The Fourth Act

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.)

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