The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lady Patricia, by Rudolf Besier.

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.

CHARACTERS

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.

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 Third Act.

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

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.

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.

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

Milk and cream.... (After a dreamy pause.) Yes, I am afraid so. But don’t put it on the table.[14] Hide it in the summer-house. And will you send Baldwin to me?

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.

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

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!

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

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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

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

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.

(Clinging to him.) Oh, how I’ve longed for this moment—how I’ve longed for it!... All these[22] 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.

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

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....

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

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

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

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.

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?

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.

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....

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[26] 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——

(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!

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[27] 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?

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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[31] for one moment that his devotion was not returned. Yes! I think a woman who has done all this cannot be altogether unworthy.

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?...

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

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.

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.

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?

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

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.

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

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

Yes. When last I saw her, a little more than a year ago, her skirts weren’t much below her knees, and[39]——

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

(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?

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

(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!

(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!

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

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

(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?

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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!

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

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....

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

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[54]——

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.

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

(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?

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

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

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?

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

(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——

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

(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.

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

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

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....

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

Thank you, Michael dear, a little better.... He found me asleep. He was thirsty, poor fellow![62] 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?

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.

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.

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

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

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

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——

(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.

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

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

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.

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

(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.

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!

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

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.

(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.

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?

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?

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

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

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

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.

I’m coming down. There’s not a nest to be seen anywhere. By Jove, I am in a mess! It’s[74] all your fault for driving me up a tree with your disgusting billing and cooing.

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.

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

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

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

(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!

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.

No, stay here. Your tie-pin will do for one.[77] I’ve a safety-pin here (fiddling at her waist), and another somewhere in my collar.... Bring a cushion here.

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

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

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

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

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

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[80] wrench on the tree. Do the best you can.... Oh, don’t fumble about like that!

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

(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?

(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?

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!...

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.

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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[84] 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?

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

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!

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

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.

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[87] see this lily? So virginal and nun-like! I am going to put her into a glassful of wine and make her tipsy.

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.

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[92] lantern.) Uncommon quick ... drat ’em.... (Pulls up the lantern.) Whoa!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(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.

’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!...

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.

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.

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[98] 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?

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.

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.

(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?

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

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

’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.

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

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?

(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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

(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....

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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[113] view of life. (He glances apprehensively at the tree.)

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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....

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

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

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

(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.)

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

(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....

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

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.

(After a pause.) You may be right, Bill;[123] perhaps I do owe you an explanation since I allowed you to kiss me....

(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[124] 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....

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

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.

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

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

If I hadn’t been a blind fool, I would have seen through this precious friendship for you long ago.[127] 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....

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

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.

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

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——

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

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....

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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!

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

(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....

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?

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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....

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

Oh, I—I don’t know. I’m all right, Michael—but[144] you—— We’d better go in now. Father’s waiting for me.

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

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?

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

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?

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——

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.

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

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....

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

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

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

No—no—no—ah, no! I know well enough that[150] 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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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?

Incredible! Of course, I know—in spite of[153] appearances—that Clare feels strongly for your son.

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——

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?

Will you kindly entrust the conduct of the[154] situation entirely to me. Take your cue from me, and above all, be tactful and dignified. (He sits down with unction.)

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.

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

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

(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!

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

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

(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.)

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.

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

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

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

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

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?

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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,[167] sorry that you’ve lost your appetite this morning! It’s an ill wind that——

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

Oh, for goodness’ sake, father, take the whole[168] lot! I’m sure I don’t want to deprive you of your food!

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

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

(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.

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

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.

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....

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

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

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.

I was not speaking of Mr. Cosway. Honestly,[172] your future relations with him don’t cause me acute anxiety. I was alluding to young O’Farrel.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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——

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.

It’s grossly unjust—it’s mean and horrid. I[174] won’t do such a caddish thing even for you. I am going to see him now.

(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.

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

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.

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

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.

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?

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.

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

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,[177] Victoria ... H’Alice.... H’Edith.... an’—an’ Milly. Yessir—nine. The rest is boys.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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.

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

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

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.

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.

He dazzled me with an amazing flare-up. Exhausted his vocabulary on my injustice and Clare’s[184] perfections, and stormed out of the room, leaving me with tingling ears.

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?

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.

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

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[186] I expect and deserve no sympathy from you, no mercy, no forgiveness, no understanding....

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....

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?

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——

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[188] 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.

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

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!

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.

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!...

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

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——

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!

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

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

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

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?

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

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

But I never dreamt you intended to punish the[193] innocent for my sin. Why should Michael’s life and happiness be blighted because I’ve strayed from righteousness?

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.

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

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.

(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?

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

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

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

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

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

(Standing still at the back and looking at Lady[199] Patricia with startled eyes; whispers.) Patricia!... Have you told her?

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

(Taking milk.) Don’t kneel to me—don’t kneel to me! (She takes a sip of milk and hands it[201] back to him with a wry face.) It is boiled.... (He places it back on the table.)

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

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

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

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

(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[203] 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.

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

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?

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?...

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!

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!

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.

For two years he has been the passion of my[206] 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.

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.

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.

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

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

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——

(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——

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

That’s them yonder. (Distant sound of church[213] 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——

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

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

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....

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

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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

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lady Patricia: A comedy in three acts

LADY PATRICIA