Three Plays by Granville-Barker Part 63

MR. BOOTH. I think I'd rather not. D'you think I ought to hold any further communication with you at all? [_and at this he takes his hat._]

EDWARD. [_with a little explosion of contemptuous anger._] Certainly not. Prosecute . . prosecute!

MR. BOOTH. [_with dignity._] Don't lose your temper. You know it's my place to be angry with you.

EDWARD. I beg your pardon. [_then he is elaborately explanatory._] I shall be =grateful= if you'll prosecute.

MR. BOOTH. [_more puzzled than ever._] There's something in this which I don't understand.

EDWARD. [_with deliberate unconcern._] Think it over.

MR. BOOTH. [_hesitating, fidgetting._] But surely I oughtn't to have to make up my mind! There must be a right or a wrong thing to do. Edward, can't =you= tell me?

EDWARD. I'm prejudiced.

MR. BOOTH. [_angrily._] What do you mean by placing me in a dilemma? I believe you're simply trying to practise upon my goodness of heart.

Certainly I ought to prosecute at once . . Oughtn't I? [_then at the nadir of helplessness._] Can't I consult another solicitor?

EDWARD. [_his chin in the air._] Write to the Times about it!

MR. BOOTH. [_shocked and grieved at his att.i.tude._] Edward, how can you be so cool and heartless?

EDWARD. [_changing his tone._] D'you think I shan't be glad to sleep at nights?

MR. BOOTH. Perhaps you'll be put in prison?

EDWARD. I =am= in prison . . a less pleasant one than Wormwood Scrubbs.

But we're all prisoners, Mr. Booth.

MR. BOOTH. [_wagging his head._] Yes, this is what comes of your philosophy. Why aren't you on your knees?

EDWARD. To you?

_This was not what_ MR. BOOTH _meant, but as he gets up from his chair he feels all but mighty_.

MR. BOOTH. And why should you expect me to shrink from vindicating the law?

EDWARD. [_shortly._] I don't. I've explained you'll be doing me a kindness. When I'm wanted you'll find me here at my desk. [_then as an afterthought._] If you take long to decide . . don't alter your behaviour to my family in the meantime. They know the main points of the business and--

MR. BOOTH. [_knocked right off his balance._] Do they! Good G.o.d! . . I'm invited to dinner the day after to-morrow . . that's Christmas Eve. The hypocrites!

EDWARD. [_unmoved._] I shall be there . . that will have given you two days. Will you tell me then?

MR. BOOTH. [_protesting violently._] I can't go to dinner . . I can't eat with them. I must be ill.

EDWARD. [_with a half smile._] I remember I went to dinner at Chislehurst to tell my father of my decision.

MR. BOOTH. [_testily._] What decision?

EDWARD. To remain in the firm when I first knew of the difficulties.

MR. BOOTH. [_interested._] Was I present?

EDWARD. I daresay.

MR. BOOTH _stands there, hat, stick and gloves in hand, shaken by this experience, helpless, at his wits' end. He falls into a sort of fretful reverie, speaking half to himself but yet as if he hoped that_ EDWARD, _who is wrapped in his own thoughts, would have the decency to answer, or at least listen, to what he is saying_.

MR. BOOTH. Yes, how often I dined with him. Oh, it was monstrous! [_his eyes fall on the clock._] It's nearly lunch time now. Do you know I still can hardly believe all this? I wish I hadn't found it out. If he hadn't died I should never have found it out. I hate to have to be vindictive . . it's not my nature. Indeed I'm sure I'm more grieved than angry. But it isn't as if it were a small sum. And I don't see that one is called upon to forgive crimes . . or why does the Law exist? I feel that this will go near to killing me. I'm too old to have such troubles . . it isn't right. And now if I have to prosecute--

EDWARD. [_at last throwing in a word._] You need not.

MR. BOOTH. [_thankful for the provocation._] Don't you attempt to influence me, sir.

_He turns to go._

EDWARD. With the money you have left. . .

EDWARD _follows him politely_. MR. BOOTH _flings the door open_.

MR. BOOTH. Make out a cheque for that at once and send it me.

EDWARD. You could . . .

MR. BOOTH. [_clapping his hat on, stamping his stick._] I shall do the right thing, sir, never fear.

_So he marches off in fine style, having, he thinks, had the last word and all. But_ EDWARD _closing the door after him, mutters_ . .

EDWARD. . . Save your soul! . . I'm afraid I was going to say.

THE FIFTH ACT

_Naturally it is the dining room--consecrated as it is to the distinguis.h.i.+ng orgie of the season--which bears the brunt of what an English household knows as Christmas decorations. They consist chiefly of the branches of holly (that unyielding tree), stuck c.o.c.k-eyed behind the top edges of the pictures. The one picture conspicuously not decorated is that which now hangs over the fireplace, a portrait of_ MR.

VOYSEY, _with its new gilt frame and its bra.s.splate marking it also as a presentation_. HONOR, _hastily and at some bodily peril, pulled down the large bunch of mistletoe, which a callous housemaid had suspended above it, in time to obviate the shock to family feelings which such impropriety would cause. Otherwise the only difference between the dining room's appearance at half past nine on Christmas eve and on any other evening in the year is that little piles of queer shaped envelopes seem to be lying about, while there is quite a lot of tissue paper and string to be seen peeping from odd corners. The electric light is reduced to one bulb, but when the maid opens the door showing in_ MR.

GEORGE BOOTH _she switches on the rest_.

PHOEBE. This room is empty, sir. I'll tell Mr. Edward.

_She leaves him to fidget towards the fireplace and back, not removing his comforter or his coat, scarcely turning down the collar, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his cap in his hands. In a very short time_ EDWARD _comes in, shutting the door and taking stock of the visitor before he speaks_.

EDWARD. Well?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_feebly._] I hope my excuse for not coming to dinner was acceptable. I did have . . I have a very bad headache.

EDWARD. I daresay they believed it.