Rudolf Besier

Scene:—The same, except for an extra ladder which Lady Patricia has had built up to the platform on the left. It is a beautiful night in early June. The full moon spreads a network of shadows on the platform, and a few large stars twinkle through the leaves. Suspended from the branches by pieces of silken string attached to nails driven into the trunk of the tree are several elaborate Chinese lanterns. Empty coffee-cups and liqueur glasses stand on two small tables in the background. There are one or two chairs about in addition to Lady Patricia’s deck-chair.

(When the curtain rises, Baldwin is seen slowly entering on the left. He has a bundle of small candles in his hand. He looks anxiously from lantern to lantern. Suddenly one of them goes out.)

Baldwin.

Ho! (He unfastens the string from the nail and lowers the lantern with deliberation, muttering.) Them little lanterns do burn uncommon quick.... Whoa! (Fixes fresh candle in the lantern.) Uncommon quick ... drat ’em.... (Pulls up the lantern.) Whoa!

(While he fastens the string on to the nail Lady Patricia’s voice is heard singing divinely in the distance. Baldwin listens for a moment. The singing ceases. He shakes his head gloomily, glances into the tree, and another lantern goes out.)

Ho!... (He lowers the lantern.) Whoa.... (Fixing the fresh candle.) They do burn oncommon quick—drat ’em.... (Pulls up the lantern.) Whoa....

(After fixing the string, he retires slowly into the shadowy background and stands motionless, staring from lantern to lantern. Suddenly Bill O’Farrel enters hurriedly by the ladder in the centre. He is in evening dress. He does not see Baldwin, who merely glances at him and then resumes his upward scrutiny. Bill throws himself into Lady Patricia’s deck-chair.)

Bill.

Whew.... safe! (He lights a cigarette.)

(Suddenly close beneath Lady Patricia’s voice is heard singing with desultory beauty. Bill springs to his feet.)

Damn!

(He tiptoes cautiously to the edge of the platform and peeps over. The bird-like snatches of song grow nearer.)

Damn!

(He crosses softly and quickly to the ladder on the left, and with a scared look over his shoulder, disappears just as Lady Patricia, in a gown of shimmering wonder, emerges by the ladder in the centre. She stops singing and looks around.)

Lady Patricia.

(Flutingly.) Bill.... Bill.... (She perceives the shadowy figure of Baldwin and makes a quick movement with outstretched arms towards it.) Ah, my dear!

Baldwin.

Beg pardon, m’lady?

Lady Patricia.

Oh!... Baldwin! How amusing!... I was looking for—Mr. Cosway. Has he been here?

Baldwin.

Yes’m.

Lady Patricia.

Oh, when?

Baldwin.

’E took corfee ’ere with your ladyship, mum, and ’is Very Reverence, and the young lady and Mrs. O’Farrel and Mr. O’Farrel.

Lady Patricia.

Sometimes, Baldwin, I wonder whether your amazing futility may not be a conscious pose.

Baldwin.

Beg pardon, mum?

Lady Patricia.

Oh, never mind....

(She goes out on the left, humming sweetly. Baldwin retires to the background and resumes his lantern watch. Clare enters by the central ladder quickly in breathless condition and drops into the deck-chair. Baldwin, unperceived, glances at her, then looks up at the lanterns again.)

Clare.

Safe! (With a sigh of relief she lights a cigarette.)

(Suddenly Michael’s voice is heard beneath calling softly.)

Michael.

Clare—Clare....

Clare.

Damn! (She springs to her feet, crosses quickly to the left, and descends as Michael’s head emerges up the central ladder.)

Michael.

Clare.... (Looks around and perceives the vague form of Baldwin.) Clare, my—— Oh! I was looking for Lady Patricia. Have you seen her, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

Yessir.

Michael.

Oh.... Has she been here?

Baldwin.

Yessir.

Michael.

When?

Baldwin.

Beg pardon, sir?

Michael.

(Impatiently.) When was Lady Patricia here?

Baldwin.

Well, sir, it may ’a been two minutes ago, sir, or it may ’a been——

Michael.

Thank you.

(He goes out on the left, while Baldwin continues:)

Baldwin.

Or it may ’a been three. ’Er ladyship were looking for you, sir. She arst me, sir—— (Perceiving the vanity of continuing his reminiscences he looks up and a lantern goes out.) Ho! (Lowers the lantern.) Whoa!...

(Enter Ellis up the central ladder, carrying a tray with whisky-and-soda.)

Ellis.

Good evening, Mr. Baldwin.

Baldwin.

Them candles do burn oncommon quick.... You was sayin’, Mr. Ellis?

Ellis.

I said good evening.

Baldwin.

Whoa!... (Fixes the string.) Good evening to you.

Ellis.

(Clearing coffee-cups, &c., and setting the whisky-and-soda.) It beats me what the company are up to to-night. After dinner they all went for a stroll down to the pond. ’Er ladyship wanted to see—(imitates Patricia)—“the great moon-flower’s reflection among the lilies.” Then they seem to ’ave separated. The old people are behaving themselves quite rational—playing bÉzique in the drawing-room. The others are playing the tomfool or ’ide-and-seek or something o’ the sort.

Baldwin.

’Iding-seek? Are they now! That minds me as ’ow I onct played ’iding-seek with Mrs. Baldwin as was my first wife—she weren’t my wife then—an’ found ’er—(he chuckles)—and found ’er—(chuckles)—in the middle of the bed!...

(Ellis guffaws.)

A rose bed it wer’. “Maidens’ blush” they was, jest fur all the world same as ’er purty face. So I gives her sutting wot to blush for. That I did. Dang it! Yus, I did.

Ellis.

You seem to ’ave lived your life, Mr. Baldwin.

Baldwin.

I ’ave that. I’ve ’ad thirteen, an’ two of ’em by me first wife. Thirteen’s an onlucky number I’ve ’eard tell. But I ain’t suspicious.

Ellis.

Su-per-stitious is what you mean, I take it?

Baldwin.

If I says suspicious I means it.

Ellis.

Well, please yourself, Mr. Baldwin, please yourself. My motter’s “Live an’ let live.” Yes, as I was saying, it’s a queer game of ’ide-and-seek they’re playing at. I saw young O’Farrel just now by the yew-trees. ’E caught sight of ’er ladyship comin’ up the path, and dived into the shadder like a frightened rabbit. Bit queer considering ’ow thick they are. I just stood aside to see if anything was going to ’appen. Then ’oo should come along but the master! They must have caught sight of each other at the same time. She gave a sorter jump an’ stood still. ’E cut and ’urried into the bushes. Then she turned and ’urried back the way she’d come. What d’yer say to that?

Baldwin.

What do I say?

Ellis.

Bit queer, ain’t it?

Baldwin.

Chronic! Why, a minute or two back ’er ladyship was up ’ere an’ says, “I’m looking for Mr. Cosway.” And arfter she’s gorne, ’e comes up ’ere an’ says, “I’m lookin’ for ’er ladyship,” ’e says.

Ellis.

Well, I give it up!

(Lady Patricia is heard singing in the distance.)

There, she’s at it again!

(Bill enters up the central ladder unperceived by the others. He stands in the background. They all listen to the singing in silence until it ceases.)

She can sing, an’ no error!

Baldwin.

Minds me of an ole cat as used to yeowl night after night in the rubub beds.

Ellis.

Good Lord, Mr. Baldwin, ’ow d’you make that out?

Baldwin.

Course it ain’t the same. ’Er ladyship’s voice is a rare treat to ’ear, an’ a cat’s ain’t. But there’s somethin’ in ’em both as seems to be callin’ for somethin’ else. ’Twas jest afore Mrs. Baldwin ’ad ’er seventh. An’ yer’d ’ardly b’lieve me, Mr. Ellis, that cat ’ad kittens same day as Mrs. Baldwin.

(With a smothered laugh Bill comes forward. Ellis hastily picks up the tray with the cups, &c.)

Bill.

Ah, whisky-and-soda, Ellis. That’s good!

Ellis.

Yes, sir.

(He goes out by the centre.)

Bill.

(Helping himself to whisky-and-soda.) Well, Baldwin, what are you up to? Keeping an eye on the sun so as to lop off the branches?

Baldwin.

No, sir.... I was jest watching them lanterns.

Bill.

Yes. They’re very pretty.

Baldwin.

They do burn uncommon quick.

Bill.

Well, they’re made of paper, you know.

Baldwin.

Yessir.... It was the candles I was alludin’ of, sir. They do burn—— (A lantern goes out.) Ho!

(He fiddles about with the string, Bill watching him with a smile. Suddenly halfway up the central ladder you hear the voice of Lady Patricia sweetly humming. Bill throws a wild glance around him.)

Bill.

Don’t give me away, Baldwin.

(He darts into the summer-house at the back and locks the door.)

Baldwin.

’Iding-seek!... (Lowering the lantern.) Whoa!...

(Lady Patricia enters.)

Lady Patricia.

Bill?... (Looks around.) Who were you talking to just now, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

Mr. O’Farrel, mum.

Lady Patricia.

Yes; I thought so—but I don’t see him.

Baldwin.

No, mum.

Lady Patricia.

Where is he?

Baldwin.

’E’s gorne, m’lady.

Lady Patricia.

Gone?

Baldwin.

Yes’m. You gave yerself away, mum, you did. D’rectly ’e ’eard your ladyship’s voice ’e was gorne, mum.

Lady Patricia.

(Amazed.) I gave myself away? Directly he heard my voice he was gone?

Baldwin.

’Twas like as when you come up ’ere before a-lookin’ for the master. Mr. O’Farrel, ’e was ’ere then, mum. ’E ’eard you, an’ ’e jest ran.

Lady Patricia.

Mr. O’Farrel heard me and he ran?

Baldwin.

Yes’m. An’ if you’ll h’excuse my sayin’ so, mum, it ain’t gumptious to sing when playin’ ’iding-seek.

Lady Patricia.

Playing hide-and-seek?...

Baldwin.

Yes’m.

Lady Patricia.

Hide-and-seek! What on earth are you talking about? I really am afraid, Baldwin, the full moon must have deprived you of your few remaining wits. Do you seriously mean to tell me that Mr. O’Farrel ran away twice because he heard me coming?

Baldwin.

Yes’m.

Lady Patricia.

(After a dumbfounded pause) Where did he go to?

Baldwin.

(Knowingly.) Beggin’ yer pardon, mum, I really couldn’t tell yer that.

Lady Patricia.

You——

(Clare enters on the left unperceived, and slips cautiously behind the trunk.)

Baldwin.

I arst you, mum, would it be playin’ fair on the young gentleman?

Lady Patricia.

(Edging rather nervously away from him.) I think you had better go home now, Baldwin. I am afraid you are not quite well. Tell Mrs. Baldwin to come and see me to-morrow.

Baldwin.

Yes’m.

(Lady Patricia goes out on the left, throwing a nervous look back at Baldwin, who nods his head triumphantly and pulls up the lantern. Clare emerges from behind the trunk and tiptoes towards him.)

Baldwin.

Whoa!

Clare.

S-sh!

Baldwin.

Lord-a-mercy!

Clare.

Language, Baldwin!

Baldwin.

Yer did give me a turn, miss.

Clare.

Sorry! Hullo, drinks! (Goes to the edge of the platform and looks cautiously over.) The coast’s clear. I’ll have some soda-water.

Baldwin.

’Iding-seek do give you a bit of a thirst, miss.

Clare.

(Astonished.) Hide-and-seek?

Baldwin.

Yes, miss.

Clare.

Why, have you been playing hide-and-seek?

Baldwin.

Me, miss?

Clare.

Didn’t you say so just now? Really, Baldwin, for a person of your age! And now you want a drink? Well, I’ve no objection, though it looks uncommonly as if you had helped yourself already.

(She points to Bill’s half-filled glass.)

Baldwin.

(Excitedly.) Me, miss? I give you my word, miss. Why, that’s—that’s——

Michael.

(His voice is heard calling softly beneath.) Clare....

Clare.

(To Baldwin, in a fierce whisper.) Hush! Don’t say where I am!

(She runs to the summer-house and gains the door just as Michael emerges up the central ladder. She finds the door locked. The key turns in the lock audibly, the door opens, and Bill’s hand seizes her arm and pulls her inside.)

Clare.

Oh!...

Bill.

Hush!

(Draws her into the summer-house, closes and locks the door.)

Baldwin.

(In unrestrained delight.) Haw! Haw! Haw! Haw!

Michael.

(Looking around him.) Wasn’t Miss Lesley speaking to you a second ago, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

She were, sir. Haw! Haw!

Michael.

(Regarding the amused Baldwin with severity.) Where did she go to?

Baldwin.

She’s gorne, sir.

Michael.

I asked you where she had gone to.

Baldwin.

No, sir; I couldn’t tell yer that, sir. I reely couldn’t.

(He guffaws again.)

Michael.

Have you been drinking, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

Me, sir? Drinking? ’Pon me honour, sir, I ain’t touched a drop o’ that whisky. It’s mortal ’ard, sir, that a man o’ my years should be tole ’e’s in liquor twice in one evenin’! An’ me teetotal ’cept for me pint o’ four-’arf at dinner an’ supper and a drop o’ somethin’ on Saturday night.

Michael.

Do you know the day of the week, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

(After a pause.) Lor’, sir, if it ain’t Sat’day.... But I give you me word, sir, I ain’t——

Michael.

Very well, Baldwin. But you must admit that your conduct was peculiar. Perhaps now you will be so good as to tell me where Miss Lesley went to.

Baldwin.

She—she——

(He starts laughing again.)

Michael.

Do you mean to tell me she has climbed up the tree again?

Baldwin.

Maybe she ’as, sir, an’ maybe she ’asn’t. Haw! Haw!

Michael.

(Angrily.) Fool! (Goes to the trunk, and, standing in the shadow, looks up into the branches.) Clare.... Clare.... I see you, you naughty little girl.... You’ve led me a pretty dance to-night.... Clare.... If you don’t come down I’ll climb up and fetch you....

(Lady Patricia enters quickly on the left.)

Lady Patricia.

(To Baldwin, her finger on her lip.) Hush!

(She tiptoes quickly across the stage and seizes Michael by the shoulders.)

Michael.

Oh! (He faces her and falls back.) Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

(Falling back an amazed step.) Michael!

Baldwin.

(In an ecstasy of glee.) The wrong man! Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!

(He doubles up with laughter. Lady Patricia and Michael regard him in silent amazement and consternation.)

Lady Patricia.

(To Michael.) I’m afraid he’s——

(Touches her forehead.)

Michael.

Good God!...

Lady Patricia.

(Gently.) Don’t you think it’s better you went now, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!

Michael.

You ought to stay in bed to-morrow.

Baldwin.

Bed, sir?...

Lady Patricia.

Or sit quietly in the sweet sunshine at your cottage door.

Baldwin.

Yes’m....

Lady Patricia.

Good-night, Baldwin.

Baldwin.

Good-night, mum. Good-night, sir.

(He walks stolidly to the ladder on the left; then, just before descending, starts once more guffawing and continues as he descends. Lady Patricia and Michael look at each other in pitying astonishment.)

Lady Patricia.

Poor old man! I fear he is breaking up at last!

Michael.

God forgive me, dearest; I thought he had been drinking.

Lady Patricia.

Let us make the twilight of his long day full of peace and fragrance.

Michael.

He shall never want.

(A nightingale begins its song in the distance.)

Lady Patricia.

Ah, listen! Ah, listen, dear heart!

Michael.

The nightingale.

Lady Patricia.

We have not far to go, you and I, to reach that land where music and moonlight and feeling are one!

Michael.

Music and moonlight and feeling——

Lady Patricia.

Are one....

Michael.

Sweet bird!

(A pause. They listen “emparadised in one another’s arms.”)

Lady Patricia.

But where have you been, dearest? For the last half-hour I have been looking for you down shadowy paths and by moonlit waters.

Michael.

And I for you.

Lady Patricia.

Cousin Bill went indoors as he had something he wished to say to his mother. So I seized the opportunity to find you.

Michael.

Miss Lesley left me to speak to her father—and I thought I would snatch a beautiful moment with my wife.

Lady Patricia.

Cousin Bill said he would come back to me in a moment.

Michael.

Miss Lesley too. I’m afraid they may be hunting for us.

Lady Patricia.

Poor children! But they will forgive us when they know we have been together—and so happy. Tell me, dear, why were you looking so fixedly up the tree when I came just now?

(Michael looks apprehensively towards the tree.)

Michael.

I—I was looking for a nightingale.

Lady Patricia.

A nightingale?...

Michael.

Yes.

Lady Patricia.

I thought for a moment some one had climbed the tree, as you seemed to be speaking up into it.

Michael.

I was making fluting sounds so as to encourage the bird to sing.

Lady Patricia.

How clever of you, dear! And now it’s singing in the bushes near the pond.

Michael.

Perhaps I frightened it out of the tree.

Lady Patricia.

Perhaps you did.... Darling.

Michael.

Yes?

Lady Patricia.

Has it ever occurred to you that child may misconstrue your beautiful friendship for her?

Michael.

(Startled.) Clare!

Lady Patricia.

(Coldly.) Clare?

Michael.

Er—Miss Lesley?

Lady Patricia.

Yes.

Michael.

Oh, Patricia, how can you think such a thing! Our friendship is like the friendship of two men or two women, the elder tenderly guiding the younger towards a higher, saner, nobler, larger view of life. (He glances apprehensively at the tree.)

Lady Patricia.

Exquisite! Ideal! But haven’t you noticed, Michael, that the child no longer accepts your companionship with the same frank pleasure as before? I have watched her lately. It seems to me as though she were always trying to avoid you.

Michael.

(Roused.) Avoid me! Clare!

Lady Patricia.

Do you call her by her Christian name?

Michael.

Only in moments of excitement. Avoid me! Impossible!

Lady Patricia.

No, dear, not impossible. And when a girl pointedly avoids a man, it too often means—pursue me.

Michael.

(Distinctly relieved.) Ah!... Ah! yes. But I think you must be mistaken.

Lady Patricia.

Indeed, I hope so. But you must be careful. You are so attractive, Michael.

Michael.

Oh, nonsense, darling!... Strangely enough, a week or two ago I was on the point of warning you in just the same way.

Lady Patricia.

Warning me?

Michael.

I used to watch that boy’s eyes when he looked at you. They were the eyes of a loving spaniel.

Lady Patricia.

Cousin Bill’s?

Michael.

Yes; and I felt sorry for him. But I think his infatuation was only temporary.

Lady Patricia.

(Sharply.) Temporary? What do you mean?

Michael.

He no longer sits at your feet and follows you about as much as he used to.

Lady Patricia.

You are quite wrong. His cousinly affection is the same now as it ever was. He was never in any way infatuated.

Michael.

How could he help it, dearest? You are so wonderful!

Lady Patricia.

Am I? I wonder! (A pause.) I think we really ought to join the others now, dearest.

Michael.

(With a glance into the tree.) Very well.

(Lady Patricia, who has moved towards the ladder on the left, turns and notices Michael’s upward gaze.)

Lady Patricia.

What is it, dear?

Michael.

I—I was looking for a star.

Lady Patricia.

Which star?

Michael.

Arcturus.

Lady Patricia.

But Arcturus is low in the west.

Michael.

How stupid of me!

(They go out. The stage is empty for a moment. The nightingale sings on. Then Baldwin enters—hurriedly for him—up the central ladder. He goes—softly for him—to the summer-house, after carefully looking over the edge of the platform to see that the coast is quite clear. He listens, nods his head, and grins. Then he taps gently on the door and listens again. Receiving no reply, he taps once more and listens. Finally he speaks in a husky whisper.)

Baldwin.

It’s all right, sir. It’s all right, miss. They’ve gorne. (The summer-house remains silent.) They’ve gorne.... It’s all right, sir. (Taps at the door.) They’ve gorne. (Taps again after a pause.) They’ve gorne....

(The door suddenly flies open.)

Bill.

(In the doorway.) What the devil d’you want, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

Beg pardon, sir?

Bill.

What do you want?

Baldwin.

They’ve gorne, sir.

Bill.

I can’t help that, can I?

Baldwin.

No, sir.

Bill.

Well, then?

Baldwin.

You see, sir, it’s like this. I thought as ’ow——

Clare.

(Invisible in the dark interior of the summer-house.) Oh, Baldwin, for the love of heaven, hook it!

Baldwin.

’Ook it?

Clare.

Yes; run away, like a dear.

Baldwin.

Very good, miss.

Bill.

(Speaking into the summer-house.) Darling.

Clare.

(In the summer-house.) You’ve pulled all my hair down——

Bill.

Oh, I——

Clare.

I’ve lost at least six hair-pins. You needn’t have been so rough.

Bill.

I’m awfully sorry, darling—but—— (He is about to re-enter the summer-house.)

Clare.

No, stay where you are....

Bill.

Darling——

Clare.

Don’t touch me....

Bill.

Clare!...

Clare.

Please find those hair-pins, and the two side-combs. They’re all real tortoise-shell.

Bill.

But I say——

Clare.

Find those hair-pins, or, at any rate, the side-combs.

Bill.

Oh, all right....

Bill.

(Half to himself while searching.) Here are a couple.... By Jove! one of ’em’s got rammed tight behind the seat.... Another—that’s three.... Four!... I’ve found one of the side-combs.... I say, they are jolly pretty!... Where the deuce has t’other one got to?... Oh, Lord, I’m awfully sorry! It’s smashed. I put my clumsy hoof on it.... (He joins her at the front of the platform.)

Clare.

It’s all right....

Bill.

But—— (Looks at her with puzzled eyes.) I say, darling, is anything the matter with you? (Puts his arm around her.) A moment ago——

Clare.

(Freeing herself.) You must never call me that again.

Bill.

Call you what?

Clare.

“Darling.”

Bill.

But——

Clare.

Or put your arm round me....

Bill.

But——

Clare.

(Passionately.) Oh, Bill, I was mad—I lost my head—I forgot.... It was so—so thrilling in there.... I should never have let you—I should never have let you....

Bill.

But I—I only kissed you.

Clare.

You—you——

Bill.

And told you that I loved you.

Clare.

Yes....

Bill.

And you said you loved me....

Clare.

I didn’t!

Bill.

You kissed me.

Clare.

That’s not the same thing.

Bill.

Then you don’t love me?

Clare.

I never said so.

Bill.

Do you love me, Clare?

Clare.

I should never have kissed you if I didn’t.

Bill.

Clare! (Tries to take her in his arms.)

Clare.

(Decidedly.) No....

Bill.

No?...

Clare.

I am not free.

Bill.

Not ... free.... Then you’re—you’re—engaged?

Clare.

No.

Bill.

No?... But——

Clare.

I am not free.

Bill.

But you’re not engaged?

Clare.

No.

Bill.

Clare! You don’t mean—you can’t mean that you are married?...

Clare.

Married?

Bill.

Yes—married!

Clare.

Don’t be silly.

Bill.

That’s no answer. Are you married?

Clare.

Of course I’m not.

Bill.

You’re neither engaged nor married—but you’re not free to marry me. What does it all mean?

Clare.

You must be content with that.

Bill.

Must I? Then you don’t know me. I’ll give you no rest—I’ll persecute you night and day till I get at the truth.

Clare.

(After a pause.) You may be right, Bill; perhaps I do owe you an explanation since I allowed you to kiss me....

Bill.

And kissed me....

Clare.

(Tragically.) I belong to another man....

Bill.

But you said just now——

Clare.

Whom I can never marry....

Bill.

What!

Clare.

Because he is already married.

Bill.

(Horrified.) Clare! you—you——

Clare.

(Loftily.) Our bond is purely of the spirit.

Bill.

Eh?

Clare.

(Unconsciously imitating Michael’s manner.) He is a noble and high-souled gentleman. His life is one long self-sacrifice for the woman whom he married. She loves him, and for her sake he fought against his love for me. But that love mastered him: he confessed it. I told him it was returned, though I know now it was the pity and friendship I felt for him which I mistook for love. We promised to be true to each other. I cannot—I dare not break my promise. My love is all he has to make life bearable....

Bill.

Great—Scott!

Clare.

(Coldly.) I beg your pardon?

Bill.

I say, Clare, d’you know I’ve made an ass of myself in just the same way as you!

Clare.

An ass?... Will you kindly explain yourself.

Bill.

I had no right to tell you I loved you, because I am bound to another woman.

Clare.

Not—not to a married woman?

Bill.

A married woman....

Clare.

Oh, how dreadful!

Bill.

Our bond is purely of the spirit.

Clare.

Oh?... What is she like?

Bill.

Noble and high-souled like your——

Clare.

Is she pretty?

Bill.

Oh, yes, she——

Clare.

Did you love her?

Bill.

Till I met you five weeks ago I believe I did. Then I—— Anyhow, I’m afraid I’ll have to stick to her. If I threw her over now I don’t know what the poor woman would do.

Clare.

You have a pretty high notion of your attractions.

Bill.

And you of yours.

Clare.

You appear to forget that I am a woman.

She’s coming here!...

Clare.

Well?... (With dawning comprehension. She seizes his arm.) Bill—you don’t mean to say that she——

That’s he!

Bill.

(Staring at her.) That’s Michael.... Good God! Clare, it’s not—it’s not Michael that you——

Clare.

Hush!... They’re going past....

Bill.

(In a fierce undertone.) The blackguard!

Clare.

What do you mean?

Bill.

If I hadn’t been a blind fool, I would have seen through this precious friendship for you long ago. It never dawned on me that the fellow was such a scoundrel. And a precious hypocrite, too, by Jove! Playing up so as to make that poor, trusting woman believe him madly in love with her....

Clare.

That poor, trusting woman? Are you, by any chance, speaking of Patricia?

Bill.

Of course I am. Hanging about her neck while all the time he’s making love to an innocent girl! It’s perfectly disgusting!

Clare.

And what has your noble, high-souled Patricia been doing, I should like to know? Shamming infatuation for poor Michael to hide her shameful flirtation with a callow boy.

Bill.

It was not a shameful flirtation—and I’m no more a callow boy than you are.

Clare.

What amazes me is that you should ever have allowed yourself to be fooled by a shallow, deceitful poseuse like Patricia.

Bill.

She hasn’t fooled me. She’s deeply and truly in love with me.

Clare.

Contradiction isn’t argument: it’s merely rude.

Bill.

If it had been any one else but Michael there might have been some excuse for you. But Michael! How could you? A dull, priggish ass——

Clare.

He’s not a dull, priggish ass!

Bill.

Contradiction isn’t argument: it’s merely rude.

Clare.

How dare you speak to me like that!

Bill.

(Sulkily.) I beg your pardon.

Clare.

(After a pause.) I don’t think there’s anything more to be said.

Bill.

Neither do I.

Clare.

Nothing.

Bill.

Nothing.

Clare.

Things must remain as they are.

Bill.

Yes, I suppose they must.

Clare.

Of course, any one who was at all unprejudiced would see at once the—the higher morality of my decision.

Bill.

The what?

Clare.

The higher morality. Michael has often told me that our pure love and the fact that he does his duty as best he can to his wife are the only things that keep him from suicide....

Bill.

(Under his breath.) Bosh!

Clare.

I beg your pardon?

Bill.

Nothing.... It’s awfully funny to think of Michael spooning away with you and Patricia and boring you both to death without knowing it.

Clare.

I don’t see that it’s any funnier than Patricia doing the same with you and Michael.

Bill.

Well, anyhow, I shall have to stick to Patricia—not because of “higher morality”—whatever that means—but because I know she would pine away if I left her now.

Clare.

Tchah!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Well, I find it chilly, Dean—distinctly chilly.

Dean.

For Whitsuntide, dear lady—surely not. True, Whitsuntide is very late this year....

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Why, here’s the child! All alone, my dear? Whatever have you been doing to your hair?

Clare.

It’s such a hot night I had to take it down.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Hot?

Dean.

But, my dear child, you can’t possibly go home like that!

Clare.

I’ll put it up when I get back to the house.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(Perceiving Bill.) Is that my son?

Bill.

(Gloomily.) Hullo, mater....

Dean.

Enchanting night, my boy!

Bill.

(As before.) Awfully jolly....

Mrs. O’Farrel.

And where are the others?

Clare.

I don’t know.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Sentimentalising in the moonlight....

Clare.

I suppose so.

Dean.

(Breezily.) And what have you two been up to?

Bill.

Mootching around.

Clare.

Playing about.

Dean.

Your mother and I thought we’d like a little stroll before going home.

Bill.

Good idea....

Mrs. O’Farrel.

What’s the matter with you both?

Bill and Clare.

The matter?...

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Have you been quarrelling?

Bill and Clare.

Quarrelling?...

Mrs. O’Farrel.

You’re as sulky as two bears.

Bill and Clare.

I?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

As two bears. Aren’t they, Dean?

Dean.

Sulky? No, no; surely not sulky! Chastened! Thoughtful! A little overcome, perhaps, by the beauty of the night—as all sensitive young souls should be.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

H’m!... Sensitive young souls!...

Lady Patricia.

All of you? But how charming! How delightful!

Dean.

Dear Lady Patricia!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

What have you been doing with yourselves?

Lady Patricia.

Looking at the guelder-roses in the moonlight, and wondering whether they were guelder-roses at all or great pearls.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Personally I should say they were guelder-roses.

Lady Patricia.

Ah, but dear Aunt Eileen, how can you tell what pranks the fairies may not play on such a night as this?

Dean.

What an exquisite fancy!

Bill.

(Who has been looking jealously at Clare and Michael. He speaks defiantly with eyes on Clare.) I say, Cousin Patricia....

Lady Patricia.

Yes, Cousin Bill?

Bill.

If it wouldn’t bother you too much, I wonder if you’d care to take me to have a look at those thingumybob roses. It would be simply corking!

Lady Patricia.

I shall be charmed, Cousin Bill. We’ll settle the question of guelder-rose or pearl together.

Clare.

(In a low voice to Bill as he passes her.) Worm! (In a defiant voice to Michael.) Mr. Cosway, you’ve never shown me the—the what’s-its-name....

Michael.

The spiral nebula in Andromeda? It’s scarcely favourable for a view of the nebula to-night. Shall we look at the mountains of the moon?

Clare.

Thanks awfully.

Lady Patricia.

(To Bill as they descend on the left.) Do you believe in fairies, Cousin Bill?

Michael.

I have often wondered how the night would look if we had nine moons like Jupiter.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

H’m....

Dean.

I beg your pardon?... You were saying?...

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I didn’t say anything. I was thinking.

Dean.

Ah, thinking—yes, thinking.... So was I.... By the way, Eileen, your—er—cherished project for marrying Clare to your son doesn’t appear to be materialising quite—er—satisfactorily.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

No, it doesn’t.

Dean.

Not quite as smoothly as we—as you hoped.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Give me a whisky-and-soda.

Dean.

A whisky——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

And soda.

Go on....

Nearly full.... When!... And you had better take something as well—to fortify yourself against what I am going to say.

Dean.

Ah.... A little soda-water. (Helps himself.) So you are going to be unpleasant, my dear Eileen?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I am. Those two had been quarrelling just now.

Dean.

That was evident—even to me.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

They had been quarrelling bitterly—and I can make a shrewd guess at the cause.

Dean.

I also.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Indeed. Well, I think it’s high time to speak plainly.

Dean.

I quite agree with you.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I’m glad to hear it.... Bill had very evidently been taking your daughter to task for her amazing indiscretions.

Dean.

Amazing indiscretions? Clare’s? Will you kindly be more explicit.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I mean to be. Perhaps you remember some weeks ago I warned you that her intimacy with Michael Cosway ought to be stopped?

Dean.

Certainly. And I took leave to disagree with you entirely.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Well, you were wrong. You should immediately have put an end to this intimacy—to use the mildest word for her friendship with Michael.

Dean.

Mrs. O’Farrel, is it possible you are speaking of my daughter?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

And it’s your duty to put an end to it at once. I only hope that you may not be too late.

Dean.

This—this—this is beyond anything!... Perhaps you will be so good——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Now then, Dean, pray don’t lose your temper. It’s neither wise nor becoming, and at our age very bad for the heart. Listen to me quietly for a moment. I refused for a long time to believe any ill of this—er—friendship. I knew Michael to be infatuated with his wife, and Clare to be a healthy-minded girl. But last week Emily Fitzgerald told me she had seen Michael walking in the Stanton Woods with his arm around Clare’s shoulder. She added that the affair was becoming quite notorious in the neighbourhood.... You must act, and act at once.

Dean.

Is that all? So you condescend to listen to the tittle-tattle of a notorious old gossip like Emily Fitzgerald? Upon my word I’m ashamed of you!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Dean! Have you taken leave of your senses?

Dean.

I might well put that question to you, Mrs. O’Farrel. But I refrain from vulgar tu quoque repartee. I have no more to say except to warn you that before looking after the morals of my daughter, you had far better look after those of your son.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

My son?

Dean.

Precisely—your son.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

What do you mean?

Dean.

I and others—unlike yourself, I will not drag in the names of outsiders—have for some time past watched your son and Lady Patricia with grief and dismay.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Patricia!

Dean.

Just now you believed your son had been impertinently taking Clare to task for her charming friendship with Michael Cosway. I am convinced you were mistaken. It was Clare who had been warning your son that his indiscretions were becoming the talk of the place.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Bill entangled with Patricia! And Clare—Clare preaching propriety! It’s too laughable! A boy’s innocent homage for a woman at least ten years his senior! You’re a very foolish old man.

Dean.

Again I put away from me the tu quoque retort.... Add two and two together. I don’t for a moment blame her. I can’t find it in my heart to blame her. The dear and beautiful creature is as God made her: exquisitely sensitive, sentimental and infinitely affectionate.... But I warn you, Mrs. O’Farrel, I warn you.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I refuse to hear another word. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!... And the saddest part of the whole affair is my poor boy’s undoubted affection for your daughter.

Dean.

Affection for Clare! I don’t believe it!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Are you his mother?

Dean.

Certainly not!... But I have watched him—with the result that I am convinced of his infatuation for Lady Patricia.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Fiddle-sticks!

Dean.

And I may as well tell you, though you will not believe it, that my poor girl’s affections are centred on your son.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Oh, dam’ foolishness!

Dean.

This has gone far enough, Mrs. O’Farrel.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Quite far enough. I am going home.

Dean.

So am I.

(Followed by the Dean, Mrs. O’Farrel moves towards the central ladder. Suddenly he stops, hurries on tiptoe to the back, and looks cautiously over the railing. He whispers:)