by George Moore
LADY ANNE.
The night is chill, and I cannot remain by this window. (She wraps herself in her scarf and they come down the stage and sit at table.)
REID.
Little children in empty rooms crying for bread. The thought is unbearable. The next time the clock strikes I may be a murderer. Anne, Anne! (Throws himself on his knees.) Let me beg mercy of you. I beg mercy of you.
LADY ANNE.
What am I to say? The situation is a terrible one, I know. (Buries her face in her hands.) I am not the cruel, heartless woman you think me. I wouldn’t walk over a fly on the ground if I could help it But what am I to do? Did you not say yourself, that to surrender this money would bring ruin on the miners?
REID.
Yes. (Getting up.) That is the tragedy of the whole thing, the horror of the situation. But in my heart I know, Anne, that I would not have detained that cheque if I had not loved you.
LADY ANNE.
Then you regret?
REID.
That I love you? I might as well regret that I breathe, that I was born. My fear is to lose you. Then I should have realised nothing.
LADY ANNE.
Perhaps we ought never to have met. I have ruined you. What will be the end of all this?
REID.
Let us go away from here; let the cheque be acknowledged. We are not answerable for the catastrophe the miners bring upon themselves. I’ll work for you. I cannot give you back your lost wealth, but I can give you a competence. I beseech you, Anne, do this for me; if not for their sake, for the sake of my love. I want to love you, to love you always.
LADY ANNE.
You want me to fly with you, to leave everything. (REID takes her hands.) It would be nice to go far away, to some beautiful country — far from this trouble. I think we could love one another.
REID.
I have often dreamed such a love-story. Is it possible that my dream will be realised?
LADY ANNE.
Ah! if I could leave everything for you! Society, friends, riches — but can I? You forget what all this means to me.
REID.
I have abandoned all things for you. Honour and truth, and that pity for humanity which was once so dear to me.
LADY ANNE.
We cannot abandon the life we were brought up in. You tried to, but you’ve come back to it.
REID.
Anne, your fortune is in desperate peril. You’re no longer sure that Baron Steinbach will help you. What will you do if you find yourself utterly ruined?
LADY ANNE.
You mean if I were left worth nothing, and had to think of — I don’t say of earning my bread, but being very poor — two or three hundred a year.
REID.
If you loved me you would not hesitate.
LADY ANNE.
I do love you, but this is folly. I cannot even think of myself as a poor woman — it is impossible. I should commit suicide.
REID.
Suicide!
LADY ANNE.
Why not? I’m not afraid of death. It is so easy to die. (Going to cabinet.) Last year a favourite dog of mine had to be destroyed. (Shows a small bottle.) A few of these white grains, and the poor brute leaped up in the air and fell stone dead.
REID.
And if to-morrow you found yourself ruined you would — you shall not. (He snatches the bottle.)
LADY ANNE.
Give me that, you’ve no right to —
(The FOOTMAN enters.)
FOOTMAN.
Miss Sands is downstairs, your ladyship. She wants to see Mr. Reid.
LADY ANNE (to REID).
I must say that you’re not here.
REID.
Is not that piling falsehood upon falsehood?
LADY ANNE.
Very well, go to her. But before you go, do not forget that you’ve to make a restitution to me. Give me what you took from me just now.
REID.
Let him say that I’m not here.
LADY ANNE (to FOOTMAN).
Tell Miss Sands that Mr. Reid is not here, that he left an hour ago. (Exit FOOTMAN.) How did they discover you were here? You must have been followed.
REID.
What can she have come for? If news of the cheque has reached them I’m lost LADY ANNE.
But you’ll admit nothing, for my sake, to save me.
REID.
Anne, this is ruin. The detention of the cheque must be discovered. You asked for a few hours’ delay — nearly a week has passed.
LADY ANNE.
To-morrow the men will surrender.
REID.
Children are starving, Anne. You’ve not seen their haggard faces. Anne, let that cheque be acknowledged — let us go away together.
LADY ANNE.
What folly, what folly this is!
(Enter FOOTMAN.)
FOOTMAN.
Miss Sands says she knows Mr. Reid is here, and refuses to leave until she has seen him.
LADY ANNE.
I dare not have her turned out. (To REID.) Dare I trust you with her; are you sure that she’ll not win you from me?
REID.
No one can win me from you.
LADY ANNE.
But she’ll speak to you of honour, duty!
REID.
You’re my only duty.
LADY ANNE (to FOOTMAN).
Show Miss Sands up. — (Exit FOOTMAN.)
What can she have come for?
REID, She may have come to question —
(Enter ELLEN SANDS.)
ELLEN.
I apologise, Lady Anne, for my intrusion.... You’ll readily believe that it is as disagreeable for me to come as for you to receive me.
(LADY ANNE affects occupation with some wool-work?)
LADY ANNE.
Won’t you sit down, Miss Sands?
ELLEN.
I’m an intruder. Only the most important business could have brought me here, therefore there’s no reason why I should sit down.
LADY ANNE.
As you like, Miss Sands. I didn’t wish you to seem as if you’d come after a situation, that’s all. Your business is important, and you see the hour is late.
ELLEN.
And yet Mr. Reid is here.
LADY ANNE.
Mr. Reid and I are old friends, as I believe you’re aware. He’s been dining here.... You see I continue to answer your questions.
ELLEN.
Dining here! — one of the few houses where there has been dinner to-night The town is starving. Ah, the poor little children crying for bread... wild work may happen before morning.
REID.
This morning I besought the men to relinquish the hopeless struggle, but you and others opposed my advice. You insisted that the books of capitalists could not be trusted, that to go back to work unless every demand was acceded to was to go back to slavery. Therefore I say, Ellen, let the guilt be upon your head — the suffering endured and the acts it may bring about.
ELLEN.
I do not hesitate to accept the responsibility. The fate of unborn generations is involved in the struggle. The men must triumph.
REID.
Triumph! Then you really call into question the evidence of the books.
ELLEN.
This tale has been disproved a hundred times. All that concerns capital is false and corrupt. Capital must be destroyed.
LADY ANNE.
Of course, Miss Sands; but may I ask if it was only that I might hear your views on this all-absorbing question that you forced your way into my house?
ELLEN.
No, Lady Anne, it was not. Matters have arrived at a crisis, and we do not know on what side — can I still say our leader, is fighting.
LADY ANNE.
Indeed. It seems to me that Mr. Reid has very clearly defined his position.
ELLEN.
Have you gone over to the other side?
REID.
If to state the truth is
to go over to the other side, I have done so.
LADY ANNE.
Are you satisfied, Miss Sands?
ELLEN.
I fully understand! I do not contest Mr. Reid’s right to change his opinions, but before every dissolution of partnership there is a general settling. There are certain matters on which I must speak to Mr. Reid alone.
LADY ANNE.
Miss Sands, you’re presuming on the tolerance I extend to you — let me remind you that there are limits. But perhaps this is a matter that Mr. Reid will settle for himself.
REID (to LADY ANNE).
I cannot refuse to discuss whatever matters Miss Sands may desire to discuss with me. You’ll excuse me, Lady Anne. (LADY ANNE bows coldly.) Ellen, I’m at your service. (To LADY ANNE.) It is not possible for me to do otherwise. I’ll return in a few minutes. (ELLEN has moved towards the door.)
LADY ANNE.
But, Miss Sands, there’s no reason why you should leave. You can talk with Mr. Reid here. (Gathers up the wool-work, and exit.)
REID.
Ellen, we’re alone.... You’ve come to speak to me on an important matter.
ELLEN.
Yes; and I’ll not linger in the purely personal matter of the transference of your affections to Lady Anne, though that too must be settled. You’ve ceased to love me?
REID.
I’ll waste no time in excuses.
ELLEN.
That’s right — the mere fact.
REID.
I have.
ELLEN.
Ah, you love her, and will never care for me again. (She sits down, buries her face in her hands, struggling with her emotion.) An overmastering passion, the plea of every libertine. Oh, that you should have lied to me so — the utter vileness of it REID.
I didn’t lie to you. When I told you last week that I loved you, and that you could trust me, I thought I was speaking the truth. I was mistaken.
ELLEN (getting up).
After all, you’re under no obligation to love me; we’re free to choose, and I suppose to rectify our mistakes. It must be so, only — only —
REID.
I thought it was only for the sake of the cause that you cared for me.
ELLEN.
Did she say so? There are as many ways of loving as of living. She loves as she lives. I love as I live. (Dashes a tear aside.) And for the sake of this new love you have abandoned not only me, but the cause itself?
REID.
No. It was the desperate policy you’ve pursued in the present strike that destroyed my belief — a policy that has brought men and women and children to the verge of starvation, that will probably end in riot, violence, murder — a policy that if pursued will reduce the world to a desert, and change civilised man back to a barbarian.
ELLEN.
Even that were better than the present system should endure.
REID.
It is those very opinions that have produced a change in mine.
ELLEN.
Are you sure, John?
REID.
We’re sure of nothing. It were vain to argue about motives — human motive is inscrutable. You’ve come on a matter of urgent business?
ELLEN.
Yes, on the most urgent business.
REID.
Then why have you not spoken before?
ELLEN.
I hesitated.
REID.
You hesitated. You undecided!
ELLEN.
You’re gravely concerned in it.... But I must tell you. There’s a rumour of a large sum of money having been sent to the strike fund. The letter that contained the cheque was directed to you. It has been suggested that you suppressed the cheque so that you might more easily persuade the miners to return to work.
REID.
Who’s my accuser? No matter; do you believe him?
ELLEN.
I cannot believe such a thing of you.
REID.
Then why do you ask?
ELLEN.
Because your life will be in danger if the rumour proceeds further.
REID.
A word from you’ll quench it at once.
ELLEN.
Exactly; and it is for the authority to speak that I come here. A word from me is sufficient, and that word shall be spoken if you say that the rumour is false.
REID.
I can ask no favour from you. We’re fighting on different sides.
ELLEN.
Deny it; for if you do not —
REID.
You’ll have to denounce me —
ELLEN.
I shall have to say that you declined to deny it, which amounts to the same thing.
REID.
And you’ll do this?
ELLEN.
I must REID.
Then — Ellen —
ELLEN.
Hush; the time has passed for denial. A moment ago I should have taken your word.... Now I cannot And so for her vicious sake you detained money that was sent to save men and women and children from famine.
REID.
It was for their sake I detained it Is it worse to suppress a cheque that you know must lead to utter destruction than it is to tell men that books have been kept falsely and urge them to persevere in a mad endeavour which you know must end in their ruin?
ELLEN.
Which I know!
REID.
Which the slightest exercise of common sense must tell you will lead them into irretrievable disaster; and you did this for the sake of theories which, when put to the test, may prove as vain as the wind. You lied to them for the sake of your theories — I held my tongue for their welfare; which of us is the greater culprit?
ELLEN.
I do not believe those books; in the way of man’s regeneration there are many pitfalls.
REID.
There are indeed, and I’m not the only one.
ELLEN.
We’ve not come together to discuss, but to act Immediately your treachery is known your life will be forfeited — you must fly the town.
REID.
They shall listen to me, I will save them. Justice and good sense shall triumph. I’ll go to them whom you say are waiting to assassinate me, and in the market-place I’ll confute you and your friends, who would lead them on to their ruin.
ELLEN.
Do not go to the market-place if you value your life.
REID.
If I carry the men with me my life will become of value; if I fail, I may as well perish at their hands as any other way.
ELLEN.
I shall not help you — you go at your peril.
REID.
I do not ask your help. — (Exit.)
ELLEN (speaking like one in a dream).
He’s gone to his death. I cannot save him. He detained the money for her sake.
(She turns and goes out slowly. The FOOTMAN enters a moment after with a lamp. He places it on the table, looks to the wicks, draws curtains, goes back to lamp. A minute and a half elapses; then a knocking is heard at window opening on to lawn.)
FOOTMAN.
Who is there?
STEINBACH.
Baron Steinbach; open at once. ( The FOOTMAN opens window. Enter STEINBACH dressed in a long travelling overcoat.) Where’s her ladyship?
FOOTMAN.
I think her ladyship is in her room.
STEINBACH.
Then send to her, and say that I’m waiting to speak to her on a matter that does not admit of delay. (Enter LADY ANNE.) Oh, here is Lady Anne. (FOOTMAN withdraws.) I was just sending the footman to you with a message that you were to come to me at once.
LADY ANNE.
What is it? What has happened?
STEINBACH.
The town is mad with famine, the men’s leaders are losing all control, wild threats are being uttered, and at this moment a riotous feeling may begin. I’ve telegraphed for a detachment of soldiers; it is doubtless on its way here.
LADY ANNE.
But he? Where is he? Where are they?
STEINBACH.
Who?
LADY ANNE.
John Reid and Ellen Sands; they were here a short time ago. Have they gone?
STEINBACH.
Reid passed me at the bottom of the garden. He was calling to the people. Crowds followed him. I asked a passer-by what was the meaning of it He said Reid was on his way to the market-place to address a meeting.
LADY ANNE.
So she’s succeeded in persuading him; she’s won him over, and he’s gone to betray me.
STEINBACH.
Gone to betray you! What do you mean, Anne?
LADY ANNE.
I’d better tell you all. When John Reid came here last week to examine the books; when he left the library convinced that the men’s demands were impracticable, Ellen Sands arrived with a letter; that letter contained a cheque for £2000.
STEINBACH.
And for your sake he suppressed the fact of the arrival of the cheque, intending to acknowledge it when he had persuaded the abandonment of the strike and the men were once more safely in the mine.
LADY ANNE.
It was not for my sake, but for theirs that he suppressed the cheque.
STEINBACH.
A specious sophistry, but one which not even he would have accepted had it not received the endorsement of your love.
LADY ANNE.
You wrong us both.
STEINBACH.
It may be as you say. Events have, however, proved too strong for him. So that was the way you tried to arrange things? My dear, my dear Anne, you had much better have confided in me. My advice alone will prove valid.
LADY ANNE.
So this man has gone.
STEIN BACH.
To be torn to pieces in the market-place.
LADY ANNE.
They may listen to him; he may carry them with him.
STEINBACH.
He can only have gone there to explain the excellence of his intentions.
LADY ANNE.
You do not believe ——
STEINBACH.
It matters not what I believe, but if he confesses that he detained that cheque his life isn’t worth three minutes’ purchase.... To think that a man should be such a fool — vanity — belief in his eloquence.... Ah! what’s that? Crowds still going to the market-place. We shall be able to watch the effect of his oratory from this window. (Draws the curtain.)
LADY ANNE.
Not at this hour.