Part 2

You’d always lived in a pokey way and I gave you magnificence. I’ve kept even the spirit of my part of the bargain. Your father wasn’t mentioned in the settlements. But every stick of furniture in this house has been bought with my money. The very clothes on your mother’s back are paid for by me.

CATHERINE.

That’s not true.

GEORGE WINTER.

You don’t think your father is worth the money I give him. He’s as incompetent as all the rest of these damned fools who come from the West-End and think they can make money in the City. The nincompoop thinks himself a financial authority. The charwoman of a bucket-shop could give him points.

CATHERINE.

He has his name and his position.

GEORGE WINTER.

Nowadays even a country curate will fight shy of a title on a prospectus. The salaries he gets are merely payments for you.

CATHERINE.

Oh, you’ve said all this so often. For years you’ve bullied me with your money. I was such a fool, because you said it was dishonest of me to go, rather than that even you should have the smallest cause to blame me, I bore everything. I clenched my hands and suffered.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_With a chuckle._] In a diamond tiara and a Paquin dress.

CATHERINE.

I thought I should have the strength to suffer to the end. But I haven’t. If you bought an article and it hasn’t turned out worth the money you gave for it, that’s your look out. You see, you’ve taught me something after all.

[_A very short pause._ GEORGE WINTER _makes up his mind to try compromise_.

GEORGE WINTER.

Now, look here; I’m willing to meet you half-way. I don’t ask you to come back to me. You can live as you like and where you like. I’ll give you five thousand a year. Your father can keep his directorships. The only thing I ask is that you shouldn’t apply for a divorce and that you should appear with me at certain public functions.

CATHERINE.

[_Passionately._] I want to be free. I’ve lived in an atmosphere of lies and hypocrisy till I can hardly breathe. Your good nature is merely a pose. Your generosity is merely an advertisement. You care for nothing but your own self-advancement. And I want to be rid of the horrible feeling that all sorts of shady things are going on around me that I don’t know.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Sharply._] What d’you mean?

CATHERINE.

I know that you’re not honest.

[_With a cry of rage_ GEORGE WINTER _seizes her by the shoulders violently. His passion for the moment is uncontrollable._

GEORGE WINTER.

What d’you mean? What d’you mean? What d’you mean?

CATHERINE.

You’re hurting me.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_In his rage hardly able to articulate._] Damn you, how dare you say that to me?

CATHERINE.

Let me go.

GEORGE WINTER.

Why don’t you answer? What d’you mean?

CATHERINE.

[_Shaking herself free._] I’ll tell you what I mean. I know that if the occasion arose you wouldn’t hesitate to steal.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_With a laugh of relief._] Is that all?

CATHERINE.

For years I’ve been tortured by the horror of it. Each pearl you’ve given me--and you’ve thrust them upon me--I’ve asked myself if it was honestly come by. And that’s why I want to escape from you--not only because you’ve been odiously cruel to me, even now when you’re trying to persuade me to return to you, and because you’ve flaunted before me one vulgar intrigue after another--but because I feel that all this wealth rests on lying, and swindling, and roguery.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Banteringly._] Well, you must confess that so far I’ve been eminently successful in not getting found out.

CATHERINE.

[_Taking no notice of his remark._] And now surely you have nothing more to say to me.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_With a bland smile._] My dear, knowing how important it is to me that you should return to the conjugal roof, you don’t imagine I have come without some means to persuade you.

CATHERINE.

I assure you you’re wasting your time. You’ve always told me it was valuable.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_In his most delightful manner._] You seem to be under the delusion it rests with you to make conditions.

CATHERINE.

I make no conditions. I merely announce my decision.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Taking a letter from his pocket and quietly smoothing it out on a table._] I’ve never suffered from that form of snobbishness which makes many self-made men hurl their origin in the face of a British public only too anxious to pretend it thinks them the scions of a noble house. But I have never concealed from you that mine was humble.

CATHERINE.

[_Suspiciously._] What is that paper?

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Ignoring the question._] That is one of the pills you had to swallow when I married you and your excellent but impoverished family. I started life with neither friend nor money, but with exceptionally fine parts. I soon discovered that the simplest way to succeed is by blackmail. It is astonishing how many men keep a large-sized skeleton in their cupboards. If you only get a sight of those discreditable bones, you can often make a whole family your bosom friends. I’m not boring you, am I?

CATHERINE.

You’re torturing me.

GEORGE WINTER.

This is a copy of a letter which you may remember. The original was so crumpled that I can’t help thinking you were romantic enough to sleep with it under your pillow. It begins: My very dear friend....

CATHERINE.

[_Interrupting._] How did you get that?

GEORGE WINTER.

I can never understand why people are such fools as to write love-letters. I never do. I only send telegrams.

CATHERINE.

[_With flashing eyes._] You didn’t go to my dressing-case?

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Amused._] I did indeed.

CATHERINE.

[_Looking at the Bramah-key on her bracelet._] You broke it open?

GEORGE WINTER.

When I made you a present of your dressing-case, I kept the duplicate key in case you lost yours.

CATHERINE.

It’s infamous. It’s--it’s just like you.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Smiling._] Why on earth were you so incautious as to leave it behind?

CATHERINE.

[_Indignantly._] I thought I could trust you. It never struck me that you’d pry into my private papers.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_With a chuckle._] Nonsense. You were so taken with the dramatic gesture of leaving the house in a pink satin opera cloak that you forgot all about it.

CATHERINE.

There’s nothing in any of my letters that I’m ashamed of.

GEORGE WINTER.

Would you like to look at this one?

CATHERINE.

[_Refusing to take it._] I know that there can be absolutely no harm in it.

GEORGE WINTER.

I wonder what a clever counsel would make of it. I can imagine it read in such a manner that those vague words should gather form and substance. A little irony, a grotesque emphasis here and there, and I can see the junior bar rolling with laughter. I don’t imagine a parliamentary light like your friend Robert Colby would take ridicule very well. It’s only by his entire lack of humour that he’s risen to the exalted position he now adorns.

CATHERINE.

[_Frightened._] What d’you mean, George?

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Good-humouredly._] My dear, I’m going to bring a counter petition, that’s all. You want to wash your dirty linen in public, let’s have an entire spring cleaning.

CATHERINE.

[_Scornfully._] Oh, my dear George, if you only knew how indifferent I am to such a threat! We haven’t done anything with which we can reproach ourselves.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Banteringly._] You astonish me, my dear Kate. Surely it can’t have slipped your memory that Robert Colby, snatching a brief and well-earned holiday from affairs of state, made a tour of North Italy last Easter, and you accompanied him.

CATHERINE.

[_Flaring up._] That’s not true. You know it’s not true. I went with Barbara Herbert....

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Interrupting, with a twinkle in his eye._] And a maid. It’s always a little unsafe to trust maids, especially Scotch maids with strongly religious principles.

CATHERINE.

What have you been doing?

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Taking a paper out of his pocket._] Here is another interesting little document that I’ve been at some pains to acquire. Being, alas! aware that the wife of my bosom might--turn troublesome one day or another, I thought it safe to have a weapon in my hand for future use. It is a list of the hotels at which you stayed. Shall I read it to you?

CATHERINE.

If you choose.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Hugely amused._] At Milan you stayed at the _Palace_, and Robert Colby at the _Cavour_.

CATHERINE.

[_Sarcastically._] Damning, isn’t it?

GEORGE WINTER.

But perhaps finding the _Palace_ noisy, and trusting in Mr. Robert Colby’s better judgment, at Venice you both stayed at the _Danielli_.

CATHERINE.

[_With a shrug of the shoulders._] Where else should one stay?

GEORGE WINTER.

I find in my Baedeker that there are twenty-seven hotels in Venice, but I daresay it was very natural that you should both hit upon the _Danielli_. And you took the precaution of arriving twenty hours after him. But at Ravenna, flinging prudence to the winds, you arrived on the same day, by the same train, and you put up at the same hotel.

CATHERINE.

There is only one.

GEORGE WINTER.

You had rooms seventeen and eighteen, and Barbara Herbert had room five.

CATHERINE.

There was only one vacant room on the first floor, and of course I insisted that Barbara should take it.

GEORGE WINTER.

Unselfish in the extreme, and just like you, my dear; but don’t you think it was a little indiscreet?

CATHERINE.

We had nothing to be ashamed of, and therefore we had nothing to fear.

GEORGE WINTER.

I’ve often thought that was the greatest drawback of innocence. It makes one so devilish imprudent.

CATHERINE.

I went to Italy with your express consent. I wrote and told you that I’d met Robert Colby. Chance threw us together in Venice; we found we were making practically the same tour, and we joined forces. I saw no harm in it. I see no harm in it now. You can make what use of the admissions you like.

GEORGE WINTER.

And do you think you will be able to persuade a British jury that you and Robert Colby travelled through Italy together merely to look at churches and pictures?

CATHERINE.

George, I know now that I never cared for you, but I promise you on my word of honour that I’ve never been unfaithful to you.

GEORGE WINTER.

My dear, it’s not a question of convincing me--I am the most trusting, the most credulous of mortals--but of convincing the twelve good men and true who form a British jury.

CATHERINE.

You’re not a fool, George. You know people, and you know what I’m capable of and what I’m not. In your heart you’re certain that I’ve done nothing that can give you any cause for complaint. I’ve suffered a great deal during these four years--I wouldn’t wish my worst enemy to go through what I have--I implore you not to drag me through this horror.

GEORGE WINTER.

My dear, your simple-mindedness positively takes me aback.

CATHERINE.

[_Indignantly._] How can you be so ignoble?

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Dropping his bantering tone, quickly and sternly._] You must know me very little, Kate. My whole life is at stake, and you think I’m going to be moved by entreaties or abuse? I’m at the most critical point of my career. Part of my strength is that I never deceive myself. I’m only an adventurer. My millions are paper millions, and I want to be in such a position that if I’m in need of half a million I can go to the big men and get it, and if one of them asks me for half a million I can afford to put it down. And now, if only I hold on, I shall get everything I want. And you come and whine before me and play the fool. What d’you think I care for your twopenny-halfpenny love-affairs? Do what you like. I don’t care, so long as you’re not flagrant.

CATHERINE.

[_Indignantly._] Oh!

GEORGE WINTER.

That anyone can be such a fool as to let love interfere with his life! It’s so unimportant.

CATHERINE.

To me it means the whole world.

GEORGE WINTER.

Well, I give you your choice. If you bring an action against me I bring a counter-petition.

CATHERINE.

[_Stung into defiance._] My choice is made long ago. I’m strong in my innocence.

GEORGE WINTER.

You’ll ruin me and ruin your father, but you’ll ruin Robert Colby as well.

CATHERINE.

[_Quickly._] What do you mean?

GEORGE WINTER.

You don’t mean to say you’re so simple-minded as to imagine he can do anything but resign his seat if he were made co-respondent in a divorce case? They say, if we get in again, he’s to be given the Ministry of War. Humpty-Dumpty. It’s the end of his political career.

CATHERINE.

[_Desperately._] We have nothing to reproach ourselves with. Nothing.

GEORGE WINTER.

You sent a note to him last night. What did you say?

CATHERINE.

[_Defiantly._] I asked him to come here at twelve o’clock.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Taking out his watch._] It’s nearly twelve now. I’ll wait. And you shall talk to him.

[_Enter_ ANNE ETCHINGHAM _and_ TEDDIE O’DONNELL. ANNE _is like her sister_ CATHERINE, _but smaller and slighter; she is brighter as well and more vivacious, with pretty caressing ways_. EDWARD O’DONNELL _is an insignificant, amiable, good-looking young man of three-and-twenty_.

ANNE.

[_As she comes in._] Good morning, good people.

CATHERINE.

[_With a pleasant, affectionate smile._] Ah, Nan.

ANNE.

[_Going up to_ GEORGE WINTER.] Well, how is my great brother-in-law?

GEORGE WINTER.

He’s in his usual rude health, thank you.

ANNE.

I’ve brought Teddie to introduce him to you.

O’DONNELL.

How d’you do?

ANNE.

[_With a flourish._] This is the Napoleon of Finance. He owns seventeen companies, five gold mines, two railways, a house in Portman Square, two places in the country, a yacht, five motor-cars, the family of Etchingham....

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Interrupting._] Take a long breath and say ninety-nine.

ANNE.

[_Laughing._] Don’t be ridiculous.

GEORGE WINTER.

Now, what is it you want?

ANNE.

I? [_Coaxingly._] You’re an old dear, George.

GEORGE WINTER.

I thought so. Well, what is it?

ANNE.

I want you to give Mr. O’Donnell a job.

CATHERINE.

Anne!

O’DONNELL.

I say, Nan, you needn’t put it so bluntly.

ANNE.

It’s no good beating about the bush with George, is it?

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Amused and pleased._] Not much.

ANNE.

Now, sit down and let me talk sensibly to you.

CATHERINE.

Anne, I’d rather you didn’t--just now. George and I are busy.

GEORGE WINTER.

Have they interrupted you, darling? I thought you had nothing more you wanted to say.

ANNE.

Is anything the matter?

GEORGE WINTER.

Nothing. Kate’s a little under the weather this morning.

ANNE.

Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. What is it?

GEORGE WINTER.

I warned you not to eat that _pâté de foie gras_ last night, my dear. It always disagrees with you.

CATHERINE.

Please don’t worry about me.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_To_ ANNE.] Why d’you want me to give Mr. O’Donnell a job?

ANNE.

Because he’s my young man.

GEORGE WINTER.

Is he, by Jove!

O’DONNELL.

I offered her my hand and heart....

ANNE.

[_Interrupting._] And being a practical person I promptly inquired what were his worldly possessions.

O’DONNELL.

They’re not only nil, they’re astonishingly nil. In point of fact, if you reckon debts they’re positively minus.

ANNE.

So I fell into his arms and said, let us put up the banns at once.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Very jolly and affable._] That’s where I come in.

ANNE.

Well, I thought he might manage one of your railways or be your chauffeur, or if you didn’t think he was good enough for that you might make him director of one of your companies.

CATHERINE.

Nan, you don’t know what you’re talking about.

ANNE.

Good heavens, if papa can direct companies surely Teddie can.

CATHERINE.

No, I didn’t mean that. But there are circumstances that you don’t understand. Mr. O’Donnell can’t ask George to do anything for him. Mr. O’Donnell....

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Quite good-humouredly._] Really, Kate, you might let me answer for myself.

ANNE.

George always said he’d help me when I wanted to marry.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_To_ O’DONNELL.] I presume your idea is to go into the City?

O’DONNELL.

Yes, more or less.

GEORGE WINTER.

Educated at a public school, I suppose?

O’DONNELL.

Yes, I was at Harrow.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_With a twinkle in his eye._] Then I may take it that you tried to get into the Army and failed?

O’DONNELL.

Yes, I suppose I did.

GEORGE WINTER.

And you hadn’t got enough money to go into the diplomatic?

ANNE.

How on earth d’you know, George?

GEORGE WINTER.

When a young man of family and education tells me he wants to go into the City, I know it’s because he’s too incompetent to do anything else. Fifty years ago the fool of good family went into the Church, now he goes into the City.

O’DONNELL.

You’re not very flattering.

GEORGE WINTER.

I dare say you’ll suit me all right.

ANNE.

Oh, George, you are a brick.

GEORGE WINTER.

Give me a kiss and I’ll find him a job.

ANNE.

I’ll give you two.

[_She kisses him on both cheeks._

GEORGE WINTER.

I shan’t find him two jobs.

ANNE.

I can’t imagine why everybody’s so afraid of you, George. You’re an old dear.

GEORGE WINTER.

A heart of gold, that’s what I always tell Kate. [_To_ O’DONNELL.] Come and see me to-morrow morning, and we’ll have a talk about things.

O’DONNELL.

It’s awfully good of you.

GEORGE WINTER.

You know, you’ll have to do as you’re told if you come to me.

O’DONNELL.

I dare say I shan’t mind that.

GEORGE WINTER.

It’s not always pleasant being at the beck and call of a damned bounder.

O’DONNELL.

How d’you mean?

GEORGE WINTER.

Of course you look upon me as a damned bounder. I know that. I wasn’t educated at Harrow. My father was a hatter at Middlepool, a Nonconformist, and an aitchless one at that. I went to sea when I was fourteen, and when I was your age I was earning twenty-five bob a week as clerk in a bucket shop. Of course I’m a damned bounder.

ANNE.

Now, George, don’t be disagreeable.

GEORGE WINTER.

Well, run along, children.... Have you spoken to your father about this?

ANNE.

No, we’re going to leave you to do that.

GEORGE WINTER.

Are you?

ANNE.

Well, you see, father’s sure to kick up a bit of a row because Teddie’s so absolutely stony, but if you say you’ve given him a job....

CATHERINE.

Father may object....

ANNE.

Oh, he wouldn’t dare if George said it was all right.

[CATHERINE _gives a slight gesture, partly of vexation and partly of dismay_.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Kindly._] Are you really very keen on marrying?

ANNE.

Awfully.

GEORGE WINTER.

Well, I’ll see what I can do. Good-bye.

[_He nods to_ O’DONNELL. O’DONNELL _and_ ANNE _go out. As soon as they have gone_, CATHERINE _starts up_.

CATHERINE.

George, you’re not going to take Teddie O’Donnell in your service. You must understand it’s impossible.

GEORGE WINTER.

[_Coolly._] Why?

CATHERINE.

We can accept nothing from you.

GEORGE WINTER.

This disinterestedness is rather a new trait in your family, isn’t it?

CATHERINE.

You’re only wasting his time in making him come down to see you to-morrow.

GEORGE WINTER.

I don’t suppose it’s as valuable as all that.

CATHERINE.

Anne will have to be told the facts, and she’ll see at once that it’s out of the question for Teddie to accept favours from you.

GEORGE WINTER.

I wonder.

CATHERINE.

[_Defiantly._] I have no doubt of it.

GEORGE WINTER.

Do you think she’ll be pleased when she’s told that, owing to your unreasonableness, her marriage can’t take place? Are you sure she won’t say that she has no quarrel with me?

CATHERINE.

I should make her understand.

GEORGE WINTER.

It seems rather selfish on your part, doesn’t it? If Anne’s heart is set upon marrying this rather foolish boy, have _you_ the heart to prevent her?

CATHERINE.

I’ve sacrificed myself long enough. It’s Anne’s turn now.

GEORGE WINTER.

You’ll find self-sacrifice one of the forms of self-indulgence in which people are never wildly anxious to take turn and turn about.

CATHERINE.

What can you do with Teddie O’Donnell? He’s no good to you.

GEORGE WINTER.

I’m not sure. I like dealing with gentlemen. When they go into the City they take to dirty work with an alacrity which you often don’t find in the City man born and bred.

CATHERINE.

Even if there was nothing else, I would do all I could to prevent a decent boy from being exposed to your influence.

GEORGE WINTER.

Well, you may try yours on Anne. Tell her that I’ll start her young man on four hundred a year, and I’ll allow her a couple of hundred more, so that they can marry next week if they want to. And add that you are divorcing me, and it would be monstrous if either of them accepted my offer.

CATHERINE.

Oh, I know well enough that you didn’t make him pretty speeches because you took any interest in doing a kindness. It was merely another coil of the chain you’ve twisted round me. Oh, it’s fiendish. Each way I turn I find that you bar my way.

GEORGE WINTER.

In the agitation of the moment you seem to be mixing your metaphors, my dear.

[THOMPSON, _the butler, comes in_.

THOMPSON.

Mr. Robert Colby has come, madam.

GEORGE WINTER.

Is he waiting downstairs?

THOMPSON.

I’ve shown him in the morning-room. He said he would wait till you were disengaged, ma’am.

GEORGE WINTER.

Ask him to come up. [_To_ CATHERINE.] I’ll leave you----

THOMPSON.

Very good, sir.

[_Exit._

GEORGE WINTER.

With my best wishes. I’ll go and discuss the weather and the crops with your excellent father, and you shall discuss the situation with Robert Colby.

CATHERINE.

For goodness’ sake leave me alone.

GEORGE WINTER.

Suggest a counter-petition and see how he takes it. My own impression is that he’ll run like a rabbit.

[GEORGE WINTER _goes towards the door that leads into the library and stops_.

GEORGE WINTER.

And if he does, you know whose arms are open to receive you. Whose 60 Mercedes is panting to take you to whose sheltering roof.

[_With a guffaw he goes out._ CATHERINE _gives a sigh of exhaustion and then braces herself for the coming interview_.

[_Enter_ ROBERT COLBY. _He is a handsome man of forty, spare and active, with a refined face and good features. He is clean shaven. His hair is grey. He has charming manners and an air of slightly old-fashioned courtesy. His voice is soft and pleasant._

THOMPSON.

Mr. Robert Colby.

[CATHERINE _goes to him with both hands out-stretched. Her manner becomes brighter and more joyous. She seems to throw off the load of wretchedness which had oppressed her. The_ BUTLER _goes out_.

CATHERINE.

How good of you to come.

COLBY.

[_Taking her hands._] You look as if you were surprised to see me.

CATHERINE.

You must be frantically busy. I thought you might not be able to manage it.

COLBY.

You know very well wild labour leaders couldn’t have prevented me.

CATHERINE.

Of course I know you wouldn’t really let me interfere with anything serious, but it’s very pleasant to flatter myself that the whole country is waiting while you’re wasting your time with me. D’you know what I’ve done?

COLBY.

I suspected what your note meant, but I’m anxious to hear it from your own lips.

CATHERINE.

I’ve crossed the Rubicon. I’m seeing my solicitor to-day, and the petition will be filed as soon as ever it’s possible.

COLBY.

I’m so glad. You had no right to go on with that degrading life.

CATHERINE.

I want you to assure me again that I’m right. I’m so weak. I feel so utterly defenceless.

COLBY.

It won’t be very long now before....

CATHERINE.

[_Interrupting._] No, not yet, Robert.

COLBY.

I want to tell you at once how passionately I love you.

CATHERINE.

[_With the tenderest of smiles._] D’you think it’s needful? I’m so glad to think you’ve never made love to me. There was all the love I wanted in the look of your eyes, and your voice, though you said quite commonplace things, told me that you cared for me.

COLBY.

I’ve never even kissed your hand, Kate.

CATHERINE.

I’m very grateful to you. Now more than ever I want to feel quite sure that we have nothing to reproach ourselves with.

COLBY.

It’s rather hard on me.