Джон Голсуорси
Plays : Second Series
ACT III
It is five o'clock of the same day. The scene is the smoking-room, with walls of Leander red, covered by old steeplechase and hunting prints. Armchairs encircle a high ferulered hearth, in which a fire is burning. The curtains are not yet drawn across mullioned windows, but electric light is burning. There are two doors, leading, the one to the billiard-room, the other to a corridor. BILL is pacing up and doom; HAROLD, at the fireplace, stands looking at him with commiseration.
BILL. What's the time?
HAROLD. Nearly five. They won't be in yet, if that's any consolation. Always a tough meet—[softly] as the tiger said when he ate the man.
BILL. By Jove! You're the only person I can stand within a mile of me, Harold.
HAROLD. Old boy! Do you seriously think you're going to make it any better by marrying her?
[Bill shrugs his shoulders, still pacing the room.]
BILL. Look here! I'm not the sort that finds it easy to say things.
HAROLD. No, old man.
BILL. But I've got a kind of self-respect though you wouldn't think it!
HAROLD. My dear old chap!
BILL. This is about as low-down a thing as one could have done, I suppose—one's own mother's maid; we've known her since she was so high. I see it now that—I've got over the attack.
HAROLD. But, heavens! if you're no longer keen on her, Bill! Do apply your reason, old boy.
There is silence; while BILL again paces up and dozen.
BILL. If you think I care two straws about the morality of the thing.
HAROLD. Oh! my dear old man! Of course not!
BILL. It's simply that I shall feel such a d–d skunk, if I leave her in the lurch, with everybody knowing. Try it yourself; you'd soon see!
HAROLD. Poor old chap!
BILL. It's not as if she'd tried to force me into it. And she's a soft little thing. Why I ever made such a sickening ass of myself, I can't think. I never meant–
HAROLD. No, I know! But, don't do anything rash, Bill; keep your head, old man!
BILL. I don't see what loss I should be, if I did clear out of the country. [The sound of cannoning billiard balls is heard] Who's that knocking the balls about?
HAROLD. John, I expect. [The sound ceases.]
BILL. He's coming in here. Can't stand that!
As LATTER appears from the billiard-room, he goes hurriedly out.
LATTER. Was that Bill?
HAROLD. Yes.
LATTER. Well?
HAROLD. [Pacing up and down in his turn] Rat in a cage is a fool to him. This is the sort of thing you read of in books, John! What price your argument with Runny now? Well, it's not too late for you luckily.
LATTER. What do you mean?
HAROLD. You needn't connect yourself with this eccentric family!
LATTER. I'm not a bounder, Harold.
HAROLD. Good!
LATTER. It's terrible for your sisters.
HAROLD. Deuced lucky we haven't a lot of people staying here! Poor mother! John, I feel awfully bad about this. If something isn't done, pretty mess I shall be in.
LATTER. How?
HAROLD. There's no entail. If the Governor cuts Bill off, it'll all come to me.
LATTER. Oh!
HAROLD. Poor old Bill! I say, the play! Nemesis! What? Moral! Caste don't matter. Got us fairly on the hop.
LATTER. It's too bad of Bill. It really is. He's behaved disgracefully.
HAROLD. [Warningly] Well! There are thousands of fellows who'd never dream of sticking to the girl, considering what it means.
LATTER. Perfectly disgusting!
HAROLD. Hang you, John! Haven't you any human sympathy? Don't you know how these things come about? It's like a spark in a straw-yard.
LATTER. One doesn't take lighted pipes into strawyards unless one's an idiot, or worse.
HAROLD. H'm! [With a grin] You're not allowed tobacco. In the good old days no one would hive thought anything of this. My great-grandfather–
LATTER. Spare me your great-grandfather.
HAROLD. I could tell you of at least a dozen men I know who've been through this same business, and got off scot-free; and now because Bill's going to play the game, it'll smash him up.
LATTER. Why didn't he play the game at the beginning?
HAROLD. I can't stand your sort, John. When a thing like this happens, all you can do is to cry out: Why didn't he—? Why didn't she—? What's to be done—that's the point!
LATTER. Of course he'll have to–.
HAROLD. Ha!
LATTER. What do you mean by—that?
HAROLD. Look here, John! You feel in your bones that a marriage'll be hopeless, just as I do, knowing Bill and the girl and everything! Now don't you?
LATTER. The whole thing is—is most unfortunate.
HAROLD. By Jove! I should think it was!
As he speaks CHRISTINE and KEITH Come in from the billiard-room. He is still in splashed hunting clothes, and looks exceptionally weathered, thin-lipped, reticent. He lights a cigarette and sinks into an armchair. Behind them DOT and JOAN have come stealing in.
CHRISTINE. I've told Ronny.
JOAN. This waiting for father to be told is awful.
HAROLD. [To KEITH] Where did you leave the old man?
KEITH. Clackenham. He'll be home in ten minutes.
DOT. Mabel's going. [They all stir, as if at fresh consciousness of discomfiture]. She walked into Gracely and sent herself a telegram.
HAROLD. Phew!
DOT. And we shall say good-bye, as if nothing had happened.
HAROLD. It's up to you, Ronny.
KEITH, looking at JOAN, slowly emits smoke; and LATTER passing his arm through JOAN'S, draws her away with him into the billiard-room.
KEITH. Dot?
DOT. I'm not a squeamy squirrel.
KEITH. Anybody seen the girl since?
DOT. Yes.
HAROLD. Well?
DOT. She's just sitting there.
CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] As we're all doing.
DOT. She's so soft, that's what's so horrible. If one could only feel–!
KEITH. She's got to face the music like the rest of us.
DOT. Music! Squeaks! Ugh! The whole thing's like a concertina, and some one jigging it!
They all turn as the door opens, and a FOOTMAN enters with a tray of whiskey, gin, lemons, and soda water. In dead silence the FOOTMAN puts the tray down.
HAROLD. [Forcing his voice] Did you get a run, Ronny? [As KEITH nods] What point?
KEITH. Eight mile.
FOOTMAN. Will you take tea, sir?
KEITH. No, thanks, Charles!
In dead silence again the FOOTMAN goes out, and they all look after him.
HAROLD. [Below his breath] Good Gad! That's a squeeze of it!
KEITH. What's our line of country to be?
CHRISTINE. All depends on father.
KEITH. Sir William's between the devil and the deep sea, as it strikes me.
CHRISTINE. He'll simply forbid it utterly, of course.
KEITH. H'm! Hard case! Man who reads family prayers, and lessons on Sunday forbids son to–
CHRISTINE, Ronny!
KEITH. Great Scott! I'm not saying Bill ought to marry her. She's got to stand the racket. But your Dad will have a tough job to take up that position.
DOT. Awfully funny!
CHRISTINE. What on earth d'you mean, Dot?
DOT. Morality in one eye, and your title in the other!
CHRISTINE. Rubbish!
HAROLD. You're all reckoning without your Bill.
KEITH. Ye-es. Sir William can cut him off; no mortal power can help the title going down, if Bill chooses to be such a– [He draws in his breath with a sharp hiss.]
HAROLD. I won't take what Bill ought to have; nor would any of you girls, I should think.
CHRISTINE and DOT. Of course not!
KEITH. [Patting his wife's arm] Hardly the point, is it?
DOT. If it wasn't for mother! Freda's just as much of a lady as most girls. Why shouldn't he marry her, and go to Canada? It's what he's really fit for.
HAROLD. Steady on, Dot!
DOT. Well, imagine him in Parliament! That's what he'll come to, if he stays here—jolly for the country!
CHRISTINE. Don't be cynical! We must find a way of stopping Bill.
DOT. Me cynical!
CHRISTINE. Let's go and beg him, Ronny!
KEITH. No earthly! The only hope is in the girl.
DOT. She hasn't the stuff in her!
HAROLD. I say! What price young Dunning! Right about face! Poor old Dad!
CHRISTINE. It's past joking, Harold!
DOT. [Gloomily] Old Studdenham's better than most relations by marriage!
KEITH. Thanks!
CHRISTINE. It's ridiculous—monstrous! It's fantastic!
HAROLD. [Holding up his hand] There's his horse going round. He's in!
They turn from listening to the sound, to see LADY CHESHIRE coming from the billiard-room. She is very pale. They all rise and DOT puts an arm round her; while KEITH pushes forward his chair. JOAN and LATTER too have come stealing back.
LADY CHESHIRE. Thank you, Ronny! [She sits down.]
DOT. Mother, you're shivering! Shall I get you a fur?
LADY CHESHIRE. No, thanks, dear!
DOT. [In a low voice] Play up, mother darling!
LADY CHESHIRE. [Straightening herself] What sort of a run, Ronny?
KEITH. Quite fair, M'm. Brazier's to Caffyn's Dyke, good straight line.
LADY CHESHIRE. And the young horse?
KEITH. Carries his ears in your mouth a bit, that's all. [Putting his hand on her shoulder] Cheer up, Mem-Sahib!
CHRISTINE. Mother, must anything be said to father? Ronny thinks it all depends on her. Can't you use your influence? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes her head.]
CHRISTINE. But, mother, it's desperate.
DOT. Shut up, Chris! Of course mother can't. We simply couldn't beg her to let us off!
CHRISTINE. There must be some way. What do you think in your heart, mother?
DOT. Leave mother alone!
CHRISTINE. It must be faced, now or never.
DOT. [In a low voice] Haven't you any self-respect?
CHRISTINE. We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole county. Oh! mother do speak to her! You know it'll be misery for both of them. [LADY CHESHIRE bows her head] Well, then? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes her head.]
CHRISTINE. Not even for Bill's sake?
DOT. Chris!
CHRISTINE. Well, for heaven's sake, speak to Bill again, mother! We ought all to go on our knees to him.
LADY CHESHIRE. He's with your father now.
HAROLD. Poor old Bill!
CHRISTINE. [Passionately] He didn't think of us! That wretched girl!
LADY CHESHIRE. Chris!
CHRISTINE. There are limits!
LADY CHESHIRE. Not to self-control.
CHRISTINE. No, mother! I can't I never shall—Something must be done! You know what Bill is. He rushes at things so, when he gets his head down. Oh! do try! It's only fair to her, and all of us!
LADY CHESHIRE. [Painfully] There are things one can't do.
CHRISTINE. But it's Bill! I know you can make her give him up, if you'll only say all you can. And, after all, what's coming won't affect her as if she'd been a lady. Only you can do it, mother: Do back me up, all of you! It's the only way!
Hypnotised by their private longing for what CHRISTINE has been urging they have all fixed their eyes on LADY CHESHIRE, who looks from, face to face, and moves her hands as if in physical pain.
CHRISTINE. [Softly] Mother!
LADY CHESHIRE suddenly rises, looking towards the billiard-room door, listening. They all follow her eyes. She sits down again, passing her hand over her lips, as SIR WILLIAM enters. His hunting clothes are splashed; his face very grim and set. He walks to the fore without a glance at any one, and stands looking down into it. Very quietly, every one but LADY CHESHIRE steals away.
LADY CHESHIRE. What have you done?
SIR WILLIAM. You there!
LADY CHESHIRE. Don't keep me in suspense!
SIR WILLIAM. The fool! My God! Dorothy! I didn't think I had a blackguard for a son, who was a fool into the bargain.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Rising] If he were a blackguard he would not be what you call a fool.
SIR WILLIAM. [After staring angrily, makes her a slight bow] Very well!
LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low voice] Bill, don't be harsh. It's all too terrible.
SIR WILLIAM. Sit down, my dear. [She resumes her seat, and he turns back to the fire.]
SIR WILLIAM. In all my life I've never been face to face with a thing like this. [Gripping the mantelpiece so hard that his hands and arms are seen shaking] You ask me to be calm. I am trying to be. Be good enough in turn not to take his part against me.
LADY CHESHIRE. Bill!
SIR WILLIAM. I am trying to think. I understand that you've known this—piece of news since this morning. I've known it ten minutes. Give me a little time, please. [Then, after a silence] Where's the girl?
LADY CHESHIRE. In the workroom.
SIR WILLIAM. [Raising his clenched fist] What in God's name is he about?
LADY CHESHIRE. What have you said to him?
SIR WILLIAM. Nothing-by a miracle. [He breaks away from the fire and walks up and down] My family goes back to the thirteenth century. Nowadays they laugh at that! I don't! Nowadays they laugh at everything—they even laugh at the word lady. I married you, and I don't …. Married his mother's maid! By George! Dorothy! I don't know what we've done to deserve this; it's a death blow! I'm not prepared to sit down and wait for it. By Gad! I am not. [With sudden fierceness] There are plenty in these days who'll be glad enough for this to happen; plenty of these d–d Socialists and Radicals, who'll laugh their souls out over what they haven't the bowels to sees a—tragedy. I say it would be a tragedy; for you, and me, and all of us. You and I were brought up, and we've brought the children up, with certain beliefs, and wants, and habits. A man's past—his traditions—he can't get rid of them. They're—they're himself! [Suddenly] It shan't go on.
LADY CHESHIRE. What's to prevent it?
SIR WILLIAM. I utterly forbid this piece of madness. I'll stop it.
LADY CHESHIRE. But the thing we can't stop.
SIR WILLIAM. Provision must be made.
LADY CHESHIRE. The unwritten law!
SIR WILLIAM. What! [Suddenly perceiving what she is alluding to] You're thinking of young—young–[Shortly] I don't see the connection.
LADY CHESHIRE. What's so awful, is that the boy's trying to do what's loyal—and we—his father and mother–!
SIR WILLIAM. I'm not going to see my eldest son ruin his life. I must think this out.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Beneath her breath] I've tried that—it doesn't help.
SIR WILLIAM. This girl, who was born on the estate, had the run of the house—brought up with money earned from me—nothing but kindness from all of us; she's broken the common rules of gratitude and decency—she lured him on, I haven't a doubt!
LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] In a way, I suppose.
SIR WILLIAM. What! It's ruin. We've always been here. Who the deuce are we if we leave this place? D'you think we could stay? Go out and meet everybody just as if nothing had happened? Good-bye to any prestige, political, social, or anything! This is the sort of business nothing can get over. I've seen it before. As to that other matter—it's soon forgotten—constantly happening—Why, my own grandfather–!
LADY CHESHIRE. Does he help?
SIR WILLIAM. [Stares before him in silence-suddenly] You must go to the girl. She's soft. She'll never hold out against you.
LADY CHESHIRE. I did before I knew what was in front of her—I said all I could. I can't go again now. I can't do it, Bill.
SIR WILLIAM. What are you going to do, then—fold your hands? [Then as LADY CHESHIRE makes a move of distress.] If he marries her, I've done with him. As far as I'm concerned he'll cease to exist. The title—I can't help. My God! Does that meet your wishes?
LADY CHESHIRE. [With sudden fire] You've no right to put such an alternative to me. I'd give ten years of my life to prevent this marriage. I'll go to Bill. I'll beg him on my knees.
SIR WILLIAM. Then why can't you go to the girl? She deserves no consideration. It's not a question of morality: Morality be d–d!
LADY CHESHIRE. But not self-respect….
SIR WILLIAM. What! You're his mother!
LADY CHESHIRE. I've tried; I [putting her hand to her throat] can't get it out.
SIR WILLIAM. [Staring at her] You won't go to her? It's the only chance. [LADY CHESHIRE turns away.]
SIR WILLIAM. In the whole course of our married life, Dorothy, I've never known you set yourself up against me. I resent this, I warn you—I resent it. Send the girl to me. I'll do it myself.
With a look back at him LADY CHESHIRE goes out into the corridor.
SIR WILLIAM. This is a nice end to my day!
He takes a small china cup from of the mantel-piece; it breaks with the pressure of his hand, and falls into the fireplace. While he stands looking at it blankly, there is a knock.
SIR WILLIAM. Come in!
FREDA enters from the corridor.
SIR WILLIAM. I've asked you to be good enough to come, in order that—[pointing to chair]—You may sit down.
But though she advances two or three steps, she does not sit down.
SIR WILLIAM. This is a sad business.
FREDA. [Below her breath] Yes, Sir William.
SIR WILLIAM. [Becoming conscious of the depths of feeling before him] I—er—are you attached to my son?
FREDA. [In a whisper] Yes.
SIR WILLIAM. It's very painful to me to have to do this. [He turns away from her and speaks to the fire.] I sent for you—to—ask— [quickly] How old are you?
FREDA. Twenty-two.
SIR WILLIAM. [More resolutely] Do you expect me to sanction such a mad idea as a marriage?
FREDA. I don't expect anything.
SIR WILLIAM. You know—you haven't earned the right to be considered.
FREDA. Not yet!
SIR WILLIAM. What! That oughtn't to help you! On the contrary. Now brace yourself up, and listen to me!
She stands waiting to hear her sentence. SIR WILLIAM looks at her; and his glance gradually wavers.
SIR WILLIAM. I've not a word to say for my son. He's behaved like a scamp.
FREDA. Oh! no!
SIR WILLIAM. [With a silencing gesture] At the same, time—What made you forget yourself? You've no excuse, you know.
FREDA. No.
SIR WILLIAM. You'll deserve all you'll get. Confound it! To expect me to—It's intolerable! Do you know where my son is?
FREDA. [Faintly] I think he's in the billiard-room with my lady.
SIR WILLIAM. [With renewed resolution] I wanted to—to put it to you—as a—as a—what! [Seeing her stand so absolutely motionless, looking at him, he turns abruptly, and opens the billiard-room door] I'll speak to him first. Come in here, please! [To FREDA] Go in, and wait!
LADY CHESHIRE and BILL Come in, and FREDA passing them, goes into the billiard-room to wait.
SIR WILLIAM. [Speaking with a pause between each sentence] Your mother and I have spoken of this—calamity. I imagine that even you have some dim perception of the monstrous nature of it. I must tell you this: If you do this mad thing, you fend for yourself. You'll receive nothing from me now or hereafter. I consider that only due to the position our family has always held here. Your brother will take your place. We shall—get on as best we can without you. [There is a dead silence till he adds sharply] Well!
BILL. I shall marry her.
LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Bill! Without love-without anything!
BILL. All right, mother! [To SIR WILLIAM] you've mistaken your man, sir. Because I'm a rotter in one way, I'm not necessarily a rotter in all. You put the butt end of the pistol to Dunning's head yesterday, you put the other end to mine to-day. Well! [He turns round to go out] Let the d–d thing off!
LADY CHESHIRE. Bill!
BILL. [Turning to her] I'm not going to leave her in the lurch.
SIR WILLIAM. Do me the justice to admit that I have not attempted to persuade you to.
BILL. No! you've chucked me out. I don't see what else you could have done under the circumstances. It's quite all right. But if you wanted me to throw her over, father, you went the wrong way to work, that's all; neither you nor I are very good at seeing consequences.
SIR WILLIAM. Do you realise your position?
BILK. [Grimly] I've a fair notion of it.
SIR WILLIAM. [With a sudden outburst] You have none—not the faintest, brought up as you've been.
BILL. I didn't bring myself up.
SIR WILLIAM. [With a movement of uncontrolled anger, to which his son responds] You—ungrateful young dog!
LADY CHESHIRE. How can you—both? [They drop their eyes, and stand silent.]
SIR WILLIAM. [With grimly suppressed emotion] I am speaking under the stress of very great pain—some consideration is due to me. This is a disaster which I never expected to have to face. It is a matter which I naturally can never hope to forget. I shall carry this down to my death. We shall all of us do that. I have had the misfortune all my life to believe in our position here—to believe that we counted for something—that the country wanted us. I have tried to do my duty by that position. I find in one moment that it is gone— smoke—gone. My philosophy is not equal to that. To countenance this marriage would be unnatural.
BILL. I know. I'm sorry. I've got her into this—I don't see any other way out. It's a bad business for me, father, as well as for you–
He stops, seeing that JACKSON has route in, and is standing there waiting.
JACKSON. Will you speak to Studdenham, Sir William? It's about young Dunning.
After a moment of dead silence, SIR WILLIAM nods, and the butler withdraws.
BILL. [Stolidly] He'd better be told.
SIR WILLIAM. He shall be.
STUDDENHAM enters, and touches his forehead to them all with a comprehensive gesture.
STUDDENHAM. Good evenin', my lady! Evenin', Sir William!
STUDDENHAM. Glad to be able to tell you, the young man's to do the proper thing. Asked me to let you know, Sir William. Banns'll be up next Sunday. [Struck by the silence, he looks round at all three in turn, and suddenly seeing that LADY CHESHIRE is shivering] Beg pardon, my lady, you're shakin' like a leaf!
BILL. [Blurting it out] I've a painful piece of news for you, Studdenham; I'm engaged to your daughter. We're to be married at once.
STUDDENHAM. I—don't—understand you—sir.
BILL. The fact is, I've behaved badly; but I mean to put it straight.
STUDDENHAM. I'm a little deaf. Did you say—my daughter?
SIR WILLIAM. There's no use mincing matters, Studdenham. It's a thunderbolt—young Dunning's case over again.
STUDDENHAM. I don't rightly follow. She's—You've—! I must see my daughter. Have the goodness to send for her, m'lady.
LADY CHESHIRE goes to the billiard-room, and calls: "FREDA, come here, please."
STUDDENHAM. [TO SIR WILLIAM] YOU tell me that my daughter's in the position of that girl owing to your son? Men ha' been shot for less.
BILL. If you like to have a pot at me, Studdenham you're welcome.
STUDDENHAM. [Averting his eyes from BILL at the sheer idiocy of this sequel to his words] I've been in your service five and twenty years, Sir William; but this is man to man—this is!
SIR WILLIAM. I don't deny that, Studdenham.
STUDDENHAM. [With eyes shifting in sheer anger] No—'twouldn't be very easy. Did I understand him to say that he offers her marriage?
SIR WILLIAM. You did.
STUDDENHAM. [Into his beard] Well—that's something! [Moving his hands as if wringing the neck of a bird] I'm tryin' to see the rights o' this.
SIR WILLIAM. [Bitterly] You've all your work cut out for you,
Studdenham.
Again STUDDENHAM makes the unconscious wringing movement with his hands.
LADY CHESHIRE. [Turning from it with a sort of horror] Don't, Studdenham! Please!
STUDDENHAM. What's that, m'lady?
LADY CHESHIRE. [Under her breath] Your—your—hands.
While STUDDENHAM is still staring at her, FREDA is seen standing in the doorway, like a black ghost.
STUDDENHAM. Come here! You! [FREDA moves a few steps towards her father] When did you start this?
FREDA. [Almost inaudibly] In the summer, father.
LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be harsh to her!
STUDDENHAM. Harsh! [His eyes again move from side to side as if pain and anger had bewildered them. Then looking sideways at FREDA, but in a gentler voice] And when did you tell him about—what's come to you?
FREDA. Last night.
STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With sudden menace] You young—! [He makes a convulsive movement of one hand; then, in the silence, seems to lose grip of his thoughts, and pits his hand up to his head] I want to clear me mind a bit—I don't see it plain at all. [Without looking at BILL] 'Tis said there's been an offer of marriage?
BILL. I've made it, I stick to it.
STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With slow, puzzled anger] I want time to get the pith o' this. You don't say anything, Sir William?
SIR WILLIAM. The facts are all before you.
STUDDENHAM. [Scarcely moving his lips] M'lady?
LADY CHESHIRE is silent.
STUDDENHAM. [Stammering] My girl was—was good enough for any man. It's not for him that's—that's to look down on her. [To FREDA] You hear the handsome offer that's been made you? Well? [FREDA moistens her lips and tries to speak, but cannot] If nobody's to speak a word, we won't get much forrarder. I'd like for you to say what's in your mind, Sir William.
SIR WILLIAM. I—If my son marries her he'll have to make his own way.
STUDDENHAM. [Savagely] I'm not puttin' thought to that.
SIR WILLIAM. I didn't suppose you were, Studdenham. It appears to rest with your daughter. [He suddenly takes out his handkerchief, and puts it to his forehead] Infernal fires they make up here!
LADY CHESHIRE, who is again shivering desperately, as if with intense cold, makes a violent attempt to control her shuddering.
STUDDENHAM. [Suddenly] There's luxuries that's got to be paid for. [To FREDA] Speak up, now.
FREDA turns slowly and looks up at SIR WILLIAM; he involuntarily raises his hand to his mouth. Her eyes travel on to LADY CHESHIRE, who faces her, but so deadly pale that she looks as if she were going to faint. The girl's gaze passes on to BILL, standing rigid, with his jaw set.
FREDA. I want—[Then flinging her arm up over her eyes, she turns from him] No!
SIR WILLIAM. Ah!
At that sound of profound relief, STUDDENHAM, whose eyes have been following his daughter's, moves towards SIR WILLIAM, all his emotion turned into sheer angry pride.
STUDDENHAM. Don't be afraid, Sir William! We want none of you! She'll not force herself where she's not welcome. She may ha' slipped her good name, but she'll keep her proper pride. I'll have no charity marriage in my family.
SIR WILLIAM. Steady, Studdenham!
STUDDENHAM. If the young gentleman has tired of her in three months, as a blind man can see by the looks of him—she's not for him!
BILL. [Stepping forward] I'm ready to make it up to her.
STUDDENHAM. Keep back, there? [He takes hold of FREDA, and looks around him] Well! She's not the first this has happened to since the world began, an' she won't be the last. Come away, now, come away!
Taking FREDA by the shoulders, he guides her towards the door.
SIR WILLIAM. D–n 'it, Studdenham! Give us credit for something!
STUDDENHAM. [Turning his face and eyes lighted up by a sort of smiling snarl] Ah! I do that, Sir William. But there's things that can't be undone!
He follows FREDA Out. As the door closes, SIR WILLIAM'S Calm gives way. He staggers past his wife, and sinks heavily, as though exhausted, into a chair by the fire. BILL, following FREDA and STUDDENHAM, has stopped at the shut door. LADY CHESHIRE moves swiftly close to him. The door of the billiard-room is opened, and DOT appears. With a glance round, she crosses quickly to her mother.
DOT. [In a low voice] Mabel's just going, mother! [Almost whispering] Where's Freda? Is it—Has she really had the pluck?
LADY CHESHIRE bending her head for "Yes," goes out into the billiard-room. DOT clasps her hands together, and standing there in the middle of the room, looks from her brother to her father, from her father to her brother. A quaint little pitying smile comes on her lips. She gives a faint shrug of her shoulders.
The curtain falls.