Glass 
 Book 
 
 Copyiight}l^_ 
 
 lii 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
PLAYS BY 
 
 JOHN GALSWORTHY 
 
 THE SILVER BOX 
 
 JOY 
 
 STRIFE 
 
 JUSTICE 
 
 THE LITTLE DREAM 
 
 THE ELDEST SON 
 
 THE PIGEON 
 
 THE FUGITIVE 
 
 THE MOB 
 
 A BIT O' LOVE 
 
A BIT O' U7JJ 
 
A BIT O' LOVE 
 
 A PLAY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN GALSWORTHY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1915 
 
TK Ui^ 
 
 Copyright, 1915, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published June, 1915 
 
 JUN 15 1915 
 
 )C1.D 40934 
 
 ^o 
 
 / 
 
PERSONS OF THE PLAY 
 
 Michael Strangway i 
 
 Beatrice Strangway ' 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere 
 
 Jim Bere ■ 
 
 Jack Cremer 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe 
 
 Burlacombe 
 
 Trustaford ^ 
 
 Jarland ! 
 
 Clyst j 
 
 Freman ] 
 
 GODLEIGH j 
 
 Sol Potter ' 
 
 •i 
 
 Morse, and Others j 
 
 Ivy Burlacombe 
 
 Connie Trustaford I 
 
 Gladys Freman ! 
 
 Mercy Jarland I 
 
 Tibby Jarland j 
 
 Bobbie Jarland ] 
 
SCENE: A VILLAGE OF THE WEST 
 
 The Action passes on Ascension Day. 
 
 ACT I. Strangwat's rooms at Burlacombe's. Morning. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 SCENE I. The Village Inn. 
 
 SCENE II. The same. 
 
 SCENE III. Outside the church. I Evening. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. Strangway's rooms. 
 
 SCENE II. Burlacombe's barn. 
 
ACT I 
 
 It is Ascension Day in a village of the West, In the 
 low panelled hall-sittingroom of the Burlacombes' 
 farmhouse on the village green, Michael Strang- 
 WAY, a clerical collar round his throat and a dark 
 Norfolk jacket on his hack, is playing the flute 
 before a very large framed photograph of a woman, 
 which is the only picture on the walls. His age is 
 about thirty-five; his figure thin and very upright 
 and his clean-shcn-n face thin, upright, narrow, with 
 long and rather pointed ears; his dark hair is 
 brushed in a coxcomb off his forehead. A faint 
 smile hovers about his lips that Nature has made 
 ratlier full and he has made thin, as though keeping 
 a hard secret; but his bright grey eyes, dark round 
 the rim, look out and upwards almost as if he were 
 being crucified. There is something about the whole 
 of him that makes him seen not quite present. A 
 gentle creature, burnt within. 
 
 A low, broad vnndow above a ivindow-seat forms the 
 background to his figure; and through its lattice 
 panes are seen the outer gate and yew-trees of a 
 churchyard and the porch of a church, bathed in 
 May sunlight. The front door at right angles to the 
 1 
 
2 A BIT O' LOVE ACT i 
 
 vnndow-seat, leads to the village greeny and a door 
 on the left into the house. 
 It is the third movement of Veracini's violin sonata that 
 Strangway plays. His back is turned to the door 
 into the house, and he does not hear when it is opened, 
 and Ivy Burlacombe, the farmer's daughter, a girl 
 of fourteen, small and quiet as a mou^e, comes in, 
 a prayer-book in one hand, and in the other a glass 
 of water, with wild orchis and a bit of deep pink 
 hawthorn. She sits down on the window-seat, and 
 having opened her book, sniffs at the flowers. Com- 
 ing to the end of the movement Strangway stops, 
 and looking up at the face on the wall, heaves a 
 long sigh» 
 
 Ivy. [From the seat] I picked these for yii, Mr. 
 Strangway. 
 
 Strangway. [Turning with a start] Ah! Ivy. 
 Thank j^ou. [He puts his flute down on a chair against 
 the far wall] Where are the others ? 
 
 As he speaks, Gladys Freman, a dark gip- 
 syish girl, and Connie Trustaford, a fair, 
 stolid, blue-eyed Saxon, both about sixteen, 
 come in through the front door, behind which 
 they have evidently been listening. They too 
 have prayer-books in their hands. They 
 sidle past Ivy, and also sit down under the 
 window. 
 
 Gladys. Mercy's comin', Mr. Strangway. 
 
ACT I A BIT O' LOVE 3 
 
 Strangway. Good mornmg, Gladys; good morn- 
 ing, Connie. 
 
 He turns to a hook-case on a table against the 
 far wall, and taking out a book, finds his 
 place in it. While he stands thus with his 
 hack to the girls, Mercy Jarland comes in 
 from the green. She also is about sixteen, 
 with fair hair and china-blue eyes. She 
 glides in quickly, hiding something behind 
 her, and sits down on the seat next the door. 
 And at once there is a whispering. 
 Strangway. [Turning to them] Good morning, 
 Mercy. 
 
 Mercy. Good morning, Mr. Strangway. 
 Strangway. Now, yesterday I was telling you what 
 our Lord's coming meant to the world. I want you 
 to understand that before He came there wasn't really 
 love, as we know it. I don't mean to say that there 
 weren't many good people; but there wasn't love for 
 the sake of loving. D'you think you understand what 
 I mean? 
 
 Mercy fidgets. Gladys's eyes are following 
 
 a fly. 
 
 Ivy. Yes, Mr. Strangway. 
 
 Strangway. It isn't enough to love people because 
 they're good to you, or because m some way or other 
 you're gomg to get something by it. We have to love 
 because we love loving. That's the great thing— 
 without that we're nothing but Pagans. 
 
 Gladys. Please, what is Pagans ? 
 
4 A BIT O' LOVE act i 
 
 Strangway. That's what the first Christians called 
 the people who lived in the villages and were not yet 
 Christians, Gladys. 
 
 Mercy. We live in a village, but we're Christians. 
 
 Strangway. [With a smile] Yes, Mercy; and what 
 is a Christian .P 
 
 Mercy kicks afoot sideways against her neigh- 
 bour, frowns over her china-hlue eyes, is 
 silent; then, as his question passes on, 
 makes a quick little face, wriggles, and looks 
 behind her, 
 
 Strangway. Ivy? 
 
 Ivy. 'Tis a man — whii — whii 
 
 Strangway. Yes ? — Connie ? 
 
 Connie [Who speaks rather thickly, as if she had a 
 permanent slight cold] Please, Mr. Strangway, 'tis a 
 man whii goes to church. 
 
 Gladys. He 'as to be baptized — and confirmed; 
 and — and — buried . 
 
 Ivy. 'Tis a man whii — whii's giide and 
 
 Gladys. He don't drink, an' he don't beat his 
 horses, an' he don't hit back. 
 
 Mercy. [Whispering] 'Tisn't your turn. [To Strang- 
 way] 'Tis a man like us. 
 
 Ivy. I know what Mrs. Strangway said it was, 
 'cause I asked her once, before she went away. 
 
 Strangway. [Startled] Yes? 
 
 Ivy. She said it was a man whii forgave every- 
 thing. 
 
ACT I A BIT O' LOVE 5 
 
 Strangway. Ah! 
 
 The note of a cuckoo comes travelling. The 
 girls are gazing at Strangway, who seems 
 to have gone off into a dream. They begin 
 to fidget and whisper. 
 
 Connie. Please, Mr. Strangway, father says if yu 
 hit a man and he don't hit yii back, he's no gUde at all. 
 
 Mercy. When Tommy Morse wouldn't fight, us 
 pinched him— he did squeal! [She giggles] Made me 
 laugh ! 
 
 Strangway. Did I ever tell you about St. Francis 
 of Assisi ? 
 
 Ivy. [Clasping her hands] No. 
 
 Strangway. Well, he was the best Christian, I 
 think, that ever lived — simply full of love and joy. 
 
 Ivy. I expect he's dead. 
 
 Strangway. About seven hundred years, Ivy. 
 
 Ivy. [Sqf%] Oh! 
 
 Strangway. Everything to him was brother or sis- 
 ter — the sun and the moon, and all that was poor 
 and weak and sad, and animals and birds, so that 
 they even used to follow him about. 
 
 Mercy. I know ! He had crumbs in his pocket. 
 
 Strangway. No; he had love in his eyes. 
 
 Ivy. 'Tis like about Orpheus, that yU told us. 
 
 Strangway. Ah ! But St. Francis was a Christian, 
 and Orpheus was a Pagan. 
 
 Ivy. Oh! 
 
 Strangway. Orpheus drew everything after him 
 with music; St. Francis by love. 
 
6 A BIT O' LOVE act i 
 
 Ivy. Perhaps it was the same, really. 
 
 Strangway. [Looking at his flute] Perhaps it was. 
 Ivy. 
 
 Gladys. Did 'e 'ave a flute like yii ? 
 
 Ivy. The flowers smell sweeter when they 'ear 
 music; they dii. 
 
 [She holds up the glass of flowers. 
 
 Strangway. [Touching one of the orchis] What's the 
 name of this one? 
 
 The girls cluster, save Mercy, who is taking 
 a stealthy interest in what she has behind 
 her. 
 
 Connie. We call it a cuckoo, Mr. St^angwa3^ 
 
 Gladys. 'Tis awful common down by the streams. 
 We've got one medder where 'tis so thick almost as 
 the goldie cups. 
 
 Strangway. Odd ! I've never noticed it. 
 
 Ivy. Please, Mr. Strangway, yii don't notice when 
 yii're walkin'; yU go along like this. 
 
 [She holds up her face as one looking at the sky. 
 
 Strangway. Bad as that, Ivy? 
 
 Ivy. Mrs. Strangway often used to pick it last 
 spring. 
 
 Strangway. Did she? Did she? 
 
 [He has gone off again into a kind of dream. 
 
 Mercy. I like being confirmed. 
 
 Strangway. Ah! Yes. Now — What's that be- 
 hind you, Mercy? 
 
 Mercy. [Engagingly producing a cage a little bigger 
 than a mouse-trapy containing a skylark] My skylark. 
 
ACT I 
 
 A BIT O' LOVE 
 
 Strangway. What! 
 
 Mercy. It can fly; but we're goin' to clip its wings. 
 Bobbie caught it. 
 
 Strangway. How long ago? 
 
 Mercy. [Conscious of impending disaster] Yester- 
 day. 
 
 Strangway. [White hot] Give me the cage ! 
 
 Mercy. [Puckering] I want my skylark. [As he steps 
 up to her and takes the cage— thoroughly alarmed] I gave 
 Bobbie thrippence for it ! 
 
 Strangway. [Producing a sixpence] There ! 
 
 Mercy. [Throwing it down — passionately] I want 
 my skylark ! 
 
 Strangway. God made this poor bu-d for the sky 
 and the grass. And you put it in that! Never cage 
 any wild thing ! Never ! 
 
 Mercy. [Faint and sullen] I want my skylark. 
 
 Strangway. [Taking the cage to the door] No! 
 [He holds up the cage and opens it] Off you go, poor 
 
 thing ! 
 
 [The bird flies out and away. 
 The girls watch with round eyes the fling 
 up of his arm, and the freed bird flying 
 away. 
 Ivy. I'm glad ! 
 
 Mercy kicks her viciously and sobs. Strang- 
 way comes from the door, looks at Mercy 
 sobbing, and suddenly clasps his head. The 
 girls watch him with a queer mixture of 
 wonder, alarm, and disapproval. 
 
8 A BIT O' LOVE act i 
 
 Gladys. [Whispering] Don't cry, Mercy. Bobbie'll 
 soon catch yli another. 
 
 Strangway has dropped his hands, and is look- 
 ing again at Mercy. Ivy sits with hands 
 clasped, gazing at Strangway. Mercy 
 continues her artificial sobbing, 
 Strangway. [Quietly] The class is over for to-day. 
 He goes up to Mercy, and holds out his hand. 
 She does not take it, and runs out knuckling 
 her eyes. Strangway turns on his heel and 
 goes into the house. 
 Connie. 'Twasn't his bird. 
 
 Ivy. Skylarks belong to the sky. Mr. Strangway 
 said so. 
 
 Gladys. Not when they'm caught, they don't. 
 Ivy. They dii. , 
 
 Connie. 'Twas her bird. 
 Ivy. He gave her sixpence for it. 
 Gladys. She didn't take it. 
 Connie. There it is on the ground. 
 Ivy. She might have. 
 Gladys. He'll p'raps take my squirrel, tu. 
 Ivy. The bird sang — I 'card it! Right up in the 
 sky. It wouldn't have sanged if it weren't glad. 
 Gladys. Well, Mercy cried. 
 Ivy. I don't care. 
 
 Gladys. 'Tis a shame! And I know something. 
 Mrs. Strangway 's at Durford. 
 Connie. She's — never! 
 Gladys. I saw her yesterday. An' if she's there 
 
ACT I A BIT O' LOVE 9 
 
 she ought to be here. I told mother, an' she said: 
 "Yii mind yer business.'* An' when she goes in to 
 market to-morrow she'm goin' to see. An' if she's 
 really there, mother says, 'tis a fine tu-dli an' a praaper 
 scandal. So / know a lot more'n yii dii. 
 
 [Ivy stares at her. 
 
 Connie. Mrs. Strangway told mother she was goin' 
 to France for the winter because her mother was ill. 
 
 GiiADYS. 'Tisn't winter now — Ascension Day. I 
 saw her comin' out o' Dr. Desart's house. I know 
 'twas her because she had on a blue dress an' a proud 
 liike. Mother says the doctor come over here tii 
 often before Mrs. Strangway went away, just afore 
 Christmas. They was old sweethearts before she 
 married Mr. Strangway. [To Ivy] 'Twas ytire mother 
 told mother that. 
 
 [Ivy gazes at them more and more wide-eyed. 
 
 Connie. Father says if Mrs. Bradmere an' the old 
 Rector knew about the doctor, they wouldn't 'ave 
 Mr. Strangway 'ere for curate any longer; because 
 mother says it takes more'n a year for a glide wife 
 to leave her 'usband, an' 'e so fond of her. But 
 'tisn't no business of ours, father says. 
 
 Gladys. Mother says so tii. She's praaper set 
 against gossip. She'll know all about it to-morrow 
 after market. 
 
 Ivy. [Stamping her foot] I don't want to 'ear nothin' 
 at all; I don't, an' I won't. 
 
 [A rather shame-faced silence falls on the girls. 
 
10 A BIT O* LOVE act i 
 
 Gladys. [In a quick whisper] 'Ere's Mrs. Burla- 
 combe. 
 
 There enters from the house a stout motherly 
 woman with a round grey eye and very red 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Ivy, take Mr. Strangway his 
 ink, or we'll never *ave no sermon to-night. He'm in 
 his thinkin' box, but 'tis not a bit o' yiise 'im thinkin' 
 without 'is ink. [She hands her daughter an inkpot and 
 blotting-pad. Ivy Takes them and goes out] What- 
 ever's this? [She picks up the little bird-cage. 
 
 Gladys. 'Tis Mercy Jarland's. Mr. Strangway let 
 her skylark go. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Aw! Did 'e now.? Serve 'er 
 right, bringin' an 'eathen bird to confirmation class. 
 
 Connie. I'll take it to her. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. No. YU leave it there, an' let 
 Mr. Strangway dii what 'e likes with it. Bringin' a 
 bird like that ! Well I never ! 
 
 The girls, perceiving that they have lighted on 
 stony soil, look at each other and slide towards 
 the door. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Yes, yii just be off, an' think 
 on what yii've been told in class, an' be'ave like Chris- 
 tians, that's glide maids. An' don't yii come no more 
 in the 'avenin's dancin' them 'eathen dances in my 
 barn, naighther, till after yii'm confirmed — 'tisn't right. 
 I've told Ivy I won't 'ave it. 
 
 Connie. Mr. Strangway don't mind — he likes us 
 
ACT I A BIT O' LOVE 11 
 
 to; 'twas Mrs. Strangway began teachin* us. He's 
 goin' to give a prize. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Yii just dU what I tell yii an' 
 never mind Mr. Strangway — he'm tu kind to every- 
 one. D'yli think I don't know how gells oughter 
 be'ave before confirmation ? YU be'ave like I did ! 
 Now, goo ahn ! Shoo ! 
 
 She hustles them out, rather as she might hustle 
 her chickens, and begins tidying the room. 
 There comes a wandering figure to the open 
 window. It is that of a man of about thirty- 
 five, of feeble gait, leaning the weight of all 
 one side of him on a stick. His dark face, 
 with black hair, one lock of which has gone 
 white, was evidently once that of an ardent 
 man. Now it is slack, weakly smiling, and 
 the brown eyes are lost, and seem always to 
 be asking something to which there is no 
 answer. 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. [With that forced cheerfidness 
 always assumed in the face of too great misfortune] 
 Well, Jim ! better ? [At the faint brightening of the 
 smile] That's right ! Yii'm gettin' on bravely. Want 
 Parson ? 
 
 Jim. [Nodding and smiling, and speaking slowly] I 
 want to tell 'un about my cat. 
 
 [His face loses its smile. 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Wliy! what's she been duin' 
 then? Mr. Strangway's busy. Won't I dU? 
 Jim. [Shaking his head] No. I want to tell him. 
 
12 A BIT O' LOVE act i 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Whatever she been diiin'? 
 Havin' kittens? 
 
 Jim. No. She'm lost. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Dearie me! Aw! she'm not 
 lost. Cats be like maids; they must get out a bit. 
 
 Jim. She'm lost. Maybe he'll know where she'll be. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Well, well. I'll go an' find 'im. 
 
 Jim. He's a glide man. He's very glide. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. That's certain zure. 
 
 Strangway. [Entering from the house] Mrs. Burla- 
 combe, I can't think where I've put my book on St. 
 Francis — the large, squarish pale-blue one ? 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Aw! there now! I knii there 
 was somethin' on me mind. Miss Willis she came in 
 yesterday afterniine when yii was out, to borrow it. 
 Oh! yes — I said — I'm zure Mr. Strangway'U lend 
 it 'ee. Now think o' that ! 
 
 Strangway. Of course, Mrs. Burlacombe; very 
 glad she's got it. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Aw ! but that's not all. When 
 I tuk it up there come out a whole flutter o' little 
 bits o' paper wi' little rhymes on 'em, same as I see 
 yii writin'. Aw! my giideness! I says to meself, 
 Mr. Strangway widn' want no one seein' them. 
 
 Strangway. Dear me ! No; certainly not ! 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. An' so I putt 'em in your 
 secretary. 
 
 Strangway. My — ah! Yes. Thank you; yes. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. But I'll goo over an' get the 
 bUke for yii. 'T won't take me 'alf a minit. 
 
ACT I A BIT O' LOVE 13 
 
 She goes out on to the green. Jim Bere has 
 come in. 
 
 Strangway. [Gently] Well, Jim? 
 
 Jim. My cat's lost. 
 
 Strangway. Lost? 
 
 Jim. Day before yesterday. She'm not come back. 
 They've shot 'er, I think; or she'm caught in one o' 
 they rabbit-traps. 
 
 Strangway. Oh! no; my dear fellow, she'll come 
 back. I'll speak to Sir Herbert's keepers. 
 
 Jim. Yes, zurr. I feel lonesome without 'er. 
 
 Strangway. [With a faint smile — mme to himself 
 than to Jim] Lonesome! Yes! That's bad, Jim! 
 That's bad ! 
 
 Jim. I miss 'er when I sits thar in the avenin'. 
 
 Strangway. The evenings — They're the worst — 
 and when the blackbirds sing in the morning. 
 
 Jim. She used to lie on my bed, ye know, zurr. 
 [Strangway turns his face away, contracted with 
 pain] She'm like a Christian. 
 
 Strangway. The beasts are. 
 
 Jim. There's plenty folk ain't 'alf as Christian as 
 'er be. 
 
 Strangway. Well, dear Jim, I'll do my very best. 
 And any time you're lonely, come up, and I'll play 
 the flute to you. 
 
 Jim. [Wriggling slightly] No, zurr. Thank 'ee, zurr. 
 
 Strangway. What — don't you like music? 
 
 Jim. Ye-es, zurr. [A figure passes the window. 
 Seeing U he says with his slow smile: "'Ere's Mrs. 
 
14 A BIT O* LOVE act i 
 
 Bradmere, comin* from the Rectory." With queer 
 malice] She don't like cats. But she'm a cat 'erself, 
 I thmk. 
 
 Strangwat. [With his smile] Jim ! 
 Jim. She'm always tellin' me I'm liikin' better. I'm 
 not better, zurr. 
 
 Strangway. That's her kindness. * 
 Jim. I don't think it is. 'Tis laziness, an' 'avin' 
 'er own way. She'm very fond of 'er own way. 
 
 A knock on the door cuts off his speech. Fol- 
 ' lowing closely on the knocks as though no 
 
 doors were licensed to he closed against her, 
 a grey-haired lady enters; a capable , brown- 
 faced woman of seventy, whose every tone and 
 movement exhales authority. With a nod 
 and a ''good morning'' to Strangway she 
 turns at once to Jim Bere. 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Ah! Jim; you're looking better. 
 [Jim Bere shakes his head. 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Oh! yes, you are. Getting on 
 splendidly. And now, I just want to speak to Mr. 
 Strangway. 
 
 Jim Bere touches his forelock, and slowly, 
 leaning on his stick, goes out. 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [Waiting for the door to close] You 
 know how that came on him? Caught the girl he 
 was engaged to, one night, with another man, the 
 rage broke something here. [She touches her forehead] 
 Four years ago. 
 Strangway. Poor fellow ! 
 
ACT I A BIT O' LOVE 15 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [Looking at him sharply] Is your 
 wife back? 
 
 Strangway. [Starting] No. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. By the way, poor Mrs. Cremer — 
 is she any better? 
 
 Strangway. No; going fast. Wonderful — so patient. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [With grvff sympathy] Um ! Yes. 
 They know how to die! [With another sharp look at 
 him] D'you expect your wife soon ? 
 
 Strangway. I — I — hope so. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. So do I. The sooner the better. 
 
 Strangway. [Shrinking] I trust the Rector's not 
 suflFering so much this morning ? 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Thank you ! His foot's very bad. 
 As she speaks Mrs. Burlacombe returns with 
 a large pale-blue book in her hand. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Good day, M'm! [Taking the 
 book across to Strangway] Miss Willis, she says she'm 
 very sorry, zurr. 
 
 Strangway. She was very welcome, Mrs. Bur- 
 lacombe. [To Mrs. Bradmere] Forgive me — my 
 sermon. [He goes into the house. 
 
 The two women gaze after him. Then, at once, 
 as it were, draw into themselves, as if pre- 
 paring for an encounter, and yet seem to 
 expand as if losing the need for restraint. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [Abruptly] He misses his wife very 
 much, I'm afraid. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Ah! Don't he? Poor dear 
 man; he keeps a terrible tight 'and over 'imself, but 
 
16 A BIT O' LOVE act i 
 
 'tis suthin' cruel the way he walks about at night. 
 He'm just like a cow when its calf's weaned. 'T'as 
 gone to me 'eart truly to see 'im these months past. 
 T'other day when I went up to dii his riime, I yeard 
 a noise like this [she sniffs]; an' ther' 'e was at the 
 wardrobe, snuffin' at 'er things. I did never think a 
 man cud care for a woman so much as that. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. H'm ! 
 
 Mrs. Buklacombe. 'Tis funny rest — an' 'e comin' 
 'ere for quiet after that tearin' great London parish! 
 'E'm terrible absent-minded tu — don't take no inter- 
 est in 'is fiide. Yesterday, goin' on for one o'clock, 
 'e says to me, "I expect 'tis nearly breakfast- time, 
 Mrs. Burlacombe!" 'E'd 'ad it twice already! 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Twice! Nonsense! 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Zurely! I give 'im a nummit 
 afore 'e gets up; an' 'e 'as 'is brekjus reg'lar at nine. 
 Must feed un up. He'm on 'is feet all day, goin' to 
 zee folk that widden want to zee an angel, they'm 
 that busy; an' when 'e comes in 'e'U play 'is fliite 
 there. He'm wastin' away for want of 'is wife. That's 
 what 'tis. An' 'im so sweet-spoken, tii, 'tes a pleasure 
 to year 'im — Never says a word ! 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Yes, that's the kind of man who 
 gets treated badly. I'm afraid she's not worthy of 
 him, Mrs. Burlacombe. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. [Plaiting her apron] 'Tesn't for 
 me to zay that. She'm a very pleasant lady. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Too pleasant. What's this story 
 about her being seen in Durford? 
 
ACT I A BIT O' LOVE 17 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Aw! I dii never year no 
 gossip, m'm. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [Drily] Of course not! But you 
 see the Rector wishes to know. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. [Flustered] Well — folk will talk ! 
 But, as I says to Burlacombe — "'Tes paltry," I says; 
 and they only married eighteen months, and Mr. 
 Strangway so devoted-like. 'Tes nothing but love, 
 with 'im. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Come! 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. There's puzzivantin' folk as'U 
 set an' gossip the feathers off an angel. But I dii 
 never listen. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Now then, Mrs. Burlacombe? 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Well, they dii say as how Dr. 
 Desart over to Durford and Mrs. Strangway was 
 sweethearts afore she wer' married. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. I knew that. Who was it saw 
 her coming out of Dr. Desart's house yesterday? 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. In a manner of spakin' 'tes 
 Mrs. Freman that says 'er Gladys seen her. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. That child's got an eye like a 
 hawk. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. 'Tes wonderful how things dii 
 spread. 'Tesn't as if us gossiped. DU seem to grow- 
 like in the naight. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [To herself] I never liked her. 
 That Riviera excuse, Mrs. Burlacombe — Very con- 
 venient things, sick mothers. Mr. Strangway doesn't 
 know ? 
 
18 A BIT O' LOVE act i 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. The Lord forbid! 'Twid send 
 un crazy, I think. For all he'm so moony an' gentle- 
 like, I think he'm a terrible passionate man inside. 
 He've a-got a saint in 'im, for zure; but 'tes only 
 'alf-baked, in a manner of spakin'. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. I shall go and see Mrs. Fre- 
 man. There's been too much of this gossip all the 
 winter. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. 'Tes unfortunate-like 'tes the 
 Fremans. Freman he'm a gipsy sort of a feller; and 
 he've never forgiven Mr. Strangway for spakin' to 
 'im about the way he trates 'is 'orses. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Ah ! I'm afraid Mr. Strangway's 
 not too discreet when his feelings are touched. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. 'E've a-got an 'eart so big as 
 the full miine. But 'tes no ylise expectin' tii much 
 o' this world. 'Tes a funny place, after that. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Yes, Mrs. Burlacombe; and I 
 shall give some of these good people a rare rap over 
 the knuckles for their want of charity. For all they 
 look as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths, 
 they're an un-Christian lot. [Looking very directly at 
 Mrs. Burlacombe] It's lucky we've some hold over 
 the village. I'm not going to have scandal. I shall 
 speak to Sir Herbert, and he and the Rector will 
 take steps. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. [With covert malice] Aw ! I dU 
 hope 'twon't upset the Rector, an' 'tis fiite so pop- 
 tious ! 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [Grimly] His foot'll be sound 
 
ACT I A BIT O' LOVE 19 
 
 enough to come down sharp. By the way, will you 
 send me a duck up to the Rectory? 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. [Glad to get away] Zurely, m*m; 
 at once. I've some luv'ly fat birds. 
 
 [She goes into the house. 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Old puss-cat ! 
 
 She turns to go, and in the doorway encounters 
 a very little, red-cheeked girl in a peacock- 
 blue cap, and pink frock, who curtsies 
 stolidly, 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Well, Tibby Jarland, what do you 
 want here? Always sucking something, aren't you? 
 Getting no reply from Tibby Jarland, she 
 passes out. Tibby comes in, looks round, 
 takes a large sweet out of her mouth, con- 
 templates it, and puts it back again. Then, 
 in a perfunctory and very stolid fashion, she 
 looks about the floor, as if she had been told 
 to find something. While she is finding noth- 
 ing and sucking her sweet, her sister Mercy 
 comes in furtively, still frowning and vin- 
 dictive. 
 Mercy. What! Haven't you found it, Tibby? 
 Get along with 'ee, then ! 
 
 She accelerates the stolid Tibby's departure with 
 a smack, searches under the seat, finds and 
 picks up the deserted sixpence. Then very 
 quickly she goes to the door. But it is 
 opened before she reaches it, and, finding 
 herself caught, she slips behind the chintz 
 
20 A BIT 0' LOVE act i 
 
 window-curtain. A woman has entered, 
 who is clearly the original of the large pho- 
 tograph. She is not strictly pretty, but 
 there is charm in her pale, resolute face, 
 with its mocking lips, flexible brows, and 
 greenish eyes, whose lids, square above them, 
 have short, dark lashes. She is dressed in 
 blue, and her fair hair is coiled up under 
 a cap and motor-veil. She comes in swiftly, 
 and closes the door behind her; becomes ir- 
 resolute; then, suddenly deciding, moves to- 
 wards the door into the house. Mercy 
 slips from behind her curtain to make off, 
 but at that moment the door into the hou^e 
 is opened, and she has at once to slip back 
 again into covert. It is Ivy who has ap- 
 
 IvY. [Amazed] Oh! Mrs. Strangway! 
 
 Evidently disconcerted by this appearance, 
 Beatrice Strangway pulls herself together 
 and confronts the child with a smile. 
 Beatrice. Well, Ivy — youVe grown ! You didn't 
 expect me, did you ? 
 
 Ivy. No, Mrs. Strangway; but I hoped yii'd be 
 comin' soon. 
 
 Beatrice. Ah ! Yes. Is Mr. Strangway in ? 
 Ivy. [Hypnotized by those faintly smiling lips] Yes 
 — oh, yes ! He's writin' his sermon in the little room. 
 He will be glad ! 
 Beatrice. [Going a little closer, and never taking 
 
ACT I A BIT O' LOVE 21 
 
 her eyes off the child] Yes. Now, Ivy, will you do 
 something for me ? 
 
 Ivy. [Fluttering] Oh, yes, Mrs. Strangway. 
 
 Beatrice. Quite sure.^^ 
 
 Ivy. Oh, yes ! 
 
 Beatrice. Are you old enough to keep a secret? 
 
 Ivy. [Nodding] I'm fourteen now. 
 
 Beatrice. Well, then — I don't want anybody but 
 Mr. Strangway to know I've been here; nobody, not 
 even your mother. D'you understand? 
 
 Ivy. [Troubled] No. Only, I can keep a secret. 
 
 Beatrice. Mind, if anybody hears, it will hurt — 
 Mr. Strangway. 
 
 Ivy. Oh! I wouldn't — hurt — him. 3Iust yii go 
 away again? [Trembling towards her] I wish yii were 
 goin' to stay. And perhaps some one has seen yii — 
 They 
 
 Beatrice. [Hastily] No, no one. I came motoring; 
 like this. [She moves her veil to show how it can conceal 
 her face] And I came straight down the little lane, 
 and through the barn, across the yard. 
 
 Ivy. [Timidly] People dii see a lot. 
 
 Beatrice. [Still with that hovering smile] I know, 
 but — Now go and tell him quickly and quietly. 
 
 Ivy. [Stopping at the door] Mother's pluckin' a duck. 
 Only, please, Mrs. Strangway, if she comes in even 
 after yii've gone, she'll know, because — because yii 
 always have that particular nice scent. 
 
 Beatrice. Thank you, my child. I'll see to that. 
 Ivy looks at her as if she would speak again. 
 
22 A BIT O' LOVE act i 
 
 then turns suddenly, and goes out. Bea- 
 teice's face darkens; she shivers. Tak- 
 ing out a little cigarette case, she lights a 
 cigarette, and watches the 'puffs of smoke 
 wreathe about her and die away. The 
 frightened Mercy peers out, spying for a 
 chance to escape. Then from the house 
 Strangway comes in. All his dreaminess 
 is gone. 
 Strangway. Thank God! [He stops at the look on 
 her face] I don't understand, though. I thought you 
 were still out there. 
 
 Beatrice. [Letting her cigarette fall, and putting her 
 foot on it] No. 
 
 Strangway. You're staying .? Oh '.Beatrice; come! 
 We'll get away from here at once — as far, as far — 
 anywhere you like. Oh ! my darling — only come ! If 
 
 you knew 
 
 Beatrice. It's no good, Michael; I've tried and 
 tried. 
 Strangway. Not! Then, why — ? Beatrice! You 
 
 said, when you were right away — ^I've waited 
 
 Beatrice. I know. It's cruel — it's horrible. But 
 I told you not to hope, Michael. I've done my best. 
 All these months at Mentone, I've been wondering 
 why I ever let you marry me — when that feeling 
 wasn't dead ! 
 
 Strangway. You can't have come back just to 
 leave me again? 
 
 Beatrice. When you let me go out there with 
 
ACT I A BIT O' LOVE 23 
 
 mother I thought — I did think I would be able; and 
 I had begun — and then — spring came ! 
 
 Strangway. Spring came here too! Never so — 
 aching ! Beatrice, can't you ? 
 
 Beatrice. I've something to say. 
 
 Strangway. No! No! No! 
 
 Beatrice. You see — I've — fallen. 
 
 Strangway. Ah! [In a voice sharpened by pain] 
 Why, in the name of mercy, come here to tell me 
 that ? Was he out there, then ? 
 
 [She shakes her head. 
 
 Beatrice. I came straight back to him. 
 
 Strangway. To Durford ? 
 
 Beatrice. To the Crossway Hotel, miles out — in 
 my own name. They don't know me there. I told 
 you not to hope, Michael. I've done my best; I 
 swear it. 
 
 Strangway. My God! 
 
 Beatrice. It was your God that brought us to live 
 near him I 
 
 Strangway. Why have you come to me like this.'* 
 
 Beatrice. To know what you're going to do. Are 
 you going to divorce me.^* We're in your power. 
 Don't divorce me — Doctor and patient — you must 
 know — it ruins him. He'll lose everything. He'd 
 be disqualified, and he hasn't a penny without his 
 work. 
 
 Strangway. Why should I spare him ? 
 
 Beatrice. Michael, I came to beg. It's hard. 
 
 Strangway. No; don't beg! I can't stand it. 
 
24 A BIT O' LOVE act i 
 
 Beatrice. [Recovering her pride] What are you 
 going to do,* then? Keep us apart by the threat of 
 a divorce? Starve us and prison us? Cage me up 
 here with you? I'm not brute enough to ruin him. 
 
 Strangway. Heaven ! 
 
 Beatrice. I never really stopped loving him. I 
 never loved you, Michael. 
 
 Strangway. [Stunned] Is that true? P3eatrice 
 bends her head] Never loved me? Not — that night 
 — on the river — ^not ? 
 
 Beatrice. [Under her breath] No. 
 
 Strangway. Were you lying to me, then ? Kissing 
 me, and — hating me? 
 
 Beatrice. One doesn't hate men like you; but it 
 wasn't love. ^* * 
 
 Strangway. Why did you tell me it was ? 
 
 Beatrice. Yes. That was the worst thing I've 
 ever done. 
 
 Strangway. Do you think I would have married 
 you? I would have burned first! I never dreamed 
 you didn't. I swear it ! 
 
 Beatrice. [Very low] Forget it ! 
 
 Strangway. Did he try to get you away from me? 
 [Beatrice gives him a swift look] Tell me the truth ! 
 
 Beatrice. No. It was — I — alone. But — he loves 
 me. 
 
 Strangway. One does not easily know love, it 
 seems. 
 
 But her smile, faint, mysterious, pitying, is 
 enough, and he turns away from her. 
 
ACT I A BIT O' LOVE 25 
 
 Beatrice. It was cruel to come, I know. For me, 
 too. But I couldn't write. I had to know. 
 
 Strangway. Never loved me.'* Never loved me? 
 That night at Tregaron.? [At the look on her face] 
 You might have told me before you went away! 
 Why keep me all these 
 
 Beatrice. I meant to forget him again. I did 
 mean to. I thought I could get back to what I was, 
 when I married you; but, you see, what a girl can 
 do, a woman that's been married — can't. 
 
 Strangway. Then it was I — my kisses that — ! 
 {He laughs] How did you stand them.'' [His eyes dart 
 at her face] Imagination helped you, perhaps ! 
 
 Beatrice. Michael, don't, don't! And — oh! don't 
 make a public thing of it! You needn't be afraid I 
 shall have too good a time! [He stays quite still and 
 silent, and that which is writhing in him makes his face 
 so strange that Beatrice stands aghast. At last she 
 goes stumbling on in speech] If ever you want to marry 
 some one else — then, of course — that's only fair, ruin 
 or not. But till then — till then — He's leaving Dur- 
 ford, going to Brighton. No one need know. And 
 you — this isn't the only parish in the world. 
 
 Strangway. [Quietly] You ask me to help you live 
 in secret with another man ? 
 
 Beatrice. I ask for mercy. 
 
 Strangway. [^5 to himself] What am I to do ? 
 
 Beatrice. What you feel m the bottom of your 
 heart. 
 
 Strangway. You ask me to help you live in sin ? 
 
26 A BIT O' LOVE act i 
 
 Beatrice. To let me go out of your life. You've 
 only to do — nothing. [He goes, slowly, close to her. 
 
 Strangway. I want you. Come back to me! 
 Beatrice, come back ! 
 
 Beatrice. It would be torture, now. 
 Strangway. [Writhing] Oh! 
 Beatrice. Whatever 's in your heart — do ! 
 Strangway. You'd come back to me sooner than 
 ruin him ? Would you .'' 
 
 Beatrice. I cah't bring him harm. 
 Strangway. [Turning away] God ! — if there be one 
 — ^help me ! [He stands leaning his forehead against the 
 window. Suddenly his glance falls on the little bird- 
 cage, still lying on the window-seat] Never cage any 
 wild thing ! [He gives a laugh that is half a sob; then, 
 turning to the door, says in a low voice] Go ! Go please, 
 quickly ! Do what you will. I won't hurt you — can't 
 — But — go ! [He opens the door. 
 
 Beatrice. [Greatly moved] Thank you ! 
 
 She passes him with her head down, and goes 
 out quickly. Strangway stands uncon- 
 sciously tearing at the little bird-cage. And 
 while he tears at it he utters a moaning 
 sound. The terrified Mercy, peering from 
 behind the curtain, and watching her 
 chance, slips to the still open door; but 
 in her haste and fright she knocks against 
 it, and Strangway sees her. Before he can 
 stop her she has fled out on to the green 
 and away. 
 
ACT I A BIT O' LOVE 27 
 
 While he stands there, paralysed, the door from 
 
 the house is opened, and Mrs. Burlacombe 
 
 approaches him in a queer, hushed way. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. [Her eyes mechanically fixed on 
 
 the twisted bird-cage in his hands] 'Tis poor Sue Cremer, 
 
 zurr, I didn't 'ardly think she'd last thrii the mornin'. 
 
 An' zure enough she'm passed away! [Seeing that he 
 
 has not taken in her words] Mr. Strangway — yii'm 
 
 feelin' giddy? 
 
 Strangway. No, no! What was it.^* You 
 
 said 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. 'Tes Jack Cremer. His wife's 
 gone. 'E'm in a terrible way. 'Tes only yu, 'e ses, 
 can dii *im any glide. He'm in the kitchen. 
 
 Strangway. Cremer? Yes! Of course. Let 
 
 him 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. [Still staring at the twisted cage] 
 Yli ain't wantin' that — 'tes all twizzled. [She takes it 
 from him] Sure yii'm not feelin' yer 'ead ? 
 Strangway. [With a resolute effort] No ! 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. [Doubtfully] I'll send 'im in, 
 then. [She goes. 
 
 When she is gone, Strangway passes his 
 handkerchief across his forehead, and his 
 lips move fast. He is standing motionless 
 when Cremer, a big man in labourer's 
 clothes, with a thick, broad face, and tragic, 
 faithful eyes, comes in, and stands a little 
 in from the closed door, quite dumb. 
 Strangway. [After a moment's silence — going up to 
 
28 A BIT O' LOVE act i 
 
 him and laying a hand on his shoulder] Jack! Don't 
 give way. If we give way — we're done. 
 
 Cremer. Yes, zurr. [A quiver 'passes over his face. 
 
 Strangway. She didn't. Your wife was a brave 
 woman. A dear woman. 
 
 Cremer. I never thought to liise 'er. She never 
 told me 'ow bad she was, afore she tuk to 'er bed. 
 'Tis a dreadful thing to liise a wife, zurr. 
 
 Strangway. [Tightening his liys, that tremble] Yes. 
 But don't give way ! Bear up. Jack ! 
 
 Cremer. Seems funny 'er goin' blue-bell time, an' 
 the sun shinin' so warm. I picked up an 'orse-shii 
 yesterday. I can't never 'ave 'er back, zurr. 
 
 [His face quivers again. 
 
 Strangway. Some day you'll join her. Think! 
 Some lose their wives for ever. 
 
 Cremer. I don't believe as there's a future life, 
 zurr. I thuik we goo to sleep like the beasts. 
 
 Strangway. We're told otherwise. But come here ! 
 [Drawing him to the window] Look ! Listen ! To sleep 
 in that! Even if we do, it won't be so bad. Jack, 
 will it.? 
 
 Cremer. She wer' a glide wife to me — no man 
 ciidn't 'ave no better wife. 
 
 Strangway. [Putting his hand out] Take hold — 
 hard — harder! I want yours as much as you want 
 mine. Pray for me. Jack, and I'll pray for you. 
 And we won't give way, will we? 
 
 Cremer. [To whom the strangeness of these words 
 has given some relief] No, zurr; thank 'ee, zurr. 'Tea 
 
ACT I A BIT O' LOVE 29 
 
 no glide, I expect. Only, I'll miss 'er. Thank 'ee, 
 
 zurr; kindly. 
 
 He lifts his hand to his heady turns, and un- 
 certainly goes out to the kitchen. And 
 Strangway stays where he is, not knoudng 
 what to do. Then blindly he takes up his 
 flute, and hatless, hurries out into the 
 air, 
 
 CUBTAIN 
 
ACT II 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 About seven o'clock in the taproom of the village inn. 
 The bar, vdih the appurtenances thereof, stretches 
 across one end, and opposite is the porch door on 
 to the green. The wall between is nearly all win- 
 dow, with leaded panes, one wide-open casement 
 whereof lets in the last of the sunlight. A narrow 
 bench runs under this broad window. And this is 
 all the furniture, save three spittoons. 
 
 GoDLEiGH, the innkeeper, a smallish man with thick 
 rufled hair, a loquacious nose, and apple-red cheeks 
 above a reddish-brown moustache, is reading the 
 paper. To him enters Tibby Jarland with a 
 shilling in her mouth. 
 
 GoDLEiGH. Well, Tibby Jarland, what've yu come 
 for, then? Glass o' beer? 
 
 Tibby takes the shilling from her mouth and 
 
 smiles stolidly. 
 
 GoDLEiGH. [Twinkling] I shid zay glass o' 'arf an* 
 
 'arf's about yure form. [Tibby smiles more broadly] 
 
 Yii'm a praaper masterpiece. Well! 'Ave sister 
 
 31 
 
32 A BIT O' LOVE act ii 
 
 Mercy borrowed yiire tongue ? [Tibbt shakes her head] 
 Aw, she 'aven't. Well, maid ? 
 TiBBY. Father wants six clay pipes, please. 
 GoDLEiGH. 'E dU, dii 'ee. Yii tell yiire father 'e 
 can't 'ave more'n one, not this avenin'. And 'ere 'tis. 
 Hand up yiire shillin*. 
 
 TiBBY reaches wp her handy parts with the 
 
 shilling^ and receives a long clay pipe and 
 
 eleven pennies. In order to secure the coins 
 
 in her pinafore she places ,the clay pipe in 
 
 her mouth. While she is still thus engaged^ 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere enters the porch and comes 
 
 in. TiBBY curtsies stolidly. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Gracious, child! What are you 
 
 doing here .? And what have you got in your mouth ? 
 
 Who is it.? Tibby Jarland.? [Tibby curtsies again] 
 
 Take that thing out. And tell your father from me 
 
 that if I ever see you at the inn again I shall tread 
 
 on his toes hard. Godleigh, you know the law about 
 
 children ? 
 
 Godleigh. [Cocking his eye, and not at all abashed] 
 Surely, m'm. But she will come. Go away, my 
 dear. 
 
 Tibby, never taking her eyes off Mrs. Brad- 
 mere, or the pipe from her mouth, has 
 hacked stolidly to the door, and vanished. 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [Eyeing Godleigh] Now, God- 
 leigh, I've come to talk to you. Half the scandal 
 that goes about the village begins here. [She holds 
 up her finger to check expostulation] No, no — it's no 
 
sc. I A BIT O' LOVE 33 
 
 good. You know the value of scandal to your busi- 
 ness far too well. 
 
 GoDLEiGH. Wi' all respect, m'm, I knows the vally 
 of it to yourn, tii. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. What do you mean by that? 
 
 GoDLEiGH. If there weren't no Rector's lady there 
 widden' be no notice taken o' scandal; an' if there 
 weren't no notice taken, twidden be scandal, to my 
 thinkin'. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [Winking out a grim little smile] 
 Very well ! You've given me your views. Now for 
 mine. There's a piece of scandal going about that's 
 got to be stopped, Godleigh. You turn the tap of it 
 off here, or we'll turn your tap off. You know me. 
 See? 
 
 Godleigh. I shouldn' never presume, m'm, to know 
 a lady. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmerh. The Rector's quite determined, 
 so is Sir Herbert. Ordinary scandal's bad enough, 
 but this touches the Church. While Mr. Strangway 
 remains curate here, there must be no talk about 
 him and his affairs. 
 
 Godleigh. [Cocking his eye] I was just thinkin* 
 how to dii it, m'm. 'Twid be a brave notion to putt 
 the men in chokey, and slit the women's tongues- 
 like, same as they dii in outlandish places, as I'm told. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Don't talk nonsense, Godleigh; 
 and mind what I say, because I mean it. 
 
 Godleigh. Make yiire mind aisy, m'm — there'll be 
 no scandal-monkeyin' here wi' my permission. 
 
34 A BIT O' LOVE act n 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere gives him a keen stare, but 
 seeing him perfectly grave, nods her head 
 with approval. 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Good! You know what's being 
 said, of course ? 
 
 GoDLEiGH. [With respectful gravity] Yii'U pardon 
 me, m'm, but ef an' in case yii was goin' to tell me, 
 there's a riile in this 'ouse: "No scandal 'ere !" 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [Twinkling grimly] You're too 
 smart by half, my man. 
 
 GoDLEiGH. Aw fegs, no, m'm — child in ylire *ands. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. I wouldn't trust you a yard. 
 
 Once more, Godleigh! This is a Christian village, 
 
 and we mean it to remain so. You look out for 
 
 yourself. 
 
 The door opens to admit the farmers Trusta- 
 FORD and BuRLACOMBE. They doff their 
 hats to Mrs. Bradmere, who, after one 
 more sharp look at Godleigh, moves to- 
 wards the door. 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Evening, Mr. Trustaford. [To 
 Burlacombe] Burlacombe, tell your wife that duck 
 she sent up was in hard training. 
 
 With one of her grim winks, and a nod, she 
 goes. 
 Trustaford. [Replacing a hat which is black, hard, 
 and not very new, on his long head, above a long face, 
 clean-shaved but for little whiskers] What's the old 
 grey mare want, then? [With a horse-laugh] 'Er's 
 lukin* awful wise ! 
 
sc. I A BIT O' LOVE 35 
 
 GoDLEiGH. [Enigmatically] Ah! 
 
 Trustaford, [Sitting on the bench close to the bar] 
 Drop o' whisky, an' potash. 
 
 BuRLACOMBE. [A taciturn^ slimy yellowish man, in 
 a worn soft hat] What's nlise, Godleigh? Drop o' 
 cider. 
 
 Godleigh. Niise? There's never no nlise in this 
 'ouse. Aw, no! Not wi' my permission. [In imita- 
 Hon] This is a Christian village. 
 
 Trustaford. Thought the old grey mare seemed 
 mighty busy. [To Burlacombe] 'Tes rather quare 
 about the curate's wife a-comin' motorin' this mornin'. 
 Passed me wi* her face all smothered up in a veil, 
 goggles an' all. Haw, haw ! 
 
 Burlacombe. Aye ! 
 
 Trustaford. Off again she was in 'alf an hour. 
 'Er didn't give poor old curate much of a chance, 
 after six months. 
 
 Godleigh. Havin' an engagement elsewhere — No 
 scandal, please, gentlemen. 
 
 Burlacombe. [Acidly] Never asked to see my missis. 
 Passed me in the yard like a stone. 
 
 Trustaford. 'Tes a little bit riimoursome lately 
 about 'er doctor. 
 
 Godleigh. Ah ! he's the favourite. But 'tes a dead 
 secret, Mr. Trustaford. Don't yii never repate it — 
 there's not a cat don't know it already ! 
 
 Burlacombe frownsy and Trustaford utters 
 his laugh. The door is opened and Freman, 
 
36 A BIT 0' LOVE act ii 
 
 a dark gipsyish man in the dress of a farmer, 
 comes in. 
 
 GoDLEiGH. Don't yii never tell Will Freman what 
 'e told me ! 
 
 Freman. AveninM 
 
 Trustaford. Avenin', Will; what's yiire glass o' 
 trouble ? 
 
 Freman. Drop o' cider, clove, an' dash o* gin. 
 There's blood in the sky to-night. 
 
 BuRLAcoMBE. Ah! We'll 'ave fine weather now, 
 with the full o' the miine. 
 
 Freman. Dust o' wind an' a drop or tii, virst, I 
 reckon. 'Eard t' nlise about curate an' 'is wife ? 
 
 GoDLEiGH. No, indeed; an' don't yii tell us. We'm 
 Christians 'ere in this village. 
 
 Freman. 'Xain't no very Christian niise, neither. 
 He's sent 'er off to th' doctor. "Go an' live with 
 un," 'e says; "my blessin' on ye." If 'er'd a-been 
 mine, I'd 'a tuk the whip to 'er. Tarn Jarland's 
 maid, she yeard it all. Christian, indeed ! That's 
 brave Christianity! "Goo an' live with un!" 'e 
 told 'er. 
 
 Burlacombe. No, no; that's not sense — a man to 
 say that. I'll not 'ear that against a man that bides 
 in my 'ouse. 
 
 Freman. 'Tes sure, I tell 'ee. The maid was hid-up, 
 scared-like, behind the curtain. At it they went, and 
 parson 'e says: "Go," 'e says, "I won't kape 'ee from 
 'im," 'e says, "an' I won't divorce 'ee, as yii don't 
 wish it!" They was 'is words, same as Jarland's 
 
sc. I A BIT O' LOVE 37 
 
 maid told my maid, an' my maid told my missis. If 
 that's parson's talk, 'tes funny work goin' to church. 
 Tbustaford. [Brooding] 'Tes wonderful quare, 
 zurely. 
 
 Freman. Tarn Jarland's fair mad wi' curate for 
 maldn' free wi' his maid's skylark. Parson or no 
 parson, 'e've no call to meddle wi' other people's 
 praperty. He cam' pokin* 'is nose into my affairs. 
 I told un I knew a sight more 'bout 'orses than 'e 
 ever would ! 
 
 Trustaford. He'm a bit crazy 'bout bastes an' 
 birds. 
 
 They have been so absorbed that they have not 
 noticed the entrance of Clyst, a youth with 
 tousled hairy and a bright, quicky Celtic eye, 
 who stands listeningy with a bit of fayer in 
 his hand. 
 
 Clyst. Ah ! he'm that zurely, Mr. Trustaford. 
 
 {He chuckles. 
 
 GoDLEiGH. Now, Tim Clyst, if an' in case yii've 
 a-got some scandal on yer tongue, don't yii never 
 unship it here. Yii go up to Rectory where 'twill 
 be more relished-like. 
 
 Clyst. [Waving the paper] Will y' give me a drink 
 for thic, Mr. Godleigh? 'Tes rale funny. Aw! 'tes 
 somethin' swate. BUtiful readin'. Poetry. Rale 
 spice. Yii've a luv'ly voice for readin', Mr. Godleigh. 
 
 Godleigh. [All ears and twinkle] Aw, what is it 
 then? 
 
38 A BIT O' LOVE act ii 
 
 Clyst. Ah ! YU want t'know tu much. 
 
 [Putting the paper in his pocket. 
 While he is speaking, Jim Bere has entered 
 quietly, with his feeble step and smile, and 
 sits down. 
 Clyst. [Kindly] Hallo, Jim ! Cat come 'ome ? 
 Jim Bere. No. 
 
 All nod, and speak to him kindly. And Jim 
 Bere smiles at them, and his eyes ask of 
 them the question, to which there is no an- 
 swer. And after that he sits motionless and 
 silent, and they talk as if he were not 
 there. 
 GoDLEiGH. What's all this, now — no scandal in my 
 'ouse ! 
 
 Clyst. 'Tes awful peculiar — like a drame. Mr. 
 Burlacombe 'e don't like to hear tell about drames. 
 A guess a won't tell 'ee, arter that. 
 Freman. Out wi' it, Tim. 
 
 Clyst. 'Tes powerful thirsty to-day, Mr. Godleigh. 
 GoDLEiGH. [Drawing him some cider] Yu're all wild 
 cat's talk, Tim; yii've a-got no tale at all. 
 Clyst. [Moving for the cider] Aw, indade ! 
 Godleigh. No tale, no cider ! 
 Clyst. Did ye ever year tell of Orphus ? 
 Trustaford. What? The old vet.: up to Dray- 
 leigh ? 
 
 Clyst. Fegs, no; Orphus that lived in th' old time, 
 an' drawed the bastes after im^wi' his music, same as 
 curate was tellin' the maids. 
 
sc. I A BIT 0' LOVE 39 
 
 Freman. I've 'eard as a gipsy over to Yellacott 
 could dli that wi' 'is viddle. 
 
 Clyst. 'Twas no gipsy I see'd this arteraline; 'twas 
 Orphus, down to Mr. Burlacombe's long medder; 
 settm' there all dark on a stone among the dimsy- 
 white flowers an' the cowflops, wi' a bird upon 'is 
 'ead, play in' his whistle to the ponies. 
 
 Freman. [Excitedly] Yii did never zee a man wi' a 
 bird on 'is 'ead. 
 Clyst. Didn' I? 
 
 Freman. What sort o' bird, then.? Yii tell me 
 that. 
 
 Trustaford. Praaper old barndoor cock. Haw, 
 haw! 
 
 GoDLEiGH. [Soothingly] 'Tesavairy-tale; us mustn't 
 be tu partic'lar. 
 
 BuRLACOMBE. In my long medder.? Where were 
 yu, then, Tim Clyst.? 
 
 Clyst. Passin' down the lane on my bike. Won- 
 derful sorrowful-fine music 'e played. The ponies 
 they did come roimd 'e — yii cud zee the tears runnin' 
 down their chakes; 'twas powerful sad. 'E 'adn't no 
 'at on. 
 Freman. [Jeering] No; 'e 'ad a bird on 'is 'ead. 
 Clyst. [With a silencing grin] He went on playin' 
 an' playm'. The ponies they never miived. An' all 
 the dimsy-white flowers they waved and waved, an' 
 the wind it went over 'em. Gav' me a funny feelin'. 
 Godleigh. Clyst, yii take the cherry bun ! 
 Clyst. Where's that cider, Mr. Godleigh ? 
 
40 A BIT O' LOVE act ii 
 
 GoDLEiGH. [Bending over the cider] Yii've a -'ad tu 
 much already, Tim. 
 
 The door is opened, and Tam Jarland appears. 
 He walks rather unsteadily; a man with a 
 heavy jowl, and sullen, strange, epileptic- 
 looking eyes. 
 
 Clyst. [Pointing to Jarland] 'Tis Tam Jarland 
 there 'as the cargo aboard. 
 
 Jarland. Avenin', all ! [To Godleigh] Pint o' beer. 
 [To Jim Bere] Avenin', Jim. 
 
 [Jim Bere looks at him and smiles. 
 
 Godleigh. [Serving him after a moment's hesitation] 
 'Ere y'are, Tam. [To Clyst, who has taken out his 
 paper again] Where'd yii get thiccy paper ? 
 
 Clyst. [Putting down his cider-mug empty] YUre 
 tongue dii watter, don't it, Mr. Godleigh? [Holding 
 out his mug] No zider, no poetry. 'Tis amazin' sor- 
 rowful; Shakespeare over again. "The boy stUde on 
 the burnin' deck." 
 
 Freman. Yii and yer yap ! 
 
 Clyst. Ah! Yii wait a bit. When I come back 
 down t'lane again, Orphus 'e was vanished away; 
 there was naught in the field but the ponies, an' a 
 praaper old magpie, a-top o' the hedge. I zee some- 
 thin' white in the beako' the fowl, so I giv' a "Whisht," 
 an' e drops it smart, an' off 'e go. I gets over bank 
 an' picks un up, and here't be. 
 
 [He holds out his mug. 
 
 BuRLACOMBE. [Tartly] Here, give 'im 'is cider. 
 Rade it yiireself, ye young teasewings. 
 
sc. I A BIT O' LOVE 41 
 
 Clyst, hairing secured his cider, drinks it off. 
 
 Holding up the paper to the light, he makes 
 
 as if to begin, then slides his eye rounds 
 
 tantalizing. 
 
 Clyst. 'Tes a pity I bain't dressed in a white gown, 
 
 ah' flowers in me 'air. 
 
 Freman. Read it, or we'll 'ave yii out o' this. 
 Clyst. Aw, don't 'ee shake my nerve, now ! 
 
 He begins reading with mock heroism, in his 
 soft, high, burring voice. Thus, in his rus- 
 tic accent, go the lines: 
 
 God lighted the zun in 'eaven far, 
 Lighted the virefly an' the ztar. 
 My 'eart 'E lighted not ! 
 
 God lighted the vields fur lambs to play. 
 Lighted the bright strames, 'an the may. 
 My 'eart 'E lighted not ! 
 
 God lighted the miine, the Arab's way. 
 He lights to-morrer, an' to-day. 
 My 'eart 'E 'ath vorgot ! 
 
 When he has finished, there is silence. Then 
 Trustaford, scratching his head, speaks: 
 Trustaford. 'Tes amazin' funny stuff. 
 Freman. [Looking over Clyst's shoulder] Be danged ! 
 Tes the curate's 'andwritin'. 'Twas curate wi' the 
 ponies, after that. 
 
 Clyst. Fancy, now! Aw, Will Freman, an't yii 
 bright! 
 
42 A BIT O* LOVE act ii 
 
 Freman. But 'e 'adn't no bird on 'is 'ead. 
 
 Clyst. Ya-as, 'e 'ad. 
 
 Jarland. [In a dull, threatening voice] 'E 'ad my 
 maid's bird, this arternline. 'Ead or no, and parson 
 or no, I'll gie 'im one for that. 
 
 Freman. Ah! And 'e meddled wi' my 'orses. 
 
 Trustaford. I'm thinkin' 'twas an old cuckoo 
 bird 'e 'ad on 'is 'ead. Haw, haw! 
 
 GoDLEiGH. "His 'eart she 'ath vorgot!" 
 
 Freman. 'E's a fine one to be tachin* our maids 
 convirmation. 
 
 GoDLEiGH. Would ye 'ave it the old Rector then.? 
 Wi' 'is gouty shoe.'' Rackon the maids wid rather 
 'twas curate; eh, Mr. Burlacombe? 
 
 BuRLACOMBE. [Abruptly] Curate's a gude man. 
 
 Jarland. [With the comatose ferocity of drink] I'll be 
 even wi' un. 
 
 Freman. [Excitedly] Tell *ee one thing — 'tes not a 
 proper man o' God to 'ave about, wi' 'is lUse goin's on. 
 Out vrom 'ere he oughter go. 
 
 Burlacombe. You med go further an' fare worse. 
 
 Freman. What's 'e diiin', then, lettin' 'is wife run off ? 
 
 Trustaford. [Scratching his head] If an' in case 'e 
 can't kape 'er, 'tes a funny way o' diiin' things not to 
 divorce 'er, after that. If a parson's not to dii the 
 Christian thing, whii is, then? 
 
 Burlacombe. 'Tes a bit immoral-like to pass over 
 a thing like that. 'Tes funny if women's goin's on's 
 to be encouraged. 
 
 Freman. Act of a coward, I zay. 
 
sc. I A BIT O' LOVE 43 
 
 BuRLACOMBE. The curate ain't no coward. 
 
 Freman. He bides in yiire house; 'tes natural for 
 yii to stand up for un; I'll wager Mrs. Burlacombe 
 don't, though. My missis was fair shocked. "Will,'* 
 she says, "if yii ever make vur to let me go like that, 
 I widden never stay wi' yii," she says. 
 
 Trustaford. 'Tes settin' a bad example, for zure. 
 
 Burlacombe. 'Tes all very aisy talkin'; what shiide 
 'e dii, then ? 
 
 Freman. [Excitedly] Go over to Durford and say 
 to that doctor: *'Yii come about my missis, an' zee 
 what I'll dii to 'ee." An' take 'er 'ome an' zee she 
 don't misbe'ave again. 
 
 Clyst. 'E can't take 'er ef 'er don' want t' come — 
 I've 'card lawyer, that lodged wi' us, say that. 
 
 Freman. All right then, 'e ought to 'ave the law of 
 'er and 'er doctor; an' zee 'er goin's on don't prosper; 
 'e'd get damages, tii. But this way 'tes a nice ex- 
 ample he'm settin' folks. Parson indade ! My missis 
 an' the maids they won't goo near the church to-night, 
 an' I wager no one else won't, neither. 
 
 Jarland. [Lurching with his pewter up to Godleigh] 
 The beggar ! I'll be even wi' un. 
 
 Godleigh. [Looking at him in doubt] 'Tes the last, 
 then, Tam. 
 
 Having received his beery Jarland stands, lean- 
 ing againsjt the bar, drinking. 
 
 Burlacombe. [Suddenly] I don' goo with what 
 curate's dUin' — 'tes tii soft 'earted; he'm a miAney 
 kind o' man altogether, wi' 'is flute an' 'is poetry; 
 
44 A BIT O' LOVE act ii 
 
 but he've a-lodged in my 'ouse this year an' more, 
 and always 'ad an 'elpin' 'and for every one. I've 
 got a likin' for him an' there's an end of it. 
 
 Jarland. The coward ! 
 
 Trustaford. I don' trouble nothin' about that, 
 Tam Jarland. [Turning to Burlacombe] What gits 
 me is 'e don't seem to 'ave no zense o' what's his 
 own praperty. 
 
 Jarland. Take other folk's property fast enough! 
 [He saws the air with his empty pewter. The others 
 have all turned to him, drawn by the fascination that a 
 man in liquor has for his fellow-men. The bell for 
 church has begun to ring, thg sun is down, and it is 
 getting dusk.] He wants one on his crop, an' one in 
 'is belly; 'e wants a man to take an' gie un a glide 
 hidin' — zame as he oughter give 'is jBy-be-night of a 
 wife. [Strangway in his dark clothes has entered, and 
 stands by the door, his lips compressed to a colourless 
 line, his thin, darkish face grey-white] Zame as a man 
 wid ha' gi'en the doctor, for takin' what isn't his'n. 
 
 All but Jarland have seen Strangway. He 
 steps forward, Jarland sees him now; his 
 jaw drops a little, and he is silent. 
 
 Strangway. I came for a little brandy, Mr. God- 
 leigh — feeling rather faint. Afraid I mightn't get 
 through the service. 
 
 Godleigh. [With professional composure] Marteil's 
 Three Star, zurr, or 'Ennessy's ? 
 
 Strangway. [Looking at Jarland] Thank you; I 
 believe I can do without, now. [He turns to go. 
 
sc. I A BIT O' LOVE 45 
 
 In the deadly silence, Godleigh touches the 
 
 arm of Jarland, who, leaning against the 
 
 bar vyith the pewter in his hand, is staring 
 
 with his strange lowering eyes straight at 
 
 Strangway. 
 
 Jarland. [Galvanized by the touch into drunken rage] 
 
 Lave me be — I'll talk to un — parson or no. I'll tache 
 
 un to meddle wi' my maid's bird. I'll tache un to 
 
 kape 'is thievin' 'ands to 'imself. 
 
 [Strangway turns again, 
 Clyst. Be quiet. Tarn. 
 
 Jarland. [Never loosing Strangway toith his eyes — 
 like a bull-dog who sees red] That's for one chake; 
 zee un turn t'other, the white-livered biity ! Whii 
 lets another man 'ave 'is wife, an* never the sperit to 
 go vor un ! 
 
 BuRLACOMBE. Shame, Jarland; quiet, man! 
 
 They are all looking at Strangway, who, 
 under Jarland's drunken insults is stand- 
 ing rigid, with his eyes closed, and his hands 
 hard clenched. The church bell has stopped 
 slow ringing, and begun its five minutes^ 
 hurrying note. 
 Trustaford. [Rising, and trying to hook his arm 
 into Jarland's] Come away, Tam; yli've a-'ad tU 
 much, man. 
 
 Jarland. [Shaking him off] Zee, 'e darsen't touch 
 me; I might 'it un in the vace an' 'e darsen't; 'e's 
 afraid — like 'e was o' the doctor. 
 
 He raises the pewter as though to fling it, but 
 
46 A BIT O' LOVE act ii 
 
 it is seized by Godleigh from behind, and 
 falls clattering to the floor. Strangway has 
 
 not moved. 
 
 Jarland. [Shaking his fist almost in his face] Liike 
 at un, liike at un ! A man wi' a slut for a wife 
 
 As he utters the word "vrife'* Strangway 
 seizes the outstretched fist, and with a ju- 
 jitsu movement, draws him into his clutch, 
 helpless. And as they sway and struggle 
 in the open window, with the false strength 
 of fury he forces Jarland through. There 
 is a crash of broken glass from outside. 
 At the sound Strangway comes to him- 
 self. A look of agony passes over his 
 face. His eyes light on Jim Bere, who 
 has suddenly risen, and stands feebly 
 clapping his hands. Strangway rushes 
 out. 
 
 Excitedly gathering at the window, they all 
 speak at once. 
 
 Clyst. Tarn's hatchin' of yiire cucumbers, Mr. 
 Godleigh. 
 
 Trustaford. 'E did crash; haw, haw! 
 
 Freman. 'Twas a brave throw, zUrely. Whu wid 
 a' thought it? 
 
 Clyst. Tarn's crawlin' out. [Leaning through win- 
 dow] Hallo, Tarn — 'ow's t' base, old man ? 
 
 Freman. [Excitedly] They'm all comin' up from 
 churchyard to zee. 
 
sc. I A BIT O' LOVE 47 
 
 Teustaford. Tarn dU luke wonderful aztonished; 
 haw, haw ! Poor old Tarn ! 
 
 Clyst. Can yU zee curate? Rackon 'e'm gone 
 into church. Aw, yes; gettin' a bit dimsy— sarvice 
 ^[^ne. \-^ moment's hush. 
 
 Trustaford. Well, I'm jiggered. In 'alf an hour 
 he'm got to prache. 
 
 GoDLEiGH. 'Tes a Christian village, boys. 
 
 Feebly, quietlyy Jim Bere laughs. There is 
 silence; but the bell is heard still ringing. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 The same— in daylight dying fast. A lamp is burning 
 on the bar. A chair has been placed in the centre 
 of the room, facing the bench under the window, 
 on which are seated from right to left, Godleigh, 
 Sol Potter the village shopman, Trustaford, 
 Burlacombe, Freman, Jim Bere, and Morse 
 the' blacksmith. Clyst is squatting on a stool by 
 the bar, and at the other end Jarland, sobered and 
 lowering, leans against the lintel of the porch lead- 
 ing to the door, round which are gathered Jive or 
 six sturdy fellows, dumb as fishes. No one sits 
 
48 A BIT O' LOVE act ii 
 
 in the chair. In the unnatural silence that reigns, 
 the distant sound of the wheezy church organ and 
 voices singing can be heard. 
 
 Trustaford. [After a prolonged clearing of his 
 throat] What I mean to zay is that 'tes no ylise, not 
 a bit o' ylise in the world, not dliin' of things prop- 
 erly. If an' in case we'm to carry a resolution dis- 
 approvin' o' curate, it must all be done so as no one 
 can't zay nothin'. 
 
 Sol Potter. That's what I zay, Mr. Trustaford; 
 ef so be as 'tis to be a village meetin', then it must 
 be all done proper. 
 
 Freman. That's right, Sol Potter. I purpose Mr. 
 Sol Potter into the chair. Whu seconds that? 
 
 A silence. Voices from among the dumb-as- 
 fishes: "Idu." 
 
 Clyst. [Excitedly] Yii can't putt that to the meetin'. 
 Only a chairman can putt it to the meetin'. I pur- 
 pose that Mr. Burlacombe — bein' as how he's chair- 
 man o' the Parish Council — take the chair. 
 
 Freman. Ef so be as I can't putt it, yii can't putt 
 that neither. 
 
 Trustaford. 'Tes not a bit o' ylise; us can't 'ave 
 no meetin' without a chairman. 
 
 GoDLEiGH. Us can't 'ave no chairman without a 
 meetin' to elect un, that's zlire. [A silence. 
 
 Morse. [Heavily] To my way o' thinkin', Mr. God- 
 leigh speaks zense; us must 'ave a meetin' before us 
 can 'ave a chairman. 
 
 Clyst. Then what we got to dli's to elect a meetin'. 
 
sc. II A BIT O' LOVE 49 
 
 BuRLACOMBE. [SouHy] Yii'll not find no procedure 
 for that. 
 
 Voices from among the dumb-as-fishes : **Mr. 
 Burlacombe 'e oughter know." 
 
 Sol Potter. [Scratching his head — with heavy so- 
 lemnity] 'Tes my belief there's no other way to dii, 
 but to elect a chairman to call a meetin'; an* then 
 for that meetin' to elect a chairman. 
 
 Clyst. I purpose Mr. Burlacombe as chairman to 
 call a meetin'. 
 
 Freman. I purpose Sol Potter. 
 
 GoDLEiGH. Can't 'ave tii propositions together 
 before a meetin'; that's apple-pie ziire vur zurtain. 
 Voice from among the dumh-as-fishes : "There 
 ain't no meetin' yet, Sol Potter zays." 
 
 Trustaford. Us must get the rights of it zettled 
 some'ow. 'Tes like the darned old chicken an' the 
 egg — meetin' or chairman — which come virst? 
 
 Sol Potter. [Conciliating] To my thmkin' there 
 shid be another way o' diiin' it, to get round it like 
 with a circumbendibus. 'T'all comes from takin' 
 different vUse, in a manner o' spakin'. 
 
 Freman. Yli goo an' zet in that chair. 
 
 Sol Potter, [With a glance at Burlacombe — 
 modestly] I shid'n never like fur to dii that, with 
 Mr. Burlacombe zettin' there. 
 
 Burlacombe. [Rising] 'Tes all darned fiilishness. 
 
 Amidst an uneasy shufflement of feet he moves 
 to the door, and goes out into the darkness. 
 
50 A BIT O' LOVE act n 
 
 Clyst. [Seeing his candidate thus depart] Rackon 
 curate's pretty well thrii by now, I'm goin' to zee. 
 [As he passes Jarland] 'Ow's ta base, old man ? 
 
 [He goes out. 
 One of the dumb-as-fishes moves from the door 
 and fills the space left on the bench by Burla- 
 combe's departure. 
 
 Jarland. Darn all this puzzivantin' ! [To Sol Pot- 
 ter] Goo an' zet in that chair. 
 
 Sol Potter. [Rising and going to the chair; there 
 he stands, changing from one to the other of his short 
 broad feet and sweating from inodesty and worth] 'Tes 
 my duty now, gentlemen, to call a meetin* of the 
 parishioners of this parish. I beg therefore to de- 
 clare that this is a meetin' in accordance with my 
 duty as chairman of this meetin' which elected me 
 chairman to call this meetin'. And I purceed to vacate 
 the chair so that this meetin' may now purceed to 
 elect a chairman. 
 
 He gets up from the chair, and wiping the 
 sweat from his brow, goes bach to his seat. 
 
 Freman. Mr. Chairman, I rise on a point of order. 
 
 Godleigh. There ain't no chairman. 
 
 Freman. I don't give a darn for that. I rise on 
 a point of order. 
 
 Godleigh. 'Tes a chairman that decides points of 
 order. 'Tes certain yii can't rise on no points what- 
 ever till there's a chairman. 
 
 Trustaford. 'Tes no yiise yiire risin', not the least 
 
sc. II A BIT O' LOVE 51 
 
 bit in the world, till there's some one to zet yii down 
 again. Haw, haw ! 
 
 Voice from the dumb-as-fishes : **Mr. Trusta- 
 
 ford 'e's right." 
 
 Freman. What I zay is the chairman ought never 
 
 to 'ave vacated the chair till I'd risen on my point of 
 
 order. I purpose that he goo and zet down again. 
 
 GoDLEiGH. Yii can't purpose that to this meetin'; 
 
 yii can only purpose that to the old meetin' that's 
 
 not zettin' any longer. 
 
 Freman. [Excitedly] I don' care what old meetin' 
 'tis that's zettin'. I purpose that Sol Potter goo an' 
 zet in that chair again, while I rise on my point of 
 order. 
 
 Trustaford. [Scratching his head] 'Tesn't regular— 
 but I guess yii've got to goo, Sol, or us shan't 'ave 
 no peace. 
 
 Sol Potter, still wiping his brow, goes hack 
 to the chair. 
 Morse. [Stolidly— to Freman] Zet down, Will Fre- 
 man. [He pulls at him with a blacksmith's arm. 
 Freman. [Remaining erect with an effort] I'm not 
 a-goin' to zet down till I've arisen. 
 
 Jarland. Now then, there 'e is in the chair. What's 
 yiire point of order? 
 
 Freman. [Darting his eyes here and there, and fling- 
 ing his hand up to his gipsy-like head] 'Twas — 'twas — 
 Darned ef y' 'aven't putt it clean out o' my 'ead. 
 
 Jarland. We can't wait for yiire points of order. 
 Come out o' that chair, Sol Potter. 
 
52 A BIT O' LOVE act ii 
 
 Sol Potter rises and is about to vacate the 
 chair. 
 
 Freman. I know ! There ought to 'a been minutes 
 taken. YU can't 'ave no meetin' without minutes. 
 When us comes to electin' a chairman o' the next 
 meetin', 'e won't 'ave no minutes to read. 
 
 Sol Potter. 'Twas only to putt down that I was 
 elected chairman to elect a meetin' to elect a chair- 
 man to preside over a meetin' to pass a resolution 
 dalin' wi' the curate. That's aisy set down, that is. 
 
 Freman. [Mollified] We'll 'ave that zet down, then, 
 while we're electin' the chairman o' the next meetin'. 
 
 [A silence, 
 
 Trustaford. Well then, seein' this is the praaper 
 old meetin' for carryin' the resolution about the curate, 
 I purpose Mr. Sol Potter take the chair. 
 
 Freman. I purpose Mr. Trustaford. I 'aven't a-got 
 nothin' against Sol Potter, but seein' that he elected 
 the meetin' that's to elect 'im, it might be said that 
 'e was electin' of himzelf in a manner of spakin'. Us 
 don't want that said. 
 
 Morse. [Amid meditative grunts from the dumh-as- 
 fishes] There's some-at in that. One o' they tii pur- 
 posals must be putt to the meetin'. 
 
 Freman. Second must be putt virst, fur zure. 
 
 Trustaford. I dunno as I wants to zet in that 
 chair. To hiss the curate, 'tis a ticklish sort of a job 
 after that. Vurst comes afore second. Will Freeman. 
 
 Freman. Second is amendment to virst. 'Tes the 
 amendments is putt virst. 
 
sc. II A BIT O* LOVE 53 
 
 Trustaford. 'Ow's that, Mr. Godleigh? I'm not 
 particular eggzac'ly to a dilly zort of a point like 
 that. 
 
 Sol Potter. [Scratching his head] *Tes a very nice 
 point, for zlire. 
 
 Godleigh. 'Tes undoubtedly for the chairman to 
 decide. 
 
 Voice from the dumb-as-fishes : "But there 
 ain't no chairman yet." 
 
 Jarland. Sol Potter's chairman. 
 
 Freman. No, 'e ain't. 
 
 Morse. Yes, 'e is — 'e's chairman till this second 
 old meetin' gets on the go. 
 
 Freman. I deny that. What dii yii say, Mr. 
 Trustaford ? 
 
 Trustaford. I can't 'ardly tell. It dii zeem a 
 darned long-sufferin' sort of a business altogether. 
 
 [A silence. 
 
 Morse. [Slowly] Tell 'ee what 'tis, us shan't dii no 
 giide like this. 
 
 Godleigh. 'Tes for Mr. Freman or Mr. Trustaford, 
 one or t'other to withdraw their motions. 
 
 Trustaford. [After a pause, with cautious generos- 
 ity] I've no objections to withdrawin' mine, if Will 
 Freman'll withdraw his'n. 
 
 Freman. I won't never be be'indhand. If Mr. 
 Trustaford withdraws, I withdraws mine. 
 
 Morse. [With relief] That's zensible. Putt the 
 motion to the meetin'. 
 
54 A BIT O' LOVE act ii 
 
 Sol Potter. There ain't no motion left to putt. 
 
 [Silence of consternation. 
 [In the confusion Jim Bere is seen to stand up. 
 GoDLEiGH. Jim Bere to spake. Silence for Jim ! 
 Voices. Aye ! Silence for Jim ! 
 Sol Potter. Well, Jim ? 
 Jim. [Smiling and slow] Nothin' dUin*. 
 Trustaford. Bravo, Jim! Yii'm right. Bestzense 
 yet! 
 
 [Applause from the dumh-as-fishes. 
 [With his smile brightening, Jim resumes his seat. 
 Sol Potter. [Wiping his brow] Dii seem to me, 
 gentlemen, seein' as we'm got into a bit of a tangle 
 in a manner of spakin', 'twid be the most zimplest 
 and vairest way to begin all over vrom the beginnin', 
 so's t'ave it all vair an' square for every one. 
 
 In the uproar of "Aye" and "No," it is no- 
 ticed that TiBBY Jarland is standing in 
 front of her father with her finger, for want 
 of something better, in her mouth. 
 TiBBY. [In her stolid voice] Please, sister Mercy says, 
 curate 'ave got to "Lastly." [Jarland picks her up, 
 and there is silence.] An' please to come quick. 
 Jarland. Come on, mates; quietly now! 
 
 [He goes out, and all begin to follow him. 
 
 Morse. [Slowest, save for Sol Potter] 'Tes rare 
 
 lucky us was all agreed to hiss the curate afore us 
 
 began the botherin' old meetin', or us widn' 'ardly 
 
 'ave 'ad time to settle what to dU. 
 
sc. II A BIT O' LOVE 55 
 
 Sol Potter. [Scratching his head] Aye, 'tes rare 
 lucky, but I dunno if 'tes altogether reg'lar. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 SCENE ni 
 
 The village green before the churchyard and the yew- 
 trees at the gate. Into the pitch dark under the 
 yews, light comes out through the half-open church 
 door. Figures are lurking, or moving stealthily 
 — people waiting and listening to the sound of a 
 voice speaking in the church words that are inau- 
 dible. Excited whispering and faint giggles come 
 from the deepest yew-tree shade, made ghostly by 
 the white faces and the frocks of young girls con- 
 tinually flitting up and back in the blackness. 
 A girVs figure comes flying out from the porch, 
 down the path of light, and joins the stealthy 
 group. 
 
 Whispering Voice of Mercy. Where's 'e got to 
 now, Gladys? 
 
 Whispering Voice of Gladys. 'E've just finished. 
 
 Voice of Connie. Whii pushed t'door open.? 
 
 Voice of Gladys. Tim Clyst — I giv' it a little 
 push, meself. 
 
56 A BIT O* LOVE act ii 
 
 Voice of Connie. Oh! 
 
 Voice of Gladys. Tim Clyst's gone in ! 
 
 Another Voice. 0-o-o-h! 
 
 Voice of Mercy. WhU else is there, tii? 
 
 Voice of Gladys. Ivy's there, an* old Mrs. Pot- 
 ter, an' tli o' the maids from th'Hall; that's all as 
 ever. 
 
 Voice of Connie. Not the old grey mare? 
 
 Voice of Gladys. No. She ain't ther'. 'Twill 
 just be th'ymn now, an' the Blessin'. Tibby gone 
 for 'em? 
 
 Voice of Mercy. Yes. 
 
 Voice of Connie. Mr. Burlacombe's gone in home, 
 I saw 'im pass by just now — 'e don' like it. Father 
 don't like it neither. 
 
 Voice of Mercy. Mr. Strangway shouln' 'ave 
 taken my skylark, an' thrown father out o' winder. 
 'Tis goin' to be awful fun ! Oh ! 
 
 She jumps up and down in the darkness. 
 And a voice from far in the shadow says: 
 "Hsssh! Quiet, yii maids!" The voice 
 has ceased speaking in the church. There 
 is a moment's dead silence. The voice 
 speaks again; then from the wheezy little 
 organ come the first faint chords of a 
 hymn. 
 
 Gladys. "Nearer, my God, to Thee!" 
 Voice of Mercy. 'Twill be funny, with no one 
 *ardly singin'. 
 
sc. Ill A BIT O' LOVE 57 
 
 The sound of the old hymn sung hy jv>st six 
 voices comes out to them rather sweet and 
 clear. 
 
 Gladys. [Softly] 'Tis pretty, tu. Why! They're 
 only singin' one verse ! 
 
 A moment's silence, and the voice speaks, 
 uplifted, pronouncing the Blessing: "The 
 
 peace of God " As the last words 
 
 die away, dark figures from the inn ap- 
 proach over the grass, till quite a crowd 
 seems standing there without a word spoken. 
 Then from out the church porch come the 
 congregation. Tim Clyst first, hastily lost 
 among the waiting figures in the dark; 
 old Mrs. Potter, a half-blind old lady 
 groping her way and perceiving nothing 
 out of the ordinary; the two maids from 
 the Hall, self-conscious and scared, scut- 
 tling along. Last, Ivy Burlacombe quickly, 
 and starting back at the dim, half-hidden 
 crowd. 
 
 Voice of Gladys. [Whispering] Ivy ! Here, quick ! 
 Ivy sways, darts off towards the voice, and is 
 lost in the shadow. 
 
 Voice of Freman. [Low] Wait, boys, till I give 
 signal. 
 
 Two or three squirks and giggles; Tim Clyst's 
 voice: "Ya-as! Don't 'ee tread on my 
 toe!" A soft, frightened "0-o-h!" from 
 a girl. Some quick, excited whisperings: 
 
58 A BIT O' LOVE act ii 
 
 "Luke!" "Zee there!" "He's comin' !" 
 And then a perfectly dead silence. The 
 figure of Strangway is seen in his dark 
 clothes, passing from the vestry to the church 
 porch. He stands plainly visible in the 
 lighted porch, locking the door, then steps 
 forward. Just as he reaches the edge of 
 the porch, a low hiss breaks the silence. It 
 swells very gradually into a long, hissing 
 groan. Strangway stands motionless, his 
 hand over his eyes, staring into the dark- 
 ness. A girl's figure can be seen to break 
 out of the darkness and rush away. When 
 at last the groaning has died into sheer ex- 
 pectancy, Strangway drops his hand. 
 
 Strangway. [In a low voice] Yes! I'm glad. Is 
 Jarland there.'* 
 
 Freman. He's 'ere — no thanks to yii ! Hsss ! 
 
 [The hiss breaks out again, then dies away. 
 
 Jarland's Voice. [Threatening] Try if yii can dii 
 it again. 
 
 Strangway. No, Jarland, no! I ask you to for- 
 give me. Humbly ! 
 
 [A hesitating silence, broken by muttering. 
 
 Clyst's Voice. Bravo! 
 
 A Voice. That's vair! 
 
 A Voice. 'E's afraid o' the sack — that's what 'tis. 
 
 A Voice. [Groaning] 'E's a praaper coward. 
 
 A Voice. Whli funked the doctor? 
 
 Clyst's Voice. Shame on 'ee, therr ! 
 
sc. in A BIT O' LOVE 59 
 
 Strangway. You're right — all of you ! I'm not fit ! 
 An uneasy and excited muttering and whisper- 
 ing dies away into renewed silence. 
 StrA-NGWAY. What I did to Tam Jarland is not the 
 real cause of what you're doing, is it? I understand. 
 But don't be troubled. It's all over. I'm going — 
 you'll get some one better. Forgive me, Jarland. 
 I can't see your face — it's very dark. 
 
 Freman's Voice. [Mocking] Wait for the full 
 mline. 
 GoDLEiGH. [Very low] "My 'eart 'E lighted not!" 
 Strangway. [Starting at the sound of his own words 
 thus mysteriously given him out of the darkness] Who- 
 ever found that, please tear it up! [After a moment's 
 silence] Many of you have been very kind to me. 
 You won't see me again — Good-bye, all ! 
 
 He stands for a second motionless^ then moves 
 
 resolutely down into the darkness so peopled 
 
 with shadows. 
 
 Uncertain Voices as he passes. Good-bye, zurr ! 
 
 Good luck, zurr ! [He has gone. 
 
 Clyst's Voice. Three cheers for Mr. Strangway! 
 
 And a queer, strangled cheer, with groans still 
 
 threading it, arises. 
 
 curtain. 
 
ACT III 
 
 SCENE I 
 
 In the BuRLACOMBEs' kall-sittingroom the curtains are 
 drawn, a lamp bums, and the door stands open, 
 BuRLACOMBE and his wife are hovering there, 
 listening to the sound of mingled cheers and 
 groaning. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Aw! my gudeness — what a 
 thing t'appen! I'd sUner 'a lost all me ducks. [She 
 makes towards the inner door] I can't never face 'im. 
 
 Burlacombe. 'E can't expect nothin' else, if 'e act 
 like that. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. 'Tes only dUin' as 'e'd be done 
 by. 
 
 Burlacombe. Aw! Yu can't go on forgivin' 'ere, 
 an' forgivin' there. 'Tesn't nat'ral. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. 'Tes the mischief 'e'm a par- 
 son. 'Tes 'im bein' a lamb o' God — or 'twidden be 
 so quare for 'im to be forgivin'. 
 
 Burlacombe. Yii goo an' make un a glide 'ot drink. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Poor soul ! What'll 'e dii now, 
 I wonder ? [Under her breath] 'E's comin' ! 
 
 She goes hurriedly. Burlacombe, vnth a 
 61 
 
02 A BIT O' LOVE act m 
 
 startled look back, wavers and makes to 
 
 follow her, but stops undecided in the inner 
 
 doorway. Strangway comes in from the 
 
 darkness. He turns to the window and 
 
 drops overcoat and hat and the church key 
 
 on the window-seat, looking about him as 
 
 men do when too hard driven, and never 
 
 fixing his eyes long enough on anything to 
 
 see it. BuRLACOMBE, closing the door into 
 
 the house, advances a step. At the sound 
 
 Strangway /ace^ round. 
 
 BuRLACOMBE. I wanted for yii to know, zurr, that 
 
 me an' mine 'adn't nothin' to dli wi' that darned 
 
 fiilishness, just now. 
 
 Strangway. [With a ghost of a smile] Thank you, 
 Burlacombe. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter a 
 bit. 
 
 Burlacombe. I 'ope yii won't take no notice of it. 
 Like a lot o' silly bees they get. [After an uneasy 
 pause] Yii'll excuse me spakin' of this mornin', an' 
 what 'appened. 'Tes a brave pity it cam' on yii so 
 sudden-like before yii 'ad time to think. 'Tes a sort 
 o' thing a man shiide zet an' chew upon. Certainly 
 'tes not a bit o' yiise goin' against human nature. Ef 
 yii don't stand up for yiireself there's no one else not 
 goin' to. 'Tes yiire not 'avin' done that 'as made 
 'em so rampageous. [Stealing another look at Strang- 
 way] Yii'll excuse me, zurr, spakin' of it, but 'tes 
 amazin' sad to zee a man let go his own, without a 
 word o' darin'. 'Tes as ef 'e 'ad no passions-like. 
 
sc. I A BIT O* LOVE 63 
 
 Stra-NGWAY. Look at me, Burlacombe. 
 
 BuRLACOMBE looks up, trying hard to Jceep 
 his eyes on Strangway's, that seem to burn 
 in his thin face. 
 Strangway. Do I look like that? Please, please! 
 [He touches his breast] I've too much here. Please ! 
 
 Burlacombe. [With a sort of startled respect] Well, 
 zurr, 'tes not for me to zay nothin', certainly. 
 
 He turns and after a slow look back at Strang- 
 way goes out. 
 Strangway. [To himself] Passions! No passions! 
 Ha! 
 
 The outer door is opened and Ivy Burlacombe 
 appears, and, seeing him, stops. Then, 
 coming softly towards him, she speaks 
 timidly. 
 
 Ivy. Oh! Mr. Strangway, Mrs. Bradmere's comin' 
 from the Rectory. I ran an' told 'em. Oh! 'twas 
 awful. 
 
 Strangway starts, stares at her, and turning 
 (m his heel, goes into the house. Ivy's face 
 is all puckered, as if she were on the point 
 of tears. There is a gentle scratching at the 
 door, which has not been quite closed. 
 
 Voice of Gladys. [Whispering] Ivy ! Come on ! 
 Ivy. I won't. 
 
 Voice op Mercy. Yii must. Us can't dU with- 
 out yii. 
 
64 A BIT O' LOVE act hi 
 
 Ivy. [Going to the door] I don't want to. 
 Voice of Gladys. "Naughty maid, she won*t come 
 out," Ah ! du 'ee ! 
 
 Voice of Connie. Tim Clyst an* Bobbie's comin'; 
 us'll only be six anyway. Us can't dance "figure of 
 eight" without yli. 
 
 Ivy. [Stamping her foot] I don't want to dance at 
 all! I don't. 
 
 Mercy. Aw! She's temper. YU can bang on 
 tambourine, then! 
 
 Gladys. [Running in] Quick, Ivy ! Here's the old 
 grey mare comin' down the green. Quick. 
 
 With whispering and scuffling, gurgling and 
 squeaking, the reluctant Ivy's hand is caught 
 and she is jerked away. In their haste they 
 have left the door open behind them. 
 Voice of Mrs. Bradmere. [Outside] Who's that.? 
 She knocks loudly, and rings a bell; then, 
 without waiting, comes in through the open 
 door. 
 Noting the overcoat and hat on the window-sill 
 she moves across to ring the bell. But as 
 she does so, Mrs. Burlacombe, followed by 
 Burlacombe, coToes in from the house. 
 Mrs. Bradmere. This disgraceful business ! Where's 
 Mr. Strangway ? I see he's in. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. Yes, m'm, he'm in — but — but 
 Burlacombe dii zay he'm terrible upzet. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. I should think so. I must see 
 him — at once. 
 
sc. I A BIT 0' LOVE 65 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. I doubt bed's the best place 
 for 'un, an' a gUde 'ot drink. Burlacombe zays he'm 
 like a man standin' on the edge of a cliff, and the 
 laste tipsy o' wind might throw un over. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [To Burlacombe] You've seen 
 him, then.'' 
 
 Burlacombe. Yeas; an' I don't like the lUke of 
 un — not a little bit, I don't. 
 
 Mrs. Burlacombe. [Almost to herself] Poor soul; 
 'e've a-'ad tii much to try un this yer long time 
 past. I've a-seen 'tis sperrit comin' thrii 'is body, 
 as yii might zay. He's torn to bits, that's what 
 'tis. 
 
 Burlacombe. 'Twas a praaper cowardly thing to 
 hiss a man when he's down. But 'twas natural tii, 
 in a manner of spakin'. But 'tesn't that troublin' 
 'im. 'Tes in here [touching his forehead], along of his 
 wife, to my thinkin'. They zay 'e've a-known about 
 'er afore she went away. Think of what 'e've 'ad 
 to kape in all this time. 'Tes enough to drive a man 
 silly after that. I've a-locked my gun up. I see a 
 man liike like that once before — an' sure enough 'e 
 was dead in the mornin' ! 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Nonsense, Burlacombe ! [^oMrs. 
 Burlacombe] Go and tell him I want to see him — 
 must see him. [Mrs. Burlacombe goes into the house] 
 And look here, Burlacombe; if we catch any one, 
 man or woman, talking of this outside the village, 
 it'll be the end of their tenancy, whoever they may be. 
 Let them all know that. I'm glad he threw that 
 
66 A BIT O' LOVE act hi 
 
 drunken fellow out of the window, though it was a 
 little 
 
 BuRLACOMBE. Aye! The nlispapers would be 
 praaper glad of that, for a tiddy bit o* niise. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. My goodness! Yes! The men 
 are all up at the inn. Go and tell them what I said 
 — iVs not to get about. Go at once, Burlacombe. 
 
 BuRLACOMBE. Must be a turrable job for 'im, every 
 one's knowin' about 'is wife like this. He'm a proud 
 man tii, I think. 'Tes a funny business altogether ! 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Horrible! Poor fellow! Now, 
 come ! Do your best, Burlacombe ! 
 
 Burlacombe touches his forelock and goes. 
 Mrs. Bradmere stands quite stilly think- 
 ing. Then going to the photograph, she 
 stares up at it. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. You baggage ! 
 
 Strangway has come in noiselessly, and is 
 standing just behind her. She turns, and 
 sees him. TJiere is something so still, so 
 startlingly still in his figure and white face, 
 that she cannot for the moment find her 
 voice. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [At last] This is most distressing. 
 I'm deeply sorry. [Then, as he does not answer, she 
 goes a step closer] I'm an old woman; and old women 
 must take liberties, you know, or they couldn't get 
 on at all. Come now! Let's try and talk it over 
 calmly and see if we can't put things right. 
 
sc. I A BIT O' LOVE 67 
 
 Strangway. You were very good to come; but I 
 would rather not. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. I know you're in as grievoui 
 trouble as a man can be. 
 
 Strangway. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [With a little sound of sympathy] 
 What are you — thirty-five? I'm sixty-eight if I'm 
 a day — old enough to be your mother. I can feel 
 what you must have been through all these months, 
 I can indeed. But you know you've gone the wrong 
 way to work. We aren't angels down here below! 
 And a son of the Church can't act as if for himself 
 alone. The eyes of every one are on him. 
 
 Strangway. [Taking the church key from the window- 
 sUl] Take this, please. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. No, no, no! Jarland deserved 
 all he got. You had great provocation 
 
 Strangway. It's not Jarland. [Holding out the key] 
 Please take it to the Rector. I beg his forgiveness. 
 [Touching his breast] There's too much I can't speak 
 of — can't make plain. Take it to him, please. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Mr. Strangway — I don't accept 
 this. I am sure my husband — the Church — will never 
 accept 
 
 Strangway. Take it ! 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [Almx)st unconsciously taking it] 
 Mind! We don't accept it. You must come and 
 talk to the Rector to-morrow. You're overwrought. 
 You'll see it all in another light, then. 
 
68 A BIT O' LOVE act m 
 
 Strangway. [With a strange smile] Perhaps. [Lift- 
 ing the blind] Beautiful night! Couldn't be more 
 beautiful ! 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [Startled — softly] Don't turn away 
 from those who want to help you! I'm a grumpy 
 old woman, but I can feel for you. Don't try and 
 keep it all back, like this ! A woman would cry, and 
 it would all seem clearer at once. Now won't you 
 let me ? 
 
 Strangway. No one can help, thank you. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Come! Things haven't gone 
 beyond mending, really, if you'll face them. [Point- 
 ing to the photograph] You know what I mean. We 
 dare not foster immorality. 
 
 Strangway. [Quivering as at a jabbed nerve] Don't 
 speak of that ! 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. But think what you've done, Mr. 
 Strangway ! If you can't take your wife back, surely 
 you must divorce her. You can never help her to 
 go on like this in secret sin. 
 
 Strangway. Torture her — one way or the other .'^ 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. No, no; I want you to do as the 
 Church — as all Christian society would wish. Come! 
 You can't let this go on. My dear man, do your 
 duty at all costs ! 
 
 Strangway. Break her heart ? 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Then you love that woman — more 
 than God ! 
 
 Strangway. [His face quivering] Love ! 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. They told me — Yes, and I can 
 
sc. I A BIT O' LOVE 69 
 
 see you're in a bad way. Come, pull yourself to- 
 gether ! You can't defend what you're doing. 
 
 Strangway. I do not try. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. I mnst get you to see ! My father 
 was a clergyman; I'm married to one; I've two 
 sons in the Church. I know what I'm talking 
 about. It's a priest's business to guide the people's 
 lives. 
 
 Strangway. \yery low] But not mine! No more! 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [Looking at him shrewdly] There's 
 something very queer about you to-night. You ought 
 to a see doctor. 
 
 Strangway. [A smile coming and going on his lips] 
 If I am not better soon 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. I know it must be terrible to feel 
 that everybody — [A convulsive shiver passes over 
 Strangway, and he shrinks against the door] But 
 come ! Live it down ! [With anger growing at his 
 silence] Live it down, man ! You can't desert your 
 post — and let these villagers do what they like with 
 us? Do you realize that you're letting a woman, 
 who has treated you abominably — yes, abominably 
 — go scot-free, to live comfortably with another man ? 
 What an example ! 
 
 Strangway. Will you, please, not speak of that ! 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. I must! This great Church of 
 ours is based on the rightful condemnation of wrong- 
 doing. There are times when forgiveness is a sin, 
 Michael Strangway. You must keep the whip hand. 
 You must fight ! 
 
70 A BIT O' LOVE act hi 
 
 Strangwat. Fight! [Touching his heart] My fight 
 is here. Have you ever been in hell? For months 
 and months — burned and longed; hoped against hope; 
 killed a man in thought day by day? Never rested, 
 for love and hate? I — condemn! I — judge! No! 
 It's rest I have to find — somewhere — somehow — rest ! 
 And how — how can I find rest? 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. [Who has listened to his outburst 
 in a sort of coma] You are a strange man! One of 
 these days you'll go off your head if you don't take 
 care. 
 
 Strangway. [Smiling] One of these days the flowers 
 will grow out of me; and I shall sleep. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere stares at his smiling face a 
 
 long moment in silence, then with a little 
 
 sound, half sniff, half snort, she goes to the 
 
 door. There she halts. 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. And you mean to let all this go 
 
 on — Your wife 
 
 Strangway. Go ! Please go ! 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Men like you have been bur- 
 ied at cross-roads before now ! Take care ! God 
 punishes ! 
 
 Strangway. Is there a God ? 
 
 Mrs. Bradmere. Ah ! [With finality] You must see 
 a doctor. 
 
 Seeing that the look on his face does not change, 
 she opens the door, and hurries away into 
 the moonlight. 
 Strangway crosses the room to where his tvife's 
 
Bc. I A BIT O' LOVE 71 
 
 picture hangs, and stands before it, his hands 
 grasping the frame. Then he takes it from 
 the wall, and lays it face upwards on the 
 window-seat. 
 Strangway. [To himself] Gone! What is there, 
 now? 
 
 The sound of an owVs hooting is floating in, 
 and of voices from the green outside the 
 inn. 
 Strangway. [To himself] Gone! Taken faith — 
 hope — life ! 
 
 Jim Bere comes wandering into the open 
 doorway. 
 Jim Bere. Glide avenin*, zurr. 
 
 At his slow gait, with his feeble smile, he comes 
 
 in, and standing by the window-seat beside 
 
 the long dark coat that still lies there, he 
 
 looks down at Strangway vnth his lost 
 
 eyes. 
 
 Jim. Yii threw un out of winder. I cud 'ave, once, 
 
 I cud. [Strangway neither moves nor speaks; and 
 
 Jim Bere goes on with his unimaginably slow speech] 
 
 They'm laughin' at yii, zurr. An' so I come to tell 
 
 'ee how to dii. 'Twas full miine — when I caught 
 
 *em, him an' my girl. I caught 'em. [With a strange 
 
 and awf id flash of fire] I did; an' I tuk un [He takes 
 
 up Strangway 's coat and grips it with his trembling 
 
 hands, as a man grips another's neck] like that — I 
 
 tuk un. 
 
72 A BIT O' LOVE act m 
 
 As the coat falls, like a body out of which the 
 breath has been squeezed, Strangway, rising, 
 catches it. 
 
 Strangway. [Gripping the coat] And he fell ! 
 
 He lets the coat fall on the floor, and puts his 
 foot on it. Then, staggering back, he leans 
 against the window. 
 
 Jim. Yu see, I loved 'er — I did. [The lost look comes 
 back to his eyes] Then somethin' — I dunno — and — 
 and — [He lifts his hand and passes it up and down 
 his side] 'Twas like this for ever. 
 
 [They gaze at each other in silence. 
 
 Jim. [At last] I come to tell yii. They'm all laughin' 
 at yii. But yii'm strong — yii go over to Durford to 
 that doctor man, an' take un like I did. [He tries 
 again to make the sign of squeezing a man's neck] They 
 can't laugh at yii no more, then. Tha's what I come 
 to tell yii. Tha's the way for a Christian man to dii. 
 Giide naight, zurr. I come to tell yee. 
 
 Strangway motions to him in silence. And, 
 very slowly, Jim Bere passes out. 
 
 The voices of men coming down the green are 
 heard. 
 
 Voices. Giide naight, Tarn. Giide naight, old 
 Jim! 
 
 Voices. Giide naight, Mr. Tmstaford. 'Tes a won- 
 derful fine miine. 
 
sc. I A BIT O' LOVE 73 
 
 Voice of Trustaford. Ah! 'Tes a brave miine 
 for th' poor old curate ! 
 
 Voice. "My 'eart 'E lighted not!" 
 
 Trustaford's laugh, and the rattling, fainter 
 and fainter, of wheels. A spasm seizes on 
 Strangway's face, as he stands there by the 
 open door, his hand grips his throat; he 
 looks from side to side^ as if seeking a way 
 of escape. 
 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 SCENE II 
 
 The Burlacombes' high and nearly empty barn. A 
 lantern is hung by a rope that lifts the bales of 
 straw, to a long ladder leaning against a rafter. 
 This gives all the light there is, save for a slender 
 track of moonlight, slanting in from the end, where 
 the two great doors are not quite closed. On a rude 
 bench in front of a few remaining, stacked, square- 
 cut bundles of last year's hay, sits Tibby Jarland, 
 a bit of apple in her mouth, sleepily beating on a 
 tambourine. With stockinged feet Gladys, Ivy, 
 Connie, and Mercy, Tim Clyst, and Bobbie 
 
74 A BIT O' LOVE act hi 
 
 Jarland, a boy of fifteen, are dancing a truncated 
 "Figure of Eight"; and their shadows are danc- 
 ing alongside on the walls. Shoes and some apples 
 have been thrown down close to the side door through 
 which they have come in. Now and then Ivy, the 
 smallest and best of the dancers, ejaculates words 
 of direction, and one of the youths grunts or 
 breathes loudly out of the confusion of his mind. 
 Save for this and the dumb beat and jingle of the 
 sleepy tambourine, there is no sound. The dance 
 comes to its end, but the drowsy Tibby goes on 
 beating. 
 Mercy. That'll dii, Tibby; we're finished. Ate 
 yiire apple. [The stolid Tibby eats her apple. 
 
 Clyst. [In his teasing, excitable voice] Yii maids 
 don't dance 'alf 's well as us dli. Bobbie 'e's a great 
 dancer. 'E dance vine. I'm a glide dancer, meself. 
 Gladys. A'n't yii conceited just ? 
 Clyst. Aw! Ah! Yii'll give me kiss for that. 
 [He chases, but cannot catch thai slippery white figure] 
 Can't she glimmer ! 
 
 Mercy. Gladys ! Up ladder ! 
 
 Clyst. Yii go up ladder; I'll catch 'ee then. Naw, 
 
 yii maids, don't yii give her succour. That's not vair. 
 
 [Catching hold of Mercy, who gives a little squeal. 
 
 Connie. Mercy, don't! Mrs. Burlacombe'U hear. 
 
 Ivy, go an' peek. 
 
 [Ivy goes to the side door and peers through. 
 
 Clyst. [Abandoning the chase and picking up an 
 
 apple — they all have the joyous irresponsibility that 
 
sc. II A BIT O' LOVE 75 
 
 attends forbidden doings] Ya-as, this is a glide apple. 
 
 Luke at Tibby ! 
 
 TiBBY, overcome by drowsiness, has fallen 
 back into the hay, asleep. Gladys, leaning 
 against the hay breaks into humming: 
 
 "There cam' three dukes a-ridin', a-ridin', a-ridin'. 
 There cam' three dlikes a ridin' 
 With a ransy- tansy tay!" 
 
 Clyst. Us 'as got on vine; us'll get prize for our 
 dancin'. 
 
 Connie. There won't be no prize if Mr. Strangway 
 goes away. 'Tes funny 'twas Mrs. Strangway started 
 us. 
 
 Ivy. [From the door] 'Twas wicked to hiss him. 
 
 [A moments hush. 
 
 Clyst. 'Twasn't I. 
 
 Bobbie. I never did. 
 
 Gladys. Oh! Bobbie, yii did! YU blew in my 
 ear. 
 
 Clyst. 'Twas the praaper old wind in the trees. 
 Did make a brave noise, zurely. 
 
 Mercy. 'E shuld'n' 'a let my skylark go. 
 
 Clyst. [Out of sheer contradictoriness] Ya-as, 'e 
 shUde, then. What dii yii want with th' birds of the 
 air? They'm no glide to yii. 
 
 Ivy. [Mournfully] And now he's goin' away. 
 
 Clyst. Ya-as; 'tes a pity. He's the best man I 
 ever seen since I was comin* from my mother. He's 
 a glide man. He'm got a zad face, sure enough, though. 
 
76 A BIT O' LOVE act hi 
 
 Ivy. Glide folk always 'ave zad faces. 
 
 Clyst. I knli a glide man — 'e sold pigs — very glide 
 man: 'e 'ad a biidiful bright vace like the mline. 
 [Touching his stomach] I was sad, meself, once. 'Twas 
 a funny scrabblin'-like feelin'. 
 
 Gladys. If 'e go away, whii's goin' to finish us for 
 confirmation ? 
 
 Connie. The Rector and the old grey mare. 
 
 Mercy. I don' want no more finishin'; I'm con- 
 firmed enough. 
 
 Clyst. Ya-as; yU'm a biity. 
 
 Gladys. Suppose we all went an' asked 'im not 
 to go? 
 
 Ivy. 'Twouldn't be no glide. 
 
 Connie. Where's 'e goin' ? 
 
 Mercy. He'll go to London, of course. 
 
 Ivy. He's so gentle; I think 'e'll go to an island, 
 where there's nothin' but birds and beasts and flowers. 
 
 Clyst. Aye ! He'm awful fond o' the dumb things. 
 
 Ivy. They're kind and peaceful; that's why. 
 
 Clyst. Aw! Yli see tli praaper old tom cats; 
 they'm not tU peaceful, after that, nor kind 
 naighther. 
 
 Bobbie. [Surprisingly] If 'e's sad, per'aps 'e'll go 
 to 'Eaven. 
 
 Ivy. Oh ! not yet, Bobbie. He's tli young. 
 
 Clyst. [Following his own thoughts] Ya-as. 'Tes 
 a funny place, tli, nowadays, judgin' from the 
 papers. 
 
 Gladys. Wonder if there's dancin' in 'Eaven? 
 
sc. II A BIT O' LOVE 77 
 
 Ivy. There's beasts, and flowers, and waters, and 
 trees — 'e told us. 
 
 Clyst. Naw! There's no dumb things in 'Eaven. 
 Jim Bere 'e says there is ! 'E thinks 'is old cat's 
 there. 
 
 Ivy. Yes. [Dreamily] There's stars, an' owls, an' a 
 man playin' on the flute. Where 'tes gUde, there 
 must be mlisic. 
 
 Clyst. Old brass band, shuldn' wonder, like th' 
 Salvation Army. 
 
 Ivy. [Putting up her hands to an imaginary pipe] 
 No; 'tis a boy that goes so; an' all the dumb things 
 an' all the people goo after 'im — like this. 
 
 She marches slowly, playing her imaginary 
 pipe, and one by one they all fall in behind 
 her, padding round the barn in their stock- 
 inged feet. Passing the big doors. Ivy throws 
 them open. 
 An' 'tes all like that in 'Eaven. 
 
 She stands there gazing out, still playing on 
 her imaginary pipe. And they all stand a 
 moment silent, staring into the moonlight. 
 Clyst. 'Tes a glory-be full miine to-night ! 
 Ivy. a goldie-cup — a big one. An' millions o' little 
 goldie-cups on the floor of 'Eaven. 
 
 Mercy. Oh! Bother 'Eaven! Let's dance "Clap- 
 perclaws" ! Wake up, Tibby ! 
 
 Gladys. Clapperclaws, clapperclaws! Come on, 
 Bobbie — make circle ! 
 
 Clyst. Clapperclaws ! I dance that one fine. 
 
78 A BIT O' LOVE act hi 
 
 Ivy. [Taking the tambourine] See, Tibby; like this. 
 She hums and beats gently, then restores the 
 tambourine to the sleepy Tibby, who, wak- 
 ing, has placed a piece of apple in her 
 mouth. 
 
 Connie. 'Tes awful difficult, this one. 
 Ivy. [Illustrating] No; yii just jump, an' clap yiire 
 *ands. Lovely, lovely ! 
 Clyst. Like ringin' bells ! Come ahn ! 
 
 Tibby begins her drowsy beating. Ivy hums 
 the tune; they dance, and their shadows 
 dance again upon the walls. When she has 
 beaten but a few moments on the tambourine, 
 Tibby is overcome once more by sleep and 
 falls back again into her nest of hay, with 
 her little shoed feet just visible over the edge 
 of the bench. Ivy catches up the tambourine, 
 and to her beating and humming the dancers 
 dance on. 
 
 Suddenly Gladys stops like a wild animal 
 surprised, and cranes her neck towards the 
 side door. 
 
 Connie. [Whispering] What is it ? 
 Gladys. [Whispering] I hear — some one — comin' 
 across the yard. 
 
 She leads a noiseless scamper towards the shoes. 
 Bobbie Jarland shins up the ladder and 
 seizes the lantern. Ivy drops the tambourine. 
 They all fly to the big doors, and vanish into 
 
sc. II A BIT O' LOVE 79 
 
 the moonlight, pulling the doors nearly to 
 again after them. 
 
 There is the sound of scrabbling at the latch 
 of the side door, and Strangway comes into 
 the nearly dark barn. Out in the night 
 the owl is still hooting. He closes the door, 
 and that sound is lost. Like a man walk- 
 ing in his sleep, he goes up to the ladder, 
 takes the rope in his hand, and makes a 
 noose. He can be heard breathing, and in 
 the darkness the motions of his hands are 
 dimly seen, freeing his throat and putting 
 the noose round his neck. He stands sway- 
 ing to and fro at the foot of the ladder; then, 
 with a sigh, sets his foot on it to mount. 
 One of the big doors creaks and opens in 
 the wind, letting in a broad path of moon- 
 light. 
 
 Strangway stops; freeing his neck from the 
 noose, he walks quickly up the track of 
 moonlight, whitened from head to foot, to 
 close the doors. 
 
 The sound of his boots on the bare floor has 
 awakened Tibby Jarland. Struggling 
 out of her hay nest she stands staring at his 
 whitened figure, and bursts suddenly into 
 a wail. 
 
 Tibby. 0-oh! Mercy! Where are yii? I'm 
 frightened ! I'm frightened ! O-oooo ! 
 
80 A BIT O' LOVE act m 
 
 Strangway. [Turning — startled] Who's that ? Who 
 is it? 
 TiBBY. 0-oh ! A ghosty ! Oo-ooo ! 
 Strangway. [Going to her quickly] It's me, Tibby 
 — Tib — only me ! 
 Tibby. I see'd a ghosty. 
 
 Strangway. [Taking her up] No, no, my bird, you 
 didn't ! It was me. 
 
 Tibby. [Burying her face against him] I'm frighted. 
 It was a big one. [She gives tongue again] 0-o-oh! 
 
 Strangway. There, there! It's nothing but me. 
 Look! 
 Tibby. No. [She peeps out all the same. 
 
 Strangway. See ! It's the moonlight made me all 
 white. See ! You're a brave girl now ? 
 Tibby. [Cautiously] I want my apple. 
 
 She points towards her nest. Strangway car- 
 ries her there, picks up an apple, and gives 
 it her. Tibby takes a bite. 
 Tibby. I want my tambouline. 
 Strangway. [Giving her the tambourine, and carry- 
 ing her back into the track of moonlight] Now we're 
 both ghosties ! Isn't it funny ? 
 Tibby. [Doubtfully] Yes. 
 
 Strangway. See! The moon's laughing at us! 
 See ? Laugh then ! 
 
 Tibby, tambourine in one hand and apple in 
 the other, smiles stolidly. He sets her down 
 on the ladder, and stands, holding her level 
 with him. 
 
sc. II A BIT O' LOVE 81 
 
 TiBBY. [Solemnly] I'se still frightened. 
 Strangway. No! Full moon, Tibby! Shall we 
 wish for it? 
 
 Tibby. Full miine. 
 
 Strangway. Moon ! We're wishing for you. Moon, 
 
 moon 
 
 Tibby. Miine, we're wishin' for yii ! 
 
 Strangway. What do you wish it to be ? 
 
 Tibby. Bright new shillin' ! 
 
 Strangway. A face. 
 
 Tibby. Shillin', a shillin' ! 
 
 Strangway. [Taking out a shilling and spinning it so 
 that it falls into her pinafore] See ! Your wish comes 
 true. 
 
 Tibby. Oh! [Putting the shilling in her mouth] 
 Miine's still there ! 
 
 Strangway. Wish for me^ Tibby ! 
 
 Tibby. Mune, I'm wishin' for yii ! 
 
 Strangway. Not yet ! 
 
 Tibby. Shall I shake my tambouline ? 
 
 Strangway. Yes, shake your tambouline. 
 
 Tibby. [Shaking her tambourine] Miine, I'm shakin* 
 at yii. 
 
 Strangway lays his hand suddenly on the 
 rope, and swings it up on to the beam. 
 
 Tibby. What d'yu du that for ? 
 
 Strangway. To put it out of reach. It's better 
 
 Tibby. Why is it better ? [She stares up at him. 
 
 Strangway. Come along, Tibby ! [He carries her to 
 
82 A BIT O' LOVE act hi 
 
 the big doors y and sets her down] See ! All asleep ! 
 The birds, and the fields, and the moon ! 
 
 TiBBY. Mline, miine, we're wishing for yii ! 
 
 Strangway. Send her your love, and say good- 
 night. 
 
 TiBBY. [Blowing a hiss] Good-night, miine ! 
 
 From the ham roof a little white dove's feather 
 comes floating down in the wind. Tibby 
 follows it with her hand, catches it, and holds 
 it up to him. 
 
 Tibby. [Chuckling] Luke. The miine's sent a bit 
 o* love ! 
 
 Strangway. [Taking the feather] Thank you, Tibby ! 
 I want that bit o' love. [Very faint, comes the sound 
 of music] Listen ! 
 
 Tibby. It's Miss Willis, playin* on the pianny ! 
 
 Strangway. No; it's Love; walking and talking 
 in the world. 
 
 Tibby. [Dubiously] Is it? 
 
 Strangway. [Pointing] See! Everything coming 
 out to listen! See them, Tibby! All the little 
 things with pointed ears, children, and birds, and 
 flowers, and bunnies; and the bright rocks, and — 
 men ! Hear their hearts beating ! And the wind 
 listening ! 
 
 Tibby. I can't hear — nor I can't see ! 
 
 Strangway. Beyond — [To himself] They are — 
 they must be; I swear they are! [Then, catching 
 sight of Tibby's amazed eyes] And now say good-bye 
 to me. 
 
sc. II A BIT O' LOVE 83 
 
 TiBBY. Where yii goin'? 
 Strangway. I don't know, Tibby. 
 Voice of Mercy. [Distant and cautious] Tibby! 
 Tibby ! Where are yii ? 
 
 Strangway. Mercy calling; run to her! 
 
 Tibby starts off, turns back and lifts her face. 
 
 He bends to kiss her, and flinging her arms 
 
 round his neck, she gives him a good hug. 
 
 Then, knuckling the sleep out of her eyes, 
 
 she runs. 
 Strangway stands, uncertain. There is a 
 
 sound of heavy footsteps; a man clears his 
 
 throat, close by. 
 
 Strangway. Who's that? 
 
 Cremer. Jack Cremer. [The big man's figure appears 
 out of the shadow of the barn] That yii, zurr ? 
 
 Strangway. Yes, Jack. How goes it? 
 
 Cremer. 'Tes empty, zurr. But I'll get on 
 some'ow. 
 
 Strangway. You put me to shame. 
 
 Cremer. No, zurr. I'd be killin' meself, if I didn' 
 feel I must stick it, like yii zaid. 
 
 They stand gazing at each other in the moon- 
 light. 
 Strangway. [Very low] I honour you. 
 Cremer. What's that? [Then, as Strangway does 
 not answer] I'll just be walkin' — I won' be goin' 'ome 
 to-night. 'Tes the full miine — lucky. 
 Strangway. [Suddenly] Wait for me at the cross- 
 
84 A BIT O' LOVE act m 
 
 roads, Jack. I'll come with you. Will you have me, 
 brother ? 
 Cremer. Sure! 
 Strangway. Wait, then. 
 Cremer. Aye, zurr. 
 
 With his heavy tread Cremer passes on. And 
 
 Strangway leans against the lintel of the 
 
 door, looking at the moon, that, quite full 
 
 and golden, hangs not far above the straight 
 
 horizon, where the trees stand small, in a 
 
 row. 
 
 Strangway. [Lifting his hand in the gesture of 
 
 prayer] God, of the moon and the sun; of joy and 
 
 beauty, of loneliness and sorrow — give me strength to 
 
 go on, till I love every living thing ! 
 
 He moves away, following Jack Cremer. The 
 full moon shines; the owl hoots; and some 
 one is shaking Tibby's tambourine. 
 
 THE END 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: June 2009 
 
 PreservationTechnologies 
 
 A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
 
 111 Thomson Park Drive 
 Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
 (724)779-2111