Constable [with puzzled sadness]· that! True enough, sir We'd just begun to know 'er. If she 'as been taken her best friends couldn't wish 'er better. Wellwyn [applying the decanter to her lips]-Poor little thing! I'll try this hot tea. Ferrand [whispering] - La mort · - le grand ami! Wellwyn - Look! Look at her: She's coming round! [A faint tremor passes over Mrs. Megan's body. He again applies the hot drink to her mouth. She stirs and gulps.] Constable [with intense relief] - That's brave! Good lass! She'll pick up now, sir. [Then, seeing that Timson and the curious persons have again opened the door, he drives them out, and stands with his back against it. Mrs. Megan comes to herself.] Wellwyn [sitting on the dais and supporting her as if to a child] There you are, my dear. There, there better now! Drink a little more of this tea. [Mrs. Megan drinks from the decanter.] Ferrand [rising] - Bring her to the fire, Monsieur. [They take her to the fire and seat her on the little stool. From the moment of her restored animation Ferrand has resumed his air of cynical detachment, and now stands apart with arms folded, watching.] Wellwyn Feeling better, my child? Mrs. Megan - Yes. Wellwyn That's good. That's good. Now, how how was it? Um? Mrs. Megan-I dunno. [She shivers.] I was standin' here just now when you was talkin', and when I heard 'im, it cam' over me to do it — like. Wellwyn - Ah, yes, I know. But Mrs. Megan I didn't seem no good to meself nor anyone. when I got in the water, I didn't want to any more. It was cold in there. Wellwyn -Have you been having such a bad time of it? Mrs. Megan Yes. And listenin' to him upset me. [She signs with her head at Ferrand.] I feel better now I've been in the water. [She smiles and shivers.] Wellwyn There, there- Shivery? Like to walk up and down a little? [They begin walking together up and down.] Wellwyn - Beastly when your head goes under? Mrs. Megan-Yes. It frightened me. I thought I wouldn't come up again. Wellwyn I know - sort of world without end, wasn't it? What did you think of, um? Mrs. Megan-I wished I 'adn't jumped - an' I thought of my baby that died — and — [in a rather surprised voice] and I thought of d-dancin'. [Her mouth quivers, her face puckers, she gives a choke and a little sob.] Wellwyn [stopping and stroking her] There, there — there! [For a moment her face is buried in his sleeve, then she recovers herself.] Mrs. Megan Then 'e got hold o' me, an' pulled me out. Mrs. Megan-Yes. The water got into me mouth. [They walk again.] I wouldn't have gone to do it but for him. [She looks towards Ferrand.] His talk made me feel all funny, as if people wanted me to. Wellwyn - My dear child! Don't think such things! As if anyone would! Mrs. Megan [stolidly] — I thought they did. at me so sometimes, where I was before I ran stop there, you know. Wellwyn - Too cooped-up? They used to look away I couldn't Mrs. Megan-Yes. No life at all, it wasn't- not after sellin' flowers, I'd rather be doin' what I am. Wellwyn - Ah! Well it's all over, now! How d'you feel eh? Better? Mrs. Megan Yes, I feels all right now. [She sits up again on the little stool before the fire.] Wellwyn - No shivers, and no aches; quite comfy? Wellwyn - That's a blessing. All well now, Constable-thank you! Constable [who has remained discreetly apart at the door cordially] First rate, sir! That's capital! [He approaches and scrutinizes Mrs. Megan.] Right as rain, eh, my girl? Mrs. Megan [shrinking a little] - Yes. Constable That's fine. Then I think perhaps, for 'er sake, the sooner we move on and get her a change o' clothin', the better. Wellwyn-Oh! don't bother about that I'll send round for my daughter we'll manage for her here. Constable Very kind of you, I'm sure, sir. But [with embarrassment] she seems all right. She'll get every attention at the station. Wellwyn But I assure you, we don't mind at all; we'll take the greatest care of her. Constable [still more embarrassed] Well, sir, of course, I'm afraid I can't depart from the usual course. Wellwyn [sharply] - What! But-oh! No! No! That'll be all right, Constable! That'll be all right! I assure you. Constable [with more decision] - I'll have to charge her, sir. Wellwyn Good God! You don't mean to say the poor little thing has got to be Constable [consulting with him] - Well, sir, we can't get over the facts, can we? There it is! You know what sooicide amounts to - it's an awkward job. Wellwyn [calming himself with an effort] — But look here, Constable, as a reasonable man. This poor wretched little girl — you know what that life means better than anyone! Why! It's to her credit to try and jump out of it! [The Constable shakes his head.] Wellwyn - You said yourself her best friends couldn't wish her better! [Dropping his voice still more.] Everybody feels it! The Vicar was here a few minutes ago saying the very same thing-the Vicar, Constable! [The Constable shakes his head.] Ah! now, look here, I know something of her. Nothing can be done with her. We all admit it. Don't you see? Well, then, hang it - you needn't go and make fools of us all by Ferrand Monsieur, it is the first of April. Constable [with a sharp glance at him] - Can't neglect me duty, sir; that's impossible. Wellwyn Look here! She slipped. She's been telling me. Come, Constable, there's a good fellow. May be the making of her, this. Constable I quite appreciate your good 'eart, sir, an' you make it very 'ard for me but, come now! I put it to you as a gentleman, would you go back on yer duty if you was me? [Wellwyn raises his hat, and plunges his fingers through his hair.] the d-d topsy Wellwyn Well! God in heaven! Of all turvy! Not a soul in the world wants her alive and now she's to be prosecuted for trying to be where everyone wishes her. [Throughout all this Mrs. Megan has sat stolidly before the fire, but as Ferrand suddenly steps forward she looks up at him.] Ferrand Do not grieve, Monsieur! This will give her courage. There is nothing that gives more courage than to see the irony of things. He touches Mrs. Megan's shoulder.] Go, my child; it will do you good. [Mrs. Megan rises, and looks at him dazedly.] Constable [coming forward, and taking her by the hand]- That's my good lass. Come along! We won't hurt you. A LETTER TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE An open letter addressed to Senator Lodge on the entry of the United States into THE the Great War. HE great news from America moves me to this slight and inadequate expression of heartfelt thankfulness that we are now allies in deed as well as thought. The coming in of America and the Russian revolution, taken together, give one for the first time a feeling of reality and hope not so much as to the material issue of the war, though it must greatly hasten victory, but of the achievement of great and lasting benefit for the world out of all this tragedy. In the early days of the struggle I thought «if only despotisms go down in the wreckage of this war, its horrors will not have been quite in vain,» and now for the first time one is able to believe that they will one and all go down, and democratic Europe be born. At last one is able to see some real chance for a league of democracies that shall seek peace and pursue it. That great saying, «The world must be made safe for democracy,» should now be the motto for us all, with its corollary that only in a world safe for democracy can peace be even reasonably secured. We owe to you and to Russia a renewed sense and coherence in our cause. The idealism which was and is implicit in that cause was oozing out under the bitter pressure of this endless struggle. Some of us were beginning to fear that in the end democracy would be forced to the continued use of autocratic militarism, even after the victory had been won; that we, conquering in substance, should be conquered in spirit, and the world set definitely spinning backward. That fear is at an end; the relief is intense. To you and to the Russian revolution we owe that relief in the certainty that the military caste of Germany is doomed. Many of ourselves, and a still greater number of Germans, especially of German writing men, contemptuously deny that there should be any dissociation of the German people from the German military caste. None the less your President was right in making that distinction. Here is a little true story: A Frenchwoman of the invaded countries is sleeping in a room with her two young daughters when the Germans enter their village. An officer knocks and demands lodging for thirty-five men. She shows him other rooms, stables - in fact plenty of accommodation. <<That won't do,» and he ordered seven men to sleep in the same room with the mother and the girls, but behind his back his men are shrugging their shoulders, as if saying: «This is quite unnecessary,» and when he is gone they leave the room of their own accord and go to the stables. The woman who was telling my informant this story added: «It is not the men who are bad. The men are like ours the same everywhere. It is the officers, their chiefs or rather it is their law.>> It has been this discovery from the first days of the war, that their chiefs and their «law» are noxious in the modern world, that has turned so many of us humanitarians and peace lovers, who had not a speck of original ill-will to Germany, into believers that this «law»> - this philosophy of death - must go down if the life of nations is to be again worth living. You stand with us now in the great task of seeing that it perishes. And out of our new-found brotherhood in arms strange that this is the first time America and England have fought side by side in a big struggle-may not a wider friendliness be born between our countries? I know that many of us and many of you have for each other's country the friendliest feelings; but a winter's sojourn in France has shown me more clearly than ever before why there is not, as a rule, much love between you Americans and ourselves. We English lack the quickness and charm which makes of the French the people with whom all others can get on, or, at all events, put up with. We English have many good qualities, but, alas, our defects to outer |