Have you fetched the doctor?
CHRISTY. No: she didn’t tell me to.
ANDERSON. Go on there at once: I’ll overtake you on his doorstep. (Christy turns to go.) Wait a moment. Your brother must be anxious to know the particulars.
RICHARD. Psha! not I: he doesn’t know; and I don’t care. (Violently.) Be off, you oaf. (Christy runs out. Richard adds, a little shamefacedly) We shall know soon enough.
ANDERSON. Well, perhaps you will let me bring you the news myself. Judith: will you give Mr. Dudgeon his tea, and keep him here until I return?
JUDITH (white and trembling). Must I —
ANDERSON (taking her hands and interrupting her to cover her agitation). My dear: I can depend on you?
JUDITH (with a piteous effort to be worthy of his trust). Yes.
ANDERSON (pressing her hand against his cheek). You will not mind two old people like us, Mr. Dudgeon. (Going.) I shall not say good evening: you will be here when I come back. (He goes out.)
They watch him pass the window, and then look at each other dumbly, quite disconcerted. Richard, noting the quiver of her lips, is the first to pull himself together.
RICHARD. Mrs. Anderson: I am perfectly aware of the nature of your sentiments towards me. I shall not intrude on you. Good evening. (Again he starts for the fireplace to get his coat.)
JUDITH (getting between him and the coat). No, no. Don’t go: please don’t go.
RICHARD (roughly). Why? You don’t want me here.
JUDITH. Yes, I — (wringing her hands in despair) Oh, if I tell you the truth, you will use it to torment me.
RICHARD (indignantly). Torment! What right have you to say that? Do you expect me to stay after that?
JUDITH. I want you to stay; but (suddenly raging at him like an angry child) it is not because I like you.
RICHARD. Indeed!
JUDITH. Yes: I had rather you did go than mistake me about that. I hate and dread you; and my husband knows it. If you are not here when he comes back, he will believe that I disobeyed him and drove you away.
RICHARD (ironically). Whereas, of course, you have really been so kind and hospitable and charming to me that I only want to go away out of mere contrariness, eh?
Judith, unable to bear it, sinks on the chair and bursts into tears.
RICHARD. Stop, stop, stop, I tell you. Don’t do that. (Putting his hand to his breast as if to a wound.) He wrung my heart by being a man. Need you tear it by being a woman? Has he not raised you above my insults, like himself? (She stops crying, and recovers herself somewhat, looking at him with a scared curiosity.) There: that’s right. (Sympathetically.) You’re better now, aren’t you? (He puts his hand encouragingly on her shoulder. She instantly rises haughtily, and stares at him defiantly. He at once drops into his usual sardonic tone.) Ah, that’s better. You are yourself again: so is Richard. Well, shall we go to tea like a quiet respectable couple, and wait for your husband’s return?
JUDITH (rather ashamed of herself). If you please. I — I am sorry to have been so foolish. (She stoops to take up the plate of toast from the fender.)
RICHARD. I am sorry, for your sake, that I am — what I am. Allow me. (He takes the plate from her and goes with it to the table.)
JUDITH (following with the teapot). Will you sit down? (He sits down at the end of the table nearest the press. There is a plate and knife laid there. The other plate is laid near it; but Judith stays at the opposite end of the table, next the fire, and takes her place there, drawing the tray towards her.) Do you take sugar?
RICHARD. No; but plenty of milk. Let me give you some toast. (He puts some on the second plate, and hands it to her, with the knife. The action shows quietly how well he knows that she has avoided her usual place so as to be as far from him as possible.)
JUDITH (consciously). Thanks. (She gives him his tea.) Won’t you help yourself?
RICHARD. Thanks. (He puts a piece of toast on his own plate; and she pours out tea for herself.)
JUDITH (observing that he tastes nothing). Don’t you like it? You are not eating anything.
RICHARD. Neither are you.
JUDITH (nervously). I never care much for my tea. Please don’t mind me.
RICHARD (Looking dreamily round). I am thinking. It is all so strange to me. I can see the beauty and peace of this home: I think I have never been more at rest in my life than at this moment; and yet I know quite well I could never live here. It’s not in my nature, I suppose, to be domesticated. But it’s very beautiful: it’s almost holy. (He muses a moment, and then laughs softly.)
JUDITH (quickly). Why do you laugh?
RICHARD. I was thinking that if any stranger came in here now, he would take us for man and wife.
JUDITH (taking offence). You mean, I suppose, that you are more my age than he is.
RICHARD (staring at this unexpected turn). I never thought of such a thing. (Sardonic again.) I see there is another side to domestic joy.
JUDITH (angrily). I would rather have a husband whom everybody respects than — than —
RICHARD. Than the devil’s disciple. You are right; but I daresay your love helps him to be a good man, just as your hate helps me to be a bad one.
JUDITH. My husband has been very good to you. He has forgiven you for insulting him, and is trying to save you. Can you not forgive him for being so much better than you are? How dare you belittle him by putting yourself in his place?
RICHARD. Did I?
JUDITH. Yes, you did. You said that if anybody came in they would take us for man and — (she stops, terrorstricken, as a squad of soldiers tramps past the window) The English soldiers! Oh, what do they —
RICHARD (listening). Sh!
A VOICE (outside). Halt! Four outside: two in with me.
Judith half rises, listening and looking with dilated eyes at Richard, who takes up his cup prosaically, and is drinking his tea when the latch goes up with a sharp click, and an English sergeant walks into the room with two privates, who post themselves at the door. He comes promptly to the table between them.
THE SERGEANT. Sorry to disturb you, mum! duty! Anthony Anderson: I arrest you in King George’s name as a rebel.
JUDITH (pointing at Richard). But that is not — (He looks up quickly at her, with a face of iron. She stops her mouth hastily with the hand she has raised to indicate him, and stands staring affrightedly.)
THE SERGEANT. Come, Parson; put your coat on and come along.
RICHARD. Yes: I’ll come. (He rises and takes a step towards his own coat; then recollects himself, and, with his back to the sergeant, moves his gaze slowly round the room without turning his head until he sees Anderson’s black coat hanging up on the press. He goes composedly to it; takes it down; and puts it on. The idea of himself as a parson tickles him: he looks down at the black sleeve on his arm, and then smiles slyly at Judith, whose white face shows him that what she is painfully struggling to grasp is not the humor of the situation but its horror. He turns to the sergeant, who is approaching him with a pair of handcuffs hidden behind him, and says lightly) Did you ever arrest a man of my cloth before, Sergeant?
THE SERGEANT (instinctively respectful, half to the black coat, half to Richard’s good breeding). Well, no sir. At least, only an army chaplain. (Showing the handcuffs.) I’m sorry, air; but duty —
RICHARD. Just so, Sergeant. Well, I’m not ashamed of them: thank you kindly for the apology. (He holds out his hands.)
SERGEANT (not availing himself of the offer). One gentleman to another, sir. Wouldn’t you like to say a word to your missis, sir, before you go?
RICHARD