OLIVER: God knows! At least, Anabel, we’ve gone through too much ever to start the old game again. There’ll be no more sticky love between us.

  ANABEL: No, I think there won’t, either.

  OLIVER: And what of Gerald?

  ANABEL: I don’t know. What do you think of him?

  OLIVER: I can’t think any more. I can only blindly go from day to day, now.

  ANABEL: So can I. Do you think I was wrong to come back? Do you think I wrong Gerald?

  OLIVER: No. I’m glad you came. But I feel I can’t know anything. We must just go on.

  ANABEL: Sometimes I feel I ought never to have come to Gerald again — never — never — never.

  OLIVER: Just left the gap? — Perhaps, if everything has to come asunder. But I think, if ever there is to be life — hope, — then you had to come back. I always knew it. There is something eternal between you and him; and if there is to be any happiness, it depends on that. But perhaps there is to be no more happiness — for our part of the world.

  ANABEL (after a pause): Yet I feel hope — don’t you?

  OLIVER: Yes, sometimes.

  ANABEL: It seemed to me, especially that winter in Norway, — I can hardly express it, — as if any moment life might give way under one, like thin ice, and one would be more than dead. And then I knew my only hope was here — the only hope.

  OLIVER: Yes, I believe it. And I believe —

  Enter MRS BARLOW.

  MRS BARLOW: Oh, I wanted to speak to you, Oliver.

  OLIVER: Shall I come across?

  MRS BARLOW: No, not now. I believe Father is coming here with Gerald.

  OLIVER: Is he going to walk so far?

  MRS BARLOW: He will do it. — I suppose you know Oliver?

  ANABEL: Yes, we have met before.

  MRS BARLOW (to OLIVER): You didn’t mention it. Where have you met Miss Wrath? She’s been about the world, I believe.

  ANABEL: About the world? — no, Mrs Barlow. If one happens to know Paris and London —

  MRS BARLOW: Paris and London! Well, I don’t say you are altogether an adventuress. My husband seems very pleased with you — for Winifred’s sake, I suppose — and he’s wrapped up in Winifred.

  ANABEL: Winifred is an artist.

  MRS BARLOW: All my children have the artist in them. They get it from my family. My father went mad in Rome. My family is born with a black fate — they all inherit it.

  OLIVER: I believe one is master of one’s fate sometimes, Mrs Barlow. There are moments of pure choice.

  MRS BARLOW: Between two ways to the same end, no doubt. There’s no changing the end.

  OLIVER: I think there is.

  MRS BARLOW: Yes, you have a parvenu’s presumptuousness somewhere about you.

  OLIVER: Well, better than a blue-blooded fatalism.

  MRS BARLOW: The fate is in the blood: you can’t change the blood.

  Enter WINIFRED.

  WINIFRED: Oh, thank you, Oliver, for the wolf and the goat, thank you so much! — The wolf has sprung on the goat, Miss Wrath, and has her by the throat.

  ANABEL: The wolf?

  OLIVER: It’s a little marble group — Italian — in hard marble.

  WINIFRED: The wolf — I love the wolf — he pounces so beautifully. His backbone is so terribly fierce. I don’t feel a bit sorry for the goat, somehow.

  OLIVER: I didn’t. She is too much like the wrong sort of clergyman.

  WINIFRED: Yes — such a stiff, long face. I wish he’d kill her.

  MRS BARLOW: There’s a wish!

  WINIFRED: Father and Gerald are coming. That’s them, I suppose.

  Enter MR BARLOW and GERALD.

  MR BARLOW: Ah, good morning — good morning — quite a little gathering! Ah —

  OLIVER: The steps tire you, Mr Barlow.

  MR BARLOW: A little — a little — thank you. — Well, Miss Wrath, are you quite comfortable here?

  ANABEL: Very comfortable, thanks.

  GERALD: It was clever of you, Father, to turn this place into a studio.

  MR BARLOW: Yes, Gerald. You make the worldly schemes and I the homely. Yes, it’s a delightful place. I shall come here often if the two young ladies will allow me. — By the way, Miss Wrath, I don’t know if you have been introduced to my son Gerald. I beg your pardon. Miss Wrath, Gerald — my son, Miss Wrath. (They bow.) Well, we are quite a gathering, quite a pleasant little gathering. We never expected anything so delightful a month ago, did we, Winifred, darling?

  WINIFRED: No, Daddy, it’s much nicer than expectations.

  MR BARLOW: So it is, dear — to have such exceptional companionship and such a pleasant retreat. We are very happy to have Miss Wrath with us — very happy.

  GERALD: A studio’s awfully nice, you know; it is such a retreat. A newspaper has no effect in it — falls quite flat, no matter what the headlines are.

  MR BARLOW: Quite true, Gerald, dear. It is a sanctum the world cannot invade — unlike all other sanctuaries, I am afraid.

  GERALD: By the way, Oliver — to go back to profanities — the colliers really are coming out in support of the poor, ill-used clerks.

  MR BARLOW: No, no, Gerald — no, no! Don’t be such an alarmist. Let us leave these subjects before the ladies. No, no: the clerks will have their increase quite peacefully.

  GERALD: Yes, dear father — but they can’t have it peacefully now. We’ve been threatened already by the colliers — we’ve already received an ultimatum.

  MR BARLOW: Nonsense, my boy — nonsense! Don’t let us split words. You won’t go against the clerks in such a small matter. Always avoid trouble over small matters. Don’t make bad feeling — don’t make bad blood.

  MRS BARLOW: The blood is already rotten in this neighbourhood. What it needs is letting out. We need a few veins opening, or we shall have mortification setting in. The blood is black.

  MR BARLOW: We won’t accept your figure of speech literally, dear. No, Gerald, don’t go to war over trifles.

  GERALD: It’s just over trifles that one must make war, Father. One can yield gracefully over big matters. But to be bullied over trifles is a sign of criminal weakness.

  MR BARLOW: Ah, not so, not so, my boy. When you are as old as I am, you will know the comparative insignificance of these trifles.

  GERALD: The older I get, Father, the more such trifles stick in my throat.

  MR BARLOW: Ah, it is an increasingly irritable disposition in you, my child. Nothing costs so bitterly, in the end, as a stubborn pride.

  MRS BARLOW: Except a stubborn humility — and that will cost you more. Avoid humility, beware of stubborn humility: it degrades. Hark, Gerald — fight! When the occasion comes, fight! If it’s one against five thousand, fight! Don’t give them your heart on a dish! Never! If they want to eat your heart out, make them fight for it, and then give it them poisoned at last, poisoned with your own blood. — What do you say, young woman?

  ANABEL: Is it for me to speak, Mrs Barlow?

  MRS BARLOW: Weren’t you asked?

  ANABEL: Certainly I would never give the world my heart on a dish. But can’t there ever be peace — real peace?

  MRS BARLOW: No — not while there is devilish enmity.

  MR BARLOW: You are wrong, dear, you are wrong. The peace can come, the peace that passeth all understanding.

  MRS BARLOW: That there is already between me and Almighty God. I am at peace with the God that made me, and made me proud. With men who humiliate me I am at war. Between me and the shameful humble there is war to the end, though they are millions and I am one. I hate the people. Between my race and them there is war — between them and me, between them and my children — for ever war, for ever and ever.

  MR BARLOW: Ah, Henrietta — you have said all this before.

  MRS BARLOW: And say it again. Fight, Gerald. You have my blood in you, thank God. Fight for it, Gerald. Spend it as if it were costly, Gerald, drop by drop. Let no dogs lap it. — Look at your father. He set his heart on a plate at the door, for the poorest mongrel to eat up. See him now, wasted and crossed out like a mistake — and swear, Gerald, swear to be true to my blood in you. Never lie down before the mob, Gerald. Fight it and stab it, and die fighting. It’s a lost hope — but fight!

  GERALD: Don’t say these things here, Mother.

  MRS BARLOW: Yes, I will — I will. I’ll say them before you, and the child Winifred — she knows. And before Oliver and the young woman — they know, too.

  MR BARLOW: You see, dear, you can never understand that, although I am weak and wasted, although I may be crossed out from the world like a mistake, I still have peace in my soul, dear, the peace that passeth all understanding.

  MRS BARLOW: And what right have you to it? All very well for you to take peace with you into the other world. What do you leave for your sons to inherit?

  MR BARLOW: The peace of God, Henrietta, if there is no peace among men.

  MRS BARLOW: Then why did you have children? Why weren’t you celibate? They have to live among men. If they have no place among men, why have you put them there? If the peace of God is no more than the peace of death, why are your sons born of you? How can you have peace with God, if you leave no peace for your sons — no peace, no pride, no place on earth?

  GERALD: Nay, Mother, nay. You shall never blame Father on my behalf.

  MRS BARLOW: Don’t trouble — he is blameless — I, a hulking, half-demented woman, I am glad when you blame me. But don’t blame me when I tell you to fight. Don’t do that, or you will regret it when you must die. Ah, your father was stiff and proud enough before men of better rank than himself. He was overbearing enough with his equals and his betters. But he humbled himself before the poor, he made me ashamed. He must hear it — he must hear it! Better he should hear it than die coddling himself with peace. His humility, and my pride, they have made a nice ruin of each other. Yet he is the man I wanted to marry — he is the man I would marry again. But never, never again would I give way before his goodness. Gerald, if you must be true to your father, be true to me as well. Don’t set me down at nothing because I haven’t a humble case.

  GERALD: No, Mother — no, dear Mother. You see, dear Mother, I have rather a job between the two halves of myself. When you come to have the wild horses in your own soul, Mother, it makes it difficult.

  MRS BARLOW: Never mind, you’ll have help.

  GERALD: Thank you for the assurance, darling. — Father, you don’t mind what Mother says, I hope. I believe there’s some truth in it — don’t you?

  MR BARLOW: I have nothing to say.

  WINIFRED: I think there’s some truth in it, Daddy. You were always worrying about those horrid colliers, and they didn’t care a bit about you. And they ought to have cared a million pounds.

  MR BARLOW: You don’t understand, my child.

  CURTAIN

  ACT II

  SCENE: Evening of the same day. Drawing-room at Lilley Close. MR BARLOW, GERALD, WINIFRED, ANABEL, OLIVER present. BUTLER pours coffee.

  MR BARLOW: And you are quite a stranger in these parts, Miss Wrath?

  ANABEL: Practically. But I was born at Derby.

  MR BARLOW: I was born in this house — but it was a different affair then: my father was a farmer, you know. The coal has brought us what moderate wealth we have. Of course, we were never poor or needy — farmers, substantial farmers. And I think we were happier so — yes. — Winnie, dear, hand Miss Wrath the sweets. I hope they’re good. I ordered them from London for you. — Oliver, my boy, have you everything you like? That’s right. — It gives me such pleasure to see a little festive gathering in this room again. I wish Bertie and Elinor might be here. What time is it, Gerald?

  GERALD: A quarter to nine, Father.

  MR BARLOW: Not late yet. I can sit with you another half-hour. I am feeling better to-day. Winifred, sing something to us.

  WINIFRED: Something jolly, Father?

  MR BARLOW: Very jolly, darling.

  WINIFRED: I’ll sing “The Lincolnshire Poacher”, shall I?

  MR BARLOW: Do, darling, and we’ll all join in the chorus. — Will you join in the chorus, Miss Wrath?

  ANABEL: I will. It is a good song.

  MR BARLOW: Yes, isn’t it!

  WINIFRED: All dance for the chorus, as well as singing.

  They sing; some pirouette a little for the chorus.

  MR BARLOW: Ah, splendid, splendid! There is nothing like gaiety.

  WINIFRED: I do love to dance about. I know: let us do a little ballet — four of us — oh, do!

  GERALD: What ballet, Winifred?

  WINIFRED: Any. Eva can play for us. She plays well.

  MR BARLOW: You won’t disturb your mother? Don’t disturb Eva if she is busy with your mother.

  Exit WINIFRED.

  If only I can see Winifred happy, my heart is at rest: if only I can hope for her to be happy in her life.

  GERALD: Oh, Winnie’s alright, Father — especially now she has Miss Wrath to initiate her into the mysteries of life and labour.

  ANABEL: Why are you ironical?

  MR BARLOW: Oh, Miss Wrath, believe me, we all feel that — it is the greatest possible pleasure to me that you have come.

  GERALD: I wasn’t ironical, I assure you.

  MR BARLOW: No, indeed — no, indeed! We have every belief in you.

  ANABEL: But why should you have?

  MR BARLOW: Ah, my dear child, allow us the credit of our own discernment. And don’t take offence at my familiarity. I am afraid I am spoilt since I am an invalid.

  Re-enter WINIFRED, with EVA.

  MR BARLOW: Come, Eva, you will excuse us for upsetting your evening. Will you be so good as to play something for us to dance to?

  EVA: Yes, sir. What shall I play?

  WINIFRED: Mozart — I’ll find you the piece. Mozart’s the saddest musician in the world — but he’s the best to dance to.

  MR BARLOW: Why, how is it you are such a connoisseur in sadness, darling?

  GERALD: She isn’t. She’s a flagrant amateur.

  EVA plays; they dance a little ballet.

  MR BARLOW: Charming — charming, Miss Wrath: will you allow me to say Anabel, we shall all feel so much more at home? Yes — thank you — er — you enter into the spirit of it wonderfully, Anabel, dear. The others are accustomed to play together. But it is not so easy to come in on occasion as you do.

  GERALD: Oh, Anabel’s a genius! — I beg your pardon, Miss Wrath — familiarity is catching.

  MR BARLOW: Gerald, my boy, don’t forget that you are virtually host here.

  EVA: Did you want any more music, sir?

  GERALD: No, don’t stay, Eva. We mustn’t tire Father.

  Exit EVA.

  MR BARLOW: I am afraid, Anabel, you will have a great deal to excuse in us, in the way of manners. We have never been a formal household. But you have lived in the world of artists: you will understand, I hope.

  ANABEL: Oh, surely —

  MR BARLOW: Yes, I know. We have been a turbulent family, and we have had our share of sorrow, even more, perhaps, than of joys. And sorrow makes one indifferent to the conventionalities of life.

  GERALD: Excuse me, Father: do you mind if I go and write a letter I have on my conscience?

  MR BARLOW: No, my boy. (Exit GERALD.) We have had our share of sorrow and of conflict, Miss Wrath, as you may have gathered.

  ANABEL: Yes — a little.

  MR BARLOW: The mines were opened when my father was a boy — the first — and I was born late, when he was nearly fifty. So that all my life has been involved with coal and colliers. As a young man, I was gay and thoughtless. But I married young, and we lost our first child through a terrible accident. Two children we have lost through sudden and violent death. (WINIFRED goes out unnoticed.) It made me reflect. And when I came to reflect, Anabel, I could not justify my position in life. If I believed in the teachings of the New Testament — which I did, and do — how could I keep two or three thousand men employed underground in the mines, at a wage, let us say, of two pounds a week, whilst I lived in this comfortable house, and took something like two thousand pounds a year — let us name any figure —

  ANABEL: Yes, of course. But is it money that really matters, Mr Barlow?

  MR BARLOW: My dear, if you are a working man, it matters. When I went into the homes of my poor fellows, when they were ill or had had accidents — then I knew it mattered. I knew that the great disparity was wrong — even as we are taught that it is wrong.