Chapter IV: Act I

SCENE: _The rectory at Swilberry. The rector, the Rev. Hardy Heavyweight, is going through the accounts of the village cricket club with Diggers, his sexton and factotum._

DIGGERS (_adding up as he goes along_): And three and sixpence is four pound two and a penny ’a’penny, and five shillin’ is four seven one a half; and there’s that cheque from Mr. Selvidge.

HEAVYWEIGHT (_comparing each item in the bank book_): That’s not entered here.

DIGGERS: Paid in later, per’aps. The cheque----

HEAVYWEIGHT: Yes--it will be in the pocket of the book. (_He gropes for it._) There seem to be a lot of papers here. (_He pulls them out._) Why, good heavens!

DIGGERS: What’s matter, Sir?

HEAVYWEIGHT (_in a changed voice that belies his words_): Nothing, Diggers, nothing.... Here’s the cheque (_he holds it up_).... Who had charge of this book?

DIGGERS (_mildly surprised_): Miss Agatha, Sir.

HEAVYWEIGHT (_mechanically--he is thinking hard of something else_): You’ve never seemed to get accustomed to calling her Mrs. Foxglove, Diggers.

DIGGERS (_heartily_): No, Sir, that I ’aven’t. An’ when them ’orrible divorce proceedings is finished an’ she’s quit o’ that thing of a ’usband, she _will_ be Miss Agatha again, to all intents an’ purposes.

HEAVYWEIGHT (_pained_): I think we mustn’t talk about that, Diggers. The club accounts are all right?

DIGGERS (_disappointed_): Yes, Sir.

HEAVYWEIGHT: Thank you for helping me. Would you ask Mrs. Foxglove to come?

DIGGERS: Miss Agatha, Sir? Certainly. (_He goes. The rector leans back in his chair, with his face drawn with anxiety. He toys with the papers he has abstracted from the pocket of the bank book. He shakes his head sadly as he reads. Suddenly Agatha Foxglove, a charming and vital creature, bursts in on him._)

AGATHA: Hello, papa--what’s up?

HEAVYWEIGHT (_looking away from her_): Agatha, dear, these letters--(_he holds them up_)--these letters from a man called Jim, they’re yours, are they?

AGATHA (_taken aback_): Ye--yes. I....

HEAVYWEIGHT: (_appealingly_): I’m sure there’s an explanation, dear. Won’t you tell me?

AGATHA (_laughing uneasily_): Well, er, I suppose ... where did you find them? (_He silently points to the book._) I don’t know. I suppose I must have put them there accidentally, from my table.... It comes of keeping those horrible accounts for you.

HEAVYWEIGHT (_sadly_): But the _contents_, Agatha, dear.

AGATHA (_sharply_): You’ve read them?

HEAVYWEIGHT: I was unable to help reading them. They were lying open among the cheques. (_Tenderly_): Won’t you explain?

AGATHA (_with the modern mixture of frankness and impatience_): Of course, there’s an explanation, papa. You surely don’t suppose that, with a drunken imbecile for a husband, I could do entirely without sympathy and affection?

HEAVYWEIGHT (_apprehensively_): Then--you were--unfaithful?

AGATHA (_swiftly_): But we’re going to be married, as soon as the decree is made absolute.

HEAVYWEIGHT (_pitifully_): I’m sure, my dear, that that was your intention; but, as a clergyman----

AGATHA (_anxious_): You won’t tell anyone----?

HEAVYWEIGHT: My child, can’t you see? can’t you feel for me? As a clergyman I believe--I am bound to believe--that marriage is an irrevocable tie. Divorce on proper grounds I have to recognise, as a servant of the State; but when I see the procedure abused by those who have forfeited their right to invoke it, how can I, as a conscientious minister of God--how can I stand aside because the culprit is my own adopted daughter and ward? I am morally bound to inform the King’s Proctor.

AGATHA: But father--father. Oh, for God’s sake--(_she becomes incoherent._)

HEAVYWEIGHT: Ah, my child, my child. Morality demands--(_His voice breaks. There is a terrible pause. He goes to the bookshelf._)

AGATHA (_agonised_): Oh--what are you doing?

HEAVYWEIGHT (_in a dead, mirthless voice_): Looking out my train to London.

THE CURTAIN FALLS.