CHARACTERS

CHETWOODE: Horatio Chetwoode, to be exact.  A gentleman of moderate to generous fortune, who numbers his years somewhere between middle-age and elderly.  He regards the class system’s rigidity and humanity in general as rather absurd.

FLORA NEVISON: A woman living in a poor district of Manchester.  She used to belong to the middle class, but her father suffered heavy losses in trade and was reduced to a state of poverty.

EDWARD SHACKLEFORD: A friend of CHETWOODE who has more traditional beliefs regarding class system and humanity in general.

BOY: A Manchester ragamuffin.
 

SETTING
 
England.

 
SCENE 1.  The library at Harelow, CHETWOODE's country estate.  Two gentlemen, between elderly and middle-aged, occupy chairs near the fire.  Evening is coming on, and the library, as yet lit only by the fire, is rather dim.  On one wall perpendicular to the fireplace is a door, framed by large bookcases.  On the wall opposite the door are two great casement windows, ornamented with crimson drapes, with bookcases beside and between them.  To one side of the fireplace are two chairs, with either crimson or richly gold-ish upholstery, and across from them, on the other side of the fireplace, is a sopha with a table near it.  Over the fireplace hangs a portrait of CHETWOODE's haughty mother.

SCENE 2.  A street in a Manchester slum district.  The buildings lining it are derelict and dirty from factory soot.  Grimy, raggedy children play a boisterous game in the mud of the street.

SCENE 3.  An apartment on one of the upper floors of a sooty and decaying tenement.  It is typically dark and dingy, lit only by one candle, placed on the roughly-made table in the center of the room.  On the wall across from the door is a small fireplace; in a corner next to the door resides a low, lumpy straw tick mattress, with a tattered blanket over it.  FLORA, an old woman, sits in a slumped posture at the table, clumsily mending a tear in the skirt of a dress.  Her grey hair is dirty, and pulled back into a sagging coiled bun.  Her hands are also grimy, as is the patched and threadbare dress which she is wearing.

SCENE 4.  In the library at Harelow.  CHETWOODE stands at a window on the wall opposite the door, looking out over the park, which is bright with spring verdure.

 
 
 
TIME: The 1860s.

SCENES
 
              
Scene 1: The Library at Harelow (Late evening)

Scene 2: A Street in a Manchester Slum District (Midday, several days later)

Scene 3: In One of the Derelict Buildings (Midday)

Scene 4: The Library at Harelow (Morning, several years later)
              

SCENE 1
 
 

EDWARD SHACKLEFORD:  I ask you, Chetwoode—is it rational to keep up this mad search after that girl?  Won't be what she once was, you know; she might be married, besides, or she might be—well—dead.  Forty years—nay, even four years can bring about that fate for a person!

CHETWOODE:  I can at least, if nothing more, satisfy myself that Flora is comfortable and happy, while if she is otherwise than that, I may be able in some capacity to assist her.

EDWARD SHACKLEFORD:  What would your aunt say to this?  What would your father think of you, running off after that girl he thought you were cured of?          

CHETWOODE:  Frankly, Edward, my deceased relations' probable opinions of me is no concern of mine.  Unless the indignant ancestors take to haunting the darkest corners of Harelow, consideration of my relatives' opinions—regarding Flora Nevison, at least—shall remain unimportant.  Perhaps I am something of a fool... one can't run after every single one of his old acquaintances... but fool or not, I am determined to continue upon the course I have taken.

EDWARD SHACKLEFORD:  Hmph.  You waste your time, your money, and your energy in doing so, and you make yourself disagreeable to company.  Mrs. Branscombe claims to have called on you last week and reports that when she directed your notice toward her new hat, you amiably stated that you thought it would do excellently to keep the chimney from smoking!

[Rising, that he might present a more impressive aspect, and nearly shaking his finger at his friend.]

While Miss Tipworth—that girl who is so taken with reforming the slum areas, you know—confided to her mother, thus guaranteeing that the word would be spread far afield, that she had seen you interviewing a trio of rather seedy characters in one of the poorest, filthiest parts of the city!

CHETWOODE:  In short, then, I make myself ridiculous, and you come as the envoy of all Polite Society to request that I forgo my antiquated chivalry and forget my antiquated acquaintance?

EDWARD SHACKLEFORD:  [Retreating slowly to his chair with a sheepish expression.]  I—well, not precisely.  There was no meeting to appoint me ambassador; I only thought that it might be wise to warn you of these things before you ruined yourself forever in the eyes of society.

CHETWOODE:  A futile gesture, however.

EDWARD SHACKLEFORD:  I wonder at you.  Where did you come by these absurd ideas, and this divine lack of concern for what your fellows think of you?

CHETWOODE:  You must blame it on age, Edward.  I never attempt to dodge the years as they pass, nor ever have, and along with that has come a realization of how ridiculous is the world in general.  Call my ideas absurd if you will, but I cannot help suspecting that yours are rather more so than mine—indeed, sometimes I wonder if I could possibly be the only rational, the only normal person in the entire world.

EDWARD SHACKLEFORD:  Humph!  Your eccentricity only grows with the passing years.  Horatio, it isn't good for you; shouldn't wonder if it might land you in Bedlam one day.  But as long as you're set on this mad goose-chase, you might tell me—precisely what was the story of this girl Flora?

CHETWOODE:  I thought you knew the story?

EDWARD SHACKLEFORD:  Well, insofar as that there was a poor girl you once thought yourself in love with, I know the story, and I've concluded, from observation of character and whatnot, that the old gentleman, and the old lady too, were none too eager to have her for their daughter, but that is all I know.

CHETWOODE:  If it is all you know, then you know pretty nearly all.  Of course, Flora was not a poor girl; her father did well for himself in trade and so had a comfortable income—but he was a tradesman, to begin with, which was appalling, and he was not so wealthy as to make his daughter even remotely appealing to my father and mother.  A mediocre fortune would have been tolerated in a family of gentle origin, while an incredible fortune in a tradesman's family might have been borne with, but to mix mediocrity and trade was impossibly humbling.  I held out for some time, but their influence was strong, and so I bent eventually to parental will, which was also the will of the family in general.

EDWARD SHACKLEFORD:  [Pulling his head rather pompously back, such that a second chin is revealed.]  Just as you should!  It won't do to give these tradesmen the idea that they're in such a position as to regard themselves as on a par with the gentry—oh, how have you lost your senses?

CHETWOODE:  [Glancing toward EDWARD SHACKLEFORD with an arch expression.]  If I knew, Edward, I would send word of my methods far and wide through the world.  But for the present we shall forget my senses, no matter whether they are gained or lost.  Shortly after I told Flora that I must go abroad on the Continent, her father's business stagnated and at length dissipated, his fortune naturally accompanying it.  The family's circumstances grew worse and worse, until they were forced to become laborers in a mill very like one which he had owned.  So much, Flora confided to me in a single letter, sent to me six or seven years after I was “brought to see reason.”

[CHETWOODE rises and goes to adjust the fire.]

I was still a “reasonable human being” at that point; I tossed the letter away, and thought no more of its writer.  You can yourself deduce the rest of the story, I think.

EDWARD SHACKLEFORD:  Oh, yes—I can, but what I cannot so easily discover is what you mean to do with the girl—er—the lady—when or if you find her.  What can you do—marry her for old times' sake?

CHETWOODE:  [Aside.]  Now he thinks me a fool and a madman!  [To EDWARD SHACKLEFORD.]  No, Edward.  If I find her in need of income, and she appears to be respectable still, I shall offer her employment as my housekeeper at Harelow, since Mrs. Newcombe has given notice.

EDWARD SHACKLEFORD:  Hm.  You have a preference for housekeepers beginning with 'N,' I see.  Well, Horatio, I wish you luck in your endeavor, though I hardly know why.  I suppose these queer, democratic ways of yours must be catching; there will be a regular epidemic before long if I don’t keep them to myself!

CHETWOODE:  [Dryly.]  There’s no fear of that, I should imagine, since many, such as Mrs. Branscombe and company, relish their lofty and select status.  For that matter, I would most certainly be loath to give up Harelow.  The difference between us is that I do not care a whit if the coachman leaves for higher things and a field worker is his successor in the old position, while Mrs. Branscombe, &c., would find the idea exceedingly offensive.

EDWARD SHACKLEFORD:  As long as you don’t preach that the gentry ought to turn over their houses and their fortunes to the tenants, perhaps I’ll come to agree with your way of thinking, now that you’ve explained it.  Ho-hum.

[Yawning.]

Well, will you be at Lord and Lady Esterley’s ball Tuesday sennight?

CHETWOODE:  No.  I have made my excuses, and intend to be in Manchester on Tuesday.  Through tortuous paths, the particulars of which would likely bore you to the realm of Hypnos, I discovered a person who several years ago knew a Flora Nevison to be living in that city.  If she is still in residence there, and if she is the correct Flora, I will—I shall decide what next to do.

SCENE 2
 

[Enter CHETWOODE, a well-dressed gentleman on the border between middle-aged and elderly, coming onto the scene as if from farther down the street.  He can enter from either side.  He approaches one of the ragamuffins.]

CHETWOODE:  Hello!  Boy!  Can you tell me if there are any ladies by the name of Miss Nevison in this district?

BOY:  Whatten might yo' be axing for, sir?

CHETWOODE:  I should like to speak to her, concerning her situation.

BOY:  Anyhow, yo' shan't find ladies here, sir.

CHETWOODE:  A woman, then, a rather elderly woman by name of Florence Nevison?

BOY:  There's Oud Florrie; mappen hoo's a Nev'son, mappen not.

CHETWOODE:  Where will I find this person?

BOY:  [Kicking at a mud puddle, and putting on an impudent attitude.]  Who's t' say as yo' will?

CHETWOODE:  Very well, then.  If you will be stubborn—can you, and will you please, direct me to her lodgings?

BOY:  Whatten for?

CHETWOODE:  I must see her on a matter of business.

BOY:  Oud Florrie ain't got business for ye, 'less yo' want her t' mend a thing.  If yo're sellin' a thing, 't will do ye nay good.  Hoo ain't got th' brass to buy 't.

CHETWOODE:  [Aside.]  I shouldn't like to have to bribe him... I'll try once more before I resort to such a low form of negotiation.  [To BOY.]  It may be, boy, that I might be able to improve—er—Old Florrie's situation.  I cannot know, of course, until I have spoken with her, and I cannot possibly speak with her until I know where she lives.  Will you please be so kind as to direct me to her?

BOY:  Well, if 't is true—but if I find else, 't will be a' yo' can do t' leave this street in one piece, is a'.

CHETWOODE:  Well—well, as I have a clear conscience, I shall chance it.  Where does she live?

BOY:  [Eyeing CHETWOODE with some lingering suspicion.]  Tha' way, sir, and then t' other, turn left at th' mill, and left again at th' burnt-out building, and 't is th' most crumbly one on th' street.

CHETWOODE:  Thank you kindly, boy.

[Gives BOY a shilling and proceeds along the street in the direction he had been going.]

SCENE 3
 
 

[A knock sounds upon the door, and FLORA rises slowly and goes to answer it.]

FLORA:  Didn't I tell yo' this morning as I've naught t' pay ye wi' till Friday?

CHETWOODE:  I beg your pardon, madam?

[FLORA opens the door just enough to peer out into the hall.]

FLORA:  Yo' ain't Jem Clay, are yo'?  Hmph!  He may send another, but still yo' sha'n't have nay brass fro' me, till I've got it meself!

CHETWOODE:  Madam, you mistake: I have no business with your rent.  I want only to know if you can tell me where I will find a woman by the name of—Old Florrie.

FLORA:  If yo' mean Florrie Nev'son, I'm th' one yo' want.  [Opening the door wide enough to allow the caller to enter.]  What do yo' want fro' me, a fine gentleman like—  Who—  Horatio Chetwoode!

[She steps back, into the shadows to hide the raggedness of her dress.]

CHETWOODE:  May I come in?

FLORA:  Why—why—I suppose—yo’ may as well’s not.  [Aside.]  A person dunnot leave oud ‘quaintance on th’ doorstep—‘t ain’t fittin’, not for a fine gentleman.  Wonder if he knowed me when I opened th’ door; it’s been a’ o’ forty year since I seen him afore now.  [To CHETWOODE.]  Now, were ‘t Florrie Nev’son as yo’ wanted?

CHETWOODE:  Indeed.  Flora, how—but there’s no use in asking how you are—I can see.

FLORA:  Ah, can yo’ now?

[She goes over to the table and clears off a heap of fabric, pushing it into a dilapidated basket.]

Will yo’ sit, Mr. Chetwoode?

[CHETWOODE seats himself cautiously on a rickety stool at the table.]

CHETWOODE:  How long have you lived in this fashion, Flora?

FLORA:  [Aside, musingly.]  Ain’t since father died as any one’s called me Flora—’t’s a grand thing t’ hear ‘t again after hearin’ Oud Florrie a’ these years.  [To CHETWOODE.]  Five-and-thirty year, or like to ‘t.  Why, if yo’ dunnot mind the asking, are yo’ here, and now?

CHETWOODE:  Some time after I inherited the fortune, when both my mother and father were dead—when I no longer had the presence of their influence and expectations to guide my thinking, I considered that after all, there was nothing very wrong in interacting with lower classes without an attitude of condescension.  Naturally, then—at least, I thought it natural—I realized that... bosh.  To put the matter into plain terms, I wanted to see you, Flora—whether you were well, comfortable, happy, or... otherwise—

FLORA:  [Abruptly.]:  Yo’ve seen yo’r zo’log’cal show.  Will yo’ be going now?

[She places her hands upon her hips.]

CHETWOODE:  As I was intending to say before I was interrupted, madam—you are ‘otherwise,’ and so... if there is any reasonable way in which I might aid you to better your situation—

[FLORA sits down stiffly on a stool.]

FLORA:  A poor girl dreams o' being rescued fro' poverty by her fairy prince... but a poor oud woman forgets fairy princes and grows a skin o' pride.  She knows she'd be out o' place in his grand mansion, when she's been livin' in shambles and gutters most a' her days.  She dunnot want th' charity o' an old friend remembering oud times.

CHETWOODE:  Must you always make shift for yourself?  Aren't you a girl still—somewhere?

FLORA:  I ain't.  When the fac’try soot and the fac’try voices get into your bones, and the fac’try ways wi' them, yo're ouder than the oudest dowager who ever creaked int' Lunnon.

CHETWOODE:  London, Flora.

FLORA:  “London” ain't for me, Mr. Chetwoode.

CHETWOODE:  Nor Harelow?

FLORA:  Nor Harelow, neither.  Yo' wouldn't care to have an oud woman takin' up room in your grand house, and she wouldn't care t' live there.

[FLORA rises again, while CHETWOODE shifts his posture.]

CHETWOODE:  You cannot bring yourself to say “hoo,” or “ax” can you?

FLORA:  Whatten if I can't?  A bit o' language won't say as I'm a grand lady, nor make me think t’ take—

CHETWOODE:  But you are miserable here, Flora.  You come of good family; you must surely recall the more genteel ways to which you were once accustomed?

FLORA:  Mappen so.

CHETWOODE:  Then will you—

FLORA:  I won't, nor even if yo' promise me a' the goud I could ask, Horatio Chetwoode!

[She turns violently toward the fireplace—bending to put a hand on her knee as she does—and moves a pan so that it clatters against the hearth.]

CHETWOODE:  I fear I could hardly be so extravagant—it would be a most inappropriate salary for my housekeeper, although what I would pay would certainly keep you more comfortably than whatever funds you have here.

FLORA:  Yo'r—housekeeper?

[She is silent for several moments, scrubbing with a grimy rag at a spot of something crusted to the table.]

CHETWOODE: Yes—Mrs. Newcombe recently left my employ, and one of the maids has been supervising since then, with rather unsatisfactory results.

FLORA:  Yo'd take me on, then, wi' nobbut me own word, wi'out references?

CHETWOODE:  I would.  One could always trust you, but if that has changed in—forty years—can it be forty?  Anyway—if it has changed in that time, I have always the power to discharge you.

FLORA:  Well—if it's housekeepin' is all you want, I'll agree to 't, provided as yo' call me Miss Nev'son, and not Flora.  You'll have nay reason t' discharge me—sir.

CHETWOODE:  I hope not, Miss Nevison.  Now, then—I will advance to you your first month’s salary, with which you may purchase something suitable in the way of clothes, and any other things which you may require, and will return tomorrow to escort you to Harelow.

SCENE 4
 
 

[Enter FLORA, wearing a clean dress.  She begins to dust the books and shelves on the opposite side of the room from CHETWOODE.]

CHETWOODE:  Flora.

FLORA:  Yes, sir?

CHETWOODE:  [Turning to her.]  Flora, put down the duster, please, and take off your apron.  Why are you dusting, instead of one of the maids?

FLORA:  I had to dismiss Maggie, sir, and the others have quite enough t' do without taking her share, as well.

CHETWOODE:  I see.  Nonetheless, will you please put the duster and apron aside?

[FLORA sets down the duster on a sopha.  CHETWOODE directs an inquiring glance toward her, and she hastily snatches up the duster and puts it on a table beside the sopha.  She puts her hands behind her to unfasten her apron—and pauses.]

FLORA:  Why?  Whatten—what do you want of me, sir?

[She lays the apron beside the duster.]

CHETWOODE:  I want you to give notice.

FLORA:  [Startled.]  Do you mean to say as you are not pleased with me?

CHETWOODE:  No—on the contrary, I am too well pleased for you to continue in your present capacity.  It is decidedly awkward to have one’s housekeeper as one’s friend.

FLORA:  [Looking dejected.]  Very well.  I had thought—

[She turns, collecting her duster and apron.]

FLORA:  Will you allow me to remain for one week, while I seek employment elsewhere?  And—will you be so kind as to give me recommendations, without mentioning that we have been more on terms o’—o’ companionship than is common?

CHETWOODE:  References—seek—Flora!

[Crossing to her side of the room.]

CHETWOODE:  My dear, you mistake—you misunderstand my meaning.  I never requested your departure—truth be told, I should abhor it!

FLORA:  You must make up your mind, for I cannot both go and stay.

CHETWOODE:  I have made up my mind; you must now make up yours.

[FLORA slowly inclines her head, reaching out to put one hand on the back of the sopha.]

CHETWOODE:  We are both—bluntly—far from young.  However, I see no reason why marriage should be reserved for the young people—

FLORA:  No—o’ course not, but—  [Looking up at the portrait of Mrs. Chetwoode over the fire.]  —what would they say to it?

[CHETWOODE possesses himself of FLORA’s hands; the lady makes no protest.]

CHETWOODE:  [Elegantly.]  They, my dear, may all turn over in their graves until they are blue in the face, as the Americans would say.

FLORA:  Years ago, when we were well-off, if not worthy of the notice o’ the Chetwoodes, I would have said yes and gladly, but after so long being nearly a beggar, and now being nothing more than a housekeeper, even I cannot but think ‘t would be an unsuitable thing.

CHETWOODE:  Very well, then—let us both run off and join the originators of the expressive phrase recently quoted.

FLORA:  [Pulling her hands away.]  It is an absurd notion.

[Both are silent for a period.]

CHETWOODE:  Flora, if we were equals in the eyes of society, would you marry me?

[FLORA gazes out over the audience, as if she sees all of Society watching her.]

FLORA:  [Aside, still searching audience.]  If I say yes, then this perplexity only continues—but no is utter untruth, and I think I could not speak it an I tried.  Whatever I do, I am a fool!  A fool to care not a fig for society—a fool, carelessly to toss such Opportunity to the winds—oh, I could nearly wish myself back in th’ bottom’s sludge of life as I was!  A person knew her place, she knew she could never rise, nor could she fall lower.  I know the censure it would bring—I think I know it—and I would that I cared a little more than I do, or else—yes, a little less.

CHETWOODE:  What does it matter what Mrs. Branscombe and company think of the matter?

FLORA:  They will say that I married you for your money and position.

CHETWOODE:  Much good that would do you, as the Chetwoode fortune and Harelow are entailed.  Cornelius, my eldest nephew, will inherit them.  Nearly everyone knows it who is of any importance at all in our set, so, as long as you do not boast of a large allowance, that barb is removed from the armory.

FLORA:  But—

[She looks toward the apron and duster.  CHETWOODE steps forward, lifts them up, drops them on the ground, and neatly uses his foot to sweep them under the sopha.]

CHETWOODE:  Well, Flora?

FLORA:  Well, Horatio—