Lady Patricia: A comedy in three acts
Date: 2019-10-10T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: English drama (Comedy)

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Title: Lady Patricia: A comedy in three acts

Author: Rudolf Besier

Release date: October 10, 2019 [eBook #60465]
Most recently updated: October 17, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Clarity and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet
Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LADY PATRICIA: A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS ***

PLAYS OF TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW

LADY PATRICIA

PLAYS OF TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

DON. By Rudolf Besier.

“Mr. Besier is a man who can see and think for himself, and constructs as setting for the result of that activity a form of his own. The construction of ‘Don’ is as daring as it is original.”—Mr. Max Beerbohm in The Saturday Review.

“It is a fresh and moving story ... and full of good things.”—Mr. A. B. Walkley in The Times.

“‘Don’ is a genuine modern comedy, rich in observation and courage, and will add to the author’s reputation as a sincere dramatist.”—Mr. E. F. Spence in The Westminster Gazette.

“If the essence of drama be conflict, the wrestle of will, then ‘Don,’ by Rudolf Besier, comes as near as any play I know to essential drama. It is a sparring match in heaven knows how many rounds.”—Mr. William Archer in The Nation.

THE EARTH. By James B. Fagan.

“A magnificent play—at one and the same time a vital and fearless attack on political fraud, and a brilliantly written strong human drama. Moreover, the lighter interludes are written with a brilliance and a polished humour with which one had not credited Mr. Fagan hitherto”—The Daily Chronicle.

“‘The Earth’ must conquer every one by its buoyant irony, its pungent delineations, and not least by its rich stores of simple and wholesome moral feeling.... The credit may be equally divided between the vivacity and iridescence of its witty and trenchant dialogue and the tenacious grip of its searching and most substantial issues.”—The Pall Mall Gazette.

“An interesting and remarkable achievement.”—The Westminster Gazette.

LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN.
NEW YORK: DUFFIELD & CO.

LADY
PATRICIA

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS

BY
RUDOLF BESIER
Author of “Don”

NEW YORK: DUFFIELD & COMPANY
36-38 WEST 37th STREET

TO
ELIZABETH FAGAN

(All rights reserved.)

CHARACTERS

- Dean Lesley
- Michael Cosway
- William O’Farrel (Bill)
- Baldwin
- Ellis
- John
- Lady Patricia Cosway
- Mrs. O’Farrel
- Clare Lesley

The Cast of the play as it was produced at the Haymarket Theatre, London, on March 22, 1911, under the management of Mr. Herbert Trench.

Dean Lesley | Mr. Eric Lewis
Michael Cosway | Mr. Arthur Wontner
Bill O’Farrel | Mr. Charles Maude
Baldwin | Mr. C. V. France
Ellis | Mr. Dickson Kenwin
John | Mr. Norman Page
Lady Patricia Cosway | Mrs. Patrick Campbell
Mrs. O’Farrel | Miss Rosina Filippi
Clare Lesley | Miss Athene Seyler

SCENERY

The First Act.

The platform and summer-house built on an oak-tree in the grounds of “Ultima Thule,” Michael Cosway’s country seat at Norman Arches.

The Second Act.

The same.

The Third Act.

The Deanery garden, Norman Arches.

Five weeks elapse between Acts I. and II., and one night between Acts II. and III.

CAUTION

Professionals and Amateurs are hereby warned that “LADY PATRICIA,” being fully protected under the Copyright Laws of the United States, is subject to royalty, and anyone presenting the play without the consent of the author or his authorized agent will be liable to the penalties by law provided. Application for the right to produce “LADY PATRICIA” must be made to Charles Frohman, Empire Theatre, New York City.

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED]

THE FIRST ACT

The scene shows the summer-house and platform built in an oak-tree at “Ultima Thule.” The stage, slightly raised, represents the platform. In the right-hand corner is the summer-house, built on branches a few feet higher than the platform. The entrance to the platform is through a square hole, reached by a ladder from beneath. The tree, a vast, ancient, and mossy oak, comes straight through the centre of the platform, its branches spreading aloft in every direction.

(Lady Patricia, in a loose and exquisite costume, lies full length in a deck-chair, reading aloud from some beautiful vellum MSS. She is a woman of about thirty-five, languid, elegant, exotic, romantic, and sentimental. Beside her is a tall vase with arum-lilies and a table with a samovar. It is a late afternoon in May.)

Lady Patricia.

(Reading with fine feeling.)

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life shall I command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forebore—
Thy touch upon the palm——

(Ellis, the footman, enters carrying a tray with a cup and saucer, and some sliced lemon. Lady Patricia raises her hand to command silence. He stands rigid. She continues with scarcely a break:)

The widest land

Doom takes to part us, leaves thy hand in mine,

With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee as the wine
Must taste of its own grape. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two....

(A pause; she repeats in a deep voice)

And sees within my eyes the tears of two ...

... the tears of two....

What is it, Browning?

(Ellis stands motionless; a pause; she looks round at him.)

Did I call you Browning? How absurd! I meant Ellis.... Oh, the tea! Yes, of course. Please put everything near me on the table.

(He does so.)

(She repeats dreamily) ... the tears of two....

Ellis.

I beg your pardon, my lady?

Lady Patricia.

Nothing. I will look after myself.

(Ellis turns to go.)

Oh, Ellis....

Ellis.

Yes, my lady?

Lady Patricia.

You have brought only one cup.

Ellis.

I thought you were taking tea by yourself, my lady.

Lady Patricia.

Please bring another cup.

Ellis.

Yes, my lady. And milk and cream, my lady?

Lady Patricia.

Milk and cream.... (After a dreamy pause.) Yes, I am afraid so. But don’t put it on the table. Hide it in the summer-house. And will you send Baldwin to me?

Ellis.

Yes, my lady.

(He goes out.)

Lady Patricia.

(Turns over the pages of a MS., and then reads with thrilling beauty.)

When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me,
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress-tree.
Be green the grass above me,
With showers and dewdrops wet,
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain,
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain.
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise or set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.

(With dramatic emphasis.)

When I am dead, my dearest——

(Enter Baldwin, a gardener of about seventy, heavy, slow, phlegmatic.)

Baldwin.

(In spite of Lady Patricia’s raised hand.) Beg pardon, m’lady?

Lady Patricia.

Sing no sad songs—— (Fretfully.) Oh, Baldwin, what do you want?

Baldwin.

Mr. Ellis said as you wished to speak to me, mum.

Lady Patricia.

Mr. Ellis?... Oh, yes, I remember now. What is it I wanted to tell you?

Baldwin.

Mr. Ellis didn’t make mention, m’lady.

Lady Patricia.

How stupid of him! (She regards Baldwin dreamily.) Baldwin....

Baldwin.

Yes, ’um?

Lady Patricia.

You ought to be very happy.

Baldwin.

Yes, ’um.

Lady Patricia.

Very happy. Because you are a gardener. I can imagine no calling more beautiful. You are the father of innumerable children, and they are all lovely.

Baldwin.

Thank ’ee, m’lady. I’ve ’ad thirteen—and two of ’em by my first wife.

Lady Patricia.

Thir-teen!... Good heavens, Baldwin, what are you talking about?

Baldwin.

You made mention of my family, m’lady.

Lady Patricia.

Oh, but I meant the flowers you tend and rear. The gillyflowers and eglantine, myrtle, rosemary, columbine, and daffydowndillies. Not—how strange and dreadful! Thirteen!

Baldwin.

I’ve ’eard tell that thirteen’s an unlucky number, m’lady. But I ain’t suspicious.

Lady Patricia.

Suspicious?

Baldwin.

Yes, ’um. And if I was, fac’s won’t change for the wishin’. Thirteen’s the number, and thirteen it’s like to remain, seeing as Mrs. Baldwin’s turned sixty-three.

Lady Patricia.

I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you’re talking about.

Baldwin.

I——

Lady Patricia.

You needn’t repeat it.... Oh, I remember now why I sent for you, Baldwin. I wonder if, without hurting the beauty of the tree, you could open a window to the sunset?

Baldwin.

Open a winder?...

Lady Patricia.

You don’t understand me? Let me put it differently! I should like you to cut away some of the foliage so that I can watch the sun dropping behind the hills.

Baldwin.

Yes, m’lady. But——

Lady Patricia.

I know what you are going to say. When we built this place in the tree, I gave you special directions not to touch the western foliage as it hid the view of Ashurst Manor, which I found distressingly unsightly. Yes! But since my aunt, Mrs. O’Farrel, has taken the house, it seems to me far less offensive. Likes and dislikes are, after all, so much a matter of temperament and association! The former owner was an impossible person.

Baldwin.

The Scotch gentleman?

Lady Patricia.

He was a Jew, Baldwin, though his name was Mackintosh. I don’t wish to speak of him. When you cut the foliage, please use restraint and feeling. On no account disfigure the tree. Watch from this spot the sun going down, and lop away a little branch here and a little branch there, so as to give me some perfect glimpses of gold and rose.

(Ellis enters with cup and saucer, milk, cream, whisky, soda, and a tumbler.)

Baldwin.

Yes, ’m.

Lady Patricia.

(To Ellis.) What have you got there?

Ellis.

The cup and saucer and the milk and cream, my lady. And I thought I had better bring whisky and soda as well, my lady.

Lady Patricia.

I never told you to. I wish you wouldn’t be so enterprising. Please hide it with the cream in the summer-house. (Ellis does so.) So you think I can safely trust you with this important piece of work, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

Yes, ’m.

(Ellis goes out.)

Lady Patricia.

Do it as soon as possible, as I shall often be sitting here during these adorable summer evenings—

(Bill O’Farrel enters during the rest of her sentence. He is a wholesome, typically English young man of about twenty-six.)

—and I couldn’t bear to miss many sunsets like yesterday’s.

Bill.

Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

(Without rising.) Bill!

Bill.

(Seizing her hands.) Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

Bill!... That will do, Baldwin.

Bill.

Quite well, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

Pretty middlin’, Mr. O’Farrel, sir, thank you.... Then it don’t matter showin’ up Ashurst Manor, m’lady?

Bill.

(With a laugh, to Patricia.) Hullo! what’s this?

Lady Patricia.

No, no, Baldwin! I wish to see it. It has suddenly grown beautiful! A fairy palace!

Bill.

Great Scott!

Baldwin.

Yes, ’m. But——

Lady Patricia.

That will do, Baldwin.

Baldwin.

Yes, ’m.

(He goes out.)

Bill.

What’s this about Ashurst?

Lady Patricia.

I have asked Baldwin to cut away some of those branches so that I can see it. I used to loathe the sight of the house. Then your mother bought it, and I liked it. I love it now that you have come to stay there.... You may kiss me, Bill.

Bill.

May I?

(He kisses her forehead.)

Lady Patricia.

You may kiss me again.

Bill.

May I?

(He kisses her cheek.)

Lady Patricia.

You may kiss me again.

Bill.

Patricia!

(He kisses her mouth.)

Lady Patricia.

(Clinging to him.) Oh, how I’ve longed for this moment—how I’ve longed for it!... All these weary months I’ve lived in the past and future, on memories and anticipations. Now, at last I have the present—I have reality—you—to have and to hold—you—you.... Kiss me.

Bill.

(Embracing her ardently.) Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

Hush! (Disengaging herself.) We mustn’t be foolish.... Sit down.... (He sits at her feet.) So you got my telegram?

Bill.

Directly the boat came alongside. But it took me a deuce of a time to make out! My French is a bit rusty, and the rotters had jumbled up some of the words. As it is, I only made out the gist of it—to take an earlier train from London than I’d intended, and to call on you before going on to Ashurst, as I’d find you alone in a summer-house you’d built on some tree or other. The twiddly bits of the message didn’t somehow seem to make sense....

Lady Patricia.

The ... twiddly bits?

Bill.

Yes; something about a star in red water, and horses with white manes. Couldn’t make it out at all.

Lady Patricia.

That was a quotation from De Musset, my poor boy.

Bill.

Great Scott! I thought it was a cypher. People don’t generally quote poetry in their telegrams.

Lady Patricia.

I do.

Bill.

In any case, it seemed to me a bit rash of you to send the wire at all—even in French.

Lady Patricia.

Oh, did it? As a matter of fact, I used French, not to conceal the message, but because the language seemed to me so beautifully appropriate for making a clandestine meeting.

Bill.

By Jove! Fancy thinking of that!

Lady Patricia.

To sin beautifully is the less a sin. Don’t forget, dear, that, however innocent, our love is wrong. We should never neglect an opportunity of ennobling it with little touches of beauty, should we?

Bill.

Rather not!... So Michael’s away?

Lady Patricia.

Only this afternoon. He has gone to a garden party at the Fitzgeralds’. Your mother’s there as well. Everybody’s there. But I wanted to see you for a little while before any one else, so I sent you that wire and pretended a headache. A petty deceit that avenged itself! For directly I told it, I felt a slight twinge of neuralgia.

Bill.

Hard luck! But it’s better, dear, isn’t it?

Lady Patricia.

I suppose it is. But you mustn’t say “hard luck.” My life, alas! is so full of deceits that when one of them is punished, I always try to be grateful. But tell me now, about yourself—everything that has happened these last months. Your letters have been too full of facts to tell me anything. And I do so long to hear all your news....

Bill.

Patricia....

Lady Patricia.

Yes, dear?

Bill.

What an awfully good woman you are!

Lady Patricia.

Am I?... I wonder!

Bill.

And your eyes are simply ripping.

Lady Patricia.

Are they?

Bill.

And your hands, by Jove!

Lady Patricia.

What of my hands, dear?

Bill.

They’re simply ripping.

Lady Patricia.

Dear heart! (Stroking his head.) Dear soft hair. But I’m waiting.

Bill.

Oh yes, I forgot. But there really ain’t much to tell that I haven’t told you in my letters. I arrived in New York on a Saturday after an awfully jolly passage. Those big Cunarders are corking boats. Had a bit of a dust-up at the Customs, but I squared the chap with a ten-dollar bill. A chap on board advised me to put up at the Waldorf-Astoria. He told me it was one of their swaggerest hotels, but I must say——

Lady Patricia.

(Laughing.) Yes, yes, dear, you’ve told me all that before! And about the nigger waiter whose thumb was always in the soup—and the Californian peach as big as a baby’s head—and the factory that was burned down in Chicago—and the card-sharper who tried to swindle you at poker, “but he got hold of the wrong chap, by Jove!”—and so many other thrilling details. (Almost with passion, taking his face in her hands.) You darling! Oh, you darling!

Bill.

I thought I’d told you everything.

Lady Patricia.

Of course you did—everything. (With far-off eyes.) I wonder why I am so foolish as to expect the essentials from you—those labourings of the soul at midnight, yearnings, ecstasies, and long, long thoughts under the stars. If you had been capable of these I should never have loved you. It’s just your simplicity and eternal boyishness that took my heart. Poor Michael’s spiritual nature, his dreams, his subtlety, his devotion, never touched me deeper than the intellect. I mistook sympathy for love—I seemed to have found a kindred spirit—I married him. Yes! we are all born to suffer and endure.... Which reminds me, my poor dear boy, you must be dying for tea. (Pouring out the tea.) I hope you had some lunch?

Bill.

Rather! I had a luncheon-basket in the train, and put away the best part of a chicken, among other things.

Lady Patricia.

How young and hungry you are!

(Hands him a cup of tea with a lemon slice in the saucer.)

Bill.

I say!...

Lady Patricia.

Yes, dear?

Bill.

Have you any milk or cream?

Lady Patricia.

(Sorrowfully.) Oh, Bill!...

Bill.

I can’t help it. This Russian mess ain’t a Christian drink. I can’t think how you can swallow it.

Lady Patricia.

I don’t suppose I like it any better than you, dear. But the mixture of cream and tea, as I have often told you, produces an odious colour—and I refuse to encourage it. You should try to do likewise.... However, you will find cream in the summer-house.

Bill.

Right-ho! (Goes into summer-house.) Hullo! Good man! Here’s whisky-and-soda. (Talking in the summer-house, half to himself, half to her.) That’s the stuff! Nothing like a syphonated spot when one’s got a real thirst! No tea for me, thanks.

Lady Patricia.

(To herself, smiling.) Dear babbler....

Bill.

(Coming down, a glassful in his hand.) Here’s to you, Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

(In a deep voice, looking into eternity.) We are all born to suffer, to endure, to renounce....

Bill.

Oh, well! I’ll drink that Russian stuff if you like.

Lady Patricia.

I was not thinking of tea. I was thinking of life.

Bill.

(Unfeignedly relieved.) Yes, it’s an awfully hard world. (Takes a long draught.) By Jove, that’s clinking good!

Lady Patricia.

It becomes more and more difficult to play my part, and return Michael’s love, which seems to grow stronger and deeper day by day. His eyes follow my every movement, his mind anticipates my every wish, he surrounds me with an atmosphere of passionate worship. Few women have ever received such love. It is the love that poets dream of—the love that must follow those marriages that are made in heaven.

Bill.

Good Lord, it’s awfully rough on you!

Lady Patricia.

I think and I think and I think, but I can see no solution to the mystery. Surely love is the best gift of God, and that such love as Michael’s—so noble, so pure, so unselfish—should be utterly wasted, is inconceivable. It must be that I am unworthy.

(She pauses expectantly.)

Bill.

And it puts me in such a rotten position. If Michael treated you badly, I shouldn’t care a rap how much I made love to you.

Lady Patricia.

(With slight asperity.) Can it be that I am unworthy?

Bill.

As it is I often feel such a beastly cad....

Lady Patricia.

Then you think me unworthy?

Bill.

I?

Lady Patricia.

You never denied it.

Bill.

But I didn’t know you wanted me to! You’re worthy of anything! You know that!

Lady Patricia.

Dear, dear boy! But am I? I wonder! Heaven only knows how desperately I tried to love him, and when I found it impossible, how I never faltered in pretending a love equal to his. And I knew that it would kill him should he learn the truth. But if the part I played was difficult before you came, after you came, and I knew what love was, it was almost beyond my power. And yet I drew strength somehow, not only to resist temptation and keep our love pure, but never by word, deed, or expression to let Michael suspect for one moment that his devotion was not returned. Yes! I think a woman who has done all this cannot be altogether unworthy.

Bill.

You’re—you’re a saint—you’re an angel!

Lady Patricia.

Am I? I wonder!

Bill.

You really are!

Lady Patricia.

Dear, inarticulate boy!... And, Bill, remember this. We have put our hands to the plough, and there must be no turning back. The martyrdom which must be lifelong has only just begun. I feel I shall find strength to play my bitter rôle to the final curtain. For I love renunciation, endurance, and purity. They are such exquisite virtues. And virtue is very beautiful.... But you are made of more earthly materials, my poor boy. Do you realise that your love must always remain unsatisfied? Can you love me without the faintest hope of more reward than a look, a touch, a kiss?...

Bill.

That’s all right, Patricia. Don’t you worry about me.

Lady Patricia.

But you are young and vigorous and passionate....

Bill.

That’s all right!

Lady Patricia.

I can only offer you the shadow; your nature will some day cry out for the substance.

Bill.

Not it!

Lady Patricia.

Ah, if only I had the strength and courage to bid you good-bye for ever!

Bill.

I shouldn’t go.

Lady Patricia.

Ah, Bill!...

(She invites his caress with a beautiful movement. Kneeling beside her, he gathers her in his arms and kisses her. At that moment Baldwin enters, carrying a saw and a pair of shears. They are blissfully unconscious of his presence. He glances at them with complete indifference, then comes down looking carefully at the sky on the right, his head dodging from side to side as though he were spying for something among the branches.)

Baldwin.

If you please, ’m....

(Bill, with an inarticulate cry, starts to his feet.)

Bill.

What the devil are you doing here?

Lady Patricia.

(Calmly.) Well, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

If you please, m’lady, I thought as I ’ad best watch the sun early. It’s close on six ’m, and I thought as p’raps you’d like some branches lopped ’igher up. The sun’s a fine sight at six, mum—much more light in it than a hour later, an’ it’s a neasier job loppin’ they ’igher branches than them out there, as I shan’t need no ladder.

Bill.

Quite mad!

Lady Patricia.

I don’t want to sit here and look at the sun through a pair of smoked glasses. You may return here when the sun is lower.

Baldwin.

Yes, m’lady. But——

Lady Patricia.

Go away....

Baldwin.

Yes, ’m.

(He goes out.)

Lady Patricia.

Very tiresome, isn’t he?

Bill.

I don’t half like the old ass catching us like that.

Lady Patricia.

Catching us?

Bill.

Yes, fairly caught us in the act....

Lady Patricia.

Bill!

Bill.

Well, he must have seen me kiss you. I don’t half like it.

Lady Patricia.

How very bourgeois you are!

Bill.

Well, I don’t know about that. But——

Lady Patricia.

Not bourgeois, then! No, no! Young and self-conscious! Fancy getting red and embarrassed because a gardener saw you looking affectionate!... Dear, dear boy!... Now sit down again and listen. I caught an impression of the sunset yesterday, a few lines, but I believe they are precious—not precieux—precious in the true sense of the word.... Don’t you hate this modern artistic jargon?

Bill.

Rather!

Lady Patricia.

Listen.... (She recites.)

A dreamy blue invests the lonely hill,
Far off against the orient green and cold;
Silence declines upon these branches old;
The level land is still;
The lofty azure deepens; faintlier glows
The delicate beauty of the sunset rose;
And pensive grey encroaches on the gold.

Tenderly coloured, are they not?

Bill.

Yours?

Lady Patricia.

Mine.

Bill.

Ripping!

Lady Patricia.

Ripping.... Oh, how unpleasant! Say that other word instead.

Bill.

What word?

Lady Patricia.

I don’t quite know. Something to do with bottles.

Bill.

Clinking?

Lady Patricia.

No.... Something to do with wine....

Bill.

Oh! you mean—corking.

Lady Patricia.

Yes, corking.

Bill.

Right-ho!

Lady Patricia.

Thank you, dear.... And so you like my lines?

Bill.

They’re corking. And so’s your voice when you read ’em.

Lady Patricia.

(Dreamily.) I write corking verses, and I read them with a corking voice. (With passion.) Oh, Bill! Oh, my dear——

Bill.

Yes?

Lady Patricia.

How I wish that you and I were alone on a little island in the Ægean Archipelago!... Hush! (The sound of a motor in the distance.) Do you hear? A motor-car coming up the drive! You can see if you look through the branches there. (Points to the left.) Be careful, dear. Don’t let any one see you.

Bill.

(Looking over the rail of the platform.) Great Scott!

Lady Patricia.

Yes?

Bill.

It’s the mater’s car, and——

(The sound of the motor stops.)

Lady Patricia.

It’s stopping! Oh, Bill——

Bill.

The mater and Michael, and the Dean—and who’s the jolly-looking girl?

Lady Patricia.

With a face like a naughty boy’s?

Bill.

Yes.

Lady Patricia.

That must be Clare Lesley. Michael has been very kind to her lately. He is trying to give her a serious view of life.

Bill.

I say, you don’t mean to tell me that’s Clare, the Dean’s daughter? Why, I thought she was a flapper!

Lady Patricia.

A flapper?...

Bill.

Yes. When last I saw her, a little more than a year ago, her skirts weren’t much below her knees, and——

Lady Patricia.

Flapper.... What a strange word! How do you spell it? With a “ph”?

Bill.

No, with a double p. Hullo!

(He draws back.)

Lady Patricia.

What is it?

Bill.

They’re all coming here!

Lady Patricia.

No!

Bill.

They are, by Jove! The whole crowd. What shall we do?

Lady Patricia.

Your mother and Michael mustn’t find you here. You must fly!

Bill.

That’s all very well. But where can I go to? They’re bound to spot me if I get down the steps.

Lady Patricia.

Oh, but can’t you climb somewhere up the tree and hide yourself like a bird among the branches?

Bill.

What?...

Lady Patricia.

It’s the only thing to do. And so simple! And so romantic!

Bill.

Yes, that’s all right. But supposing they see me—what am I to say?

Lady Patricia.

Oh, anything! Use a little imagination.... Say you are looking for birds’ eggs. But they won’t see you if you lie along that thick branch up there.

Bill.

Birds’-nesting....

Lady Patricia.

I shall pretend to be asleep.

Bill.

Why?

Lady Patricia.

Why not?

Bill.

(Grumbling as he moves towards the trunk.) I’ll look such a bally ass if they spot me....

Lady Patricia.

Bill!

Bill.

Eh?

Lady Patricia.

This glass mustn’t be found here.

Bill.

By Jove!

(He returns and takes hold of the glass, which is half-full.)

Lady Patricia.

And the cup and saucer....

Bill.

Good Lord!

(He stands helplessly, the cup and saucer in one hand, the glass in the other.)

Lady Patricia.

Put them into your pockets.

Bill.

But——

Lady Patricia.

Quick—quick! (He drinks the whisky.) Now the tea. (He makes as though to throw it away.) No! no! they might see or hear. Drink it.

Bill.

I really couldn’t.

Lady Patricia.

For my sake.

Bill.

(Gulping it down.) Muck! (Making for the tree.) By Jove, they’re nearly here!

Lady Patricia.

(Pointing to the left.) I really must have another ladder built on this side.

Bill.

I hope they won’t see me climbing.

(He starts climbing the tree.)

Lady Patricia.

Be small—for my sake....

(She composes herself elaborately into a sleeping posture. Bill is seen disappearing on high. Voices are audible beneath. A pause.)

Bill.

(He has climbed out of sight.) I say....

Lady Patricia.

S-sh!...

Bill.

It’s all right. They’re standin’ about talkin’. Can you see me?

Lady Patricia.

Where are you?

Bill.

Here.

Lady Patricia.

Oh, yes, I see....

Bill.

The devil you do! What part o’ me?

Lady Patricia.

Er—well—your—your back....

Bill.

Damn! Oh, confound this beastly cup and saucer! They keep on rattling.

Lady Patricia.

Put the saucer in the other pocket.

Bill.

The glass is in the other pocket.

Lady Patricia.

Have you only two pockets?

Bill.

Hush! they’re coming.

(The voices approach. Lady Patricia arranges herself, one hand supporting her face, the other hanging over the side of the chair lightly holding a manuscript. Mrs. O’Farrel enters, followed by Clare Lesley, Dean Lesley, and Michael Cosway. Mrs. O’Farrel is a genuine, downright, humorous lady of fifty-seven; Clare Lesley, the Dean’s daughter, a pretty girl of about twenty; Dean Lesley, a clerical exquisite, who carries his sixty years as lightly as his silver-knobbed stick and monocle; and Michael Cosway, Lady Patricia’s husband, a tall, serious man of thirty-eight.)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(Out of breath.) Ah.... I’m green with envy of you, Dean! You’re at least five years my senior, and your wind is as sound as your doctrines. Look at me! I can’t climb a tree without getting—what’s the word, Clare?

Clare.

Punctured.

Dean.

My dear child!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Scold me, Dean, scold me! I meant the word, but hadn’t the pluck to say it.

(The Dean laughs.)

Michael.

And how do you like our little eyrie, Mrs. O’Farrel?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Charming, Michael, charming! It’s quite worth getting—getting—give me the word, Clare.

Clare.

Winded.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(Laughs and pats Clare’s cheek.) Yes, it’s quite worth getting punctured—and winded—to see the view from here, Michael. How like you and Patricia to think of such a piece of arboreal sentimentality! Now whose idea—— (Perceives Lady Patricia for the first time.) Why, Patricia!

(Michael with an exclamation rushes to Lady Patricia’s side. Clare looks bored.)

Dean.

Delightful!

Michael.

S-sh.... She’s asleep....

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Asleep! I should think she was, for my strident voice not to awake her!

Clare.

Perhaps she’s shamming.

Dean.

My dear child!

Michael.

(In a solemn whisper.) We must be very careful not to wake her. She had a bad headache this morning.... See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

Dean.

I would I were a glove upon that hand!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Dean!

Clare.

Shocking!

Dean.

And why? I love all that is beautiful with all my senses.... And why shouldn’t I?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Because such youthful depravity makes me envious again.

Dean.

Pardon me, my dear lady, I remember you far too well as a girl to believe that even now—

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(Hastily.) Michael!... Will you and Clare take the car and meet Bill’s train? It won’t take you ten minutes; I’m too comfortable to move at present. Besides, we must have the place to ourselves, the Dean and I, as he is becoming indiscreetly reminiscent. Bring Bill back with you here, and he and I will drive home together.... You don’t mind?

Michael.

I shall be delighted.

Clare.

I’m not surprised you want to get rid of me, pater, if you’re going to talk about your gay youth. You must have been an awful rip.

Dean.

Really, Clare!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

It was my gay youth your father was threatening us with.

Clare.

You must have been a dear then, as now!...

(She kisses Mrs. O’Farrel impulsively, and goes out past Michael. Michael follows her, turns and comes back with a twig of oak in his hand. He gives it to the Dean.)

Michael.

Will you kindly keep the flies off Patricia’s face while I’m away?

Dean.

Oh, delighted! Delighted!

(Michael goes out. Mrs. O’Farrel looks with amusement at the Dean, who stands with the twig in his hand glancing quizzically at her and longingly at Lady Patricia.)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

When duty and pleasure are combined, there’s no reason to hesitate. I saw a fly settle on Patricia’s chin.

Dean.

Happy fly!

(He tiptoes up to Patricia and starts fanning her and daintily examining her through his eyeglass. Mrs. O’Farrel puts up her lorgnette and regards them with vast amusement. Suddenly a rotten branch falls from above on to the platform.)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(Lorgnetting upwards.) How very strange! And not a breath of wind!

Dean.

(Monocling upwards.) Merely a squirrel. I believe I caught sight of its tail.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I hope the tree’s not rotten. I’m considerably heavier than a squirrel!

(She goes over to the Dean.)

Dean.

Oh, softly, please....

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(Laughing.) Softly yourself!

Dean.

(Pointing to Patricia.) Did you ever see the like?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

What are you talking about?

Dean.

The wonder of this sleeping woman. Was there ever anything more beautiful?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I thought you knew better than to praise one woman to another.

Dean.

Oh, but you are not another! You are Eileen who, ever since I met her in short skirts, have been the fairest of all.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Fiddle-de-dee! I’m old and ugly!

Dean.

No woman can ever be old and ugly—you least of all.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Charming old humbug! Well, I agree with you—Patricia’s certainly ornamental.

Dean.

The pose, my dear lady, the pose! Unstudied grace of abandonment, artless perfection! Perfection as a whole, perfection in detail! Consider the right hand: so blissfully burdened. Consider the left: still clasping some poem only less exquisite than itself. The eyelids are faintly blue—surely with the sky of a delicate dream. From head to foot every curve is a lyric—from head—I should like to see her foot.

(He looks sadly at her covered feet.)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Haven’t you the courage?

Dean.

I beg your pardon?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

To look at it.

Dean.

Mrs. O’Farrel!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Well, if I admired her feet as much as you do, I shouldn’t hesitate.

Dean.

But supposing she woke and found me—er—er—

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Arranging her skirt?... My dear man, I know Patricia; she would gladly show you several inches of her ankle.

Dean.

Eileen, you’re a wicked woman!

(They move to the other side of the platform.)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

And you’re a scandalous example of clerical depravity!

(Lady Patricia looks cautiously over her shoulder at them, yawns, and pretends to sleep again.)

Dean.

Tut, tut, tut, my dear!... Eileen, do you know why I went into the Church?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

You thought it a convenient cloak for your peccadilloes.

Dean.

Out of sheer gratitude to my Maker for creating woman.... Eileen, why did you refuse to marry me?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

There must be at least half a dozen flies on Patricia’s face.

Dean.

Never mind the flies—it’s their turn for the moment.... Why did you refuse me, Eileen?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Because my love for you made me a blind fool! I misunderstood your admiration for women. I thought your homage of every girl you met, personal—not universal, as I learned too late—a superb compliment to the whole sex. Dear friend, I repented in sackcloth and ashes! Not that O’Farrel wasn’t a good fellow, every inch of him. He made life very happy. But life with you—well, I missed it!

Dean.

Will you marry me, Eileen?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

No.

Dean.

Why not?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I’m far too old for a boy like you.

Dean.

Is this final?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Final.

Dean.

Ah!... Your companionship would have been so good for Clare. A tactfully restraining influence....

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I doubt it. I’m too much in sympathy with the child.

Dean.

But you wouldn’t encourage her to tell every one she meets—including the Bishop—that she is an Atheist, or ride astride through the town without the formality of—er—divided skirts....

Mrs. O’Farrel.

No—perhaps not. (She lowers her voice.) I should first of all put a stop to her galavantin’ about every other day with Michael.

Dean.

Really, my dear Eileen, I think the friendship between Michael Cosway and Clare is wholly charming and can only do the child good. Surely you don’t——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

No, of course I don’t! Michael’s far too infatuated with your sleeping beauty there. Still, I’d put a stop to it. And then I should marry your daughter to Bill with indecent haste.

Dean.

Eh, what? Your son? Dear me!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Why shouldn’t they marry? They are obviously kindred spirits.

Dean.

I don’t know your son sufficiently well to—er——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

A thoroughly healthy, young animal.... You’ll meet him in a moment. I hear the motor....

Dean.

How quick they’ve been!... Marry them! Dear me!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Now then, Mr. Dean, to work!

Dean.

I don’t quite——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Patricia’s flies! If Michael catches you idling!

Dean.

Now, fancy my forgetting it!

(They both laugh. He hurries back to Lady Patricia and starts fanning her. Voices are audible beneath.)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(Looking over the railing.) But where’s Bill? (She hurries towards the entrance and calls down.) Have you people dropped my only son out of the car?

(Clare enters, followed by Michael.)

Clare.

He never turned up!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Nonsense! He wired from Southampton that——

Michael.

S-s-sh! You might wake Patricia!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Oh, confound Patricia!

Clare.

But——

(Suddenly a saucer falls from above on to the middle of the platform. They all are startled and Patricia sits up with a cry.)

Dean.

Dear me!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Well, I never!

Michael.

What on earth!

Clare.

There’s some one up the tree!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

The squirrel.... (Looks at the Dean.)

Dean.

Most awkward....

Michael.

Don’t be alarmed, Patricia. (Sternly.) Who are you, sir? What are you doing there? Come down at once.... Do you hear me, sir?

Bill.

(Still invisible to the audience.) All right—I’m coming....

Clare.

There he is, Mike! I see his leg!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(To herself.) Mike? Hm!

Michael.

Bill!

Bill.

(From aloft.) Hullo!

(Astonished exclamations of “What!” and “Bill!”)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Bill?

(Bill comes into sight descending the trunk.)

Bill!

(Bill reaches terra firma. He smiles, embarrassed, from one person to the other.)

Bill.

How are you, mother? How-de-do, Mr. Dean? How-de-do, Miss Lesley? How’s yourself, Michael?

Lady Patricia.

And have you no greeting for poor me, Cousin Bill?

Bill.

Oh, I say, I’m awfully sorry! How-de-do, Cousin Patricia?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

But what on earth were you doing up the tree?

Bill.

Birds’-nesting.

Mrs. O’Farrel, Michael, Dean.

Birds’-nesting?

Clare.

(Gravely.) And you took a saucer up with you to put the eggs in?

Bill.

Oh, did I?

Clare.

Of course. It’s the usual thing to do when you go birds’-nesting. Didn’t you always take a saucer with you as a boy, Mr. Cosway?

Michael.

I can’t say I remember doing so.

Clare.

So long ago that you’ve forgotten? I’ve read somewhere that when they look for ostrich-eggs in America they take soup-tureens.

Bill.

I say ...!

Michael.

There are no ostriches in America.

Clare.

Then I wonder why they look for ostrich-eggs.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(Laughing.) Do stop talking nonsense, Clare!... Really, Bill, I’m curious to know quite a lot of things. Why did you take an earlier train? Why did you come here? Why did you climb up the tree with a saucer? Why did you let Michael and Miss Lesley fetch you at the station? And why did you remain in the tree while the Dean and I—er——

Dean.

Talked over old times together.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Talked over old times together. It’s all rather mysterious.

Dean.

Unusual....

Bill.

I dropped a rotten branch.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Quite so. And the Dean thought a squirrel had done it.

Bill.

Oh yes, you caught sight of my tail!

(He goes into a shout of lonely laughter.)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

That’s all very well. But what was your idea in playing such a prank? It seems to me rather childish.

Dean.

Primitive....

Michael.

Very.

Clare.

Quite.

Lady Patricia.

(With disarming vivacity.) Oh, my dear, dear friends, why do you take this so heavily? Surely a charming piece of boyishness! May I tell them what happened, Cousin Bill? I saw through the whole thing at once.

Bill.

I’m sure you did.

Lady Patricia.

He so longed to see his mother that he came down by an earlier train.... Didn’t you, Cousin Bill?

Bill.

That’s right.

Lady Patricia.

But when he arrived he found she had gone to a garden party. He was so disappointed.... Weren’t you, Cousin Bill?

Bill.

That’s right.

Lady Patricia.

Did you learn to say “that’s right” in America? It sounds so successful.... When he found his mother was out, he thought he would come and see Michael and—me. Michael had gone to the garden party, but he was told that I was here. He found me asleep....

Clare.

(Imitating Lady Patricia’s voice and manner.) And he kissed me—didn’t you, Cousin Bill?

(Bill goes into a shout of long and lonely laughter.)

Lady Patricia.

(In a pained voice.) He found me asleep. I had not been feeling very well....

Michael.

Are you better, my darling?

Lady Patricia.

Thank you, Michael dear, a little better.... He found me asleep. He was thirsty, poor fellow! So he helped himself to tea. Providentially, Ellis had brought two cups. Then he saw you all coming, and thought it would be “such jolly fun” to climb up the tree and drop a saucer.... Didn’t you?

Clare.

—Cousin Bill.

(Bill laughs.)

Lady Patricia.

He had meant to do it at once. But he couldn’t resist the joke of letting Clare and Michael fetch him at the station. And when they had gone he simply had to wait till they came back again—or, perhaps, the Dean and Aunt Eileen were so enjoying each other’s company, he hadn’t the heart to disturb them.... Then Clare and Michael returned, and he thought the joke had gone far enough.

Clare.

So he threw a saucer at us.

(Bill indulges in a third lonely laugh.)

Michael.

(Shortly.) Crown Derby....

Bill.

Sorry.

Lady Patricia.

Isn’t that more or less the true story, Cousin Bill?

Bill.

I say, what an awfully clever woman you are!

Lady Patricia.

Am I?... I wonder!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Clever at writing verses, Patricia. But prose fiction’s not in your line. (Patricia smiles pityingly and examines her rings.) Bill we must be off. There’s barely time to dress, and some people are dining with us to-night.

Bill.

All right, mother. (He goes to Clare.) I say, Miss Lesley, when last we met you had long hair.

Clare.

(Gravely.) I still have long hair, Mr. O’Farrel.

Bill.

Oh, but what I meant was——

Lady Patricia.

(To Clare.) Your father tells me you are dining with us, Clare. I’m so glad!

Clare.

If you don’t mind me in this dress, Lady Patricia. Mr. Cosway has promised to show me the—er—what’s its name?

Michael.

The spiral nebula in Andromeda.

Bill.

How much?

Michael.

A cluster of minute stars in the constellation of Andromeda. I say stars designedly. For I differ from many authorities in believing this nebula to be irresolvable or gaseous. Indeed, the remarkable observations of Sir William McKechnie leave no doubt in my mind that this so-called nebula is an external galaxy. In which case——

Bill.

Oh, help! So you still rot about with a telescope, Michael?

Michael.

(Coldly.) I am greatly interested in astronomy.

Bill.

(To Clare.) You, too?

Clare.

I like the stars....

(She turns loftily from him and talks to Mrs. O’Farrel and Michael.)

Lady Patricia.

(To the Dean.) I’m so sorry! (To Clare.) I was trying to persuade your father to stay with you, Clare. But he’s bent on putting finishing-touches to to-morrow’s sermon.

Michael.

(To the Dean.) I’ll see Miss Lesley home, of course.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Can we drop you at the Deanery?

Dean.

It’s very kind of you.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Come along, Bill. Good-bye, all!

(She goes out. The Dean shakes hands with Lady Patricia and follows her.)

Bill.

(To Patricia, in a low voice.) I’ve left the cup and glass up the tree. (Aloud.) Good-bye, Cousin Patricia.

Lady Patricia.

Good-bye, Cousin Bill.

Bill.

Good-bye, Clare.

Clare.

(Haughtily.) Clare?

Bill.

Yes. (To Michael, in passing.) Sorry about the saucer. Good-bye.

Clare.

Cheek!

(He goes out. A pause. Voices are heard below and the sound of a departing motor. Michael waves good-bye.)

Lady Patricia.

(Stretching out her arms.) Michael!

Michael.

(Putting his arms about her.) Patricia! And the poor head is really better, darling? I’m so glad you were able to sleep!

(Clare looks at them with bored contempt, shrugs her shoulders, goes to the tree, and starts climbing up it during the following.)

Lady Patricia.

And my sleep was full of dreams, Michael. Strange and mystic dreams—oh, and such beautiful dreams! For they all led up to a vision of my dearest’s face.

(Clare has vanished aloft.)

Michael.

Heart of my heart!

Lady Patricia.

Soul of my soul!

Michael.

Patricia....

Lady Patricia.

Michael....

(Baldwin enters unnoticed with his saw and garden shears. He stares fixedly up the tree.)

Michael.

One night I shall find a new star in the depths of the sky——

Lady Patricia.

One day I shall write a poem that will ring down the ages——

Michael.

And the star shall be called Patricia.

Lady Patricia.

And the poem—Michael.

Michael.

(Lingering on the word.) Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

(Lingering on the word.) Michael!

Baldwin.

Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but there be summin’ white movin’ about up the tree.

Lady Patricia.

Baldwin!

Baldwin.

It a’most looks to me as though a young lady ’ad climbed up the tree, sir.

Michael.

What on earth——!

Clare.

(Shrilly from above.) Don’t you dare to look up here, Baldwin—nor you, Mi—Mr. Cosway! If there’s something white to be seen it’s certainly not for you to look at! (Baldwin continues stolidly looking up.) D’you hear me, Baldwin? Oh! Tell him to turn his head somewhere else.

Michael.

Baldwin!

Baldwin.

Yessir?

Lady Patricia.

But, my dear child, what are you doing there?

Clare.

Birds’-nesting.

Michael and Lady Patricia.

Birds’-nesting!

Clare.

I don’t believe there’s a nest here at all. He was simply kidding us.

Baldwin.

If it’s h’eggs you’re wantin’, miss, there’s a rare lot of ’em in the ivy up at the ’ouse. Sparrers—drat’em!

Lady Patricia.

(To Michael.) What an amazing young creature! (To Clare.) But you’ll ruin your frock, my child.

Clare.

I can’t help that. I mean to find out whether there’s a nest here or not. Besides, I simply couldn’t hang around while you and Mr. Cosway were canoodleing.

Lady Patricia.

(Puzzled.) Canoodleing?

Clare.

Spooning.

Lady Patricia.

How very vulgar you can be!

Clare.

Can’t I!

Lady Patricia.

(Shrugs her shoulders and speaks to Michael with a plaintive languor.) I think it would be very pleasant to dine here, Michael. I’ll go indoors and change into something warmer.

Michael.

You’re not cold, my love?

Lady Patricia.

No, no, dear, no. But I might be later on. (To Baldwin, who has been staring fixedly into the branches.) What are you doing, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

It’s main ’ard to keep a h’eye on the sun, m’lady, an’ mine ain’t no longer w’at they was. Might I arst, mum, if the sun’s ’bout right for loppin’ off they branches?

Michael.

Lopping off the branches?

Clare.

(From above.) Oh! I’ve found a cup!

Michael.

A cup!

Clare.

And a glass!

Michael.

A cup and a glass!

Lady Patricia.

(Languidly.) Oh, I suppose Cousin Bill left them up there. You needn’t trouble to bring them down, Clare. Baldwin can fetch them.

Clare.

He seems to have been doing himself uncommonly well. I daresay I shall find plates, knives and forks, napkins and finger-bowls. What ho!

Michael.

(To Lady Patricia.) Has that fellow gone quite off his head?

Lady Patricia.

(Going out.) Bill? Oh, no, dear! Oh, no! It’s only youth—youth will out! Beautiful rose-white youth!

(She gives him her hand to kiss, and he looks after her with a fatuous smile so long as she is in sight. Then you hear her singing below:)

When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green,
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen,
Then, hey! for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away!
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog its day!

(Michael turns slowly from the railing, heaves a deep sigh, and stands with clenched hands, rigid, looking straight before him with tragic eyes. The beautiful voice grows fainter in the distance. The sun is westering on the right, and sheds a golden light on the scene. Baldwin stands staring out into the sunset.)

Clare.

(From above.) Mike!

Michael.

Yes?

Clare.

Has she gone?

Michael.

Yes.

Clare.

Mike.

Michael.

Yes?

Clare.

Why is she like a collar?

Michael.

I don’t know.

Clare.

Because she’s always round your neck.

Michael.

(With clenched hands.) Oh....

Clare.

You and she are enough to make a saint ill. You ought to have more tact than to spoon about in public. (Michael stands rigid.) Mike.

Michael.

Yes?

Clare.

Sulky?

Michael.

No.

Clare.

What’s up, then?

Michael.

Nothing.

Clare.

I’m coming down. There’s not a nest to be seen anywhere. By Jove, I am in a mess! It’s all your fault for driving me up a tree with your disgusting billing and cooing.

Michael.

(Hoarsely.) Don’t....

Clare.

Sorry. (Michael makes a movement.) No, no! Stay where you are! And don’t look up here. Oh, damn!... Sorry! But I’ve torn my frock and ripped open the hooks behind. All your fault.

Michael.

You shall have another frock.

Clare.

Thanks.

Michael.

Two frocks.

Clare.

No—one and a pinafore. Oh, confound this branch!... I think the pater would draw the line at two frocks.

(She descends into view, and jumps on to the ground. She is sadly dishevelled, her gloves filthy, her dress all open at the back, and with a great tear at the side of the skirt.)

At last!... Hullo, Baldwin, I thought you had gone....

Baldwin.

No, miss.

Michael.

What are you doing here, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

The mistress’s orders, sir. I was to keep a h’eye on the sun.

(Clare laughs.)

Michael.

(Mystified.) Keep a h’eye on the sun? What do you mean?

(Clare laughs.)

Baldwin.

’Er ladyship said as I was to keep a h’eye on the sun, so as to lop away the branches.

Michael.

I don’t understand in the least what you are talking about. Come back later on.

Baldwin.

Yessir. But the mistress’s orders——

Michael.

Yes, yes—another time. I’m busy now.

Baldwin.

Yessir....

(He goes out slowly.)

Clare.

(Exhibiting the damages in her dress.) And now perhaps, sir, you will keep a h’eye on me, while I show you the result of your ’andiwork!

Michael.

My dear child!... But in common fairness, you can’t put all the blame on me.

Clare.

Well, I shan’t say anything more at present, since you’re going to give me a new frock. (Looking at her hands.) Oh, dear! I wish it were gloves.

Michael.

(With fascinated eyes.) A dozen pair....

Clare.

All right—five and three-quarters. Now then—pins.

Michael.

Pins?

Clare.

Yes, pins. Look alive!

Michael.

(Going.) I’ll be back in a moment.

Clare.

No, stay here. Your tie-pin will do for one. I’ve a safety-pin here (fiddling at her waist), and another somewhere in my collar.... Bring a cushion here.

Michael.

A cushion?...

Clare.

(Still searching for her pins.) Yes—a cushion. (In a dazed way he fetches one from Lady Patricia’s chair.) Put it down.

Michael.

The cushion?...

(He stands helplessly holding the cushion, then puts it back, on the chair.)

Clare.

Don’t play the giddy goat, Mike! Put the cushion on the ground.

Michael.

Oh, yes—yes, of course.

(He places it at her feet.)

Clare.

Kneel down.

Michael.

Eh?

Clare.

Kneel on the cushion. I want to spare your old joints.

Michael.

Oh....

(He kneels with a mirthless laugh.)

Clare.

Now we’ll see if you’re worth your keep. Here are two safety-pins. Make that tear look respectable.

Michael.

But——

Clare.

If these safety-pins aren’t enough, use your tie-pin.

Michael.

(Setting to work.) Very well.

Clare.

I shall want you afterwards to fasten up the hooks behind.... (A pause.) How are you getting on?

Michael.

All right, thanks.

(He works at her skirt for a moment in silence.)

Clare.

(Abruptly.) What’s that boy like?

Michael.

What boy?

Clare.

Bill O’Farrel.

Michael.

He’s given you a fair specimen of himself in the silly prank he played just now.

Clare.

Oh, that seemed to me rather a sporting thing to do.

Michael.

A sporting thing!

Clare.

Yes. To make an utter ass of himself, and then carry it off with a string of lies. How are you getting on?

Michael.

(Surveying his handiwork.) I think that looks better.

Clare.

It’ll have to do, anyhow.... Now for the hooks. (Michael sets to work at the back of her dress.) Begin at the top. I daresay some of the eyes have got torn. I gave the dress an awful wrench on the tree. Do the best you can.... Oh, don’t fumble about like that!

(Michael’s hands tremble as he works. A pause.)

Michael.

(In a low voice.) Clare....

Clare.

Well?

Michael.

I love you....

(A long pause. He stares with breathless expectation at the back of her head. She looks straight before her.)

Clare.

Have you finished all the hooks?

Michael.

The hooks?... I—I beg your pardon.... (He goes on with his work for a time in silence.) Are you angry with me?

Clare.

I don’t know.

Michael.

You must have known for some time that I loved you.

Clare.

(Turning on him.) Then why do you always annoy me by making love to—to your wife when I’m there? (Michael still kneels on the cushion, looking up at her with abject eyes.) Why don’t you speak?

Michael.

Clare——

Clare.

(With a sudden burst of laughter.) Oh, get up from that cushion! You don’t know what a fool you look! (Michael gets up with a pained expression and stands staring tragically before him. A pause. She speaks in a gentler voice.) Well, Mike?

Michael.

Since I have spoken so much and done you wrong and Patricia wrong, I must tell you all and throw myself on your mercy.... When I married Patricia I sincerely believed I loved her. She seemed to me a kindred spirit—with her sensitive, beautiful nature. I found out too late that love depends as often on mutual difference as mutual sympathy. My love for her never went deeper than the intellect. Oh, the tragedy of it! She is such a fair, white soul, and so worthy of my whole love!...

Clare.

If you don’t love her, why do you pretend to?

Michael.

Can’t you see—can’t you see I have no alternative? Patricia’s love for me is unearthly in its depth and intensity. She worships me, little as I deserve it. If for one moment she thought my love had slackened, that moment would be her last. You don’t know how sensitive she is.... Do you suppose, Clare, I enjoy playing this dreadful game? But I must—it is my duty. I have sworn to love and cherish her.

Clare.

(After a pause, going up to him.) Michael, how long have you loved me?

Michael.

Almost since first I met you, you wild thing! You soul of youth and incarnation of the morning!

(He looks longingly down at her.)

Clare.

Oh, you poor old thing! (She looks up sideways at him.) Mike, you may if you like.

Michael.

Clare....

(He hesitates.)

Clare.

Get it over soon. (He bends down and kisses her reverently, then turns away from her with tragic eyes.) Didn’t you like it?...

Michael.

But the wrong I am doing you, and the wrong I am doing Patricia....

Clare.

But if Patricia doesn’t know and I don’t mind, I don’t see where the wrong comes in.... Do you?

Michael.

(Taking her hands.) Do you love me, Clare?

Clare.

I don’t know.... Yes, I think I do. You’re such a solemn old donkey!... Michael, if I love you, will it really make you a happier man?

Michael.

Happier? Oh, my dear, with the knowledge of your love I should be able to endure anything!

Clare.

Even Patricia?

Michael.

Hush, Clare, hush!... Patricia’s is a pure and delicate soul. It is I who am unworthy, since I cannot return her wonderful love.... Little girl, do you understand that this love of yours may bring much suffering into your life? I can never, by word or deed, change my attitude towards Patricia—never! She must never know that I do not love her.... And what of us? Our love must stand alone in the world. It must be something wholly pure and noble and self-sacrificing—the love that asks for nothing, that hopes for nothing—the love of the angels that neither marry nor are given in marriage.... Do you realise all this?

Clare.

Yes.... You see, Mike, I always believe in platonic love.

Michael.

(A little doubtfully.) Platonic....

Clare.

Well, platonic lovers do kiss each other now and then ... don’t they?

Michael.

(Solemnly.) I believe they do.

Clare.

And, Mike....

Michael.

Well?

Clare.

I don’t want you to give me that frock.

Michael.

But——

Clare.

Or the gloves.

Michael.

But why not, Clare? I don’t understand....

Clare.

Don’t you, old boy? Neither do I. But I’d much rather you didn’t—now.

Michael.

Surely, dear——

(Lady Patricia’s voice is heard speaking beneath.)

Clare.

Hush!... And I’m going home now. Don’t try to prevent me, like a good chap. And I want to walk back alone.

(Lady Patricia emerges speaking to Baldwin, who follows her.)

Lady Patricia.

We’ve come just at the wonderful moment, Baldwin. All the west is a ritual of gold. (She has a wrap over her of a wonderful sunset hue and a white lily in her hand.) Here’s poor Baldwin deeply grieved because he’s shooed away every time he gets to work!

Michael.

He didn’t seem to be doing anything particular, dearest, when I sent him away.

Lady Patricia.

But, Michael——

(Baldwin, with his shears and saws, crosses to the right and examines the sunset.)

Clare.

Don’t you remember he was keeping a h’eye on the sun?

Lady Patricia.

But, Clare! What a dreadful state you’re in!

Clare.

I know. Your trees are shockingly dirty. You really ought to get Baldwin to scrub them with soap and water!... Lady Patricia, I hope you won’t think me very rude if I run away. I had quite forgotten it was father’s sermon night when I accepted Mr. Cosway’s invitation to dinner. I always help him with his sermons.

Lady Patricia.

You, my dear child!

Clare.

I verify the quotations and prune the adjectives.... Then you’ll forgive me?

Lady Patricia.

Sweet girl! (She strokes Clare’s unwilling face.) I’m very sorry, because I’m going to do such a wicked and decadent thing at dinner. You see this lily? So virginal and nun-like! I am going to put her into a glassful of wine and make her tipsy.

Clare.

Oh!...

Lady Patricia.

You must come some other evening. We are both so very fond of you.

Clare.

Good-bye. Good-bye, Mr. Cosway.

Michael.

Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?

Clare.

Quite, thanks. Good-bye.

(She goes out.)

Lady Patricia.

She seems to be in a chastened frame of mind.

Michael.

Perhaps she’s not quite well.

Lady Patricia.

(Holding out her hands to him.) Michael....

Michael.

(Taking her hands.) Dearest!

Lady Patricia.

It will be just—just you and I!

Michael.

You and I, Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

You needn’t stay, Baldwin.

Baldwin.

(Who is still staring into the sunset.) Beg pardon, mum?

Lady Patricia.

You needn’t stay.

Baldwin.

But if you’ll excuse my sayin’ so, mum, the sun——

Lady Patricia.

Another time, Baldwin.

Baldwin.

Yes, ’m.

(He goes out slowly.)

Lady Patricia.

Just you and I, Michael.... Kiss me.

Michael.

(Kissing her.) Just you and I.

Lady Patricia.

You and I and the sunset....

(End of the First Act.)

THE SECOND ACT

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.

(Baldwin goes out by the central ladder.)

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....

(She emerges from the summer-house, and moves past him to the front of the platform. Her hair is all loose and dishevelled. She starts shaking it out.)

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....

(He goes into the summer-house, strikes a match, and searches about the floor for the missing hair-pins. Clare stands plaiting her hair into a “pigtail,” and looking straight before her with very grave eyes.)

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 is about to speak when Lady Patricia’s voice, singing in the distance, brings him up with a jerk. He listens a moment. When he speaks his tone is one of dismay.)

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.

(You hear Lady Patricia’s voice just beneath talking to Michael. Bill exclaims with a scared look:)

She’s coming here!...

Clare.

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

(Michael is heard replying to Lady Patricia. Clare whispers with startled eyes:)

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.

(He moves away from her, and they both stand staring in opposite directions.)

Clare.

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

Bill.

Neither do I.

(A pause.)

Clare.

Nothing.

Bill.

Nothing.

(A pause.)

Clare.

Things must remain as they are.

Bill.

Yes, I suppose they must.

(A pause.)

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!

(They stand miserably silent, looking in opposite directions. The nightingale starts singing, and sings through the next scene. The voices of the Dean and Mrs. O’Farrel come up from beneath.)

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 enters, followed by the Dean, up the central ladder.)

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.

(Mrs. O’Farrel regards both the young people critically through her lorgnette.)

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....

(The Dean fixes his monocle, and, slightly puzzled, scrutinises them each in turn.)

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, followed by Michael, enters on the left.)

Lady Patricia.

All of you? But how charming! How delightful!

Dean.

Dear Lady Patricia!

(Michael moves towards Clare, who evades his ardent gaze.)

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?

(Clare looks at them.)

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.

(They move towards the ladder on the left.)

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.

(She and Michael move to the central ladder.)

Lady Patricia.

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

Michael.

(To Clare as they descend the central ladder.)

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

(A pause. The Dean looks disapprovingly after the disappearing Bill, Mrs. O’Farrel through her lorgnette after Clare.)

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.

(The Dean pours out a drop of whisky.)

Go on....

(The Dean sets the syphon going.)

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:)

Eileen!...

Mrs. O’Farrel.

What is it?

Dean.

Hush!... Clare’s coming here with Michael Cosway. I offer you a chance to substantiate the aspersions you have made against her character.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

What do you mean?

Dean.

We will conceal ourselves in the summer-house and hear what they have to say to each other.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Really, Dean!

Dean.

We may disregard the rules of ordinary morality in a situation like this. I speak professionally. Quick! (He draws her towards the summer-house.)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Well, upon my word!...

(They go into the summer-house, and sit with the door open, but invisible in the gloom of the interior. Voices are heard beneath. Then Clare enters on the left, followed by Michael.)

Clare.

Father!... (She looks around her.) Why, they’ve gone!...

Michael.

They must have returned to the house.

Clare.

We had better go too.

Michael.

Oh, Clare, a moment.... Look at me, dear.... (He takes her hands.)

Clare.

Well?

Michael.

Are you unhappy?

Clare.

Why should I be?

Michael.

You are no longer the wild and buoyant thing you were. You have grown so pensive and distrait. And is it my jealous imagination?—so often lately you have seemed to avoid me....

Clare.

I—I’m sorry....

Michael.

There’s trouble in your eyes, my dearest. Clare, do you chafe at the restrictions fate has put on our love?

Clare.

Oh, I—I don’t know. I’m all right, Michael—but you—— We’d better go in now. Father’s waiting for me.

Michael.

Clare.

Clare.

Yes.

Michael.

Kiss me before you go.

Clare.

Oh, not now....

Michael.

(Bending down to her.) Kiss me, dear.

(She kisses him perfunctorily on the cheek; he sighs; she turns and descends the ladder on the left; he follows her.)

How sweet it is!...

Clare.

Sweet?

Michael.

Your “pigtail,” dear. The sight of it makes me feel a boy again. I should like to pull it and run away.

(Clare laughs and they both descend out of sight. A pause. The nightingale starts singing. Mrs. O’Farrel emerges from the summer-house. Her step is almost jaunty with suppressed triumph, and her manner elaborately off-hand. The Dean remains invisible in the summer-house.)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Ah, the nightingale! How charmingly it sings to-night!... I do wish we had some nightingales at Ashurst. I suppose they prefer low-lying ground like this.... Do they sing in your garden at the Deanery?

(The Dean comes out of the summer-house in a very crestfallen condition.)

Dean.

Eileen——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(Cheerfully.) Yes?

Dean.

This is dreadful—dreadful....

Mrs. O’Farrel.

On the contrary, I think it’s most delightful! One can hear every note so perfectly at this elevation.

Dean.

Is it generous of you—is it generous of you, Eileen, to flaunt your terrible triumph like this? I am heart-broken! I am distracted! What on earth am I to do?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(Pouring him out a whisky-and-soda.) Drink this!

Dean.

(Pettishly.) I don’t care for whisky.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Oh, you needn’t make such a fuss! It’s perfectly obvious from what we saw just now that no real harm has been done. The way she kissed Michael——

(She bursts out laughing.)

Dean.

How can you, Eileen? How can you?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

It reminded me of a child taking castor-oil!... But Michael—the double-faced hypocrisy of the man! I’m really very sorry for Patricia.

Dean.

I don’t see the necessity for lavishing sympathy on her.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

What do you mean? Doesn’t she believe he returns her devotion?

Dean.

Her devotion doesn’t prevent her philandering with other men, as I told you just now.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Well, upon my word! I wouldn’t have believed it! In spite of this gross example of your obtuseness, you still have the—the audacity to stick to your slander against Bill! Really I—— (She stops short, listens, then hurries to the back and looks over the railing. She turns to the Dean and speaks in a quiet whisper.) We must hide in the summer-house....

Dean.

Eh? What?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

At once! Bill and Patricia are returning here. You will see for yourself there’s nothing more between them than cousinly regard.

Dean.

I refuse to eavesdrop a lady.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

But you deliberately did it a moment ago.

Dean.

Clare is my daughter.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Fiddlesticks! (Pushes him before her.) Quick now!

Dean.

I submit——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Hush!

Dean.

—Under protest....

(She shepherds the Dean into the summer-house just as Patricia and Bill come up the central ladder.)

Lady Patricia.

Cousin Bill and I have discovered that guelder-roses are guelder-roses after all.... Why, Bill dear, they’re not here!

Bill.

Got impatient, I suppose, and went back to the house. About time we did the same. It’s getting late.

Lady Patricia.

(Dreamily.) Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now!

Bill.

What d’you say?

Lady Patricia.

I was quoting Tennyson.

Bill.

Oh....

Lady Patricia.

You know the lines, don’t you? Listen:

Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!

Late, late, so late, but we can enter still!

Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now!

So sweet and sad, are they not? Don’t you love sweet, sad things?

Bill.

Rather.

Lady Patricia.

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Bill.

Rather.... I say, hadn’t we better be going?

Lady Patricia.

Bill....

Bill.

Yes.

Lady Patricia.

(Her hands on his shoulders.) Do you love me as you used to?

Bill.

I say, why d’you—you don’t think——

Lady Patricia.

No—no—no—ah, no! I know well enough that your love is deeper and stronger than it was. But this sacred love—this hopeless love of ours has swept you suddenly into manhood. You are no longer a boy; you are graver; you are sadder.... And if sometimes you seem to avoid me now, it’s due to no cooling of passion, but to the fear lest the pent-up lava at your heart should overflow and ruin us both.

Bill.

I say, you do put things awfully well!

Lady Patricia.

Petrarch and Laura—Paolo and Francesca—Lancelot and Guinevere.... Bill—no, William and Patricia.... Ah, my poor boy, put your arm around me, and say those lines of Lovelace that I taught you.

Bill.

Oh, I say—really, you know—— On my honour, I’ve forgotten ’em....

Lady Patricia.

No, no! You’re merely shy—bashful—boyish! I love to hear you say that verse. (She starts him.) Yet this——

Bill.

Yet this—yet this—— What’s the word?

Lady Patricia.

Yet this inconstancy——

Bill.

(In a self-conscious sing-song.)

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.

Lady Patricia.

Loved I not honour more.... Love—duty—honour—— (She sighs deeply.) Come, dear....

(They go out on the left. A pause. The Dean comes out of the summer-house. He barely conceals his triumph under a mask of outraged propriety. Mrs. O’Farrel follows him.)

Dean.

H’m.... Cousinly regard!...

Mrs. O’Farrel.

It’s shocking! Outrageous!

Dean.

It is indeed.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

—That you shouldn’t even pretend to hide your satisfaction at the scene we have just witnessed.

Dean.

Satisfaction! I assure you, dear lady, I’m shocked and grieved—deeply grieved, that your son should prove capable of such depravity.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

My son! You know as well as I do that the foolish boy has been bewitched by that unprincipled woman.

Dean.

Come, come, Eileen. In common fairness we should apportion the blame equally—though, indeed, my experience has generally led me to the conclusion that the man is more to blame in these cases than the woman.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Your experience! Quite so!... I shall give Patricia my plain, unvarnished opinion of herself and forbid her my house. You will tell Michael that he’s a scoundrel and a libertine.

Dean.

No, no, no! Tact, tact, my dear Eileen, tact and diplomacy!... Let us calmly review the position. Cosway’s and Lady Patricia’s relations with Clare and your son, though highly culpable, appear to be blameless of the worst, and considerably more—er—ardent on the part of the married couple than of the single. So much is—er—unhappily evident. Now, do you still maintain that your son is—er—interested in Clare?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I am certain of it.

Dean.

Incredible! Of course, I know—in spite of appearances—that Clare feels strongly for your son.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Fudge!

Dean.

Now, my dear Eileen, pray don’t fall back on contradiction. What we have both got to do is to bring these young people together——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Hush! D’you hear? (She goes quickly to the back and looks out. A pause.) All four of them! Of course, they went up to the house to look for us.... What shall we do?

Dean.

Ah! (Goes to the railing at the back.) Allow me.... (Calls.) Clare....

Clare.

(Beneath.) Hullo!...

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(Excitedly.) But are you going to let them know——

Dean.

I beg you, Eileen, to sit down and control yourself.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Well, but I should like to know——

Dean.

Will you kindly entrust the conduct of the situation entirely to me. Take your cue from me, and above all, be tactful and dignified. (He sits down with unction.)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I really believe you are thoroughly enjoying yourself.

Dean.

Pray don’t be flippant, Eileen. This is a very serious matter.

(He crosses his legs and fixes his eyeglass as Clare enters up the central ladder followed by Lady Patricia, Bill, and Michael.)

Clare.

We thought you had gone back to the house.

Dean.

Indeed.

Lady Patricia.

I really believe they went to depreciate the guelder-roses as well!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

We did nothing of the sort, Patricia, and let——

Dean.

Kindly allow me, Mrs. O’Farrel.... No, Lady Patricia, we have not been to examine the guelder-roses. We have been all the time here.

Lady Patricia, Bill, Michael, Clare.

Here!...

Dean.

We have been all the time—here.

Michael.

But—but I returned a short while ago, and you were certainly not here then.

Dean.

Excuse me, sir—we were.

Clare.

But we never saw you....

Dean.

That I can quite believe. We, however, saw you and Mr. Cosway quite distinctly.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Most distinctly! And I——

Dean.

Allow me, Mrs. O’Farrel....

Bill.

But, I say——

Dean.

Sir?

Bill.

You can’t have been here a minute or two ago when Patri—— Cousin Patricia and I——

Dean.

Pardon me, sir—we were.

Bill.

But, I say, you must have hidden yourselves somewhere, because——

Dean.

Your mother and I were sitting in the summer-house.

Bill, Clare.

Oh ...!

Lady Patricia.

Oh!... O—oh!... (She gropes for a chair, she sits down heavily.)

Michael.

What—what is the matter, dear?

Lady Patricia.

Nothing.... I—I am a little faint——

Michael.

The—the night is certainly oppressive....

Lady Patricia.

I—I’m all right now....

(A pause. The nightingale starts singing.)

Dean.

(To Clare.) I think it is high time to go.... Did you see whether the carriage had arrived?

Clare.

Yes, it’s there.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Come, Bill, we must be getting home.

Dean.

(Solemnly.) I have several weighty additions to make to my sermon to-morrow—additions which certain events to-night have suggested. I trust you will all be at the Cathedral for morning service. (An awkward silence. The Dean waves his hand towards the central ladder.) Mrs. O’Farrel.... (Mrs. O’Farrel passes and descends.) Clare.... (Clare passes him and descends. He says with impressive unconcern:) The nightingale sings most divinely to-night!

(He goes out, Bill following him with a hang-dog air. Baldwin enters on the left just as Lady Patricia and Michael move to the central ladder.)

Baldwin.

If you please, sir....

Michael.

What is it, Baldwin? What is it?

Baldwin.

If you please, sir, will you be using them lanterns agin to-night?

Michael.

No.

Baldwin.

Then I ’ad better take ’em down, sir?

Michael.

Yes, take them down. (To Lady Patricia.) Come, dear.

(Baldwin starts fiddling about with the strings of the lanterns.)

Lady Patricia.

(Wearily.) Yes, darling.

Baldwin.

(Lowering the first lamp.) Whoa!...

Lady Patricia.

(Speaking in a passionate whisper.) Will you love me, Michael, always—always—and no matter what may happen?

Michael.

(Taking her hands.) I? How can you ask? But you—could you still love me if—if——

Lady Patricia.

If——?

Michael.

If I were unworthy?

Lady Patricia.

You!

(They descend the central ladder.)

Baldwin.

(Lowering the second lantern.) Whoa!... (He blows out the candle and folds the lamp up. Then he goes leisurely for the next lantern and lowers it.) Whoa!... (He blows it out, folds it up and goes for the next lantern and the curtain descends while he is lowering it. When it rises again, he says:) Whoa!... (And folds it up.)

(End of the Second Act.)

THE THIRD ACT

Scene:—The Deanery garden. At the back is a wing of the Deanery, red-bricked, Norman-arched, with mullioned windows and a heavy door opening on to the lawn. On the right, three-quarters across the background, the house ends, and an old machicholated wall begins, with a great brass-studded double gateway in the middle of it, in the left side of which is a wicket with grating. The door opens on the Deanery Close and a view of the Cathedral in the distance. The garden is all lawn, flower-bed, and old trees. From the great door, and running diagonally across the stage and out to the left in front, is a stone-flagged path. Another path from the house-door joins it about the centre of the stage. On the lawn in the foreground stands a table spread for breakfast, with two chairs beside it. It is a brilliant Sunday morning in June.

(When the curtain rises, John, the Dean’s butler and verger of the Cathedral, and Robert, the page, are putting finishing touches to the breakfast-table. After a moment the Dean enters and goes to the table.)

Dean.

What a morning! Fragrant! Exquisite! Ha! (He sniffs the air appreciatively, fixes his eyeglass and beams around him.) A happy Whitsun, John.

John.

Thank you, sir. Same to you, sir.

Dean.

Eh?... Oh, certainly!

John.

Yes, sir. It’s mornings like this, sir, that one feels a inclination to sing the tedium.

Dean.

To sing the—er——?

John.

The tedium, sir.

Dean.

The Te Deum! Ah, yes, to be sure! To sing the Te Deum. Most appropriate! (Looks at his watch.) A quarter to ten.

John.

Yes, sir. It’s highly significant to see so many people at early service this morning, sir. Highly significant.

(Robert goes out.)

Dean.

Ah, yes!... Is Miss Clare in the garden?

John.

I believe she is, sir.

Dean.

Well, she’ll be here in a minute. I think, as it’s rather late, I had better begin at once. Is this all you’re giving me to-day, John?

John.

Oh, no, sir. There’s an omelette with asparagus-tops to come.

Dean.

Good. Very good! In the meantime these delicious fruits.

(Sits at the table.)

John.

Yes, sir. If you please, sir, Mr. Cosway’s gardener was here this morning before you came back from church. As far as I could gather he had some message from her ladyship which he refused to leave. I gathered he had instructions to give it to you direct, sir.

Dean.

Oh ... ah ... h’m.... Is he here now?

John.

No, sir; I told him to come back at ten o’clock. He’s gone to the cemetery to visit the grave of his first wife.

Dean.

Bring him here when he comes.

John.

Very good, sir.

(John goes into the house. The Dean daintily skins a peach, humming gently, “Every morn I bring thee violets.” After a moment Clare enters from the left, a bunch of pink and white may in her hand. She is obviously in a shocking temper.)

Clare.

Good morning, father.

Dean.

Good morning, Clare. May! Is it for me?

Clare.

You can have it if you like.

(She lays it beside his plate and sits down.)

Dean.

Thank you, my dear. Fragrant, delicately-tinted, fresh and dewy as young girls. (He regards her critically.) But you don’t look quite yourself, my child.

Clare.

I?

Dean.

A little tired. Perhaps you slept badly?

Clare.

I’m as fit as a fiddle, and I slept like a log.

Dean.

These peaches are delicious. Try one.

Clare.

Aren’t there any cherries yet?

Dean.

I’m afraid not. “Fruits in due season,” you know, my dear!

Clare.

What about your peaches?

Dean.

That’s different, quite different. An early peach cannot be too early. They live in glass houses——

Clare.

(Significantly.) And don’t throw their stones.... I’ll have a cup of tea.

Dean.

There’s an omelette with asparagus-tops on the way.

Clare.

I’m not hungry.

Dean.

Oh, that’s a pity! I suppose it’s this exceptionally early summer.

Clare.

Yes. I was unbearably hot all night. And so thirsty that I drank nearly all the water in my jug.

Dean.

Dear me! Wasn’t there any in the carafe?

Clare.

I drank that as well.

Dean.

Really? It seems to me that for a log you were somewhat restive last night.

Clare.

A log?

Dean.

I thought you slept like a log.

Clare.

I scarcely slept a wink.

Dean.

Well, well, my dear, so long as you feel—to use your expression—as fit as a fiddle, it——

Clare.

I feel rotten.

(John enters with the omelette, Robert with plates.)

Dean.

I’m sorry. I didn’t go to bed until very late myself. Those little additions to my sermon took me longer than I had anticipated. (John and Robert go out, having placed the dish before the Dean.) This looks most inviting. And as there doesn’t seem to be much of it, I’m not, on the whole, sorry that you’ve lost your appetite this morning! It’s an ill wind that——

Clare.

May I have some, please?

Dean.

Changeable young person!

Clare.

Well, of course, if you grudge me a little piece of your omelette——

Dean.

Not at all, my dear! Not at all!

(He offers her a liberal helping.)

Clare.

You needn’t give me three-quarters of it.

Dean.

Very well. You had better take the other piece, then.

Clare.

Oh, it doesn’t matter!

(Impatiently she takes the larger helping.)

Dean.

(Genially.) I don’t mind confessing that I’m very hungry, so unless you really want it, my dear——

Clare.

Oh, for goodness’ sake, father, take the whole lot! I’m sure I don’t want to deprive you of your food!

Dean.

What a peppery young lady it is! I was only joking.

Clare.

I may be sadly lacking in humour, but jokes about omelettes and the condition of one’s stomach never much appealed to me.

Dean.

Really, my dear child, I should much prefer your not using that word.

Clare.

Stomach?

Dean.

Yes.

Clare.

Oh! I do hope you’re not going to suggest I should say “Little Mary”!

Dean.

(Puzzled.) Little Mary? I—er—don’t quite see the connection.... Is there any reason for alluding to that—er—portion of the anatomy?

Clare.

I was under the impression that you made the first allusion to it.

Dean.

My dear, I merely mentioned the fact that I was hungry.

Clare.

Well, you’re not hungry with your foot, are you?

Dean.

Don’t you think this bickering rather silly and childish?

Clare.

Very.

Dean.

(After a pause, and with a change of voice but unabated cheerfulness.) Unclouded sunshine and a sense of deep peace and repose! My ideal of an English Sunday! John told me just now that he feels inclined to sing the Te Deum on mornings like this.

Clare.

Why don’t you come to the point, father?

Dean.

The point?...

Clare.

Yes.

Dean.

I don’t quite understand.

Clare.

I think you owe me some explanation of your extraordinary action last night.

Dean.

My extraordinary action!...

Clare.

Yes—in deliberately hiding yourself in the summer-house to overhear a private conversation.

Dean.

You amaze me, Clare! Instead of being grateful for my silence on the events of yesterday, you turn on me as though you had a grievance! My action was amply justified by the circumstances.

Clare.

I don’t see how eavesdropping can ever be justified. And now you’re bent on giving us “beans” from the pulpit. I’m awfully sorry to have to say it, father, but really it’s rotten bad form....

Dean.

We won’t discuss the matter any further. Believe me, I am the best judge of my actions.

Clare.

And I of mine.

Dean.

You refer to the unhappy discoveries Mrs. O’Farrel and I made last night?

Clare.

I do.

Dean.

Certainly, if you’re heartily ashamed of yourself, you’re a competent judge of your actions.

Clare.

I’m not in the least ashamed of myself.

Dean.

Then, my dear child——

Clare.

And why should I be? I’ve done nothing wrong.

Dean.

You have done very wrong indeed. But I don’t wish to exaggerate. Of course, I know this has been nothing more than a foolish flirtation. Reprehensible—most reprehensible. A grave error, but scarcely a sin. We will say no more about it.... One thing, however, I am bound to insist upon after what came to my knowledge last night. You must have nothing more to do with that young man.

Clare.

What young man? Michael’s forty, if he’s a day.

Dean.

I was not speaking of Mr. Cosway. Honestly, your future relations with him don’t cause me acute anxiety. I was alluding to young O’Farrel.

Clare.

(Sitting up.) Bill!

Dean.

I think, my dear, we will leave the use of his Christian name to the unhappy lady—or ladies—with whom he is intimate. Certain facts have come to my knowledge. He is not a fit companion for a young girl. Your acquaintance with him must cease from to-day.

Clare.

Oh!... And may I ask what he has done?

Dean.

It is quite superfluous to go into—er—unsavoury details.

Clare.

You seriously expect me to cut him because he doesn’t quite meet with your approval?

Dean.

I expect you to obey me implicitly.

Clare.

(Rising.) I had better tell you at once, father, that I shall do nothing of the kind.

(The gateway bell rings.)

Dean.

Clare! (The Dean looks at the gateway and lowers his voice.) You forget yourself!

Clare.

His crime hasn’t by chance anything to do with Patricia?

Dean.

H’m—well, since you appear to know something about this, it would be—er—affectation on my part to deny it. His conduct has been shameful, outrageous, and ungentlemanly.

Clare.

His conduct has been splendid. That detestable creature got hold of him somehow, and he behaved perfectly from start to finish. Of course you side with her because you think her pretty. But——

Dean.

We won’t discuss the matter any further, my child. You are very young and headstrong and inexperienced, and must learn to repose implicit faith in your father’s judgment. You are not to see this young man again.

Clare.

I’m sorry, father, but I refuse to obey you.

Dean.

Clare!

Clare.

It’s grossly unjust—it’s mean and horrid. I won’t do such a caddish thing even for you. I am going to see him now.

(John enters and goes to the gateway.)

Dean.

Clare, remember I have forbidden it.

Clare.

(Beside herself.) I don’t care! I’m going to him now! I won’t go to church to be preached at. I’m going to him. You can turn me out of your house, if you like, father. But I won’t obey you. I won’t.

(She storms into the house.)

Dean.

Clare, how dare you! (Directly she has disappeared, he laughs heartily.) Oh! Most satisfactory.

(He changes plates and commences on Clare’s untouched omelette. John, who has looked through the grating and recognised Baldwin outside, goes to the Dean.)

John.

Mr. Cosway’s gardener has just called again, sir.

Dean.

Very well. Bring him round.

John.

Yes, sir.

(He goes to the gateway and opens the wicket. The Dean continues eating his breakfast. Baldwin enters in Sunday broadcloth and a broad-brimmed, black, soft felt hat. He carries an abnormally large prayer-book and hymn-book.)

John.

Mr. Baldwin, sir.

(John goes out.)

Dean.

Ah.... Good morning, Baldwin.

Baldwin.

Mornin’, sir.

Dean.

You have a message for me from her ladyship?

Baldwin.

Yessir.

(He places his two books on the ground, plunges into his right-hand breast-pocket and produces a letter.)

I would ’a lef’ this at the door, sir, without troublin’ you, but ’er ladyship when she give it me said most particular as I was to ’and it to you personal, sir.

Dean.

Quite so. Quite so.

(Opens the envelope and reads.)

Baldwin.

(After fumbling in the left-hand breast-pocket, produces a second letter.) And ’ere’s the other letter, sir.

Dean.

Eh, what? Another?

Baldwin.

Yessir. As I was leavin’ ’ome, the master come up and give it me, and said most particular as I was to ’and it to you personal.

Dean.

Oh.... (Takes the letter and reads it through.) Er—thank you.... I understand you’ve been to visit the grave of the late Mrs. Baldwin?

Baldwin.

I ’ave that, sir. She was a good wife to me, sir, though she did give me ondly two.... I’ve ’ad thirteen, sir, an’ two of ’em by ’er.

Dean.

Thirteen! Excellent! Excellent!

Baldwin.

Yessir. Thirteen’s an onlucky number, I’ve ’eard tell, but I ain’t suspicious.

Dean.

(Laughing gently.) And how many of the thirteen are girls, Baldwin?

Baldwin.

Nine of ’em, sir—leastways, I think as ’ow nine of ’em is female. (He tots them off on his fingers.) H’Annie, and H’Effel, ’Enrietta, Louisa, Maggie, Victoria ... H’Alice.... H’Edith.... an’—an’ Milly. Yessir—nine. The rest is boys.

Dean.

Nine! Dear me! What a terrible responsibility. Their upbringing must have been very trying. Nine!

Baldwin.

Yessir. They do give a bit more worry than boys. But Mrs. Baldwin’s a rare ’and at tacklin’ ’er own sects.

Dean.

Oh, really? And what measures did she take when they were fractious and disobedient?

Baldwin.

She ’anded ’em over to me, sir.

Dean.

And what did you do?

Baldwin.

I thrashed ’em.

Dean.

Did you really! That never dawned on me as a practical measure.... I wonder—I wonder whether all girls would derive benefit from—er—occasional chastisement.

Baldwin.

You take my word for it, sir. All my girls ’ave gorne straight and married respec’able.

Dean.

Gone straight and married respectably! All nine of them!... And do you put down this happy result to your special treatment?

Baldwin.

Yessir.

Dean.

Most interesting! Most interesting! I must think it over—I must indeed....

(John enters.)

John.

Mrs. O’Farrel has called, sir.

Dean.

Oh.... Ask her out here, John.

John.

Very good, sir.

(He goes out.)

(The Dean takes up the letters and glances through them. A pause. He looks up and sees Baldwin standing patiently watching him.)

Dean.

Ah, Baldwin—yes.... What was I saying?

Baldwin.

You said as you’d think it over, sir.

Dean.

Oh, to be sure! Physical chastisement for girls. Quite so.

(Enter John from the house followed by Mrs. O’Farrel.)

John.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(He goes out.)

Dean.

(Rising with outstretched hands.) My dear Eileen! This is a most unexpected pleasure!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Nonsense. You guessed I should turn up.

Dean.

Well, I may have hoped it.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Good morning, Baldwin.

Baldwin.

Mornin’, ma’am.

Dean.

Baldwin has been giving me sage advice on the up-bringing of girls.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

You need it.

Dean.

He’s a great advocate of—er—corporal punishment.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Oh!... That’s all very well when they’re in short frocks, Baldwin. But afterwards, I don’t exactly see how——

Dean.

Quite so....

Baldwin.

I thrashed Milly when she was turned twenty, mum.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Upon my word! What on earth had the girl done?

Baldwin.

Mrs. Baldwin found ’er sittin ’on Constable ’Iggins’ knee—’e was a married man, as you may remember, sir, and ’e——

(Mrs. O’Farrel bursts out laughing.)

Dean.

(Hastily.) Yes, yes, yes, Baldwin.... Neither of these notes requires an answer, thank you. Good morning.

Baldwin.

Mornin’, sir. Mornin’, ma’am.

(He goes out slowly, inadvertently leaving his books on the ground. Mrs. O’Farrel is still amused.)

Dean.

Well?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Well?...

Dean.

I said it first.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

And I’m a woman.

Dean.

True. To begin with I’ve just received these two notes. (Hands her the letters.)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(Opening a letter.) From Patricia!... Now I really wonder whether this terribly agitated handwriting is put on.

Dean.

Be generous, Eileen!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

What on earth does the woman mean by scrawling “Sunrise” on the top of the page?

Dean.

Presumably that was when she wrote the letter.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Oh, I see! She wants you to believe she paced her room in wakeful agony all night. (Reads.) “Sunrise. I have need of confession. I will call at the Deanery before morning service—Patricia Cosway.” Confession! Evidently she means to enjoy herself!... (Opens the other note and reads.) “Dear Dean,—I am calling on you before morning service to-day. I trust, in spite of all that has happened, you will not refuse to receive me—Michael Cosway.” Very interesting. What do you intend to do?

Dean.

Honestly, I haven’t made up my mind yet.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I protest against your giving Patricia and yourself the luxury of private confession. She owes me her precious confession, not you. Have her out here, and we’ll trounce her together.

Dean.

Poor woman!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Fiddle-de-dee! She’s having the time of her life. I wonder whether they’ve confessed to each other.

Dean.

I shouldn’t think so—but I mean that they shall.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

So do I.... Well, Dean, I’ve had it out with my son.

Dean.

Ah....

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Driving home last night I talked about the likelihood of a thunderstorm, Crême de Menthe and lawn-tennis, and made him thoroughly uncomfortable.

Dean.

Then you said nothing about——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Not a word. And we both went to bed. He came down to breakfast in a shocking temper. I cheerfully exhausted two tedious subjects: the House of Lords and domestic servants. Suddenly he lost his manners—cut me short—and plunged into the sad story of Patricia and himself.... Now, I’d had time to think the matter over! I treated the whole thing as a youthful peccadillo and mildly suggested he had better put an end to it. The poor dear boy was completely floored. I’m sure he’d prepared himself against a regular tornado. He simply sat there and stared at me.... Then abruptly I turned the conversation on to your daughter.

Dean.

Eh?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I described her conduct as scandalous, herself as a hussy, and wound up with a burst of gratitude that he’d been Patricia’s victim instead of hers.

Dean.

Most remarkable! And what did the young man say?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

He dazzled me with an amazing flare-up. Exhausted his vocabulary on my injustice and Clare’s perfections, and stormed out of the room, leaving me with tingling ears.

Dean.

And now?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Presumably he’s gone in search of this maligned young woman. My blessings attend on him!... Well, Dean, I’m a brilliant and original tactician, what?

Dean.

Brilliant, certainly—original, no!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

No?

Dean.

Not ten minutes ago I adopted precisely the same tactics with Clare and achieved precisely the same result. She’s searching for your worthless son at present.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Upon my word, I should never have credited you with so much sense!

Dean.

My dear Eileen, I put down the tragedy of so many women’s lives——

(Enter John.)

John.

(Announcing.) Lady Patricia Cosway.

(Enter Lady Patricia. She is dressed in black from head to foot. John goes out.)

Dean.

(Rising.) Lady Patricia, this is indeed an——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

No, Dean; it’s neither unexpected nor a pleasure.

Dean.

I must really beg of you, Eileen! (To Patricia.) Won’t you sit down?

Lady Patricia.

(Who has been standing at the back in an attitude of majestic humility. She speaks with pleading dignity.) Do you refuse me your hand?...

Dean.

(At her side, and taking her black-gloved hand in both of his.) My dear lady!

Lady Patricia.

Ah.... You were always large-minded and gentle and tolerant.... Aunt Eileen....

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Well?

Lady Patricia.

They told me you were here, so I came out. I am determined to speak before you both. It was not what I had meant to do. I had hoped to lay bare my secret soul in secret to the Dean. Deliberately I have chosen the fiercer ordeal. For I expect and deserve no sympathy from you, no mercy, no forgiveness, no understanding....

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I think I understand you well enough, Patricia.

Lady Patricia.

But do you? Oh, do you? Can any one so sane and practical understand this living paradox? Can prose ever understand poetry? I am the refined essence of spirit and sense. I am a thing of fire and dew. I have in me the making of a great saint and a great courtesan....

Dean.

(Hurriedly.) Yes, yes; we quite understand....

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Go ahead, Patricia.

Lady Patricia.

If you really understand, my task will be so much the easier! For understanding is the beginning of sympathy. And sympathy ends in forgiveness.... Dean, Aunt Eileen—will you be patient and listen to me for a moment?

Dean.

Of course we will. But won’t you sit down?

Lady Patricia.

I should prefer to stand.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

It’s more effective, Dean.

Lady Patricia.

What you overheard yesterday gave you only a crude outline of my tragedy and sin. All the colour, all the light and shadow were missing; and without these you are bound to misjudge me.... Ah! don’t believe for a moment I am seeking to justify myself! No! No! There can be no real justification for my sin.... But I do want your understanding—I do want your pity—I do want your pardon. And from you, Dean, I have come for punishment—for penance——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Hand her over to Baldwin.

Lady Patricia.

Baldwin?

Dean.

Eileen! I beg of you!

Lady Patricia.

On the surface my marriage has been perfect. Michael is the husband of old romance, steel-true, chivalrous, and devoted—oh! as no man was ever devoted to a woman before! (Mrs. O’Farrel and the Dean exchange significant glances.) But he just lacked what the depths of my complex nature cried out for—passion, simplicity, primeval energy. These he hadn’t in him to give, and I wanted them, not knowing at first what I wanted.... But when Bill came into my life—I knew—I knew ... and we rushed together, drawn by the mystic gravitation of alien soul for soul.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

A moment, Patricia. I understand that my son has “primeval energy.” I’ve never noticed it myself. What are its manifestations?

Dean.

Don’t you think we can leave that to—er—the imagination?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Oh ... by all means! Then what do you mean by “rushing together”?

Lady Patricia.

I use the expression metaphorically ... spiritually. (With sudden drama.) Dean—Aunt Eileen—I swear to you by all that is beautiful and sacred that our love has been pure. You believe me? Ah, say you believe me!

Dean.

Why, of course we do!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

If you swore to the contrary, I should call you a liar! You’ve neither the strength nor the courage to do more than play with sin.

Lady Patricia.

I? I! Oh, how little you know me! Had you looked into my heart when first this temptation stole upon me you would have never said anything so foolish.... Shall I ever forget those long nights of battle when my skin was dry and fevered—my pillow wet with tears? I lived with clenched hands and bitten lip, and fixed my thoughts steadfastly on high and holy things. Yes, I fought the good fight well—and if I was half defeated ... I am but human.... At last it came—the day came when I lost the battle.... Spring was in the air, sweet perfumes of budding and burgeoning things ... above my head a blackbird fluted ... I had an early snowdrop in my hand. He looked at me; I felt his eyes devouring my face. Slowly I lifted mine—our eyes met—and no force on earth could have torn them apart; and the world reeled and sang about us—— Oh, and that bluer blue, that greener green!...

Mrs. O’Farrel.

That bluer blue—that——?

Lady Patricia.

Stephen Phillips.... Ah, that moment! I was mad—I was drunk with love and spring!

Dean | Well?
and | (Excitedly interested.)
Mrs. O’Farrel. | Yes?

Lady Patricia.

Fate intervened and saved us.

Mrs. O’Farrel and Dean.

(Unfeignedly disappointed.) Fate?

Lady Patricia.

Baldwin returned with the water.

Dean and Mrs. O’Farrel.

The water?

Lady Patricia.

For the snowdrop.

(The Dean coughs. Mrs. O’Farrel solemnly scrutinises Patricia through her lorgnette.)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Doesn’t it occur to you that was rather funny?

Lady Patricia.

Funny? No, oh no! I see a certain ironical humour in such banal intervention. But it’s far too mysterious to be called funny. After that I struggled no more against the stream. I drifted; I was carried down the great ocean of love. But I never once faltered in my high resolve to keep that ocean pure, and——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Ocean? What ocean?

Lady Patricia.

The ocean of love.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Sorry; my fault.

Lady Patricia.

To keep that ocean pure, and come what might, to shield Michael from the least suspicion that his wonderful love was not returned. Deceit? Oh, yes! But surely, surely deceit is justified when the alternative means—death!

Dean.

Death! Dear me!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Do you really think poor Michael would succumb if he learned the dreadful truth?

Lady Patricia.

I know it. Have you ever seen such devotion as his?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

It’s certainly remarkable....

Dean.

(Briskly.) Now, Lady Patricia, are you prepared to put yourself unreservedly in my hands?

Lady Patricia.

I am.

Dean.

Then I shall require two things of you. Firstly, that you break off these relations with young O’Farrel.

Lady Patricia.

I have determined on that already. I won’t speak of the suffering it will cause me. I have merited suffering and will bear it in silence. But when I think of him——! My poor, poor boy! What is to become of him without me?... Oh, you are his mother—can you devise no means of softening this blow for him?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

(Reverently.) I think we may safely leave that in the hands of Providence.

Dean.

I quite share your opinion. Secondly, Lady Patricia, I wish you to tell your husband everything.

Lady Patricia.

(Genuinely startled.) Michael!

Dean.

Everything.

Lady Patricia.

(Very much in earnest.) No—no. It’s impossible. I could never think of doing that.

Dean.

You said just now you would place yourself unreservedly in my hands.

Lady Patricia.

But I never dreamt you intended to punish the innocent for my sin. Why should Michael’s life and happiness be blighted because I’ve strayed from righteousness?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I think it’s just possible Michael may survive the shock.

Lady Patricia.

And I know that it will kill him. It’s impossible!

Dean.

(Sternly.) I insist.

Lady Patricia.

And I refuse.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

That brings me into the fray! The Dean, as your confessor, no doubt considers himself bound to keep your story secret. I don’t. So look here, Patricia; unless you make a clean breast of this to Michael, I shall go to him with it myself.

Lady Patricia.

You!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I.

Lady Patricia.

No! No! I don’t believe you’re capable of such infamy.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Oh, yes I am.

Lady Patricia.

I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it! It would be too cruel and wicked! Aunt Eileen, for pity’s sake——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

You won’t get any pity out of me, my dear—not an ounce! Either you or I tell Michael the story from start to finish—and if I tell him, there won’t be much left of your character when I’ve finished.

Lady Patricia.

(Wildly.) What am I to do? What am I to do? Dean—Dean—will you allow my aunt to wreak her horrible vengeance on me by murdering my husband?

Dean.

Oh, but really, I don’t think it will be quite so bad as that.

Lady Patricia.

But I know it—I know it!

Dean.

Besides, how am I to prevent her—even if I wished to?

Lady Patricia.

As the mouthpiece of spiritual authority....

Mrs. O’Farrel.

I don’t care a rap for his spiritual authority.

Dean.

You see.

(A pause. Lady Patricia stands rigid, with clenched hands. Finally she speaks in a low, dull voice.)

Lady Patricia.

Then—you—really—mean—to—do—this?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Certainly.

Lady Patricia.

I—am—ruined.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Nonsense! I’ve a strong idea this may be the saving of you both.

Lady Patricia.

Ruined.... I should like to sit down.

Dean.

My dear lady——

(Brings her a chair.)

Lady Patricia.

(Sits, and points blindly to the breakfast table.) Is that ... milk?

Dean.

Yes. Would you——

Lady Patricia.

I should like a little milk. (The Dean gives it to her.) Thank you.... I—I will tell Michael all.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Bravo! We shall make a woman of you yet!

Lady Patricia.

You are very hard and cruel and vindictive.... But I forgive you.

(John enters.)

John.

Mr. Cosway has called, sir.

Lady Patricia.

(In a whisper.) Michael!

Dean.

Where is he?

John.

In the study, sir.

Dean.

Lady Patricia——

Lady Patricia.

No—no—no.

Dean.

Just a minute, John.

John.

Yes, sir.

(Retires to the back.)

Lady Patricia.

What does it mean? Why is he here?

Dean.

He said he might call this morning on the way to church. Lady Patricia, go to him now. Tell him everything now.

Lady Patricia.

I can’t—I can’t——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Get it over, Patricia.

Dean.

Come, dear lady——

(He offers her his arm. Lady Patricia rises unsteadily, stares for a moment wildly before her, then sits down again.)

Lady Patricia.

I haven’t the strength—I haven’t the strength to go to him.... My knees tremble. Bring him here and leave us together....

Dean.

(Calling.) John.

(John re-enters.)

John.

Yes sir?

Dean.

Ask Mr. Cosway to come here.

John.

Yes sir.

(John goes out.)

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Cheer up, Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

A little since and I was glad, but now

I never shall be glad or sad again....

Dean.

I—er—beg your pardon?

Lady Patricia.

Swinburne.... For the last time—for the last time, Aunt Eileen, I ask you to spare me.

Dean.

Perhaps, after all, we had better——

Mrs. O’Farrel.

No! Don’t be a fool, Dean! No, Patricia, you’ve got to go through with this. Believe me, the result will astonish you.

Lady Patricia.

What do you mean?

(Michael enters from the house.)

Dean.

Ah, good morning, Cosway.

Michael.

(Standing still at the back and looking at Lady Patricia with startled eyes; whispers.) Patricia!... Have you told her?

Dean.

Hsh!

(Without greeting Mrs. O’Farrel he goes to Patricia, who stares straight before her.)

Michael.

Patricia, dearest.... I—I didn’t expect to find you here.

Lady Patricia.

Nor—I—you....

Dean.

Lady Patricia wants to speak to you privately. We—er—will leave you together.

Michael.

(In a whisper.) Privately?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Good morning, Michael.

Michael.

Er—good morning.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Delightful weather!

Michael.

Yes—er—ver—very nice.

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Come along, Dean. (Takes his arm and leads him to the house.)

Dean.

(As they go in.) Poor woman!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Fiddlesticks!

(They go into the house.)

Michael.

You—you look so white and strange, dearest. Are you ill ... Patricia?

Lady Patricia.

I am thirsty.... My throat is parched.... Please give me some milk....

Michael.

Milk?... Yes, dear. (Moves towards the house.) I’ll be back in a moment.

Lady Patricia.

No—no. It is on the table.

Michael.

The milk?... Oh, yes. I see.

(Pours her out inadvertently some of the hot milk for the coffee, and kneeling at her side, offers it to her.)

Lady Patricia.

(Taking milk.) Don’t kneel to me—don’t kneel to me! (She takes a sip of milk and hands it back to him with a wry face.) It is boiled.... (He places it back on the table.)

Michael.

(Returning to her.) Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

No—no—no—no! Don’t look at me—don’t touch me—stand up—stand away from me....

Michael.

Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

Do as I say.

Michael.

(Getting to his feet with a terrified face.) They—they have told you—they——

Lady Patricia.

Hush!... don’t speak. Give me time.... I—I am a broken woman.

Michael.

No, no, no! I will cherish you—I will worship you—I will serve you on my knees——

Lady Patricia.

(Genuinely puzzled.) Michael!

Michael.

All the rest of my life—every hour—every moment—will be given to making up for my sin.

Lady Patricia.

(Amazed.) Your sin?

Michael.

My crime then.

Lady Patricia.

Your——!

Michael.

(Pouring forth the words in a torrent of passionate entreaty. Lady Patricia stands staring at him first in bewilderment, then in amazement, then in dawning comprehension, finally in arctic realisation.) It was cruel of them—it was unfair to steal a march on me like this. For your sake—for mine—they should have left the confession to me. I would have withheld nothing. I would have told you all of my own free will. But they’ve spoken. And I see it—they’ve put the vilest construction on the few words they overheard last night. They have made you believe the worst of me. But it’s not true, Patricia. I swear it. It’s not true. (Lady Patricia makes a gesture as though to speak.) No, no, let me speak!... I have been faithful to the letter of our marriage vow—I have been unfaithful to the spirit. I am a man with a man’s passions, but for your sake I fought and kept my sinful love pure. Doubt all else—but believe that. You must believe it. You shall.... I am not trying to excuse myself. There is no excuse for what I have done. But O, Patricia, you know that to love and not to love isn’t in our control. And if I never loved you with all the passion I pretended ... I’m really deeply attached to you. It was for your sake I pretended. I felt it might kill you should you ever dream that your wonderful love was not returned in full ... that I loved ... elsewhere.

Lady Patricia.

(In a cold, level voice.) What are you talking about?

Michael.

(Floored.) Eh ...?

Lady Patricia.

You appear to be under the impression that the Dean and Aunt Eileen have told me something unpleasant about you.

Michael.

Well, haven’t they?

Lady Patricia.

They have told me nothing.

Michael.

Oh.... I—I thought they had....

Lady Patricia.

And now perhaps you will kindly explain the meaning of all this.

Michael.

I—I’ve told you everything.

Lady Patricia.

Who is the woman?

Michael.

Clare Lesley.

Lady Patricia.

Clare—Lesley!... I don’t believe it—it’s impossible. I don’t believe it!... (Michael is silent.) Do you mean to tell me that you don’t adore me?

Michael.

I’m—I’m very fond of you.

Lady Patricia.

Fond of me? Then all your passion has been a sham, and you’ve been making love to that—that—oh, what is the horrible word?...

Michael.

(Deferentially.) Er—impossible ...?

Lady Patricia.

No—no ... with two “p’s.” ...

Michael.

Appalling ...?

Lady Patricia.

No.... Flapper.... Oh, how I’ve been fooled! And they know it—the Dean and Aunt Eileen. You’ve made me a figure of fun—something to point and jeer at.... Oh, I could kill myself and—you!

Michael.

I am not worthy to live.

Lady Patricia.

And to think of all I have gone through for your sake—how I’ve forced myself to take your kisses and return them—how for months and months I fought and struggled to keep down the one great passion of my life. All for your sake—all because I thought you loved me! Oh, the bitter irony of it!

Michael.

What do you mean by this?

Lady Patricia.

But now the one obstacle to my love has been removed. I will go to him now—I will put my arms around him. He shall love me and I will love him.

Michael.

What are you saying, Patricia? Are you mad? Of whom are you speaking?

Lady Patricia.

Bill. Bill O’Farrel—Bill, whom I love and who loves me.

Michael.

Bill O’Farrel!

Lady Patricia.

For two years he has been the passion of my soul. He will now become my heart’s delight. Yes, Michael, you have taken my wonderful and unrequited love for you too much for granted. You have played the infatuated husband so artistically that I believed in it to the extent of playing the infatuated wife in return.

Michael.

You!

Lady Patricia.

Yes, I! I remained with you—I pretended to be absorbed in you, because I thought it would kill you if you realised that I wanted something more than you.

Michael.

Bill O’Farrel....

Lady Patricia.

Yes—Bill O’Farrel!

Michael.

Does any one know of this?

Lady Patricia.

They all know.

Michael.

That you’ve tricked and fooled me and made a laughing-stock of me? Oh——

Lady Patricia.

What have you done with me?

Michael.

When did they find it out?

Lady Patricia.

They overheard us last night.

Michael.

You and O’Farrel?

Lady Patricia.

Yes.

Michael.

In the tree—when they overheard us?

Lady Patricia.

You, too! Ah, I see it all now—I see it all. She said I must confess to you—that aunt—she said the result would astonish me. And now—now she’s hugging herself with vindictive joy at having humiliated me to the dust. But she has not finished with me yet. No! I can still strike back—and strike I will! You have no love for me. Very well. I know where to go for love.

Michael.

What do you mean?

Lady Patricia.

Bill loves me—he loves me—he worships me. I shall go to him—I shall hold him to me—I shall love him.

Michael.

I forbid it.

Lady Patricia.

Who are you to forbid me?

Michael.

I am your husband.

Lady Patricia.

You! You are no husband of mine! He is my husband because he loves me!

Michael.

If you go to him, I will return to Clare.

Lady Patricia.

To Clare!

Michael.

To the girl who loves me with all the strength of her young heart and soul.

Lady Patricia.

You shall never do that!

Michael.

And who’s to prevent me?

Lady Patricia.

I.

Michael.

You—the woman who has tricked me—fooled me, and now threatens to leave me for another!

Lady Patricia.

Threatens! I don’t threaten. I mean to do it.

Michael.

Very well, then. Leave me to go my own way.

Lady Patricia.

Go to her. Go to her. And I will go to him.

(She turns and moves towards the house. He takes a step or two to the left, then stops with an exclamation.)

Michael.

Clare!...

Lady Patricia.

(She turns, looks to the left, and starts with a faint cry.) Bill!

(They both stand irresolute and embarrassed. Bill and Clare enter from the left, also irresolute and embarrassed.)

Bill.

Er—good morning, Cousin Patricia.

Lady Patricia.

Good morning, Bill.

Clare.

Good morning, Mr. Cosway.

Michael.

Good morning, Clare.

Bill.

(A pause. He says in a whisper to Clare:) I say—you tell them.

Clare.

(In a whisper.) No—you.

Bill.

Awfully—er—jolly morning, Cousin Patricia, isn’t it.

Lady Patricia.

Yes ... very ... jolly.

Clare.

I’ve been for—for a walk, Mr. Cosway.

Michael.

Oh, yes—it’s nice weather for walking. Are you tired?

Clare.

Oh, no, thank you. (To Bill in a whisper:) Tell them....

Bill.

I say ... I say, Michael.

Michael.

Sir?

Bill.

You’ll be glad—I mean you’ll be awfully surprised to hear that I—that Clare and I—that’s to say, that we’re—Clare and I, you know——

Clare.

(In a whisper.) Oh, get it out!

Bill.

Well, you see—we’re engaged.

Lady Patricia and Michael.

Engaged!

Bill.

Yes. We hadn’t meant to be—but ... we are.

Clare.

We tried awfully hard to hold out for—for the sake of others ... but——

(She goes impulsively up to Michael, puts her hand on his arm and speaks in a low voice.)

I’m awfully sorry, Mike. I’m a beast, I know. But I can’t help it....

Michael.

(Rigid and staring before him.) How long have you loved him?

Clare.

Oh ... ages ... I ought to have told you, but——

Michael.

I don’t wish to hear another word.

(Bill has gone up to Lady Patricia, who stands motionless with a tragic face, staring before her. His appearance is that of a naughty schoolboy, hat in hand and shifting from one foot to the other.)

Bill.

(To Lady Patricia.) I—I—I—I’m sorry—I’ve behaved rottenly—but I—I—I’m awfully fond of you.... Of course I ought—but you see—I—that’s to say—but she—she’s—you know what I mean—I’m——

Lady Patricia.

Enough....

(Bill goes to Clare, who gives him her hand.)

Clare.

Now for the pater....

Bill.

Help!...

(They go into the house. Michael and Lady Patricia stand motionless, with clenched hands, staring before them. A long pause. The gateway bell rings. A pause. John enters from the house and opens the wicket door. Baldwin enters.)

Baldwin.

’Scuse me, Mr. John, but I think as I lef’ my ’ymn-book and prayer-book on the lawn.

John.

I haven’t seen ’em.

Baldwin.

That’s them yonder. (Distant sound of church bells.) Lord, if that ain’t the first bell! (John goes out.) Beg pardon, m’lady. Beg pardon, sir. I jest want my prayer-book an’ ’ymn-book. (Picks them up.) Thank ’ee, m’lady. They was given me by Mrs. Baldwin as was me first wife. I thought as ’ow I’d lef’ them on ’er grave jest now when I went to ’ave a look at it. But——

Michael.

That will do, Baldwin.

Baldwin.

Thank ’ee, sir.

(He is just about to go out when the house door opens and the ringing laughter of Bill and Clare brings him to a standstill. They enter, followed by the voice of Mrs. O’Farrel: “Be off—both of you!” and her laugh.)

Bill.

I say, darling, weren’t they corking?

Clare.

(Pointing to the motionless Michael and Lady Patricia and putting a finger to her lips.) S-sh!...

Bill.

Oh....

(Very sedately they pass up the path to the gateway, but just as they go out Bill passes his arm through Clare’s and squeezes it. They disappear. Mrs. O’Farrel and the Dean enter from the house, followed later by John and Robert.)

Dean.

(Jovially.) So much for tact and diplomacy!

Mrs. O’Farrel.

And common-sense!

Dean.

(Lowering his voice and indicating the rigid Michael and Lady Patricia.) And these two?

Mrs. O’Farrel.

Best leave them alone.

Dean.

No, no!...

(Goes up to Michael and Lady Patricia, while Mrs. O’Farrel goes out; John, standing near the door, waits for the Dean.)

Are you not going to join us in church? (A pause.) My dear friends, on such a morning as this we should all sing the Te Deum, and forget everything but the joy of being alive....

(He looks smilingly from one to the other, then goes out, followed by John. Robert waits at the door. A pause. Baldwin stands hesitating. Lady Patricia turns to Michael.)

Lady Patricia.

Michael!...

Michael.

Yes.

Lady Patricia.

Under the great rose window in the south transept our pew is now full of purple and amber lights and shafts of chrysoprase. Shall we not sit there again together?

Michael.

I don’t see what else there is to do.... Patricia!

Lady Patricia.

Michael!... Repentance is very exquisite, and how beautiful is forgiveness. Come....

(Followed at a respectful distance by Baldwin, they go out together in silence side by side, and the Curtain falls as they pass under the gateway.)

The End.

The Gresham Press,
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED,
WOKING AND LONDON

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