Early next morning the sergeant, at the British headquarters in the Town Hall, unlocks the door of a little empty panelled waiting room, and invites Judith to enter. She has had a bad night, probably a rather delirious one; for even in the reality of the raw morning, her fixed gaze comes back at moments when her attention is not strongly held.
The sergeant considers that her feelings do her credit, and is sympathetic in an encouraging military way. Being a fine figure of a man, vain of his uniform and of his rank, he feels specially qualified, in a respectful way, to console her.
SERGEANT. You can have a quiet word with him here, mum.
JUDITH. Shall I have long to wait?
SERGEANT. No, mum, not a minute. We kep him in the Bridewell for the night; and he's just been brought over here for the court martial. Don't fret, mum: he slep like a child, and has made a rare good breakfast.
JUDITH (incredulously). He is in good spirits!
SERGEANT. Tip top, mum. The chaplain looked in to see him last night; and he won seventeen shillings off him at spoil five. He spent it among us like the gentleman he is. Duty's duty, mum, of course; but you're among friends here. (The tramp of a couple of soldiers is heard approaching.) There: I think he's coming.
(Richard comes in, without a sign of care or captivity in his bearing. The sergeant nods to the two soldiers, and shows them the key of the room in his hand. They withdraw.) Your good lady, sir.
RICHARD (going to her). What! My wife. My adored one. (He takes her hand and kisses it with a perverse, raffish gallantry.) How long do you allow a brokenhearted husband for leave-taking, Sergeant?
SERGEANT. As long as we can, sir. We shall not disturb you till the court sits.
RICHARD. But it has struck the hour.
SERGEANT. So it has, sir; but there's a delay. General Burgoyne's just arrived--Gentlemanly Johnny we call him, sir--and he won't have done finding fault with everything this side of half past. I know him, sir: I served with him in Portugal. You may count on twenty minutes, sir; and by your leave I won't waste any more of them. (He goes out, locking the door. Richard immediately drops his raffish manner and turns to Judith with considerate sincerity.)
RICHARD. Mrs. Anderson: this visit is very kind of you. And how are you after last night? I had to leave you before you recovered; but I sent word to Essie to go and look after you. Did she understand the message?
JUDITH (breathless and urgent). Oh, don't think of me: I haven't come here to talk about myself. Are they going to--to--(meaning "to hang you")?
RICHARD (whimsically). At noon, punctually. At least, that was when they disposed of Uncle Peter. (She shudders.) Is your husband safe? Is he on the wing?
JUDITH. He is no longer my husband.
RICHARD (opening his eyes wide). Eh!
JUDITH. I disobeyed you. I told him everything. I expected him to come here and save you. I wanted him to come here and save you.
He ran away instead.
RICHARD. Well, that's what I meant him to do. What good would his staying have done? They'd only have hanged us both.
JUDITH (with reproachful earnestness). Richard Dudgeon: on your honour, what would you have done in his place?
RICHARD. Exactly what he has done, of course.
JUDITH. Oh, why will you not be simple with me--honest and straightforward? If you are so selfish as that, why did you let them take you last night?
RICHARD (gaily). Upon my life, Mrs. Anderson, I don't know. I've been asking myself that question ever since; and I can find no manner of reason for acting as I did.
JUDITH. You know you did it for his sake, believing he was a more worthy man than yourself.
RICHARD (laughing). Oho! No: that's a very pretty reason, I must say; but I'm not so modest as that. No: it wasn't for his sake.
JUDITH (after a pause, during which she looks shamefacedly at him, blushing painfully). Was it for my sake?
RICHARD (gallantly). Well, you had a hand in it. It must have been a little for your sake. You let them take me, at all events.
JUDITH. Oh, do you think I have not been telling myself that all night? Your death will be at my door. (Impulsively, she gives him her hand, and adds, with intense earnestness) If I could save you as you saved him, I would do it, no matter how cruel the death was.
RICHARD (holding her hand and smiling, but keeping her almost at arm's length). I am very sure I shouldn't let you.
JUDITH. Don't you see that I can save you?
RICHARD. How? By changing clothes with me, eh?
JUDITH (disengaging her hand to touch his lips with it). Don't (meaning "Don't jest"). No: by telling the Court who you really are.
RICHARD (frowning). No use: they wouldn't spare me; and it would spoil half of his chance of escaping. They are determined to cow us by making an example of somebody on that gallows to-day. Well, let us cow them by showing that we can stand by one another to the death. That is the only force that can send Burgoyne back across the Atlantic and make America a nation.
JUDITH (impatiently). Oh, what does all that matter?
RICHARD (laughing). True: what does it matter? what does anything matter? You see, men have these strange notions, Mrs. Anderson; and women see the folly of them.
JUDITH. Women have to lose those they love through them.
RICHARD. They can easily get fresh lovers.
JUDITH (revolted). Oh! (Vehemently) Do you realise that you are going to kill yourself?
RICHARD. The only man I have any right to kill, Mrs. Anderson.
Don't be concerned: no woman will lose her lover through my death. (Smiling) Bless you, nobody cares for me. Have you heard that my mother is dead?
JUDITH. Dead!
RICHARD. Of heart disease--in the night. Her last word to me was her curse: I don't think I could have borne her blessing. My other relatives will not grieve much on my account. Essie will cry for a day or two; but I have provided for her: I made my own will last night.
JUDITH (stonily, after a moment's silence). And I!
RICHARD (surprised). You?
JUDITH. Yes, I. Am I not to care at all?
