Graft, by Harold Brighouse

A small room on the first floor, awkwardly overcrowded with the entire furniture of a cottage, a pile of which is stacked in the left corner and covered with a sheet; the plain iron bed is right, the window coming between its foot and the pile of furniture; table centre; three plain upright chairs and one wicker armchair before the fire; fireplace left; opposite it right a kitchen dresser well stocked with crockery; pans and kettle about the fireplace. For all the uncomfortable crowding the room is bright and well kept. Door right. It is 7 p.m. on a September evening, and the approach of dusk is noticed gradually.

Jim Pilling, a gardener, has finished tea and sits in his shirt-sleeves before the débris of the meal facing spectator lighting a briar pipe. Jim is thirty, clean looking, dressed in his rough working clothes without coat or his combined collar and "dicky" and red tie, which hangs with the coat behind the door. Sally Pilling is transferring the last of the table utensils to a tray which she puts on the bed; then removing the white cloth and shaking crumbs into the fire; a red cloth is underneath. Sally is of the pale complexion usual to a country girl living in a town; she dresses neatly and has an apron on; Dick, a thin boy of eight, in a blue sailor suit, gets off his chair at the table.

Sally. Yes. (She crosses to door and takes down from a hook his sailor hat.) Here's your hat. (Dick comes to her; she secures it on his head with an elastic band.) Don't go far from the door, Dick. I'll shout you when it's bedtime.

Jim. Aye. Streets are no sort of playground for a growing child. Did you get out while he was at school this afternoon?

Sally (gathering up tea-things). Oh, yes. There's not the cleaning to do in a single room to keep me in it all day.

Sally. I'm no town's woman. (Crosses to Jim.) I miss the flowers and the green. I'm pining for the country, Jim.

Jim. And I'm same way, only I do get the smell of the earth in Mr. Vining's garden and it's not so bad for me.

Sally (wistfully standing above his chair). I'd dearly love to see that garden, Jim.

Jim. I know you would; but they're that strict about the Polygon. No getting in unless you've business.

Sally. It does seem hard when there's not a park nor so much as a blade of grass in the whole blessed town except the Polygon. (Puts tray on bed.)

Jim. No; many a time I've grumbled at the work there and the pay. It's a judgment on me.

Jim (bitterly). No. I was sacked because Sir Charles lost so much money on the turf he couldn't keep six gardeners any longer—and me the one to go because we'd only our Dick and t'others had more childer.

Sally (mildly surprised at his tone). Gentlemen will have their sport, Jim. It might be worse. You dropped lucky into a job. (Folds cloth and puts in dresser drawer.)

Jim. Aye, the job's all right, and Mr. Vining's a good gentleman to work for—pay's better than the country an' all, though I can't get stuff to thrive in Mr. Vining's garden as I'd wish. (Rises.) Town air kills 'em. Yes, we'd do all right, Sally, if (looking round as if caged)—if there was room to live. That's what we want—room to live. We've our sticks for a proper house eating their heads off in yon corner (indicating the pile), and I've wages enough to pay rent for a house and no one 'ull take it from me. There's not a house to let in all Carrington, nor like to be but what there's plenty waiting for it before our turn come, and we've waited three years now.

Sally (consoling him). Never mind, Jim. We've got our privacy. We've a room to ourselves.

Jim (hotly). A room! One room! (Cooling.) Aye, but you're right. Let's be thankful for small mercies. (Sits.) I mind it looked like we shouldn't even find a room when we came seeking. But it's hard to live decent in here, and it's harder on Dick than us. Eat and sleep an all in one room's not a Christian way of life.

(A knock at the door. Sally opens it. Walter Montgomery stands without. He is a curate, twenty-eight years old, athletic in build, clean-shaven, with a bright manner and a strong jaw.)

(Enter Walter. Sally closes the door, adroitly taking her apron off as she does so and hanging it up. Jim makes for his coat.)

Walter. Good evening, Mr. Pilling. (Seeing his objective.) You're all right as you are.

Jim. Shirt-sleeves don't seem respectful, sir. Walter (genially).. Rubbish. It's a pity if you can't be cool in your own room.

(Walter looks at the closed window, but, having experience, makes no suggestion. Jim knocks his pipe out on the fire-bar.)

Walter (seeing him, but too late to stop him). Oh, don't do that—here, try a pipe of mine. (Delving in his coat tails for pouch and offering it.)

Walter. Go on, man. (Jim accepts and fills his pouch; Sally dusts a chair with the corner of the table cloth.) Now you know that chair didn't need dusting, Mrs. Pilling. (He sits.) Well, how's the garden, Mr. Pilling?

Walter. Yes. So I thought when I had a look at it over the hedge. (Turning to Sally.) I live next door to Mr. Vining, you know, Mrs. Pilling.

Sally. Oh, but he can't get the garden to suit him, sir. (Sits R. of table.)

Jim. Thanks. (Returning pouch. Walter fills a pipe and lights up.) This air's ruination to a garden, sir.

Walter. You put up a jolly good fight against it, then. My father's garden looks pretty mean compared with yours.

Jim (shyly). Well, sir, you see, your father will try and look after his himself.

Jim (with a touch of patronage). And he doesn't do it badly—for an amateur, as you might say, but—well, he makes mistakes.

Walter. I saw him outside as I came in. I fancied the little chap looked pale.

Jim. This room—living in one room and nothing but streets to run about in.

Sally. You can't keep a child inside, sir. 'Tisn't natural. The streets if it's fine and the stairs when it's wet out.

Jim. Folks can't thrive cramped up the way we are. If garden stuff won't go in the air, it can't be good for humans.

(A knock at the door. Without waiting for Sally, who starts towards door, Stephen Verity enters. He is fifty, iron grey, with a good deal of iron in his composition, though just now concerned more with the velvet glove than the mailed fist. A selfmade man, he is cynical, domineering, dryly humorous at times, an ugly customer if crossed, with a strong jaw and tightly closed lips. Dressed in morning coat and grey trousers with very square toed boots, turned down collar, black tie. His coat is good solid broadcloth, but the cut is palpably local.)

Stephen (off). Are ye in, Pilling? (He enters and sees Walter. Sally and Walter rise—grimacing at Walter.) Oh! (He stops short in doorway.)

Jim (with deference nicely regulated some degrees lower than that he showed Walter). Come in, Mr. Verity.

Ste. (shaking hands and speaking with laboured politeness). How do you do, Mr. Montgomery? (Dropping his hand—sneeringly.)

I didn't expect to find you here. What are you doing? Looking after their souls?

Walter (pleasantly). I dropped in for a chat and a smoke, before going on to keep my appointment at your house. What are you doing? (Sits l. of table.)

Ste. I'm looking after their bodies, only some of them won't see it. Pilling's a tough nut to crack.

Ste. No, but I shall. He's one of your flock. It takes time to get hold of these fellows who come in from the country, (spitefully) where the squire and the parson spell omnipotence. He'll change his tune yet, though.

Ste. (confidently). You will be. A year or two more of this room and you'll be ripe for anything.

Ste. (after brief pause). Well, now, Mrs. Pilling, what would you say we need most in Carrington?

Ste. You've hit the nail on the head. Trust a woman to be sensible when health's at stake. I've a piece of news for you. There's talk of getting a recreation ground for Carrington.

Walter (interested—sincerely). Indeed! I hadn't heard. It's a most interesting thing.

Ste. (sentimentalizing). Yes, you'll be able to take Mrs. Pilling down for a stroll on a summer's evening or a Sunday afternoon and watch little Dick play about on the soft grass breathing the fresh air and fancying yourselves back in the country again. No need to have Dick running about in the streets then.

Ste. Well, nothing's settled yet, of course. I'm bringing it up at the next Council meeting and I've a backing on both sides. Alderman Verity's a power in Carrington, I don't mind telling you.

Jim. I don't know about your power, sir. What I'm wondering is how it 'ull strike my boss.

Jim. Um. Recreation ground two mile away's no use to my lad and you'll not find land nearer.

Jim. Lots of good that 'ull do—turning people out of house and home to make a playing field, when houses are so scarce an' all.

Walter. Yes. To my mind it's more housing accommodation that's most urgent here, Mr. Verity.

Ste. We'll get neither without we're helped. There'll be a lot of opposition.

Ste. Oh, yes, there will. We Progressives can't carry anything in the Council unless there's a big force of public opinion at our backs.

Ste. (hotly). Practicable! Nothing ever is practicable to some folk that means spending public money and putting up the rates. They're too shortsighted to see that a healthy town pays best in the end.

Walter (reasonably). Still, such things as rates have to be considered, I suppose.

Ste. (hotly). Oh, yes. Consider the purses of the ratepayers and consider the health of the people and the danger of little children playing in the street and ask your religion which consideration weighs heaviest.

Walter (a little warmly). Really, Mr. Verity, I needn't consult my religion. My common sense is sufficient to put me on your side—if you really are right in believing there can be two sides to such a question.

Ste. Don't you make any doubt about that. There'll be two sides right enough.

Ste. Yes, yours—and yours, Pilling, and every man's who'll say a word for us.

(A motor horn heard violently below the window—a few masculine curses and feminine shrieks—which Sally echoes as she leaps to window and puts it up.)

Sally. Dick's in the street. (She flies across from window and out at door.)

(Jim follows Sally, but is met at the door by a very irate taxi-cabman carrying Dick in one hand and by the slack of his trousers, followed by Sally. The Chauffeur is a Cockney, about thirty, clean shaven, with the usual oily pallid complexion—dark—with black leather leggings and a bottle green great-coat with red facings. His number is on an enamelled plate, which is reversed.)

(He puts Dick on his feet. Dick seeks refuge behind his mother s skirts and pulls at them with one hand, curiously watching the Chauffeur all the time. Pilling takes jug from washstand r. and exit for water.)

Chauff. No, bet yer would be if yer got what yer bloomin' well arsked for. Yer came as near to it as bone is to flesh.

Chauff. Aw'm not yer man. (To Sally.) Nah aw' give yer warning, missus, to look after 'im.

Walter (quietly). Isn't it your business to look after the safety of pedestrians?

Chauff. (acknowledging the Church by a quieter reply). What roight 'ad 'e to-be in the middle of the rowd? Ain't the poivement woide enough for 'im to ply 'opscotch? (He addresses Walter.)

Jim (r). Look here, that's my kid, and if you've anything to say you can say it to me.

Chauff. Aw've this to sy. Yer tell 'im to keep to the poivements. 'E moight 'ave bin in 'eaven nah if aw wasn't a hexpert droiver. There's more kids to the square foot in this tahn than any place aw've struck. People moike a fair 'obby of it.

Ste. (importantly). You'd better be careful what you say. You don't know who you're talking to.

Chauff. (with infinite scorn). Fat lot aw care. Yer nothing but a crowd of dead-aloive provincials. Don't suppose yer ever saw a taxi-keb till me and my mate come dahn from London. A 'ackney keb is news to yer in these parts. (Up to Stephen.)

Ste. (boiling over). I'm an alderman of this town and if you don't talk to me respectfully I'll have your license cancelled. You're not fit to have one.

Chauff. Ho! Blimey, not fit to 'ave a license, ain't aw? Aw've druv a dook in my keb. And yer a tahn councillor, are yer? Yus. Yer bloomin' well look it and aw can't say wuss than that.

Chauff. (indignantly). Employer be blowed. Aw'm my own boss. Bought my keb, aw did. Thet's enterprise. Don't know what enterprise means dahn here, do yer?

Ste, What's your number? I'll report you to the police. (Goes to window and looks out.)

Chauff. Yus, yer do. Aw'll tell yer where 'e is. On the 'Igh Street with a stopwatch in his fat hand, trying to cop me exceedin' the limit, and aw've never druv above ten moile for fear of the kids.

Chauff. (making sure that it is reversed). Never you moind my number. My name's Walker. Fair fed up with this tahn, aw am. Aw'm used to drivin' gentlemen. Aw druv a bally commercial abart all yesterday and the blighter tipped me tuppence.

Yes. Aw'm going. My keb 'ull carry me to London now (moves a bit towards door), and yer rowds reek of kids. Aw've killed none yet and aw don't want to. Aw reckon 'oss kebs are good enough for Carrington. P'raps they train 'em to step loightly on the kids or else they're funeral 'osses in their spare toime and never learn to go faster.

Chauff. (crossing back to Stephen). Foine language from a tahn alderman with the Church lookin' on an' all. Aw am among the nobs. Abart toime aw cleared when a tahn 'as a bally hobject the loikes of you for an alderman. Aw wouldn't be seen droiv-ing yer not for a quid a moile and disinfectin' free.

Walter. If you're going to London, Mr. Walker—I think you said Walker—hadn't you better go?

Chauff. (at door). Yus, and aw'll droive quick for once through Carrington and charnce it. The kids 'ad better look aloive. (Looking back at Stephen.) Aw'll tell 'em when aw droive into the old garage in the Westminster Rowd abaht meetin' a real loive alderman. They'll be sending rand from Fleet Street to interview me abaht it.

Jim (closing door—to Walter). I'm sorry you've been spoken to like that in my room, sir. Civil tongues don't cost nothing.

Walter (smiling). That's a type of modern progress. The new man, Mr. Pilling.

Ste. That's where you're wrong, Jim Pilling. This fellow's up-to-date. He'd never be content to let his children play in the streets. He'd——

Sally. I think so. (Opens drawer in the dresser and searches.) I ought to have.

Sally. That's no good. Corn plaster. There's Beecher's Pills and Wood's Sarsaperilla and every mortal thing except the one you want.

Ste. (who has taken out a pocket hook, eyeing Dick with what he thinks is benevolence). I generally have some plaster in my pocket. (But he looks in vain.) No, none there. Sorry, Mrs. Pilling.

Sally. I'd better take him to the chemist's. (She gets a purse from the dresser.)

Sally. You'll have your supper when we get back. Come and see the man who lives behind the big red bottles.

Ste. (triumphantly). Anybody got anything to say against a recreation ground now.

Jim. And I didn't see the use of pulling houses down to make room where houses are scarce.

Ste. We shall pull down just five houses. (Sits L. of table.) No more and no less.

Walter (puzzled). Then you must be thinking of—oh, but that's ridiculous.

Ste. (with gusto). Yes, it's the home of the leisured and privileged class of Carrington. It's five big houses with a kind of a square of tennis lawn in the middle of them and a great big garden behind each. It's the only apology for a breathing space we have and it's bang in the middle of the town. You've got great gates to it marked "private" and a lodge keeper to watch 'em and see none of the common herd get in to soil your sacred air by breathing it in their vulgar lungs. It's a shame and a scandal for the land to be wasted on you and it's not going to be wasted much longer.

Ste. (interrupting). They're about twenty all told. Who are they to get in the way of the thousands that live crowded up like rabbits outside?

Ste. (sarcastically). Yes. They're well-to-do, so they've the right to monopolize the air.

Walter (half apologetically). You must remember this is quite a new idea to me, and for the moment it seems iconoclastic, if you don't mind my saying so.

Ste. (sneering). Yes. Like all your class, you don't like new ideas. I'll say nothing about your Church, though that don't like new things either.

Walter. If you'll only give me a moment to think, Mr. Verity.... I'm trying my best to see the matter from your standpoint. Meantime, I don't know that you'll improve things by fulminating against the Church.

Ste. (blustering). I shan't do myself any good by truckling to it, either. The Church was here before I was. It was here when Carrington was a little village and it's stood by and let the place grow into one huge slum. If we waited for the Church to give us a lead, we'd wait for all eternity.

Walter (smiling). But you're not addressing the Church, you know. You're addressing a young and humble member of it.

Walter. Not so black as our cloth, I hope. Some of us younger men try to be social reformers.

Ste. Yes. It's all very pretty and romantic, but when it comes to anything that touches you personally like this does you're as bad as the greediest tithe grabbing pluralist that ever robbed a starving farmer of his——

Jim (touching Stephen's arm). Mr. Verity, I'm a man that's slow to anger. But I've this to tell you. Mr. Montgomery's a clergyman and you're saying things to him that aren't proper to be said and that I'll hot have said in my room. (Shrewdly.) And you're not going the right way to get my vote for your recreation ground either. .

Ste. (earnestly). It's the wrongs of your class. I think of others, Pilling. I see what the motorman saw—streets crowded with little children, growing up in the gutter, playing in the dust—I can't help it. My tongue runs away with me when I think of it all.

Walter. Say no more, Mr. Verity. You're probably right about the Polygon. I dare say we are out of place there, but you couldn't expect me to take your view the moment it's sprung on me.

(A knock at the door. Jim opens it. A Man advances a foot into the room. Behind him is dimly seen a woman, both poorly dressed. The Man has a bundle tied up into a blue quilt on his shoulder; his voice is tired and hopeless.)

Man. Don't shut the door in our face. I've got the money to pay for it. I'll give you a week's rent now.

Man (pleading). I'm in work, mate. Start at Bamford's factory o' Monday. A corner's all as we want.

Man (turning dejectedly). Lodging-houses full up and getting late an' all. We've been looking all day.

Jim (closes the door). Get three or four of them a week. They find room somewhere in the end.

Jim. Aye. Lots of rooms about here with two or three families in 'em. Some one 'ull take them in if they look long enough.

Ste. And ten acres in the Polygon with only five houses on 'em. (Sits in armchair.)

Walter. All the more reason to build houses there and not waste it in playing fields.

Walter. Yes. It's wasted now. I'm going to do my best to help you. (Back to fire standing.)

Walter. Don't count on me for much. But what I can do I will. I'm afraid I must go now. I've a call to make before I'm due at your house.

Ste. (rubbing his hands together). Ah, glad I came. Good thing to rope in young Montgomery.

Jim (aggressively). Look here, Mr. Verity, you've been coming here calling yourself my friend. I knew well enough it was my vote you were after. Bless you, I don't mind. I know what even the real gentry 'ull do to get a man's vote. I've seen Sir Charles himself stand by and watch his wife kiss our Dick at election time. But I've finished with you now. You'll come here no more after this. (Above table l.)

Ste. I'm wanting to provide a recreation ground for Dick to play in. Anything wrong in that?

Jim. No, I'm not thinking of anybody's ideas. Thinking of ideas leads to mischief. I'm thinking of my bread and butter that you're taking from me.

Jim. Yes, and Mr. Vining lives in the Polygon. It's likely I'd vote for breaking up the Polygon, isn't it?

Ste. Mr. Vining will have to live somewhere. He won't cease to require a gardener.

Jim (with conviction). A working man's always afraid of that. I know what it's like to be out of a job.

Ste. We shall want somebody to look after the grass in the recreation ground.

Jim. How do you know you'll be on any Park Committee? You might be fired out of the Council next November.

Ste. (with dignity). I'm an alderman, Pilling. Aldermen stay in, they don't get fired.

Jim. You're offering me this. Well and good. And what about all the other folk as find work in the Polygon? House servants and such like.

Jim. And you can flit servants same as furniture, can't you? And servants haven't votes and I have. So you bribe me and they can go to the devil.

Jim. Oh, I'm not blind, if I was brought up in the country. They didn't learn me there to vote against my master, either. I take Mr. Vining's money and——

Ste. But man alive, how's he to know which way you vote? The ballot's secret.

Jim (unconvinced). That's what they tell you. And if it is, it's not secret from me. I'd know how I voted. And I couldn't hold out my hand for wages from a man when I'd voted opposite to him. I'm not built that way.

Jim. It makes no matter if he's right or wrong. He's still my employer. A man can't vote against the gentleman that gives him bread and butter, and Mr. Vining's a real gentleman, mind you. (With enthusiastic admiration). I never saw him raise his hand to do a thing himself yet.

Ste. Look here, if you won't take it from me, will you take it from Mr. Montgomery?

Jim. I don't know. He's a young 'un. More like a man than a parson. Coming in here and smoking his pipe like you might do yourself.

Ste. Then if he tells you, will you vote for turning the Polygon into a playing ground?

Ste. I'll get out of your way, Mrs. Pilling. I've an appointment to keep at home. Good-night. (Crosses below table to door.)

Sally. Good riddance and all. Now, Dick, you ought to have been in bed long ago. (Takes Dick up to bed.)

Sally. And never did. What's he want with bothering round week after week? We're not his class.

Jim. Vote's what he's after, and it's a marvel to me what they will do for votes.

Jim. I'm thinking so myself. He's a bit too keen on this recreation ground, Verity is. Been putting himself about something extraordinary. (Crosses to fireplace, taking pipe.) I fancy, you know, there's, something behind all this.

CURTAIN.

ACT II

Stephen Verity's dining-room the same evening. The room has doors right and left. Window with drawn blind, r. Large table centre with chairs. Fireplace left. Solid-looking sideboard back centre. The furniture is solid, old-fashioned, and the atmosphere of the room is one of heavy comfort without ostentation. The room is a small one. No books anywhere. In an armchair before the fire is Stephen Verity. Walter Montgomery faces him in a highbacked chair. Stephen is smoking a large, well coloured briar.

Stephen (removing the pipe). So you think you're good enough to marry my daughter, do you? Walter. I ventured to think so.

Ste. That's no reason. You curates, you're all alike—must be with marrying other folk so much. Infectious, I reckon. Church ought to be scheduled along with the other dangerous trades.

Ste. Yes. (He rises, knocks at his pipe in the grate, puts it on the mantelpiece and goes himself to the door left. His deliberate movements cause Walter an agony, of which Stephen is quite aware. Stephen opens the door and calls.) Lucy!

Ste. Come in here. (He leaves the door open and goes below door. Enter Lucy Verity. She is twenty-one, pretty, dressed in a skirt and blouse, pointing to a very modest dress allowance. Her hair is plainly dressed. Obviously her father is her master, but she is not without indications of a will of her own. Walter rises as she enters.) Here's a friend of yours. Tells me he wants to marry you.

Ste. Well, listen to me. He's a curate. Curates always marry young and have enormous families on no income. (Walter makes an attempt to protest; Stephen proceeds unmoved.) I advise you not to marry him. If he wants a wife, he'll not go begging one for long. There's always crowds of silly girls ready to help a chap to button his collar behind.

Walter. I can very well believe that. But it's a thing that's bound to come to you sooner or later.

Ste. You're making a mistake. It isn't bound to come at all. My daughter's no need to find a man to keep her. She's a head on her shoulders and sense enough to know when she's well off. Who's going to look after my house if Lucy marries? Tell me that, young man.

Walter. There'd be plenty of time to consider that. We're not proposing to get married to-morrow.

Ste. And hope I'll be dead and out of your way first? (Sitting behind table c.)

Ste. You hold your tongue. I'll get you to talk in a minute. (To Walter.) What do you want to wait for?

Walter (with excessive dignity). I'm not without money, sir. I could afford to marry at once.

Ste. You plutocrat! Lucy, do you hear that? He's £150 a year. Nice sort of marrying income, that is. Oh, but perhaps I'm wronging you. What's your father going to do for you when you marry?

Ste. Then he made a bad investment if it's only worth £150 a year to you to-day. I had no education and I'm worth—well, never mind. Lucy, tell him what I've been telling you to-night.

Ste. Don't repeat my words like a fool. Go on. You've got your chance of talking now.

Lucy (as if repeating a lesson). You told me that mother left me money which you've, increased by investment till it's now capable of yielding £1,000 a year, and since my twenty-first birthday a week ago the money lies to my credit at the bank.

Ste. That's right. Now, my gallant £3 a weeker, what have you got to say to that?

Ste. No. I'll gamble you didn't. You fancied I lived in a small house because I couldn't afford a big 'un. That's a regular Polygon notion. You're used to their way of living up to your income and as much beyond as you've pluck for. When a man's worked as hard as I have he don't spend as fast as he earns. He sticks to what he's got.

Ste. I've made my way. I began low and I'm no class now, bar what they think of me at the bank—and that's a fat lot more than they think of any fine Polygon gentlemen. Would you like to know where Lucy's bit comes from?

Ste. Her grandfather kept the Black Bull. That's where it was made, except what I've added to it. Stinks of beer, that money does. Pubs were a good thing in his time for a landlord that kept off the drink.

Ste. Aye, ye would think that now you fancy your chance of fingering it. It was made in the way of business same as my own was, and that means the best man won and he hadn't time to stand still and think about honesty. Too busy downing the other fellow for that. And now you've got it. That's me, sir, builder and contractor, and married a publican's daughter. Feeling as keen set on Lucy as you were?

Walter. I don't believe very much in artificial class distinctions, Mr. Verity.

Ste. Don't you? Not in your business hours, you mean. Not so long as you remember you're a parson.

Ste. You're a fool. You've £1,000 a year. You're an heiress. He's a pauper..

Ste. It's the only view I care-about. (To Lucy.) With your money you can look high.

Lucy. Thanks, father. When I want to buy a husband, I'll let you know. I'm thinking of marrying one at present.

Ste. And it had better be the last, if you don't want to quarrel. I'm not one of these weak-kneed modern fathers that let themselves be browbeaten by their own children. Perhaps you think you'll get him whether I consent or not?

Ste. I'm not fond of curates, Lucy. It's a soft job, and a real man looks for a fighting chance in life.

Walter. He's an old hand, and if we haven't knocked him out we're weakening his defence.

Ste. The cause is all right. You're a parson. Got the good of the poor at heart and all that sort of thing?

Ste. (holding up his hands evenly). Quits so far. Income on the male side £150 a year. (Surveys his right hand.) Income on the female side £1,000. (Depressing his left hand as if weighing the incomes in scales.) Hullo! wo! something wrong there. Doesn't balance.

Ste. (dropping his hands). Yes. You've hooked your fish, my boy. But you're a long way off landing her yet.

Ste. By fighting. By doing something for the good of the town. There's this proposal to buy up the Polygon.

Ste. Well, now you know what you've to do. You know what Polygon people are and you know what the town needs.

Ste. That's what you've to rub into your Polygon set, and you'll not find 'em seeing it so easy.

Walter. You can't blame them if they don't exactly welcome the idea of turning out and making fresh homes in their old age. It's only natural.

Ste. Oh, I'm not afraid of them. They'll not stop us. All you've to do is to make them see they're an obstacle to progress in this town. They're bound to see justice if they are narrow and selfish and too puffed up with pride to know the townspeople and——

Ste. Yes, I knew you only disbelieved in class distinctions during business hours. Scratch the curate and find the hypocrite.

Walter. No. They take up too much room in the Polygon. I never said they didn't. But they'll not want to go. And surely the whole thing depends on Sir Charles' readiness to sell.

Ste. Yes, but a willing Polygon will make a lot of difference, and if you want Lucy as bad as you say, here's your way to help yourself to her.

Walter. Well, do you? The town proposes to buy the Polygon for the people. It's an excellent project and my plain duty is to further it. I shan't fail in my duty merely because of the unpleasant unheaval in the lives of a few people who happen to be dear to me.

Ste. Oh! Well, I don't want words, I want deeds. Succeed and I'll think about calling you son-in-law—if Lucy doesn't change her mind meantime.

Walter. I can't see why you insist on making a kind of bribe of Lucy when there's only one course open to me in any case.

Ste. I always doubt an untried man. I doubt if he'll have the pluck to face old Vining in the Polygon—I doubt lots of things. Put it that I'm giving him some Dutch courage to stiffen his back.

Walter (desperately). I don't want Dutch courage. Is there any way of convincing you that I mean what I say?

Walter. Very well, I will. (Moving as if to go.) Ste. (stopping him). Remember, you're not engaged to Lucy yet.

Ste. (to Lucy). You stay where you are. Say good-night to him while I've got my eye on you. He can find the front door without your help.

(Exit Walter, r. A slight pause. Stephen eyes Lucy from head to foot before speaking. Lucy crosses and sits l. of table.)

Ste. (before fire, judicially). It strikes me pretty forcibly I've brought a fool into the world. (Sharply.) How long's this been going on behind my back?

Lucy (with an air of standing up to him). Nothing's gone on behind your back. I told Walter at once he must speak to you.

Ste. Umph! If you'd told me you wanted help to send him about his business there'd have been some sense in it. But you backed him up. You showed, fight. You're getting proud, my girl.

Ste. Grown up, have you? All right. If you fancy you're too old to come to me for advice you can do without.

Ste, And you'd better not begin now, or you and I will fall out. Ha! So you're grown up, are you? Yes, you've been a legal woman for a week. Only I've been a legal man for thirty years and you'll allow I know the world better than you.

Ste. Well, I tell you you'll be throwing yourself away on young Montgomery..(Persuasively.) He's not up to your weight, Lucy. Polygon type, he is. You know, shove all your goods in the shop window. Live in a big house for swank and get it dirt cheap because the neighbourhood's gone down. They're not solid.. Lucy, you and I together could buy up the whole, crowd of swells to-morrow..

Lucy. I fell in love with Walter before I knew I'd a penny piece in the world. I don't think my money must make any difference.

Ste. Don't be silly. Money makes all differences. We're all born without pockets. It's pockets or no pockets that makes us rich or poor. Yesterday you didn't knew you'd a pocket and the Polygon looked big and young Montgomery, he looked big. I don't blame you. It looked a good thing.

Ste. Women are fools over money. I did think you'd more sense. (Dogmatically.) Money should, marry money. (With rising irritation.) It's all my eye to talk of throwing away your money on a penniless curate.

Lucy (rises). I'm sorry to disagree. Obedience has its limits. I hope we shan't quarrel, father, but I'm a free woman now and I warn you—oh, I'm sorry.

Ste. Sorry, are you? I'm a hard man, Lucy. I'm a masterful man. I know that. But I'm a soft-hearted fool where you're concerned, or I'd let you marry the curate and suffer the consequences. But I've got ambitions for you if you've none for yourself. (R.d.) When you marry there's two things for it—money or birth—and you'll not find either in Polygon. They're a bad imitation of the real thing—about as near as the shoddy Bamford makes it to honest broadcloth. Not one of them with a handle to his name. (Crosses to Lucy.) If you must get married, I'll find you a husband. Leave it to me. And don't be in such a hurry to leave your old dad if you are a free woman.

Lucy (quietly). I'm marrying Walter Montgomery, father; but we're not in any hurry.

Ste. Don't you worry about that. He may help to keep the Polygon set quiet till I've put the business through.

Lucy. You'd use him and then throw him over afterwards. Father, you don't mean that!

Ste. What do you know about business? I'd use the devil himself if I thought he'd smooth my way to a bit of money.

Ste. Ah, that's what I'm waiting for. Don't go beyond call, Lucy. I'll be wanting you soon.

(Samuel Bamford is a wealthy shoddy manufacturer. He is a bachelor of forty, a bon viveur and a sportsman. His shrewd ruddy face shows above a white four-in-hand scarf, controlled by a horseshoe gold pin. He is well covered with flesh, but not yet as gross as he probably will be in a few years. His clothes are slightly sportsmanlike in cut and he wears spats. A noticeably heavy gold chain crosses his stomach. Nathaniel Alcorn is tall, spare and dark. His face is yellowish, with a drooping moustache. He wears a frock coat, and his prosperity, though evident, is less ostentatious than Bamford's.)

Ste. Good-evening, gentlemen. (To Janet.) Send Mr. Smithson up when he comes. No one else. Janet. Yes, sir. (Exit Janet.)

Alcorn (producing letter from his pocket). Yes, my brother's sent this on. (Hands letter to Stephen.) From Sir Charles' agent. He's abroad, Sir Charles.

Alcorn. Why, this. (Reading the letter.) "Speaking for myself alone, I consider it extremely improbable that Sir Charles will consent to a sale of the Polygon to your company." (Leaves letter on the table.)

Alcorn. I don't know so much about that. These land owning fellows know they're no good at business. They leave it to their agents, and if the agent writes like that, you can take it he knows.

Ste. He knows all right. Sir Charles isn't a business man, but his agent is. If there's a chance of selling, that agent wants a top price; naturally he writes that way to bluff us into raising our offer.

Ste. (to Bamford). It all depends on what you told us. If your information's correct, they'll be only too glad to sell.

Bamford. He's dropped a pot of money lately. It's a well known fact. I know one bookie that's taken ten thousand off him in the season, and he's not the only one.

Ste. Eh? Oh, aye! (Ironically.) Lamentable prodigality. Shocking extravagance, isn't it, Alcorn?

But it suits our book. The faster he goes the pace the better for us, so you might as well be decently grateful instead of getting mealy mouthed over it.

Bamford. Me and Alcorn were arguing coming along here what's to be done with the land.

Alcorn. Aye, but as I told him, the first thing is to get possession of the land.

Ste. Now, don't you worry about that, Alcorn. The land's as good as ours at our own price. Sir Charles 'ull jump at it.

Ste. No, he's not. It's a pity you missed our last meeting. You don't grasp the idea yet. We buy the land from Sir Charles.

Bamford (obstinately), Well, I thought it was houses. Houses are safe, and you'd easier raise a cry for houses than playing fields.

Ste. Depends how you go about it. Work it proper and you could get them yelling like kids for a municipal service of flying machines.

Smiths. Sorry I'm late, but I've been employing my time well. Sowing the seed.

Ste. You've been wasting time. I've collared a man who'll bring in voters by the score.

Ste. Young Montgomery. The parson lad. For all their talk, the Church still has a big hold on the poorer classes. It'll pay to have that boy on our side. He'll talk to them in the Polygon, too. Bamford. Aye. Good man, that, Verity.

Ste. Well, it isn't. It 'ud take too much capital to cover the Polygon with houses.

Bamford. It was houses. You've altered it. I ought to have been told. No one told me.

Bamford (taking it personally; indignantly). Who'll come round? I won't come round. Houses it was and houses it's going to be.

Ste. (moving Smithson to give Alcorn the letter. Alcorn pockets it. Dryly.) We spoke of Sir Charles.

Smiths, (tentatively). I fancy, myself, houses would be a safer battle-cry with the people, Mr. Verity.

Alcorn (rising). I really must protest. Such language! (He seems genuinely shocked.)

Ste. (impatiently). It's so silly to talk as if the people mattered. Government by the people! Any fool can lead 'em where he wants.

Alcorn (sitting). We must consider their feelings a bit. Think of the rates.

Ste. Oh, we'll consider their feelings all right. We must make 'em feel what we want 'em to feel.. Then they'll vote for what we want and kid themselves we do it for their sake. That's how to consider their feelings. When I was a lad there was a trout stream ran through Carrington. It's a sewer now, but there were trout in it then and I've caught 'em by tickling their bellies. That's the way to catch voters, Mr. Alcorn. Tickle 'em.

Smiths (in alarm). Oh, no, I don't. Indeed I don't. I only say houses 'ull bring votes quicker than playing fields.

Alcorn. I suppose you couldn't shout houses and make it the other thing afterwards?

Smiths. I'm surprised at you, Mr. Alcorn. (Very righteously.) I stand for purity in municipal life.

Ste. Alcorn's got none. He's a permanent official with a certain job, or he'd know better.

Ste. You've every right, Mr. Bamford, and we shall do nothing without your approval.

Ste. (definitely). Only, if it's houses, I can't go on. (Consternation.)

Ste. Our share of what 'ull go on the rates is a flea bite. Our profit 'ull cover it a hundred times. I don't deny the town needs houses, needs 'em badly, only I haven't the capital for houses. My money's tied up and I'm not touching it. The money I'm putting into this isn't my own.

(Alcorn writes on a scrap of paper and passes it to Smithson, who reads, nods, and passes it to Stephen.)

Bamford. Who's is it, if it's a fair question? Ste. My daughter's. I'll want it back quick. Alcorn. Your daughter's got money, then? Bamford (very interested). Your daughter's? Nice looking girl, your daughter. (Slight pause.)

Ste. (blandly). No. (Passing him the paper.) Bamford (reading). "Make Bamford Mayor next year." (He looks up at each in turn.) Um. Well. Bamford's willing.

Ste. If I say mayor, you'll be mayor. You make a bit on the mayoral allowance, you know. Needn't spend above half of it.

Bamford. All right. No need to say more. It's a recreation ground and damn the expense. (The tension passes.)

Ste. Right. Got those papers with you, Alcorn? Alcorn. Yes. (Fussily producing and smoothing the typewritten articles of association.)

Ste. Your signature's wanted, Bamford. Bamford (examining the paper). Land Development Syndicate, Ltd. Sounds well, anyhow. Hullo! What's this? Registered Offices, London Wall, E.C.

Ste. Wouldn't do to have a local address here. Some busybody 'ud smell it out.

Alcorn. Nothing; and he's put down three of his clerks for one share apiece to make up the statutory seven shareholders. Those are their signatures above Smithson's and mine.

Alcorn (advancing and speaking with the respect due to a capitalist). Good evening, Miss Verity.

Ste. (stepping back, and interposing impatiently). Oh, never mind all that; sit down, Lucy. (Pushing her into his vacated chair and pointing to the papers, handing pen.) Write your name there.

(Bamford's eyes are set on Lucy with the air of a butcher appraising a sheep.)

Ste. (impatiently). Oh, never mind. It 'ud take a week to make you understand. You've some money lying at the bank. Mine's all tied up. I want yours for a bit, so just sign your name there. (Lucy signs.) Say "I deliver this as my act and deed."

Lucy. I deliver this as my act and deed. (To Stephen.) It's your deed really, you know.

Alcorn. Yes. You're our partner, Miss Verity. Lucy (standing). But what's it all about?

Lucy (sentimentally). How noble of you!' Oh, thank you! Thank you so much for letting me take a share in this——

Ste. (interrupting). Yes; now you go and have your supper. It's getting late.

Ste. Well, that concludes the business for tonight, gentlemen. Nothing more to be done till we hear from Sir Charles. (Puts chair back up stage.)

(Smithson opens the door r. Alcorn follows him, pausing and looking back at Bamford.)

Bamford. Not about the Company. (Glancing involuntarily after Lucy.) Something else.

Ste. Well, Bamford? Have anything? I've a better port downstairs than the Polygon toffs can run to.

(Stephen looks relieved, Bamford sits. Their positions reproduce those of Stephen and Walter at the opening.)

Ste. (taking his pipe from the mantelpiece). I'll have a pipe, if you don't mind. Well, what's up with you?

Bamford. Perhaps you wouldn't call me a marrying man? (Sitting below fire.)

Bamford. Never too late to mend. I'm a bit struck with that daughter of yours, Verity.

Bamford. Well, I'm the last man to deny that money's a very important thing in life.

Ste. (remaining seated). Aye. You thought you were being smart, didn't you? Seeing a good thing and dashing at it prompt; but you're the second man to come to me to-night over Lucy, for all that.

Ste. To tell you the truth, Sam, I'm not struck on the idea of losing her at all. But she's got a fancy in her head and it's one I don't cotton to. Best cure might be to put you there instead and be sure of her not making a fool of herself.

Ste. See here, Sam. It's like this. That girl can look high. Question is, are you high enough?

Ste. Yes... (half apologetically.) I've a right to know before I put it to her.

Bamford (after slight hesitation). Well, I'll tell you this: you know what my father left?

Ste. (rising with resolution). That 'ull do. (Opens left door.) Lucy, come back a minute.

Bamford (awkwardly). Yes, I do, Miss Verity. That's just what I do. I want you.

Lucy (turning from one to the other). You want me. I'm here. What do you want me for?

Bamford (eagerly). Yes, I've got money and I spend it. I'll give you the time of your life.

Lucy. Don't spoil this evening for me, Mr. Bamford. You've made me so happy, so grateful to you all for letting me help in your charity. I only knew to-night how rich I am. It frightened me—the thought of so much money. I was afraid of it... of my unworthiness. Until you showed me the way to use it well. I was proud that I... and now... father, this isn't fair of you.

Ste. He's a pauper. Look here, my girl, you're rebellious to-night. I'm master here. I'm not the sort of fool to let you twist me round your little finger. Don't think because you're twenty-one and got a thousand a year (the sum moves Bamford visibly) that you'll ride rough-shod over me. (More gently.) You've got to be sensible. (Smacks table.) You've got to do what I tell you.

Bamford. You shall have your carriage and dress yourself as much as you like; and what's more, marry me and you'll be. Mayoress of Carrington in November.

Ste. (crossing l.). Engaged, if you like, but no wedding till the Polygon deal's complete. The profits on that are mine.

Bamford. Of course they are. I'll hand over your share when we've sold to the town.

Ste. Never mind what you thought. (Goes up to Lucy.) That wasn't meant for your ears. You'd better go back to the other room now. I'll talk to you after Mr. Bamford's gone. (Indicating her to exit.)

Ste. He'll remember you're going to be—to him. (Crosses down r. above, table.)

Lucy. Father, I've obeyed you long enough. I'm twenty-one now, and I'm going to take my own way.

Ste. Pssh! It's the first time she's broken out like this. She'll be tame enough next time you come.

Ste. I'm not afraid of that. It's a pity if a man can't do as he likes with his own flesh and blood.

Ste. (going to Lucy): Yes. Go to bed, Lucy, and say over to yourself, I'm going to marry Mr. Bamford. Then you'll get used to the idea.

CURTAIN.

ACT III

Archibald Vining's house in the Polygon the following afternoon. The room is large and lofty with the air of serene mellowness common to old houses. The door is r., behind the large mantelpiece. Behind is a French window, beyond which the-garden is seen. The room is panelled; its incidental trappings suggest occupants hardly able to live up to their surroundings; the furniture is faded; the carpet worn. Walter sits on a chair to the r. of the window against the wall. Down l. is his father Augustus Montgomery at an escritoire. On a large settee placed crosswise l. sit Mrs. Montgomery and Mrs. Vining. Archibald Vining is posed with an elbow on the mantelpiece, looking across at Montgomery. The ladies gaze at him with admiration. Montgomery Senior is sixty, rather bald, weak-faced, futile, dressed in light grey morning coat and trousers. Vining is ruddy, irascible, with white moustache and grey hair, in black morning coat and grey trousers. The women are both rather foolish. Mrs. Montgomery is stout and Mrs. Vining lean, but there is otherwise not much to choose between them in age, which is about fifty, or anything else. Their dress is conventional without being fashionable or expensive. They live next door and Mrs. Montgomery has come in without a hat. The light is of a sunny afternoon and there is no fire. Marjorie Vining, a tall athletic girl, sits by the window c., with a tennis racket, looking, increasingly bored.

Vining (dictating). "Your rumoured intention to sell the Polygon"—got that, Montgomery?

Montgomery. Yes. (Looking up timidly.) Excuse me, Vining, I can't help saying it again, but are you quite sure we form a quorum?

Vin. (assertively). Of course we do, my dear fellow. Don't distress yourself.

Mont. (desperately). But—but there are five houses in the Polygon and only two are represented here.

Vin. Quite so. Allow for unavoidable absentees, and your scruples vanish. Shall I proceed?

Mont, (pathetically). It's deucedly—beg pardon—it's hard to be diplomatic. How would "protest meeting" do?

Vin. Too political. Let "indignation" stand. We must show him he's roused the sleeping lion.

Vin. (filling his chest). I flatter myself I put things through, Mrs. Montgomery. Now, Monty!

Mont. (reading). "At the indignation meeting—um—held on the—um—it was resolved to respectfully address——"

Mont, (correcting and reading). To address a letter to you on the subject of your rumoured intention to sell the Polygon.

Mont. (proceeding). It is our hope that should this information be correct, bracket, which we hesitate to believe, bracket, you will reconsider your decision to give over to the hands of the jerry builder the only residences in Carrington habitable by persons of refinement.

Vin. Excellent. (Approval from settee. Vining crosses l. to above Montgomery and takes letter; patronisingly.) You write a clerkly hand, Monty. (Picks up pen.) I'll sign as the oldest resident present.

(Montgomery swallows a protest, remaining seated, Vining signs, bending over.)

(Montgomery writes and encloses letter. Vining goes to French window and opens it.)

Mar. (rises). Jolly glad to hear it. I'm fed up. Come out and play tennis, Walter. (Puts chair down c.)

Mar. It's always some other time with you, now. I'm forgetting what you look like in flannels. You'll lose all your form if you don't practice a bit.

Mar. It's pure slacking. Don't be so beastly serious, if you are in Orders. Come and be a muscular Christian on the lawn.

Walter. Something more serious to-day, Marjorie. Mar. Oh, rot! What's the good of having the courts if you don't use 'em?

Mar. Oh, blow, you're getting on your hobby horse again. I'm going to practice putting if you won't give me a game. You are a rotter.

Vin. (closes desk and crosses up l.c.). Oh, Pilling, just post this letter at once. Are your hands clean?

Walter (quietly). I'm not sure that it wouldn't be a good deal better off, Mrs. Vining.

Mrs. V. We've always lived in the Polygon. We've taken root, Carrington's gone on its way——

Vin. Carrington has no manners—but the Polygon has stood aloof. Thank God we leisured people have no connection with the town roughs.

Vin. We are the best people in Carrington, sir. Do you judge a place by its quality or by the counting of heads?

Walter (quietly). They have one, you know. Before that letter goes to Sir Charles, I'd like to try——

Walter. It's a survival, mother. It's out of date in the midst of a modern manufacturing town.

Mont, (pathetically). But—but, Walter, it means so tremendously much to us all. It may be out of date, but I did hope it was going to last our time.

Vin. It's got to last our time. (Sincerely.) I'm not a deeply religious man, but I get reverent when I think of the Polygon.

Vin. (with appropriate chest expansion). Not if Archibald Vining can prevent it.

Walter. (crosses c.). I must. Father, Mr. Vining, you—all of you—are wrapped up in the Polygon. You hardly go out of it except to the station. |

Walter. You haven't, Mr. Vining, but I have. I see the other side of the picture, if you don't.

Walter (sits c.). Carrington's all back stairs, and cramped stairs they are. There's no breathing space. What right have we to monopolize the air? We've room to move about—so much room that you need never go out of the Polygon.

Walter. Yes, you pay for it in money and they pay for the lack of it in health.

Mont. If there's overcrowding it's a matter for the town authorities to deal with.

Vin. They can't have it. They must know it 'ud be cutting off their nose to spite their face. The Polygon's essential to Carrington.

Vin. It is Carrington. I tell you this, young man, Carrington's last state would be worse than its first if you took us away. We—we circulate money. We give the place a tone.

Walter. It's a tone the place could do without. It could do without your money. We are not Carrington. The factories are the essential Carrington. Mr. Vining, (rising and taking a step to r. c.) let me show you what it's like—whole families living—no, not living—pigging in a single room. Rooms cut up amongst two or three families. All in Carrington, our neighbours in Christian Carrington.

Vin. Thanks. I'm not the sort of man to put my head into a noose. I prefer to keep out of infection.

Walter (appealingly). Don't send that letter to Sir Charles. Don't try to influence his decision. The workpeople can't move out of the town. They must live near their work. You can move. Dividends can reach you anywhere just as easily.

Mrs. M. Walter, you don't understand what you're asking us to do. You're young. You can change easily, because you're young and restless. But when you've lived in a house that's dear to you till it's become part of your life, you can't leave it in your old age.

Mont. I can't leave my garden. You know that. No other garden would mean the same to me.

Vin. My dear friends, you needn't worry. Carrington would never let us go. Walter's got hold of the wrong end of the stick. We're an institution.

Walter. I shouldn't advise you to. I know Pilling's home. He's a wife and child. They all live in one room.

Vin. Why, I pay the man twenty-two shillings a week. What does he live like that for?

Walter. He's no choice. Pilling 'ull tell you what Carrington thinks of the Polygon.

Vin. He's a long time washing his hands. (Goes up to window and looks off r.)

Vin. Quite. No stone unturned. That fellow who's coming, what's his name—you know, Walter—that alderman——

Vin. Verity. That's it. We must make sure of the town authorities. A little affability goes a long way with people of that sort.

Mrs. V. Yes. He's not the type of man you're accustomed to meet in my drawing-room, Mrs. Montgomery, still——

Walter. He's a builder who's his own architect. That's why his houses fall to pieces.

Vin. Walter, as a Churchman, I am always willing to accept your views on religious matters. But when it comes to worldly questions, permit me to have an opinion of my own.

Vin. (absently). Yes, yes. (Montgomery rises gets letter from mantel; hands it to Vining.) There you are.

One moment, Pilling, I want to ask you something. Can you tell me how people in the town talk of the Polygon?

Vin. Yes. What's the general opinion of us? Pilling. It's not for the likes of me to talk against the gentry.

Vin. (impatiently). Yes, yes, but that's not the point. Doesn't your class feel what a privilege it is to have us living in your midst?

Walter. Of course he would. A gardener's no use if there's nothing to garden. Only Carrington's not a garden city. It's a manufacturing town.

Mont. (with back to fire, to Pilling). Supposing now you weren't a gardener?

Pilling. Well, sir, it 'ud seem to me against nature if the town had no quality in it.

Vin. (turning triumphantly to Walter). You see? (Patronising Pilling.) You're perfectly right, Pilling. I've noticed it before. (Talking at the ladies.) The masses always have this instinctive clinging to their superiors. They know we're the source of all prosperity.

Pilling (shyly). There's queer talk, sometimes, sir. I know gentlemen are different from us, but there's men in this town wanting to tell me we're all born equal—asking your pardon, sir.

Walter. Be honest, man. No one's going to hurt you for it. Tell us the truth, about the overcrowding and the waste of valuable space in the Polygon.

Mrs. V. Yes. Tell us the truth, Pilling, and say you know how necessary we are.

Pilling. Yes, sir. (Turning, then courageously.) There's no denying as the overcrowding's something cruel. I wouldn't say a word of it, not to you, sir, if I didn't know and see and suffer it.

Walter (to Vining, crossing above sofa c.). You heard that. Won't you wait? Wait till Verity's been. You'll catch the same post.

(Maid announces Mr. Verity. Maid withdraws Stephen is dressed as Act II, and very sure of himself, except at odd moments.)

Vin. What we want to see you about is this confounded rumour of the Polygon's being up for sale for building lots. No doubt you've heard it?

Walter. Mr. Verity's of my opinion, father. Vin. We don't want your opinion, sir. You're full up with all sorts of idiotic modern sentimentalism about the poor. It all comes of the Church meddling with secular matters instead of minding its own business. Mr. Verity's a man of sense.

Mrs. M. (sweetly). Oh, but I'm sure you can, Mr. Verity. You've such influence in the town. You're a man of weight.

Ste. If I am, madam, what had the town to do with Sir Charles selling the Polygon?

Mrs. M. I'm sure you, as an architect, Mr. Verity, must feel the importance of preserving such fine examples as these are of old Georgian mansions.

Mont. Sheer catastrophe. You're a leading personage here, Mr. Verity—alderman and so on. Of course you have the interest of the town at heart.

Vin. (recovering first from the slight general embarrassment). Er, yes. Now, don't you think a petition from the Town Council to Sir Charles might do the trick? You see, the Polygon's the backbone of the place. I can't for the life of me imagine what Sir Charles is thinking of.

Mrs. V. Now, that's ungenerous of you, Mr. Verity. Sir Charles would never be so selfish.

Mrs. V. He wouldn't turn us out for money. (Vining and Montgomery are not so sure.)

Vin. (pompously). I agree with you. We people of independent means have been hard hit lately. What with the differential income tax and the super tax, we——

Vin. Dash it, Verity, we men of property must hang together. In a little matter of this sort I'm sure you'll come in with us.

Vin. Have we offended you, Mr. Verity? I'm very sorry. You speak as if you had some grudge against us.

Mont, (rising). This is simply staggering. Why, Mr. Verity, we've always been good neighbours, I hope.

Ste. (still sitting). You've kept yourselves to yourselves, if that's what you call being good neighbours. Who've you been good neighbours to? The shopkeepers? You don't deal with them if you can help it. London's your mark when you've money to spend, and that's not every day of the week. How often have you got your hand down for a local charity? Folks get sick and tired of coming to ask. You buttoned up your pockets so tight.

Ste. Ask 'em. (Rising.) You silly little set of genteel paupers, who did you think you were? (Ladies rise.) We weren't good enough for you. You lived in the Polygon; we lived in the town, and you held your noses too high to see us if you met us, which wasn't often, because you stuck inside your private preserve and didn't have truck with us vulgar folk outside. We weren't your class. You patronising snobs, do you fancy I can't see through your getting me here and soaping me to send your petition from the town for you? The town can go to blazes for all you care, so long as you're left alone in your nice big gardens.

Vin. (rises and goes up to door R.) Mr. Verity, I'm sorry to have to remind you there are ladies present.

Ste. I can see 'em. That's why I'm letting you down so easy. I'd let it rip if you'd the courage to turn 'em out and meet me man to man.

Walter (coming to r. of Verity). No, mother. Mr. Verity, don't let us lose our tempers about this. It's too important for petty feelings.

Walter (appealingly). Oh, don't split hairs over words. The town's crying for fresh air and health. The town wants to buy the Polygon.

Mrs. M. (up by door, r., dropping to Montgomery by fire). Augustus, don't you think, after all, we ought perhaps to—— (Hesitating.)

Mrs. M. Well, I'm sure there's something in what Mr. Verity and Walter say. (Sits in armchair above fire.)

Mrs. M. I shall never feel at ease again when I think of the overcrowding in the town.

Walter. And my eyes closed, and my nose closed, and gone about Carrington without looking at it. No, father, I meant to stir your conscience, and I'm glad I've done it. (Sits.)

Vin. Well, I must admit—hang it, Verity, if people are crowded why don't you build 'em houses? It's your trade.

(About here Pilling appears c. with some garden stuff in his hand, and Mrs. Vining exit with him for some consultation.)

Vin. There's land enough outside. Why can't the town expand outwards? To hear you talk about the Polygon the town might have a wall round it.

Vin. Well, what difference do a few acres more or less make to a shooting moor? Surely he'd rather sell you some of that.

Ste. (sitting on settee). You're wrong, then. He's holding on for a rise. He's held on to this till the value went up. Land here in the centre's' worth more, than land outside. This is ripe. The other isn't. That's why he'll sell this.

Vin. (with-an air of finality). All I can say is I shall most certainly have to revise my opinion of Sir Charles. (Crosses down L.)

(Pilling is visible through the window working a mowing machine in the garden; he passes and repasses at intervals.)

Ste. Did you think your tin pot rents paid Sir Charles to let land like this lie idle?

Ste. Pardon me. As a property owner I know. Desirable tenants are paying tenants.

Ste. You don't pay a profitable price. He can make a little gold, mine of the Polygon. Land values in the town have been going up all the time. He's cute enough to know it, or his agent is. The only question is, will our price tempt him or is he able to be greedy and wait a bit longer till the land's worth more.

Mont. And you mean to tell me we've been living on the edge of a volcano all these years?

Ste. You've been living in Sir Charles' almshouses for decayed gentlefolk. That's our name for it in the town.

Ste. (calmly). It's the truth. What did it matter to him how little he got out of you meantime? He knew very well it's a fortune waiting for him whenever he wants it.

Ste. You know now. If you hadn't been so busy with thinking what nice people you were and what nasty brutes lived outside you'd have found it out for yourselves. Not one of you's on lease. You can all be turned out at six months' notice.

Vin. I still think you're wrong, sir. You've given us your view. We're much obliged. (Sits l.)

Ste. You've not heard the half of it. You've been the bane of the town. It's a working town and it does the working man no good to have the sight of a lot of idle people living well and doing nothing for it. Breeds discontent. Makes him ask questions. That's what you've been to us. A public nuisance. Easy game for every agitator to have his shy at. Do you think we employers loved you? They didn't mind us. They could see we worked for our living. But you set of do-nothing wastrels——

Walter (c.). Mr. Verity! (Vining rises and goes up to back, returns, then round to R. c.)

Ste. What's to do? You've been saying the same to them yourself, haven't you?

Ste. Well, I'm not a parson. I haven't the gift of using big words for little 'uns and talking sweetly about Hell.

Vin. (dropping r. of Walter to below him). Well, now look here, Mr. Verity, you needn't suppose that I'm influenced in the slightest by your extremely forcible language, but a possible compromise occurs to me.

Vin. It's this, sir. I grant you we're drones, and I can see there's something in what you say about the sight of a few idle people taking a lot of room, though I take exception to the way you put it.

Vin. Yes, of Sir Charles'. We're attached to the bricks and mortar. You can understand it.

Vin. Just so. We're not willing to shift. But my idea is this. We're all old people, and our families have married off. There's no young blood in the Polygon, except Walter here and my daughter, to use those tennis courts and croquet lawns of ours. They're pleasant to walk about in and it's a real sacrifice to part with them. But I propose writing to Sir Charles suggesting that if (crossing to l. c. and back; returns to l. for end of speech) he cares to sell you some building land outside the town we will sacrifice our lawns for a park if he will leave our bricks and mortar standing till—till we old fogies have done with them. How does that strike you, Mr. Verity?

Lucy. Not yet. I'm a rebel to-day. You locked me up because I refused to marry Mr. Bamford——

Lucy. That was before you had thrown me at Bamford's head. I'm engaged to Walter, and I've things to tell him, things I've discovered about——

Ste. I don't. I'm here on business. I've no time for girls' foolishness. Vining, can we go somewhere to draft that letter? (Crosses down to Vining.)

Ste. Never mind what I said. Shall we go? Lucy. Yes, go, while I tell Walter all I know. Ste. Tell him what you like now.

CURTAIN.

ACT IV.

Verity's dining-room as Act II a week later. Bamford and Stephen enter from r. Stephen just pocketing his watch.

Stephen. You're a bit early for the meeting, Sam. (Crosses to c. above table.)

Bamford. Yes; fact is, I wanted a word with you alone about that other matter.

Ste. Natural enough, I dare say. When a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love it churns up his inside a bit.

Ste. (sits above table). Then what's troubling you? What else does any female woman want?

Ste. Damn you, Sam, do you fancy my girl's not been well brought up? You're as good as telling me she's not good enough for you.

Ste. I'm best judge of that. The thing's settled. We said it once, you and I, and we're not weathervanes.

Ste. (to Smithson). Seen anything of Alcorn? Smiths. Yes. He's gone round to the Post Office on his way here to see if a letter's been forwarded from the London office.

Ste. I've been paying a call—afternoon call on some friends of mine in the Polygon.

Ste. Take it easy, Sam. (Chuckles.) Aye, they wanted the Council to petition Sir Charles not to sell. Tried to get me to do it for 'em.

Ste. Well, we'd a little talk, Mr. Vining and I, and we come to a sort of a compromise.

Ste. Finish was, they've written to Sir Charles asking him to sell the town their grass plat—tennis courts and what-not—if he'll leave their houses alone.

Bam. Verity, I don't like this. Ask me, it sounds like treachery to the company.

Ste. Put yourself in Sir Charles' place. He's got an offer, the company's offer, cash down for the whole Polygon.

Ste. Well, say he has got a soft spot for his tenants there, old tenants, doesn't want to turn them out, that sort of thing.

Ste. Then he gets their letter. Sees they're ready to lose their tennis courts. All right, says he, if they're a slack back set of weaklings to propose that of themselves, I shan't have any trouble in getting shut of them altogether. Their rents aren't worth having. But the company's offer's a sound ready cash affair. He's a bit short of the ready, isn't he?

Ste. So when he sees they'll shift without trouble, being weak enough to offer a compromise before they're even asked for one, he'll take a flying jump at our offer, and there you are. And a good afternoon's work I call it.

Bam. Verity, I apologize. You're the dandiest schemer I ever saw, and I've seen some warm members in my time.

Ste. Well, they sent for me. I didn't think this out. I just saw the chance while I was there.

Ste. I take my brains along when I go calling of an afternoon on my swell friends. I'd like to bet that letter Alcorn's fetching says "Yes" to our offer.

Walter (r. c.). Good evening, Mr. Verity. Good evening. I hope I don't interrupt business.

Walter. It's an important part of my business to visit my parishioners, Mr. Verity.

Ste. Humph! Our turn for your parochial attentions soon comes round again. You were here a week ago.

Walter. I've come to put you on your guard. You led me to suppose, and I in turn told Mr. Vining, that the town authorities were proposing to buy the Polygon.

Walter. Oh, we fellows who go into the Church don't know much. You told me yourself we go there because we're chicken-hearted fools without an ounce of sense or fight in us.

Walter. Cackling's a professional failing, Mr. Bamford. We get the talking habit in the pulpit.

Walter. In this room I'm in the company of certain members of a rascally syndicate who hope to buy the Polygon cheap from Sir Charles and sell dear to the town when they've carefully engineered a public demand.

Walter. Oh, I don't think it was the devil. On the contrary, in fact, Mr. Verity.

Walter. Facts? Shall I give you names? (Strolls round back to fireplace.) I regret the absence of Mr. Alcorn and Miss Verity, but—well, gentlemen, you're found out.

Bam. (to Stephen). And you're the only one who pays afternoon calls in the Polygon.

Ste. (bending over table, beneath his breath). Fools! (Aloud.) Do you think I foul my own nest?

(Stephen looks first at Bamford, then Smithson, then suddenly moves to door l. and calls.)

Walter. Oh, I've told nobody. Secrets cease to be valuable when they're told, and I don't mind telling you this secret's going to be a valuable lever to me.

Ste. Bit too smart this time. I hope she'll never play you a trick like that.

Ste. Oh, I'll attend to you. Look here, Sam—Smithson, I'll tackle this chap. Just go into the other room there, will you? (Pushes Smithson to go below table.) I've a private word for the parson.

(Exeunt l., Bamford and Smithson. Walter before fireplace, Lucy c, above table, Stephen r. of table.)

Now, Mr. Montgomery, my lad, what sort of a trick do you call this to play on your future father-in-law? You've a queer idea of tact, you have.

Walter. Since then, you see, I've made discoveries. If a man is known by the company he keeps, the same applies to a woman. The woman I'm going to marry doesn't, help to form a robbery syndicate along with Messieurs Alcorn, Smithson and Bamford. So if you thought to buy my silence by giving me your daughter, you made a bad mistake. No. Bamford's the man for her. Partners in scoundrelism, partners in life.

Bam. (apologetically, crossing r.). All right. I only want my pipe. Left it in my overcoat.

Bam. (r. c.). Does it? Well, there's two sorts of news. Correct news and incorrect news. Both sorts gets round, but incorrect news gets round most. See what I mean?

Bam. (to Stephen). You will. (To Walter.) Look here, have you given her up?

Lucy (rises to go). The goods needn't be on exhibition while the sale proceeds.

Bam. (r. c., awkwardly). Well, I've been thinking things over. The married state and—well——

Ste. (c.). And a good thing, too, Sam Bamford. How much longer do you think you'll last at the pace you go? You're cracking up already—not half the man you were.

Lucy (icily). Think how nice it would be to have me for a nurse. I warm father's carpet slippers beautifully, don't I, and my gruel's a dream.

Bam. There's many a long day between me and carpet slippers and gruel. I like roving about, Verity, and that's a fact.

Ste. It's time you settled down. You won't lose much that a thousand a year and home comforts don't match.

Bam. (irritably). I tell you, I've thought things over. Fact is, I didn't half like the way she answered you back. A man gets enough worries in his working day. When he gets home he wants peace and no back answers.

Ste. She's all right now. It was having him asking (indicating Walter) that made her proud. He's thrown her over—not good enough for him.

Bam. And she's not good enough for me, either. I can be a bit particular myself. I like 'em quiet.

Ste. Well, damme, Sam Bamford, you can't get a thousand a year without paying a tax on it.

Bam. You can pay too much tax if you get a woman thrown in with a razor instead of a tongue.

Bam. Perhaps; but as a rule when a man's as anxious as you are to sell an article I begin to think there's something wrong with the goods.

Bam. Didn't Sir Charles' agent write me he wouldn't want to sell? And you know what you said about that.

Bam. Yes, and nobody ever knew you to give away anything worth having. What's he given her the chuck for, if it comes to that? He knows something.

Ste. (raps table). I'm not going to be played about with like this. I never asked either of you to come after my daughter. You came because you liked, but you'll not cry off when you like.

Bam. There you are, Verity. Regular spitfire. Too late to send her away now. I know what she is.

Walter (rising). So do I. She's a monstrous woman with an abnormally developed bump of business capacity and I absolutely decline to marry any member of a syndicate of avaricious thieves formed to swindle——

Ste. (interrupting). She's no more business capacity than a flea and I'll take her off the syndicate to-night, if that 'ull please you. Now then, which of you is it to be?

Bam. I don't wish to quarrel with you, Verity. I've told you I'm taking none.

Ste. (briskly). All right. Then you marry young Montgomery, Lucy. (Moves L. above table.)

Ste. You've no need. You know so much about it you can stay and listen to the rest. (Gets chair.)

(Stephen sits at head of table. Bamford, Smithson, Alcorn sit as in Act II. Lucy stands r., Walter sits below fire.)

Al. No more do I. Listen to this. (Reading letter.) "I regret my inability to entertain the offer made by your company. I have reason to believe that owing to overcrowding the land is urgently wanted and that the town authorities wish to deal with the matter themselves. I am having the tennis lawns, etc., valued independently and the town may then purchase at the valuation. I shall, however, not disturb my old tenants in the Polygon, this letter referring only to the open space now used as tennis lawns." Now what in thunder do you make of that?

Ste. On the contrary, Sam, the town is. The overcrowding is a scandal. We must have some fresh air.

Al. This isn't a town's meeting. It's a company meeting. Stick to company business.

Bam. Damned if it is. This letter doesn't end all. It's your fault, Verity. You shouldn't have gone to the Polygon. You over-reached yourself.

Bam. Yes; well I said houses. Let's make it houses. Model dwellings as ugly as hell, for the Polygon toffs to look at every time they poke their noses out of doors.

Ste. Oh, I'd forgotten you were there. Oblige me by going into that room for two minutes. You can wait in there till we're through.

Ste. Sorry to occupy your valuable, time, but you're going to wait. You'll find a fire.

That chap's wasted as a curate. (Sits.) He's beaten me! Me licked by a bricking curate!

Ste. Oh, he got hold of our company idea, told Sir Charles and smashed our plans. That's all. Nothing very serious. We're out of pocket for a few expenses that won't hurt any of us, and we've missed a good piece of plunder. Well, the thing to do now is to turn round and do the handsome over that recreation ground. Our idea for the benefit of the town! My negotiations with the Polygon! If we can't get cash by it, gentlemen, let us get credit.

Ste. Well, what about them? More fresh air, less ill health. Less ill health, less poverty. Less poverty, fewer paupers. That recreation ground 'ull pay for itself in less than no time. If there's going to be any barging about the rates we'll raise the money by subscription, and for two pins I'll head the list myself.

Ste. It is a finish, Alcorn. We're knocked out, and we've got to take it with a big, broad smile and nobody will even so much as guess we've meant anything but the square thing all the time.

Bam. You can't stop an old woman gossiping. Gab's a parson's stock-in-trade.

Ste. He's no old woman. He's a wide-awake young man and he's going to marry my daughter—if she's free. That'll shut his mouth for him.

Ste. Well, we're good sportsmen, I hope, and the Carrington recreation ground 'ull be an everlasting monument to our civic enterprise and public spirit.

Ste. No. Better luck next time. Good night, Smithson. (Takes chair up stage.)

Bam. Her? No. I've said my say about that, and you need her to shut the curate's mouth.

Ste. I'll shut his mouth without that if you want her. It's a thousand a year, you know.

Bam. Don't fret yourself, Miss Verity. I'm not bidding. You've had my last word, Verity.

Bam. But, hang it, I'd counted on being mayor. I've mentioned it to one or two. (Goes above table R.)

Bam. Miss Verity, it's not you. If I wanted to marry I dunno as I'd look an inch further. It's—I'm not the marrying sort and that's top and bottom of it.

Ste. Sam, I'll be mayor myself if it's only for the fun of opening that recreation ground to the public and making a speech about the anxious negotiating the Council had to do before they brought off this great scheme and conferred an inestimable boon on the deserving working classes.

Bam. Oh, if you're putting up for mayor, I retire. I can't fight a man of your weight.

Ste. I'll tell you something. The syndicate's bust. In fact, there never was a syndicate.

Walter. You mustn't ask me to believe that, sir. You gave the thing away yourself.

Ste. (impressively). There never was a syndicate. A limited company isn't a limited company till it's registered. We weren't registered. You understand? You can't go telling people about a syndicate that never existed.

Ste. She's not a bad start, either. You've got round me, and it takes a bit of doing. (Crosses to Walter.) Look here, my lad, I come of a long lived stock and you'll disappoint me if I don't see you a bishop before I die. I'll come to the Palace, Lucy, and hang my hat up some day. (Going to exit to leave them together.)

CURTAIN.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Graft: A Comedy in Four Acts

GRAFT

A Comedy In Four Acts

By Harold Brighouse

London: Samuel French Publisher

1913

GRAFT

ACT I

CURTAIN.

ACT II

CURTAIN.

ACT III

CURTAIN.

ACT IV.

CURTAIN.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE