Devil's Disciple — ACT 2
ACT II
Minister Anderson’s house is in the main street of Websterbridge, not far from the town hall.
To the eye of the eighteenth century New Englander, it is much grander than the plain farmhouse of the Dudgeons;
but it is so plain itself that a modern house agent would let both at about the same rent.
The chief dwelling room has the same sort of kitchen fireplace, with boiler, toaster hanging on the bars, movable iron griddle socketed to the hob, hook above for roasting, and broad fender, on which stand a kettle and a plate of buttered toast.
The door, between the fireplace and the corner, has neither panels, fingerplates nor handles: it is made of plain boards, and fastens with a latch.
The table is a kitchen table, with a treacle colored cover of American cloth, chapped at the corners by draping.
The tea service on it consists of two thick cups and saucers of the plainest ware, with milk jug and bowl to match, each large enough to contain nearly a quart, on a black japanned tray, and, in the middle of the table, a wooden trencher with a big loaf upon it, and a square half pound block of butter in a crock.
The big oak press facing the fire from the opposite side of the room, is for use and storage, not for ornament;
and the minister’s house coat hangs on a peg from its door, showing that he is out; for when he is in it is his best coat that hangs there.
His big riding boots stand beside the press, evidently in their usual place, and rather proud of themselves.
In fact, the evolution of the minister’s kitchen, dining room and drawing room into three separate apartments has not yet taken place; and so, from the point of view of our pampered period, he is no better off than the Dudgeons.
But there is a difference, for all that.
To begin with, Mrs. Anderson is a pleasanter person to live with than Mrs. Dudgeon.
To which Mrs. Dudgeon would at once reply, with reason, that Mrs. Anderson has no children to look after; no poultry, pigs nor cattle; a steady and sufficient income not directly dependent on harvests and prices at fairs; an affectionate husband who is a tower of strength to her: in short, that life is as easy at the minister’s house as it is hard at the farm.
This is true; but to explain a fact is not to alter it; and however little credit Mrs. Anderson may deserve for making her home happier, she has certainly succeeded in doing it.
The outward and visible signs of her superior social pretensions are a drugget on the floor, a plaster ceiling between the timbers and chairs which, though not upholstered, are stained and polished.
The fine arts are represented by a mezzotint portrait of some Presbyterian divine, a copperplate of Raphael’s St. Paul preaching at Athens, a rococo presentation clock on the mantelshelf, flanked by a couple of miniatures, a pair of crockery dogs with baskets in their mouths, and, at the corners, two large cowrie shells.
A pretty feature of the room is the low wide latticed window, nearly its whole width, with little red curtains running on a rod half way up it to serve as a blind.
There is no sofa; but one of the seats, standing near the press, has a railed back and is long enough to accommodate two people easily.
On the whole, it is rather the sort of room that the nineteenth century has ended in struggling to get back to under the leadership of Mr. Philip Webb and his disciples in domestic architecture, though no genteel clergyman would have tolerated it fifty years ago.
The evening has closed in; and the room is dark except for the cosy firelight and the dim oil lamps seen through the window in the wet street, where there is a quiet, steady, warm, windless downpour of rain.
As the town clock strikes the quarter, Judith comes in with a couple of candles in earthenware candlesticks, and sets them on the table.
Her self-conscious airs of the morning are gone: she is anxious and frightened.
She goes to the window and peers into the street.
The first thing she sees there is her husband, hurrying here through the rain.
She gives a little gasp of relief, not very far removed from a sob, and turns to the door.
Anderson comes in, wrapped in a very wet cloak.
JUDITH.
(_running to him_).
Oh, here you are at last, at last!
(_She attempts to embrace him.
_) ANDERSON.
(_keeping her off_).
Take care, my love: I’m wet.
Wait till I get my cloak off.
(_He places a chair with its back to the fire; hangs his cloak on it to dry; shakes the rain from his hat and puts it on the fender; and at last turns with his hands outstretched to Judith.
_) Now!
(_She flies into his arms.
_) I am not late, am I?
The town clock struck the quarter as I came in at the front door.
And the town clock is always fast.
JUDITH.
I’m sure it’s slow this evening.
I’m so glad you’re back.
ANDERSON.
(_taking her more closely in his arms_).
Anxious, my dear?
JUDITH.
A little.
ANDERSON.
Why, you’ve been crying.
JUDITH.
Only a little.
Never mind: it’s all over now.
(_A bugle call is heard in the distance.
She starts in terror and retreats to the long seat, listening.
_) What’s that?
ANDERSON.
(_following her tenderly to the seat and making her sit down with him_).
Only King George, my dear.
He’s returning to barracks, or having his roll called, or getting ready for tea, or booting or saddling or something.
Soldiers don’t ring the bell or call over the banisters when they want anything: they send a boy out with a bugle to disturb the whole town.
JUDITH.
Do you think there is really any danger?
ANDERSON.
Not the least in the world.
JUDITH.
You say that to comfort me, not because you believe it.
ANDERSON.
My dear: in this world there is always danger for those who are afraid of it.
There’s a danger that the house will catch fire in the night;
but we shan’t sleep any the less soundly for that.
JUDITH.
Yes, I know what you always say; and you’re quite right.
Oh, quite right: I know it.
But—I suppose I’m not brave: that’s all.
My heart shrinks every time I think of the soldiers.
ANDERSON.
Never mind that, dear: bravery is none the worse for costing a little pain.
JUDITH.
Yes, I suppose so.
(_Embracing him again.
_) Oh how brave you are, my dear!
(_With tears in her eyes.
_) Well, I’ll be brave too: you shan’t be ashamed of your wife.
ANDERSON.
That’s right.
Now you make me happy.
Well, well!
(_He rises and goes cheerily to the fire to dry his shoes.
_) I called on Richard Dudgeon on my way back; but he wasn’t in.
JUDITH.
(_rising in consternation_).
You called on that man!
ANDERSON.
(_reassuring her_).
Oh, nothing happened, dearie.
He was out.
JUDITH.
(_almost in tears, as if the visit were a personal humiliation to her_).
But why did you go there?
ANDERSON.
(_gravely_).
Well, it is all the talk that Major Swindon is going to do what he did in Springtown—make an example of some notorious rebel, as he calls us.
He pounced on Peter Dudgeon as the worst character there;
and it is the general belief that he will pounce on Richard as the worst here.
JUDITH.
But Richard said— ANDERSON.
(_goodhumoredly cutting her short_).
Pooh!
Richard said!
He said what he thought would frighten you and frighten me, my dear.
He said what perhaps (_God forgive him!
_) he would like to believe.
It’s a terrible thing to think of what death must mean for a man like that.
I felt that I must warn him.
I left a message for him.
JUDITH.
(_querulously_).
What message?
ANDERSON.
Only that I should be glad to see him for a moment on a matter of importance to himself; and that if he would look in here when he was passing he would be welcome.
JUDITH.
(_aghast_).
You asked that man to come here!
ANDERSON.
I did.
JUDITH.
(_sinking on the seat and clasping her hands_).
I hope he won’t come!
Oh, I pray that he may not come!
ANDERSON.
Why?
Don’t you want him to be warned?
JUDITH.
He must know his danger.
Oh, Tony, is it wrong to hate a blasphemer and a villain?
I do hate him!
I can’t get him out of my mind: I know he will bring harm with him.
He insulted you: he insulted me: he insulted his mother.
ANDERSON.
(_quaintly_).
Well, dear, let’s forgive him; and then it won’t matter.
JUDITH.
Oh, I know it’s wrong to hate anybody; but— ANDERSON.
(_going over to her with humorous tenderness_).
Come, dear, you’re not so wicked as you think.
The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that’s the essence of inhumanity.
After all, my dear, if you watch people carefully, you’ll be surprised to find how like hate is to love.
(_She starts, strangely touched—even appalled.
He is amused at her.
_) Yes: I’m quite in earnest.
Think of how some of our married friends worry one another, tax one another, are jealous of one another, can’t bear to let one another out of sight for a day, are more like jailers and slave-owners than lovers.
Think of those very same people with their enemies, scrupulous, lofty, self-respecting, determined to be independent of one another, careful of how they speak of one another—pooh!
haven’t you often thought that if they only knew it, they were better friends to their enemies than to their own husbands and wives?
Come: depend on it, my dear, you are really fonder of Richard than you are of me, if you only knew it.
Eh?
JUDITH.
Oh, don’t say that: don’t say that, Tony, even in jest.
You don’t know what a horrible feeling it gives me.
ANDERSON.
(_Laughing_).
Well, well: never mind, pet.
He’s a bad man; and you hate him as he deserves.
And you’re going to make the tea, aren’t you?
JUDITH.
(_remorsefully_).
Oh yes, I forgot.
I’ve been keeping you waiting all this time.
(_She goes to the fire and puts on the kettle.
_) ANDERSON.
(_going to the press and taking his coat off_).
Have you stitched up the shoulder of my old coat?
JUDITH.
Yes, dear.
(_She goes to the table, and sets about putting the tea into the teapot from the caddy.
_) ANDERSON.
(_as he changes his coat for the older one hanging on the press, and replaces it by the one he has just taken off_).
Did anyone call when I was out?
JUDITH.
No, only— (_someone knocks at the door.
With a start which betrays her intense nervousness, she retreats to the further end of the table with the tea caddy and spoon, in her hands, exclaiming_) Who’s that?
ANDERSON.
(_going to her and patting her encouragingly on the shoulder_).
All right, pet, all right.
He won’t eat you, whoever he is.
(_She tries to smile, and nearly makes herself cry.
He goes to the door and opens it.
Richard is there, without overcoat or cloak.
_) You might have raised the latch and come in, Mr. Dudgeon.
Nobody stands on much ceremony with us.
(_Hospitably.
_) Come in.
(_Richard comes in carelessly and stands at the table, looking round the room with a slight pucker of his nose at the mezzotinted divine on the wall.
Judith keeps her eyes on the tea caddy.
_) Is it still raining?
(_He shuts the door.
_) RICHARD.
Raining like the very (_his eye catches Judith’s as she looks quickly and haughtily up_)—I beg your pardon; but (_showing that his coat is wet_) you see—!
ANDERSON.
Take it off, sir; and let it hang before the fire a while: my wife will excuse your shirtsleeves.
Judith: put in another spoonful of tea for Mr. Dudgeon.
RICHARD.
(_eyeing him cynically_).
The magic of property, Pastor!
Are even YOU civil to me now that I have succeeded to my father’s estate?
Judith throws down the spoon indignantly.
ANDERSON.
(_quite unruffled, and helping Richard off with his coat_).
I think, sir, that since you accept my hospitality, you cannot have so bad an opinion of it.
Sit down.
(_With the coat in his hand, he points to the railed seat.
Richard, in his shirtsleeves, looks at him half quarrelsomely for a moment; then, with a nod, acknowledges that the minister has got the better of him, and sits down on the seat.
Anderson pushes his cloak into a heap on the seat of the chair at the fire, and hangs Richard’s coat on the back in its place.
_) RICHARD.
I come, sir, on your own invitation.
You left word you had something important to tell me.
ANDERSON.
I have a warning which it is my duty to give you.
RICHARD.
(_quickly rising_).
You want to preach to me.
Excuse me: I prefer a walk in the rain.
(_He makes for his coat.
_) ANDERSON.
(_stopping him_).
Don’t be alarmed, sir; I am no great preacher.
You are quite safe.
(_Richard smiles in spite of himself.
His glance softens: he even makes a gesture of excuse.
Anderson, seeing that he has tamed him, now addresses him earnestly.
_) Mr. Dudgeon: you are in danger in this town.
RICHARD.
What danger?
ANDERSON.
Your uncle’s danger.
Major Swindon’s gallows.
RICHARD.
It is you who are in danger.
I warned you— ANDERSON.
(_interrupting him goodhumoredly but authoritatively_).
Yes, yes, Mr. Dudgeon; but they do not think so in the town.
And even if I were in danger, I have duties here I must not forsake.
But you are a free man.
Why should you run any risk?
RICHARD.
Do you think I should be any great loss, Minister?
ANDERSON.
I think that a man’s life is worth saving, whoever it belongs to.
(_Richard makes him an ironical bow.
Anderson returns the bow humorously.
_) Come: you’ll have a cup of tea, to prevent you catching cold?
RICHARD.
I observe that Mrs. Anderson is not quite so pressing as you are, Pastor.
JUDITH.
(_almost stifled with resentment, which she has been expecting her husband to share and express for her at every insult of Richard’s_).
You are welcome for my husband’s sake.
(_She brings the teapot to the fireplace and sets it on the hob.
_) RICHARD.
I know I am not welcome for my own, madam.
(_He rises.
_) But I think I will not break bread here, Minister.
ANDERSON.
(_cheerily_).
Give me a good reason for that.
RICHARD.
Because there is something in you that I respect, and that makes me desire to have you for my enemy.
ANDERSON.
That’s well said.
On those terms, sir, I will accept your enmity or any man’s. Judith: Mr. Dudgeon will stay to tea.
Sit down: it will take a few minutes to draw by the fire.
(_Richard glances at him with a troubled face; then sits down with his head bent, to hide a convulsive swelling of his throat.
_) I was just saying to my wife, Mr. Dudgeon, that enmity— (_she grasps his hand and looks imploringly at him, doing both with an intensity that checks him at once_) Well, well, I mustn’t tell you, I see; but it was nothing that need leave us worse friend—enemies, I mean.
Judith is a great enemy of yours.
RICHARD.
If all my enemies were like Mrs. Anderson I should be the best Christian in America.
ANDERSON.
(_gratified, patting her hand_).
You hear that, Judith?
Mr. Dudgeon knows how to turn a compliment.
The latch is lifted from without.
JUDITH.
(_starting_).
Who is that?
Christy comes in.
CHRISTY.
(_stopping and staring at Richard_).
Oh, are YOU here?
RICHARD.
Yes.
Begone, you fool: Mrs. Anderson doesn’t want the whole family to tea at once.
CHRISTY.
(_coming further in_).
Mother’s very ill.
RICHARD.
Well, does she want to see ME?
CHRISTY.
No. RICHARD.
I thought not.
