EDGAR. What is it you want? You said just now you hoped he'd make concessions. Now you want me to back him in not making them. This isn't a game, Enid!
ENID. [Hotly.] It is n't a game to me that the Dad's in danger of losing all he cares about in life. If he won't give way, and he's beaten, it'll simply break him down!
EDGAR. Didn't you say it was dreadful going on with the men in this state?
ENID. But can't you see, Ted, Father'll never get over it! You must stop them somehow. The others are afraid of him. If you back him up—
EDGAR. [Putting his hand to his head.] Against my convictions— against yours! The moment it begins to pinch one personally—
ENID. It isn't personal, it's the Dad!
EDGAR. Your family or yourself, and over goes the show!
ENID. [Resentfully.] If you don't take it seriously, I do.
EDGAR. I am as fond of him as you are; that's nothing to do with it.
ENID. We can't tell about the men; it's all guess-work. But we know the Dad might have a stroke any day. D' you mean to say that he isn't more to you than—
EDGAR. Of course he is.
ENID. I don't understand you then.
EDGAR. H'm!
ENID. If it were for oneself it would be different, but for our own Father! You don't seem to realise.
EDGAR. I realise perfectly.
ENID. It's your first duty to save him.
EDGAR. I wonder.
ENID. [Imploring.] Oh, Ted? It's the only interest he's got left; it'll be like a death-blow to him!
EDGAR. [Restraining his emotion.] I know.
ENID. Promise!
EDGAR. I'll do what I can.
[He turns to the double-doors.] [The curtained door is opened, and ANTHONY appears. EDGAR opens the double-doors, and passes through.] [SCANTLEBURY'S voice is faintly heard: "Past five; we shall never get through—have to eat another dinner at that hotel!" The doors are shut. ANTHONY walks forward.]
ANTHONY. You've been seeing Roberts, I hear.
ENID. Yes.
ANTHONY. Do you know what trying to bridge such a gulf as this is like?
[ENID puts her work on the little table, and faces him.]
Filling a sieve with sand!
ENID. Don't!
ANTHONY. You think with your gloved hands you can cure the trouble of the century.
[He passes on. ]
ENID. Father!
[ANTHONY Stops at the double doors.]
I'm only thinking of you!
ANTHONY. [More softly.] I can take care of myself, my dear.
ENID. Have you thought what'll happen if you're beaten [she points]—in there?
ANTHONY. I don't mean to be.
ENID. Oh! Father, don't give them a chance. You're not well; need you go to the meeting at all?
ANTHONY. [With a grim smile.] Cut and run?
ENID. But they'll out-vote you!
ANTHONY. [Putting his hand on the doors.] We shall see!
ENID. I beg you, Dad! Won't you?
[ANTHONY looks at her softly.] [ANTHONY shakes his head. He opens the doors. A buzz of voices comes in.]
SCANTLEBURY. Can one get dinner on that 6.30 train up?
TENCH. No, Sir, I believe not, sir.
WILDER. Well, I shall speak out; I've had enough of this.
EDGAR. [Sharply.] What?
[It ceases instantly. ANTHONY passes through, closing the doors behind him. ENID springs to them with a gesture of dismay. She puts her hand on the knob, and begins turning it; then goes to the fireplace, and taps her foot on the fender. Suddenly she rings the bell. FROST comes in by the door that leads into the hall.]
FROST. Yes, M'm?
ENID. When the men come, Frost, please show them in here; the hall's cold.
FROST. I could put them in the pantry, M'm.
ENID. No. I don't want to—to offend them; they're so touchy.
FROST. Yes, M'm. [Pause.] Excuse me, Mr. Anthony's 'ad nothing to eat all day.
ENID. I know Frost.
FROST. Nothin' but two whiskies and sodas, M'm.
ENID. Oh! you oughtn't to have let him have those.
FROST. [Gravely.] Mr. Anthony is a little difficult, M'm. It's not as if he were a younger man, an' knew what was good for 'im; he will have his own way.
ENID. I suppose we all want that.
FROST. Yes, M'm. [Quietly.] Excuse me speakin' about the strike. I'm sure if the other gentlemen were to give up to Mr. Anthony, and quietly let the men 'ave what they want, afterwards, that'd be the best way. I find that very useful with him at times, M'm.
[ENID shakes her head.]
If he's crossed, it makes him violent [with an air of discovery], and I've noticed in my own case, when I'm violent I'm always sorry for it afterwards.
ENID. [With a smile.] Are you ever violent, Frost?
FROST. Yes, M'm; oh! sometimes very violent.
ENID. I've never seen you.
FROST. [Impersonally.] No, M'm; that is so.
[ENID fidgets towards the back of the door.]
[With feeling.] Bein' with Mr. Anthony, as you know, M'm, ever since I was fifteen, it worries me to see him crossed like this at his age. I've taken the liberty to speak to Mr. Wanklin [dropping his voice]— seems to be the most sensible of the gentlemen—but 'e said to me: "That's all very well, Frost, but this strike's a very serious thing," 'e said. "Serious for all parties, no doubt," I said, "but yumour 'im, sir," I said, "yumour 'im. It's like this, if a man comes to a stone wall, 'e does n't drive 'is 'ead against it, 'e gets over it." "Yes," 'e said, "you'd better tell your master that." [FROST looks at his nails.] That's where it is, M'm. I said to Mr. Anthony this morning: "Is it worth it, sir?" "Damn it," he said to me, "Frost! Mind your own business, or take a month's notice!" Beg pardon, M'm, for using such a word.
ENID. [Moving to the double-doors, and listening.] Do you know that man Roberts, Frost?
FROST. Yes, M'm; that's to say, not to speak to. But to look at 'im you can tell what he's like.
ENID. [Stopping.] Yes?
FROST. He's not one of these 'ere ordinary 'armless Socialists. 'E's violent; got a fire inside 'im. What I call "personal." A man may 'ave what opinions 'e likes, so long as 'e's not personal; when 'e's that 'e's not safe.
ENID. I think that's what my father feels about Roberts.
FROST. No doubt, M'm, Mr. Anthony has a feeling against him.
[ENID glances at him sharply, but finding him in perfect earnest, stands biting her lips, and looking at the double-doors.]
It 's, a regular right down struggle between the two. I've no patience with this Roberts, from what I 'ear he's just an ordinary workin' man like the rest of 'em. If he did invent a thing he's no worse off than 'undreds of others. My brother invented a new kind o' dumb-waiter—nobody gave him anything for it, an' there it is, bein' used all over the place.
[ENID moves closer to the double-doors.]
There's a kind o' man that never forgives the world, because 'e wasn't born a gentleman. What I say is—no man that's a gentleman looks down on another because 'e 'appens to be a class or two above 'im, no more than if 'e 'appens to be a class or two below.
ENID. [With slight impatience.] Yes, I know, Frost, of course. Will you please go in and ask if they'll have some tea; say I sent you.
FROST. Yes, M'm.
[He opens the doors gently and goes in. There is a momentary sound of earnest, gather angry talk.]
WILDER. I don't agree with you.
WANKLIN. We've had this over a dozen times.
EDGAR. [Impatiently.] Well, what's the proposition?
SCANTLEBURY. Yes, what does your father say? Tea? Not for me, not for me!
WANKLIN. What I understand the Chairman to say is this—
[FROST re-enters closing the door behind him.]
ENID. [Moving from the door.] Won't they have any tea, Frost?
[She goes to the little table, and remains motionless, looking at the baby's frock.] [A parlourmaid enters from the ha
ll.]
PARLOURMAID. A Miss Thomas, M'm
ENID. [Raising her head.] Thomas? What Miss Thomas—d' you mean a—?
PARLOURMAID. Yes, M'm.
ENID. [Blankly.] Oh! Where is she?
PARLOURMAID. In the porch.
ENID. I don't want [She hesitates.]
FROST. Shall I dispose of her, M'm?
ENID. I'll come out. No, show her in here, Ellen.
[The PARLOUR MAID and FROST go out. ENID pursing her lips, sits at the little table, taking up the baby's frock. The PARLOURMAID ushers in MADGE THOMAS and goes out; MADGE stands by the door.]
ENID. Come in. What is it. What have you come for, please?
MADGE. Brought a message from Mrs. Roberts.
ENID. A message? Yes.
MADGE. She asks you to look after her mother.
ENID. I don't understand.
MADGE. [Sullenly.] That's the message.
ENID. But—what—why?
MADGE. Annie Roberts is dead.
[There is a silence.]
ENID. [Horrified.] But it's only a little more than an hour since I saw her.
MADGE. Of cold and hunger.
ENID. [Rising.] Oh! that's not true! the poor thing's heart—What makes you look at me like that? I tried to help her.
MADGE. [With suppressed savagery.] I thought you'd like to know.
ENID. [Passionately.] It's so unjust! Can't you see that I want to help you all?
MADGE. I never harmed any one that hadn't harmed me first.
ENID. [Coldly.] What harm have I done you? Why do you speak to me like that?
MADGE. [With the bitterest intensity.] You come out of your comfort to spy on us! A week of hunger, that's what you want!
ENID. [Standing her ground.] Don't talk nonsense!
MADGE. I saw her die; her hands were blue with the cold.
ENID. [With a movement of grief.] Oh! why wouldn't she let me help her? It's such senseless pride!
MADGE. Pride's better than nothing to keep your body warm.
ENID. [Passionately.] I won't talk to you! How can you tell what I feel? It's not my fault that I was born better off than you.
MADGE. We don't want your money.
ENID. You don't understand, and you don't want to; please to go away!
MADGE. [Balefully.] You've killed her, for all your soft words, you and your father!
ENID. [With rage and emotion.] That's wicked! My father is suffering himself through this wretched strike.
MADGE. [With sombre triumph.] Then tell him Mrs. Roberts is dead! That'll make him better.
ENID. Go away!
MADGE. When a person hurts us we get it back on them.
[She makes a sudden and swift movement towards ENID, fixing her eyes on the child's frock lying across the little table. ENID snatches the frock up, as though it were the child itself. They stand a yard apart, crossing glances.]
MADGE. [Pointing to the frock with a little smile.] Ah! You felt that! Lucky it's her mother—not her children—you've to look after, isn't it. She won't trouble you long!
ENID. Go away!
MADGE. I've given you the message.
[She turns and goes out into the hall. ENID, motionless till she has gone, sinks down at the table, bending her head over the frock, which she is still clutching to her. The double-doors are opened, and ANTHONY comes slowly in; he passes his daughter, and lowers himself into an arm-chair. He is very flushed.]
ENID. [Hiding her emotion-anxiously.] What is it, Dad?
[ANTHONY makes a gesture, but does not speak.]
Who was it?
[ANTHONY does not answer. ENID going to the double-doors meets EDGAR Coming in. They speak together in low tones.]
What is it, Ted?
EDGAR. That fellow Wilder! Taken to personalities! He was downright insulting.
ENID. What did he say?
EDGAR. Said, Father was too old and feeble to know what he was doing! The Dad's worth six of him!
ENID. Of course he is.
[They look at ANTHONY.] [The doors open wider, WANKLIN appears With SCANTLEBURY.]
SCANTLEBURY. [Sotto voce.] I don't like the look of this!
WANKLIN. [Going forward.] Come, Chairman! Wilder sends you his apologies. A man can't do more.
[WILDER, followed by TENCH, comes in, and goes to ANTHONY.]
WILDER. [Glumly.] I withdraw my words, sir. I'm sorry.
[ANTHONY nods to him.]
ENID. You haven't come to a decision, Mr. Wanklin?
[WANKLIN shakes his head.]
WANKLIN. We're all here, Chairman; what do you say? Shall we get on with the business, or shall we go back to the other room?
SCANTLEBURY. Yes, yes; let's get on. We must settle something.
[He turns from a small chair, and settles himself suddenly in the largest chair with a sigh of comfort.] [WILDER and WANKLIN also sit; and TENCH, drawing up a straight-backed chair close to his Chairman, sits on the edge of it with the minute-book and a stylographic pen.]
ENID. [Whispering.] I want to speak to you a minute, Ted.
[They go out through the double-doors.]
WANKLIN. Really, Chairman, it's no use soothing ourselves with a sense of false security. If this strike's not brought to an end before the General Meeting, the shareholders will certainly haul us over the coals.
SCANTLEBURY. [Stirring.] What—what's that?
WANKLIN. I know it for a fact.
ANTHONY. Let them!
WILDER. And get turned out?
WANKLIN. [To ANTHONY.] I don't mind martyrdom for a policy in which I believe, but I object to being burnt for someone else's principles.
SCANTLEBURY. Very reasonable—you must see that, Chairman.
ANTHONY. We owe it to other employers to stand firm.
WANKLIN. There's a limit to that.
ANTHONY. You were all full of fight at the start.
SCANTLEBURY. [With a sort of groan.] We thought the men would give in, but they-have n't!
ANTHONY. They will!
WILDER. [Rising and pacing up and down.] I can't have my reputation as a man of business destroyed for the satisfaction of starving the men out. [Almost in tears.] I can't have it! How can we meet the shareholders with things in the state they are?
SCANTLEBURY. Hear, hear—hear, hear!
WILDER. [Lashing himself.] If any one expects me to say to them I've lost you fifty thousand pounds and sooner than put my pride in my pocket I'll lose you another. [Glancing at ANTHONY.] It's—it's unnatural! I don't want to go against you, sir.
WANKLIN. [Persuasively.] Come Chairman, we 're not free agents. We're part of a machine. Our only business is to see the Company earns as much profit as it safely can. If you blame me for want of principle: I say that we're Trustees. Reason tells us we shall never get back in the saving of wages what we shall lose if we continue this struggle—really, Chairman, we must bring it to an end, on the best terms we can make.
ANTHONY. No.
[There is a pause of general dismay.]
WILDER. It's a deadlock then. [Letting his hands drop with a sort of despair.] Now I shall never get off to Spain!
WANKLIN. [Retaining a trace of irony.] You hear the consequences of your victory, Chairman?
WILDER. [With a burst of feeling.] My wife's ill!
SCANTLEBURY. Dear, dear! You don't say so.
WILDER. If I don't get her out of this cold, I won't answer for the consequences.
[Through the double-doors EDGAR comes in looking very grave.]
EDGAR. [To his Father.] Have you heard this, sir? Mrs. Roberts is dead!
[Every one stages at him, as if trying to gauge the importance of this news.]
Enid saw her this afternoon, she had no coals, or food, or anything. It's enough!
[There is a silence, every one avoiding the other's eyes, except ANTHONY, who stares hard at his son.]
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