RAMSDEN.
Octavius: I have a very serious piece of news for you.
It is of the most private and delicate nature—of the most painful nature too, I am sorry to say.
Do you wish Mr Tanner to be present whilst I explain?
OCTAVIUS. [turning pale] I have no secrets from Jack.
RAMSDEN.
Before you decide that finally, let me say that the news concerns your sister, and that it is terrible news.
OCTAVIUS.
Violet!
What has happened?
Is she—dead?
RAMSDEN.
I am not sure that it is not even worse than that.
OCTAVIUS.
Is she badly hurt?
Has there been an accident?
RAMSDEN.
No: nothing of that sort.
TANNER.
Ann: will you have the common humanity to tell us what the matter is?
ANN. [half whispering] I can't.
Violet has done something dreadful.
We shall have to get her away somewhere. [She flutters to the writing table and sits in Ramsden's chair, leaving the three men to fight it out between them].
OCTAVIUS. [enlightened] Is that what you meant, Mr Ramsden?
RAMSDEN.
Yes. [Octavius sinks upon a chair, crushed].
I am afraid there is no doubt that Violet did not really go to Eastbourne three weeks ago when we thought she was with the Parry Whitefields.
And she called on a strange doctor yesterday with a wedding ring on her finger. Mrs. Parry Whitefield met her there by chance; and so the whole thing came out.
OCTAVIUS. [rising with his fists clenched] Who is the scoundrel?
ANN.
She won't tell us.
OCTAVIUS. [collapsing upon his chair again] What a frightful thing!
TANNER. [with angry sarcasm] Dreadful.
Appalling.
Worse than death, as Ramsden says. [He comes to Octavius]. What would you not give, Tavy, to turn it into a railway accident, with all her bones broken or something equally respectable and deserving of sympathy?
OCTAVIUS.
Don't be brutal, Jack.
TANNER.
Brutal!
Good Heavens, man, what are you crying for?
Here is a woman whom we all supposed to be making bad water color sketches, practising Grieg and Brahms, gadding about to concerts and parties, wasting her life and her money.
We suddenly learn that she has turned from these sillinesses to the fulfilment of her highest purpose and greatest function—to increase, multiply and replenish the earth.
And instead of admiring her courage and rejoicing in her instinct; instead of crowning the completed womanhood and raising the triumphal strain of "Unto us a child is born: unto us a son is given," here you are—you who have been as merry as Brigs in your mourning for the dead—all pulling long faces and looking as ashamed and disgraced as if the girl had committed the vilest of crimes.
RAMSDEN. [roaring with rage] I will not have these abominations uttered in my house [he smites the writing table with his fist].
TANNER.
Look here: if you insult me again I'll take you at your word and leave your house.
Ann: where is Violet now?
ANN.
Why?
Are you going to her?