Part 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TRENCHARD. Are you coming, Booth?

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

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

HUGH. What an experience for you, Edward!

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

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

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

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

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

HUGH. D'you want to speak to Edward?

ALICE. Please, Hugh.

HUGH. I'll go.

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

ALICE. Auntie has told me.

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

ALICE. I'm thinking of you.

EDWARD. I may just escape.

ALICE. So Trenchard says.

EDWARD. My hands are clean, Alice.

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

EDWARD. Mother's not very upset.

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

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

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

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

EDWARD. I'm hurt enough now.

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

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

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

EDWARD. I should think so.

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

EDWARD. [_with contempt._] Yes.

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

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

ALICE. When one thinks how most money is obtained!

EDWARD. They've not earned it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALICE. Surely those can be spared her?

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

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

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

EDWARD. I!

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

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

ALICE. It's a pity.

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

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

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

EDWARD. I'm exposing this fraud on principle.

ALICE. Perhaps that's what's wrong.

EDWARD. Wrong!

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

EDWARD. What else is there to be done?

ALICE. Well . . have you thought?

EDWARD. There's nothing else to be done.

ALICE. On principle.

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

EDWARD. It had occurred to Booth. . .

ALICE. Oh, anything may occur to Booth.

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

ALICE. How stupid of Booth!

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALICE. What?

EDWARD. It's illegal.

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

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

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

EDWARD. Yes . . practically.

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

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

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

EDWARD. Shall I do this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALICE. Would you?

_He catches a look from her._

EDWARD. Well, I might not.

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

EDWARD. You want me to try to do this?

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

ALICE. Oh, my dear . . cousin!

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALICE _stands very still, looking at him_.

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

_He turns to her, in wonder._

EDWARD. You?

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

_He understands, and is calmed and made happy._

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

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

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

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

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

THE FOURTH ACT

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

PEACEY. Good morning, sir.

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

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

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

PEACEY. I'm very sorry, sir.

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

PEACEY. Very good, sir.

EDWARD. That's all, thank you.

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

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

EDWARD. Certainly.

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

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

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

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

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

EDWARD. This is a very unpleasant subject.

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

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

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

_He is going when_ EDWARD'S _question stops him_.

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

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

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

PEACEY. Well . . truthfully, Mr. Edward?

EDWARD. As truthfully as you think suitable.

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

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

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

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

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

PEACEY. Yes.

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

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

EDWARD. That's a matter of taste.

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

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

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

PEACEY. Oh, any time will do, sir.

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

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

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

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

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

EDWARD. By all means drop the subject.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PEACEY. And who isn't?

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

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

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

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

EDWARD. Not unless you wish.

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

EDWARD. Perhaps someone will pay it you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

PEACEY _is a little comforted by this quite candid acknowledgment_.

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

EDWARD. I hope so.

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

_At this gentle insinuation_ EDWARD _looks up exasperated_.

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

PEACEY. Yes, I do.

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

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

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

EDWARD. I didn't.

PEACEY. He got things as right as rain once.

EDWARD. Did he?

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

EDWARD. But how did you find that out?

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

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

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

EDWARD. That you have great hopes of me yet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PEACEY. I will not, sir.

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

PEACEY. Here's Mr. Hugh waiting.

EDWARD. To see me? Ask him in.

PEACEY. Come in, Mr. Hugh, please.

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

EDWARD. How are you, Hugh?

HUGH. Good Lord!

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

EDWARD. How's Beatrice?

HUGH. She's very busy.

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

EDWARD. What d'you want?