%% LyX 1.3 created this file.  For more info, see http://www.lyx.org/.
%% Do not edit unless you really know what you are doing.
\documentclass[12pt,english]{book}
\usepackage{newcent}
\usepackage[T1]{fontenc}
\usepackage[latin1]{inputenc}
\usepackage{geometry}
\geometry{verbose,paperwidth=5.5in,paperheight=8.5in,tmargin=0.75in,bmargin=0.75in,lmargin=1in,rmargin=1in}
\setcounter{secnumdepth}{3}
\setcounter{tocdepth}{3}

\makeatletter
\usepackage{babel}
\makeatother
\begin{document}
\sloppy

\evensidemargin = -0.25in

\oddsidemargin = 0.25in

\raggedbottom \pagestyle{empty}

\date{}


\title{THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE}


\author{George Bernard Shaw}

\maketitle
\vspace*{\stretch{1}}

\noindent This public-domain (U.S.) text was produced by Eve Sobol,
South Bend, Indiana, USA. The Project Gutenberg edition ({}``tdvld10'')
was subsequently converted to \LaTeX{} using \textbf{GutenMark} software
and re-edited (principally for formatting purposes) by Ron Burkey.
Report problems to info@sandroid.org. Revision B1 differs from B in
that {}``----'' was everywhere replaced with {}``---''.

\noindent \begin{center}Revision: B1\\
Date: 02/02/2008\end{center}

\vspace{\stretch{1}}

\frontmatter

\pagestyle{myheadings} \tableofcontents{}\newpage

\mainmatter


\chapter*{\raggedright ACT I}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{ACT I}

\markboth{THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE}{ACT I}

\emph{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\mbox{---}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.}

\emph{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 self-sacrifice 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.}

\emph{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.}

\emph{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, weather-stained, berry-stained,
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.}

\emph{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 {[}\emph{threateningly}.{]} Well, why don't you open
the door? {[}\emph{She sees that the girl is asleep and immediately
raises a clamor of heartfelt vexation.}{]} Well, dear, dear me! Now
this is\mbox{---}{[}\emph{shaking her}{]} wake up, wake up: do you
hear?

THE GIRL {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{half asleep still}.{]} I didn't mean to. I dropped
off\mbox{---}

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{cutting her short}.{]} Oh yes, you've plenty
of excuses, I daresay. Dropped off! {[}\emph{Fiercely, as the knocking
recommences.}{]} Why don't you get up and let your uncle in?\ after
me waiting up all night for him! {[}\emph{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.

\emph{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 {[}\emph{at the fire}.{]} F\mbox{---}f\mbox{---}f!\ but
it is cold. {[}\emph{Seeing the girl, and staring lumpishly at her.}{]}
Why, who are you?

THE GIRL {[}\emph{shyly}.{]} Essie.

MRS.\ DUDGEON. Oh you may well ask. {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{peremptorily}.{]} Don't answer me, Miss; but
show your obedience by doing what I tell you. {[}\emph{Essie, almost
in tears, crosses the room to the door near the sofa.}{]} And don't
forget your prayers. {[}\emph{Essie goes out.}{]} She'd have gone
to bed last night just as if nothing had happened if I'd let her.

CHRISTY {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}the
punishment of his wickedness and shame? {[}\emph{She assaults her
chair by sitting down.}{]}

CHRISTY {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}

CHRISTY {[}\emph{interrupting her with an apprehensive glance at the
door by which Essie went out}.{]} Sh! She may hear you.

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{raising her voice}.{]} Let her hear me. People
who fear God don't fear to give the devil's work its right name. {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{stupent}.{]} Your father!

CHRISTY {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{bursting into dry angry tears.}{]} Well, I
do think this is hard on me\mbox{---}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! {[}\emph{She plucks her shawl vexedly over her ears.}{]}
It's sinful, so it is; downright sinful.

CHRISTY {[}\emph{with a slow, bovine cheerfulness, after a pause.}{]}
I think it's going to be a fine morning, after all.

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{railing at him.}{]} A fine morning! And your
father newly dead! Where's your feelings, child?

CHRISTY {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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!

\emph{Someone knocks}.

CHRISTY {[}\emph{without moving.}{]} That's the minister.

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{sharply}.{]} Well, aren't you going to let
Mr.\ Anderson in?

\emph{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 thorough-going 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 {[}\emph{to Christy, at the door, looking at Mrs.\ Dudgeon
whilst he takes off his cloak.}{]} Have you told her?

CHRISTY. She made me. {[}\emph{He shuts the door; yawns; and loafs
across to the sofa where he sits down and presently drops off to sleep.}{]}

\emph{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 {[}\emph{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?\mbox{---}and {[}\emph{spitefully}{]}
that deserved it, if ever a man did.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{disagreeably surprised.}{]} Richard?

ANDERSON {[}\emph{nodding}.{]} Yes.

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{vindictively}.{]} Let it be a warning to him.
He may end that way himself, the wicked, dissolute, godless\mbox{---}{[}\emph{she
suddenly stops; her voice fails; and she asks, with evident dread}{]}
Did Timothy see him?

ANDERSON. Yes.

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{holding her breath.}{]} Well?

ANDERSON. He only saw him in the crowd: they did not speak. {[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{Mrs.\ Dudgeon sneers. Anderson
breaks off to demand with some indiqnation}{]} 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 {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{implacably}.{]} He will be punished for it.
He will be punished for it\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{forgetting herself.}{]} Richard's earthly
father was a soft-headed\mbox{---}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{shocked}.{]} Oh!

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{with a touch of shame.}{]} Well, I am Richard's
mother. If I am against him who has any right to be for him? {[}\emph{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\mbox{---} {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{all her fears returning.}{]} The new will!
Did Timothy\mbox{---}? {[}\emph{She breaks off, gasping, unable to
complete the question.}{]}

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

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{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,\mbox{---}you, a minister
of the gospel\mbox{---}to act as his accomplice in such a crime.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{rising}.{]} I will take no offence at what you say
in the first bitterness of your grief.

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{rather guiltily.}{]} I\mbox{---}er\mbox{---}

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}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 God-fearing man\mbox{---}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. {[}\emph{She turns from him and leans with her elbows
on the table, brooding over her wrongs and taking no further notice
of him.}{]}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{willing enough to escape.}{]} The Lord forbid that
I should come between you and the source of all comfort! {[}\emph{He
goes to the rack for his coat and hat.}{]}

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}Eli Hawkins and myself,
if we have ever set up our preaching against His law. {[}\emph{He
fastens his cloak, and is now ready to go.}{]} Just one word\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{coming back a step or two.}{]} Mrs.\ Dudgeon: I
used to have some little influence with you. When did I lose it?

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{still without turning to him.}{]} When you
married for love. Now you're answered.

ANDERSON. Yes: I am answered. {[}\emph{He goes out, musing.}{]}

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{to herself, thinking of her husband.}{]} Thief!
Thief!! {[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{No
answer: he is fast asleep.}{]} Christy. {[}\emph{She shakes him roughly.}{]}
Get up out of that; and be ashamed of yourself\mbox{---}sleeping,
and your father dead! {[}\emph{She returns to the table; puts the
candle on the mantel-shelf; and takes from the table drawer a red
table cloth which she spreads.}{]}

CHRISTY {[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{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? {[}\emph{She replaces the
tin in the cupboard, which she locks, pocketing the key carefully.}{]}

CHRISTY {[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{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.

\emph{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 mantel-shelf; 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 {[}\emph{looking through the window.}{]} Here's the minister's
wife.

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{threateningly}.{]} You'd better keep a civil
tongue in your head. {[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{Christy goes
out and slams the door in her face.}{]} Nice manners, that! {[}\emph{Someone
knocks at the house door: she turns and cries inhospitably.}{]} Come
in. {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{very politely\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{stiffly}.{]} Thank you, Mrs.\ Anderson, my
house is always ready for anyone to come into.

MRS.\ ANDERSON {[}\emph{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! {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{graciously giving her leave.}{]} Oh yes, certainly.
Leave them to me, Mrs.\ Dudgeon; and take your time. {[}\emph{She
hangs her cloak and bonnet on the rack.}{]}

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{half sneering.}{]} I thought that would be
more in your way than getting the house ready.\ {}{[}\emph{Essie
comes back.}{]} Oh, here you are! {[}\emph{Severely}{]} Come here:
let me see you.\ {}{[}\emph{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\mbox{---}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.\ {}{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{in listless misery.}{]} Yes.

JUDITH {[}\emph{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! {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{very half-heartedly.}{]} Yes.

JUDITH. Then you must never mention the name of Richard Dudgeon\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{again displeased.}{]} I am afraid you say Yes and
No without thinking very deeply.

ESSIE. Yes. At least I mean\mbox{---}

JUDITH {[}\emph{severely.}{]} What do you mean?

ESSIE {[}\emph{almost crying.}{]} Only\mbox{---}my father was a smuggler;
and\mbox{---} {[}\emph{Someone knocks.}{]}

JUDITH. They are beginning to come. Now remember your aunt's directions,
Essie; and be a good girl.\ {}{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{He opens the house door.}{]}

\emph{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, middle-aged 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.}

\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{She
taps at the bedroom door. Receiving an answer from within, she opens
it and passes through.}{]}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{at the house door, which he has just shut.}{]} All
except Dick.

\emph{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.

\emph{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 {[}\emph{with gentle impressiveness.}{]} Friends, Mrs.\ Dudgeon.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{rather hastily.}{]} I have been with our sister
this morning already, friends. In our hearts we ask a blessing.

ALL {[}\emph{except Essie.}{]} Amen.

\emph{They all sit down, except Judith, who stands behind Mrs.\ Dudgeon's
chair.}

JUDITH {[}\emph{to Essie.}{]} Essie: did you say Amen?

ESSIE {[}\emph{scaredly.}{]} No.

JUDITH. Then say it, like a good girl.

ESSIE. Amen.

UNCLE WILLIAM {[}\emph{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.

\emph{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 {[}\emph{at the window.}{]} Here's Dick.

\emph{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 {[}\emph{on the threshold, taking off his hat.}{]} Ladies
and gentlemen: your servant, your very humble servant. {[}\emph{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! {[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{Poor Uncle William, shamed,
would protest; but Richard claps him heartily on his shoulder, adding}{]}
you have given it up, haven't you? {[}\emph{releasing him with a playful
push}{]} of course you have: quite right too; you overdid it. {[}\emph{He
turns away from Uncle William and makes for the sofa.}{]} And now,
where is that upright horse-dealer Uncle Titus? Uncle Titus: come
forth. {[}\emph{He comes upon him holding the chair as Judith sits
down.}{]} As usual, looking after the ladies.

UNCLE TITUS {[}\emph{indignantly.}{]} Be ashamed of yourself, sir\mbox{---}

RICHARD {[}\emph{interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of
him.}{]} I am: I am; but I am proud of my uncle\mbox{---}proud of
all my relatives {[}\emph{again surveying them}{]} who could look
at them and not be proud and joyful? {[}\emph{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!\ {[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{quietly indicating Judith.}{]} Sir: you are in the
presence of my wife. {[}\emph{Judith rises and stands with stony propriety.}{]}

RICHARD {[}\emph{quickly slipping down from the table with instinctive
good manners.}{]} Your servant, madam: no offence. {[}\emph{He looks
at her earnestly.}{]} You deserve your reputation; but I'm sorry to
see by your expression that you're a good woman. {[}\emph{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 good-humored.}{]} 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 {[}\emph{pointing to Essie.}{]} There, sir, listening to
you.

RICHARD {[}\emph{shocked into sincerity.}{]} What! Why the devil didn't
you tell me that before? Children suffer enough in this house without\mbox{---}
{[}\emph{He hurries remorsefully to Essie.}{]} Come, little cousin!\ never
mind me: it was not meant to hurt you.\ {}{[}\emph{She looks up gratefully
at him. Her tear-stained 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\mbox{---}

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{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? {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{He shakes his head deploringly. The relatives
freeze with horror.}{]} That's right: pull your longest faces {[}\emph{his
voice suddenly sweetens gravely as his glance lights on Essie}{]}
provided only there is hope in the eyes of the child.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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?

\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{glancing at his mother.}{]} Aha!

HAWKINS {[}\emph{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
\mbox{Primrose''---}you see he did not know the law, Mr.\ Dudgeon:
your mother was not born Annie: she was christened so\mbox{---}{}``an
annuity of fifty-two pounds a year for life {[}\emph{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! {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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.

HAWBINB. {}``On these conditions\mbox{---}''

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 {[}\emph{emphatically, striking his fist on the table.}{]}
Agreed.

\emph{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''---{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{holding up the stuffed birds.}{]} Here you are, Christy.

CHRISTY {[}\emph{disappointed.}{]} I'd rather have the China peacocks.

RICHARD. You shall have both.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{dubiously.}{]} Hm! Anything more, Mr.\ Hawkins?

HAWKINS {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{turning politely to Richard}{]} it contains
in my judgment an excellent disposal of his property.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}and
that man the eldest son\mbox{---}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. {[}\emph{He takes
his hat from the floor; rises; and begins pocketing his papers and
spectacles.}{]}

\emph{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 {[}\emph{threatening her.}{]} Where have you been?
{[}\emph{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\mbox{---}{[}\emph{she stops, her tongue
cleaving to her palate with terror.}{]}

JUDITH {[}\emph{with gentler severity.}{]} Who asked for a drink?
{[}\emph{Essie, speechless, points to Richard.}{]}

RICHARD. What! I!

JUDITH {[}\emph{shocked.}{]} Oh Essie, Essie!

RICHARD. I believe I did.\ {}{[}\emph{He takes a glass and holds
it to Essie to be filled. Her hand shakes.}{]} What!\ afraid of me?

ESSIE {[}\emph{quickly.}{]} No. I\mbox{---} {[}\emph{She pours out
the water.}{]}

RICHARD {[}\emph{tasting it.}{]} Ah, you've been up the street to
the market gate spring to get that.\ {}{[}\emph{He takes a draught.}{]}
Delicious! Thank you.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{greatly disappointed that he, of all people should
begin at her in this way}{]} Yes.\ {}{[}\emph{She looks doubtfully
at Judith.}{]} I think so. I mean I\mbox{---}I hope so.

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

ANDERSON {[}\emph{revolted.}{]} Shame on you, sir, with a mere child\mbox{---}

RICHARD. By your leave, Minister: I do not interfere with your sermons:
do not you interrupt mine.\ {}{[}\emph{To Essie.}{]} Do you know
what they call me, Essie?

ESSIE. Dick.

RICHARD {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{turning
forcibly on the rest}{]} which of you good men will take this child
and rescue her from the house of the devil?

JUDITH {[}\emph{coming to Essie and throwing a protecting arm about
her.}{]} I will. You should be burnt alive.

ESSIE. But I don't want to.\ {}{[}\emph{She shrinks back, leaving
Richard and Judith face to face.}{]}

RICHARD {[}\emph{to Judith.}{]} Actually doesn't want to, most virtuous
lady!

UNCLE TITUS. Have a care, Richard Dudgeon. The law\mbox{---}

RICHARD {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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!\ {[}\emph{Judith, dismayed, clings to Anderson}{]}
or a lawyer!\ {[}\emph{Hawkins smiles like a man able to take care
of himself}{]} or an upright horse-dealer!\ {[}\emph{Uncle Titus
snarls at him in rags and terror}{]} or a reformed drunkard {[}\emph{Uncle
William, utterly unnerved, moans and wobbles with fear}{]} eh? Would
that show that King George meant business\mbox{---}ha?

ANDERSON {[}\emph{perfectly self-possessed.}{]} Come, my dear: he
is only trying to frighten you. There is no danger. {[}\emph{He takes
her out of the house. The rest crowd to the door to follow him, except
Essie, who remains near Richard.}{]}

RICHARD {[}\emph{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? {[}\emph{They scramble out, Christy
among them, hustling one another in their haste.}{]} Ha ha! Long live
the devil! {[}\emph{To Mrs.\ Dudgeon, who is following them}{]} What
mother!\ are you off too?

MRS.\ DUDGEON {[}\emph{deadly pale, with her hand on her heart as
if she had received a deathblow.}{]} My curse on you! My dying curse!
{[}\emph{She goes out.}{]}

RICHARD {[}\emph{calling after her.}{]} It will bring me luck. Ha
ha ha!

ESSIE {[}\emph{anxiously.}{]} Mayn't I stay?

RICHARD {[}\emph{turning to her.}{]} What! Have they forgotten to
save your soul in their anxiety about their own bodies? Oh yes: you
may stay. {[}\emph{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! {[}\emph{She falls on her knees,
sobbing. He stoops good-naturedly to raise her, saying}{]} Oh yes,
you may cry that way, Essie, if you like.


\chapter*{\raggedright ACT II}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{ACT II}

\markboth{THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE}{ACT II}

\emph{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.}

\emph{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.}

\emph{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 {[}\emph{running to him.}{]} Oh, here you are at last, at last!
{[}\emph{She attempts to embrace him.}{]}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{keeping her off.}{]} Take care, my love: I'm wet.
Wait till I get my cloak off.\ {}{[}\emph{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! {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{A
bugle call is heard in the distance. She starts in terror and retreats
to the long seat, listening.}{]} What's that?

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}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.\ {}{[}\emph{Embracing him again.}{]} Oh
how brave you are, my dear! {[}\emph{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! {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{rising in consternation.}{]} You called on that man!

ANDERSON {[}\emph{reassuring her.}{]} Oh, nothing happened, dearie.
He was out.

JUDITH {[}\emph{almost in tears, as if the visit were a personal humiliation
to her.}{]} But why did you go there?

ANDERSON {[}\emph{gravely.}{]} Well, it is all the talk that Major
Swindon is going to do what he did in Springtown\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{good-humoredly 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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{aghast.}{]} You asked that man to come here!

ANDERSON. I did.

JUDITH {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{quaintly.}{]} Well, dear, let's forgive him; and
then it won't matter.

JUDITH. Oh, I know it's wrong to hate anybody; but\mbox{---}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{She starts, strangely touched\mbox{---}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\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{remorsefully.}{]} Oh yes, I forgot. I've been keeping
you waiting all this time.\ {}{[}\emph{She goes to the fire and puts
on the kettle.}{]}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{going to the press and taking his coat off.}{]}
Have you stitched up the shoulder of my old coat?

JUDITH. Yes, dear.\ {}{[}\emph{She goes to the table, and sets about
putting the tea into the teapot from the caddy.}{]}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{going to her and patting her encouragingly on the
shoulder.}{]} All right, pet, all right. He won't eat you, whoever
he is.\ {}{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{Hospitably.}{]}
Come in. {[}\emph{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? {[}\emph{He shuts the door.}{]}

RICHARD. Raining like the very {[}\emph{his eye catches Judith's as
she looks quickly and haughtily up}{]}\mbox{---}I beg your pardon;
but {[}\emph{showing that his coat is wet}{]} you see\mbox{---}!

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 {[}\emph{eyeing him cynically.}{]} The magic of property,
Pastor! Are even \emph{you} civil to me now that I have succeeded
to my father's estate?

\emph{Judith throws down the spoon indignantly.}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{quickly rising.}{]} You want to preach to me. Excuse
me: I prefer a walk in the rain.\ {}{[}\emph{He makes for his coat.}{]}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{stopping him.}{]} Don't be alarmed, sir; I am no
great preacher. You are quite safe.\ {}{[}\emph{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\mbox{---}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{interrupting him good-humoredly 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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{She
brings the teapot to the fireplace and sets it on the hob.}{]}

RICHARD. I know I am not welcome for my own, madam.\ {}{[}\emph{He
rises.}{]} But I think I will not break bread here, Minister.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}{[}\emph{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\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{gratified, patting her hand.}{]} You hear that,
Judith? Mr.\ Dudgeon knows how to turn a compliment.

\emph{The latch is lifted from without.}

JUDITH {[}\emph{starting.}{]} Who is that?

\emph{Christy comes in.}

CHRISTY {[}\emph{stopping and staring at Richard.}{]} Oh, are \emph{you}
here?

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

CHRISTY {[}\emph{coming further in.}{]} Mother's very ill.

RICHARD. Well, does she want to see \emph{me}?

CHRISTY. No.

RICHARD. I thought not.

CHRISTY. She wants to see the minis\-\mbox{ter\mbox{---}}at once.

JUDITH {[}\emph{to Anderson.}{]} Oh, not before you've had some tea.

ANDERSON. I shall enjoy it more when I come back, dear.\ {}{[}\emph{He
is about to take up his cloak.}{]}

CHRISTY. The rain's over.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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.
{[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{Violently.}{]}
Be off, you oaf.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{white and trembling.}{]} Must I\mbox{---}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{taking her hands and interrupting her to cover her
agitation.}{]} My dear: I can depend on you?

JUDITH {[}\emph{with a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust.}{]}
Yes.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{pressing her hand against his cheek.}{]} You will
not mind two old people like us, Mr.\ Dudgeon.\ {}{[}\emph{Going.}{]}
I shall not say good evening: you will be here when I come back.\ {}{[}\emph{He
goes out.}{]}

\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{Again
he starts for the fireplace to get his coat.}{]}

JUDITH {[}\emph{getting between him and the coat.}{]} No, no. Don't
go: please don't go.

RICHARD {[}\emph{roughly.}{]} Why? You don't want me here.

JUDITH. Yes, I\mbox{---}{[}\emph{wringing her hands in despair}{]}
Oh, if I tell you the truth, you will use it to torment me.

RICHARD {[}\emph{indignantly.}{]} Torment! What right have you to
say that? Do you expect me to stay after that?

JUDITH. I want you to stay; but {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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?

\emph{Judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts into
tears.}

RICHARD. Stop, stop, stop, I tell you. Don't do that.\ {}{[}\emph{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? {[}\emph{She stops crying, and
recovers herself somewhat, looking at him with a scared curiosity.}{]}
There: that's right.\ {}{[}\emph{Sympathetically.}{]} You're better
now, aren't you? {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{rather ashamed of herself.}{]} If you please. I\mbox{---}I
am sorry to have been so foolish.\ {}{[}\emph{She stoops to take
up the plate of toast from the fender.}{]}

RICHARD. I am sorry, for your sake, that I am\mbox{---}what I am.
Allow me.\ {}{[}\emph{He takes the plate from her and goes with it
to the table.}{]}

JUDITH {[}\emph{following with the teapot.}{]} Will you sit down?
{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{consciously.}{]} Thanks.\ {}{[}\emph{She gives him
his tea.}{]} Won't you help yourself?

RICHARD. Thanks.\ {}{[}\emph{He puts a piece of toast on his own
plate; and she pours out tea for herself.}{]}

JUDITH {[}\emph{observing that he tastes nothing.}{]} Don't you like
it? You are not eating anything.

RICHARD. Neither are you.

JUDITH {[}\emph{nervously.}{]} I never care much for my tea. Please
don't mind me.

RICHARD {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{He muses a moment, and then laughs softly.}{]}

JUDITH {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{taking offence.}{]} You mean, I suppose, that you
are more my age than he is.

RICHARD {[}\emph{staring at this unexpected turn.}{]} I never thought
of such a thing. {[}\emph{Sardonic again.}{]} I see there is another
side to domestic joy.

JUDITH {[}\emph{angrily.}{]} I would rather have a husband whom everybody
respects than \mbox{---} than \mbox{---}

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\mbox{---}{[}\emph{she stops, terror-stricken,
as a squad of soldiers tramps past the window}{]} The English soldiers!
Oh, what do they\mbox{---}

RICHARD {[}\emph{listening.}{]} Sh!

A VOICE {[}\emph{outside.}{]} Halt! Four outside: two in with me.

\emph{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 {[}\emph{pointing at Richard.}{]} But that is not\mbox{---}
{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{instinctively respectful, half to the black
coat, half to Richard's good breeding.}{]} Well, no sir. At least,
only an army chaplain.\ {}{[}\emph{Showing the handcuffs.}{]} I'm
sorry, air; but duty\mbox{---}

RICHARD. Just so, Sergeant. Well, I'm not ashamed of them: thank you
kindly for the apology.\ {}{[}\emph{He holds out his hands.}{]}

SERGEANT {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{smiling.}{]} Oh, we shall meet again before\mbox{---}eh?
{[}\emph{Meaning {}``before you hang me.''}{]}

SERGEANT {[}\emph{loudly, with ostentatious cheerfulness.}{]} Oh,
of course, of course. No call for the lady to distress herself. Still\mbox{---}{[}\emph{in
a lower voice, intended for Richard alone}{]} your last chance, sir.

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

RICHARD {[}\emph{very distinctly.}{]} My love.\ {}{[}\emph{She looks
at him, pitiably pale, and tries to answer, but cannot\mbox{---}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 leave-taking.\ {}{[}\emph{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?
{[}\emph{She signifies assent.}{]} Do you understand that I am going
to my death? {[}\emph{She signifies that she understands.}{]} Remember,
you must find our friend who was with us just now. Do you understand?
{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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.

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

JUDITH {[}\emph{the words choking her.}{]} I ought to\mbox{---}it's
murder\mbox{---}

RICHARD. No: only a kiss {[}\emph{softly to her}{]} for his sake.

JUDITH. I can't. You must\mbox{---}

RICHARD {[}\emph{folding her in his arms with an impulse of compassion
for her distress.}{]} My poor girl!

\emph{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 {[}\emph{going quickly to the sergeant.}{]} Now, Sergeant:
quick, before she comes to. The handcuffs.\ {}{[}\emph{He puts out
his hands.}{]}

SERGEANT {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{The soldiers place themselves one before
Richard and one behind him. The sergeant opens the door.}{]}

RICHARD {[}\emph{taking a last look round him.}{]} Goodbye, wife:
goodbye, home. Muffle the drums, and quick march!

\emph{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\mbox{---}? {[}\emph{Calling}{]} Judith,
Judith! {[}\emph{He listens: there is no answer.}{]} Hm! {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{still astray.}{]} I don't know. Have I been asleep?
I suppose\mbox{---}{[}\emph{she stops blankly}{]} I don't know.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{groaning.}{]} Heaven forgive me, I left you alone
with that scoundrel.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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? {[}\emph{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: {[}\emph{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, {[}\emph{misunderstanding
her distress}{]} you shall not tell me at all if it worries you. There,
there! {[}\emph{Cheerfully.}{]} I'll make you some fresh tea: that
will set you up again.\ {}{[}\emph{He goes to the table, and empties
the teapot into the slop bowl.}{]}

JUDITH {[}\emph{in a strained tone.}{]} Tony.

ANDERSON. Yes, dear?

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

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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 \mbox{know\mbox{---}} {[}\emph{Distracted
she buries her face in her knotted hands.}{]}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}oh
no, no: I can't. Tony: don't speak to me. Take my hands\mbox{---}both
my hands. {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}no: you must be
saved: you, you, you.\ {}{[}\emph{She springs up as if to do something
or go somewhere, exclaiming}{]} Oh, Heaven help me!

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{Tearing her hands away.}{]} I must save him.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{Going
between them.}{]} Come here, Essie.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{enlightened.}{]} A soldier! Ah, I see it all now!
They have arrested Richard.\ {}{[}\emph{Judith makes a gesture of
despair.}{]}

ESSIE. No. I asked the soldier. Dick's safe. But the soldier said
you had been taken\mbox{---}

ANDERSON. I! {[}\emph{Bewildered, he turns to Judith for an explanation.}{]}

JUDITH {[}\emph{coaxingly}{]} All right, dear: I understand.\ {}{[}\emph{To
Essie.}{]} Thank you, Essie, for coming; but I don't need you now.
You may go home.

ESSIE {[}\emph{suspicious}{]} Are you sure Dick has not been touched?
Perhaps he told the soldier to say it was the minister. {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{Judith
turns away and covers her eyes with her hands.}{]}

ESSIE {[}\emph{wailing.}{]} But what will they do to him? Oh, what
will they do to him? Will they hang him? {[}\emph{Judith shudders
convulsively, and throws herself into the chair in which Richard sat
at the tea table.}{]}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}help him\mbox{---}yes, yes, yes. I'll be good.

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

JUDITH {[}\emph{springing up.}{]} Oh no. You must go away\mbox{---}far
away, to some place of safety.

ANDERSON. Pooh!

JUDITH {[}\emph{passionately.}{]} Do you want to kill me? Do you think
I can bear to live for days and days with every knock at the \mbox{door\mbox{---}}every
footstep\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{bitterly.}{]} Oh, you won't go. I know it. You'll
stay; and I shall go mad.

ANDERSON. My dear, your duty\mbox{---}

JUDITH {[}\emph{fiercely.}{]} What do I care about my duty?

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{Essie
utters a cry of distress and sinks on the chair at the fire, sobbing
silently.}{]} My instinct is the same as hers\mbox{---}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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 \mbox{you\mbox{---}}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 {[}\emph{remonstrating.}{]} Come, come, come! How am I to
leave you if you talk like this? You are quite out of your senses.\ {}{[}\emph{He
turns to Essie.}{]} Essie.

ESSIE {[}\emph{eagerly rising and drying her eyes.}{]} Yes?

ANDERSON. Just wait outside a moment, like a good girl: Mrs.\ Anderson
is not well.\ {}{[}\emph{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? {[}\emph{Whispering.}{]} You
won't let her prevent you?

ANDERSON {[}\emph{smiling.}{]} No, no: it's all right. All right.\ {}{[}\emph{She
goes.}{]} That's a good girl.\ {}{[}\emph{He closes the door, and
returns to Judith.}{]}

JUDITH {[}\emph{seated\mbox{---}rigid.}{]} You are going to your
death.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{quaintly.}{]} Then I shall go in my best coat, dear.\ {}{[}\emph{He
turns to the press, beginning to take off his coat.}{]} Where\mbox{---}?
{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 puzz\-\mbox{ling\mbox{---}}almost
funny. It's curious how these little things strike us even in the
most\mbox{---}{[}\emph{he breaks off and begins putting on Richard's
coat}{]} I'd better take him his own coat. I know what he'll say\mbox{---}{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{Vacantly.}{]}
It doesn't matter: I shall never see either of you again.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{rallying her.}{]} Oh pooh, pooh, pooh! {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{She looks unutterable reproach at him.}{]} Yes, dear,
nonsense is always insincere; and my dearest is talking nonsense.
Just nonsense.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}that they will hang him and not spare you.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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! {[}\emph{Greatly distressed.}{]} To be hanged like that at
his age! And then did they take him away?

JUDITH {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}not the least in the world.

JUDITH {[}\emph{solemnly.}{]} You are going to your death, Tony\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{thunderstruck.}{]} For me!!! {[}\emph{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 steadfastness.}{]}

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 {[}\emph{exploding.}{]} Blood an' owns! {[}\emph{His voice
is rough and dominant, his gesture full of brute energy.}{]} Here!
Essie, Essie!

ESSIE {[}\emph{running in.}{]} Yes.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{impetuously.}{]} Off with you as hard as you can
run, to the inn. Tell them to saddle the fastest and strongest horse
they have {[}\emph{Judith rises breathless, and stares at him incredulously}{]}\mbox{---}the
chestnut mare, if she's fresh\mbox{---}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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{unable to believe such a thing of him.}{]} You are
not going to him!

ANDERSON {[}\emph{busy with the boots.}{]} Going to him! What good
would that do? {[}\emph{Growling to himself as he gets the first boot
on with a wrench}{]} I'll go to them, so I will.\ {}{[}\emph{To Judith
peremptorily}{]} Get me the pistols: I want them. And money, money:
I want money\mbox{---}all the money in the house.\ {}{[}\emph{He
stoops over the other boot, grumbling}{]} A great satisfaction it
would be to him to have my company on the gallows.\ {}{[}\emph{He
pulls on the boot.}{]}

JUDITH. You are deserting him, then?

ANDERSON. Hold your tongue, woman; and get me the pistols.\ {}{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{Hitching the belt into its place}{]} Do I look like
him?

JUDITH {[}\emph{turning with the purse in her hand.}{]} Horribly unlike
him.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{snatching the purse from her and emptying it on
the table.}{]} Hm! We shall see.

JUDITH {[}\emph{sitting down helplessly.}{]} Is it of any use to pray,
do you think, Tony?

ANDERSON {[}\emph{counting the money.}{]} Pray! Can we pray Swindon's
rope off Richard's neck?

JUDITH. God may soften Major Swindon's heart.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{contemptuously\mbox{---}pocketing a handful of
money.}{]} Let him, then. I am not God; and I must go to work another
way.\ {}{[}\emph{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\mbox{---}faugh! My hat: where's my hat? {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{solemnly.}{]} You may depend on him to the death.

ANDERSON. You're a fool, a fool, Judith {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{Essie returns. He swoops at her at once.}{]} Well:
is the horse ready?

ESSIE {[}\emph{breathless.}{]} It will be ready when you come.

ANDERSON. Good.\ {}{[}\emph{He makes for the door.}{]}

JUDITH {[}\emph{rising and stretching out her arms after him involuntarily.}{]}
Won't you say goodbye?

ANDERSON. And waste another half minute! Psha! {[}\emph{He rushes
out like an av\-a\-l\-anche.}{]}

ESSIE {[}\emph{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.

\emph{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.}


\chapter*{\raggedright ACT III}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{ACT III}

\markboth{THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE}{ACT III}

\emph{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.}

\emph{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.}

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

JUDITH. Shall I have long to wait?

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 {[}\emph{incredulously.}{]} He is in good spirits!

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.\ {}{[}\emph{The tramp of a couple of soldiers
is heard approaching.}{]} There: I think he's coming. {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{going to her.}{]} What! My wife. My adored one.\ {}{[}\emph{He
takes her hand and kisses it with a perverse, raffish gallantry.}{]}
How long do you allow a brokenhearted husband for leave-taking, Sergeant?

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

RICHARD. But it has struck the hour.

SERGEANT. So it has, sir; but there's a delay. General Burgoyne's
just arrived\mbox{---}Gentlemanly Johnny we call him, sir\mbox{---}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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{breathless and urgent.}{]} Oh, don't think of me:
I haven't come here to talk about myself. Are they going to\mbox{---}to\mbox{---}{[}\emph{meaning
{}``to hang you''}{]}?

RICHARD {[}\emph{whimsically.}{]} At noon, punctually. At least, that
was when they disposed of Uncle Peter.\ {}{[}\emph{She shudders.}{]}
Is your husband safe? Is he on the wing?

JUDITH. He is no longer my husband.

RICHARD {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}honest and
straightforward? If you are so selfish as that, why did you let them
take you last night?

RICHARD {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{after a pause, during which she looks shamefacedly
at him, blushing painfully.}{]} Was it for my sake?

RICHARD {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{disengaging her hand to touch his lips with it.}{]}
Don't {[}\emph{meaning {}``Don't jest''.}{]} No: by telling the
Court who you really are.

RICHARD {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{impatiently.}{]} Oh, what does all that matter?

RICHARD {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{revolted.}{]} Oh! {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{Smiling}{]}
Bless you, nobody cares for me. Have you heard that my mother is dead?

JUDITH. Dead!

RICHARD. Of heart disease\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{stonily, after a moment's silence.}{]} And I!

RICHARD {[}\emph{surprised.}{]} You?

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

RICHARD {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{almost in a whisper.}{]} How do you know? {[}\emph{She
puts her hands on his shoulders and looks intently at him.}{]}

RICHARD {[}\emph{amazed\mbox{---}divining the truth.}{]} Mrs.\ Anderson!!!
{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{wildly.}{]} Oh, I believe you \emph{want} to die.

RICHARD {[}\emph{obstinately.}{]} No I don't.

JUDITH. Then why not try to save yourself? I implore you\mbox{---}listen.
You said just now that you saved him for my sake\mbox{---}yes {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{taking her by the wrists and holding her a little
way from him, looking steadily at her.}{]} Judith.

JUDITH {[}\emph{breathless\mbox{---}delighted at the name.}{]} Yes.

RICHARD. If I said\mbox{---}to please you\mbox{---}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 \mbox{men\mbox{---}}aye,
and worthless women too. Well, they could all rise to some sort of
goodness and kindness when they were in love.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{ruthlessly}{]} for you {[}\emph{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.
{[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{Releasing her.}{]} Do you understand
that?

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

RICHARD {[}\emph{revolted\mbox{---}with fierce contempt.}{]} Is that
all it means to you?

JUDITH. What more\mbox{---}what worse\mbox{---}can it mean to me?
{[}\emph{The sergeant knocks. The blow on the door jars on her heart.}{]}
Oh, one moment more. {[}\emph{She throws herself on her knees.}{]}
I pray to you\mbox{---}

RICHARD. Hush! {[}\emph{Calling}{]} Come in. {[}\emph{The sergeant
unlocks the door and opens it. The guard is with him.}{]}

SERGEANT {[}\emph{coming in.}{]} Time's up, sir.

RICHARD. Quite ready, Sergeant. Now, my dear. {[}\emph{He attempts
to raise her.}{]}

JUDITH {[}\emph{clinging to him.}{]} Only one thing more\mbox{---}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.
{[}\emph{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\mbox{---} {[}\emph{She breaks down, sobbing.}{]}

RICHARD {[}\emph{taking her arm to lift her.}{]} Just\mbox{---}her
other arm, Sergeant.

\emph{They go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the two
men.}

\emph{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.}

SERGEANT. The General, sir.

\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{looking at him with suppressed anger.}{]} Nothing\mbox{---}except
to save our own necks, perhaps. Have you heard the news from Springtown?

SWINDON. Nothing special. The latest reports are satisfactory.

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{rising in amazement.}{]} Satisfactory, sir! Satisfactory!!
{[}\emph{He stares at him for a moment, and then adds, with grim intensity}{]}
I am glad you take that view of them.

SWINDON {[}\emph{puzzled.}{]} Do I understand that in your opinion\mbox{-----}

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 Spring\-\mbox{town\mbox{---}}the news which \emph{you}
{[}\emph{severely}{]} have apparently not heard. How soon do you get
news from your supports here?\mbox{---}in the course of a month eh?

SWINDON {[}\emph{turning sulky.}{]} I suppose the reports have been
taken to you, sir, instead of to me. Is there anything serious?

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{taking a report from his pocket and holding it up.}{]}
Springtown's in the hands of the rebels.\ {}{[}\emph{He throws the
report on the table.}{]}

SWINDON {[}\emph{aghast.}{]} Since yesterday!

BURGOYNE. Since two o'clock this morning. Perhaps \emph{we} shall
be in their hands before two o'clock to-morrow morning. Have you thought
of that?

SWINDON {[}\emph{confidently.}{]} As to that, General, the British
soldier will give a good account of himself.

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{suddenly becoming suavely sarcastic.}{]} May I ask
are you writing a melodrama, Major Swindon?

SWINDON {[}\emph{flushing.}{]} No, sir.

BURGOYNE. What a pity! \emph{What} a pity! {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{sullenly.}{]} Our duty, sir, I presume.

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{again sarcastic\mbox{---}giving him up as a fool.}{]}
Quite so, quite so. Thank you, Major Swindon, thank you. Now you've
settled the question, sir\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{he strikes the bell}{]},
especially as I am debarred by my principles from the customary military
vent for my feelings.\ {}{[}\emph{The sergeant appears.}{]} Bring
your man in.

SERGEANT. Yes, sir.

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

SWINDON {[}\emph{keeping his temper with difficulty.}{]} The staff
is perfectly ready, sir. They have been waiting your convenience for
fully half an hour. \emph{Perfectly} ready, sir.

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{blandly.}{]} So am I.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{greatly annoyed.}{]} As you please, sir. I am only
trying to do my duty under excessively trying circumstances.\ {}{[}\emph{He
takes his place in the chair of state.}{]}

\emph{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 {[}\emph{looking up and seeing Judith.}{]} Who is that woman?

SERGEANT. Prisoner's wife, sir.

SWINDON {[}\emph{nervously.}{]} She begged me to allow her to be present;
and I thought\mbox{---}

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{completing the sentence for him ironically.}{]}
You thought it would be a pleasure for her. Quite so, quite so. {[}\emph{Blandly}{]}
Give the lady a chair; and make her thoroughly comfortable.

\emph{The sergeant fetches a chair and places it near Richard.}

JUDITH. Thank you, sir.\ {}{[}\emph{She sits down after an awe-stricken
curtsy to Burgoyne, which he acknowledges by a dignified bend of his
head.}{]}

SWINDON {[}\emph{to Richard, sharply.}{]} Your name, sir?

RICHARD {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{snubbing him.}{]} We are not here to discuss your
views.

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{with an elaborate bow to the unfortunate Swindon.}{]}
I stand rebuked.

SWINDON {[}\emph{embarrassed.}{]} Oh, not you, I as\mbox{---}

BURGOYNE. Don't mention it.\ {}{[}\emph{To Richard, very politely}{]}
Any political views, Mr.\ Anderson?

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

SWINDON {[}\emph{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.

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

SWINDON {[}\emph{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.

\emph{Sensation among the officers. The sergeant has a narrow escape
from a guffaw.}

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{with extreme suavity.}{]} I believe I am Gentlemanly
Johnny, sir, at your service. My more intimate friends call me General
Burgoyne.\ {}{[}\emph{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.

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

JUDITH {[}\emph{her dread and horror deepening at every one of these
jests and compliments.}{]} How \emph{can} you?

RICHARD. You promised to be silent.

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{briefly.}{]} Yes. I meant it to be.

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{strongly deprecating this line of defence, but still
polite.}{]} Don't you think, Mr.\ Anderson, that this is rather\mbox{---}if
you will excuse the word\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{scandalised.}{]} Chut, sir\mbox{---}silence!

SERGEANT {[}\emph{in stentorian tones, greatly shocked.}{]} Silence!

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{unruffled.}{]} Ah, that is another point of view.
My position does not allow of my going into that, except in private.
But {[}\emph{shrugging his shoulders}{]} of course, Mr.\ Anderson,
if you are determined to be hanged {[}\emph{Judith flinches}{]}, there's
nothing more to be said. An unusual taste!\ however {[}\emph{with
a final shrug}{]}\mbox{---}!

SWINDON {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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. {[}\emph{Kindly}{]}
Let me persuade you to be hanged, Mr.\ Anderson?

JUDITH {[}\emph{sick with horror.}{]} My God!

RICHARD {[}\emph{to Judith.}{]} Your promise! {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{smoothly.}{]} Will 12 o'clock suit you, Mr.\ Anderson?

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

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{rising.}{]} Nothing more to be said, gentlemen.\ {}{[}\emph{They
all rise.}{]}

JUDITH {[}\emph{rushing to the table.}{]} Oh, you are not going to
murder a man like that, without a proper trial\mbox{---}without thinking
of what you are doing\mbox{---}without\mbox{---} {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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? {[}\emph{Desperately}{]} You shall
not hang him: that man is not my husband.

\emph{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 {[}\emph{in a voice so quiet and firm that it restores silence
at once.}{]} One moment, Mr.\ Anderson. One moment, gentlemen.\ {}{[}\emph{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\mbox{---}I wish to put this with all
delicacy\mbox{---}that you are not his wife?

JUDITH. I don't know what you mean. I say that he is not my husband\mbox{---}that
my husband has escaped. This man took his place to save him. Ask anyone
in the town\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{quietly, as before.}{]} Sergeant.

SERGEANT. Yes sir.

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

SERGEANT {[}\emph{making for the door.}{]} Yes sir.

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{as the sergeant passes.}{]} The first clean, sober
townsman you see.

SERGEANT. Yes Sir.\ {}{[}\emph{He goes out.}{]}

BURGOYNE. Sit down, Mr.\ Anderson\mbox{---}if I may call you so
for the present.\ {}{[}\emph{Richard sits down.}{]} Sit down, madam,
whilst we wait. Give the lady a newspaper.

RICHARD {[}\emph{indignantly.}{]} Shame!

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{keenly, with a half smile.}{]} If you are not her
husband, sir, the case is not a serious one\mbox{---}for her.\ {}{[}\emph{Richard
bites his lip silenced.}{]}

JUDITH {[}\emph{to Richard, as she returns to her seat.}{]} I couldn't
help it.\ {}{[}\emph{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.

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

SERGEANT {[}\emph{giving Burgoyne the packet.}{]} Dispatches, Sir.
Delivered by a corporal of the 53rd. Dead beat with hard riding, sir.

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

SERGEANT {[}\emph{to Christy.}{]} Now then. Attention; and take your
hat off.\ {}{[}\emph{He posts himself in charge of Christy, who stands
on Burgoyne's side of the court.}{]}

RICHARD {[}\emph{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 \emph{you}.

SWINDON. What's your name?

CHRISTY. Christy.

RICHARD {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{springing up and speaking to the sergeant in a startling
voice.}{]} Where is the man who brought these?

SERGEANT. In the guard-room, sir.

\emph{Burgoyne goes out with a haste that sets the officers exchanging
looks.}

SWINDON {[}\emph{to Christy.}{]} Do you know Anthony Anderson, the
Presbyterian minister?

CHRISTY. Of course I do.\ {}{[}\emph{Implying that Swindon must be
an ass not to know it.}{]}

SWINDON. Is he here?

CHRISTY {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{exasperatedly.}{]} Me, me, me, you\mbox{---}

SWINDON. Silence, sir.

SERGEANT {[}\emph{shouting.}{]} Silence.

RICHARD {[}\emph{impatiently.}{]} Yah! {[}\emph{To Christy}{]} He
wants to know am I Minister Anderson. Tell him, and stop grinning
like a zany.

CHRISTY {[}\emph{grinning more than ever.}{]} \emph{You} Pastor Anderson!
{[}\emph{To Swindon}{]} Why, Mr.\ Anderson's a minister\mbox{-----}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, {[}\emph{The
officers laugh outright. The soldiers grin.}{]}

SWINDON. Who arrested this man?

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?

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

SWINDON {[}\emph{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! {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{jumping up.}{]} Get out. Get out, you blithering
baboon, you.\ {}{[}\emph{Christy flies, panicstricken.}{]}

SWINDON {[}\emph{rising\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{distracted.}{]} No, no\mbox{---}

SWINDON {[}\emph{fiercely, dreading a renewal of her entreaties.}{]}
Take that woman away.

RICHARD {[}\emph{springing across the table with a tiger-like bound,
and seizing Swindon by the throat.}{]} You infernal scoundrel

\emph{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 {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{He puts out his hands to the sergeant}{]}
Here: handcuff me, will you; or I'll not undertake to keep my fingers
off him.

\emph{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 {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}

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

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{brusquely.}{]} Nonsense, sir; you hanged Dudgeon
at Springtown.

RICHARD. It was my uncle, General.

BURGOYNE. Oh, your uncle.\ {}{[}\emph{To Swindon, handsomely}{]}
I beg your pardon, Major Swindon.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{reading the name
from the letter}{]} William Maindeck Parshotter?

RICHARD. He is the Mayor of Springtown.

BURGOYNE. Is William\mbox{---}Maindeck and so on\mbox{---}a man
of his word?

RICHARD. Is he selling you anything?

BURGOYNE. No.

RICHARD. Then you may depend on him.

BURGOYNE. Thank you, Mr.\mbox{---}'m Dudgeon. By the way, since you
are not Mr.\ Anderson, do we still\mbox{---}eh, Major Swindon? {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{interrupting Judith almost fiercely as she is about
to make some wild appeal, and taking her arm resolutely.}{]} Not one
word more. Come.

\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}guess
what.

SWINDON. Their surrender, I hope.

BUGOYNE. 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 {[}\emph{quietly.}{]} Hm! {[}\emph{Turning to the door}{]}
Come to the adjutant's office.

SWINDON. What for?

BURGOYNE. To write out that safe-conduct.\ {}{[}\emph{He puts his
hand to the door knob to open it.}{]}

SWINDON {[}\emph{who has not budged.}{]} General Burgoyne.

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{enigmatically.}{]} And will you wipe out our enemies
in London, too?

SWINDON. In London! What enemies?

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{forcibly.}{]} Jobbery and snobbery, incompetence
and Red Tape.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{thunderstruck.}{]} Good God! He has disobeyed orders!

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{appalled.}{]} Impossible!

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{He goes out.}{]}

SWINDON {[}\emph{following distractedly.}{]} My God, my God! We shall
be wiped out.

\emph{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.}

SERGEANT. Halt. Front. Dress.\ {}{[}\emph{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. \emph{Get} out of it, will you? {[}\emph{He
comes upon Judith, standing near the gallows.}{]} Now then: \emph{you've}
no call here.

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

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?

\emph{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.}

SERGEANT. \emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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?

\emph{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 {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{gently reproving Richard.}{]} Try to control
yourself, and submit to the divine will.\ {}{[}\emph{He lifts his
book to proceed with the service.}{]}

RICHARD. Answer for your own will, sir, and those of your accomplices
here {[}\emph{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!
{[}\emph{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\mbox{---}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 {[}\emph{to the chaplain.}{]} Can you do nothing with him,
Mr.\ Brudenell?

CHAPLAIN. I will try, sir.\ {}{[}\emph{Beginning to read}{]} Man
that is born of woman hath\mbox{---}

RICHARD {[}\emph{fixing his eyes on him.}{]} {}``Thou shalt not kill.''

\emph{The book drops in Brudenell's hands.}

CHAPLAIN {[}\emph{confessing his embarrassment.}{]} What am I to say,
Mr.\  Dudgeon?

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

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}er\mbox{---}until
Mr.\ Dudgeon can no longer be inconvenienced by them.\ {}{[}\emph{Brudenell,
with a shrug, shuts his book and retires behind the gallows.}{]} \emph{You}
seem in a hurry, Mr.\ Dudgeon.

RICHARD {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}

RICHARD. Because you're paid to do it.

SWINDON. You insolent\mbox{---} {[}\emph{He swallows his rage.}{]}

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{allowing her to take his hand.}{]} Oh good-bye, good-bye.
Now go\mbox{---}go\mbox{---}quickly.\ {}{[}\emph{She clings to
his hand\mbox{---}will not be put off with so cold a last farewell\mbox{---}at
last, as he tries to disengage himself, throws herself on his breast
in agony.}{]}

SWINDON {[}\emph{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?

SERGEANT {[}\emph{guiltily.}{]} I dunno, sir. She's that artful\mbox{---}can't
keep her away.

BURGOYNE. You were bribed.

SERGEANT {[}\emph{protesting.}{]} No, Sir\mbox{---}

SWINDON {[}\emph{severely.}{]} Fall back.\ {}{[}\emph{He obeys.}{]}

RICHARD {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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.

\emph{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 {[}\emph{resisting Burgoyne quietly and drawing her hand away.}{]}
No: I must stay. I won't look.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{nodding approvingly as she kneels.}{]} Ah, quite
so. Do not disturb her, Mr.\ Brudenell: that will do very nicely.
{[}\emph{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.

\emph{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.}

SERGEANT {[}\emph{to Burgoyne.}{]} Ready, sir.

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

RICHARD {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{shouting as he rushes into the market place.}{]}
Amen; and stop the execution.\ {}{[}\emph{He bursts through the line
of soldiers opposite Burgoyne, and rushes, panting, to the gallows.}{]}
I am Anthony Anderson, the man you want.

\emph{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.

\emph{At a sign from the sergeant, two soldiers come forward to seize
Anderson.}

ANDERSON {[}\emph{thrusting a paper under Swindon's nose.}{]} There's
my safe-conduct, sir.

SWINDON {[}\emph{taken aback.}{]} Safe-conduct! Are you\mbox{---}!

ANDERSON {[}\emph{emphatically.}{]} I am.\ {}{[}\emph{The two soldiers
take him by the elbows.}{]} Tell these men to take their hands off
me.

SWINDON {[}\emph{to the men.}{]} Let him go.

SERGEANT. Fall back.

\emph{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 {[}\emph{exhaling a deep breath of relief, and dabbing his
perspiring brow with his handkerchief.}{]} Thank God, I was in time!

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{to the executioner in the cart\mbox{---}very politely.}{]}
Kindly undo Mr.\ Dudgeon.

\emph{The executioner takes the rope from Richard's neck, unties has
hands, and helps him on with his coat.}

JUDITH {[}\emph{stealing timidly to Anderson.}{]} Tony.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{putting his arm round her shoulders and bantering
her affectionately.}{]} Well what do you think of you husband, \emph{now},
eh?\mbox{---}eh??\mbox{---}eh???

JUDITH. I am ashamed\mbox{---} {[}\emph{She hides her face against
his breast.}{]}

BURGOYNE {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{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\mbox{---}{[}\emph{he looks as pointedly as
his good manners permit at the riding boots, the pistols, and Richard's
coat, and adds}{]} a clergyman.

ANDERSON {[}\emph{between Judith and Richard.}{]} Sir: it is in the
hour of trial that a man finds his true profession. This foolish young
man {[}\emph{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 {[}\emph{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\mbox{---}I should say Captain. I have behaved like
a fool.

JUDITH. Like a hero.

RICHARD. Much the same thing, perhaps.\ {}{[}\emph{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\mbox{---}saints
as well as soldiers.\ {}{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{To Richard}{]} See Judith
home for me, will you, my boy? {[}\emph{He hands her over to him.}{]}
Now General. {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{He pauses a moment, and adds,
with politely veiled slyness}{]} Bring Mrs.\ Anderson, if she will
be so good.\ {}{[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{He follows Anderson.}{]}

SERGEANT {[}\emph{to Swindon.}{]} What orders, sir?

SWINDON {[}\emph{savagely.}{]} Orders! What use are orders now? There's
no army. Back to quarters; and be d\mbox{---} {[}\emph{He tunes on
his heel and goes.}{]}

SERGEANT {[}\emph{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!

\emph{The drum marks time with a tremendous bang; the band strikes
up} British Grenadiers\emph{; 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\emph{. Essie, who comes in with them, runs to Richard.}

ESSIE. Oh, Dick!

RICHARD {[}\emph{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.\ {}{[}\emph{She tries to restrain
her tears, but cannot.}{]} I\mbox{---}I want to see where the soldiers
are going to.\ {}{[}\emph{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.

\emph{They shake hands on it.}

ESSIE {[}\emph{calling to them.}{]} They're coming back. They want
you.

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

\noindent \begin{center}\emph{CURTAIN.}\end{center}


\chapter*{\raggedright NOTES TO THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{NOTES}

\markboth{THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE}{NOTES TO THE DEVILS DISCIPLE}


\section*{\raggedright 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 \emph{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 1886 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 \emph{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 fair-copied, 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 \emph{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 \emph{As
You Like It} into a \emph{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:
\bigskip{}

\noindent {\footnotesize \begin{tabular}{@{}p{1.9in}p{1.4in}}

PROPOSITION. & ANSWER. \\

& \\

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.

&

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

\end{tabular}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \begin{tabular}{@{}p{1.9in}p{1.4in}}

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

&

Noted.

\end{tabular}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \begin{tabular}{@{}p{1.9in}p{1.4in}}

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.

&

Agreed.

\end{tabular}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \begin{tabular}{@{}p{1.9in}p{1.4in}}

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.

&

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

\end{tabular}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \begin{tabular}{@{}p{1.9in}p{1.4in}}

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

&

All public stores may be delivered, arms excepted.

\end{tabular}}{\footnotesize \par}

\noindent {\footnotesize \begin{tabular}{@{}p{1.9in}p{1.4in}}

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.

&

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.

\end{tabular}}{\footnotesize \par}

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.


\section*{\raggedright 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 \emph{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.
\end{document}
