The Project Gutenberg eBook of Landed Genry, by W. Somerset Maugham.

This play was produced under the title “Grace,” at the Duke of York’s Theatre, London, October 15, 1910, with the following cast:

LANDED GENTRY

CHARACTERS

The Action takes place at Kenyon-Fulton, Claude Insoley’s place in Somersetshire.

LANDED GENTRY

THE FIRST ACT

Scene: The drawing-room at Kenyon-Fulton. It is a handsome apartment with large windows, reaching to the ground. On the walls are old masters whose darkness conceals their artistic insignificance. The furniture is fine and solid. Nothing is very new or smart. The chintzes have a rather pallid Victorian air. The room with its substantial magnificence represents the character of a family rather than the taste of an individual.

It is night and one or two electric lamps are burning.

Moore, an elderly impressive butler, comes in, followed by Gann. This is Claude Insoley’s gamekeeper, a short, sturdy man, grizzled, with wild stubborn hair and a fringe of beard round his chin. He wears his Sunday clothes of sombre broadcloth.

He said I was to tell him the moment you come. What can he be wanting of you at this time of night?

I’ve only just took in the dessert. Give ’em a minute to sample the peaches.

I should have thought you might guess without hurting yourself. The Rector tells me that your daughter Peggy came back last night.

Oh, that’s all rot, Gann. You know perfectly well what I mean. It’s a beastly matter for both of us, but it’s no good funking it.... You’ve been on the estate pretty well all your life, haven’t you?

It’s fifty-four years come next Michaelmas that my father was took on, and I was earning wages here before you was born.

My governor always said you were the best keeper he ever struck, and hang it all, I haven’t had anything to complain about either.

Anyhow, we shan’t make it any better by beating about the bush. It appears that Peggy has got into trouble in London.... I’m awfully sorry for you, and all that sort of thing.

I want ’er to forget all she’s gone through. It was a mistake she ever went to London, but she would go. Now I’ll keep ’er beside me. She’ll never leave me again till I’m put underground.

That’s all very fine and large, but I’m afraid Peggy can’t stay on here, Gann.

You know the rule of the estate as well as I do. When a girl gets into a mess she has to go.

You never thought so before, and this isn’t the first time you’ve seen it applied, by a long chalk.

The girl went away once and come to grief. She wellnigh killed herself with the shame of it. I’m not going to let ’er out of my sight again.

Oh, I expect she’ll be able to get a job somewhere. Mrs. Insoley’ll do all she can.

I don’t want to be unreasonable. I’ll give you a certain amount of time to make arrangements.

I’m afraid it’s not a question of whether you like it or not. You must do as you’re told.

You wouldn’t do that, sir? You couldn’t do it, Squire, not after all these years.

You can’t dismiss me for that. I’ll have the law of you. I’ll sue you for wrongful dismissal.

You can do what you damned well like; but if Peggy hasn’t gone by to-morrow night I shall turn you off the estate on Tuesday.

[Going to the window.] Oh, what a lovely night! Do let’s go out. [To Grace.] May we?

I’m perfectly sick with envy every time I look out of the window. Those lovely old trees!

I wonder if you’d be sick with envy if you looked at nothing else for forty-six weeks in the year?

It bores me. It bores me stiff. Those endless trees, and those dreary meadows, and those ploughed fields. Oh!

Not if you saw it for three meals a day for ten years? Oh, my dear, you don’t know what that view is like at an early breakfast on a winter’s morning. You sit there looking at it, with icy fingers, wondering if your nose is red, while your husband reads morning prayers, because his father read morning prayers before him; and the sky looks as if it were going to sink down and crush you.

Well, I’m a Cockney, and I feel inclined to fall down on my very knees and worship those big trees in your park. Oh, what a night!

You see, your example hasn’t been lost on me. I’ve learnt to put propriety before sentiment.

[Rather shyly.] I should have thought, if you cared for me, you wouldn’t have minded.

Hang it all, I can’t help wishing sometimes you’d seem as if—you were fond of me, don’t you know.

If you’ll point out anything you particularly object to in my behaviour, I’ll try to change it.

[Recovering herself.] Oughtn’t you to go back to the dining-room? Your brother and Mr. Cobbett will be boring one another.

Miss Vernon’s in the garden with Miss Lewis. Will you tell them that coffee is here?

I’m devoted to Kenyon, I’m so glad you asked me to come and spend Whitsun here.

We live so near one another. It seems rather silly that we should only just be on speaking terms.

When I saw you at your wedding, I couldn’t help feeling I’d have done just the same in his place.

[With a twinkle in her eye.] And now they want you to marry his brother Archibald.

Five thousand acres in a ring fence. It seems a pity to let it go out of the family.

It’s such a nuisance that a plainish woman of six-and-thirty has to be taken along with it.

[Startled.] I? [Almost defiantly.] I should have thought I had everything that a woman can want to make her happy. I’ve got a husband who adores me. We’re rich. We’re—[with a sudden break in her voice]—happy! I wish to God he had married you! It’s clear enough now that he made a mistake.

How many times d’you suppose his mother has said to Claude: Things would be very different now if you’d had the sense to marry Helen Vernon.

Yes, in that case I must say it’s not to be wondered at if you don’t like me very much.

You’ve got everything that I haven’t got. D’you suppose I’ve lived ten years in my husband’s family without realising the gulf that separates Miss Vernon of Foley from the very middle-class young woman that Claude Insoley was such a damned fool as to marry? You’ve got money and I haven’t a farthing.

Oh, don’t talk such nonsense! How would you like to be dependent on somebody else for every penny you had? If I want to get Claude a Christmas present I have to buy it out of his money.... It wouldn’t be so maddening if I only had forty pounds a year of my own, but I haven’t a penny, not a penny! And I have to keep accounts. After all, it’s his money. If he wants accounts why shouldn’t he have them? I have to write down the cost of every packet of hair-pins. [With a sudden chuckle.] And the worst of it is, I never could add.

I’ve been an utter failure from the beginning. They despised me because I was a nobody and not even a rich nobody; but I was a strapping, healthy sort of young woman and they consoled themselves by thinking I’d have children—a milch cow was what they wanted—and I haven’t even had children....

You mustn’t stay out more than a few minutes. The men will be here in a moment, and I want to play poker. When my mother-in-law comes we shall have to mind our p’s and q’s.

I could wish she had some pleasanter way of showing it than finding fault with everything I do, everything I say, and everything I wear.

Yes. [With a quizzical smile.] She’ll thoroughly disapprove of you. When I introduce you to her: This is Miss Lewis—she’ll look at you for a moment as if you were a kitchen-maid applying for a situation and say: Lewis.

It’s all very fine to say: Oh! but you don’t know what that means. In London, if you’re pretty and amusing and don’t give yourself airs, people are quite ready to be nice to you; but in a place like this, you can have every virtue under the sun, and if you’re not county you’re of no importance in this world, and you’ll certainly be very uncomfortable in the next.

[Smiling.] I think you’re extremely hard on us. If you have the advantage of....

[Seizing the opportunity which Miss Vernon’s hesitation gives her.] Middle-class origins?

You needn’t grudge us the perfectly harmless delusion that there is a difference between a family that has lived in the same place for three or four centuries, with traditions of good breeding and service to the country—and one that has no roots in the soil.

[Meditatively.] I wonder if you’d despise us so much if you had a string of drunken, fox-hunting squires behind you.

Oh, my dear, when I was first married I used to lie awake at night wishing for them with all my heart. When the neighbours came to call on me I could see them obviously lying in wait for the aitches they were expecting me to drop. A Miss Robinson, wasn’t she? Robinson! Are there people called Robinson? Oh, how I wanted to scratch their ugly old faces!

I’ve often thought that if the Archangel Gabriel came down in Somersetshire, they’d look him out in the “Landed Gentry” before they asked him to a shooting-party.

I don’t think you ought to judge us all on Mrs. Insoley. She’s a type that’s dying out.

I don’t want to seem inquisitive, but if you don’t like Mrs. Insoley why on earth d’you have her to stay here?

Simple-minded child! Because even in a county family money’s the only thing in the world that really matters, and we’re penniless, while Mrs. Insoley—[with a quick, defiant look at Miss Vernon]—Mrs. Insoley stinks of it.... Do I shock you?

Claude has nothing but the house and land and his principles. And if we’re able to have the hounds and the shooting and a couple of cars, it’s because Mrs. Insoley pays for it.

Our mother is what is usually described as a woman of character. With the best intentions in the world and the highest principles she succeeds in making life almost intolerable to every one connected with her.

Mrs. Insoley never has driven in a motor-car, and Mrs. Insoley never will drive in a motor-car.

Part of a gentleman’s education should be how to make himself ridiculous with dignity.

[To Cobbett.] You make more fuss about singing than a young lady at a tea-party.

[Looking at him with smiling lips but with hard eyes.] Let us have no more maidenly coyness.

So I imagined by the fact that I found no conveyance at the station. I had to take a fly, and it cost me four-and-sixpence.

I did let you know. I wrote to Grace yesterday. She must have got my letter this morning.

Oh, how stupid of me! I recognised your writing, and as it was my birthday I thought I wouldn’t open it till to-morrow.

I don’t know why you should think Providence has nothing better to do than to play practical jokes on us.

[Looking round.] And may I inquire why you have turned the house in which your father died into a bear garden?

It’s Grace’s birthday, and we thought there would be no harm in our having a little fun.

[Putting up her face-à-main and staring at the company.] I’m old-fashioned enough and well-bred enough to like people to be introduced to me.

Nowadays every one’s so disreputable that we think it safer not to make introductions.... This is Miss Lewis.

[Very affably.] Of course I know Miss Vernon of Foley. My dear Helen, you’re looking very handsome. It wants a woman of birth to wear the outrageous costumes of the present day.

[Very graciously.] You were singing a song when I came in. What was it called?

I wondered why you were trying.... Why are you hiding behind that sofa, Archibald? Do you not intend to kiss your mother?

I find two sermons a day excellent for the appetite. And the Bible tells us that corn makes the young men cheerful.

[Smiling.] Aren’t you dreadfully hungry? Wouldn’t you like something to eat?

No, I shall go straight to my room. It always upsets me to drive in a hired carriage.

Claude, will you take Miss Hall into the dining-room and give her a sandwich and a glass of port?

Nonsense, Louisa! Allow me to know what is good for you. You’ll see that she drinks the port, Claude. [As they go out.] I want to talk to Archibald.

[With a chuckle.] I very much doubt if you could. You’re growing much too fat. It’s quite time they made you something.

[Smiling.] The landed gentry hasn’t its old power. Promotion in the Church nowadays is given with new-fangled ideas about merit and scholarship and heaven knows what.

Ah, there you have me. Even the saints had their weaknesses. I confess that when green peas are in season I always put on flesh.

[Interrupting.] I know what St. Paul’s views were, Archibald, and I disagree with them.

[Giving him a quick look.] We all know that it was a great disappointment to Helen Vernon when—you know what I mean.

It was a great disappointment to me. I had set my heart on joining Foley to Kenyon-Fulton.... It wouldn’t be too late even now if you had the sense to appreciate Helen Vernon’s affection for you.

My dear mother, I can’t persuade myself for a moment that Helen Vernon has any affection for me.

A woman of her age is prepared to have affection for any one who asks her to marry him.

You’re a great deal more than a country parson, Archibald. It is unlikely that Grace will have any children, so unless—something happens to allow Claude to marry again....

[Looking at him calmly.] Since when have you laboured under the delusion that I am the sort of woman to submit to cross-examination, Archibald?

I hope I haven’t kept you waiting. I think you’ll find everything all right.

In that case I shall go to my room. Archibald, tell Louisa that I am ready to go to my room.

I’m going to my room, Louisa. I shall be ready for you to read to me in a quarter of an hour.

Very good, Mrs. Insoley. [To Grace.] I suppose you don’t have prayers on Sunday night?

No, we read our pedigree instead. You’ll find the “Landed Gentry” in your bedroom.

[Icily.] In my young days it was thought more important for a young lady to be well-born than to be clever.

[Shaking hands cordially with Miss Hall.] Be sure and let me know if you’re not quite comfortable. I hope you’ll find everything you want in your room.

Of course Louisa will find everything she wants. She wants nothing. Come, Louisa.

That’s right. It’s the only way with those sort of fellows. Good night, old man.

At first I thought I’d better not tell you anything about it, but I’ve been thinking it over....

I’m sure that whatever you’ve done is right, Claude. [Smiling.] That’s why you’re so detestable.

We agreed very early in our married life that your acts were such as must necessarily meet with my approval.

I should have thought you had more important things to do than to bother about me.

I’ve got nothing in the world to do more important than to bother about you, Grace.

Don’t worry me to-night, Claude; my head’s aching so that I feel I could scream.

[With the tenderest concern.] My poor child, why didn’t you tell me? I’m so sorry I’ve been bothering you. Is it very bad?

I want to amuse myself. Go and fetch the others, they’re down by the lake. And we’ll all play poker.

You know, I’m hanged if I can make you out. You’re never the same for two minutes together.

It seems hardly worth while to have—made a long journey to find oneself exactly where one started.

[Slowly.] I wonder if I just said it to persuade myself. My heart’s empty! Empty! I know now that it wasn’t love I felt for you.

[Bitterly.] Yes, that’s just it. It’s late in the day for everything.... Here they are.

THE SECOND ACT

I thought you knew, mum. I wasn’t to know that you ’adn’t been told anything.

[With a friendly smile.] I’m not blaming you, Peggy.... Mr. Insoley’s out now, but I’ll talk to him as soon as she come in. You’d better go home and fetch your father.

[Passing her hand wearily across her forehead.] No. I’ve just finished.... Try and get your father to come, Peggy.

That’s the daughter of one of the keepers. She came to me just now and asked me to beg Claude to give them a little more time. I hadn’t an idea what she meant. Then she said Claude had told her father he must send her away within twenty-four hours or lose his place.

[Flippantly.] Oh, yes, I know. She seems to be rather a flighty young person. Claude and your brother-in-law were talking about it after lunch in the smoking-room.

Well, it never struck me you didn’t know. Besides—you haven’t shown any great desire for my society the last day or two.

[Shrugging his shoulders.] And it seemed rather a sordid little story. I don’t think I can interest myself very much at this time of day in the gamekeeper’s daughter who kicks over the traces.

[With a sudden vehement outburst.] Don’t you see that wretched girl has done no more than I have?

[With a chuckle.] Great Scott, you haven’t produced an unexpected baby, have you?

[Coolly.] In point of fact she’s done a great deal more than you have. She’s been found out.

I notice people always call you odiously cynical when you talk plain horse-sense to them.

Can’t you realise what I’m feeling? She had excuses. She was alone, and little more than a child; she had no education. How could she be expected to resist temptation?

It’s an absolute delusion that the lower classes are less able to resist temptation than their betters. In the first place, they have a much more systematic moral education, and then they’re taught from early youth to look upon virtue as a valuable asset.

[Going up to him suddenly.] Harry, would you mind very much if I stopped the whole thing?

Oh, no, don’t say that because it’s the conventional thing to say. I want you to be frank with me.

[With a sort of appeal, as if she were excusing herself.] He’s so awfully good to me, Harry. Every present he gives me, every kind word is like a stab in my heart. I’m beastly to him sometimes, I can’t help it, but nothing seems to make any difference to him.... Whatever I do, he loves me.

Oh, it’s no use pretending. I never loved him as he loved me. I couldn’t. I was bored by his love. Yes, all the time we’ve been married.... It’s only lately....

I don’t know what I feel or what to do. I’m so bewildered and wretched.... He bores me still—oh, horribly sometimes. And yet at moments I feel as though I were a good deal more than half in love with him. It’s too absurd. With Claude—after all these years. Something has changed me.... It’s the last thing that ought to have changed me towards him.

I shouldn’t have thought it ever had been a very pleasant position considering what a good friend Claude has been to you.

If you look at it in that way, I dare say it would be better to put an end to the whole thing.

No. I don’t pretend to be better than anybody else, but I’m quite certain I’m no worse. I’m a perfectly normal man in good health. It’s idiotic to abuse me because I’ve done what any other fellow would have done in my place.

Wasn’t I anything to you at all? Only a more or less attractive woman who happened to cross your path? If I was only that, why couldn’t you leave me alone? What harm did I ever do you? Oh, it was cruel of you. Cruel!

Well, most fellows are very shy, and they’re dreadfully frightened of a rebuff. A man doesn’t take much risk until—well, until he finds there’s not much risk to take.

D’you mean to say I gave you to understand.... Oh, how can you humiliate me like that?

The world would be a jolly sight easier place to live in if people weren’t such humbugs.

[Hardly able to believe the truth that presents itself to her, yet eager to probe it.] D’you think it was only curiosity on my side and nothing more than opportunity on yours?

[Trying to justify herself in her own eyes.] I was so bored—so lonely. I never felt at home with the people I had to live with. They humiliated me. And you seemed the same sort of person as I was. I felt at my ease with you. At first I thought you cared for the things I cared for—music and books and pictures: it took me quite a time to discover that you didn’t know the difference between a fiddle and a jews’ harp.... I wonder why you troubled to take me in.

I remember at first I felt as if I were just stepping out of a prison into the fresh air. It seemed to me as if—oh, I don’t know how to put it—as if spring flowers were suddenly blossoming in my heart.

Oh, I don’t blame you. You’re quite right: it’s I who am to blame. [With sudden vehemence.] Oh, how I envy that wretched girl! If she fell it was because she loved. I asked her who the man was, and she wouldn’t tell me. She said she didn’t want to get him into trouble. She must love him still.

[Moved by the pain which he sees she is suffering.] I hope you don’t think me an awful skunk, Grace. I’m sorry we’ve made such a hash of things.

[Going on with her own thoughts.] It would be horrible if that wretched girl were punished while I go scot-free. I can’t let her be turned away like a leper. I should never rest in peace again.

Claude’s not very fond of going back on his word. He seems to have delivered an ultimatum, and I expect he’ll stick to it.

It means so much to me. I feel somehow that if I can only save that poor child it’ll make up in a way—oh, very little—for all the harm I’ve done.... D’you think I’m perfectly absurd?

It’s my mother-in-law. She’s been out for her drive. [With a glance at her watch.] Claude ought to be in soon.

How d’you mean? [His meaning suddenly strikes her.] You don’t think I might have to.... Oh, that would be too much to ask me.... D’you think I might have to tell him?

Whatever you do, Grace, I want you to know that if anything happens I’m willing to do the straight thing.

[Shaking her head.] No, I should never ask you to marry me. Now we both know how things are between us—how they’ve always been....

There’s no need to be. I’m glad to know the truth. There was nothing that held us together before but my cowardice. I was so afraid of going back to that dreary loneliness. But you’ve given me courage.

[Gaily.] Oh, I didn’t look at the country. I was much too excited. Mrs. Insoley has been telling me the dreadful pasts of all the families in the neighbourhood. It appears the further they go back the more shocking their behaviour has been.

I notice that even the grossest immorality becomes respectable when it’s a hundred years old.

[Ironically.] It’s very hard, isn’t it? Mrs. Grundy has no mercy. She’ll take even you to her bosom before you know where you are.

[Smiling.] Meanwhile, I hear you took the opportunity of enlarging Edith’s young mind.

[To Edith.] When you come to Foley you must remind me to show you the portraits of my great-grandmother, Mary Vernon. She had a tremendous affair with the Regent, you know.

[Pleasantly.] My dear Helen, I have the greatest affection for you, but I cannot allow a statement like that to go unchallenged. There is no evidence whatever of the truth of it.

I don’t know how you can say that, Mrs. Insoley, considering that I have all my great-grandmother’s letters to the Regent.

I can see her. If she had any letters she would have kept them. Any woman would.

[Bridling a little.] I can’t imagine why you should suddenly throw doubts on a story that the whole county has believed for a hundred years. Every one knew all about Mary Vernon.

[Chaffing her.] I am aware that your great-grandmother was an abandoned hussy, but that in itself is no proof that she ever had anything to do with the Regent.

It’s notorious that at that very time he was on terms of the greatest intimacy with Pamela Bainbridge. [To Edith Lewis.] I am not an Insoley, thank God; I am a Bainbridge. And whenever he came to this part of the country he stayed with us.

I know you’ve always flattered yourself that there was something between them.

[With complete self-assurance.] And well I may, considering that I still have a lock of hair which he gave my grandmother.

Half the families in the country have a greasy lock of hair which they tell you was the Regent’s. Personally, I think it’s rather snobbish to make a claim of that sort unless one’s perfectly sure.

[Bridling in her turn.] I think you’re extremely rude, Helen. In the presence of a man I can’t go into details, but I have proof of every word I say. You know what I mean, Louisa?

I have no doubt you firmly believe what you say, Mrs. Insoley; but if you don’t mind my saying so, one has only to look at the portrait of Pamela Bainbridge to know the whole thing’s absurd.

[Frigidly.] We won’t argue the point, Helen; I know I’m right, and there’s an end of it.... Put the dog on that chair, Louisa.

Only two, and if a merciful Providence had intended him to stand on them it would undoubtedly have provided him with four.

Mr. Cobbett seems to be better acquainted with the designs of Providence than I should have expected.... Louisa, give me the dog. He shall sit on my lap.

[Chaffing her.] Ah, if you’d only told me that was the alternative, of course I wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment.

I think you are very vulgar, sir.... I’m surprised that you should laugh at such an inane joke, Grace.

[Rather peevishly.] It’s getting almost impossible to do anything for these Somersetshire people. They’re such an obstinate, pig-headed lot.

I prophesied it forty years ago. When they first introduced all this nonsense about education, I said it was a serious matter.

[With a twinkle in his eye.] Like all good prophets you apparently took care to be rather vague about it, mother.

Considering you weren’t born I don’t see what you can know about it, Archibald. I said this would happen. I said they would make the lower classes so independent that no one would be able to do anything with them. I went for a walk in the village this morning and nobody took any notice of me. Isn’t that so, Louisa?

[With a little nod.] Of course it’s not important in itself, but it’s the sign of a change. The long and short of it is that they don’t look up to their betters as they used to.

It’s not too late to teach them their mistake. Personally I mean to be master in my own house.

[Without waiting for the movement.] I’m sorry you did that, Grace. I’ve got nothing to say to him.

[To Mrs. Insoley.] Do you know that Claude has threatened to dismiss Gann if Peggy hasn’t gone by ten o’clock to-night?

For once in his life Claude has acted with spirit. He gave Gann twenty-four hours to think it over. My father would have given him fifteen minutes.

[Startled.] Oh! Was it that? I didn’t know.... Claude, I want you to be very kind and forgive that wretched girl. I want you to tell Gann that she needn’t go.

[Quite firmly.] My dear, I can’t do that. I’ve made up my mind and I must stick to it.

Hang it all, what would happen to the discipline of the estate if I were always shilly-shallying? Every one in the place knows that when I say a thing I mean it. It’s an enormous advantage to all concerned.

[With a coaxing smile.] It wouldn’t do any harm if you made an exception just this once.

It’s a matter of upholding my authority. Gann refused to do what I told him, and I had to threaten him with immediate dismissal. I couldn’t eat my words now without looking a perfect fool.

Don’t you think it’s awfully unjust to send a girl away because she’s got into trouble?

[Turning to Miss Vernon.] Helen, you’re a woman. You must see how cruel it is. Can’t you say something to help me?

I don’t know what else one’s to do. After all, we have the same rule at Foley.

They have it on half the large estates in the kingdom. It’s absolutely essential if one has any regard for decency.

I don’t suppose it would be so common, and it certainly wouldn’t have lasted so long, if there hadn’t been some good in it.

[Violently.] Oh, it’s maddening. Always, always, there’s that stone wall in front of me. Whatever is, is good. However cruel and unjust a custom is, no one must touch it because it’s a custom. If a law is infamous, does it become any less infamous because people have suffered from it for a dozen generations?

I’m afraid your sympathy is rather wasted in this particular case. Peggy Gann isn’t a very deserving young woman.

On those lines the more of a hussy a girl is the more she’s deserving of sympathy.

Nothing very definite. She was always rather cheeky, and she never came to Sunday-school very regularly.

Heaven knows, I don’t want to seem hard and unsympathetic, but after all, you’re not going to keep people moral if you pamper those who aren’t.

We’ll do our best for her. It’s not a pleasant position for any of us, Grace. I’ve been wretched about the whole thing, and I’m sure Claude has too.

Of course I have. But hang it all, in our position we can’t afford to think of sentiment. Especially now that they’re attacking us all round we’ve got to show them that we can keep a firm hand on the reins.

Do us the justice to see that we’re really trying to do what’s right. It may be very wrong that we should be in our particular positions, and we may be quite unworthy of them. But we didn’t make society, and we’re not responsible for its inequalities. We find ourselves in a certain station, and we have to act accordingly.

The long and the short of it is that it’s our duty to look after those whom Providence has placed in our charge. And it’s our duty to punish as well as to reward.

Oh, how hard you are! One would think you’d never done anything in your life that you regret. [With increasing violence.] Oh, you virtuous people, I hate you. You’re never content till you see the sinner actually frizzling. As if hell were needed when every sin brings its own punishment! And you never make excuses. You don’t know how many temptations we resist for the one we fall to.

I’ll tell Moore, shall I? [He goes to the door as he says this and calls.] Moore. Tell Gann to come here.

[Rising.] I think I’ll leave you. This isn’t any business of mine. [To Miss Hall.] Will you come with me?

No. You’ve had no exercise to-day, Louisa. You’d better walk three times round the garden.

Oh, nonsense! You’re in the best of health. And you can take the dog with you.

Louisa’s very troublesome sometimes. She fancies she’s not feeling well. But she’s twenty-five years younger than I am, and I’ve never had a day’s illness in my life.

I asked her to bring you here, Gann. I thought it would be better if you spoke to Mr. Insoley.

I was hoping to find you in a more reasonable state of mind, Gann. You know, you can only hurt yourself by being pig-headed and stubborn.

[Making an effort on himself.] Please, Squire, I come to know if I’m really to go to-morrow? I know you said you’d send me away, Squire. But I couldn’t bring myself to believe you meant it.

I’m willing to listen to anything you’ve got to say. I want to be quite fair to you.

If I could only make you see as what you ask ain’t possible, I’m sure you’d let us stay. There’s nowhere Peggy can go to.

Hang it all, Mrs. Insoley’ll do all she can for her. You may be quite sure that Peggy shan’t want for money.

It isn’t money the girl wants. If I send ’er away she’ll just go to the bad altogether.

You see, it’s a matter of principle, Gann. It would be devilish unjust to make an exception in your favour.

[Stepping forward with surly indignation and facing Claude.] I love the girl and I can’t bear to part with ’er. She’s a good girl in her ’eart, only she’s had a misfortune.

That’s all very fine and large, Gann. But if she’d been a good girl, hang it all, she’d have had power to resist temptation.

I don’t want to rub it in and all that sort of thing, but my own feeling is that if she came rather a cropper, it was because she was—if you don’t mind my saying so—because she was that way inclined. I don’t think anyone can accuse me of being a hard man, but I’m afraid I haven’t much pity for women who....

I’ve served you faithful, man and boy, for forty years. And I was born in that there cottage I live in now. If you turn us out where are we to go to? I’m getting on in years, and I shan’t find it easy to get another job. It’ll mean the work’us.

I’m very sorry. I can’t do anything for you. You’ve had your chance and you’ve refused to take it.

In consideration of your long service I’ll give you fifty pounds so that you can tide over the next few months.

Oh, Claude, you can’t do it. You’ll break the man’s heart. Haven’t you any pity? Haven’t you any forgiveness?

[Bitterly.] I suppose because I’ve never asked you for anything before that wasn’t absolutely trifling.

I’ll do anything in the world to please you, darling, but in this case you must trust to my better judgment.

I have no patience with you, Claude. When your father made up his mind to do anything it was done, and it would never have occurred to me to oppose him.

[With a twinkle in his eye.] You forget, mother, that was because you generally made up my father’s mind some time before he did.

[To Mrs. Insoley and Archibald.] Will you leave me alone with Claude. I must talk to him alone.

I couldn’t say it before them. They’d never understand. They’d only sneer. But can’t you see, Claude, that it’s out of the question to drive Gann away so callously? He loves the place just as much as you love it.... In my heart I seem to feel suddenly all that his shabby little cottage means to him—the woods and coverts and the meadows and the trees. His life is bound up with Kenyon. His roots are in the earth as if he were a growing thing. Can’t you see what it must mean to him to leave it?

He only goes because he’s headstrong and obstinate. He’s the Somersetshire peasant all over. You do your best for them and you get no gratitude. You try to reason with them, but you can’t get a single idea into their thick heads.

You can’t punish him because he’s stupid and dull. You’re throwing him upon the world in his old age. It means starvation.

[Impatiently.] Oh, men always talk of their duty when they want to be odiously cruel.

Oh, Claude, if you love me at all, give in to me this time. You don’t know what it means to me. I’ve often been horrible to you, but I’m going to be different. I want to love you. I want to be more to you than I’ve ever been. Claude, I implore you to do what I ask you—just because I ask it, because you love me.

[Withdrawing himself a little.] I could not love you, dear, so much, loved I not honour....

[Interrupting passionately.] Oh, no, don’t, Claude; for God’s sake be sincere and natural. Can’t you forget that you’re a landed proprietor and a J.P. and all the rest of it, and remember that you’re only a man, as weak and as—as frail as the rest of us? You hope to be forgiven yourself, and you’re utterly pitiless.

[Impatiently.] Oh, how can you make phrases! What on earth have I got to do with it?

Hang it all, don’t you see that it’s because of you that I can’t give way? It’s beastly having to say it. It makes me feel such an ass.

Until I knew you I don’t suppose I had a higher opinion of women than most men, but you taught me what a—what a stunning fine thing a good woman is.

[Hoarsely.] It’s perfectly absurd. It’s—it’s unreasonable. I’ve not been.... Only the other day you said I was cold. And just now you told me I was unkind.

I dare say that’s all my fault. I expect I bore you sometimes. After all, I know you’re worth about six of me. I can’t expect you to love me as I love you.

D’you mean to say that if I weren’t—what you think me, you wouldn’t insist on that poor girl going away?

Even if it weren’t for the rule of the estate, I couldn’t let her live in the same place as you. I can’t help it. It’s just a sort of instinct. It simply disgusts me to think that you may meet that—that woman when you walk about, and her kid.

When I heard she’d been here and you’d been talking to her, I felt almost sick.

I?... If I weren’t what you.... Oh, it’s too much to ask anyone. Claude, I beseech you to give way.

By Jove, I had no idea it was so late. There’s the dressing gong. You must hurry up.

Time to dress for dinner, darling. You won’t be late, will you? You know how mother hates to be kept waiting.

Yes’m. She didn’t know as Gann had left. He never come back to the servants’ hall.

[With a cry of distress.] Oh, mum, I was hoping. You said you’d do your best for me.

It’s so ’ard on me, mum, and so ’ard on father. Wasn’t there something more you could do, mum?

[With a little gasp of anguish.] I did all I could. I couldn’t do anything more. I couldn’t really.... [Almost to herself.] It’s too much to ask anyone.

I’ve got to go then, and there’s an end of it. You won’t let father be turned away, will you, mum? That’s all I care about now. It ’ud just break his ’eart.

[With a ray of hope.] D’you think he’ll let you go? I think it’s the best thing after all, Peggy. I’ve done—I’ve done all I could.

No, he won’t hear of it. But I shall go all the same—somewhere he can’t find me.

[Anxious now to make the best of it.] I dare say it won’t be for very long, Peggy. Have you as much money as you want? I should like to do something for you.

I shan’t want anything, thank you, mum. And thank you for all you’ve done. And if anything come to ’appen to me, you’d see as the baby wasn’t sent to the workhouse, wouldn’t you, mum?

There you are! I thought you were in your room. Your maid said you hadn’t come up yet.

Well, I want to know if you’re going to wear the grey satin you wore on Saturday. You see, I only brought three dinner dresses down with me, and one of them’s a grey, only it’s much more slaty than yours, and it’ll look so cold beside it. So I shan’t put it on if you’re going to wear yours.

[Clenching her hands to prevent herself from screaming.] I won’t put on anything that’ll interfere with your grey.

THE THIRD ACT

[The dining-room at Kenyon Fulton. It is a fine room with French windows leading into the garden. On the walls are departed Insoleys of the last two or three generations, stiff ladies and gentlemen of the Victorian era, military-looking fellows in the uniform of the early nineteenth century, and ungainly Georgian squires with their wives in powdered hair. Between the windows, standing well away from the wall, rather far back, is a round table laid out for breakfast. On the Sheraton sideboard is a cloth, a stand for keeping dishes warm, a large ham, and plates and forks and spoons. Against the wall opposite the sideboard are a row of chairs, and there are half a dozen chairs round the table. There are doors right and left.

It is the morning after the events which occur in the Second Act, and when the curtain rises prayers have just finished. Claude is seated at the table with an immense prayer-book and a still larger Bible in front of him. The rest of the party are rising to their feet. They have been kneeling against various chairs. They consist of Mrs. Insoley, Miss Hall, and Miss Vernon. Well away from them, emphasising the fact that even the Almighty must recognise the difference between the gentry and their inferiors, have been praying the servants. They have been kneeling against the row of chairs that line the wall, according to their precedence, ranging from the Cook at one end to the Butler at the other; and they consist of the Cook, obese, elderly and respectable, Mrs. Insoley’s Maid, two Housemaids, the Kitchenmaid, the Footman, and Moore the butler. When they have scrambled to their feet they pause for a moment to gather themselves together, and, headed by the Cook, walk out. The Butler takes the Bible and the prayer-book off the table and carries them away. Claude gets up. He takes up his letters and the Times, which he puts under his arm.

If Grace were more punctual she wouldn’t be obliged to deprive her maid of the pleasure and the duty of attending morning prayers.

In that case I can’t quite see what is the use of your having an opinion on the subject.

[Looking up from his letters, with a smile.] Miss Hall was only making a general reflection.

I never forget while I’m reading them that I’m a woman of birth and a woman of property.

The more they hate them, the better it is for them. That is life, my dear Helen. It’s a very good thing to begin the day by making it distinctly understood that masters are masters and servants are servants.

It is not a matter of interest to me if they like it or not, Louisa. I have the authority of my maker for it, and that is quite enough for me.

When breakfast’s at ten o’clock I cannot imagine why people shouldn’t be punctual.

[Chaffing her fellow-guest.] And then, if Mr. Cobbett has left any, perhaps I’ll see if I can eat a devilled kidney.

[With a chuckle.] Mr. Cobbett thinks he’ll have to look nippy to get anything at all.

That’s the beauty of the country. One does relish one’s breakfast, doesn’t one?

In some ways you’re much more of a Bainbridge than an Insoley, Claude. My father used always to sit on the Times so that no one should read it before him.

I must say I don’t like to have my paper messed about by a lot of people before I’ve had a chance of looking at it. Half the pleasure of reading the Times is reading it first. Besides, the Morning Post and the Mail are on the sideboard for anyone who wants them.

Oh, I know I’m dreadfully late. Everybody’s going to scold me. And I’m so sorry.

[Imitating Mrs. Insoley.] When breakfast’s at ten o’clock I cannot imagine why people shouldn’t be punctual.

[Smiling.] Isn’t Grace down yet? [To Claude, who rises to give her something to eat.] No, don’t bother. I’ll help myself.

When I was mistress of this house breakfast was served punctually at eight o’clock every morning.

[Flippantly.] It must have seemed just like supper. Did you have it the last thing before going to bed?

I made no exceptions. The day after my cousin James broke his neck in the hunting-field and was brought to this very house on a stretcher, I came down as the clock struck. And a very hearty breakfast I ate too.

In that case, as a member of the middle classes, it’s not surprising that I don’t practise it.

Grace has probably been stuffing herself with bread and butter in her room. I have no patience with the new-fangled custom of giving people tea when they wake up. I never give it to my guests.

[Delighted with the opportunity he has given her.] It may surprise you, but I have no intention of doing so.

[Cheerfully.] There now. And I thought I’d made such an impression on you, Mrs. Insoley.

That’s why I couldn’t risk asking you to stay with me. Perhaps at my age I am safe from your blandishments, but Louisa is extremely susceptible.

Oh, Mrs. Insoley, how can you! Why, Mr. Cobbett must be ten years younger than I am.

Don’t dash my hopes to the ground, Miss Hall. I was flattering myself you didn’t look upon me altogether with indifference.

We’re a lazy lot. I suppose you’ve been up and about for the last two hours.

[With his eyes on Grace.] I feel I ought to do something. I don’t know what to do.

Louisa, get me some of those devilled kidneys that Mr. Cobbett has been making so much fuss about.

I cannot imagine why anyone should be upset because an abandoned hussy has been so wicked as to destroy herself.

If we were honest with ourselves, Mr. Cobbett, we should acknowledge that nobody’s death is important enough to interfere with one’s appetite.

Louisa, I’ve been like a mother to you for ten years. Would you eat one potato less for your dinner if I were found dead in my bed to-morrow morning?

[Touched.] You are a good girl, Louisa, and you may have that black lace shawl of mine. If you mend it carefully, it’ll last you for years.

D’you think I ought to offer to go away to-day? I was going to stay till to-morrow.

I was going to-day in any case. I’m due to stay with some people in Wiltshire.

[Getting up from the table.] I think you should remember, my dear Grace, that suicide is not only very wicked, but very cowardly. I have no patience with the sentimentalities of the present day. Our fathers buried people who were sinful enough to destroy themselves at the cross-roads with a stake in their insides. And it served them right.

Oh, did you hear? They have the heart to chatter like that when that unhappy girl is lying dead. They haven’t a word of pity. It seems to mean nothing to them that she sacrificed herself. If she died, it was to save her father, so that he shouldn’t be thrown out of work in his old age. And they call her wicked and sinful.

But is that anything new to you? Haven’t you noticed that people always rather resent the heroism of others? They don’t like the claim it makes on them, and the easiest way to defend themselves is with a sneer.

[Afraid that she is going to blurt out a secret which had much better not be referred to.] Grace, don’t be stupid.

Once I suspected what she was going to do, but she was too clever for me. I so wanted to believe it was all right. I wanted her to go away quietly.

[Trying to calm her.] Lots of women have been in difficulties before, and they haven’t killed themselves. There must have been some kink in her nature. I suppose the instinct of life wasn’t so strong as it is with most of us, and—and she would have committed suicide for almost any reason.

D’you know why Claude was so determined she should go? Because he couldn’t bear that I should come in contact with a woman who’d done wrong.

[With sudden suspicion.] Why should you know what Claude feels better than I do?

[With a keen look at her.] When I asked you the other day whether you’d been very much in love with Claude, you wouldn’t answer.

D’you know that my mother-in-law would give half her fortune to know—what you know? She’s been on the look-out to trip me up for years. It only wants a hint, and she can be trusted to make the most of it.

I suspected before. In those circumstances hardly any men seem able to help a sort of proprietary air. He rather gave it away, you know.... And then yesterday I felt quite certain.

My dear, what can I do? Claude wouldn’t love me more because he loved you less.

I never dreamt that anyone could care for Claude like that. I suppose you see something in him that I’ve never seen.... He has a hundred different ways of getting on my nerves.

It wants them even because it’s something individual to cling to.... And then it laughs at them a little, and the best love of all includes a sense of humour.

It’s made me feel so strange to know that you love him, Helen. It’s given him something that he’s never had before.

I don’t suppose any woman likes her husband less because she knows that another woman is eating her heart out for him.

[Slowly.] I wonder if I’ve misjudged him all these years.... D’you think I found him shallow because there was no depth in me, and narrow because I was narrow myself.

[Touching the bell.] No, he wasn’t at the cottage. I’ve sent for him and told him to come here.

[Deeply discouraged.] Because they don’t come to us any more when they’re in trouble. They keep it to themselves.

I don’t think you’d better see him if he’s been drinking. He may be going to make himself rather objectionable.

What a nice woman that is! I can’t imagine why Archibald doesn’t hurry up and marry her.

I’ve just been round to your cottage, Gann. I saw Peggy.... I want to tell you how awfully sorry I am for what’s happened. I can never forgive myself.

What d’you want me for? Couldn’t you let me be? D’you still want me to go?

Give us time and we’ll clear. We don’t want long. Give us time to bury the girl. That’s all we want.

I hope you’ll stay. I want to do everything I can to make up for your loss. I want you to know that I blame myself most awfully.

I’d give anything for this horrible accident not to have happened. [With a look at Grace.] I’m afraid it’s my fault.

She killed ’erself so as I shouldn’t be turned off. That’s why she killed ’erself. You’re a hard master—you always was. She thought it was the only way to save me from the work’us.

[Very awkwardly.] In future I’ll try to be different. I didn’t think I was hard. I thought I was only just.

It’s easy enough for you people to keep straight. You don’t ’ave temptations like we ’ave.

No, that’s true enough. I suppose it’s not really very hard for us to be moderately decent.

[Violently.] D’you want that too? Ain’t you satisfied yet? Has the child got to go before I stay?

No, no. I only wanted to know if there was anything I could do. I wanted to help you.

I can only repeat that I’m most awfully sorry. I’m afraid there’s absolutely nothing I can do to make up for your great loss.... You can go now.

Last night when the liquor was in me I swore I’d blow your brains out and swing for it. Don’t let me ’ave the gun. I’m not fit to keep it yet. If I get on the drink again I’ll kill you.

What the dickens d’you mean by speaking to me like that! Of course you must have your gun. I can’t allow you to neglect your work.

They took the cartridges out. I was about mad, and I don’t know what I said. If I’d come across you then—you wouldn’t be standing where you are now.

Here you are. I don’t think I’m afraid. I’ll take my chance of your wanting to shoot me.

That’ll do, Gann. I don’t think I have anything more to say to you. You can go.

[Thinking she refers to his attempts at apology.] It was very difficult to know what to say to him.

Oh! Hang it all, you didn’t think I was likely to be frightened of one of my own servants, did you?

So was I. But I felt pretty sure he saw two of me, and I thought he’d probably shoot at the wrong one.

Rot! [He hesitates for a moment.] Grace, I’m afraid you think I’ve been an awful skunk.

[With a quick look at him.] We none of us knew anything like this was going to happen.

I’ve been feeling such an awful cad. If I’d only done what you wanted me to, this wouldn’t have happened.

That’s not your fault. I didn’t say—what I should have said to make you change your mind.

It rather put my back up that you should be so set on letting Peggy stay. But it struck me afterwards, of course you couldn’t feel the same about it as I did. I think if one’s awfully straight, one’s full of charity, don’t you know.

I don’t suppose you remember, but when Archibald told us, I wanted to say something to you....

[Going on.] And I came near you. And—and you sort of shuddered, and said: “For God’s sake, don’t touch me!”

No, I know you didn’t. It just came out unawares. And—oh, Grace, I couldn’t bear to think you—you couldn’t stick me, don’t you know.... I suppose I’m a damned fool, but I haven’t made you hate and loathe me, have I?

I can’t help it. You’ve just somehow got in my blood and bones, and if it didn’t sound such drivel, I’d say you meant everything in the world to me. Only you just laugh at me when I say things like that.

[Explaining to herself rather than to him.] It’s very hard for all of us to say what we mean. The words we use are so frayed. One ought to guess at—at the soul within them.

I’ve been trying to think about Gann and his daughter, but I can’t really think of anything but you.

You know, Claude, no one’s so wonderful as you think me. I’m no longer so young as all that, and you’re the only person who ever thought me very pretty.

I don’t mind. Sometimes, so that my love should mean more to you, don’t you know, I’ve wanted you to get older quickly, and I’ve wanted you to be plain.

[With tears in her voice.] I’m not laughing at you. God knows I’m not laughing at you.

I’m such an ass at explaining myself. What I want to make you understand is that I don’t love you for anything that other people could love you for. I love you because you’re you, don’t you know. Because you’re so awfully good and straight. And you know I respect you so awfully.

[Deeply moved.] Not many women can say that, can they? One ought to be very grateful.

[Looking away from him.] I wonder you didn’t marry Helen Vernon years before you came across me.

I can’t help seeing that she would have made you a much better wife than I have. She would have understood you. I don’t think I ever understood you. I’ve been a wretched failure, Claude.

She might have had children. You wanted them so much, Claude, and I haven’t given you any.

If I wanted children it was chiefly because I thought you’d be happier. You wouldn’t have minded the dull life down here then. And you might have cared a bit more for me because I was their father.

Oh, Claude, I met the coroner’s officer on my way along here. He wants to see you.

[With a nod.] I told him you knew nothing more than I’d said. But I’m afraid they’ll call you at the inquest.

I shouldn’t have played the fool if I’d thought you were going to take things so much to heart.

[Ironically.] That’s the nuisance of women, isn’t it? They will make an affair of what’s really only an episode.

You have a way of saying things that makes one feel an awful bounder. After all, one can’t help falling in love, and one’s not a blackguard because one falls out of it.

D’you remember asking me yesterday if I was beginning to care for Claude differently?

I love him as I never thought it was possible to love. I don’t know why I love him. It’s come to me suddenly. I—oh, I can’t tell you what it is. It’s like hunger in my soul. And I’m frightened.

It’s come too late. I’m—soiled. Afterwards—you know what I mean, when you and I—the first thing I felt was surprise because I found myself no different. I thought when a woman had done that everything would seem altered. But I felt just the same as before. It’s only now. It’s like the stain of blood—don’t you remember—not all the perfumes of Arabia....

[With increasing agitation.] Oh, what have I done! If I’d only had the strength to resist! It’s now that I see it all, the utter degradation of it, the hateful ugliness. Oh, I loathe myself. How can I take my heart to Claude when there’s you standing between us?

I’d give anything in the world if I hadn’t done what I have done. I might be so happy now. I haven’t a chance. The fates are against me. What’s the good of loving Claude now—I’m not fit to be his wife.

[Reflectively.] The fact is, only the wicked should sin.... When the virtuous do things they shouldn’t they do make such an awful hash of it.

Oh, yes, I forgot. [Holding out her hand to Cobbett.] You’ll have to look sharp.

THE FOURTH ACT

[Reading.] “ ... to whom it would give the suffrage are marked off from all citizens who have ever and anywhere enjoyed the franchise in great civil communities by physical differences which no legislation can affect. Women, they insist, pay rates and taxes as men do, and therefore, they argue, women ought to vote as men do. But rates and taxes may be imposed or abolished by legislation. Men may become ratepayers and taxpayers, or cease to be ratepayers and taxpayers. The one thing that no enthusiasm, no reasoning, no eloquence, demonstrations, or statutes can achieve is to make a woman a man.”

[Ironically.] You may take it from me that no man can become a mother. And apparently very few women either nowadays.

[Handing it over.] Yes. And be very careful with him. He says he’s not very well to-day.

I’m glad to have an opportunity of talking to you, Archibald. I’ve fancied that you’ve been rather avoiding me the last day or two.

When I asked Grace to invite Helen Vernon to stay here for a few days, it was in the confident hope that you would make her a proposal of marriage.

I respect and esteem Miss Vernon, but I confess that no warmer feeling has ever entered my bosom.

It’s not necessary that warm feelings should enter a clergyman’s bosom, Archibald. She’s of very good family indeed, and an heiress. Five thousand acres and a house that’s only just been done up.

[With a chuckle.] If there only weren’t a wife to be taken along with the property!

[With a twinkle in her eyes.] It shouldn’t be necessary for me to tell a person of your profession that none of the pleasures of this world can be had without some drawback.

What a pity it is you weren’t a man, mother. You would have made such a bishop.

Then I will only say one thing more. I am the meekest woman in the world, and a lamb could lead me. But I should like to remind you that the living of Kenyon-Fulton is not worth more than a hundred and seventy a year, and if you can keep a curate and live like a gentleman it’s only owing to my generosity.

I’m quite prepared to live on a hundred and seventy a year, mother. I dare say it would have just as good an effect on my figure as matrimony.

I understood you to recommend marriage as a sort of heroic remedy for corpulence.

[Smiling.] I could have wished that fewer summers had passed over a fringe which I shrewdly suspect to be artificial.

What’s the matter with her? She’s been going about with a face as long as one of your sermons.

[Irritably.] That’s the worst of those sort of people, they have no self-control. If she’s going to give way like this at the death of a kitchen-maid, what on earth is she going to do at the death of a duchess?

No. There was no need for me to go. And Claude seemed to think he’d rather I didn’t.

He looked in at the Rectory for five minutes. I’m afraid he’s awfully worried.

I have no patience with Claude. He should have more self-respect than to let such a thing worry him.

You seem entirely to forget the relative positions of the parties concerned. If Claude doesn’t want to answer an impertinent question, it’s the easiest thing in the world for him to fly into a passion and refuse. Who is the coroner?

You’re not going to suggest that the local doctor would dream of asking a question unless he was quite sure Claude was prepared to answer it?

Davies is an advanced Radical. I’m afraid he may take the opportunity to have a fling at Claude.

I’m all at sea. In my day we wouldn’t have stood a doctor for five minutes who was a Radical. We’d have made life unbearable for him until he became a Conservative or left the district.

[With suppressed rage.] We don’t live in your young days, and I’m not a lady.

[With a chuckle at the opportunity Grace has given her.] As you are my hostess, it would be insolent of me to contradict you, my dear Grace.

[Icily.] Do you object to the way I do my hair, or is it the cut of my skirt that doesn’t quite meet with your approval?

You know how funny he is. He doesn’t say much when anything’s on his mind. But if one knows him well it’s not hard to tell when something’s bothering him.... He’s awfully worried about you.

[Still looking in the glass.] I don’t know why I should worry him now more than I usually do.

He’s so fond of you he can’t bear to think that—that it’s made a difference to you.

I’m afraid he’ll have rather a rough time at the inquest. I thought you might say something to buck him up a little. A word or two from you would mean so much.

I think it’s so strange that you should say all this to me now. It’s not as if we’d ever been great friends, is it?

Our best friends are always those who put us in a good conceit of ourselves. I always think it’s a dreadful thing when a man loses his nerve.... You can do so much for Claude if you choose.

I think you exaggerate the influence I have over him. After all, he’s always taken care to keep me and his life strictly apart.

I think you should remember that if he made a mistake it was an honest one. He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t put his foot in it sometimes.

And then, if he was so determined not to break that particular rule of the estate, it was partly for your sake, wasn’t it? Because he thought it his duty to keep you from any possibility of contact with evil.

It’s very difficult for me to tell you. I think the chief thing is that you should tell Claude—if you can—that you’re fond of him, and that, whatever happens, you always will be fond of him.

[Hoarsely.] That oughtn’t to be very hard. I love him with all my heart and soul.

[Smiling.] If you could only say that to him—just in that way, as if you really felt it—you would make him so happy.

I’m sorry if I’ve been often bitter and unkind to you. I’m ashamed when I think of all the silly, cruel things I must have said to you during the ten years I’ve lived here.

[Cheerfully.] Oh, what nonsense! You’ve got a clever tongue, and like most people who have, you can’t resist saying a sharp thing when it strikes you.

I’ve often set out to wound you. I’ve been fiendish sometimes. I’d like you to know that I’m grateful to you for being so patient with me. It wouldn’t be surprising if you loathed me.

Oh, I think I’ve always had a very great affection for you, Grace. I know you’ve often found life down here rather dull. If any allowances have been necessary, I’ve been perfectly ready to make them.

I expect I was often unjust to you. I sometimes felt you weren’t quite sincere.... I thought you’d only become a clergyman on account of the living and the house.

Yes, I felt that. But I couldn’t bear you any ill-will on that account. It was true.

I’m afraid I’m not much in the way of parsons. My class means so much more to me than my calling. I know it’s a mistake, and yet I can’t help it. I’m bound down by conventions that I haven’t the will to escape from. The day’s past of the family living, the perquisite of a younger son, and I’m out of place here. I can’t feel that the position is mine by right as my Uncle Robert felt before me, and I haven’t the enthusiasm which might make me feel I’d earned it by my own efforts.

I’m so ashamed of myself. Because people didn’t carry their hearts on their sleeves I thought they had no hearts at all.

For three years after I was ordained I was a curate at Wakefield. I was worked so hard that I never had a moment to myself. I think those were my happy days. And that’s what I ought to do now. I ought to exchange all this for some living in a city, and do some real work before it’s too late. But I haven’t the courage. And then I should do no good, for I haven’t conviction. That’s why I have no influence in the parish. They come to me for beef-tea and for coal-tickets, but when it’s real help they want they go elsewhere. All I’m fit for is to hold a family living and dine with the neighbouring gentry. You summed me up with the utmost precision.

I don’t think so any more. I have an idea that perhaps one sees people most truly when one sees them charitably.

[With a smile.] You said you wanted to speak to me, and I’ve been talking only about myself.

[With a series of little gasps.] Archibald, I’m dreadfully unhappy. I’ve done something which I bitterly regret. I don’t know how to tell you. But I must tell you.... I’ve been unfaithful to Claude.

Grace, you must be mad. You can’t mean what you say. It’s—it’s impossible.

Yes. That’s why I can’t bear the agony of it. I’m so unhappy. I’m so dreadfully unhappy. I want you to help me. I want you to tell me what to do.

You can hardly believe it, can you? It sounds incredible. Sometimes I can’t help saying to myself that it is not possible it should be true.

Don’t reproach me. I’ve said all the obvious things to myself already.... Oh, I hate myself.

I’m so bewildered. Why d’you tell me? I feel I ought to ask you all sorts of questions, and I can’t bear to ask you anything.

I don’t think anything matters but that I’ve behaved odiously. Claude was always very good to me, and I’ve deceived him. And every kindness, every word of love he says to me is a reproach. And I love him with all my soul, and there’s always the horror of what I’ve done between us. And I can’t bear it any longer.

I can’t advise you. I haven’t got the experience. I know so little of the world.

You must advise me. I’m at the end of my strength. I can’t go on like this any more.

Helen Vernon. She found out. But I can’t go to her for advice. I can’t. I can’t humiliate myself. And the remorse is just killing me.

It’s so difficult for me to say things that won’t seem sanctimonious. I don’t want to say a word that you can think is a reproach.

[Hesitatingly.] We’re taught that there’s one course clear to the sinner that repenteth.

[In a low voice.] I don’t see how there can be forgiveness till one has confessed one’s sin.

[With a deep, deep sigh.] Oh, if you knew what a relief it would be! For days I’ve been fighting with the temptation to make a clean breast of it. I’ve been trying to keep it from me, trying not to think of it. But it meets me at every turn. It haunts me. It’s like an obsession, and it’s stronger than I am. It’s driving me—driving me to confess. I know I shall have to do it; I can’t help myself. I shall go mad if I don’t tell him.

If I’d told him before, when I was trying to persuade him to let Gann stay, that girl wouldn’t have died. I hadn’t the courage. I wouldn’t sacrifice myself. It was too much to ask me. And since then I’ve been tortured by remorse. They say she had the suicidal instinct, and would have killed herself for almost anything. But I seem to see her lying there reproaching me. Reproaching me.

I’m frightened. I’m just sick with fear. A dozen times I’ve been on the point of it—just to have done with it, to get rid of the agony that burnt my heart—and at the last moment I couldn’t. But it’s like being on a high place and looking down and holding on to something so that you shouldn’t throw yourself over. Sooner or later I shall have to do it. It’s the only way to get back my self-respect. It’s the only chance I have of living at all.

No one can do anything for me. Oh, it is cruel. And to come just now when I love Claude! I didn’t love him at first. It came quite suddenly—as if scales had been torn away from my eyes. And it wasn’t till then that I saw the sin and the wickedness of it. Oh, it was so much more than sin and wickedness. The filthiness. The only thing’s to tell him and have done with it. You know he’ll divorce me, don’t you?

Even if it breaks his heart, he’ll force himself to divorce me. You know what Claude is. He’ll think it’s his duty. He’ll do what he thinks he ought to do even if it kills him. Oh, but if he’d only forgive me, I would try to make amends. It’s so hard that I’ve only learnt how to be a good wife now that I’m unfit to be his wife at all.

It’s a letter that I had from—the other. It’s proof of everything. I felt I couldn’t tell Claude. It was hopeless. And I thought I’d just press it into his hand....

He’ll read the letter, and then the worst will be over. I couldn’t have told him—I couldn’t.

Anyhow, it’s the end of everything—just when I might have started a new life.... I wonder when I shall have to go away from here?

[Looking out of the window.] I thought I hated the place. It’s bored me to the verge of tears. And now I shall never again see the night fall on the park slowly. And I feel ... and I feel that with me, too, those great trees, and the meadows, and the cawing rooks have come to be part of my blood and my bones.

[With a gesture of the head towards Archibald.] I’ve told him about me and....

I suspected you were thinking of something like this. But you wouldn’t let me speak to you.

My dear, there are three good rules in life. The first is—never sin; and that’s the most sensible. The second is—if you sin, never repent; and that’s the bravest. But the third is—if you repent, never never confess; and that’s the hardest of them all.

You still look upon your God as a God of vengeance, who wants sacrifices to appease Him.

That was said to a stiff-necked generation that wanted humbling. But no one can want to humble us, surely. We’re so timid already. We’re so unsure of ourselves. We’ve all got a morbid desire to unbosom ourselves. The commonest ailment of the day is a vulgar feminine passion for making scenes. Confession’s like a drug we fly to because we’ve lost the last shadow of our self-reliance.

Don’t let her move you, Grace. I beseech you, for your soul’s sake. Be brave.

No one knows why we’ve been brought into the world, but it evidently wasn’t for our happiness. Or if it was, the Being who put us here has made a most outrageous mess of it. Put your happiness out of the question.

[Very earnestly to Grace.] If the sinner repents, let him confess his sin. That’s the only proof he can give of a contrite spirit.

Nonsense. He can give a much more sensible proof by acting differently in future.

Part of my punishment is the feeling that except for this horrible mistake we should both be so much happier than we were before.

You were rather hard and selfish before because you had nothing in particular to reproach yourself with. Perhaps it was necessary that you should step from the narrow path of virtue in order to become a virtuous woman.

Yes, I feel that. And the only sacrifice I can make is to lay bare my soul before Claude and accept my punishment.

And then, I think Claude should be given the chance of deciding for himself. It’s not fair to leave him in ignorance.

[To Grace.] Don’t you know that Claude loves you, and trusts you, and believes in you?

That is all my torment. I’m so unworthy. If I didn’t love him—if I didn’t want him to love me so much—it wouldn’t be so dreadful.... I can’t bear that there should be this secret between us. I know that he’s not loving me, but some fancy of his own heart. And I’m jealous. I’m jealous of the woman he loves who isn’t me. And I want him to love me as I am, as I love him.

Grace, don’t forget that I’ve loved him, too, hopelessly, without any thought of a return. It gives me some claim, doesn’t it?

The only thing I care for is his happiness. And I beseech you to have mercy on him.

If you destroy his belief in you he’ll have nothing left. He thinks he’s strong, but he isn’t. He depends on a few simple principles, and some of them are already giving way under his feet. He wants you now more than ever. You can give him back his self-reliance. And you’re going to humiliate him. Besides everything else, the misery and the grief, don’t you see what a blow it’ll be to his vanity? I beseech you to have mercy.

You’re asking me to go on living the hateful lie. But I can’t breathe. The air about me seems heavy with deceit. If Claude doesn’t love me for what I am, what can his love be to me?

My dear, it’s not for ourselves that our friends love us, but for the grace and the beauty that they’ve given us out of their own hearts. And the only way we can show them our gratitude is by doing all we can to preserve those precious illusions they have about us.

I don’t want a love that’s based on illusion. At the back of my mind there was the hope that if I told Claude, some day in the future he might forgive me. And we could start fresh with mutual knowledge and mutual confidence. But if I don’t tell him, we can never come together. Even though we’re not separated for an hour, there’ll always be this barrier between us.

[Startled.] That! [With a little laugh of scorn.] You don’t know what you’re asking me to do. It’s because I love Claude so much that I can’t let him go on thinking I’m good and pure and chaste.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be a lie always. Don’t you remember the Happy Hypocrite? Love can work many miracles.

[With a sort of gasp.] You mean—you think I might become really what Claude thinks me?

If you love Claude really, that mightn’t be too great a price to pay for his happiness.

[Vehemently.] Oh, it’s all very well for you to talk, but you don’t know what this sense of shame is. It’s killing me. And the degradation of being loved for what you’re not. And you want me never to escape from it. Oh, you’re right. It would be a fiendish punishment.

[Taking up the thought.] For his wonderful kindness, and all these years of thought and loving tenderness.

[With a great sigh.] I seem to see the chance of a greater sacrifice than anything I’d ever dreamt of. I wonder.... I believe there’s a chance.... [With a sudden start.] Oh! listen.

Claude’s just come in. I heard him speaking to Moore. He’s been given the letter.

D’you mean to say.... [Some part of the facts dawns upon her and she bursts out violently.] Oh, it’s not that the human race are wicked that I mind, or that they’re weak—you can give them backbone; but what I can’t get over is that they are such blooming fools.

[Sinking dejectedly into a chair.] They brought in a verdict of suicide while of unsound mind.

Oh, if you’d only heard the questions they asked me! There were reporters there, so it’ll be in the papers and you can read for yourself. They made me appear a perfect brute.

You see, I hadn’t a chance of defending myself. I wasn’t going to make excuses to a parcel of Dissenting shopkeepers. It made me look as if I hadn’t a leg to stand on.

And afterwards when I came out—they had the inquest in that big room upstairs at the Insoley Arms—there was a crowd outside, people I’d known all my life, I suppose they’d been taking the opportunity to have a good soak, and they hissed me as I passed.

Of course I’m going to abolish the rule. Hang it all, it’s caused wretchedness enough.

[Rather shamefacedly.] The coroner asked me what I was going to do about it. I couldn’t knuckle under then with all those people round me. I simply couldn’t, Grace. I was obliged to say that I meant to be master in my own house, and I didn’t propose to let anyone dictate to me.

[Putting her hand on his shoulder.] I’m afraid you’ve been awfully worried, old man.

It’s given me a bit of a knock to find out that they—they just hate me. I was rather fond of the people on the estate, and I thought they were fond of me. When they’ve been in trouble I’ve done every damned thing I could to help them. When times have been bad I’ve not bothered much about the rents, and we’ve never been rich. Hang it all, I’ve given them all my time and my thoughts for years, and the only result is that they can’t stick me. They haven’t got any mercy if I’ve made a mistake. They give me no credit for good intentions.

I’m sure you exaggerate, Claude. You fancy they feel more bitter than they really do.

Oh, if you’d only seen them! The pleasure they took in having a dig at me! I could see the hatred on their faces. Oh, I expect Archibald is right. Our time down here is over. The only fellow they want in the country now is the Jew stockbroker with his pockets full of money.

Darling, I know that you’ve always acted for the best. I know how much you’ve done for the people on the estate. After all, it wasn’t for their gratitude that you did it, was it? It was because it was your duty.

[Rising.] Oh, Grace, I don’t know what I should do without you. You’ve been so awfully good to me through the whole thing. I’m so grateful to you.

If I lost you, Grace, I couldn’t live. Without you—I can’t imagine life without you.

Hulloa! I forgot to open this. Moore gave it me as I came in. [With surprise.] It’s your hand-writing.

[Quite naturally, holding out her hand.] It’s nothing. I was afraid I should have gone out by the time you came in, and I wanted to remind you about the herbaceous border. It’s only a note.

[Sinking with exhaustion into a chair.] No, I won’t leave you ... if you want me.

I always want you, Grace. You’re so much to me.... After all, nothing can really matter to me so long as I have you. It’s such a comfort to think that I can trust you. And you’ll never round on me. I’m awfully grateful for you, Grace.

[In a trembling voice.] I can never be such a wife to you as you deserve, Claude. But I can try. If you can believe in me always, Claude, perhaps in time I can become what you believe me. [He makes a movement.] No, don’t look at me. I want you to know that I love you with all my heart, I love you with my body, and I love you with my soul. I want to forget myself and think only of you. What does my happiness matter so long as I can make you happy?

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Claude Insoley	Dennis Eadie
Rev. Archibald Insoley	Leslie Faber
Henry Cobbett	Arthur Wontner
Gann	Edmund Gwenn
Moore	Heston Cooper
Grace Insoley	Irene Vanbrugh
Mrs. Insoley	Lady Tree
Miss Vernon of Foley	Lillah MacCarthy
Miss Hall	Mary Barton
Edith Lewis	Nina Sevening
Margaret Gann	Gertrude Lang

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Landed Gentry: A Comedy in Four Acts

Landed Gentry

LANDED GENTRY

CHARACTERS

LANDED GENTRY

THE FIRST ACT

THE SECOND ACT

THE THIRD ACT

THE FOURTH ACT

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