Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)
Page 374
Catherine.
What is it, George? It’s not because I’m going away?
George Winter.
Your going away doesn’t matter a damn to me. It means that I’ve been done in the eye. Those swindling rogues, the Lewishams, have got me at last. That article’s done the trick and I’m dished. You can go your own way now, Kate. You’ve got the better of me after all.
Catherine.
I don’t understand.
George Winter.
James Ford knows that the bonds have gone. And he’s going to Scotland Yard.
Catherine.
Oh! And father?
George Winter.
Oh, I can’t worry about your father now. He must look after his own skin. I’ve got enough to do to think of myself.
Catherine.
What shall I do?
George Winter.
He’ll give me till to-morrow to replace them, but I can’t. It’s impossible. And he knows I can’t. Damned hypocrite! I shouldn’t complain if I’d been beaten fairly; but it’s so childish. And just when I’d got the reins in my hand. He can’t countenance dishonesty. It’s childish. I always distrusted him. Sanctimonious prig! He’s jealous of me. He wants to kick me off my perch, so that he can take my place. And I know him. I know him inside out. He’ll do what he says. [With angry scorn.] It’s his duty.
Catherine.
Can’t we sell things? There’s my jewellery.
George Winter.
A drop in the ocean. How can I get eighty thousand pounds in a falling market.
Catherine.
[Horrified.] D’you mean to say they’ll arrest you?
George Winter.
[With a dull roar, like a wild beast at bay.] No. D’you think I’m going to stand that, and a trial, and — and all the rest?
Catherine.
[Wringing her hands.] Is there no chance that you may get off?
George Winter.
Bennett would give me away to save himself. I know him. There’s not a man I can trust. The only thing’s to have done with it at once. I must get out of it while I have the chance.
Catherine.
D’you think there’s any hope of your getting away?
George Winter.
My way. Yes.
Catherine.
[Understanding.] Oh, George, you wouldn’t do that.
George Winter.
What else d’you expect me to do? D’you think I’m going to bolt to America, to be brought back in six months by a couple of detectives? Not much.
Catherine.
Wouldn’t it be better to stay and face it? If you’ve done wrong, can’t you accept your punishment? You’re young still.
George Winter.
They won’t have mercy on me. It’ll mean ten years. And when I come out, it’ll mean hiding, doing odd jobs, like Bennett, dirty work for other men who won’t risk their own skins. And what d’you suppose a life like that is worth to me? I want the power, and the notoriety, and the glamour. I wanted men to point me out in the street. I’ve aimed too high to be content with anything but the highest.
Catherine.
Oh, it’s horrible.
George Winter.
Come, Kate — honestly — if you loved me, wouldn’t you wish me to make an end of it?
Catherine.
[After a long look at him.] Oh, don’t ask me.
George Winter.
Will you do something for me? It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask you.
Catherine.
I’ll do anything I can.
George Winter.
I want half an hour to myself. You must let no one come to me under any pretext whatever.
Catherine.
[With a cry of horror.] You’re not going to do it now?
George Winter.
I don’t trust James Ford. He may have gone to Scotland Yard already. Perhaps the detectives are already on their way.
Catherine.
You’ve said yourself that he’s to be relied on.
George Winter.
Oh, I’m frightened. And what’s the good? I’m dead beat. Perhaps to-morrow I shouldn’t have the nerve.
Catherine.
Oh, it’s awful.
George Winter.
[With a laugh.] Why, it’s your freedom.
[He goes to the table and pours himself out a glass of brandy.
George Winter.
I’m mixing my liquors. Bad habit, isn’t it? You’ll be ravishing in black, darling. It always suited you.
[Catherine gives an inarticulate sob. George Winter, shrugging his shoulders, goes towards the door.
George Winter.
Will you promise to prevent anyone from disturbing me?
Catherine.
Yes.
George Winter.
In half an hour you can go to bed.... I hope you’ll sleep as soundly as I shall.
[He goes out and locks the door behind him. Catherine hides her face in her hands and moans with fright and horror. In a moment O’Donnell comes in. Catherine starts as she hears him.
Catherine.
I thought you’d gone to bed.
O’Donnell.
I feel so awfully wide awake. I came in to see if I could find a book.
Catherine.
[Pointing to a table.] There are some over there.
O’Donnell.
You’re looking dreadfully done up. Why don’t you turn in?
[At that moment shouts are heard in the square below, cheers and cries of Winter.
Catherine.
[Frightened.] What’s that?
O’Donnell.
[Going to the window.] Oh, it’s closing time. Enthusiastic politicians who’ve been turned out of the public-houses.
[Cries of Winter, Winter.
Catherine.
Oh, send them away, I can’t bear it.
O’Donnell.
[Opening the window and calling out.] Mr. Winter has gone to bed, gentlemen, and I strongly recommend you to follow his example.
[He shuts the window, amid the laughter and cheers of the roisterers. They go away singing. Catherine clenches her hands to prevent herself from screaming.
O’Donnell.
[With a laugh.] Splendid, aren’t they?
Catherine.
Now, you really must go to bed.
O’Donnell.
[Taking a book from the table.] All right. I dare say we shall have a busy day to-morrow.... I really think this is the happiest day I’ve ever had. Life is jolly, isn’t it?
Catherine.
[With a strange look at him.] Yes.
O’Donnell.
Good-night.
Catherine.
[With a sudden start.] Oh!
O’Donnell.
What’s the matter?
Catherine.
I thought I heard a sound.
O’Donnell.
I didn’t. The hotel’s as still as death, for a wonder. I hope the trains won’t disturb you to-night.
Catherine.
Good-night.
[He goes out. Catherine turns and looks at the door of George Winter’s room. She takes a step towards it.
Catherine.
George!
[She listens, but there is no answer. With a gesture of horror she turns away. Fred Bennett bursts into the room.
Bennett.
I beg your pardon. I didn’t expect to find any one here. Where’s the Governor?
Catherine.
I don’t know.
Bennett.
I want to see him at once.
Catherine.
He can’t see any one to-night.
Bennett.
He’ll see me.
Catherine.
He left instructions that no one was to bother him.
Bennett.
It’s a matter of life and death.
Catherine.
[With a shiver of apprehension.] I tell you, you can’t see him.
; Bennett.
Isn’t he in his room?
Catherine.
No.
Bennett.
[Going towards the door.] Are you sure?
Catherine.
[Getting in his way.] He’s tired out. Can’t you let him rest?
Bennett.
Oh, but you don’t know what’s happened. The mine’s all right. For goodness’ sake, let me go to him.
Catherine.
[Quickly.] What do you mean?
Bennett.
[The words tumbling over one another in his hurry.] The manager had taken Macdonald in, hadn’t shown him a new shaft they’d sunk. The place is crammed full of gold. It was only a dodge of the Lewishams. I did what the Governor told me. I just flooded the market with selling orders of their stocks, and at closing time Manny Lewisham sent for me. I smelt a rat. I was too clever for him. He’s offered to take the Governor in. He’ll buy a huge block of shares to-morrow at par. He’s going to pay on the nail. And we’re safe, we’re safe, we’re safe.
Catherine.
D’you mean to say....
Bennett.
[Interrupting.] It’s what the Governor’s been fighting for for ten years. At last he’s got there. The shares’ll be worth anything you like in a month. It means wealth, safety, everything.
Catherine.
Then George is....
Bennett.
He’s at the top of the tree. He’s where he ought to be. In ten years he’ll be in the House of Lords. Would you like to tell him yourself?
[Catherine hesitates for a moment. She sees her chance of freedom slipping away from her once more. For a moment she struggles with herself. All her life, past and future, comes before her in a flash.
Catherine.
I don’t know where he is.
Bennett.
You don’t know?
Catherine.
He went down to the smoking-room.
Bennett.
I must find him.
[He runs towards the door, but before he can get out Catherine has a revulsion of feeling. She gives a cry.
Catherine.
No, stop. He’s in his bedroom. Oh, be quick! Be quick!
[Bennett stops and looks at her with surprise. She runs to the door and beats against it with her hands.
Catherine.
George, George, George! Open the door! George, George!
Bennett.
What’s the matter? What d’you mean?
Catherine.
George! It’s all right. Open the door, for God’s sake. [To Bennett.] Oh, can’t you open the door?
Bennett.
Good God, what’s he doing?
Catherine.
George, George!
[Bennett puts his shoulder against it and tries to burst the door open. It does not yield.
Bennett.
Governor. It’s me.
Catherine.
He locked it. Break the glass.
[She gives him a bronze ornament which is at her hand, and he breaks it against the pane of glass which is above the lock. The glass splinters. He puts his hand in and turns the key. Then he opens the door and bursts in.
Bennett.
He’s not there.
Catherine.
He must be. He must be.
Bennett.
The windows are wide open. He must have gone out.
Catherine.
There’s nowhere to go. There’s only about two yards of garden and then the line. Call out.
Bennett.
Perhaps he’s in the garden.
[Bennett runs out through the door of George Winter’s room. As he does this, Francis Etchingham comes in from the left, in his pyjamas and a dressing-gown.
Etchingham.
I say, what the devil’s all this row? It’s bad enough to have the trains banging under one’s window all night long. Upon my soul.
Catherine.
Where’s George? Father, father!
Etchingham.
How the deuce should I know?
[Bennett comes back.
Bennett.
He’s not in the garden anywhere.
Catherine.
Oh, I’m so frightened!
Etchingham.
What on earth’s the matter with you, Kate?
Catherine.
Oh, my God, my God!
Bennett.
We can’t find the Governor.
Etchingham.
Perhaps he’s gone for a walk.
Catherine.
Along the line?
[Teddie O’Donnell comes running in. He has taken his coat and waistcoat off.
O’Donnell.
I say, I’ve just seen a most awful accident. A man’s been run over on the line.
[Catherine gives a shrill scream of horror, and, falling on her knees, hides her face.
THE END
LANDED GENTRY
CONTENTS
CHARACTERS
THE FIRST ACT
THE SECOND ACT
THE THIRD ACT
THE FOURTH ACT
CHARACTERS
This play was produced under the title “Grace,” at the Duke of York’s Theatre, London, October 15, 1910, with the following cast:
Claude Insoley
Dennis Eadie
Rev. Archibald Insoley
Leslie Faber
Henry Cobbett
Arthur Wontner
Gann
Edmund Gwenn
Moore
Heston Cooper
Grace Insoley
Irene Vanbrugh
Mrs. Insoley
Lady Tree
Miss Vernon of Foley
Lillah MacCarthy
Miss Hall
Mary Barton
Edith Lewis
Nina Sevening
Margaret Gann
Gertrude Lang
Claude Insoley
Rev. Archibald Insoley
Henry Cobbett
Gann
Moore
Grace Insoley
Mrs. Insoley
Miss Vernon of Foley
Miss Hall
Edith Lewis
Margaret Gann
The Action takes place at Kenyon-Fulton, Claude Insoley’s place in Somersetshire.
The Performing Rights of this play are fully protected, and permission to perform it, whether by Amateurs or Professionals, must be obtained in advance from the author’s Sole Agent, R. Golding Bright, 20 Green Street, Leicester Square, London, W.C., from whom all particulars can be obtained.
THE FIRST ACT
Scene: The drawing-room at Kenyon-Fulton. It is a handsome apartment with large windows, reaching to the ground. On the walls are old masters whose darkness conceals their artistic insignificance. The furniture is fine and solid. Nothing is very new or smart. The chintzes have a rather pallid Victorian air. The room with its substantial magnificence represents the character of a family rather than the taste of an individual.
It is night and one or two electric lamps are burning.
Moore, an elderly impressive butler, comes in, followed by Gann. This is Claude Insoley’s gamekeeper, a short, sturdy man, grizzled, with wild stubborn hair and a fringe of beard round his chin. He wears his Sunday clothes of sombre broadcloth.
Moore.
You’re to wait here.
[Gann, hat in hand, advances to the middle of the room.
Moore.
They’ve not got up from dinner yet, but he’ll come and see you at once.
Gann.
I’ll wait.
Moore.
He said I was to tell him the moment you come. What can he be wanting of you at this time of night?
Gann.
Maybe if he wished you to know he’d have told you.
Moore.
I don’t want to know what don’t concern me.
Gann.
Pity there ain’t more like you.
Moore.
&
nbsp; It’s the missus’ birthday to-day.
Gann.
Didn’t he say you was to tell him the moment I come?
Moore.
I’ve only just took in the dessert. Give ’em a minute to sample the peaches.
Gann.
I thought them was your orders.
Moore.
You’re a nice civil-spoken one, you are.
[With an effort Gann prevents himself from replying. It is as much as he can do to keep his hands off the sleek, obsequious butler. Moore after a glance at him goes out. The gamekeeper begins to walk up and down the room like a caged beast. In a moment he hears a sound and stops still. He turns his hat round and round in his hands.
[Claude Insoley comes in. He is a man of thirty-five, rather dried-up, rather precise, neither good-looking nor plain, with a slightly dogmatic, authoritative manner.
Claude.
Good evening, Gann.
Gann.
Good evening, sir.
[Claude hesitates for a moment; to conceal a slight embarrassment he lights a cigarette. Gann watches him steadily.
Claude.
I suppose you know what I’ve sent for you about.
Gann.
No, sir.
Claude.
I should have thought you might guess without hurting yourself. The Rector tells me that your daughter Peggy came back last night.
Gann.
Yes, sir.
Claude.
Bit thick, isn’t it?
Gann.
I don’t know what you mean, sir.
Claude.
Oh, that’s all rot, Gann. You know perfectly well what I mean. It’s a beastly matter for both of us, but it’s no good funking it.... You’ve been on the estate pretty well all your life, haven’t you?
Gann.
It’s fifty-four years come next Michaelmas that my father was took on, and I was earning wages here before you was born.
Claude.
My governor always said you were the best keeper he ever struck, and hang it all, I haven’t had anything to complain about either.
Gann.
Thank you, sir.
Claude.
Anyhow, we shan’t make it any better by beating about the bush. It appears that Peggy has got into trouble in London.... I’m awfully sorry for you, and all that sort of thing.
Gann.
Poor child. She’s not to blame.
[Claude gives a slight shrug of the shoulders.
Gann.
I want ‘er to forget all she’s gone through. It was a mistake she ever went to London, but she would go. Now I’ll keep ‘er beside me. She’ll never leave me again till I’m put underground.