&0 IS' 
 
 1^ 13 
 
 Ex LIBRIS 
 
 f . ?B(HJ)itmore Parrp 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 1934 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR6015.A492B61913 
 
 The blindness of virtue, 
 
 3 1924 013 622 943 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013622943 
 
THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
BY COSMO HAMILTON 
 
 PLAYS 
 
 The Blindness of Virtue. 
 
 A Sense of Humour. 
 
 Mrs. Skeffington. 
 
 The Gadsbys (with Rudyard Kipling). 
 
 The Wisdom of Folly. 
 
 Soldiers' Daughters. 
 
 Castles in Spain (with music). 
 
 Jerry and a Sunbeam. 
 
 The Belle of Mayfair (with music). 
 
 The Catch of the Season (with music). 
 
 The Beauty of Bath (with music). 
 
 Arsene Lupin. 
 
 The Mountain Climber. 
 
 NOVELS 
 
 The Outpost of Eternity. 
 The Infinity Capacity. 
 Adam's Clay. 
 Keepers of the House. 
 Nature's Vagabond. 
 Duke's Son. 
 Plain Brown. 
 The Blindness of Virtue, 
 etc. 
 
 ESSAYS 
 
 Brummell, Idiot and Philosopher. 
 Brummell Again. 
 Indiscretions. 
 Impertinent Reflections. 
 
THE 
 BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 BY 
 
 COSMO HAMILTON 
 
 "Virtue is an angel, but she is a blind one, and must ask 
 of knowledge to show her the pathway that leads to her goal." 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
Copyright, 1913, 
 By George H. Doran Company 
 
 4 Ls 5 <? ^ 
 
TO 
 BERYL 
 
 WITH ALL MY LOVE; 
 
 FOR WHOM AND THROUGH WHOM AND TO WHOM 
 
 I WROTE THIS LITTLE PLAY 
 
CHARACTERS 
 
 The Reverend Harry Pemberton. 
 The Hon. Archibald Graham. 
 Collins. 
 
 Mrs. Pemberton. 
 
 Mrs. Lemmins. 
 
 Mary Ann. 
 
 Cookie. 
 
 Effie Pemberton. 
 
 SCENES 
 
 Act I 
 
 The vicarage garden. Late afternoon in July. 
 
 Act II 
 Harry Pemberton' s den. Six weeks later. 
 
 Act III 
 Archibald Graham's bedroom. Two mornings 
 later. 
 
 Act IV 
 Harry Pemberton' s den. The same morning. 
 
THE 
 BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 ACT I 
 
 The Scene of Act I represents the garden of the 
 vicarage. This is an old house, almost 
 Queen Anne, but not quite. It is, how- 
 ever, very old and sweet and prim and 
 cheery and restful. It overlooks the little 
 garden with motherly eyes, filled with quiet 
 pride. And well it may because it is a gar- 
 den to be proud of. Against a trellis on 
 the worn red walls a swarm of sweet peas 
 is running, many of whose charming heads 
 are peeping boldly to see the world with- 
 out. In all the beds there are flowers, 
 old-fashioned and rich in colour. The 
 lawn is shaved close, even the scanty beard 
 of it that tries to grow beneath the old ce- 
 dar tree that spreads its purple arms pro- 
 tectingly over it all. Through the white 
 gates that cut the wall in two the village 
 green can be seen, flat and bordered with 
 small houses all with their own bits of gar- 
 9 
 
lo THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 den. A milkman's white horse is munch- 
 ing while he can, fowls hunt busily for suc- 
 culent morsels and a string of geese wan- 
 der aimlessly about. 
 
 The front door of the house is open. A rather 
 worn oak chair can just be seen and a cor- 
 ner of a very elderly Turkish rug. There 
 drifts into the garden the sound of some- 
 one, — almost obviously a girl, and a tem- 
 peramental girl, practising on the piano, 
 now irritably, now languidly, and always 
 with an underlying sense of thinking of 
 something better. There is no one in the 
 garden except a little quaint figure, in a 
 home-made black frock, higher in front 
 than behind, and a large apron, ironed and 
 starched too stiffly. On her whispy hair 
 is stuck a whimsical cap that is altogether 
 incapable of sitting straight. This is 
 Cookie, who, with a touch of bravado, is 
 picking sweet peas. 
 
 Through the gates comes a wiry middle-aged 
 man with the moustache of one who drinks 
 as often as luck wills it and tight fitting 
 trousers, cleverly patched. He has a three 
 days' growth of beard upon his chin and a 
 quick, cunning, but not unhumorous, eye. 
 His bare brown arms are closely tattooed. 
 There is the Union Jack, the crest of a line 
 
ACT I II 
 
 Regiment, a woman's name, a bleeding 
 heart and a large, repulsive dragon. He 
 wears no collar. There is a coloured 
 handkerchief, wound into a sort of rope, 
 round his neck, and an old wide-brimmed 
 strawberry hat, yellow from rain and sun, 
 on the back of his head. This is Fred 
 Collins, the gardener, who has been in In- 
 dia and Singapore and Malta and Alder- 
 shot with his regiment and gravitated back 
 to the soil and his native village to a wife 
 with no front teeth and curlers and five per- 
 petually dirty children. 
 
 Collins [hotly'\. Now then, what are you 
 doing with my sweet peas? 
 
 Cookie \looking up quietly and speaking in a 
 ladylike voice'\. Oh, it's you, Fred. I thought 
 I knew the voice. Nice afternoon. 
 
 Collins [more angrily'^. Nice afternoon me 
 foot. If you want sweet peas ask me for 'em. 
 Tearing about the bushes like that there, rippin' 
 ofif the buds. 
 
 Cookie [sweetly'\. There's a nice glass of 
 beer jist inside the kitchin winder. What a 
 funny thing I should have thought about it. 
 
 Collins [obviously appeased but not going to 
 cave in at once"]. I don't interfere with your 
 kitchin, don't you interfere with my garden. 
 
12 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 . . . Not that I gets much satisfaction from 
 working like a black in it. The Vicar and the 
 missus never 'as no time to look round. 
 
 Cookie. Well, we can't 'ave everything in 
 this world. 
 
 Collins. I don't want everything. What I 
 want is for them as I works for to appreciate it. 
 
 Cookie [looking at him with eyes wide 
 open'\. I have nothing but praise for you, 
 Fred. [Collins opening his mouth and finding 
 himself unable to trust himself to say anything 
 within earshot of the house, goes into roars of 
 laughter. '\ 
 
 Cookie [who has won the rub]. You ain't 
 going to let that ale get flat, are yer? 
 
 Collins. Oh, woman, woman in our howers 
 of hease! . . . Gor blimey. [Flings up his 
 hands and goes into house. Cookie smiles and 
 then turns hack to the sweet peas which she con- 
 tinues to pick. She sings quietly, " Give my 
 regards to Regent Street," stopping in the mid- 
 dle of a line and going suddenly and swiftly to 
 gate.] 
 
 Cookie [addressing an unseen dog viciously], 
 I see yer, yer little devil. Been in the pond, 
 mucked yerself all over, nar yer goin' to sneak 
 in and dirty my floors. 'Ook it, go on 'ook it ! 
 If you think you're goin' to outwit me you're 
 mistook, you streak o' cunning! . . . Go and 
 
ACT I 13 
 
 roll, go on now. Go and make yerself re- 
 spectable. . . . Laugh would yer 1 \_She picks 
 up stone. Collins comes out of house brushing 
 the back of his hand over his moustache.] 
 
 Collins. 'Ere now, 'ere, 'ere! Cruelty to 
 animals I 
 
 Cookie [flaming up]. 'E's not an animal. 
 'E's an adventurer. Little beast. 'E's as bad 
 as an open sore to me. . . . Go on away. 
 
 Collins. I'll soon see to 'im for yer. \He 
 goes out of gate.] I'll biff 'im. Bill, come 
 'ere, darling. [He disappears. Two hands 
 are suddenly bashed upon the piano.] 
 
 Cookie [jumping]. Oh, lor! What's that? 
 [Effie appears at window below door, climbs 
 out of it and comes into garden. She is a beau- 
 tiful slim girl of seventeen, with an oval face, 
 large eyes full of a restless spirit and a mass of 
 rich brown hair patched with streaks of cop- 
 per.] 
 
 Cookie [at gate]. Well done, Fred. Serve 
 'im right. 
 
 Effie. What's the matter. Cookie? 
 
 Cookie [angrily]. That there dawg. Lit- 
 tle beast. 'E's the plague of my life. 'E eats 
 like a giant, and be'aves like a ragamuffin. 'Is 
 one joy in life is to make me feel a fool. If I 
 'adn't been along of your father and mother 
 for twenty-two years I should give notice. 
 
14 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Efjie [crossing to Cookie and putting her 
 arms round her]. No, you wouldn't. 
 
 Cookie. Yes, I should. 
 
 Effie. No, you wouldn't. 
 
 Cookie. Yes, I should. 
 
 Effie. No, you wouldn't. 
 
 Cookie. Well, then, no, I shouldn't. [She 
 bursts out laughing.] There's only two 
 things that'll make me give notice. Marriage 
 . . . which ain't likely, and bein' turned 
 out. . . . 
 
 Effie. Which isn't likely either. Be a phi- 
 losopher, Cookie. 
 
 Cookie. 1 can't. I was born in the workus. 
 [^She turns to gate and scuttles over to it.] Oh, 
 you would, would yer ? 
 
 Effie [going to gate and talking severely]. 
 How dare you. Bill I Go and dry instantly and 
 don't appear again until you're thoroughly 
 ashamed of yourself. 
 
 Cookie. And you might add, until he can 
 make no marks on the 'all floor. You! 
 
 Effie [going to seat under tree, with a sigh]. 
 Ah, me I 
 
 Cookie. What did you say? 
 
 Effie. I didn't say anything. 
 
 Cookie. No, but you sighed it and I don't 
 wonder. 
 
 Effie [sighing]. Why? 
 
ACT I 15 
 
 Cookie. You a birthday girl struck seven- 
 teen and left all alone the 'ole of the day. 
 
 Effie. Father and mother are busy. 
 
 Cookie. Father and mother are busy ! Did 
 y'ever know 'em anything else week in week 
 out? I call it a shame. 
 
 Effie. What? 
 
 Cookie. Why, that the Vicar can't get even 
 a few hours off, or the missus either, to cele- 
 brate the event. 
 
 Effie. The event has been celebrated. 
 Mother gave me her only ring except two, and 
 father presented me with a watch. What more 
 could I have ? I don't deserve either. 
 
 Cookie. Oh, go on! All the same, of 
 course, you would have liked your father and 
 mother to spend the day with you. I think it's 
 a bit o' cheek of old Joe Judd to need the Vicar 
 until after your birthday. And that there club 
 too. What's the parish want with a club? 
 Isn't eight pubs enough for 'em? {^Cookie dur- 
 ing this speech is busily picking sweet peas. 
 Effie has put her head down on her arms and is 
 sobbing bitterly.] 
 
 Cookie. Perhaps you'll get a game of golf 
 with the Vicar before the light goes and that'll 
 be all right, won't it? \_She looks at Effie, 
 drops the sweet peas and goes towards her 
 quickly.] Why! . . . what's this? Miss Ef- 
 
1 6 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 fie, my dear . . . my dearie, what is it ? Cry- 
 ing on yer birthday? Tell an old woman, then. 
 iShe puts her arms round the girl.'\ 
 
 Effie Is till sobbing^. Oh, don't. Cookie, 
 don't. Leave me alone. No one can do any- 
 thing for me. I feel hopeless. 
 
 Cookie Ishriliy}. Hopeless! And you with 
 a birthday! 
 
 Effie. That's why. You wouldn't under- 
 stand. / don't understand, but that's why. 
 [^She springs up and puts her arms round the 
 old woman.] I'm seventeen and I've done 
 nothing, seen nothing. I'm seventeen and I'm 
 treated like a child. I am a child. If I go on 
 living here I shall always be a child. 
 
 Cookie [in great surprise]. But you don't 
 want to go and live away from here, do you ? 
 
 Effie. Oh, Cookie, I don't know what I 
 want. I'm always wanting something and I 
 don't know what it is. I'm always asking my- 
 self what's the matter, what's happened, — I 
 used to be so happy, — and I can't find out. 
 [With sudden impatience and self -disgust.] 
 Oh, what a fool I am. For gpodness' sake don't 
 take any notice of me. [She flings herself into 
 the seat.] 
 
 Cookie. Don't talk to me like that. I knew 
 you before you had a birthday and you've just 
 
ACT I 17 
 
 got to tell me what's worrying you. iShe sits 
 down by her side.] Now then, dearie. 
 
 Effie [catching up Cookie's hands']. I'm a 
 beast. I'm dissatisfied. It's awful. No girl 
 living has got such a father and mother, or such 
 a home, but all day long now I go about with 
 a great constant — I don't know what. It 
 makes me restless. I ask myself questions that 
 I can't answer. Sometimes in the middle of the 
 night or when I'm reading here alone, I get up 
 and go and stand at the gate and try and peer 
 over the horizon. I listen for something that 
 never comes and wait breathless for something 
 that never happens. I feel like a bird shut up 
 in a cage and I want to burst the bars and fly. 
 Cookie ! What does it all mean? 
 
 Cookie [shaking her head]. I always 
 thought you was so happy. 
 
 Effie [vehemently]. I am happy. I adore 
 this place and I'd die for father and mother, 
 but I'm a woman, not a baby, and doesn't life 
 mean something more than the duties and games 
 that I do every day, day after day, week after 
 week, year after year? Isn't there anything 
 more? [She springs up.] Why don't you tell 
 me to shut up ? Why don't you tell me that I 
 ought to be ashamed of myself? 
 
 Cookie [rising and putting her hands on 
 
1 8 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Efjie's arm]. You can't 'elp it, dearie. It's 
 the east wind. 
 
 Efjie \_simply']. Is it? Yes, perhaps it is. 
 But I'd give everything I have in the world if 
 this queer feeling would never come to me. 
 [She sees sweet peas on the lawn and goes to 
 them quickly.] Oh, look at these darlings on 
 the ground ! 
 
 Cookie [relieved and cheerful]. Oh, my! 
 I must have dropped 'em. I'm picking 'em to 
 put in the young gentleman's bedroom. 
 
 EfJie [on her knees looking up quickly]. 
 Mr. Graham? 
 
 Cookie. That's 'im. The Vicar told me 'e 
 was comin' this afternoon so I've made the 
 spare room a sight for sore eyes. 
 
 Effie. Does father think he's coming? 
 
 Cookie. Why, of course. Don't you? 
 
 Efjie. No, I don't. [Enter Mrs. Pember- 
 ton. She is a beautiful woman, very quiet in 
 manner, a little delicate looking.] 
 
 Cookie. Oh, here you are, at last. 'Bout 
 time too. 
 
 Efjie. Hullo, mother. [She gets up and 
 goes to her.] Tired, darling? 
 
 Mrs. P. No, dear. Is father back? 
 
 Cookie. Oh, father! 'E's not likely to be 
 back while the sun's up and then when there's 
 nothing to do he'll make something. 
 
ACT I 19 
 
 Mrs. P. Is Mr. Graham's room ready? 
 
 Cookie. What a question ! 
 
 Mrs. P. Don't let the mutton be overdone 
 and you'd better put out the best tumblers. 
 
 Cookie. Oh, I haven't forgotten 'e's a swell. 
 
 Mrs. P. And don't put the butter in the as- 
 paragus dish. Serve it separately. 
 
 Cookie. Oh, that's the latest, is it? \_She 
 bursts out laughing.'\ My word! We shan't 
 know ourselves soon. [5^^ goes into the 
 house with a ludicrous imitation of a sort of 
 lady.] 
 
 Mrs. P. faking Effle into her arms]. Well, 
 darling? Have you had a nice birthday? 
 
 Effie. Yes, mother. Look! [She holds 
 out her hand.] It fits me perfectly. 
 
 Mrs. p. You'll be careful not to overwind 
 the watch, won't you ? 
 
 Effie. Yes, mother. 
 
 Mrs. P. I'm so sorry that father and I have 
 not been able to be with you to-day, darling. 
 There is so much to be done and so little time 
 to do it in. 
 
 Effie. Oh, please don't say that, mother. 
 You make me feel a beast. 
 
 Mrs. P. [surprised]. Do I? How? 
 
 Effie. Oh, I don't know. After all, what 
 does my birthday matter, when people are dy- 
 ing and being born and are ill and starving and 
 
20 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 in trouble, and you and father can do so much 
 for them all. I don't count. 
 
 Mrs. P. You do count and I can see that 
 you mind. It's perfectly natural. But you 
 see, darling, duty comes first. We will have a 
 musical evening. 
 
 Effie [^delightedly']. Oh, mother, can we? 
 Do you think father will have time to sing some 
 of his old Oxford songs? 
 
 Mrs. P. Yes, if. . . . 
 
 Effie. If what? 
 
 Mrs. P- If nobody wants him in the village. 
 [Harry Pemberton appears at gate, holding bi- 
 cycle.'] 
 
 Harry [calling']. Collins! Collins! 
 
 Collins [off]. Sir? 
 
 Harry. Take my bike, will you ? I'm afraid 
 there's a puncture in the back wheel. I wish 
 you'd see to it. 
 
 Collins [at gate]. Right you are, sir. 
 
 Harry. As soon as you can. I'm certain to 
 want It again to-day, 
 
 Collins. Right you are, sir. [Harry enters 
 the garden. As he does so Effie makes a dart 
 at him and flings her arms round his neck. 
 He stands six foot one of bone and muscle. 
 Under the brim of his old straw hat a large, 
 well-formed nose divides a pair of dark, hu- 
 morous, steady eyes. The lips of a particu- 
 
ACT I 21 
 
 larly beautiful, sensitive mouth are smiling. A 
 long, determined chin, great square shoulders 
 and a hack as flat as a blackboard, eager hands, 
 feet stuck into large shoes studded with nails, — 
 that^s Harry Pemberton.} 
 
 Harry \kissing her and then holding her 
 away from himj. Seventeen, seventeen! 
 Think of it. In the twinkling of an eye you'll 
 be no longer my little girl, but a woman with 
 her hair up, stuffed full of hairpins, and 
 being your father's daughter you'll shed 'em 
 about the passages. . . . I'm sorry I couldn't 
 give you anything better than a watch, my 
 baby. 
 
 Effie. I love it. It's the only thing I've 
 ever wanted. 
 
 Harry. The only thing ! That's good. It 
 was given to me when / was seventeen and if 
 properly treated it'll be alive and kicking for 
 yet another seventeenth birthday. I wish I'd 
 had the money to give you a brand new one, but 
 I think you know that this old watch ticks out the 
 great love and friendship and respect of your 
 old chum and father, eh, darling? \_Effte kisses 
 Harry emotionally. '\ 
 
 Mrs. P. I think you'd better wear your best 
 waistcoat this evening, dear. 
 
 Harry {^laughing and coming down with Ef- 
 fie'\. Not I ! It means wearing a choker with 
 
22 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 it and I'll be hanged if I'll do that. No sign 
 of the boy yet, I suppose ? 
 
 Mrs. P. No. But everything's ready. 
 
 Effie. I don't think he'll come. 
 
 Mrs. P. But he is coming. It's arranged. 
 
 Effie. I don't think he'll come. 
 
 Mrs. P. Why do you say that? 
 
 Harry. Well, I'm beginning to wonder 
 whether he will. I had a letter this afternoon 
 from his father. It was sent down by train 
 and brought to me at Joe Judd's, who, by the 
 way, is going to be wheeled round this after- 
 noon to see the sweet peas. 
 
 Mrs. P. [surprised]. A letter from Lord 
 Aberlady? 
 
 Effie. What's it about? 
 
 Harry [sitting on seat]. Well, it evidently 
 cost the old gentleman a great effort to write. 
 It's the outcome of a conscientious desire to give 
 me the whole black details of this boy's past. 
 
 Mrs. P. Poor boy. 
 
 Effie [sitting on her legs on the grass]. 
 Read it, father. 
 
 Harry. Perhaps I'd better. I shall have 
 to cram him and take the much needed money 
 for it. But you two, after all, will have to put 
 up with him after hours, so it's as much your 
 concern as mine. [He opens letter.] " A 
 hundred Grosvenor Square, July 17, nineteen 
 
ACT I 23 
 
 eleven. Dear Sir, let me come at once to the 
 reason of my troubling you with this letter. 
 You have made it convenient to receive my sec- 
 ond son into your house. He is supposed to 
 be with you this afternoon. I have already 
 explained to you that the reason of my asking 
 you to read with him is that, under existing cir- 
 cumstances, I cannot do with him under my 
 roof. 
 
 Efjie. Old beast I 
 
 Mrs. P. Hush, dear. 
 
 Harry \_drily'\. He is the minister for edu- 
 cation in the present government — a very dis- 
 tinguished man. " I also feel that I may not 
 have been wholly frank with you, as to my son's 
 disposition. Honestly I have neither his con- 
 fidence nor his obedience and my efEorts hith- 
 erto to put him on the road along which I desire 
 him to walk, have failed utterly." 
 
 Effie. He writes like a minister of educa- 
 tion! 
 
 Mrs. P. Effie! Effie! 
 
 Harry \readmg'\. " Having accepted the 
 charge of my son you have the right to know 
 the following details." 
 
 Effie. Now for it ! 
 
 Harry [reading']. " He was educated at 
 Eton. I ough;t to tell you that his record there 
 was a bad one. If it had not been for his ex- 
 
24 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 cellence in the cricket field the head master 
 would have rid the school of his presence. 
 Later he went up to Oxford. The independ- 
 ence of the undergraduate did not, as I hoped, 
 steady my son. On the contrary, his career at 
 Oxford was short. He was sent down in the 
 middle of his second year. He will come to 
 you aged twenty-two, having been almost a year 
 in London at a loose end. He is, in no sense 
 of the word, a degenerate, nor does he seem to 
 be a bad hearted young man. So far as he has 
 permitted me to make his acquaintance, he 
 seems to be capable of improvement. I believe 
 him to be proud, headstrong, self-indulgent, 
 generous, utterly uncontrollable in a bearing 
 rein, but so easily influenced that he is as likely 
 to drag my name into the gutter if left with his 
 present friends as he is likely to be lifted above 
 the ordinary level of human creatures if he falls 
 into such hands as yours. [Efjie bends down 
 and kisses Harry's hands. "l I am well aware 
 that I am asking you to undertake a grave re- 
 sponsibility. As my son will not hesitate, if he 
 does enter your house, to pack up and leave it 
 at once, should he not take a liking to you, the 
 responsibility is one which may not last long. 
 I trust that this may not be the case and if your 
 influence saves my son from becoming a mem- 
 ber of the regiment of dissipated, shifty, useless 
 
ACT I 25 
 
 and harmful creatures into which so many of 
 our younger sons are drifting, I shall be grate- 
 ful indeed. Believe me, dear sir, yours faith- 
 fully, Aberlady." 
 
 Efjie. He won't come. 
 
 Harry. He will come, and what then? 
 [To his wife.] Are you afraid? Do you 
 think he'll have cockshies at your best tumblers ? 
 
 Mrs. P. Three hundred a year will go a 
 long way in the village. But utterly uncontrol- 
 lable, headstrong, self-indulgent. . . . 
 
 Harry [with a laughl. That description fits 
 ninety-nine per cent of men who are worth their 
 salt. 
 
 Effie. He won't come. 
 
 Harry. He plays cricket. All I hope is 
 that he bowls. We're frightfully short of 
 bowlers, and if he plays golf, my dear, won't 
 you two be able to have some matches ! 
 
 Efjie [jumping up'\. Ah! If only he'll 
 come. Do you think he'll walk or have a cab ? 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh, he'll walk of course. 
 
 Harry. He's certain to have a cab. 
 
 Effie. The three forty will just about be in. 
 I'm going to see if there's any sign of him. 
 [She flies through the gate.'} 
 
 Harry. Young Graham will be a godsend to 
 Effie. I'm afraid she's very lonely and that she 
 mopes sometimes. 
 
26 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Mrs. P. [surprised}. Lonely? Why? 
 
 Harry. The only child, you see. No one 
 to play with, no one to confide in, no one to 
 quarrel with, no one to compete with. It isn't 
 good. 
 
 Mrs. P. [proudly]. But she confides in me, 
 always. 
 
 Harry. Yes, darling, of course she does. 
 Let us hope she always will. Still, I'm glad 
 that young Archie Graham's coming, for Effie's 
 sake as well as for ours. Think what we can 
 do among our poor with three hundred a year. 
 We can instantly build the new room for the 
 club. Won't that be immense! I'll give the 
 boy six hundred pounds' worth of tuition. 
 
 Mrs. P. [smiling}. I know you will. The 
 only thing I'm afraid of is that you will work 
 too hard. 
 
 Harry. No man can work too hard. 
 Life's very short and there is much to be done. 
 
 Mrs. P. Harry, how did Lord Aberlady's 
 letter strike you ? 
 
 Harry. It tells us nothing. All Archie 
 Graham wants is to be trusted. Why, if I 
 hadn't been trusted and put on my honour I 
 should have gone hopelessly to the devil. [He 
 puts his hand on his wife's shoulders.} Have 
 you had time to realise that our baby is seven- 
 teen? 
 
ACT I 27 
 
 Mrs. P. [smiling'\ . Isn't It wonderful ! 
 
 Harry. We've been married eighteen years. 
 
 Mrs. P. isoftly'[. Isn't It wonderful! 
 
 Harry [in a deep vo'tce~\. And I nearly lost 
 you seventeen years ago, my dear. Very 
 nearly. You gave me Effie and stood very 
 close to the open door. Are you glad you 
 didn't go In and leave us both alone ? 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh, Harry! 
 
 Harry [with emotion'\. Have I been a good 
 man to you, little woman? Have I left any- 
 thing undone that you'd like me to do ? Have 
 I been even half grateful enough that you 
 stayed ? 
 
 Mrs. P. Dearest! [Effie comes into the 
 garden, slamming the gate.'] 
 
 Effie. No sign of a cab. Well, after all, I 
 don't think he plays golf so It doesn't matter. 
 
 Mrs. P. [to Harry]. You'll try and have 
 nothing to do to-night, won't you? If you're 
 not here I don't know how we shall amuse the 
 boy. 
 
 Harry [with a short laugh]. It's not much 
 use trying. I promised to go and see poor 
 Mrs. Lemmins. It's eight months to-day since 
 Mary Ann disappeared. Poor little Mary Ann 
 with the angel face and golden hair. And Joe 
 Judd can't last much longer. All I can give the 
 boy is an hour after dinner and perhaps we can 
 
28 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 get a pipe together before we go to bed, — if he 
 comes. [^Collins comes to the gate. He grins 
 excitedly.'] 
 
 Collins. Cab at door, sir. 
 
 Effie [excitedly]. He has come, then. 
 
 Harry [^catching the contagion]. Ask Mr. 
 Graham to come round into the garden and 
 bring his luggage through this way. 
 
 Collins. Right you are, sir. \^He salutes 
 with a characteristic touch of exaggeration. 
 He goes of.] 
 
 Effie. I wonder what he is like ? 
 
 Mrs. P. [all in a fluster] . Hadn't we better 
 leave you to meet him alone? 
 
 Harry. Yes, that's a good idea. 
 
 Mrs. P. Come along, dear. 
 
 Effie. I shall peer out of the window. 
 Father, I'll bet you a bob he's short and fat. 
 [She follows Mrs. P. into the house, all alight.] 
 
 [Harry finds himself, to his own amusement, just 
 a little nervous. The words of the letter flash 
 through his mind. He stands irresolute for a 
 moment and then, with a desire to put the boy 
 at his ease and let him come upon a man who, 
 although a clergyman, is a sportsman, takes up 
 a mashie that is standing against the seat and 
 swings it. Archie Graham appears at gate. 
 He is tall and slight and clean shaven, good- 
 
ACT I 29 
 
 looking and well-dressed. He wears a half 
 sulky, half supercilious expression and his eyes 
 are suspicious. There are one or two curiously 
 old lines round his mouth. He comes down a 
 step or two and stands watching Harry who 
 pretends not to see him. There is a slight 
 pause-l 
 
 Archie. Mr. Pemberton? 
 
 Harry {looking up'\. Yes. Are you Gra- 
 ham? 
 
 Archie {touching his hat'\. Please. 
 
 Harry {stretching out his hand'\. How are 
 you? 
 
 Archie [slightly antagonistic']. Very well, 
 thanks. 
 
 Harry {eyeing him surreptitiously]. Sorry 
 I couldn't meet you at the station. 
 
 Archie. Oh, not a bit ! 
 
 Harry. You chose an excellent train. 
 
 Archie. Yes, a non-stopper. I thought this 
 place was further away. It's not so far off the 
 map as I ... I mean. . . . 
 
 Harry {with a laugh]. As a matter of fact 
 it is off the map although we're only sixteen 
 miles from Hyde Park Corner. {He swings 
 the mashie in an interested manner, treating the 
 boy almost casually as though his arrival was a 
 very ordinary affair.] 
 
30 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Archie [watching him closely'[. It's rather 
 pretty here, isn't it ? A little flat perhaps. 
 
 Harry. The brickmaking, orchard district, 
 you know. All our women work in the fields 
 and most of our men are brickees when they 
 condescend to work at all, which isn't often. 
 And curiously enough there is a rather large 
 Irish contingent round the green. How's your 
 father? 
 
 Archie. He's well I believe, thanks. 
 
 Harry. You'll have tea, won't you? 
 
 Archie. No, thanks. I had tea at Padding- 
 ton. 
 
 Harry [holding out case'\. A cigarette? 
 
 Archie [after a slight hesitation']. Thanks. 
 
 Harry. I don't recommend them but they 
 are not more poisonous than most. 
 
 Archie [looking at it with something of 
 patronage]. Oh, this Is a pretty safe brand. 
 
 Harry [abruptly]. Sit down. 
 
 Archie. Well, I. . . . 
 
 Harry. Yes? [He smiles at the boy.] 
 
 Archie [sitting]. Thank you. [He is ob- 
 viously ill at ease and constrained. He fidgets 
 with his fingers and continues to look search- 
 ingly at Harry when unobserved.] 
 
 Harry. What's your theory as to the length 
 of a mashie? 
 
ACT I 31 
 
 Archie \^drawUng'\. I dunno. Don't think 
 I've ever thought about it. 
 
 Harry. I mean do you like 'em short or 
 long, large faced or more of the jigger school? 
 
 Archie. Oh, I just bought one and I've 
 stuck to it ever since. They called it a mashie 
 and I used it as such. 
 
 Harry [with a laughl. A contented mind, 
 eh? 
 
 Archie [with a bitterness so horrible and full 
 of history that Harry drops the mashie and eyes 
 him with a new lookj. Contented ! 
 
 Harry. What have you been reading for? 
 
 Archie [a little humblyl- I'm afraid I've not 
 been reading, sir. 
 
 Harry. Are you a rich man? I mean are 
 you going to read with me in order to earn a 
 living ? 
 
 Archie. Yes — that's the notion. 
 
 Harry. Good. A man who doesn't have 
 to earn his bread and butter misses the joy of 
 life. You've decided what you're going to read 
 for now I take it ? 
 
 Archie. The Bar. 
 
 Harry. Oh, excellent. I'll look out all my 
 old books. Some of 'em will be useful. 
 
 Archie [looking up\. Did you read for the 
 bar, sir? 
 
32 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Harry. Yes. Tremendously hard. I was 
 going in for the bar and politics at one time. 
 
 Archie. What made you chuck it and go into 
 the church — I beg your pardon. 
 
 Harry [with intense solemnityl. If ever the 
 time comes when I am obliged to tell anyone 
 why I went into the church, Archibald Graham, 
 it will be the worst day in my life. [Collins 
 passes through with a shirt case on his shoul- 
 der.]^ 
 
 Collins. Shall I take it upstairs, sir? 
 
 Harry. Ah, your baggage. Yes, upstairs, 
 Collins. Mr. Graham's room is my old dress- 
 ing room. [Collins goes into house.'\ 
 
 Archie. I hope I'm not. . . . 
 
 Harry. Not a bit. A dressing room is a 
 luxury. Er . . . is that all you've brought ? 
 
 Archie [quickly]. A telegram will bring the 
 rest. 
 
 Harry. Shall Collins take a wire at once ? 
 
 Archie. Well. . . . 
 
 Harry [bluntly but kindly]. If not, my dear 
 fellow, there's a fast train back to Paddington 
 in half an hour. What will you do ? Take it 
 or send a wire? 
 
 Archie [after a distinct pause during which he 
 looks into Harry's eyes]. I'll wire, please. 
 
 Harry [quietly]. Thanks, old chap. 
 
ACT I 33 
 
 [Takes out a pocket book.~\ Here's a form 
 and a pencil. [He puts them on table. The 
 boy writes.] Don't forget to ask for your golf 
 clubs and cricket bag. 
 
 Archie [without looking up], I have. 
 
 Harry. Good. [Collins comes into garden.] 
 
 Archie. May I. . . . 
 
 Harry. Yes. Collins, just go down to the 
 post office, will you? Ask Mrs. Wimley to 
 send that off at once. 
 
 Collins. Right you are, sir. 
 
 Archie. Here's the money. Don't bother 
 about the change. 
 
 Collins [saluting]. Right you are, sir. 
 [He spits on the coin. There is a drink in the 
 offing. You almost hear it going into the glass. 
 There is an added spring in his walk as he goes 
 of.] 
 
 Harry. And now come and have a look at 
 your room. 
 
 Archie [quickly and with a touch of agita- 
 tion]. Would it put you out if we stayed here 
 for a minute ? I ... I want to speak to you. 
 
 Harry. Fire away. 
 
 Archie [pausing uncomfortably and pidling 
 himself up to an unusual proceeding]. Before 
 I go into your house I want to lay everything 
 out straight with you, sir, at once. 
 
34 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Harry {^sitting on the chair below door'\. 
 Go ahead, old fellow. 
 
 Archie. And I'm going to ask you to an- 
 swer one or two questions bluntly if you don't 
 mind, without any attempt to spare my feelings. 
 
 Harry [with a smile'\. Right. 
 
 Archie [bending down and picking up a sweet 
 pea and fidgeting with if]. Was I packed off 
 to you by the Guvnor as a waster? 
 
 Harry. Pretty well like that. 
 
 Archie. He sent me to you much as a drunk- 
 ard is sent to a rescue home? 
 
 Harry. Much in the same way. 
 
 Archie. With a detailed list of my misdo- 
 ings at Eton and Oxford? 
 
 Harry. Pretty detailed. 
 
 Archie [flinging away the sweet pea and turn- 
 ing to Harry quickly'\. That's how I was sent 
 to Eton — under suspicion. That's how I went 
 up to Oxford, still under suspicion. I was la- 
 belled suspicious goods. I knew that I was 
 watched and expected to break out into some 
 rottenness ! It spoilt Eton for me and ruined 
 my chances at Oxford. 
 
 Harry. My dear fellow. . . . 
 
 Archie [with a burst']. I don't say that I'm 
 not rotten. I don't say that I'm not a mass of 
 detestable characteristics, but the one sure way 
 of bringing these things to the top was to sus- 
 
ACT I 35 
 
 pect me. I've had nothing to live up to and 
 I've done stinking things everywhere out of 
 bitterness and anger. I want you to know this 
 before we go any further. I want you to know 
 my side of it all, and I want to ask you for 
 God's sake not to begin by suspecting me. Do 
 you? 
 
 Harry {rising and looking at the boy all 
 over'\. No. [He holds out his hand.'] 
 
 Archie {seizing it and crumpling over it]. 
 Ah! 
 
 Harry. Now, look here, Archie Graham, as 
 we are in a sort of way rubbing noses and be- 
 coming friends, let me say something too. I 
 don't know your father personally. From 
 what he's done for the country he's a big man, 
 but I can see from his letter that he doesn't 
 understand you. 
 
 Archie {brokenly]. No, he doesn't. 
 
 Harry. I expect he's always treated you as 
 a man should treat a man and not as a man 
 should treat a boy. He began by believing, no 
 doubt, that you had no sense of honour, when 
 he ought to have given you credit for possessing 
 as great a sense of honour as he possesses and 
 put you on it. 
 
 Archie. If only he had. 
 
 Harry. And as to your horrible misdeeds 
 at Eton and Oxford, — my dear good fellow, 
 
36 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 when and where is a man to commit the harm- 
 less necessary horrible misdeeds of his green 
 youth except at Eton and Oxford, unless it's at 
 Charterhouse and Cambridge. Your father 
 and those asses at Eton and Oxford, all of them 
 book stuffed, theorising apes only fitted to make 
 rules for the conduct of dead things, have made 
 you self-conscious, eh? Well, all that's over. 
 
 Archie [looking up wistfully'^. Over? 
 
 Harry. Yes, over and done with. 
 
 Archie. How ? 
 
 Harry. You and I are brothers, just two 
 ordinary good sorts, ready to break out and go 
 arm in arm with nature to the gutter, but for 
 the sympathy of each other, — and of that other 
 Brother of ours. I'm going to give you all the 
 trust and sympathy that I've got and you're go- 
 ing to do the same by me. When we stand on 
 our hind legs and have the infernal bumptious- 
 ness to say that we feel no need for sympathy 
 and help, providence, always on the lookout for 
 the braggart, will put in one straight from the 
 shoulder and hit us very hard. Your ciga- 
 rette's out. Have another. 
 
 Archie. No, thanks [quickly^. May I tell 
 you one other thing ? 
 
 Harry. If you feel you must. 
 
 Archie. I think you ought to know that I 
 was sent down from Oxford. 
 
ACT I 37 
 
 'Harry. Loads of men are sent down who 
 don't deserve such drastic treatment. 
 
 Archie. I did deserve it, though. 
 
 'Harry. Glad to hear it. 
 
 Archie [surprised^. Glad? 
 
 Harry. Yes, of course. If a man knows 
 that he deserves punishment, he doesn't grum- 
 ble when he gets it and ten to one it's a good 
 thing for him. Punishment only has a bad ef- 
 fect on the man who doesn't deserve it, and 
 gets it. If he's not a pretty strong fellow he 
 either develops into a criminal or deteriorates 
 into a sloppy creature with a perpetual griev- 
 ance. 
 
 Archie. I want to start fair with you, sir. 
 I can't even dream of staying under your roof 
 until you know exactly what I did. I don't 
 want to remain here under false pretences. 
 
 Harry. I'm not going to know. I'm not 
 your judge, my dear chap. I'm your friend 
 and I believe in you. Forget the incident. 
 You've had your knockout blow and you're on 
 your feet again. The thing's over. Now 
 then, I'll toss you which of us has the bath. 
 
 Cookie [at do orl^. Telephone! 
 
 Harry. Right. [He lays his hand on the 
 boy's shoulder for a moment and goes quickly 
 into the house. Archie goes over to the tree- 
 seat. All his movements are now boyish and 
 
38 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 there is a sort of eagerness and surprise in all 
 his lines of body.] 
 
 Cookie [full of curiosity to inspect the 
 "swell" and obviously making an excuse to 
 speak to him']. How do you like potatoes? 
 Plain boiled or sorty? 
 
 Archie [with a little laugh]. Oh, anyhow, 
 thanks. 
 
 Cookie. That's no answer. Being a swell 
 I should have thought you liked 'em sorty. 
 
 Archie [amused]. Plain boiled. 
 
 Cookie. I hoped you'd say that. It's less 
 trouble. [She goes nearer.] Do you know 
 you've brought no pyjamas? 
 
 Archie. I've just wired for my things. I 
 forgot them, — that is I didn't bring them. 
 
 Cookie. I shall like you. 
 
 Archie. Thanks very much. 
 
 Cookie. Perhaps I'd better introduce my- 
 self. Miss Ethel Meadows, commonly called 
 Cookie by her friends. 
 
 Archie. How do you do. Cookie? [He 
 holds out his hand.] 
 
 Cookie [enthusiastically]. Oh, you are all 
 right, you are. [Shakes.] I gathered you 
 were a bit of a terror. 
 
 Archie [drily]. My reputation generally 
 precedes me. 
 
 Cookie. Let me give you a tip. There's a 
 
ACT I 39 
 
 dog called Bill who lives here. If you want 
 to be on good terms with me don't let 'im sleep 
 on your bed. 
 
 Archie. It's a bargain. Anything else? 
 
 Cookie. No, that's all. Oh, yes, there is 
 one other thing. If you read in bed at 
 nights, don't stick the candle on your chest. 
 I don't mind how I die so long as it isn't by 
 fire. 
 
 Archie. Consider it settled. 
 
 Cookie. Here, you're a bit of an angel. 
 {She goes of in a sort of a pea-hen laugh.] 
 
 Archie. Glad you think so. [Enter Mrs. 
 Pemberton. Cookie goes to her eagerly.] 
 
 Cookie {in a stage whisper]. I've put him 
 through 'is paces, mum, and 'e's all right. 
 
 Mrs. p. Ssh! Cookie. 
 
 Cookie. Plain boiled, eh? Well, you shall 
 'ave 'em. \She nods to Archie and goes in. 
 Her curious shrill laugh hangs on the air.] 
 
 Mrs. P. How do you do? 
 
 Archie {coming forward and taking her 
 hand]. How do you do? 
 
 Mrs. P. I'm very glad you've come. 
 
 Archie {boyishly]. So am I. 
 
 Mrs. p. I'm afraid your room's rather 
 small. 
 
 Archie. I don't mind how small my room is. 
 It's in your house. 
 
40 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Mrs. P. But you're going to do your work 
 in my husband's den. 
 
 Archie [eagerly'\. Am I really? 
 
 Mrs. P. {^apologising'\. I won't apologise 
 for Cookie. 
 
 Archie. Oh, please don't. She's immense. 
 
 Mrs. P. She's been with us twenty years 
 and perhaps she takes a little advantage of it. 
 Is your father quite well? 
 
 Archie. I think so, thanks. 
 
 Mrs. P. And your mother? 
 
 Archie [simply']. I haven't got a mother. 
 She died when I was born. 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh, I'm sorry. 
 
 Archie. So am I. I've missed her . . . 
 badly. 
 
 Mrs. P. The golf links is only a stone's 
 throw from here. 
 
 Archie. Oh, that's ripping. Do you play? 
 
 Mrs. P. No, but my husband does, — when 
 he has time. 
 
 Archie. I don't suppose that's very often. 
 
 Mrs. P. No, it isn't. 
 
 Cookie [at door]. May I speak to you a 
 moment, mum? 
 
 Mrs. P. Certainly, Cookie. [To Archie.] 
 Will you excuse me ? 
 
 Archie. Oh, please. [Mrs. Pemherton 
 drops a note book. Archie picks it up, gives 
 
ACT I 41 
 
 it to her, bends over her hand and kisses it.] 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh, thank you. [She turns slowly 
 
 and goes in with a little smile on her face.] 
 
 [Archie stands quite still for a moment, where 
 he is, facing audience. After a moment 
 he takes of his hat and opens his arms, 
 breathing in the air. His whole face is 
 changed. He looks younger and con- 
 tented. Effie peeps round the gate.] 
 
 Archie [involuntarily]. The Guvnor shall 
 see. I've got my chance. . . . I've got 
 my chance at last. [Effie saunters in, trying 
 to appear as though she had known hun- 
 dreds of men in her time and leaning against 
 table.] 
 
 Archie [turning]. I beg your pardon. I'm 
 Graham. 
 
 Effie [looking at him and smiling]. I know. 
 
 Archie. How do you do? 
 
 Effie. I'm very well, thank you. What's 
 your handicap ? 
 
 Archie. A bad eight. I suppose you're aw- 
 fully good? 
 
 Effie. Oh, I'm pretty useful, — for a woman. 
 [She breaks suddenly into a fit of nervousness 
 and shyness. Archie stands watching her.] 
 Have you met Bill? 
 
 Archie. Yes. He introduced himself to me 
 
42 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 outside. I've met Cookie, too, and Mrs. Pem- 
 berton. Are you, er . . . are you the Vicar's 
 sister? 
 
 Effie [laughingl. No, I'm his pal — I mean 
 his daughter. 
 
 Archie. You couldn't be one without the 
 other. 
 
 Efjie [leaning towards him eagerlyl. Then 
 you aren't going back within twelve hours as 
 your father said you. . . , 
 
 Archie [sharply'\. Did my father say that? 
 
 Efjie. I'm so sorry. It slipped out. 
 
 Archie. It doesn't matter. I suppose my 
 father wrote that if I didn't cotton on to the 
 Vicar, I should chuck East Brenton. 
 
 Effie. Yes. 
 
 Archie. Um! And that's what I should 
 have done. 
 
 Effie. Would you really? 
 
 Archie. Like a shot. But it so happens 
 that I like your father a million times better 
 already than any man I've ever met, and that's 
 only a tenth part of how I'm going to like him. 
 
 Effe. I knew you would if you came. 
 
 Archie. I'd have to be deaf and blind not 
 to. I wish I'd known him since the beginning 
 of the world. [He laughs frankly.'] That's 
 my egotistical way of saying since I was born. 
 
 Effie. I know. 
 
ACT I 43 
 
 Archie [going nearer to her and losing self- 
 consciousness'\. I'm going to mug like blazes 
 with your father, to make up for lost time. 
 Are you working? 
 
 Effie. No, I never do anything, — at least 
 nothing very much. Mother's so busy that I 
 look after the house and make my frocks and 
 practise the piano and every now and then, 
 when I can't help myself, I write a story about 
 some of the dreadful things of life. 
 
 Archie \_astonished}. Good Lordl What 
 do you know about the dreadful things of life? 
 
 Effie. Nothing. So I tear my stories up. 
 
 Archie. You seem to have so much to do, 
 and I'm going to have so much to do, that it 
 doesn't look much like golf for either of us. 
 
 Effie. Before breakfast and before dinner. 
 
 Archie \_with a laugh'\. What time's break- 
 fast? 
 
 Effie. Eight o'clock. 
 
 Archie. By Jove ! Means getting up at six 
 then. 
 
 Effie. Can't you ? 
 
 Archie. I'd get up at five to play golf with 
 you. 
 
 Effie. I'll introduce you to our links to-mor- 
 row. 
 
 Archie. Right. Thanks most awfully. 
 [Enter Harry from house.] 
 
44 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Harry. EfEe — Archie. Archie — Effie. 
 
 Archie. We've met. 
 
 Cookie [putting her head out of door^. 
 Dinner in five minutes. 
 
 Harry. Mr. Archibald Graham — Cookie. 
 
 Archie. We've met too. 
 
 Cookie {with a loud chuckle'\. Well I 
 never ! 
 
 Harry. Well, you've not wasted much time, 
 have you? 
 
 Archie. Not a second. [Enter Mrs. Pem- 
 herton from house.] 
 
 Harry. Am I to take it that you've 
 chummed up to my wife as well as to every 
 other member of this house? 
 
 Archie. Yes, please. 
 
 Mrs. P. [taking his arm']. Let me show you 
 your room. 
 
 Archie. Thanks. Queen Ann, isn't it? A 
 great period. And by Jove, what yews. 
 [They go in together.] 
 
 Harry [to Effie eagerly]. Well, what do 
 you think about him ? 
 
 Effie. I've not had time to think about him 
 yet, darling. 
 
 Harry. But do you think you'll like him 
 when you have got time to think about him? 
 
 Effie. I didn't want any time to think about 
 that. I liked him at once. 
 
ACT I 45 
 
 Harry. Good. That's exactly how he af- 
 fected me. \^The dinner gong goes.'\ 
 
 Effie. The first gong. And I haven't 
 washed. [^Runs to door and turns.] Do 
 come, darling. You must be starving. 
 
 Harry [putting his arm round her]. I can't, 
 my baby girl. 
 
 Efjie [drawing away and speaking with a note 
 of awful disappointment]. Father! You're 
 . . . you're surely not going away to-night? 
 
 Harry. I'm very sorry, but I must. We'll 
 keep the birthday to-morrow night. 
 
 Efjie {hysterically]. To-morrow, to-mor- 
 row! What's the good of to-morrow. It's 
 to-day. What's the use of a birthday to me 
 without you for a minute. I wish I'd never 
 had a birthday. I'm not wanted. No one 
 wants me. I'm no use. I'm only in the way. 
 Nothing is right. I wish I'd never, never been 
 born. [She bursts into sobbing.] 
 
 Harry [startled, eyeing her in wonder]. Ef- 
 fie! .. . What are you saying? [He puts his 
 arm round her tenderly.] Nothing is right, lit- 
 tle girl ? I always thought that you and I were 
 bosom friends with no secrets from each other. 
 It seems that you have hidden something from 
 me if nothing is right. 
 
 Effie. I didn't mean that. I could bite my 
 tongue off for saying that. I'm a discontented 
 
46 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 beast. Don't worry about me. Only I've been 
 longing all day to have you for just one evening 
 in the year, my own evening, darling. Don't 
 go. 
 
 Harry. I must, dearest. There is work for 
 me to do. 
 
 Effie. What work? 
 
 Harry. My work, which must come before 
 everything else, even when it concerns those I 
 love best in the world. Old Joe Judd is dy- 
 ing. He needs me. [Effie's hands go up to 
 her mouth. She stands awed and quiet.'\ Do 
 you see? . . . Good night, my baby. [He 
 kisses her and turns up-l Bill, Bill! [He 
 goes of briskly calling for the dog."] 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
ACT II 
 
 The Scene is laid in Harry Pemberton's study. 
 It is a large room, matchboarded up to 
 within three feet of the ceiling. At the 
 top of matchboarding there is a shelf 
 which runs all round the room. This is 
 lined with books of all sizes and colours, 
 except at C. back where there is a semi- 
 circular built out window. The window 
 seat is covered with cushions. The walls 
 are closely hung with college groups 
 framed. There is a door down R. An 
 old stone fireplace with the fire on the 
 hearth L.C. The mantelboard is strewn 
 with pipes and silver cups. Above it are 
 hung a number of small frames in which 
 there are photos of the men at Oxford in 
 Harry' s time. On the right of window 
 there is a village-made writing desk. It 
 has three drawers on each side of it and a 
 shelf running at the back. It is littered 
 with books, papers, tobacco tins, etc. On 
 the L. of window there is a Jacobean chest 
 on the top of which stands a stack of 
 drawers, labelled. In other available 
 spaces there are golf clubs, a sporting rifle 
 47 
 
48 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 or two, and several tennis racquets. A\ 
 somewhat shabby turkey carpet covers the 
 floor, on the middle of which there is a 
 small table. On this there is a large oil 
 lamp and some rather nice books. There 
 are comfortable chairs round the fireplace 
 and elsewhere. 
 \When curtain rises, Archie is discovered sit- 
 ting on window seat smoking a pipe, read- 
 ing and making notes. He is obviously 
 absorbed in his work. Harry is seated at 
 his desk with his back to audience writing 
 hard. There is a silence for a moment 
 after the curtain has risen. Cookie enters. 
 She leaves the door open and there drifts 
 into the room the sound of a piano in the 
 distance and a young girl's voice singing. 
 Archie looks up. He listens with a smile 
 on his face.] 
 
 Cookie. Work, work, work! Always at 
 work. 'Pon my soul I never knew such a lot. 
 
 Harry [^without looking up]. What is It, 
 Cookie, what is it? 
 
 Cookie. All right then. It's a letter 
 brought by a lad from the Canal. By the writ- 
 ing I should say it's from Mrs. Lemmins. Also 
 by the whiff. 
 
 Harry [turning round quickly]. Let me 
 
ACT II 49 
 
 have it, Cookie. \_He opens it and reads 
 eagerly.'] 
 
 Cookie [looking towards Archie]. You 
 ain't playin' your usual game of tennis to-night 
 then, Mr. Archie ? 
 
 Archie. No, not to-night. The grass is too 
 wet. Skidding cuts it up. 
 
 Harry. You're perfectly right, it is from 
 Mrs. Lemmins. {He rises excitedly.] Mary 
 Ann has come home again. 
 
 Cookie. You don't say so. 
 
 Harry. At last ! 
 
 Cookie. About time, too. Eight months 
 away and never a word. I never did trust yer 
 soft spoken, angel-faced, sugar-in-the-mouth 
 girls myself. 
 
 Harry {turning to Cookie rather sharply]. 
 You win kindly tell the lad that I will see Mrs. 
 Lemmins as soon as she can come. 
 
 Cookie. Very good, sir. {She turns and as 
 she goes out she makes a little face at Archie. 
 When door is shut no sound of the piano can 
 be heard.] 
 
 Harry {pacing the room]. Home at last! 
 Little Mary Ann. What in Heaven's name has 
 she been doing? I'd give a year of my life to 
 know that she's safe. 
 
 Archie {looking up. The evening sun is on 
 his sun-tanned face.] Who is Mary Ann ? 
 
50 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Harry [in a voice that quivers a little']. The 
 daughter, the only daughter of a very good 
 body who works the Albert Edward barge on 
 the canal. She was born on the same night as 
 EfEe. She was the best and most flower-like 
 little girl in the school. She disappeared just 
 before Christmas. Police and missionaries 
 have been unable to find her. Thank God she's 
 come back. 
 
 Archie {warmly, but with a slight hesitation]. 
 I believe you're a father to everybody in this 
 village, sir. 
 
 Harry [tins elf -consciously and without any of 
 the shame of insularity]. My dear fellow, I'm 
 a parson. I try to be the servant of the Uni- 
 versal Father. His children are my children. 
 . . . How are you getting on? 
 
 Archie. Better. I really do think that I'm 
 getting back at last something of the habit of 
 work. 
 
 Harry [at work again and smoking hard]. 
 Don't try and fly before you can walk. You've 
 only been at it three weeks you know. Efiie 
 tells me that you can give her a stroke every 
 morning now. Your golf is going strong at 
 any rate. She's not easy to beat. 
 
 Archie [warmly]. She takes a beating like a 
 man. Er . . . I had a letter from the gov'nor 
 this morning, sir. 
 
ACT II 51 
 
 Harry. Oh, what did he say? 
 
 Archie. It was rather a nice letter. He 
 seemed a bit surprised that my address is still 
 East Brenton. 
 
 Harry [with a laughl . Are you never going 
 to town again ? 
 
 Archie. Not if I can help it. I hate the 
 place. 
 
 Harry. Do you? I don't. When I went 
 up to the Middlesex Hospital the other day to 
 see how one of my men was getting on who had 
 had an operation, I missed the train at Pad- 
 dington and had to wait half an hour. The 
 noise and bustle of the station excited me. I 
 felt as though I'd had a week's holiday in some 
 foreign place. 
 
 Archie. You never go to London, do you ? 
 
 Harry. I've too much to do. Oh, by the 
 way, I've been fitting out a gymnasium for the 
 elder boys. I stand in need of an instructor. 
 [He looks up, whimsically. '\ Er . . . 
 
 Archie [eagerly'\. Oh, by Jove, may I . . . 
 
 Harry [with a smile'\. Will you? 
 
 Archie [rising']. I'd give my ears to help 
 you in some way or other. 
 
 Harry. Thanks. 
 
 Archie. Don't thank me. I have to thank 
 you. I don't think you quite know what you're 
 doing for me. I feel — human here. 
 
52 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Harry. Impart some of your feeling to 
 these slouching lads, old chap. Help me to 
 keep them out of the public house. It's not 
 easy. [Enter Cookie.'[ 
 
 Cookie. I can't 'elp myself, but that Mrs. 
 Watkins is 'ere again. It's 'er son this time. 
 
 Harry {wheeling round'\. What about her 
 son? 
 
 Cookie. He's caught his feet in the ma- 
 chinery of the mill. . . . 
 
 Harry [going quickly to door}. Oh, good 
 heavens ! [Exit.] 
 
 Cookie. They say there's no rest for the 
 wicked. How about the good ? 
 
 Archie. Yes, by Jove ! Isn't he . . . isn't 
 he . . . 
 
 Cookie. Isn't he just 1 . . . Now then, now 
 then, no slackin'. Thought you was at work? 
 
 Archie [with a laugh]. Good for you, 
 Cookie. May I have a box of matches ? 
 
 Cookie. What — another? I believe you 
 eat 'em. Well, here you are. [She delves 
 into her pocket and brings out a box.] You'll 
 ruin us if you go on like this. And I don't 
 know whether you know it, but you eat enough 
 for three. 
 
 Archie [with comic seriousness]. Do I? I 
 must watch it. 
 
 'Cookie. Oh, go on. I was only pullin' 
 
ACT II 53 
 
 your leg. And get back to your books other- 
 wise there'll be a scandal in the village. {^She 
 breaks into a cackle of laughter and goes off. 
 Archie returns to his seat and his books. The 
 light comes golden on the back cloth which 
 shows a charming corner of the garden. Effie 
 appears at window.] 
 
 Effie. Hello ! 
 
 Archie. Hello ! 
 
 Effie. Still at it? 
 
 Archie. Apparently. . . . What were you 
 singing ? 
 
 Effie. I dunno. Any old thing. 
 
 Archie. I like those old things — when you 
 sing 'em. 
 
 Effie. I'm not going to disturb you, but I'm 
 coming in and I'm going to sit here. [^&he 
 climbs into the window and sits on other end of 
 window seat. Archie laughs.] What's the 
 matter? What are you laughing at ? 
 
 Archie. The mere notion of your sitting 
 there not disturbing me would make Homer 
 laugh. 
 
 Effie [touchily]. I never met the gentleman. 
 I don't care whether he laughs or not. Because 
 he would imitate a hyena there's no reason why 
 you should. I'll go. \_She gets up abruptly 
 and walks to door.] 
 
 Archie [springing up and chucking his book 
 
54 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 away'\. EiEe . . . Effie. }[He rushes to door 
 and puts his back against it.'\ For the Lord's 
 sake don't go. 
 
 Effie. I disturb your work. Let me pass, 
 please. [Coldly.^ 
 
 Archie [hotly'\. You do disturb my work. 
 I want you to disturb my work. I can work 
 till I'm sixty but I shan't always be able to see 
 you and hear your voice. [Gets hopelessly 
 self-conscious and hitches his shoulders.'\ Do 
 come and sit down. \_Effie wavers. The 
 boy continues eloquently.] I've been mugging 
 the whole blessed afternoon. I've put in 
 two more hours to-day than any other day 
 since I've been here and in any case we 
 should have been playing tennis but for the 
 rain. 
 
 Effie [with a sudden smile]. Very well. 
 I'll forgive Mr. Homer. [She takes a skip and 
 a jump to the window and sits swinging her 
 legs.] 
 
 Archie [following her]. I'm getting fright- 
 fully keen on this stuff. The only thing is I'm 
 hopelessly behind with it all. I ought to have 
 been doing this two years ago. 
 
 Effie [airily]. No grumbles. 
 
 Archie. I'm not grumbling. I'm getting 
 fat with content. I say ! 
 
 Effie. What? 
 
ACT II 55 
 
 Archie. I had a ripping letter from the 
 guv'nor this morning. He is a corker. 
 
 Efjie [astonished']. I thought you didn't like 
 him. 
 
 Archie. Why ? 
 
 Ejfie. Well, one doesn't generally like a 
 beast, does one ? 
 
 Archie. But he's not a beast. He's one of 
 the best. It was as much my fault as his that 
 we didn't pull together. After all it's hopeless 
 to expect a man to understand a son when he 
 hasn't got a wife to supply the key. I shall 
 look him up soon. [^He looks frightfully 
 pleased at his academic bombast.'] 
 
 Effie [quickly]. When? Do you mean go 
 to London? 
 
 Archie. Yes. In about — six months from 
 now. [He grins at her.] 
 
 Effie [relieved]. Oh, I thought you meant 
 at once. Awful rot not getting any tennis to- 
 night. 
 
 Archie. Now you're grumbling. 
 
 Effie. No, I'm not. I haven't grumbled 
 for three weeks. 
 
 Archie. Why three weeks? 
 
 Effie. I dunno. But I know it's three 
 weeks because the last time I grumbled it was 
 on my birthday and everything has been so aw- 
 fully different since then. 
 
56 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Archie \_eafferly]. Has it? Why? 
 
 Effie [simply']. 1 absolutely don't know. I 
 seem to have had more to do, more to think 
 about, more to be interested in — ' [^Suddenly 
 she begins to laugh."] 
 
 Archie. What's up? 
 
 Efjie. I am a fool I 
 
 Archie. Why ? 
 
 Ejfie. I do know. It's you. 
 
 Archie [bending forward]. Me? 
 
 Efjie. Yes, you. Of course it's you. I've 
 not been lonely since you came. We've jawed 
 and fought the most fearful battles at golf and 
 tennis and all the time you've been working, 
 I've been working. 
 
 Archie. What at? 
 
 Effie. The Law Prelim. 
 
 Archie. What! 
 
 Effie [looking at him]. I'm just as keen on 
 your getting through your exams as you are, so 
 in a sort of way I am behind your books with 
 you. 
 
 Archie. Ah I Now I see. [Enter Cookie.] 
 
 Cookie [excitedly]. A wire for you. 
 
 Archie [springing up]. For me? 
 
 Effie. A wire? [It might almost he a 
 bombshell.] 
 
 Cookie. Well, it's got Graham on it. I 
 
ACT II 57 
 
 hate telegrams. Having no postmark you 
 can't make a guess at who they're from. 
 
 Archie [taking it, looking at it anxiously']. I 
 hope to Heaven nothing's happened to the 
 guv'nor. [He opens it.] 
 
 Effie. Well? 
 
 Cookie. For goodness' sake don't say It's 
 bad news. What with Mrs. Lemmlns and 
 young Watkins I'm fairly jumpy. 
 
 Archie. By Jove, it's from old Winstanley. 
 Great work! He's home. [He reads.] 
 " On leave, lunch to-morrow Cavalry Club, one 
 thirty. Dine Carlton, do show, Winstanley, 
 15, Bury Street." Reply paid. 
 
 Cookie. Sounds like a bust. 
 
 Archie [laughing] . Bust it is. [He goes to 
 desk and writes on form.] " Righto, Gra- 
 ham." There you are. Cookie. 
 
 Cookie [taking it and looking at him point- 
 edly]. I didn't think you'd last much longer. 
 [Exit.] 
 
 Archie [in high spirits]. Old Wyn by Jove 1 
 Haven't seen him since he passed out of Sand- 
 hurst. He's been in India with his regiment. 
 I believe they do one deuced well at the Cavalry 
 Club. Is there a train about nine to-morrow 
 morning ? 
 
 Efjie [who has been standing bolt upright.] 
 I don't know. I'm not a time table. 
 
58 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Archie [noticing her manner'\. Oh, look 
 here. I'll scratch it if you like. 
 
 Effie [with a very high head and an almighty 
 scorn'\. Oh, please don't. After all, Mr. 
 Winstanley is your friend. You only cram 
 with us. 
 
 Archie. What rot! [He goes to door call- 
 ing.l Cookie ! Cookie ! 
 
 Efjie [springing up]. No. Let it go. 
 
 Archie. Yes, but if . . . 
 
 Effie [suddenly putting her hand on his arm'\. 
 How long will you be away? 
 
 Archie. One day. I ought to go up for 
 other reasons too. I must get some more ties 
 and socks. 
 
 Effie [going to chair above fireplace and sit- 
 ting on the arm]. Ties and socks! You've 
 got hundreds. I don't believe you ever wear 
 the same twice. 
 
 Archie [tapping her on the shoulder to en- 
 force attention to his so-called epigram']. You 
 should never rot a man's innocent pleasures. 
 The very moment a really decent sort loses in- 
 terest in ties and socks, he has become morbid 
 or has committed a felony. [He is mighty 
 pleased with this. It is quite Bullingdon Club 
 form.] 
 
 Effie. Where's the Cavalry Club? 
 
 Archie. In Piccadilly. 
 
ACT II 59 
 
 Effie. What time will dinner be over? 
 
 Archie. About eight o'clock. 
 
 Efjie \^eagerly'[. Then you can catch the 
 eight thirty and we can go for a walk before 
 bed. 
 
 Archie. I should love it, but the thing is, 
 Winstanley talks of a show. 
 
 Effie. What is a show? 
 
 Archie. The Empire, I suppose, or the Al- 
 hambra. [Sees another chance.] A soldier 
 never goes to the theatre. It's too childish. 
 
 Effie. Then when will you be down ? 
 
 Archie. The last train I'm afraid. 
 
 Effie [rising as though faced with an awful 
 disaster']. The last train! Then I shan't see 
 you again until . . . when? 
 
 Archie. Seven o'clock the day after to-mor- 
 row. We'll play our usual eight holes before 
 breakfast. What are you going to do to-mor- 
 row? 
 
 Effie [like a kid]. Be beastly lonely. 
 
 Archie [uncomfortable and yet unaccount- 
 ably pleased]. Why? I should have been 
 working all the morning and all the evening. 
 
 Effie. Yes, but I should have known that 
 you were In the house. [She suddenly puts her 
 arms round him -passionately.] Don't go. I 
 can't let you go, Archie ! 
 
 Archie [taking her arms away, quickly]. 
 
6o THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Don't, for God's sake ! [ Turns away and goes 
 to window seat, leaving Effie standing startled. 
 He looks hot and his hand shakes. Enter 
 Harry.] 
 
 Harry [with great feeling"]. Such a good 
 chap ! Such an excellent fellow. The left leg 
 will have to be amputated above the knee. 
 [Goes to his desk.] What a lesson in pluck! 
 The first thing he said was " Can I play cricket 
 with a wooden leg?" [Archie and Effie re- 
 main silent. Effie is standing where Archie left 
 her with the same air of startled wonder. 
 Archie has caught up one of his hooks and is 
 hunting through it. Enter Cookie.] 
 
 Cookie. Fred has sent off the telegram to 
 the 'orspital, sir. 
 
 Harry. That's good. If Watkins needs 
 me I shall go up with him to the hospital to- 
 night and sleep in London, so just have my bag 
 packed in case. 
 
 Cookie [with a hurst]. He mustn't need 
 you. Good Lord, 'aven't you got enough . . . 
 
 Harry [gently]. Please, Cookie. 
 
 Cookie [going out]. Oh, dear, oh, dear! 
 What with one thing and another. 
 
 Harry [taking up the telegram envelope]. 
 A telegram ! Have you seen this? 
 
 Archie. Yes, it's from a pal of mine called 
 
ACT II 6 1 
 
 Winstanley. [EiJie turns and leaves the 
 room.] 
 
 Harry [watching her of]. Hullo, have you 
 two quarrelled? 
 
 Archie [laughing nervously]. Good Lord, 
 no! An argument, that's all. [He continues 
 quickly.] Winstanley's home on leave. He 
 wants me to meet him to-morrow in London. 
 Is there any objection to my . . . 
 
 Harry. No, my dear fellow, of course not. 
 Telegraph and say yes. 
 
 Archie. Well, as a matter of fact, I have. 
 I ought to have asked you first. I'm sorry. 
 [He gives an involuntary chuckle.] 
 
 Harry. Oh, bosh ! You've put In some ex- 
 cellent work. You deserve a holiday. [He 
 sits down at his desk.] Why won't those men 
 be more careful? A year ago Leech had ex- 
 actly the same accident. He's been hanging 
 about the village ever since. 
 
 Archie. He wants me to lunch and dine. 
 
 Harry [vaguely]. Lunch and dine. . . , 
 Oh, yes. Well, you will, of course. If I were 
 you I should spend the night in town. It's a 
 nuisance to have to rush for the last train. 
 
 Archie. No. Thanks very much. I'll get 
 Cookie to let me have the latchkey. I promise 
 not to make a row. 
 
62 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Harry. Just as you like, old chap. Look 
 into my den and if I'm up we'll have a last pipe. 
 I say, I hope that you and Effie don't squabble ? 
 
 Archie. Good Lord, no. It was absolutely 
 nothing. 
 
 Harry. That's all right. Effie has a very 
 lonely time. It's good for her to be friendly 
 with someone about her own age. 
 
 Archie. We're as thick as thieves. [Enter 
 Cookie.] 
 
 Cookie. Mrs. Lemmins. 
 
 Harry [eagerly]. And Mary Ann? 
 
 Cookie. What was Mary Ann. She's so 
 changed I hardly knew her. 
 
 Harry. Ask them in . . . Oh, and Cookie, 
 just light the lamp will you? The light h^ 
 gone out of the sky. It feels like more rain. 
 [He goes to window and pulls the curtains. 
 Cookie lights lamp.] 
 
 Archie. Well then, I'll disappear. 
 
 Harry. If you don't mind, old chap. 
 [Archie picks up his books and goes out thought- 
 fully. It is obvious that Effie' s sudden embrace 
 has upset him and thrown him headlong. The 
 room is in darkness except for the light which 
 is thrown on the table C. and the chairs on each 
 side of it.] 
 
 Harry. Now then, Cookie. [Cookie gives 
 an eloquent gesture vnth her right hand and 
 
ACT II 63 
 
 goes of. Harry walks up and down the room 
 with his hands behind his back until Cookie re- 
 turns, when he draws up.'\ 
 
 Cookie. Mrs, Lemmins. \_A square wom- 
 an, broad of beam, with a large sunburnt face 
 and tightly drawn hair under a large black sun- 
 bonnet enters. She is in a very emotional con- 
 dition and on the verge of tears.] 
 
 Harry. Come in, Mrs. Lemmins. Come in. 
 
 Mrs. L. l^She strides down with creaking 
 boots]. Mary Ann's a' come 'ome, sir. 
 
 Harry. So you said in your note. I'm 
 glad. Where is she? 
 
 Mrs. L. Artside, sir. I've gotter few 
 words ter say ter yew. [She suddenly bursts 
 into tears.] She won't say '00 took 'er awiy 
 nor yet where's she bin. 'E deserted 'er some 
 time ago an' I reckon she's bin sellin' fl'ars in 
 London. 
 
 Harry. Selling flowers ! 
 
 Mrs. L. 'Ow she come to find the Albert 
 Edward ai dunno. Reckon she's bin on ther 
 tramp darn ther canal. 
 
 Harry. Poor little soul. 
 
 Mrs. L. Oh, sir ! Ther troubles on 'er nar. 
 
 Harry [in a deep voice]. Oh, not — that! 
 
 Mrs. L. {weeping harder]. Yers, sir, and 
 'er not married. 
 
 Harry. This is a bad day. [Goes to door 
 
64 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 and opens it.'\ Come in, Mary Ann. [The 
 light in the hall falls on the pale, pretty, worn 
 face of a young girl. She wears a big hat with 
 a bedraggled feather and a coloured shawl over 
 her shoulders. Her skirt is dusty and dirty and 
 her shoes down at heel. There is a big hole in 
 one of her stockings. She walks in with a half- 
 insolent, half-defiant lurch and a sulky, fright- 
 ened mouth. She takes no notice of her mother 
 and sits down, as one sits in a dentists chair. 
 One of her feet lops over and she gives a quick 
 emotional glance round the room of the man 
 who is her god.l 
 
 Harry [cheerfully'\. Mrs. Lemmins, I 
 should like you to try Cookie's soup. It's very 
 good. You know your way to the kitchen. 
 [He returns to the door and holds it open. 
 Mrs. L. goes out. You can hear her crying 
 down the passage. The door is shut. Harry 
 returns to table and sits opposite to the girl.~\ 
 Dear little Mary Ann. 
 
 Mary Ann [bending forward suddenly, pick- 
 ing up Harry's hand and kissing it'\. Oh, I 
 wanted you — Ah! I wanted you, not 'arf I 
 didn't, sir. If it ain't bin because I knewed as 
 'ow you'd be like this when I come back I 
 should ha' laid down in the canal. 
 
 Harry [softly'[. My dear child. 
 
 Mary Ann [with a sort of laugh'\ . Ever bin 
 
ACT II 6s 
 
 told as 'ow you was like deep quiet water, sir? 
 . . . There, like me to show thankfulness by 
 bein' saucy, I don't think. Thank you kindly 
 fer seein' me, sir. 
 
 Harry. I would have walked a hundred 
 miles to see you. 
 
 Mary Ann. Would you truly, sir? . . . 
 Not if you'd known as 'ow you would find me. 
 Mother didn't say in 'er note what I'd done, 
 did she? 
 
 Harry. She said that you were in trouble, 
 Mary Ann. 
 
 Mary Ann [with a shrill hysterical note of 
 scorn']. Yus! That there's the wiy it's al- 
 ways put. It wouldn't be called trouble if I 
 was merried though would it? — and there'd 
 bin orange blossoms and rice and an old shoe! 
 
 Harry [patting her hand]. My dear little 
 Mary Ann. 
 
 Mary Ann [beginning to cry]. I wonder 
 you can stand the sight o' me — me as used tar 
 be the good girl o' the school, me as was held 
 up as a model fer the other girls ... an' yet I 
 don't see as 'ow trouble's the word neither, un- 
 less it's for the little un. Jack won't 'ave no 
 trouble. I suppose I shall git over it. It's the 
 little un as'U 'ave all the trouble. 
 
 Harry. We'll see to that, Mary Ann. 
 Don't worry. 
 
66 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Mary Ann [eagerly'[. Will we, sir? 
 
 Harry. Why, of course. 
 
 Mary Ann [without any self-pity^. What's 
 to become o' me? 
 
 Harry. You shall come and live here and 
 help Cookie. 
 
 Mary Ann. Oh, sir ... I want the 
 baby something awful. I believe I wanted 
 this baby ever since the diy muvver give me a 
 doll. 
 
 Harry. If it's a boy we'll make a fine fellow 
 of him and he shall go into the army. 
 
 Mary Ann {looking straight at the Vicar'\. 
 What'U 'e say ter me when 'e finds art? 
 
 Harry. Leave that to me. 
 
 Mary Ann [like one who has handed all re- 
 sponsibility to another]. I'm glad I come 'ome. 
 Everybody's bin very kind ter me. Many's the 
 glass of milk and 'unk of bread I've 'ad from 
 women with little uns [in a gossipy way]. Jack 
 was very good to me, till 'e fell out o' work. 
 But when I took to sellin' fl'ars 'e went on the 
 drink and left me. I waited for 'im fer a long 
 time. Then I thought I'd better try and find 
 the Albert Edward. I used ter sleep under 
 'aystacks. They did very nicely fer us. I was 
 never frightened o' nights. I 'ad something to 
 whisper to, and to live for. [A beautiful ma- 
 ternal smile goes all over her face.] 
 
ACT II 67 
 
 Harry. Why didn't he marry you, Mary 
 Ann? 
 
 Mary Ann. 'E'd got a wife. 'E told me so 
 the day 'e left . . . I was to blame fer this, 'e 
 said. 
 
 Harry. You — you/ What a coward. 
 You know nothing. 
 
 Mary Ann. That's it, sir, 
 
 Harry. What do you mean? 
 
 Mary Ann. Me knowing nothing. 
 
 Harry. I don't understand you. 
 
 Mary Ann. 'E explained it all right ter me, 
 sir. Me knowin' nothin' 'e says, and what it 
 all meant, brought it abart. If I'd a bin told 
 when I was old enough to understand I should 
 a sent 'ira awiy, 'e says, double quick, and saved 
 'im and me and the little un from this 'ere. But 
 I'm afraid I'm keepin' you abart, sir. 
 
 Harry [grimly']. Go on. 
 
 Mary Ann [having a nice bit of news']. The 
 man ain't built for thinkin'. Jack sez. 'E 
 knows, but 'e ain't perfect an' won't let 'isself 
 think. 'E says as 'dw if we was taught ter think 
 and knew as much as the man, there'd be very 
 little of this 'ere trouble fer us. It's the mother 
 first, 'e says, and then us, who is ter blame, 
 never the men. 
 
 Harry. My God ! [He springs up.] 
 
 Mary Ann [nervously]. I beg pardon, sir? 
 
68 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Harry \in a sort of amazement'\. Can that 
 brute be right? Can it be that we — the 
 mothers and fathers — are partly to blame for 
 this, for all such things as this? 
 
 Mary Ann. Tom side with 'm, sir? 
 
 Harry. No. I side with you, my poor 
 child, with you against your mother, myself, my 
 wife, all the mothers and fathers and teachers 
 who are answerable to God for the disaster 
 that's happened to you. 
 
 Mary Ann. [The word disaster is too much 
 for her.'\ Oh! \^She puts her hands over her 
 face and begins to cry like a little child.'\ 
 
 Harry [fo himself^. What have I been do- 
 ing? . . . [He turns to Mary Ann.] Go to 
 the kitchen and have some soup and then go 
 back to the barge with your mother. 
 
 Mary Ann [rising']. Yes, sir. 
 
 Harry [putting his hands on her shoulders]. 
 And never forget this. You have friends in 
 this house. When you're ready this roof is 
 yours. Good night, my child. 
 
 Mary Ann. Good night, sir. Thank you 
 kindly for seeing me. I'm glad I come 'ome. 
 
 Harry. And I'm thankful you did. God 
 bless you. [He opens the door. Mary Ann 
 goes out slowly. Harry goes to the table, picks 
 up the lamp and carries it to his desk, putting 
 it on the shelf above the books. The light is 
 
ACT II 69 
 
 thrown all over the room. Efjie's voice is 
 heard suddenly calling " Archie, Archie! " He 
 turns round and stands quite still for a moment. 
 He looks frightened, terribly frightened. He 
 moves irresolutely. He touches things, and 
 then with a sort of fear he goes to the door, 
 opens it and calls. "} Helen! Helen! 
 
 Mrs. P. Yes. 
 
 Harry. Come here, quickly. \He remains 
 by the door. There is a slight pause. Mrs. 
 P- enters. Before the door is closed Effie's 
 laugh rings out in the distance and she is heard 
 calling, " Archie! Archie! "] 
 
 Helen [entering and coming L.J. Do you 
 want me, dear? 
 
 Harry [gravely and quietlyj. Yes. Sit 
 down, darling. I want to speak to you. 
 
 Helen [sitting and looking up quickly'\. 
 You're upset about something? 
 
 Harry [still standing in front of her]. Up- 
 set, and humiliated and very worried. [He 
 sits down.l I don't quite know how to begin. 
 
 Helen [putting her hand on his'\. You and 
 I are partners, dearest. Let me see if I can 
 help you. 
 
 Harry [leaning forward and repressing him- 
 self with an effort']. It's an amazing thing, 
 Helen, but in all my years of work in London 
 and here, the case of Mary Ann is the only one 
 
70 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 which has opened my eyes to the appalling dan- 
 ger of ignorance. 
 
 Helen. Ignorance 1 What makes you think 
 that Mary Ann is ignorant? 
 
 Harry. Everything that she has just told 
 me. I've always been led to believe that all the 
 poor wretched Mary Anns of the world have 
 got into trouble, not because they wanted to be 
 immoral but because if they were not immoral 
 they were unpopular. 
 
 Helen. I'm afraid that's true, Harry. It's 
 a sordid, calculating, knowledgeable affair, fre- 
 quently winked at by the parents, many of whom 
 are surprised if their girls are married before 
 they get into trouble. 
 
 Harry. Yes, to these people the sex prob- 
 lem isn't a problem at all. They recognise 
 facts. Men must be men, they say, and if the 
 girls don't want to be hopelessly neglected they 
 must not be squeamish. Like everybody who 
 comes in contact with the great working class 
 their looseness has appalled me. 
 
 Helen [proudly]. Yes, but you have done a 
 ffreat work in this village, Harry. You have 
 raised the moral standard of the men — the 
 best and only way to protect all these poor girls. 
 
 Harry [leading carefully up to his point; he 
 anticipates trouble']. But here we have Mrs. 
 Lemmins, a self-respecting woman, earning 
 
ACT II 71 
 
 good wages, leading a healthy, hardworking 
 life. Mary Ann has been carefully brought up. 
 She's not a slum child reared in the filthy cor- 
 ners of a city. She's not a worker in the fields, 
 obliged to rub shoulders with blasphemous and 
 drunken men. Her innocence has been jeal- 
 ously guarded. " No lady's daughter," Mrs. 
 Lemmins used to boast, " need be ashamed to 
 speak to my Mary Ann." 
 
 Helen. And she was right, poor old soul. 
 Mary Ann was a model, a perfect model. 
 
 Harry [seizing his chance~\. A model! A 
 model of what a girl ought not to be? Inno- 
 cent, yes. But ignorant, no. 
 
 Helen. But how can you expect a girl to be 
 innocent if she is not ignorant? 
 
 Harry. That's just exactly what I've asked 
 you to come here to tell me. You say that 
 Mary Ann was a model. Look at her now. 
 Helen, why don't we tell our children the truth ? 
 Why do we go on hiding behind false modesty 
 and personal cowardice? Why, why are we 
 afraid of looking at the great simple things 
 square in the face ? 
 
 Helen [waving it aside'\. Oh, it's all very 
 difficult, Harry. It's all been argued a thou- 
 sand times and there's never been any satisfac- 
 tory result. 
 
 Harry [eagerly and quickly'\. But why not? 
 
72 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Everything else has progressed and yet in this 
 vital matter we are still prehistoric. Surely the 
 time for puritanism is dead and done with. 
 Surely this persistent attitude of deceiving our 
 girls and of dodging their wondering questions 
 from the utterly mistaken standpoint of clean- 
 mindedness is not for intelligent and humane 
 people. Why do we turn sniggering or shame- 
 faced from youthful questions prompted by an 
 unconscious awakening of the maternal instinct? 
 Why do we drive our ignorant children to such 
 tragedies as poor little Mary Ann will suffer un- 
 der all her life ? God has made the earth incred- 
 ibly beautiful, but we do nothing to put beauty 
 into the lives of His children. Every day His 
 young things ask their parents the meaning of 
 life. Why don't we tell them, Helen? Why 
 don't you tell Efjie? [He throws his bomb 
 and watches his wife keenly.'} 
 
 Helen [a note of amazement and shock in 
 her voice} . Effie? Tell Effie? 
 
 Harry. Yes, darling, EfEe. She is very 
 nearly a woman. She has been far more care- 
 fully brought up than Mary Ann. She has 
 spent her life almost within the four walls of 
 this house and garden. We have deliberately 
 shielded her against the questions of sex. 
 What might happen to her if she fell in love 
 with some good-looking, unscrupulous boy? 
 
ACT II 73 
 
 Helen. You mean — Archie ? 
 
 Harry. No. I mean anyone. We know 
 nothing of EfEe's mind on this point. She is 
 seventeen and if she's a healthy girl she has, 
 whether she knows it or not, the maternal in- 
 stinct. 
 
 Helen. Yes, but she is clean minded and 
 good. 
 
 Harry. But who's to know that she is 
 strong enough to resist temptation ? 
 
 Helen. Harry! [She is absolutely 
 sJiocked-l 
 
 Harry. Who's to know that nature hasn't 
 punished her by giving her desires as strong as 
 those of men? 
 
 Helen \_stifjp,y'\. Then she will not remain 
 innocent whether she knows the truth or not. 
 
 Harry [leaning forward'^. No, no, no, 
 that's a sweeping assertion, darling, an unchar- 
 itable idea. Here and there, of course, there 
 are poor girls to whom morality and innocence 
 mean nothing under the stress of nature. But 
 to ninety-nine out of a hundred virtue means 
 everything, and I say now — I wish with all my 
 soul I'd said it sooner — that a woman who lets 
 her daughter struggle blindly through the 
 awakening years of her womanhood is not fit to 
 be a mother. 
 
 Helen [rising^. Oh, Harry I [Going 
 
74 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 across room towards table. She is deeply 
 wounded.'\ 
 
 Harry [follows her and puts his hands on 
 her shoulders^. My dear, I want you to speak 
 to Effie to-night. 
 
 Helen. I couldn't — I simply couldn't. 
 
 Harry. I ask you to. Effie might have 
 been Mary Ann! Think of it! 
 
 Helen [with anger and passion and dignity. 
 She looks like a woman fighting a disease'\. 
 She never could have been Mary Ann, never. 
 She is our daughter, my daughter. Every day 
 of her life she has been with us, with me. Do 
 atmosphere and environment count for nothing? 
 What is the use of all our teaching and example 
 if she is to be treated as one of these poor girls 
 from whom nothing can be hidden? She is 
 pure of heart and mind. At the right moment 
 the maternal instinct will come to her, as it 
 comes to all carefully brought up girls. Let 
 her be free from all that side of life as long as 
 she can. [More quietly.] Besides, Harry, it 
 isn't done. We don't tell these things to our 
 girls. My mother never told me. She didn't 
 want me to know. She was all against the dis- 
 cussion of these terribly personal matters with 
 young unmarried girls. I found out the truth 
 for myself. Effie must do the same. [She 
 
ACT II 75 
 
 says this in a low voice as though she were in 
 church.] 
 
 Harry [quietly but with emotionl. Darling, 
 EfEe might have been Mary Ann. Mrs. Lem- 
 mins never thought of telling her the truth. 
 Look at her now. No man can say what he 
 will do under temptation. No woman can say 
 what she may do in ignorance. EfEe might 
 have been Mary Ann. Think of it. 
 
 Helen. I can't think of it. It's altogether 
 unthinkable. 
 
 Harry [with a touch of anger]. But / think 
 of it. I must think of it. And I ask you this. 
 I ask you, for Effie's sake, and for my sake, and 
 for your sake, to forget what your mother did, 
 and all these other refined women do, and face 
 this question fearlessly. 
 
 Helen. I . . . can't! 
 
 Harry [turns away and goes quickly back to 
 armchair L., wheels round and stops C.]. 
 Helen, you and I have never had a harsh word 
 since we knew each other. It will be a black 
 day if ever we do. For God's sake, don't drive 
 me into anger over what is one of the most vital 
 questions that has ever come into our lives. 
 Effie's happiness and safety are in our hands. 
 Are you going to be brave enough to do some- 
 thing that isn't done — are you going to rise 
 
76 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 above a horrible and dangerous convention and 
 put yourself to the distress and discomfort of 
 speaking to Effie — or will you leave it to mef 
 [There is a threat in his voice.] 
 
 Helen [frightened]. Harry! 
 
 Harry. Effie might have been Mary Ann. 
 Answer me ! [He brings the weight of his 
 whole personality against her. She stands ir- 
 resolute, nervously twisting her fingers. Now 
 she stands up stiffly. The child is hers.] 
 
 Helen [reluctantly]. I ... I will tell her. 
 [She is even more frightened at hearing her 
 own statement, puts out her arms, gives a sob 
 and goes quickly to the man whom she loves 
 more than life. Harry wraps her in his arms,] 
 
 [Curtam.] 
 
ACT III 
 
 Two mornings later at half-past six. 
 
 The Scene is laid in Archie's bedroom. It is 
 a square room lined with wood from floor 
 to ceiling. Door down R. Above door 
 running close to wall a narrow wooden 
 bedstead, the bed unslept upon. At back 
 two windows between which is a high chest 
 of drawers on which there is a looking- 
 glass, L. C. There is a fireplace. Above 
 fireplace deep cupboards. On each side 
 of the fireplace are cane deck chairs with 
 cushions in them. The floor is carpeted 
 with a worn turkey carpet especially worn 
 in front of the chest of drawers. 
 
 Both windows have rather deep window seats. 
 In front of the one R. there is a shaving 
 stand. On the other window seat are ar- 
 ranged half a dozen pairs of shoes for 
 golf, tennis and ordinary wear and beneath 
 the window seat there are a number of 
 pairs of boots, all jacked. 
 
 From hooks on door are hanging flannel trou- 
 sers, white and grey. Over the end of 
 77 
 
78 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 bed and over all the backs of chairs there 
 are clothes. There is a little old-fashioned 
 sofa in front of fireplace and on this are 
 heaped shirts, socks, stockings, waistcoats, 
 braces, etc. The whole appearance of the 
 room is irresistibly untidy, comfortable and 
 cheerful. 
 
 The walls are closely hung with framed photos 
 of college groups, and Eights, and over the 
 mantelpiece suspended from a brass rod 
 is hanging an oar, on the blade of which 
 the names and weights of an Eight are 
 painted. A line of books stands on the 
 mantelpiece. Stowed away in corners 
 there are leather shirt cases, kit bags and 
 trunks. 
 
 The windows are open and a honeysuckle climbs 
 round the outsides of them. The sun 
 pours into the room. The curtain rises 
 on an empty stage. 
 
 [After a pause the door is opened quietly and 
 Archie enters, carrying a shirt case. He 
 wears a straw hat tilted and is dressed in 
 a suit of dark flannels. He looks merry 
 and bright. He shuts the door carefully, 
 puts the shirt case on the sofa, undoes it 
 and unpacks. As he takes out his evening 
 clothes, opera hat and dress shoes, and 
 hangs them in the wardrobe, he whistles 
 
ACT III 79 
 
 softly. Now he takes out a large collec- 
 tion of new ties and eyes them with pride. 
 The door opens quietly and Harry enters 
 in his shirt sleeves with a brush in each 
 hand.'\ 
 
 Archie \turning with a smile']. Good morn- 
 ing, sir. 
 
 Harry {^surprised]. Hullo, you're up early. 
 I expected to find you with your mouth open, 
 snoring like a grampus . . . but what's this? 
 You haven't been to bed ! 
 
 Archie. No. I've only just got here. 
 
 Harry [^sharply]. How's that? 
 
 Archie [^glibly]. It was . . . awful bad 
 luck. Winstanley had a touch of fever last 
 night, so after the show I went back with him 
 to his room in Bury Street and sat with him. 
 
 Harry [^heartily]. Good for you, my dear 
 fellow. How on earth did you get down so 
 early ? 
 
 Archie [^frowning deeply and looking as 
 though he hated himself]. I caught a work- 
 man's train. 
 
 Harry. But you must be frightfully tired. 
 
 Archie. No. I'm all right, thanks. 
 
 Harry [turning round]. Turn in and have 
 a sleep. I'll tell Cookie not to call you till 
 eleven. That'll be better than nothing. 
 
8o THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Archie. Oh, rather not. I'm not a bit 
 sleepy. Besides I'm playing golf with Effie at 
 seven. 
 
 Harry. Just as you like. [Goes to looking- 
 glass and brushes his hair.] Oh, for the glad 
 days when I was twenty-one ... I often use 
 this glass when you're asleep. 
 
 Archie. But aren't you up earlier than usual, 
 sir? 
 
 Harry. Just a bit. I'm going down to 
 the barge to see little Mary Ann, poor little 
 soul. Her baby was born last night. It was 
 dead. 
 
 Archie [involuntarily]. Oh, I'm sorry. 
 
 Harry [solemnly]. Who can say whether 
 one is to be sorry or glad? Her mother calls 
 it the child of sin. I don't think that God 
 will call it by such a name. . . . Well, it's a 
 grand morning for golf, but stick on your thick- 
 est shoes, the dew is very heavy. [He goes 
 towards door.] 
 
 Archie [quickly]. May I keep you a second, 
 sir. I want to tell you something. 
 
 Harry. Not now, old man, after breakfast. 
 Mrs. Lemmins is waiting for me. [Exit.] 
 
 Archie [eagerly]. But . . . [the door 
 shuts]. Oh, God, why did I say it? [He sits 
 down in chair above fireplace in an attitude of 
 hopeless depression. Enter Cookie.] 
 
ACT III 81 
 
 Cookie. Well, you're a nice one, I don't 
 think. 
 
 Archie. I don't think so either. 
 
 Cookie. I met him on the stairs and he told 
 me as 'ow you'd only just got back. What 
 d'you do? Miss the last train? 
 
 Archie. Yes. 
 
 Cookie. Did you sleep at the hotel at Pad- 
 dington ? 
 
 Archie. No. I went home. 
 
 Cookie. Well, from the sound of you, you 
 don't seem to 'ave put in a very good time. 
 
 Archie. Oh, I put in a good enough time. 
 
 Cookie. Too good praps. Dessay you're 
 feelin' a bit blawsy. 
 
 Archie. What's that? 
 
 Cookie [surprised"]. French for a whisky 
 'ead. 
 
 Archie [bending forward and putting his 
 head between his hands]. No. 
 
 Cookie. My mistake [examines him with 
 keen sympathy]. What's the matter? 
 
 Archie. Nothing's the matter. 
 
 Cookie. Tell me another. You've got 
 something or other pretty bad. 'Ave a cupper 
 tea, dear. [ The mother feeling is in her voice.] 
 
 Archie. No, thanks. Cookie. I'll wait for 
 breakfast. 
 
 Cookie. Just as you fancy but it won't take 
 
(82 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 me a jiffy to get you one. Come on, you may 
 as well. You look tired. 
 
 Archie. You're awfully kind Cookie, but 
 I'd rather wait. Don't let me keep you from 
 getting one for the Vicar. He's up frightfully 
 early this morning. 
 
 Cookie. Yus, and 'e went to bed frightfully 
 late last night. Kep' up most of it by Mary 
 Ann down at the barge. 'E don't get a legiti- 
 mate night's rest once in six. If I was the 
 missus I'd strap 'im down to his bed. All the 
 troubles in the world can be seen to in twelve 
 hours of daylight, I say. Come on now, 'ave 
 a nice cupper tea, Mr. Archie. 
 
 Archie. For heaven's sake don't bother 
 about me. 
 
 Cookie \hurt and going towards door]. All 
 right, all right, all right. Keep yer 'air on. 
 [^She stops and turns, filled with something more 
 than curiosity. The boy's attitude worries her. 
 She means to get to the bottom of it.] I sup- 
 pose you're playin' gowf as usual along o' Miss 
 Effie? 
 
 Archie. No. I'm not in the mood for it. 
 
 Cookie [returning from door]. 'Ave a few 
 words with yer father yesterday? 
 
 Archie. No, I didn't see my father. 
 
 Cookie. Oh, then you backed an 'orse and 
 went down. 
 
ACT III 83 
 
 Archie. Didn't have a bet. 
 
 Cookie. Then you're sickening for some- 
 thing. 
 
 Archie. No. I'm as fit as a fiddle. 
 
 Cookie \^taking up dress trousers and folding 
 them carefully, eyeing him all the time'\. I've 
 got it. 
 
 Archie. Got what ? 
 
 Cookie {^triumphantly 1. Yus, I've got it. 
 You're in love. 
 
 Archie [^simply]. I've been in love for 
 weeks. 
 
 Cookie. Ah ! 
 
 Archie. But as I've no right to be, I just 
 recognise the fact as I recognise that the sun 
 sets and the moon rises and leave it at that. 
 I'm worried. Damnably worried, but not 
 about that. 
 
 Cookie [very sympathetically'\. Poor boy. 
 I can lend you two pound sixteen if that's any 
 good. 
 
 Archie [gets up and puts his hand on her 
 shoulder'\. Thank you, Cookie. You're a 
 Briton, but it isn't money. [^Goes over to the 
 shaving stand."] 
 
 Cookie. Well, then, I give it up. If it ain't 
 love and it ain't money, and it ain't illness, 
 what in the name of all that's wonderful, is it? 
 
 Archie [with a burst] . It's the devil. 
 
84 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Cookie. Oh-h! It's 'im, is It? All I can 
 suggest is that you 'ave an 'eart to 'eart with 
 the Vicar. What 'e don't know about the devil, 
 isn't worth knowing. I shall get you a cupper 
 tea for all that. Something warm in the tummy 
 always disconcerts old Nick. \^Ske goes out. 
 Archie gets up, walks about the room for a 
 moment and then goes to dressing table and 
 leans on it with his back to audience. Enter 
 Harry.'l 
 
 Harry. Have you got any money, old fel- 
 low ? I hadn't time to cash a cheque yesterday, 
 and poor Mrs. Lemmins is without funds. I 
 suddenly remembered and came back. 
 
 Archie [^turning']. How much do you want, 
 sir ? I've only got three sovereigns. 
 
 Harry. That'll do splendidly. Thanks 
 very much. 
 
 Archie [taking out his money'\. It's just 
 short of three pounds. 
 
 Harry. Never mind. It'll do for the time 
 being. There are things to get for Mary Ann. 
 [He takes it.~\ Thanks. 
 
 Archie [going to door and putting his back 
 to it, his face is set and drawn~\. You've got 
 to know something. 
 
 Harry [surprised at the boy's tone'\. Is any- 
 thing the matter ? 
 
 Archie. I lied to you just now. 
 
ACT III 8s 
 
 Harry. Did you, why? 
 
 Archie. Because I've been trained to lie and 
 I haven't broken myself of the habit. I forgot 
 that I wasn't talking to one of the men who 
 wouldn't believe me if I told the truth. If I 
 had said that I didn't come down last night 
 because I missed my train, I should have been 
 called a liar by them. They would have sus- 
 pected me of some rot, so from force of habit 
 I was afraid to tell the simple truth and in- 
 vented Win's fever. [He takes several steps 
 towards Harry.] Hit me in the face, knock 
 me down, hurt me vilely. I want you to. 
 
 Harry [going over to sofa and pretending 
 to examine the lock of the shirt case~\. Old 
 boy, have you ever been to Westminster Ab- 
 bey? 
 
 Archie. Yes. 
 
 Harry. Have you wondered how long and 
 arduously men must have worked to build up 
 that gorgeous place? 
 
 Archie. Yes. 
 
 Harry. You've been trying to build up an 
 Abbey before you've laid all the foundation 
 stones. . . . An excellent shirt case this. 
 Holds a lot too. . . . See what I mean? 
 
 Archie \_after a pause]. But have I laid any 
 foundation stones at all? 
 
 Harry. Several of the most important, and 
 
86 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 better still you know which one you haven't laid. 
 \^He crosses to Archie and puts his arm round 
 his shoulder.] Go easy, my dear lad. Give 
 yourself time. The stucco building, the imita- 
 tion affair that you were made to put up by 
 your silly fool architects is demolished. Don't 
 be afraid. Don't press. Don't try and make 
 records. I'll back you to win after you've 
 trained a bit more. 
 
 Archie. Then you . . . you don't despise 
 me for this? You won't let this affair ever 
 make you suspect me ? 
 
 Harry. My dear fellow, I'm your friend, 
 not your taskmaster or drill sergeant. I go 
 through every day what you've just been going 
 through, and I thank God for it. It's my only 
 chance of ever becoming all I hope to be. A 
 man's reach must exceed his grasp or what's 
 a Heaven for? 
 
 Archie {trying not to break down]. You're 
 . . . you're most awfully kind. 
 
 Harry [realising this and becoming casual]. 
 It was very kind of you to have told me. {He 
 counts the money in his hand.] Two pounds, 
 eighteen and seven pence. You shall have it 
 back this afternoon. Make the most of this 
 gorgeous morning. {Harry holds his hand out 
 to Archie. Archie makes a dart at it and grips 
 it. Harry turns and goes out. Archie heaves 
 
ACT III 87 
 
 a sigh of relief, remains where he is for a mo- 
 ment, then goes to window.] 
 
 Archie [waving his hand]. So long, sir. 
 [He takes off his coat and waistcoat, picks up 
 the handle of the exerciser which is screwed to 
 the wall above sofa and exercises vigorously. 
 Enter Cookie with a cup of tea on a tray which 
 also contains bread and butter and radishes.] 
 
 Cookie. Ah! That's the way. Punch him 
 in the neck. Put both your fistesses in his 
 wind. The devil 'ates 'ealthiness. [She goes 
 of into one of her shrill screams of laughter.] 
 
 Archie [laughing and continuing to exercise]. 
 You are a persistent old female. 
 
 Cookie. Persistent me foot! And as to be- 
 ing old, I'm in the first flush of giddy youth. 
 . . . Now as to sugar, is It one or two? 
 
 Archie. Two. 
 
 Cookie. That's all right. Where will you 
 have it? 
 
 Archie. Put it on the bed. Cookie. 
 
 Cookie. It's the only tidy place in the room. 
 I can't.keep you straight. Don't let it get cold. 
 [She goes to door having put the tray on the 
 bed.] 
 
 Archie. Thanks, most awfully. You're one 
 in a million. 
 
 Cookie. Now you'd better take advantage 
 of the sun. It'll rain before you can say knife. 
 
88 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Archie. Not it. There was no ring round 
 the moon last night. 
 
 Cookie. Can't 'elp no ring round the moon. 
 What about my poor feet? [Exit. Archie 
 continues to exercise. After a pause the door 
 opens and Effie enters with a scarlet dressing 
 gown over her nightdress. Her feet are bare.'\ 
 
 Effie. It is you then ! I woke up suddenly 
 and thought I heard you. 
 
 Archie [dropping the exerciser with a clat- 
 ter~\. How long will you be before you're 
 ready ? 
 
 Effie. Ready for what? 
 
 Archie. Nine holes. 
 
 Effie [skips on to the bed']. Oh, there's 
 heaps of time. I want to hear all your news. 
 
 Archie [hurriedly and uneasily]. Why not 
 wait till we're on the links ? 
 
 Effie [laughing]. [She looks angelic and all 
 flushed from sleep.] Two reasons. There's 
 no need and I don't want to. 
 
 Archie. I'd ever so much rather you did. 
 
 Effie [airily]. I can't help your troubles. 
 You gave me a horribly lonely day, and kept 
 me up half the night. You must pay for these 
 things by doing what I want you to do. 
 
 Archie. I kept you up half the night . . . 
 how? 
 
 Effie. Well, you don't suppose I was going 
 
ACT III 89 
 
 to let you come in without hearing all the de- 
 tails of your day, do you? I waited here till 
 I fell asleep. It was four o'clock when I went 
 to my own room. 
 
 Archie [^gasping'\. You waited here? 
 
 Effie. Yes. Of course I did. Where else 
 could I wait? 
 
 Archie [more and more uneasy, hut all on 
 fire with her loveliness']. I say, Cookie says 
 it's going to rain. For goodness' sake go and 
 get up. 
 
 Effie. May I have a drop of your tea ? It 
 looks good. 
 
 Archie. Have it all. 
 
 Effie. No, we'll go halves. {She drinks 
 from the cup and hands it to Archie.] Here 
 you are. 
 
 Archie [taking cup and putting it on dressing 
 table] . You're evidently not going to play this 
 morning, then. 
 
 Effie. I shan't stir an inch until you give me 
 an account of everything that you've done from 
 the very beginning. Have you noticed all the 
 changes since you've been away? 
 
 Archie. Yes. 
 
 Effie. No, you haven't. I'm certain that 
 you passed the rose trees in the front without 
 looking at them. They've got a magnificent 
 new rose apiece. 
 
90 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Archie. Really ? 
 
 Effie. And did you catch sight of those 
 darhng sweet peas in the old tree trunks by 
 the gate? Dozens of new blooms since you 
 went away, simply dozens. And I picked an 
 armful yesterday afternoon. The more you 
 pick the more you may. Do you know what I 
 think about sweet peas? 
 
 Archie [^obviously fascinated by the girl's ap- 
 pearance']. No, what? 
 
 Effie. Well, I've discovered that a sweet 
 pea is different from all other flowers. It's not 
 a bit cocky and puffed up about its bloom. Its 
 one ambition in life is to bloom quickly, if pos- 
 sible somewhere where it can't be seen, and 
 then hurry for all its worth into pod. Since 
 I've found that out I hate picking it. It does 
 seem so cruel to stop it from doing what it 
 wants to do so awfully much. Don't you think 
 so? 
 
 Archie [going to door and listening']. Yes. 
 
 Effie. I don't believe you heard a word I 
 said. 
 
 Archie. Yes, I did. 
 
 Effie. What did I say? 
 
 Archie. You said you loved picking sweet 
 peas because that's the only thing they care 
 about. 
 
 Effie [bursts out laughing]. Oh, that's good. 
 
ACT III 91 
 
 Archie [intensely uncomfortable, shutting the 
 door'\. Not so loud. 
 
 Effie. Yes, I mustn't wake mother up. She 
 was very tired last night. 
 
 Archie. We shan't get nine holes unless you 
 hurry up. 
 
 Effie. Very well then, we shan't. I do wish 
 you would sit down for five minutes. 
 
 Archie. I thought you wanted to know 
 about my yesterday's doings. You're talking 
 about everything else under the sun. 
 
 Effie. Well, shall I tell you the truth? 
 
 Archie [strongly}. Yes, for God's sake do 
 . . . always. 
 
 Effie [eyeing him'\. You are in a queer mood 
 to-day. 
 
 Archie. No, I'm not. I'm all right. 
 
 Effie. Well, I don't take a vast interest ifl 
 anything you did yesterday if you must know. 
 
 Archie. Why not? 
 
 Effie. Because I wanted you here. I hated 
 your going away. 
 
 Archie. I wish I hadn't gone. 
 
 Effie. Do you wish you hadn't gone because 
 I didn't want you to go, or because you didn't 
 have a good time? 
 
 Archie. Oh, I suppose I put in a good 
 enough time. . . . Listen I 
 
 Effie. It's only Cookie. Call her in and 
 
92 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 ask her for some more tea. \_Skips back on 
 to the bed. Her dressing gown is open and all 
 the lace about her neck can be seen.} 
 
 Archie. No, no. 
 
 Effie. Well, did you get your socks and 
 ties? 
 
 Archie. Yes. [He cannot help looking at 
 her. She fascinates and allures him with fear- 
 ful unconsciousness.'} 
 
 Effie. How many? 
 
 Archie. A dozen of both. [He is drawn 
 towards her. He can hardly keep his hands of 
 her.} 
 
 Effie. A dozen I I don't believe father has 
 had as many as a dozen in his life. Did you 
 find your friend much changed ? 
 
 Archie. Old Win? Rather. I hardly 
 knew him. I should have passed him if I'd 
 seen him in the street. 
 
 Effie. What's happened to him then ? 
 
 Archie. India and — and the Service. 
 From being a man of some individuality he's 
 developed into a type. 
 
 Effie. You liked him ... as much as be- 
 fore? 
 
 Archie. When I found him ... or rather 
 the remains of him. Really and truly talking 
 to him was like talking to a regiment, not a 
 man. I felt that all his brother officers an- 
 
ACT III 93 
 
 swered when he answered. He had a most 
 curious effect on me. [^Archie has fallen under 
 the girl's spell and his horrible uneasiness at 
 her presence in his room is forgotten for the 
 time being.} 
 
 Effle. Did he, what? 
 
 Archie. Well thinking back, I'm perfectly 
 certain I was afraid to be myself and gradually 
 became him. 
 
 Effie. How ? 
 
 Archie. I mean I became a cavalryman too 
 for the time. 
 
 Effie. How do you become a cavalryman ? 
 
 Archie {with a laugh}. You stiffen your 
 back, arm and legs, and make your tongue very 
 heavy, check any desire you may have either 
 to tell anything or ask anything and think hard 
 about good form. It's not easy for a civil- 
 ian. 
 
 Effie. I can't imagine you passing for five 
 minutes as a cavalryman. Did you have to 
 put up with dear Win all day ? 
 
 Archie. No. In the evening we dined with 
 two ladies. 
 
 Effie {slightly jealous]. Ladies? Who 
 were they? 
 
 Archie. A mother who was just old enough 
 to be a daughter and a daughter who was al- 
 most old enough to be a mother. 
 
94 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Effie. I know. We've got two of them 
 down here. Dull Bright and Bright Dull. 
 
 Archie. Don't ask me to meet them. 
 
 Effie. I won't. What theatre did you go 
 to? 
 
 Archie. Gaiety. Very bright and idiotic. 
 [His manner changes to great fright.'] Some- 
 one's coming. For God's sake go. 
 
 Effie. Let them come. I don't mind. I 
 suppose I can be here if I like, can't I ? 
 
 Archie \_angrily~\. No, you can't. You've 
 no right to be here. Will you go? 
 
 Effie [rising'\. Not until I've told you some- 
 thing. I think you might have written to me. 
 It's awful to be so lonely. 
 
 Archie. But how could I write? I came 
 back before any letter could have been deliv- 
 ered. 
 
 Effie. You ought to have written before you 
 left^ I could have kept your letter with me 
 all day. It would have been better than noth- 
 ing. Archie, don't go away again. Don't 
 leave me alone again. I can't bear it. If you 
 love me you must think of me. [She speaks 
 quietly, but in a voice that trembles with im- 
 mense emotion.] 
 
 Archie [catching her in his arms]. I do love 
 you. I adore you. 
 
 Effie [looking up into his face]. And I love 
 
ACT III 95 
 
 you. I shall always love you. You're every- 
 thing in the world to me. Archie ! Archie ! 
 
 Archie. My darling. [He kisses her again 
 and again.] But go now. This is not the 
 time for seeing you. 
 
 Effie. Not the time? Why not? 
 
 Archie. You'll catch your death. 
 
 Effie [with a little laugh, clinging to hirnl. 
 Death, with you come back? Why are you 
 pushing me away? Don't push me away. 
 
 Archie. Presently. [He suddenly frees 
 himself, takes the girl by the arm and rushes 
 her across the room, opens the cupboard of 
 the wardrobe, pushes her in and shuts it. 
 There is a tap at the door. Archie stands in 
 the middle of room, frightfully agitated.] 
 Who is it? 
 
 Mrs. P. [without]. It is I, may I come 
 in? 
 
 Archie [in a hoarse whisper to Effie]. Stay 
 where you are. Don't move. [Goes to door 
 and opens it.] Good morning. 
 
 Mrs. P. [entering]. Good morning. 
 Cookie tells me that you came down by a work- 
 man's train. Aren't you very tired? [She 
 goes to the window and tidies the curtain.] 
 
 Archie. No, not a bit, thanks. 
 
 Mrs. P. Well at any rate I see you've had 
 tea. 
 
96 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Archie. Yes. Cookie insisted. I was just 
 going to change. 
 
 Mrs. P. Golf this morning? 
 
 Archie. Yes, that's the notion. 
 
 Mrs. P. Effie is getting up, if she isn't al- 
 ready out. 
 
 Archie. Oh, that's good. If you see her 
 will you tell her that I shan't be five minutes? 
 
 Mrs. P. Did you have a nice day? 
 
 Archie. Very, thanks. 
 
 Mrs. P. I'm so glad. We all missed you 
 very much. The house seemed quite different 
 without you. 
 
 Archie. I'm glad to be back. 
 
 Mrs. P. Iffoinff out]. It's a lovely morning. 
 l^The instant she has left the room Archie shuts 
 the door, goes quickly to the wardrobe and 
 throws it open.] 
 
 Archie. Go to your room at once ! Do you 
 hear? 
 
 Effie [with a blaze of anger]. I'll go to my 
 room when I'm ready, not a moment before. 
 
 Archie. If you don't go now, I'll go. 
 
 Effie. Why should I go ? I've not finished 
 speaking to you yet. 
 
 Archie. If you've got anything more to say 
 come down with me to your mother's room and 
 say it before her. 
 
 Effie [stamping her foot]. I won't. 
 
ACT III 97 
 
 What's the good of that. I can see you before 
 people any time. That's what I'm so sick of. 
 I want to speak to you alone and I will. [^She 
 throws her arms round his neck.'] 
 
 Archie {^ftinging her of]. Don't do that 
 again. I can't stand it. [_Effie bursts into a 
 passion of tears and flings herself on her knees 
 at the side of the bed]. 
 
 Archie. Oh, God! [He bends down over 
 her and tries to pick her up.] Darling . . , 
 darling. 
 
 Effie [sobbing]. It's no use. It's too late 
 . . . it's too late. 
 
 Archie. How d'you mean? . . . too late? 
 
 Effie. You don't love me. You hate me. 
 
 Archie. I don't love you. . . . You don't 
 know what you are saying. [The boy is shak- 
 ing all over.] 
 
 Effie. I do know. I know that you loathe 
 me. I sicken you. You slip away whenever 
 you see me coming. I can't even take your 
 arm without making you shudder. Do you 
 think I can't see? Do you think I go about as 
 blind as a bat? What's the matter with me? 
 What have I done to you? 
 
 Archie. Effie. 
 
 Effie [springing up]. Tell me. Tell me. 
 ... I must know. ... I must. It's . . . 
 killing me. Can't you see that it's killing me? 
 
98 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Archie [putting his arms round her'\. Oh, 
 my dear. 
 
 Effie. Oh, Archie, Archie, I love you. I 
 love you. I love you more than life, more 
 than my father and mother, more than I know 
 and you love me. You do love me. You'll 
 always love me. You can't help it any more 
 than I can. I know that. I am happy about 
 that. That's most awfully good. But what 
 hurts me more than I can bear is the new way 
 you have of keeping away from me, for your 
 work. I want you to work. I want you to do 
 big things, but I don't want you to love work 
 more than you love me. I'm . . . Oh, I'm 
 too frightfully jealous of everything that keeps 
 you away from me. I must have something of 
 you. I must feel your arms round me some- 
 times to keep me alive. If you told me that 
 you had been keeping out of my way because 
 you don't love me, I should laugh. It isn't 
 possible for you not to love me. You're doing 
 it for some other reason and I'm going to know 
 it now. lEnter Harry.'\ 
 
 Harry [cheerfully^. I say, Archie . . . [he 
 draws up. As he sees the two young people 
 a look of terror comes into his face'\. 
 
 Archie [under his breath, recoiling from 
 Effie'\. Good God! 
 
 Effie [still emotional but speaking simply and 
 
ACT III 99 
 
 without any alarm']. Good morning, Father. 
 
 Harry {hoarsely to Effie], Go to your 
 room. 
 
 Effie {surprised}. Father! 
 
 Harry {louder and sternly]. Go to your 
 room I {Effie looks wonderingly from one 
 man to the other, turns and goes quietly out 
 unashamed and unselfconscious. Nothing is 
 said until the door closes.] 
 
 Archie {bursting out]. I swear to you . . . 
 
 Harry. Shut the door. {Archie does so.] 
 Come here. {Archie obeys orders. He 
 stands up straight and fearless looking straight 
 at Harry. Harry's lips are set tight. His 
 nostrils are distended. He looks like a man 
 whose blood is surging with rage and indigna- 
 tion, hut who is fighting hard to remain master 
 of himself.] What was my daughter doing in 
 your room ? 
 
 Archie. Saying good morning. 
 
 Harry. Did you call her in? 
 
 Archie {after hesitation]. No. 
 
 Harry. Do you mean to tell me that she; 
 came in on her own account ? 
 
 Archie {after further hesitation]. Yes. 
 
 Harry. Is it the usual thing for you and my 
 daughter to make free of each other's rooms ? 
 
 Archie. No, sir. 
 
 Harry {blazing]. Tell me the truth. 
 
loo THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Archie. I am telling the truth. 
 
 Harry. Will you swear to me that Effie has 
 never been into your bedroom before, either at 
 night, or in the early morning? 
 
 Archie [^unhesitatingly'^. Yes. 
 
 Harry. I don't believe you. ... I can't 
 believe you. You lied to me once. How can 
 I rely on your speaking the truth now ? 
 
 Archie [staggered']. What! . . . But I 
 give you my word of honour. 
 
 Harry [unable to control himself]. Hon- 
 our? Honour? What sort of honour is 
 yours that allows you to live in the house of a 
 man whose implicit trust you have won, and 
 ternpt his daughter into your bedroom? 
 
 Archie [passionately]. You have no right 
 to say that. I ought not to have let Effie come 
 in, but we love each other and . . . 
 
 Harry. You love each other? 
 
 Archie. Yes. 
 
 Harry. And what then? 
 
 Archie. It's perfectly natural that we should 
 like saying a few words alone. It's all my 
 fault and I'm sorry. But you've no right to 
 doubt my word when I tell you that Effie only 
 came in to hear what I'd done yesterday. 
 
 Harry [seizing the boy's shoulders]. I don't 
 want to doubt your word. I'd give a year of 
 
ACT III loi 
 
 my life to believe you, but you lied to me once 
 already this morning. 
 
 Archie [^twisting away: hurt to the jom/]. 
 Once . . . once ! I told you why I lied to you 
 then. I told you because you made me think 
 that you'd never suspect me as all the others 
 have done. But you do suspect me . . . even 
 you. 
 
 Harry. Yes, yes. I do suspect you. I 
 must suspect you. Thinking that I am out of 
 the house, you call Effie into your room out of 
 her bed. 
 
 Archie. I didn't call her. 
 
 Harry. Tell me the truth. 
 
 Archie [like a wounded animal']. I have 
 told you the truth, but only half of it. Now 
 you shall have it all. You deserve it. You 
 may call me a liar if you like. What does it 
 matter? No one will see me in East Brenton 
 again after this morning as long as I live. [He 
 chokes.] 
 
 Harry [^still angry hut with a note of fear 
 in his voice]. Go on. 
 
 Archie [in a dull voice]. Effie waited in 
 my room from twelve o'clock last night until 
 four o'clock this morning. She came into it 
 again this morning when she heard me come 
 back. 
 
102 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Harry. Was she hiding when I found you 
 unpacking ? 
 
 Archie. No. 
 
 Harry. You are lying. 
 
 Archie \_shivering as though struck by a 
 ■whip^ Very well then, I'm lying. It's no 
 good telling you the truth. But listen to this. 
 She came in directly you'd gone. She was in 
 the room when Mrs. Pemberton came in. I 
 hid her in the cupboard. 
 
 Harry. Why? ... If you had nothing to 
 be ashamed of? 
 
 Archie. Because I wanted to protect EfEe. 
 
 Harry. You ask me to believe that? 
 
 Archie \shouting and on the verge of a break- 
 down']. I ask you to believe nothing. I don't 
 care now what you choose to believe. I'm just 
 telling you the truth to show you what I might 
 have done because no one has seen fit to tell 
 Effie that she is a woman. 
 
 Harry [furious]. You prove yourself to be 
 lying and to be trying to shield yourself behind 
 EfEe by saying that. EfEe has been told that 
 she is a woman and what it means. 
 
 Archie [with a cry]. Oh, no. That's im- 
 possible. You may think that she's been told 
 but she hasn't. Good God, do you know what 
 you imply by saying that she's been told? . . . 
 I can't say it. I can't even think it. 
 
ACT III 103 
 
 Harry. Say It . . . say it! 
 
 Archie. You imply that Effie was not igno- 
 rant but was tempting me. 
 
 Harry [^springing at the boy']. How dare 
 you I \_He shakes him and flings him away. 
 Archie staggers against the door. He gathers 
 himself up and points a shaking finger at 
 Harry.] 
 
 Archie [thickly and passionately]. Blame 
 yourself for this. Blame your wife. Effie 
 never knew what she was doing. She knows 
 nothing. If I hadn't adored her and hadn't 
 been trying for all I was worth to play the 
 game for your sake, I should have gone to 
 her room before to-day and I should have 
 locked my door this morning. I wanted to. 
 . . , Oh, my God, how I wanted to ! . . . and 
 she wanted to stay although she didn't know 
 why. If she had stayed we should not have 
 been to blame. You would, — you and your 
 wife. . . . Good-bye. You send me straight 
 to hell. [He gives a great cry and lurches to 
 the door, opens it, goes out and slams it behind 
 him. Harry remains standing upright, rigid.] 
 
 [Curtain.] 
 
ACT IV 
 
 [Harry's den. No time has passed between 
 the fall of the curtain on the last Act and 
 its rise on this one. The sun is streaming 
 into the windows. Cookie, on her knees, 
 is polishing the floor with beeswax. She 
 is singing softly to herself. The song is 
 comic. Collins passes the window which 
 is open from R. to L.J 
 
 Collins [patronisingly'\. Morning, Cookie. 
 
 Cookie. Oh, 'ow you made me jump ! 
 
 Collins [who has disappeared and returned 
 and is now leaning on the window siW]. Want 
 to know anything fer to-day, old lady? 
 
 Cookie. Old yerself ! What d' yer mean ? 
 
 Collins. Well, have yer fergot that it's the 
 Hascot gold cup? 
 
 Cookie. What, again? 
 
 Collins. What d'yer mean, again ? 
 
 Cookie. Well, it only seems three weeks ago 
 that you took my two bob, put it on Bonnie 
 Lad and told me I'd gone down. Lord, 'ow 
 time flies ! 
 
 Collins. I'm artsin' you about 'orse racin' 
 104 
 
ACT IVi 105 
 
 not philosophy. You know young Halbert 
 Honor? 
 
 Cookie. 'Im as looks after the 'osses of 
 the gent with the swivel eye? 
 
 Collins. That's 'im. Well, 'is brother is 
 in a racing stable and 'e sent Halbert a postcard 
 teUin' 'im to put 'is shirt on " Father Ste- 
 phen." 
 
 Cookie. If Albert chooses to 'and his un- 
 derclothing to a bookmaker, there's no reason 
 why I should. 
 
 Collins. Don't you be 'asty. This is the 
 best thing in racing. 
 
 Cookie [rubbing energetically'\. They all 
 are until you see 'em sixth in the stop press. 
 Don't you try and seduce me, Freddy. 
 
 Collins [with a loud laugh]. Not 'arf! 
 I've 'ad some I Now look 'ere, go 'alves with 
 me in five bob to win. 
 
 Cookie. What should I lose? Five bob? 
 
 Collins. You don't know much about 'rith- 
 metic. 
 
 Cookie. Maybe. But I know a good deal 
 about Fred Collins. 
 
 Collins [touchilyl- 'Ere, are we talkin' 
 sense or not? 
 
 Cookie. Not! You go and cut some lut- 
 tuses for breakfast and leave 'orse racing ter 
 mugs. 
 
io6 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Collins. Put the money on nar at six ter 
 one termorrer mornin' after lunch we divide 
 a matter of thirty bob. 'Aven't yer got no 
 use for fifteen shillings ? 
 
 Cookie. 'Alf a crown at the bottom of my 
 pocket is worth six 'alf crowns still running. 
 
 Collins. All right. 'Ave it yer own way. 
 Don't say I never give yer a chanst. [Enter 
 Mrs. Pemberton.] 
 
 Mrs. P. Good morning, Cookie. 
 
 Cookie. Good morning, mum. 
 
 Mrs. P. Good morning, Collins. 
 
 Collins \^speciously'\. Good morning to you, 
 mum. I was just tellln' Cook as 'ow I can get 
 'er a nice dish of vegetable marrers. 
 
 Cookie. Liar! [She coughs to hide the 
 remark.^ 
 
 Mrs. P. That will be very nice, Collins. I 
 thought I saw some in the garden about a week 
 ago. 
 
 Collins. Ah, but the frost nipped them off. 
 
 Cookie. Frost ! 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh, and tell me, Fred, we ought 
 not to be running short of peas already, surely. 
 
 Collins. Well, mum, you see it's like this. 
 Last year was wet and there was only four 
 mouths in the 'ouse. Consequence was peas 
 panned out well. Now this year we've 'ad a 
 superabundance of sun and Mr. Archibald — I 
 
ACT IV 107 
 
 don't know whether you've noticed it, mum, but 
 that Mr. Archibald 'e's a wonder for peas. 
 
 Mrs. P. I see, Fred. 
 
 Cookie. Do yer? 
 
 Collins. And don't forget to take this into 
 account, mum. The walls of this place is low, 
 and there's lots of thieves about. 
 
 Cookie. Ah I 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh, but no one would steal from 
 this garden. 
 
 Collins. Well, mum, you'd think not, but 
 where a nice line o' Marrerfats is concerned 
 'uman nature is very frail. I make no accusa- 
 tions but I lay down the 'int. {^Cookie 
 chuckles. Collins leans forward aggressively 
 eyeing her hotly. 1 Eh? 
 
 Cookie \_innocently'\. Eh? 
 
 Collins. Oh, I thought you spoke. 
 
 Cookie. Me? Oh, lor no. 
 
 Mrs. P. Thank you, Collins. 
 
 Collins. Thank you, mum. [He looks at 
 Cookie and his lips move silently. He goes 
 
 Mrs. P. [with a smiW]. He has a large 
 family, but he's a good workman. 
 
 Cookie. The wheelbarrers of stuff that goes 
 out of this place before any of us is abart. . . . 
 
 Mrs. P. \_dusting the room'[. We don't 
 know that. Cook. 
 
io8 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Cookie. No, but we guess it, and we 'ear 
 the barren 
 
 Mrs. P. After all, this is a large garden, 
 and the temptation to take things home is very 
 great, and Fred's family is a growing one. 
 
 Cookie. Remarkable 'ow well it grows on 
 our vegetables. Mind, I'm not saying 'e's a 
 thief. 
 
 Mrs. P. Ah! I'm glad you're doing the 
 floors. Cookie. They wanted it badly. 
 
 Cookie. Since that boy came with 'is golf 
 nails, 'e's played old jimmy with these 'ere 
 floors. But there! 'E's a nice young feller 
 and I can spare him a little elbow grease. 
 
 Mrs. p. But you're using beeswax, aren't 
 you? 
 
 Cookie. Can't you smell it? 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh, and Cook! Before I forget 
 it, I want to ask you about the airing of the 
 clothes. 
 
 Cookie [on the defensive^. What about it? 
 
 Mrs. P. Well, I went into Mr. Archie's 
 room yesterday when he was away, and I saw 
 that somehow or other the wash basket with 
 all his clean things had found its way to his 
 room. I don't think that they had been hang- 
 ing in front of the kitchen fire at all. 
 
 Cookie. They hadn't. 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh, Cookie ! You know how care- 
 
ACT IV 109 
 
 ful one ought to be, and how easy it Is to get 
 pneumonia. 
 
 Cookie. Well, I was going to put 'im at the 
 bottom of his shelves so that by the time they'd 
 worked 'emselves up to the top, they'd a been 
 aired automatic. It's the latest thing. 
 
 Mrs. P. If you don't mind, Cookie, I think 
 that we'll remain old-fashioned. 
 
 Cookie. Well, just as you like, mum. I 
 only tried to move with the times. 
 
 Mrs. P. [polishing a silver cup]. There! 
 I forgot to order the tea from the stores yes- 
 terday for my old women. 
 
 Cookie. Go on forgetting, mum. Your old 
 women, unbeknownst to you, exchanges those 
 packets of tea for tots of gin. 
 
 Mrs. P. [virtuously indignant']. Cookl 
 I've never heard you say anything so unchar- 
 itable ! 
 
 Cookie. Well, mum, facts is facts, you 
 know, call 'em what you like, and after all said 
 and done, I shouldn't be surprised If the gin 
 was better for 'em than the tea. 
 
 Mrs. P. [very carefully dusting mantelpiece]. 
 We may as well settle about dinner now. Cookie. 
 
 Cookie [rising and standing in a judicial at- 
 titude by the table C]. The important ques- 
 tion of the day. 
 
 Mrs. p. What did we have on Monday ? 
 
no THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Cookie. Mutton, 'ot for dinner, cold for 
 Tuesday's lunch. 
 
 Mrs. P. And what did we have for Tues- 
 day's dinner? 
 
 Cookie. Ribs of beef 'ot. Cold for to- 
 day's luncheon. 
 
 Mrs. p. And to-day's Thursday. Let us 
 see if we can't think of something quite orig- 
 inal. Cookie. 
 
 Cookie. Something for a change, eh? 
 
 Mrs. P. Yes, something for a change. 
 
 Cookie. Well, then, let's 'ave 'ot mutton to- 
 night and a nice bit of beef to-morrow night. 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh, the eternal round of mutton 
 and beef. [^She laughs.] Very well. Cook, 
 mutton and beef then. We ought to be very 
 thankful to get them. 
 
 Cookie. Mr. Archie don't mind what 'e eats. 
 The Vicar never knows. Miss EfEe, when she 
 don't like the meat, makes it up on pudding, 
 and you and me just eat ter live, so it ain't a 
 difficult 'ouse to cater for. 
 
 Mrs. P- What door was that banging? 
 
 Cookie. Mr. Archie's, I should think. 
 
 Mrs. P. I've never heard him bang his door 
 before. 
 
 Cookie. 'E's in a mood this morning. 
 Coin' to London yesterday unsettled 'im. Oh, 
 
ACT IV III! 
 
 lor, my kettle. \_She darts out of the room. 
 Mrs. P. goes to window, straightens the 
 cushions in the window seat and leans out.'] 
 
 Mrs. P. \_to Bill, who is unseen]. Bill! 
 How often have you been told not to bury your 
 bones at the feet of the rose trees. . . . No, 
 no ! don't dig It up again. Leave it there now. 
 Why bury it at all? There's no other dog in 
 the place. [Enter Cookie.] 
 
 Cookie. All over my clean grate. 
 
 Mrs. P. I'm afraid I kept you about. 
 Cookie. I'm sorry. Now for the drawing- 
 room. Is Miss Effie down yet? 
 
 Cookie. 'Aven't seen nothing of her. 
 \^Mrs. P. goes out.] 
 
 Cookie Ingoing to window], Freddie! . . . 
 [^She whistles.] 
 
 Collins [of]. 'UUo! 
 
 Cookie. A nice cupper tea ready for you. 
 
 Collins \^off]. I'm a comin'. [Cookie waits 
 at window until Collins appears.] 
 
 Cookie. Fred ! 
 
 Collins. Eh ? 
 
 Cookie. I'll go 'alf a crown with you on 
 that 'orse. Ascot comes but once a year. 
 
 Collins. Good for you. 
 
 Cookie. I tell you what it is, Fred. 'Aving 
 lived twenty years in a vicarage makes one feel 
 regular reckless at times. [Enter Harry. He 
 
112 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 comes in slowly, with a set, stern face. On his 
 entrance Fred disappears and Cookie pretends 
 to be busy. Harry goes to fireplace and stands 
 with his back to it.'\ 
 
 Cookie. A lovely morning, sir. ^Harry 
 makes no reply. Cookie darts a quick look at 
 him, picks up her cleaning materials, and goes 
 softly towards door.'\ 
 
 Harry. Is Mrs. Pemberton down? 
 
 Cookie. Down this 'arf hour sir, and 'ard 
 at it as usual. 
 
 Harry. Ask her to be kind enough to come 
 to me here. 
 
 Cookie. I will, sir. [She throws another 
 searching, perturbed look at Harry and goes 
 off. Harry remains standing, looking straight 
 ahead. After a pause Mrs. Pemberton enters 
 cheerfully.^ 
 
 Mrs. P. Do you want me, dear? 
 
 Harry [hoarsely']. Yes. Please come in 
 and shut the door. 
 
 Mrs. P. [looks anxious, returns to door and 
 shuts it, then goes quickly to Harry's side and 
 puts her hands on Harry's shoulders]. Is any- 
 thing the matter ? 
 
 Harry [moving away from her]. Don't I 
 
 Mrs. P. [aghast]. Harry! 
 
 Harry. For the first time in our married life 
 you have broken faith with me. 
 
ACT IV 113 
 
 Mrs. p. I have ? 
 
 Harry. Yes. If you had broken faith with 
 me before it might not have mattered, but in 
 this instance you have brought tragedy into this 
 quiet house. 
 
 Mrs. P. [gasping~\. Harry! What have I 
 done? 
 
 Harry. It isn't what you've done. It is 
 what you've left undone ! Is there any need 
 for me to tell you what this is ? 
 
 Mrs. P. [with a premonition]. Yes, I . . . 
 
 Harry. You said that you would speak to 
 Effie. You promised that you would speak to 
 Effie. 
 
 Mrs. P. It was so difficult. I — I tried, 
 I — 
 
 Harry. There is no excuse. 
 
 Mrs. P. There is an excuse. . . . 
 
 Harry. There is no excuse. We went 
 deeply into the matter. It seemed to us to be 
 an unfulfilled duty. You agreed to speak, you 
 prevented me from speaking. 
 
 Mrs. P. Again and again I tried, and I 
 couldn't, I couldn't. I will speak to-morrow. 
 
 Harry. The time to speak was yesterday, — 
 to-morrow will be too late. 
 
 Mrs. P. [startled]. Too late! 
 
 Harry. Yes. Too late. 
 
 Mrs. P- What do you mean? 
 
114 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Harry. Exactly what I say. 
 
 Mrs. P. Harry! . . . Harry! 
 
 Harry. When I came back just now, I found 
 EfEe in Archie Graham's bedroom. 
 
 Mrs. P. [with a cry^. Oh! 
 
 Harry. He said that Effie came to his room 
 without being called by him. He said that she 
 was hiding when you went into it. He said 
 that she waited for him in his room from twelve 
 o'clock last night until four this morning. He 
 told me that they love each other. He lied 
 to me once, he is lying again. . . . The man 
 who ruined Mary Ann blamed her ignorance. 
 Archie Graham blames Effie's ignorance. He 
 blames you and me . . . and oh, my God, he 
 has the right. We have given Mary Ann a 
 sister in EfEe. 
 
 Mrs. P. \weeping'\. What are we to do? 
 What are we to do? 
 
 Harry. Go about our duties. There is 
 nothing to be done. Yesterday and to-day are 
 no longer ours, there is only to-morrow. To- 
 morrow is ours and with God's help we will 
 see that there shall be no more ignorance among 
 young girls. What if Effie had been Mary 
 Ann, I said. Effie ! [He puts his hands over 
 his face.'\ 
 
 Effie [rushing in wildly'\. Father! What 
 have you said to Archie? 
 
ACT ly 115 
 
 Harry. Why? 
 
 Effie. He's gone into his room and won't 
 answer me. He has locked his door. 
 
 Harry [for the first time showing great 
 emotion and anger']. Why lock his door 
 now? 
 
 Effie. I don't understand. Why are you 
 like this? Why is everything so different? 
 Why is mother crying? 
 
 Harry. Ask her. 
 
 Effie. Mother! [She goes swiftly to Mrs. 
 P. and takes her in her arms.] 
 
 Mrs. P. Oh, my baby! 
 
 Effie. What is it? What's happened? 
 Why don't you tell me? Mother, why can't 
 you speak? 
 
 Mrs. P. I wish I had spoken. ... I wish 
 I had. [She releases herself and sinks into 
 chair by table and puts her head down upon 
 her arms.] 
 
 Effie [turning to her father]. Father, tell 
 me what all this means. You made Archie 
 treat me like this, you. 
 
 Harry. Archie Graham has lied to me. 
 
 Effie. What about? 
 
 Harry. Himself and you. 
 
 Effie. I don't understand. 
 
 Harry. He said that he and you love each 
 other. 
 
ii6 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Effie. Is that what's the matter? Of course 
 we love each other. 
 
 Harry '[eagerly']. That is true, then? 
 
 Effie. As true as hfe. Of course we love 
 each other. I loved him when he first came. 
 I loved him the moment I saw him. I found 
 it out this morning when he came back. 
 
 Harry [quickly]. This morning? 
 
 Effie. Yes. I'd missed him so. Surely 
 that hasn't made you like this ? 
 
 Harry. No. That was natural enough. 
 That was only to be expected. It isn't that. 
 
 Effie. Then what is it? I ask to know. If 
 Archie has done anything I have a right to 
 know. He is mine and I must share his trou- 
 bles. Fetch Archie. [She waves her hand im- 
 periously.] 
 
 Harry. No. Leave Archie where he is. 
 I want to speak to you. . . . You say that you 
 found out this morning for the first time that 
 you love that boy? 
 
 Effie. Yes. 
 
 Harry. Has he ever spoken of love to you 
 before this morning? 
 
 Effie. No. He wouldn't have said a word 
 this morning. It was my fault he said it then. 
 
 Harry. Your fault? How? 
 
 Effie. After he got the telegram from his 
 ■friend he's been different. He avoided me all 
 
ACT IV 117 
 
 that evening. He didn't look at me and he 
 didn't say good night. 
 
 Harry. Go on. 
 
 Effie. When I went into his room this morn- 
 ing .. . 
 
 Harry [quickly'\. Did he call you? 
 
 Effie. No. He didn't know I was awake, 
 but I heard him talking to you. I went in di- 
 rectly you'd gone. I couldn't wait till I was 
 dressed. I'd been waiting so long. He tried 
 to send me away. He did nothing but try to 
 send me away. It was my only chance of see- 
 ing him alone and he drove me to speak. I 
 won't have him avoid me. I love him and he 
 loves me, and I'm a woman, not a child any 
 longer. Mayn't I think about my life now and 
 my feelings? I tell you we love each other. 
 What have you said to him to make him treat 
 me as though I were poisonous ? 
 
 Harry. Nothing. 
 
 Effie. Then what's the matter with me? 
 Why has he locked his door? Why won't he 
 answer me when I call? 
 
 Harry [^taking Effie in his arms and kissing 
 herl . Go with your mother, my little girl, and 
 let her make you a woman. 
 
 Effie. I don't understand. 
 
 Harry. No, but you shall. \_He goes to his 
 wife, picks up her hand and kisses it.'] Oh, my 
 
ii8 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 dear, let us thank God for one thing. It isn't 
 too late. Take her to your room. 
 
 Mrs. P. Harry! . . . Come, darling. 
 
 Harry. Send that boy to me here. [Mrs. 
 P. puts her arm round Effie's waist and leads 
 her of. Harry goes to the window and stands 
 looking out. Enter Cookie.] 
 
 Cookie. Come in, will yer? [Enter Mrs. 
 Lemmins.] 
 
 Mrs. L. I'm afraid I don't do right to come 
 so early, sir. 
 
 Harry. Perfectly right, Mrs. Lemmins. 
 Sit down. 
 
 Mrs. L. Thank you kindly, sir. [Sits. 
 Cookie jerks her head and goes of.~\ 
 
 Harry. You've not told Mary Ann? 
 
 Mrs. L. No, sir, she's still asleep. 
 
 Harry. I'm glad. . . . The funeral is at 
 twelve o'clock. 
 
 Mrs. L. [chokily]. In the . . . church- 
 yard, sir? 
 
 Harry. Where else? 
 
 Mrs. L. Thank God. [She throws her 
 apron over her head and cries.] 
 
 Harry. Mrs. Lemmins, I want you to do 
 something for me. I want you to be kind 
 enough to let me ask to this little funeral some 
 of the mothers in the village. I have some- 
 thing to say to them this morning which, if I 
 
ACT IV 119 
 
 had been a better servant of God, I should have 
 said to them years ago. 
 
 Mrs. L. [^huskily']. Must I have my dis- 
 grace known to everybody, sir? 
 
 Harry. Yes. Your disgrace and mine must 
 be made known. The moment has arrived 
 when I have got to deal honestly with the truth. 
 In the little coffin lies the body of a baby without 
 a name. It is called the child of sin, and it is 
 wrongly called so. It is not the -child of sin, 
 but of ignorance, and for its birth you and 
 every one of the mothers who are coming with 
 us to the churchyard are to blame, and I as 
 much as any. Its mother is a child. It will 
 be said of her that she has gone wrong. She 
 will be pointed at and sneered at and giggled 
 at, and a stigma will hang to her dress like a 
 burr. [^Mrs. Lemmins cries more loudly.'] 
 But she is blameless. The one who is to blame 
 is her mother. 
 
 Mrs. L. Me, sir? Oh! 
 
 Harry. Yes. Mrs. Lemmins, you. If you 
 had told poor little Mary Ann the reason of 
 her motherhood, a spotless life would not have 
 been stained. God would never have heard 
 the agonised cry of a childless mother and this 
 little grave would never have been dug. Oh, 
 my dear mother, for God's sake. Who loves 
 little children, get all the mothers and the future 
 
I20 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 mothers that you know to tell their children the 
 truth. Implore them never to forget this little 
 grave for which we are all responsible. Show 
 them that if they don't wish their girls to go 
 through what Mary Ann has suffered they must 
 not lie or quibble to spare themselves. If they 
 do there will be a grave in their lives too. 
 Never let them forget this little grave. While 
 their daughters are still young tell them to put 
 their arms round them and let them know what 
 it means to be a woman. . . . Help me to let 
 innocence remain in their homes by thrusting 
 out ignorance and to keep their children modest 
 by permitting themselves no false modesty. 
 You and I must never let any woman in this 
 village forget our little grave. [Collins ap- 
 pears at window with a large bunch of lilies.'] 
 
 Collins. Lilies, sir. 
 
 Harry [goes to window, takes lilies, nods to 
 Collins, who disappears, and returns with them 
 to Mrs. Lemmins']. Till twelve o'clock. 
 
 Mrs. L. [rising]. Thank you, sir. 
 
 Harry. Take these. 
 
 Mrs. L. Yus, sir. 
 
 Harry. God bless you. [He goes to door, 
 opens it and stands there. Mrs. L. smothers 
 a sob and as she goes out she bobs to Harry. 
 Harry shuts the door and comes down stage. 
 Archie appears R. of window. His head is 
 
ACT IV 121 
 
 hent down and is hurrying past. Harry makes 
 a dash at the window and catches the boy by 
 the arm.] 
 
 Harry. Where are you going? 
 
 Archie {^shouting']. Let me go. 
 
 Harry. I won't let you go. 
 
 Archie. Let me go I tell you. 
 
 Harry. Come into my room. 
 
 Archie. I won't. 
 
 Harry. I order you into my room. [The 
 boy instinctively obeys.] 
 
 Harry. Stand up. Look at me. 
 
 Archie [bursting out]. Let me go. You 
 don't believe in me. You. I can't live over 
 that. 
 
 Harry. I do believe in you, old man. . . . 
 I do. I believe every word that you said. 
 You behaved like a gentleman and a man of 
 honour and I thank you. Forgive me. 
 [Archie peers up into Harry's face, gives a 
 great sob and puts his hands over his face. 
 Flings himself into a chair and bursts out cry- 
 ing. Harry goes to door and locks it, goes to 
 the window and shuts it, crosses to the boy and 
 stands over him.] 
 
 Harry. Old fellow, I did you a great in- 
 justice. I am as bad as the others with whom 
 you've been. You are a better man than I am, 
 Archie Graham. I will take a lesson from you. 
 
122 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 Archie. For God's sake don't say that. 
 
 Harry. It is our fault. Not Effie's and not 
 yours that you were put to the test. You've 
 won. Please forgive me. 
 
 Archie [springing up and giving his hands to 
 HarryJ. Oh ... sir! [Harry puts his arms 
 round the boy's shoulders and pats them, holds 
 him at arm's length and looks at him. As his 
 right hand goes down to grasp the boy's left 
 hand, it comes into contact with something hard 
 in the boy's pocket.'] 
 
 Harry [recoiling']. What's that thing in 
 your pocket? 
 
 Archie. Nothing. It ... it doesn't mat- 
 ter now. 
 
 Harry [frightfully agitated]. Give it to 
 me. 
 
 Archie. I'd rather not. Don't ask me for 
 it. 
 
 Harry [holding out a shaking hand]. Give 
 it to me I tell you. [Archie hesitates, puts his 
 hand in his pocket and brings out a pistol. 
 Harry springs forward, catches the boy by the 
 wrist and takes the pistol from his hand.] 
 
 Harry [hoarsely]. You were going ... to 
 use this . . . 
 
 Archie. You didn't believe me. I'd worked 
 for nothing. 
 
ACT IV 123 
 
 Harry. Oh, my God. I might have killed 
 this boy. 
 
 Archie. Oh, please . . . I . . . 
 
 Harry [holds the pistol out in the palm of his 
 hand and looks at it; in a low voice.] Sit down. 
 [Archie sits at desk C. Harry stands very still 
 for a moment. He looks old and worn.] 
 
 Harry. I am going to make a confession to 
 you that I've made to no other living man or 
 woman. You wring it out of me by what 
 you've done for me, and for my wife, and 
 EfEe. . . . Do you remember my saying the 
 first day you came here that I hoped I should 
 never have to tell you why I went into the 
 Church ? 
 
 Archie. Yes, but don't, please . . . 
 
 Harry. I must, because I want you to know 
 how sorry I am for judging and disbelieving you, 
 and because I want to remind myself of that 
 other time when God drew me up and showed 
 me that If a man is without mercy he is not fit 
 to be a son of his father. [He goes to his desk 
 and sits down, putting the revolver in front of 
 him.] You once called me splendid. I was 
 so splendid a fellow at Oxford, with my cricket 
 blue, my presidency of the union, my popu- 
 larity, my admiring set, my career gleaming 
 ahead, that I didn't believe in God, I believed 
 
124 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 only in myself. I was so splendid that I passed 
 judgments on my fellows and had no mercy for 
 weakness and broken words. • / was not weak. 
 I never broke my word. ... I had a friend, 
 a Jonathan, whom I loved and trusted. We 
 were together at Eton, in the same college 
 at Oxford. We rose together, step by step, 
 in work and out of it. There was one other 
 person besides myself, in whom I believed. It 
 was this friend. . . . We were both poor men, 
 soldiers' sons. Our fathers deprived them- 
 selves of their few luxuries to send us to Ox- 
 ford. They were men who looked to us to 
 do well, but, above all, to keep their names 
 bright. We were both to be barristers. We 
 had our eyes on Parliament. Ambition was 
 our fetish. We backed ourselves to win. . . . 
 It was the custom of our fathers to pay into 
 our bank all the money it was necessary for us 
 to have for the year. In the Michaelmas 
 term of our third year my friend came to me 
 and told me that his father was in temporary 
 need of money. He asked me to lend him, 
 to pass on to his father, all the money I had to 
 see me through my third year. It would be 
 returned in a fortnight. I believed in this man 
 and without a moment's hesitation, wrote the 
 cheque. . . . The fortnight came to an end. 
 The money was not returned. I let another 
 
ACT IV 125 
 
 fortnight go by and needed money. I was 
 forced to remind my friend of his guarantee. 
 . . . He confessed, brokenly and with shame, 
 that his father had neither needed the money 
 nor had it. The story was a He. He, him- 
 self, had needed the money to pay racing debts, 
 thinking that he could get it from an old uncle 
 to pay me back. But the uncle had been bled 
 before. He refused to be bled again. ... I 
 knew that my father could give me no more. 
 I saw all my chances ruined, all that I worked 
 for gone for nothing. The one way of my 
 remaining at Oxford, my forlorn hope, was to 
 tell my friend's father of his son's treachery, 
 and leave it to him to make it good. . . . He 
 lived In Scotland. I got permission from the 
 authorities to go to Scotland on urgent business. 
 I left my friend, mercilessly, well knowing that 
 the germ of suicide was in his brain. . . . Be- 
 tween London and Rugby there was a frightful 
 accident. Three men in my carriage were 
 killed. I lay for an hour unhurt, pinned down 
 with wreckage. ... In that long, waiting hour 
 God came to me — and when I returned hot 
 speed to Oxford and rushed to my friend's 
 room, I found him lying face downwards on 
 the floor with a bullet through his brain. [He 
 gives a sob. His head bends low.'\ I gave 
 up my career and became a servant of God. 
 
126 THE BLINDNESS OF VIRTUE 
 
 [There is a pause. Archie stretches out his 
 hand to lay it on Harry's. But he is unable 
 to do so and gets up quietly and bends over the 
 humbled man.'] 
 
 Archie. Oh, sir, I , . . 
 
 Harry [^looking up]. You remember what 
 I said just now about foundation stones ? 
 
 Archie. Yes. I shall always remember 
 that. 
 
 Harry. I've laid mine twice and both times 
 the building has fallen about my ears. I shall 
 never build a Westminster Abbey. [He takes 
 up the pistol.] Lend me this . . . thing, will 
 you? 
 
 Archie. If you want it, I . . . 
 
 Harry. It will be of infinite use to me. I 
 will keep it [he goes to desk, opens a drawer 
 and drops it in, locking the drawer] as a re- 
 minder. [He turns.] When I marry you and 
 EfEe . . . 
 
 Archie. Marry? . . . Will you? 
 
 Harry. I shall be proud, old man. 
 
 Archie. Oh, I'll work so hard to deserve 
 this, sir. 
 
 Harry. Of course you will, and when I 
 marry you and EfEe we will throw that pistol 
 away. Before that time comes we will both 
 work hard to earn the right to do so. [Mrs. 
 P. and Effie stop in front of window. They 
 
ACT IV 127 
 
 are arm in arm and both carry roses. Mrs. P. 
 taps. Archie springs forward and opens win- 
 dow.] 
 
 Mrs. P. We are going to give these to 
 Mary Ann's baby, dearest. 
 
 Harry. Thank you. [^Mrs. P. stretches 
 out her hand to Archie. He darts forward and 
 bows over it. She smiles at him and leads Effie 
 of R. The gong sounds loudly.] 
 
 Archie \_turning~\. Ah! 
 
 Harry. Yes. God's in His Heaven. . . . 
 I wonder what's for breakfast ! iHarry walks 
 to the boy, takes his arm and they go of to- 
 gether.] 
 
 [Curtain.]