Chapter V: Part 5

HUGH. [_alive to a dramatic aspect of the matter._] My God . . before the earth has settled on his grave!

EDWARD. I thought it wrong to postpone telling you.

HONOR, _the word swindling having spelt itself out in her mind, at last gives way to a burst of piteous grief_.

HONOR. Oh, poor papa! . . poor papa!

EDWARD. [_comforting her kindly._] Honor, we shall want your help and advice.

_The Major has recovered from the shock, to swell with importance. It being necessary to make an impression he instinctively turns first to his wife._

BOOTH. I think, Emily, there was no need for you to have been present at this exposure, and that now you had better retire.

EMILY. Very well, Booth.

_She gets up to go, conscious of her misdemeanour. But as she reaches the door, an awful thought strikes the Major._

BOOTH. Good Heavens . . I hope the servants haven't been listening! See where they are, Emily . . and keep them away, distract them. Open the door suddenly; [_she does so, more or less, and there is no one behind it._] That's all right.

_Having watched his wife's departure, he turns with gravity to his brother._

BOOTH. I have said nothing as yet, Edward. I am thinking.

TRENCHARD. [_a little impatient at this exhibition._] That's the worst of these family practices . . a lot of money knocking around and no audit ever required. The wonder to me is to find an honest solicitor at all.

BOOTH. Really, Trenchard!

TRENCHARD. Well, the more able a man is the less the word Honesty bothers him . . and the Pater was an able man.

EDWARD. I thought that a year ago, Trenchard. I thought that at the worst he was a splendid criminal.

BOOTH. Really . . really, Edward!

EDWARD. And everything was to come right in the end . . we were all to be in reality as wealthy and as prosperous as we have seemed to be all these years. But when he fell ill . . towards the last he couldn't keep the facts from me any longer.

TRENCHARD. And those are?

EDWARD. Laughable. You wouldn't believe there were such fools in the world as some of these wretched clients have been. I tell you the firm's funds were just a lucky bag into which he dipped. Now sometimes their money doesn't even exist.

BOOTH. Where's it gone?

EDWARD. [_very directly._] You've been living on it.

BOOTH. Good God!

TRENCHARD. What can you pay in the pound?

EDWARD. Without help? . . six or seven shillings, I daresay. But we must do better than that.

_To which there is no response._

BOOTH. All this is very dreadful. Does it mean beggary for the whole family?

EDWARD. Yes, it should.

TRENCHARD. [_sharply._] Nonsense.

EDWARD. [_joining issue at once._] What right have we to a thing we possess?

TRENCHARD. He didn't make you an allowance, Booth . . your capital's your own, isn't it?

BOOTH. [_awkwardly placed between the two of them._] Really . . I--I suppose so.

TRENCHARD. Then that's all right.

EDWARD. [_vehemently._] It's stolen money.

TRENCHARD. Booth took it in good faith.

BOOTH. I should hope so.

EDWARD. [_dwelling on the words._] It's stolen money.

BOOTH. [_bubbling with distress._] I say, what ought I to do?

TRENCHARD. Do . . my dear Booth? Nothing.

EDWARD. [_with great indignation._] Trenchard, we owe reparation--

TRENCHARD. [_readily._] To whom? From which account was Booth's money taken?

EDWARD. [_side tracked for the moment._] I don't know . . I daresay from none directly.

TRENCHARD. Very well then!

EDWARD. [_grieved._] Trenchard, you argue as he did--

TRENCHARD. Nonsense, my dear Edward. The law will take anything it has a right to and all it can get; you needn't be afraid. There's no obligation, legal or moral, for us to throw our pounds into the wreck that they may become pence.

EDWARD. I can hear him.

TRENCHARD. But what about your own position . . can we get you clear?

EDWARD. That doesn't matter.

BOOTH'S _head has been turning incessantly from one to the other and by this he is just a bristle of alarm_.

BOOTH. But I say, you know, this is awful! Will this have to be made public?

TRENCHARD. No help for it.

_The Major's jaw drops; he is speechless._ MRS. VOYSEY'S _dead voice steals in_.

MRS. VOYSEY. What is all this?

TRENCHARD. Edward wishes us to completely beggar ourselves in order to pay back to every client to whom father owed a pound perhaps ten shillings instead of seven.

MRS. VOYSEY. He will find that my estate has been kept quite separate.

EDWARD _hides his face in his hands_.

TRENCHARD. I'm very glad to hear it, Mother.

MRS. VOYSEY. When Mr. Barnes died your father agreed to appointing another trustee.

TREGONING. [_diffidently._] I suppose, Edward, I'm involved.

EDWARD. [_lifting his head quickly._] Denis, I hope not. I didn't know that anything of yours--

TREGONING. Yes . . all that I got under my aunt's will.

EDWARD. You see how things are . . I've discovered no trace of that. We'll hope for the best.

TREGONING. [_setting his teeth._] It can't be helped.

MAJOR BOOTH _leans over the table and speaks in the loudest of whispers_.

BOOTH. Let me advise you to say nothing of this to Ethel at such a critical time.

TREGONING. Thank you, Booth, naturally I shall not.

HUGH, _by a series of contortions, has lately been giving evidence of a desire or intention to say something_.

EDWARD. Well, what is it, Hugh?

HUGH. I have been wondering . . if he can hear this conversation.

_Up to now it has all been meaningless to_ HONOR, _in her nervous dilapidation, but this remark brings a fresh burst of tears_.

HONOR. Oh, poor papa . . poor papa!

MRS. VOYSEY. I think I'll go to my room. I can't hear what any of you are saying. Edward can tell me afterwards.

EDWARD. Would you like to go too, Honor?

HONOR. [_through her sobs._] Yes, please, I would.

TREGONING. And I'll get out, Edward. Whatever you think fit to do . . Oh, well, I suppose there's only one thing to be done.

EDWARD. Only that.

TREGONING. I wish I were in a better position as to work, for Ethel's sake and--and the child's.

EDWARD. Shall I speak to Trenchard?

TREGONING. No . . he knows I exist in a wig and gown. If I can be useful to him, he'll be useful to me, I daresay. Good bye, Hugh. Good bye, Booth.

_By this time_ MRS. VOYSEY _and_ HONOR _have been got out of the room_: TREGONING _follows them. So the four brothers are left together._ HUGH _is vacant_, EDWARD _does not speak_, BOOTH _looks at_ TRENCHARD, _who settles himself to acquire information_.

TRENCHARD. How long have things been wrong?

EDWARD. He told me the trouble began in his father's time and that he'd been battling with it ever since.

TRENCHARD. [_smiling._] Oh, come now . . that's impossible.

EDWARD. But I believed him! Now I look through his papers I can find only one irregularity that's more than ten years old, and that's only to do with old George Booth's business.

BOOTH. But the Pater never touched his money . . why, he was a personal friend.

EDWARD. Did you hear what Denis said?

TRENCHARD. Very curious his evolving that fiction about his father . . I wonder why. I remember the old man. He was honest as the day.

EDWARD. To gain sympathy, I suppose.

TRENCHARD. I think one can trace the psychology of it deeper than that. It would add a fitness to the situation . . his handing on to you an inheritance he had received. You know every criminal has a touch of the artist in him.

HUGH. [_suddenly roused._] That's true.

TRENCHARD. What position did you take up on the matter when he told you?

EDWARD. [_shrugging._] You know what the Pater was as well as I.

TRENCHARD. Well . . what did you attempt to do?

EDWARD. I urged him to start by making some of the smaller accounts right. He said . . he said that would be penny wise and pound foolish. So I did what I could myself.

TRENCHARD. With your own money?

EDWARD. The little I had.

TRENCHARD. Can you prove that you did that?

EDWARD. I suppose I could.

TRENCHARD. It's a good point.

BOOTH. [_not to be quite left out._] Yes, I must say--

TRENCHARD. You ought to have written him a letter, and left the firm the moment you found out. Even then, legally . . ! But as he was your father. What was his object in telling you? What did he expect you to do?

EDWARD. I've thought of every reason . . and now I really believe it was that he might have someone to boast to of his financial exploits.

TRENCHARD. [_appreciatively._] I daresay.

BOOTH. Scarcely matters to boast of!

TRENCHARD. Oh, you try playing the fool with other people's money, and keeping your neck out of the noose for twelve years. It's not so easy.

EDWARD. Then, of course, he always protested that things would come right . . that he'd clear the firm and have a fortune to the good. Or that if he were not spared I might do it. But he must have known that was impossible.

TRENCHARD. But there's the gambler all over.

EDWARD. Why, he actually took the trouble to draw up this will!

TRENCHARD. That was childish.

EDWARD. I'm the sole executor.

TRENCHARD. So I should think . . Was I down for anything?

EDWARD. No.

TRENCHARD. [_without resentment._] How he did hate me!

EDWARD. You're safe from the results of his affection anyway.

TRENCHARD. What on earth made you stay in the firm once you knew?

EDWARD _does not answer for a moment_.

EDWARD. I thought I might prevent things from getting any worse. I think I did . . well, I should have done that if he'd lived.

TRENCHARD. You knew the risk you were running?

EDWARD. [_bowing his head._] Yes.

TRENCHARD, _the only one of the three who comprehends, looks at his brother for a moment with something that might almost be admiration. Then he stirs himself._

TRENCHARD. I must be off. Business waiting . . end of term, you know.

BOOTH. Shall I walk to the station with you?

TRENCHARD. I'll spend a few minutes with Mother. [_he says, at the door, very respectfully._] You'll count on my professional assistance, please, Edward.

EDWARD. [_simply._] Thank you, Trenchard.

_So_ TRENCHARD _goes. And the Major, who has been endeavouring to fathom his final attitude, then comments_--

BOOTH. No heart, y'know! Great brain! If it hadn't been for that distressing quarrel he might have saved our poor father. Don't you think so, Edward?

EDWARD. Perhaps.

HUGH. [_giving vent to his thoughts at last with something of a relish._] The more I think this out, the more devilishly humorous it gets. Old Booth breaking down by the grave . . Colpus reading the service . .

EDWARD. Yes, the Vicar's badly hit.

HUGH. Oh, the Pater had managed his business for years.

BOOTH. Good God . . how shall we ever look old Booth in the face again?

EDWARD. I don't worry about him; he can die quite comfortably enough on six shillings in the pound. It's one or two of the smaller fry who will suffer.

BOOTH. Now, just explain to me . . I didn't interrupt while Trenchard was talking . . of what exactly did this defrauding consist?

EDWARD. Speculating with a client's capital . . pocketing the gains, cutting the losses; meanwhile paying the client his ordinary income.

BOOTH. So that he didn't find it out?

EDWARD. Quite so.

BOOTH. In point of fact, he doesn't suffer?

EDWARD. He doesn't suffer till he finds it out.

BOOTH. And all that's wrong now is that some of their capital is missing.

EDWARD. [_half amused, half amazed at this process of reasoning._] Yes, that's all that's wrong.

BOOTH. What is the ah--deficit? [_the word rolls from his tongue._]

EDWARD. Anything between two and three hundred thousand pounds.

BOOTH. [_very impressed and not unfavourably._] Dear me . . this is a big affair!

HUGH. [_following his own line of thought._] Quite apart from the rights and wrongs of this, only a very able man could have kept a straight face to the world all these years, as the Pater did.

BOOTH. I suppose he sometimes made money by these speculations.

EDWARD. Very often. His own expenditure was heavy, as you know.

BOOTH. [_with gratitude for favours received._] He was a very generous man.

HUGH. Did nobody ever suspect him?

EDWARD. You see, Hugh, when there was any danger . . when a trust had to be wound up . . he'd make a great effort and put the accounts straight.

BOOTH. Then he did put some accounts straight?

EDWARD. Yes, when he couldn't help himself.

BOOTH _looks very enquiring and then squares himself up to the subject_.

BOOTH. Now look here, Edward. You told us that he told you that it was the object of his life to put these accounts straight. Then you laughed at that. Now you tell me that he did put some accounts straight.

EDWARD. [_wearily._] My dear Booth, you don't understand.

BOOTH. Well, let me understand . . I am anxious to understand.

EDWARD. We can't pay ten shillings in the pound.

BOOTH. That's very dreadful. But do you know that there wasn't a time when we couldn't have paid five?

EDWARD. [_acquiescent._] I don't know.

BOOTH. Very well then! If what he said was true about his father and all that . . and why shouldn't we believe him if we can? . . and he did effect an improvement, that's all to his credit. Let us at least be just, Edward.

EDWARD. [_patiently polite._] I am very sorry to appear unjust. He has left me in a rather unfortunate position.

BOOTH. Yes, his death was a tragedy. It seems to me that if he had been spared he might have succeeded at length in this tremendous task and restored to us our family honour.

EDWARD. Yes, Booth, he spoke very feelingly of that.

BOOTH. [_Irony lost upon him._] I can well believe it. And I can tell you that now . . I may be right or I may be wrong . . I am feeling far less concerned about the clients' money than I am at the terrible blow to the Family which this exposure will strike. Money, after all, can to a certain extent be done without . . but Honour--

_This is too much for_ EDWARD.

EDWARD. Our honour! Does one of you mean to give me a single penny towards undoing all the wrong that has been done?

BOOTH. I take Trenchard's word for it that that would be illegal.

EDWARD. Well . . don't talk to me of honour.

BOOTH. [_somewhat nettled at this outburst._] I am speaking of the public exposure. Edward, can't that be prevented?

EDWARD. [_with quick suspicion._] How?

BOOTH. Well . . how was it being prevented before he died--before we knew anything about it?

EDWARD. [_appealing to the spirits that watch over him._] Oh, listen to this! First Trenchard . . and now you! You've the poison in your blood, every one of you. Who am I to talk? I daresay so have I.

BOOTH. [_reprovingly._] I am beginning to think that you have worked yourself into rather an hysterical state over this unhappy business.

EDWARD. [_rating him._] Perhaps you'd have been glad . . glad if I'd held my tongue and gone on lying and cheating . . and married and begotten a son to go on lying and cheating after me . . and to pay you your interest . . your interest in the lie and the cheat.

BOOTH. [_with statesman-like calm._] Look here, Edward, this rhetoric is exceedingly out of place. The simple question before us is . . What is the best course to pursue?

EDWARD. There is no question before us. There's only one course to pursue.

BOOTH. [_crushingly._] You will let me speak, please. In so far as our poor father was dishonest to his clients, I pray that he may be forgiven. In so far as he spent his life honestly endeavouring to right a wrong which he had found already committed . . I forgive him. I admire him, Edward. And I feel it my duty to--er--reprobate most strongly the--er--gusto with which you have been holding him up in memory to us . . ten minutes after we have stood round his grave . . as a monster of wickedness. I think I may say I knew him as well as you . . better. And . . thank God! . . there was not between him and me this--this unhappy business to warp my judgment of him. [_he warms to his subject._] Did you ever know a more charitable man . . a larger-hearted? He was a faithful husband . . and what a father to all of us, putting us out into the world and fully intending to leave us comfortably settled there. Further . . as I see this matter, Edward . . when as a young man he was told this terrible secret and entrusted with such a frightful task . . did he turn his back on it like a coward? No. He went through it heroically to the end of his life. And as he died I imagine there was no more torturing thought than that he had left his work unfinished. [_he is very satisfied with this peroration._] And now if all these clients can be kept receiving their natural income and if Father's plan could be carried out of gradually replacing the capital--

EDWARD _at this raises his head and stares with horror_.

EDWARD. You're appealing to me to carry on this . . Oh, you don't know what you're talking about!

_The Major, having talked himself back to a proper eminence remains good-tempered._

BOOTH. Well, I'm not a conceited man . . but I do think that I can understand a simple financial problem when it has been explained to me.

EDWARD. You don't know the nerve . . the unscrupulous daring it requires to--

BOOTH. Of course, if you're going to argue round your own incompetence--

EDWARD. [_very straight._] D'you want your legacy?

BOOTH. [_with dignity._] In one moment I shall get very angry. Here am I doing my best to help you and your clients . . and there you sit imputing to me the most sordid motives. Do you suppose I should touch or allow to be touched the money which father has left us till every client's claim was satisfied?

EDWARD. My dear Booth, I'm sure you mean well--

BOOTH. I'll come down to your office and work with you.

_At this cheerful prospect even poor_ EDWARD _can't help smiling_.

EDWARD. Why, you'd be found out at once.

BOOTH. [_feeling that it is a chance lost._] Well, of course the Pater never consulted me. I only know what I feel ought to be possible. I can but make the suggestion.

_At this point_ TRENCHARD _looks round the door to say_ . .

TRENCHARD. Are you coming, Booth?

BOOTH. Yes, certainly. I'll talk this over with Trenchard. [_as he gets up and automatically stiffens, he is reminded of the occasion and his voice drops._] I say . . we've been speaking very loud. You must do nothing rash. I've no doubt I can devise something which will obviate . . and then I'm sure I shall convince you . . [_glancing into the hall he apparently catches_ TRENCHARD'S _impatient eye, for he departs abruptly saying_ . . ] All right, Trenchard, you've eight minutes.

BOOTH'S _departure leaves_ HUGH, _at any rate, really at his ease_.

HUGH. What an experience for you, Edward!

EDWARD. [_bitterly._] And I feared what the shock might be to you all! Booth has made a good recovery.

HUGH. You wouldn't have him miss such a chance of booming at us all.

EDWARD. It's strange the number of people who believe you can do right by means which they know to be wrong.

HUGH. [_taking great interest in this._] Come, what do we know about right and wrong? Let's say legal and illegal. You're so down on the Governor because he has trespassed against the etiquette of your own profession. But now he's dead . . and if there weren't the disgrace to think of . . it's no use the rest of us pretending to feel him a criminal, because we don't. Which just shows that money . . and property--

_At this point he becomes conscious that_ ALICE MAITLAND _is standing behind him, her eyes fixed on his brother. So he interrupts himself to ask_ . .

HUGH. D'you want to speak to Edward?

ALICE. Please, Hugh.

HUGH. I'll go.

_He goes, a little martyrlike, to conclude the evolution of his theory in soliloquy; his usual fate._ ALICE _still looks at_ EDWARD _with soft eyes, and he at her rather appealingly_.

ALICE. Auntie has told me.

EDWARD. He was fond of you. Don't think worse of him than you can help.

ALICE. I'm thinking of you.

EDWARD. I may just escape.

ALICE. So Trenchard says.

EDWARD. My hands are clean, Alice.

ALICE. [_her voice falling lovingly._] I know that.

EDWARD. Mother's not very upset.

ALICE. She had expected a smash in his life time.

EDWARD. I'm glad that didn't happen.

ALICE. Yes . . as the fault was his it won't hurt you so much to stand up to the blame.

EDWARD _looks puzzled at this for a moment, then gives it up_.

EDWARD. I'm hurt enough now.

ALICE. Why, what have the boys done? It was a mercy to tell Honor just at this time. She can grieve for his death and his disgrace at the same time . . and the one grief lessens the other perhaps.

EDWARD. Oh, they're all shocked enough at the disgrace . . but will they open their purses to lessen the disgrace?

ALICE. Will it seem less disgraceful to have stolen ten thousand pounds than twenty?

EDWARD. I should think so.

ALICE. I should think so, but I wonder if that's the Law. If it isn't, Trenchard wouldn't consider the point. I'm sure Public Opinion doesn't say so . . and that's what Booth is considering.

EDWARD. [_with contempt._] Yes.

ALICE. [_ever so gently ironical._] Well, he's in the Army . . he's almost in Society . . and he has to get on in both; one mustn't blame him. Of course if the money could have been given up with a flourish of trumpets . . ! But even then I doubt whether the advertisement would bring in what it cost.

EDWARD. [_very serious._] But when one thinks how the money was obtained!

ALICE. When one thinks how most money is obtained!

EDWARD. They've not earned it.

ALICE. [_her eyes humorous._] If they had they might have given it you and earned more. Did I ever tell you what my guardian said to me when I came of age?

EDWARD. I'm thankful your money's not been in danger.

ALICE. It might have been, but I was made to look after it myself . . much against my will. My guardian was a person of great character and no principles, the best and most loveable man I've ever met . . I'm sorry you never knew him Edward . . and he said once to me . . You've no right to your money. You've not earned it or deserved it in any way. Therefore don't be surprised or annoyed if any enterprising person tries to get it from you. He has at least as much right to it as you have . . if he can use it better, he has more right. Shocking sentiments, aren't they? No respectable man of business could own to them. But I'm not so sorry for some of these clients as you are, Edward.

EDWARD _shakes his head, treating these paradoxes as they deserve_.

EDWARD. Alice . . one or two of them will be beggared.

ALICE. [_sincerely._] Yes, that is serious. What's to be done?

EDWARD. There's old nurse . . with her poor little savings gone!

ALICE. Surely those can be spared her?

EDWARD. The Law's no respecter of persons . . that's its boast. Old Booth with more than he wants will keep enough. My old nurse, with just enough, may starve. But it'll be a relief to clear out this nest of lies, even though one suffers one's self. I've been ashamed to walk into that office, Alice . . I'll hold my head high in prison though.

_He shakes himself stiffly erect, his chin high._ ALICE _quizzes him_.

ALICE. Edward, I'm afraid you're feeling heroic.

EDWARD. I!

ALICE. Don't be so proud of your misfortune. You looked quite like Booth for the moment. [_this effectually removes the starch._] It will be very stupid to send you to prison and you must do your best to keep out. [_she goes on very practically._] We were discussing if anything could be done for these one or two people who'll be beggared.

EDWARD. Yes, Alice. I'm sorry nothing can be done for them.

ALICE. It's a pity.

EDWARD. I suppose I was feeling heroic. I didn't mean to.

_He has become a little like a child with her._

ALICE. That's the worst of acting on principle . . one begins thinking of one's attitude instead of the use of what one is doing.

EDWARD. I'm exposing this fraud on principle.

ALICE. Perhaps that's what's wrong.

EDWARD. Wrong!

ALICE. My dear Edward, if people are to be ruined . . !

EDWARD. What else is there to be done?

ALICE. Well . . have you thought?

EDWARD. There's nothing else to be done.

ALICE. On principle.

_He looks at her, she is smiling, it is true, but smiling quite gravely._ EDWARD _is puzzled. Then the yeast of her suggestion begins to work in his mind slowly, perversely at first._

EDWARD. It had occurred to Booth. . .

ALICE. Oh, anything may occur to Booth.

EDWARD. . . In his grave concern for the family honour that I might quietly cheat the firm back into credit again.

ALICE. How stupid of Booth!

EDWARD. Well . . like my father . . Booth believes in himself.

ALICE. Yes, he's rather a credulous man.

EDWARD. [_ignoring her little joke._] He might have been lucky and have done some good. I'm a weak sort of creature, just a collection of principles as you say. Look, all I've been able to do in this business . . at the cost of my whole life perhaps . . has been to sit senselessly by my father's side and prevent things going from bad to worse.

ALICE. That was worth doing. The cost is your own affair.

_She is watching him, stilly and closely. Suddenly his face lights a little and he turns to her._

EDWARD. Alice . . there's something else I could do.

ALICE. What?

EDWARD. It's illegal.

ALICE. So much the better perhaps. Oh, I'm lawless by birthright, being a woman.

EDWARD. I could take the money that's in my father's name and use it only to put right the smaller accounts. It'd take a few months to do it well . . and cover the tracks. That'd be necessary.

ALICE. Then you'd give yourself up as you'd meant to do now?

EDWARD. Yes . . practically.

ALICE. It'd be worse for you then at the trial?

EDWARD. [_with a touch of another sort of pride._] You said that was my affair.

ALICE. [_pain in her voice and eyes._] Oh, Edward!

EDWARD. Shall I do this?

ALICE. [_turning away._] Why must you ask me?

EDWARD. You mocked at my principles, didn't you? You've taken them from me. The least you can do is to give me advice in exchange.

ALICE. [_after a moment._] No . . decide for yourself.

_He jumps up and begins to pace about, doubtful, distressed._

EDWARD. Good Lord . . it means lying and shuffling!

ALICE. [_a little trembling._] In a good cause.

EDWARD. Ah . . but lying and shuffling takes the fine edge off one's soul.

ALICE. [_laughing at the quaintness of her own little epigram._] Edward, are you one of God's dandies?

EDWARD. And . . Alice, it wouldn't be easy work. It wants qualities I haven't got. I should fail.

ALICE. Would you?

_He catches a look from her._

EDWARD. Well, I might not.

ALICE. And you don't need success for a lure. That's like a common man.

EDWARD. You want me to try to do this?

_For answer, she dares only put out her hand, and he takes it._

ALICE. Oh, my dear . . cousin!

EDWARD. [_excitedly._] My people will have to hold their tongues. I needn't have told them all this to-day.

ALICE. Don't tell them the rest . . they won't understand. I shall be jealous if you tell them.

EDWARD. [_looking at her as she at him._] Well, you've the right to be. This deed . . it's not done yet . . is your property.

ALICE. Thank you. I've always wanted to have something useful to my credit . . and I'd almost given up hoping.

_Then suddenly his face changes, his voice changes and he grips the hand he is holding so tightly as to hurt her._

EDWARD. Alice, if my father's story were true . . he must have begun like this. Trying to do the right thing in the wrong way . . then doing the wrong thing . . then bringing himself to what he was . . and so me to this. [_he flings away from her._] No, Alice, I won't do it. I daren't take that first step down. It's a worse risk than any failure. Think . . I might succeed.

ALICE _stands very still, looking at him_.

ALICE. It's a big risk. Well . . I'll take it.

_He turns to her, in wonder._

EDWARD. You?

ALICE. I'll risk your becoming a bad man. That's a big risk for me.

_He understands, and is calmed and made happy._

EDWARD. Then there is no more to be said, is there?

ALICE. Not now. [_as she drops this gentle hint she hears something--the hall door opening._] Here's Booth back again.

EDWARD. [_with a really mischievous grin._] He'll be so glad he's convinced me.

ALICE. I must go back to Honor, poor girl. I wonder she has a tear left.

_She leaves him, briskly, brightly; leaves her cousin with his mouth set and a light in his eyes._

THE FOURTH ACT

MR. VOYSEY'S _room at the office is_ EDWARD'S _now. It has somehow lost that brilliancy which the old man's occupation seemed to give it. Perhaps it is only because this December morning is dull and depressing, but the fire isn't bright and the panels and windows don't shine as they did. There are no roses on the table either._ EDWARD, _walking in as his father did, hanging his hat and coat where his father's used to hang, is certainly the palest shadow of that other masterful presence. A depressed, drooping shadow too. This may be what_ PEACEY _feels, if no more, for he looks very surly as he obeys the old routine of following his chief to this room on his arrival. Nor has_ EDWARD _so much as a glance for his clerk. They exchange the formalest of greetings._ EDWARD _sits joylessly to his desk, on which the morning's pile of letters lies, unopened now_.

PEACEY. Good morning, sir.

EDWARD. Good morning, Peacey. Have you any notes for me?

PEACEY. Well, I've hardly been through the letters yet, sir.

EDWARD. [_his eyebrows meeting._] Oh . . and I'm half an hour late myself this morning.

PEACEY. I'm very sorry, sir.

EDWARD. If Mr. Bullen calls you had better show him all those papers I gave you. Write to Metcalfe as soon as possible; say I interviewed Mr. Vickery myself this morning and the houses will not be proceeded with. Better let me see the letter.

PEACEY. Very good, sir.

EDWARD. That's all, thank you.

PEACEY _gets to the door, where he stops, looking not only surly but nervous now_.

PEACEY. May I speak to you a moment, sir?

EDWARD. Certainly.

PEACEY, _after a moment, makes an effort, purses his mouth and begins_.

PEACEY. Bills are beginning to come in upon me as is usual at this season, sir. My son's allowance at Cambridge is now rather a heavy item of my expenditure. I hope that the custom of the firm isn't to be neglected now that you are the head of it, Mr. Edward. Two hundred your father always made it at Christmas . . in notes if you please.

_Towards the end of this_ EDWARD _begins to pay great attention. When he answers his voice is harsh._

EDWARD. Oh, to be sure . . your hush money.

PEACEY. [_bridling._] That's not a very pleasant word.

EDWARD. This is a very unpleasant subject.

PEACEY. I'm sure it isn't my wish to bring out in cold conversation what I know of the firm's position. Your father always gave me the notes in an envelope when he shook hands with me at Christmas.

EDWARD. [_blandly._] And I've been waiting for you to ask me.

PEACEY. Well, we'll say no more about it. There's always a bit of friction in coming to an understanding about anything, isn't there, sir?

_He is going when_ EDWARD'S _question stops him_.

EDWARD. Why didn't you speak to me about this last Christmas?

PEACEY. I knew you were upset at your father's death.

EDWARD. No, no, my father died the August before that.

PEACEY. Well . . truthfully, Mr. Edward?

EDWARD. As truthfully as you think suitable.

_The irony of this is wasted on_ PEACEY, _who becomes pleasantly candid_.

PEACEY. Well, I couldn't make you out last Christmas. I'd always thought there must be a smash when your father died . . but it didn't come. But then again at Christmas you seemed all on edge and I didn't know what might happen. So I thought I'd better keep quiet and say nothing.

EDWARD. I see. This little pull of yours over the firm is an inheritance from your father, isn't it?

PEACEY. [_discreetly._] When he retired, sir, he said to me . . I've told the Governor you know what I know. And Mr. Voysey said to me . . I treat you as I did your father, Peacey. I never had another word on the subject with him.

EDWARD. A very decent arrangement. Your son's at Cambridge you say, Peacey?

PEACEY. Yes.

EDWARD. I wonder you didn't bring him into the firm.

PEACEY. [_taking this very kind._] Thank you, sir . . I thought of it. But then I thought that two generations going in for this sort of thing was enough.

EDWARD. That's a matter of taste.

PEACEY. And then, sir . . I don't want to hurt your feelings, but things simply cannot go on for ever. The marvel to me is that the game has been kept up as it has. So now, if he does well at Cambridge, I hope he'll go to the bar. He has a distinct talent for patiently applying himself to the details of a thing.

EDWARD. I hope he'll do well. I'm glad to have had this talk with you, Peacey. I'm sorry you can't have the money you want.

_He returns to his letters, a little steely-eyed._ PEACEY _quite at his ease, makes for the door yet again, saying_ . .

PEACEY. Oh, any time will do, sir.

EDWARD. You can't have the money at all.

PEACEY. [_brought up short._] Can't I?

EDWARD. [_very decidedly indeed._] No . . I made up my mind about that eighteen months ago. Since my father's death the trust business of the firm has not been conducted as it was formerly. We no longer make illicit profits out of our clients. There are none for you to share.

_Having thus given the explanation he considers due, he goes on with his work. But_ PEACEY _has flushed up_.

PEACEY. Look here, Mr. Edward, I'm sorry I began this discussion. You'll give me my two hundred as usual, please, and we'll drop the subject.

EDWARD. By all means drop the subject.

PEACEY. [_his voice rising sharply._] I want the money. I think it is not gentlemanly in you, Mr. Edward, to make these excuses to try to get out of paying it me. Your father would never have made such an excuse.

EDWARD. [_flabbergasted._] Do you think I'm lying to you?

PEACEY. [_with a deprecating swallow._] I don't wish to criticise your statements or your actions at all, sir. It was no concern of mine how your father treated his clients.

EDWARD. I understand. And now it's no concern of yours how honest I am. You want your money just the same.

PEACEY. Well, don't be sarcastic . . a man does get used to a state of affairs whatever it may be.

EDWARD. [_with considerable force._] My friend, if I drop sarcasm I shall have to tell you very candidly what I think of you.

PEACEY. That I'm a thief because I've taken money from a thief!

EDWARD. Worse than a thief. You're content that others should steal for you.

PEACEY. And who isn't?

EDWARD _is really pleased with the aptness of this. He at once changes his tone, which indeed had become rather bullying._

EDWARD. Ah, Peacey, I perceive that you study sociology. Well, that's too big a question to enter into now. The application of the present portion of it is that I have for the moment, at some inconvenience to myself, ceased to receive stolen goods and therefore am in a position to throw a stone at you. I have thrown it.

PEACEY, _who would far sooner be bullied than talked to like this, turns very sulky_.

PEACEY. And now I'm to leave the firm, I suppose?

EDWARD. Not unless you wish.

PEACEY. I happen to think the secret's worth its price.

EDWARD. Perhaps someone will pay it you.

PEACEY. [_feebly threatening._] You're presuming upon its not being worth my while to make use of what I know.

EDWARD. [_not unkindly._] My good Peacey, it happens to be the truth I told you just now. Well, how on earth do you suppose you can successfully blackmail a man, who has so much to gain by exposure and so little to lose as I?

PEACEY. [_peeving._] I don't want to ruin you, sir, and I have a great regard for the firm . . but you must see that I can't have my income reduced in this way without a struggle.

EDWARD. [_with great cheerfulness._] Very well, my friend, struggle away.

PEACEY. [_his voice rising high and thin._] For one thing, sir, I don't think it fair dealing on your part to dock the money suddenly. I have been counting on it most of the year, and I have been led into heavy expenses. Why couldn't you have warned me?

EDWARD. That's true, Peacey, it was stupid of me. I apologise for the mistake.

PEACEY _is a little comforted by this quite candid acknowledgment_.

PEACEY. Perhaps things may be easier for you by next Christmas.

EDWARD. I hope so.

PEACEY. Then . . perhaps you won't be so particular.

_At this gentle insinuation_ EDWARD _looks up exasperated_.

EDWARD. So you don't believe what I told you?

PEACEY. Yes, I do.

EDWARD. Then you think that the fascination of swindling one's clients will ultimately prove irresistible?

PEACEY. It's what happened to your father, I suppose you know.

_This gives_ EDWARD _such pause that he drops his masterful tone_.

EDWARD. I didn't.

PEACEY. He got things as right as rain once.

EDWARD. Did he?

PEACEY. . . My father told me. Then he started again.

EDWARD. But how did you find that out?

PEACEY. [_expanding pleasantly._] Well, being so long in his service, I grew to understand your father. But when I first came into the firm, I simply hated him. He was that sour; so snappy with everyone . . as if he had a grievance against the whole world.

EDWARD. [_pensively._] It seems he had in those days.

PEACEY. Well, as I said, his dealings with his clients were no business of mine. And I speak as I find. He was very kind to me . . always thoughtful and considerate. He grew to be so pleasant and generous to everyone--

EDWARD. That you have great hopes of me yet?

PEACEY. [_who has a simple mind._] No, Mr. Edward, no. You're different from your father . . one must make up one's mind to that. And you may believe me or not but I should be very glad to know that the firm was solvent and going straight. There have been times when I have sincerely regretted my connection with it. If you'll let me say so, I think it's very noble of you to have undertaken the work you have. [_then, as everything seems smooth again._] And Mr. Edward, if you'll give me enough to cover this year's extra expense I think I may promise you that I shan't expect money again.

EDWARD. [_good-tempered, as he would speak to an importunate child._] No, Peacey, no!

PEACEY. [_fretful again._] Well, sir, you make things very difficult for me.

EDWARD. Here's a letter from Mr. Cartwright which you might attend to. If he wants an appointment with me, don't make one till the New Year. His case can't come on before February.

PEACEY. [_taking the letter._] I am anxious to meet you in every way--[_he is handed another._]

EDWARD. "Perceval Building Estate" . . that's yours too.

PEACEY. [_putting them both down resolutely._] But I refuse to be ignored. I must consider my whole position. I hope I may not be tempted to make use of the power I possess. But if I am driven to proceed to extremities . .

EDWARD. [_breaking in upon this bunch of tags._] My dear Peacey, don't talk nonsense . . you couldn't proceed to an extremity to save your life. You've taken this money irresponsibly for all these years. You'll find you're no longer capable even of such a responsible act as tripping up your neighbour.

_This does completely upset the gentle blackmailer. He loses one grievance in another._

PEACEY. Really, Mr. Edward, I am a considerably older man than you, and I think that whatever our positions--

EDWARD. Don't let us argue, Peacey. You're quite at liberty to do whatever you think worth your while.

PEACEY. It isn't that, sir. But these personalities--

EDWARD. Oh . . I apologise. Don't forget the letters.

PEACEY. I will not, sir.

_He takes them with great dignity and is leaving the room._

PEACEY. Here's Mr. Hugh waiting.

EDWARD. To see me? Ask him in.

PEACEY. Come in, Mr. Hugh, please.

HUGH _comes in_, PEACEY _holding the door for him with a frigid politeness of which he is quite oblivious. At this final slight_ PEACEY _goes out in dudgeon_.

EDWARD. How are you, Hugh?

HUGH. Good Lord!

_And he throws himself into the chair by the fire._ EDWARD _quite used to this sort of thing, goes quietly on with his work, adding encouragingly after a moment_ . .

EDWARD. How's Beatrice?

HUGH. She's very busy.

_He studies his boots with the gloomiest expression. And indeed, they are very dirty and his turned up trousers are muddy at the edge. They are dark trousers and well cut, but he wears with them a loose coat and waistcoat of a peculiar light brown check. Add to this the roughest of overcoats and a very soft hat. Add also the fact that he doesn't shave well or regularly and that his hair wants cutting, and_ HUGH'S _appearance this morning is described. As he is quite capable of sitting silently by the fire for a whole morning_ EDWARD _asks him at last_ . .

EDWARD. What d'you want?

HUGH. [_with vehemence._] I want a machine gun planted in Regent Street . . and one in the Haymarket . . and one in Leicester Square and one in the Strand . . and a dozen in the City. An earthquake would be simpler. Or why not a nice clean tidal wave? It's no good preaching and patching up any longer, Edward. We must begin afresh. Don't you feel, even in your calmer moments, that this whole country is simply hideous? The other nations must look after themselves. I'm patriotic . . I only ask that we should be destroyed.

EDWARD. It has been promised.

HUGH. I'm sick of waiting. [_then as_ EDWARD _says nothing_.] You say this is the cry just of the weak man in despair! I wouldn't be anything but a weak man in this world. I wouldn't be a king, I wouldn't be rich . . I wouldn't be a Borough Councillor . . I should be so ashamed. I've walked here this morning from Hampstead. I started to curse because the streets were dirty. You'd think that an Empire could keep its streets clean! But then I saw that the children were dirty too.

EDWARD. That's because of the streets.

HUGH. Yes, it's holiday time. Those that can cross a road safely are doing some work now . . earning some money. You'd think a governing race, grabbing responsibilities, might care for its children.

EDWARD. Come, we educate them now. And I don't think many work in holiday time.

HUGH. [_encouraged by contradiction._] We teach them all that we're not ashamed of . . and much that we ought to be . . and the rest they find out for themselves. Oh, every man and woman I met was muddy eyed! They'd joined the great conspiracy which we call our civilization. They've been educated! They believe in the Laws and the Money-market and Respectability. Well, at least they suffer for their beliefs. But I'm glad I don't make the laws . . and that I haven't any money . . and that I hate respectability . . or I should be so ashamed. By the bye, that's what I've come for.

EDWARD. [_pleasantly._] What? I thought you'd only come to talk.

HUGH. You must take that money of mine for your clients. Of course you ought to have had it when you asked for it. It has never belonged to me. Well . . it has never done me any good. I have never made any use of it and so it has been just a clog to my life.

EDWARD. [_surprised._] My dear Hugh . . this is very generous of you.

HUGH. Not a bit. I only want to start fresh and free.

EDWARD. [_sitting back from his work._] Hugh, do you really think that money has carried a curse with it?

HUGH. [_with great violence._] Think! I'm the proof of it and look at me. When I said I'd be an artist the governor gave me a hundred and fifty a year . . the rent of a studio and the price of a velvet coat he thought it; that was all he knew about art. Then my respectable training got me engaged and married. Marriage in a studio puzzled the governor, so he guessed it at _two_ hundred and fifty a year . . and looked for lay figure-babies, I suppose. What had I to do with Art? Nothing I've done yet but reflects our drawing-room at Chislehurst.

EDWARD. [_considering._] Yes . . What do you earn in a year? I doubt if you can afford to give this up.

HUGH. Oh, Edward . . you clank the chain with the best of them. That word Afford! I want to be free from my advantages. Don't you see I must find out what I'm worth in myself . . whether I even exist or not? Perhaps I'm only a pretence of a man animated by an income.

EDWARD. But you can't return to nature on the London pavements.

HUGH. No. Nor in England at all . . it's nothing but a big back garden. [_now he collects himself for a final outburst._] But if there's no place on this earth where a man can prove his right to live by some other means than robbing his neighbour . . I'd better go and request the next horse I meet to ride me . . to the nearest lunatic asylum.

EDWARD _waits till the effects of this explosion are over_.

EDWARD. And what does Beatrice say to your emigrating to the backwoods . . if that is exactly what you mean?

HUGH. Now that we're separating--

EDWARD. [_taken aback._] What?

HUGH. We mean to separate.

EDWARD. This is the first I've heard of it.

HUGH. Beatrice is making some money by her books, so it has become possible.

EDWARD. [_humorously._] Have you told anyone yet?

HUGH. We mean to now. I think a thing comes to pass quicker in public.

EDWARD. Say nothing at home until after Christmas.

HUGH. Oh Lord, I forgot! They'll discuss it solemnly. [_then he whistles._] Emily knows!

EDWARD. [_having considered._] I shan't accept this money from you . . there's no need. All the good has been done that I wanted to do. No one will be beggared now. So why should you be?

HUGH. [_with clumsy affection._] We've taken a fine lot of interest in your labours, haven't we, Hercules?

EDWARD. You hold your tongue about the office affairs, don't you? It's not safe.

HUGH. When will you be quit of the beastly business?

EDWARD. [_becoming reserved and cold at once._] I'm in no hurry.

HUGH. What do you gain by hanging on now?

EDWARD. Occupation.

HUGH. But, Edward, it must be an awfully wearying state of things. I suppose any moment a policeman may knock at the door . . so to speak?

EDWARD. [_appreciating the figure of speech._] Any moment. I take no precautions. I suppose that's why he doesn't come. At first I listened for him, day by day. Then I said to myself . . next week. But a year has gone by and more. I've ceased expecting to hear the knock at all.

HUGH. But look here . . is all this worth while?

EDWARD. [_supremely ironical._] My dear Hugh, what a silly question!

HUGH. [_very seriously._] But have you the right to make a mean thing of your life like this?

EDWARD. Does my life matter?

HUGH. Well . . of course!

EDWARD. I find no evidence to convince me of it. The World that you talk about so finely is using me up. A little wantonly . . a little needlessly, I do think. But she knows her own damn business . . or so she says, if you try to teach it her. And why should I trouble to fit myself for better work than she has given me to do . . nursing fools' money?

HUGH. [_responding at once to this vein._] Edward, we must turn this world upside down. It's her stupidity that drives me mad. We all want a lesson in values. We're never taught what is worth having and what isn't. Why should your real happiness be sacrificed to the sham happiness which people have invested in the firm?

EDWARD. I suppose their money means such happiness to them as they understand.

HUGH. Then we want another currency. We must learn to express ourselves in terms of vitality. There can be no other standard of worth in life, can there? I never believed that money was valuable. I remember once giving a crossing sweeper a sovereign. The sovereign was nothing. But the sensation I gave him was an intrinsically valuable thing.

_He is fearfully pleased with his essay in philosophy._

EDWARD. He could buy other sensations with the sovereign.

HUGH. But none like the first. [_then the realities of life overwhelm him again._] And yet . . we're slaves! Beatrice won't let me go until we're each certain of two hundred a year. And she's quite right . . I should only get into debt. You know that two fifty a year of mine is a hundred and eighty now.

EDWARD. [_mischievous._] Why would you invest sensationally?

HUGH. [_with great seriousness._] I put money into things which I know ought to succeed . .

_The telephone rings._ EDWARD _speaks through it_.

EDWARD. Certainly . . bring him in. [_then to his brother, who sits on the table idly disarranging everything._] You'll have to go now, Hugh.

HUGH. [_shaking his head gloomily._] You're one of the few people I can talk to, Edward.

EDWARD. I like listening.

HUGH. [_as much cheered as surprised._] Do you! I suppose I talk a lot of rot . . but . .

_In comes old_ MR. GEORGE BOOTH, _older too in looks than he was eighteen months back. Very dandyishly dressed, he still seems by no means so happy as his clothes might be making him._

MR. BOOTH. 'Ullo, Hugh! I thought I should find you, Edward.

EDWARD. [_formally._] Good morning, Mr. Booth.

HUGH. [_as he collects his hat, his coat, his various properties._] Well . . Beatrice and I go down to Chislehurst to-morrow. I say . . d'you know that old Nursie is furious with you about something?

EDWARD. [_shortly._] Yes, I know. Good bye.

HUGH. How are you?