Chapter III: Act III

+Scene+: _The Parlour, Watchett Hill Farm. A poor room with a blurred
looking-glass over the chimney-piece, and wedding and funeral cards
stuck down the sides of it. The gilded frame is tarnished in many
places. A suite of faded and withered green rep occupies the room,
and some of the chairs, with broken legs, stand propped against the
wall. The table carries a vase of dried grass, a family Bible, a
worsted mat or two and a few books. There is also a small, light
table, with ledgers and pen and ink upon it. Oleographs, hung very
high, and mostly crooked, occupy the walls. The lace window-curtains
are torn. The blind is white and ragged. Under the window stands the
couch of the suite. The carpet is very threadbare, and there are
stains of past leaks on the faded, outer wall of the room. Fir-cones
are piled to fill the empty fireplace. A few withered photographs in
frames stand upon the chimney-piece, and, before the hearth, lies a
mat, made of the skins of sheep-dogs. There is a harmonium in one
corner of the room. Doors to the right and the left._

[+Barbara+ _and_ +Salome+ _discovered. They are moving the
things off the table and piling them on the floor. They also
thrust back the arm-chairs and clear the room as much as may
be._ +Barbara+ _is unchanged_. +Salome+ _is paler, thinner
and perceptibly older. She speaks more slowly and with a
heavy indifference. The lustre of happiness has departed
from her. Both women are clad in print dresses, wear aprons,
and have their sleeves turned over their elbows._

+Salome.+ When do they come to sell us up?

+Barbara.+ Half past four o’clock ’tis to be. I doubt there’s room for ’em all in here.

+Salome.+ I can’t see us away from Watchett Hill, Barbara.

+Barbara.+ Can’t you? You soon will--unless--[_She is at the mantelpiece putting something upon it from the table. A card in the looking-glass falls and attracts her attention._] My! Strange ’twas that one! Poor Anthony Redvers--his funeral card. It must be a year as near as can be.

+Salome.+ ’Tis a year to-day.

+Barbara.+ Little that dead man thought his money would only put off the trouble for a twelvemonth. [_Putting back card._] Poor Anthony--he done his best. He gave us a year more. But now ’tis the hoss doctor, and devil take the hindmost.

+Salome.+ Arscott was patient enough with all his faults.

+Barbara.+ So’s a lot of other things. For why? They can afford to be. Well might the man bide patient. His patience be growing gold for him--same as the patience of the earth grows corn. But I don’t quarrel with Billy and never have.

+Salome.+ [_Listlessly._] I suppose it will be a cottage for father, and us in service?

+Barbara.+ No, it won’t. I ain’t going to leave father--not for service anyway. Something have got to be managed. Since we can’t do it single, we must see if we can do it double.

+Salome.+ What d’you mean?

+Barbara.+ I mean marriage.

+Salome.+ Takes two for that.

+Barbara.+ Well, and the man’s waiting in your case. Jessie Redvers be wearing his heart out for ’e.

+Salome.+ ‘Husband’! A queer word.

+Barbara.+ [_Grows very self-conscious and looks cautiously round her._] Not half so queer as the thing by all accounts. But I’ve got my ideas. I don’t preach to you what I’m afraid to practise. I mean Billy Arscott. ’Tis now or never.

+Salome.+ You shan’t do it! You shan’t do it, Barbara. A market bargain! Never would father have a moment’s peace.

+Barbara.+ Oh yes, he would! There’d be peace, and plenty too. The man would straighten us out in no time. Safe as a rock for a husband.

+Salome.+ And as hard.

+Barbara.+ But I ain’t the fine thing I was ten years ago, and nobody knows that better than I do. I feel very friendly to him, however, though ’tis bitter likely he’s got no more use for me. Don’t whisper it to father.

[_Enter_ +Joseph Westaway+ _and_ +Joshua Bloom+.

+West.+ Eight or ten of ’em be coming. Toby Hannaford and a good few others. And Billy Arscott will drop in an hour earlier. [_He looks at his watch._] He’s going through the books once more, with Barbara, so as to save time at the meeting.

+Bloom.+ Sharpening his claws--the wretch!

+Barbara.+ [_To_ +Bloom+.] Why do you poke in? We don’t owe you nothing anyway, Joshua Bloom.

+West.+ Joshua’s an inquiring sort of man and wants to add to his knowledge. He’s never seen a meeting of creditors afore and may never get the chance again, so I’ve let him come.

+Bloom.+ I be here in a most neighbourly spirit, miss, and got a whole holiday for it and all! I can’t do nought, but I can shed the light of my countenance.

+Barbara.+ If that would fright ’em away, I’d say nothing.

+West.+ ’Tis a trying thing for a man in my position to be pressed for cash. You’d never guess it, Bloom, but I’ve signed a cheque for forty-nine pounds, eighteen shillings in my time! Yes--and made no stir about it. But bankrupt’s not the word. No man can be made a bankrupt with my faith in God, and my knowledge of sheep, and two such good daughters as these here women.

+Bloom.+ And when all’s said, us shall soon all be in our graves and at peace.

+West.+ True again! This life’s no more than the sour rind to a sweet nut, Joshua. Not so sour, neither. Your poor master, Anthony Redvers, knowed that well enough. If he’d been spared----

+Bloom.+ ’Tis this day year he dropped. The missis and Michael have took the wreath to the grave and Mister Jesse’s going to call here come presently. The wreath be a terrible brave trophy--so bright as the sun and all in a glass case. ’Twill make his mound the pride o’ the churchyard.

+Barbara.+ ’Tis a black day for her.

+Bloom.+ Black for all of us. But life’s three parts black days, and the rest be grey. And no doubt you feel terrible down-daunted with this rally of creditors hanging over you.

+West.+ ’Tis but a small thing against that widow’s grief.

+Bloom.+ The dead be out of it. The grave be a very cheerful state in my judgment--but for the getting there. I can see Redvers now--lying on the fern in the yard--for all the world as if he slept. And then come the inquest, and blame thrown on that dangerous place in the wall, and the sympathy with the widow and her sons.

+West.+ Well might the folk be sorry.

+Barbara.+ Nothing but good could any say of that man and none will ever forget his funeral. The most unexpected folk cried like childer.

+West.+ ’Twas a thing to remember without a doubt. Come, Joshua Bloom. I must be going to the village; but you’ll be back in lots ’o time for the fun. Us’ll look at my grass on the way. ’Tis a wonderful crop.

+Bloom.+ Grass be nothing without beasts to eat it.

+West.+ A very true saying. Beasts and grass be the halves of a flail--one nought without t’other. But land’s the solemn thought--the land under a man’s feet.

+Bloom.+ And never more solemn than when you be going to lose it, flock-master.

[_Exeunt_ +Westaway+ and +Bloom+. +Westaway+ _looks in at door
again immediately_.

+West.+ Here’s Jesse Redvers come.

[_Exit._

+Barbara.+ We don’t want him yet.

+Salome.+ His mother kissed me last time I fell in with her.

[_Goes to door._

+Barbara.+ [_Busy at left of room._] Who’d have thought the likes of her would miss a man so much?

+Salome.+ She loved him. Love takes many patterns.

[+Salome+ _opens the door for_ +Jesse+.

+Barbara.+ I wish I knowed what pattern Billy Arscott’s be like to take.

[+Jesse+ _enters. He is clad in work-a-day clothes with a black
band on his arm. He wears his father’s big silver
watch-chain._

+Barbara.+ You be a lot too soon, Jesse.

+Jesse.+ I can’t keep away to-day. You know that.

[+Salome+ and +Jesse+ _stand at the doorway_. +Barbara+ _pays no
heed to them_.

+Salome.+ Bloom says the new wreath be a fine sight.

+Jesse.+ There’s fairer things on his grave already. A great bunch of white windflowers lies there. Others loved him beside us.

+Salome.+ Flowers be all you can give the dead.

+Jesse.+ ’Tis strange to see the grass so green. It seems only yesterday his pit was dug for him.

+Salome.+ But the sorrow’s old--like thicky band I stitched upon your sleeve.

+Jesse.+ Nay--that’s worn rusty. The torture of my memory is fresh enough. [+Barbara+ _goes to the window_.] They talk of hell, hell’s here on earth or nowhere.

[+Arscott+ _passes window_.

+Salome.+ Aye; ’tis the living get hell, not the dead.

+Barbara.+ Here he is! [+Arscott+ _raps at the door_. +Barbara+ _takes off her apron and turns down her sleeves_.] Here’s Billy Arscott.

[_She opens the door and lets in_ +William Arscott+.

+Jesse.+ With a flower in his buttonhole, as though ’twas a revel!

+Arscott.+ If I’m in the way, say so; but half after three was my hour. [_To_ +Jesse+.] You and me must knock our heads together for these maidens when the meeting is over. Have ’e got the books, Barbara? There’s a dozen men and women coming, and they’ll all be so punctual as winter.

+Salome.+ You don’t want me?

+Barbara.+ [_Nervously._] I may do. You bide in the kitchen, please, Salome; and Jesse can go about his business and come back later.

+Jesse.+ [_To_ +Arscott+.] ’Tis understand we meet after.

[_Exit_ +Jesse+. +Salome+ _casts a searching look at_ +Barbara+,
_and then at_ +Arscott+. _She goes off._

+Barbara.+ [_Fetching books from table._] At Quarter Day Watchett Hill’s yours, William--to the last daisy in the meadow--and we must go forth--father and sister and me.

+Arscott.+ [_Sitting down at the table and taking out his spectacle case._] Naked we come into the world and naked we leave it. Nobody’s more sorry for Joe than I am.

+Barbara.+ [_Putting the books in front of him._] ’Tis the land he loves so dear. I do pray just the leastest scrap o’ land can be spared for him. Surely a man that’s owned five and twenty acres--you wouldn’t put him in a house in a row, with nought but a back fence and a back garden and a rope to dry the washing on?

+Arscott.+ I want to keep him out of the house that’s got a hundred windows and no garden at all--the Union Workhouse.

+Barbara.+ He’s helped to save many another from it.

+Arscott.+ Why, my dear woman, you wasn’t used to pipe that silly stuff! Have time broke your pluck?

+Barbara.+ We can’t all wear like William Arscott. The years pass you by and never leave a mark.

[_Goes to glass and smooths her hair._

+Arscott.+ That’s true. I don’t feel my age.

+Barbara.+ And don’t look it.

[_She gets some account books from the side table and brings pen
and ink. He sits by the big table and puts on his
spectacles._

+Arscott.+ And my hair’s so thick as thatch yet; and when I was at the tooth-drawer’s to Okehampton, the man said as he’d never seen a better lot of grinders.

+Barbara.+ All very good signs.

+Arscott.+ There’s a sight more sap in me than anybody guesses, Barbara.

+Barbara.+ A good husband flung away in my opinion.

+Arscott.+ And who flung him away?

+Barbara.+ I’m speaking about you--not me.

[+Arscott+ _rises and goes to the window_. +Barbara+ _stands by
the fireplace, then she kneels, picks up a fallen fir-cone
and upsets others. She is nervous._

+Barbara.+ You ain’t against marriage as a general thing, however?

+Arscott.+ Good lord, no! The world must go on. Didn’t I ax you to marry me?

[_They go back to the books._

+Barbara.+ [_Sitting down._] We--we all make mistakes.

[_Shows deep anxiety to see how he will take this admission._

+Arscott.+ [_Misunderstanding._] Well, well--but some might think ’twas you that did--not me.

+Barbara.+ [_Setting her teeth, frowning and then speaking._] I might think so myself.

[_A long silence. He turns away from the books. Then he stands
up and looks at her. She turns and sits at the table with
her back to him. He regards her very closely and she is
conscious of it and begins to suffer. She puts her hands up
to her neck._

+Barbara.+ Speak for God’s sake! Don’t creep about like that behind me. I can feel your eyes in my back.

+Arscott.+ [_Putting his spectacles into their case and then into his pocket._] Take a easy chair and keep cool. ’Tis for me to grow warm--not you. Do ’e see all that hangs to this?

[_He draws out an easy chair. She does not move, so he sits in
the easy chair himself, crosses his legs, picks his teeth
and smiles._

+Arscott.+ Ban’t leap year neither, Barbara!

[_Laughs._

+Barbara.+ I’ve said it--though it cost more than any male could ever know, or dream. I’ve said it, and I mean it.

+Arscott.+ You’re sorry for that ‘no’ ten year agone? [+Barbara+ _nods her head_.] Well, well! What a day may bring forth! and me just beginning to think serious of Widow Powesland--at the ‘Red Lion,’ over to Tavistock!

+Barbara.+ I didn’t know that, William.

+Arscott.+ Of course you didn’t--more do she.

+Barbara.+ We’d better do the books.

+Arscott.+ Plenty o’ time. ’Tis a very startling thing for a woman to propose marriage to a man. It don’t often happen and I’m a bit flustered accordingly. ’Tis a great compliment--if you be thinking of me and not your father.

+Barbara.+ You’ve a right to put it so, and I knew you would. Of course it ain’t poetry, like it was ten years ago.

+Arscott.+ Don’t say that neither. I’m sure ’tis very poetical for a woman to pop the question.

+Barbara.+ I’ve long larned to make sixpence do the work of a shilling, William, if that’s anything.

+Arscott.+ The craft of you women! ‘Anything’? Dammy! It’s everything! How many females know the power in a penny? But there’s fors and againsts. A man mustn’t forget his duty to himself.

+Barbara.+ You’re not likely to do that.

+Arscott.+ Ten years is ten years; and ten years hits a woman harder than a man. You mustn’t expect them tearing fine speeches of ten years ago, Barbara.

+Barbara.+ No--I don’t. The gilt’s off the gingerbread--I know that. I shan’t think the worse of you if you feel the hour be gone past.

[+Arscott+ _gets up and saunters about the room_.

+Arscott.+ As a rule, your ugly, time-stained people are wiser than the handsome ones. Cast your eyes over me; I’ve got ten wrinkles to your father’s one. And as for you--a woman’s face and figure be delicate subjects; but truth is truth, and this is the time for it, and the truth is that you--[_Shakes his head._] Thinner round the bosom, to be plain, and paler in the cheek, and not quite the old crown of honey-coloured hair that I used to doat on.

+Barbara.+ [_Shivers and lifts her hands to her breast as though to hide it._] I’ve been hungry more than once since then.

+Arscott.+ And so have I--for you, Barbara! Thin--yes, but you’re worth your corn to any man. Tough and not frightened of work, and good-looking and good-tempered, and better’n a barrel-load of young, giglet girls, that don’t know they’re born. [_Extends his arms as if he wanted her to come into them._] So, cut it short, and come--I’ll take you--and proud to!

+Barbara.+ [_Bows her head._] You know how we are placed, William. Father’s got none to trust to but----

+Arscott.+ Be loverly! Be loverly! Don’t drag him in.

+Barbara.+ I wouldn’t mix business with pleasure, William--don’t think that.

+Arscott.+ More wouldn’t I. And ’tis a real, proper pleasure, all of a sudden, like this, to think of marrying you.

+Barbara.+ [_Humbly._] Thank you kindly, William.

+Arscott.+ I’m hard, but I’m sporting. I’ll do my part, and do it well. But don’t rub in your father just now. Give me a kiss, Barbara! Be blessed if there isn’t a bit of poetry to it--even after all these years!

+Barbara.+ I know you’re sporting.

[_Lets him kiss her._

+Arscott.+ Mind and keep dumb for a bit. Let the chaps all come with their long faces and I’ll burst it among ’em presently. Think of Toby Hannaford’s mug! And your father’s! So good as a circus I promise you.

+Barbara.+ Oh, William, be a real lover and grant one favour--only one. I’ll never ask another.

+Arscott.+ Ha--ha--you’re begging early! Come here--let me stroke your fine arms. Sit on my lap--just half a second! Why not? A bowerly maiden you be--and--and----

[_Takes her in his arms._

+Barbara.+ Swear to God, you’ll never tell no living creature ’twas I that axed you.

+Arscott.+ Ashamed of your forward ways a’ready! No, be sure I won’t squeak about that. They’ll all say I’m a scoundrel and drove a sinful hard bargain--but let ’em! I don’t care--so long as I’ve got you.

+Barbara.+ [_Very gratefully._] Thank you, William [_Leaves him and prepares to go_] And, William----

[_Returns impulsively, kisses him warmly, and hurries off._

+Arscott.+ [_Licking his lips._] If I’d only guessed, I’d have made old Joe gallop before this!

[_Enter_ +Joseph Westaway+. _He carries a black bottle and a
parcel in a paper bag._

+Arscott.+ You’re a lucky old fool, flock-master--and don’t deserve a pennyworth of it! What have you got in thicky bottle--poison?

+West.+ I’ve bought a cake and wine, William. Cake and wine for the creditors.

[_Takes a big cake out of bag. Enter_ +Barbara+.

+Arscott.+ You be dying game, my old bird!

+Barbara.+ God’s goodness, father! This ban’t a party.

+West.+ It is and it ain’t. Where the males assemble together, save in church or at hounds, there’s got to be eating and drinking. For a wedding or a funeral, solids; for a christening or a meeting of creditors, just a drop of sherry wine and a nibble of plum cake--to make the people patient. So get a corkscrew and some glasses and no more about it.

+Arscott.+ You do what you’re told, Barbara, and be sharp.

[_Exit_ +Barbara+. _Men’s voices heard off and men pass the
window._

+West.+ Here they come.

+Arscott.+ Two and two and all in black--like carrion crows to a dead oss!

[_Enter_ +Bloom+.

+Bloom.+ The creditors be on ’e, Joe! A proper rally of ’em!

[_Enter_ +Salome+, _who wears a sun bonnet, followed by_
+Barbara+. _The latter carries glasses and a corkscrew on a
tray._ +Westaway+ _puts corkscrew into bottle._

+Arscott.+ Why be you like that cork, Joe?

[_Enter_ +Jesse Redvers+, +Toby Hannaford+, +Ned Pearn+ _and
others, including two elderly women_.

+Hannaford.+ We be come, neighbour--and cruel sorry to come.

+Pearn.+ I wish there was any way out, Joe; but the age of miracles be gone, I’m fearing.

+West.+ Don’t you say that, Ned. The Almighty’s all powerful still. He could get me out of this fix with a turn of His Holy Wrist if He willed it so. [_Enter two more men._] Come in--come in. You’re all welcome.

+Arscott.+ This ain’t fair to the drawing-room carpet. Let’s go in the yard! Fetch along the books, Barbara, and lend me a hand.

+West.+ A good thought. Hand the chairs out of the window, Salome; there’s some in the kitchen too. But you folk must have a wet afore we begin.

+Hannaford.+ Nay, nay--we ban’t here to drink wine.

+Bloom.+ To suck blood more like--eh Toby?

+Arscott.+ Come you all into the yard and hear the figures first; and then I’ll ax you to list to me.

[_Exeunt_ +Arscott+, +Hannaford+, +Pearn+ _and others._ +Bloom+
_helps_ +Barbara+ _to hand some chairs through the window_.
+Jesse+ _and_ +Salome+ _go off._

+Bloom.+ ’Tis for all the world as if the brokers were in a’ready!

+West.+ [_To_ +Arscott+ _outside the window._] Put ’em on the lew side o’ the big linhey, William. Lend a hand with the table, Barbara.

[+Barbara+ _and_ +Westaway+ _go out carrying the small table
between them._

+Bloom.+ No doubt this will come after. [_Smells the bottle._] Pretty drinking by the smell of it.

[_Enter_ +Jesse+ _and_ +Salome+. _He carries two kitchen chairs
and she carries one._ +Bloom+ _and another take_ +Jesse’s+
_two chairs and go out with the remaining men._ +Jesse+
_hands_ +Salome’s+ _chair through the window._

+Jesse.+ You don’t mean to be there?

+Salome.+ Why should I watch ’em fight for our bones?

+Jesse.+ Arscott don’t want me yet. My mother’s wishful to help--if she can--and----

+Salome.+ [_Flings her sunbonnet on to the sofa._] She’s done enough already.

+Jesse.+ She only kept my father’s promise.

+Salome.+ I warrant she’s down-daunted to-day.

+Jesse.+ Her sorrow has opened my eyes to the sorrow of all the world. And to yours--yours too, Salome.

+Salome.+ [_Starting slightly._] What do you mean?

+Jesse.+ You hide yourself from everybody but me; but love makes me see the truth of you.

+Salome.+ Love’s blind.

+Jesse.+ You’re sad and sorry and the world bears hard on you. You _feel_ the grief of it--same as I do.

+Salome.+ Yes, but I’d shame to share my griefs.

[_She sits on table near him._

+Jesse.+ My heart’s always crying to share. A shared grief’s the lighter, Salome.

+Salome.+ Then you’d share for selfishness.

+Jesse.+ [_Starts._] What a thought!

+Salome.+ Work, I tell you. Work your fingers to the bone. Work till your flesh aches and makes you forget your aching heart. Copy your mother. Grief have made her sweet, like the frost ripes the sloe. That kindly she’s grown with young and old--as gentle as she used to be stern. She kissed me when last I saw her.

+Jesse.+ She’s very fond of you.

+Salome.+ If you could look in my heart, young Jesse, you’d find that I know more of her loss than any other creature.

+Jesse.+ [_He nods._] I’ve heard you say truer things about my father than anybody. If I was more like him, perhaps then----?

+Salome.+ [_Shakes her head._] You and me be the sort to die together--not live together. I’ve loved and I’ve lost. [_Half to herself._] He called himself my red fox; but he wasn’t a red man really.

+Jesse.+ [_Astonished._] What are you saying?

+Salome.+ He’s gone--like last year’s sunshine.

+Jesse.+ I never heard you name a sweetheart, Salome.

+Salome.+ You make folk blab things--like you do yourself. Why should I tell you? Water to his wine you are--tears to his laughter; but I love you, too, you poor, sad Jesse. You be fit company for mourners.

+Jesse.+ My heart’s very full to-day--full and empty both. [_Pause._] Father thought the world of you. His eye would light when your name was named.

+Salome.+ [_She looks at him watchfully and shows no emotion._] You ought to be with your mother--not with me.

+Jesse.+ Michael is with her.

+Salome.+ A tower of strength that man.

+Jesse.+ But he’s no more use to my sad mother than I am.

+Salome.+ He believes like she does.

+Jesse.+ If I could show her truth! I’ve fought to do it, Salome--for her peace. From many books and much thinking I’ve got to doubt; and from seeing the ache of the world; and from watching the good and patient go down to dust and sorrow. To reach her heart with the truth! I’ve often thought she might take it from you.

+Salome.+ No angel from heaven would shake her trust in God.

+Jesse.+ But a woman from earth might shake her trust in hell. I’ve talked till I’m weary, but ’tis all vain.

+Salome.+ What have you told her?

+Jesse.+ That ’tisn’t conscience but remorse that’s eating her alive. Remorse--a hateful, foul poison that kills life and hope. If she could but take up her life for the sake of the living--instead of hungering to die for the sake of the dead. She makes the wages of sin life, not death.

+Salome.+ Sin?

+Jesse.+ ’Tis her word, not mine. Sin’s only a parson’s scarecrow to fright us human children. You can be guilty and sinless, Salome. And sinless she is. “We are free, we are free agents,” she says--like a bell tolling; but ’tis tolling a lie. There’s no free will--none. D’you understand that?

+Salome.+ Then this God, they tell about, hasn’t the right to judge any man?

+Jesse.+ There ’tis! Make her see that--make her feel that! No free will, no judgment. [_Loud laughter outside._] Mother says her immortal soul is lost. I say, granted she’s got a soul, it isn’t lost.

+Salome.+ Every man’s free to go uphill or down--to eat or starve.

+Jesse.+ Not one! And if no choice--then no sin.

+Salome.+ You poor word-spinner!

+Jesse.+ Suppose you’d done a thing in the past, Salome, and couldn’t be sure whether ’twas good or evil?

+Salome.+ [_Weary of the theme._] Your heart tells you if ’tis evil or not.

+Jesse.+ But they lie and say the heart of man is desperately wicked, so we daren’t listen to our hearts. ’Tis conscience we heed: the things our mothers taught us. The Ten Commandments--why the rocks they were writ on are more a part of God’s word than them! I’ve thought ’em to nothing--every one of ’em.

+Salome.+ You’ll think yourself into a madhouse some day. You can leave God out; but you can’t leave man out. You can’t get away from justice. Stealing means prison, and murder means hanging.

+Jesse.+ [_Deeply interested._] But it wasn’t murder--that’s what I’ve fought to show her ever since my father died. She struck him in a moment of wrath.

[_Pause._

+Salome.+ Struck him--she--she----?

+Jesse.+ Salome!

[_Looks at her and puts his hand to his forehead._

+Salome.+ ’Twasn’t accident?

+Jesse.+ I forgot--my heart was bursting with it to-day.

+Salome.+ She struck him?

+Jesse.+ Like the flash of the lightning. He fell and the rocks in the river-bed killed him.

[+Salome+ _succumbs and sits down abruptly on the sofa behind
her. She stares at_ +Jesse+. _Shouts of laughter rise
without._ +Arscott’s+ _voice heard._ +Salome+ _recovers
self-control and assumes a tense, watchful manner, like a
hunting cat._

+Salome.+ Ann Redvers. There’s only one thing that woman would have done--murder for.

+Jesse.+ Not murder--not murder. Never say it or think it. There was a wretch got hold of him--some nameless harlot. And mother found out--and---- [+Salome+ _put her face down against the back of the sofa and hides her eyes with her hands._] She’ll be thankful to God you know. She’ll say ’twas her God made it slip out and loosed my tongue. She’s always on her knees praying to be punished. When it happened, we made her promise not to give herself up--Michael swore he’d kill himself if she did. But now--you, Salome. It must come to good. It must, Salome----[+Salome+ _stares fixedly, but does not display her emotion._] Speak to me.

+Salome.+ I’m looking at Ann Redvers.

+Jesse.+ By his grave now. The unhappiest woman in the world. Think what ’twould be to comfort that broken heart.

+Salome.+ Comfort!

[+Bloom+ _comes in._

+Bloom.+ You be wanted, Mister Jesse. There’s signs and wonders happening in the land, I warn ’e! Laugh! Why, the folk have shook Dartymoor!

[_Exit_ +Bloom+.

+Jesse.+ If anything was ever sacred, ’tis what you’ve heard this day, Salome.

[_He looks back to see her still staring, but self-controlled.
Then he follows_ +Bloom+.

+Salome.+ Anthony

[_She sinks into a posture of grief. Anon she steadies herself
and reflects. Presently she indicates anger and a desire to
be moving. She leaps up and looks about her. Then she puts
on her sunbonnet. Without, there are laughter and voices,
that grow louder as men and women pass the window._ +Salome+
_is just about to go to the door but she sees that the
people are there. She hastens off as the other door opens.
There enter_ +William Arscott+, +Joseph Westaway+, +Jesse
Redvers+, _and_ +Barbara+ _with the other women._ +Toby
Hannaford+, +Ned Pearn+, +Bloom+, _and the rest follow, or
remain at the window looking in._

+West.+ What did I tell my unbelieving girls? That an old man’s faith can move mountains still!

[_Pours out the wine and puts a glass into the hands
outstretched towards him._

+Barbara.+ Sally must know!

[_Runs across and exit._

+Barbara.+ [_Off._] Salome!

+Hannaford.+ Good luck and long live to ’em!

+The other Men and Women.+ Good luck! Long life!

+Curtain.+