[Hawkins at once goes briskly to the table and takes the chair nearest the sofa, Christy having left the inkstand there. He puts his hat on the floor beside him, and produces the will. Uncle William comes to the fire and stands on the hearth warming his coat tails, leaving Mrs. William derelict near the door. Uncle Titus, who is the lady’s man of the family, rescues her by giving her his disengaged arm and bringing her to the sofa, where he sits down warmly between his own lady and his brother’s. Anderson hangs up his hat and waits for a word with Judith.]
JUDITH. She will be here in a moment. Ask them to wait. [She taps at the bedroom door. Receiving an answer from within, she opens it and passes through.]
ANDERSON. [Taking his place at the table at the opposite end to HAWKINS.] Our poor afflicted sister will be with us in a moment. Are we all here?
CHRISTY. [At the house door, which he has just shut.] All except Dick. [The callousness with which Christy names the reprobate jars on the moral sense of the family. Uncle William shakes his head slowly and repeatedly. Mrs. Titus catches her breath convulsively through her nose. Her husband speaks.]
UNCLE TITUS. Well, I hope he will have the grace not to come. I hope so. [The Dudgeons all murmur assent, except Christy, who goes to the window and posts himself there, looking out. Hawkins smiles secretively as if he knew something that would change their tune if they knew it. Anderson is uneasy: the love of solemn family councils, especially funereal ones, is not in his nature. Judith appears at the bedroom door.]
JUDITH. [With gentle impressiveness.] Friends, Mrs. Dudgeon. [She takes the chair from beside the fireplace; and places it for Mrs. Dudgeon, who comes from the bedroom in black, with a clean handkerchief to her eyes. All rise, except Essie. Mrs. Titus and Mrs. William produce equally clean handkerchiefs and weep. It is an affecting moment.]
UNCLE WILLIAM. Would it comfort you, sister, if we were to offer up a prayer?
UNCLE TITUS. Or sing a hymn?
ANDERSON. [Rather hastily.] I have been with our sister this morning already, friends. In our hearts we ask a blessing.
ALL. [Except Essie.] Amen. [They all sit down, except Judith, who stands behind Mrs. Dudgeon’s chair.]
JUDITH. [To Essie.] Essie: did you say Amen?
ESSIE. [Scaredly.] No.
JUDITH. Then say it, like a good girl.
ESSIE. Amen.
UNCLE WILLIAM. [Encouragingly.] That’s right: that’s right. We know who you are; but we are willing to be kind to you if you are a good girl and deserve it. We are all equal before the Throne. [This republican sentiment does not please the women, who are convinced that the Throne is precisely the place where their superiority, often questioned in this world, will be recognized and rewarded.]
CHRISTY. [At the window.] Here’s Dick. [Anderson and Hawkins look round sociably. Essie, with a gleam of interest breaking through her misery, looks up. Christy grins and gapes expectantly at the door. The rest are petrified with the intensity of their sense of Virtue menaced with outrage by the approach of flaunting Vice. The reprobate appears in the doorway, graced beyond his alleged merits by the morning sunlight. He is certainly the best looking member of the family; but his expression is reckless and sardonic, his manner defiant and satirical, his dress picturesquely careless. Only his forehead and mouth betray an extraordinary steadfastness, and his eyes are the eyes of a fanatic.]
RICHARD. [On the threshold, taking off his hat.] Ladies and gentlemen: your servant, your very humble servant. [With this comprehensive insult, he throws his hat to Christy with a suddenness that makes him jump like a negligent wicket keeper, and comes into the middle of the room, where he turns and deliberately surveys the company.] How happy you all look! how glad to see me! [He turns towards Mrs. Dudgeon’s chair; and his lip rolls up horribly from his dog tooth as he meets her look of undisguised hatred.] Well, mother: keeping up appearances as usual? that’s right, that’s right. [Judith pointedly moves away from his neighborhood to the other side of the kitchen, holding her skirt instinctively as if to save it from contamination. Uncle Titus promptly marks his approval of her action by rising from the sofa, and placing a chair for her to sit down upon.] What! Uncle William! I haven’t seen you since you gave up drinking. [Poor Uncle William, shamed, would protest; but Richard claps him heartily on his shoulder, adding.] you have given it up, haven’t you? [Releasing him with a playful push.] of course you have: quite right too; you overdid it. [He turns away from Uncle William and makes for the sofa.] And now, where is that upright horsedealer Uncle Titus? Uncle Titus: come forth. [He comes upon him holding the chair as Judith sits down.] As usual, looking after the ladies.
UNCLE TITUS. [Indignantly.] Be ashamed of yourself, sir—
RICHARD. [Interrupting him and shaking his hand in spite of him.] I am: I am; but I am proud of my uncle—proud of all my relatives. [Again surveying them.] who could look at them and not be proud and joyful? [Uncle Titus, overborne, resumes his seat on the sofa. Richard turns to the table.] Ah, Mr. Anderson, still at the good work, still shepherding them. Keep them up to the mark, minister, keep them up to the mark. Come! [With a spring he seats himself on the table and takes up the decanter.] clink a glass with me, Pastor, for the sake of old times.
ANDERSON. You know, I think, Mr. Dudgeon, that I do not drink before dinner.
RICHARD. You will, some day, Pastor: Uncle William used to drink before breakfast. Come: it will give your sermons unction. [He smells the wine and makes a wry face.] But do not begin on my mother’s company sherry. I stole some when I was six years old; and I have been a temperate man ever since. [He puts the decanter down and changes the subject.] So I hear you are married, Pastor, and that your wife has a most ungodly allowance of good looks.
ANDERSON. [Quietly indicating Judith.] Sir: you are in the presence of my wife. [Judith rises and stands with stony propriety.]
RICHARD. [Quickly slipping down from the table with instinctive good manners.] Your servant, madam: no offence. [He looks at her earnestly.] You deserve your reputation; but I’m sorry to see by your expression that you’re a good woman. [She looks shocked, and sits down amid a murmur of indignant sympathy from his relatives. Anderson, sensible enough to know that these demonstrations can only gratify and encourage a man who is deliberately trying to provoke them, remains perfectly goodhumored.] All the same, Pastor, I respect you more than I did before. By the way, did I hear, or did I not, that our late lamented Uncle Peter, though unmarried, was a father?
UNCLE TITUS. He had only one irregular child, sir.
RICHARD. Only one! He thinks one a mere trifle! I blush for you, Uncle Titus.
ANDERSON. Mr. Dudgeon you are in the presence of your mother and her grief.
RICHARD. It touches me profoundly, Pastor. By the way, what has become of the irregular child?
ANDERSON. [Pointing to Essie.] There, sir, listening to you.
RICHARD. [Shocked into sincerity.] What! Why the devil didn’t you tell me that before? Children suffer enough in this house without—[He hurries remorsefully to Essie.] Come, little cousin! never mind me: it was not meant to hurt you. [She looks up gratefully at him. Her tearstained face affects him violently, and he bursts out, in a transport of wrath.] Who has been making her cry? Who has been ill-treating her? By God—
MRS. DUDGEON. [Rising and confronting him.] Silence your blasphemous tongue. I will hear no more of this. Leave my house.
RICHARD. How do you know it’s your house until the will is read? [They look at one another for a moment with intense hatred; and then she sinks, checkmated, into her chair. Richard goes boldly up past Anderson to the window, where he takes the railed chair in his hand.] Ladies and gentlemen: as the eldest son of my late father, and the unworthy head of this household, I bid you welcome. By your leave, Minister Anderson: by your leave, Lawyer Hawkins. The head of the table for the head of the family. [He places the chair at the table between the minister and the attorney; sits down between them; and addresses the assembly with a presidential air.] We meet on a melancholy occasion: a father dead! an uncle actually hanged, and probably damned. [He