Scene:—Russell
Square. The morning-room (on the ground
floor). A small, cheerful room,
furnished in Chippendale, white panelled, with
Adams fireplace in which a bright fire is burning.
Two deep easy-chairs are before the fire. The
window-curtains of red damask are drawn. An oval
table occupies the centre of the room. The door at
back opens upon the hall. Only one light burns,
an electric lamp on a table just above the fire.
Time:—Midnight.
(The door opens. Geoffrey enters. He has left
his out-door things in the hall. He crosses and
rings the bell. A moment.)
(Hake
enters.)
Geoffrey. Oh, you,
Hake! There wasn’t any need for you to have
stopped.
Hake. I was not sure of your
arrangements. I thought perhaps I might be wanted.
Geoffrey. Sorry. I
ought to have told you.
Hake. It’s been no
inconvenience, sir. I told Mrs. Hake not to sit up.
Geoffrey. (He is opening
and reading his letters left for him on the table.)
Does she generally sit up for you?
Hake. As a rule, sir.
We like a little chat before going to bed.
Geoffrey. (His eyes on a
letter.) What do you find to chat about?
Hake. Oh, there is so much
for a husband and wife to talk about. The— As a
rule.
(A clock on the mantelpiece
strikes one.)
Geoffrey. What’s
that?
Hake. Quarter past twelve,
sir.
Geoffrey. Has your mistress
come in?
Hake. Not yet, sir. Has
the election gone all right, sir?
Geoffrey. For Mrs. Chilvers,
yes. She is now member for East Poplar.
Hake. I am sorry. It
has been a great surprise to me.
Geoffrey. The result?
Hake. The whole thing,
sir. Such a sweet lady, we all thought her.
Geoffrey. Life, Hake, is a
surprising affair.
(A ring is heard.)
I expect that’s she. She has forgotten her
key.
(Hake
goes out.)
(Geoffrey
continues his letters. A few moments pass;
Hake re-enters, closes the
door.)
Hake. (He seems
puzzled.) It’s a lady, sir
(Geoffrey turns.)
Hake. At least—hardly a
lady. A Mrs. Chinn.
Geoffrey. Mrs. Chinn!
(He glances at his watch.) At twelve o’clock
at night. Well, all right. I’ll see her.
(Hake opens
the door, speaks to Mrs.
Chinn. She enters, in bonnet and
shawl.)
Hake. Mrs. Chinn.
Geoffrey. Good evening, Mrs.
Chinn.
Mrs. Chinn. Good evening,
sir.
Geoffrey. You needn’t
stop, Hake. I shan’t be wanting anything.
Hake. Thank you.
Geoffrey. Apologise for me to
Mrs. Hake. Good-night.
Hake. Good-night, sir.
(Hake goes
out. A minute later the front door is heard to
slam.)
Geoffrey. Won’t you sit
down? (He puts a chair for her left of the
table.)
Mrs. Chinn. (Seating
herself.) Thank you, sir.
Geoffrey. (He half sits on
the arm of the easy-chair below the fire.) What’s
the trouble?
Mrs. Chinn. It’s my
boy, sir—my youngest. He’s been taking money
that didn’t belong to him.
Geoffrey. Um. Has it
been going on for long?
Mrs. Chinn. About six months,
sir. I only heard of it to-night. You see, his wife
died a year ago. She was such a good manager. And
after she was gone he seems to have got into debt.
Geoffrey. What were his
wages?
Mrs. Chinn. Nineteen
shillings a week, sir. And that with the rent and three
young children—well, it wants thinking out.
Geoffrey. From whom did he
take the money—his employers?
Mrs. Chinn. Yes, sir.
He was the carman. They had always trusted him to collect
the accounts.
Geoffrey. How much, would you
say, was the defalcation?
Mrs. Chinn. I beg pardon,
sir.
Geoffrey. How much does it
amount to, the sums that he has taken?
Mrs. Chinn. Six pounds, sir,
Mr. Cohen says it comes to.
Geoffrey. Won’t they
accept repayment?
Mrs. Chinn. Yes, sir.
Mr. Cohen has been very nice about it. He is going to let
me pay it off by instalments.
Geoffrey. Well, then, that
gets over most of the trouble.
Mrs. Chinn. Well, you see,
sir, unfortunately, Mr. Cohen gave information to the police the
moment he discovered it.
Geoffrey. Umph!
Can’t he say he made a mistake?
Mrs. Chinn. They say it must
go for trial, sir. That he can only withdraw the charge in
court.
Geoffrey. Um!
Mrs. Chinn. You see,
sir—a thing like that—(She recovers
herself.) It clings to a lad.
Geoffrey. What do you want me
to do?
Mrs. Chinn. Well, sir, I
thought that, perhaps—you see, sir, he has got a brother in
Canada who would help him; and I thought that if I could ship him
off—
Geoffrey. You want me to tip
the wink to the police to look the other way while you smuggle
this young malefactor out of the clutches of the law?
Mrs. Chinn. (Quite
indifferent to the moral aspect of the case.) If you
would be so kind, sir.
Geoffrey. Umph! I
suppose you know what you’re doing; appealing through your
womanhood to man’s weakness—employing
“backstairs influence” to gain your private ends,
indifferent to the higher issues of the public weal? All
the things that are going to cease when woman has the vote.
Mrs. Chinn. You see, sir,
he’s the youngest.
(Gradually the decent but dingy figure
of Mrs. Chinn has taken to
itself new shape. To Geoffrey, it almost seems as though there
were growing out of the shadows over against him the figure of
great Artemis herself—Artemis of the Thousand
Breasts. He had returned home angry, bitter
against all women. As she unfolds her simple tale
understanding comes to him. So long as there are
“Mrs. Chinns” in the world, Woman
claims homage.)
Geoffrey. How many were
there?
Mrs. Chinn. Ten altogether,
six living.
Geoffrey. Been a bit of a
struggle for you, hasn’t it?
Mrs. Chinn. It has been a bit
difficult, at times; especially after their poor father died.
Geoffrey. How many were you
left with?
Mrs. Chinn. Eight, sir.
Geoffrey. How on earth did
you manage to keep them?
Mrs. Chinn. Well, you see,
sir, the two eldest, they were earning a little. I
don’t think I could have done it without that.
Geoffrey. Wasn’t there
any source from which you could have obtained help? What
was your husband?
Mrs. Chinn. He worked in the
shipyards, sir. There was some talk about it. But, of
course, that always means taking the children away from you.
Geoffrey. Would not that have
been better for them?
Mrs. Chinn. Not always,
sir. Of course, if I hadn’t been able to do my duty
by them I should have had to. But, thank God, I’ve
always been strong.
Geoffrey. (He
rises.) I will see what can be done.
Mrs. Chinn. Thank you,
sir.
Geoffrey. (Half-way,
he turns.) When does the next boat sail—for
Canada?
Mrs. Chinn. To-morrow night,
sir, from Glasgow. I have booked his passage.
Geoffrey. (With a
smile.) You seem to have taken everything for
granted.
Mrs. Chinn. You see, sir,
it’s the disgrace. All the others are doing so
well. It would upset them so.
(He goes out.)
(There is a moment.)
(Annys
enters. She is wearing her outdoor
things.)
Annys. Mrs. Chinn!
Mrs. Chinn. (She has
risen; she curtseys.) Good evening,
ma’am.
Annys. (She is taking off
her hat.) Nothing wrong, is there?
Mrs. Chinn. My boy,
ma’am, my youngest, has been getting into trouble.
Annys. (She pauses,
her hat in her hand.) They will, won’t
they? It’s nothing serious, I hope?
Mrs. Chinn. I think it will
be all right, ma’am, thanks to your good gentleman.
Annys. (She lays aside her
hat.) You have had a good many children, haven’t
you, Mrs. Chinn?
Mrs. Chinn. Ten altogether,
ma’am; six living.
Annys. Can one love ten, all
at once?
(The cloak has fallen aside.
Mrs. Chinn is a much experienced
lady.)
Mrs. Chinn. Just as many as
come, dear. God sends the love with them.
(There is a moment; the two women
are very close to one another. Then Annys gives a little cry and somehow
their arms are round one another.)
(She mothers her into the easy chair
above the fire; places a footstool under her
feet.) You have your cry out, dearie, it will do you
good.
Annys. You look so strong and
great.
Mrs. Chinn. It’s the
tears, dearie. (She arranges the foot-stool.)
You keep your feet up.
(The handle of the door is
heard. Mrs. Chinn is
standing beside her own chair. She is putting back
her handkerchief into her bag.)
(Geoffrey re-enters.)
(Annys is
hidden in the easy chair. He does not see
her.)
Geoffrey. Well, Mrs. Chinn,
an exhaustive search for the accused will be commenced—next
week.
Mrs. Chinn. Thank you,
sir.
Geoffrey. What about the
children—are they going with him?
Mrs. Chinn. No, sir; I
thought he would be better without them till everything is
settled.
Geoffrey. Who is taking care
of them—you?
Mrs. Chinn. Yes, sir.
Geoffrey. And the passage
money—how much was that?
Mrs. Chinn. Four pound
fifteen.
Geoffrey. Would you mind my
coming in, as a friend?
Mrs. Chinn. Well, if you
don’t mind, I’d rather not. I’ve always
done everything for the children myself. It’s been a
fad of mine.
Geoffrey. (He makes a
gesture of despair.) You mothers! You’re so
greedy. (He holds out his hand,
smiling.) Goodbye.
Mrs. Chinn. (She takes his
hand in hers.) God bless you, sir. And your good
lady.
Geoffrey. (As he takes her
to the door.) How will you get home?
Mrs. Chinn. I can get the
Underground from Gower Street, sir.
(They go out talking about last trains
and leaving the door open. The next moment the front
door is heard to slam.)
(Geoffrey re-enters.)
(Annys has
moved round, so that coming back into the room he finds
her there.)
Geoffrey. How long have you
been in?
(He closes the door.)
Annys. Only a few
minutes—while you were at the telephone. I had to
rest for a little while. Dr. Whitby brought me back in his
motor.
Geoffrey. Was he down
there?
Annys. Phoebe had sent for
him. I had been taken a little giddy earlier in the
day.
Geoffrey. (He
grunts. He is fighting with his
tenderness.) Don’t wonder at it. All this
overwork and excitement.
Annys. I’m afraid
I’ve been hurting you.
Geoffrey. (Still
growling.) Both been hurting each other, I expect.
Annys. (She
smiles.) It’s so easy to hurt those that love
us.
(She makes a little movement,
feebly stretches out her arms to him.
Wondering, he comes across to her. She
draws him down beside her, takes his arms and places them
about her.) I want to feel that I belong to you.
That you are strong. That I can rest upon you.
Geoffrey. (He cannot
understand.) But only an hour ago—(He looks at
her.) Have you, too, turned traitor to the
Woman’s Cause?
Annys. (She answers
smiling.) No. But woman, dear, is a much more
complicated person than I thought her. It is only in this
hour that God has revealed her to me. (She draws him
closer.) I want you, dear—dear husband.
Take care of us—both, won’t you? I love you, I
love you. I did not know how much.
Geoffrey. (He gathers her
to him, kissing her, crooning over her.)
Oh, my dear, my dear! My little one, my love, my wife!
Annys. (She is
laughing, crying.) But, Geoffrey,
dear—
(He tries to calm her.)
No, let me. I want to— And then I’ll
be quite good, I promise— It’s only fair to
warn you. When I’m strong and can think again, I
shall still want the vote. I shall want it more than
ever.
Geoffrey. (He answers with
a happy laugh, holding her in his arms.)
Annys. You will help
us? Because it’s right, dear, isn’t it?
He will be my child as well as yours. You will let me help
you make the world better for our child—and for all the
children—and for all the mothers—and for all the
dear, kind men: you will, won’t you?
Geoffrey. I thought you were
drifting away from me: that strange voices were calling you away
from life and motherhood. God has laughed at my
fears. He has sent you back to me with His command.
We will fashion His world together, we two lovers, Man and Woman,
joined together in all things. It is His will. His
chains are the children’s hands.
(Kneeling, he holds her
in his arms.)
(The Curtain
Falls.)
