Part 18

_As she goes out_ WALTER KENT _is on the way to his room. The two nod to each other like old friends._ TREBELL _turns away with something of a sigh_.

KENT. Just come?

LUCY. Just going.

KENT. I'll see you at dinner.

LUCY. Oh, are you to be here? . . that's nice.

LUCY _departs as purposefully as she came_. KENT _hurries to_ TREBELL, _whose thoughts are away again by now_.

KENT. I haven't been long there and back, have I? The Bishop gave me these letters for you. He hasn't answered the last . . but I've his notes of what he means to say. He'd like them back to-night. He was just going out. I've one or two notes of what Evans said. Bit of a charlatan, don't you think?

TREBELL. Evans?

KENT. Well, he talked of his Flock. There are quite fifteen letters you'll have to deal with yourself, I'm afraid.

TREBELL _stares at him: then, apparently, making up his mind_ . .

TREBELL. Ring up a messenger, will you . . I must write a note and send it.

KENT. Will you dictate?

TREBELL. I shall have done it while you're ringing . . it's only a personal matter. Then we'll start work.

KENT _goes into his room and tackles the telephone there_. TREBELL _sits down to write the note, his face very set and anxious_.

THE THIRD ACT

At LORD HORSHAM'S house in Queen Anne's Gate, in the evening, a week later.

_If rooms express their owners' character, the grey and black of_ LORD HORSHAM'S _drawing room, the faded brocade of its furniture, reveal him as a man of delicate taste and somewhat thin intellectuality. He stands now before a noiseless fire, contemplating with a troubled eye either the pattern of the Old French carpet, or the black double doors of the library opposite, or the moulding on the Adams ceiling, which the flicker of all the candles casts into deeper relief. His grey hair and black clothes would melt into the decoration of his room, were the figure not rescued from such oblivion by the British white glaze of his shirt front and--to a sympathetic eye--by the loveable perceptive face of the man. Sometimes he looks at the sofa in front of him, on which sits_ WEDGECROFT, _still in the frock coat of a busy day, depressed and irritable. With his back to them, on a sofa with its back to them, is_ GEORGE FARRANT, _planted with his knees apart, his hands clasped, his head bent; very glum. And sometimes_ HORSHAM _glances at the door, as if waiting for it to open. Then his gaze will travel back, up the long shiny black piano, with a volume of the Well Tempered Clavichord open on its desk, to where_ CANTELUPE _is perched uncomfortably on the bench; paler than ever; more self-contained than ever, looking, to one who knows him as well as_ HORSHAM _does, a little dangerous. So he returns to contemplation of the ceiling or the carpet. They wait there as men wait who have said all they want to say upon an unpleasant subject and yet cannot dismiss it. At last_ FARRANT _breaks the silence_.

FARRANT. What time did you ask him to come, Horsham?

HORSHAM. Eh . . O'Connell? I didn't ask him directly. What time did you say, Wedgecroft?

WEDGECROFT. Any time after half past ten, I told him.

FARRANT. [_Grumbling._] It's a quarter to eleven. Doesn't Blackborough mean to turn up at all?

HORSHAM. He was out of town . . my note had to be sent after him. I couldn't wire, you see.

FARRANT. No.

CANTELUPE. It was by the merest chance your man caught me, Cyril. I was taking the ten fifteen to Tonbridge and happened to go to James Street first for some papers.

_The conversation flags again._

CANTELUPE. But since Mrs. O'Connell is dead what is the excuse for a scandal?

_At this unpleasant dig into the subject of their thoughts the three other men stir uncomfortably._

HORSHAM. Because the inquest is unavoidable . . apparently.

WEDGECROFT. [_Suddenly letting fly._] I declare I'd have risked penal servitude and given a certificate, but just before the end O'Connell would call in old Fielding Andrews, who has moral scruples about everything--it's his trademark--and of course about this . . !

FARRANT. Was he told of the whole business?

WEDGECROFT. No . . O'Connell kept things up before him. Well . . the woman was dying.

HORSHAM. Couldn't you have kept the true state of the case from Sir Fielding?

WEDGECROFT. And been suspected of the malpractice myself if he'd found it out? . . which he would have done . . he's no fool. Well . . I thought of trying that. . .

FARRANT. My dear Wedgecroft . . how grossly quixotic! You have a duty to yourself.

HORSHAM. [_Rescuing the conversation from unpleasantness._] I'm afraid I feel that our position to-night is most irregular, Wedgecroft.

WEDGECROFT. Still if you can make O'Connell see reason. And if you all can't . . [_He frowns at the alternative._]

CANTELUPE. Didn't you say she came to you first of all?

WEDGECROFT. I met her one morning at Trebell's.

FARRANT. Actually at Trebell's!

WEDGECROFT. The day he came back from abroad.

FARRANT. Oh! No one seems to have noticed them together much at any time. My wife. . . No matter!

WEDGECROFT. She tackled me as a doctor with one part of her trouble . . added she'd been with O'Connell in Ireland, which of course it turns out wasn't true . . asked me to help her. I had to say I couldn't.

HORSHAM. [_Echoing rather than querying._] You couldn't.

FARRANT. [_Shocked._] My dear Horsham!

WEDGECROFT. Well, if she'd told me the truth! . . No, anyhow I couldn't. I'm sure there was no excuse. One can't run these risks.

FARRANT. Quite right, quite right.

WEDGECROFT. There are men who do on one pretext or another.

FARRANT. [_Not too shocked to be curious._] Are there really?

WEDGECROFT. Oh yes, men well known . . in other directions. I could give you four addresses . . but of course I wasn't going to give her one. Though there again . . if she'd told me the whole truth! . . My God, women are such fools! And they prefer quackery . . look at the decent doctors they simply turn into charlatans. Though, there again, that all comes of letting a trade work mysteriously under the thumb of a benighted oligarchy . . which is beside the question. But one day I'll make you sit up on the subject of the Medical Council, Horsham.

HORSHAM _assumes an impenetrable air of statesmanship_.

HORSHAM. I know. Very interesting . . very important . . very difficult to alter the status quo.

WEDGECROFT. Then the poor little liar said she'd go off to an appointment with her dressmaker; and I heard nothing more till she sent for me a week later, and I found her almost too ill to speak. Even then she didn't tell me the truth! So, when O'Connell arrived, of course I spoke to him quite openly and all he told me in reply was that it wouldn't have been his child.

FARRANT. Poor devil!

WEDGECROFT. O'Connell?

FARRANT. Yes, of course.

WEDGECROFT. I wonder. Perhaps she didn't realize he'd been sent for . . or felt then she was dying and didn't care . . or lost her head. I don't know.

FARRANT. Such a pretty little woman!

WEDGECROFT. If I could have made him out and dealt with him, of course, I shouldn't have come to you. Farrant's known him even longer than I have.

FARRANT. I was with him at Harrow.

WEDGECROFT. So I went to Farrant first.

_That part of the subject drops._ CANTELUPE, _who has not moved, strikes in again_.

CANTELUPE. How was Trebell's guilt discovered?

FARRANT. He wrote her one letter which she didn't destroy. O'Connell found it.

WEDGECROFT. Picked it up from her desk . . it wasn't even locked up.

FARRANT. Not twenty words in it . . quite enough though.

HORSHAM. His habit of being explicit . . of writing things down . . I know!

_He shakes his head, deprecating all rashness. There is another pause._ FARRANT, _getting up to pace about, breaks it_.

FARRANT. Look here, Wedgecroft, one thing is worrying me. Had Trebell any foreknowledge of what she did and the risk she was running and could he have stopped it?

WEDGECROFT. [_Almost ill-temperedly._] How could he have stopped it?

FARRANT. Because . . well, I'm not a casuist . . but I know by instinct when I'm up against the wrong thing to do; and if he can't be cleared on that point I won't lift a finger to save him.

HORSHAM. [_With nice judgment._] In using the term Any Foreknowledge, Farrant, you may be more severe on him than you wish to be.

FARRANT, _unappreciative, continues_.

FARRANT. Otherwise . . well, we must admit, Cantelupe, that if it hadn't been for the particular consequence of this it wouldn't be anything to be so mightily shocked about.

CANTELUPE. I disagree.

FARRANT. My dear fellow, it's our business to make laws and we know the difference of saying in one of 'em you may or you must. Who ever proposed to insist on pillorying every case of spasmodic adultery? One would never have done! Some of these attachments do more harm . . to the third party, I mean . . some less. But it's only when a menage becomes socially impossible that a sensible man will interfere. [_He adds quite unnecessarily._] I'm speaking quite impersonally, of course.

CANTELUPE. [_As coldly as ever._] Trebell is morally responsible for every consequence of the original sin.

WEDGECROFT. That is a hard saying.

FARRANT. [_Continuing his own remarks quite independently._] And I put aside the possibility that he deliberately helped her to her death to save a scandal because I don't believe it is a possibility. But if that were so I'd lift my finger to help him to his. I'd see him hanged with pleasure.

WEDGECROFT. [_Settling this part of the matter._] Well, Farrant, to all intents and purposes he didn't know and he'd have stopped it if he could.

FARRANT. Yes, I believe that. But what makes you so sure?

WEDGECROFT. I asked him and he told me.

FARRANT. That's no proof.

WEDGECROFT. You read the letter that he sent her . . unless you think it was written as a blind.

FARRANT. Oh . . to be sure . . yes. I might have thought of that.

_He settles down again. Again no one has anything to say._

CANTELUPE. What is to be said to Mr. O'Connell when he comes?

HORSHAM. Yes . . what exactly do you propose we shall say to O'Connell, Wedgecroft?

WEDGECROFT. Get him to open his oyster of a mind and . . .

FARRANT. So it is and his face like a stone wall yesterday. Absolutely refused to discuss the matter with me!

CANTELUPE. May I ask, Cyril, why are we concerning ourselves with this wickedness at all?

HORSHAM. Just at this moment when we have official weight without official responsibility, Charles . .

WEDGECROFT. I wish I could have let Percival out of bed, but these first touches of autumn are dangerous to a convalescent of his age.

HORSHAM. But you saw him, Farrant . . and he gave you his opinion, didn't he?

FARRANT. Last night . . yes.

HORSHAM. I suppose it's a pity Blackborough hasn't turned up.

FARRANT. Never mind him.

HORSHAM. He gets people to agree with him. That's a gift.

FARRANT. Wedgecroft, what is the utmost O'Connell will be called upon to do for us . . for Trebell?

WEDGECROFT. Probably only to hold his tongue at the inquest to-morrow. As far as I know there's no one but her maid to prove that Mrs. O'Connell didn't meet her husband some time in the summer. He'll be called upon to tell a lie or two by implication.

FARRANT. Cantelupe . . what does perjury to that extent mean to a Roman Catholic?

CANTELUPE'S _face melts into an expression of mild amazement_.

CANTELUPE. Your asking such a question shows that you would not understand my answer to it.

FARRANT. [_Leaving the fellow to his subtleties._] Well, what about the maid?

WEDGECROFT. She may suspect facts but not names, I think. Why should they question her on such a point if O'Connell says nothing?

HORSHAM. He's really very late. I told . . [_He stops._] Charles, I've forgotten that man's name again.

CANTELUPE. Edmunds, you said it was.

HORSHAM. Edmunds. Everybody's down at Lympne . . I've been left with a new man here and I don't know his name. [_He is very pathetic._] I told him to put O'Connell in the library there. I thought that either Farrant or I might perhaps see him first and--

_At this moment_ EDMUNDS _comes in, and, with that air of discreet tact which he considers befits the establishment of a Prime Minister, announces_, "Mr. O'Connell, my lord." _As_ O'CONNELL _follows him_, HORSHAM _can only try not to look too disconcerted_. O'CONNELL, _in his tightly buttoned frock coat, with his shaven face and close-cropped iron grey hair, might be mistaken for a Catholic priest; except that he has not also acquired the easy cheerfulness which professional familiarity with the mysteries of that religion seems to give. For the moment, at least, his features are so impassive that they may tell either of the deepest grief or the purest indifference; or it may be, merely of reticence on entering a stranger's room. He only bows towards_ HORSHAM'S _half-proffered hand. With instinctive respect for the situation of this tragically made widower the men have risen and stand in various uneasy attitudes._

HORSHAM. Oh . . how do you do? Let me see . . do you know my cousin Charles Cantelupe? Yes . . we were expecting Russell Blackborough. Sir Henry Percival is ill. Do sit down.

O'CONNELL _takes the nearest chair and gradually the others settle themselves_; FARRANT _seeking an obscure corner. But there follows an uncomfortable silence, which_ O'CONNELL _at last breaks_.

O'CONNELL. You have sent for me, Lord Horsham?

HORSHAM. I hope that by my message I conveyed no impression of sending for you.

O'CONNELL. I am always in some doubt as to by what person or persons in or out of power this country is governed. But from all I hear you are at the present moment approximately entitled to send for me.

_The level music of his Irish tongue seems to give finer edge to his sarcasm._

HORSHAM. Well, Mr. O'Connell . . you know our request before we make it.

O'CONNELL. Yes, I understand that if the fact of Mr. Trebell's adultery with my wife were made as public as its consequences to her must be to-morrow, public opinion would make it difficult for you to include him in your cabinet.

HORSHAM. Therefore we ask you . . though we have no right to ask you . . to consider the particular circumstances and forget the man in the statesman, Mr. O'Connell.

O'CONNELL. My wife is dead. What have I to do at all with Mr. Trebell as a man? As a statesman I am in any case uninterested in him.

_Upon this throwing of cold water_, EDMUNDS _returns to mention even more discreetly_ . . .

EDMUNDS. Mr. Blackborough is in the library, my lord.

HORSHAM. [_Patiently impatient._] No, no . . here.

WEDGECROFT. Let me go.

HORSHAM. [_To the injured_ EDMUNDS.] Wait . . wait.

WEDGECROFT. I'll put him _au fait_. I shan't come back.

HORSHAM. [_Gratefully._] Yes, yes. [_Then to_ EDMUNDS _who is waiting with perfect dignity_.] Yes . . yes . . yes.

EDMUNDS _departs and_ WEDGECROFT _makes for the library door, glad to escape_.

O'CONNELL. If you are not busy at this hour, Wedgecroft, I should be grateful if you'd wait for me. I shall keep you, I think, but a very few minutes.

WEDGECROFT. [_In his most matter-of-fact tone._] All right, O'Connell.

_He goes into the library._

CANTELUPE. Don't you think, Cyril, it would be wiser to prevent your man coming into the room at all while we're discussing this?

HORSHAM. [_Collecting his scattered tact._] Yes, I thought I had arranged that he shouldn't. I'm very sorry. He's a fool. However, there's no one else to come. Once more, Mr. O'Connell . . [_He frames no sentence._]

O'CONNELL. I am all attention, Lord Horsham.

CANTELUPE _with a self-denying effort has risen to his feet_.

CANTELUPE. Mr. O'Connell, I remain here almost against my will. I cannot think quite calmly about this double and doubly heinous sin. Don't listen to us while we make light of it. If we think of it as a political bother and ask you to smooth it away . . I am ashamed. But I believe I may not be wrong if I put it to you that, looking to the future and for the sake of your own Christian dignity, it may become you to be merciful. And I pray too . . I think we may believe . . that Mr. Trebell is feeling need of your forgiveness. I have no more to say. [_He sits down again._]

O'CONNELL. It may be. I have never met Mr. Trebell.

HORSHAM. I tell you, Mr. O'Connell, putting aside Party, that your country has need of this man just at this time.

_They hang upon_ O'CONNELL'S _reply. It comes with deliberation_.

O'CONNELL. I suppose my point of view must be an unusual one. I notice, at least, that twenty four hours and more has not enabled Farrant to grasp it.

FARRANT. For God's sake, O'Connell, don't be so cold-blooded. You have the life or death of a man's reputation to decide on.

O'CONNELL. [_With a cold flash of contempt._] That's a petty enough thing now-a-days it seems to me. There are so many clever men . . and they are all so alike . . surely one will not be missed.

CANTELUPE. Don't you think that is only sarcasm, Mr. O'Connell?

_The voice is so gently reproving that_ O'CONNELL _must turn to him_.

O'CONNELL. Will you please to make allowance, Lord Charles, for a mediaeval scholar's contempt of modern government? =You= at least will partly understand his horror as a Catholic at the modern superstitions in favour of popular opinion and control which it encourages. You see, Lord Horsham, I am not a party man, only a little less enthusiastic for the opposite cries than for his own. You appealed very strangely to my feelings of patriotism for this country; but you see even my own is--in the twentieth century--foreign to me. From my point of view neither Mr. Trebell, nor you, nor the men you have just defeated, nor any discoverable man or body of men will make laws which matter . . or differ in the slightest. You are all part of your age and you all voice--though in separate keys, or even tunes they may be--only the greed and follies of your age. That you should do this and nothing more is, of course, the democratic ideal. You will forgive my thinking tenderly of the statesmanship of the =first= Edward.

_The library door opens and_ RUSSELL BLACKBOROUGH _comes in. He has on evening clothes, complicated by a long silk comforter and the motoring cap which he carries._

HORSHAM. You know Russell Blackborough.

O'CONNELL. I think not.

BLACKBOROUGH. How d'you do?

O'CONNELL _having bowed_, BLACKBOROUGH _having nodded, the two men sit down_, BLACKBOROUGH _with an air of great attention_, O'CONNELL _to continue his interrupted speech_.

O'CONNELL. And you are as far from me in your code of personal morals as in your politics. In neither do you seem to realise that such a thing as passion can exist. No doubt you use the words Love and Hatred; but do you know that love and hatred for principles or persons should come from beyond a man? I notice you speak of forgiveness as if it were a penny in my pocket. You have been endeavouring for these two days to rouse me from my indifference towards Mr. Trebell. Perhaps you are on the point of succeeding . . but I do not know what you may rouse.

HORSHAM. I understand. We are much in agreement, Mr. O'Connell. What can a man be--who has any pretensions to philosophy--but helplessly indifferent to the thousands of his fellow creatures whose fates are intertwined with his?

O'CONNELL. I am glad that you understand. But, again . . have I been wrong to shrink from personal relations with Mr. Trebell? Hatred is as sacred a responsibility as love. And you will not agree with me when I say that punishment can be the salvation of a man's soul.

FARRANT. [_With aggressive common sense._] Look here, O'Connell, if you're indifferent it doesn't hurt you to let him off. And if you hate him . . ! Well, one shouldn't hate people . . there's no room for it in this world.

CANTELUPE. [_Quietly as ever._] We have some authority for thinking that the punishment of a secret sin is awarded by God secretly.

O'CONNELL. We have very poor authority, sir, for using God's name merely to fill up the gaps in an argument, though we may thus have our way easily with men who fear God more than they know him. I am not one of those. Yes, Farrant, you and your like have left little room in this world except for the dusty roads on which I notice you beginning once more to travel. The rule of them is the same for all, is it not . . from the tramp and the labourer to the plutocrat in his car? This is the age of equality; and it's a fine practical equality . . the equality of the road. But you've fenced the fields of human joy and turned the very hillsides into hoardings. Commercial opportunity is painted on them, I think.

FARRANT. [_Not to be impressed._] Perhaps it is O'Connell. My father made his money out of newspapers and I ride in a motor car and you came from Holyhead by train. What has all that to do with it? Why can't you make up your mind? You know in this sort of case one talks a lot . . and then does the usual thing. You must let Trebell off and that's all about it.

O'CONNELL. Indeed. And do they still think it worth while to administer an oath to your witnesses?

_He is interrupted by the flinging open of the door and the triumphant right-this-time-anyhow voice in which_ EDMUNDS _announces_ "Mr. Trebell, my lord." _The general consternation expresses itself through_ HORSHAM, _who complains aloud and unreservedly_.

HORSHAM. Good God . . No! Charles, I must give him notice at once . . he'll have to go. [_He apologises to the company._] I beg your pardon.

_By this time_ TREBELL _is in the room and has discovered the stranger, who stands to face him without emotion or anger_. BLACKBOROUGH'S _face wears the grimmest of smiles_, CANTELUPE _is sorry_, FARRANT _recovers from the fit of choking which seemed imminent and_ EDMUNDS, _dimly perceiving by now some fly in the perfect amber of his conduct, departs. The two men still face each other._ FARRANT _is prepared to separate them should they come to blows, and indeed is advancing in that anticipation when_ O'CONNELL _speaks_.

O'CONNELL. I am Justin O'Connell.

TREBELL. I guess that.

O'CONNELL. There's a dead woman between us, Mr. Trebell.

_A tremor sweeps over_ TREBELL; _then he speaks simply_.

TREBELL. I wish she had not died.

O'CONNELL. I am called upon by your friends to save you from the consequences of her death. What have you to say about that?

TREBELL. I have been wondering what sort of expression the last of your care for her would find . . but not much. My wonder is at the power over me that has been given to something I despised.

_Only_ O'CONNELL _grasps his meaning. But he, stirred for the first time and to his very depths, drives it home._

O'CONNELL. Yes . . If I wanted revenge I have it. She was a worthless woman. First my life and now yours! Dead because she was afraid to bear your child, isn't she?

TREBELL. [_In agony._] I'd have helped that if I could.

O'CONNELL. Not the shame . . not the wrong she had done me . . but just fear--fear of the burden of her woman-hood. And because of her my children are bastards and cannot inherit my name. And I must live in sin against my church, as--God help me--I can't against my nature. What are men to do when this is how women use the freedom we have given them? Is the curse of barrenness to be nothing to a man? And that's the death in life to which you gentlemen with your fine civilisation are bringing us. I think we are brothers in misfortune, Mr. Trebell.

TREBELL. [_Far from responding._] Not at all, sir. If you wanted children you did the next best thing when she left you. My own problem is neither so simple nor is it yet anyone's business but my own. I apologise for alluding to it.

HORSHAM _takes advantage of the silence that follows_.

HORSHAM. Shall we . .

O'CONNELL. [_Measuring_ TREBELL _with his eyes_.] And by which shall I help you to a solution . . telling lies or the truth to-morrow?