Devil's Disciple — ACT 3
ACT III
Early next morning the sergeant, at the British headquarters in the Town Hall, unlocks the door of a little empty panelled waiting room, and invites Judith to enter.
She has had a bad night, probably a rather delirious one; for even in the reality of the raw morning, her fixed gaze comes back at moments when her attention is not strongly held.
The sergeant considers that her feelings do her credit, and is sympathetic in an encouraging military way.
Being a fine figure of a man, vain of his uniform and of his rank, he feels specially qualified, in a respectful way, to console her.
THE SERGEANT.
You can have a quiet word with him here, mum.
JUDITH.
Shall I have long to wait?
THE SERGEANT.
No, mum, not a minute.
We kep him in the Bridewell for the night; and he’s just been brought over here for the court martial.
Don’t fret, mum: he slep like a child, and has made a rare good breakfast.
JUDITH.
(_incredulously_).
He is in good spirits!
THE SERGEANT.
Tip top, mum.
The chaplain looked in to see him last night; and he won seventeen shillings off him at spoil five.
He spent it among us like the gentleman he is.
Duty’s duty, mum, of course; but you’re among friends here.
(_The tramp of a couple of soldiers is heard approaching.
_) There: I think he’s coming.
(_Richard comes in, without a sign of care or captivity in his bearing.
The sergeant nods to the two soldiers, and shows them the key of the room in his hand.
They withdraw.
_) Your good lady, sir.
RICHARD.
(_going to her_).
What!
My wife.
My adored one.
(_He takes her hand and kisses it with a perverse, raffish gallantry.
_) How long do you allow a brokenhearted husband for leave-taking, Sergeant?
THE SERGEANT.
As long as we can, sir.
We shall not disturb you till the court sits.
RICHARD.
But it has struck the hour.
THE SERGEANT.
So it has, sir; but there’s a delay.
General Burgoyne’s just arrived—Gentlemanly Johnny we call him, sir—and he won’t have done finding fault with everything this side of half past.
I know him, sir: I served with him in Portugal.
You may count on twenty minutes, sir;
and by your leave I won’t waste any more of them.
(_He goes out, locking the door.
Richard immediately drops his raffish manner and turns to Judith with considerate sincerity.
_) RICHARD.
Mrs. Anderson: this visit is very kind of you.
And how are you after last night?
I had to leave you before you recovered; but I sent word to Essie to go and look after you.
Did she understand the message?
JUDITH.
(_breathless and urgent_).
Oh, don’t think of me: I haven’t come here to talk about myself.
Are they going to—to— (_meaning “to hang you”_)?
RICHARD.
(_whimsically_).
At noon, punctually.
At least, that was when they disposed of Uncle Peter.
(_She shudders.
_) Is your husband safe?
Is he on the wing?
JUDITH.
He is no longer my husband.
RICHARD.
(_opening his eyes wide_).
Eh!
JUDITH.
I disobeyed you.
I told him everything.
I expected him to come here and save you.
I wanted him to come here and save you.
He ran away instead.
RICHARD.
Well, that’s what I meant him to do.
What good would his staying have done?
They’d only have hanged us both.
JUDITH.
(_with reproachful earnestness_).
Richard Dudgeon: on your honour, what would you have done in his place?
RICHARD.
Exactly what he has done, of course.
JUDITH.
Oh, why will you not be simple with me—honest and straightforward?
If you are so selfish as that, why did you let them take you last night?
RICHARD.
(_gaily_).
Upon my life, Mrs. Anderson, I don’t know.
I’ve been asking myself that question ever since; and I can find no manner of reason for acting as I did.
JUDITH.
You know you did it for his sake, believing he was a more worthy man than yourself.
RICHARD.
(_laughing_).
Oho!
No: that’s a very pretty reason, I must say; but I’m not so modest as that.
No: it wasn’t for his sake.
JUDITH.
(_after a pause, during which she looks shamefacedly at him, blushing painfully_).
Was it for my sake?
RICHARD.
(_gallantly_).
Well, you had a hand in it.
It must have been a little for your sake.
You let them take me, at all events.
JUDITH.
Oh, do you think I have not been telling myself that all night?
Your death will be at my door.
(_Impulsively, she gives him her hand, and adds, with intense earnestness_) If I could save you as you saved him, I would do it, no matter how cruel the death was.
RICHARD.
(_holding her hand and smiling, but keeping her almost at arm’s length_).
I am very sure I shouldn’t let you.
JUDITH.
Don’t you see that I can save you?
RICHARD.
How?
By changing clothes with me, eh?
JUDITH.
(_disengaging her hand to touch his lips with it_).
Don’t (_meaning “Don’t jest”_).
No: by telling the Court who you really are.
RICHARD.
(_frowning_).
No use: they wouldn’t spare me; and it would spoil half of his chance of escaping.
They are determined to cow us by making an example of somebody on that gallows to-day.
Well, let us cow them by showing that we can stand by one another to the death.
That is the only force that can send Burgoyne back across the Atlantic and make America a nation.
JUDITH.
(_impatiently_).
Oh, what does all that matter?
RICHARD.
(_laughing_).
True: what does it matter?
what does anything matter?
You see, men have these strange notions, Mrs. Anderson; and women see the folly of them.
JUDITH.
Women have to lose those they love through them.
RICHARD.
They can easily get fresh lovers.
JUDITH.
(_revolted_).
Oh!
(_Vehemently_) Do you realise that you are going to kill yourself?
RICHARD.
The only man I have any right to kill, Mrs. Anderson.
Don’t be concerned: no woman will lose her lover through my death.
(_Smiling_) Bless you, nobody cares for me.
Have you heard that my mother is dead?
JUDITH.
Dead!
RICHARD.
Of heart disease—in the night.
Her last word to me was her curse: I don’t think I could have borne her blessing.
My other relatives will not grieve much on my account.
Essie will cry for a day or two; but I have provided for her: I made my own will last night.
JUDITH.
(_stonily, after a moment’s silence_).
And I!
RICHARD.
(_surprised_).
You?
JUDITH.
Yes, I. Am I not to care at all?
RICHARD.
(_gaily and bluntly_).
Not a scrap.
Oh, you expressed your feelings towards me very frankly yesterday.
What happened may have softened you for the moment; but believe me, Mrs. Anderson, you don’t like a bone in my skin or a hair on my head.
I shall be as good a riddance at 12 today as I should have been at 12 yesterday.
JUDITH.
(_her voice trembling_).
What can I do to show you that you are mistaken?
RICHARD.
Don’t trouble.
I’ll give you credit for liking me a little better than you did.
All I say is that my death will not break your heart.
JUDITH.
(_almost in a whisper_).
How do you know?
(_She puts her hands on his shoulders and looks intently at him.
_) RICHARD.
(_amazed—divining the truth_).
Mrs. Anderson!!!
(_The bell of the town clock strikes the quarter.
He collects himself, and removes her hands, saying rather coldly_) Excuse me: they will be here for me presently.
It is too late.
JUDITH.
It is not too late.
Call me as witness: they will never kill you when they know how heroically you have acted.
RICHARD.
(_with some scorn_).
Indeed!
But if I don’t go through with it, where will the heroism be?
I shall simply have tricked them; and they’ll hang me for that like a dog.
Serve me right too!
JUDITH.
(_wildly_).
Oh, I believe you WANT to die.
RICHARD.
(_obstinately_).
No I don’t. JUDITH.
Then why not try to save yourself?
I implore you—listen.
You said just now that you saved him for my sake—yes (_clutching him as he recoils with a gesture of denial_) a little for my sake.
Well, save yourself for my sake.
And I will go with you to the end of the world.
RICHARD.
(_taking her by the wrists and holding her a little way from him, looking steadily at her_).
Judith.
JUDITH.
(_breathless—delighted at the name_).
Yes.
RICHARD.
If I said—to please you—that I did what I did ever so little for your sake, I lied as men always lie to women.
You know how much I have lived with worthless men—aye, and worthless women too.
Well, they could all rise to some sort of goodness and kindness when they were in love.
(_The word love comes from him with true Puritan scorn.
_) That has taught me to set very little store by the goodness that only comes out red hot.
What I did last night, I did in cold blood, caring not half so much for your husband, or (_ruthlessly_) for you (_she droops, stricken_) as I do for myself.
I had no motive and no interest: all I can tell you is that when it came to the point whether I would take my neck out of the noose and put another man’s into it, I could not do it.
I don’t know why not: I see myself as a fool for my pains; but I could not and I cannot.
I have been brought up standing by the law of my own nature; and I may not go against it, gallows or no gallows.
(_She has slowly raised her head and is now looking full at him.
_) I should have done the same for any other man in the town, or any other man’s wife.
(_Releasing her.
_) Do you understand that?
JUDITH.
Yes: you mean that you do not love me.
RICHARD.
(_revolted—with fierce contempt_).
Is that all it means to you?
JUDITH.
What more—what worse—can it mean to me?
(_The sergeant knocks.
The blow on the door jars on her heart.
_) Oh, one moment more.
(_She throws herself on her knees.
_) I pray to you— RICHARD.
Hush!
(_Calling_) Come in.
(_The sergeant unlocks the door and opens it.
The guard is with him.
_) THE SERGEANT.
(_coming in_).
Time’s up, sir.
RICHARD.
Quite ready, Sergeant.
Now, my dear.
(_He attempts to raise her.
_) JUDITH.
(_clinging to him_).
Only one thing more—I entreat, I implore you.
Let me be present in the court.
I have seen Major Swindon: he said I should be allowed if you asked it.
You will ask it.
It is my last request: I shall never ask you anything again.
(_She clasps his knee.
_) I beg and pray it of you.
RICHARD.
If I do, will you be silent?
JUDITH.
Yes.
RICHARD.
You will keep faith?
JUDITH.
I will keep— (_She breaks down, sobbing.
_) RICHARD.
(_taking her arm to lift her_).
Just—her other arm, Sergeant.
They go out, she sobbing convulsively, supported by the two men.
Meanwhile, the Council Chamber is ready for the court martial.
It is a large, lofty room, with a chair of state in the middle under a tall canopy with a gilt crown, and maroon curtains with the royal monogram G.
R.
In front of the chair is a table, also draped in maroon, with a bell, a heavy inkstand, and writing materials on it.
Several chairs are set at the table.
The door is at the right hand of the occupant of the chair of state when it has an occupant: at present it is empty.
Major Swindon, a pale, sandy-haired, very conscientious looking man of about 45, sits at the end of the table with his back to the door, writing.
He is alone until the sergeant announces the General in a subdued manner which suggests that Gentlemanly Johnny has been making his presence felt rather heavily.
THE SERGEANT.
The General, sir.
Swindon rises hastily.
The General comes in, the sergeant goes out.
General Burgoyne is 55, and very well preserved.
He is a man of fashion, gallant enough to have made a distinguished marriage by an elopement, witty enough to write successful comedies, aristocratically-connected enough to have had opportunities of high military distinction.
His eyes, large, brilliant, apprehensive, and intelligent, are his most remarkable feature: without them his fine nose and small mouth would suggest rather more fastidiousness and less force than go to the making of a first rate general.
Just now the eyes are angry and tragic, and the mouth and nostrils tense.
BURGOYNE.
Major Swindon, I presume.
SWINDON.
Yes.
General Burgoyne, if I mistake not.
(_They bow to one another ceremoniously.
_) I am glad to have the support of your presence this morning.
It is not particularly lively business, hanging this poor devil of a minister.
BURGOYNE.
(_throwing himself onto Swindon’s chair_).
No, sir, it is not.
It is making too much of the fellow to execute him: what more could you have done if he had been a member of the Church of England?
Martyrdom, sir, is what these people like: it is the only way in which a man can become famous without ability.
However, you have committed us to hanging him: and the sooner he is hanged the better.
