dolly.[Very high and mighty.] The family don't.
carnaby.[To his father.] And won't you apologise for your remarks to Mr. Crowe, sir?
lady leete.[Demanding.] Snuff!
carnaby.And your box to my mother, sir.
sir georgeattends to his wife.
sir georgeattends to his wife.
dolly.[Anxiously todr. remnant.] Can a gentleman change his name?
mr. crowe.Parson . . once noble always noble, I take it.
dr. remnant.Certainly . . but I hope you have money to leave them, Mr. Crowe.
dolly.[Toabud.] John.
abud.Dorothy.
dolly.You've not seen my babies yet.
lady leetesneezes.
lady leetesneezes.
sir george leete.Carnaby . . d'ye intend to murder that Crowe fellow . . or must I?
mr. smallpeiceskips from the dining-room.
mr. smallpeiceskips from the dining-room.
mr. smallpeice.Mr. John Abud . .
mr. crowe.[Todr. remnantas he nods towardscarnaby.] Don't tell me he's got over that fever yet.
mr. smallpeice.. . The ladies say . . are you ready or are you not?
mr. prestige.I'll get thy cloak, John.
mr. prestigegoes for the cloak.carnabyhas taken a pistol from the mantel-piece and now points it atabud.
mr. prestigegoes for the cloak.carnabyhas taken a pistol from the mantel-piece and now points it atabud.
carnaby.He's fit for heaven!
george leetecomes from the dining-room and noticing his father's action says sharply. .
george leetecomes from the dining-room and noticing his father's action says sharply. .
george.I suppose you know that pistol's loaded.
Which calls everyone's attention.dollyshrieks.
Which calls everyone's attention.dollyshrieks.
carnaby.What if there had been an accident!
And he puts back the pistol.abudtakes his cloak fromprestige.
And he puts back the pistol.abudtakes his cloak fromprestige.
abud.Thank you, uncle.
mr. prestige.I'm a proud man. Mr. Crowe . .
carnaby.Pride!
george.[Has a sudden inspiration and strides up toabud.] Here ends the joke, my good fellow. Be off without your wife.
abudstares, as do the others. Onlycarnabysuddenly catchesremnant'sarm.
abudstares, as do the others. Onlycarnabysuddenly catchesremnant'sarm.
mr. prestige.[Solemnly.] But it's illegal to separate them.
george.[Giving up.] Mr. Prestige . . you are the backbone of England.
carnaby.[Toremnant.] Where are your miracles?
mrs. prestigecomes out. A motherly farmer's wife, a mountain of a woman.
mrs. prestigecomes out. A motherly farmer's wife, a mountain of a woman.
mrs. prestige.John . . kiss your aunt.
abudgoes to her, and she obliterates him in an embrace.
abudgoes to her, and she obliterates him in an embrace.
george.[To his father.] Sense of humour . . Sense of humour!
lady leete.Snuff.
But no one heeds her this time.
But no one heeds her this time.
carnaby.It doesn't matter.
george.Smile. Let's be helpless gracefully.
carnaby.There are moments when I'm not sure.
george.It's her own life.
tozerstaggers from the dining-room drunker than ever. He falls against the baluster and waves his arms.
tozerstaggers 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 comesann;her head bent. She is crossing the hall whensarahfollows, calling her.
From the dining-room comesann;her head bent. She is crossing the hall whensarahfollows, calling her.
sarah.Ann!
annturns back to kiss her. The rest of the company stand gazing.sir georgegives snuff tolady leete.
annturns back to kiss her. The rest of the company stand gazing.sir georgegives snuff tolady leete.
ann.Good-bye, Sally.
sarah.[In a whisper.] Forget us.
george.[Relieving his feelings.] Good-bye, everybody . . good-bye, everything.
abudgoes 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.
abudgoes 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. opiecomes hurriedly out of the dining-room, too late.
She goes with her husband.mrs. opiecomes hurriedly out of the dining-room, too late.
mrs. opie.Oh!
dr. remnant.Run . . Mrs. Opie.
carnaby.There has started the new century!
mrs. opieopens the front door to look after them.
mrs. opieopens the front door to look after them.
sir george leete.[With double energy.] Shut that door.
lady leetesneezes and then chokes. There is much commotion in her neighbourhood.
lady leetesneezes 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.
prestigeandsmallpeice;mrs. prestige,georgeanddollymove towards the dining-room.
prestigeandsmallpeice;mrs. prestige,georgeanddollymove towards the dining-room.
mr. prestige.[Tosmallpeice.] You owe all this to me.
mr. crowe.Dolly . . I'm going.
mrs. prestige.[To her husband as she nods towardscarnaby.] 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 meetingsarahwho comes out carrying a glass of water and a decanter of brandy.sir george leeteis comfortably warming himself at the fire.
He goes on his way to the dining-room meetingsarahwho comes out carrying a glass of water and a decanter of brandy.sir george leeteis comfortably warming himself at the fire.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The living room ofjohn abud'snew cottage has bare plaster walls and its ceilings and floor are of redbrick; 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 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 ofabudentering is heard. He walks to the table, strikes a light upon a tinder-box and lights a candle which he finds there.annis standing in the doorway.abudis 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 Juppmade 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.abudtakes up the candle.
Then she goes to the little door and opens it.abudtakes up the candle.
abud.I'll hold the light . . the stairs are steep.
He lights her up the stairs.
He lights her up the stairs.
The Voysey Inheritance1903-5
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 looklike 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. [peaceygoes to the fireplace for the Times; it is warming there.mr. voyseywaves 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.peaceyleans over the letters.
He is running his eye down the columns.peaceyleans 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. voyseydiscards the Times and sits to his desk and his letters.
mr. voyseydiscards 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.
peaceygoes, having secured a letter or two, andmr. voyseyhaving 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 sonedwardcomes in.mr. voyseygives him one glance and goes on arranging the roses but says cheerily. .
peaceygoes, having secured a letter or two, andmr. voyseyhaving 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 sonedwardcomes in.mr. voyseygives him one glance and goes on arranging the roses but says cheerily. .
mr. voysey.Good morning, my dear boy.
edwardhas 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, foredwardis obviously going through some experience which is scaring him (there is no better word). He looks not tohave 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, makesmr. voysey'suninterrupted arranging of the flowers seem very calculated indeed. At last the little tension of silence is broken.
edwardhas 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, foredwardis obviously going through some experience which is scaring him (there is no better word). He looks not tohave 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, makesmr. voysey'suninterrupted 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.
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? [edwarddoesn't answer. Reference to the papers seems to overwhelm him with shame.mr. voyseygoes 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 behindyou at the Office. Why, life's not worth living else.
peaceycomes in to findmr. voyseybefore the fire ostentatiously warming and rubbing his hands.
peaceycomes in to findmr. voyseybefore 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.
peaceygoes, lifting his eyebrow at the queerness ofedward'smanner. Thismr. voyseysees, returning to his table with a little scowl.
peaceygoes, lifting his eyebrow at the queerness ofedward'smanner. Thismr. voyseysees, 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.
edwardseparates the papers precisely and starts to detail them; his voice quite toneless. Now and then his father's sharp comments ring out in contrast.
edwardseparates 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 percent. 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. Whatdoyou 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 andmr. voyseymeets it kindly.
His grief comes uppermost again andmr. voyseymeets 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.
edwardwaits, hopelessly, for his father to speak again; then says. .
edwardwaits, 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. [edwardreaches for the bunch, his face hidden.] Putthem 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'sonly 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.
edward'sonly 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. [edwardstares.] That calms you a little.
edward.I'm glad . . my dear father! [and he putsout 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?
mr. voysey.[his anger rising.] Have you studied these two accounts or have you not?
edward.Yes, sir.
mr. voysey.Well, where's the deficiency in Mrs. Murberry's income . . has she ever gone without a shilling? What has young Hatherley lost?
edward.He stands to lose—
mr. voysey.He stands to lose nothing if I'm spared for a little, and you will only bring a little common sense to bear and try to understand the difficulties of my position.
edward.Father, I'm not thinking ill of you . . that is, I'm trying not to. But won't you explain how you're justified—?
mr. voysey.In putting our affairs in order.
edward.Are you doing that?
mr. voysey.What else?
edward.[starting patiently to examine the matter.] How bad were things when you first came to control them?
mr. voysey.Oh, I forget.
edward.You can't forget.
mr. voysey.Well . . pretty bad.
edward.Do you know how it was my grandfather began to—
mr. voysey.Muddlement, muddlement! Then the money went and what was he to do. He'd no capital, no credit, and was in terror of his life. My dear Edward,if I hadn't found it out, he'd have confessed to the first man who came and asked for a balance sheet.
edward.Well, what exact sum was he to the bad then?
mr. voysey.I forget. Several thousands.
edward.But surely it has not taken all these years to pay off—
mr. voysey.Oh, hasn't it!
edward.[making his point.] But how does it happen, sir, that such a comparatively recent trust as young Hatherley's had been broken into?
mr. voysey.Well, what could be safer than to use that money? There's a Consol investment and not a sight wanted of either capital or interest for five years.
edward.[utterly beaten.] Father, are you mad?
mr. voysey.Certainly not. My practice is to reinvest my clients' money when it is entirely under my control. The difference between the income this money has to bring to them and the income it is actually bringing to me I utilise in my endeavour to fill up the deficit in the firm's accounts . . in fact to try and put things straight. Doesn't it follow that the more low interest bearing capital I can use the better . . the less risky things I have to put it into. Most of young Hatherley's Consol capital is out on mortgage at four and a half and five . . safe as safe can be.
edward.But he should have the benefit.
mr. voysey.He has the amount of his consol interest.
edward.Are the mortgages in his name?
mr. voysey.Some of them . . some of them. That's a technical matter. With regard to Mrs. Murberry . . those Fretworthy Bonds at my bank . . I've raised five thousand on them. I can release her Bonds to-morrow if she wants them.
edward.Where's the five thousand?
mr. voysey.I don't know . . it was paid into my private account. Yes, I do remember. Some of it wentto complete a purchase . . that and two thousand more out of the Skipworth fund.
edward.But, my dear father—
mr. voysey.Well?
edward.[summing it all up very simply.] It's not right.
mr. voyseyconsiders his son for a moment with a pitying shake of the head.
mr. voyseyconsiders his son for a moment with a pitying shake of the head.
mr. voysey.Oh . . why is it so hard for a man to see clearly beyond the letter of the law! Will you consider a moment, Edward, the position in which I found myself? Was I to see my father ruined and disgraced without lifting a finger to help him? . . not to mention the interest of the clients. I paid back to the man who would have lost most by my father's mistakes every penny of his money. He never knew the danger he'd been in . . never passed an uneasy moment about it. It was I who lay awake. I have now somewhere a letter from that man to my father thanking him effusively for the way in which he'd conducted some matter. It comforted my poor father. Well, Edward, I stepped outside the letter of the law to do that. Was that right or wrong?
edward.In its result, sir, right.
mr. voysey.Judge me by the result. I took the risk of failure . . I should have suffered. I could have kept clear of the danger if I'd liked.
edward.But that's all past. The thing that concerns me is what you are doing now.
mr. voysey.[gently reproachful now.] My boy, you must trust me a little. It's all very well for you to come in at the end of the day and criticise. But I who have done the day's work know how that work had to be done. And here's our firm, prosperous, respected and without a stain on its honour. That's the main point, isn't it? And I think that achievement should earn me the right to be trusted a little . . shouldn't it?
edward.[quite irresponsive to this pathetic appeal.] Look here, sir, I'm dismissing from my mind all prejudice about speaking the truth . . acting upon one's instructions, behaving as any honest firm of solicitors must behave . .
mr. voysey.You need not, I tell no unnecessary lies. If a man of any business ability gives me definite instructions about his property, I follow them.
edward.Father, no unnecessary lies!
mr. voysey.Well, my friend, go and tell Mrs. Murberry that four hundred and twenty pounds of her income hasn't for the last eight years come from the place she thinks it's come from and see how happy you'll make her.
edward.But is that four hundred and twenty a year as safe to come to her as it was before you meddled with the capital?
mr. voysey.I see no reason why—
edward.What's the security?
mr. voysey.[putting his coping stone on the argument.] My financial ability.
edward.[really not knowing whether to laugh or cry.] Why, it seems as if you were satisfied with this state of things.
mr. voysey.Edward, you really are most unsympathetic and unreasonable. I give all I have to the firm's work . . my brain . . my energies . . my whole life. I can't turn my abilities into hard cash at par . . I wish I could. Do you suppose that if I could establish every one of these people with a separate and consistent bank balance to-morrow that I shouldn't do it? Do you suppose that it's a pleasure . . that it's relaxation to have these matters continually on one's mind? Do you suppose—?
edward.[thankfully able to meet anger with anger.] I find it impossible to believe that you couldn't somehow have put things right by now.
mr. voysey.Oh, do you? Somehow!
edward.In thirty years the whole system must either have come hopelessly to grief . . or during that time there must have been opportunities—
mr. voysey.Well, if you're so sure, I hope that when I'm under ground, you may find them.
edward.I!
mr. voysey.And put everything right with a stroke of the pen, if it's so easy!
edward.I!
mr. voysey.You're my partner and my son, and you'll inherit the business.
edward.[realizing at last that he has been led to the edge of this abyss.] Oh no, father.
mr. voysey.Why else have I had to tell you all this?
edward.[very simply.] Father, I can't. I can't possibly. I don't think you've any right to ask me.
mr. voysey.Why not, pray?
edward.It's perpetuating the dishonesty.
mr. voyseyhardens at the unpleasant word.
mr. voyseyhardens at the unpleasant word.
mr. voysey.You don't believe that I've told you the truth.
edward.I wish to believe it.
mr. voysey.It's no proof . . that I've earned these twenty or thirty people their incomes for the last—how many years?
edward.Whether what you have done and are doing is wrong or right . . I can't meddle in it.
For the momentmr. voyseylooks a little dangerous.
For the momentmr. voyseylooks a little dangerous.
mr. voysey.Very well. Forget all I've said. Go back to your room. Get back to your own mean drudgery. My life's work—my splendid life's work—ruined! What does that matter?
edward.Whatever did you expect of me?
mr. voysey.[making a feint at his papers.] Oh, nothing, nothing. [Then he slams them down with great effect.] Here's a great edifice built up by years of labourand devotion and self sacrifice . . a great arch you may call it . . a bridge which is to carry our firm to safety with honour. [This variation of Disraeli passes unnoticed.] My work! And now, as I near the end of my life, it still lacks the key-stone. Perhaps I am to die with my work just incomplete. Then is there nothing that a son might do? Do you think I shouldn't be proud of you, Edward . . that I shouldn't bless you from—wherever I may be, when you completed my life's work . . with perhaps just one kindly thought of your father?
In spite of this oratory, the situation is gradually impressingedward.
In spite of this oratory, the situation is gradually impressingedward.
edward.What will happen if I . . if I desert you?
mr. voysey.I'll protect you as best I can.
edward.I wasn't thinking of myself, sir.
mr. voysey.[with great nonchalance.] Well, I shan't mind the exposure, you know. It won't make me blush in my coffin . . and you're not so foolish I hope as to be thinking of the feelings of your brothers and sisters. Considering how simple it would have been for me to go to my grave in peace and quiet and let you discover the whole thing afterwards, the fact that I didn't, that I have taken some thought for the future of all of you might perhaps have convinced you that I . . ! But there . . consult your own safety.
edwardhas begun to pace the room; indecision growing upon him.
edwardhas begun to pace the room; indecision growing upon him.
edward.This is a queer thing to have to make up one's mind about, isn't it, father?
mr. voysey.[watching him closely and modulating his voice.] My dear boy, I understand the shock to your feelings that this disclosure must have been.
edward.Yes, I thought this morning that next week would see us in the dock together.
mr. voysey.And I suppose if I'd broken down andbegged your pardon for my folly, you'd have done anything for me, gone to prison smiling, eh?
edward.I suppose so.
mr. voysey.Yes, it's easy enough to forgive. I'm sorry I can't go in sack cloth and ashes to oblige you. [Now he begins to rally his son; easy in his strength.] My dear Edward, you've lived a quiet humdrum life up to now, with your books and your philosophy and your agnosticism and your ethics of this and your ethics of that . . dear me, these are the sort of garden oats which young men seem to sow now-a-days! . . and you've never before been brought face to face with any really vital question. Now don't make a fool of yourself just through inexperience. Try and give your mind freely and unprejudicedly to the consideration of this very serious matter. I'm not angry at what you've said to me. I'm quite willing to forget it. And it's for your own sake and not for mine, Edward, that I do beg you to—to—to be a man and try and take a practical common sense view of the position you find yourself in. It's not a pleasant position I know, but it's unavoidable.
edward.You should have told me before you took me into partnership. [Oddly enough it is this last flicker of rebellion which breaks downmr. voysey'scaution. Now he lets fly with a vengeance.]
mr. voysey.Should I be telling you at all if I could possibly help it? Don't I know that you're about as fit for this job as a babe unborn? Haven't I been worrying over that for these last three years? But I'm in a corner . . and I won't see all this work of mine come to smash simply because of your scruples. If you're a son of mine you'll do as I tell you. Hadn't I the same choice to make? . . and this is a safer game for you than it was for me then. D'you suppose I didn't have scruples? If you run away from this, Edward, you're a coward. My father was a coward and he suffered for it to the end of his days. I wassick-nurse to him here more than partner. Good lord! . . of course it's pleasant and comfortable to keep within the law . . then the law will look after you. Otherwise you have to look pretty sharp after yourself. You have to cultivate your own sense of right and wrong; deal your own justice. But that makes a bigger man of you, let me tell you. How easily . . how easily could I have walked out of my father's office and left him to his fate; no one would have blamed me! But I didn't. I thought it my better duty to stay and . . yes, I say it with all reverence . . to take up my cross. Well, I've carried that cross pretty successfully. And what's more, it's made a happy man of me . . a better, stronger man than skulking about in shame and in fear of his life ever made of my poor dear father. [Relieved at having let out the truth, but doubtful of his wisdom in doing so, he changes his tone.] I don't want what I've been saying to influence you, Edward. You are a free agent . . and you must decide upon your own course of action. Now don't let's discuss the matter any more for the moment.
edwardlooks at his father with clear eyes.
edwardlooks at his father with clear eyes.
edward.Don't forget to put these papers away.
He restores them to their bundles and hands them back: it is his only comment.mr. voyseytakes them and his meaning in silence.
He restores them to their bundles and hands them back: it is his only comment.mr. voyseytakes them and his meaning in silence.
mr. voysey.Are you coming down to Chislehurst soon? We've got Hugh and his wife, and Booth and Emily, and Christopher for two or three days, till he goes back to school.
edward.How is Chris?
mr. voysey.All right again now . . grows more like his father. Booth's very proud of him. So am I.
edward.I think I can't face them all just at present.
mr. voysey.Nonsense.
edward.[a little wave of emotion going through him.]I feel as if this thing were written on my face. How I shall get through business I don't know!
mr. voysey.You're weaker than I thought, Edward.
edward.[a little ironically.] A disappointment to you, father?
mr. voysey.No, no.
edward.You should have brought one of the others into the firm . . Trenchard or Booth.
mr. voysey.[hardening.] Trenchard! [he dismisses that.] Well, you're a better man than Booth. Edward, you mustn't imagine that the whole world is standing on its head merely because you've had an unpleasant piece of news. You come down to Chislehurst to-night . . well, say to-morrow night. It'll be good for you . . stop your brooding . . that's your worst vice, Edward. You'll find the household as if nothing had happened. Then you'll remember that nothing really has happened. And presently you'll get to see that nothing need happen, if you keep your head. I remember times, when things have seemed at their worst, what a relief it's been to me . . my romp with you all in the nursery just before your bed time. Do you remember?
edward.Yes. I cut your head open once with that gun.
mr. voysey.[in a full glow of fine feeling.] And, my dear boy, if I knew that you were going to inform the next client you met of what I've just told you . .
edward.[with a shudder.] Oh, father!
mr. voysey.. . And that I should find myself in prison to-morrow, I wouldn't wish a single thing I've ever done undone. I have never wilfully harmed man or woman. My life's been a happy one. Your dear mother has been spared to me. You're most of you good children and a credit to what I've done for you.
edward.[the deadly humour of this too much for him.] Father!
mr. voysey.Run along now, run along. I must finish my letters and get into the City.
He might be scolding a schoolboy for some trifling fault.edwardturns to have a look at the keen unembarrassed face.mr. voyseysmiles at him and proceeds to select from the bowl a rose for his buttonhole.
He might be scolding a schoolboy for some trifling fault.edwardturns to have a look at the keen unembarrassed face.mr. voyseysmiles at him and proceeds to select from the bowl a rose for his buttonhole.
edward.I'll think it over, sir.
mr. voysey.Of course, you will. And don't brood, Edward, don't brood.
Soedwardleaves him; and having fixed the rose to his satisfaction, he rings his table telephone and calls through it to the listening clerk.
Soedwardleaves him; and having fixed the rose to his satisfaction, he rings his table telephone and calls through it to the listening clerk.