ESSIE. Yes — help him — yes, yes, yes. I’ll be good.
ANDERSON. I must go to him at once, Judith.
JUDITH (springing up). Oh no. You must go away — far away, to some place of safety.
ANDERSON. Pooh!
JUDITH (passionately). Do you want to kill me? Do you think I can bear to live for days and days with every knock at the door — every footstep — giving me a spasm of terror? to lie awake for nights and nights in an agony of dread, listening for them to come and arrest you?
ANDERSON. Do you think it would be better to know that I had run away from my post at the first sign of danger?
JUDITH (bitterly). Oh, you won’t go. I know it. You’ll stay; and I shall go mad.
ANDERSON. My dear, your duty —
JUDITH (fiercely). What do I care about my duty?
ANDERSON (shocked). Judith!
JUDITH. I am doing my duty. I am clinging to my duty. My duty is to get you away, to save you, to leave him to his fate. (Essie utters a cry of distress and sinks on the chair at the fire, sobbing silently.) My instinct is the same as hers — to save him above all things, though it would be so much better for him to die! so much greater! But I know you will take your own way as he took it. I have no power. (She sits down sullenly on the railed seat.) I’m only a woman: I can do nothing but sit here and suffer. Only, tell him I tried to save you — that I did my best to save you.
ANDERSON. My dear, I am afraid he will be thinking more of his own danger than of mine.
JUDITH. Stop; or I shall hate you.
ANDERSON (remonstrating). Come, am I to leave you if you talk like this! your senses. (He turns to Essie.) Essie.
ESSIE (eagerly rising and drying her eyes). Yes?
ANDERSON. Just wait outside a moment, like a good girl: Mrs. Anderson is not well. (Essie looks doubtful.) Never fear: I’ll come to you presently; and I’ll go to Dick.
ESSIE. You are sure you will go to him? (Whispering.) You won’t let her prevent you?
ANDERSON (smiling). No, no: it’s all right. All right. (She goes.) That’s a good girl. (He closes the door, and returns to Judith.)
JUDITH (seated — rigid). You are going to your death.
ANDERSON (quaintly). Then I shall go in my best coat, dear. (He turns to the press, beginning to take off his coat.) Where — ? (He stares at the empty nail for a moment; then looks quickly round to the fire; strides across to it; and lifts Richard’s coat.) Why, my dear, it seems that he has gone in my best coat.
JUDITH (still motionless). Yes.
ANDERSON. Did the soldiers make a mistake?
JUDITH. Yes: they made a mistake.
ANDERSON. He might have told them. Poor fellow, he was too upset, I suppose.
JUDITH. Yes: he might have told them. So might I.
ANDERSON. Well, it’s all very puzzling — almost funny. It’s curious how these little things strike us even in the most — (he breaks off and begins putting on Richard’s coat) I’d better take him his own coat. I know what he’ll say — (imitating Richard’s sardonic manner) “Anxious about my soul, Pastor, and also about your best coat.” Eh?
JUDITH. Yes, that is just what he will say to you. (Vacantly.) It doesn’t matter: I shall never see either of you again.
ANDERSON (rallying her). Oh pooh, pooh, pooh! (He sits down beside her.) Is this how you keep your promise that I shan’t be ashamed of my brave wife?
JUDITH. No: this is how I break it. I cannot keep my promises to him: why should I keep my promises to you?
ANDERSON. Don’t speak so strangely, my love. It sounds insincere to me. (She looks unutterable reproach at him.) Yes, dear, nonsense is always insincere; and my dearest is talking nonsense. Just nonsense. (Her face darkens into dumb obstinacy. She stares straight before her, and does not look at him again, absorbed in Richard’s fate. He scans her face; sees that his rallying has produced no effect; and gives it up, making no further effort to conceal his anxiety.) I wish I knew what has frightened you so. Was there a struggle? Did he fight?
JUDITH. No. He smiled.
ANDERSON. Did he realise his danger, do you think?
JUDITH. He realised yours.
ANDERSON. Mine!
JUDITH (monotonously). He said, “See that you get him safely out of harm’s way.” I promised: I can’t keep my promise. He said, “Don’t for your life let him know of my danger.” I’ve told you of it. He said that if you found it out, you could not save him — that they will hang him and not spare you.
ANDERSON (rising in generous indignation). And you think that I will let a man with that much good in him die like a dog, when a few words might make him die like a Christian? I’m ashamed of you, Judith.
JUDITH. He will be steadfast in his religion as you are in yours; and you may depend on him to the death. He said so.
ANDERSON. God forgive him! What else did he say?
JUDITH. He said goodbye.
ANDERSON (fidgeting nervously to and fro in great concern). Poor fellow, poor fellow! You said goodbye to him in all kindness and charity, Judith, I hope.
JUDITH. I kissed him.
ANDERSON. What! Judith!
JUDITH. Are you angry?
ANDERSON. No, no. You were right: you were right. Poor fellow, poor fellow! (Greatly distressed.) To be hanged like that at his age! And then did they take him away?
JUDITH (wearily). Then you were here: that’s the next thing I remember. I suppose I fainted. Now bid me goodbye, Tony. Perhaps I shall faint again. I wish I could die.
ANDERSON. No, no, my dear: you must pull yourself together and be sensible. I am in no danger — not the least in the world.
JUDITH (solemnly). You are going to your death, Tony — your sure death, if God will let innocent men be murdered. They will not let you see him: they will arrest you the moment you give your name. It was for you the soldiers came.
ANDERSON (thunderstruck). For me!!! (His fists clinch; his neck thickens; his face reddens; the fleshy purses under his eyes become injected with hot blood; the man of peace vanishes, transfigured into a choleric and formidable man of war. Still, she does not come out of her absorption to look at him: her eyes are steadfast with a mechanical reflection of Richard’s steadfastness.)
JUDITH. He took your place: he is dying to save you. That is why he went in your coat. That is why I kissed him.
ANDERSON (exploding). Blood an’ owns! (His voice is rough and dominant, his gesture full of brute energy.) Here! Essie, Essie!
ESSIE (running in). Yes.
ANDERSON (impetuously). Off with you as hard as you can run, to the inn. Tell them to saddle the fastest and strongest horse they have (Judith rises breathless, and stares at him incredulously) — the chestnut mare, if she’s fresh — without a moment’s delay. Go into the stable yard and tell the black man there that I’ll give him a silver dollar if the horse is waiting for me when I come, and that I am close on your heels. Away with you. (His energy sends Essie flying from the room. He pounces on his riding boots; rushes with them to the chair at the fire; and begins pulling them on.)
JUDITH (unable to believe such a thing of him). You are not going to him!
ANDERSON (busy with the boots). Going to him! What good would that do? (Growling to himself as he gets the first boot on with