CROFTS. [Black with rage.] The old—[Vivie looks quickly at him. He swallows the epithet and stands for a moment swearing and raging foully to himself. But he knows that his cue is to be sympathetic. He takes refuge in generous indignation.] She ought to have had more consideration for you. I’d never have told you.
VIVIE. I think you would probably have told me when we were married: it would have been a convenient weapon to break me in with.
CROFTS. [Quite sincerely.] I never intended that. On my word as a gentleman I didn’t.[Vivie wonders at him. Her sense of the irony of his protest cools and braces her. She replies with contemptuous self-possession.]
VIVIE. It does not matter. I suppose you understand that when we leave here today our acquaintance ceases.
CROFTS. Why? Is it for helping your mother?
VIVIE. My mother was a very poor woman who had no reasonable choice but to do as she did. You were a rich gentleman; and you did the same for the sake of 35 per cent. You are a pretty common sort of scoundrel, I think. That is my opinion of you.
CROFTS. [After a stare: not at all displeased, and much more at his ease on these Frank terms than on their former ceremonious ones.] Ha! ha! ha! ha! Go it, little missie, go it: it doesn’t hurt me and it amuses you. Why the devil shouldn’t I invest my money that way? I take the interest on my capital like other people: I hope you don’t think I dirty my own hands with the work. Come! you wouldn’t refuse the acquaintance of my mother’s cousin the Duke of Belgravia because some of the rents he gets are earned in queer ways. You wouldn’t cut the Archbishop of Canterbury, I suppose, because the Ecclesiastical Commissioners have a few publicans and sinners among their tenants. Do you remember your Crofts scholarship at Newnham? Well, that was founded by my brother the M. P. He gets his 22 per cent out of a factory with 600 girls in it, and not one of them getting wages enough to live on. How d’ye suppose they manage when they have no family to fall back on? Ask your mother. And do you expect me to turn my back on 35 per cent when all the rest are pocketing what they can, like sensible men? No such fool! If you’re going to pick and choose your acquaintances on moral principles, you’d better clear out of this country, unless you want to cut yourself out of all decent society.
VIVIE. [Conscience stricken.] You might go on to point out that I myself never asked where the money I spent came from. I believe I am just as bad as you.
CROFTS. [Greatly reassured.] Of course you are; and a very good thing too! What harm does it do after all? [Rallying her jocularly.] So you don’t think me such a scoundrel now you come to think it over. Eh?
VIVIE. I have shared profits with you: and I admitted you just now to the familiarity of knowing what I think of you.
CROFTS. [With serious friendliness.] To be sure you did. You won’t find me a bad sort: I don’t go in for being superfine intellectually; but I’ve plenty of honest human feeling; and the old Crofts breed comes out in a sort of instinctive hatred of anything low, in which I’m sure you’ll sympathize with me. Believe me, Miss Vivie, the world isn’t such a bad place as the croakers make out. As long as you don’t fly openly in the face of society, society doesn’t ask any inconvenient questions; and it makes precious short work of the cads who do. There are no secrets better kept than the secrets everybody guesses. In the class of people I can introduce you to, no lady or gentleman would so far forget themselves as to discuss my business affairs or your mothers. No man can offer you a safer position.
VIVIE. [Studying him curiously.] I suppose you really think you’re getting on famously with me.
CROFTS. Well, I hope I may flatter myself that you think better of me than you did at first.
VIVIE. [Quietly.] I hardly find you worth thinking about at all now. [She rises and turns towards the gate, pausing on her way to contemplate him and say almost gently, but with intense conviction.]When I think of the society that tolerates you, and the laws that protect you! when I think of how helpless nine out of ten young girls would be in the hands of you and my mother! the unmentionable woman and her capitalist bully—
CROFTS. [Livid.] Damn you!
VIVIE. You need not. I feel among the damned already. [She raises the latch of the gate to open it and go out. He follows her and puts his hand heavily on the top bar to prevent its opening.]
CROFTS. [Panting with fury.] Do you think I’ll put up with this from you, you young devil?
VIVIE. [Unmoved.] Be quiet. Some one will answer the bell. [Without flinching a step she strikes the bell with the back of her hand. It clangs harshly; and he starts back involuntarily. Almost immediately Frank appears at the porch with his rifle.]
FRANK. [With cheerful politeness.] Will you have the rifle, Viv; or shall I operate?
VIVIE. Frank: have you been listening?
FRANK. [Coming down into the garden.] Only for the bell, I assure you; so that you shouldn’t have to wait. I think I shewed great insight into your character, Crofts.
CROFTS. For two pins I’d take that gun from you and break it across your head.
FRANK. [Stalking him cautiously.] Pray don’t. I’m ever so careless in handling firearms. Sure to be a fatal accident, with a reprimand from the coroner’s jury for my negligence.
VIVIE. Put the rifle away, Frank: it’s quite unnecessary.
FRANK. Quite right, Viv. Much more sportsmanlike to catch him in a trap. [Crofts, understanding the insult, makes a threatening movement.] Crofts: there are fifteen cartridges in the magazine here; and I am a dead shot at the present distance and at an object of your size.
CROFTS. Oh, you needn’t be afraid. I’m not going to touch you.
FRANK. Ever so magnanimous of you under the circumstances! Thank you.
CROFTS. I’ll just tell you this before I go. It may interest you, since you’re so fond of one another. Allow me, Mister Frank, to introduce you to your half-sister, the eldest daughter of the Reverend Samuel Gardner. Miss Vivie: you half-brother. Good morning! [He goes out through the gate and along the road.]
FRANK. [After a pause of stupefaction, raising the rifle.] You’ll testify before the coroner that it’s an accident, Viv. [He takes aim at the retreating figure of Crofts. Vivie seizes the muzzle and pulls it round against her breast.]
VIVIE. Fire now. You may.
FRANK. [Dropping his end of the rifle hastily.] Stop! take care. [She lets it go. It falls on the turf.] Oh, you’ve given your little boy such a turn. Suppose it had gone off! ugh! [He sinks on the garden seat, overcome.]
VIVIE. Suppose it had: do you think it would not have been a relief to have some sharp physical pain tearing through me?
FRANK. [Coaxingly.] Take it ever so easy, dear Viv. Remember: even if the rifle scared that fellow into telling the truth for the first time in his life, that only makes us the babes in the woods in earnest. [He holds out his arms to her.] Come and be covered up with leaves again.
VIVIE. [With a cry of disgust.] Ah, not that, not that. You make all my flesh creep.
FRANK. Why, what’s the matter?
VIVIE. Goodbye. [She makes for the gate.]
FRANK. [Jumping up.] Hallo! Stop! Viv! Viv! [She turns in the gateway.] Where are you going to? Where shall we find you?
VIVIE. At Honoria Fraser’s chambers, 67 Chancery Lane, for the rest of my life. [She goes off quickly in the opposite direction to that taken by Crofts.]
FRANK. But I say—wait—dash it! [He runs after her.]
ACT IV
Honoria Fraser’s chambers in Chancery Lane. An office at the top of New Stone Buildings, with a plate-glass window, distempered walls, electric light, and a patent stove. Saturday afternoon. The chimneys of Lincoln’s Inn and the western