Part 8

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I like to feel that my money is doing some good in the world. These mines are very useful things and forty two per cent is pleasing.

MR. VOYSEY. You're an old gambler.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_propitiatingly._] Ah, but then I've you to advise me. I always do as you tell me in the end, now you can't deny that.

MR. VOYSEY. The man who don't know must trust in the man who does! [_He yawns again._]

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_modestly insisting._] There's five thousand in Alguazils--what else could we put it into?

MR. VOYSEY. I can get you something at four and a half.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, Lord . . that's nothing.

MR. VOYSEY. [_with a sudden serious friendliness._] I wish, my dear George, you'd invest more on your own account. You know--what with one thing and the other--I've got control of practically all you have in the world. I might be playing old Harry with it for all you know.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_overflowing with confidence._] My dear feller . . if I'm satisfied! Ah, my friend, what'll happen to your firm when you depart this life! . . not before my time, I hope, though.

MR. VOYSEY. [_with a little frown._] What d'ye mean?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward's no use.

MR. VOYSEY. I beg your pardon . . very sound in business.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. May be . . but I tell you he's no use. Too many principles, as I said just now. Men have confidence in a personality, not in principles. Where would you be without the confidence of your clients?

MR. VOYSEY. [_candidly._] True!

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. He'll never gain that.

MR. VOYSEY. I fear you dislike Edward.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with pleasant frankness._] Yes, I do.

MR. VOYSEY. That's a pity.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_with a flattering smile._] Well, he's not his father and never will be. What's the time?

MR. VOYSEY. [_with inappropriate thoughtfulness._] Twenty to ten.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I must be trotting.

MR. VOYSEY. It's very early.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, and I've not said a word to Mrs. Voysey . .

_As he goes to the door he meets_ EDWARD, _who comes in apparently looking for his father; at any rate catches his eye immediately, while_ MR. BOOTH _obliviously continues_.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you stroll round home with me?

MR. VOYSEY. I can't.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_mildly surprised at the short reply._] Well, good night. Good night, Edward.

_He trots away._

MR. VOYSEY. Leave the rest of the table, Phoebe.

PHOEBE. Yes, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. You can come back in ten minutes.

PHOEBE _and_ MARY _depart and the door is closed. Alone with his son_ MR. VOYSEY _does not move; his face grows a little keener, that's all_.

MR. VOYSEY. Well, Edward?

EDWARD _starts to move restlessly about, like a cowed animal in a cage; silently for a moment or two. Then when he speaks, his voice is toneless and he doesn't look at his father._

EDWARD. I should like you now, sir, if you don't mind, to drop with me all these protestations about putting the firm's affairs straight, and all your anxieties and sacrifices to that end. I see now, of course . . what a cleverer man than I could have seen yesterday . . that for some time, ever since, I suppose, you recovered from the first shock and got used to the double dealing, this hasn't been your object at all. You've used your clients' capital to produce your own income . . to bring us up and endow us with. Booth's ten thousand pounds; what you are giving Ethel on her marriage . . It's odd it never struck me yesterday that my own pocket money as a boy was probably withdrawn from some client's account. You've been very generous to us all, Father. I suppose about half the sum you've spent on us would have put things rightfirm's affairs straight, and all your anxieties and sacrifices to that end. I see now, of course . . what a cleverer man than I could have seen yesterday . . that for some time, ever since, I suppose, you recovered from the first shock and got used to the double dealing, this hasn't been your object at all. You've used your clients' capital to produce your own income . . to bring us up and endow us with. Booth's ten thousand pounds; what you are giving Ethel on her marriage . . It's odd it never struck me yesterday that my own pocket money as a boy was probably withdrawn from some client's account. You've been very generous to us all, Father. I suppose about half the sum you've spent on us would have put things right.

MR. VOYSEY. No, it would not.

EDWARD. [_appealing for the truth._] Oh . . at some time or other!

MR. VOYSEY. Well, if there have been good times there have been bad times. At present the three hundred a year I'm to allow your sister is going to be rather a pull.

EDWARD. Three hundred a year . . and yet you've never attempted to put a single account straight. Since it isn't lunacy, sir . . I can only conclude that you enjoy being in this position.

MR. VOYSEY. I have put accounts absolutely straight . . at the winding up of a trust for instance . . at great inconvenience too. And to all appearances they've been above suspicion. What's the object of all this rodomontade, Edward?

EDWARD. If I'm to remain in the firm, it had better be with a very clear understanding of things as they are.

MR. VOYSEY. [_firmly, not too anxiously._] Then you do remain?

EDWARD. [_in a very low voice._] Yes, I remain.

MR. VOYSEY. [_quite gravely._] That's wise of you . . I'm very glad. [_and he is silent for a moment._] And now we needn't discuss the impractical side of it any more.

EDWARD. But I want to make one condition. And I want some information.

MR. VOYSEY. [_his sudden cheerfulness relapsing again._] Well?

EDWARD. Of course no one has ever discovered . . and no one suspects this state of things?

MR. VOYSEY. Peacey knows.

EDWARD. Peacey!

MR. VOYSEY. His father found out.

EDWARD. Oh. Does he draw hush money?

MR. VOYSEY. [_curling a little at the word._] It is my custom to make a little present every Christmas. Not a cheque . . notes in an envelope. [_He becomes benevolent._] I don't grudge the money . . Peacey's a devoted fellow.

EDWARD. Naturally this would be a heavily taxed industry. [_then he smiles at his vision of the mild old clerk._] Peacey! There's another thing I want to ask, sir. Have you ever under stress of circumstances done worse than just make use of a client's capital? You boasted to me yesterday that no one had ever suffered in pocket because of you. Is that absolutely true?

MR. VOYSEY _draws himself up, dignified and magniloquent_.

MR. VOYSEY. My dear Edward, for the future my mind is open to you, you can discover for yourself how matters stand to-day. But I decline to gratify your curiosity as to what is over and done with.

EDWARD. [_with entire comprehension._] Thank you, sir. The condition I wish to make is that we should really do what we have pretended to be doing . . try and put the accounts straight.

MR. VOYSEY. [_with a little polite shrug._] I've no doubt you'll prove an abler man of business than I.

EDWARD. One by one.

MR. VOYSEY. Which one will you begin with?

EDWARD. I shall begin, Father, by halving the salary I draw from the firm.

MR. VOYSEY. I see . . Retrenchment and Reform.

EDWARD. And I think you cannot give Ethel this five thousand pounds dowry.

MR. VOYSEY. [_shortly, with one of the quick twists of his eye._] I have given my word to Denis.

EDWARD. The money isn't yours to give.

MR. VOYSEY. [_in an indignant crescendo._] I should not dream of depriving Ethel of what, as my daughter, she has every right to expect. I am surprised at your suggesting such a thing.

EDWARD. [_pale and firm._] I'm set on this, Father.

MR. VOYSEY. Don't be such a fool, Edward. What would it look like . . suddenly to refuse without rhyme or reason? What would old Tregoning think?

EDWARD. [_distressed._] You could give them a reason.

MR. VOYSEY. Perhaps you'll invent one.

EDWARD. If need be, Ethel should be told the truth.

MR. VOYSEY. What!

EDWARD. I know it would hurt her.

MR. VOYSEY. And Denis told too, I suppose?

EDWARD. Father, it is my duty to do whatever is necessary to prevent this.

MR. VOYSEY. It'll be necessary to tell the nearest policeman. It is my duty to pay no more attention to these scruples of yours than a nurse pays to her child's tantrums. Understand, Edward, I don't want to force you to continue my partner. Come with me gladly or don't come at all.

EDWARD. [_dully._] It is my duty to be of what use I can to you, sir. Father, I want to save you if I can.

_He flashes into this exclamation of almost broken-hearted affection._ MR. VOYSEY _looks at his son for a moment and his lip quivers. Then he steels himself._

MR. VOYSEY. Thank you! I have saved myself quite satisfactorily for the last thirty years, and you must please believe that by this time I know my own business best.

EDWARD. [_hopelessly._] Let the money come some other way. How is your own income regulated?

MR. VOYSEY. I have a bank balance and a cheque book, haven't I? I spend what I think well to spend. What's the use of earmarking this or that as my own? You say none of it is my own. I might say it's all my own. I think I've earned it.

EDWARD. [_anger coming on him._] That's what I can't forgive. If you'd lived poor . . if you'd really devoted your skill to your clients' good and not to your aggrandisement . . then, even though things were only as they are now, I could have been proud of you. But, Father, own the truth to me, at least . . that's my due from you, considering how I'm placed by all you've done. Didn't you simply seize this opportunity as a means to your own end, to your own enriching?

MR. VOYSEY. [_with a sledge hammer irony._] Certainly. I sat that morning in my father's office, studying the helmet of the policeman in the street below, and thinking what a glorious path I had happened on to wealth and honour and renown. [_Then he begins to bully_ EDWARD _in the kindliest way._] My dear boy, you evidently haven't begun to grasp the A. B. C. of my position. What has carried me to victory? The confidence of my clients. What has earned that confidence? A decent life, my integrity, my brains? No, my reputation for wealth . . that, and nothing else. Business now-a-days is run on the lines of the confidence trick. What makes old George Booth so glad to trust me with every penny he possesses? Not affection . . he's never cared for anything in his life but his collection of prints. No; he imagines that I have as big a stake in the country, as he calls it, as he has and he's perfectly happy.

EDWARD. [_stupefied, helpless._] So he's involved!

MR. VOYSEY. Of course he's involved, and he's always after high interest too . . it's little one makes out of him. But there's a further question here, Edward. Should I have had confidence in myself, if I'd remained a poor man? No, I should not. You must either be the master of money or its servant. And if one is not opulent in one's daily life one loses that wonderful . . financier's touch. One must be confident oneself . . and I saw from the first that I must inspire confidence. My whole public and private life has tended to that. All my surroundings . . you and your brothers and sisters that I have brought into, and up, and put out in the world so worthily . . you in your turn inspire confidence.

EDWARD. Not our worth, not our abilities, nor our virtues, but the fact that we travel first class and ride in hansoms.

MR. VOYSEY. [_impatiently._] Well, I haven't organised Society upon a basis of wealth.

EDWARD. Is every single person who trusts you involved in your system?

MR. VOYSEY. What new hole are you finding to pick in my conduct?

EDWARD. My mind travelled naturally from George Booth with his big income to old Nursie with her savings which she brought you to invest. You've let those be, at least.

MR. VOYSEY. I never troubled to invest them . . it wasn't worth while.

EDWARD. Father!

MR. VOYSEY. D'you know what she brought me? . . five hundred pounds.

EDWARD. That's damnable.

MR. VOYSEY. Indeed. I give her seventy five pounds a year for it. Would you like to take charge of that account, Edward? I'll give you five hundred to invest to-morrow.

EDWARD, _hopelessly beaten, falls into an almost comic state of despair_.

EDWARD. My dear Father, putting every moral question aside . . it's all very well your playing Robin Hood in this magnificent manner; but have you given a moment's thought to the sort of inheritance you'll be leaving me?

MR. VOYSEY. [_pleased for the first time._] Ah! That is a question you have every right to ask.

EDWARD. If you died to-morrow could we pay eight shillings in the pound . . or seventeen . . or five? Do you know?

MR. VOYSEY. And my answer is, that by your help I have every intention, when I die, of leaving a will behind me of property to you all running into six figures. D'you think I've given my life and my talents to this money making for a less result than that? I'm fond of you all . . and I want you to be proud of me . . and I mean that the name of Voysey shall be carried high in the world by my children and grandchildren. Don't you be afraid, Edward. Ah, you lack experience, my boy . . you're not full grown yet . . your impulses are a bit chaotic. You emotionalise over your work, and you reason about your emotions. You must sort yourself. You must realise that money making is one thing, and religion another, and family-life a third . . and that if we apply our energies whole-heartedly to each of these in turn, and realise that different laws govern each, that there is a different end to be served, a different ideal to be striven for in each,--

_His coherence is saved by the sudden appearance of his wife, who comes round the door smiling benignly. Not in the least put out, in fact a little relieved, he greets her with an affectionate shout, for she is very deaf._

MR. VOYSEY. Hullo, Mother!

MRS. VOYSEY. Oh, there you are, Trench. I've been deserted.

MR. VOYSEY. George Booth gone?

MRS. VOYSEY. Are you talking business? Perhaps you don't want me.

MR. VOYSEY. No, no . . no business.

MRS. VOYSEY. [_who has not looked for his answer._] I suppose the others are in the billiard room.

MR. VOYSEY. [_vociferously._] We're not talking business, old lady.

EDWARD. I'll be off, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. [_genial as usual._] Why don't you stay? I'll come up with you in the morning.

EDWARD. No, thank you, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. Then I shall be up about noon to-morrow.

EDWARD. Good-night, Mother.

MRS. VOYSEY _places a plump kindly hand on his arm and looks up affectionately_.

MRS. VOYSEY. You look tired.

EDWARD. No, I'm not.

MRS. VOYSEY. What did you say?

EDWARD. [_too weary to repeat himself._] Nothing, Mother dear.

_He kisses her cheek, while she kisses the air._

MR. VOYSEY. Good-night, my boy.

_Then he goes._ MRS. VOYSEY _is carrying her Notes and Queries. This is a dear old lady, looking older too than probably she is. Placid describes her. She has had a life of little joys and cares, has never measured herself against the world, never even questioned the shape and size of the little corner of it in which she lives. She has loved an indulgent husband and borne eight children, six of them surviving, healthy. That is her history._

MRS. VOYSEY. George Booth went some time ago. He said he thought you'd taken a chill walking round the garden.

MR. VOYSEY. I'm all right.

MRS. VOYSEY. D'you think you have?

MR. VOYSEY. [_in her ear._] No.

MRS. VOYSEY. You should be careful, Trench. What did you put on?

MR. VOYSEY. Nothing.

MRS. VOYSEY. How very foolish! Let me feel your hand. You are quite feverish.

MR. VOYSEY. [_affectionately._] You're a fuss-box, old lady.

MRS. VOYSEY. [_coquetting with him._] Don't be rude, Trench.

HONOR _descends upon them. She is well into that nightly turmoil of putting everything and everybody to rights which always precedes her bed-time. She carries a shawl which she clasps round her mother's shoulders, her mind and gaze already on the next thing to be done._

HONOR. Mother, you left your shawl in the drawing-room. Can they finish clearing?

MR. VOYSEY. [_arranging the folds of the shawl with real tenderness._] Now who's careless!

PHOEBE _comes into the room_.

HONOR. Phoebe, finish here and then you must bring in the tray for Mr. Hugh.

MRS. VOYSEY. [_having looked at the shawl, and_ HONOR, _and connected the matter in her mind_.] Thank you Honor. You'd better look after your Father; he's been walking round the garden without his cape.

HONOR. Papa!

MR. VOYSEY. Phoebe, you get that little kettle and boil it, and brew me some hot whiskey and water. I shall be all right.

HONOR. [_fluttering more than ever._] I'll get it. Where's the whiskey? And Hugh coming back at ten o'clock with no dinner. No wonder his work goes wrong. Here it is! Papa you do deserve to be ill.

_Clasping the whiskey decanter, she is off again._ MRS. VOYSEY _sits at the dinner table and adjusts her spectacles. She returns to Notes and Queries, one elbow firmly planted and her plump hand against her plump cheek. This is her favourite attitude; and she is apt, when reading, to soliloquise in her deaf woman's voice. At least, whether she considers it soliloquy or conversation, is not easy to discover._ MR. VOYSEY _stands with his back to the fire, grumbling and pulling faces_.

MRS. VOYSEY. This is a very perplexing correspondence about the Cromwell family. One can't deny the man had good blood in him . . his grandfather Sir Henry, his uncle Sir Oliver . . and it's difficult to discover where the taint crept in.

MR. VOYSEY. There's a pain in my back. I believe I strained myself putting in all those strawberry plants.

MARY, _the house parlour maid carries in a tray of warmed-up dinner for_ HUGH _and plants it on the table_.

MRS. VOYSEY. Yes, but then how was it he came to disgrace himself so? I believe the family disappeared. Regicide is a root and branch curse. You must read this letter signed C. W. A. . . it's quite interesting. There's a misprint in mine about the first umbrella maker . . now where was it . . [_and so the dear lady will ramble on indefinitely._]

THE THIRD ACT

_The dining room looks very different in the white light of a July noon. Moreover on this particular day, it isn't even its normal self. There is a peculiar luncheon spread on the table. The embroidered cloth is placed cornerwise and on it are decanters of port and sherry; sandwiches, biscuits and an uncut cake; two little piles of plates and one little pile of napkins. There are no table decorations and indeed the whole room has been made as bare and as tidy as possible. Such preparations denote one of the recognised English festivities, and the appearance of_ PHOEBE, _the maid, who has just completed them, the set solemnity of her face and the added touches of black to her dress and cap, suggest that this is probably a funeral. When_ MARY _comes in the fact that she has evidently been crying and that she decorously does not raise her voice above an unpleasant whisper makes it quite certain_.

MARY. Phoebe, they're coming . . and I forgot one of the blinds in the drawing room.

PHOEBE. Well, pull it up quick and make yourself scarce. I'll open the door.

MARY _got rid of_, PHOEBE _composes her face still more rigorously into the aspect of formal grief and with a touch to her apron as well goes to admit the funeral party. The first to enter are_ MRS. VOYSEY _and_ MR. BOOTH, _she on his arm; and the fact that she is in widow's weeds makes the occasion clear. The little old man leads his old friend very tenderly._

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you come in here?

MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you.

_With great solicitude he puts her in a chair; then takes her hand._

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now I'll intrude no longer.

MRS. VOYSEY. You'll take some lunch?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No.

MRS. VOYSEY. Not a glass of wine?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. If there's anything I can do just send round.

MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you.

_He reaches the door, only to be met by the Major and his wife. He shakes hands with them both._

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Emily! My dear Booth!

EMILY _is a homely, patient, pale little woman of about thirty five. She looks smaller than usual in her heavy black dress and is meeker than usual on an occasion of this kind. The Major on the other hand, though his grief is most sincere, has an irresistible air of being responsible for, and indeed rather proud of the whole affair._

BOOTH. I think it all went off as he would have wished.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_feeling that he is called on for praise._] Great credit . . great credit.

_He makes another attempt to escape and is stopped this time by_ TRENCHARD VOYSEY, _to whom he is extending a hand and beginning his formula. But_ TRENCHARD _speaks first_.

TRENCHARD. Have you the right time?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_taken aback and fumbling for his watch._] I think so . . I make it fourteen minutes to one. [_he seizes the occasion._] Trenchard, as a very old and dear friend of your father's, you won't mind me saying how glad I was that you were present to-day. Death closes all. Indeed . . it must be a great regret to you that you did not see him before . . before . .

TRENCHARD. [_his cold eye freezing this little gush._] I don't think he asked for me.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_stoppered._] No? No! Well . . well. . .

_At this third attempt to depart he actually collides with someone in the doorway. It is_ HUGH VOYSEY.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Hugh . . I won't intrude.

_Quite determined to escape he grasps his hand, gasps out his formula and is off._ TRENCHARD _and_ HUGH, _eldest and youngest son, are as unlike each other as it is possible for_ VOYSEYS _to be, but that isn't very unlike_. TRENCHARD _has in excelsis the cocksure manner of the successful barrister_; HUGH _the rather sweet though querulous air of diffidence and scepticism belonging to the unsuccessful man of letters or artist. The self-respect of_ TRENCHARD'S _appearance is immense, and he cultivates that air of concentration upon any trivial matter, or even upon nothing at all, which will some day make him an impressive figure upon the Bench_. HUGH _is always vague, searching Heaven or the corners of the room for inspiration, and even on this occasion his tie is abominably crooked. The inspissated gloom of this assembly, to which each member of the family as he arrives adds his share, is unbelievable. Instinct apparently leads them to reproduce as nearly as possible the appearance and conduct of the corpse on which their minds are fixed._ HUGH _is depressed partly at the inadequacy of his grief_; TRENCHARD _conscientiously preserves an air of the indifference which he feels_; BOOTH _stands statuesque at the mantelpiece; while_ EMILY _is by_ MRS. VOYSEY, _whose face in its quiet grief is nevertheless a mirror of many happy memories of her husband_.

BOOTH. I wouldn't hang over her, Emily.

EMILY. No, of course not.

_Apologetically, she sits by the table._

TRENCHARD. I hope your wife is well, Hugh?

HUGH. Thank you, Trench: I think so. Beatrice is in America . . on business.

TRENCHARD. Really!

_There comes in a small, well groomed, bullet headed boy in Etons. This is the Major's eldest son. Looking scared and solemn he goes straight to his mother._

EMILY. Now be very quiet, Christopher . .

_Then_ DENIS TREGONING _appears_.

TRENCHARD. Oh, Tregoning, did you bring Honor back?

DENIS. Yes.

BOOTH. [_at the table._] A glass of wine, Mother.

MRS. VOYSEY. What?

BOOTH _hardly knows how to turn his whisper decorously into enough of a shout for his mother to hear. But he manages it._

BOOTH. Have a glass of wine?

MRS. VOYSEY. Sherry, please.

_While he pours it out with an air of its being medicine on this occasion and not wine at all_, EDWARD _comes quickly into the room, his face very set, his mind obviously on other matters than the funeral. No one speaks to him for the moment and he has time to observe them all._ TRENCHARD _is continuing his talk to_ DENIS.