little friend into the study a minute: I am going to put her into service. We shall make a new woman of her, yet.
ANN. [Handing CANON BERTLEY the brush, and turning to MRS. MEGAN.] Come on!
[She leads into the house, and MRS. MEGAN follows Stolidly.]
BERTLEY. [Brushing CALWAY'S back.] Have you fallen?
CALWAY. Yes.
BERTLEY. Dear me! How was that?
HOXTON. That old ruffian drunk on the doorstep. Hope they'll give him a sharp dose! These rag-tags!
[He looks round, and his angry eyes light by chance on FERRAND.]
FERRAND. [With his eyes on HOXTON—softly.] Monsieur, something tells me it is time I took the road again.
WELLWYN. [Fumbling out a sovereign.] Take this, then!
FERRAND. [Refusing the coin.] Non, Monsieur. To abuse 'ospitality is not in my character.
BERTLEY. We must not despair of anyone.
HOXTON. Who talked of despairing? Treat him, as I say, and you'll see!
CALWAY. The interest of the State–
HOXTON. The interest of the individual citizen sir–
BERTLEY. Come! A little of both, a little of both!
[They resume their brushing.]
FERRAND. You are now debarrassed of us three, Monsieur. I leave you instead—these sirs. [He points.] 'Au revoir, Monsieur'! [Motioning towards the fire.] 'Appy New Year!
[He slips quietly out. WELLWYN, turning, contemplates the three reformers. They are all now brushing away, scratching each other's backs, and gravely hissing. As he approaches them, they speak with a certain unanimity.]
HOXTON. My theory–!
CALWAY. My theory–!
BERTLEY. My theory–!
[They stop surprised. WELLWYN makes a gesture of discomfort, as they speak again with still more unanimity.]
HOXTON. My–! CALWAY. My–! BERTLEY. My–!
[They stop in greater surprise. The stage is blotted dark.]
Curtain.
ACT III
It is the first of April—a white spring day of gleams and driving showers. The street door of WELLWYN's studio stands wide open, and, past it, in the street, the wind is whirling bits of straw and paper bags. Through the door can be seen the butt end of a stationary furniture van with its flap let down. To this van three humble-men in shirt sleeves and aprons, are carrying out the contents of the studio. The hissing samovar, the tea-pot, the sugar, and the nearly empty decanter of rum stand on the low round table in the fast-being-gutted room. WELLWYN in his ulster and soft hat, is squatting on the little stool in front of the blazing fire, staring into it, and smoking a hand-made cigarette. He has a moulting air. Behind him the humble-men pass, embracing busts and other articles of vertu.
CHIEF H'MAN. [Stopping, and standing in the attitude of expectation.] We've about pinched this little lot, sir. Shall we take the—reservoir?
[He indicates the samovar.]
WELLWYN. Ah! [Abstractedly feeling in his pockets, and finding coins.] Thanks—thanks—heavy work, I'm afraid.
H'MAN. [Receiving the coins—a little surprised and a good deal pleased.] Thank'ee, sir. Much obliged, I'm sure. We'll 'ave to come back for this. [He gives the dais a vigorous push with his foot.] Not a fixture, as I understand. Perhaps you'd like us to leave these 'ere for a bit. [He indicates the tea things.]
WELLWYN. Ah! do.
[The humble-men go out. There is the sound of horses being started, and the butt end of the van disappears. WELLWYN stays on his stool, smoking and brooding over the fare. The open doorway is darkened by a figure. CANON BERTLEY is standing there.]
BERTLEY. WELLWYN! [WELLWYN turns and rises.] It's ages since I saw you. No idea you were moving. This is very dreadful.
WELLWYN. Yes, Ann found this—too exposed. That tall house in Flight Street—we're going there. Seventh floor.
BERTLEY. Lift?
[WELLWYN shakes his head.]
BERTLEY. Dear me! No lift? Fine view, no doubt. [WELLWYN nods.] You'll be greatly missed.
WELLWYN. So Ann thinks. Vicar, what's become of that little flower-seller I was painting at Christmas? You took her into service.
BERTLEY. Not we—exactly! Some dear friends of ours. Painful subject!
WELLWYN. Oh!
BERTLEY. Yes. She got the footman into trouble.
WELLWYN. Did she, now?
BERTLEY. Disappointing. I consulted with CALWAY, and he advised me to try a certain institution. We got her safely in—excellent place; but, d'you know, she broke out three weeks ago. And since— I've heard [he holds his hands up] hopeless, I'm afraid—quite!
WELLWYN. I thought I saw her last night. You can't tell me her address, I suppose?
BERTLEY. [Shaking his head.] The husband too has quite passed out of my ken. He betted on horses, you remember. I'm sometimes tempted to believe there's nothing for some of these poor folk but to pray for death.
[ANN has entered from the house. Her hair hangs from under a knitted cap. She wears a white wool jersey, and a loose silk scarf.]
BERTLEY. Ah! Ann. I was telling your father of that poor little Mrs. Megan.
ANN. Is she dead?
BERTLEY. Worse I fear. By the way—what became of her accomplice?
ANN. We haven't seen him since. [She looks searchingly at WELLWYN.] At least—have you—Daddy?
WELLWYN. [Rather hurt.] No, my dear; I have not.
BERTLEY. And the—old gentleman who drank the rum?
ANN. He got fourteen days. It was the fifth time.
BERTLEY. Dear me!
ANN. When he came out he got more drunk than ever. Rather a score for Professor Calway, wasn't it?
BERTLEY. I remember. He and Sir Thomas took a kindly interest in the old fellow.
ANN. Yes, they fell over him. The Professor got him into an Institution.
BERTLEY. Indeed!
ANN. He was perfectly sober all the time he was there.
WELLWYN. My dear, they only allow them milk.
ANN. Well, anyway, he was reformed.
WELLWYN. Ye-yes!
ANN. [Terribly.] Daddy! You've been seeing him!
WELLWYN. [With dignity.] My dear, I have not.
ANN. How do you know, then?
WELLWYN. Came across Sir Thomas on the Embankment yesterday; told me old Timso—had been had up again for sitting down in front of a brewer's dray.
ANN. Why?
WELLWYN. Well, you see, as soon as he came out of the what d'you call 'em, he got drunk for a week, and it left him in low spirits.
BERTLEY. Do you mean he deliberately sat down, with the intention—of—er?
WELLWYN. Said he was tired of life, but they didn't believe him.
ANN. Rather a score for Sir Thomas! I suppose he'd told the Professor? What did he say?
WELLWYN. Well, the Professor said [with a quick glance at BERTLEY] he felt there was nothing for some of these poor devils but a lethal chamber.
BERTLEY. [Shocked.] Did he really!
[He has not yet caught WELLWYN' s glance.]
WELLWYN. And Sir Thomas agreed. Historic occasion. And you, Vicar H'm!
[BERTLEY winces.]
ANN. [To herself.] Well, there isn't.
BERTLEY. And yet! Some good in the old fellow, no doubt, if one could put one's finger on it. [Preparing to go.] You'll let us know, then, when you're settled. What was the address? [WELLWYN takes out and hands him a card.] Ah! yes. Good-bye, Ann. Good-bye, Wellyn. [The wind blows his hat along the street.] What a wind! [He goes, pursuing.]
ANN. [Who has eyed the card askance.] Daddy, have you told those other two where we're going?
WELLWYN. Which other two, my dear?
ANN. The Professor and Sir Thomas.
WELLWYN. Well, Ann, naturally I–
ANN. [Jumping on to the dais with disgust.] Oh, dear! When I'm trying to get you away from all this atmosphere. I don't so much mind the Vicar knowing, because he's got a weak heart–
[She jumps off again. ]
WELLWYN. [To himself.] Seventh floor! I felt there was something.
ANN. [Preparing to go.] I'm going round now. But you must stay here till the van comes back. And don't forget you tipped the men after the first load.
WELLWYN. Oh! Yes, yes. [Uneasily.] Good sorts they look, those fellows!
ANN. [Scrutinising him.] What have you done?
WELLWYN. Nothing, my dear, really–!
ANN. What?
WELLWYN. I—I rather think I may have tipped them twice.
ANN. [Drily.] Daddy! If it is the first of April, it's not necessary to make a fool of oneself. That's the last time you ever do these ridiculous things. [WELLWYN eyes her askance.] I'm going to see that you spend your money on yourself. You needn't look at me like that! I mean to. As soon as I've got you away from here, and all—these–
WELLWYN. Don't rub it in, Ann!
ANN. [Giving him a sudden hug—then going to the door—with a sort of triumph.] Deeds, not words, Daddy!
[She goes out, and the wind catching her scarf blows it out beneath her firm young chin. WELLWYN returning to the fire, stands brooding, and gazing at his extinct cigarette.]
WELLWYN. [To himself.] Bad lot—low type! No method! No theory!
[In the open doorway appear FERRAND and MRS. MEGAN. They stand, unseen, looking at him. FERRAND is more ragged, if possible, than on Christmas Eve. His chin and cheeks are clothed in a reddish golden beard. MRS. MEGAN's dress is not so woe-begone, but her face is white, her eyes dark-circled. They whisper. She slips back into the shadow of the doorway. WELLWYN turns at the sound, and stares at FERRAND in amazement.]
FERRAND. [Advancing.] Enchanted to see you, Monsieur. [He looks round the empty room.] You are leaving?
WELLWYN. [Nodding—then taking the young man's hand.] How goes it?
FERRAND. [Displaying himself, simply.] As you see, Monsieur. I have done of my best. It still flies from me.
WELLWYN. [Sadly—as if against his will.] Ferrand, it will always fly.
[The young foreigner shivers suddenly from head to foot; then controls himself with a great effort.]
FERRAND. Don't say that, Monsieur! It is too much the echo of my heart.
WELLWYN. Forgive me! I didn't mean to pain you.
FERRAND. [Drawing nearer the fire.] That old cabby, Monsieur, you remember—they tell me, he nearly succeeded to gain happiness the other day.
[WELLWYN nods.]
FERRAND. And those Sirs, so interested in him, with their theories? He has worn them out? [WELLWYN nods.] That goes without saying. And now they wish for him the lethal chamber.
WELLWYN. [Startled.] How did you know that?
[There is silence.]
FERRAND. [Staring into the fire.] Monsieur, while I was on the road this time I fell ill of a fever. It seemed to me in my illness that I saw the truth—how I was wasting in this world—I would never be good for any one—nor any one for me—all would go by, and I never of it—fame, and fortune, and peace, even the necessities of life, ever mocking me.
[He draws closer to the fire, spreading his fingers to the flame. And while he is speaking, through the doorway MRS. MEGAN creeps in to listen.]
FERRAND. [Speaking on into the fire.] And I saw, Monsieur, so plain, that I should be vagabond all my days, and my days short, I dying in the end the death of a dog. I saw it all in my fever— clear as that flame—there was nothing for us others, but the herb of death. [WELLWYN takes his arm and presses it.] And so, Monsieur, I wished to die. I told no one of my fever. I lay out on the ground—it was verree cold. But they would not let me die on the roads of their parishes—they took me to an Institution, Monsieur, I looked in their eyes while I lay there, and I saw more clear than the blue heaven that they thought it best that I should die, although they would not let me. Then Monsieur, naturally my spirit rose, and I said: "So much the worse for you. I will live a little more." One is made like that! Life is sweet, Monsieur.
WELLWYN. Yes, Ferrand; Life is sweet.
FERRAND. That little girl you had here, Monsieur [WELLWYN nods.] in her too there is something of wild-savage. She must have joy of life. I have seen her since I came back. She has embraced the life of joy. It is not quite the same thing. [He lowers his voice.] She is lost, Monsieur, as a stone that sinks in water. I can see, if she cannot. [As WELLWYN makes a movement of distress.] Oh! I am not to blame for that, Monsieur. It had well begun before I knew her.
WELLWYN. Yes, yes—I was afraid of it, at the time.
[MRS. MEGAN turns silently, and slips away.]
FEERRAND. I do my best for her, Monsieur, but look at me! Besides, I am not good for her—it is not good for simple souls to be with those who see things clear. For the great part of mankind, to see anything—is fatal.
WELLWYN. Even for you, it seems.
FERRAND. No, Monsieur. To be so near to death has done me good; I shall not lack courage any more till the wind blows on my grave. Since I saw you, Monsieur, I have been in three Institutions. They are palaces. One may eat upon the floor—though it is true—for Kings—they eat too much of skilly there. One little thing they lack—those palaces. It is understanding of the 'uman heart. In them tame birds pluck wild birds naked.
WELLWYN. They mean well.
FERRAND. Ah! Monsieur, I am loafer, waster—what you like—for all that [bitterly] poverty is my only crime. If I were rich, should I not be simply veree original, 'ighly respected, with soul above commerce, travelling to see the world? And that young girl, would she not be "that charming ladee," "veree chic, you know!" And the old Tims—good old-fashioned gentleman—drinking his liquor well. Eh! bien—what are we now? Dark beasts, despised by all. That is life, Monsieur. [He stares into the fire.]
WELLWYN. We're our own enemies, Ferrand. I can afford it—you can't. Quite true!
FERRAND. [Earnestly.] Monsieur, do you know this? You are the sole being that can do us good—we hopeless ones.
WELLWYN. [Shaking his head.] Not a bit of it; I'm hopeless too.
FERRAND. [Eagerly.] Monsieur, it is just that. You understand. When we are with you we feel something—here—[he touches his heart.] If I had one prayer to make, it would be, Good God, give me to understand! Those sirs, with their theories, they can clean our skins and chain our 'abits—that soothes for them the aesthetic sense; it gives them too their good little importance. But our spirits they cannot touch, for they nevare understand. Without that, Monsieur, all is dry as a parched skin of orange.
WELLWYN. Don't be so bitter. Think of all the work they do!
FERRAND. Monsieur, of their industry I say nothing. They do a good work while they attend with their theories to the sick and the tame old, and the good unfortunate deserving. Above all to the little children. But, Monsieur, when all is done, there are always us hopeless ones. What can they do with me, Monsieur, with that girl, or with that old man? Ah! Monsieur, we, too, 'ave our qualities, we others—it wants you courage to undertake a career like mine, or like that young girl's. We wild ones—we know a thousand times more of life than ever will those sirs. They waste their time trying to make rooks white. Be kind to us if you will, or let us alone like Mees Ann, but do not try to change our skins. Leave us to live, or leave us to die when we like in the free air. If you do not wish of us, you have but to shut your pockets and—your doors—we shall die the faster.
WELLWYN. [With agitation.] But that, you know—we can't do—now can we?
FERRAND. If you cannot, how is it our fault? The harm we do to others—is it so much? If I am criminal, dangerous—shut me up! I would not pity myself—nevare. But we in whom something moves— like that flame, Monsieur, that cannot keep still—we others—we are not many—that must have motion in our lives, do not let them make us prisoners, with their theories, because we are not like them—it is life itself they would enclose! [He draws up his tattered figure, then bending over the fire again.] I ask your pardon; I am talking. If I could smoke, Monsieur!
[WELLWYN hands him a tobacco pouch; and he rolls a cigarette with his yellow-Stained fingers.]
FERRAND. The good God made me so that I would rather walk a whole month of nights, hungry, with the stars, than sit one single day making round business on an office stool! It is not to my advantage. I cannot help it that I am a vagabond. What would you have? It is stronger than me. [He looks suddenly at WELLWYN.] Monsieur, I say to you things I have never said.
WELLWYN. [Quietly.] Go on, go on. [There is silence.]
FERRAND. [Suddenly.] Monsieur! Are you really English? The English are so civilised.
WELLWYN. And am I not?
FERRAND. You treat me like a brother.
[WELLWYN has turned towards the street door at a sound of feet, and the clamour of voices.]
TIMSON. [From the street.] Take her in 'ere. I knows 'im.
[Through the open doorway come a POLICE CONSTABLE and a LOAFER, bearing between them the limp white faced form of MRS. MEGAN, hatless and with drowned hair, enveloped in the policeman's waterproof. Some curious persons bring up the rear, jostling in the doorway, among whom is TIMSON carrying in his hands the policeman's dripping waterproof leg pieces.]
FERRAND. [Starting forward.] Monsieur, it is that little girl!
WELLWYN. What's happened? Constable! What's happened!
[The CONSTABLE and LOAFER have laid the body down on the dais; with WELLWYN and FERRAND they stand bending over her.]
CONSTABLE. 'Tempted sooicide, sir; but she hadn't been in the water 'arf a minute when I got hold of her. [He bends lower.] Can't understand her collapsin' like this.
WELLWYN. [Feeling her heart.] I don't feel anything.
FERRAND. [In a voice sharpened by emotion.] Let me try, Monsieur.
CONSTABLE. [Touching his arm.] You keep off, my lad.
WELLWYN. No, constable—let him. He's her friend.
CONSTABLE. [Releasing FERRAND—to the LOAFER.] Here you! Cut off for a doctor-sharp now! [He pushes back the curious persons.] Now then, stand away there, please—we can't have you round the body. Keep back—Clear out, now!
[He slowly moves them back, and at last shepherds them through the door and shuts it on them, TIMSON being last.]
FERRAND. The rum!
[WELLWYN fetches the decanter. With the little there is left FERRAND chafes the girl's hands and forehead, and pours some between her lips. But there is no response from the inert body.]
FERRAND. Her soul is still away, Monsieur!
[WELLWYN, seizing the decanter, pours into it tea and boiling water.]
CONSTABLE. It's never drownin', sir—her head was hardly under; I was on to her like knife.
FERRAND. [Rubbing her feet.] She has not yet her philosophy, Monsieur; at the beginning they often try. If she is dead! [In a voice of awed rapture.] What fortune!
CONSTABLE. [With puzzled sadness.] True enough, sir—that! We'd just begun to know 'er. If she 'as been taken—her best friends couldn't wish 'er better.
WELLWYN. [Applying the decanter to her dips.] Poor little thing! I'll try this hot tea.
FERRAND. [Whispering.] 'La mort—le grand ami!'
WELLWYN. Look! Look at her! She's coming round!
[A faint tremor passes over MRS. MEGAN's body. He again applies the hot drink to her mouth. She stirs and gulps.]
CONSTABLE. [With intense relief.] That's brave! Good lass! She'll pick up now, sir.
[Then, seeing that TIMSON and the curious persons have again
opened the door, he drives them out, and stands with his back
against it. MRS. MEGAN comes to herself.]
WELLWYN. [Sitting on the dais and supporting her—as if to a child.] There you are, my dear. There, there—better now! That's right. Drink a little more of this tea.
[MRS. MEGAN drinks from the decanter.]
FERRAND. [Rising.] Bring her to the fire, Monsieur.
[They take her to the fire and seat her on the little stool. From the moment of her restored animation FERRAND has resumed his air of cynical detachment, and now stands apart with arms folded, watching.]
WELLWYN. Feeling better, my child?
MRS. MEGAN. Yes.
WELLWYN. That's good. That's good. Now, how was it? Um?
MRS. MEGAN. I dunno. [She shivers.] I was standin' here just now when you was talkin', and when I heard 'im, it cam' over me to do it—like.
WELLWYN. Ah, yes I know.
MRS. MEGAN. I didn't seem no good to meself nor any one. But when I got in the water, I didn't want to any more. It was cold in there.
WELLWYN. Have you been having such a bad time of it?
MRS. MEGAN. Yes. And listenin' to him upset me. [She signs with her head at FERRAND.] I feel better now I've been in the water. [She smiles and shivers.]
WELLWYN. There, there! Shivery? Like to walk up and down a little?
[They begin walking together up and down.]
WELLWYN. Beastly when your head goes under?
MRS. MEGAN. Yes. It frightened me. I thought I wouldn't come up again.
WELLWYN. I know—sort of world without end, wasn't it? What did you think of, um?
MRS. MEGAN. I wished I 'adn't jumped—an' I thought of my baby— that died—and—[in a rather surprised voice] and I thought of d-dancin'.
[Her mouth quivers, her face puckers, she gives a choke and a little sob.]
WELLWYN. [Stopping and stroking her.] There, there—there!
[For a moment her face is buried in his sleeve, then she recovers herself.]
MRS. MEGAN. Then 'e got hold o' me, an' pulled me out.
WELLWYN. Ah! what a comfort—um?
MRS. MEGAN. Yes. The water got into me mouth.
[They walk again.] I wouldn't have gone to do it but for him. [She looks towards FERRAND.] His talk made me feel all funny, as if people wanted me to.
WELLWYN. My dear child! Don't think such things! As if anyone would–!
MRS. MEGAN. [Stolidly.] I thought they did. They used to look at me so sometimes, where I was before I ran away—I couldn't stop there, you know.
WELLWYN. Too cooped-up?
MRS. MEGAN. Yes. No life at all, it wasn't—not after sellin' flowers, I'd rather be doin' what I am.
WELLWYN. Ah! Well-it's all over, now! How d'you feel—eh? Better?
MRS. MEGAN. Yes. I feels all right now.
[She sits up again on the little stool before the fire.]
WELLWYN. No shivers, and no aches; quite comfy?
MRS. MEGAN. Yes.
WELLWYN. That's a blessing. All well, now, Constable—thank you!
CONSTABLE. [Who has remained discreetly apart at the door-cordially.] First rate, sir! That's capital! [He approaches and scrutinises MRS. MEGAN.] Right as rain, eh, my girl?
MRS. MEGAN. [Shrinking a little.] Yes.
CONSTABLE. That's fine. Then I think perhaps, for 'er sake, sir, the sooner we move on and get her a change o' clothin', the better.
WELLWYN. Oh! don't bother about that—I'll send round for my daughter—we'll manage for her here.
CONSTABLE. Very kind of you, I'm sure, sir. But [with embarrassment] she seems all right. She'll get every attention at the station.
WELLWYN. But I assure you, we don't mind at all; we'll take the greatest care of her.
CONSTABLE. [Still more embarrassed.] Well, sir, of course, I'm thinkin' of—I'm afraid I can't depart from the usual course.
WELLWYN. [Sharply.] What! But-oh! No! No! That'll be all right, Constable! That'll be all right! I assure you.
CONSTABLE. [With more decision.] I'll have to charge her, sir.
WELLWYN. Good God! You don't mean to say the poor little thing has got to be–
CONSTABLE. [Consulting with him.] Well, sir, we can't get over the facts, can we? There it is! You know what sooicide amounts to— it's an awkward job.
WELLWYN. [Calming himself with an effort.] But look here, Constable, as a reasonable man—This poor wretched little girl—you know what that life means better than anyone! Why! It's to her credit to try and jump out of it!
[The CONSTABLE shakes his head.]
WELLWYN. You said yourself her best friends couldn't wish her better! [Dropping his voice still more.] Everybody feels it! The Vicar was here a few minutes ago saying the very same thing—the Vicar, Constable! [The CONSTABLE shakes his head.] Ah! now, look here, I know something of her. Nothing can be done with her. We all admit it. Don't you see? Well, then hang it—you needn't go and make fools of us all by–
FERRAND. Monsieur, it is the first of April.
CONSTABLE. [With a sharp glance at him.] Can't neglect me duty, sir; that's impossible.
WELLWYN. Look here! She—slipped. She's been telling me. Come, Constable, there's a good fellow. May be the making of her, this.
CONSTABLE. I quite appreciate your good 'eart, sir, an' you make it very 'ard for me—but, come now! I put it to you as a gentleman, would you go back on yer duty if you was me?
[WELLWYN raises his hat, and plunges his fingers through and through his hair.]
WELLWYN. Well! God in heaven! Of all the d–d topsy—turvy—! Not a soul in the world wants her alive—and now she's to be prosecuted for trying to be where everyone wishes her.