CHRISTY (disappointed). I’d rather have the China peacocks.
RICHARD. You shall have both. (Christy is greatly pleased.) Go on.
HAWKINS. “Fourthly and lastly, that he try to live at peace with his mother as far as she will consent to it.”
RICHARD (dubiously). Hm! Anything more, Mr. Hawkins?
HAWKINS (solemnly). “Finally I gave and bequeath my soul into my Maker’s hands, humbly asking forgiveness for all my sins and mistakes, and hoping that he will so guide my son that it may not be said that I have done wrong in trusting to him rather than to others in the perplexity of my last hour in this strange place.”
ANDERSON. Amen.
THE UNCLES AND AUNTS. Amen.
RICHARD. My mother does not say Amen.
MRS. DUDGEON (rising, unable to give up her property without a struggle). Mr. Hawkins: is that a proper will? Remember, I have his rightful, legal will, drawn up by yourself, leaving all to me.
HAWKINS. This is a very wrongly and irregularly worded will, Mrs. Dudgeon; though (turning politely to Richard) it contains in my judgment an excellent disposal of his property.
ANDERSON (interposing before Mrs. Dudgeon can retort). That is not what you are asked, Mr. Hawkins. Is it a legal will?
HAWKINS. The courts will sustain it against the other.
ANDERSON. But why, if the other is more lawfully worded?
HAWKING. Because, sir, the courts will sustain the claim of a man — and that man the eldest son — against any woman, if they can. I warned you, Mrs. Dudgeon, when you got me to draw that other will, that it was not a wise will, and that though you might make him sign it, he would never be easy until he revoked it. But you wouldn’t take advice; and now Mr. Richard is cock of the walk. (He takes his hat from the floor; rises; and begins pocketing his papers and spectacles.)
This is the signal for the breaking-up of the party. Anderson takes his hat from the rack and joins Uncle William at the fire. Uncle Titus fetches Judith her things from the rack. The three on the sofa rise and chat with Hawkins. Mrs. Dudgeon, now an intruder in her own house, stands erect, crushed by the weight of the law on women, accepting it, as she has been trained to accept all monstrous calamities, as proofs of the greatness of the power that inflicts them, and of her own wormlike insignificance. For at this time, remember, Mary Wollstonecraft is as yet only a girl of eighteen, and her Vindication of the Rights of Women is still fourteen years off. Mrs. Dudgeon is rescued from her apathy by Essie, who comes back with the jug full of water. She is taking it to Richard when Mrs. Dudgeon stops her.
MRS. DUDGEON (threatening her). Where have you been? (Essie, appalled, tries to answer, but cannot.) How dare you go out by yourself after the orders I gave you?
ESSIE. He asked for a drink — (she stops, her tongue cleaving to her palate with terror).
JUDITH (with gentler severity). Who asked for a drink? (Essie, speechless, points to Richard.)
RICHARD. What! I!
JUDITH (shocked). Oh Essie, Essie!
RICHARD. I believe I did. (He takes a glass and holds it to Essie to be filled. Her hand shakes.) What! afraid of me?
ESSIE (quickly). No. I — (She pours out the water.)
RICHARD (tasting it). Ah, you’ve been up the street to the market gate spring to get that. (He takes a draught.) Delicious! Thank you. (Unfortunately, at this moment he chances to catch sight of Judith’s face, which expresses the most prudish disapproval of his evident attraction for Essie, who is devouring him with her grateful eyes. His mocking expression returns instantly. He puts down the glass; deliberately winds his arm round Essie’s shoulders; and brings her into the middle of the company. Mrs. Dudgeon being in Essie’s way as they come past the table, he says) By your leave, mother (and compels her to make way for them). What do they call you? Bessie?
ESSIE. Essie.
RICHARD. Essie, to be sure. Are you a good girl, Essie?
ESSIE (greatly disappointed that he, of all people should begin at her in this way) Yes. (She looks doubtfully at Judith.) I think so. I mean I — I hope so.
RICHARD. Essie: did you ever hear of a person called the devil?
ANDERSON (revolted). Shame on you, sir, with a mere child —
RICHARD. By your leave, Minister: I do not interfere with your sermons: do not you interrupt mine. (To Essie.) Do you know what they call me, Essie?
ESSIE. Dick.
RICHARD (amused: patting her on the shoulder). Yes, Dick; but something else too. They call me the Devil’s Disciple.
ESSIE. Why do you let them?
RICHARD (seriously). Because it’s true. I was brought up in the other service; but I knew from the first that the Devil was my natural master and captain and friend. I saw that he was in the right, and that the world cringed to his conqueror only through fear. I prayed secretly to him; and he comforted me, and saved me from having my spirit broken in this house of children’s tears. I promised him my soul, and swore an oath that I would stand up for him in this world and stand by him in the next. (Solemnly) That promise and that oath made a man of me. From this day this house is his home; and no child shall cry in it: this hearth is his altar; and no soul shall ever cower over it in the dark evenings and be afraid. Now (turning forcibly on the rest) which of you good men will take this child and rescue her from the house of the devil?
JUDITH (coming to Essie and throwing a protecting arm about her). I will. You should be burnt alive.
ESSIE. But I don’t want to. (She shrinks back, leaving Richard and Judith face to face.)
RICHARD (to Judith). Actually doesn’t want to, most virtuous lady!
UNCLE TITUS. Have a care, Richard Dudgeon. The law —
RICHARD (turning threateningly on him). Have a care, you. In an hour from this there will be no law here but martial law. I passed the soldiers within six miles on my way here: before noon Major Swindon’s gallows for rebels will be up in the market place.
ANDERSON (calmly). What have we to fear from that, sir?
RICHARD. More than you think. He hanged the wrong man at Springtown: he thought Uncle Peter was respectable, because the Dudgeons had a good name. But his next example will be the best man in the town to whom he can bring home a rebellious word. Well, we’re all rebels; and you know it.
ALL THE MEN (except Anderson). No, no, no!
RICHARD. Yes, you are. You haven’t damned King George up hill and down dale as I have; but you’ve prayed for his defeat; and you, Anthony Anderson, have conducted the service, and sold your family bible to buy a pair of pistols. They mayn’t hang me, perhaps; because the moral effect of the Devil’s Disciple dancing on nothing wouldn’t help them. But a Minister! (Judith, dismayed, clings to Anderson) or a lawyer! (Hawkins smiles like a man able to take care of himself) or an upright horsedealer! (Uncle Titus snarls at him in rags and terror) or a reformed drunkard (Uncle William, utterly unnerved, moans and wobbles with fear) eh? Would that show that King George meant business — ha?
ANDERSON (perfectly self-possessed). Come, my dear: he is only trying to frighten you. There is no danger. (He takes her out of the house. The rest crowd to the door to follow him, except Essie, who remains near Richard.)
RICHARD (boisterously derisive). Now then: how many of you will stay with me; run up the American flag on the devil’s house; and make a fight for freedom? (They scramble out, Christy among them, hustling one another in their haste.) Ha ha! Long live the devil! (To Mrs. Dudgeon, who is following them) What mother! are you off too?
MRS. DUDGEON (deadly pale, with her hand on her heart as if she had received a deathblow). My curse on you! My dying curse! (She goes out.)
RICHARD