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.)










_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”_

                             [Illustration]

                      _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