The shadow; a play in three acts

Front matter

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Act I

Scene : The little general shop of Sarah Dunnybrig at Little Silver, Dartmoor. A counter runs across the midst of the shop, and behind it are shelves divided by a glazed door ivith a curtain over the loiver panes. To the right of the door the shelves contain bottles of sweet stuff, boxes of chocolate and tins of biscuits. There are also on the counter bottles of ginger beer and groceries — butter, cheese t a piece of bacon, a box of bloaters, and a basket of eggs. To the left of the door the shelves hold bales of cloth and poxes of haberdashery. Hanging on strings across the shop are bright kerchiefs, pieces of lace, straw hats and stockings. Gay print stuffs are displayed, with ties, men J s braces and linen shirts. Beyond the groceries, to the left, is disposed hardware stock and ironmongery. Here are spades, scythes, billhooks, carpenter's tools, hedgers' gloves, brooms, a mangle and other things, including a card of the bright brass decorations that cart-horses wear on their harness, and cards of knives. In front of the counter, on the ground, are one or two open bags of flour, peas and grain, and upon the counter stands a large pair of scales with weights. Advertisements of chocolate, dogbiscuit, wholemeal flour, chicken food and so forth hang ichere they can be displayed to advantage. There are one or two broad-sheets of sales of stock, and the jioster of a coming circus hanging from the counter. In large letters on a paper scroll hanging across the shop, ivherc all customers can read, are painted the words, " if you don't see what you want ask for it." At the left end of the counter is a hatch thrown open arid giving access from behind the counter into the shop. There is a door opening into the shop from the street. The upper half is glazed and a bell is fastened toit,ivhichrings when the door is opened.

[The bell rings and Nanny Coaker enters. She looks round cautiously, but nobody answers the summons. She keeps her eye on the door behind counter, and slijjs a few biscuits into her pocket. Then she hammers upon the counter with a coin which she holds.

Nanny. Shop! Shop!

[Enter, from door behind counter, Sarah

DUNNYBRIG.

Sarah. [Sleepily.'] If I wasn't having forty winks, Nanny Coaker ! I hope I haven't wasted your time ?

Nanny. No, no. I ain't been here a second. My husband's home again.

Sarah. Has he come out in a Christian spirit ?

Nanny. No, he ain't ; and more would you if they'd act i THE SHADOW 9

given you a month's hard for stealing pheasants what you never took.

Sarah. They proved it, Nanny.

Nanny. Never! 'Twas only Elias Waycott's word against Mr. Coaker's. And who be Elias Waycott ?

Sarah. 'Tis silly to talk like that. Everybody knows Elias. He's straight as a line.

Nanny. He's like his uncle Jacob — a hateful, cruel devil.

Sarah. Don't say such things. Mr. Jacob be a power in the land — rich and strong — and Elias is his lawful heir, and a man very well thought upon by his betters.

Nanny. You wait — you wait and see what comes of it. My husband's a proper tiger when he's angered. He'll lie behind a hedge for gamekeeper, I shouldn't wonder ! He'll be evens with him — he's swore it — and I want half a pound of bacon for Mr. Coaker's supper. The poor wretch haven't put his teeth into a bit of decent meat since they locked him up.

Sarah. [Taking knife and cutting and weighing bacon.] I hope he'll be good and peaceful. 'Tis very sad that such a clever man as him should always be in mischief.

Enter Willes Gay.

Nanny. My husband's home again, Mr. Gay. Gay. And how did he like it ?

Nanny. The work was nought.

Gat. There's no man works so hard to escape work as your man. [To Sarah.] Have 'e got any more of them big meat hooks, Mrs. Dunnybrig ?

Sarah. You had the last. Shall I order some ?

Gay. Tis no odds. I can do without. And I'll take back one of they fine bloaters for my missis.

Nanny. There's nought a woman with child fancies like a bloater. 'Twas the same with me ; I properly raged for 'em.

Sarah. [Handing over bacon, which she has wrapped up in apiece 0/ 'newspaper .] Fourpence, Nanny, please. [Nanny gives her a shilling, and she opens till for change.

Gay. God knows how I shall come through it. My knees knock when I think about it. There's five thousand women die in child-bed every year, I'm told.

Sarah. All along of tight-lacing. 'Tis their own fault — not Nature's. Vanity have been the death of millions of us.

Gay. You can't bring that against my Eliza. She's broader than she's long. An uglier woman don't live ; and she knows it.

Nanny. She's all right. 'Tis shameful such a prosperous man as you should look on the dark side of things.

Gay. I grant you I'm never hopeful for myself ; but I always take a bright view about everybody else.

Nanny. No use being a cheerful man to your act i THE SHADOW 11

neighbours if you behave like a death's head at home.

Sarah. [Giving Nanny a handful of biscuits.] Here's a present for your childer.

Nanny. You kind creature! I was looking at them biscuits and thinking of my little boys just afore you come in the shop. Well, good evening. And you cheer up your wife, Mr. Gay, like you cheer up other people. And tell her to walk the soles off her shoes, instead of sitting to home mooning over ' ; The Churching of Women." Time enough for that presently. [Exit Nanny Coaker.

Gay. Us'll hope her husband's had his lesson and will be a reformed character in future.

Sarah. He's breathing out vengeance against the gamekeeper, Elias Waycott, that had him put away. [She gives him fish wrapped up in paper.]

Gay. [Handing twopence to Sarah and putting the fish into his pocket.] There's a man, now !

Sarah. Don't you say nothing against him to me.

Gay. Not I. A very proper, honest chap. You want Elias for a son-in-law — eh ?

Sarah. And why not ?

Gay. A good, gentle, sensible creature, and he have a great power of friendship.

[Enter Thomas Turtle. He carries a sheet of notepaper.

Gay. Here's postmaster ! Good evening, postmaster.

Turtle. Good evening, Willes Gay. You are fortunate to be here. Something has happened — a very remarkable, dangerous thing.

Sarah. There ! And if I wasn't saying but yesterev6n that nought ever happens in Little Silver.

Turtle. We have our share of adventures — and everything comes to my ears first. Nothing misses me.

Gay. Us all run to you, postmaster, because you be made of brains — to say it civilly.

Sarah. There's none can put two and two together like you, Mr. Turtle.

Turtle. The Lord helping — always the Lord helping. 'Tis only by keeping my eyes on Heaven that I walk the earth so steady, Butcher Gay.

Gay. A regular prophet, I'm sure.

Turtle. I don't say that. Tis a big word ; yet I'm often surprised to see how the Almighty and me look at things from the same point of view. [Giving paper to Sarah.] This document must be stuck up on the winder, Mrs. Dunnybrig, for all eyes to see. In a word, Farmer Waycott is missing and there's every reason to fear the worst.

Sarah. Good powers ! Jacob Waycott !

Gay. A very powerful, rich man ; and yet a very hard man where money's concerned. Would sell the primrosen off his mother's grave, that man.

Turtle. He may be dead, and you mustn't speak against the dead, Willes Gay, because their mouths are stopped. The dead have no friends. Jacob Waycott's pony has been found with its neck broken act i THE SHADOW 13

in Cann Quarry — saddle and reins and stirrups and all complete. And the bit in its teeth, they say, But Jacob Waycott has not been found.

Sarah. My stars! If he's gone, 'twill be a far reaching thing.

Gay. A lot of difference 'twill make all round. A good few I could name will dance for joy — to say it civilly.

Sarah. I'm in a twitter a'ready. This means

Gay. It means my man, Philip Blanchard, will be after your Hester — that's one thing it means.

Sarah. Yes, faith — and another besides him — Jacob's nephy !

Turtle. If old Waycott 's gone, then Elias Waycott will be greatly uplifted. He's a very humble chap, but a well-meaning Christian. I shall support him for one.

Gay. And so shall I. And my Eliza, too.

Sarah. But Jacob may be living.

Turtle. I think he's dead. 'Tis borne in upon me that he's dead. I see it afore my mind's eye. The pony runs away in Cann Wood.

Gay. And Jacob be brushed off its back, like a fly off a mutton chop.

Turtle, They'll find him presently, and bury him along with the Waycott race, where they lie in their solemn company north side the yard. A great funeral 'twill be.

Gay. A black revel, I warrant you ; and better than a fair for most folk.

Turtle. He did evil in the sight of the Lord, and I was the only man brave enough to tell him so. But we must not judge.

Sarah. There'll be few tear r flowing — unless Elias

Gay. 'Twill take an onion in his handkerchief to bring 'em. You can't ask the people to weep. 'Tis enough if they don't shout for joy when the earth rattles on that man.

Turtle. He's met his Maker and his Judge. And, looking forward, I see the future unroll as doth a scroll.

Gay. Trust you for that.

Sarah. Just when we were saying nothing ever happened, Mr. Gay !

Gay. Why, the world was never so full of things happening. There's this here fearful adventure, and Mrs. Gay with child, and the war in South Africa, and Lord knows what beside. Take my man, Philip Blanchard — this puts him on his feet again for one. Because, if Mr. Jacob be gone, young Elias will reign, and he'll let off many a debtor and be gentle and patient with all.

Turtle. Don't be too sure of that. Sometimes the soft get hard in self-defence when they find the whip in their hand. Besides, 'tis well known to me that Jacob was very angry with his nephy so late as yesterday. Raged against him above all reason. Still, there's been no time to do anything, and if the old man has been snatched to his account, then Elias inherits for certain.

act i THE SHADOW 15

Sarah. And that means — oh, what don't it mean ? Elias wants my Hester, and has been after her this two years in his humble, patient fashion. And Philip Blanchard too — he'll be on to her hot and fierce and fiery now — as only such a red man knows how to be. For he's free to wed.

Gay. Two on the war-path !

Turtle. All these things are known to me. I can see cause and effect working as easily as common men can see the rain falling out of a cloud. Phil Blanchard knows that Elias won't force the mortgage and ruin him ; and Elias, knowing that money is power, will

Gay. Why, of course.

Turtle. Hush, Gay — I'm speaking. It follows that both young fellows

Enter Elias Waycott.

Turtle. Ah ! Men don't call me a prophet for nothing, Elias !

Elias. I — I. What a rally of neighbours !

Turtle. We understand you, Elias, and we think none the worse of you. The police are busy. Your late uncle will soon be found.

Elias. Such a little, light man ! No doubt he was thrown and

Turtle. He's dead. I can see him lying in the woods with his busy brains scattered round him.

Sarah. 'Tis a wisht thought

Gay. Give you joy of the future, Elias, I shall pray for your happiness, because you are a very wise and clever young man, in my opinion. I hope you'll do nothing but good, and make the name of Waycott bring blessings instead of curses.

Elias. Thank you, Mr. Gay. 'Tis a great responsibility. Time enough — time enough. I'm here now

Sarah. She's out. She'll be back along any minute.

Turtle. Well, the future's in God's hands, as usual, and I think He's on your side, Elias ; and if He is, then so am I. When first I mind you, you was just a little, gentle, girl-faced, orphan boy, and I never expected that you'd take to gamekeeping for a living. But human nature's full of surprises ; though, in fairness to myself, I can say it don't often surprise me.

Elias. I liked the open air life. 'Tis quiet and lonely. And I liked the wild creatures.

Turtle. It draws young people, same as the sea do. There's a spice of danger and darkness to it.

Gay. Poacher Coaker, for instance. He's got his knife in you proper — for bearing witness against him.

Elias. I was very sorry about that. I'd cautioned him twice. I had no choice, Mr. Gay. We've all got to do our duty.

Gay. You watch it, however — a very revengeful man.

Turtle. You'll have to lift your brain to higher things than pheasants and hares now, Elias

Elias. I suppose I shall, postmaster.

act i THE SHADOW 17

Gay. No doubt you'll soon larn to handle money as easy as you handle ferrets.

Elias. Money can bite, too, they say. I'm all in a miz-maze about it. But there's one thing

Turtle. [Tolerantly.] I know— I know. What don't I know ? She's a bowerly maiden and a steady church-goer. You'll offer a reward for the body, of course? As a matter of worldly wisdom, I advise that, for if by any chance he isn't dead and comes to life again, 'twould hurt his feelings and anger him a good bit if you'd done nothing to find him.

Gay. You make a fuss, Elias. It won't bring him to life, please God, so you need fear nought.

Turtle. Let me advise you to offer twenty pounds and no less for the carcase of the man.

Elias. Say fifty, postmaster,

Gay. By gor ! You're going it.

Turtle. I will tell them at the Police Station that you offer fifty pounds for the discovery of Jacob Waycott's body — dead or alive.

[Writes it on the note-paper he is carrying.

Gay. Not if he's alive, surely ?

Turtle. 'Tis only a matter of form. He's deadhaven' t I said so ?

Gay. An ugly corpse that man— the very foxes would run from it.

Turtle. Be careful how you tell these things to your wife, Butcher Gay. You don't want your offspring to be born with a blood-red hand on his forehead, nor nothing like that.

Gay. Good Lord, postmaster ! Tis bad enough as it is without no horrors. When you think that every

year five thousand women

[Exeunt Willes Gay and Thomas Turtle.

Elias. 'Tis safe enough. He's gone. I'm so sure he's dead as I'm sure I'm alive. And, of course, my first thought was your Hester. I hope it don't seem as if I was in too much of a hurry; but I'm so terrible feared that

Sarah. I hope she's for you. I'd wish nothing better for her. But I can't tell you what she's thinking about. She keeps her heart inside her lips even from me. She's a guarded sort of woman. But she's always spoke of you with great kindness and respect.

Elias. She's far too good for me, or any man ; but if true love and worship counts

Enter Johxny Slocombe.

Johnny. A penn'orth of pineapple drops, please ma'am.

Sarah. So you shall then, Johnny. How's your father to-day ?

Johnny. [Putting down penny.] He's a lot better along o' hearing Mr. Waycott be lost. [Takes the sweets.] Faither says if Mr. Waycott be gone dead, he'll hoist up his jubilee flag and go and get drunk for joy.

Sarah. He didn't ought to talk like that.

act i THE SHADOW 19

Johnny. Didn't he, ma'am ? I'll tell him. But he hated Mr. Waycott that fearful.

[Exit Johnny Slocombe.

Sarah. Who didn't, for that matter ?

Elias. He was a man without any milk of human kindness. 'Twas dried up in him. All for power he was.

Sarah. He ruled by fear.

Elias. We were sadly out at the end — him and me.

Sarah. Like a bit of stone when his mind was made up.

Elias. I did the best I could to pleasure him. Many little friendly actions in my small way I did, Mrs. Dunnybrig. But a man's a man and can't do impossible things. He wanted me to marry Milly Masters ; and her father was set on it too. Then they'd have had a ring fence round their two big, famous farms and died happy.

Sarah. You can't make young people marry to build old men's ring fences — 'tisn't in reason. [Look' ing out of window,] Here's my girl coming. I'll be gone and leave you to set on to her. Stick this in the window, Elias. Tis ready gummed.

[She gives Elias the paper that Mr. Turtle brought, and then goes off through door behind counter. Elias licks the paper, sticks it on to glass window of shop door and then opens the door for Hester Dunnybrig.

Enter Hester Dunnybrig.

Elias. Good evening, Hester.

Hester. You ! I didn't expect you to-night, Bain't you too busy to run about ?

Elias. The first business of my life was here. Hester. 'Tis a terrible come-along-of-it. 'Twould be false to say I'm sorry for you. I'm like the rest — glad for you ; and glad for others beside you.

Elias. I know — I know. It seems hard-hearted, yet 'tis natural. He kept a heavy hand on Little Silver.

Hester. Tom Nosworthy was saying in his comical way, that they did ought to put up a statue to the pony. But us can't swear he's dead yet.

Elias. He's dead, Hester. I feel it — else I wouldn't be here on my great errand. He's met a fatal mishap and they'll find him in Cann Woods afore long. So like as not I shall myself this night. I've offered fifty pounds for him and master has thrown open the woods for the searchers.

Hester. You'll be rich now ; and never a man like to use the money kinder or cleverer.

Elias. Rich — eh? Shall I be rich, I wonder? Money can't buy what I want. So I'm neither richer nor poorer yet. But I'm free — if he's gone, I'm free ; and I'll not speak scornful of money neither, for it rounds the corners of life and smoothes the rough places. But first — first — afore all — oh, Hester, 'tis a rash and reckless thing ; but 'tis humble too — I'd be humble and daring in a breath if I could. I feel act i THE SHADOW 21

hopeless about it, yet 'tis no use feeling that. T ought to have a cheerful conceit of myself, because you can't fight proper if you don't think you be going to win. Yet how can a man like me dare to think he be going to win — you ? But so it is, Hester. I love you and I have done this two year. So long ago as that I began — a queer, gentle, sad feeling first. It drove me to the deepest places in the woods. Then it growed to be the salt of my waking hours. It made me feel I was born, Hester. And the day without a sight of you was a blank day ; and the day I saw you was a good day ; and the day I spoke to you and touched your hand was a day of days. A wonderful, deep-moving creation — love of woman. It made me kinder to all the world. It made me kill the creatures kinder — aye, and be sorry to kill 'em. I'm glad I shan't kill no more now. ... So there it is — I offer myself — though a thing of little wit or worth. . . . A poor sort of husband, I reckon ; but God's my judge, I'd leave no prayer of yours unanswered that was in my power to grant. My love be like this : I want for your life to be all peace and plenty and your days all joy. I'd be doorkeeper for you, Hester, and stand between you and everything that's sad and cruel and difficult. That's the best I can plan for myself — just to help make your life a better thing.

Hester. You gentle creature ! Was ever such a man as you, Elias ? You teach a girl to say " no " to you, by the humble fashion you ask.

Eltas. Do I, Hester ?

Hester. For sure. 'Tisn't the way to make love, I reckon. And yet 'tis beautiful. Only the world's hard — hard and busy and selfish and miserable. And when people like you come along and offer everything for nothing, like cheap Jack at the Fair, the world doubts 'em, or else laughs at 'em.

Elias. You can't have anything for nothing, Hester.

Hester. No, you can't. So 'tis silly to think to be doorkeeper to a woman's life and say you're content to stand on her threshold and fright away trouble. A scarecrow does that for corn. Marriage be bed and board and give and take and rough and tumble, for better, for worse. Tis reality — not make-believe — a live, working thing — built to stand a lifetime if it be built right. You mustn't make your wife an image to pray to. She's got to be half yourself and share the fight as well as the fun. And she's got to love as well as be loved.

Elias. That's right. 'Tis marriage in a nutshell — to share all — love included. 'Twould be awful for a woman to give her body and keep back her heart.

Hester. Awful sometimes ; sometimes only cruel sad. If I took you, Elias — there'd be no sadness like our sadness.

Elias. You can't love me, Hester. Hester. I do love you ; I won't lie ; but 'tis cold comfort and you needn't look like that. I'm not very clever at finding ^words and this beats me ; but I've act i THE SHADOW 23

got to explain. Of course a woman knows like lightning when a man loves her. Only men blunder about that; women never. I've seen this longful time that you meant to offer when the way was smooth. So 'tis no surprise. And I say again, Elias, that I do love you, for you're a rare sort of chap and a woman ought to be proud to take your fancy. But — oh, 'tis hard to explain

Elias. Then don't try. I understand without words. There's things beyond words. This is not your fault — only my misfortune. You love me in a sort of way — you've said it. But not the marriage way. Just cool friendship — eh, Hester ?

Hester. 'Tis like you to make it easy for me. Yes, I'm proud to be your friend — always, always. There never was a man just like you afore ; and the strangeness of you and the gentleness of you will always stand against you with us stupid fools.

Elias. I daresay I could be a bit more bold and blusterous if I was to try, Hester.

Hester. Not you — you're a gentleman — that's what's the matter with you, Elias. And I ain't used to that sort. A man I understand, but not a gentleman.

Elias. Good-bye for the present, Hester. You'll forgive me for asking ?

Hester. Forgive you ! You're one in a thousand I tell you — rarer than that gold bird as came to the woods in the spring. [Takes his hand.] And if 'tis in our power to serve you, me and mine will proudly do so ; I pray you'll let us be your friends.

Elias. You and yours— it lies there, Hester. I

understand. And I say « God bless you and yours."

[The bell rings violently and the door is thrust

open. E?iter Philip Blanchard in his

ivith blood-stained white ap?°on over it.

Philip. What ho, Elias ! Give 'e good luck, my son ! Everybody's in a hurry to think this brave news be true, and none more than me. But I say 'tis too good to be true. Such rare fortune don't happen.

Elias. You mean my uncle Jacob ? I judge it's true enough, Blanchard.

Philip. A worthless, hard-hearted old devilthough your uncle. He ground the face of the poor for fifty years and I hope he'll be found, if 'tis only for the pleasure we'll all take in spitting on his grave. And come to think of it, we're all at your mercy now, Elias!

Hester. A man made of mercy.

Elias. [To Hester.] Good-bye. I shall be busy for a bit now. We may not meet again very quick.

Hester. You're welcome as the flowers whenever you be pleased to come, Elias.

[She goes to the door and opens it for him.

Philip. Don't you get down- daunted and woebegone and frightened because you be rich, Waycott. You'll soon grow used to it. And don't you ax me to touch my hat to 'e, because I never will. Ha, ha !

act i THE SHADOW 25

Elias. I shall be just the same as I was afore, Blanchard,

Philip. You think so, but you won't.

[Exit Elias Waycott.

Philip. The power in that meek chap's hands ! Think of it. Just a fly stings a pony, and it bolts and lets the life out of a rascal ; and then the whole face of the world is changed.

Hester. Because a good man follows a bad.

Philip. Exactly so ! And you know where I'd have the first change fall — you know — behind them beautiful, misty, grey eyen of yours. The first moment I heard it, it flashed over me like a flame of fire ! " I can ax her now," I said. And here I be, and I'll answer as well as ax, for I'll not take " no " — not from your own lips will I take it — no, nor yet if all the angels in heaven and devils in hell said " no ! " I've been burning away for 'e for a thousand years, and roaming out o' nights, and damning the moon, and blasting fate and chance and biting my nails to the quick — look at 'em — and all to hit on a plan. And now — Hester — for God's sake come in here — inside my arms quick and say you'll marry me afore Michaelmas — else there'll be nothing but cinders left of me.

Hester. Oh, Phil, d'you mean it ? Such a fiery, headlong, godless man as you be. I'm afeard of 'e.

Philif. You afeard ? You ban't afeard of nothing on two legs— that I'll swear. And I'd lay down all my lives for 'e, if I had as many as a cat. You darling thing — almost too soft and round for a gert chap like me to cuddle. Yet I'll be so gentle — so gentle as I be when I kill the lambs ! Greedy — greedy as the grave I be for 'e, Hester ! All — all — body and soul I'll have — not a very patient build of man — you know that. But — come close — come close. Oh God, I want to eat you !

Hester. You savage thing !

Philip. I'll do deeds above all that was ever done for 'e ! I'd fight this world and the next for 'e. And you're the fighting sort, for all you're such a softeyed creature. There's a lot of granite hid in you too.

Hester. You've got to be hard to the world.

Philip. Hard to the world but soft to each other. Dark to the world but light to each other.

Hester. You trust nought and believe in nought save yourself, Phil. 'Tis dangerous.

Philip. I'll believe in you then ; and I'll believe in God if you'll take me. 'Tis only a fine, waking, working God could make such a piece as you for a man. [Puts his arms round her.

Hester. Before I speak-

PHiLir. You have spoke, else you wouldn't be here. Your eyes have spoke, and your round bosom panting like the sea ! I be drownin' in joy !

Hester. And so be I, Phil.

[Their lips join and remain joined,

CURTAIN

Act II

Scene : Parlour of i Philip Blanchard's cottage. Time evening. Upon a table in the middle of the room stand a bottle of spirits and glasses. An oil lamp burns on the table and a woman's workbox and saving lie under the light. Two old easy chairs stand beside the hearth, where a small fire burns. A kettle steams on the hob. Over the mantelshelf and on the ivalls are familiar old pictures from illustrated journals. A few pot plants stand on the window-sill and the white blinds are drawn behind them. The room is poor, but not lacking in comfort, and the light is bright and genial. Six months have jmssed since the events of the first Act.