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Title: The Devil's Disciple

Author: Bernard Shaw

Release date: January 1, 2003 [eBook #3638]
                Most recently updated: April 18, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Eve Sobol. HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE ***




The Devil’s Disciple

by George Bernard Shaw


Contents

 ACT I
 ACT II
 ACT III




ACT I


At the most wretched hour between a black night and a wintry morning in
the year 1777, Mrs. Dudgeon, of New Hampshire, is sitting up in the
kitchen and general dwelling room of her farm house on the outskirts of
the town of Websterbridge. She is not a prepossessing woman. No woman
looks her best after sitting up all night; and Mrs. Dudgeon’s face,
even at its best, is grimly trenched by the channels into which the
barren forms and observances of a dead Puritanism can pen a bitter
temper and a fierce pride. She is an elderly matron who has worked hard
and got nothing by it except dominion and detestation in her sordid
home, and an unquestioned reputation for piety and respectability among
her neighbors, to whom drink and debauchery are still so much more
tempting than religion and rectitude, that they conceive goodness
simply as self-denial. This conception is easily extended to
others—denial, and finally generalized as covering anything
disagreeable. So Mrs. Dudgeon, being exceedingly disagreeable, is held
to be exceedingly good. Short of flat felony, she enjoys complete
license except for amiable weaknesses of any sort, and is consequently,
without knowing it, the most licentious woman in the parish on the
strength of never having broken the seventh commandment or missed a
Sunday at the Presbyterian church.

The year 1777 is the one in which the passions roused of the breaking
off of the American colonies from England, more by their own weight
than their own will, boiled up to shooting point, the shooting being
idealized to the English mind as suppression of rebellion and
maintenance of British dominion, and to the American as defence of
liberty, resistance to tyranny, and selfsacrifice on the altar of the
Rights of Man. Into the merits of these idealizations it is not here
necessary to inquire: suffice it to say, without prejudice, that they
have convinced both Americans and English that the most high minded
course for them to pursue is to kill as many of one another as
possible, and that military operations to that end are in full swing,
morally supported by confident requests from the clergy of both sides
for the blessing of God on their arms.

Under such circumstances many other women besides this disagreeable
Mrs. Dudgeon find themselves sitting up all night waiting for news.
Like her, too, they fall asleep towards morning at the risk of nodding
themselves into the kitchen fire. Mrs. Dudgeon sleeps with a shawl over
her head, and her feet on a broad fender of iron laths, the step of the
domestic altar of the fireplace, with its huge hobs and boiler, and its
hinged arm above the smoky mantel-shelf for roasting. The plain kitchen
table is opposite the fire, at her elbow, with a candle on it in a tin
sconce. Her chair, like all the others in the room, is uncushioned and
unpainted; but as it has a round railed back and a seat conventionally
moulded to the sitter’s curves, it is comparatively a chair of state.
The room has three doors, one on the same side as the fireplace, near
the corner, leading to the best bedroom; one, at the opposite end of
the opposite wall, leading to the scullery and washhouse; and the house
door, with its latch, heavy lock, and clumsy wooden bar, in the front
wall, between the window in its middle and the corner next the bedroom
door. Between the door and the window a rack of pegs suggests to the
deductive observer that the men of the house are all away, as there are
no hats or coats on them. On the other side of the window the clock
hangs on a nail, with its white wooden dial, black iron weights, and
brass pendulum. Between the clock and the corner, a big cupboard,
locked, stands on a dwarf dresser full of common crockery.

On the side opposite the fireplace, between the door and the corner, a
shamelessly ugly black horsehair sofa stands against the wall. An
inspection of its stridulous surface shows that Mrs. Dudgeon is not
alone. A girl of sixteen or seventeen has fallen asleep on it. She is a
wild, timid looking creature with black hair and tanned skin. Her
frock, a scanty garment, is rent, weatherstained, berrystained, and by
no means scrupulously clean. It hangs on her with a freedom which,
taken with her brown legs and bare feet, suggests no great stock of
underclothing.

Suddenly there comes a tapping at the door, not loud enough to wake the
sleepers. Then knocking, which disturbs Mrs. Dudgeon a little. Finally
the latch is tried, whereupon she springs up at once.


MRS. DUDGEON.
(_threateningly_). Well, why don’t you open the door? (_She sees that
the girl is asleep and immediately raises a clamor of heartfelt
vexation._) Well, dear, dear me! Now this is— (_shaking her_) wake up,
wake up: do you hear?

THE GIRL.
(_sitting up_). What is it?

MRS. DUDGEON.
Wake up; and be ashamed of yourself, you unfeeling sinful girl, falling
asleep like that, and your father hardly cold in his grave.

THE GIRL.
(_half asleep still_). I didn’t mean to. I dropped off—

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_cutting her short_). Oh yes, you’ve plenty of excuses, I daresay.
Dropped off! (_Fiercely, as the knocking recommences._) Why don’t you
get up and let your uncle in? after me waiting up all night for him!
(_She pushes her rudely off the sofa._) There: I’ll open the door: much
good you are to wait up. Go and mend that fire a bit.

The girl, cowed and wretched, goes to the fire and puts a log on. Mrs.
Dudgeon unbars the door and opens it, letting into the stuffy kitchen a
little of the freshness and a great deal of the chill of the dawn, also
her second son Christy, a fattish, stupid, fair-haired, round-faced man
of about 22, muffled in a plaid shawl and grey overcoat. He hurries,
shivering, to the fire, leaving Mrs. Dudgeon to shut the door.


CHRISTY.
(_at the fire_). F—f—f! but it is cold. (_Seeing the girl, and staring
lumpishly at her._) Why, who are you?

THE GIRL.
(_shyly_). Essie.

MRS. DUDGEON.
Oh you may well ask. (_To Essie._) Go to your room, child, and lie down
since you haven’t feeling enough to keep you awake. Your history isn’t
fit for your own ears to hear.

ESSIE.
I—

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_peremptorily_). Don’t answer me, Miss; but show your obedience by
doing what I tell you. (_Essie, almost in tears, crosses the room to
the door near the sofa._) And don’t forget your prayers. (_Essie goes
out._) She’d have gone to bed last night just as if nothing had
happened if I’d let her.

CHRISTY.
(_phlegmatically_). Well, she can’t be expected to feel Uncle Peter’s
death like one of the family.

MRS. DUDGEON.
What are you talking about, child? Isn’t she his daughter—the
punishment of his wickedness and shame? (_She assaults her chair by
sitting down._)

CHRISTY.
(_staring_). Uncle Peter’s daughter!

MRS. DUDGEON.
Why else should she be here? D’ye think I’ve not had enough trouble and
care put upon me bringing up my own girls, let alone you and your
good-for-nothing brother, without having your uncle’s bastards—

CHRISTY.
(_interrupting her with an apprehensive glance at the door by which
Essie went out_). Sh! She may hear you.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_raising her voice_). Let her hear me. People who fear God don’t fear
to give the devil’s work its right name. (_Christy, soullessly
indifferent to the strife of Good and Evil, stares at the fire, warming
himself._) Well, how long are you going to stare there like a stuck
pig? What news have you for me?

CHRISTY.
(_taking off his hat and shawl and going to the rack to hang them up_).
The minister is to break the news to you. He’ll be here presently.

MRS. DUDGEON.
Break what news?

CHRISTY.
(_standing on tiptoe, from boyish habit, to hang his hat up, though he
is quite tall enough to reach the peg, and speaking with callous
placidity, considering the nature of the announcement_). Father’s dead
too.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_stupent_). Your father!

CHRISTY.
(_sulkily, coming back to the fire and warming himself again, attending
much more to the fire than to his mother_). Well, it’s not my fault.
When we got to Nevinstown we found him ill in bed. He didn’t know us at
first. The minister sat up with him and sent me away. He died in the
night.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_bursting into dry angry tears_). Well, I do think this is hard on
me—very hard on me. His brother, that was a disgrace to us all his
life, gets hanged on the public gallows as a rebel; and your father,
instead of staying at home where his duty was, with his own family,
goes after him and dies, leaving everything on my shoulders. After
sending this girl to me to take care of, too! (_She plucks her shawl
vexedly over her ears._) It’s sinful, so it is; downright sinful.

CHRISTY.
(_with a slow, bovine cheerfulness, after a pause_). I think it’s going
to be a fine morning, after all.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_railing at him_). A fine morning! And your father newly dead! Where’s
your feelings, child?

CHRISTY.
(_obstinately_). Well, I didn’t mean any harm. I suppose a man may make
a remark about the weather even if his father’s dead.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_bitterly_). A nice comfort my children are to me! One son a fool, and
the other a lost sinner that’s left his home to live with smugglers and
gypsies and villains, the scum of the earth!

Someone knocks.


CHRISTY.
(_without moving_). That’s the minister.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_sharply_). Well, aren’t you going to let Mr. Anderson in?

Christy goes sheepishly to the door. Mrs. Dudgeon buries her face in
her hands, as it is her duty as a widow to be overcome with grief.
Christy opens the door, and admits the minister, Anthony Anderson, a
shrewd, genial, ready Presbyterian divine of about 50, with something
of the authority of his profession in his bearing. But it is an
altogether secular authority, sweetened by a conciliatory, sensible
manner not at all suggestive of a quite thoroughgoing
other-worldliness. He is a strong, healthy man, too, with a thick,
sanguine neck; and his keen, cheerful mouth cuts into somewhat fleshy
corners. No doubt an excellent parson, but still a man capable of
making the most of this world, and perhaps a little apologetically
conscious of getting on better with it than a sound Presbyterian ought.


ANDERSON.
(_to Christy, at the door, looking at Mrs. Dudgeon whilst he takes off
his cloak_). Have you told her?

CHRISTY.
She made me. (_He shuts the door; yawns; and loafs across to the sofa
where he sits down and presently drops off to sleep._)

Anderson looks compassionately at Mrs. Dudgeon. Then he hangs his cloak
and hat on the rack. Mrs. Dudgeon dries her eyes and looks up at him.


ANDERSON.
Sister: the Lord has laid his hand very heavily upon you.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_with intensely recalcitrant resignation_). It’s His will, I suppose;
and I must bow to it. But I do think it hard. What call had Timothy to
go to Springtown, and remind everybody that he belonged to a man that
was being hanged?—and (_spitefully_) that deserved it, if ever a man
did.

ANDERSON.
(_gently_). They were brothers, Mrs. Dudgeon.

MRS. DUDGEON.
Timothy never acknowledged him as his brother after we were married: he
had too much respect for me to insult me with such a brother. Would
such a selfish wretch as Peter have come thirty miles to see Timothy
hanged, do you think? Not thirty yards, not he. However, I must bear my
cross as best I may: least said is soonest mended.

ANDERSON.
(_very grave, coming down to the fire to stand with his back to it_).
Your eldest son was present at the execution, Mrs. Dudgeon.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_disagreeably surprised_). Richard?

ANDERSON.
(_nodding_). Yes.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_vindictively_). Let it be a warning to him. He may end that way
himself, the wicked, dissolute, godless— (_she suddenly stops; her
voice fails; and she asks, with evident dread_) Did Timothy see him?

ANDERSON.
Yes.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_holding her breath_). Well?

ANDERSON.
He only saw him in the crowd: they did not speak. (_Mrs. Dudgeon,
greatly relieved, exhales the pent up breath and sits at her ease
again._) Your husband was greatly touched and impressed by his
brother’s awful death. (_Mrs. Dudgeon sneers. Anderson breaks off to
demand with some indignation_) Well, wasn’t it only natural, Mrs.
Dudgeon? He softened towards his prodigal son in that moment. He sent
for him to come to see him.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_her alarm renewed_). Sent for Richard!

ANDERSON.
Yes; but Richard would not come. He sent his father a message; but I’m
sorry to say it was a wicked message—an awful message.

MRS. DUDGEON.
What was it?

ANDERSON.
That he would stand by his wicked uncle, and stand against his good
parents, in this world and the next.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_implacably_). He will be punished for it. He will be punished for
it—in both worlds.

ANDERSON.
That is not in our hands, Mrs. Dudgeon.

MRS. DUDGEON.
Did I say it was, Mr. Anderson. We are told that the wicked shall be
punished. Why should we do our duty and keep God’s law if there is to
be no difference made between us and those who follow their own likings
and dislikings, and make a jest of us and of their Maker’s word?

ANDERSON.
Well, Richard’s earthly father has been merciful and his heavenly judge
is the father of us all.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_forgetting herself_). Richard’s earthly father was a softheaded—

ANDERSON.
(_shocked_). Oh!

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_with a touch of shame_). Well, I am Richard’s mother. If I am against
him who has any right to be for him? (_Trying to conciliate him._)
Won’t you sit down, Mr. Anderson? I should have asked you before; but
I’m so troubled.

ANDERSON.
Thank you— (_He takes a chair from beside the fireplace, and turns it
so that he can sit comfortably at the fire. When he is seated he adds,
in the tone of a man who knows that he is opening a difficult
subject._) Has Christy told you about the new will?

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_all her fears returning_). The new will! Did Timothy—? (_She breaks
off, gasping, unable to complete the question._)

ANDERSON.
Yes. In his last hours he changed his mind.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_white with intense rage_). And you let him rob me?

ANDERSON.
I had no power to prevent him giving what was his to his own son.

MRS. DUDGEON.
He had nothing of his own. His money was the money I brought him as my
marriage portion. It was for me to deal with my own money and my own
son. He dare not have done it if I had been with him; and well he knew
it. That was why he stole away like a thief to take advantage of the
law to rob me by making a new will behind my back. The more shame on
you, Mr. Anderson,—you, a minister of the gospel—to act as his
accomplice in such a crime.

ANDERSON.
(_rising_). I will take no offence at what you say in the first
bitterness of your grief.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_contemptuously_). Grief!

ANDERSON.
Well, of your disappointment, if you can find it in your heart to think
that the better word.

MRS. DUDGEON.
My heart! My heart! And since when, pray, have you begun to hold up our
hearts as trustworthy guides for us?

ANDERSON.
(_rather guiltily_). I—er—

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_vehemently_). Don’t lie, Mr. Anderson. We are told that the heart of
man is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. My heart
belonged, not to Timothy, but to that poor wretched brother of his that
has just ended his days with a rope round his neck—aye, to Peter
Dudgeon. You know it: old Eli Hawkins, the man to whose pulpit you
succeeded, though you are not worthy to loose his shoe latchet, told it
you when he gave over our souls into your charge. He warned me and
strengthened me against my heart, and made me marry a Godfearing man—as
he thought. What else but that discipline has made me the woman I am?
And you, you who followed your heart in your marriage, you talk to me
of what I find in my heart. Go home to your pretty wife, man; and leave
me to my prayers. (_She turns from him and leans with her elbows on the
table, brooding over her wrongs and taking no further notice of him._)

ANDERSON.
(_willing enough to escape_). The Lord forbid that I should come
between you and the source of all comfort! (_He goes to the rack for
his coat and hat._)

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_without looking at him_). The Lord will know what to forbid and what
to allow without your help.

ANDERSON.
And whom to forgive, I hope—Eli Hawkins and myself, if we have ever set
up our preaching against His law. (_He fastens his cloak, and is now
ready to go._) Just one word—on necessary business, Mrs. Dudgeon. There
is the reading of the will to be gone through; and Richard has a right
to be present. He is in the town; but he has the grace to say that he
does not want to force himself in here.

MRS. DUDGEON.
He shall come here. Does he expect us to leave his father’s house for
his convenience? Let them all come, and come quickly, and go quickly.
They shall not make the will an excuse to shirk half their day’s work.
I shall be ready, never fear.

ANDERSON.
(_coming back a step or two_). Mrs. Dudgeon: I used to have some little
influence with you. When did I lose it?

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_still without turning to him_). When you married for love. Now you’re
answered.

ANDERSON.
Yes: I am answered. (_He goes out, musing._)

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_to herself, thinking of her husband_). Thief! Thief!! (_She shakes
herself angrily out of the chair; throws back the shawl from her head;
and sets to work to prepare the room for the reading of the will,
beginning by replacing Anderson’s chair against the wall, and pushing
back her own to the window. Then she calls, in her hard, driving,
wrathful way_) Christy. (_No answer: he is fast asleep._) Christy.
(_She shakes him roughly._) Get up out of that; and be ashamed of
yourself—sleeping, and your father dead! (_She returns to the table;
puts the candle on the mantelshelf; and takes from the table drawer a
red table cloth which she spreads._)

CHRISTY.
(_rising reluctantly_). Well, do you suppose we are never going to
sleep until we are out of mourning?

MRS. DUDGEON.
I want none of your sulks. Here: help me to set this table. (_They
place the table in the middle of the room, with Christy’s end towards
the fireplace and Mrs. Dudgeon’s towards the sofa. Christy drops the
table as soon as possible, and goes to the fire, leaving his mother to
make the final adjustments of its position._) We shall have the
minister back here with the lawyer and all the family to read the will
before you have done toasting yourself. Go and wake that girl; and then
light the stove in the shed: you can’t have your breakfast here. And
mind you wash yourself, and make yourself fit to receive the company.
(_She punctuates these orders by going to the cupboard; unlocking it;
and producing a decanter of wine, which has no doubt stood there
untouched since the last state occasion in the family, and some
glasses, which she sets on the table. Also two green ware plates, on
one of which she puts a barmbrack with a knife beside it. On the other
she shakes some biscuits out of a tin, putting back one or two, and
counting the rest._) Now mind: there are ten biscuits there: let there
be ten there when I come back after dressing myself. And keep your
fingers off the raisins in that cake. And tell Essie the same. I
suppose I can trust you to bring in the case of stuffed birds without
breaking the glass? (_She replaces the tin in the cupboard, which she
locks, pocketing the key carefully._)

CHRISTY.
(_lingering at the fire_). You’d better put the inkstand instead, for
the lawyer.

MRS. DUDGEON.
That’s no answer to make to me, sir. Go and do as you’re told.
(_Christy turns sullenly to obey._) Stop: take down that shutter before
you go, and let the daylight in: you can’t expect me to do all the
heavy work of the house with a great heavy lout like you idling about.

Christy takes the window bar out of its damps, and puts it aside; then
opens the shutter, showing the grey morning. Mrs. Dudgeon takes the
sconce from the mantelshelf; blows out the candle; extinguishes the
snuff by pinching it with her fingers, first licking them for the
purpose; and replaces the sconce on the shelf.


CHRISTY.
(_looking through the window_). Here’s the minister’s wife.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_displeased_). What! Is she coming here?

CHRISTY.
Yes.

MRS. DUDGEON.
What does she want troubling me at this hour, before I’m properly
dressed to receive people?

CHRISTY.
You’d better ask her.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_threateningly_). You’d better keep a civil tongue in your head. (_He
goes sulkily towards the door. She comes after him, plying him with
instructions._) Tell that girl to come to me as soon as she’s had her
breakfast. And tell her to make herself fit to be seen before the
people. (_Christy goes out and slams the door in her face._) Nice
manners, that! (_Someone knocks at the house door: she turns and cries
inhospitably._) Come in. (_Judith Anderson, the minister’s wife, comes
in. Judith is more than twenty years younger than her husband, though
she will never be as young as he in vitality. She is pretty and proper
and ladylike, and has been admired and petted into an opinion of
herself sufficiently favorable to give her a self-assurance which
serves her instead of strength. She has a pretty taste in dress, and in
her face the pretty lines of a sentimental character formed by dreams.
Even her little self-complacency is pretty, like a child’s vanity.
Rather a pathetic creature to any sympathetic observer who knows how
rough a place the world is. One feels, on the whole, that Anderson
might have chosen worse, and that she, needing protection, could not
have chosen better._) Oh, it’s you, is it, Mrs. Anderson?

JUDITH.
(_very politely—almost patronizingly_). Yes. Can I do anything for you,
Mrs. Dudgeon? Can I help to get the place ready before they come to
read the will?

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_stiffly_). Thank you, Mrs. Anderson, my house is always ready for
anyone to come into.

MRS. ANDERSON.
(_with complacent amiability_). Yes, indeed it is. Perhaps you had
rather I did not intrude on you just now.

MRS. DUDGEON.
Oh, one more or less will make no difference this morning, Mrs.
Anderson. Now that you’re here, you’d better stay. If you wouldn’t mind
shutting the door! (_Judith smiles, implying “How stupid of me” and
shuts it with an exasperating air of doing something pretty and
becoming._) That’s better. I must go and tidy myself a bit. I suppose
you don’t mind stopping here to receive anyone that comes until I’m
ready.

JUDITH.
(_graciously giving her leave_). Oh yes, certainly. Leave them to me,
Mrs. Dudgeon; and take your time. (_She hangs her cloak and bonnet on
the rack._)

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_half sneering_). I thought that would be more in your way than
getting the house ready. (_Essie comes back._) Oh, here you are!
(_Severely_) Come here: let me see you. (_Essie timidly goes to her.
Mrs. Dudgeon takes her roughly by the arm and pulls her round to
inspect the results of her attempt to clean and tidy herself—results
which show little practice and less conviction._) Mm! That’s what you
call doing your hair properly, I suppose. It’s easy to see what you
are, and how you were brought up. (_She throws her arms away, and goes
on, peremptorily._) Now you listen to me and do as you’re told. You sit
down there in the corner by the fire; and when the company comes don’t
dare to speak until you’re spoken to. (_Essie creeps away to the
fireplace._) Your father’s people had better see you and know you’re
there: they’re as much bound to keep you from starvation as I am. At
any rate they might help. But let me have no chattering and making free
with them, as if you were their equal. Do you hear?

ESSIE.
Yes.

MRS. DUDGEON.
Well, then go and do as you’re told.

(_Essie sits down miserably on the corner of the fender furthest from
the door._) Never mind her, Mrs. Anderson: you know who she is and what
she is. If she gives you any trouble, just tell me; and I’ll settle
accounts with her. (_Mrs. Dudgeon goes into the bedroom, shutting the
door sharply behind her as if even it had to be made to do its duty
with a ruthless hand._)


JUDITH.
(_patronizing Essie, and arranging the cake and wine on the table more
becomingly_). You must not mind if your aunt is strict with you. She is
a very good woman, and desires your good too.

ESSIE.
(_in listless misery_). Yes.

JUDITH.
(_annoyed with Essie for her failure to be consoled and edified, and to
appreciate the kindly condescension of the remark_). You are not going
to be sullen, I hope, Essie.

ESSIE.
No.

JUDITH.
That’s a good girl! (_She places a couple of chairs at the table with
their backs to the window, with a pleasant sense of being a more
thoughtful housekeeper than Mrs. Dudgeon._) Do you know any of your
father’s relatives?

ESSIE.
No. They wouldn’t have anything to do with him: they were too
religious. Father used to talk about Dick Dudgeon; but I never saw him.

JUDITH.
(_ostentatiously shocked_). Dick Dudgeon! Essie: do you wish to be a
really respectable and grateful girl, and to make a place for yourself
here by steady good conduct?

ESSIE.
(_very half-heartedly_). Yes.

JUDITH.
Then you must never mention the name of Richard Dudgeon—never even
think about him. He is a bad man.

ESSIE.
What has he done?

JUDITH.
You must not ask questions about him, Essie. You are too young to know
what it is to be a bad man. But he is a smuggler; and he lives with
gypsies; and he has no love for his mother and his family; and he
wrestles and plays games on Sunday instead of going to church. Never
let him into your presence, if you can help it, Essie; and try to keep
yourself and all womanhood unspotted by contact with such men.

ESSIE.
Yes.

JUDITH.
(_again displeased_). I am afraid you say Yes and No without thinking
very deeply.

ESSIE.
Yes. At least I mean—

JUDITH.
(_severely_). What do you mean?

ESSIE.
(_almost crying_). Only—my father was a smuggler; and— (_Someone
knocks._)

JUDITH.
They are beginning to come. Now remember your aunt’s directions, Essie;
and be a good girl. (_Christy comes back with the stand of stuffed
birds under a glass case, and an inkstand, which he places on the
table._) Good morning, Mr. Dudgeon. Will you open the door, please: the
people have come.

CHRISTY.
Good morning. (_He opens the house door._)

The morning is now fairly bright and warm; and Anderson, who is the
first to enter, has left his cloak at home. He is accompanied by Lawyer
Hawkins, a brisk, middleaged man in brown riding gaiters and yellow
breeches, looking as much squire as solicitor. He and Anderson are
allowed precedence as representing the learned professions. After them
comes the family, headed by the senior uncle, William Dudgeon, a large,
shapeless man, bottle-nosed and evidently no ascetic at table. His
clothes are not the clothes, nor his anxious wife the wife, of a
prosperous man. The junior uncle, Titus Dudgeon, is a wiry little
terrier of a man, with an immense and visibly purse-proud wife, both
free from the cares of the William household.


Hawkins at once goes briskly to the table and takes the chair nearest
the sofa, Christy having left the inkstand there. He puts his hat on
the floor beside him, and produces the will. Uncle William comes to the
fire and stands on the hearth warming his coat tails, leaving Mrs.
William derelict near the door. Uncle Titus, who is the lady’s man of
the family, rescues her by giving her his disengaged arm and bringing
her to the sofa, where he sits down warmly between his own lady and his
brother’s. Anderson hangs up his hat and waits for a word with Judith.


JUDITH.
She will be here in a moment. Ask them to wait. (_She taps at the
bedroom door. Receiving an answer from within, she opens it and passes
through._)

ANDERSON.
(_taking his place at the table at the opposite end to Hawkins_). Our
poor afflicted sister will be with us in a moment. Are we all here?

CHRISTY.
(_at the house door, which he has just shut_). All except Dick.

The callousness with which Christy names the reprobate jars on the
moral sense of the family. Uncle William shakes his head slowly and
repeatedly. Mrs. Titus catches her breath convulsively through her
nose. Her husband speaks.


UNCLE TITUS.
Well, I hope he will have the grace not to come. I hope so.

The Dudgeons all murmur assent, except Christy, who goes to the window
and posts himself there, looking out. Hawkins smiles secretively as if
he knew something that would change their tune if they knew it.
Anderson is uneasy: the love of solemn family councils, especially
funereal ones, is not in his nature. Judith appears at the bedroom
door.


JUDITH.
(_with gentle impressiveness_). Friends, Mrs. Dudgeon. (_She takes the
chair from beside the fireplace; and places it for Mrs. Dudgeon, who
comes from the bedroom in black, with a clean handkerchief to her eyes.
All rise, except Essie. Mrs. Titus and Mrs. William produce equally
clean handkerchiefs and weep. It is an affecting moment._)

UNCLE WILLIAM.
Would it comfort you, sister, if we were to offer up a prayer?

UNCLE TITUS.
Or sing a hymn?

ANDERSON.
(_rather hastily_). I have been with our sister this morning already,
friends. In our hearts we ask a blessing.

ALL.
(_except Essie_). Amen.

They all sit down, except Judith, who stands behind Mrs. Dudgeon’s
chair.


JUDITH.
(_to Essie_). Essie: did you say Amen?

ESSIE.
(_scaredly_). No.

JUDITH.
Then say it, like a good girl.

ESSIE.
Amen.

UNCLE WILLIAM.
(_encouragingly_). That’s right: that’s right. We know who you are; but
we are willing to be kind to you if you are a good girl and deserve it.
We are all equal before the Throne.

This republican sentiment does not please the women, who are convinced
that the Throne is precisely the place where their superiority, often
questioned in this world, will be recognized and rewarded.


CHRISTY.
(_at the window_). Here’s Dick.

Anderson and Hawkins look round sociably. Essie, with a gleam of
interest breaking through her misery, looks up. Christy grins and gapes
expectantly at the door. The rest are petrified with the intensity of
their sense of Virtue menaced with outrage by the approach of flaunting
Vice. The reprobate appears in the doorway, graced beyond his alleged
merits by the morning sunlight. He is certainly the best looking member
of the family; but his expression is reckless and sardonic, his manner
defiant and satirical, his dress picturesquely careless. Only his
forehead and mouth betray an extraordinary steadfastness, and his eyes
are the eyes of a fanatic.


RICHARD.
(_on the threshold, taking off his hat_). Ladies and gentlemen: your
servant, your very humble servant. (_With this comprehensive insult, he
throws his hat to Christy with a suddenness that makes him jump like a
negligent wicket keeper, and comes into the middle of the room, where
he turns and deliberately surveys the company._) How happy you all
look! how glad to see me! (_He turns towards Mrs. Dudgeon’s chair; and
his lip rolls up horribly from his dog tooth as he meets her look of
undisguised hatred._) Well, mother: keeping up appearances as usual?
that’s right, that’s right. (_Judith pointedly moves away from his
neighborhood to the other side of the kitchen, holding her skirt
instinctively as if to save it from contamination. Uncle Titus promptly
marks his approval of her action by rising from the sofa, and placing a
chair for her to sit down upon._) What! Uncle William! I haven’t seen
you since you gave up drinking. (_Poor Uncle William, shamed, would
protest; but Richard claps him heartily on his shoulder, adding_) you
have given it up, haven’t you? (_releasing him with a playful push_) of
course you have: quite right too; you overdid it. (_He turns away from
Uncle William and makes for the sofa._) And now, where is that upright
horsedealer Uncle Titus? Uncle Titus: come forth. (_He comes upon him
holding the chair as Judith sits down._) As usual, looking after the
ladies.

UNCLE TITUS.
(_indignantly_). Be ashamed of yourself, sir—

RICHARD.
(_interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of him_). I am: I am;
but I am proud of my uncle—proud of all my relatives (_again surveying
them_) who could look at them and not be proud and joyful? (_Uncle
Titus, overborne, resumes his seat on the sofa. Richard turns to the
table._) Ah, Mr. Anderson, still at the good work, still shepherding
them. Keep them up to the mark, minister, keep them up to the mark.
Come! (_with a spring he seats himself on the table and takes up the
decanter_) clink a glass with me, Pastor, for the sake of old times.

ANDERSON.
You know, I think, Mr. Dudgeon, that I do not drink before dinner.

RICHARD.
You will, some day, Pastor: Uncle William used to drink before
breakfast. Come: it will give your sermons unction. (_He smells the
wine and makes a wry face._) But do not begin on my mother’s company
sherry. I stole some when I was six years old; and I have been a
temperate man ever since. (_He puts the decanter down and changes the
subject._) So I hear you are married, Pastor, and that your wife has a
most ungodly allowance of good looks.

ANDERSON.
(_quietly indicating Judith_). Sir: you are in the presence of my wife.
(_Judith rises and stands with stony propriety._)

RICHARD.
(_quickly slipping down from the table with instinctive good manners_).
Your servant, madam: no offence. (_He looks at her earnestly._) You
deserve your reputation; but I’m sorry to see by your expression that
you’re a good woman.

(_She looks shocked, and sits down amid a murmur of indignant sympathy
from his relatives. Anderson, sensible enough to know that these
demonstrations can only gratify and encourage a man who is deliberately
trying to provoke them, remains perfectly goodhumored._) All the same,
Pastor, I respect you more than I did before. By the way, did I hear,
or did I not, that our late lamented Uncle Peter, though unmarried, was
a father?


UNCLE TITUS.
He had only one irregular child, sir.

RICHARD.
Only one! He thinks one a mere trifle! I blush for you, Uncle Titus.

ANDERSON.
Mr. Dudgeon you are in the presence of your mother and her grief.

RICHARD.
It touches me profoundly, Pastor. By the way, what has become of the
irregular child?

ANDERSON.
(_pointing to Essie_). There, sir, listening to you.

RICHARD.
(_shocked into sincerity_). What! Why the devil didn’t you tell me that
before? Children suffer enough in this house without— (_He hurries
remorsefully to Essie._) Come, little cousin! never mind me: it was not
meant to hurt you. (_She looks up gratefully at him. Her tearstained
face affects him violently, and he bursts out, in a transport of
wrath_) Who has been making her cry? Who has been ill-treating her? By
God—

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_rising and confronting him_). Silence your blasphemous tongue. I will
hear no more of this. Leave my house.

RICHARD.
How do you know it’s your house until the will is read? (_They look at
one another for a moment with intense hatred; and then she sinks,
checkmated, into her chair. Richard goes boldly up past Anderson to the
window, where he takes the railed chair in his hand._) Ladies and
gentlemen: as the eldest son of my late father, and the unworthy head
of this household, I bid you welcome. By your leave, Minister Anderson:
by your leave, Lawyer Hawkins. The head of the table for the head of
the family. (_He places the chair at the table between the minister and
the attorney; sits down between them; and addresses the assembly with a
presidential air._) We meet on a melancholy occasion: a father dead! an
uncle actually hanged, and probably damned. (_He shakes his head
deploringly. The relatives freeze with horror._) That’s right: pull
your longest faces (_his voice suddenly sweetens gravely as his glance
lights on Essie_) provided only there is hope in the eyes of the child.
(_Briskly._) Now then, Lawyer Hawkins: business, business. Get on with
the will, man.

TITUS.
Do not let yourself be ordered or hurried, Mr. Hawkins.

HAWKINS.
(_very politely and willingly_). Mr. Dudgeon means no offence, I feel
sure. I will not keep you one second, Mr. Dudgeon. Just while I get my
glasses— (_he fumbles for them. The Dudgeons look at one another with
misgiving_).

RICHARD.
Aha! They notice your civility, Mr. Hawkins. They are prepared for the
worst. A glass of wine to clear your voice before you begin. (_He pours
out one for him and hands it; then pours one for himself._)

HAWKINS.
Thank you, Mr. Dudgeon. Your good health, sir.

RICHARD.
Yours, sir. (_With the glass half way to his lips, he checks himself,
giving a dubious glance at the wine, and adds, with quaint intensity._)
Will anyone oblige me with a glass of water?

Essie, who has been hanging on his every word and movement, rises
stealthily and slips out behind Mrs. Dudgeon through the bedroom door,
returning presently with a jug and going out of the house as quietly as
possible.


HAWKINS.
The will is not exactly in proper legal phraseology.

RICHARD.
No: my father died without the consolations of the law.

HAWKINS.
Good again, Mr. Dudgeon, good again. (_Preparing to read_) Are you
ready, sir?

RICHARD.
Ready, aye ready. For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make
us truly thankful. Go ahead.

HAWKINS.
(_reading_). “This is the last will and testament of me Timothy Dudgeon
on my deathbed at Nevinstown on the road from Springtown to
Websterbridge on this twenty-fourth day of September, one thousand
seven hundred and seventy seven. I hereby revoke all former wills made
by me and declare that I am of sound mind and know well what I am doing
and that this is my real will according to my own wish and affections.”

RICHARD.
(_glancing at his mother_). Aha!

HAWKINS.
(_shaking his head_). Bad phraseology, sir, wrong phraseology. “I give
and bequeath a hundred pounds to my younger son Christopher Dudgeon,
fifty pounds to be paid to him on the day of his marriage to Sarah
Wilkins if she will have him, and ten pounds on the birth of each of
his children up to the number of five.”

RICHARD.
How if she won’t have him?

CHRISTY.
She will if I have fifty pounds.

RICHARD.
Good, my brother. Proceed.

HAWKINS.
“I give and bequeath to my wife Annie Dudgeon, born Annie Primrose”—you
see he did not know the law, Mr. Dudgeon: your mother was not born
Annie: she was christened so—“an annuity of fifty-two pounds a year for
life (_Mrs. Dudgeon, with all eyes on her, holds herself convulsively
rigid_) to be paid out of the interest on her own money”—there’s a way
to put it, Mr. Dudgeon! Her own money!

MRS. DUDGEON.
A very good way to put God’s truth. It was every penny my own.
Fifty-two pounds a year!

HAWKINS.
“And I recommend her for her goodness and piety to the forgiving care
of her children, having stood between them and her as far as I could to
the best of my ability.”

MRS. DUDGEON.
And this is my reward! (_raging inwardly_) You know what I think, Mr.
Anderson you know the word I gave to it.

ANDERSON.
It cannot be helped, Mrs. Dudgeon. We must take what comes to us. (_To
Hawkins._) Go on, sir.

HAWKINS.
“I give and bequeath my house at Websterbridge with the land belonging
to it and all the rest of my property soever to my eldest son and heir,
Richard Dudgeon.”

RICHARD.
Oho! The fatted calf, Minister, the fatted calf.

HAWKINS.
“On these conditions—”

RICHARD.
The devil! Are there conditions?

HAWKINS.
“To wit: first, that he shall not let my brother Peter’s natural child
starve or be driven by want to an evil life.”

RICHARD.
(_emphatically, striking his fist on the table_). Agreed.

Mrs. Dudgeon, turning to look malignantly at Essie, misses her and
looks quickly round to see where she has moved to; then, seeing that
she has left the room without leave, closes her lips vengefully.


HAWKINS.
“Second, that he shall be a good friend to my old horse Jim”— (_again
slacking his head_) he should have written James, sir.

RICHARD.
James shall live in clover. Go on.

HAWKINS.
“—and keep my deaf farm laborer Prodger Feston in his service.”

RICHARD.
Prodger Feston shall get drunk every Saturday.

HAWKINS.
“Third, that he make Christy a present on his marriage out of the
ornaments in the best room.”

RICHARD.
(_holding up the stuffed birds_). Here you are, Christy.

CHRISTY.
(_disappointed_). I’d rather have the China peacocks.

RICHARD.
You shall have both. (_Christy is greatly pleased._) Go on.

HAWKINS.
“Fourthly and lastly, that he try to live at peace with his mother as
far as she will consent to it.”

RICHARD.
(_dubiously_). Hm! Anything more, Mr. Hawkins?

HAWKINS.
(_solemnly_). “Finally I gave and bequeath my soul into my Maker’s
hands, humbly asking forgiveness for all my sins and mistakes, and
hoping that he will so guide my son that it may not be said that I have
done wrong in trusting to him rather than to others in the perplexity
of my last hour in this strange place.”

ANDERSON.
Amen.

THE UNCLES AND AUNTS.
Amen.

RICHARD.
My mother does not say Amen.

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_rising, unable to give up her property without a struggle_). Mr.
Hawkins: is that a proper will? Remember, I have his rightful, legal
will, drawn up by yourself, leaving all to me.

HAWKINS.
This is a very wrongly and irregularly worded will, Mrs. Dudgeon;
though (_turning politely to Richard_) it contains in my judgment an
excellent disposal of his property.

ANDERSON.
(_interposing before Mrs. Dudgeon can retort_). That is not what you
are asked, Mr. Hawkins. Is it a legal will?

HAWKINS.
The courts will sustain it against the other.

ANDERSON.
But why, if the other is more lawfully worded?

HAWKING.
Because, sir, the courts will sustain the claim of a man—and that man
the eldest son—against any woman, if they can. I warned you, Mrs.
Dudgeon, when you got me to draw that other will, that it was not a
wise will, and that though you might make him sign it, he would never
be easy until he revoked it. But you wouldn’t take advice; and now Mr.
Richard is cock of the walk. (_He takes his hat from the floor; rises;
and begins pocketing his papers and spectacles._)

This is the signal for the breaking-up of the party. Anderson takes his
hat from the rack and joins Uncle William at the fire. Uncle Titus
fetches Judith her things from the rack. The three on the sofa rise and
chat with Hawkins. Mrs. Dudgeon, now an intruder in her own house,
stands erect, crushed by the weight of the law on women, accepting it,
as she has been trained to accept all monstrous calamities, as proofs
of the greatness of the power that inflicts them, and of her own
wormlike insignificance. For at this time, remember, Mary
Wollstonecraft is as yet only a girl of eighteen, and her Vindication
of the Rights of Women is still fourteen years off. Mrs. Dudgeon is
rescued from her apathy by Essie, who comes back with the jug full of
water. She is taking it to Richard when Mrs. Dudgeon stops her.


MRS. DUDGEON.
(_threatening her_). Where have you been? (_Essie, appalled, tries to
answer, but cannot._) How dare you go out by yourself after the orders
I gave you?

ESSIE.
He asked for a drink— (_she stops, her tongue cleaving to her palate
with terror_).

JUDITH.
(_with gentler severity_). Who asked for a drink? (_Essie, speechless,
points to Richard._)

RICHARD.
What! I!

JUDITH.
(_shocked_). Oh Essie, Essie!

RICHARD.
I believe I did. (_He takes a glass and holds it to Essie to be filled.
Her hand shakes._) What! afraid of me?

ESSIE.
(_quickly_). No. I— (_She pours out the water._)

RICHARD.
(_tasting it_). Ah, you’ve been up the street to the market gate spring
to get that. (_He takes a draught._) Delicious! Thank you.
(_Unfortunately, at this moment he chances to catch sight of Judith’s
face, which expresses the most prudish disapproval of his evident
attraction for Essie, who is devouring him with her grateful eyes. His
mocking expression returns instantly. He puts down the glass;
deliberately winds his arm round Essie’s shoulders; and brings her into
the middle of the company. Mrs. Dudgeon being in Essie’s way as they
come past the table, he says_) By your leave, mother (_and compels her
to make way for them_). What do they call you? Bessie?

ESSIE.
Essie.

RICHARD.
Essie, to be sure. Are you a good girl, Essie?

ESSIE.
(_greatly disappointed that he, of all people should begin at her in
this way_) Yes. (_She looks doubtfully at Judith._) I think so. I mean
I—I hope so.

RICHARD.
Essie: did you ever hear of a person called the devil?

ANDERSON.
(_revolted_). Shame on you, sir, with a mere child—

RICHARD.
By your leave, Minister: I do not interfere with your sermons: do not
you interrupt mine. (_To Essie._) Do you know what they call me, Essie?

ESSIE.
Dick.

RICHARD.
(_amused: patting her on the shoulder_). Yes, Dick; but something else
too. They call me the Devil’s Disciple.

ESSIE.
Why do you let them?

RICHARD.
(_seriously_). Because it’s true. I was brought up in the other
service; but I knew from the first that the Devil was my natural master
and captain and friend. I saw that he was in the right, and that the
world cringed to his conqueror only through fear. I prayed secretly to
him; and he comforted me, and saved me from having my spirit broken in
this house of children’s tears. I promised him my soul, and swore an
oath that I would stand up for him in this world and stand by him in
the next. (_Solemnly_) That promise and that oath made a man of me.
From this day this house is his home; and no child shall cry in it:
this hearth is his altar; and no soul shall ever cower over it in the
dark evenings and be afraid. Now (_turning forcibly on the rest_) which
of you good men will take this child and rescue her from the house of
the devil?

JUDITH.
(_coming to Essie and throwing a protecting arm about her_). I will.
You should be burnt alive.

ESSIE.
But I don’t want to. (_She shrinks back, leaving Richard and Judith
face to face._)

RICHARD.
(_to Judith_). Actually doesn’t want to, most virtuous lady!

UNCLE TITUS.
Have a care, Richard Dudgeon. The law—

RICHARD.
(_turning threateningly on him_). Have a care, you. In an hour from
this there will be no law here but martial law. I passed the soldiers
within six miles on my way here: before noon Major Swindon’s gallows
for rebels will be up in the market place.

ANDERSON.
(_calmly_). What have we to fear from that, sir?

RICHARD.
More than you think. He hanged the wrong man at Springtown: he thought
Uncle Peter was respectable, because the Dudgeons had a good name. But
his next example will be the best man in the town to whom he can bring
home a rebellious word. Well, we’re all rebels; and you know it.

ALL THE MEN (_except Anderson_).
No, no, no!

RICHARD.
Yes, you are. You haven’t damned King George up hill and down dale as I
have; but you’ve prayed for his defeat; and you, Anthony Anderson, have
conducted the service, and sold your family bible to buy a pair of
pistols. They mayn’t hang me, perhaps; because the moral effect of the
Devil’s Disciple dancing on nothing wouldn’t help them. But a Minister!
(_Judith, dismayed, clings to Anderson_) or a lawyer! (_Hawkins smiles
like a man able to take care of himself_) or an upright horsedealer!
(_Uncle Titus snarls at him in rags and terror_) or a reformed drunkard
(_Uncle William, utterly unnerved, moans and wobbles with fear_) eh?
Would that show that King George meant business—ha?

ANDERSON.
(_perfectly self-possessed_). Come, my dear: he is only trying to
frighten you. There is no danger. (_He takes her out of the house. The
rest crowd to the door to follow him, except Essie, who remains near
Richard._)

RICHARD.
(_boisterously derisive_). Now then: how many of you will stay with me;
run up the American flag on the devil’s house; and make a fight for
freedom? (_They scramble out, Christy among them, hustling one another
in their haste._) Ha ha! Long live the devil! (_To Mrs. Dudgeon, who is
following them_) What mother! are you off too?

MRS. DUDGEON.
(_deadly pale, with her hand on her heart as if she had received a
deathblow_). My curse on you! My dying curse! (_She goes out._)

RICHARD.
(_calling after her_). It will bring me luck. Ha ha ha!

ESSIE.
(_anxiously_). Mayn’t I stay?

RICHARD.
(_turning to her_). What! Have they forgotten to save your soul in
their anxiety about their own bodies? Oh yes: you may stay. (_He turns
excitedly away again and shakes his fist after them. His left fist,
also clenched, hangs down. Essie seizes it and kisses it, her tears
falling on it. He starts and looks at it._) Tears! The devil’s baptism!
(_She falls on her knees, sobbing. He stoops goodnaturedly to raise
her, saying_) Oh yes, you may cry that way, Essie, if you like.




ACT II


Minister Anderson’s house is in the main street of Websterbridge, not
far from the town hall. To the eye of the eighteenth century New
Englander, it is much grander than the plain farmhouse of the Dudgeons;
but it is so plain itself that a modern house agent would let both at
about the same rent. The chief dwelling room has the same sort of
kitchen fireplace, with boiler, toaster hanging on the bars, movable
iron griddle socketed to the hob, hook above for roasting, and broad
fender, on which stand a kettle and a plate of buttered toast. The
door, between the fireplace and the corner, has neither panels,
fingerplates nor handles: it is made of plain boards, and fastens with
a latch. The table is a kitchen table, with a treacle colored cover of
American cloth, chapped at the corners by draping. The tea service on
it consists of two thick cups and saucers of the plainest ware, with
milk jug and bowl to match, each large enough to contain nearly a
quart, on a black japanned tray, and, in the middle of the table, a
wooden trencher with a big loaf upon it, and a square half pound block
of butter in a crock. The big oak press facing the fire from the
opposite side of the room, is for use and storage, not for ornament;
and the minister’s house coat hangs on a peg from its door, showing
that he is out; for when he is in it is his best coat that hangs there.
His big riding boots stand beside the press, evidently in their usual
place, and rather proud of themselves. In fact, the evolution of the
minister’s kitchen, dining room and drawing room into three separate
apartments has not yet taken place; and so, from the point of view of
our pampered period, he is no better off than the Dudgeons.

But there is a difference, for all that. To begin with, Mrs. Anderson
is a pleasanter person to live with than Mrs. Dudgeon. To which Mrs.
Dudgeon would at once reply, with reason, that Mrs. Anderson has no
children to look after; no poultry, pigs nor cattle; a steady and
sufficient income not directly dependent on harvests and prices at
fairs; an affectionate husband who is a tower of strength to her: in
short, that life is as easy at the minister’s house as it is hard at
the farm. This is true; but to explain a fact is not to alter it; and
however little credit Mrs. Anderson may deserve for making her home
happier, she has certainly succeeded in doing it. The outward and
visible signs of her superior social pretensions are a drugget on the
floor, a plaster ceiling between the timbers and chairs which, though
not upholstered, are stained and polished. The fine arts are
represented by a mezzotint portrait of some Presbyterian divine, a
copperplate of Raphael’s St. Paul preaching at Athens, a rococo
presentation clock on the mantelshelf, flanked by a couple of
miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their mouths, and,
at the corners, two large cowrie shells. A pretty feature of the room
is the low wide latticed window, nearly its whole width, with little
red curtains running on a rod half way up it to serve as a blind. There
is no sofa; but one of the seats, standing near the press, has a railed
back and is long enough to accommodate two people easily. On the whole,
it is rather the sort of room that the nineteenth century has ended in
struggling to get back to under the leadership of Mr. Philip Webb and
his disciples in domestic architecture, though no genteel clergyman
would have tolerated it fifty years ago.

The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for the cosy
firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the window in the wet
street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, windless downpour of
rain. As the town clock strikes the quarter, Judith comes in with a
couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks, and sets them on the
table. Her self-conscious airs of the morning are gone: she is anxious
and frightened. She goes to the window and peers into the street. The
first thing she sees there is her husband, hurrying here through the
rain. She gives a little gasp of relief, not very far removed from a
sob, and turns to the door. Anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet
cloak.

JUDITH.
(_running to him_). Oh, here you are at last, at last! (_She attempts
to embrace him._)

ANDERSON.
(_keeping her off_). Take care, my love: I’m wet. Wait till I get my
cloak off. (_He places a chair with its back to the fire; hangs his
cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his hat and puts it on the
fender; and at last turns with his hands outstretched to Judith._) Now!
(_She flies into his arms._) I am not late, am I? The town clock struck
the quarter as I came in at the front door. And the town clock is
always fast.

JUDITH.
I’m sure it’s slow this evening. I’m so glad you’re back.

ANDERSON.
(_taking her more closely in his arms_). Anxious, my dear?

JUDITH.
A little.

ANDERSON.
Why, you’ve been crying.

JUDITH.
Only a little. Never mind: it’s all over now. (_A bugle call is heard
in the distance. She starts in terror and retreats to the long seat,
listening._) What’s that?

ANDERSON.
(_following her tenderly to the seat and making her sit down with
him_). Only King George, my dear. He’s returning to barracks, or having
his roll called, or getting ready for tea, or booting or saddling or
something. Soldiers don’t ring the bell or call over the banisters when
they want anything: they send a boy out with a bugle to disturb the
whole town.

JUDITH.
Do you think there is really any danger?

ANDERSON.
Not the least in the world.

JUDITH.
You say that to comfort me, not because you believe it.

ANDERSON.
My dear: in this world there is always danger for those who are afraid
of it. There’s a danger that the house will catch fire in the night;
but we shan’t sleep any the less soundly for that.

JUDITH.
Yes, I know what you always say; and you’re quite right. Oh, quite
right: I know it. But—I suppose I’m not brave: that’s all. My heart
shrinks every time I think of the soldiers.

ANDERSON.
Never mind that, dear: bravery is none the worse for costing a little
pain.

JUDITH.
Yes, I suppose so. (_Embracing him again._) Oh how brave you are, my
dear! (_With tears in her eyes._) Well, I’ll be brave too: you shan’t
be ashamed of your wife.

ANDERSON.
That’s right. Now you make me happy. Well, well! (_He rises and goes
cheerily to the fire to dry his shoes._) I called on Richard Dudgeon on
my way back; but he wasn’t in.

JUDITH.
(_rising in consternation_). You called on that man!

ANDERSON.
(_reassuring her_). Oh, nothing happened, dearie. He was out.

JUDITH.
(_almost in tears, as if the visit were a personal humiliation to
her_). But why did you go there?

ANDERSON.
(_gravely_). Well, it is all the talk that Major Swindon is going to do
what he did in Springtown—make an example of some notorious rebel, as
he calls us. He pounced on Peter Dudgeon as the worst character there;
and it is the general belief that he will pounce on Richard as the
worst here.

JUDITH.
But Richard said—

ANDERSON.
(_goodhumoredly cutting her short_). Pooh! Richard said! He said what
he thought would frighten you and frighten me, my dear. He said what
perhaps (_God forgive him!_) he would like to believe. It’s a terrible
thing to think of what death must mean for a man like that. I felt that
I must warn him. I left a message for him.

JUDITH.
(_querulously_). What message?

ANDERSON.
Only that I should be glad to see him for a moment on a matter of
importance to himself; and that if he would look in here when he was
passing he would be welcome.

JUDITH.
(_aghast_). You asked that man to come here!

ANDERSON.
I did.

JUDITH.
(_sinking on the seat and clasping her hands_). I hope he won’t come!
Oh, I pray that he may not come!

ANDERSON.
Why? Don’t you want him to be warned?

JUDITH.
He must know his danger. Oh, Tony, is it wrong to hate a blasphemer and
a villain? I do hate him! I can’t get him out of my mind: I know he
will bring harm with him. He insulted you: he insulted me: he insulted
his mother.

ANDERSON.
(_quaintly_). Well, dear, let’s forgive him; and then it won’t matter.

JUDITH.
Oh, I know it’s wrong to hate anybody; but—

ANDERSON.
(_going over to her with humorous tenderness_). Come, dear, you’re not
so wicked as you think. The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is
not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that’s the essence of
inhumanity. After all, my dear, if you watch people carefully, you’ll
be surprised to find how like hate is to love. (_She starts, strangely
touched—even appalled. He is amused at her._) Yes: I’m quite in
earnest. Think of how some of our married friends worry one another,
tax one another, are jealous of one another, can’t bear to let one
another out of sight for a day, are more like jailers and slave-owners
than lovers. Think of those very same people with their enemies,
scrupulous, lofty, self-respecting, determined to be independent of one
another, careful of how they speak of one another—pooh! haven’t you
often thought that if they only knew it, they were better friends to
their enemies than to their own husbands and wives? Come: depend on it,
my dear, you are really fonder of Richard than you are of me, if you
only knew it. Eh?

JUDITH.
Oh, don’t say that: don’t say that, Tony, even in jest. You don’t know
what a horrible feeling it gives me.

ANDERSON.
(_Laughing_). Well, well: never mind, pet. He’s a bad man; and you hate
him as he deserves. And you’re going to make the tea, aren’t you?

JUDITH.
(_remorsefully_). Oh yes, I forgot. I’ve been keeping you waiting all
this time. (_She goes to the fire and puts on the kettle._)

ANDERSON.
(_going to the press and taking his coat off_). Have you stitched up
the shoulder of my old coat?

JUDITH.
Yes, dear. (_She goes to the table, and sets about putting the tea into
the teapot from the caddy._)

ANDERSON.
(_as he changes his coat for the older one hanging on the press, and
replaces it by the one he has just taken off_). Did anyone call when I
was out?

JUDITH.
No, only— (_someone knocks at the door. With a start which betrays her
intense nervousness, she retreats to the further end of the table with
the tea caddy and spoon, in her hands, exclaiming_) Who’s that?

ANDERSON.
(_going to her and patting her encouragingly on the shoulder_). All
right, pet, all right. He won’t eat you, whoever he is. (_She tries to
smile, and nearly makes herself cry. He goes to the door and opens it.
Richard is there, without overcoat or cloak._) You might have raised
the latch and come in, Mr. Dudgeon. Nobody stands on much ceremony with
us. (_Hospitably._) Come in. (_Richard comes in carelessly and stands
at the table, looking round the room with a slight pucker of his nose
at the mezzotinted divine on the wall. Judith keeps her eyes on the tea
caddy._) Is it still raining? (_He shuts the door._)

RICHARD.
Raining like the very (_his eye catches Judith’s as she looks quickly
and haughtily up_)—I beg your pardon; but (_showing that his coat is
wet_) you see—!

ANDERSON.
Take it off, sir; and let it hang before the fire a while: my wife will
excuse your shirtsleeves. Judith: put in another spoonful of tea for
Mr. Dudgeon.

RICHARD.
(_eyeing him cynically_). The magic of property, Pastor! Are even YOU
civil to me now that I have succeeded to my father’s estate?

Judith throws down the spoon indignantly.


ANDERSON.
(_quite unruffled, and helping Richard off with his coat_). I think,
sir, that since you accept my hospitality, you cannot have so bad an
opinion of it. Sit down. (_With the coat in his hand, he points to the
railed seat. Richard, in his shirtsleeves, looks at him half
quarrelsomely for a moment; then, with a nod, acknowledges that the
minister has got the better of him, and sits down on the seat. Anderson
pushes his cloak into a heap on the seat of the chair at the fire, and
hangs Richard’s coat on the back in its place._)

RICHARD.
I come, sir, on your own invitation. You left word you had something
important to tell me.

ANDERSON.
I have a warning which it is my duty to give you.

RICHARD.
(_quickly rising_). You want to preach to me. Excuse me: I prefer a
walk in the rain. (_He makes for his coat._)

ANDERSON.
(_stopping him_). Don’t be alarmed, sir; I am no great preacher. You
are quite safe. (_Richard smiles in spite of himself. His glance
softens: he even makes a gesture of excuse. Anderson, seeing that he
has tamed him, now addresses him earnestly._) Mr. Dudgeon: you are in
danger in this town.

RICHARD.
What danger?

ANDERSON.
Your uncle’s danger. Major Swindon’s gallows.

RICHARD.
It is you who are in danger. I warned you—

ANDERSON.
(_interrupting him goodhumoredly but authoritatively_). Yes, yes, Mr.
Dudgeon; but they do not think so in the town. And even if I were in
danger, I have duties here I must not forsake. But you are a free man.
Why should you run any risk?

RICHARD.
Do you think I should be any great loss, Minister?

ANDERSON.
I think that a man’s life is worth saving, whoever it belongs to.
(_Richard makes him an ironical bow. Anderson returns the bow
humorously._) Come: you’ll have a cup of tea, to prevent you catching
cold?

RICHARD.
I observe that Mrs. Anderson is not quite so pressing as you are,
Pastor.

JUDITH.
(_almost stifled with resentment, which she has been expecting her
husband to share and express for her at every insult of Richard’s_).
You are welcome for my husband’s sake. (_She brings the teapot to the
fireplace and sets it on the hob._)

RICHARD.
I know I am not welcome for my own, madam. (_He rises._) But I think I
will not break bread here, Minister.

ANDERSON.
(_cheerily_). Give me a good reason for that.

RICHARD.
Because there is something in you that I respect, and that makes me
desire to have you for my enemy.

ANDERSON.
That’s well said. On those terms, sir, I will accept your enmity or any
man’s. Judith: Mr. Dudgeon will stay to tea. Sit down: it will take a
few minutes to draw by the fire. (_Richard glances at him with a
troubled face; then sits down with his head bent, to hide a convulsive
swelling of his throat._) I was just saying to my wife, Mr. Dudgeon,
that enmity— (_she grasps his hand and looks imploringly at him, doing
both with an intensity that checks him at once_) Well, well, I mustn’t
tell you, I see; but it was nothing that need leave us worse
friend—enemies, I mean. Judith is a great enemy of yours.

RICHARD.
If all my enemies were like Mrs. Anderson I should be the best
Christian in America.

ANDERSON.
(_gratified, patting her hand_). You hear that, Judith? Mr. Dudgeon
knows how to turn a compliment.

The latch is lifted from without.


JUDITH.
(_starting_). Who is that?

Christy comes in.


CHRISTY.
(_stopping and staring at Richard_). Oh, are YOU here?

RICHARD.
Yes. Begone, you fool: Mrs. Anderson doesn’t want the whole family to
tea at once.

CHRISTY.
(_coming further in_). Mother’s very ill.

RICHARD.
Well, does she want to see ME?

CHRISTY.
No.

RICHARD.
I thought not.

CHRISTY.
She wants to see the minister—at once.

JUDITH.
(_to Anderson_). Oh, not before you’ve had some tea.

ANDERSON.
I shall enjoy it more when I come back, dear. (_He is about to take up
his cloak._)

CHRISTY.
The rain’s over.

ANDERSON.
(_dropping the cloak and picking up his hat from the fender_). Where is
your mother, Christy?

CHRISTY.
At Uncle Titus’s.

ANDERSON.
Have you fetched the doctor?

CHRISTY.
No: she didn’t tell me to.

ANDERSON.
Go on there at once: I’ll overtake you on his doorstep. (_Christy turns
to go._) Wait a moment. Your brother must be anxious to know the
particulars.

RICHARD.
Psha! not I: he doesn’t know; and I don’t care. (_Violently._) Be off,
you oaf. (_Christy runs out. Richard adds, a little shamefacedly_) We
shall know soon enough.

ANDERSON.
Well, perhaps you will let me bring you the news myself. Judith: will
you give Mr. Dudgeon his tea, and keep him here until I return?

JUDITH.
(_white and trembling_). Must I—

ANDERSON.
(_taking her hands and interrupting her to cover her agitation_). My
dear: I can depend on you?

JUDITH.
(_with a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust_). Yes.

ANDERSON.
(_pressing her hand against his cheek_). You will not mind two old
people like us, Mr. Dudgeon. (_Going._) I shall not say good evening:
you will be here when I come back. (_He goes out._)

They watch him pass the window, and then look at each other dumbly,
quite disconcerted. Richard, noting the quiver of her lips, is the
first to pull himself together.


RICHARD.
Mrs. Anderson: I am perfectly aware of the nature of your sentiments
towards me. I shall not intrude on you. Good evening. (_Again he starts
for the fireplace to get his coat._)

JUDITH.
(_getting between him and the coat_). No, no. Don’t go: please don’t
go.

RICHARD.
(_roughly_). Why? You don’t want me here.

JUDITH.
Yes, I— (_wringing her hands in despair_) Oh, if I tell you the truth,
you will use it to torment me.

RICHARD.
(_indignantly_). Torment! What right have you to say that? Do you
expect me to stay after that?

JUDITH.
I want you to stay; but (_suddenly raging at him like an angry child_)
it is not because I like you.

RICHARD.
Indeed!

JUDITH.
Yes: I had rather you did go than mistake me about that. I hate and
dread you; and my husband knows it. If you are not here when he comes
back, he will believe that I disobeyed him and drove you away.

RICHARD.
(_ironically_). Whereas, of course, you have really been so kind and
hospitable and charming to me that I only want to go away out of mere
contrariness, eh?

Judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts into tears.


RICHARD.
Stop, stop, stop, I tell you. Don’t do that. (_Putting his hand to his
breast as if to a wound._) He wrung my heart by being a man. Need you
tear it by being a woman? Has he not raised you above my insults, like
himself? (_She stops crying, and recovers herself somewhat, looking at
him with a scared curiosity._) There: that’s right.
(_Sympathetically._) You’re better now, aren’t you? (_He puts his hand
encouragingly on her shoulder. She instantly rises haughtily, and
stares at him defiantly. He at once drops into his usual sardonic
tone._) Ah, that’s better. You are yourself again: so is Richard. Well,
shall we go to tea like a quiet respectable couple, and wait for your
husband’s return?

JUDITH.
(_rather ashamed of herself_). If you please. I—I am sorry to have been
so foolish. (_She stoops to take up the plate of toast from the
fender._)

RICHARD.
I am sorry, for your sake, that I am—what I am. Allow me. (_He takes
the plate from her and goes with it to the table._)

JUDITH.
(_following with the teapot_). Will you sit down? (_He sits down at the
end of the table nearest the press. There is a plate and knife laid
there. The other plate is laid near it; but Judith stays at the
opposite end of the table, next the fire, and takes her place there,
drawing the tray towards her._) Do you take sugar?

RICHARD.
No; but plenty of milk. Let me give you some toast. (_He puts some on
the second plate, and hands it to her, with the knife. The action shows
quietly how well he knows that she has avoided her usual place so as to
be as far from him as possible._)

JUDITH.
(_consciously_). Thanks. (_She gives him his tea._) Won’t you help
yourself?

RICHARD.
Thanks. (_He puts a piece of toast on his own plate; and she pours out
tea for herself._)

JUDITH.
(_observing that he tastes nothing_). Don’t you like it? You are not
eating anything.

RICHARD.
Neither are you.

JUDITH.
(_nervously_). I never care much for my tea. Please don’t mind me.

RICHARD.
(_Looking dreamily round_). I am thinking. It is all so strange to me.
I can see the beauty and peace of this home: I think I have never been
more at rest in my life than at this moment; and yet I know quite well
I could never live here. It’s not in my nature, I suppose, to be
domesticated. But it’s very beautiful: it’s almost holy. (_He muses a
moment, and then laughs softly._)

JUDITH.
(_quickly_). Why do you laugh?

RICHARD.
I was thinking that if any stranger came in here now, he would take us
for man and wife.

JUDITH.
(_taking offence_). You mean, I suppose, that you are more my age than
he is.

RICHARD.
(_staring at this unexpected turn_). I never thought of such a thing.
(_Sardonic again._) I see there is another side to domestic joy.

JUDITH.
(_angrily_). I would rather have a husband whom everybody respects
than—than—

RICHARD.
Than the devil’s disciple. You are right; but I daresay your love helps
him to be a good man, just as your hate helps me to be a bad one.

JUDITH.
My husband has been very good to you. He has forgiven you for insulting
him, and is trying to save you. Can you not forgive him for being so
much better than you are? How dare you belittle him by putting yourself
in his place?

RICHARD.
Did I?

JUDITH.
Yes, you did. You said that if anybody came in they would take us for
man and— (_she stops, terror-stricken, as a squad of soldiers tramps
past the window_) The English soldiers! Oh, what do they—

RICHARD.
(_listening_). Sh!

A VOICE (_outside_).
Halt! Four outside: two in with me.

Judith half rises, listening and looking with dilated eyes at Richard,
who takes up his cup prosaically, and is drinking his tea when the
latch goes up with a sharp click, and an English sergeant walks into
the room with two privates, who post themselves at the door. He comes
promptly to the table between them.


THE SERGEANT.
Sorry to disturb you, mum! duty! Anthony Anderson: I arrest you in King
George’s name as a rebel.

JUDITH.
(_pointing at Richard_). But that is not— (_He looks up quickly at her,
with a face of iron. She stops her mouth hastily with the hand she has
raised to indicate him, and stands staring affrightedly._)

THE SERGEANT.
Come, Parson; put your coat on and come along.

RICHARD.
Yes: I’ll come. (_He rises and takes a step towards his own coat; then
recollects himself, and, with his back to the sergeant, moves his gaze
slowly round the room without turning his head until he sees Anderson’s
black coat hanging up on the press. He goes composedly to it; takes it
down; and puts it on. The idea of himself as a parson tickles him: he
looks down at the black sleeve on his arm, and then smiles slyly at
Judith, whose white face shows him that what she is painfully
struggling to grasp is not the humor of the situation but its horror.
He turns to the sergeant, who is approaching him with a pair of
handcuffs hidden behind him, and says lightly_) Did you ever arrest a
man of my cloth before, Sergeant?

THE SERGEANT.
(_instinctively respectful, half to the black coat, half to Richard’s
good breeding_). Well, no sir. At least, only an army chaplain.
(_Showing the handcuffs._) I’m sorry, sir; but duty—

RICHARD.
Just so, Sergeant. Well, I’m not ashamed of them: thank you kindly for
the apology. (_He holds out his hands._)

THE SERGEANT.
(_not availing himself of the offer_). One gentleman to another, sir.
Wouldn’t you like to say a word to your missis, sir, before you go?

RICHARD.
(_smiling_). Oh, we shall meet again before—eh? (_Meaning “before you
hang me.”_)

THE SERGEANT.
(_loudly, with ostentatious cheerfulness_). Oh, of course, of course.
No call for the lady to distress herself. Still— (_in a lower voice,
intended for Richard alone_) your last chance, sir.

They look at one another significantly for a moment. Than Richard
exhales a deep breath and turns towards Judith.


RICHARD.
(_very distinctly_). My love. (_She looks at him, pitiably pale, and
tries to answer, but cannot—tries also to come to him, but cannot trust
herself to stand without the support of the table._) This gallant
gentleman is good enough to allow us a moment of leavetaking. (_The
sergeant retires delicately and joins his men near the door._) He is
trying to spare you the truth; but you had better know it. Are you
listening to me? (_She signifies assent._) Do you understand that I am
going to my death? (_She signifies that she understands._) Remember,
you must find our friend who was with us just now. Do you understand?
(_She signifies yes._) See that you get him safely out of harm’s way.
Don’t for your life let him know of my danger; but if he finds it out,
tell him that he cannot save me: they would hang him; and they would
not spare me. And tell him that I am steadfast in my religion as he is
in his, and that he may depend on me to the death. (_He turns to go,
and meets the eye of the sergeant, who looks a little suspicious. He
considers a moment, and then, turning roguishly to Judith with
something of a smile breaking through his earnestness, says_) And now,
my dear, I am afraid the sergeant will not believe that you love me
like a wife unless you give one kiss before I go.

He approaches her and holds out his arms. She quits the table and
almost falls into them.


JUDITH.
(_the words choking her_). I ought to—it’s murder—

RICHARD.
No: only a kiss (_softly to her_) for his sake.

JUDITH.
I can’t. You must—

RICHARD.
(_folding her in his arms with an impulse of compassion for her
distress_). My poor girl!

Judith, with a sudden effort, throws her arms round him; kisses him;
and swoons away, dropping from his arms to the ground as if the kiss
had killed her.


RICHARD.
(_going quickly to the sergeant_). Now, Sergeant: quick, before she
comes to. The handcuffs. (_He puts out his hands._)

THE SERGEANT.
(_pocketing them_). Never mind, sir: I’ll trust you. You’re a game one.
You ought to a bin a soldier, sir. Between them two, please. (_The
soldiers place themselves one before Richard and one behind him. The
sergeant opens the door._)

RICHARD.
(_taking a last look round him_). Goodbye, wife: goodbye, home. Muffle
the drums, and quick march!

The sergeant signs to the leading soldier to march. They file out
quickly.



When Anderson returns from Mrs. Dudgeon’s he is astonished to find the
room apparently empty and almost in darkness except for the glow from
the fire; for one of the candles has burnt out, and the other is at its
last flicker.


ANDERSON.
Why, what on earth—? (_Calling_) Judith, Judith! (_He listens: there is
no answer._) Hm! (_He goes to the cupboard; takes a candle from the
drawer; lights it at the flicker of the expiring one on the table; and
looks wonderingly at the untasted meal by its light. Then he sticks it
in the candlestick; takes off his hat; and scratches his head, much
puzzled. This action causes him to look at the floor for the first
time; and there he sees Judith lying motionless with her eyes closed.
He runs to her and stoops beside her, lifting her head._) Judith.

JUDITH.
(_waking; for her swoon has passed into the sleep of exhaustion after
suffering_). Yes. Did you call? What’s the matter?

ANDERSON.
I’ve just come in and found you lying here with the candles burnt out
and the tea poured out and cold. What has happened?

JUDITH.
(_still astray_). I don’t know. Have I been asleep? I suppose— (_she
stops blankly_) I don’t know.

ANDERSON.
(_groaning_). Heaven forgive me, I left you alone with that scoundrel.
(_Judith remembers. With an agonized cry, she clutches his shoulders
and drags herself to her feet as he rises with her. He clasps her
tenderly in his arms._) My poor pet!

JUDITH.
(_frantically clinging to him_). What shall I do? Oh my God, what shall
I do?

ANDERSON.
Never mind, never mind, my dearest dear: it was my fault. Come: you’re
safe now; and you’re not hurt, are you? (_He takes his arms from her to
see whether she can stand._) There: that’s right, that’s right. If only
you are not hurt, nothing else matters.

JUDITH.
No, no, no: I’m not hurt.

ANDERSON.
Thank Heaven for that! Come now: (_leading her to the railed seat and
making her sit down beside him_) sit down and rest: you can tell me
about it to-morrow. Or, (_misunderstanding her distress_) you shall not
tell me at all if it worries you. There, there! (_Cheerfully._) I’ll
make you some fresh tea: that will set you up again. (_He goes to the
table, and empties the teapot into the slop bowl._)

JUDITH.
(_in a strained tone_). Tony.

ANDERSON.
Yes, dear?

JUDITH.
Do you think we are only in a dream now?

ANDERSON.
(_glancing round at her for a moment with a pang of anxiety, though he
goes on steadily and cheerfully putting fresh tea into the pot_).
Perhaps so, pet. But you may as well dream a cup of tea when you’re
about it.

JUDITH.
Oh, stop, stop. You don’t know— (_Distracted she buries her face in her
knotted hands._)

ANDERSON.
(_breaking down and coming to her_). My dear, what is it? I can’t bear
it any longer: you must tell me. It was all my fault: I was mad to
trust him.

JUDITH.
No: don’t say that. You mustn’t say that. He—oh no, no: I can’t. Tony:
don’t speak to me. Take my hands—both my hands. (_He takes them,
wondering._) Make me think of you, not of him. There’s danger,
frightful danger; but it is your danger; and I can’t keep thinking of
it: I can’t, I can’t: my mind goes back to his danger. He must be
saved—no: you must be saved: you, you, you. (_She springs up as if to
do something or go somewhere, exclaiming_) Oh, Heaven help me!

ANDERSON.
(_keeping his seat and holding her hands with resolute composure_).
Calmly, calmly, my pet. You’re quite distracted.

JUDITH.
I may well be. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.
(_Tearing her hands away._) I must save him. (_Anderson rises in alarm
as she runs wildly to the door. It is opened in her face by Essie, who
hurries in, full of anxiety. The surprise is so disagreeable to Judith
that it brings her to her senses. Her tone is sharp and angry as she
demands_) What do you want?

ESSIE.
I was to come to you.

ANDERSON.
Who told you to?

ESSIE.
(_staring at him, as if his presence astonished her_). Are you here?

JUDITH.
Of course. Don’t be foolish, child.

ANDERSON.
Gently, dearest: you’ll frighten her. (_Going between them._) Come
here, Essie. (_She comes to him._) Who sent you?

ESSIE.
Dick. He sent me word by a soldier. I was to come here at once and do
whatever Mrs. Anderson told me.

ANDERSON.
(_enlightened_). A soldier! Ah, I see it all now! They have arrested
Richard. (_Judith makes a gesture of despair._)

ESSIE.
No. I asked the soldier. Dick’s safe. But the soldier said you had been
taken—

ANDERSON.
I! (_Bewildered, he turns to Judith for an explanation._)

JUDITH.
(_coaxingly_) All right, dear: I understand. (_To Essie._) Thank you,
Essie, for coming; but I don’t need you now. You may go home.

ESSIE.
(_suspicious_) Are you sure Dick has not been touched? Perhaps he told
the soldier to say it was the minister. (_Anxiously._) Mrs. Anderson:
do you think it can have been that?

ANDERSON.
Tell her the truth if it is so, Judith. She will learn it from the
first neighbor she meets in the street. (_Judith turns away and covers
her eyes with her hands._)

ESSIE.
(_wailing_). But what will they do to him? Oh, what will they do to
him? Will they hang him? (_Judith shudders convulsively, and throws
herself into the chair in which Richard sat at the tea table._)

ANDERSON.
(_patting Essie’s shoulder and trying to comfort her_). I hope not. I
hope not. Perhaps if you’re very quiet and patient, we may be able to
help him in some way.

ESSIE.
Yes—help him—yes, yes, yes. I’ll be good.

ANDERSON.
I must go to him at once, Judith.

JUDITH.
(_springing up_). Oh no. You must go away—far away, to some place of
safety.

ANDERSON.
Pooh!

JUDITH.
(_passionately_). Do you want to kill me? Do you think I can bear to
live for days and days with every knock at the door—every
footstep—giving me a spasm of terror? to lie awake for nights and
nights in an agony of dread, listening for them to come and arrest you?

ANDERSON.
Do you think it would be better to know that I had run away from my
post at the first sign of danger?

JUDITH.
(_bitterly_). Oh, you won’t go. I know it. You’ll stay; and I shall go
mad.

ANDERSON.
My dear, your duty—

JUDITH.
(_fiercely_). What do I care about my duty?

ANDERSON.
(_shocked_). Judith!

JUDITH.
I am doing my duty. I am clinging to my duty. My duty is to get you
away, to save you, to leave him to his fate. (_Essie utters a cry of
distress and sinks on the chair at the fire, sobbing silently._) My
instinct is the same as hers—to save him above all things, though it
would be so much better for him to die! so much greater! But I know you
will take your own way as he took it. I have no power. (_She sits down
sullenly on the railed seat._) I’m only a woman: I can do nothing but
sit here and suffer. Only, tell him I tried to save you—that I did my
best to save you.

ANDERSON.
My dear, I am afraid he will be thinking more of his own danger than of
mine.

JUDITH.
Stop; or I shall hate you.

ANDERSON.
(_remonstrating_). Come, am I to leave you if you talk like this! your
senses. (_He turns to Essie._) Essie.

ESSIE.
(_eagerly rising and drying her eyes_). Yes?

ANDERSON.
Just wait outside a moment, like a good girl: Mrs. Anderson is not
well. (_Essie looks doubtful._) Never fear: I’ll come to you presently;
and I’ll go to Dick.

ESSIE.
You are sure you will go to him? (_Whispering._) You won’t let her
prevent you?

ANDERSON.
(_smiling_). No, no: it’s all right. All right. (_She goes._) That’s a
good girl. (_He closes the door, and returns to Judith._)

JUDITH.
(_seated—rigid_). You are going to your death.

ANDERSON.
(_quaintly_). Then I shall go in my best coat, dear. (_He turns to the
press, beginning to take off his coat._) Where—? (_He stares at the
empty nail for a moment; then looks quickly round to the fire; strides
across to it; and lifts Richard’s coat._) Why, my dear, it seems that
he has gone in my best coat.

JUDITH.
(_still motionless_). Yes.

ANDERSON.
Did the soldiers make a mistake?

JUDITH.
Yes: they made a mistake.

ANDERSON.
He might have told them. Poor fellow, he was too upset, I suppose.

JUDITH.
Yes: he might have told them. So might I.

ANDERSON.
Well, it’s all very puzzling—almost funny. It’s curious how these
little things strike us even in the most— (_he breaks off and begins
putting on Richard’s coat_) I’d better take him his own coat. I know
what he’ll say— (_imitating Richard’s sardonic manner_) “Anxious about
my soul, Pastor, and also about your best coat.” Eh?

JUDITH.
Yes, that is just what he will say to you. (_Vacantly._) It doesn’t
matter: I shall never see either of you again.

ANDERSON.
(_rallying her_). Oh pooh, pooh, pooh! (_He sits down beside her._) Is
this how you keep your promise that I shan’t be ashamed of my brave
wife?

JUDITH.
No: this is how I break it. I cannot keep my promises to him: why
should I keep my promises to you?

ANDERSON.
Don’t speak so strangely, my love. It sounds insincere to me. (_She
looks unutterable reproach at him._) Yes, dear, nonsense is always
insincere; and my dearest is talking nonsense. Just nonsense. (_Her
face darkens into dumb obstinacy. She stares straight before her, and
does not look at him again, absorbed in Richard’s fate. He scans her
face; sees that his rallying has produced no effect; and gives it up,
making no further effort to conceal his anxiety._) I wish I knew what
has frightened you so. Was there a struggle? Did he fight?

JUDITH.
No. He smiled.

ANDERSON.
Did he realise his danger, do you think?

JUDITH.
He realised yours.

ANDERSON.
Mine!

JUDITH.
(_monotonously_). He said, “See that you get him safely out of harm’s
way.” I promised: I can’t keep my promise. He said, “Don’t for your
life let him know of my danger.” I’ve told you of it. He said that if
you found it out, you could not save him—that they will hang him and
not spare you.

ANDERSON.
(_rising in generous indignation_). And you think that I will let a man
with that much good in him die like a dog, when a few words might make
him die like a Christian? I’m ashamed of you, Judith.

JUDITH.
He will be steadfast in his religion as you are in yours; and you may
depend on him to the death. He said so.

ANDERSON.
God forgive him! What else did he say?

JUDITH.
He said goodbye.

ANDERSON.
(_fidgeting nervously to and fro in great concern_). Poor fellow, poor
fellow! You said goodbye to him in all kindness and charity, Judith, I
hope.

JUDITH.
I kissed him.

ANDERSON.
What! Judith!

JUDITH.
Are you angry?

ANDERSON.
No, no. You were right: you were right. Poor fellow, poor fellow!
(_Greatly distressed._) To be hanged like that at his age! And then did
they take him away?

JUDITH.
(_wearily_). Then you were here: that’s the next thing I remember. I
suppose I fainted. Now bid me goodbye, Tony. Perhaps I shall faint
again. I wish I could die.

ANDERSON.
No, no, my dear: you must pull yourself together and be sensible. I am
in no danger—not the least in the world.

JUDITH.
(_solemnly_). You are going to your death, Tony—your sure death, if God
will let innocent men be murdered. They will not let you see him: they
will arrest you the moment you give your name. It was for you the
soldiers came.

ANDERSON.
(_thunderstruck_). For me!!! (_His fists clinch; his neck thickens; his
face reddens; the fleshy purses under his eyes become injected with hot
blood; the man of peace vanishes, transfigured into a choleric and
formidable man of war. Still, she does not come out of her absorption
to look at him: her eyes are steadfast with a mechanical reflection of
Richard’s stead-fastness._)

JUDITH.
He took your place: he is dying to save you. That is why he went in
your coat. That is why I kissed him.

ANDERSON.
(_exploding_). Blood an’ owns! (_His voice is rough and dominant, his
gesture full of brute energy._) Here! Essie, Essie!

ESSIE.
(_running in_). Yes.

ANDERSON.
(_impetuously_). Off with you as hard as you can run, to the inn. Tell
them to saddle the fastest and strongest horse they have (_Judith rises
breathless, and stares at him incredulously_)—the chestnut mare, if
she’s fresh—without a moment’s delay. Go into the stable yard and tell
the black man there that I’ll give him a silver dollar if the horse is
waiting for me when I come, and that I am close on your heels. Away
with you. (_His energy sends Essie flying from the room. He pounces on
his riding boots; rushes with them to the chair at the fire; and begins
pulling them on._)

JUDITH.
(_unable to believe such a thing of him_). You are not going to him!

ANDERSON.
(_busy with the boots_). Going to him! What good would that do?
(_Growling to himself as he gets the first boot on with a wrench_) I’ll
go to them, so I will. (_To Judith peremptorily_) Get me the pistols: I
want them. And money, money: I want money—all the money in the house.
(_He stoops over the other boot, grumbling_) A great satisfaction it
would be to him to have my company on the gallows. (_He pulls on the
boot._)

JUDITH.
You are deserting him, then?

ANDERSON.
Hold your tongue, woman; and get me the pistols. (_She goes to the
press and takes from it a leather belt with two pistols, a powder horn,
and a bag of bullets attached to it. She throws it on the table. Then
she unlocks a drawer in the press and takes out a purse. Anderson grabs
the belt and buckles it on, saying_) If they took him for me in my
coat, perhaps they’ll take me for him in his. (_Hitching the belt into
its place_) Do I look like him?

JUDITH.
(_turning with the purse in her hand_). Horribly unlike him.

ANDERSON.
(_snatching the purse from her and emptying it on the table_). Hm! We
shall see.

JUDITH.
(_sitting down helplessly_). Is it of any use to pray, do you think,
Tony?

ANDERSON.
(_counting the money_). Pray! Can we pray Swindon’s rope off Richard’s
neck?

JUDITH.
God may soften Major Swindon’s heart.

ANDERSON.
(_contemptuously—pocketing a handful of money_). Let him, then. I am
not God; and I must go to work another way. (_Judith gasps at the
blasphemy. He throws the purse on the table._) Keep that. I’ve taken 25
dollars.

JUDITH.
Have you forgotten even that you are a minister?

ANDERSON.
Minister be—faugh! My hat: where’s my hat? (_He snatches up hat and
cloak, and puts both on in hot haste._) Now listen, you. If you can get
a word with him by pretending you’re his wife, tell him to hold his
tongue until morning: that will give me all the start I need.

JUDITH.
(_solemnly_). You may depend on him to the death.

ANDERSON.
You’re a fool, a fool, Judith (_for a moment checking the torrent of
his haste, and speaking with something of his old quiet and impressive
conviction_). You don’t know the man you’re married to. (_Essie
returns. He swoops at her at once._) Well: is the horse ready?

ESSIE.
(_breathless_). It will be ready when you come.

ANDERSON.
Good. (_He makes for the door._)

JUDITH.
(_rising and stretching out her arms after him involuntarily_). Won’t
you say goodbye?

ANDERSON.
And waste another half minute! Psha! (_He rushes out like an
avalanche._)

ESSIE.
(_hurrying to Judith_). He has gone to save Richard, hasn’t he?

JUDITH.
To save Richard! No: Richard has saved him. He has gone to save
himself. Richard must die.

Essie screams with terror and falls on her knees, hiding her face.
Judith, without heeding her, looks rigidly straight in front of her, at
the vision of Richard, dying.




ACT III


Early next morning the sergeant, at the British headquarters in the
Town Hall, unlocks the door of a little empty panelled waiting room,
and invites Judith to enter. She has had a bad night, probably a rather
delirious one; for even in the reality of the raw morning, her fixed
gaze comes back at moments when her attention is not strongly held.

The sergeant considers that her feelings do her credit, and is
sympathetic in an encouraging military way. Being a fine figure of a
man, vain of his uniform and of his rank, he feels specially qualified,
in a respectful way, to console her.

THE SERGEANT.
You can have a quiet word with him here, mum.

JUDITH.
Shall I have long to wait?

THE SERGEANT.
No, mum, not a minute. We kep him in the Bridewell for the night; and
he’s just been brought over here for the court martial. Don’t fret,
mum: he slep like a child, and has made a rare good breakfast.

JUDITH.
(_incredulously_). He is in good spirits!

THE SERGEANT.
Tip top, mum. The chaplain looked in to see him last night; and he won
seventeen shillings off him at spoil five. He spent it among us like
the gentleman he is. Duty’s duty, mum, of course; but you’re among
friends here. (_The tramp of a couple of soldiers is heard
approaching._) There: I think he’s coming. (_Richard comes in, without
a sign of care or captivity in his bearing. The sergeant nods to the
two soldiers, and shows them the key of the room in his hand. They
withdraw._) Your good lady, sir.

RICHARD.
(_going to her_). What! My wife. My adored one. (_He takes her hand and
kisses it with a perverse, raffish gallantry._) How long do you allow a
brokenhearted husband for leave-taking, Sergeant?

THE SERGEANT.
As long as we can, sir. We shall not disturb you till the court sits.

RICHARD.
But it has struck the hour.

THE SERGEANT.
So it has, sir; but there’s a delay. General Burgoyne’s just
arrived—Gentlemanly Johnny we call him, sir—and he won’t have done
finding fault with everything this side of half past. I know him, sir:
I served with him in Portugal. You may count on twenty minutes, sir;
and by your leave I won’t waste any more of them. (_He goes out,
locking the door. Richard immediately drops his raffish manner and
turns to Judith with considerate sincerity._)

RICHARD.
Mrs. Anderson: this visit is very kind of you. And how are you after
last night? I had to leave you before you recovered; but I sent word to
Essie to go and look after you. Did she understand the message?

JUDITH.
(_breathless and urgent_). Oh, don’t think of me: I haven’t come here
to talk about myself. Are they going to—to— (_meaning “to hang you”_)?

RICHARD.
(_whimsically_). At noon, punctually. At least, that was when they
disposed of Uncle Peter. (_She shudders._) Is your husband safe? Is he
on the wing?

JUDITH.
He is no longer my husband.

RICHARD.
(_opening his eyes wide_). Eh!

JUDITH.
I disobeyed you. I told him everything. I expected him to come here and
save you. I wanted him to come here and save you. He ran away instead.

RICHARD.
Well, that’s what I meant him to do. What good would his staying have
done? They’d only have hanged us both.

JUDITH.
(_with reproachful earnestness_). Richard Dudgeon: on your honour, what
would you have done in his place?

RICHARD.
Exactly what he has done, of course.

JUDITH.
Oh, why will you not be simple with me—honest and straightforward? If
you are so selfish as that, why did you let them take you last night?

RICHARD.
(_gaily_). Upon my life, Mrs. Anderson, I don’t know. I’ve been asking
myself that question ever since; and I can find no manner of reason for
acting as I did.

JUDITH.
You know you did it for his sake, believing he was a more worthy man
than yourself.

RICHARD.
(_laughing_). Oho! No: that’s a very pretty reason, I must say; but I’m
not so modest as that. No: it wasn’t for his sake.

JUDITH.
(_after a pause, during which she looks shamefacedly at him, blushing
painfully_). Was it for my sake?

RICHARD.
(_gallantly_). Well, you had a hand in it. It must have been a little
for your sake. You let them take me, at all events.

JUDITH.
Oh, do you think I have not been telling myself that all night? Your
death will be at my door. (_Impulsively, she gives him her hand, and
adds, with intense earnestness_) If I could save you as you saved him,
I would do it, no matter how cruel the death was.

RICHARD.
(_holding her hand and smiling, but keeping her almost at arm’s
length_). I am very sure I shouldn’t let you.

JUDITH.
Don’t you see that I can save you?

RICHARD.
How? By changing clothes with me, eh?

JUDITH.
(_disengaging her hand to touch his lips with it_). Don’t (_meaning
“Don’t jest”_). No: by telling the Court who you really are.

RICHARD.
(_frowning_). No use: they wouldn’t spare me; and it would spoil half
of his chance of escaping. They are determined to cow us by making an
example of somebody on that gallows to-day. Well, let us cow them by
showing that we can stand by one another to the death. That is the only
force that can send Burgoyne back across the Atlantic and make America
a nation.

JUDITH.
(_impatiently_). Oh, what does all that matter?

RICHARD.
(_laughing_). True: what does it matter? what does anything matter? You
see, men have these strange notions, Mrs. Anderson; and women see the
folly of them.

JUDITH.
Women have to lose those they love through them.

RICHARD.
They can easily get fresh lovers.

JUDITH.
(_revolted_). Oh! (_Vehemently_) Do you realise that you are going to
kill yourself?

RICHARD.
The only man I have any right to kill, Mrs. Anderson. Don’t be
concerned: no woman will lose her lover through my death. (_Smiling_)
Bless you, nobody cares for me. Have you heard that my mother is dead?

JUDITH.
Dead!

RICHARD.
Of heart disease—in the night. Her last word to me was her curse: I
don’t think I could have borne her blessing. My other relatives will
not grieve much on my account. Essie will cry for a day or two; but I
have provided for her: I made my own will last night.

JUDITH.
(_stonily, after a moment’s silence_). And I!

RICHARD.
(_surprised_). You?

JUDITH.
Yes, I. Am I not to care at all?

RICHARD.
(_gaily and bluntly_). Not a scrap. Oh, you expressed your feelings
towards me very frankly yesterday. What happened may have softened you
for the moment; but believe me, Mrs. Anderson, you don’t like a bone in
my skin or a hair on my head. I shall be as good a riddance at 12 today
as I should have been at 12 yesterday.

JUDITH.
(_her voice trembling_). What can I do to show you that you are
mistaken?

RICHARD.
Don’t trouble. I’ll give you credit for liking me a little better than
you did. All I say is that my death will not break your heart.

JUDITH.
(_almost in a whisper_). How do you know? (_She puts her hands on his
shoulders and looks intently at him._)

RICHARD.
(_amazed—divining the truth_). Mrs. Anderson!!! (_The bell of the town
clock strikes the quarter. He collects himself, and removes her hands,
saying rather coldly_) Excuse me: they will be here for me presently.
It is too late.

JUDITH.
It is not too late. Call me as witness: they will never kill you when
they know how heroically you have acted.

RICHARD.
(_with some scorn_). Indeed! But if I don’t go through with it, where
will the heroism be? I shall simply have tricked them; and they’ll hang
me for that like a dog. Serve me right too!

JUDITH.
(_wildly_). Oh, I believe you WANT to die.

RICHARD.
(_obstinately_). No I don’t.

JUDITH.
Then why not try to save yourself? I implore you—listen. You said just
now that you saved him for my sake—yes (_clutching him as he recoils
with a gesture of denial_) a little for my sake. Well, save yourself
for my sake. And I will go with you to the end of the world.

RICHARD.
(_taking her by the wrists and holding her a little way from him,
looking steadily at her_). Judith.

JUDITH.
(_breathless—delighted at the name_). Yes.

RICHARD.
If I said—to please you—that I did what I did ever so little for your
sake, I lied as men always lie to women. You know how much I have lived
with worthless men—aye, and worthless women too. Well, they could all
rise to some sort of goodness and kindness when they were in love.
(_The word love comes from him with true Puritan scorn._) That has
taught me to set very little store by the goodness that only comes out
red hot. What I did last night, I did in cold blood, caring not half so
much for your husband, or (_ruthlessly_) for you (_she droops,
stricken_) as I do for myself. I had no motive and no interest: all I
can tell you is that when it came to the point whether I would take my
neck out of the noose and put another man’s into it, I could not do it.
I don’t know why not: I see myself as a fool for my pains; but I could
not and I cannot. I have been brought up standing by the law of my own
nature; and I may not go against it, gallows or no gallows. (_She has
slowly raised her head and is now looking full at him._) I should have
done the same for any other man in the town, or any other man’s wife.
(_Releasing her._) Do you understand that?

JUDITH.
Yes: you mean that you do not love me.

RICHARD.
(_revolted—with fierce contempt_). Is that all it means to you?

JUDITH.
What more—what worse—can it mean to me?

(_The sergeant knocks. The blow on the door jars on her heart._) Oh,
one moment more. (_She throws herself on her knees._) I pray to you—


RICHARD.
Hush! (_Calling_) Come in. (_The sergeant unlocks the door and opens
it. The guard is with him._)

THE SERGEANT.
(_coming in_). Time’s up, sir.

RICHARD.
Quite ready, Sergeant. Now, my dear. (_He attempts to raise her._)

JUDITH.
(_clinging to him_). Only one thing more—I entreat, I implore you. Let
me be present in the court. I have seen Major Swindon: he said I should
be allowed if you asked it. You will ask it. It is my last request: I
shall never ask you anything again. (_She clasps his knee._) I beg and
pray it of you.

RICHARD.
If I do, will you be silent?

JUDITH.
Yes.

RICHARD.
You will keep faith?

JUDITH.
I will keep— (_She breaks down, sobbing._)

RICHARD.
(_taking her arm to lift her_). Just—her other arm, Sergeant.

They go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the two men.


Meanwhile, the Council Chamber is ready for the court martial. It is a
large, lofty room, with a chair of state in the middle under a tall
canopy with a gilt crown, and maroon curtains with the royal monogram
G. R. In front of the chair is a table, also draped in maroon, with a
bell, a heavy inkstand, and writing materials on it. Several chairs are
set at the table. The door is at the right hand of the occupant of the
chair of state when it has an occupant: at present it is empty. Major
Swindon, a pale, sandy-haired, very conscientious looking man of about
45, sits at the end of the table with his back to the door, writing. He
is alone until the sergeant announces the General in a subdued manner
which suggests that Gentlemanly Johnny has been making his presence
felt rather heavily.

THE SERGEANT.
The General, sir.

Swindon rises hastily. The General comes in, the sergeant goes out.
General Burgoyne is 55, and very well preserved. He is a man of
fashion, gallant enough to have made a distinguished marriage by an
elopement, witty enough to write successful comedies,
aristocratically-connected enough to have had opportunities of high
military distinction. His eyes, large, brilliant, apprehensive, and
intelligent, are his most remarkable feature: without them his fine
nose and small mouth would suggest rather more fastidiousness and less
force than go to the making of a first rate general. Just now the eyes
are angry and tragic, and the mouth and nostrils tense.


BURGOYNE.
Major Swindon, I presume.

SWINDON.
Yes. General Burgoyne, if I mistake not. (_They bow to one another
ceremoniously._) I am glad to have the support of your presence this
morning. It is not particularly lively business, hanging this poor
devil of a minister.

BURGOYNE.
(_throwing himself onto Swindon’s chair_). No, sir, it is not. It is
making too much of the fellow to execute him: what more could you have
done if he had been a member of the Church of England? Martyrdom, sir,
is what these people like: it is the only way in which a man can become
famous without ability. However, you have committed us to hanging him:
and the sooner he is hanged the better.

SWINDON.
We have arranged it for 12 o’clock. Nothing remains to be done except
to try him.

BURGOYNE.
(_looking at him with suppressed anger_). Nothing—except to save our
own necks, perhaps. Have you heard the news from Springtown?

SWINDON.
Nothing special. The latest reports are satisfactory.

BURGOYNE.
(_rising in amazement_). Satisfactory, sir! Satisfactory!! (_He stares
at him for a moment, and then adds, with grim intensity_) I am glad you
take that view of them.

SWINDON.
(_puzzled_). Do I understand that in your opinion—

BURGOYNE.
I do not express my opinion. I never stoop to that habit of profane
language which unfortunately coarsens our profession. If I did, sir,
perhaps I should be able to express my opinion of the news from
Springtown—the news which YOU (_severely_) have apparently not heard.
How soon do you get news from your supports here?—in the course of a
month eh?

SWINDON.
(_turning sulky_). I suppose the reports have been taken to you, sir,
instead of to me. Is there anything serious?

BURGOYNE.
(_taking a report from his pocket and holding it up_). Springtown’s in
the hands of the rebels. (_He throws the report on the table._)

SWINDON.
(_aghast_). Since yesterday!

BURGOYNE.
Since two o’clock this morning. Perhaps WE shall be in their hands
before two o’clock to-morrow morning. Have you thought of that?

SWINDON.
(_confidently_). As to that, General, the British soldier will give a
good account of himself.

BURGOYNE.
(_bitterly_). And therefore, I suppose, sir, the British officer need
not know his business: the British soldier will get him out of all his
blunders with the bayonet. In future, sir, I must ask you to be a
little less generous with the blood of your men, and a little more
generous with your own brains.

SWINDON.
I am sorry I cannot pretend to your intellectual eminence, sir. I can
only do my best, and rely on the devotion of my countrymen.

BURGOYNE.
(_suddenly becoming suavely sarcastic_). May I ask are you writing a
melodrama, Major Swindon?

SWINDON.
(_flushing_). No, sir.

BURGOYNE.
What a pity! WHAT a pity! (_Dropping his sarcastic tone and facing him
suddenly and seriously_) Do you at all realize, sir, that we have
nothing standing between us and destruction but our own bluff and the
sheepishness of these colonists? They are men of the same English stock
as ourselves: six to one of us (_repeating it emphatically_), six to
one, sir; and nearly half our troops are Hessians, Brunswickers, German
dragoons, and Indians with scalping knives. These are the countrymen on
whose devotion you rely! Suppose the colonists find a leader! Suppose
the news from Springtown should turn out to mean that they have already
found a leader! What shall we do then? Eh?

SWINDON.
(_sullenly_). Our duty, sir, I presume.

BURGOYNE.
(_again sarcastic—giving him up as a fool_). Quite so, quite so. Thank
you, Major Swindon, thank you. Now you’ve settled the question,
sir—thrown a flood of light on the situation. What a comfort to me to
feel that I have at my side so devoted and able an officer to support
me in this emergency! I think, sir, it will probably relieve both our
feelings if we proceed to hang this dissenter without further delay
(_he strikes the bell_), especially as I am debarred by my principles
from the customary military vent for my feelings. (_The sergeant
appears._) Bring your man in.

THE SERGEANT.
Yes, sir.

BURGOYNE.
And mention to any officer you may meet that the court cannot wait any
longer for him.

SWINDON.
(_keeping his temper with difficulty_). The staff is perfectly ready,
sir. They have been waiting your convenience for fully half an hour.
PERFECTLY ready, sir.

BURGOYNE.
(_blandly_). So am I. (_Several officers come in and take their seats.
One of them sits at the end of the table furthest from the door, and
acts throughout as clerk to the court, making notes of the proceedings.
The uniforms are those of the 9th, 20th, 21st, 24th, 47th, 53rd, and
62nd British Infantry. One officer is a Major General of the Royal
Artillery. There are also German officers of the Hessian Rifles, and of
German dragoon and Brunswicker regiments._) Oh, good morning,
gentlemen. Sorry to disturb you, I am sure. Very good of you to spare
us a few moments.

SWINDON.
Will you preside, sir?

BURGOYNE.
(_becoming additionally, polished, lofty, sarcastic and urbane now that
he is in public_). No, sir: I feel my own deficiencies too keenly to
presume so far. If you will kindly allow me, I will sit at the feet of
Gamaliel. (_He takes the chair at the end of the table next the door,
and motions Swindon to the chair of state, waiting for him to be seated
before sitting himself._)

SWINDON.
(_greatly annoyed_). As you please, sir. I am only trying to do my duty
under excessively trying circumstances. (_He takes his place in the
chair of state._)

Burgoyne, relaxing his studied demeanor for the moment, sits down and
begins to read the report with knitted brows and careworn looks,
reflecting on his desperate situation and Swindon’s uselessness.
Richard is brought in. Judith walks beside him. Two soldiers precede
and two follow him, with the sergeant in command. They cross the room
to the wall opposite the door; but when Richard has just passed before
the chair of state the sergeant stops him with a touch on the arm, and
posts himself behind him, at his elbow. Judith stands timidly at the
wall. The four soldiers place themselves in a squad near her.


BURGOYNE.
(_looking up and seeing Judith_). Who is that woman?

THE SERGEANT.
Prisoner’s wife, sir.

SWINDON.
(_nervously_). She begged me to allow her to be present; and I thought—

BURGOYNE.
(_completing the sentence for him ironically_). You thought it would be
a pleasure for her. Quite so, quite so. (_Blandly_) Give the lady a
chair; and make her thoroughly comfortable.

The sergeant fetches a chair and places it near Richard.


JUDITH.
Thank you, sir. (_She sits down after an awe-stricken curtsy to
Burgoyne, which he acknowledges by a dignified bend of his head._)

SWINDON.
(_to Richard, sharply_). Your name, sir?

RICHARD.
(_affable, but obstinate_). Come: you don’t mean to say that you’ve
brought me here without knowing who I am?

SWINDON.
As a matter of form, sir, give your name.

RICHARD.
As a matter of form then, my name is Anthony Anderson, Presbyterian
minister in this town.

BURGOYNE.
(_interested_). Indeed! Pray, Mr. Anderson, what do you gentlemen
believe?

RICHARD.
I shall be happy to explain if time is allowed me. I cannot undertake
to complete your conversion in less than a fortnight.

SWINDON.
(_snubbing him_). We are not here to discuss your views.

BURGOYNE.
(_with an elaborate bow to the unfortunate Swindon_). I stand rebuked.

SWINDON.
(_embarrassed_). Oh, not you, I as—

BURGOYNE.
Don’t mention it. (_To Richard, very politely_) Any political views,
Mr. Anderson?

RICHARD.
I understand that that is just what we are here to find out.

SWINDON.
(_severely_). Do you mean to deny that you are a rebel?

RICHARD.
I am an American, sir.

SWINDON.
What do you expect me to think of that speech, Mr. Anderson?

RICHARD.
I never expect a soldier to think, sir.

Burgoyne is boundlessly delighted by this retort, which almost
reconciles him to the loss of America.


SWINDON.
(_whitening with anger_). I advise you not to be insolent, prisoner.

RICHARD.
You can’t help yourself, General. When you make up your mind to hang a
man, you put yourself at a disadvantage with him. Why should I be civil
to you? I may as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

SWINDON.
You have no right to assume that the court has made up its mind without
a fair trial. And you will please not address me as General. I am Major
Swindon.

RICHARD.
A thousand pardons. I thought I had the honor of addressing Gentlemanly
Johnny.

Sensation among the officers. The sergeant has a narrow escape from a
guffaw.


BURGOYNE.
(_with extreme suavity_). I believe I am Gentlemanly Johnny, sir, at
your service. My more intimate friends call me General Burgoyne.
(_Richard bows with perfect politeness._) You will understand, sir, I
hope, since you seem to be a gentleman and a man of some spirit in
spite of your calling, that if we should have the misfortune to hang
you, we shall do so as a mere matter of political necessity and
military duty, without any personal ill-feeling.

RICHARD.
Oh, quite so. That makes all the difference in the world, of course.

They all smile in spite of themselves: and some of the younger officers
burst out laughing.


JUDITH.
(_her dread and horror deepening at every one of these jests and
compliments_). How CAN you?

RICHARD.
You promised to be silent.

BURGOYNE.
(_to Judith, with studied courtesy_). Believe me, madam, your husband
is placing us under the greatest obligation by taking this very
disagreeable business so thoroughly in the spirit of a gentleman.
Sergeant: give Mr. Anderson a chair. (_The sergeant does so. Richard
sits down._) Now, Major Swindon: we are waiting for you.

SWINDON.
You are aware, I presume, Mr. Anderson, of your obligations as a
subject of His Majesty King George the Third.

RICHARD.
I am aware, sir, that His Majesty King George the Third is about to
hang me because I object to Lord North’s robbing me.

SWINDON.
That is a treasonable speech, sir.

RICHARD.
(_briefly_). Yes. I meant it to be.

BURGOYNE.
(_strongly deprecating this line of defence, but still polite_). Don’t
you think, Mr. Anderson, that this is rather—if you will excuse the
word—a vulgar line to take? Why should you cry out robbery because of a
stamp duty and a tea duty and so forth? After all, it is the essence of
your position as a gentleman that you pay with a good grace.

RICHARD.
It is not the money, General. But to be swindled by a pig-headed
lunatic like King George.

SWINDON.
(_scandalised_). Chut, sir—silence!

THE SERGEANT.
(_in stentorian tones, greatly shocked_). Silence!

BURGOYNE.
(_unruffled_). Ah, that is another point of view. My position does not
allow of my going into that, except in private. But (_shrugging his
shoulders_) of course, Mr. Anderson, if you are determined to be hanged
(_Judith flinches_), there’s nothing more to be said. An unusual taste!
however (_with a final shrug_)—!

SWINDON.
(_to Burgoyne_). Shall we call witnesses?

RICHARD.
What need is there of witnesses? If the townspeople here had listened
to me, you would have found the streets barricaded, the houses
loopholed, and the people in arms to hold the town against you to the
last man. But you arrived, unfortunately, before we had got out of the
talking stage; and then it was too late.

SWINDON.
(_severely_). Well, sir, we shall teach you and your townspeople a
lesson they will not forget. Have you anything more to say?

RICHARD.
I think you might have the decency to treat me as a prisoner of war,
and shoot me like a man instead of hanging me like a dog.

BURGOYNE.
(_sympathetically_). Now there, Mr. Anderson, you talk like a civilian,
if you will excuse my saying so. Have you any idea of the average
marksmanship of the army of His Majesty King George the Third? If we
make you up a firing party, what will happen? Half of them will miss
you: the rest will make a mess of the business and leave you to the
provo-marshal’s pistol. Whereas we can hang you in a perfectly
workmanlike and agreeable way. (_Kindly_) Let me persuade you to be
hanged, Mr. Anderson?

JUDITH.
(_sick with horror_). My God!

RICHARD.
(_to Judith_). Your promise! (_To Burgoyne_) Thank you, General: that
view of the case did not occur to me before. To oblige you, I withdraw
my objection to the rope. Hang me, by all means.

BURGOYNE.
(_smoothly_). Will 12 o’clock suit you, Mr. Anderson?

RICHARD.
I shall be at your disposal then, General.

BURGOYNE.
(_rising_). Nothing more to be said, gentlemen. (_They all rise._)

JUDITH.
(_rushing to the table_). Oh, you are not going to murder a man like
that, without a proper trial—without thinking of what you are
doing—without— (_She cannot find words._)

RICHARD.
Is this how you keep your promise?

JUDITH.
If I am not to speak, you must. Defend yourself: save yourself: tell
them the truth.

RICHARD.
(_worriedly_). I have told them truth enough to hang me ten times over.
If you say another word you will risk other lives; but you will not
save mine.

BURGOYNE.
My good lady, our only desire is to save unpleasantness. What
satisfaction would it give you to have a solemn fuss made, with my
friend Swindon in a black cap and so forth? I am sure we are greatly
indebted to the admirable tact and gentlemanly feeling shown by your
husband.

JUDITH.
(_throwing the words in his face_). Oh, you are mad. Is it nothing to
you what wicked thing you do if only you do it like a gentleman? Is it
nothing to you whether you are a murderer or not, if only you murder in
a red coat? (_Desperately_) You shall not hang him: that man is not my
husband.

The officers look at one another, and whisper: some of the Germans
asking their neighbors to explain what the woman has said. Burgoyne,
who has been visibly shaken by Judith’s reproach, recovers himself
promptly at this new development. Richard meanwhile raises his voice
above the buzz.


RICHARD.
I appeal to you, gentlemen, to put an end to this. She will not believe
that she cannot save me. Break up the court.

BURGOYNE.
(_in a voice so quiet and firm that it restores silence at once_). One
moment, Mr. Anderson. One moment, gentlemen. (_He resumes his seat.
Swindon and the officers follow his example._) Let me understand you
clearly, madam. Do you mean that this gentleman is not your husband, or
merely—I wish to put this with all delicacy—that you are not his wife?

JUDITH.
I don’t know what you mean. I say that he is not my husband—that my
husband has escaped. This man took his place to save him. Ask anyone in
the town—send out into the street for the first person you find there,
and bring him in as a witness. He will tell you that the prisoner is
not Anthony Anderson.

BURGOYNE.
(_quietly, as before_). Sergeant.

THE SERGEANT.
Yes sir.

BURGOYNE.
Go out into the street and bring in the first townsman you see there.

THE SERGEANT.
(_making for the door_). Yes sir.

BURGOYNE.
(_as the sergeant passes_). The first clean, sober townsman you see.

THE SERGEANT.
Yes Sir. (_He goes out._)

BURGOYNE.
Sit down, Mr. Anderson—if I may call you so for the present. (_Richard
sits down._) Sit down, madam, whilst we wait. Give the lady a
newspaper.

RICHARD.
(_indignantly_). Shame!

BURGOYNE.
(_keenly, with a half smile_). If you are not her husband, sir, the
case is not a serious one—for her. (_Richard bites his lip silenced._)

JUDITH.
(_to Richard, as she returns to her seat_). I couldn’t help it. (_He
shakes his head. She sits down._)

BURGOYNE.
You will understand of course, Mr. Anderson, that you must not build on
this little incident. We are bound to make an example of somebody.

RICHARD.
I quite understand. I suppose there’s no use in my explaining.

BURGOYNE.
I think we should prefer independent testimony, if you don’t mind.

The sergeant, with a packet of papers in his hand, returns conducting
Christy, who is much scared.


THE SERGEANT.
(_giving Burgoyne the packet_). Dispatches, Sir. Delivered by a
corporal of the 53rd. Dead beat with hard riding, sir.

Burgoyne opens the dispatches, and presently becomes absorbed in them.
They are so serious as to take his attention completely from the court
martial.


THE SERGEANT.
(_to Christy_). Now then. Attention; and take your hat off. (_He posts
himself in charge of Christy, who stands on Burgoyne’s side of the
court._)

RICHARD.
(_in his usual bullying tone to Christy_). Don’t be frightened, you
fool: you’re only wanted as a witness. They’re not going to hang YOU.

SWINDON.
What’s your name?

CHRISTY.
Christy.

RICHARD.
(_impatiently_). Christopher Dudgeon, you blatant idiot. Give your full
name.

SWINDON.
Be silent, prisoner. You must not prompt the witness.

RICHARD.
Very well. But I warn you you’ll get nothing out of him unless you
shake it out of him. He has been too well brought up by a pious mother
to have any sense or manhood left in him.

BURGOYNE.
(_springing up and speaking to the sergeant in a startling voice_).
Where is the man who brought these?

THE SERGEANT.
In the guard-room, sir.

Burgoyne goes out with a haste that sets the officers exchanging looks.


SWINDON.
(_to Christy_). Do you know Anthony Anderson, the Presbyterian
minister?

CHRISTY.
Of course I do. (_Implying that Swindon must be an ass not to know
it._)

SWINDON.
Is he here?

CHRISTY.
(_staring round_). I don’t know.

SWINDON.
Do you see him?

CHRISTY.
No.

SWINDON.
You seem to know the prisoner?

CHRISTY.
Do you mean Dick?

SWINDON.
Which is Dick?

CHRISTY.
(_pointing to Richard_). Him.

SWINDON.
What is his name?

CHRISTY.
Dick.

RICHARD.
Answer properly, you jumping jackass. What do they know about Dick?

CHRISTY.
Well, you are Dick, ain’t you? What am I to say?

SWINDON.
Address me, sir; and do you, prisoner, be silent. Tell us who the
prisoner is.

CHRISTY.
He’s my brother Dudgeon.

SWINDON.
Your brother!

CHRISTY.
Yes.

SWINDON.
You are sure he is not Anderson.

CHRISTY.
Who?

RICHARD.
(_exasperatedly_). Me, me, me, you—

SWINDON.
Silence, sir.

THE SERGEANT.
(_shouting_). Silence.

RICHARD.
(_impatiently_). Yah! (_To Christy_) He wants to know am I Minister
Anderson. Tell him, and stop grinning like a zany.

CHRISTY.
(_grinning more than ever_). YOU Pastor Anderson! (_To Swindon_) Why,
Mr. Anderson’s a minister—-a very good man; and Dick’s a bad character:
the respectable people won’t speak to him. He’s the bad brother: I’m
the good one, (_The officers laugh outright. The soldiers grin._)

SWINDON.
Who arrested this man?

THE SERGEANT.
I did, sir. I found him in the minister’s house, sitting at tea with
the lady with his coat off, quite at home. If he isn’t married to her,
he ought to be.

SWINDON.
Did he answer to the minister’s name?

THE SERGEANT.
Yes sir, but not to a minister’s nature. You ask the chaplain, sir.

SWINDON.
(_to Richard, threateningly_). So, sir, you have attempted to cheat us.
And your name is Richard Dudgeon?

RICHARD.
You’ve found it out at last, have you?

SWINDON.
Dudgeon is a name well known to us, eh?

RICHARD.
Yes: Peter Dudgeon, whom you murdered, was my uncle.

SWINDON.
Hm! (_He compresses his lips and looks at Richard with vindictive
gravity._)

CHRISTY.
Are they going to hang you, Dick?

RICHARD.
Yes. Get out: they’ve done with you.

CHRISTY.
And I may keep the china peacocks?

RICHARD.
(_jumping up_). Get out. Get out, you blithering baboon, you. (_Christy
flies, panicstricken._)

SWINDON.
(_rising—all rise_). Since you have taken the minister’s place, Richard
Dudgeon, you shall go through with it. The execution will take place at
12 o’clock as arranged; and unless Anderson surrenders before then you
shall take his place on the gallows. Sergeant: take your man out.

JUDITH.
(_distracted_). No, no—

SWINDON.
(_fiercely, dreading a renewal of her entreaties_). Take that woman
away.

RICHARD.
(_springing across the table with a tiger-like bound, and seizing
Swindon by the throat_). You infernal scoundrel.

The sergeant rushes to the rescue from one side, the soldiers from the
other. They seize Richard and drag him back to his place. Swindon, who
has been thrown supine on the table, rises, arranging his stock. He is
about to speak, when he is anticipated by Burgoyne, who has just
appeared at the door with two papers in his hand: a white letter and a
blue dispatch.


BURGOYNE.
(_advancing to the table, elaborately cool_). What is this? What’s
happening? Mr. Anderson: I’m astonished at you.

RICHARD.
I am sorry I disturbed you, General. I merely wanted to strangle your
understrapper there. (_Breaking out violently at Swindon_) Why do you
raise the devil in me by bullying the woman like that? You oatmeal
faced dog, I’d twist your cursed head off with the greatest
satisfaction. (_He puts out his hands to the sergeant_) Here: handcuff
me, will you; or I’ll not undertake to keep my fingers off him.

The sergeant takes out a pair of handcuffs and looks to Burgoyne for
instructions.


BURGOYNE.
Have you addressed profane language to the lady, Major Swindon?

SWINDON.
(_very angry_). No, sir, certainly not. That question should not have
been put to me. I ordered the woman to be removed, as she was
disorderly; and the fellow sprang at me. Put away those handcuffs. I am
perfectly able to take care of myself.

RICHARD.
Now you talk like a man, I have no quarrel with you.

BURGOYNE.
Mr. Anderson—

SWINDON.
His name is Dudgeon, sir, Richard Dudgeon. He is an impostor.

BURGOYNE.
(_brusquely_). Nonsense, sir; you hanged Dudgeon at Springtown.

RICHARD.
It was my uncle, General.

BURGOYNE.
Oh, your uncle. (_To Swindon, handsomely_) I beg your pardon, Major
Swindon. (_Swindon acknowledges the apology stiffly. Burgoyne turns to
Richard_) We are somewhat unfortunate in our relations with your
family. Well, Mr. Dudgeon, what I wanted to ask you is this: Who is
(_reading the name from the letter_) William Maindeck Parshotter?

RICHARD.
He is the Mayor of Springtown.

BURGOYNE.
Is William—Maindeck and so on—a man of his word?

RICHARD.
Is he selling you anything?

BURGOYNE.
No.

RICHARD.
Then you may depend on him.

BURGOYNE.
Thank you, Mr.—’m Dudgeon. By the way, since you are not Mr. Anderson,
do we still—eh, Major Swindon? (_meaning “do we still hang him?”_)

RICHARD.
The arrangements are unaltered, General.

BURGOYNE.
Ah, indeed. I am sorry. Good morning, Mr. Dudgeon. Good morning, madam.

RICHARD.
(_interrupting Judith almost fiercely as she is about to make some wild
appeal, and taking her arm resolutely_). Not one word more. Come.

She looks imploringly at him, but is overborne by his determination.
They are marched out by the four soldiers: the sergeant, very sulky,
walking between Swindon and Richard, whom he watches as if he were a
dangerous animal.


BURGOYNE.
Gentlemen: we need not detain you. Major Swindon: a word with you.
(_The officers go out. Burgoyne waits with unruffled serenity until the
last of them disappears. Then he becomes very grave, and addresses
Swindon for the first time without his title._) Swindon: do you know
what this is (_showing him the letter_)?

SWINDON.
What?

BURGOYNE.
A demand for a safe-conduct for an officer of their militia to come
here and arrange terms with us.

SWINDON.
Oh, they are giving in.

BURGOYNE.
They add that they are sending the man who raised Springtown last night
and drove us out; so that we may know that we are dealing with an
officer of importance.

SWINDON.
Pooh!

BURGOYNE.
He will be fully empowered to arrange the terms of—guess what.

SWINDON.
Their surrender, I hope.

BURGOYNE.
No: our evacuation of the town. They offer us just six hours to clear
out.

SWINDON.
What monstrous impudence!

BURGOYNE.
What shall we do, eh?

SWINDON.
March on Springtown and strike a decisive blow at once.

BURGOYNE.
(_quietly_). Hm! (_Turning to the door_) Come to the adjutant’s office.

SWINDON.
What for?

BURGOYNE.
To write out that safe-conduct. (_He puts his hand to the door knob to
open it._)

SWINDON.
(_who has not budged_). General Burgoyne.

BURGOYNE.
(_returning_). Sir?

SWINDON.
It is my duty to tell you, sir, that I do not consider the threats of a
mob of rebellious tradesmen a sufficient reason for our giving way.

BURGOYNE.
(_imperturbable_). Suppose I resign my command to you, what will you
do?

SWINDON.
I will undertake to do what we have marched south from Boston to do,
and what General Howe has marched north from New York to do: effect a
junction at Albany and wipe out the rebel army with our united forces.

BURGOYNE.
(_enigmatically_). And will you wipe out our enemies in London, too?

SWINDON.
In London! What enemies?

BURGOYNE.
(_forcibly_). Jobbery and snobbery, incompetence and Red Tape. (_He
holds up the dispatch and adds, with despair in his face and voice_) I
have just learnt, sir, that General Howe is still in New York.

SWINDON.
(_thunderstruck_). Good God! He has disobeyed orders!

BURGOYNE.
(_with sardonic calm_). He has received no orders, sir. Some gentleman
in London forgot to dispatch them: he was leaving town for his holiday,
I believe. To avoid upsetting his arrangements, England will lose her
American colonies; and in a few days you and I will be at Saratoga with
5,000 men to face 16,000 rebels in an impregnable position.

SWINDON.
(_appalled_). Impossible!

BURGOYNE.
(_coldly_). I beg your pardon!

SWINDON.
I can’t believe it! What will History say?

BURGOYNE.
History, sir, will tell lies, as usual. Come: we must send the
safe-conduct. (_He goes out._)

SWINDON.
(_following distractedly_). My God, my God! We shall be wiped out.

As noon approaches there is excitement in the market place. The gallows
which hangs there permanently for the terror of evildoers, with such
minor advertizers and examples of crime as the pillory, the whipping
post, and the stocks, has a new rope attached, with the noose hitched
up to one of the uprights, out of reach of the boys. Its ladder, too,
has been brought out and placed in position by the town beadle, who
stands by to guard it from unauthorized climbing. The Websterbridge
townsfolk are present in force, and in high spirits; for the news has
spread that it is the devil’s disciple and not the minister that the
Continentals (_so they call Burgoyne’s forces_) are about to hang:
consequently the execution can be enjoyed without any misgiving as to
its righteousness, or to the cowardice of allowing it to take place
without a struggle. There is even some fear of a disappointment as
midday approaches and the arrival of the beadle with the ladder remains
the only sign of preparation. But at last reassuring shouts of Here
they come: Here they are, are heard; and a company of soldiers with
fixed bayonets, half British infantry, half Hessians, tramp quickly
into the middle of the market place, driving the crowd to the sides.

THE SERGEANT.
Halt. Front. Dress. (_The soldiers change their column into a square
enclosing the gallows, their petty officers, energetically led by the
sergeant, hustling the persons who find themselves inside the square
out at the corners._) Now then! Out of it with you: out of it. Some o’
you’ll get strung up yourselves presently. Form that square there, will
you, you damned Hoosians. No use talkin’ German to them: talk to their
toes with the butt ends of your muskets: they’ll understand that. GET
out of it, will you? (_He comes upon Judith, standing near the
gallows._) Now then: YOU’VE no call here.

JUDITH.
May I not stay? What harm am I doing?

THE SERGEANT.
I want none of your argufying. You ought to be ashamed of yourself,
running to see a man hanged that’s not your husband. And he’s no better
than yourself. I told my major he was a gentleman; and then he goes and
tries to strangle him, and calls his blessed Majesty a lunatic. So out
of it with you, double quick.

JUDITH.
Will you take these two silver dollars and let me stay?

The sergeant, without an instant’s hesitation, looks quickly and
furtively round as he shoots the money dexterously into his pocket.
Then he raises his voice in virtuous indignation.


THE SERGEANT.
ME take money in the execution of my duty! Certainly not. Now I’ll tell
you what I’ll do, to teach you to corrupt the King’s officer. I’ll put
you under arrest until the execution’s over. You just stand there; and
don’t let me see you as much as move from that spot until you’re let.
(_With a swift wink at her he points to the corner of the square behind
the gallows on his right, and turns noisily away, shouting_) Now then
dress up and keep ’em back, will you?

Cries of Hush and Silence are heard among the townsfolk; and the sound
of a military band, playing the Dead March from Saul, is heard. The
crowd becomes quiet at once; and the sergeant and petty officers,
hurrying to the back of the square, with a few whispered orders and
some stealthy hustling cause it to open and admit the funeral
procession, which is protected from the crowd by a double file of
soldiers. First come Burgoyne and Swindon, who, on entering the square,
glance with distaste at the gallows, and avoid passing under it by
wheeling a little to the right and stationing themselves on that side.
Then Mr. Brudenell, the chaplain, in his surplice, with his prayer book
open in his hand, walking beside Richard, who is moody and disorderly.
He walks doggedly through the gallows framework, and posts himself a
little in front of it. Behind him comes the executioner, a stalwart
soldier in his shirtsleeves. Following him, two soldiers haul a light
military waggon. Finally comes the band, which posts itself at the back
of the square, and finishes the Dead March. Judith, watching Richard
painfully, steals down to the gallows, and stands leaning against its
right post. During the conversation which follows, the two soldiers
place the cart under the gallows, and stand by the shafts, which point
backwards. The executioner takes a set of steps from the cart and
places it ready for the prisoner to mount. Then he climbs the tall
ladder which stands against the gallows, and cuts the string by which
the rope is hitched up; so that the noose drops dangling over the cart,
into which he steps as he descends.


RICHARD.
(_with suppressed impatience, to Brudenell_). Look here, sir: this is
no place for a man of your profession. Hadn’t you better go away?

SWINDON.
I appeal to you, prisoner, if you have any sense of decency left, to
listen to the ministrations of the chaplain, and pay due heed to the
solemnity of the occasion.

THE CHAPLAIN (_gently reproving Richard_). Try to control yourself, and
submit to the divine will. (_He lifts his book to proceed with the
service._)

RICHARD.
Answer for your own will, sir, and those of your accomplices here
(_indicating Burgoyne and Swindon_): I see little divinity about them
or you. You talk to me of Christianity when you are in the act of
hanging your enemies. Was there ever such blasphemous nonsense! (_To
Swindon, more rudely_) You’ve got up the solemnity of the occasion, as
you call it, to impress the people with your own dignity—Handel’s music
and a clergyman to make murder look like piety! Do you suppose I am
going to help you? You’ve asked me to choose the rope because you don’t
know your own trade well enough to shoot me properly. Well, hang away
and have done with it.

SWINDON.
(_to the chaplain_). Can you do nothing with him, Mr. Brudenell?

CHAPLAIN.
I will try, sir. (_Beginning to read_) Man that is born of woman hath—

RICHARD.
(_fixing his eyes on him_). “Thou shalt not kill.”

The book drops in Brudenell’s hands.


CHAPLAIN.
(_confessing his embarrassment_). What am I to say, Mr. Dudgeon?

RICHARD.
Let me alone, man, can’t you?

BURGOYNE.
(_with extreme urbanity_). I think, Mr. Brudenell, that as the usual
professional observations seem to strike Mr. Dudgeon as incongruous
under the circumstances, you had better omit them until—er—until Mr.
Dudgeon can no longer be inconvenienced by them. (_Brudenell, with a
shrug, shuts his book and retires behind the gallows._) YOU seem in a
hurry, Mr. Dudgeon.

RICHARD.
(_with the horror of death upon him_). Do you think this is a pleasant
sort of thing to be kept waiting for? You’ve made up your mind to
commit murder: well, do it and have done with it.

BURGOYNE.
Mr. Dudgeon: we are only doing this—

RICHARD.
Because you’re paid to do it.

SWINDON.
You insolent— (_He swallows his rage._)

BURGOYNE.
(_with much charm of manner_). Ah, I am really sorry that you should
think that, Mr. Dudgeon. If you knew what my commission cost me, and
what my pay is, you would think better of me. I should be glad to part
from you on friendly terms.

RICHARD.
Hark ye, General Burgoyne. If you think that I like being hanged,
you’re mistaken. I don’t like it; and I don’t mean to pretend that I
do. And if you think I’m obliged to you for hanging me in a gentlemanly
way, you’re wrong there too. I take the whole business in devilish bad
part; and the only satisfaction I have in it is that you’ll feel a good
deal meaner than I’ll look when it’s over. (_He turns away, and is
striding to the cart when Judith advances and interposes with her arms
stretched out to him. Richard, feeling that a very little will upset
his self-possession, shrinks from her, crying_) What are you doing
here? This is no place for you. (_She makes a gesture as if to touch
him. He recoils impatiently._) No: go away, go away; you’ll unnerve me.
Take her away, will you?

JUDITH.
Won’t you bid me good-bye?

RICHARD.
(_allowing her to take his hand_). Oh good-bye, good-bye. Now
go—go—quickly. (_She clings to his hand—will not be put off with so
cold a last farewell—at last, as he tries to disengage himself, throws
herself on his breast in agony._)

SWINDON.
(_angrily to the sergeant, who, alarmed at Judith’s movement, has come
from the back of the square to pull her back, and stopped irresolutely
on finding that he is too late_). How is this? Why is she inside the
lines?

THE SERGEANT.
(_guiltily_). I dunno, sir. She’s that artful can’t keep her away.

BURGOYNE.
You were bribed.

THE SERGEANT.
(_protesting_). No, Sir—

SWINDON.
(_severely_). Fall back. (_He obeys._)

RICHARD.
(_imploringly to those around him, and finally to Burgoyne, as the
least stolid of them_). Take her away. Do you think I want a woman near
me now?

BURGOYNE.
(_going to Judith and taking her hand_). Here, madam: you had better
keep inside the lines; but stand here behind us; and don’t look.

Richard, with a great sobbing sigh of relief as she releases him and
turns to Burgoyne, flies for refuge to the cart and mounts into it. The
executioner takes off his coat and pinions him.


JUDITH.
(_resisting Burgoyne quietly and drawing her hand away_). No: I must
stay. I won’t look. (_She goes to the right of the gallows. She tries
to look at Richard, but turns away with a frightful shudder, and falls
on her knees in prayer. Brudenell comes towards her from the back of
the square._)

BURGOYNE.
(_nodding approvingly as she kneels_). Ah, quite so. Do not disturb
her, Mr. Brudenell: that will do very nicely. (_Brudenell nods also,
and withdraws a little, watching her sympathetically. Burgoyne resumes
his former position, and takes out a handsome gold chronometer._) Now
then, are those preparations made? We must not detain Mr. Dudgeon.

By this time Richard’s hands are bound behind him; and the noose is
round his neck. The two soldiers take the shaft of the wagon, ready to
pull it away. The executioner, standing in the cart behind Richard,
makes a sign to the sergeant.


THE SERGEANT.
(_to Burgoyne_). Ready, sir.

BURGOYNE.
Have you anything more to say, Mr. Dudgeon? It wants two minutes of
twelve still.

RICHARD.
(_in the strong voice of a man who has conquered the bitterness of
death_). Your watch is two minutes slow by the town clock, which I can
see from here, General. (_The town clock strikes the first stroke of
twelve. Involuntarily the people flinch at the sound, and a subdued
groan breaks from them._) Amen! my life for the world’s future!

ANDERSON.
(_shouting as he rushes into the market place_). Amen; and stop the
execution. (_He bursts through the line of soldiers opposite Burgoyne,
and rushes, panting, to the gallows._) I am Anthony Anderson, the man
you want.

The crowd, intensely excited, listens with all its ears. Judith, half
rising, stares at him; then lifts her hands like one whose dearest
prayer has been granted.


SWINDON.
Indeed. Then you are just in time to take your place on the gallows.
Arrest him.

At a sign from the sergeant, two soldiers come forward to seize
Anderson.


ANDERSON.
(_thrusting a paper under Swindon’s nose_). There’s my safe-conduct,
sir.

SWINDON.
(_taken aback_). Safe-conduct! Are you—!

ANDERSON.
(_emphatically_). I am. (_The two soldiers take him by the elbows._)
Tell these men to take their hands off me.

SWINDON.
(_to the men_). Let him go.

THE SERGEANT.
Fall back.

The two men return to their places. The townsfolk raise a cheer; and
begin to exchange exultant looks, with a presentiment of triumph as
they see their Pastor speaking with their enemies in the gate.


ANDERSON.
(_exhaling a deep breath of relief, and dabbing his perspiring brow
with his handkerchief_). Thank God, I was in time!

BURGOYNE.
(_calm as ever, and still watch in hand_). Ample time, sir. Plenty of
time. I should never dream of hanging any gentleman by an American
clock. (_He puts up his watch._)

ANDERSON.
Yes: we are some minutes ahead of you already, General. Now tell them
to take the rope from the neck of that American citizen.

BURGOYNE.
(_to the executioner in the cart—very politely_). Kindly undo Mr.
Dudgeon.

The executioner takes the rope from Richard’s neck, unties his hands,
and helps him on with his coat.


JUDITH.
(_stealing timidly to Anderson_). Tony.

ANDERSON.
(_putting his arm round her shoulders and bantering her
affectionately_). Well what do you think of your husband, NOW,
eh?—eh??—eh???

JUDITH.
I am ashamed— (_She hides her face against his breast._)

BURGOYNE.
(_to Swindon_). You look disappointed, Major Swindon.

SWINDON.
You look defeated, General Burgoyne.

BURGOYNE.
I am, sir; and I am humane enough to be glad of it. (_Richard jumps
down from the cart, Brudenell offering his hand to help him, and runs
to Anderson, whose left hand he shakes heartily, the right being
occupied by Judith._) By the way, Mr. Anderson, I do not quite
understand. The safe-conduct was for a commander of the militia. I
understand you are a— (_he looks as pointedly as his good manners
permit at the riding boots, the pistols, and Richard’s coat, and adds_)
a clergyman.

ANDERSON.
(_between Judith and Richard_). Sir: it is in the hour of trial that a
man finds his true profession. This foolish young man (_placing his
hand on Richard’s shoulder_) boasted himself the Devil’s Disciple; but
when the hour of trial came to him, he found that it was his destiny to
suffer and be faithful to the death. I thought myself a decent minister
of the gospel of peace; but when the hour of trial came to me, I found
that it was my destiny to be a man of action and that my place was amid
the thunder of the captains and the shouting. So I am starting life at
fifty as Captain Anthony Anderson of the Springtown militia; and the
Devil’s Disciple here will start presently as the Reverend Richard
Dudgeon, and wag his pow in my old pulpit, and give good advice to this
silly sentimental little wife of mine (_putting his other hand on her
shoulder. She steals a glance at Richard to see how the prospect
pleases him_). Your mother told me, Richard, that I should never have
chosen Judith if I’d been born for the ministry. I am afraid she was
right; so, by your leave, you may keep my coat and I’ll keep yours.

RICHARD.
Minister—I should say Captain. I have behaved like a fool.

JUDITH.
Like a hero.

RICHARD.
Much the same thing, perhaps. (_With some bitterness towards himself_)
But no: if I had been any good, I should have done for you what you did
for me, instead of making a vain sacrifice.

ANDERSON.
Not vain, my boy. It takes all sorts to make a world—saints as well as
soldiers. (_Turning to Burgoyne_) And now, General, time presses; and
America is in a hurry. Have you realized that though you may occupy
towns and win battles, you cannot conquer a nation?

BURGOYNE.
My good sir, without a Conquest you cannot have an aristocracy. Come
and settle the matter at my quarters.

ANDERSON.
At your service, sir. (_To Richard_) See Judith home for me, will you,
my boy? (_He hands her over to him._) Now General. (_He goes busily up
the market place towards the Town Hall, Leaving Judith and Richard
together. Burgoyne follows him a step or two; then checks himself and
turns to Richard._)

BURGOYNE.
Oh, by the way, Mr. Dudgeon, I shall be glad to see you at lunch at
half-past one. (_He pauses a moment, and adds, with politely veiled
slyness_) Bring Mrs. Anderson, if she will be so good. (_To Swindon,
who is fuming_) Take it quietly, Major Swindon: your friend the British
soldier can stand up to anything except the British War Office. (_He
follows Anderson._)

THE SERGEANT.
(_to Swindon_). What orders, sir?

SWINDON.
(_savagely_). Orders! What use are orders now? There’s no army. Back to
quarters; and be d— (_He turns on his heel and goes._)

THE SERGEANT.
(_pugnacious and patriotic, repudiating the idea of defeat_). ’Tention.
Now then: cock up your chins, and show ’em you don’t care a damn for
’em. Slope arms! Fours! Wheel! Quick march!

The drum marks time with a tremendous bang; the band strikes up British
Grenadiers; and the sergeant, Brudenell, and the English troops march
off defiantly to their quarters. The townsfolk press in behind, and
follow them up the market, jeering at them; and the town band, a very
primitive affair, brings up the rear, playing Yankee Doodle. Essie, who
comes in with them, runs to Richard.


ESSIE.
Oh, Dick!

RICHARD.
(_good-humoredly, but wilfully_). Now, now: come, come! I don’t mind
being hanged; but I will not be cried over.

ESSIE.
No, I promise. I’ll be good. (_She tries to restrain her tears, but
cannot._) I—I want to see where the soldiers are going to. (_She goes a
little way up the market, pretending to look after the crowd._)

JUDITH.
Promise me you will never tell him.

RICHARD.
Don’t be afraid.

They shake hands on it.


ESSIE.
(_calling to them_). They’re coming back. They want you.

Jubilation in the market. The townsfolk surge back again in wild
enthusiasm with their band, and hoist Richard on their shoulders,
cheering him.

CURTAIN.




NOTES TO THE DEVIL’S DISCIPLE


BURGOYNE

General John Burgoyne, who is presented in this play for the first time
(_as far as I am aware_) on the English stage, is not a conventional
stage soldier, but as faithful a portrait as it is in the nature of
stage portraits to be. His objection to profane swearing is not
borrowed from Mr. Gilbert’s H. M. S. Pinafore: it is taken from the
Code of Instructions drawn up by himself for his officers when he
introduced Light Horse into the English army. His opinion that English
soldiers should be treated as thinking beings was no doubt as unwelcome
to the military authorities of his time, when nothing was thought of
ordering a soldier a thousand lashes, as it will be to those modern
victims of the flagellation neurosis who are so anxious to revive that
discredited sport. His military reports are very clever as criticisms,
and are humane and enlightened within certain aristocratic limits, best
illustrated perhaps by his declaration, which now sounds so curious,
that he should blush to ask for promotion on any other ground than that
of family influence. As a parliamentary candidate, Burgoyne took our
common expression “fighting an election” so very literally that he led
his supporters to the poll at Preston in 1768 with a loaded pistol in
each hand, and won the seat, though he was fined 1,000 pounds, and
denounced by Junius, for the pistols.

It is only within quite recent years that any general recognition has
become possible for the feeling that led Burgoyne, a professed enemy of
oppression in India and elsewhere, to accept his American command when
so many other officers threw up their commissions rather than serve in
a civil war against the Colonies. His biographer De Fonblanque, writing
in 1876, evidently regarded his position as indefensible. Nowadays, it
is sufficient to say that Burgoyne was an Imperialist. He sympathized
with the colonists; but when they proposed as a remedy the disruption
of the Empire, he regarded that as a step backward in civilization. As
he put it to the House of Commons, “while we remember that we are
contending against brothers and fellow subjects, we must also remember
that we are contending in this crisis for the fate of the British
Empire.” Eighty-four years after his defeat, his republican conquerors
themselves engaged in a civil war for the integrity of their Union. In
1885 the Whigs who represented the anti-Burgoyne tradition of American
Independence in English politics, abandoned Gladstone and made common
cause with their political opponents in defence of the Union between
England and Ireland. Only the other day England sent 200,000 men into
the field south of the equator to fight out the question whether South
Africa should develop as a Federation of British Colonies or as an
independent Afrikander United States. In all these cases the Unionists
who were detached from their parties were called renegades, as Burgoyne
was. That, of course, is only one of the unfortunate consequences of
the fact that mankind, being for the most part incapable of politics,
accepts vituperation as an easy and congenial substitute. Whether
Burgoyne or Washington, Lincoln or Davis, Gladstone or Bright, Mr.
Chamberlain or Mr. Leonard Courtney was in the right will never be
settled, because it will never be possible to prove that the government
of the victor has been better for mankind than the government of the
vanquished would have been. It is true that the victors have no doubt
on the point; but to the dramatist, that certainty of theirs is only
part of the human comedy. The American Unionist is often a Separatist
as to Ireland; the English Unionist often sympathizes with the Polish
Home Ruler; and both English and American Unionists are apt to be
Disruptionists as regards that Imperial Ancient of Days, the Empire of
China. Both are Unionists concerning Canada, but with a difference as
to the precise application to it of the Monroe doctrine. As for me, the
dramatist, I smile, and lead the conversation back to Burgoyne.

Burgoyne’s surrender at Saratoga made him that occasionally necessary
part of our British system, a scapegoat. The explanation of his defeat
given in the play is founded on a passage quoted by De Fonblanque from
Fitzmaurice’s Life of Lord Shelburne, as follows: “Lord George Germain,
having among other peculiarities a particular dislike to be put out of
his way on any occasion, had arranged to call at his office on his way
to the country to sign the dispatches; but as those addressed to Howe
had not been faircopied, and he was not disposed to be balked of his
projected visit to Kent, they were not signed then and were forgotten
on his return home.” These were the dispatches instructing Sir William
Howe, who was in New York, to effect a junction at Albany with
Burgoyne, who had marched from Boston for that purpose. Burgoyne got as
far as Saratoga, where, failing the expected reinforcement, he was
hopelessly outnumbered, and his officers picked off, Boer fashion, by
the American farmer-sharpshooters. His own collar was pierced by a
bullet. The publicity of his defeat, however, was more than compensated
at home by the fact that Lord George’s trip to Kent had not been
interfered with, and that nobody knew about the oversight of the
dispatch. The policy of the English Government and Court for the next
two years was simply concealment of Germain’s neglect. Burgoyne’s
demand for an inquiry was defeated in the House of Commons by the court
party; and when he at last obtained a committee, the king got rid of it
by a prorogation. When Burgoyne realized what had happened about the
instructions to Howe (_the scene in which I have represented him as
learning it before Saratoga is not historical: the truth did not dawn
on him until many months afterwards_) the king actually took advantage
of his being a prisoner of war in England on parole, and ordered him to
return to America into captivity. Burgoyne immediately resigned all his
appointments; and this practically closed his military career, though
he was afterwards made Commander of the Forces in Ireland for the
purpose of banishing him from parliament.

The episode illustrates the curious perversion of the English sense of
honor when the privileges and prestige of the aristocracy are at stake.
Mr. Frank Harris said, after the disastrous battle of Modder River,
that the English, having lost America a century ago because they
preferred George III, were quite prepared to lose South Africa to-day
because they preferred aristocratic commanders to successful ones.
Horace Walpole, when the parliamentary recess came at a critical period
of the War of Independence, said that the Lords could not be expected
to lose their pheasant shooting for the sake of America. In the working
class, which, like all classes, has its own official aristocracy, there
is the same reluctance to discredit an institution or to “do a man out
of his job.” At bottom, of course, this apparently shameless sacrifice
of great public interests to petty personal ones, is simply the
preference of the ordinary man for the things he can feel and
understand to the things that are beyond his capacity. It is stupidity,
not dishonesty.

Burgoyne fell a victim to this stupidity in two ways. Not only was he
thrown over, in spite of his high character and distinguished services,
to screen a court favorite who had actually been cashiered for
cowardice and misconduct in the field fifteen years before; but his
peculiar critical temperament and talent, artistic, satirical, rather
histrionic, and his fastidious delicacy of sentiment, his fine spirit
and humanity, were just the qualities to make him disliked by stupid
people because of their dread of ironic criticism. Long after his
death, Thackeray, who had an intense sense of human character, but was
typically stupid in valuing and interpreting it, instinctively sneered
at him and exulted in his defeat. That sneer represents the common
English attitude towards the Burgoyne type. Every instance in which the
critical genius is defeated, and the stupid genius (_for both
temperaments have their genius_) “muddles through all right,” is
popular in England. But Burgoyne’s failure was not the work of his own
temperament, but of the stupid temperament. What man could do under the
circumstances he did, and did handsomely and loftily. He fell, and his
ideal empire was dismembered, not through his own misconduct, but
because Sir George Germain overestimated the importance of his Kentish
holiday, and underestimated the difficulty of conquering those remote
and inferior creatures, the colonists. And King George and the rest of
the nation agreed, on the whole, with Germain. It is a significant
point that in America, where Burgoyne was an enemy and an invader, he
was admired and praised. The climate there is no doubt more favorable
to intellectual vivacity.

I have described Burgoyne’s temperament as rather histrionic; and the
reader will have observed that the Burgoyne of the Devil’s Disciple is
a man who plays his part in life, and makes all its points, in the
manner of a born high comedian. If he had been killed at Saratoga, with
all his comedies unwritten, and his plan for turning As You Like It
into a Beggar’s Opera unconceived, I should still have painted the same
picture of him on the strength of his reply to the articles of
capitulation proposed to him by his American conqueror General Gates.
Here they are:

PROPOSITION


1. General Burgoyne’s army being reduced by repeated defeats, by
desertion, sickness, etc., their provisions exhausted, their military
horses, tents and baggage taken or destroyed, their retreat cut off,
and their camp invested, they can only be allowed to surrender as
prisoners of war.

ANSWER


1. Lieut.-General Burgoyne’s army, however reduced, will never admit
that their retreat is cut off while they have arms in their hands.

PROPOSITION


2. The officers and soldiers may keep the baggage belonging to them.
The generals of the United States never permit individuals to be
pillaged.

ANSWER


2. Noted.

PROPOSITION


3. The troops under his Excellency General Burgoyne will be conducted
by the most convenient route to New England, marching by easy marches,
and sufficiently provided for by the way.

ANSWER


3. Agreed.

PROPOSITION


4. The officers will be admitted on parole and will be treated with the
liberality customary in such cases, so long as they, by proper
behaviour, continue to deserve it; but those who are apprehended having
broke their parole, as some British officers have done, must expect to
be close confined.

ANSWER


4. There being no officer in this army, under, or capable of being
under, the description of breaking parole, this article needs no
answer.

PROPOSITION


5. All public stores, artillery, arms, ammunition, carriages, horses,
etc., etc., must be delivered to commissaries appointed to receive
them.

ANSWER


5. All public stores may be delivered, arms excepted.

PROPOSITION


6. These terms being agreed to and signed, the troops under his
Excellency’s, General Burgoyne’s command, may be drawn up in their
encampments, where they will be ordered to ground their arms, and may
thereupon be marched to the river-side on their way to Bennington.

ANSWER


6. This article is inadmissible in any extremity. Sooner than this army
will consent to ground their arms in their encampments, they will rush
on the enemy determined to take no quarter.

And, later on, “If General Gates does not mean to recede from the 6th
article, the treaty ends at once: the army will to a man proceed to any
act of desperation sooner than submit to that article.”

Here you have the man at his Burgoynest. Need I add that he had his own
way; and that when the actual ceremony of surrender came, he would have
played poor General Gates off the stage, had not that commander risen
to the occasion by handing him back his sword.

In connection with the reference to Indians with scalping knives, who,
with the troops hired from Germany, made up about half Burgoyne’s
force, I may mention that Burgoyne offered two of them a reward to
guide a Miss McCrea, betrothed to one of the English officers, into the
English lines.

The two braves quarrelled about the reward; and the more sensitive of
them, as a protest against the unfairness of the other, tomahawked the
young lady. The usual retaliations were proposed under the popular
titles of justice and so forth; but as the tribe of the slayer would
certainly have followed suit by a massacre of whites on the Canadian
frontier, Burgoyne was compelled to forgive the crime, to the intense
disgust of indignant Christendom.

BRUDENELL

Brudenell is also a real person. At least an artillery chaplain of that
name distinguished himself at Saratoga by reading the burial service
over Major Fraser under fire, and by a quite readable adventure,
chronicled by Burgoyne, with Lady Harriet Ackland. Lady Harriet’s
husband achieved the remarkable feat of killing himself, instead of his
adversary, in a duel. He overbalanced himself in the heat of his
swordsmanship, and fell with his head against a pebble. Lady Harriet
then married the warrior chaplain, who, like Anthony Anderson in the
play, seems to have mistaken his natural profession.

The rest of the Devil’s Disciple may have actually occurred, like most
stories invented by dramatists; but I cannot produce any documents.
Major Swindon’s name is invented; but the man, of course, is real.
There are dozens of him extant to this day.






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