Scene: the same, about five months later. It is a stiflingly hot June day – nearly two years less one month since RONNIE’S dismissal from Osborne. The glass door to the garden stands open, and a bath chair, unoccupied, has been placed near by. On the rise of the curtain the stage is empty and the telephone is ringing insistently.
DICKIE comes in from the hall carrying a suitcase, evidently very hot, his straw hat pushed on to the back of his head and panting from his exertions. He is wearing a neat, dark blue suit, a sober tie, and a stiff collar. He puts the suitcase down and mops his face with his handkerchief. Then he goes to the hall door and calls:
DICKIE. Mother! (There is no reply.) Violet! (Again no reply.) Anyone about?
He goes to the telephone – taking off the receiver.
Hullo . . . No, not senior – junior . . . I don’t know where he is . . . Daily Mail? . . . No, I’m the brother . . . Elder brother – that’s right . . . Well – I’m in the banking business . . . That’s right. Following in father’s footsteps . . . My views on the case? Well – I – er – I don’t know I have any, except, I mean, I hope we win and all that . . . No, I haven’t been in Court. I’ve only just arrived from Reading . . . Reading . . . Yes. That’s where I work . . . Yes, I’ve come up for the last two days of the trial. Verdict’s expected tomorrow, isn’t it? . . . Twenty-two, last March . . . Seven years older . . . No. He was thirteen when it happened, but now he’s fifteen . . . Well, I suppose, if I’m anything I’m a sort of Liberal-Conservative . . . Single . . . No. No immediate prospects. I say, is this at all interesting to you? . . . Well, a perfectly ordinary kid, just like any other – makes a noise, does fretwork, doesn’t wash and all that . . . Doesn’t wash . . . (Alarmed.) I say, don’t take that too literally. I mean he does, sometimes . . . Yes. All right. Goodbye . . .
He rings off and exits through centre door. Telephone rings again. He comes back to answer it, when GRACE dressed for going out, comes out of the dining-room.
GRACE. Oh, hullo, darling. When did you get here?
She picks up the telephone receiver.
(Into receiver.) Everyone out.
She rings off and embraces DICKIE.
You’re thinner. I like your new suit.
DICKIE. Straight from Reading’s Savile Row. Off the peg at three and a half guineas. (Pointing to telephone.) I say – does that go on all the time?
GRACE. All blessed day. The last four days it simply hasn’t stopped.
DICKIE. I had to fight my way in through an army of reporters and people –
GRACE. Yes, I know. You didn’t say anything, I hope, Dickie dear. It’s better not to say a word –
DICKIE. I don’t think I said anything much . . . (Carelessly.) Oh, yes. I did say that I personally thought he did it –
GRACE. (Horrified.) Dickie! You didn’t! (He is smiling at her.) Oh, I see. It’s a joke. You mustn’t say things like that, even in fun, Dickie dear –
DICKIE. How’s it all going?
GRACE. I don’t know. I’ve been there all four days now and I’ve hardly understood a word that’s going on. Kate says the judge is against us, but he seems a charming old gentleman to me. (Faintly shocked.) Sir Robert’s so rude to him –
Telephone rings. GRACE answers it automatically.
Nobody in.
She rings off and turns to garden door.
(Calling.) Arthur! Lunch! I’ll come straight down. Dickie’s here. (To DICKIE.) Kate takes the morning session, then she comes home and relieves me with Arthur, and I go to the Court in the afternoons, so you can come with me as soon as she’s in.
DICKIE. Will there be room for me?
GRACE. Oh, yes. They reserve places for the family. You never saw such crowds in all your life. And such excitement! Cheers and applause and people being turned out. It’s thrilling – you’ll love it, Dickie.
DICKIE. Well – if I don’t understand a word –
GRACE. Oh, that doesn’t matter. They all get so terribly worked up you find yourself getting worked up, too. Sir Robert and the Attorney-General go at each other hammer and tongs – you wait and hear them – all about Petitions and demurrers and prerogatives and things. Nothing to do with Ronnie at all – seems to me –
DICKIE. How did Ronnie get on in the witness box?
GRACE. Two days he was cross-examined. Two whole days. Imagine it, the poor little pet! I must say he didn’t seem to mind much. He said two days with the Attorney-General wasn’t nearly as bad as two minutes with Sir Robert. Kate says he made a very good impression with the jury –
DICKIE. How is Kate, Mother?
GRACE. Oh, all right. You heard about John, I suppose –
DICKIE. Yes. That’s what I meant. How has she taken it?
GRACE. You can never tell with Kate. She never lets you know what she’s feeling. We all think he’s behaved very badly.
ARTHUR appears at the garden door, walking very groggily.
Arthur! You shouldn’t have come up the stairs by yourself.
ARTHUR. I had little alternative.
GRACE. I’m sorry, dear. I was talking to Dickie.
GRACE helps ARTHUR into the bath chair.
ARTHUR. How are you, Dickie?
DICKIE. (Shaking hands.) Very well, thank you, Father.
ARTHUR. I’ve been forced to adopt this ludicrous form of propulsion. I apologize.
He wheels himself into the room and examines DICKIE.
You look very well. A trifle thinner, perhaps –
DICKIE. Hard work, Father.
ARTHUR. Or late hours?
DICKIE. You can’t keep late hours in Reading.
ARTHUR. You could keep late hours anywhere. I’ve had quite a good report about you from Mr. Lamb.
DICKIE, Good egg! He’s a decent old stick, the old baa-lamb. I took him racing last Saturday. Had the time of his life and lost his shirt.
ARTHUR, Did he? I have no doubt that, given the chance, you’ll succeed in converting the entire Reading branch of the Westminster Bank into a bookmaking establishment. Mr. Lamb says you’ve joined the Territorials.
DICKIE. Yes, Father.
ARTHUR. Why have you done that?
DICKIE. Well, from all accounts there’s a fair chance of a bit of a scrap quite soon. If there is I don’t want it to be all over before I can get in on it –
ARTHUR. If there is what you call a scrap you’ll do far better to stay in the bank –
DICKIE. Oh, no, Father. I mean, the bank’s all right – but still – a chap can’t help looking forward to a bit of a change – I can always go back to the bank afterwards –
The telephone rings. ARTHUR takes receiver off and puts it down on table.
GRACE. Oh, no, dear. You can’t do that.
ARTHUR. Why not?
GRACE. It annoys the exchange.
ARTHUR. I prefer to annoy the exchange rather than have the exchange annoy me. (To GRACE.) Catherine’s late. She was in at half-past yesterday.
GRACE. Perhaps they’re taking the lunch interval later today.
ARTHUR. Lunch interval? This isn’t a cricket match. (Looking at her.) Nor, may I say, is it a matinée at the Gaiety. Why are you wearing that highly unsuitable get-up?
GRACE. Don’t you like it, dear? I think it’s Mme Dupont’s best.
ARTHUR. Grace – your son is facing a charge of theft and forgery –
GRACE. Oh, dear! It’s so difficult! I simply can’t be seen in the same old dress, day after day. (A thought strikes her.) I tell you what, Arthur. I’ll wear my black coat and skirt tomorrow – for the verdict.
ARTHUR glares at her, helplessly, then turns his chair to the dining-room.
ARTHUR. Did you say my lunch was ready?
GRACE. Yes, dear. It’s only cold. I did the salad myself. Violet and cook are at the trial.
DICKIE. Is Violet still with you? She was under sentence last time I saw you –
GRACE. She’s been under sentence for the last six months, poor thing – only she doesn’t know it. Neither your father nor I have the courage to tell her –
ARTHUR. (Stopping at door.) I have the courage to tell her.
GRACE. It’s funny that you don’t, then, dear.
ARTHUR. I will.
GRACE. (Hastily.) No, no, you mustn’t. When it’s to be done, I’ll do it.
ARTHUR. You see, Dickie? These taunts of cowardice are daily flung at my head; but should I take them up I’m forbidden to move in the matter. Such is the logic of women.
He goes into the dining-room. DICKIE, who has been holding the door open, closes it after him.
DICKIE. (Seriously.) How is he?
GRACE shakes her head quietly.
Will you take him away after the trial?
GRACE. He’s promised to go into a nursing home.
DICKIE. Do you think he will?
GRACE. How do I know? He’ll probably find some new excuse –
DICKIE. But surely, if he loses this time, he’s lost for good, hasn’t he?
GRACE. (Slowly.) So they say, Dickie dear – I can only hope it’s true.
DICKIE. How did you keep him away from the trial?
GRACE. Kate and Sir Robert together. He wouldn’t listen to me or the doctor.
DICKIE. Poor old Mother! You must have been having a pretty rotten time of it, one way and another –
GRACE. I’ve said my say, Dickie. He knows what I think. Not that he cares. He never has – all his life. Anyway, I’ve given up worrying. He’s always said he knew what he was doing. It’s my job to try and pick up the pieces, I suppose.
CATHERINE comes in.
CATHERINE. Lord! The heat! Mother, can’t you get rid of those reporters – Hullo, Dickie.
DICKIE. (Embracing her.) Hullo, Kate.
CATHERINE. Come to be in at the death.
DICKIE. Is that what it’s going to be?
CATHERINE. Looks like it. I could cheerfully strangle that old brute of a judge, Mother. He’s dead against us.
GRACE. (Fixing her hat in the mirror.) Oh, dear!
CATHERINE. Sir Robert’s very worried. He said the Attorney General’s speech made a great impression on the jury. I must say it was very clever. To listen to him yesterday you would have thought that a verdict for Ronnie would simultaneously cause a mutiny in the Royal Navy and triumphant jubilation in Berlin.
ARTHUR appears in his chair, at the dining room door.
ARTHUR. You’re late, Catherine.
CATHERINE. I know, Father. I’m sorry. There was such a huge crowd outside as well as inside the Court that I couldn’t get a cab. And I stayed to talk to Sir Robert.
GRACE. (Pleased.) Is there a bigger crowd even than yesterday, Kate?
CATHERINE. Yes, Mother. Far bigger.
ARTHUR. How did it go this morning?
CATHERINE. Sir Robert finished his cross-examination of the postmistress. I thought he’d demolished her completely. She admitted she couldn’t identify Ronnie in the Commander’s office. She admitted she couldn’t be sure of the time he came in. She admitted that she was called away to the telephone while he was buying his fifteen-and-six postal order, and that all Osborne cadets looked alike to her in their uniforms, so that it might quite easily have been another cadet who cashed the five shillings. It was a brilliant cross-examination. So gentle and quiet. He didn’t bully her, or frighten her – he just coaxed her into tying herself into knots. Then, when he’d finished the Attorney General asked her again whether she was absolutely positive that the same boy that bought the fifteen-and-six postal order also cashed the five-shilling one. She said yes. She was quite, quite sure because Ronnie was such a good-looking little boy that she had specially noticed him. She hadn’t said that in her examination-in-chief. I could see those twelve good men and true nodding away to each other. I believe it undid the whole of that magnificent cross-examination.
ARTHUR. If she thought him so especially good-looking, why couldn’t she identify him the same evening?
CATHERINE. Don’t ask me, Father. Ask the Attorney General. I’m sure he has a beautifully reasonable answer.
DICKIE. Ronnie good-looking! What utter rot! She must be lying, that woman.
GRACE. Nonsense, Dickie! I thought he looked very well in the box yesterday, didn’t you, Kate?
CATHERINE. Yes, Mother.
ARTHUR. Who else gave evidence for the other side?
CATHERINE. The Commander, the Chief Petty Officer, and one of the boys at the College.
ARTHUR. Anything very damaging?
CATHERINE. Nothing that we didn’t expect. The boy showed obviously he hated Ronnie and was torn to shreds by Sir Robert. The Commander scored, though. He’s an honest man and genuinely believes Ronnie did it.
GRACE. Did you see anybody interesting in Court, dear?
CATHERINE. Yes, Mother. John Watherstone.
GRACE. John? I hope you didn’t speak to him, Kate.
CATHERINE. Of course I did.
GRACE. Kate, how could you! What did he say?
CATHERINE. He wished us luck.
GRACE. What impertinence! The idea of John Watherstone coming calmly up in Court to wish you luck – I think it’s the most disgraceful, cold-blooded –
ARTHUR. Grace – you will be late for the resumption.
GRACE. Oh, will l? Are you ready, Dickie?
DICKIE. Yes, Mother.
GRACE. You don’t think that nice, grey suit of yours you paid so much money for –
ARTHUR. What time are they resuming, Kate?
CATHERINE. Two o’clock.
ARTHUR. It’s twenty past two now.
GRACE. Oh, dear! We’ll be terribly late. Kate – that’s your fault. Arthur, you must finish your lunch –
ARTHUR. Yes, Grace.
GRACE. Promise now.
ARTHUR. I promise.
GRACE. (To herself.) I wonder if Violet will remember to pick up those onions. Perhaps I’d better do it on the way back from the Court. (As she passes CATHERINE.) Kate, dear, I’m so sorry –
CATHERINE. What for, Mother?
GRACE. John proving such a bad hat. I never did like him very much, you know.
CATHERINE. No, I know.
GRACE. Now, Dickie, when you get to the front-door put your head down, like me, and just charge through them all.
ARTHUR. Why don’t you go out by the garden?
GRACE. I wouldn’t like to risk this dress getting through that hedge. Come on, Dickie. I always shout: ‘I’m the maid and don’t know nothing’, so don’t be surprised.
DICKIE. Right-oh, Mother.
GRACE goes out. DICKIE follows her. There is a pause.
ARTHUR. Are we going to lose this case, Kate?
CATHERINE quietly shrugs her shoulders.
It’s our last chance.
CATHERINE. I know.
ARTHUR. (With sudden violence.) We’ve got to win it.
CATHERINE does not reply.
What does Sir Robert think?
CATHERINE. He seems very worried.
ARTHUR. (Thoughtfully.) I wonder if you were right, Kate. I wonder if we could have had a better man.
CATHERINE. No, Father. We couldn’t have had a better man.
ARTHUR. You admit that now, do you?
CATHERINE. Only that he’s the best advocate in England and for some reason – prestige, I suppose – he seems genuinely anxious to win this case. I don’t go back on anything else I’ve ever said about him.
ARTHUR. The papers said that he began today by telling the judge he felt ill and might have to ask for an adjournment. I trust he won’t collapse –
CATHERINE. He won’t. It was just another of those brilliant tricks of his that he’s always boasting about. It got him the sympathy of the Court and possibly – no, I won’t say that –
ARTHUR. Say it.
CATHERINE. (Slowly.) Possibly provided him with an excuse if he’s beaten.
ARTHUR. You don’t like him, do you?
CATHERINE. (Indifferently.) There’s nothing in him to like or dislike, Father. I admire him.
DESMOND appears at the garden door. Standing inside the room, he knocks diffidently. CATHERINE and ARTHUR turn and see him.
DESMOND. I trust you do not object to me employing this rather furtive entry. The crowds at the front-door are most alarming –
ARTHUR. Come in, Desmond. Why have you left the Court?
DESMOND. My partner will be holding the fort. He is perfectly competent, I promise you.
ARTHUR. I’m glad to hear it.
DESMOND. I wonder if I might see Catherine alone. I have a matter of some urgency to communicate to her –
ARTHUR. Oh. Do you wish to hear this urgent matter, Kate? CATHERINE. Yes, Father.
ARTHUR. Very well. I shall go and finish my lunch.
He wheels his chair to the dining-room door. DESMOND flies to help.
DESMOND. Allow me.
ARTHUR. Thank you. I can manage this vehicle without assistance.
He goes out.
DESMOND. I fear I should have warned you of my visit. Perhaps I have interrupted –
CATHERINE. No, Desmond. Please sit down.
DESMOND. Thank you. I’m afraid I have only a very short time. I must get back to Court for the cross-examination of the judge-advocate.
CATHERINE. Yes, Desmond. Well?
DESMOND, I have a taxicab waiting at the end of the street.
CATHERINE. (Smiling.) How very extravagant of you, Desmond.
DESMOND, (Also smiling.) Yes. But it shows you how rushed this visit must necessarily be. The fact of the matter is – it suddenly occurred to me during the lunch recess that I had far better see you today.
CATHERINE. (Her thoughts far distant.) Why?
DESMOND. I have a question to put to you, Kate, which, if I had postponed putting until after the verdict, you might – who knows – have thought had been prompted by pity – if we had lost. Or – if we had won, your reply might – again who knows – have been influenced by gratitude. Do you follow me, Kate?
CATHERINE. Yes, Desmond. I think I do.
DESMOND. Ah. Then possibly you have some inkling of what the question is I have to put to you?
CATHERINE. Yes. I think I have.
DESMOND. (A trifle disconcerted.) Oh.
CATHERINE. I’m sorry, Desmond. I ought, I know, to have followed the usual practice in such cases, and told you I had no inkling whatever.
DESMOND. No, no. Your directness and honesty are two of the qualities I so much admire in you. I am glad you have guessed. It makes my task the easier –
CATHERINE. (In a matter-of-fact voice.) Will you give me a few days to think it over?
DESMOND. Of course. Of course.
CATHERINE. I need hardly tell you how grateful I am, Desmond.
DESMOND. (A trifle bewildered.) There is no need, Kate. No need at all –
CATHERINE has risen brusquely.
CATHERINE. You mustn’t keep your taxi waiting –
DESMOND. Oh, bother my taxi! (Recovering himself.) Forgive me, Kate, but you see I know very well what your feelings for me really are.
CATHERINE. (Gently.) You do, Desmond?
DESMOND. Yes, Kate. I know quite well they have never amounted to much more than a sort of – well – shall we say, friendliness? A warm friendliness, I hope. Yes, I think perhaps we can definitely say, warm. But no more than that. That’s true, isn’t it?
CATHERINE. (Quietly.) Yes, Desmond.
DESMOND. I know, I know. Of course, the thing is that even if I proved the most devoted and adoring husband that ever lived – which, I may say – if you give me the chance, I intend to be – your feelings for me would never – could never – amount to more than that. When I was young it might, perhaps, have been a different story. When I played cricket for England –
He notices the faintest expression of pity that has crossed CATHERINE’S face.
(Apologetically.) And, of course, perhaps even that would not have made so much difference. Perhaps you feel I cling too much to my past athletic prowess. I feel it myself, sometimes – but the truth is I have not much else to cling to save that and my love for you. The athletic prowess is fading, I’m afraid, with the years and the stiffening of the muscles – but my love for you will never fade.
CATHERINE. (Smiling.) That’s very charmingly said, Desmond.
DESMOND. Don’t make fun of me, Kate, please. I meant it, every word. (Clearing his throat.) However, let’s take a more mundane approach and examine the facts. Fact one: You don’t love me, and never can. Fact two: I love you, always have, and always will. That is the situation – and it is a situation which, after most careful consideration, I am fully prepared to accept. I reached this decision some months ago, but thought at first it would be better to wait until this case, which is so much on all our minds, should be over. Then at lunch today I determined to anticipate the verdict tomorrow, and let you know what was in my mind at once. No matter what you feel or don’t feel for me, no matter what you feel for anyone else, I want you to be my wife.
Pause.
CATHERINE. (At length.) I see. Thank you, Desmond. That makes everything much clearer.
DESMOND. There is much more that I had meant to say, but I shall put it in a letter.
CATHERINE. Yes, Desmond. Do.
DESMOND. Then I may expect your answer in a few days?
CATHERINE. Yes, Desmond.
DESMOND. (Looking at his watch.) I must get back to Court. (He collects his hat, stick, and gloves.) How did you think it went this morning?
CATHERINE. I thought the postmistress restored the Admiralty’s case with that point about Ronnie’s looks –
DESMOND. Oh, no, no. Not at all. There is still the overwhelming fact that she couldn’t identify him. What a brilliant cross-examination, was it not?
CATHERINE. Brilliant.
DESMOND. He is a strange man, Sir Robert. At times, so cold and distant and – and –
CATHERINE. Fishlike.
DESMOND. Fishlike, exactly. And yet he has a real passion about this case. A real passion. I happen to know of course this must on no account go any further – but I happen to know that he has made a very, very great personal sacrifice in order to bring it to court.
CATHERINE. Sacrifice? What? Of another brief?
DESMOND. No, no. That is no sacrifice to him. No – he was offered – you really promise to keep this to yourself?
CATHERINE. My dear Desmond, whatever the Government offered him can’t be as startling as all that; he’s in the Opposition.
DESMOND. As it happens it was quite startling, and a most graceful compliment, if I may say so, to his performance as Attorney-General under the last Government.
CATHERINE. What was he offered, Desmond?
DESMOND. The appointment of Lord Chief Justice. He turned it down simply in order to be able to carry on with the case of Winslow versus Rex. Strange are the ways of men are they not? Goodbye, my dear.
CATHERINE. Goodbye, Desmond.
Exit DESMOND.
CATHERINE turns from the window deep in thought. She has a puzzled, strained expression. It does not look as though it were DESMOND she was thinking of. ARTHUR opens dining-room door and peers round.
ARTHUR. May I come in now?
CATHERINE. Yes, Father. He’s gone.
ARTHUR. I’m rather tired of being gazed at from the street while eating my mutton, as though I were an animal at the Zoo.
CATHERINE. (Slowly.) I’ve been a fool, Father.
ARTHUR. Have you, my dear?
CATHERINE. An utter fool.
ARTHUR waits for CATHERINE to make herself plain. She does not do so.
ARTHUR. In default of further information, I can only repeat, have you, my dear?
CATHERINE. There can be no further information. I’m under a pledge of secrecy.
ARTHUR. Oh. What did Desmond want?
CATHERINE. To marry me.
ARTHUR. I trust the folly you were referring to wasn’t your acceptance of him?
CATHERINE. (Smiling.) No, Father. (She comes and sits on the arm of his chair.) Would it be such folly, though?
ARTHUR. Lunacy.
CATHERINE. Oh, I don’t know. He’s nice, and he’s doing very well as a solicitor.
ARTHUR. Neither very compelling reasons for marrying him.
CATHERINE. Seriously – I shall have to think it over.
ARTHUR. Think it over, by all means. But decide against it.
CATHERINE. I’m nearly thirty, you know.
ARTHUR. Thirty isn’t the end of life.
CATHERINE. It might he – for an unmarried woman, with not much looks.
ARTHUR. Rubbish.
CATHERINE shakes her head.
Better far to live and die an old maid than to marry Desmond.
CATHERINE. Even an old maid must eat. (Pause.)
ARTHUR. I am leaving you and your mother everything, you know.
CATHERINE. (Quietly.) Everything?
ARTHUR. There is still a little left. (Pause.) Did you take my suggestion as regards your Suffrage Association?
CATHERINE. Yes, Father.
ARTHUR. You demanded a salary?
CATHERINE. I asked for one.
ARTHUR. And they’re going to give it to you, I trust?
CATHERINE. Yes, Father. Two pounds a week.
ARTHUR. (Angrily.) That’s insulting.
CATHERINE. No. It’s generous. It’s all they can afford. We’re not a very rich organization – you know.
ARTHUR. You’ll have to think of something else.
CATHERINE. What else? Darning socks? That’s about my only other accomplishment.
ARTHUR. There must be something useful you can do.
CATHERINE. You don’t think the work I am doing at the W.S.A. is useful?
ARTHUR is silent.
You may be right. But it’s the only work I’m fitted for, all the same. (Pause.) No, Father. The choice is quite simple. Either I marry Desmond and settle down into quite a comfortable and not really useless existence – or I go on for the rest of my life earning two pounds a week in the service of a hopeless cause.
ARTHUR. A hopeless cause? I’ve never heard you say that before.
CATHERINE. I’ve never felt it before.
ARTHUR is silent. CATHERINE leans her head against his chair.
CATHERINE. John’s going to get married next month.
ARTHUR. Did he tell you?
CATHERINE. Yes. He was very apologetic.
ARTHUR. Apologetic!
CATHERINE. He didn’t need to be. It’s a girl I know slightly. She’ll make him a good wife.
ARTHUR. Is he in love with her?
CATHERINE. No more than he was with me. Perhaps, even, a little less.
ARTHUR. Why is he marrying her so soon after – after –
CATHERINE. After jilting me? Because he thinks there’s going to be a war. If there is, his regiment will be among the first to go overseas. Besides, his father approves strongly. She’s a general’s daughter. Very, very suitable.
ARTHUR. Poor Kate!
Pause. He takes her hand slowly.
How I’ve messed up your life, haven’t I?
CATHERINE. No, Father. Any messing-up that’s been done has been done by me.
ARTHUR. I’m so sorry, Kate. I’m so sorry.
CATHERINE. Don’t be, Father. We both knew what we were doing.
ARTHUR. Did we?
CATHERINE. I think we did.
ARTHUR. Yet our motives seem to have been different all along – yours and mine, Kate? Can we both have been right?
CATHERINE. I believe we can. I believe we have been.
ARTHUR. And yet they’ve always been so infernally logical, our opponents, haven’t they?
CATHERINE. I’m afraid logic has never been on our side.
ARTHUR. Brute stubbornness – a selfish refusal to admit defeat. That’s what your mother thinks have been our motives –
CATHERINE. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps that’s all they’ve been.
ARTHUR. But perhaps brute stubbornness isn’t such a bad quality in the face of injustice?
CATHERINE. Or in the face of tyranny. (Pause.) If you could go back, Father, and choose again – would your choice be different?
ARTHUR. Perhaps.
CATHERINE. I don’t think so.
ARTHUR. I don’t think so, either.
CATHERINE. I still say we both knew what we were doing. And we were right to do it.
ARTHUR kisses the top of her head.
ARTHUR. Dear Kate. Thank you.
There is a silence. A newsboy can be heard dimly, shouting from the street outside.
You aren’t going to marry Desmond, are you?
CATHERINE. (With a smile.) In the words of the Prime Minister, Father – wait and see.
He squeezes her hand. The newsboy can still be heard – now a little louder.
ARTHUR. What’s that boy shouting, Kate?
CATHERINE. Only – Winslow case – Latest.
ARTHUR. It didn’t sound to me like ‘Latest’.
CATHERINE gets up to listen at the window. Suddenly we hear it quite plainly. ‘Winslow Case Result! Winslow Case Result!’
Result?
CATHERINE. There must be some mistake.
There is another sudden outburst of noise from the hall as the front door is opened. It subsides again. VIOLET comes in quickly with a broad smile.
VIOLET. Oh, sir! Oh, sir!
ARTHUR. What’s happened?
VIOLET. Oh, Miss Kate, what a shame you missed it! Just after they come back from lunch, and Mrs. Winslow she wasn’t there neither, nor Master Ronnie. The cheering and the shouting and the carrying-on – you never heard anything like it in all your life – and Sir Robert standing there at the table with his wig on crooked and the tears running down his face – running down his face they were, and not able to speak because of the noise. Cook and me we did a bit of crying too, we just couldn’t help it – you couldn’t, you know. Oh, it was lovely! We did enjoy ourselves. And then cook had her hat knocked over her eyes by the man behind who was cheering and waving his arms about something chronic, and shouting about liberty – you would have laughed, miss, to see her, she was that cross – but she didn’t mind really, she was only pretending, and we kept on cheering and the judge kept on shouting, but it wasn’t any good, because even the jury joined in, and some of them climbed out of the box to shake hands with Sir Robert. And then outside in the street it was just the same – you couldn’t move for the crowd, and you’d think they’d all gone mad the way they were carrying on. Some of them were shouting ‘Good old Winslow!’ and singing ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’, and cook had her hat knocked off again. Oh, it was lovely! (To ARTHUR.) Well, sir, you must be feeling nice and pleased, now it’s all over?
ARTHUR. Yes, Violet. I am.
VIOLET. That’s right. I always said it would come all right in the end, didn’t I?
ARTHUR. Yes. You did.
VIOLET. Two years all but one month it’s been, now, since Master Ronnie come back that day. Fancy.
ARTHUR. Yes.
VIOLET. I don’t mind telling you, sir, I wondered sometimes whether you and Miss Kate weren’t just wasting your time carrying on the way you have all the time. Still – you couldn’t have felt that if you’d been in Court today –
She turns to go and stops.
Oh, sir, Mrs. Winslow asked me to remember most particular to pick up some onions from the greengrocer, but –
CATHERINE. That’s all right, Violet. I think Mrs. Winslow is picking them up herself, on her way back –
VIOLET. I see, miss. Poor Madam! What a sell for her when she gets to the Court and finds it’s all over. Well, sir – congratulations, I’m sure.
ARTHUR. Thank you, Violet.
Exit VIOLET.
ARTHUR. It would appear, then, that we’ve won.
CATHERINE. Yes, Father, it would appear that we’ve won.
She breaks down and cries, her head on her father’s lap.
ARTHUR. (Slowly.) I would have liked to have been there.
Pause.
Enter VIOLET.
VIOLET. (Announcing.) Sir Robert Morton!
SIR ROBERT walks calmly and methodically into the room. He looks as spruce and neat as earlier, and VIOLET’S description of him in Court does not seem to tally with his composed features.
CATHERINE jumps up hastily and dabs her eyes.
Exit VIOLET.
SIR ROBERT. I thought you might like to hear the actual terms of the Attorney-General’s statement – (He pulls out a scrap of paper.) So I jotted it down for you. (Reading.) ‘I say now, on behalf of the Admiralty, that I accept the declaration of Ronald Arthur Winslow that he did not write the name on the postal order, that he did not take it and that he did not cash it, and that consequently he was innocent of the charge which was brought against him two years ago. I make that statement without any reservation of any description, intending it to be a complete acceptance of the boy’s statements.’
He folds the paper up and hands it to ARTHUR.
ARTHUR. Thank you, sir. It is rather hard for me to find the words I should speak to you.
SIR ROBERT. Pray do not trouble yourself to search for them, sir. Let us take these rather tiresome and conventional expressions of gratitude for granted, shall we? Now, on the question of damages and costs. I fear we shall find the Admiralty rather niggardly. You are likely still to be left considerably out of pocket. However, doubtless we can apply a slight spur to the First Lord’s posterior in the House of Commons –
ARTHUR. Please, sir – no more trouble – I beg. Let the matter rest here. (He shows the piece of paper.) This is all I have ever asked for.
SIR ROBERT. (Turning to CATHERINE.) A pity you were not in Court, Miss Winslow. The verdict appeared to cause quite a stir.
CATHERINE. So I heard. Why did the Admiralty throw up the case?
SIR ROBERT. It was a foregone conclusion. Once the handwriting expert had been discredited – not for the first time in legal history – I knew we had a sporting chance, and no jury in the world would have convicted on the postmistress’s evidence.
CATHERINE. But this morning you seemed so depressed.
SIR ROBERT. Did I? The heat in the courtroom was very trying, you know. Perhaps I was a little fatigued –
Enter VIOLET.
VIOLET. (to ARTHUR.) Oh, sir, the gentlemen at the front door say please will you make a statement. They say they won’t go away until you do.
ARTHUR. Very well, Violet. Thank you.
VIOLET. Yes, sir.
Exit VIOLET.
ARTHUR. What shall I say?
SIR ROBERT. (Indifferently.) I hardly think it matters. Whatever you say will have little bearing on what they write.
ARTHUR. What shall I say, Kate?
CATHERINE. You’ll think of something, Father.
She begins to wheel his chair towards the door.
ARTHUR. (Sharply.) No! I refuse to meet the Press in this ridiculous chariot. (To CATHERINE.) Get me my stick!
CATHERINE. (Protestingly.) Father – you know what the doctor –
ARTHUR. Get me my stick!
CATHERINE, without more ado, gets his stick for him. She and SIR ROBERT help him out of his chair.
How is this? I am happy to have lived long enough to have seen justice done to my son –
CATHERINE. It’s a little gloomy, Father. You’re going to live for ages yet –
ARTHUR. Am I? Wait and see. I could say: This victory is not mine. it is the people who have triumphed – as they always will triumph – over despotism. How does that strike you, sir? A trifle pretentious, perhaps.
SIR ROBERT. Perhaps, sir. I should say it, none the less. It will be very popular.
ARTHUR. Hm! Perhaps I had better say what I really feel, which is merely: Thank God we beat ’em.
He goes out. SIR ROBERT turns abruptly to CATHERINE.
SIR ROBERT. Miss Winslow – might I be rude enough to ask you for a little of your excellent whisky?
CATHERINE. Of course.
She goes into the dining-room. SIR ROBERT, left alone, droops his shoulders wearily. He subsides into a chair. When CATHERINE comes back with the whisky he straightens his shoulders instinctively, but does not rise.
SIR ROBERT. That is very kind. Perhaps you would forgive me not getting up? The heat in that courtroom was really so infernal.
He takes the glass from her and drains it quickly. She notices his hand is trembling slightly.
CATHERINE. Are you feeling all right, Sir Robert?
SIR ROBERT. Just a slight nervous reaction – that’s all. Besides, I have not been feeling myself all day. I told the Judge so, this morning, if you remember, but I doubt if he believed me. He thought it was a trick. What suspicious minds people have, have they not?
CATHERINE. Yes.
SIR ROBERT. (Handing her back the glass.) Thank you.
CATHERINE puts the glass down, then turns slowly back to face him as if nerving herself for an ordeal.
CATHERINE. Sir Robert – I’m afraid I have a confession and an apology to make to you.
SIR ROBERT. (Sensing what is coming.) Dear lady – I am sure the one is rash and the other superfluous. I would far rather hear neither –
CATHERINE. (With a smile.) I am afraid you must. This is probably the last time I shall see you and it is a better penance for me to say this than to write it. I have entirely misjudged your attitude to this case, and if in doing so I have ever seemed to you either rude or ungrateful, I am sincerely and humbly sorry.
SIR ROBERT. (Indifferently.) My dear Miss Winslow, you have never seemed to me either rude or ungrateful. And my attitude to this case has been the same as yours – a determination to win at all costs. Only – when you talk of gratitude – you must remember that those costs were not mine, but yours.
CATHERINE. Weren’t they also yours, Sir Robert?
SIR ROBERT. I beg your pardon?
CATHERINE. Haven’t you too made a certain sacrifice for the case?
Pause.
SIR ROBERT. The robes of that office would not have suited me.
CATHERINE. Wouldn’t they?
SIR ROBERT. (With venom.) And what is more, I fully intend to have Curry expelled from the Law Society.
CATHERINE. Please don’t. He did me a great service by telling me –
SIR ROBERT. I must ask you never to divulge it to another living soul, and even to forget it yourself.
CATHERINE. I shall never divulge it. I’m afraid I can’t promise to forget it myself.
SIR ROBERT. Very well. If you choose to endow an unimportant incident with a romantic significance, you are perfectly at liberty to do so. I must go. (He gets up.)
CATHERINE. Why are you always at such pains to prevent people knowing the truth about you, Sir Robert?
SIR ROBERT. Am I, indeed?
CATHERINE. You know you are. Why?
SIR ROBERT. Perhaps because I do not know the truth about myself.
CATHERINE. That is no answer.
SIR ROBERT. My dear Miss Winslow, are you cross-examining me?
CATHERINE. On this point, yes. Why are you so ashamed of your emotions?
SIR ROBERT. Because, as a lawyer, I must necessarily distrust them.
CATHERINE. Why?
SIR ROBERT. To fight a case on emotional grounds, Miss Winslow, is the surest way of losing it. Emotions muddy the issue. Cold, clear logic – and buckets of it – should be the lawyer’s only equipment.
CATHERINE. Was it cold, clear logic that made you weep today at the verdict?
Pause.
SIR ROBERT. Your maid, of course, told you that? It doesn’t matter. It will be in the papers tomorrow, anyway. (Fiercely.) Very well, then, if you must have it, here it is. I wept today because right had been done.
CATHERINE. Not justice?
SIR ROBERT. No. Not justice. Right. It is easy to do justice – very hard to do right. Unfortunately, while the appeal of justice is intellectual, the appeal of right appears for some odd reason to induce tears in court. That is my answer and my excuse. And now, may I leave the witness box?
CATHERINE. No. One last question. How can you reconcile your support of Winslow against the Crown with your political beliefs?
SIR ROBERT. Very easily. No one party has a monopoly of concern for individual liberty. On that issue all parties are united.
CATHERINE. I don’t think so.
SIR ROBERT. You don’t?
CATHERINE. No. Not all parties. Only some people from all parties.
SIR ROBERT. That is a wise remark. We can only hope, then, that those same people will always prove enough people. You would make a good advocate.
CATHERINE. Would I?
SIR ROBERT. Yes. (Playfully.) Why do you not canalize your feministic impulses towards the law courts, Miss Winslow, and abandon the lost cause of women’s suffrage?
CATHERINE, Because I don’t believe it is a lost cause.
SIR ROBERT. No? Are you going to continue to pursue it?
CATHERINE. Certainly.
SIR ROBERT. You will be wasting your time.
CATHERINE. I don’t think so.
SIR ROBERT. A pity. In the House of Commons in days to come I shall make a point of looking up at the Gallery in the hope of catching a glimpse of you in that provocative hat.
RONNIE comes in. He is fifteen now, and there are distinct signs of an incipient man-about-town. He is very smartly dressed in a lounge suit and homburg hat.
RONNIE. I say, Sir Robert, I’m most awfully sorry. I didn’t know anything was going to happen.
SIR ROBERT. Where were you?
RONNIE. At the pictures.
SIR ROBERT. Pictures? What is that?
CATHERINE. Cinematograph show.
RONNIE. I’m most awfully sorry. I say – we won, didn’t we?
SIR ROBERT. Yes. We won. Goodbye, Miss Winslow. Shall I see you in the House then, one day?
CATHERINE. (With a smile.) Yes, Sir Robert. One day. But not in the Gallery. Across the floor.
SIR ROBERT. (With a faint smile.) Perhaps. Goodbye. (He turns to go.)
Curtain.