Part 5

TOZER _staggers from the dining-room drunker than ever. He falls against the baluster and waves his arms._

MR. TOZER. Silence there for the corpse!

MR. CROWE. You beast!

MR. TOZER. Respect my cloth . . Mr. Prestige.

MR. CROWE. That's not my name.

MR. TOZER. I'll have you to know that I'm Sir George Leete's baronet's most boon companion and her la'ship never goes nowhere without me. [_He subsides into a chair._]

LADY LEETE. [_Tearfully._] Snuff.

_From the dining-room comes_ ANN; _her head bent. She is crossing the hall when_ SARAH _follows, calling her_.

SARAH. Ann!

ANN _turns back to kiss her. The rest of the company stand gazing._ SIR GEORGE _gives snuff to_ LADY LEETE.

ANN. Good-bye, Sally.

SARAH. [_In a whisper._] Forget us.

GEORGE. [_Relieving his feelings._] Good-bye, everybody . . good-bye, everything.

ABUD _goes to the front door and opening it stands waiting for her. She goes coldly, but timidly to her father, to whom she puts her face up to be kissed._

ANN. Good-bye, Papa.

CARNABY. [_Quietly, as he kisses her cheek._] I can do without you.

SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_Raging at the draught._] Shut that door.

ANN. I'm gone.

_She goes with her husband._ MRS. OPIE _comes hurriedly out of the dining-room, too late_.

MRS. OPIE. Oh!

DR. REMNANT. Run . . Mrs. Opie.

CARNABY. There has started the new century!

MRS. OPIE _opens the front door to look after them_.

SIR GEORGE LEETE. [_With double energy._] Shut that door.

LADY LEETE _sneezes and then chokes. There is much commotion in her neighbourhood._

SIR GEORGE. Now she's hurt again.

DOLLY. Water!

MR. CROWE. Brandy!

SARAH. [_Going._] I'll fetch both.

GEORGE. We must all die . . some day.

MR. TOZER. [_Who has struggled up to see what is the matter._] And go to--

DR. REMNANT. Hell. You do believe in that, Mr. Toper.

MRS. OPIE. [_Fanning the poor old lady._] She's better.

CARNABY. [_To his guests._] Gentlemen . . punch.

PRESTIGE _and_ SMALLPEICE; MRS. PRESTIGE, GEORGE _and_ DOLLY _move towards the dining-room_.

MR. PRESTIGE. [_To_ SMALLPEICE.] You owe all this to me.

MR. CROWE. Dolly . . I'm going.

MRS. PRESTIGE. [_To her husband as she nods towards_ CARNABY.] Nathaniel . . look at 'im.

GEORGE. [_To his father-in-law._] Must we come too?

MRS. PRESTIGE. [_As before._] I can't help it . . a sneerin' carpin' cavillin' devil!

MRS. OPIE. Markswayde is to let . . as I hear . . Mr. Leete?

CARNABY. Markswayde is to let.

_He goes on his way to the dining-room meeting_ SARAH _who comes out carrying a glass of water and a decanter of brandy_. SIR GEORGE LEETE _is comfortably warming himself at the fire_.

* * * * *

_The living room of_ JOHN ABUD'S _new cottage has bare plaster walls and its ceilings and floor are of red brick; all fresh looking but not new. In the middle of the middle wall there is a latticed window, dimity curtained; upon the plain shelf in front are several flower-pots._

_To the right of this, a door, cross beamed and with a large lock to it besides the latch._

_Against the right hand wall, is a dresser, furnished with dishes and plates: below it is a common looking grandfather clock; below this a small door which when opened shows winding stairs leading to the room above. In the left hand wall there is a door which is almost hidden by the fireplace which juts out below it. In the fireplace a wood fire is laid but not lit. At right angles to this stands a heavy oak settle opposite a plain deal table; just beyond which is a little bench. On either side of the window is a Windsor armchair. Between the window and the door hangs a framed sampler._

_In the darkness the sound of the unlocking of a door and of_ ABUD _entering is heard. He walks to the table, strikes a light upon a tinder-box and lights a candle which he finds there._ ANN _is standing in the doorway_. ABUD _is in stocking feet_.

ABUD. Don't come further. Here are your slippers.

_He places one of the Windsor chairs for her on which she sits while he takes off her wet shoes and puts on her slippers which he found on the table. Then he takes her wet shoes to the fireplace. She sits still. Then he goes to the door and brings in his own boots from the little porch and puts them in the fireplace too. Then he locks the door and hangs up the key beside it. Then he stands looking at her; but she does not speak, so he takes the candle, lifts it above his head and walks to the dresser._

ABUD. [_Encouragingly._] Our dresser . . Thomas Jupp made that. Plates and dishes. Here's Uncle Prestige's clock.

ANN. Past seven.

ABUD. That's upstairs. Table and bench, deal. Oak settle . . solid.

ANN. Charming.

ABUD. Windsor chairs . . Mother's sampler.

ANN. Home.

ABUD. Is it as you wish? I have been glad at your not seeing it until to-night.

ANN. I'm sinking into the strangeness of the place.

ABUD. Very weary? It's been a long nine miles.

_She does not answer. He goes and considers the flower-pots in the window._

ANN. I still have on my cloak.

ABUD. Hang it behind the door there . . no matter if the wet drips.

ANN. . . I can wipe up the puddle.

_She hangs up her cloak. He selects a flower-pot and brings it to her._

ABUD. Hyacinth bulbs for the spring.

ANN. [_After a glance._] I don't want to hold them.

_He puts back the pot, a little disappointed._

ABUD. Out there's the scullery.

ANN. It's very cold.

ABUD. If we light the fire now that means more trouble in the morning.

_She sits on the settle._

ANN. Yes, I am very weary.

ABUD. Go to bed.

ANN. Not yet. [_After a moment._] How much light one candle gives! Sit where I may see you.

_He sits on the bench. She studies him curiously._

ANN. Well . . this is an experiment.

ABUD. [_With reverence._] God help us both.

ANN. Amen. Some people are so careful of their lives. If we fail miserably we'll hold our tongues . . won't we?

ABUD. I don't know . . I can't speak of this.

ANN. These impossible things which are done mustn't be talked of . . that spoils them. We don't want to boast of this, do we?

ABUD. I fancy nobody quite believes that we are married.

ANN. Here's my ring . . real gold.

ABUD. [_With a sudden fierce throw up of his head._] Never you remind me of the difference between us.

ANN. Don't speak to me so.

ABUD. Now I'm your better.

ANN. My master . . The door's locked.

ABUD. [_Nodding._] I know that I must be . . or be a fool.

ANN. [_After a moment._] Be kind to me.

ABUD. [_With remorse._] Always I will.

ANN. You are master here.

ABUD. And I've angered you?

ANN. And if I fail . . I'll never tell you . . to make a fool of you. And you're trembling. [_She sees his hand, which is on the table, shake._]

ABUD. Look at that now.

ANN. [_Lifting her own._] My white hands must redden. No more dainty appetite . . no more pretty books.

ABUD. Have you learned to scrub?

ANN. Not this floor.

ABUD. Mother always did bricks with a mop. Tomorrow I go to work. You'll be left for all day.

ANN. I must make friends with the other women around.

ABUD. My friends are very curious about you.

ANN. I'll wait to begin till I'm seasoned.

ABUD. Four o'clock's the hour for getting up.

ANN. Early rising always was a vice of mine.

ABUD. Breakfast quickly . . . and I take my dinner with me.

ANN. In a handkerchief.

ABUD. Hot supper, please.

ANN. It shall be ready for you.

_There is silence between them for a little. Then he says timidly._

ABUD. May I come near to you?

ANN. [_In a low voice._] Come.

_He sits beside her, gazing._

ABUD. Wife . . I never have kissed you.

ANN. Shut your eyes.

ABUD. Are you afraid of me?

ANN. We're not to play such games at love.

ABUD. I can't help wanting to feel very tender towards you.

ANN. Think of me . . not as a wife . . but as a mother of your children . . if it's to be so. Treat me so.

ABUD. You are a part of me.

ANN. We must try and understand it . . as a simple thing.

ABUD. But shall I kiss you?

ANN. [_Lowering her head._] Kiss me.

_But when he puts his arms round her she shrinks._

ANN. No.

ABUD. But I will. It's my right.

_Almost by force he kisses her. Afterwards she clenches her hands and seems to suffer._

ABUD. Have I hurt you?

_She gives him her hand with a strange little smile._

ANN. I forgive you.

ABUD. [_Encouraged._] Ann . . we're beginning life together.

ANN. Remember . . work's enough . . no stopping to talk.

ABUD. I'll work for you.

ANN. I'll do my part . . something will come of it.

_For a moment they sit together hand in hand. Then she leaves him and paces across the room. There is a slight pause._

ANN. Papa . . I said . . we've all been in too great a hurry getting civilised. False dawn. I mean to go back.

ABUD. He laughed.

ANN. So he saw I was of no use to him and he's penniless and he let me go. When my father dies what will he take with him? . . . for you do take your works with you into Heaven or Hell, I believe. Much wit. Sally is afraid to die. Don't you aspire like George's wife. I was afraid to live . . and now . . I am content.

_She walks slowly to the window and from there to the door against which she places her ear. Then she looks round at her husband._

ANN. I can hear them chattering.

_Then she goes to the little door and opens it._ ABUD _takes up the candle_.

ABUD. I'll hold the light . . the stairs are steep.

_He lights her up the stairs._

The Voysey Inheritance

1903-5

THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE

_The Office of Voysey and Son is in the best part of Lincoln's Inn. Its panelled rooms give out a sense of grand-motherly comfort and security, very grateful at first to the hesitating investor, the dubious litigant. Mr. Voysey's own room into which he walks about twenty past ten of a morning radiates enterprise besides. There is polish on everything; on the windows, on the mahogany of the tidily packed writing table that stands between them, on the brasswork of the fireplace in the other wall, on the glass of the fire-screen which preserves only the pleasantness of a sparkling fire, even on Mr. Voysey's hat as he takes it off to place it on the little red curtained shelf behind the door. Mr. Voysey is sixty or more and masterful; would obviously be master anywhere from his own home outwards, or wreck the situation in his attempt. Indeed there is a buccaneering air sometimes in the twist of his glance, not altogether suitable to a family solicitor. On this bright October morning, Peacey, the head clerk, follows just too late to help him off with his coat, but in time to take it and hang it up with a quite unnecessary subservience. Mr. Voysey is evidently not capable enough to like capable men about him. Peacey, not quite removed from Nature, has made some attempts to acquire protective colouring. A very drunken client might mistake him for his master. His voice very easily became a toneless echo of Mr. Voysey's; later his features caught a line or two from that mirror of all the necessary virtues into which he was so constantly gazing; but how his clothes even when new contrive to look like old ones of Mr. Voysey's is a mystery, and to his tailor a most annoying one. And Peacey is just a respectful number of years his master's junior. Relieved of his coat, Mr. Voysey carries to his table the bunch of beautiful roses he is accustomed to bring to the office three times a week and places them for a moment only near the bowl of water there ready to receive them while he takes up his letters. These lie ready too, opened mostly, one or two private ones left closed and discreetly separate. By this time the usual salutations have passed, Peacey's "Good morning, sir;" Mr. Voysey's "Morning, Peacey." Then as he gets to his letters Mr. Voysey starts his day's work._

MR. VOYSEY. Any news for me?

PEACEY. I hear bad accounts of Alguazils preferred, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. Oh . . from whom?

PEACEY. Merrit and James's head clerk in the train this morning.

MR. VOYSEY. They looked all right on . . Give me the Times. [PEACEY _goes to the fireplace for the Times; it is warming there_. MR. VOYSEY _waves a letter, then places it on the table_.] Here, that's for you . . Gerrard Cross business. Anything else?

PEACEY. [_as he turns the Times to its Finance page._] I've made the usual notes.

MR. VOYSEY. Thank'ee.

PEACEY. Young Benham isn't back yet.

MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward must do as he thinks fit about that. Alguazils, Alg--oh, yes.

_He is running his eye down the columns._ PEACEY _leans over the letters_.

PEACEY. This is from Jackson, sir. Shall I take it?

MR. VOYSEY. From Jackson. . Yes. Alguazils. Mr. Edward's here, I suppose.

PEACEY. No, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. [_his eye twisting with some sharpness._] What!

PEACEY. [_almost alarmed._] I beg pardon, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward.

PEACEY. Oh, yes, sir, been in his room some time. I thought you said Headley; he's not due back till Thursday.

MR. VOYSEY _discards the Times and sits to his desk and his letters_.

MR. VOYSEY. Tell Mr. Edward I've come.

PEACEY. Yes, sir. Anything else?

MR. VOYSEY. Not for the moment. Cold morning, isn't it?

PEACEY. Quite surprising, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. We had a touch of frost down at Chislehurst.

PEACEY. So early!

MR. VOYSEY. I want it for the celery. All right, I'll call through about the rest of the letters.

PEACEY _goes, having secured a letter or two, and_ MR. VOYSEY _having sorted the rest (a proportion into the waste paper basket) takes up the forgotten roses and starts setting them into a bowl with an artistic hand. Then his son_ EDWARD _comes in_. MR. VOYSEY _gives him one glance and goes on arranging the roses but says cheerily_. .

MR. VOYSEY. Good morning, my dear boy.

EDWARD _has little of his father in him and that little is undermost. It is a refined face but self-consciousness takes the place in it of imagination and in suppressing traits of brutality in his character it looks as if the young man had suppressed his sense of humour too. But whether or no, that would not be much in evidence now, for_ EDWARD _is obviously going through some experience which is scaring him (there is no better word). He looks not to have slept for a night or two, and his standing there, clutching and unclutching the bundle of papers he carries, his eyes on his father, half appealingly but half accusingly too, his whole being altogether so unstrung and desperate, makes_ MR. VOYSEY'S _uninterrupted arranging of the flowers seem very calculated indeed. At last the little tension of silence is broken._

EDWARD. Father . .

MR. VOYSEY. Well?

EDWARD. I'm glad to see you.

_This is a statement of fact. He doesn't know that the commonplace phrase sounds ridiculous at such a moment._

MR. VOYSEY. I see you've the papers there.

EDWARD. Yes.

MR. VOYSEY. You've been through them?

EDWARD. As you wished me . .

MR. VOYSEY. Well? [EDWARD _doesn't answer. Reference to the papers seems to overwhelm him with shame._ MR. VOYSEY _goes on with cheerful impatience_.] Come, come, my dear boy, you mustn't take it like this. You're puzzled and worried, of course. But why didn't you come down to me on Saturday night? I expected you . . I told you to come. Then your mother was wondering, of course, why you weren't with us for dinner yesterday.

EDWARD. I went through all the papers twice. I wanted to make quite sure.

MR. VOYSEY. Sure of what? I told you to come to me.

EDWARD. [_he is very near crying._] Oh, father.

MR. VOYSEY. Now look here, Edward, I'm going to ring and dispose of these letters. Please pull yourself together. [_He pushes the little button on his table._]

EDWARD. I didn't leave my rooms all day yesterday.

MR. VOYSEY. A pleasant Sunday! You must learn whatever the business may be to leave it behind you at the Office. Why, life's not worth living else.

PEACEY _comes in to find_ MR. VOYSEY _before the fire ostentatiously warming and rubbing his hands_.

Oh, there isn't much else, Peacey. Tell Simmons that if he satisfies you about the details of this lease it'll be all right. Make a note for me of Mr. Grainger's address at Mentone. I shall have several letters to dictate to Atkinson. I'll whistle for him.

PEACEY. Mr. Burnett . . Burnett v Marks had just come in, Mr. Edward.

EDWARD. [_without turning._] It's only fresh instructions. Will you take them?

PEACEY. All right.

PEACEY _goes, lifting his eyebrow at the queerness of_ EDWARD'S _manner. This_ MR. VOYSEY _sees, returning to his table with a little scowl_.

MR. VOYSEY. Now sit down. I've given you a bad forty-eight hours, it seems. Well, I've been anxious about you. Never mind, we'll thresh the thing out now. Go through the two accounts. Mrs. Murberry's first . . how do you find it stands?

EDWARD. [_his feelings choking him._] I hoped you were playing some trick on me.

MR. VOYSEY. Come now.

EDWARD _separates the papers precisely and starts to detail them; his voice quite toneless. Now and then his father's sharp comments ring out in contrast._

EDWARD. We've got the lease of her present house, several agreements . . and here's her will. Here's also a sometime expired power of attorney over her securities and her property generally . . it was for six months.

MR. VOYSEY. She was in South Africa.

EDWARD. Here's the Sheffield mortgage and the Henry Smith mortgage with Banker's receipts . . hers to us for the interest up to date . . four and a half and five per cent. Then . . Fretworthy Bonds. There's a memorandum in your writing that they are at the Bank; but you didn't say what Bank.

MR. VOYSEY. My own . . Stukeley's.

EDWARD. [_just dwelling on the words._] Your own. I marked that with a query. There's eight thousand five hundred in three and a half India stock. And there are her Banker's receipts for cheques on account of those dividends. I presume for those dividends.

MR. VOYSEY. Why not?

EDWARD. [_gravely._] Because then, Father, there are Banker's half yearly receipts for sums amounting to an average of four hundred and twenty pounds a year. But I find no record of any capital to produce this.

MR. VOYSEY. Go on. What =do= you find?

EDWARD. Till about three years back there seems to have been eleven thousand in Queenslands which would produce--did produce exactly the same sum. But after January of that year I find no record of this.

MR. VOYSEY. In fact the Queenslands are missing?

EDWARD. [_hardly uttering the word._] Yes.

MR. VOYSEY. From which you conclude?

EDWARD. I concluded at first that you had not handed me all the papers connected with----

MR. VOYSEY. Since Mrs. Murberry evidently gets another four twenty a year somehow; lucky woman.

EDWARD. [_in agony._] Oh!

MR. VOYSEY. Well, we'll return to the good lady later. Now let's take the other.

EDWARD. The Hatherley Trust.

MR. VOYSEY. Quite so.

EDWARD. [_with one accusing glance._] Trust.

MR. VOYSEY. Go on.

EDWARD. Oh, father . .

_His grief comes uppermost again and_ MR. VOYSEY _meets it kindly_.

MR. VOYSEY. I know, my dear boy. I shall have lots to say to you. But let's get quietly through with these details first.

EDWARD. [_bitterly now._] Oh, this is simple enough. We're young Hatherley's only trustees till his coming of age in about five years' time. The property was eighteen thousand invested in Consols. Certain sums were to be allowed for his education; these have been and are still being paid. There is no record as to the rest of the capital.

MR. VOYSEY. None?

EDWARD. Yes . . I beg your pardon, sir. There's a memorandum to refer to the Bletchley Land Scheme.

MR. VOYSEY. That must be ten years ago. But he's credited with the interest on his capital?

EDWARD. On paper, sir. The balance was to be reinvested. There's a partial account in your hand writing. He's credited with the Consol interest.

MR. VOYSEY. Quite so.

EDWARD. I think I've heard you say that the Bletchley scheme paid seven and a half.

MR. VOYSEY. At one time. Have you taken the trouble to calculate what will be due from us to the lad?

EDWARD. Capital and compound interest . . . about twenty six thousand pounds.

MR. VOYSEY. Yes, it's a large sum. In five years' time?

EDWARD. When he comes of age.

MR. VOYSEY. Well, that gives us, say four years and six months in which to think about it.

EDWARD _waits, hopelessly, for his father to speak again; then says_ . .

EDWARD. Thank you for showing me these, sir. Shall I put them back in your safe now?

MR. VOYSEY. Yes, you'd better. There's the key. [EDWARD _reaches for the bunch, his face hidden_.] Put them down. Your hand shakes . . why, you might have been drinking . . I'll put them away later. It's no use having hysterics, Edward. Look the trouble in the face.

EDWARD'S _only answer is to go to the fire, as far from his father as the room allows. And there he leans on the mantelpiece, his shoulders heaving._

MR. VOYSEY. I'm sorry, my dear boy. I wouldn't tell you if I could help it.

EDWARD. I can't believe it. And that you should be telling it me.

MR. VOYSEY. Let your feelings go and get that part of the business over. It isn't pleasant, I know. It isn't pleasant to inflict it on you.

EDWARD. How I got through that outer office this morning, I don't know. I came early but some of them were here. Peacey came into my room, he must have seen there was something up.

MR. VOYSEY. That's no matter.

EDWARD. [_able to turn to his father again; won round by the kind voice._] How long has it been going on? Why didn't you tell me before? Oh, I know you thought you'd pull through; but I'm your partner . . I'm responsible too. Oh, I don't want to shirk that . . don't think I mean to shirk that, father. Perhaps I ought to have discovered, but those affairs were always in your hands. I trusted . . I beg your pardon. Oh, it's us . . not you. Everyone has trusted us.

MR. VOYSEY. [_calmly and kindly still._] You don't seem to notice that I'm not breaking my heart like this.

EDWARD. What's the extent of the mischief? When did it begin? Father, what made you begin it?

MR. VOYSEY. I didn't begin it.

EDWARD. You didn't. Who then?

MR. VOYSEY. My father before me. [EDWARD _stares_.] That calms you a little.

EDWARD. I'm glad . . my dear father! [_and he puts out his hand. Then just a doubt enters his mind._] But I . . it's amazing.

MR. VOYSEY. [_shaking his head._] My inheritance, Edward.

EDWARD. My dear father!

MR. VOYSEY. I had hoped it wasn't to be yours.

EDWARD. D'you mean to tell me that this sort of thing has been going on for years? For more than thirty years!

MR. VOYSEY. Yes.

EDWARD. That's a little difficult to understand just at first, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. [_sententiously._] We do what we must in this world, Edward; I have done what I had to do.

EDWARD. [_his emotion well cooled by now._] Perhaps I'd better just listen quietly while you explain.

MR. VOYSEY. [_concentrating._] You know that I'm heavily into Northern Electrics.

EDWARD. Yes.

MR. VOYSEY. But you don't know how heavily. When I discovered the Municipalities were organising the purchase, I thought of course the stock'd be up a hundred and forty--a hundred and fifty in no time. Now Leeds won't make up her quarrel with the other place . . there'll be no bill brought in for ten years. I bought at ninety five. What are they now?

EDWARD. Eighty eight.

MR. VOYSEY. Eighty seven and a half. In ten years I may be . . ! That's why you've had to be told.

EDWARD. With whose money are you so heavily into Northern Electrics?

MR. VOYSEY. The firm's money.

EDWARD. Clients' money?

MR. VOYSEY. Yes.

EDWARD. [_coldly._] Well . . I'm waiting for your explanation, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. You seem to have recovered yourself pretty much.

EDWARD. No, sir, I'm trying to understand, that's all.

MR. VOYSEY. [_with a shrug._] Children always think the worst of their parents. I did of mine. It's a pity.

EDWARD. Go on, sir, go on. Let me know the worst.

MR. VOYSEY. There's no immediate danger. I should think anyone could see that from the state of these accounts. There's no actual danger at all.

EDWARD. Is that the worst?