Garside's Career, by Harold Brighouse

Interior of an artisan cottage. Door centre, leading direct to street, door right to house. Fireplace with kitchen range left. Table centre, with print cloth. Two plain chairs under it, one left, one centre, facing audience. Rocking-chair by fireplace. Two chairs against wall right, above door. Dresser right, below door. Small hanging bookcase on wall, left centre. Window right centre. On walls plainly framed photographs of Socialist leaders—Blatchford, Hyndman, Hardie. The time is 7.0 p.m. on a June evening.

Mrs. Garside is a working-class woman of 50, greyhaired, slight, with red toil-worn hands and a face expressive of resignation marred by occasional petulance, dressed in a rough serge skirt, dark print blouse, elastic-sided boots, and a white apron. She sits in the rocking-chair, watching the cheap alarm-clock fretfully. Outside a boy is heard calling "Last Edishun." She rises hastily, feels on the mantelpiece for her purse, opens the door centre and buys a paper from the boy who appears through the doorway. She closes door, sits centre and spreads the paper on the table, rises again and gets spectacle-case from mantelpiece. She sits with spectacles on and rapidly goes through the paper seeking some particular item.

The door centre opens and Margaret Shawcross enters. She is young, dark, with a face beautiful in expression rather than feature. It is the face of an idealist, one who would go through fire and water for the faith that is in her.

She is a school teacher, speaking with an educated voice in a slightly apparent northern accent, dressed neatly and serviceably.

Mrs. Garside turns eagerly as she enters and is disappointed on seeing Margaret.

Mar. (closing door, sympathetically). Yes. But it's too early to expect Peter back yet.

Mrs. G. (with some truculence). He'll not be long. He's always said he'd let his mother be the first to hear the news.

Mrs. G. (rising and putting spectacles back on mantelpiece, speaking ungraciously). No, you've got a right to hear it too, Margaret. (Margaret picks up paper.) I can't find anything in that.

Mrs. G. He never told me. (Margaret folds paper on table.) I'm glad though. There's no one else 'ull know a-front of me. He'll bring the good news home himself. He's coming now as fast as train and car 'ull bring him. (Sitting in rocking-chair.)

Mar. Yes. He knows we're waiting here, we two who care for Peter more than anything on earth.

Mrs. G. (irritably). Calm? How can I be calm? I'm on edge till I know. (Rocking her chair quickly.)

Mar. (trying to soothe her). It isn't as if he can't try again if he's not through this time.

Mrs. G. (confidently, keeping her chair still). He'll have no need to try again. I've a son and his name this night is Peter Garside, b.a. I know he's through.

Mrs. G. Yes. I know I'm a fidget. I want to hear it from his own lips. He's worked so hard he can't fail. (Accusingly.) You don't believe me, Margaret. You're not sure of him.

Mar. (with elbows on table and head on hands). I'm fearful of the odds against him—the chances that the others have and he hasn't. Peter's to work for his living. They're free to study all day long. (Rising, enthusiastically.) Oh, if he does it, what a triumph for our class. Peter Garside, the Board School boy, the working engineer, keeping himself and you, and studying at night for his degree.

Mrs. G. (dogmatically). The odds don't count. I know Peter. Peter's good enough for any odds. You doubt him, Margaret.

Mar. No. I've seen him work. I've worked with him till he distanced me and left me far behind. He knows enough to pass, to pass above them all——

Mrs. G. Not to Peter. He's fighting for his class, he's showing them he's the better man. He can work with his hands and they can't, and he can work with his brain as well as the best of them.

Mrs. G. (looking at the clock). Do you think there's been a breakdown on the cars?

Mrs. G. (pacing about). Why doesn't he come? (Stopping short.) Where do people go to find out if there's been an accident? It's the police station, isn't it?

[Peter Garside bursts in through centre door and closes it behind him as he speaks. He is 23, cleanshaven, fair, sturdily built, with a large, loose mouth, strong jaw, and square face, dressed in a cheap tweed suit, wearing a red tie.

Mrs. G. (going to him; he puts his arm round her and pats her back, while she hides her face against his chest). My boy, my boy!

Peter. I've done it, mother. (Looking proudly at Margaret.) I'm an honours man of Midlandton University.

Mrs. G. (standing by his left, looking up at him). I knew, I knew it, Peter. I had the faith in you.

Peter (hanging his cap behind the door right, then coming back to centre. Margaret is standing on the hearthrug). Ah, little mother, what a help that faith has been to me. I couldn't disappoint a faith like yours. I had to win. Mother, Margaret, I've done it. Done it. Oh, I think I'm not quite sane to-night. This room seems small all of a sudden. I want to leap, to dance, and I know I'd break my neck against the ceiling if I did. Peter Garside, b.a. (Approaching Margaret.) Margaret, tell me I deserve it. You know what it means to me. The height of my ambition. The crown, the goal, my target reached at last. Margaret, isn't it a great thing that I've done?

Peter (dropping her hands). Up to the end I didn't know. I thought I'd failed. And here I'm through first class. I've beaten men I never hoped to equal. I've called myself a swollen-headed fool for dreaming to compete with them, and now——

Mrs. G. Now you've justified my faith. I never doubted you—like Margaret did.

Mrs. G. (contemptuously). She didn't dare. But I did. I dared, Peter, I knew.

Peter (putting his arm over her shoulder). Oh, mother, mother! But Margaret was right, if I hadn't had such luck in the papers I——

Mrs. G. (slipping from him and going to where her cape and bonnet hang on the door right). It wasn't luck. Even Margaret said you deserved it all.

Peter. Even Margaret! (Seeing her putting cape on.) You're not going out, mother?

Mrs. G. (with determination). Yes, I am. There's others besides Margaret doubted you. I'm going to tell them all. I'm going to be the first to spread the news. And won't it spread! Like murder.

Mrs. G. But you haven't told anyone else. Have you, Peter? (Reproachfully.) You said you'd let me be the first to know.

Peter. I met O'Callagan on his way to the Club. He asked me. I couldn't refuse to answer.

Mrs. G. (energetically). He'd no right to meet you. A dreamy wastrel like O'Callagan to know before your mother!

Mrs. G. (opening door). And I'll tell the women. They're going to know the kind of son I've borne. I'm a proud woman this night, and all Belinda Street is going to know I've cause to be. (Sniffing.) O'Callagan indeed!

Mar. (looking up and holding out her hand across table; she takes his, bending). Oh, my dear, my dear.

Peter. You inspired me. You helped me on. You kept me at it when my courage failed. When I wanted to slack you came and worked with me. It was your idea from the first.

Peter (sitting centre, behind table). I've had dreams of this. Dreams of success. I never thought it would come. It was there on the horizon—a far-off nebulous dream.

Peter. Yes. It's a reality to day. I've done the task you set me. I've proved my class as good as theirs. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?

Peter. I've won because you wanted it, because after I won I knew that you—— (Rising.) Has it been wearisome to wait, Margaret? I had the work, lectures, study. You had the tedious clays of teaching idiotic middle-class facts to idiotic middle-class children, and evenings when you ought to have had me and didn't because I couldn't lose a single precious moment's chance of study.

Peter. This night was always in my dreams. The night when I should come to you and say, Margaret Shawcross, this have I done for you, because you wanted it. Was it well done, Margaret?

Peter. You can give the greatest prize on earth. We ought to have been married long ago. I've kept you waiting.

Mar. That had to be. They won't have married women teachers at the Midlandton High School. I couldn't burden you until this fight was fought.

Mar. A very little one. If you've money to keep us three. No going short for mother.

Peter (bursting with thoughts). There's my journalism. This degree 'ull give me a lift at that. I shall get lecture engagements too.

Peter. I did it for you. But I mean to enjoy the fruits of all this work. Public speaking's always been a joy to me. You don't know the glorious sensation of holding a crowd in the hollow of your hand, mastering it, doing what you like with it.

Peter. I haven't spoken lately because I'd other things to do. I haven't given it up.

Mar. (bracing herself for a tussle). I know the fascination's fatal. I saw it growing on you—this desire to speak, to be the master of a mob. I hoped I'd cured you of it.

Peter. Margaret! Why? (Backing from, her, and sitting centre during her speech.)

Mar. I've seen men ruined by this itch to speak. You know them. Men we had great hopes of in the movement. Men we thought would be real leaders of the people. And they spoke, and spoke, and soon said all they had to say, became mere windbags trading on a reputation till people tired and turned to some new orator. Don't be one of these, Peter. You've solider grit than they. The itch to speak is like the itch to drink, except that it's cheaper to talk yourself tipsy.

Mar. (sitting right) What shall I see of you if you're out speaking every night? You pitied me just now because you had to close your door against me while you studied. I could bear that for the time. But this other thing, married and widowed at once, with you out at your work all day and away night after night——

Peter. Oh, no. I'm safe if anyone is safe. No one is, of course, but I'm as safe as man can be. I'm a first-elass workman.

Peter (impatiently). Oh, not yet. I'm speaking of the future. Don't you see? I'm not content to be a workman all my life. I ought to make a living easily by writing and—and speaking if you'll let me. Then I could be with you all day long.

Peter. You don't suppose a B.A. means to stick to manual labour all his life, do you?

Mar. Oh, dear! This wasn't my idea at all. I wanted you to win your degree for the honour of the thing, to show them what a working engineer could do. Cease to be a workman and you confess another, worse motive. It's as though you only passed to make a profit for yourself.

Peter (pushing his chair hack and rising). I might have a career. (Crossing to fireplace.)

Mar (still sitting). And I might have a husband. I don't want to marry a career, Peter.

Peter (looking into fire, his back to Margaret). I've already got a local reputation as a speaker.

Peter (turning). Yes. You've conquered me. I'll fight ambition down. It shall be as you wish, Margaret.

Mar. (rising and going to him). Peter, oh, my dear, dear Peter! You make me feel I don't do right. Oh, but I know. I know. Speaking's so deadly dangerous.

Peter. I promise not to speak. I'll write. I'll stick to engineering, and we'll have our evenings.

Mrs. G. (uncomprehendingly). No. I've been telling folks about you. (She takes off bonnet and cape and hangs them on door right.) Some of 'em's green with jealousy this night. They know I'm the mother of a great man now.

Mrs. G. I meant being first. Who'd the better right to be? Me or a wild Irishman? (Crossing to dresser and emptying on a plate the contents of a parcel she had brought in.)

Mrs. G. (looking at Margaret). No. Margaret might have thought of that and put the kettle on if she'd had her wits about her.

Mrs. G. B.A.s don't lay tables. Now, Margaret. (Mrs. Garside takes white cloth from drawer in table and she and Margaret spread it. There is a knock at the door. Peter gets up. Mrs. Garside pushes him back into his chair). I've told you to sit still. (She crosses to door centre and opens it.)

[The three who enter are working men in their evening clothes. Denis O'Callagan is 35, clean shaven, an enthusiastic impractical Irishman, small and dark. Karl Marx Jones is 30, wears a formally trimmed beard, is precise in utterance, doctrinaire in outlook, and practical in procedure. Ned Applegarth is a man of 50, his age carrying sober authority, very earnest in manner, grizzled moustache, grey hair, black cut-away coat and turn-down collar, a responsible leader deferred to willingly by O'Callagan, ungraciously by Jones. Ned, entering last, closes the door. Each, as he speaks, shakes Peter's hand.

O'Cal. (visible in doorway). Aye. Let us come in, for it's a great night surely, and we fair bursting with the glory of the thing that's done this day.

Ned. Well done, youngster. (Turning to Mrs. Garside.) Mrs. Garside, you've a son to be proud of.

Peter (his demeanour unfeignedly modest). Comrades, Mr. Applegarth, it's nothing. I tried my best, but if I hadn't been so lucky in my papers——

Jones (interrupting). You've passed. The others were lucky, lucky in being men of leisure, sons of wealthy parents with nothing to do but study. Don't talk about your luck—(bitterly)—the luck of a wage slave. It's like winning a foot race with your ankles chained together.

Peter. Comrades, don't give me praise. It wasn't I. Something not myself got hold of me and urged me on. Injustice! Tyranny! The consciousness of class. The knowledge that in the eyes of my well-to-do competitors I was an inferior animal. My hands are rough with toil, the toil they batten on, and so they mocked at me for daring to compete with them—a man with a trade. They know now what a working man can do with his brain. They laughed on the wrong side of their fat faces, when the list came out to-night.

Jones (sceptically). Are they all such cads? I thought there were Socialists among them.

Ned. Well, well, a good start's half the battle, and I'm not denying that a ready tongue's a useful gift.

Jones. Aye, when it's by itself. Not when it's backed up by a knowledge of the principles of Karl Marx and used to expose fearlessly the gross fallacies of the capitalist professors of economics.

Ned (impatiently). Let's get to business. (Jones is resentful.) Mrs. Garside's making supper, and we don't want to keep her waiting.

Mrs. G. That's all one. Food 'ull be nobbut a fraud. We're too excited to eat this night. Sit you down.

[Mrs. Garside puts Ned in chair, centre. Peter and Margaret bring the chairs right down stage, putting one right, near table, the other left, Jones sits right. O'Callagan at table left, Peter on chair he brings left of O'Callagan, and Mrs. Garside presently takes rocking-chair. Margaret stands l.c. well away from the rest, as if trying to efface herself, after going off left and returning without her hat in a moment.

(Sitting.) Peter, I've said it before, and I say it again. You've made a good start, lad.

Peter (going left, and meeting Margaret as she reenters). Next? This next, Mr. Applegarth. (Taking her hand.)

Ned (nodding). So. I mind I'd heard. Well, marriage is a proper state. (Jones shows signs of irritation.) And you're a lucky chap to have Miss Shawcross for a bride. I don't say anything against marriage.

O'Cal. (leaning across towards Jones, Peter and Margaret still standing behind near left door). And have we got our free state yet? Let you wait to be talking of freedom and free-loving men and women till we've had our glorious revolution, and in the dawning of that day——

Jones (leaping up, interrupting). There must be pioneers. Some of us must set the example. (Appealing to Peter and Margaret.) Even at the price of martyrdom, of ostracism by coarse-minded oafs who cannot understand, I call on you, Miss Shawcross, to dispense with the worn-out form of marriage. Be free lovers——

(Jones sits dozen abruptly, silenced), and we're here on business. And after you're married, Peter?

Peter (lightly). Oh, live happily ever afterwards. My horizon doesn't go beyond that.

Ned. Doesn't it? Well, listen to me. There'll be a by-election here shortly.

Peter. Why? (Peter leaves Margaret and comes forward to chair right of table.)

Ned. I know that. It was news to us last night. The question is, do we run a candidate this time?

Peter (turning). Margaret, you'll have to give me back my word. (Slight pause.)

Peter. I've promised to give up public speaking. (They look at Margaret in disgusted protest. She speaks quickly.)

Ned. You're going too fast. There's two things in the way. One's money. The other's a man.

Ned. No. We've got to find the man, before they help us with money. They're a bit down on our chances unless we find a strong local man. A local man should pull it off where an outsider might fail. Problem is to find him.

Jones. Nor we couldn't neither. We gave it up last night and called another meeting at the Club to-night. And there we sat, the whole executive, no better than a parcel of tongue-tied fools, when O'Callagan bursts in and tells us——

Peter (firmly). I'm too young. I'd be the youngest man in the Labour Party.

Jones. Someone's got to be that. They need young blood. There's too much antideluvian trades unionism about the old gang.

O'Cal. It's a queer thing you do be saying, and you without a grey hair to your head. It's a queer thing to hear a young man making moan beeause he's young.

Jones (roughly). Of course we have. Do you think we're playing with the thing?

Ned. Now. (Seeing Peter's distress, more kindly.) To-night, anyhow. The whole thing 'ull be over in six weeks. We've little enough time in all conscience to create an organization.

O'Cal. Then one of the murdering blood-suckers that live upon our labour 'ull get the seat, and it won't matter either way which side wins, for it's all one to the working man.

Ned (appealing). Lad, you'll not say no. I don't say you'll never get another chance, beeause B.A.s are sort of scarce in the Amalgamated Society of Engineers. But I do say this. We want you. You've got a call to a high place and a high duty. Are you going to fail us in our need?

O'Cal. We want you for another nail in the coffin of capitalism, another link in the golden chain that's dragging us up from slavery the way we'll be free men the day that chain's complete.

Peter (smiling). And I'd be a nine-carat link, Denis. I'm made of baser stuff than the great leaders who compose that chain. I'm not worthy to aspire to a seat by their side in Parliament.

Ned. Nay, I like you better for being modest. You'd like us to go out and eome back in an hour or so.

O'Cal. And are you doubting that you'll be elected? You've only to say you'll stand, and you can practise putting M.P. after your name this night, for you'll have need to write it certainly.

Mar. (coming forward a little reluctantly). Yes, Peter. You must decide. No one can help you there.

Mrs. G. (jealously). She wants to hold you back. She's never had the faith in you that others have. She'd like to tell you now you're not good enough for Parliament only there's too many here to give her the lie.

Mrs. G. Oh, yes, I dare say, put Margaret first, Margaret who doesn't believe in you, in front of all the rest of us who know Parliament's not good enough for you. It's the House of Lords you should be in.

O'Cal. We'll be taking a stroll round the houses, and come in again presently.

Peter (turning to them). No. Don't go. I'll give you my answer now. I've decided.

O'Cal. It's destroyed I am with joy, and me after thinking he wasn't going to stand at all. You'll be elected surely, and we the nearer by another step to that great glittering dawn that's coming to bring peace and happiness to——

Jones. Don't gabble, Denis. We've to work to organize for victory. I'm going to the Club to beat up recruits.

Ned. We're all coming, Karl. We're not going into this with our hands in our pockets.

Ned (stopping him). Not you, Peter. You've earned a rest to-night. You begin to-morrow.

Jones. You've to keep your strength for the street corners. We'll do the donkey work. Clerking's all some of us are fit for. (Glancing at O'Callagan.) You can draft your election address if you want something to do.

Ned. You'll want every ounce of strength. Ramsden's done us a good turn by resigning in the summer time. They can have every hall in the town and welcome. But open-air speaking night after night—well, look to your lungs. We'll watch the rest.

Ned. That's right. Take it easy now. You'll have to sprint at the finish. Now, comrades. (Opening door, centre.)

[Peter holds door open and sees them go, he, Margaret, and Mrs. Garside chorussing "Good night," then he closes the door, and leans against it as if dazed, passing his hand across his forehead.

Mrs. G. You'll get used to it fast enough. It's always an easy thing to take your natural state in life. You were born to be great. (Viciously.) However much some folk 'ud like to keep you down.

Peter. Yes. I suppose I shall settle to it. (Coming to chair right and sitting, Mrs. Garside is to his left, Margaret his right.) In a few days it 'ull seem matter of fact enough to be Labour candidate for the division. But it hasn't got me that way yet. Margaret, when you set me on to study for my B.A., you little thought it was going to lead to this.

Mrs. G. (sharply). And you're not well pleased it has. Some people can't stand the sight of other folk's success.

Peter (protesting). Mother, mother, without Margaret this would never have happened to me. I owe it all to her.

Mrs. G. (sceptically). Because she told you to study? It's a proper easy job to tell someone else to do a thing. A fine lot easier than doing it yourself.

Peter (relieved). Ah! You couldn't wish me anything but well. You see, mother?

Peter (confidently smiling at Margaret). Oh, Margaret means what she says.

Peter (puzzled, looking at Margaret). Doesn't what———? (Slightly pausing.) Speak, Margaret.

Peter. But Margaret, why not? Don't you see what a chance it is? Take it, and I go up, up, Fortune, Fame, anything—the prospects are tremendous. Miss it, and I sink baek to obscurity. You can't want me to miss a chance like that.

Mrs. G. That's it, Peter. That's your Margaret all over. All she cares about is herself.

Peter (ignoring her—to Margaret). Nothing's going to interfere with that. Nothing on earth. You needn't fear. We're to be married in a month. Exactly as we fixed just now. A month? It'll come in the thick of the fight.

Peter (thinking aloud, enthusiastically). Oh, but we must. We must. I hadn't thought of that. Weddings are always popular. See what an advertisement it will be.

Mar. (quietly). We won't use our love to advertise your candidature, Peter.

Mar. (with quiet force). I shall work till I drop to help him on to victory.

Peter. I really think you might, Margaret. It's not a new plan. I'm only asking you to carry out the arrangement you made this very evening. You didn't object then, I can't see what your scruple is now.

Mar. If you can't see for yourself that it's vulgar and hideous and horrible to drag our love into the glare of an election, I'm afraid I can't help you to see it.

Peter. I don't see it. Love's not a hole-and-corner business. Why shouldn't everybody know?

Peter (arguing hotly). Except as an advertisement. We shan't have too much money to spend on printers' bills. We ean't buy hoardings like the capitalist parties. And here's a glorious advertisement simply going begging. We can have it at the cost of your forgetting some imaginary scruple of delicacy. Elections aren't delicate affairs.

Mrs. G. If your love's so finicky it can't stand daylight, it's not worth much. A love like that 'ull not last long.

Mrs. G. (eagerly). She wants to hold you back, she'd like to see you tied to engineering all your life. For why? She's wild because you're going up in the world. She knows she's not fit to go up with you, so she's trying to keep you where you are. That's why she refuses to help.

Peter. Yes, anything except the only way that's helpful. I don't want other help.

Mrs. G. Yes, and you'd work harder for any other candidate than Peter. I know you.

Peter (soberly). Margaret, you're standing in my way. Oh, I owe a lot to you. I don't forget it. But... But a man has to rely on his own judgment. If I took your advice, I'd wreck my career. You've always underrated me. You thought I wouldn't get my degree. I did get my degree. And I'll prove you wrong again. I'll be M.P. before six weeks are out.

Mrs. G. And she means you can prosper without her, and a good riddance too, I say.

Mar. I think we'll wait a little, Peter. You've other things to think of now.

Peter (losing temper). And after that there'll be something else and something after that, and so on, till Doomsday 'ull see us still unmarried. I begin to think you never mean to marry me.

Peter. Because you're not reasonable. (Slight pause.) Tell me this. Do you think I'm not fit for Parliament?

Peter (roughly). Don't call me dear. If that's the way you talk, you're not dear to me.

Mrs. G. I've seen it for long enough—her thinking meanly of you and the rest of us knowing different, and you for ever hearkening to her as if she was Almighty God.

Peter. This means you've no faith in me, Margaret. And if you've no faith, you've no love——

Peter. Marry me in the month as we arranged, and I'll go down on my knees and ask your pardon.

[Exit Margaret right, returning quickly with her hat, which she puts on. Peter watches her go and meets her as she returns.

Mar. I shall see you often at the Committee Rooms. Don't tell me I mustn't work for you.

Peter. If it was only for myself I wouldn't have your help at any price. But, as you told us, you'll not be work-for me but for the cause. (Grandiloquently.) In the name of the cause I accept your help.

Mar. (simply). Thank you, Peter. I shall work hard. Good night, Mrs. Garside.

[Mrs. Garside makes no sign. Peter moves towards Margaret, checks himself, and she goes out.

Mrs. G. You can look higher than a school marm now you're going into Parliament.

Peter. Have yours. I only want this end of the table. (Collecting paper, ink, and pen and sitting at right end of table.) I must do something to forget.

Peter. Drafting my address. Hand me down that dictionary, will you? (Indicating hanging shelf.)

Mrs. G. (getting large dictionary from shelf and putting on table near him.) You don't want a dictionary. It's all there in that brain of yours.

Peter. A dictionary's useful. People like to read long words. It looks erudite, and costs nothing.

Peter. That doesn't matter. They'll be impressed. (Dipping pen and bending.) Don't disturb me while I write.

CURTAIN.

ACT II

Ornate drawing-room in Sir Jasper Mottram's house. Centre is a large window giving access to a balcony. It is, however, evening, and the drawn curtains conceal the balcony. Door left. Light wall colouring and carpet. Fireplace right. No fire. Chesterfield right centre. Light arm-chairs left and left centre. Japanese screen before fireplace. Large Japanese jar in left corner.

Gladys Mottram is sitting on the Chesterfield reading a novel. She is in evening dress, a pretty, flirtatious, empty-headed girl, bored with her daily life and seizing eagerly on any distraction. Freddie Mottram, her brother, is 30, and conceals real kindness behind his flippant manner. He doesn't go deep and he likes money, but he is on good terms with the world and doesn't mind a little trouble or even unconventionality to put the world on good terms with him. He is fair, with fair moustache, and his figure is that of the ex-athlete who could still give a good account of himself. He leans back in the arm-chair, yawning and consulting his watch, glancing at Gladys, entrenched behind her book, again yawning and making up his mind to address her.

Fred (nursing a grievance). I say, Gladys, how much longer do you expect me to wait?

Fred. And he hasn't come yet. Just when I particularly want to go out, too. It's all very well for the governor to be civil to him. He's got to. But I do bar doing the honours myself to a horny-handed son of toil.

Glad. (putting her book beside her, face downwards. With an air of resignation). You don't particularly want to go out. You're only going to the Club.

Fred. Every night isn't my lucky night. Thursday is. I always win on Thursdays. The governor ought to do his own dirty work. He's Mayor, not I. Cutting his duty, I call it, being away to-night just when I'm bound to make money.

Fred. Very much on purpose. Yes. There you've got it. He had Rankin and Beverley here to dinner together. Quite right, too. Rankin's a Radical rotter, but he's a gentleman. When it comes to Garside the governor shirks and leaves it to us. Why on earth he wants to ask a Labour candidate here at all simply floors me.

Fred. Then he should have had Garside to dinner, and given us some sport over the asparagus.

Fred. And this isn't necessary. Rankin and Beverley, by all means. They're probables. But why waste time on an outsider like Garside? It'll only swell his head to be our guest.

Fred, (genuinely shocked). You've been listening to a tub-thumper at street corners? I say, hang it, Gladys, there are things people don't do.

Glad, (rising, and speaking enthusiastically). I went again because I admired the man. I liked to hear that ringing voice, to be one of that wild enthusiastic crowd bewitched by the spell of his personality. He saw me too. I stood at the back of the crowd, but he saw me and he spoke for me for me. Our eyes met, and I know he spoke for me alone.

Fred, (sitting and leaning back, fanning his face). Why didn't you warn me? I didn't know I was to meet my future brother-in-law to-night.

Glad. Don't be absurd, Freddie. (Sitting again.) It's because he's doing so well that father asked him here, and we've to keep him as long as possible.

Glad. Because every moment that he's prevented from speaking is a loss to him and a gain to us. As Mayor, father's supposed to be neutral, at the election, so that gives him an excuse to entertain Garside and spoil his speaking for one night, anyhow.

Fred. Besides, they'll have others to keep the ball rolling while he's here.

Glad. There's a firebrand of a woman speaking every night who's about as popular as he is.

Glad. Anyhow, father's instructions are to keep Garside here till he comes home, if we can.

Fred. All right. Tell Timson to lock him up in the pantry and keep him there till the election's over.

Glad. Afraid that's too crude, Freddie. I'll do my best to hold him for to-night.

Fred. Oh? Be careful. Flirtation's a risky game even when both sides know the rules. It's always apt to end in marriage; and that chap won't know the rules. Much better lock him up.

Glad, (tartly). That's doubtless why I've been canvassing for Mr. Beverley all day, while you've been watching a cricket match.

Fred. Hang it, Glad, someone's got to support-county cricket. I did a jolly plucky thing to-day. Wore old Beverley's colours and nearly got mobbed in the bar by a beastly gang of Radicals.

Fred. And you shouldn't hang about street corners with a set of Socialists. Serve you right if you'd got your pocket picked. I'd rather be an open drinker than a secret revolutionist any day.

[Enter Lady Mottram. She is white-haired and authoritative in manner, dressed in a high evening gown, too freely jewelled. Freddie rises.

Lady M. If you mean by that expression has Mr. Garside arrived, he has not. (Crosses to Chesterfield.)

Fred. (looking at watch). Well, he may be an upright youth, but punctuality isn't amongst his virtues.

Lady M. (standing by Chesterfield). It's just as well. I have a disagreeable duty to perform. (Sitting, very dignified.)

Lady M. Ring the bell, Freddie. (Freddie crosses to fireplace and rings.) Thank you.

Fred. By Jove, Gladys, someone's going to catch it. Mark that awe-inspiring frown. I'm getting frit.

Fred. Mayn't a man have a cigarette? I'll come back. (Timson opens door as Freddie comes to it. Looking off Freddie sees Margaret, and stops short.) By Jove, I'll stay.

[Enter Margaret dressed as Act I, with the addition of a light coat, without gloves. Lady M. and Gladys remain seated. Fred, stands right, well behind the Chesterfield. Margaret stands left, in some confusion. Exit Timson.

Lady M. (immensely superior). Yes. Your name is Shawcross? Margaret Shawcross?

Lady M. Ah! (With patronising kindliness.) I've sent for you, Miss Shawcross, to give you a warning—a friendly warning. Er—you may sit down.

Lady M. (expansively). In fact, I may say I have a preponderating influence. Bear that fact in mind, Miss Shaweross. (Margaret inclines her head.) We don't enquire offensively into the conduct of our staff out of school hours. So long as they behave themselves respectably we are satisfied. Does your experience confirm that?

Lady M. You've suffered no inquisition into your private life? No interference into your personal affairs?

Lady M. (nodding grimly). Ah! Then you'll do us the justice to acknowledge that we don't move except in extreme cases. I regret to say yours is an extreme ease, Miss Shaweross.

Lady M. (severely). Yours. I don't complain of your holding heterodox views. It is a regrettable fact that many young women of to-day hold alarmingly lax opinions. But they keep their views to themselves. They confine them to their own circle. It has been left to you to proclaim publicly at street corners your loose morality, to——

Lady M. I'm grievously misinformed if you're not a self-confessed Socialist.

Lady M. (curtly). Same thing. Do you admit to publicly advocating Socialism?

Mar. Certainly. You publicly advocate Tariff Reform. Why shouldn't I advocate Socialism?

Lady M. The cases are hardly parallel. The one is respectable, the other isn't. However, you're not here to argue with me. You have to earn your living. An orphan, I understand.

Lady M. You've the more reason to walk warily. (Kindly.) Now, you're young, and you're ignorant, and I'm ready to overlook this. I could have you dismissed at once, but I've no doubt you'll be a good girl after this little talk. Good night, Miss Shawcross.

Mar. Good night, Lady Mottram. (She moves towards door. Freddie opens it, she turns back.) No, I won't go like this. You'd have the right to tell me I deceived you. (Freddie closes door and stands centre.) I can't take your warning, Lady Mottram. (Lady M. rises.) I dare say it's kindly meant. I thank you for that. But as for stopping speaking, working heart and soul for the cause that's all in all to me, I can't do that.

Lady M. Can't? Won't, you mean. This is defiance, Miss Shawcross. You'd better take care.

Lady M. (calmly). It's really very rash of you. Your livelihood's at stake. I say nothing about your immortal soul, which is endangered if it's not already lost.

Lady M. Persist in your defiance and I shall be compelled to exercise that power.

Fred, (to Mar.). Speaking from long and intimate acquaintance with my mother, I should just like to interpolate the remark that she invariably means what she says.

Mar. (coldly). Thank you. I haven't worked for Socialism without knowing the risks I took. There's nothing unusual in this. Since Socialism's been the bogey of the employing class, dismissal for Socialists is an everyday occurrence.

Lady M. (mildly angered). This is too much. To associate me with cowardly employers who abuse their power, when my only object is to secure respectability in our teaching staff.

Mar. Oh, they all do it for excellent motives. How long have I, Lady Mottram?

Mar. Till then I can go on contaminating my pupils! However, to replace me won't take an hour. Unemployed teachers aren't scarce.

Lady M. (viciously). You are dismissed for gross misconduct, and the fact will be stated on any reference you ask for.

Fred. I say, mater, that's a bit rough. (Margaret turns to door. Freddie stands intercepting her.) Give the girl a chance.

Mar. I hadn't the courage to take it off—till now. (Putting ring in coat-pocket.)

Lady M. Gladys, if Freddie's going to be sympathetic to this young person, you and I had better retire. Conversations between young men and persons of her class are not carried on in the presence of ladies.

[Lady M. and Gladys go out, Freddie opening door. Margaret is following. He closes the door.

Fred. Yes. I say. I know I'm being assinine. I am rather an ass. But I'm a genial sort of ass, and if there's one thing I ean't stand it's one woman being beastly to another. Women are the limit. (Rapidly, as Margaret shows impatience.) What I mean is, can I do anything for you?

Fred, (with a stronger note of seriousness). No, you're not going till I let you. The mater's made it hard enough. That's the worst of women. They won't be sportsmen. Mind you, I'm not blaming her. Swop positions and you'd do it yourself. But you've lost your job. That's an idiotic thing to do now. As if any footling politics were worth a tinker's cuss!

Fred, (seriously). Look here, I'm not a woman eater. I'm a cheerful soul, and I hate to see people in distress. The mater's got you down. Foul blow, too. Hitting below the belt, to sack you without a character. What are you going to do about it, Miss Shaweross?

Fred. Let me talk to some Johnnie at the Club, and make him take you into his office.

Mar. Why should you? And do you think anybody will have me without a character?

Mar. I don't know why you're doing this, but I'll work my fingers to the bone if you can get me work where they'll not mind my principles.

Fred. You can be a Particular Baptist, or a Neo-Confucian for all this Johnnie 'ull care.

Fred. I dare say you're right. I expect that's why the office men I know spend so much time at the Club, out of work's way.

[Peter enters. He has gained considerably in self-confidence, and enters rather defiantly. Exit Timson.

Peter. It's a very suspicious circumstance. I find you here in the enemy's camp, looking confused, guilty. You'd better explain yourself.

Fred, (offering hand again, emphatically). Good evening, Mr. Garside. Why's it the enemy's camp, when mayors are neutral at elections?

Peter (carelessly, just touching his hand). Oh, good evening. Sir Jasper is officially neutral, sir. But he is actually chairman of the Employers' Federation, and, as such, our bitterest enemy.

Peter. I am paying an official visit to the Mayor. It's different with this lady. She works for me—ostentatiously. She's supposed to be addressing a meeting for me at this moment. Instead, I find her here, playing the traitor and betraying me to my political enemies.

Fred. I always thought it wanted a lot of imagination to be a politician. Does yours often bolt like this?

Peter. That's not very convincing. (Brushing him aside.) Excuse me, Mr. Mottram. I must get to the bottom of this. (To Margaret.) What have you to say for yourself?

Fred. I'd advise you to draw 'em mild. (Turning to Margaret.) This isn't your lucky night, Miss Shaw-cross.

Mar. (appealingly). Please don't. (Proudly.) My personal affairs are no concern of Mr. Garside's.

Peter. And meantime let me tell you, sir, that your ardour to defend the lady only makes bad worse.

Fred. Good Lord! I always said politicians were people who hadn't the brains to be frivolous, but I never knew they were quite so stupid. Why, man—————-

Lady M. Mr. Garside, my daughter. (Gladys meets Peter's eyes and bows; he starts perceptibly.) So sorry Sir Jasper isn't here to welcome you, but I hope my son's made you feel quite at home.

Lady M. (realising Margaret's presence). Miss Shaw-eross, I think I told you you could go. Will you ring, Freddie?

[Lady Mottram shrugs, and turns virtuously away. Fred, opens door, and Margaret moves to it.

Lady M. (sitting on Chesterfield and motioning Peter to sit by her. Gladys sits opposite). Young men are so susceptible to a pretty face. Don't you think so, Mr. Garside? (Quickly.) Oh, but of course you are serious-minded.

Peter. It is romantic, Lady Mottram. I didn't think such beauty could be earthly. It came upon me just as I stood speaking at a street corner one night, a face on the outskirts of my audience. I was tired and it gave me strength. My voice was failing, but it rang out fresh again to reach those ears. I've seen it many times since then, that angel's face with a halo, always at the fringe of the crowd, always an inspiration, eyes that yearned to mine across the sea of caps and drew my very soul into my words. I thought it was a dream. Could the same clay that moulded me be shaped to this vision? Until to-night I didn't know such women could exist.

Lady M. Don't interrupt. Mr. Garside's telling us about a woman with a wonderful face who's been inspiring his speeches.

Fred, (sitting r.c.). Oh, yes? A face that launched a thousand speeches? Bit of a responsibility for any face.

Fred. Fair Unknown inspires your speeches, your speeches inspire electors, electors elect you, and it'll be Garsidc, M.P., when it ought to be Fair Unknown, M.P.

Peter. I'm not afraid of London. If it's a case of London conquering me or me conquering London I know which will win.

Fred. Thank God, I haven't. A cosy club and a decent cigar are good enough for me. Please count me conquered in advance. (Lolling easily in chair.)

Lady M. But has a Labour member such opportunities of—er—conquering London, Mr. Garside?

Fred, (sitting up, interested). Money? I'll be a Labour member. I like money.

Fred. And that's the royal road to wealth? Mother, why wasn't I brought up to be a Labour member! This solves the problem of what shall we do with our sons. Only it's too like work for me.

Glad. Freddie, don't chaff Mr. Garside. He isn't one of your frivolous Club companions.

Peter. Oh, I haven't been through the half of an election campaign without toughening my epidermis, Miss Mottram. I'm not afraid of ridicule.

Fred. You'll go far, Mr. Garside. The secret of success is to have no sense of humour.

Peter. Oh, don't apologise, Lady Mottram. I know what family life is in upper-class households. I've read my Shaw.

Fred, (nodding with understanding to Gladys). All right. I'll deal with him. Don't disturb yourself, Mr. Garside.

[Lady Mottram goes out first, Fred, follows quickly to give Peter no chance to reply. Exit Timson.

Glad. So are you—(hastily)—to your party, I mean. You'll break down if you overdo things.

Thank you. (Stiffly.) Some day I hope to have the pleasure of asking you to sit in a room of mine like this one.

Peter. I mean to succeed. I feel I'm one of the men who do succeed. (He doesn't boast, he states a conviction.)

Peter (ardently). If you're sure, there's no doubt about it. I'm going to rise, Miss Mottram. I shall win fame, fortune—— Everything the heart of woman can desire will be mine to fling at the feet of my... my inspiration of the Midlandton election.

Peter (confidently). That's because you're thinking of my past. Peter Garside, the Board School boy, the working engineer with a home in a back street—a great gulf yawned between that Garside of the past and the daughter of Sir Jasper Mottram, four times Mayor of Midlandton. The gulf is narrower to-day. In a year or two it won't exist. I'm not impertinent, Miss Mottram. I'm being bold enough to look into the future... the future you've inspired.

Peter (emphatically). Yes, mine spoke and yours answered mine, not once but half a dozen times.

Glad, (fencing). Truth's so miscellaneous, don't you think? It's a diamond with many facets.

Peter. I'm not here to bandy epigrams. Truth is truth. You're afraid to own by mouth the truth you told me with your eyes.

Peter. I think you're playing with me now. I know you didn't play then. We had reality there in the street. I'll make you tell me yet you meant the things your eyes spoke to me.

Peter. I'm not talking to the drawing-room miss. She's a stranger to me. I'm talking to the real woman, the woman I knew outside there, stripped of the veil of lies you try to hide behind.

Peter. I didn't know your name until to-night. What do names matter? Your eyes had blazed into my soul.

[The door opens violently, and Jones, wearing his hat, bursts in followed by Freddie, who is mildly protestant. Peter and Gladys rise.

Fred (following and tapping him on the bach). I say, don't you even take your hat off in a lady's presence?

Meetings shouting themselves hoarse for you. Chances passing while you loll here in plutocratic luxury, idling in the gilded chambers of our enemies. Faugh! (Kicking chair violently centre. Freddie picks up the cushion from it and offers it.)

Fred. That's rather an expensive chair. Take it out of this if you must kick something.

Peter. I am paying an official call authorised by my Committee on Sir Jasper Mottram.

Fred. I told this Johnnie you were busy. Tried to soothe the beggar, but he broke away.

Jones. Don't you understand? It's imperative. They're calling for you. We've done our best, marking time, promising them every minute you'd come—and you don't come. It's serious. They're impatient. They don't want us others. They want you—(sarcastically)—silver-tongued Garside. We can't hold them much longer. There'll be a riot if you don't turn up.

Peter. No. I'll follow you. (Reassuringly.) It's all right, man. I shan't be long.

Peter. You can report me to the devil. Get along now, that's a good chap. I'm busy.

Jones (very earnestly). Garside, I warn you. You know what a crowd's like when it gets out of hand.

Peter. I tell you I'm coming. The longer you stay the longer it'll be before I get there.

Jones (making his best effort and meaning it). If you don't come with me you'll have no need to get there. I shall bring them here to you.

Glad. (excited and utterly sincere). It must be glorious to be wanted like that, Mr. Garside. Isn't it risky to deny them when they call for you?

Peter (standing centre). Every night I can make myself the master of a mob. It's no new joy to me to feel I've got them there in the hollow of my hand. I can't speak with you every night. That's why I didn't go.

Glad. But if the crowd makes a disturbance? That man's malicious. He'll stir them up to mischief.

Peter. You wouldn't want to if you could forget that you're Miss Mottram and I'm a working man.

[Low murmurs as of a distant crowd off, approaching and growing louder as the scene proceeds. Gladys catches it at once, and is alarmed. Peter, if he hears at all, is inattentive.

Glad. I really think you'd better go to them, Mr. Garside, before that man leads them here.

Peter (calmly). Did I read the meaning in your eyes aright? (A slight pause.) Did I?

Fred. Your friend went off in no end of a rage. Said he'd bring your meeting here. Mohammed and the Mountain, don't you know? I really think you'd better go. We don't want to read the Riot Act.

Glad, (at window). They're there. There's a crowd coming round the corner now.

Fred. You'll have to look lively. Come on, man. (Trying to make him move.)

Fred, (impatiently). Oh, never mind her. Get along sharp. (He opens door.)

Peter. I'm ready when Miss Mottram gives the word. I shall know what she means if she says "Yes."

[Shouts below are heard: "Garside!" "We want Garside!" "Where's that silver-tongue?"

Peter (coolly). They're doing the speaking. (Lady M. cries out inarticulately.) I'm waiting for Miss Mottram.

Lady M. For Gladys? (Top pane of the window is broken by a stone which falls between blind and window. Almost shrieking.) What's that?

Fred. They've a nasty way of talking. This looks serious. (Crosses, picks up and quickly pockets the stone, which is a large one.)

Peter (rising briskly). That's what I wanted. (Crosses as if to open door, comes round to window, runs blind up, and steps out to balcony.)

Peter. You said it. (He goes out, speaking as if to a crowd below.) Comrades, I'm here. (Cheers off.) From the house of our Mayor, on whom I am calling as the people's candidate at this election——

Fred. I can't stand this. He's spouting Socialism from our balcony. (Angrily.) This is your fault, Gladys.

Fred, (recovering his temper). He'll not be fit to listen to. We're the laughing-stock of Midlandton. This 'ull win Garside the election. He's using the balcony of the Chairman of the Employers' Federation for his platform, and we've let him do it.

CURTAIN

ACT III.

Peter's rooms in the Temple. Door extreme right centre, with the passage beyond visible with telephone on its wall when the door is open. Door left. Fireplace centre, with low fire shining dully in the darkened room. Bookcase right. Below it, table with inkstand. Blue books, etc., and revolving chair. Arm-chairs, left and right of fireplace. Sofa left, between fireplace and door. Heavy carpet. The whole appointments indicate comfort and taste, as understood in Tottenham Court Road: there is nothing individual about them.

As the curtain rises the room is in darkness, except for the glow from the fire, and the telephone bell right is ringing. After a moment's pause the outside door opens; then Peter in a lounge suit, overcoat, and bowler hat opens the door right and turns on the electric light. He speaks as he looks off right. His self-confidence has increased. He is, in fact, coarsened and even brazen at times.

Peter. Come in here. (Freddie and Gladys follow him in. Peter stands by door.) Make yourselves at home for two minutes. That's my telephone ringing like mad.

[Exit Peter hurriedly, closing the door. Bell ceases ringing. Gladys is in winter costume with furs. Freddie, in heavy overcoat with hat in hand and a cane which he swings as he stands centre, surveying the room in astonishment.

Fred. I didn't want to come because I've to meet Charlie Beversham at the hotel in half an hour.

Glad. No. You'd rather I wasted another evening sitting with the frumps in the hotel drawing-room while you discuss odds with your sporting friend in the bar till it's too late to go anywhere. I'm having no more nights in a refrigerator, thank you.

Fred. It's not the thing to leave you here. You'll only be in Garside's way. He'll be going to the House.

Fred. You know the mater only let you loose in London because I promised to look after you. (Good-naturedly perplexed.) You're a ghastly responsibility. Why on earth do you want to stay with Garside?

Fred, (giving way). Well, I do like to be generous. It's the only thing that keeps my blood at normal temperature——

Peter (off right, at telephone). I shall shout. You may be the whip, but you'll not whip me. Important division? I know that as well as you do. No, I shan't be there. Promised? Of course I promised. I started to come. How did I know I was going to be indisposed in the Strand?

Fred, (whistling). Whew! I wouldn't mind betting you're the indisposition, Gladys.

Peter (off). Yes. I'm far too ill to turn out. What? No, I'm not too ill to shout. Good night. (Opens door and enters without his hat and overcoat.) Oh, do sit down, Miss Mottram. So sorry I'd to leave you. (Pulls left armchair before fire and pokes it.) I'll make the fire up. It's a cold night. (Gladys sits.)

Peter (failing to conceal his pride in his room). It's a beginning. (Rising from fire.) One moment. (Goes off left quickly, and is heard as he exits, saying:) Mother, you let that fire go low.

Fred. Oh, if he's got a mother on the premises that alters the case. I don't mind your staying now.

[Peter re-enters with Mrs. Garside in a neat black dress, spectacles on, and a "Daily Telegraph" in her hand. Mrs. Garside, though sharing Peter's prosperity, has now an habitually worried look and is vaguely pathetic. She enters embarrassed.

Peter (off-handedly, treating his mother without ceremony). Mr. Mottram, Miss Mottram—my mother.

Peter (peremptorily). Why didn't you hear the telephone, mother? Were you asleep?

Mrs. G. (meekly). Did it ring? I was reading the report of your speech at Battersea last night.

Peter (interested). Oh! Where is it? I haven't had time to look at a paper to-day.

Peter (looking and speaking with satisfaction). Two columns. Good. That's pretty near verbatim.

Mrs. G. (handing the paper from Peter to Fred.). And look at the headings!

Fred. (returning paper to Peter). Tact never was my sister's strong point, Garside.

Peter (holding up the paper). Oh, I don't mind this in the least. It means my blows are getting home. (Reading the headings.) "The Demagogue again." "More Firebrand Oratory from the egregious Garside." (Putting paper on table.) Spreading themselves, aren't they?

Peter. Oh, they'll need a big vocabulary to express their feelings before I'm done with them. I haven't started yet.

Fred. Hope it'll keep fine for you. Afraid I must toddle, Garside. I've an appointment.

Peter (his face falling in deep disappointment). Appointment! Oh, I did hope you'd both stay a bit. In fact, I—I put off an engagement while I was at the telephone.

Peter. I was a lot of things in Midlandton. In London I'm a man of the world.

Glad, (sitting on sofa). You must find London a great change after Midlandton, Mrs. Garside.

Mrs. G. (sitting in left arm-chair, facing her—confidentially). I haven't had an easy hour since Peter brought me. You wouldn't believe the prices they charge me in the shops if I want a chop or a bit of steak for Peter's tea. Dinner he calls it now, though how it can be dinner at seven of an evening I don't know. Thieves, that's what they are. Not shopkeepers. You mustn't mind me running on, I haven't a soul I know to talk to here. It's a pleasure to see you, I'm sure. And the streets! I'm feared for my life if I go out. I know I'll be knocked down and brought home dead. Eh, London's an awful place, but it's Peter's home now, and his home's mine.

Mrs. G. I doubt I'll never get used to this. I'm too old to change, and Peter moves so fast. What's fit for him one day isn't good enough the next. The waste's enough to frighten you.

Mrs. G. (with conviction, dropping her querulous tone). He's something to be proud of. I'm the mother of a great man. You can't open a newspaper without you see his name.

Mrs. G. (rising and coming to table). But not all. I've got them all here. I cut them out, reports of his speeches, and paste them in this book. (Crosses to sofa with press-cutting book and sits by Gladys.)

Mrs. G. (with fine scorn). Peter doesn't waste his words on Parliament. He goes direct to the people—addressing meetings up and down the country. (Glowing with pride.) They fight to get him. Pity is he can't split himself in bits and be in six places at once. Two guineas a speech he gets—and expenses,—more sometimes. That's what they think of him, Miss Mottram. That's my son. (Pointing to a heading in the hook.) Silver-tongued Garside. That's what they call him.

Mrs. G. (looking, bending round Gladys). Oh, no, not that. I oughtn't to have pasted that in. It's an attack on him in one of our own papers. They call him something he didn't like.

Mrs. G. Oh, he's not afraid of his real enemies. The capitalists can call him what they like. They do, too, and the more the better, Peter says. But that's different. Mean things, attacking their own side.

Glad, (absently). Yes. (Putting book down.) And this is where he prepares his speeches. (Crossing to table.)

Mrs. G. (rising with book and crossing, replacing it on table). Yes. Those are his books.

Mrs. G. Peter says people like long words. He writes his article at that desk. Peter's printed in the paper every week.

Glad, (sitting in the revolving chair and facing Mrs. Garside, standing centre). Have you no help?

Mrs. G. Me? Nay. I couldn't abide the thought of a strange woman doing 'owt for Peter. I've cared for him all his life, and I'll go on caring for him until he's put another woman in my place. Peter's wife won't be of my class. It'll be my duty then to keep myself out of her sight, and a hard job I'll find it, too, but I was never one to shirk.

Mrs. G. (with conviction). Don't you believe it, miss. She wasn't fit to clean his boots.

Mrs. G. He's in love with a Midlandton young lady. Calls her his inspiration and I don't know what. But I tell you this, miss, I don't care who, she is, she'll be doing well for herself when she marries my Peter.

Fred. Yes. I'll come back. I say, Garside, before I go, congratters, and all that sort of thing, you know.

Fred. It's a profitable game when you can run to this after six months of it.

Peter. It doesn't afford it. Did you ever hear of the hire system? A man who means to be a big success simply must have a decent address and be on the telephone. People won't believe in you if you're content to hide yourself up a mean street.

Fred. I like your pluck. Give me a quiet life and a thousand a year paid quarterly by the Bank of England. Security's my mark.

Fred. I'm such a thrifty soul. I never risk more than 10 per cent of my income on certainties. That reminds me. Beversham. I must fly. See you later. (Reaches door right.) About half an hour, Gladys.

[Peter goes out with him, is heard closing outer door, and returns immediately, closing door. Mrs. Gar-side yawns ostentatiously.

Glad. (more with an air of saying something than meaning anything). Strange that we should meet in the Strand by accident, Mr. Garside.

Peter (who has paid for the moment more attention to Mrs. Garside than to Gladys, speaking jerkily). You call it accident? I call it Fate. (Mrs. Garside executes another palpably diplomatic yawn.) You're tired, mother.

Mrs. G. Then I think I'll go to my bed. I'm an early bird. Good night, Miss Mottram.

Glad, (after a moment's twinge of conscience, accepting Mrs. Garside's hand). Good night, Mrs. Garside.

Mrs. G. (to Peter, who opens right door). I'll put your supper out. You'll only have your cocoa to make.

[Peter tries not to look angry at the intrusion of domestic details. Exit Mrs. Garside. Peter closes the door and stands by it. Gladys is still in the revolving chair with her back to the table.

Peter. I believe in mine. I know I was born under a lucky star. I've a genius for overcoming obstacles, no matter what they are, Miss Mottram. I've the knack of getting what I want.

Peter (smiling). They're such precious small successes. I'm on the foothills yet, and I've set myself a lot of peaks to climb, but already I'm in sight of the highest of them all. (Looking at her hard.) Even from where I stand now I can glimpse the Mount Everest of my ambition.

Glad. Happy man, to know what you want. Most of us poor creatures haven't the faintest idea what we want to do with our lives.

Peter. I think better of you than that. You're not a bored society butterfly.

Peter (with the quickly acquired London attitude to the provinces). Oh, Midlandton!

Glad. We don't live in Midlandton. No one does. Midlandton! It sends a shiver up your baek like the tear of a sheet.

Peter. Do you want to very much? (Draws towards right arm-chair, and sits leaning forward towards her.)

Glad, (with deep conviction). I feel sometimes I'd do anything on earth to live here. (Smiling.) You see, I'd like to be a society butterfly. You can't understand that, I suppose.

Peter. What I denounce is luxury for the few and penury for the many. We want to level up, not level down.

Peter. Probably. It's not my business to be original. If I tried to be lofty I'd be talking above the heads of my audiences.

Peter. Sincere? I'm a professional advocate. I take a tiny grain of truth, dress it up in a pompous parade of rhetoric and deliver it in the manner of an oracle and the accent of a cheapjack. It's a question of making my points tell. Sincerity doesn't matter.

Glad, (rising). If I turned myself into a human gramophone, I shouldn't boast about it, Mr. Garside. It's not very creditable to live by fooling the public.

Peter (rising). Creditable? If I fooled them from Fleet Street they'd make me a peer. The public likes to be fooled. They know I'm fooling them. They pay me to go on fooling them. Some men live by selling adulterated beer. I live by selling adulterated truth.

Peter. No, neither your father the brewer, nor I the demagogue. But I'm being frank with you, Miss Mottram. Between us two there's not to be pretence.

Peter. Because you have a right to know. I do these things to make money. I want money because—because of the hope that was born in me when your eyes first met mine across the crowd in Midlandton.

Glad, (after a slight pause). Mr. Garside, I—I think I ought to go. My brother only left me because he thought your mother would be here.

Peter. Oh, conscience is so much a matter of climate. A Midlandton conscience finds London air very relaxing.

Glad, (sitting slowly right as before). I don't think you ought to disturb your mother, Mr. Garside.

Peter (resuming his own chair, with conscious hypocrisy). No. Old people need such a lot of sleep. So that's settled. Let me see. I was talking about myself, wasn't I?

Glad, (reflectively). I don't remember the exception. It was all yourself and the money you're going to make.

Peter. The money. Yes. I'm making money, Miss Mottram, and I'm going to make more. Do you know why?

Peter. Yes, even a little of it. But I shan't be satisfied with little. And I'm a fairly frugal man.

Glad. You'll grow into a miser on the margin between your moderate wants and your colossal income.

Peter. I might grow into a married man on that margin. It's to be a good margin, because I believe no man should ask his wife to accept a lower standard of living than she's been accustomed to.

Peter. So did I when I was a boy in Midlandton about a hundred years ago. I'm wiser now. Women of her class can't adapt themselves to changed circumstances. They're a drag on a man's career. You've seen Miss Shawcross?

Peter. Well, you know the type. Good, plodding, conscientious, provincial girl, with about as much ambition as a potato. Marry her to a bank clerk and she'll be in her proper place. Picture her the wife of a Cabinet Minister, and—well, no, you can't. It's unthinkable.

Peter (quite seriously). No, I'm young yet. What a man of my stamp wants is a wife who can help him to push his way, not one I'd be ashamed to show in society.

Peter. No. I'm showing you how you can be done with Midlandton and get to London. You said you'd do anything for that.

Peter. Your brother's coming for you. Meantime I ask you to remember the difference between the Peter Garside of six months ago and the Garside of to-day. I've bridged the gulf that lay between us. A man of genius can do things like that. I meant what I said, Miss Mottram. I didn't say it till you encouraged me.

Peter. You're here, you know. You let your brother go without you. You let my mother leave us alone. Isn't that encouragement?

Peter. No, we won't. I can't ask you to marry me yet because I am not rich. I'm merely prospering. But I ask you to wait. Give me a year—no, six months. I can offer you a home in London then. It won't be worthy of you, but we shan't stagnate. May I come to you in six months' time to get your answer to the question I haven't yet the right to ask?

Peter. No. Rut I know six months of Midlandton are longer than six years here. You badly want to live in London now. You'll want it worse then. Don't think of me as I was. That's buried. Think of me as I am and as I'm going to be. (Electric bell rings right.) That's probably your brother.

Glad (half sorry, but on the whole relieved). Yes. Don't keep him waiting.

Peter (moving right, and stopping). Before I open the door won't you tell me what I want to know? It's all for you—all my ambitions. I only want position for you to grace it, money for you to spend. Give me six happy months of hope.

Peter. That's all I want. (He looks at her humbly. She extends her hand impulsively. Peter kisses it reverently.)

[Peter crosses and opens door right, leaving it half open, as he goes through and opens outside door.

Peter (off). Leave your coats here. Excuse me. I'll—I'll just close this door and keep the cold out till you're ready.

[He enters rapidly, opening the door as little as possible, and closing it quickly, putting his back to it. The manouvre is not, however, executed fast enough to prevent Jones peering over his shoulder as he enters.

Peter. Yes. Let them get a glimpse of you, and God only knows what tale will be over Midlandton.

Glad, (agreeing). Yes. They mus'n't see me. On no account. (She crosses to left, Peter nods approvingly.) Peter. My mother's there. I'll get rid of them quickly. Glad. Remember, I'm trusting you.

Peter. Ready, comrades? Come in. (Ned and Jones enter, dressed much as in Act I. Peter is genial.) How are you? Both well?

Jones (as they shake hands). Yes, thanks. (With slight emphasis.) Are you well?

Peter. Quite well, thanks. Never better in my life. (Ned and Jones exchange glances.) Sit down, comrades. It's good to see Midlandton faces again.

[Ned in arm-chair right, Jones left, Peter in revolving chair. Peter's attitude at first is the mixture of obsequiousness and patronage of an M.P. to influential supporters.

Peter. Yes, I know. London's a playground to you fellows. It's more like a battlefield to your hard-worked member.

Jones (firmly). It's not exactly pleasure we're here for, Comrade Garside.

Peter. Delegates, eh? What's on? I don't remember any congress at the moment?

Peter (obviously forcing an appearance of interest). Now, that's very interesting. May I ask the object of this mission?

Peter (rising). Well, suppose I meet you to-morrow morning. Come here at—yes—at eleven, and I'll give you an hour with pleasure.

Ned (shaking his head). You'll give us an hour, or as long as we want, now.

Peter. Really, I'm afraid I can't. (Involuntarily glancing left.) I'm busy to-night. I'll see you to-morrow.

Jones. We shan't be here to-morrow. We've to go back by the midnight train. We've our livings to earn.

Peter. You haven't bought me, you know. You pay me to represent your interests at Westminster.

Ned (quietly). It is our business. We've a right to know why you're neglecting your duty.

Ned. Yes. The Right to Work Bill. The cornerstone of the Labour policy. Any Labour member who's absent from to-night's division deserves drumming out of the party as a traitor to its cause.

Peter. Oh, I'll be there for the division if you don't keep me here too long.

Ned. The division's over. You're out of your place on the most important night of the session. You've missed your ehanee to speak. You've missed the division. You've not paired. Your vote's lost.

Jones. We've been to the House. We thought we'd find you there. Why weren't you there?

Ned. You told the Whip on the telephone you were ill—too ill to turn out. We were there when he rang you up. We eome here, and we find you well.

Jones (rising). You'll like it less before we've finished. We're not in London losing a day's wages for our health. We've been called up to decide what's to be done with you.

Ned (still sitting). They've been showing us your record at the Whip's office. You ignore them. You go to the House when you think you will. You refuse to submit to discipline.

Peter. I serve the cause in my own way. (He is consciously on his defence now.) It's a better way than listening to dry-as-dust debates and tramping endless miles through the division lobbies. I'm getting at the people. I'm carrying the fiery sword of revolutionary Socialism through the length and breadth of the land. I'm the harbinger of the new age. Wherever I go I leave behind me an awakened people, stirred from their lethargy and indolent acceptance of things as they are, fired with new hopes of the coming dispensation, eager to throw off the yoke and strike their blow for freedom, justice, and the social revolution. That's my work, comrades, not wasting my energy, my gift of oratory on the canting hypocrites at Westminster, but keeping them fresh for the honest man outside. I'm going to quarter England, town by town, until——

Ned (rising, and putting his hand on Peter's arm, shaking his head). It won't do, Garsidc.

Peter. Found out! You can't find out a man you're incapable of understanding. You can't drive genius with a bearing rein. I'm a man of genius, and you're angry because I can't be a cog in the parliamentary machine.

Peter. If I'm to do my great work for the cause I must live somehow. The labourer is worthy of his hire.

Jones. You're hired twice over. You get lecture fees when you ought to be in the House. You make local secretaries compete for your lectures to force your price up. You've got swelled head till you think you can do as you like.

Peter. It's my nature to be a free lance. Routine would kill me. I've to work for the cause in my own way.

Ned. We don't want free lances. We want workers. If you want to speak to the people aren't your week-ends and vacations good enough?

Ned. We sent you to Parliament to obey the Party Whips and be governed by older and wiser heads than yours.

Peter. Nelson won battles by disobeying orders. If you didn't want independence you shouldn't have chosen me.

Jones. We see that now. You'd ceased to be representative of the Midlandton working classes before we chose you for our candidate. You were a B.A. You're still less able to represent us now when you make as much in a month as your average constituent does in a year. We'll have a better man next time.

Peter. Yes. You find an ignorant, dense average specimen of the British workman without a soul above thirty shillings a week, and he'll just about represent the ideas and ambitions of the Midlandton mob.

Peter. Then God help representative government! You'd better be careful. My personal popularity's your finest platform asset.

Ned. Well, it's an asset we can do without. Put it that you're too brilliant for us.

Peter. Oh, it's the old story. Genius and the Philistine. For two pins I'd resign my seat.

Peter (abject). Comrades, you don't mean this! You wouldn't do a man out of his job.

Peter (slight pause). I won't resign. You've tried and judged me in my absence. You haven't given me a chance to say a word in my own defence.

Peter (growing increasingly hysterical). The facts are that I'm a Member of the House of Commons for the term of this Parliament, and you can't force me to resign until I do it of my own free will. I'm still M.P. for Midlandton, if I've to sleep on the Embankment. I'll go to the House in rags. I'll be an M.P. still, M.P. for the outcast, the despised, the rejected, the human derelicts, victims of jealousy and injustice and all man's inhumanity to man.

Jones (contemptuously). You're the victim of nothing but your own swelled head.

Peter. I'm the victim of my own great nature. A nature that's cast in too large a mould to submit to pettifogging little rules. My life was the people's. I demanded nothing in return but a free hand and no interference. I've to do this mighty task in my own way.

Jones. Yes. I'll believe you for once. This place proves that. We sent you here to be our representative, not to be a bloody * gentleman. I know what your indisposition was that kept you from the House tonight. I saw its skirts when you opened the door. That's what we're paying for. For you to—faugh, you sicken me.

Ned (solemnly). Is that the truth, Peter? I also thought I saw a skirt that I'm sure your mother couldn't wear.

Jones. The word of a convicted liar. He lied about his absence from the House. He's lying now.

Jones. I don't believe his word's worth that. (Snapping fingers.) He's lying for a woman. (Bitterly.) It's the code of a gentleman to lie for a woman.

Peter (his back to the door). You'll take my word. (Again the door bell rings, and Mrs. Garside enters left. Peter turns round on her, surprising her by his vehemence. Angrily.) What is it?

Mrs. G. (unheeding, troubled with Peter). But it'll be Mr. Mottram eome baek for his sister.

Jones (triumphantly, his voice ringing). I think there'll be no dilliculty about that resignation now.

Peter. Keep your mouths shut about Miss Mottram's presence here, and I place my resignation in the Speaker's hands to-morrow. (Slight pause.)

Peter (hysterically). You heard. I'm resigning my seat in the House of Commons. Humpty-dumpty had a great fall. (Jones laughs aloud, Gladys smiles slightly, Peter almost screams.) Don't laugh. (Suddenly self-pitying.) I don't know what I'm saying. (With a flicker of the old pride.) But I was an M.P. once. You can't take that from me. (Blundering blindly to door, left.) Oh, go, go, all of you. I want to be alone.

[The door bell has been steadily ringing. Peter goes off left, and bangs the door behind him.

Fred, (to Gladys). Thought you'd gone to sleep. (Seeing Jones.) Hello! Our friend of the election.

Fred. Well, don't snap a fellow's head off. (Ned and Jones quietly go out right.) Sorry I've been so long, only——-

Glad. It doesn't matter. (Raising her voice, looking left). Mr. Garside's been an entertainment in himself.

Fred. (crossing towards her). All right. Don't get vicious. Nothing to lose your temper over, is it?

Glad. I've lost more than my temper. I've lost a chance.... Oh, never mind. What's the next train for Midlandton?

Glad. Yes. We'll eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. You're standing me champagne to-night, Freddie.

[She goes out right. Fred, looks after her, puzzled, crosses, and shakes Mrs. Garside's limp hand.

[He follows Gladys. Mrs. Garside goes right, the outer door closes, she turns light off in the hall and re-enters, closing the door behind her. Peter reenters left, composed.

Peter. Mean? Ruin. My career's blasted. (Sits at table, turning chair towards her.)

Peter. Why? Because I was too successful. Jealousy. That's it. They do nothing themselves, but they won't give young blood a chance. Mediocrity's their motto. They've no use for brains. So I'm kicked out.

Mrs. G. Don't take on about it, deary. They'll find they can't do without you.

Peter. You'd always faith, hadn't you, mother? (Turning to table and putting his head on his hands.) But I've fallen like Lucifer, never to rise again.

Mrs. G. (struck with a new delightful thought, hesitating to utter it). Peter, it means—it means——

Mrs. G. I've been so unhappy here. I shall be glad to be in Midlandton again.

Peter (disgustedly). Midlandton! (Shuddering.) Those grimy streets reeking of poverty.

Peter. Yes. After all, why not? The wounded lion crawls to its lair to die. (Pause, looking straight out.) I wonder. Am I a lion or only an ass braying in a lion's skin?

CURTAIN.

ACT IV

Scene as Act I, except that the room has a bareness indicative of a recent removal. The bookcase is on the floor instead of being fastened to the wall, and no pictures are hung.

Mrs. Garside, dressed as Act I, sits dejectedly in the rocking-chair. A knock at the door, centre. Mrs. Garside sighs heavily, rouses herself slowly, crosses and opens door. Denis O'Callagan is on the doorstep. The blind is drawn. One incandescent light.

O'Cal. (coming centre, in front of table, glancing upwards). Still the same?

Mrs. G. (standing centre, gloomily). Oh, yes. He doesn't seem to care for anything.

Mrs. G. (sitting left of table, as if too weary to stand). I never hear anything else. It's driving me mad. Up and down, up and down, all day long, and all night too, till he drops because he's too tired to put one foot before the other. It's like a wild beast in a cage.

Mrs. G. Nor look like doing till he's carried out feet foremost. He says he'll never show his face in Midlandton again. I've done all the work. Getting the furniture out of store and everything. Peter didn't raise a hand.

Mrs. G. I don't know if I did. It reminds him. Won't take his food now. That's the latest. Not that I've much to give him. Heaven knows where it'll end. We with no money coming in and nearly every penny as we had gone to pay his debts in London and fetch us here. Workhouse next, I reckon.

O'Cal. (patting her shoulder encouragingly). Let you not be talking like that, Mrs. Garside. There's no call to despair. Peter's got to be roused.

Mrs. G. Haven't we tried and failed? If you fancy you know the way to do it I'll be obliged by your telling me.

Mrs. G. (rising, with more force in her voice). Denis O'Callagan, if you've a plan to rouse my poor boy I've told you to go upstairs and try it on him. If you've come to stand there like a log and tell me what I've known this week and more, there's my door, and the sooner you put your ugly face outside it the better you'll please me.

O'Cal. (giving way a little). I come to tell you of the cure we will be putting on him. I'm thinking it won't be to your taste and you short tempered with your trouble.

O'Cal. (briskly). Then I'll be stepping out and bringing out my cure. I didn't fetch her in because I knew you quarrelled with her. (He reaches the door and puts his hand to the latch.)

O'Cal. (coming round table). No, and you called me all the names you could lay your tongue to when I came in last week.

Mrs. G. I thought you one of the lot that ruined Peter. I've told you I'm sorry for what I said.

O'Cal. Yes. You see it now. Why won't you see Miss Shaweross is a friend as well?

Mrs. G. (hotly). And don't I love him? If love's all he wants to put him right, won't his mother——

Mrs. G. I'm going to give her her chance fair and square. Loves him, does she? We'll see if her love's good enough to do what my love can't, and I'll own I'm wrong about her. She'll get no second chance.

Mrs. G. (turning from her to O'Callagan). Bring him down, Denis, you know the way. (O'Callagan crosses and exit r. Mrs. Garside faces Margaret.) We'll understand each other first. You're here on sufferance. I've let you in same as I would a doctor, because O'Callagan thinks there's a chance you'll cure Peter. We're strangers till you've done it.

[Enter r., O'Callagan and Peter, whose spectacular disarray is nicely calculated. Physically he appears normal, but his ruffled hair, cross-buttoned waistcoat unbuttoned collar and crooked black tie give the appearance of hopeless abandon. He enters wearily, forgetting himself for a moment on seeing Margaret and speaking vigorously.

Peter. You here! (Turns as if to go back, but O'Callagan closes the door quickly.) Why didn't you tell me, Denis?

Peter. I'm not on exhibition. What have you come for? To gloat over me, to see for yourself how well you prophesied when you told me I should fail. (He turns his back on her, only to face O'Callagan.)

O'Cal. I'm telling you you're not a failure. It's just a temporary check in your career you've had.

Peter (turning). That's my tragedy. Waste. At twenty-six I'm looking backward on a closed account. The future's blank—all the brilliant fruitful years I might have lived.

Peter (sitting left of table, elbows on table and head in hands). Oh, what's the use of that? I'm finished. Out, middle stump. And there's no second innings in life.

Peter (without turning to him). The people have no use for broken idols, Denis.

Peter. You knew me for the rotten failure that I am. I congratulate you on your perspicacity.

Peter. I don't propose to do anything. (Resuming the hopeless attitude). I've shot my bolt. I'm a man with a past, an ex-M.P., ex-Everything.

Peter. I'm going to take it lying down, Denis, and that's all there is to it.

Peter. Oh, taunts don't sting me now. I've reached the further side of agony.

Mar. (sitting at table, centre, leaning on it very close to Peter, and speaking without a trace of sympathy). Peter, don't you think you've made sufficient demonstration of your grief?

Mar. We're all tremendously impressed. You've thoroughly alarmed us. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? (Peter meets her eye questioningly.) To prove to yourself that after all you're still of consequence to somebody. It's quite true, Peter. We're not content to watch you sulk to death. You've made your big effect. For a week you've had the joy of fostering your wound, keeping it open for all the world to see how hardly you've been hit, but it's time you healed it now.

Mar. Misunderstood? (Rising and tapping the table.) Or found out, Peter? Which?

Peter (pitiably turning, still sitting, to Mrs. Garside). Mother, you let these people in. Are you going to sit there and let them bully a sick man?

Mar. (admiringly). That's a good pose, Peter. The great, strong, self-willed man brought down to crying to his mammie.

Mrs. G. (firmly). I'm not going to interfere. I promised Margaret her own way.

Mrs. G. (interrupting, dryly). Besides, I think there may be something in it.

Peter (looking up at him). Yes, it's all very well for you to talk. You with your beastly robust health. I'm an invalid.

Mar. I assure you, you're not looking half so feeble as you did. You're improving under treatment.

Mar. Something's doing you good. You're not the woebegone catastrophe you were.

Peter (moving right). I want to be left alone. I'm going to my bedroom. You can't follow me there.

Mar. Oh, you'll not escape that way. I don't in the least mind invading your bedroom. A doctor has privileges.

Peter (sitting centre, behind table, covering face). I'll close my eyes and stop my ears.

Mar. (taking her hat off). The night is young. (She puts her hat on the bookcase and her fur on it.)

Peter (turning and watching her). Oh! So it's to be a trial of strength, is it?

Peter. Weak as I am, I'm strong enough to tire you out. (Folding his arms.)

Mar. I don't go to work till nine in the morning. (Sitting on her chair.) You don't mind my making myself comfortable for the night, Mrs. Garside?

Mrs. G. I've told you I'm not interfering, Margaret. You can do as you like.

O'Cal. Don't! But I will and sharp too, for it's wishing you a quick recovery I am, and the more you hate your medicine the better it is for you. Good night.

Mrs. G. You wouldn't listen to me. It's her turn how. Call me if you want me, Margaret.

Mar. (sitting and making herself ostentatiously comfortable in the rocking-chair, poking fire). Oh, take your time. I'm quite comfortable. (She leans back humming "Home, Sweet Home")

Mar. Oh, could you hear? You're such a bad listener as a rule. You much prefer to talk.

Peter (folding his arms). My talking days are past. I'll be as mute as a fish. Go on. Say what you like. I'll stand it all.

Peter (walking up and down). Young! As if youth had anything to do with arithmetic and the number of one's years. I'm old in suffering and experience. I'm an old, old man.

Mar. (standing c. against table, watching). When you sow wild oats that old feeling is usually part of the crop.

Peter (hotly). I haven't sown wild oats. I'm not that sort of man. (Hesitating.) Unless you mean——

Peter (sitting, sullenly). I wish there were no such things as women in the world!

Mar. The bi-sexual system has its disadvantages. But we'll forget Miss Mottram, Peter. That was a private indiscretion. You sowed your wild oats publicly in the fierce light that beats upon a politician. That was the arrogance of youth.

Mar. No. Youth is a gift we both possess. I don't intend to waste mine, Peter.

Peter. No? Well, you've me before you as an awful warning. I'm a living cautionary tale. I'm—— O, what's the good of talking?

Mar. Here's a change of front! You used to tell me talking was the finest thing you knew.

Peter. For human suffering. You're mocking at my life's tragedy. You hummed a tune just now you must have known was agony to me. My home in Midlandton! It's like living in an ashpit.

Mar. Oh, no, it's not, and if it is, the microbes can be happy in their insignificance.

Peter. Care? What do you care for me? Why should you care for a broken man, a derelict, one of the legion of the lost, a rotten——

Mar. (vigorously). Will you stop embroidering? Do you think I've come to listen to all the pretty phrases you've spent a week inventing about yourself?

Peter. Do I? But it's—— So much has happened since. That's all so long ago.

Peter. A year! What's a year! From poverty to Parliament, from Parliament to hell.

Peter (sincerely). I'm a pauper, Margaret. That's not a phrase, it's a fact.

Peter. A man like me wants something else than bread to work for. I had a career once, it's gone today.

Peter. Yes, if you like, thank God for it. It deserved to go. But nothing's left worth living for.

Peter. Because I daren't. A man who's fallen as I fell deserves no second ehanee. I've been a silly fool, but it won't mend that to be a criminal fool.

Peter. I meant to ask forgiveness on my knees for all the things I said to you. Up in my room I'd come to see it all, sec what a swine I'd been, how right you were, how much you knew me better than I knew myself. I thought in London that I'd met the worst. I thought my bitterest hour was past. But worst and bitterest of all was when I realised all that I'd done to you, all that that doing made me miss.

Peter. Margaret, I saw you and I felt ashamed. It's one thing to decide within one's mind to do a thing, but quite another thing to do it in the flesh. I saw you, saw the suffering in your face and knew that I had caused it all. I felt ashamed to speak.

Mar. Just pride, in fact. You were too proud to ask. And when the others went?

Mar. Listen to me, Peter. You tell me I am beautiful. You told me I am young. I am, but I'm a year older than I was twelve months ago. Twelve months ago, when you——

Mar. It's been a crowded year for you. (Gesture from Peter.) Too crowded, yes, but there was glamour in it all. You've paid a price, but you've known the flavour of success. You've had your fun. I've spent my year in Midlandton—(Peter shudders)—a plaee where one can live, Peter. Oh, yes, one can. But I've been lonely here. A year's dropped from me sadly, slowly. I've kept myself alive and that, the daily round, is all my history, while you—well, never mind. The past is past. We're where we were a year ago, a little older, just a little less in love with life, but still we're here, Peter. You and I, just as we were before.

Mar. Why not? Love understands. We're both a little scarred. We both need picking up and making whole. We need each other, Peter.

Peter. You need me! Margaret, you're not just putting it that way because——

Peter. I think I always loved you, Margaret. Throughout the madness of my pride, behind it all, I think I never quite forgot the great reality of you. I've been ambition's drunkard, but behind the mist of self-deluded dream, the light shone dimly though. London brought me no peace.

Peter. I think you will. (From her.) Oh, but it's madness, madness, Margaret. What are we thinking of?

Peter. Oh, would to God, it needn't be. But here I am, an outcast, and——

Peter. I'm a man without a job, Margaret. I can't keep myself, let alone anyone else.

Peter. I've thought of ways. Scraps of journalism, perhaps. I might live that way for a time. I'm a notorious person. They'll take my stuff until—my—my escapade's forgotten. Then they'll drop me.

Peter. I'm fit for nothing else. I thought I had supporters, friends who'd rally round when the official party sent me to the rightabout. I've waited there a week. I have no friends.

Mar. You don't need friends. You want an employer, and I thought you were a skilled mechanic.

Peter. Yes. As a matter of fact I did have a vague idea of going in for aeroplanes.

Peter. I shouldn't be a mechanic long. A man of original mind like me is bound to be ahead of the crowd. I've to keep moving fast. I can't wait for the mob to catch me up. Yes, there's something in that aeroplane idea.

Peter. That's your doing. You wakened my ambitions. They're there now, ineradically fixed, and if they weren't there for myself, they would be there for you.

Mar. Drop your ambition, Peter. You will feel like Christian when he lost his pack.

Peter. Back to the mechanic's bench. In Midlandton, where everybody knows! That's humble pie with a vengeance.

Mar. A man can do things for his woman, Peter, when he can't do them for himself.

Mar. Yes, Peter, when you are down, you are very, very down, and when you're up you are up——

Mar. Never mind. You're genius enough for me. Only, we'll stop telling other people about it, eh, Peter? Now let's go to your mother.

CURTAIN.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Garside's Career: A Comedy in Four Acts

GARSIDE'S CAREER

A Comedy In Four Acts

By Harold Brighouse

London: Constable And Company Ltd.

1914

TO

A. N. MONKHOUSE

GARSIDE'S CAREER

ACT I

CURTAIN.

ACT II

CURTAIN

ACT III.

CURTAIN.

ACT IV

CURTAIN.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE