Windows. Galsworthy John

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СКАЧАТЬ remark attracts FAITH; she raises her eyes to his softly with a little smile, and drops them again.

      So you want to be our parlour-maid?

      FAITH. Yes, please.

      MR MARCH. Well, Faith can remove mountains; but – er – I don't know if she can clear tables.

      BLY. I've been tellin' Mr March and the young lady what you're capable of. Show 'em what you can do with a plate.

      FAITH takes the tray from the sideboard and begins to clear the table, mainly by the light of nature. After a glance, MR MARCH looks out of the window and drums his fingers on the uncleaned pane. MR BLY goes on with his cleaning. MARY, after watching from the hearth, goes up and touches her father's arm.

      MARY. [Between him and MR BLY who is bending over his bucket, softly] You're not watching, Dad.

      MR MARCH. It's too pointed.

      MARY. We've got to satisfy mother.

      MR MARCH. I can satisfy her better if I don't look.

      MARY. You're right.

      FAITH has paused a moment and is watching them. As MARY turns, she resumes her operations. MARY joins, and helps her finish clearing, while the two men converse.

      BLY. Fine weather, sir, for the time of year.

      MR MARCH. It is. The trees are growing.

      BLY. All! I wouldn't be surprised to see a change of Government before long. I've seen 'uge trees in Brazil without any roots – seen 'em come down with a crash.

      MR MARCH. Good image, Mr Bly. Hope you're right!

      BLY. Well, Governments! They're all the same – Butter when they're out of power, and blood when they're in. And Lord! 'ow they do abuse other Governments for doin' the things they do themselves. Excuse me, I'll want her dosseer back, sir, when you've done with it.

      MR MARCH. Yes, yes. [He turns, rubbing his hands at the cleared table] Well, that seems all right! And you can do hair?

      FAITH. Oh! Yes, I can do hair. [Again that little soft look, and smile so carefully adjusted.]

      MR MARCH. That's important, don't you think, Mary? [MARY, accustomed to candour, smiles dubiously.] [Brightly] Ah! And cleaning plate? What about that?

      FAITH. Of course, if I had the opportunity —

      MARY. You haven't – so far?

      FAITH. Only tin things.

      MR MARCH. [Feeling a certain awkwardness] Well, I daresay we can find some for you. Can you – er – be firm on the telephone?

      FAITH. Tell them you're engaged when you're not? Oh! yes.

      MR MARCH. Excellent! Let's see, Mary, what else is there?

      MARY. Waiting, and house work.

      MR MARCH. Exactly.

      FAITH. I'm very quick. I – I'd like to come. [She looks down] I don't care for what I'm doing now. It makes you feel your position.

      MARY. Aren't they nice to you?

      FAITH. Oh! yes – kind; but – [She looks up] it's against my instincts.

      MR MARCH. Oh! [Quizzically] You've got a disciple, Mr Bly.

      BLY. [Rolling his eyes at his daughter] Ah! but you mustn't 'ave instincts here, you know. You've got a chance, and you must come to stay, and do yourself credit.

      FAITH. [Adapting her face] Yes, I know, I'm very lucky.

      MR MARCH. [Deprecating thanks and moral precept] That's all right! Only, Mr Bly, I can't absolutely answer for Mrs March. She may think —

      MARY. There is Mother; I heard the door.

      BLY. [Taking up his pail] I quite understand, sir; I've been a married man myself. It's very queer the way women look at things. I'll take her away now, and come back presently and do these other winders. You can talk it over by yourselves. But if you do see your way, sir, I shan't forget it in an 'urry. To 'ave the responsibility of her – really, it's dreadful.

      FAITH's face has grown sullen during this speech, but it clears up in another little soft look at MR MARCH, as she and MR BLY go out.

      MR MARCH. Well, Mary, have I done it?

      MARY. You have, Dad.

      MR MARCH. [Running his hands through his hair] Pathetic little figure! Such infernal inhumanity!

      MARY. How are you going to put it to mother?

      MR MARCH. Tell her the story, and pitch it strong.

      MARY. Mother's not impulsive.

      MR MARCH. We must tell her, or she'll think me mad.

      MARY. She'll do that, anyway, dear.

      MR MARCH. Here she is! Stand by!

      He runs his arm through MARY's, and they sit on the fender, at bay. MRS MARCH enters, Left.

      MR MARCH. Well, what luck?

      MRS MARCH. None.

      MR MARCH. [Unguardedly] Good!

      MRS MARCH. What?

      MRS MARCH. [Cheerfully] Well, the fact is, Mary and I have caught one for 'you; Mr Bly's daughter —

      MRS MARCH. Are you out of your senses? Don't you know that she's the girl who —

      MR MARCH. That's it. She wants a lift.

      MRS MARCH. Geof!

      MR MARCH. Well, don't we want a maid?

      MRS MARCH. [Ineffably] Ridiculous!

      MR MARCH. We tested her, didn't we, Mary?

      MRS MARCH. [Crossing to the bell, and ringing] You'll just send for Mr Bly and get rid of her again.

      MR MARCH. Joan, if we comfortable people can't put ourselves a little out of the way to give a helping hand —

      MRS MARCH. To girls who smother their babies?

      MR MARCH. Joan, I revolt. I won't be a hypocrite and a Pharisee.

      MRS MARCH. Well, for goodness sake let me be one.

      MARY. [As the door opens]. Here's Cook!

      COOK stands – sixty, stout, and comfortable with a crumpled smile.

      COOK. Did you ring, ma'am?

      MR MARCH. We're in a moral difficulty, Cook, so naturally we come to you.

      COOK beams.

      MRS MARCH. [Impatiently] Nothing of the sort, Cook; it's a question of common sense.

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