LITMIR.BIZ

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begins here. [She holds up her finger to check expostulation] No, no—its no good. You know the value of scandal to your business far too well.

      GODLEIGH. Wi' all respect, m'm, I knows the vally of it to yourn, tu.

      MRS. BRADMERE. What do you mean by that?

      GODLEIGH. If there weren't no Rector's lady there widden' be no notice taken o' scandal; an' if there weren't no notice taken, twidden be scandal, to my thinkin'.

      MRS. BRADMERE. [Winking out a grim little smile] Very well! You've given me your views. Now for mine. There's a piece of scandal going about that's got to be stopped, Godleigh. You turn the tap of it off here, or we'll turn your tap off. You know me. See?

      GODLEIGH. I shouldn' never presume, m'm, to know a lady.

      MRS. BRADMERE. The Rector's quite determined, so is Sir Herbert.

       Ordinary scandal's bad enough, but this touches the Church. While

       Mr. Strangway remains curate here, there must be no talk about him

       and his affairs.

      GODLEIGH. [Cocking his eye] I was just thinkin' how to du it, m'm. 'Twid be a brave notion to putt the men in chokey, and slit the women's tongues-like, same as they du in outlandish places, as I'm told.

      MRS. BRADMERE. Don't talk nonsense, Godleigh; and mind what I say, because I mean it.

      GODLEIGH. Make yure mind aisy, m'm there'll be no scandal-monkeyin' here wi' my permission.

      [MRS. BRADMERE gives him a keen stare, but seeing him perfectly

       grave, nods her head with approval.]

      MRS. BRADMERE. Good! You know what's being said, of course?

      GODLEIGH. [With respectful gravity] Yu'll pardon me, m'm, but ef an' in case yu was goin' to tell me, there's a rule in this 'ouse: "No scandal 'ere!"

      MRS. BRADMERE. [Twinkling grimly] You're too smart by half, my man.

      GODLEIGH. Aw fegs, no, m'm—child in yure 'ands.

      MRS. BRADMERE. I wouldn't trust you a yard. Once more, Godleigh! This is a Christian village, and we mean it to remain so. You look out for yourself.

      [The door opens to admit the farmers TRUSTAFORD and BURLACOMBE.

       They doff their hats to MRS. BRADMERE, who, after one more sharp

       look at GODLEIGH, moves towards the door.]

      MRS. BRADMERE. Evening, Mr. Trustaford. [To BURLACOMBE] Burlacombe, tell your wife that duck she sent up was in hard training.

      [With one of her grim winks, and a nod, she goes.]

      TRUSTAFORD. [Replacing a hat which is black, hard, and not very new, on his long head, above a long face, clean-shaved but for little whiskers] What's the old grey mare want, then? [With a horse-laugh] 'Er's lukin' awful wise!

      GODLEIGH. [Enigmatically] Ah!

      TRUSTAFORD. [Sitting on the bench dose to the bar] Drop o' whisky, an' potash.

      BURLACOMBE. [A taciturn, alien, yellowish man, in a worn soft hat]

       What's wise, Godleigh? Drop o' cider.

      GODLEIGH. Nuse? There's never no nuse in this 'ouse. Aw, no! Not wi' my permission. [In imitation] This is a Christian village.

      TRUSTAFORD. Thought the old grey mare seemed mighty busy. [To BURLACOMBE] 'Tes rather quare about the curate's wife a-cumin' motorin' this mornin'. Passed me wi' her face all smothered up in a veil, goggles an' all. Haw, haw!

      BURLACOMBE. Aye!

      TRUSTAFORD. Off again she was in 'alf an hour. 'Er didn't give poor old curate much of a chance, after six months.

      GODLEIGH. Havin' an engagement elsewhere—No scandal, please, gentlemen.

      BURLACOMBE. [Acidly] Never asked to see my missis. Passed me in the yard like a stone.

      TRUSTAFORD. 'Tes a little bit rumoursome lately about 'er doctor.

      GODLEIGH. Ah! he's the favourite. But 'tes a dead secret; Mr. Trustaford. Don't yu never repate it—there's not a cat don't know it already!

      BURLACOMBE frowns, and TRUSTAFORD utters his laugh. The door is opened and FREMAN, a dark gipsyish man in the dress of a farmer, comes in.

      GODLEIGH. Don't yu never tell Will Freman what 'e told me!

      FREMAN. Avenin'!

      TRUSTAFORD. Avenin', Will; what's yure glass o' trouble?

      FREMAN. Drop o' eider, clove, an' dash o' gin. There's blood in the sky to-night.

      BURLACOMBE. Ah! We'll 'ave fine weather now, with the full o' the mune.

      FREMAN. Dust o' wind an' a drop or tu, virst, I reckon. 'Earl t' nuse about curate an' 'is wife?

      GODLEIGH. No, indeed; an' don't yu tell us. We'm Christians 'ere in this village.

      FREMAN. 'Tain't no very Christian nuse, neither. He's sent 'er off to th' doctor. "Go an' live with un," 'e says; "my blessin' on ye." If 'er'd a-been mine, I'd 'a tuk the whip to 'er. Tam Jarland's maid, she yeard it all. Christian, indeed! That's brave Christianity! "Goo an' live with un!" 'e told 'er.

      BURLACOMBE. No, no; that's not sense—a man to say that. I'll not 'ear that against a man that bides in my 'ouse.

      FREMAN. 'Tes sure, I tell 'ee. The maid was hid-up, scared-like, behind the curtain. At it they went, and parson 'e says: "Go," 'e says, "I won't kape 'ee from 'im," 'e says, "an' I won't divorce 'ee, as yu don't wish it!" They was 'is words, same as Jarland's maid told my maid, an' my maid told my missis. If that's parson's talk, 'tes funny work goin' to church.

      TRUSTAFORD. [Brooding] 'Tes wonderful quare, zurely.

      FREMAN. Tam Jarland's fair mad wi' curate for makin' free wi' his maid's skylark. Parson or no parson, 'e've no call to meddle wi' other people's praperty. He cam' pokin' 'is nose into my affairs. I told un I knew a sight more 'bout 'orses than 'e ever would!

      TRUSTAFORD. He'm a bit crazy 'bout bastes an' birds.

      [They have been so absorbed that they bane not noticed the entrance of CLYST, a youth with tousled hair, and a bright, quick, Celtic eye, who stands listening, with a bit of paper in his hand.]

      CLYST. Ah! he'm that zurely, Mr. Trustaford.

      [He chuckles.]

      GODLEIGH. Now, Tim Clyst, if an' in case yu've a-got some scandal on yer tongue, don't yu never unship it here. Yu go up to Rectory where 'twill be more relished-like.

      CLYST. [Waving the paper] Will y' give me a drink for this, Mr.

       Godleigh? 'Tes rale funny. Aw! 'tes somethin' swats. Butiful

       readin'. Poetry. Rale spice. Yu've a luv'ly voice for readin', Mr.

       Godleigh.

      GODLEIGH. [All ears and twinkle] Aw, what is it then?

      CLYST. Ah! Yu want t'know tu much.

      [Putting the paper in his pocket.]

      [While he is speaking, JIM BERE has entered quietly, with his feeble step and smile, and sits down.]

      CLYST. [Kindly] Hello, Jim! Cat come 'ome?

      JIM BERE. No.

      [All nod, and speak to him kindly. And JIM BERE smiles at them, and his eyes ask of them the question, to which there is no answer. And after that he sits motionless and silent, and they talk as if he were not there.]

      GODLEIGH. What's all this, now—no scandal in my 'ouse!

      CLYST. 'Tes awful peculiar—like a drame. Mr. Burlacombe 'e don't like to hear tell about drames. A guess a won't tell 'ee, arter that.

      FREMAN. Out wi' it, Tim.

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