CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE Cornell University Library PR 4699.E805 When we were twenty-one; coi'sj'y '" '°"'' ^ 4 013 456 862 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013456862 Contents Esmond 1. One summer's day. cl900. 2. When we were twenty-one; comedy. cl903. 3. The wilderness; a comedy. cl901. E"r6ndh's Iihernktional Coj^riglited (in England, her Colonies, and tli6 United States) Edition of the Works of the Best Authors. , No. 37. One Summer's Day BY ' ^:' H. V. ESMOND AUTHOR OF " WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-QNE." Copyright, igoo,, by T. H. French. Amateufs are not allbwed to produce this play -witliout payment of the authors' royalty. All inquiries concern- ing same should be addressed, to the publishers. ^ PRICE 25 CENTS JJew York , ' SAMUEL,,FRENCH PUBtiSHER 24 WEST 22D STREET London A SAMUEL FRENCH,, Ltd. ;^ ■ , 26 Southampton St.,' , A Strand, London, W.C.. i ft FRENCH'S STANDARD DRAMA. Price 15 Cents each.— Bound Volumes $1.25. .VOL.1. 1 Ion J Thri Lndy of Lyoiu 4 Rfchelitiu I Th« WifB • ,Tfat HoneytnooQ 1 'The Scboul for Scuidal • Money VOL; IL 9 Tb« Stranger 1* Grandtfvther Whltehaad 11 RialiArd III 19 Lova'i SRcrifici IS The Gam ester 14 A Cure for th« HeartBche li Th« HiinuhbAck 14 DpD CtFiar de 3rzui VOL. in. IT Th« Poor~G«atlenxfta 18 Hamlet / 15 Cfani;IeB 11 . iO Venice Preserved f 1 Pizarra f e Tba LoT« Chasa 13 Othello 14 Lend me FiT« ShlUinn VOL. IV. » Virgin lc» fl Kiag of the Commona tl London Aisuranca tSThe Rent Day Sit Two QeiiitlenirTi of Verona SO The Jealoui \^'ifii 81 The RiTali It Perfection ' VOL. V. [Pebts U A New Way to Pay Old t4 Look Before You ,LeAp St KlHff John SS KerToui Man S7 tiamon and Pythfaa ' SS Clandestine ^Marrtage, 8» William Tell 40 Day after the Wedding VOL.' VL 41 ^led the Plough 45 lumao and JulTet 43 Feudal Times 44 Charlei the Twelfth 46 The Bride 4ATheFollieioraNtgbt 47 Iron Cheat [Fair Lady 45 Faint Heart Never Won VOL; VII. 49 Road to Ruin 09 Macbeth Si Temper St Eradn* SS Bertram 54 The Duenna 55 Much Ado AhoDt Nothing SSThcCrllia VOL. VIII, S7The Apoitate SS Twelfth Might S9 Brutui (9 Slntpson k Co f 1 Merchant of Venice C9 OldHeadi&VoungKenrts 43 Menntalneers [rlctj^e 54 Three Weeki nfter Mar- VOL. IX. SSLore «6 A> Toa Like It 41 The Elder Brother 55 Wernar S9 aiilppUB TO Town and Countrj' 11 King Lear ISBlueDevili VOL, X. « Henry VIII f 4 Married and Single tS Henry IV tS Paul Pry tT Ouy Mannerlng fS SweotheRrts and WItm W Serioue Family M She Stoop* to Conquer VOL, XI. 81 Julius Cmsar 89 Vicar of Wakefield 83 Leap Year 84 The Catspaw m The PtiiElng Cloud 64 Drunkard 87 Rob Roy 88 George Barnwell VOL, xn. 89 Ingomar 90 Skeichet In India 91 TwoFrlenda fli Jane Shore -■■ 93 Corsicah Brotliers 94 Mind your own BuslneM 95 Writing on the Wall 9S Heir at Law VOL. XIIL 97 Soldier'i Daughter' 98 Douglas 99 Mnrco Spada 100 Nature's Noblenlaa 101 Sardanapalui 109 Civilization 103 The Robber* 104 Katharine and Petnicliio VOL. XIV. 105 Game of Lore 106 Midsummer Nlght'a 107 Ernestifie ^ [Dream 108 Rag Picker of Parle 109 ;F]ying Dutchman no Hypocrite 111 Tbereae 112 La Tour de Kesia VOL. XV. 113 Ireland At It la 114 Sea of Ice lis Seven Clerkf 116 Game of Life 117 Forty Thlevei 118 Bryan Borolhme 119 Romance and Reality 120 Ugolino VOL. XVL 191 The Tempest 182 The Pilot IS3 Carpenter of Rouen IM King's Rival 125 Littl^ Treasure 128 Dombey and Son 137 PareoU and Guardian* lilS Jewess VOL. XVU. 129 Camilla UO ^Urrled Life 131 WeulockofWenlock 132 Rose of EtLrlckvata 133 David Copperfield 134 Aline, or the Ro^a of 135 Paulino [Killarney 136 Jane Eyre VOL. XVIII. 137 Night and Morning 188 i^thlop 139 Three Guardsmen 140 Tom Cringle 141 Henriette, the Forsaken 142Eustache Baudin 143 Ernest Maltravera 144 Bold Dragoons VOL. XIX. HSDred, or the Dismal [Swamp 146 Last Days of Pompeii 147 Esmeralda 148 Peter Willfclna 149 Ben the Boatswain UO Jonathan Bradford 151 Retribution 1G2 Minerali VOL. XX. 1 53 French Spy 164 Wept of Wish-ton Wish 165 Evil Genius 166 Ben Bolt 167 Sailor of Franca 168 Red Mask Life of an Actraia 100 Wedding Day [Moscow VOL. XXI. 161 All's Fair in Lore 162 Hofer 163 Self 164 Cinderella 165 Phantom 166 Franklin 167 The Gdnm«ker''of 168 The Love of a Prince , VOL. XXII. 169 Son of the Night 170 Rory O'More 171 Golden Eagle 172 Rlenul 173 Broken Sword 174 Rip Van Winkle 175 Isabells 176 Heart of Mid Lothian VOL. XXIIL 177 Actress of Padua 178 Floating Beacon ^79 Bride of Lammermoqr 180 Cataract of the Ganges 181 Robber of the Rhine ISS School of Reform 183 Wandering Boya - 184 Mnaeppa VOL. XXIV. 185 Young New York 186 The VicLlins 187 Romance after Marriage 188 Brigand 189 Poor of New York 190 Ambrose Gwioctt 191 Raymond and Agnes 192 Gambler's Fat« vo),. xyv. 193 Father and Son 194 Mnssaniello 195 Sixteen String Jack 196 youthful Queen 197 Skeleton WitncBs 198 Innkeeper of Abbeville 199 Miller and his Men 200 /Aladdin VOL. XXVI. SOI Adrienue the Actress 202 Undine Jesse Brown 204 Asmodeus 205 Msr'moni ■206 Blanche of Brandy wine 207 Vola 208 Descret Deserted VOL. XXVII. Americans In Paris 210 Victorine 211 Wizard of the Wave 913 Castle Spectre Horse-shoe Robinson 214 Arrnanil, Mrs. Mowalt 2U Fas.hioii, Mrs. Mowatt 216 Glance at New York VOL, XXVIII. 217 Inconstant 218Diicle Tom's Cabin 219 Guide to the Stage 220 Vet«ran 221 Miller of Now Jersey 222 D-rk Hour before Dnwu 223 Midsum'rNight'*Dream [Laura Kcene's Edition 224 Art and Artifice VOL. XXIX, 225 -Poor Young Man 226 OsaawatComle Brown 227 Pope of Rome 298 Oliver Twist 2^9 Pauvretta 230 Man in the Iron Mask 231 Knight of Arva 232 Moll Pitcher VOL. XXX. Black Eyed Susan rn Satan in Paris 236 Bosina Meadows [ess 236 West End, or Irish Heir- 237 Six Degrees of Crime 233 The Lady and the Devil 239 Avenger.orMoorofSIci- 240 Masks and Faces [ly (French's Standard Drama Continued on j d page of Cover.) VOL. XXXL 241 Merry Wives of Wlndaor 342 Mary's Birthday' 343 Shandy Magnira 344 Wild OaU 345 Michael Erie '.45 Idiot Witness 347 Willow Copse 348 People's Lawyer - • VOL. XXXIL 349 The Boy Martyrs 250 Lucretla,Borgia 251 Surgeon of Parie 252 Patrician's Daughter 953 Shoemaker of T^ulousa 354 Momentous Question 256 Lcfva and Loyalty 266 Robber's Wife VOL. X XXIIL 267 Dumb Girl of Genoa 2.^8 Wreck Aslfbra 259 Clarl 260 Rural Felicity 261 Wallace 362 Madelalne 363 The Fireman 364 Grist to the Mill VOL. XXXIV. 265 Two Loves and a Lift 266 Annie Blake 267 Steward 268 Captain Kyd 969 Nick of the Wood* 270 Marble Heart 271 Second Love 372 Dream at Sea VuL. XXXV. 373 Breach of Promise 374 Review 275 Lady of the Lake 276 Stilf Water Runs Deep •ill The Scholar 278 Helping Hands 279 Faust and Marguerite 280 Last Mnn VOL. XXXVT. 981 Belle's Stratagem 282 Old and Youne 933 Raffaella 284 Kuth Oakley 985 British Slave 386 A Life's Ransom 387 Glralda S8S Time Trios All VOL. xxxvn. 289 Ella RoEs^butg 290 Warlock of the Glen 291 Zelina ' 292 Beatrice 293 Neighbor Jackwood 294 Wonder- 295 Robert Emmet Green Bushes VOL. XXXVHL 297 Flowers of the Forest 398 A Bachelor of Arts 299 The Midnight Banquet 800 Husband of an Hour KOl Love's Labor Lost 302 Naiad Queen 3i>3 Caprice 304 Cradle of-Liborty VOL. XXXIX. , 305 The Lost Ship ■ 306 Country Squire 307 Fraud and its VloMma - 308 Putnam 309 King and Desertar 310 La Fiammlna 311 A Hard Struggle 319 Uwinnette Vaughaa VOL. XL. 31 3 The Love Knot [Judge 314 Lavater, or Not a Bad 315 The Noble Heart 816 Coriolanus * 317 The Winter's Tale 318 Eveleen Wilson 319 Ivanhoe 830 Jonathan to, Engjana ONE SUMMER'S DAY H. V. ESMOND AUTHOR OF " WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE.' Copyright, 1900, by T. H. French Ex LIBRIS 3. OTtjitmore Parrp ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Produced at the Comedy Theatre, London, i6th September, 1897- CHARACTERS. Major Dick Rudyard Charles Hawtrey Phil Marsden Cosmo Stuart Theodore Bendyshe Henry Kemble Robert HoddESdEn Ernest Hendrie Tom, his Nephew Kenneth Douglas SeTH, a Gipsy Lyston Lyle The Urchin J. Bottomley Irene, Hoddesden's Niece Lettice Fairfax MaysiE, his Ward Eva Moore Mrs. Theodore Bendyshe Mrs. Charles Calvert Bess, a Gipsy Lydia Rachel Chiara,* a Gipsy Constance Collier * Clara, lulian Chiara (Ke-a'ra). ONE SUMMER'S DAY. ACT I. Scene. — A corner of an island on the Thames on a bright summer's day. At back, the river, and all round trees and bushes. Overhanging the water are willow trees, and in the foreground are two roughly made haystacks, the one R. about three feet high and four feet in dia?neter at base ; the one L. four feet high. The whole scene fresh and green and cheerful, the birds singing iit the trees. Bess, an old gipsy, is sitting against the smaller haystack, crooning softly to herself and plaiting a basket from a bundle of osiers. After a pause Seth lounges on from r., chewing a straw. He is a hand- some gipsy, his face somewhat sullen, age about thirty-five. Bess. (l. ; hardly looking at him) Vv^ell, I've been waiting here for near an hour. Seth. {suddenly) She ain't back yet. Bess. What's she up to ? Seth. {chewing the straw) That's our business. Bess. I'm no talker. Seth. {coming down) She's gone to Windsor — for a purpose. Bess. What's the game ? Seth. (r. c.) Quids — and lots of 'em, likely. Bess. Wot's it worth ? Seth. Maybe a 'undred — maybe more. Bess, {chuckling) Maybe less. Seth. Maybe. We'll chance it. Sheknows wot she's about. Bess. Well, out with it — wot's the game ? 4 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Seth. {crosses L.) Ye can't spoil it if I tells ye — so rir tell ye. (Bess laughs harshly, and after a pause Seth lounges across and leans against the other hay- stack, bending over the old woman and talking softly) You remember when her husband chucked her and went with his regiment to India ? Bess. I wonder he kept her so long. Lord ! she was a holy terror in those days. Seth. {drily) Ah — that ain't of no account. He took the kid wiv him. Bess. And glad she was to get rid of it. Seth. Ah — then the letter coming from that Captain Rudyard, saying her husband was dead of fever. Bess. Aye — and the kid too, and sending her (ifty quid. Seth. {bending down, says quickly) It wasn't true. Bess, [startled) What ! her man not dead ? Seth. Oh, yes — he went right enough — but the kid's alive. Bess. Mercy ! Sefh. Chiara has found out that Captain Rudyard has got a kid — seven years old — that he keeps at the Windsor school — a kid he's awful fond of — and as he ain't married, Chiara thinks Bess. Thinks it's hers ? Seth. Yes. Bess. Well, but she don't want the brat ? Seth. {scornfully) Not much ; but if the Captain wants to keep it for hisself, we thinks it will suit him to pay a little something for the loan. Bess. But where is this Rudyard ? Seth. 'Ere — stayin'ofif the High Street. He's in with the people from the Laurels — sweet on one of the gals there — we've been trying to find him for near a year now, and we've run up against him at last. She's kept out of his way till we're sure of our game — an' if it's all right — • my gentleman will have to pay for keeping a loving mother from her child, {goes back C.) Bess. Serve him right, the unnatural villain, turning an honest woman's child into a gentleman — make 'im pay. Seth. (c.) Ah ! Bess. An' what's she gone to Windsor for ? Sei'H. To cast her eye over the blessed kid. {crosses R. C.) ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 5 Bess. How'd she know it ? Seth. (l. C.) Remember that time she swiped it over the eye ? That mark'll be good enough for her. Bess. . Oh, ah ! Seth. Is that the half-hour striking ? Bess. Yes. Seth. She ought to be {a distant whi^le heard) That's her. (jnakes a quick move, is about t^ go when Bess stops him) Bess, {stopping him) Bad luck comes fast enough — better wait — better wait. Seth. [slightly up \,. C) It's good luck that's coming coming our way now — why, she's made over six quid out of the young fool from the Laurels, and the old painter there, Bendyshe, has offered 'er ten quid to sit for 'er picture. Bess. She's a one-er— and no mistake. (Chiara, the gipsy, is seen coming quickly through the bushes from v.. She is u beautiful woman of about thirty , dark- haired, heavy-eyed, a face of strongly-marked passions. She is picturesquely dressed in the mixed costume of the tribe, and walks with a graceful swing, her hands on her hips, all her white teeth shining as she smiles. Seth goes eagerly to meet her) Seth. Well ? Chiara. (smiling at him) Well, my handsome Seth ? Seth. Out with it. (Chiara looks over her shoulder at Bess. Impatiently) All right — she knows. Is it the kid ? Chiara. (carelessly) Yes, I knew my mark. Who says good don't come from evil ? If I hadn't lost my temper that night, we should ha' lost a fortune to-day. Seth. What'll it be worth, do ye think ? Chiara. Who knows ? Seth. We'll make my gentleman pay — and pay hand- some. Chiara. I've been there — didn't see him. He's com- ing over here this afternoon — a picnic with the folk from the Laurels. I'll tackle him then. Seth. You can't have it out before all the lot. Chiara. ISTo, but I can meet him — look at him — re- mind him I'm alive — and then — we'll talk seriously to- gether a little later on. Lord ! how like his father that kid is. (flings herself down on the ground R.) And how 6 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. the sight of him larought back old times — those Oxford days — those stuffy rooms — me married — respectable. I wore a veil once. — Ah, ha ! fancy me in a veil — what a fool I felt. Then, a mother — me— more respectable. Phew! Sick of it all! You turn up again, and then our bolt together. Ah, ha ! what a time, the free fresh air —the — ah, well ! What a fool I was to make Jack marry me. " Bess. Well, it didn't last long, dearie. Chiara. Who cares ? (^suddenly) Has the fool boy been here ? Seth. Ain't seen him. {back L. c.) Chiara. I promised to meet him here at twelve. Seth. {coming definitely to business) Now, what about this Captain Rudyard ? {standing over L. C. of Chiara) Chiara. {lazily) What about him ? Leave him to me — he's my affair. We'll get the money we want, and then we'll go north, my Seth ! (BESS gets up, moving Chiara. {watching her as she goes) Moving on ? Bess. Yes, moving on. Seth. {fiercely) Tell us what you mean to do with Rudyard and this kid ? Chiara. {lazily) Shan't, so don't worry. Don't know as I shall do anything — depends how I feel. Se'I'H. (going to her angrily) Look ye here ! Chiara. {smiling at his rage) Don't bully me, it doesn't pay. {crawls to L. haystack) Bess. (L. of her) Tell him what you mean to do, dearie — black eyes ain't beautiful, and you're a-goin' to sit for your portrait, as I hear, {exit L. still crooning an old dirge to herself) Seth. (standing over Chiara and talking angrily) I'll tell you what you've got to do : you goes to Captain Rudyard, and says — " 'Ere, you've stole my child and you've got to take the consequences.'' Chiara. {^still smiling lazily at him) Which is Seth. Which is — you pays me fifty quid a year for the loan of 'im, or I hands you over to the law. Chiara. {to herself, smiling) He is a wise man, is my handsome Seth. {he makes an angry gesture, she stops him with a quick movement) Chiara. Hush ! Here comes the city man ! (after ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 7 a slight pause, the Urchin strolls on r. — he is a chubby, brown-faced, curly-haired little street Arab — his legs are bare, his trousers rolled up to the knee, tattered and many sizes too targe for him, the waist being al- most under his armpits. Over his shoulder he carries a fishing rod fashioned out of a switch of willow ; in the other hand is a large bottle swinging by a piece of string, the receptacle for the fish he hopes to catch. He nods to Seth and turning to Chiara looks at her with a disapproving eye. Smiling at him) Well, city man ! Urchin, (r. c. sternly) Don't you haddress me ; I'm disgustercated wiv yer. Chiara. {pathetically) Ah ! How can we of the wilds hope to please you of the great town ? Urchin, (somewhat mollified) I admits the 'andi- cap — but, Guv'nor, you mayn't be aweer on it — but yore missis's carrying-on's is enough to — to demoralize this yer wum ! {holds up worm, admiringly , preparatory to bait- ing his hook) Seth. {laughing at Chiara, then to Urchin) I've been at work — my eyes have been shut. What have you seen, city man .' Urchin, {to Seth with dignity) 'Tain't for me to come atween man and wife, but yesterday there was a young torf, bless yer, a kid — orl collar and himpidence. 'E flirted round yer missis, he guv her a quid, an' she guv him a kiss. Seth. {laughing) .Well, city man, wot's wrong wi' that ? She guv me the quid, and she guv the young torf his kiss back agin. Urchin, {fishing desperately) So long as you don't mind. 'Ow about the chap I calls 'Oppin' tub — Mr. Bendyshe, a-staying at the Laurels 'i I sees 'imgive 'er a fiver to buy a shawl. Chiara. He says he's a great artist — he calls me Cleo- patra. Urchin, {scornfully) Cleopatra — pickles ! {goes to bank and fishes R. c.) Chiara. {lying back, smiling laaily, her eyes half closed) He is a great artist — he is going to paint my face and make me immortal forever. I am to meet him this afternoon and he will commence. See, city man, how we live on the wisdom of fools. Seth. You meets 'im agin to-day ? {risesy down C.) 8 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Chiara. {laughing) The fool boy at twelve, where we are. The fool man at four, by the osiers. Seth. It's on the stroke of "welve now — so long. Go slow with the schoolboy, Chiara. So long ! I ain't far off if yer want .me. {exit L. at back) Chiara. The girls from the house-boat will come here to picnic soon. Which do you fancy, city man, the fair one or the dark ? Urchin. Ain't a marryin' man — time enuff for gals when fishin's orf. {scornfully — baits his hook labori- ously) There ain't one as can 'andle a wum as a wum should be 'andled — {he strikes) Corn again — sickening ! Chiara. {laughs, then listens) The fool boy is com- ing — take a lesson in folly, city man. {glides laughingly away into the willows L.) Urchin, {relieved at her departure) Good biz — a fellar carn't tish and tork to gals and loafers. Got 'im ! {with a yell of triumph he lands a minnow j after in- specting it with delight he puts it into bottle, then hearing some one coming he looks off) Lor ! 'ere comes the young torf, sure enuff. I ain't going to waste my time on the likes of 'im. {gets higher up the branch which about conceals him, and resumes his fishing) Enter To.M Reid, r. He is a handsome b.iy about seven- tcfii. //<• carries a small parcel, and is rather flushed and agitated, looks abotit anxiously as if ex- pecting some one. Takes out a Waterhury luatch. Tom. She's hue. Just like all women. I needn't have swotted that last half-mile after all. {flings himself down tinder haystack l,. and 7nops his forehead — fan- ning himself) Bother the flies ! {as he lies, Chiara enters stealthily L. and, after looking round, catches sight of him, she creeps behind the hay stack, and taking a piece of straw, tickles him with it on the nose. He is unaware of her presence and continues cursing the flies, till at last he sees the end of the straw and catch- ing it meets her laughing face round the haystack and springs up in confusion) Chiara. Ain't I a pretty fly, pretty boy ? Tom. {abashed) I didn't mean to — oh — I say — I'm not late, am I ? Chiara. I like to wait for those I {stops, lower- ing her eyes timidly) ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 9 Tom. {taking her hands — eagerly^ Say it. Chiara. Say what ? Toivr. What you were going to say. Chiara. (releasing her hands) Nothing. Tom. (grins hugely with delight, then turning to her sheepishly) Will you have this ? {hands her the packet awkwardly) Chiara. {laughs, opening it, guessing with her eyes shut, showing her whole teeth in a smile) It's a jewel — no — it's a chain — ^no, it's a Tom. It's a chain — thought you'd like a chain — girls usually do. Chiara. {with a cry of genuine delight, putting it on) My pretty boy ! {then with a deep sigli) Oh, why did you come down here .'' {sits on haystack L.) Tom. I say, you're not sorry, are you ? Chiara. No. Tom. We're jolly good friends considering I've only known you three days, but I suppose that's always the way— when it's — well — I mean — serious, you know. {goes to back of haystack and leans over her) Chiara. {earnestly) Are you serious ? Tom. Oh, I say, you know, I'm dead serious. Chiara. {sadly) You'll go back to the great school soon, and I shall be left alone. Tom. (with sudden vehemence) Suppose I don't go back — suppose I cut it — and tell the governor of — of — our love — and you and I go somewhere — where it's all like this. Haystacks and sunshine — and loneliness — and oh, I say — you know, you are a stunner. Chiara. {shaking her head with mock pathos) I couldn't live in a town, I should stifle, {sighs and leaves him ; crosses R.) Tom. {following her) What is it — you sighed ? Chiara. Don't ask me. Tom. I say, you know, I must ask you. We can't have secrets from each other. Chiara. (with apparent reluctance) I'm in trouble. Tom. No, no. Chiara. At least not I, but my father. Tom. {deeply distressed and annoyed) 1 say again ! Chiara. (sadly) Yes^dear father, (then defiantly) We must live. Tom. Yes, but poaching, you know. lo ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Chiara. {with mock dignity') Poaching — that's what you call it, you who drive us from place to place — we must live — we will live. We are wanderers, every man's hand is against us. So our hands are against every man's rabbits. Tom. Oh, I say ! Chiara. They are so many — and so fat — so slow ol foot — so convenient — that poor father — {then changing her tone to one of injured virtue') But don't fear, I shall not ask your help. I will sell your gift, and pay the fine, then we shall go away, {goes down L.) Tom. {anxiously) I say, you know, don't go on like that, and don't sell that chain — it belongs to my sister. Chiara. You gave it to me. Tom. Yes — she don't wear it much — but don't sell it, you know, because when we're married she might miss it. Chiara. Did she give it to you for me ? Tom. Well, no ! I've not mentioned it yet ; she was rather huffy this morning, {moves a little R.) Chiara. {suddenly lifting her hand mid listening) Voices — follow ! [she darts away L. into the bushes. "YoM. follows, forgclling his hat by the haystack) URCHI^f. [showing his head out of tree) She's a corker — got off a father on him now. Wot'llshe perduce next? I'm off women after this — they knows too much — give me wums ! (Phil Marsden heard off r. Dis- gusted) Lord love a duck — more torfs ! Phil, (off) Hurry up, slow coach ! Dick, {pjff) I've got a pipe to carry. Enter Phil, a good-looking, soldierly young man about twenty-Jive, quickly through trees. Phil. {after looking about him, goes to ri'jer at back C.) Hang it all, they haven't come. (Major RUDYARD strolls on after him. He is a self-contained man, gentle, slow of speech, very good-humored and rather lazy) Dick. Of course they haven't — needn't have hurried me — much too energetic — cultivate repose — as I do. {lies down calmly under haystack L. and puffs placidly at his pipe) Phil., {looking across rii'er) They said half-past twelve, didn't they ? Dick, {calmly) Oh, yes, they said half-past twelve. ONE SUMMER'S DAY. ii Phil. You're sure we were to meet them here ? Dick. Sure ! At least, I don't know — perhaps they said {pauses pensively, contemplating his pipe) Phil, {impatiently) Said what ? Dick, {much perplexed) Did they say we were to call for them there, or meet them here — 1 wonder ? Phil. Great Scotland ! — you told me Dick. One or the other — it was one or the other ; we can't be far wrong, you see. Phil, {desperate) Suppose they're waiting for us there ? Dick. Well, they can't grumble ; we're waiting for them here. Phil. What a nice situation ! Dick. Very, but it won't last — they're sure to rout us out — they're girls, you know, {knocks the ash out of his pipe slowly) Now if I hadn't sent my kiddie to school this couldn't have happened. You see he looks after me like a mother, wouldn't dream of letting me forget a little thing like a picnic — at daybreak he'd dash out of his little bed into mine and pound me on the chest and bawl into my nearest ear, " Wake up, Dickie, we're going picnic ; " but now, you see because I was a brute, and sent the little beggar to school, we've muddled matters. Phil, {scornfully) We ? Dick. Well, I've muddled matters, {tucks himself comfortably into haystack, then speaks dreamily) Damn shame sending little kiddies to school — stufly school — gorgeous green fields — great sweeping blue sky — fresh air into tiny lunjgs — much better than squeaky slates and horrid niggling sums that won't add up. Phil. Oh, shut up, Dick ! Dick. Ah, forgot — swore I wouldn't mention kiddie, all day, didn't I ? Sorry — accident — you're awful rough on me — but then you're not a father. Phil. Neither are you. Dick. That's true — but you needn't shove it down my throat. Phil, {suddenly, looking offl^., breaks into a laugh) Dick, look here ! — by Jove, it's an awful lark. Dick, {lazily) Couldn't move for an earthquake. {quickly jumping up) Dash it — must for earwigs ! {brushes an earwig off his arin, then lies down again) Phil. It's young Tom and that gipsy girl ; I told you 12 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. about it last night— by Gad, the little beggar's very hard hit. It's as good as a play. Dick. It's a play that can become very serious. It must be stopped. Phil. Pooh ! Boys will be boys. Dick. Boys like Tom are old enough and young enough to put millstones round their necks — as boys they like the weight — as men they find it heavy — sometimes it crushes 'em. Phil. What's up now ? Dick. I was thinking of poor' old Jack. Phil, {gravely) By (iad, I forgot ; his affair was with HL. gipsy, wasn't it ? Dick. His affair — we don't worry over other people's millstones. Phil. Pooh ! Jack was a sentimental idiot ; he mar- ried the girl. Dick, {quietly) Jack was a gentleman ; Jack was a chum of mine ; Jack was the father of my kiddie ; don't forget that ! Phil. I'm sorry, old chap, {pause) I say though, you ought to come and look at this girl — she's magnifi- cent. Tom's got devilish good taste. Dick. Devilish is right. Phil. Come and look at her. Dick. Not I — I hate the tribe — never feel safe when I think of 'em. * Phil, (crosses R.) You're too old and too ugly for kidnapping, Dicky. Dick. Shut up, you fool ! Phil. My dear Dick, you're thinking of that kid again — you're as nervous as a hen with one chicken. Dick. If the hen knew that the chicken didn't belong to her, I've the deepest sympathy with her nervousness. Phil. One would think that all the world had formed into a league to rob you of your most ordinary little boy. Dick. He is not an ordinary little boy ; he is a — a — {his voice changes to one of great tenderness and he lies on his back chuckling contentedly) He's all right ; and when I get back to town I'm going to buy him the largest cannon to be got for money — you know I think that's a fine trait in that boy's character — he'd a dem sight sooner play with a cannon and talk with the chaps after mess than sit m a poky nursery learning the alphabet ! ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 13 Phil. Marvellous ! Dick, {grunts with pleasure, smokes peacefully — after long pause) Phil, you blundering ass, ifyou ever let out to a soul that I'm not kiddie's real father, I'll use my influence with the War Office, and get you reduced to the ranks. Phil. I'm as safe as a house ; but I wonder what has become of his mother. Dick, (desperately) Great Scotland ! — the sun's blaz- ing upon us — the gentle breezes are kissing us — the ear- wigs and centipedes are crawling in and out and all over us — two jolly girls are kicking their heels waiting for us. Heaven knows where — and you rake up that eternal night- mare of mine — and for the love of goodness give me a match, for my pipe's out. nPhil. {chucking him a matchbox) Go easy, there are only three. Dick, {strikes one, the head comes off) Wrong 'un ! {strikes another, again the head comes off) Two wrong 'uns ; my clear Phil, why don't you support home indus- tries, who cares for Sweden on the banks of the Thames ! {strikes the last and lights his pipe, handing back the em,pty box) Phil. 'Thanks, old man ; hope there were enough ! Dick, {puffing peacefully) Just ! Phil, (rises; looking at him) Lazy beggar; don't you think we had better go and see if the girls (up c. a little) Dick. My dear chap, why girls ? You know per- fectly well that there's only one girl you think about — a girl with dark hair and gentle eyes — a girl with a sweet voice and — and a little turned-up nose. Phil. Shut up, Dick ! Dick, (after a pause) If I ask you a straight ques- tion, will you give me a straight answer } Phil. Yes. (pause) Well ? Dick. Don't quite like to ask you now. Phil. Go on, out with it ! Dick. Shall — I — yes— I — I think I will. Phil. Well ? (a long pause, the two men looking awkwardly at one another) Dick. Do you love her very dearly ? t'HiL. Very dearly, Dick. Dick, (after a pause) Good luck to you, boy. 14 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Phil, {coming down slowly) Dick ! Dick. Old man ! Phil, {huskily) Will you answer me a straight question straightly .'' Dick. Can't say ; what is it 1 Phil, {simply , but with an almost trembling voice) Do you — love her, Dick ? Dick, {after a pause — smokes vigorously, then says slowly) My dear boy — I'm thirty-eight — I've got four hundred a year, I've got a little kiddie to launch into the dreary old sea of trouble — I promised Jack he sliould have all the modern armor plates and improvements to keep him afloat — metaphor's a bit mixed — but translated it means — my hands are too full to tackle such a serious subject as matrimony. Phil. You've not answered me, Dick. Dick. Not answered you ? {pause, then with mock gravity) Circumstances have made me the father of a family of one ; it's obviously too late to think. of a wife now. {gets, up, holds out his hand cheerily) Good luck to you, boy, you're a damned good chap and — and — she's ■ — she's, wellj/OM know what she is, and don't forget to ask kiddie and me to the wedding, {crosses R. c.) Phil. (C, laughing) Perhaps she won't have me. Dick. (r. c.) Won't have you — she must have you. Don't stand any nonsense like that. Phil. Women are curious critters. Dick, {dreamily) Women are women still, some of 'em, and let's be grateful for those that are left, say I Phil, {quietly) I mean to ask her to-day. Dick, {suddenly) What ! you've not asked her yet — God bless my soul — and you've left her eating her heart out on a picnic basket all this time. By Gad ! if I'd been in your shoes I'd have eloped with her years ago, picnic basket and all. Phil. I've only known her five months. Dick, {{half to himself, dreamily) I've known her since she was a baby in arms — and — and — I've — I've been damned fond of her all the time. Phil. Let's go and see if they're at the other place. Dick. You go, I'll finish my pipe, {returns to h<^- stack) Phil, {looking down the river) By Jove, here they ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 15 corne — then we were right — oh, I say, hang it all, they've brought old Bendyshe with them. Dick. What an all-absorbing power is jealousy! — it doesn't stop short of an Adonis of fifty with a sixty- inch waist. Phil, {shouting cheerfully at the approaching punt) Oh, I say, this isn't 12.30. Maysie. {calls back) We had to go back ; Mr. Ben- dyshe forgot his umbrella. {^YiW. groans aiDlCK,ivhois still propped up against the haystack smoking placidly. The punt appears in sight. Maysie is punting, she is dressed in white. In the punt Irene, a cheerful, jolly girl, and Bendyshe, a rubicund, cherubic little man of about fifty, very jaunty in his manner j he walks very springily, and is evidently proud of the smallness of his hands, and unconscious of the largeness of his waist) Maysie. [from the punt) We're very sorry ; do say, better late than never. Phil. Rather ! Maysie. Why, where's Major Rudyard ? (Irene gets ashore) Phil. He's having a snooze in the haystack. Dick, {not moving) Be thou as chaste as ice, as ^yideawake as winkles, thou shalt not escape calumny. (Maysie gets ashore and stands at back, L. Phil is mooring the punt) Irene, {directing) Yes, that's the branch ; hang on there, Mr. Bendyshe. {stoops over the punt for news- papers) Ben. (jauntily) I'm hanging on to a branch — dear me, the idei is quite Absalomic. Phil. The fulfilment isn't. He. did have sotne hair. (Bendyshe, who has been gracefully fanning himself with his hat, hastily puts it on to conceal his baldness) Dick. Don't mind him, Bendyshe, baldness is beauti- ful to the artistic soul. Doesn't it gratify you to know that your head is a delicate harmony in pink and gray ? Ben. {is about to say something withering when a wasp circling round his hat, he strikes at it with terror) A wasp again — another wasp — why do they always want to sit down on me ? Irene. Your fatal fascination ! There ! beauty to the rescue of brains, {hits out with newspaper and knocks the wasp into the river. Gives paper to DiCK i6 ONE SUiMMER'S DAY. and moves C. and works tip to punt, L. Meanwhile the punt has been tied up and they all have got on to the island) jMaysie. Shall we lunch in the punt or on shore ? Phil. Oh, the old spot ! (lie sits behind l. haystack, smokes cigarette) Irene. Uncle Robert and Mr.s. Bendyshe are coming the other way ; Ihey ferried over. Maysie. (Jias come round haystack and is looking down at DiCK) Good-morning, Major Dick. Dick. {looki?tg up at her lazily) Morning, miss. Maysie. Are you quite comfortable ? Dick. Caterpillary- — caterpillary. {he reads) Ben. {to Phil at back) Marsden, I'm dreadful bold coming here. Phil. Why ? Ben. My ideal Cleopatra is on this island — my abso- lute ideal. Phil. What, another ? Ben. Hush ! I've got an appointment with her at four; don't tell my wife — breaks her heart. A few years ago she was my ideal Cleopatra — dear thing, she's past it — don't tell her, but — she really has, you know — she don't think she's changed a bit, women never do, you know, but she has, you know. Dick, {to Maysie, looking at her through his half- closed eyes) Then the skirt did get back from the cleaners ! Maysie. Obviously. Dick, {critically) Urn ! — you look — all right. Maysie. Thank you ; you look grumpy as usual. Dick. Am grumpy — hate picnics without kiddie. Maysie. {holding out her hand) Sixpence, please. Dick. Eh ? Maysie. Mr. Marsden's fine whenever you mention kiddie. Dick, (groans and gives her sixpence) You're all awful rough on me. Tell me, am I a bore about him ? Maysie. A bore? — gracious, no. (laughing) Dick. Then why do you all Maysie. Fine you ? For fun. Dick. Can't help it, you know. I'm awful fond of him. Maysie. So am I. Dick, (delighted) Are you, though ? ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 17 Maysie. But you should say " awfully fond," not awful fond. Dick. Should I .' I say, he's going to write me a long letter to-day. You'll let me read it to you, won't you ? Maysie. Yes. Dick. I read "em to everybody, but I like r ding 'em to you best. Maysie. (pleased) Do you ? Why ? Dick. Because everybody else laughs at his spelling. Maysie. Is that the only reason you like to read them to me ? Dick. Er — well Maysie. Your spelling isn't very good, you know, so I expect it's hereditary. Dick. You're awful rough on me. Maysie. {correcting) Awfully ! Dick. You confess it. Phil, {coming down) What do you confess ? Maysie. That I've got a plebeian appetite and it's waking up. Please get the basket, it's in the punt. (Phil goes and gets luncheon basket from punt. Ben- DYSHE and Irene begin to get out cushions, -which they arrange between the two haystacks) Dick, {to Maysie, as he lies smoking, his hat tilted over his eyes) Dear old chap, Phil, isn't he ? {pause) Don't you think so ? Maysie. He's very nice. Dick. Smartest soldier I know. Maysie. Really f Dick. Well off, too. Maysie. I dare say. Dick. Awfully in love with somebody I know. Maysie. How interesting ! Dick. Sort of man — make a good husband. Maysie. Then I hope he'll marry her. Dick. So do I. Maysie. Ah ! Dick. What do you mean by " ah "? Maysie. What do you mean by being silly ? Dick. You're awful rough on me. Maysie. You're awful dense. (Bendyshe wanders about. Irene gets up L. Urchin throws twigs at him) 2 i8 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Dick, (repeating slowly) Awful dense — bad gram- mar — worse than kiddie's spelling, I'll swear. Ought I to get up and help ? Maysie. I shouldn't. You look awful comfortable. Dick. Am — but your grammar disturbs me — some- thing awful, {smokes placidly. Irene is up L. at back picking flowers) Maysie. Mr. Marsden and I will do all the work as usual, {goes to PHIL ; they commence to unpack basket) Phil. It's rather early for lunch, you know. Hullo ! somebody's been sitting on the butter. Dick, {to himself) She's awful fond of him. Poor old kiddie'll have to be content with me, after all. (Ben- DYSHE has been pottering about ; suddenly he gives a little scream. Is coming R., sees URCHIN) Hullo, Bendyshe, what's up ? Ben. {coming to DiCK) There's that dreadful boy that laughed at me last week, sitting up in that tree. Dick, {calmly) You don't say so. Is he violent ? Ben. Not yet. But he's — he's an urchin — I cannot feel safe in his presence. Do you know, only last Friday he met me in the High Street and he said quite loudly, " 'Ullo, old 'Oppin' tub, what price, Cleopatra ? " Dick, (calmly) Write to the Times. Ben. You're a very curious young man — you don't seem to take any interest in anything. Dick, {calmly) You're quite wrong ; your disclo- sure has deeply agitated me. Now if I were you Ben. Well ? Dick. Well — I should never forgive him — in fact I should tell him so. "Hopping tub" — what could he mean ? Ben. Heaven knows. But the policeman who over- heard him laughed quite loudly, till I gave him — a glance. Dick. Ah ! (Bendyshe crosses r. Irene, who has been wandering about picking flowers, comes across the hat Tom has left by the haystack, L.) Irene, {picking up hat) Good gracious ! All. What's up ? Irene. Tom's hat. How on earth did it get here ? Mav.sie. Oh Tom's head, I should think. UlCK. Awful brainy girl. Irene. Now — where's Tom ? ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 19 Ben. Where's Tom ? Phil. Oh, Tom's all right, he's about the island some- where — seven bottles of ginger beer. Maysie. One's milk. Phil. Which ? Maysie. How can I tell ? Irene, {with Tom's hat, counting) One, two, three, seven flies sticking in the lining. Urchin. (J>utiing his head out of tree) Seven — them's mine. Ben. That dreadful boy ! Come out of that tree, urchin, {goes R. of tree) Urchin, {swinging himself down) Just a-comin', mister. Ben. {feebly) He'll call me that awful name again. Urchin. Shan't; mister — you kin rely on me — I knows what I knows, but mum's the word. Phil. Get away, small boy. Urchin. Right, guv'nor. {swaggers off R., humming a cockney ballad. As he passes BendYSHE he says in a melodramatic whisper) Ta, ta, 'Oppin' tub, what price, Cleopatra ? {exit r.) Ben. Gracious, that boy does know something. Are you going. Miss Reid ? Irene. Will you come ? I'm going to look for my brother. The head can't be far from the hat, can it ? {goes R.) Ben. The dreadful urchin went that way. I trust he won't think I'm pursuing him ? Irene. Uncle Robert and your wife ferried over to that e^d of the island, so you're quite safe. The most depraved urchin becomes as meek as a Iamb at a sight of Uncle Robert. Ben. Yes, Robert is invertebrate, but awe-inspiring. 1 think it must be the side whiskers, don't you .■' {they exeunt, talking, R. Mavsie and Phil meanwhile have laid the lunch on the grass and are kneeling on opposite sides of the cloth, contemplating it) Phil. Seems to be an awful lot of food. Maysie. We are a large party — seven of us. Phil. Old Bendyshe usually eats enough for three. Maysie. He's been at the death of Cleopatra for fifteen years, it takes it out of him. Besides, all great artists want a lot of sustaining, you know, {goes to punt) 20 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Phil. Great artists — urn — I didn't Itnow he was a great artist. Dick, {fro/n the other side of haystack) He is — weigh him. Phil. Hullo ! Thought you'd gone for a walk. Dick. Eh? {looks routid hurriedly, sees for thefirst time he is the only one left) Oh, by Jove, of course — quite forgot I wanted a walk, (gets matches. Maysie is at back hunting for something. Phil signals to DiCK to go. Fiercely) All right, you're awful rough on me — such a restful haystack, {lights his pipe — to him- self) Why the deuce can't they walk — hate walking — such monotonous movement. {has previously got matches from lunch basket) Maysie {up ; suddenly) There, I knew we'd do it, and we have. ' Phil. What have we done ? Maysie. Forgotten the salt. Dick, {sarcastically) Good gracious ! Maysie. Somebody must go and fetch it. Dick. Now she's at it, she loves him fearfully. Maysie. Oh, please somebody be quick — it's past luncheon time now. Dick. All right, don't bother me — somebody's going as fast as he can. {stalks off up C.) Maysie. Where are you going ? Dick. I'm going for a long walk. Maysie. What on earth for ? Dick. Phil thinks it will do me good. Maysie. Then when Mr. Marsden goes for the salt I shall be left alone. Dick, {sarcastically) When Mr. Marsden goes for the salt you will be yuite alone. Maysie. But I won't be left alone. Dick. Phil, how dare you glare at me ? All right. Maysie, I'm off. Don't be cross, you shan't be left alone ; but seriously I don't think I can conscientiously devote more than a quarter of an hour to looking for salt by the riverside ; I should lose respect for myself. Maysie. Mr. Marsden could fetch it, but, {gets rather angry) of course, if you want to go biCK. I do. Maysie. You'll have to punt across, it's in the left- hand corner of the boathouse. ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 21 Dick. Oh, I say, I bar punting. Can't I get it just as effectually if I lie down over there ? Maysie. {coming to him fiercely , clenching her hands and stamping her foot, looking into his face) Major Dick, I hate you ; you've been perfectly horrid for weeks. Dick, {greatly astonished) I am doing my best ; you're awful rough on me. Maysie. {coldly) Mr. Marsden, will you get the salt, please ? Phil, {aghast) Do you really want salt ? Maysie. Of course I do. What do you think I_oh— (tossing her head) You're both very rude, I'll get it myself, {jumps into the punt) Dick, {aghast to Phil) She does want salt. You're an ass, Phil. Phil. How could I tell she wanted salt ? (Maysie is tryijtg to untie punt) Dick. She. said so. {suddenly) Here! Come out of that punt. Maysie. I shall do no such thing. Oh, who tied this awful knot ? Dick, {firmly) Come out of that punt — out of it. I've been as good as a father to you ever since you were a snub-nosed little infant, and I'm not going to be dis- obeyed now, just because you've developed an absurd but genume craving for salt. Out of it ! {jumps into punt, helps her out) Left-hand corner of the boathouse. I'll fetch it, if the exertion exhausts me. {to Phil aside ear- nestly) Gook luck, old boy, good luck, {shoves off; Maysie walks about picking at the haystack, L. ; Phil •watches her and gets very nervous) Phil. There's nobody here now. Maysie. So I perceive. Phil, {feebly) Yes, but you know I mean — they're all gone. Maysie. I thought you meant that, {down haystack, "-) ■ ■ u Phil. I am gomg too in — in a month or so. Maysie. Yes. Phil. I don't suppose I shall be back for some time. {long pause) Maysie. Your mother will miss you fearfully. Phil. I couldn't possibly take her with me, you know. 22 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Maysie. I suppose not. A soldier taking his mother about with him would be odd. Phil. Yes ; but of course — if she were one's wife — it would be quite different, wouldn't it ? Maysie. Quite different. Phil. That's often done, you know. Maysie. Is it .? Phil, (earnestly) Will you ? I — I love you so. I can't go away from you — I want {lie tnakes « move towards her) Maysie. Hush, please. Phil. Oh, Maysie ! Maysie. I like you very much, Phil dear — but — but — let go my hand, there's a good boy. Phil, {huskily) You mean, you won't marry me ? Maysie. Oh, don't — please don't. Phil. How — what can I do ? Maysie. Nothing. Oh, Phil dear, I'm so sorry — so very sorry. Phil. It's all right, Maysie, it's all right, {turns from her and goes quickly to bank where he stands for a moment to recover himself) Maysie. (sadly) I feel so wicked, but I can't help it. It's not my fault. Phil. It's all right — it's all right. I was a fool as usual, that's all. (speaks almost fiercely to hide his break- ing down) When we get abroad, Dick will soon knock this out of me. Maysie. (looking u/> guickly) Dick ! You don't mean — he's not going. Phil. Yes, he's going too, but he doesn't want it known yet. Maysie. Dick — going away — going away, {goes up L. to C. back) Phil, (watching her — to hiinself) It's Dick after all — after all. {gets R.) HODD. (heard talking iji the distance) My dear madam, it's not more swampy than most islands. Enters energetically r., followed by Mrs. Bendyshe. Bendyshe and Irene complete the party. HoDD is intensely commonplace, his whiskers cut plainly, his chi7i clean-shaved, his linen scntpulously clean. ONE SUMMER'S DAY. . 23 Mrs. Bendyshe and Bendyshe simultaneously ex- press delight at the sight of lunch. Mrs. B. Lunch ready — how considerate. Ben. The river does make one hungry. HODD. Fall to — fall to. Bendyshe, help your wife to sit down. Maysie. {coming down c.,Vi. of 'Oksowske.) Hadn't we better wait .? Major Rudyard has gone for the salt. Irene, (r. c.) Mr. Bendyshe, I solemnly committed the salt to your charge. Ben. (l. c, helping his wife to reach the ground) I did endeavor — are you all down, my dear? — that's right. But I forgot it on the canoe in the right-hand corner of the boathouse. Maysie. {firmly) Left hand. Ben. Right-hand, because I bumped my body on the stern — of the canoe. Maysie. I told Major Dick left hand. Mrs. B. (interrupting feverishly) Theodore, raise me — I'm sitting on something. Ben. {raising her with difficulty) You're rather fussy, dear, Mrs. B. [with dignity) I was sitting on something knobby, Theodore. Ben. {picking it up) Only a ginger beer bottle ; really, you're ^«z7^ fussy, {sits down R. URCHlti strolls on, smiles blandly at BENDYSHE, who frowns feebly and pretends not to see him) Irene. What's the matter with you, Mr. Marsden, you look depressed ? Phil. Not I. I suppose I'm hungry. Ben. {with artificial gaiety, being upset by the prox- imity of the Urchin) Won't somebody open the ginger beer ? The bottle nearest my wife will open itself in a minute. It's fizzing a positive tune. Urchin, {to himself) The fat lady was a-sitting on it. Maysie. Mr. Bendyshe, to make up for the salt, we order you to put them in the river by that willow to keep them cool, {she loads him with five or six bottles, and he retires to the bank, closely followed by URCHIN) HODD. {attacking the food) What the dickens has become of Tom ? Haven't seen him all day. 24 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Mrs. B. {calmly eating) The way you worry over that freckled schoolboy is ridiculous. HODD. Ridiculous ! Mrs. B. Yes. You bully the life out of him when he's with you — salt, please. Of course it's forgotten. HODD. Discipline — discipline. Mrs. B. (continuing) And when he's gone away from you, you're perfectly miserable. HODD. {eating) Of course I am ; he — he's a young scoundrel. Mrs. B. You love him all the better for it. HoDD. Of course I do. I'm an old fool. Mrs. B. {preparing a salad, screams) It's charming of nature to make caterpillars such a beautiful green, but it would help if she made lettuces black. I hate mis- understandings over one's food, {throws away small caterpillar with the help of spoon) HODD. Pie — who says pie ? Enter TOM, L. Tom. {cheerfully) I don't mind a, little pie. {he sits L.) HODD. Hullo, sir ! Where have you been all the morning ? Tom. All over the place, uncle. Where's Major Dick? HODD. {fiercely) How dare you question the where- abouts of your elders ? — he's fetching salt. (Bendyshe retires with ginger beer) Mrs. B. That man's a mystery ! More bread, please. I asked him yesterday what his wife died of. Irene. Well ? Mrs. B. Well, my dear, he looked quite scared, and — and said he didn't know. Don't laugh, it's very odd. Old Lady Carter, who was in India at the time, says she never met her anywhere, and went so far as to in- sinuate Maysie. {interrupting quickly) Major Dick is a very old friend of mine, Mrs. Bendyshe. Can you eat crust? {hands her bread on the point of knife, which Mrs. Bendyshe takes with a sniff) Mrs. B. I prefer it — quite right to stand up for your friends, my dear— quite stale — perhaps he confided in you — more digestible. ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 25 Maysie. I have no curiosity on the subject. Mrs. B. {eating) His httle boy is a nice little boy, and very fond of his father, but whenever I look at him, I shake my head — I can't help it. (Bendyshe returns for the other three bottles) HODD. (briskly) Come, come, no scandal ! Dick's all right, though he does spoil that brat. Mrs. B. But all the mystery makes one wonder. HoDD. {interrupting) Pooh ! He'll be back in a minute ; ask him what you like to his face. Mrs. B. Not for worlds ! — such impertinence. Please pass the lettuce. I'll chance the caterpillars. (Bendyshe has meanwhile been endeavoring to de-posit the bottles in the river. Urchin being deeply interested in the operation) Urchin, (wonderingly) 'Oppin' tub, wot are you at? Ben. {shaking a bottle at him) Go away, you dread- ful little boy. Urchin, {stolidly) 'Oppin' tub, is that stout party, with geraniums sticking out of 'er 'at and green stuff stickin' out of 'er mouth, your missis ? No bunkum ! Ben. {feebly) Yes — oh, yes. Urchin. Then the question as arises is: Wot price, Cleopatra ? Ben. He is a dreadful boy. (Urchin in pantomime levies blackmail in the form of all the ginger beer, which he carries off and mysteriously secretes in the long grass; meanwhile general chatter going on from the party round the food) HoDD. {fiercely to Tom) Don't eat so much, sir — you'll explode, {in the pause is heard a sweet, low voice singing Watching the restless skies Chiara dreams. Watching the pale moon rise Chiara dreams. Kissed by the sun's warm rays Chiara dreams. Dreams are her nights, her days. Chiara dreams. (Bendyshe resumes his seat) Phil. By Jove ! it's the gipsy, {gets up, goes to back R., looks off-L.) 26 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Irene. Oh, what fun ! Tom and Ben. A gipsy ! {they at once become ab- sorbed in pie) Mrs. B. Where ? Oh, yes. HODD. Gipsies — wasps — give me my own mahogany. Ben. {looking off nervously) Dear, oh, dear — it's my Cleopatra ! Chiara enters slowly, her basket of osiers on her arm. Irene, {in a "whisper) Isn't she handsome, Mr. Bendyshe ? Ben. {swallowing his food in chunks, not daring to look up) No ! Plain — perfectly plain. Mrs. B. Theodore, look at her ; she's beautiful ! Ben. {furtively glances) No, no. Plain — perfectly plain. HODD. {fiercely) Who's attending to the drinks ? I'm parched. Phil, {comes down R. of Maysie. Has been to the riverside) Can't find it. What on earth has become of the ginger beer ? Ben. {smiling feebly) Perhaps it has been washed away. (Chiara comes down to ilie picnic party and commences in the gipsy wliine to Maysie) Chiara. Tell your fortune, pretty lady — cross the gipsy's hand with a piece of silver. Tell your fortune with the handsome gentleman at your side. His eyes are blue, His heart is true. Is his love for you, Or who ? Phil, {fiercely) No ! no ! {moves to R. of Irene. Sits) Chiara. {smiles and turns to Bendyshe) Tell your fortune, pretty gentleman ? Ben. {loftily) No, no, my dear — go away. Chiara. (seizes his hand as he waves her off, look- ing eagerly at it but speaking to him) Married where you do not love. Mrs. B. Theodore ! You've been chatting again. Chiara. Loving where you may not marry. A dark girl with a passionate soul claims you. Here is a line which says, beware ! she has a husband. Beware the husband. ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 27 / Ben. Oh, my gracious ! Chiara. (turning to TOM) Tell your fortune, pretty boy ? Irene, {aside to Maysie) Look at the chain she's wearing. Maysie. It's yours exactly. f Irene. It's extraordinary. Chiara. {chanting over Tom's hand) Someone is leaving you that you dearly love — someone whom you will never see again. She will wander all over the dreary world — but she will always keep a corner in her heart for you. HODD. There's half a crown. Go away, my good girl, or I'll send for the police. Chiara. Don't be hard on a poor girl, pretty gen- tleman. HODD. Damn the wasps ! {the punt shoots on at back. Dick springs out, carrying a large brown bag of salt) Dick. Not in the boathouse at all. Bought sixpenny worth. Lord, such a quantity ! Gave all I could to little boys, {as he steps into the circle he sees Chiara, stops dead; they recognize each other, she smiles at him) Chiara. God bless you, pretty gentleman. Lives once crossed, will cross and cross again, {she backs ojff into the willows, R., her eyes fixed on Dick, her laugh heard as she disappears, breaking into a chant-like song. Simtiltaneously the bag drops from his hand, and the salt falls in a cascade on to the cloth. They all lean forward to gather it up, with various exclamations) Maysie. What does she mean ? Omnes. {greatly excited) You're spilling the salt ! Look out ! Good gracious ! etc. (Dick stands staring blankly after Chiara) CURTAIN. 28 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. ACT II. After lunch. Mrs. Bendyshe has retired to the punt, as has HODD. ; PHIL is smoking gloomily aud chatting to Tom up v.. c. Tom r.c. ; Philr. ; 'By.^d-vsu-e. is dozing by haystack L. Irene, [back of haystack, K., energetically) I never in my life saw such a coi'igregation of dull people. We came here for a happy clay, and look at you. Mr. Mars- den, dumb and morose, declines to flirt with me ; Maysie mooning about with her eyes on the ground. Mr. Ben- dyshe snoring under a haystack ; Mrs. Bendyshe and Uncle Robert alternately reading and dozing in the punt ; Tom, evidently with something desperate on his mind ; Major Dick — oh ! as for Major Dick, look at him ; (points off^.) something has happened to upset him. It's a nice picnic. I believe it's all due to the spilling of that salt. Maysie. (L., slightly advancing to C, almost to her- self) Why did he start when he saw that gipsy girl ? They know each other, I'm sure of that. Irene, [mischievously) Perhaps she's an old flame of his. What do you think, Tommy dear ? Tom. (oz'erhearing and coming R. C.) What do you mean, Irene ? Irene. Oh, ho, Master Tom. Is she a prot^g^ of yours ? Tom. Don't be a fool. Irene. Kings have fallen in love with gipsies, [sits R.) Why not middle-aged majors and schoolboys ? Tom. She's not that sort. Irene. Really ? Tom. [loftily) Oh, of course conventional girls like you who ride bicycles and flirt, are bound to sneer at — at — a — er Irene. A gipsy girl. Tom. Suppose she is. Is it a crime .' Irene. Do you know her ? Tom. No, I don't, but — but — I know a fellow can't see a girl run down, you know, unless he knows Irene. Too much nose, don't you think, Tommy dear ? [interrupting) Tom. Didn't look at her. ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 29 Maysie. Dick looked at her — I — what does it mean ? {strolls off\^. Yww, goes and leans over branch C.) Irene. Of course, if you didn't look at her, you wouldn t have noticed a curious chain she was wearing ? Tom. Er — oh— was she? Irene. When you were in my room this morning, you might have noticed one exactly like it on my dressmg table. Tom. Oh ! Irene. Funny, isn't it ? Tom. Don't see it. Irene. It'll be funnier still, if I can't find mine when I get home, won't it ? Tom. Very, — that is, — Oh, I say, this is dull enough. I shall go down to the lock, {stalks off'R.) Irene, {rises) There's something going on. I'm sure of it. Has he — ? and has she — ? I must find out. {exifL. Maysie has gone offu Irene looks from Maysie to Phil -who is up at back looking into river, gloomily. She goes after MAYSIE, as DiCK re-enters hurrieilly R. from the other side) Dick. Phil ! Phil, {up C. gloomily, without turning) Hullo ! Dick. Come here, I can't shout. Phil, {comes down l. c.) Well ? Dick, {looking around at ^fj^dyshe) Is he asleep? Phil. Been snoring damnably. Dick, {quickly) It's the woman. Phil. "The mother ? Dick. Yes. What the devil am I to do ? Phil. Hold your tongue. Dick. She'll find out. Phil. She thinks the kid's dead. Dick. Yes, yes, but if she finds out that I've got him, she — by Gad, she shan't. She'll never have him. Phil, give me your solemn word of honor that nobody shall know through you that — that he isn't mine. Phil. My dear boy, frightened at a shadow again. Did you speak to her ? Dick. No. Haven't seen her ; couldn't catch a glimpse of her anywhere. Phil. I should keep out of her way if I were you. Dick. What's the use ? She was waiting for me. She's been following me. There wasn't a bit of surprise 30 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. on her face when we met. No ! the struggle's going to begin. I wonder has she found out anything. If she has I know what I'll do. Phil. What ? Dick. Never mind now, but I expect it'll take the wind out of her sails. What a good thing I made up my mind to go away. Phil, {looking at him meaningly) Perhaps you'll change your mind. Dick. Not I. Phil, (poin/edfy) Could nothing happen to induce you to stay 1 Dick. What do you mean ? Phil. Couldn't Miss Linden induce you to stay .' Dick. Phil ! Phil, {slowly) It's all over with me. I was a fool all along. Dick. You don't mean to say Phil, ^'es, I do. Dick, (tenderly) My poor old chap ! Phil. Oh, it's all right. It's a bit of a knock just at first, but — It'll all dry straight, I suppose, {turns away) Dick. (/ii himself) Poor old Pliil ! {suddenly) Don't give up, old chap. Faint heart, you know. She's young —doesn't know her own mind. Try again. She daren't refuse a good chap, like you. She — she — don't listen to her — tell her she's a silly little girl. Hang it, whenever she's done anything I objected to, I've never stood it. She wants holding — she's wilful. Don't you stand it, old boy. Phil. Dick, you don't understand women. Dick. Don't I .? You leave her to me. Phil. It's what Vm goi/tgto do, Dick. Dick. That's right. I'll talk to her like a Dutch uncle. {down R. C.) Phil, {fiercely) Dick, are you as blind as an owl ? Dick. Eh ? Phil. Oh ! I see it now — see it in a hundred different things that I ne\'er noticed before. It's you — you — you ! Slie thinks of you all the time. I'm nothing, nothing at all. But I can't help loving her all the same, {crosses Ti..) Dick. You're wrong, Phil. She: — she's very fond of me, I hope — but — but I'm old enough to be her father. I've always been almost a father to her. ONK SUMMER'S DAY. 31 Phil, {^fiercely") You know you love her. Own it, own it. I'm not an .infernal fool. Own up you love her. • Dick. I do love her. If I were twenty-eight I should insist on her marrying me. As I am thirty-eight, I shall insist on her marrying an obstinate and rather bad- tempered young soldier who isn't worth the dust on her tiny shoes. Phil. That's true, {goes to bank up R. c.) Dick. Where's she gone ? Phil. Over thpre. She hasn't looked at me for more than an hour — not since you went for the salt. Dick. Poor boy, it's awful rough on you. [crosses L. c.) But never mind, I'll give her a serious talking to, you see ! It'll be all right. I'll attack her now — strike while the iron's hot. Phil. What's the use ? {coming down) She told me Dick, {interrupting) What right have you to pay any attention to what she told you ? What did she say ? Phil. Well, I don't exactly know what she said, but I gathered Dick. You don't know what she said, but you gath- ered {scornfully) Fiddlesticks ! You leave it to me. I'll see it's all right. Phil. Do you really think Dick. I — never J Only fools think. I do. Phil. You are a good chap— you're always helping me. Dick. Don't be an ass, but do something for me in return. Phil. What ? Dick. Go down to the lock and try to find out some- thing — all you can about— about that woman. Do it carefully, so that none can suspect. Find out how long she's been here — where she's going — you know. All you can, will you ? Phil, {listlessly) Yes, old chap. Dick. And, for the love of heaven, buck up ! You'd put any girl off with an expression like that. Phii» {laughing) All right. Dick. That's better ; and if your left ear burns, don't worry, it's only me. Phil. Right, You are a good chap. 32 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Dick, (as Fhil i^^oes) Don't let anybody suspect, you know. (exi/FHlLR.) Poor old chap ! Lord, what fools young women are ! It's quite time one of them was brought to her senses, (goes off after Maysie, L. 2 E. There is a complete pause. The stage deserted save for the three slumbering figures, MRS. Bendyshe and HODDESDEN, just visible in the punt, through the trees, and Bendvshe, propped up against haystack L. A bird is singing, also an occasional snore from Bendyshe) Enter URCHIN slowly, rather depressed, R. i E. He contemplates one by one the sleeping forms. Urchin. Dozin'. Full, all of 'em. Well, I'm pretty full myself. Five bottles of ginger beer — good, too, fizzy. Five bottles. It ain't made me dozy — made me feel airi- fied. My inside wants to fly, but carn't 'cos of the roof of my mouth. A penny on each bottle wasn't a bad idea, neither, {he conceives another brilliant idea, and cross- ing to Bendyshe, prods him with a bit of stick till he wakes up) Sleepy, 'Oppin' tub ? Ben. {contemplating him with horror and appre- hension") Oh, my gracious me ! Urchin, (l. c.) Sorry to disturb you, 'Oppin tub, but I wants to propose a proposition. Ben. (l.) You wicked boy. What is it .'' Urchin. Wot would you think of givin' me a shil- ling .? Ben. I should decline to think of it. Urchin. Ah ! (pause) That is your missis with the geraniums in 'er 'at ? Ben. You awful boy ! Urchin. I must interjuce myself to her. Ben. To think that I am in the hands of such an urchin ! [with many manifestations of despair, gives him a shilling) Urchin. 'Oppin' tub, I ain't disappointed in yer. 'Ere. (beckons to him mysteriously) You 'as a rival, the kid with the stror 'at. Ben. Tommy Reid ? • Urchin. (disdainfully) Yus, Tommy Reid. 'E gives 'er jewels, I'm on 'im. 'E's comin' — go to sleep, 'Oppin tub. Watch me settle 'im. ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 33 Ben. {Jeebly sits down against haystack, murmur- Why do I yield to this ? {firetends to sleep. Urchin plumes himself for struggle) Enter TOM, R. 2 E. Tom. {cheerfully) Hullo, small boy. Urchin, (c, wincing) Small boy ! One to 'im. I was 'avin' a little talk about you just now. Tom. (r. c, surprised) Eh ? Urchin. The gent with the whiskers on the edge of his face are your uncle, ain't he ? Tom. Yes, but what the dickens Urchin, {interrupting) Was 1 a-doin' up in that tree — when you were deludin' the pore girl with jewels .'' I was fishin' ! Tom. You — in that tree ! You've told my uncle, you little Urchin, (backing off) No — but 'e is your uncle ? It's 'ard on him bein' kept in the dark. Tom. I'll break your neck if you say a word. Ben. (aside) Oh, what a relief that would be. Urchin. I s'pose 'e'd break yours it 'e knew ? Tom. He doesn't know. Urchin. S'pose somebody told 'im ? Tom. (furious) You little Urchin. Don't call me that name, it makes my blood bile. 'Ere, fireworlcs, I 'ave a proposition to propose. Tom. Eh ? Urchin. Fust, for yours truly, mum's the word. But, stror rat, wot would you say to givin' me a shilling ? (pause) Tom. I don't mind, but look here, you take jolly good care to hold your tongue. Urchin. You're a gent, stror rat. {pockets shilling, then becomes magnanimous) 'Ere. (mysteriously) You 'as a rival. Tom. What ? Urchin. (Jerking his thumb spasmodically at Bendyshe) 'Oppin' tub give 'er a fiver to buy a shawl. Tom. You young liar ! Urchin. Stror rat, this is honest injun, 'e calls er Cleopatra, and swears he'll paint her face and make her immoral forever. 34 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Ben. [jumphtg tip, furious) Immortal, you dreadful boy, immortal ! Urchin. 'Oppin' tub, I thought you was asleep. Ben. How could I sleep under such an imputation ? Besides, you know, I never was asleep. I was shamming — at your suggestion I shammed. At your suggestion I swore at lunch that I had allowed live bottles of ginger beer to fall into the river, making myself appear little less than a fool, that you might glut yourself with the noxious fluid — but I've had enough, sir. Leave this peaceful spot, or I shall undoubtedly endeavor to box your ears. Urchin. [cahnly) This is gratitude. 'Oppin' tub, don't excite yourself. Remember you 'as an appointment with Cleopatra at 4.30. {goes back, iheWR. Exit punt) Ben. He knows — everything — everything! What is he.? Tom. [crosses c, loftily) Mr. Bendyshe, I should like a word with you. Ben. (l. c.) Not now. Tommy, I am not quite my- self. Tom. {angrily) I wish it now, and you'll oblige me by not calling me Tommy. Urchin, {up r.) 'Ear, 'ear ! {business with river) Tom. {fiercely) Shut up ! Ben. Oh, here's another dreadful boy. Tom. I'm not a boy. I may have been last week, but I'm changed now. Don't go, Bendyshe, I want an cn;- planation. Urchin. Stick to 'im, stror 'at. Tom. Shut up ! An explanation, Bendyshe. Ben. Gracious ! What about ? Urchin, {scornfully) As if you didn't know. Tom. Shut up ! Did you give five pounds to — to — Miss — Miss — I don't know her name, but you know who 1 mean. Bf.n. I certainly did — to buy a shawl. Urchin. To buy a shawl ! 'Ark at 'Oppin' tub ! Tom. How dare you, Bendyshe ? Ben. {furious) How dare ? What the devil has it got to do with you ? Tom. a great deal. I must ask you to take it back. 1 cannot allow her to accept presents from any one but me. Take it back, sir ! Take it back ! Urchin. If yer can get it ! ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 35 Ben. \ shall do no such thing. Tom. I must insist! I don't happen to have any money now, but — I — I shall consider I owe it to you, and let me tell you, Miss — Miss— er— you know ! Well, she would not have taken it, but for some pecuniary trouble that has come unexpectedly upon her father. (Urchin gives an ironical yell of delight, ToM rushes fiercely at him, but he darts away into the bushes and disappears up R.) Ben. (moving C.) You take an interest in the lady ? Tom. (r. c.) She has consented to be my wife. Ben. Do you join the caravan or does she return with you to school ? Tom. Your remarks are on a par with the rest of your conduct. From men such as you, no woman is safe. {laughing hardly) Fair game, I suppose you consider them, and all the time they little know that you have a wife asleep in the punt, {up c.) Ben. {desperate) If he was very small I think I could smack him. Tom. ( down C.) This time, let me tell you, the lady is not entirely unprotected. Ben. Perhaps you will listen to me. I am an artist. I meet a beautiful girl, an ideal Cleopatra. In my grati- tude to her for being so beautiful, and also having a ragged shawl I gave her a fiver and she gave me the promise of three sittings, one of which will take place this afternoon. Tom. I forbid it, and don't insult me by mentioning the fiver. Ben. {^wildly) My fiver ! I will dwell upon it, if I like, positively dwell upon it ! She took my fiver, and she did not suggest by her manner of welling it that she in- tended to present it to an embarrassed father. Tom. {crosses c, approaching threateningly) Do you insinuate Ben. {backing ojf timidly) Nothing ! nothing ! Marry the lady at once, fiver and all, by all means. Tom. Do you think your- paltry fiver tempts me ! I love her for herself alone, and I shall make a point of not marrying her till you've been paid back every farthing. : Ben. As you please. You will oblige me by not men- tioning my name in connection with this affair. My wife 36 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Tom. {crosses R. with withering contempt) Your wife would not believe your story, I suppose ? Ben. (crosses L.) I decline to discuss my matrimo- nial infelicities with a freckled schoolboy, (the punt re- appears at back with MRS. Bendyshe and HODDESDENj Tom. Ah ! That's what will be thrown in my teeth, I know. Ben. Your freckles ? Tom. No, my youth. Uncle's sure to drop on that. I must tell him all, I l.now — but what's the good ? How can one's uncle respect one's feelings when he pays for one's education ? How can he who has caned me as a little boy realize that that little boy could ever grow up ? But I have grovi^n up, and I'm not going to have the girl I love best in the world torn from me by uncles or artists either. HODD. (L. C. from the punt) Quite right, quite right ! Bendyshe, by what right do you seek to tear from my nephew the girl he loves ? Mrs. B. (c.) Theodore ! Don't tell me you're flirt- ing again ? Ben. l^. of haystack) Oh, my gracious ! These are dreadful boys. Tom. [moves up R. C. most impressively) Uncle, I meant to tell you to-night, but since you've overheard, I may as well tell you now. I have met the lady I hope to make my wife. It's pretty nearly settled, though I sup- pose we want your consent. HODD. Surely not ! {calmly) Is she in every way desirable ? To.M. She's an angel. Bendyshe gave her five pounds. That was an insult. We will pay it back. HODD. The five pounds, not the insult, Tom. Mrs. B. Five pounds, Theodore ? Ben. For sittings, darling, and to buy a shawl. Cleo- patra ! HoDD. Where does the lady live ? Tom. (romantically) Men have made her a wan- derer on the face of the earth ; the sky is her roof, the wild flowers her pillow HODD. I know the type — very fascinating— might have been much worse ; come home — we'll talk it over. Tom. Nothing' will move me. (going to punt) HODD. No, no ! ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 37 Tom. Sneer at me, and call me boy. I don't care ! (stoops down for pole) HODD. No, no ! Take the lighter pole. {Toudoesso almost in tears ; gets into punt L. of Mrs. Bendyshe) Mrs. B. Theodore, will you come too ? Ben. With alacrity, dearest ! {goes up) Tom. {to Mrs. Bendyshe) You have no cause for anger, Mrs. Bendyshe, your husband has been a. fool, he has not been a criminal ! Ben. Oh, what a position ! Mrs. B. Tommy, in another moment, I shall box your ears. Ben. Oh, thank you, dear one. Mrs. B. And yours too, Theodore. Ben. Oh, thank you, dearest, I think I'll walk, {exit Bendyshe) Enter Irene, Maysie and Dick, l. 2 e. Irene, {crossing over to R. haystack) Good gra- cious ! are you going ? HODD. We are going. Tom wishes to talk to me re his approaching marriage. All Three. What ! Tom. I don't care ! A man's life is his own. You can't chaff me out of it. I'm in love and I don't care a damn for anybody. Irene. Tom! Tom. Yes, I swore ! I never swore as hard as that before ladies before, but you drive me to it. I love her — she loves me. Whose fault is it if she's a gipsy ? Irene. | Dick. \-{come down L.) The gipsy ! Maysie. \ Tom. Yes, the most beautiful woman in the world ! Irene, {crosses c. to Tom) I knew it was my chain, you little thief ! Tom. She'll give it back. (Irene gets r. c.) Mrs. B. The chain and the fiver. She must be a good girl ! HODD. Shove off, sir, you're wasting time, {the punt begins to disappear) Tom. You can't move me ! You can't move me ! HODD. Damn it, sir, — move the punt, {exeunt) 38 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Irene, {comes down r. c.) Well, I think that's the comickest thing I've ever heard of — Tom in love with a gipsy. (Maysie wanders gradually tip to river and then off v..) Dick, (crosses c) Thank Heaven he's not three years older, {suddenly) Look here, Miss Reid, I've been following you and Maysie about for at least a quarter of an hour — but I can't get you apart. Irene. I don't understand. Dick. No ? Well, would you mind going over there and looking for some salt ? [iK'E.ii^ looks at him blankly, he beseeches her to leave them alone) You silly young woman, don't you see T want to talk to her like a Dutch uncle .' Irene. Oh ! I beg your pardon. I'll look for salt by all means. (Maysie has strolled off R. Irene disap- pears L. 2 E. Dick stands for u moment in doubt) Dick, (c.) This is a difficult job. How shall I be- gin ? Think I'll begin with a pipe, {fills his pipe, then calls) Maysie ! {she comes back ; has picked a small bunch of wild flowers) Ah ! there you are. I suppose you don't know that I've been wanting a private talk with you for the last quarter of an hour ? Maysie. {coming r. c.) A private talk ? Dick. And you glued yourself to that Miss Reid — nice girl — now, thanks to my diplomacy, looking for salt. Maysie. You have sent her off, then .? Dick. I was forced to drop a hint. M-WSIE. Suppose I don't want a private chat with )u ? Suppose tha lier, as you call it ? Dick. You couldn't have known I wanted a private chat. Maysie. Couldn't I ? Why, I can read you like a book. Dick. You're too clever by half, young woman. Oblige me by sitting down while I talk to you. Maysie. I don't care about sitting down, thank you. You begin as if you meant to be very dull, {strolls off to back, swinging her hat by the ribbons) Dick. (l. c, looking after her) She's a most tiresome young woman, {then sternly) Come here, {she doesn't move) Come here ! {again she doesn't move) This is flat insubordination ! ishe leans on willow and looks ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 39 i7ito stream) Are you aware that you're not paying the slightest attention to me? {she remains silent s he changes his peremptory tone and pleads) Oh, Maysie dear, do come and listen to what I do so want to say. (she comes down to him at once. They laugh, she holds out both hands, he takes them and holds them tenderly) Dick. You're a horrid little tyrant, aren't you ? Maysie. There, that's your haystack, (l.) this is mine. (R. both sit) Now let's get quite comfortable and you can say all you want to say. Dick. That's right, {pause) Maysie. (r.) Well ? Dick. Well, in the first place I want you to think I am doing my best. I want you to believe that you and my kiddie are — well — you give me the best thoughts I have. I want to know that you trust me absolutely, in fact, that you look upon me as a father. Do you ? Maysie. {after a pause, laughs a little) Of course I do. {leans her chin on her hands and looks at him) Dick. You've been a most obedient child for the last five years. Don't go and break the record now. Maysie. What's all this leading up to ? Dick. Well, to — what the dickens do you mean by breaking poor Phil's heart and making him think seri- ously of going to the devil ? Maysie. {rising) Dick ! Dick. Oh, it's all very well to strut about and look dignified, but it's what you're doing. He's the best chap in the world, and he loves you. He'd lie down and let you jump on him ! That always seems to be a clinching proof of a man's love tor a woman, though I've never heard of it's being put into practice. Maysie dear, give him a chance. I'm sure you love him fearfully, but like all women, you fool about with your feelings just for the fun of being miserable. Maysie {tossing her head) I don't fool about with my feelings — and I know whether I want to marry Mr. Marsden or not, thank you. Major Dick. Dick. Oh, it's no use putting on frills with me. I told Phil you'd marry him, and I'm not going to disap- point the boy. Ofcourse, if you were a regular grown-up woman you might know your own mind, but as I've watched you grow since you were so high, I shouldn't be surprised if, so far, you haven't a mind to know. Think 40 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. it over, Maysie. I'm sure you'll discover when you look into yourself that you love him fearfully all the time. Girls can't tell right off, I'm sure. Maysie. You know a lot about girls, Major Dick. Dick. I'm not a chicken. Miss Maysie, and I've de- voted a good deal of my time to studying girls. Maysie. Gipsy girls ? {pause, she sees the change in his face and is sorry she has said so much) Dick, {in a whisper) What do you mean ? Maysie. I don't mean anything — why should I ? Dick. Why should you ? Exactly. Look here, I'll smoke half a pipe while you walk up and down and look into yourself. Maysie. I've looked into myself, thank you. Dick. Well, what do you say .'' Maysie. I — I'll think it over. Dick, {starting up in delight, goes to her) That means — you'll marry him ! Good girl ! I'm jolly glad ! Maysie. {turning to him, her face close to his, her eyes on his eyes) You are glad — you mean it — you mean it? Dick, {after a pause, awkwardly) Of course I mean it. What an odd girl you are ! {she swings on her heel and goes up R. c. to riz'er, breaking u twig from the tree, throwing it into the water and watching it drift away, then suddenly) Maysie. Dick, what was ^owx first wife like ? Dick, {embarrassed) Eh ? Oh ! I don't know — quite ordinary, I suppose, {she turns andlook at him in wonder, continuing nervously) Er — and I don't like the expression yfrj^ wife. It seems to insinuate that I shall have a second. Maysie. Will she be ordinary too ? Dick. Not if I know it 1 No more wives for me. Maysie. {quietly) I think you'll marry again. Dick. Not I ! Maysie. Why not, pray ? Dick, {slowly) I'm too old — too ugly — too poor — too selfish — too lazy ! Maysie. {interrupting) Yes, that's true. That's what prevents you making yourself and — other people — happy. Dick. Good gracious ! Maysie. It's true ! You don't know it, hut you're too lazy to look into yourself, [comes to him sweetly and ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 41 takes his arm) Dick, I'll hold your pipe. Walk up and down and do it now. DiCK. {taken abac^ Don't be ridiculous ! I know perfectly well what's in me. Maysie. Do you ? Then why don't you let it out .' Dick. Because I don't choose to. (suddenly, fiercely) Look here, don't you dictate to me ! Maysie. You're content to shut yourself within your- self for ever and ever ? Dick. Yes. Maysie. (passionately) Then I'm sorry, oh, so sorry to hear it. Dick. Why ? Maysie. Because if you're content like that, then then you haven't a heart. You don't know what love is or you couldn't — you couldn't! Dick, (pause) My dear little girl, sometimes it's one's duty to shut oneself up. I don't say it isn't hard, I've found it very hard. I've been nearly giving in and making a fool of myself more than once ; but I've man- aged to pull through. Maysie. Tell me, Dick. Dick. Yes, I don't see why I shouldn't, (takes her to R. haystack. She sits) There was a little girl that I was very fond of, a little girl whose eyes looked into mine, and looked my heart right away. A little girl whose happy laughter was like the sunshine, and I couldn't help loving her after all. But I looked into my- self. I said, " You're old, Dick Rudyard ; she's young. You've got ideas, Dick Rudyard ; she hasn't. And then you've got responsibilities and a kiddie with a huge appe- tite and an enormous capacity for wearing out his clothes. You can't be cad enough to saddle her with all these loads." Maysie. She'd do her best. Dick. I dare say she would, but there's a great gap between the little Shetland pony and the old war-horse. Besides I said to myself, " You're bad-tempered, Dick Rudyard. You don't like to be questioned, you don't like to be contradicted. You'd be both." Maysie. No, no ! Dick. You don't know this little girl as well as I do. She's fearfully inquisitive, — pokes her little nose into everything, and stamps her little foot if she's ever snubbed. 42 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. She's got a temper too, oh, yes, but I don't think it's as bad as his. Maysie. You make her perfectly horrid. I'm sure she wouldn't question you if you said it was best not. Dick. Are you ? Maysie. Quite. Dick. I wouldn't trust her. Maysie. Then it's a good thing you didn't marry her. Dick. Very ! That's what I think. Maysie. Did you distrust your first wife like this ? Dick. Question number one. Maysie. No, it isn't. That's absurd. Dick. Flat contradiction number two. Maysie. (getting angry) And you never talk ofyour first wife at all. Dick. That's strange. Maysie. Of course it is. Lots of people remark on it. Dick. Do they ? Maysie. Some say {she stops suddenly') Dick. What ? Maysie. That you were never married. Dick. They may be right. Maysie. Some say — she's still living. Dick. They may be right, (moves c.) Maysie. (rises) Oh, Dick, Dick, you are unkind ! Dick.' Yes, of course I am. I said I was. Now you see how wise I was to say nothing to that little girl. Maysie. It isn't fair to make a mystery of yourself. Oh, Dick, do trust me a little bit ! (crosses L.) Dick. My dear little girl, you know all that it's wise for you to know. Oh, don't look so fierce ! I'm not Master Phil, I don't tremble and bow down before your juvenile tantrums. There, I won't be exasperating. You're a fairly good girl, and you've made two people very happy to-day. Maysie. Two ? Dick. Me and Phil. Maysie. Phil ! By telling him I don't love him ? Dick. No, but by telling him what you are going to tell him — that you will marry him. Maysie. I never said any such thing. Dick. No, but you said you'd think it over. It's almost the same. At any rate it's near enough for Phil. ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 43 Maysie. Oh, is it ? I'm not so sure ! (^suddenly) Look, look, the gipsy again. Dick, {turns quickly and stares off, then to Maysie without turning to her) Go away, dear, go away ! Maysie. (jealously) You're going to speak to her ! What for ? Dick. Question number three. Run away ! Maysie. You've met her before ? Dick. Question — still question ! Away with you, child, this is important. Maysie. You're hateful — perfectly hateful ! and I shan't say what I meant to say. {moves off in a temper h. 2 E.) Dick, {still staring in the same direction) She's coming to speak to me. Now to play my last card. She shan't have him, Jack, old boy— she shan't have him, I give you my word. (Chiara is seen through the bushes up R. Seth joins her hurriedly for an instant and whispers) Seth. Mind ye, he's got to pay us a 'undred a year reg'lar for that kid. Chiara. I'll work him. Seth. Not a quid less. Stick to it. He'll pay up every penny ; I'll wait down here, {points, then creeps off H. I E.) Chiara lounges on gracefully, her basket over her arm, then she and Dick stand looking at one another till she leans back smiling against the trtmk of the ■ willow. Chiara. It's a small world. Captain Rudyard. Dick. You've not forgotten me. Chiara. {smiling) Not much ! Wasn't it good 01" me not to speak to you before all your fine friends ? Dick, {drily) You weren't always so considerate. Chiara. Ah, I'm changed now. Don't I look a re- formed character? You look' a bit changed too — older than you used to be — aren't you ? Isn't it odd that we should run up against each other like this ? Dick. Very odd. Chiara. I've had a lot of trouble since we met, but of course you know. Dick, {stolidly) Ah ! {beginning to fill his pipe, sits L. haystack) • Chiara. Yes — awful trouble. Lost my husband — 44 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. lost my child {goes quickly to him, watching him in- tently) It was the loss of my child changed me. {pause) Ye don't say anything — don't ye believe me ? Dick, {coldly) No. Chiara. {mimicking his tone) No ! Bah ! just as grumpy as you were years ago. Ain't you been in a good temper since. Dick. What do you want ? Chiara. I want to have a chat about old times — you was a pal of my husband's. Dick. 1 was. Chiara. Well, isn't that a kind of bond between us — Lord ! how I loved that man ! Dick. Did you ? You had a curious way of proving it. Chiara. {angrily) He shouldn't have tried to make me respectable — he was a fool. Dick, {quietly) Yes, in that instance I think he was. Chiara. Ah ! well, he's gone. I'm a poor lonely woman now, Captain. All the devil knocked out of me — at least nearly all. {comes to him, grinning up into his face) I ain't even so pretty as I was, am I ? Dick. You're much the same. Chiara. I ain't your style, though, am I ? Dick, {calmly) No. Chiara. {smiling wickedly) I hate you, Dick Rud- yard. I always did. Dick. I dare say ! But you didn't surely come here to tell me that ? Chiara. No. I came to ask you how it was my child came to die so quick. Dick, {after a pause) I don't know, {looks at her suspiciously, but she is apparently uncoficerned) Chiara. {smiling at him) Want of a mother's care, do you think ? Dick. 1 dare say. Chiara. {pensively) Ah, that does make a differ- ence, i^ith a toss of her head) I shouldn't ha' brought him up to be a gentleman — gentlemen are mostly fools. He should ha' been like me —free — no law but his own blessed will. He'd ha' finished in jail, 1 dare say, but think of the good time he'd have had before he got there. {suddenly) I suppose you think it's a good thing I didn't have the charge of him ? Dick. It's no affair of mine. ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 45 Chiara. Oh, isn't it ? Of course it isn't, {goes towards him, with a stttile) Have you been to Windsor College lately, Captain ? Dick, (completely dwnfounded, stammers) What do you mean ? Chiara. You know what I mean, ye liar ! (bursts into a loud laugh) For the last ten minutes I've been having a high old time of it ! It's prime to see that goody-goody gentlemen can lie nearly as well as us. This is what I've followed you for, my gent — this is what it's all about. I want my child, and I'm going to have, him. Out of that school he comes, and away north with me he goes — with me, his mother — this very week. What do you think of that, my pretty gentleman ? Dick, {very quietly) I think it's a pity you didn't say so before, and save my time and your own. Chiara. How dare you keep a child from its mother ? Dick. I really don't know — but it's a situation that can easily be altered. The long-lost offspring shall be at once restored. Chiara. What do you mean .? Dick. I'm busy this afternoon, but I'll go down to Windsor to-morrow, bring the boy back, hand him over to you, and my responsibility is at an end. Chiara. {stares at him in blank astonishment, then falters) You — you'll give him up ? Dick. Well, I don't see how I can keep him if you want him. Chiara. Don't you want him ? Dick. Of co'urse I should like to keep him, but we all like a great many things we can't have. You'll find him a jolly little chap. But, by Jove! if I'd known children were such expensive luxuries, I'd have seen your husband further before I saddled myself with the boy. Do you know the school fees alone are something over a hundred a year ? Chiara. {almost dazed) You can part with him like that — the little boy who loves you like a father — your dead pal's child — you have the heart to desert him ? Dick. Desert him ? What are you talking about ? You ought to be jolly grateful to me for having done what I have done ; there isn't another chap in a hundred would have done as much. Of course if things were dif- ferent, I should have asked you to let me stick to the boy, but as things are, it's just as well you've turned up. 46 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Chiara. What do you mean by — different ? Dick. Well, the fact is, I'm devilish hard up. Apart from that I'm off to India in a couple of months, and until you suggested taking the boy I was at my wits' ends to know what to do with him. {goes to her seriously) I'm sure you'll be kind to him — in spite of what you said. He's such a jolly little chap. Chiara. {breathing hard, clenching and unclenching her hands, bursts out fiercely") And you call yourself a gentleman ? •Dick. Do I ? I don't know. I'm a very ordinary sort of chap. CHIARA. [Jjur sting into a fury, while DiCK smilingly -Matches her) Do you know what I call you 1 A black- hearted brute. You rob a poor woman of her child, you teach the poor babe to love you, you lead us all to think you love it, and then — then you turn it out of doors — to starve — to starve — because that's what it comes to, and you know it ! Dick. But hang it all, woman — I — you shouted at me just now for keeping it — the child was yours — you would have it — out of the school it should come — those were your very words. Chiara. {whiningly) Yes, but I didn't mean it. I don't want to stand in the boy's light if you want to make a gentleman of him. Dick. Perhaps some day I may have children of my own, and I shall probably have quite enough to do to make gentlemen of them. Chiara. {begimiing to lose her head at the ii>ie.xpected turn of events) But — but the boy is too young to rough it with us. Dick, (laughingly) I don't think roughing it does boys any harm. Besides it's a free, healthy, open-air sort of life — probably do him a lot of good ; you don't mind his writing to me now and then, I suppose ? Chiara. {suddenly) Here ! Wait ! wait ! I'll fetch my husband. Dick, {jumping up with a shout) What ! you're married again ! Then that settles it ! I'm hanged if I pay another farthing ; it's his business, not mine. Chiara. {fiercely) What'll you give me if I let you keep this boy forever ? Dick, {hutghing) Upon my word ! I like your cheek. ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 47 Chiara. (desperate, backing towards trees 'R.) Keep it for a little — you must — you must — cos we're going away to-night. (Maysie inters and listens at back l.) Dick. "To-night ! Then when shall I hear from you ? Chiara. Soon — very soon. Dick. You've got my address ? Chiara. Yes. Dick. We must settle it this week, mind you. I think it's a pity we can't arrange to keep the kid at school. He'd have been a credit to us, I'm sure. Chiara. Let him bide for a bit — a week — a week. Dick. My good woman, I'm so jolly hard up ! Chiara. iwhiningly) So am I ! Oh, yes, I'm poor ^so poor — give me what you can. [whistle heard off) Hush ! my husband ! I must go ! Give me something — for the sake of old times. Dick, {takes out handful of tnoney) Help yourself ! {she grabs it eagerly) Here, hold on — leave me some- thing to go on with. Chiara. There's not three quid — I'll swear ! {turns to go) Dick. Not left so much as a copper for the ferry. (Chiara almost tumbles over Seth, who creeps on behind bushes. They are hidden from DiCK, but he hears them) Seth. {in an eager whisper) A hundred ? Chiara. (fiercely, between her teeth) The game's up ! He wants us to take the kid — he's sick of it. Seth. {horror-struck) No ! Chiara. Yes, fool ! Seth. We'd better bolt. Chiara. To-night ? {dashes off) Seth. {creeping after her) He don't want to keep the kid— s'welp me ! there's an unnatural brute. Dick, {softly to himself with a great triumph, as he turns towards the river) Sold 'em ! Beat her at her own game ! It was the only way — he's mine now — my kiddie forever ! Maysie enters slowly from the willows l. ; he turns hearing her ; she drops her eyes, then says chok- ingly) Maysie. I listened ! Dick. . {turning to her) You listened ? 48 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Maysie. I've heard too much and too httle — tell me all. Dick. It's no affair of yours, Miss Maysie, and I'm sorry you played the spy. Maysie. I had to. You spoke of a boy — did you mean your boy ? Dick, {slowly) Yes. Maysie. What is he to her ? Dick. Don't question me. Maysie. I must ! Dick, [lifting his hand firmly) This is what I warned you of. The gap between the child that ques- tions and the man that will not answer. Maysie. You should answer. This is different, {he makes a movement to check her. Stamping her foot) I must question — I must know ! Dick. You shall know. She is — his mother (pause) Maysie. {looks at him in hnrror , {o herself ) Then you and she {looking straight in front of her) I see now why you disliked being questioned. In future, when people sneer at you I shall know how to hold my tongue. I — I am going to Irene, (goes slowly l., then stops, not turning to him) Will you tell Mr. Marsden — you were quite right — I did not know my own mind — I know it now — I will marry him if he cares to take me. (she goes off slowly L., her head bowed down. Dick stands star- ing after her. Long pause) Dick, {repeating) When people sneer^what does she — why did she look at me as if Phil dashes on excitedly R. Phil. What luck, old chap ? Have you seen her ? What did she say .' Dick, {slowly, still staring after Maysie) She said, " Will you tell Mr. Marsden I did not know my own mind — I know it now — I will marry him if he cares to take me." Phil, {gives a great shout of delight) She said that ? My dear old Dick, you've been a trump ! Where is she ? Dick, (who has never moved) She's over there. Phil, {bursting into a peal of joyous laughter) She'll marry me ! Maysie's mine ! She'll marry me ! Houp la ! {jumps over small haystack) Who'd have ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 49 thought it ? She will marry me ! Good old Dick, she'll marry me ! {dashes off after MaYSIE) Dick. She'll marry him — they'll be awfully happy. I'm jolly glad. She shouldn't have listened, though. What did she mean by jealous ? The gipsy ? the boy {pause. He thinks hard, then with a sudden cry springs to his feet) By Gad ! she thinks I — she believes that woman — my boy — her boy — how dare she — how dare she ! {stops suddenly, dropping his voice) That's why she looked at .me like that — that's why she knew her own mind so soon. Poor little girl. And I shouted at her as if she were a regiment on parade, {long pause. He stands deep in thought) Perhaps it's a good thing I did. She'll marry him — and — kiddie and I will give her away. Perhaps she won't let us do even that now. They'll go away. Then kiddie and I will be all by our- selves — all by ourselves, {slowly his head drops on his hands, and a sound rather like a sob is heard) Urchin creeps on r., contemplates him anxiously, then with great concern comes to his side. Urchin. Guv'nor ! guv'nor ! Don't cry ! Dick, {looking up fiercely) Cry, you young rip ? I'm a philosopher. Urchin, {sitting down at his feet facing him) Are ye ? So am I. Dick. Are you ? Come on, then, give us your views of life. Urchin, {with great deliberation lifts his forefinger — solemnly) Gals ! {then his eloquence ceases to flow) Dick. Well ? Urchin, {gloomily) Gals — that's all. Dick, {slowly) Gals — that's all ? {seises and shakes Urchin's dirty little hand cordially) A very good philosophy, too. Curtain comes down with the two sitting on the hay solemnly s'taring at one another. 50 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. ACT III. // is after dinner about half-past nine on < beautiful suinvicr evening. The lawn of Mr. Hoddesden's house. The old-fashioned verandah on L., showing the drawing-room. Lamps lighted and cosy beyond. Chinese lanterns, etc. The back cloth is a view of the river and a full moon rising. As curtain rises HOD- DESDEN is walking up and down the lawn with MRS. llENDYSHE, while Irene, Maysie, Phil and Bendyshe are singing plaintive nigger 7nelodies in the drawing- room to harp accompaniment. Harp supposed to be played by Irene. HODD. My dear Jane, in spite of the absurdity of it all, I actually lost my temper with him. Mrs. B. Poor Tom ! HODD. Poor Tom indeed ! He's as obstinate as — as I am ! I've made inquiries about the girl ; she's the wife of that chap who loafs about the island. Do you think I can get Tom to believe it ? Not he ! He laughs at me, says, " Ha ! I was prepared for this," then he rolls his eyes and calls me a calumniator — marvellous how love elevates one's language. Then he repeats that ridiculous assertion, " You can't move me." Mrs. B. He's quite right, you can't. HoDD. I'd move him — if — if — I wasn't afraid he'd never forgive me. Mrs. B. How ? {sits r.) HODD. He wants a thrashing — a good sound thrash- ing ! Something he can think about when he's by him- self ! Something that would take his thoughts from this absurdity and concentrate them on his — back. Mrs. B. My dear Robert, it would break your heart to lay a finger on the boy. HODD. I dare say ; but he's rapidly driving me to sacrifice myself Poor young beggar ! I've locked him up there in the library for to-night, till those gipsies are gone. Mrs. B. Locked him up ! Oh, let me go and try my powers of persuasion. HoDD. Here's the key — try away, it's hopeless, there's ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 51 nothing for it but the rod, and by Gad, he shall have it, if he won't give way. Mrs. B. {rises and crosses over) Oh, it will blow over. HoDD.. I wish the young woman's husband would take the matter up. That's the sort of man to shake the nonsense out of Master Tom ! But there, see what you can do. Laugh him out of it, Jane, laugh him out of it if you can. Nothing like ridicule for such stupidity. Mrs. B. {laughing) I'll do my best, {goes into drawing-room. IIoddesdEN ^r««/j. 'I he people in the drawing-room are seen m.oving through the blinds. Bendyshe begins his song) HoDD. God bless the boy — he makes me feel young again, {after a pause, R. u. E., Seth lounges on frotn behind the bushes at back, carrying switch, comes down to the verandah and peers into drawing-room through the chinks in the blind) Seth. {quietly) There's the old gent sure enough — a-singin' fit to bust ! 'Ow can I get to 'im ? Now the Captain's turned out a stiff un, must make a honest fiver out of somabody. HODD. {starting up, seeing Seth) Hullo, my man, what do you want ? Seth. I've got a message for a gent HoDD. Gad ! it's the husband, and a nice scoundrel you must be ! Seth. {fiercely) Eh ? HoDD. {fiercely) Don't answer me, sir ! What are you doing here ? Seth. 'Ow am I to tell you if I don't answer ? HODD. Quite right ! I apologize. I'll have you locked up for loitering with intent to commit a felony. Seth. There's a gent in this house as has business with my missis ! I wants to give him a message. HODD. By Gad ! He has found him out ! Poor old Tom ! Serve him right, the young rip ! This will save me a lot of trouble, {to Seth) Quite right, my man, don't you stand it, take the matter in hand and knock the nonsense out of him. Seth. {blankly) Eh ? IIODD. {growls) What do you mean by "Eh"? You know what he's up to — it's your business to stop it. Seth. Stop it — why should I ? 52 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. HoDD. (aghast) Why should you ! You discover that there's a fool making love to your wife under your very nose, and you don't see why you should stop it. Seth. [scornfully) Making love ! I know my wife ! HODD. I dare say, but you don't know him. He's desperate. I tell you — declares he'll never leave her, swears he'll roam the world with her, laughs to scorn the idea of her having a husband, says it's impossible ! Seth. (^getting angry) Oh, does he ? HoDD. That's right, get excited, convince him that you are her husband and know how to look after your own property. Knock the nonsense out of him ! Seth. (c. looking at Hoddesden curiously) You wants me to lick him ? HoDD. (C.) Lick him ? Yes — gently, mind, gently but firmly. Seth. Ain't he a bit past it, Guv'nor ? HoDD. Past it, pooh ! I was often licked at his age. Seth. Was ye now ? ye surprise me ! HoDD. Mind ye, don't overdo it ! One or two cuts with that switch across the shoulders — it's the shame of it will do the trick, not the blow. Seth. 'Ow about the action for assault ? HODD. You leave that to me. There'll be no action. You will hear no more of it as long as you don't hurthim. Only make him smart, no real damage, {then fiercely) Mark me, sir, if you go too far I'll get you six months of the hardest labor you ever had — the hardest ! Don't you dare to hurt him — frighten him, that's all, do you hear? There's a sovereign for you to cure him of his folly — there's half a sovereign for the trouble — cheap at the price, (crosses L.) Seth. 'Ere, suppose I gets excited — wot then ? HoDD. You'd better not. Seth. Well! {beckons) 'ere! 'Ow deep's that there pond ? {pointing off at back of house) HODD. Two foot ! Seth. S'posin' I don't lick him ! S'posin' I jest pops 'im in there for a bit to cool. HODD. Pop him in to cool ! Capital ! The very thing ! Don't mention my name in the matter ! Hide ! I'll send him out to you. Don't hurt him ! lly (rad, don't you hurt him, or you'll have to deal with me. {exit into drawing-room) ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 53 Seth. 'Ere's a rum go ! Poor old gent ! Well, it'll serve him right. Wot business 'ad he to get flirty ! You sits to an artist as business — and if business is to come to roamin' the world — well — {goes to window) There 'e is, poor old gent, smilin' all over his face. Wot's t'other old gent's little game ? Had a row and don't like to tackle 'im 'imself, shouldn't wonder, {enter Bendyshe L. cheerfully singing) Ben. Delightful music I (sings) La, la, la, la, too high ! Fills me with inspiration. I could do great things to-night, (sings) La, la, la, la, — too low. Silly little boy Tom, to lose his heart to my Cleopatra ! My dusky maid ! Seth. (up l. from the shadows at hack, sepulchrally) Your dusky maid ! Ben. (startled) Good gracious, my good man ! Seth. (ironically) Your good man ! Ben. Are you aware you're trespassing ? Seth. Are you &via.re. you're trespassing ? Ben. Gracious ! How you repeat my words. Seth. Your words ! your Cleopatra ! your dusky maid ! (fiercely) What price me f Ben. I haven't the slightest idea ! Seth. A-paintin' of her face, wos yer ? A-goin' to hang her in the Academy', wos yer ? A-goin' to roam the world with 'er, was you ? I repeat wot price me ^ (gets between Bendyshe and window) Ben. What's the matter with the fellow ? Help ! Seth. 'Tain't no use shouting, the old gent's took 'em all away. Ben. (standing on tiptoe and looking into drawing- room from opposite side of stage) They're all in the billiard-room. This is awful ! Seth. The other old gent don't approve of your little game, nor do L Ben. What little game ? Seth. A-roamin' the world with my missis. 'E says I ain't to 'it you 'ard, so I sha'n't 'it you at all. Ben. Hit me I Seth. To cool yourarder, I'm to pop you in the pond. (moves over) Ben. (aghast) Pop me in the pond ? (gets up R. c.) Seth. Pity you ain't got a mackintosh, 54 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Ben. The man's mad ! Oh, if I could only run very fast. -Seth. Don't slither about like that, Guv'nor, you've got to 'ave it. (Bendyshe with a shout for help bolts off up L. behind the house pursued by Seth. Laughing heartily) You've got to 'ave it — a job's a job ! Enter HoDDESDEN/ro;« drawing-roovi. HODD. My good man, you needn't wait. Hullo, he hasn't, hang the fellow ! Perhaps it's as well. Where the dickens has the boy gone to ? I locked him in the library, he's got out of the window — tore up the table cover, tied it into knots and dropped twenty feet if it's an inch. God bless him ' he's a chip of the old block — young fool ! hang the man ! why didn't he wait ? He'd have knocked the nonsense out of him, bless his pig-headed young heart ! Gad's life, he makes me feel young again — dashed young fool ! (exif into drawing- room) Enter ToM R., generally dilapidated, sees HODDESDEN. Tom. [despairingly') Governor ! HODD. Eh ? {wheels round and sees Tom) God bless the boy ! Tom. Governor ! HODD. (turns quickly, coining down stage) Hullo ! Hullo ! What's up ? Tom. Governor ! (tumbles into Hoddesden's arms) HODD. The scoundrel, he's hurt him ! Tom, boy, what is it, old chap ? Tom. (faintly) Oh, Governor ! She — she — she is married ! HODD. He has hurt him ! Tom. He ? Who ? HODD. That brute, her husband. Tom. I've not seen him. I don't want to see him. Oh, Governor, I've been such a fool. HODD. No, no, boy, it's all right. We can't help these things. Tom. We can. You locked me in. I got out of the window, that's why I'm lame. HODD. (excited) Lame ? Tom. Only a little sprain. I got over to the island all ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 55 right enough. I had to see her. Oh, Governor, my heart's broken ! I saw her. HODD. Cheer up, old hoy ! Tom. No, I saw her. She was going away ; all the things were in the caravan. She's married. Governor, she's married. HODD. Of course she is. Oh, my dear boy, that is, you young fool, I mean. How's your leg ? Tom. (Jilaintively) It won't go at all. I can't walk any more. Oh, to think that she's married ! HODD. Here ! Hi ! (shouts) Hang it, where are the servants ? Here ! Hi ! {shouts again) Come on, boy, we'll soon put you straight. There ! put your arm round my neck. I can carry you, boy — don't do it again, will you ? {tries to lift Tom) Tom. You can't move me ! HODD. Shut up ! Tom. I don't mean that. I mean I'm too heavy. HoDD. Nonsense, damn nonsense. ( half carries him across stage) Hi ! here ! where are the servants ? Bless the boy ! he's all right. Serve him right. No, it don't ; I'm a brute ! Does it hurt ? Tom. Not much. She was lovely, wasn't she ? HODD. Hang her ! don't know. I mean, of course she was. Cheer up, old boy, you"re all right. Enter Mrs. Bendyshe from, window. Mrs. B. (l. C.) I can't find the boy anywhere ! You've got him ! HODD. (C.) I've got him, and he's got a sprained ankle. Enter Irene. Irene. (L., excitedly) Is he found ? Tom. (r. c.) Oh, bother all the fuss. Enter Phil. Phil, (l.) He's not lost ? Tom. Shut up ! All right. Governor, I can stand 1 Enter Maysie. MaYSIE. {on steps) Then he is quite safe ? S6 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Tom. Oh, my gracious ! you'd think I was a precious jewel. HODD. It's a good thing- you were out of the way just now. The husband came up to look for you, young man. I gave him a sovereign and recommended him to duck you in the pond. All. {excitedly') Duck him in the pond ! Ben. (outside) Not again ! Oh, not again ! Enter Bendyshe, a -woe-hegone, bedraggled, befouled object, his curly hair limp and long about his eyes, the weeds round his neck and water oozing from every pore. Runs to C, then down. All. Gracious ! What's happened ? Ben. {completely out of breath, feebly waves his arms) That dreadful man ! I ran rapidly for miles, I did indeed ! But he was always just behind me. I heard him between my puffs. " It's no use, Guv'nor, you've got to have it," he remarked, repeatedly. He was quite right ! I did have it ! Look at me ! Mrs. B. (r., crosses c. to him) My dearest, you'll catch your death. Ben. (C.) I don't mind. Nothing seems to matter now. I keep on finding tadpoles in my hair. HODD. (R. C.) Take him inside and give him some- thing hot. Here, the boy, too. A nice couple of Romeos, upon my word ! Ben. {almost in tears) He called me sonny when he pulled me out. It sounded so friendly. It made me wonder why he pushed me in. iAiRS. B. Don't talk now, dear ! Come and change every stitch. {e.xeunt Bendyshe, supfiorted by his wife, Tom, by Hodde.shkn ; all expressing luondcrment and distress) Phil. What on earth's happened ? Maysie. Who pushed him in ? Irene. He didn't say, Phil. The gipsy fellow, of course, (pause. Maysie moves off thoughtfully one side. Phil goes up at back humming. Irene sits on chair) Irene. What's become of Major Dick ? Phil. He's got a fit of the blues. ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 57 iRENn Has he ? Why doesn't he come up here ; we'll cure him. Phil. He had to go down to the town to get a tele- gram that went wrong — or somethhig. Irene. Oh ! (pause; she watches the couple, then suddenly') Good gracious me ! I beg your pardon. How careless of me ! Phil, (up c.) What's up ? Irene. Leaving myself about like this when there's a nice moon and a newly-engaged couple. Maysie. (down l.) Don't go ! Please don't go, Irene ? Irene, (cheerfully) Well, I won't, (sits downfirmly. Phil and Maysie l., moon about dejectedly ; Irene watches them out of the corner of her eye — sighs) Oh, what a happy thing is love ! (pause) Look at them ! They can't really like it, you know, (another pause) Oh, I give it up. This may be enthralling to you two, but it gets on my nerves. If somebody would only say something, I'd Phil. Oh, don't go ! Irene. Certainly. I was only staying to oblige you. Phil. I don't mean (warn music) Irene. Don't glare at me in the moonlight, Mr. Mars- den. I'm doing my best. I shall play sweet music to you because it's the food of love, and you two poor people look starving, (runs up steps into drawing-room) Phil, {after a pause) Aren't you happy? (Maysie sits L.) Maysie. (listlessly) Very happy. Why do you say that ? Phil. You seem — odd somehow. Maysie. (dreamily) How did he fall into the pond ? Phil. Idon't know — but — oh, don't let's think of him, let's think of ourselves, (takes her hand) Oh, my dear little girl, you have made me so happy. Maysie. Have I ? (Irene is heard playing the harp in drawing-room) Phil. It is awful to be so awfully in love as I am. I can't think of anything else. Do I bore you talking like this ? I can't help it. Maysie. It is nice to hear one is loved. Phil. Is it ? Maysie. (looking at him) You said that strangely. S8 ONE SUMMER'S DAY. Phil. You said it was nice to hear one was loved. {softly) I haven't heard it yet — won't you say " Phil, I love you ? " See, I can take you in my arms, you little mite of a thing, and — oh, I could crush you — don't hide your face, Maysie ! don't hide your face ! (kisses her) Oh, I will try and make you happy, little one. I'm not good enough for you, I know ; but I'll try to be. Dick said to-day I wasn't worth the dust on your tiny shoes. Maysie. Did he ? Phil. He was about right. But all the same, won't you say, " Phil, I love you ? " Why, Maysie, you're not crying ? Maysie. No — but — I — it all seems strange, doesn't it? Phil. It's all splendid. You know if it hadn't been for Dick I should never have had the courage to ask you again. Maysie. (guickly) Why do you keep on talking about Dick ? Phil. Do I ? I didn't mean to. I suppose because he's such a good chap. Maysie. He's not a good chap ; he's — he's Oh, I wish I didn't know. I wish I didn't know, [crosses R.) Phil, (goes to her ; quickly) Maysie ! Maysie. (repulsing him) No, no ! Don't speak to me now. Phil. What do you wish you didn't know ? Maysie. All the miserable truth about it. I thought him so strong, so brave — I could have — and then to find out — all ! Oh, it was terrible ! Phil. All ! What ? Maysie. The lies about his dead wife, — all the shame he has lived in— all the disgrace — the dishonor — the lies about his boy. I saw the woman ! I saw him give her money — he told me she was (long pause) she was — the mother of his boy. Phil, (very deliberately) You believe that woman and Dick- Maysie. {interrupts j scornfully) Believe ! He told me so himself. Phil, (slowly, watching her intently) But suppose — suppose it is all a mistake — suppose Dick was not guilty — suppose he had been free and had asked you to marry him, what would you have said (she walks ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 59 slowly away, crosses C. to L., and leans her head against the pillars of the verandah j he follows her) Tell me, Maysie. Maysie. Yes, it's right you should know. If Dick had asked me this morning, I should have been, oh, so proud. After what I heard — what he told me this after- noon — I hope I shall never see him again. Phil, (after long pause — slowly) Then you don't love me after all — but I'll try to make you love me, dear. I'll try all my life ! If I were brave I — I ought to give you up. But I love you too much to be brave. Try and love me a little, won't you, dear? Maysie. I do love you, Phil. Phil. But Dick ? Maysie. Hush ! That was different. That's over. Oh, if you knew how I despise him now ! Phil. Don't ! don't ! I can't bear to hear you so un- just to him. Maysie. [scornfully) Unjust ! Do you admire him for it ? Phil. No, but— but! Don't be too hard on him! Perhaps you don't know all. Maysie. I know enough, thank you. Phil. Yes, but — if I could prove that you were wrong — that Dick never did a thing in his whole life to be ashamed of— that this story is a mistake^ — if I could prove this ? Maysie. {turning to him quickly) If you could prove this, I should be the happiest woman in the world ; but you can't, Phil — you can't, can you ? Phil, {looks at her, holds out his hands, then turns from her with bent head) No, I can prove nothing. {she turtfs and walks listlessly up the steps) Maysie. (quietly) When did you say you wanted our wedding to be ? Phil, (huskily, not turning to her) Some time next month. Maysie. (slowly) Ne.xt month — yes, I remember ! Then — we — we — go away ! I remember ! (go.es slowly into druwing-roofn) Phil, (to himself) You coward ! — you allowed her to believe a lie — to think Dick You coward ! afraid to tell her the truth — afraid (music gets softer. Dick is seen coming out of the darkness beyond the 6o ONE SUMMER'S DAY. trees and across the lawn. He comes slowly with un- steady steps. Phil watches him for a moment, then starts forward with a subdued cry) Dick ! (Dick comes out of the shadow, the light falls on his face, which is drawn and pale, his lips trembling with sup- pressed suffering. In a whisper) Dick ! Great God ! What is it ? {pause. DiCK looks at him for a moment as if dazed. Repeats) What is it ? Dick, (chokingly) Don't speak to me — don't — Where's Maysie ? I — I want her. Phil. What's happened ? Dick, {hoarsely) Kiddie — kiddie's dead ! Don't speak to me ! Where's Maysie ? Phil, {dumfounded) Dead ? Kiddie dead ! Dick, {jerkily) Killed — to-day — run over — just as he started out to — to post his little letter to me. {sways a Utile. Phil catches him) Oh, God help me ! — my own little kiddie ! {sits by table in half light) Phil. My dear old boy. Dick. Don't — don't pity me ! I shall be a fool ! {long pause — he sways to and fro recovering his self- control) I told his mother to-day that he was dead ! I thought I was lying, but it was the truth — it's like a judgment — Maysie, ask her to come to me. I don't want to face the light. Phil, {goes slowly to verandah, turns, looks at Dick, then in a whisper to himself) If I bring her to him she {pauses again, irresolute, then with fierce determination) I can't ! I can't ! Why should I lose her now ? (returns to DiCK, who is sitting with his head on his folded arms) Dick ! {rouses him) Dick ' Must you see her ? (DiCK raises his head) I mean — you — you don't know all ; she has promised to marry me ; it's all arranged. Dick, (listlessly) Yes — yes — I know. I'm going away alone. We settled that — you and I. Phil, (slowly) Yes — but — this afternoon you al- lowed her to think you and that woman were Dick, (quickly, as if to himself) Yes, yes, that's why I've come ! It was a misunderstanding. I didn't see what she was driving at till afterwards, but I can tell her now. 1 must tell her now, because I shall never see her again, and — and when I saw her last ! — I know she despised me — it was in her eyes. She won't do that ONE SUMMER'S DAY. 6i any more, will she, Phil ? She'll help me now, when she knows the truth. Phil, {slowly) When she knows the truth she will despise you no longer. She will {with a sudden outburst) Oh, man, don't you understand ? (Dick looks at him, then suddenly the meaning flashes into his face, and he lifts his hands as if to ward off a blow) Dick, {despairingly) Phil ! You wouldn't have me —oh, Phil ! Phil, {huskily) I love her so — and — and — the wed- ding is arranged, {long pause) Dick, {looks at him slowly, sinks back into chair mechanically) The wedding is arranged ! I never thought ot that. Yes — yes — I understand ! {rises, slowly turns to go away) Phil, {holds out his hands to him imploringly) Diek! Dick, {turns anW looks at him, ignoring the out- stretched hands) Hush ! don't say anything for a bit ! {pauses, then conquers himself and. turns to Phil) We — we've been chums for a long time, Phil, a long time. I — I've been damned fond of you — we won't go back on it now. You've asked a great deal — you're right, I sup- pose — but I'm too tired to see things clearly now. Phil. You think I'm a coward, Dick ? Dick. No. You're young, I'm old — that's all the dif- ference, {then with an effort at cheerfulness) After all, what does it matter whether she despises me or not ? I shall be a long way oflF, and I shall love her all the time, ' {takes Phil's hand earnestly) Be kind to her, Phil, be very kind to her, and perhaps some day you'll tell her for me — some day — all in your own good time, {drops Phil's hand and turns as if to go) Phil, {huskily) Where are you going ? Dick, {gently) I'm going — to kiss — my boy. (Maysie comes out of the drawing-room. He sees her as she stands in the light) Maysie. Who — who is that ? Phil, {stopping her quickly) Hush ! Maysie. Major Rudyard! {stands on verandah, the light from the room on her) Phil. (C.) He's going away — became to say good-bye. Dick. (l. C, f alter ingly) Yes, yes ; good-bye to Phil— to you. 62 ONE SUMMERS DAY. Maysie. i^ery quietly, not looking at him, not mov- ing) You are going abroad, then ? Dick. Yes. Maysie. For long ? Dick. For ever. Maysie. {drearily) For ever ? Dick, (hasn't moved or looked at her) There's nothing to l (French*! Standard Drama Continued from 2d page of Cover.) VOL. XLIV. 345 Drghkar^'s Doom 346 Jhipney Coi'ner 1J47 Fifteen' Years of a Drunk- 348 No Thoroughrara fard'^ 349 Peep 0' Day l_Life 350 Everybody's Friend 351 Gon, Grant 352 Kathleen Mavourneen VOL. XLV. Nick Whiffles 364 Fruits of the Wine Cup 355 Drunkard's Warning , 856 Temperance DootOt 8A7 Aunt Dinah 368 Widow Freehearl 359 Frou Frou 360 Long' Strike ' VOL. XLVI. 361 Lancers 362 LueUle 363 Randall's ThumS 364 Wicked World 365 Two Orphans 366 Co',!«en Bnwn 367 'Twixt Axe and Crown 368 L^idy Clancarthy VOL. XLVIL 369 Saratoga 370 Never Too Late to Mend 371 Lily of FranCt 372 Led Astray 373 Heary V 374"Eiiequal Match 375 May Or Dolly's Delusion 376 AUatoona VOL. XLVIIL 377 Enoch Arden 378 Under the Gas Light 379 Daniel RacbAi 380 Caste 381 School 3H3 Home 363 David Garrtok 384 Ours VOL. XLIX. 3S6 Social Glass 386 Daniel Druce 387 Two Roses 388 Adrienoe 38d Tbe Bells 380 Uncle 391 Courtihip 392 Not Such a Fool VOL. L. 393 Fine Feathers 394 Prompter's Box 395 Iron Master 396 EngB{;;ed """ Pygmalion & GaUtek 399 Scrap of Paper 100 Lost in London VOL. LL ■101 Octoroon 402 Confederate Spy 403 Mariner's Return 404 Ruined by Drink 405 Dreftms 406 M. P. 407 War 408 Birth VOL. LII. 409 Nightingale 410 Progress 411 Play 412 Midnight Charge' ^ 413 Con6(lential Clerk > 414 Snowball 415 Our Regiment ' 416 Married for Money Hamlet in Thr«e Acts Guttle k Gulpit FRENCH'S INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHTED EDITION OF THE WORKS OF THE BEST AUTHORS. The following very successful plays have just been issued at 25 cents per copy. A PAIR OF SPEpTACIiES. Comedy In 3 Acts by SvDNRY GrundYj author of "Sowiilg the Wind," &c. 8 male, 3 female characters. A i'OOii'S PARADISE. An, original play In, 3 Acts by SvDNitY Grunbt, author of " Sowing the Wind,'^ (bC. 5 male, 4'female character!. THE SILVER SHIELD. An original comedy In 3 Acts .by Syivnky Grunoy, author of ''Sowing the Wind," &c. 5 male, 3 female characters. THE GLASS OF FASHIOK. An original com- ejiy In 4 Acts by Sydney Ghumdy, author ot " Sowing the Wind/' Ac. fi mala, 5 female characters. THE BALLOOir. Farcical comedy In 3 Acta by J. H. Darnj.ey and Manville Fenn. 6 male^ 4 female characters. MISS CLEOPATRA. Farce In 3 Acta by Ahthus Shiblkv. 7 male, 3 female characters. SIX PERSONS. Cpmady Act by L Zanowill. 1 mule, 1 female character. FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. ComedU etta In 1 Act by Percy Fkndall. 1 male, 1 female character. HIGHLAND LEGACY, Comedy In I Act by Brandon Thomas, author of "Charley's Aunt." male, 2 female characters. Contents of Catalogue which is sent Free. Amateur Drams Amateur Operas Articles Needed by Amatenrs Art of Scene Painting Baker's Reading Club Beards, Whiskers, Maataches, etc BoundjScts of Pl^'s Bulwer Lytton's Flayi Burlesquie Dramas Burnt Cork Cabman's Story Carnival of Authors Charade Plavs Children's Tkya ,<7omic Dramas for Male Characters Crape Hair Cumberland Edition Darkty Dramas Dramas for Boys Drawing-room Monologues ElocDtioi^, Reciters ana SpeiAen Ethiopian Dramas Evening's Entertainment Fiiiry and Home Plays -, French's Costuiues French's Editions French's Italian Operas French's, Parlor Comedies French's Standard and Minor Drama French's Standard and Minor'Drama, bound French's Scenes for Amateurs Erpbiflher's Popular Recitals Grand Army Dramas Guide Books for Amateurs Guide to SQlectlng' Plays Hints on Costumes '' Home Plays for Ladles Irish Plays Irving's Plays Juvenile Plays Make-Up Book Make-Up,B(ji Mock Trial Mrs. Jarley's Wax Works New Playa New Recitation Books Nigeer Jokes a^d Stump Speeches Parlor Magic Parlor Pantomimes Pieces of Pleasantry Poems for Recitations Plays fur Male Characters only Round Games i Scenery Scriptural and Historical Drama* Sensation Dramas Serio-Comio Dramas , Shadow Pantomimes Shakespeare's Plays for Amateun Shakespeare's Playa Stanley's Dwarfs Spirit Gum Tableaux Vlvants Talma Actor's Art Temperance Plays Vocal Music of ^bakespeare^a PZayt Webster's Acting Edition Wigs, etc. {French's Minor Drama Continued from 4th page of Cover.) , VOL. XLT. 821 Adventures of a Love 822 Lost Child [Letter 823 Court Cards 834 Cox and Box . 826 Forty Winks 826 Wonderful Woman 3S7 Curious Case U8 TwecdUt^n's Tall Coat VOL. XLII. 329 As Like as Two Peas 330 Presumptive Evidence 331 Happy Band 332 Plupfore 333 Mock Trial 334 My Uncle's Will 336 Hapj>y Pair 335 My Turn Next VOL. XLIIL 337 Sunset 338 For Haifa Million Cable Car 340 Early Bird 341 Alumni Play 342 Show of Hands 343 Barbara 4344 Who's Who VOL. XLIV. 345 Who's To Win Him 346 Which is Which 347 Cup of Tea 345 Sarah'a Young Man 349 Hearts 350 In Honor Bound [Law 351 Freezing a Motber-in- 352 My Lord In Livery SAMUEL FRENCH, 26 West 22d St;, New York City. FRENCH'S MINOR DRAMA. price 15 Cents each.— Bound Volumes $1.25. TOL. I. t Ths Irish Attorney 8 Boola ftl the Swan 8 How to Pay Ihe Rent 4 The Loan of a Lover IS The DentI Shot 6 HIa Last IjGts t The Invisible Prlnc* b The GoKlei) Former VOU 11. 9 Pride of the Markel 10 Used Up 11 ThalrUli Tutor 15 The Barrack Ruom 13 Ltilte the Laborer 14 Beauty and the Beast 16 St. Patrick's Eve 16 Captain of the Watch VOL. III. 17 The Secret [pi 18 White Hone of ihe Fep- 19 The Jacobite tfO The Bottle 31 Box and Cox 22 BamhooKlIti^ S3 Widow's Victim 24 Robert Macatre VOL. IV. 28 Secret Service 26 Omnibus 27 Irlbh Lion 28 Maid of Crolssy 29 The Oifl Ouard 30 Raiainj; the Wind 31 SlaBher and CrHshtr 32 Naval EnffagemtmU VOL. V. 33 Cockoiea In C«Iiromt& 34 Who Speaks Flrrt 35 Bombaatea Furioso 86 MdcbeLh Travestle ST Irish Ambassn'Ior 38 Delicate Gruunc) 39 The Wcatherirock [Gold 40 All that Glitters Is Not VOL. VI. 41 Grlmshnw, Bngshaw and Bradshaw 42 Rough Diamond 43 Bloomer CostufDe 44 Two Bonnycastles 45 Born to Good Luck ib Kisi In the Dark [jnrcr 47 'Twould Puzzle 48 Kill or Cnre VOL. rii, 49 Box on.I Cvx Marrlfd and 50 St. Cupid IBetUed 51 Qo-to-bed Tom 63 The Lawyer* 63 Jack Shfppnrd 64 The Toodlea is The Mobcnp 56 Ladles Beware VOL. VIIL M Mdrnliig Call S8 Popping the Question 69 Deaf as a Po^t 60 New Footman 61 Pleasiint Neighbor 62 Paddy the Piper 63 Brlftn " ''Linn 64 Irish Awiraiioe VOL. IX. AS Temptation 66 Paddv Caret- 67 Two Gregi>rlea 68 KiDg Charming 69 Pci-ca-hon-taa 70 Clockmaker'i Hat 71 Married Rake 72 Love and Murder VOL. X. 7S Ireland nnd America 74 Pretty Piece of Busiueu 75 Irish Broom-maker 76 To Paris and Back for Five Pounds 17 That BleBsed Baby 78 Our Gal 79 SwlM C-»ttage 80 Yontig Widow VOL. XT, 81 O'Flannigdn and the Fal- sa Irish I'ost [riea S3 My Neighbor's Wife f(4 Irish Tiger 85 P. P., Of Man and Tiger 66 To Oblige Bcnion 87 State Secrets 83 Irish Yankee VOL. XII. 89 A Good Fellow 90 Cherry and Fair Star 91 Gale Breexely 92 Our Jemimy 93 Miller's Maid 94 Awkward Arrival 95 Crossing the Line 96 Conjugal Lesson VOL. XII L 97 My Wife's Mirror 98 Lift io New York 99 Middy As]] ore 100 Crown Prince IDl Two Queens 102 Thumping Legacy 103 Unfinished Gentleman ItU House Dng VOL. XIV. IU5 The Demon hovm 106 Matrimony 107 In and Out of Place 10s I Dine with ."My Mother 10»Hi-n-wa-lha no Andv Blnke 111 UjV8 in 'Id [tie- 112 Romance under Difficul- VuL. XV, 113 One Coat f.r li Suits 114 A Decided Ca=e 11, ■> Daugtiter [noritv 116 No;..r. Iht' GWi.nis Mi- in Coroner'* louni^itjon 118 Love In iruoWeLife 119 [•'■an.nv Jii = laO rer^ouat.Mi, \'0L. XVI. 121 Cluidronin tht- Wood , 122 WInninija Husband ^ 123 l>av Afltr the Fair 1J4 Make Y.>nr Wilis 1J.^ Ueii.K'zroui' Ijfi M\ Wife's Husband t'^7 M-m-ieuT ToTisun 128 lliuslri..u^ Stranger VOL. XVII. )29 Mischiqf-Mnking [Mines lly A Live Woman m the 131 Tht Cur^air I32Shvt,.cl; 133Spi*i:.'.l riiild m Evil Eye l;k". Nolhiiig (0 Nurse lliij Wanted ft Widow VOL. .Will. 137 Lottery Ticket i:w Fortune's FrolSo i.iO Ishn Jealous! 140 Married Bachelor 141 Husband at Sight 142 Irishman In London \4:i Anima! Mn;ro«-ti-m 144High^'-.-iviaiid [ly-Wavs Vol. XIX. 145CoIimjbus 146 Harlequin Bluebeard 147 Ladles at Home 14a Phenomenon In A Smock Frock 149 Comedy and Tv,it;edy 150 Opposite Nel;;l,l„,rs 151 Dulchnjan's fJln.^t 152 Perseculeil Dutchman VOL. XX. 153 Musard B.-ill l&4GrL-i»t Tiiigl-- Revival 1S5 High Low Jmli & (.,ime 15G A Gentleman fro'n Iro- 167 Tom an*! Jerry [land Village Lawyer 169 Captain's not A-miss 160 Amateurs and Actors VOL. XXL 161 Promotion f"*! 162 A Faicinattiis Individ- J63Mrs. Candle )^4 Shakespeare'* Dream 195 Nfptuns'a Defeat 166 Laay of Bedchamber 167 Take Cars of Little 168 Irish Widow rCharltiy VOL. XXU. 169 Yankee Peddler 170 Hiram Hireout 171 Double-Bedded Room 172 The Drama Defended 173 Vermont Wool Dealer 174 ^Ibenewr Venture [ter 175 Principle! froni Charac- 176 LadT of the Lake (Trar) VOU XX HI. 177 Mad Dogs 178 Biirney Ine Bnron 179 Swiss Swalna ISO Bnehelor'a Bedroom 181 A Roland for an Oliver 1S2 More Blunders than One is;i Dumb Beho -1 Limerit k Eor VOL. XXIV. 185 Wature and Philosophy 186 Teddy the Tiler 187 Spectre Bridegroom IS8 Matteo Falcone I&9 .lennv Llnd' 90 Two'Buizarda 191 Happy Man 192 Betsv Bilker Vol. XXV. 193 No. 1 P.ound the Comer 114 Teddy Koe 195 Object of fntprest 196 My Fellow Clerk 197 Bengal Tiger 198 Laughing Hvena 199 The Virtor VanqiHshed 200 Our Wife VOL XXVI 201 Mv IlK.h.and'a Mirror 202 Yankee L:ind 203 N.-rab Creina 204 Good for Nothing 2115 The First Night 206 Tlie Eton Bey !i>7 Wandeiiiig Minptrel 208 W«i)t*-d, IDiiO Milliners VOL. XXVU. 209 Poor Pil.o.My 2iOThp .Miimniv' [GIas=i*< 11 Don't Torgavour Opera!" 212 Love in LiverV 213 Anthony and Cieopntra 2I4Tr.,mg It On 216 St igeStuirk Yankee 216 Ycrine Wife & Old Um- brelii VOL. XXVHL '217 Crinoline 218 A Family Falling ■19 Adopted'Child L'll Turned Heads il A Matih in the Dark •22 Advice to Husbands -3 Siamese Tw:i) = ■J4Sei;l (m UieTow.T VOL. XXIX. 225 Somebody klse 2-J6 LodSes' liatlle '7 Art of Actirig 23S The Lady of the Lions 229 The Rights ol Man 230 Mv Hiisbund's Ghost 231 Two Can Play at that Game 232 Fighting hvrr..xy VOL. \'XX. 233 Unprotected Female '2U Pet of the Petttcata 235 Forty and Filty [book ■236 Who Stflle the PoAet- 237 My Sroi Diana [sion 238 Unwarrantable Intro- 139 Mr. and Mrs. Whlt« 240 A Quiet Family TOL. XXXL 241 Cool ELs Cucumber 242 Sudden Thoughts 243 Jumbo Jam 244 A Blighted BeimK 245 L'ttle Toddlekina 24b A Lover by Proxy fPall •i41 Maid with the Mlfklng." ' 24>i Psrplextng Predicament n i VOL. XXXU. .^ 249 Dr. Dllworth 250 Out to Nurse , "' 251 A LucXy Hit 252 The Dowager 253 Mf tamora (Bnrle'i^ue) 254 Dreams of Delusion 255 The Shaker Lovers 266 Ticklish Tlm^Ji' ^ ■ ■ VOL. XXXIIL 257 20 Minutes with a Tiger 258 Miralda; or, the Juattte of Tacon 259 A Soliller'a Coartdilp;;! 260 Serrants by Irfgac/; Love (Frencb''s Mhior Drama Continued on jd page of Cover.) 261 Dying for i 262 AUnning Sacrific* 963 Valet de Shfem 264 Nichotaa Mcklehy vol., XXXIV. 26B Th" L.'i.U of the Pigtalfe 266 King Rene's Doagh^r 267 The Grotto Nyirtph - 268 A Devjlisii Good JoW!', 1 2B9 A Twice Told Tate ' ' !7i' Pas de F'HEfiiiutlon ■11 Re\'.fiilioo;trv Soldier '72 A :\Ian Without a Head VOL. XXXV. 273 The Olio, Parti 274 Tne Olio, I'art 2 275^The Olio, Part 3 [ter' " The Trunipeter|s Daugh- Seeing Warren ' 278 Green Mountain Boy 979 That Nose 2tiu Tom Noddy's Secret VOL. XXXVL 281 Shocking^i-eu(a 282 A Regular Fix 283 Dick Turpin ^M Young Scamp - 2^5 Young Actress 2Mfi Call at No. 1— T 2S7 OneToucli of Natm» '- ■ 288,Two B'hoya ." ' J VOL. XXXVIf. Ivi All the World's* Stage' :m Qnash, or Nigger Prac- '.91 Turn Him Out [tlce 292Prt;tlv GlrhofStnibaik - 293 Angel of the Attic , * 294 Circumstance&alterCatet 295 Katty O'Shcal 296 A Supper In Dixie VOL. XXXVIIL 297 lei on Parle FraOcali- :'. 'i^n Who Killed CookRohfn' V99 Declaration of Indepepd- 3110 Heads or Tails feVtC^ 301 Obstinate Family .3(12 Mv Aunt 3n:l Tliat Rascal Pat 301 Don Paddy de Bazsn V"L. XXXIX. [ture 30-. T^o M'lch for Good Na- 306 Cure for '.he Fidgets 307 .lu-k's the Lad 308 Mn.hAJoAboutNotWng 309 Arlfol Dodger 31(1 Winning Hazard 311 Dny's Fishing - t*^-- 312 Did you cversttml your* VOL. XL. ■ .T13 All Irishman's Maneuver ;I4 Cuialn Fannie 315 'Th the Darkest Hoorb«. 316 Masquerade [foreDswn 317 Crowding the Season' 318 Good Night's Rest 319 Man with the Carpet Bag 320 Terrible Tinker '^H 5AMIIEL FRENCH. 36 West 22d Street. New York City. New and Explicit Dpscriotive Catalogue Mailed Free on RequvV .j^J^^W»%k^ WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Performed at the Comedy Theatre, London, Sept. 2, 1901. CHARACTERS. RiCHAED Cabewe Mr. Nat Goodwin Sib Hokace Plumelt, Baet. (commonly called Wad- dles) Mr. Neil O'Brien Colonel Miles Gbahamb (the Soldier Man) Mr. J. R. Crawford Tebbence McGbath (the Doctor) Mr. F. H. Tyler RicHAED Tebbence Miles Audaine (the Imp.) Mr. Arnold Daly Hebbeet Cobkie Mr. Fred Tiden David Hiesch Mr. Bassett Roe HuoHiE Helmont Mr. Ernest Lawf ord Wallis Beundalll Mr. Ivo Dawson Mes. Beioson Miss Ingram Phyllis (her daughter Miss Maxine Elliott Kaea Glynesk (known as the Firefly) Miss Constance Collier Budgie Ctjlpeppeb Babette (Kara's Maid) WHEN WE WEEE TWENTY-ONE. ACT I. Scene. — Dick Carbw's room in his Hat in Clement's Inn. A man's room,. Old-fasMoned, comfortable chairs, with the leather well-worn. On the r. side of the room a iig fire-place with fender seat all round it. The wall is nearly entirely book-cases. The hangings are dark red. The over-mantel is old, black oak, also the old-fashioned bureau, which is down l. against the wall. There is a deep, comfortable Ches- terfield sofa above the fire-place, and a comfortable arm'Chair below it, facing up stage. There is a door down E. of the fire-place, and a door l. c. at back, which opens into the hall — showing the hall — hat- racks, coats, etc., and the hall door, which opens on to the staircase of the building. There is a large win- daw opposite the fire-place with a very crooked blind. A card-table is set out between the window and the fire-place, a little t. of the centre, below it is a' smaller table, with a half-empty, old-fashioned whiskey decan- ter, five glasses, and numerous syphons of soda-water — both on and under the table. Various ash-trays, pipes, and cigar-ends about — also packs of cards. The room has evidently just been the scene of a card party. The door is open that leads to the hall, and through it comes the sound of m.en's voices and laugh- ter. A moment after the curtain rises, Mes. Ericson comes in from the door, down r. She is a sweet- looking, fragile old lady. She gives a little ejacula- tion of dismay. Mrs. E. Oh, my dear — the smoke. Phyllis, dearie, come and help me to open the window. 3 4: WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. (Phyllis enters after her mother, and is likewise a lit- tle dismayed at the disorder of the room.) Phyll. They are having a party, aren't they? Poo! the heat! Mrs. B. Dick would have a fire — and it's June! Phyll. (,has helped to open the window and is now trying to straighten the blind) Dick says a " card- party " wouldn't be anything without a fire. What is the matter with this beastly old blind^it will keep crooked? Mes. B. (nervously) My dear— there's something burning. Phyll. (turning excitedly) Oh, look about — look about, it's Dick's cigar end for a certainty. (The two women commence to hunt) Here It is — on the oak, of course. He is a careless old thing, isn't he? He'd be burnt down regularly if I wasn't here to look after him He dropped one into the drawing-room piano yesterday, and v/e didn't find it out for a quarter of an hour, and then we couldn't get at it, so we had to spill milk down to put it out, and that isn't the best thing for a piano. (The hall-door iell rings, and as Mrs. Ericson is close to it, she opens it and — ) Mrs. E. Oh, Mr. Corrie, it's you. Herbert, (a frank, cheerful youth) Hallo, Mrs. Ericson, Dick sent down to me about an hour ago, to know if I had any cards. I was out, but I got his message when I came in just now, and thought I'd bring 'em up myself. How are you? (smiling at Phyllis) One pack's nearly new, the two others aren't quite, and, in fact, I don't think any of 'em are perfect. What does this sudden burst of dissipation mean? Phyll. (gravely) One of the Trinity has got a birthday. Herbert, (with due solemnity) Ohoh! Which one? Phyll. Sir Horace. The little fat one. Herbert. Is that the one they call "Waddles"? Phyll. Yes. Mrs. E. I do hope that little bed In the box-room will hold him. Phyll. Of course it will hold him, mother — he's not so very fat. He's " just comfortable." WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE 5 Herbeet. He's staying here? Phyll. Dick's putting him up for the night, other- wise he'd have had to go early to catch the last train, and as it's his birthday, of course that wouldn't have done at all. Herbert, {fanning himself) I say — you're awfully hot in here. Phyll. Dick would have a fire. Herbert. Where's the Imp? Phyll. Oh, the Imp's gone out to have a quiet even- ing of his own. He's too young to stand the shock of such a revel as this party. Herbert, (chuckles) H'm! It strikes me that the Imp isn't quite as young as he looks. Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Ericson. Phyll. Not at all. Herbert. Somehow it's difficult to think of the Imp as an engaged man. Phyll. It is very difficult, isn't it? Herbert. He's a jolly lucky chap — oh, I beg pardon, I didn't mean that. Phyll. Oh, I hope you did, because I quite agree with you. Herbert. That's a spiffing dog-cart Dick's given him. Mrs. E. (turning round aghast) What? Phyll. Dog-cart! Herbert. Oh! Didn't you know — er — well, p'raps it was a hired one — only — well- — he did rather lead me to suppose that he was its sole proprietor. (Sound of pushing hack chairs comes mingled with the chatter from the adjoining room.) Hallo! I must get. Mrs. E. Stop and see Dick. Herbert. Not I — when four old veterans like that get together and have a birthday, they don't want any extraneous juveniles knocking about — give him the cards. I hope the packs are perfect, but I doubt it. Mrs. E. Oh, I don't think it'll matter one or two being gone, nothing ever seems to matter much to Dick. (Herbert laughs, and with a cheery " Good-night " goes out, not closing the hall-door after him.) Phyll. (gravely) That's funny about Imp and the dog-cart. I wonder, does Dick know? 6 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Mrs. B. I don't expect he knows half that young man is up to behind his back. Phyli.. (gravely) Mother, you mustn't say disre- spectful things about the Imp, he's my future husband! Mes. E. Yes, dear, I know he is — bother the boy! He's left the door open, (she goes to the outer door, her eye falls on something hy the mat) Goodness! (she stops and picks up a Uey) The latch-key — now who put that under the mat? (a pause) Are any of the ser- vants out at this hour? No, they're not. I saw them go to bed ages ago. Phtix. I put it there, mother. It's all right — oh, don't look amazed. The Imp asked me to — he's likely to be a little late and he's mislaid his own. Mrs. E. (puzzled) But he's gone to his aunt's at Phyil. (with a little laugh) Oh, no, he hasn't. Mrs. E. But Phyll. Mother dear, don't be old-fashioned. The Imp isn't a child — he can go to a Music-hall if he likes. Another dirty old damp cigar, (looking at cigar) It's Dick's — he chews his ends. Mrs. B. But — Oh, Dick thinks he's gone to his aunt's, and it seems almost like deceiving him. Phyll. If the Imp deceives Dick — Dick's only got himself to blame. I think Dick makes himself very ridiculous about the Imp. I don't deceive Dick. I merely push a silly little latch-key under a very dirty mat, that's all. Mother dear, if anybody saw you glar- ing at me like that, they'd be bound to think I was a monstrosity out of a show. Smooth your face out, and come to bed, there's a dear. Mrs. E. Phyllis, I really don't believe I shall ever be able to understand you. , Phyll. That's because of the difference in our ages — you're so very young, and I'm so very old. Mrs. E. (feebly) Why are you? Phyll. (with a laugh) Because, if I'm going to be married to the Imp, I shall need to know a great deal. Mrs. B. It's very upsetting. Phyll. What is? Mrs. E. Oh, everything. I'm sometimes tempted to think — you won't marry him at all. Phyll. I will. I said I would, and everybody was pleased, and so I suppose I was — fearfully — pleased. After all, nothing matters as long as other people are pleased, does it? Mrs. E. It's very nice to please others, If it doesn't ■worry one. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 7 Phyll. Well, now could it worry one to bs married to such an ideal husband as the Imp? Mrs. E. I suppose not. Phyll. (suddenly) Come along, mother dear, they're coming. We don't want to be convicted of keeping them tidy. {She puts her arm round her mother and hurries her oft. The door is flung open, and amid a general hah- hie, Waddles and the Soldiee-Man stalk in arm,-in-arm. The Soldier-Man is smoking a large cigar and Wad- dles is carrying a drink. Waddles, otherwise known as Sib Horace Plumely, is a little, round, cherubic man of about 45. The Soldier-Man, otherwise known as Colonel Miles Grahame, is very tall — very mili- tary, bronzed and ' handsome, a suspicion of grey in his hair.) Waddles, {with a sigh of content) Oh, good gra- cious me — we're having a splendid evening. S. Man. It's a very impressive sight to watch you over a dish of plover's eggs, Waddles. Waddles. Can't resist 'em — never could — there's something in their shape that appeals to me. {The Doctor, o well set up, genial Irishman of about five and forty, enters with a small spirit-lamp in his hand — lighting his cigar and speaking through the puffs.) Doctor. Will ye believe it, boys — wid all my flow of eloquence, I can't persuade Master Dick that it's his duty to marry the old lady. What's to be done about it at all — at all? (Dick enters laden with cigars and cigarette boxes.) Dick. Lazy demons. Leave me to carry everything, as usual. Waddles. You're the host — I'm the guest of honour — it's your duty, all of you, to wait on me. Soldier-Man, fetch ipe more plover's egggs. S. Man. Daren't; you'd burst, and I'd be called to the inquest. Dick. Oh, dear, oh, dear, I haven't laughed as much for years as I have this evening. Doctor. If you'd only propose to the old lady Dick. Shut up, or I'll — {throws cushion at him) 8 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. S. Man. (gravely) Really, ye know, this fire's a damn nuisance. Doctor. It is that. Couldn't ye put it out somehow, Dick? Dick, (ruefully staring at it) It was such a devil of a job to put it in. Waddles, (fanning himself) I must own, I really have felt it a little oppressive once or twice. Dick, (hopefully) I vote we don't notice it; it'll be all right then. S. Man. Theoretically it may be all right — but prac- tically — phew! Dick. Let's take our coats off. (then with a chuckle to the Soldiee-Man) Do you remember the night we took our coats off in Princes' Street, Edinburgh? S. Man. Rather. By Gad, what a pasting you gave the brute, Dickie! Doctor, (with a note of solemn admiration in his voice) Ah — it's a beautiful fighter ye were in those days, Masther Dick. (Dick chuckles.) Waddles, (sparring at the Doctor) I was a bit use- ful if I was pushed, wasn't I, Miles? Doctor. Ye were so — but, thank the Lord — ye weren't often pushed. Waddles. D'ye remember the day that by my su- perior agility and address I compelled you to apologise on one knee for winking at my best girl behind my back? Doctor. I have never yet managed to remember what never happened. Dick. Come, boys. The cards are getting cold. Waddles, (rising quickly and going to table) That's right! What I say is — is this a card-party, or is it isn't? Doctor. Come along, then. Waddles. My luck must turn. I've lost pounds and pounds. S. Man. You don't look it. Waddles. Dick. Leave my little friend's figure alone — who in- sults him, insults me — Hello! (then turning with a chuckle to Waddles) D'ye remember that night in the Rue Mont Pamane, we upset the claret over one pack of cards — and then sent down to the room undei^ neath WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 9 V/ ADDLES, (chuckling) I know, the room with the red blinds. S. Man. Ha! Always drawn. Dick. Yes — and — d'ye remember the message that came back — and then we went down ourselves — we three. Waddles. Me first. Dick. Yes, and I was next, and slipped over those Infernal tins. S. Man. Gads, yes, I remember. Dick. And how all the giggling stopped dead when we opened the door. S. Man. By George, yes! (And all the men sit back, their faces 'beaming with the memories of that night so long ago. There is a pause. ) Waddles, (breaks it by murmuring with his eyes half closed and a beaming smile on his plump little face) One of 'em — the fair one — had her hair all down. I re- member. (Another pause.) S. Man. (gravely) Ah! Soft hair it was too, very soft and long — very — very long. Waddles, (sitting up quickly) Yes, I remember now — you did me out of a nice thing that night with your lanky legs and your bony shoulders. I'm not sure it's diplomacy for a man of my build to be seen about by ladies with a man of yours. S. Man. You wern't your present magnificent propor- tions then. Waddles — you were a slim little freckled, im- pudent — scaramouch. Waddles. I was — I was — oh, I know I was. (and he beams again with renewed delight) Dick. Oh, those days — those nights. What times we used to have. Waddles. And will again. DOCTOB. Dick. S. Man. (together) Rather — one of these fine days. Waddles, (after a pause) I don't think I was ever very, was I ? Dick. Well, I don't know about very freckled, was he, Miles? 10 "WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Doctor. Well, he was freckled, anyhow. Waddles. I don't care If I was. (he looks cfieer- ■fully at the circle round the table — the Soldieb-Man has legun to deal) Oh dear, oh dear. We're all just as young as we were then. {There is a pause, the three men look up with a wry face.) Dick. Just as young. S. Man. Doctor. (together) Ahem — just. Waddles, {patting his own bald spot apprehensively) Well!! almost — anyhow. I fear I'm beginning to lose a little control over my figure, but in some respects I'm sure we're younger, aren't we, Dickie? Dick. Much younger. Misdeal again. Miles. Doctor. That's the third time. It's the lobster's flown to your head, my poor boy. S. Man. (smiling) Ah, the young 'uns of to-day don't know how to enjoy life as we knew how to enjoy it. They're all so damned calculatory. Dick. No such word. 5S. Man. You know what I mean. We, Dickie, you and I, never stopped in the old days to turn things over In our minds and grow grey over counting the chances of what would or wouldn't happen. We went slap at everything, like the healthy young devils we were. Waddles. Are. All. Are, of course. S. Man. And if we got our ears boxed — damme — it did us good — and — er — if we didn't get our ears boxed — well Dick, (cheerfully, speaking for him) Damme, that did us good, too. General Chorus, (cheerfully) So it did, of course it did. Doctor. Ah, we are a merry Trinity. Waddles, (quickly) Quadrlty! Don't forget me, If you please. S. Man. Ah, Waddy, you're not an original member — you grew on to it later. Dick. You did — you plump little parasite. Doctor. It was three years later you threw in your- self on us, Waddy dear. Waddles, (gloomy) I know it was. But oh, after all these years don't you think it would be more gen- WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. H tlemanly of you three to forget your blessed Trinity, and start friends level? S. Man. Damme! I've mis-dealt again. DocTOB. It must be the lobster — it couldn't be the wine. Dick. Here, I'll have a go this time. S. Man. (.leaning 6ocfc in his chair and stretching his long legs) Remember that night in Boulogne when we Dick, (gravel) Ought we to discuss that before Waddles — he's very young. Doctor. And very immature. Waddles. It is my birthday. I won't keep on being got at, and my glass has been empty for ages. Dick, (rising quickly) My dear Waddy, I'm aw- fully sorry. I left the drinks in the dining room. You deal on where I left oft — oh — where did I leave off — never mind, go on where I did. I don't know, a card or two more or less won't make much difference at this time of night. DocTOE. (counting the cards) Count your cards, boys. (They do so. Then the Doctor folds his hands across his middle and lets his roving eyes rest on a photo- graph of Phyllis that hangs on the wall.) (placidly) It's a wonderful invention, this photography — sure that's a speaking likeness of the child. (The other two, atsorled in counting, merely grunt.) She's a beautiful gyurl! S. Man. She is. Waddles. Beautiful indeed. Doctor. Why did none of us have the chance of meeting such an angel when we were the Imp's age? S. Man. Because we'd all have got married, and then none of us would have been here to-night. Waddles, (having counted) Seven. S. Man. And seven here. The Imp's a lucky little chap. Waddles. He is so — no, it's eight I have. Doctor. Be — devil the cyards. I can't count for thinking. Waddles. It's my belief the Imp will have to let off a lot of steam before he's fit to run in double har- ness. 12 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. (TJie two others give grunts of mutual acquiescence. Then there is a pause, Iroken hy — ) All. I wish — (they stop and each looks at the other) DocTOB. What? (Waddles and the Soldiee-Man pick up their cards a little sheepishly.) S. Man. Nothing. Doctor, {looking at them both, quizzically) It's the same case wid all of us, I'm thinking. Waddles. What's that? S. Man. I fail to follow. Doctor, (gravely) Why, all of us u'd gladly lay down in the mud, and let Miss Phylley dance herself thro' life on our bedabbled corpses. Waddles, (loftily) Not at all — not at all. S. Man. Not I. DocTOK. {shaking his head) Ye're fooling your- selves, the facts is as I say. Howld yer whist. Here he comes and the whiskey wine. (Dick enters with a bottle from Tantalus.) Dick. It's nearly empty. Doctor. Nearly empty, it is that an' more. Never mind — when it's finished, we can all go and forage in the barrel. Here are your cards, my son. Dick, {sitting down and picking up his cards) Miles, how the dickens do you keep so tidy? You don't even get tobacco ash on your trousers {and he brushes himself vigorously with his hands) S. Man. It's constitutional. Doctor, {looking at his cards) I propose. Waddles, {looking at his hand) I pass. Dick. Half a minute. I haven't looked at my hand. I wish to goodness the Imp were here. I find his ad- vice at cards most invaluable. Doctor. His father was a good card player. Dick. Card playing's a gift, {then looking round at the other players) What's happened? S. Man. Proposal over there. Dick, (as he laboriously arranges and examines his cards) Jolly tactful of him to go out to-night, so that we four should be all to ourselves, wasn't it? Waddles. Very — we're waiting for you — what do you do? WHEN WE WERE TWENTY ONE. 13 Dick. Oh, is it me to shout? Oh, I pass — no, I don't — I'll accept you. Doctor. Waddles. Come on, we'll down 'em. My lead. Dick. Hallo, I've only got twelve cards, (fte counts tJiem out) S. Man. It's an imperfect pack — it must be. Dick. Try another, and deal again. S. Man. I'm a bit sick of dealing, somebody else have a go. Doctor, {cheerfully) I'll do it. {and he deals while the others watch him) S. Man. I say, old man — I hear you didn't take that fishing after all. Dick. No. S. Man. Why the dickens didn't you — it's quite the best. Dick. I daresay, but I came to the conclusion that I couldn't afford it. S. Man. Rubbish! Dick. It's fact. S. Man. Then I expect you let the Imp run away with all the spare cash, eh. Master Dick? (Dick smiles.) Dick. He runs away with a good deal, bless him. DocTOE. It's a mistake. Dick. What is? Waddles. You spoil him. DicfK. I don't. DocTOE. (interposing quickly) Ah, now do let's drop the Imp, and get on with our game. We're the Imps to- night, not 21, any man Jack of us. (The others pay no attention to him, and the Soldier- Man goes on gravely.) S. Man. I think, Dick, if you'll allow me to say so, you're wrong in letting him run away with the idea that his income is unlimited. Dick. He's welcome to all I've got — and he knows it. Waddles. And doesn't scruple to make use of his knowledge, I'm thinking. S. Man. That's all very well, old man — but I dont think you've got more than enough for yourself. Dick. Oh, I want very little. Waddles. Why have you given up your cob, Dickie? Dick. (Shoving his fingers through his hair) Oh, I I dunno. 14, WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. S. Man. You didn't shoot last year. How was that? Dick. Er — I dunno. Waddles. I do; you think the money is more profita- ble squandered on the boy. Dick. Well, p'raps I do. S. Man. Rot. Doctor. Not at all. Waddles. You spoil him. S. Man. Does he know that you're giving up all the fun you used to get out of life, that he may enjoy him- self more than's good for him? Dick. He doesn't, because I'm not. Doctor. You let him have every mortal thing he wants. Dick. I don't. Waddles. If he cried for the moon you'd make an effort to get it for him. Dick. So would all of you. Waddles. It can't be a good training. Doctor. No, indeed it can't. Dick. Look here, it's all very well to round on me, but — but, under the circumstances, I don't think I've turned the boy out badly. (Waddles sUalces his head and groans.) I think he's a splendid fellow, if you ask me. S. Man. So do I — that's not quite the point. Dick. Of course, I may have gone wrong in one or two little things Doctor. Ye've gone wrong on more than one or two little things to my certain knowledge. Dick. Still I've done my best to turn him out all right. Suppose you three chaps have a go at him now. Every little helps, and I'm jolly sure that out of our united experiences we ought to be able to teach him a thing or two. Waddles. Cbeamingly) I'm sure any one of us could instruct him how to have a high old time. Dick, (shortly) That's not what I mean. Doctor. Shut up, Waddles, you're a rake. (Waddles chortles with conscious pride.) S. Man. Now we are on this subject, I should like to know how he does really stand — financially, I mean. Dick, (a little embarrassed) Oh, he's all right that way. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 15 Doctor. Let's see, how auld was he when he became our property? Dick. Two. S. Man. And from then till now / Waddles. Nineteen years. S. Man. He has been your old man of the sea — that is to say — he has lived with you? (Dick nods.) Doctor. And we've each contributed a paltry £25 per annum for the little beggar's maintenance. Waddles. And what with tutors for this and tutors for that and sending him to Harrow and buying him books and cricket bats, I don't think that there can be much margin on that hundred a year. S. Man. Dickie, as co-guardians with you of that boy — we demand to know — what is his financial position? Dick. Well, as a matter fact, he's all right. That — er — £100 a year that we've arranged to let him have — I — er — well, as a matter of fact, I've made that a sort of a sinking fund for him — I — I've never touched that. It's been left to accumulate and — er — well, it's about £3000 novr. Waddles, (hangs the taMe) I thought as much. Doctor. So did I. S. Man. Then you have paid for his entire bringing up — ever since he's belonged to us? Dick. It's been all right. I didn't want the money for myself, and I thought our allowances would be very handy for him in a lump sum when he came of age. S. Man. You've done more than was necessary. Waddles. Much more than he had any right to ex- pect. Dick, (rising quietly) I don't think so, any one of you in my place would have done just the same. (He rises and, goes to his desk.) He is Charlie's boy — (a silence falls on the men) you remember when old Charlie came and told the four of us he meant to be married. Waddles. And what a silly ass sort of thing we thought it was then. Doctor, (shaking his head sadly) Oh, dear old Charlie — one of the best. Dick, (sadly) One of the best. 16 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. (Another pause — the men's minds drift hack into the past.) That wedding day. Waddles. One of my boots was too tight. S. Man. I was best man. Waddles. Only because ye looked most showy walk- ing up the aisle. Dick. Then two years afterwards the coming of the Imp, and the passing away of Mrs. Charlie. Poor old chap, how lonely and desolate it seemed to leave him. Do you remember how we used to watch him from our windows walking up and down that field behind the stables day in, day out, with the Imp huddled up in his arms? Doctor. He was hard hit— poor old son. Waddles. He was that. S. Man. Broke him up. Dick. He'd have got out of it, had it not been for his dread of leaving the Imp alone. Do you remember this — (Tie goes to the desk and takes out a worn letter and reads) " Im going, old man — and somehow I don't much care. I've never given much thought to the other side — but anyhow she's there. Dick, I want to speak of my boy. I'm leaving him. I'm helpless. I'm leaving him alone, there is only you, you and the Trinity, boys look after my boy when I'm gone. Make a man of him, make him what you know he ought to be. Make the Trinity proud of him, for their old Charlie's sake, let him step into my place with you all, let him be one of us. I'm leaving him so terribly alone. Oh, for God's sake, Dick, be Father — Mother — be all to him." (Dick stops and refolds the letter) And — and — I've done it, boys. I've been father and mother and — and, oh, I've been a damn fool, I daresay — but I've done my best. (then with a sudden outburst) Hang it all, so have you, you've all made fools of yourselves about him at one time or another. You — (Tie points a scornful finger at the Soldiee-Man) You've swaggered down Piccadilly with him sittting on your shoulders rubbing your top hat the wrong way. I was with you and saw even the cabmen laughing, (then he turns fiercely on Waddles) You — you were caught in a four-wheeler in Pall Mall with a rocking horse on top, a most invidious position for an unmarried man. (they all laugh) You laugh at me. Very well — laugh away. I'm a hen with one chicken, I daresay, and a hen with one chicken I'll be to the end of the chapter, but I mean that chicken to be a WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 17 bally swaa before I go and tell Charlie how we've reared his boy. {And very excited he goes across to the bureau and re- places the letter, shutting the drawer with a snap.) DocTOK. Well, well, well — he's a fine ould youngster — but all this has given me the doldrums, Dickie, me son — excursh into the larder, and trot out another jug of whiskey wine. Dick. I — I — I'm awfully sorry. I didn't mean to get so serious. Waddles. Let's get on with our game; there won't be time for me to get that £7 back if we don't. Dick. Come along, Waddy, — you shall have it, if I have to revoke to give it you — wait till I get the whiskey, where the devil are the matches. Waddles. Hurry up. S. Man. You chaps drink too much. Waddles, how is it you can not keep your waistcoat buttoned? Waddles. Oh, do leave my wardrobe alone. (Dick retires to the pantry, laughing.) S. Man. There never was a man so completely de- voted to any one as Dick is to that boy. Waddles. Talk of love of women. Doctor. If anything happened to him he's — what's that? (A pause, they all listen.) S. Man. Some one at the front door. (Another pause. The door is heard to open and close softly, then another pause, then the room door opens softly and the Imp peers in — he is surprised at the sight of the Trinity, iut smiles at them a little va- santly. ) Imp. Hullo! {The Trinity glare at him in dismay.) S. Man. Good God! Waddles. Imp, where have you been? Imp. (with a chuckle) Sh — 1. Spen'in' the evenin' with my fiancee. 2 18 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Doctor, (with a shout) What! S. Man. You young idiot, where in thunder have you been? Imp. Sh^l — it's a secret — doncher tell Dick. Waddles. Phyllis. Imp. Sir Horace, I dinnot refer to Phyllis. Phyllis' sweet girl — but she's not my fiancee. Don't you tell Dick I sezzo, I'm keepin' my fiancee back for a bit. I'll s'prize you all with her some day. Now if I could get to bed. They made me drink heaps of things all mixed up together to see if I was a man now that's over. I shewed 'em I was a man — and so — now — now do you think you could put me to bed, Sir 'Orace? (Dick heard off.) S. MAti. Here's Dick — keep him out. I'll get the young beggar to bed. Waddles. Oh, Dick must never know. Doctor. Quick! Man — quick! He must know he's come home. S. Man. Yes, but not how he's come home. Imp. Oh, I'm so awfully unwell — don' mention this lil' matter to Dick. Doctor. He's coming. S. Man. Lock the door. (He grabs the iewildered Imp and rushes off with him, while Waddles goes to intercept Dick. He shuts the door and hunts for the key.) Waddles. There's no key. S. Man. Keep him out for a minute anyhow. (He and Doctor exit with Imp.) Dick, (pushing against door) Hullo, what's against the door? (o pause) Open, one of you chaps — my hands are full. Waddles. Ye can't come in. DiCH. What do ye mean? ■Waddles. I won't let ye in till ye swear that for a whole year ye won't make a single rude remark about the gradual disappearance of the hair on the top of my head. Dick. All right. I swear. Waddles, (looking round in agony for the others) Holy powers, I wonder will they be long. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 19 Dick. Take your fat little carcas out of the way, Waddles. Waddles. What's that? Fat little carcas— I think you said. Dick. Pat little carcas— fat head! Open the door. Waddles. Withdraw your " fat little carcas " and I will move. Apologise — apologise! Dick. Oh, I apologise. Miles, take the little beggar away. (4. crash of glass from outside the door.) Oh, damn! Waddles. What's that? Dick. You blithering idiot, you've made me drop the whiskey. Waddles. Oh, and here's a blessed stream trickling under the door. Dick. Lap it up — I'm soaked to the skin. Waddles. Oh, think of the waste of ^whiskey. Go, get some more, there's a pet lamb. (Dick retires, grumbling, as the Doctok and Soldier- Man re-enter.) Waddles, (excitedly) I kept him out — is he- DocTOR. Yes, he's in bed — Phew — what the dickens are we to do now at all — at all. S. Man. Dick mustn't see him till the morning. Waddles. Don't let him know he's home — he doesn't expect him to-night — so, it'll be all right. Doctor. What the devil did he mean about his " fiancee." Waddles. Who can she be? S. Man. a bar-maid for a sovereign. Waddles. What'U Dick say? S. Man. Nothing — if he's wise. Eh! Here he comes. (Dick enters with the whiskey in a jug and the broken Tantalus bottle.) Dick. Here I am — look at me — thanks to you luna- tics, I'm smelling like a preambulating public house. Doctor. Good gracious — what's up wid you? Dick. What do you mean by letting him play such tricks? You're old enough to know better — so you are. Miles — just look at the state of my trousers. Doctor. Well — well. Maybe it's a blessing in dis- 20 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY -ONE. guise. What wid whiskey inside and out, the prospects of the evening are improving. Waddles. It serves you right; how dare you be serious on my forty-seventh birthday? S. Man. Forty-seventh nonsense! Twenty -first — time enough to be forty-seven to-morrow morning. Here's fortune to us boys! Dickie, what's that thing of old Thackeray's you used to spout under the influence of liquor? Waddles, (clapping his hands) " In the brave days when I was twenty-one." S. Man. That's it. Doctor. Sure, I've not heard it for years. Dick. Here's your drink. Waddles! Good gad, I feel as if I was at school again. How did the old thing go? {And he recites the poem, the three fellows waving their glasses and chiming in cheerily with the re- frain. ) With pensive eyes the little room I view Where in my youth I weathered it so long With a wild mistress, a staunch friend or two, And a light heart, still bursting into song. Making a mock of Life and all its cares Rich in the glory of my rising sun. Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs, In the brave days when I was twenty-one. To dream long dreams of beauty, love, and power, From founts of hope that never will out-run, To drain all life's quintessence in an hour, Give me the days when I was twenty-one. (And as he finishes he lifts his glass.) A toast, boys, a toast — all standing! (They all rise.) Good luck and long life to the Trinity. Waddles, (fiercely) Quadrity! Ojines. (raising glasses) Quadrity! (They drink; as they are doing so, the door softly opens and Phyllis looks in, smiling.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY -ONE. 21 Phtll. (softly) Good-night! (All the men wheel round towards her and echo.) Omnes. Good-night! (There is a slight pause, no one moves and she kisses her hand; they all gravely kiss theirs to her, and she softly closes the door and disappears — there is an- other pause, and a half sigh escapes from all the men as they stand looking at the door.) Dick, (tenderly) Bless her. (then, with a change of tone) Come along. I'm sure it's my turn to deal. (They all go iack to the card tahle and sit down as the) CURTAIN FALLS. 22 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. ACT II. The same scene. Next morning. (Dick and Phyllis and Mrs. Ep.icson and Waddles just finishing ireakfact.) Dick, {passing his cup to Phyllis) You're a terri- ble chap for late hours, Waddles. SlE H. Only on my birthday. Dick. What's the matter with the Imp, he's not down yet? Phyll. This is your third cup, Dick. Dick. I always require four after a night with Wad- dles—don't I, Waddles? (Sir H., half buried in his tea-cup, mumiles an indis- tinct reply.) Mbs. E. I hope that little bed didn't inconvenience you, Sir Horace. Sib H. Oh, not a bit. I only rolled out once. Mbs. E. Oh, Sir Horace, I'm so grieved. Dick. Not at all — his tendency to roll Is not due to the size of the bed, is it Waddles? (The Imp enters, a little heavy-eyed, tut with an affecta- tion of cheerfulness.) Imp. Morning — morning, every one. DiCH. Hullo, boy. Othebs. Good morning, Imp. Imp. I'm jolly late — so sorry. I was shaving. Sir H. {gravely enquiring) I beg pardon? Imp. {turning to him) Shaving — Sir Horace! Sir H. {as if much impressed) Oh — I see — shaving — yes, of course, very wise — very wise. Mbs. E. {giving him a plate) I'm afraid the bacon is quite cold, dear. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 23 Imp. (.with a slight shudder) Bacon — I really don't think I can this morning. (Waddles chuckles.) Is there any toast left? (Phyixis rings the iell.) Thanks, old girl. Dick. You weren't at a birthday, Impy — you ought to be able to take your food. Sib H. I have often found that an evening spent in peaceful, homely talk produces a disinclination for rich food in the morning. I observe my theory proved in your case this morning, Master Richard. Imp. (with a nervous laugh) Do you? Could I have some more hot water? (Phyllis runs and rings.) Thanks, old girl. (Maid enters.) Some more toast and hot water, Dodd. Dick. You bolted off to bed very mysteriously last night. Sib H. Richard did as his elders bid him, like a good boy — didn't you, Richard? Imp. Yes. Sib H. Richard was most desirous to say good-night to you, Dick — but, on our promising that you would tuck him up when he was safely in bed — he consented to retire without your good-night kiss. Dick. Shut up. Waddles. Phyllis, it's Friday — if you let me have your accounts and my cheque book, I'll write one out. I shan't be a minute, Waddles, old man; you're not going till the three-thirty, are you? SiE H. (who has never taken his eyes off the Imp, much to the Imp's discomfort) No! Richard, don't you think a Bromo Seltzer would do you good? Dick. Eh? SiB H. He doesn't feel well — do you, Richard? Imp. (quickly, darting a furious glance at Sie H.) Quite well, thank you. Sir H. Dick, I think he's sickening for something. Won't somebody look at his tongue? 24 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY -ONE. Dick, (cheerily) Anything wrong, Imp? Imp. (.laughing) Of course not, Dick. It's Sir Horace's joke, that's all. Wish they'd bring that toast. Phyll. They had to make it, you know — you're so late, I expect the fire was just made up. Dick, (at door) Here's his toast. No, it's his hot water. I shan't be a moment, old man. (Dick goes out as the Maid enters with water jug. Mrs. Ericson goes to small work tatle. Sib H. ap- pears aisorhed in the morning paper.) Sib H. (to himself) Sh! Dear — dear — dear! Mrs. E. What's that? Sir H. Sad — sad case! Poor young fellow! Phyll. (lightly) What happened? Sir H. Oh, sad case. This young fellow, it appears — nice young fellow— sweet nature and all that — plenty of loving friends — happy home and all that. But weak — very weak — falls into bad hands — sits up late — drinks heaps of things all mixed up to prove that he was a man — what's the result? Proves he's only a young fool — and next morning at breakfast he's seized with a violent (The Imp chokes into his tea-cup — and Phyllis and Sib H. rise hurriedly to avoid damage.) Sir H. (leaving the paper at him) Damme, Sir — pull yourself together or you'll choke. Phyll. Well, Imp, as you don't seem to be eating any breakfast, I'll go and get the accounts for Dick. Imp. (through his choke) Cut along. Mrs. E. Did you change your vest, this morning? Sir H. (looking up, then turning fiercely to the Imp) Do you hear, sir— did you change your vest this morning? Ijip. Hang it all — yes, I suppose so. Mrs. E. (almost to herself) I'd better see those new ones must be marked — (she gathers up her work and hurries out) (Pause. Sir H. glares at the Imp a moment, then re- turtis with a grunt to his paper. The Imp rises and lights a cigarette.) Sir H. (not looking up) That's mere bravado — you can't enjoy your cigarette this morning. Imp. (after a pause, chucks it into the grate) I can't. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 26 (Sir H. grunts.) Imp. (with his hack to Sir H. and his foot on the fender, stares into the empty grate) I say (Sir H., not moving, grunts again.) It — it — -was jolly good of you chaps not to tell Dick. Sir H. (shortly) Don't call me a chap, boy. Imp. I beg your pardon. Sir H. And Colonel Grahame would be exceedingly annoyed if he heard himself described so familiarly by a boy of your ^ge. Imp. He's too good a sort to mind. Sir H. He's no such thing. Imp. You needn't run him down — you know he's a friend of Dick's. Sir H. Run him down! God bless my soul. How dare you! Imp. He's a good sort, whatever you may say. Sib H. Whatever I — good gracious — are you aware that you're a young scamp? Imp. I am not (He lights another cigarette.) Sib H. You'll be sick, sir — throw it away. The Colonel has often expressed to me the deep regret with which he has noticed the growing disrespect that the young men of to-day have for their elders. Imp. (quietly) I don't think any one would have occasion to say that if all our elders were like you four chaps. (A pause.) Sir H. (completely mollified) Give me one of your cigarettes. (The Imp hands him his case.) Now, then, what's all this about this woman? Imp. (innocently) What woman? Sir H. (with scorn) Your disreputable fiancee. Imp. (with an affectation of surprise) Phyllis? Sir H. (jumping out of his chair) How dare you, sir? Imp. Isn't Phyllis my fiancee? 26 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Sib H. She Is, sir. Imp. Then, what do you mean by calling her disrep- utable? I don't think it's right to speak of your friends behind their backs in the way you do. Sir H. I do not. Imp. You said the Colonel wasn't a good sort. Sir H. No such thing. Imp. And now you tell me Pljyllis Is disreputable. Sir H. How dare you? Imp. I shall have to ask you to prove your state- ment. Sir H. I meant the woman you're keeping back — the one you're going to surprise us with. Tell me all about her. Imp. (gravely) Reallj', Sir Horace — gentlemen do not discuss their little affaires de coeur with each other - after breakfast — not good form. Sir H. Good form be damned — how dare you? Imp. Dick has always begged me to endeavour to dis- courage bad language among my friends — would you mind trying to check your tendency? You'll find it will get quite a hold on you, if you don't watch yourself. Even I have had to be careful. Sib H. You're an impertinent young jackanapes. Imp. (slowly) No, I'm not — (there is a long pause) I'm awfully miserable, that's all. Sir H. (insinuatingly) Poor old Imp — (he goes to the lioy and puts his hand on his shoulder) What's her name? Imp. Nothing of the sort. Sir H. Don't you think you'd better tell Dick all about it? Imp. Not yet. Sib H. (very quietly) Are you behaving quite hon- orably towards Phyllis? (A pause.) You had too much liquor last night, you've got a head on you. Come along, sir — we'll walk 'briskly down to my club, have a Brandy and Soda, and chat the whole thing over like men. Imp. (languidly) I don't mind the Brandy and Soda — but, you'll have to tackle the talk. Sir H. (handing him clothes brush) We'll see about that. Kindly brush me. (The Imp does as he is told.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 27 And don't you ever allow yourself to fall Into Dick's never sufficiently to be regretted notion that a peck or two of dust on a man's frock coat is a matter of minor importance. I was very fond of a dear dirty fellow of that sort once — but he came to no good — the dust was too heavy on him, it weighed him down. P'raps the way he whiskeyed and watered it made it a little heavier. Ready? Imp. Yes. Sir. H. Trot along, then, there's a good boy — ^we'll be back before lunch anyhow. (Tfte two of them turn to go out; Sib H. takes the Imp's arm affectionately. As they do so, Dick and Phyllis enter. ) Dick. Sorry I was so long, but the Chancellor of the Exchequer was very complicated this morning. Phyllis. I wasn't a bit — it's only one or two places in the adding up that I got wrong. Dick. How the Imp and I ever paid for a single meal before you and your mother came and took us in hand, beats me. Going out, Waddles? Sir H. Richard and I were going for a short consti- tutional to the club. I want to see if there are any let- ters; we shan't be more than twenty minutes at the outside. Dick. The Doctor and the Soldier-Man are to be round here about 12:30. Sib H. I know — come, Richard. (Exit as before.) Dick, (sitting down, resignedly) Well, I'm ready to hear the rest now. Phyll. It's no good making a joke of it — you know It's true. Dick. Well, say it is. I'm living beyond my means. Phyll. No, you're not — we're living beyond your mea ns — look at the money you squander on me — look at the money you squander on mother — look at the money you squander on the Imp — look at his clothes, look at my clothes — then look at your own old things, it's per- fectly disgraceful — and then. Colonel Grahame tells me you used to have a little shooting in Scotland, and since you've supported us you've had to give it up — so with your horse and everything else — it's all for other people — never anything for yourself. 28 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Dick. That's where you're all wrong — it's all for myself. I'm very fond of your mother. I love the Imp — and — I (o pause; he looks up and meets her eye) have the greatest respect for you — so, when I see those that I'm fond of, those I love, and those I respect, all happy and contented, I puff myself up with righteous pride and wouldn't change places with the Emperor of Germany. Phtil. Dick why do you respect me? Dick, (liluntly) I don't know. Phyll. It's very unkind of you, I consider. Is it because I owe everything in the world to you? Dick. Good Lord, no! Phyll. Is it because I'm such a good adder up? Dick. P'raps! Phyll. Or is it because the Imp has graciously con- sented to make me his wife? Dick. Why do you put it that way? Phyll. Isn't that the proper way tc speak of his omnipotence? I'm the sort of woman who loves to bow down before her husband and beg him to put his heel upon her neck. Dick, (o little puzzled) Are you really? Phyll. And the Imp is to be my husband, and I long for him to show his power and grind me beneath an iron heel of authority. Dick. Oh, I don't think the Imp would ever do a thing like that. He'll be master of his own house and all that, of course, but Phyll. Will he — do you really think he will? Dick. I don't think I've considered the matter. PiiYLL. I have; the Imp and I will chat it over some day; I daresay we shall come to an understanding. I think I must try and do something that'll make you not respect me quite so much. Dick. Eh? Phyll. It's an awful nuisance to be so fearfully re- spected — it makes one feel quite lonely, almost as if one was a marble statue out in the east wind. I should have to put up with being respected if I were a fright like the pictures of Queen Elizabeth — but as I'm only me — it's different. Couldn't you give up respecting me BO fearfully? Just now and then. Dick. I — I don't see that it's possible— but — I'll have a try if you like. Phyll. (delightedly) Will you, really? Oh do^ begin now. Dick. Well— I— er— it isn't a thing one can do all at WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 29 once, is It? You'd have to — sort of — give me a lead, you know. Phyll. Would I — oh, yes, I suppose that is the best way — well, suppose I do this — I put this arm round your shoulder, so — {she is standing behind his chair) and then I lean my cheek against the hack of your head sympathetically, like this — How does that feel? Dick. Feels as if I was going to be electrocuted. Phyll. Oh! Dick. You mustn't ruffle my hair, you know, coz the Soldier-Man's coming to lunch, and — if — everybody's hair isn't smarmy, he loses his appetite. Phyll. Oh, bother the Colonel— let's talk about our- selves. Dick, what is the thing you wish for most in the world? Dick. To see Phyll. Don't say it — {quickly) I know exactly what you're going to say. {and with a choke, she moves quickly from him and goes up to the window) Dick. (o little surprised at her tone) Do you really? Phyll. Yes. Dick. What was I going to say? Phyll. To see me and the Imp happily married, weren't you? Dick. Well, as a matter of fact, I was. Phyll. Oh, I'm so glad — it's the thing I wish for most, too — isn't it lucky that you should make all these plans for us — and we should be so pleased about it? Oh, but doesn't such happiness make one nervous — one begins to dread one's unworthiness and to feel sure that some- thing must happen sooner or later to prevent it coming off. Oh! if anything happened to prevent this — I — think I should die— just fade away from grief — don't you, Dick? Dick. Nothing will happen, dear! Phyll. Are you sure — Oh, say you're quite sure. Dick. I'm quite sure — sure. Phyll. Suppose the Imp were to tire of me? Dick. That's impossible. Phyll. {snuggling up to him) Is it, Dick — why is it? Dick. Because — oh— because you are you, I suppose. Phyll. Don't you think if you were in the Imp's place you might get a little tired of me sometimes, just a little? Dick. No — not a little. 30 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Phyll. Ah — but you haven't ever pictured yourself in the Imp's place. Dick, {softly, as if to himself) Yes, I have often. PHYii. (Rising and looking him full in the eyes) Have you — pictured yourself married to me — oh, Dick! (then tenderly) Was it nice? Dick. (with a laugh) Here — here — here— come along now — Finances! we've chatted enough nonsense for one morning. Phyil. Yes, I think we've done very well — consid- ering. Dick. Let's see — £473 — in the current account wasn't it? Phyix. Yes. Dick, (lightly) Then who dares to say the firm isn't flourishing? (A pause, Phyllis looks out at nothing in particular.) Phyll. How odd it would be, wouldn't it? Dick, (looking up) What? Phyll. What you're always picturing to yourself. Dick, (aghast at the notion) You're a trying young woman to make a casual remark to. I'm always pic- turing myself married to all sorts of very nice people — why I've pictured myself married to your mother be- fore now. • Phyll. So have I — in fact, I've suggested it to mother often. Dick. Thank you, very much. I think I shall get through these papers more quickly in my own room. (He rises — so does she.) Phyll. I'll come with him. Dick, (firmly) You'll do no such thing. Phyxl. But I'd like to. Dick. I don't care — you've pictured your mother as my wife (Enter Mes. Ericson.) So you've pictured me as your other parent, so perhaps you will go a step further and picture yourself doing what your parent tells you for once in a way. Phyll. Yes, papa dear. Mks. E. Papa dear! Dick, (aghast) No, no, dear lady — No — no — not at WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 31 all — merely a silly dream. Please don't consider it seriously— a dream — merely a dream, (he dashes out) (Mks. E. looks after Dick, then back to his door, and says hurriedly.) Mes. E. Phyllis! Phyll. (somewhat startled by her tone) Mother! Mbs. E. Oh my dear, I've done a dreadful thing, I know it was very wrong of me — hut I couldn't help it. Phyll. Gracious — what have, you done? Mrs. E. I found a crumpled letter in the hall — and I picked it up and smoothed it out to see who it belonged to, and, as I was smoothing It out I accidentally read a little and — and — oh it gave me such a shock that I read it all — I — I've read it twice or three times — I don't know which and , oh — I really don't know what to say or think. Phyll. Whose letter v/as it? Mks. E. It was a woman's letter — (a pause) to Dick. Phyll. To Dick? Mes. E. Yes! he — he's making arrangements to be married, and — he doesn't want any of us to know. Phyll. (slowly) Making arrangements to be — How do you know? Mes. B. Oh, there's quite a lot about it in the letter. Phyll. Arrangements to be (A pause.) Mbs. E. It will be terribly inconvenient for us — of course, he won't want us with him then. Phyll. Are you sure? Mrs. E. Oh, perfectly sure. I think Dick might have been more open with us — after all we've done for him. Phyll. What have we done for him, but sponge on him and spend his money? Mrs. E. (helplessly waving the letter) Oh, what am I to do with it — (a pause) I — I think I'll go and drop it behind the coats again. Phyll. No — give it to Dick — if it's his. Mbs. B. My dear, I daren't. Phyll. Give it to me, then — I will. Mrs. B. (a little nervous) I don't think you ought to read it dear — some of it is a little Phyll. (with a bitter smile) Don't be alarmed, I don't intend to read it. Mrs. B. (handing it to her with a parting glance at 32 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. it) They really must be very much in love with each other. (Phyllis takes the letter and fights against her desire to read it — but eventually she gives way, and with a little gasp, she reads it hurriedly — then she turns her horrified gaze and meets her mother's eyes.) Phyll. (completely awed) What sort of woman is she? Mks. B. (feebly) I think she must be a foreigner. I've heard foreign ladies are frequently very fluent. (Phyllis is standing staring into space — her mother is sitting on the sofa, in an attitude of deep dejection — as Dick enters.) Dick. I told you that the Trinity are lunching with us again to {he stops and looks at them both in surprise) (Phyllis, without turning to him or looking at him, holds out the letter towards him.) Phyll. You dropped this. (He takes it in surprise — reads it in silence, then folds it up, puts it in his pocket, and looks steadily at Phyllis.) Dick. Where did you find it? Phyll. Mother found it behind the coats in the hall. Dick. Oh! (a pause) You have read it? Mrs. B. (with a gulp) 1 didn't mean to. Dick. Of course not. Phyll. (haughtily) I read it because I chose to. Dick. Yes — (a pause) — Well! Mrs. E. The — I'm very sorry — but this Is very unex- pected — I'm sure, I wish you every happiness, Mr. Carew, if you're half as good a husband as you have been a friend — your wife will be a lucky woman. (holding out her hand to him) PiiYLL. I hope you'll be very happy, Dick — very — very — happy. You deserve to be, only — you might have trusted me with the secret, mightn't you? Dick. I — I wish I had. Phyxl. Kara Glynesk. It's a pretty name — I seem to have seen it somewhere. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 33 Dick. You may have — it's all over the walls and on most of the 'buses. She performs at the Garden Thea- tre. Mks. B. (horrified) She performs! Dick. You've seen the large, scarlet picture of her on the walls, there's one on the boardings opposite. Phyll. That woman! Oh, Dick! (then she re- covers herself) I do hope that you'll both be very — very happy. Dick. Oh, I expect it'll be all right. I daresay she is not as red as she's painted, you know. Mrs. B. It was a lucky thing the servants didn't find the letter. Dick. Very. Phyll. Does the Imp know? Dick. Nobody knows — but you and your mother. Mrs. B. You may rely on our discretion — at least, I can only answer for my own. We shall be seven for lunch. I had better attend to my household duties be- fore they are transferred to abler hands than mine. Dick. Eh? Mrs. B. The future Mrs. Carewe. Dick. Oh, yes, of course — she will naturally expecet to er (Mrs. E.goes out a little stiffly.) Phyll. (stands staring at the floor, then at last she says, with an effort) It's a terrible thing for a woman to have to acknowledge herself a failure. Dick. What do you mean? Phyll. I don't think you'd understand. (another pause, and then she laughs a little) Fancy my having to say that of you — I couldn't have said that yester- day. Dick. There are a great many things none of us can understand. Phyll. It was the dearest wish of my heart to be your true friend and — and — see how hopeless it has been. Dick. Don't say that — oh, don't say that, you hurt me. Phyll. Haven't you hurt me? Dick. How? I — I didn't mean to. Phyll. Of course, I'm awfully glad you're going to get married. The Imp and I have often felt that the one drawback to our complete happiness was the fact that you'd be left so lonely. Now, of course — it's all 3 34 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. splendid— but what hurts is that you didn't let me share your secret with you — that you didn't trust me. And all these years I've tried so hard to make you trust me — and see how miserably I have failed, (o long pause, then she says, impulsively) Dick — Dick — I didn't mean to be a beast — I hope you'll be awfully happy — I do, in- deed — I do, indeed. (The hall door opens and the Imp and Sir H. reappear. The Imp is seen to disappear hurriedly down the outer passage, while Sik H. comes into the room.) Sir H. God bless my soul — young lady, your future husband is a most erratic young man. I take him out for a short v/alk, and a serious chat, to be washed down with a glass of milk — and we haven't gone a hundred yards — before he gives a gasp and makes a bolt for home, saying he'd forgotten his pocket handkerchief or something equally infantile. I — hallo! Dick, what's gone wrong with you? Dick. Nothing, old man — come to my sanctum — we'll have a quiet smoke. Phyll. (aside to Dick) Do the Trinity know? Dick. Not a word. Sir H. There's something in that prospect that pleases — but surely we're as well off here? Dick. Not a bit of it. Come to my room. (Dick goes out.) Sir H. Lord — he's a masterful creature — that's the way he used to order me about 30 years ago. Phyll. (Utterly) Is it? Sir H. When he was a boy Phyll. Oh, I daresay he was just like other boys as now he is just like other men. Siu H. (puzzled) I'm referring to Dick. Phyll. So am I (Sir H. is ahout to speak, when Dick calls him sharply, and Sir H. hurries out very perplexed and with his face full of concern. Phyllis stands motionless for a moment, then swiftly presses her hands to her tem- ples,, and cries out.) I won't believe it — it isn't true. How could such a thing be true? WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 35 {The Imp enters in a great state of agitation, looking hurriedly about him — she watches his laovements listlessly for a moment.) Lost anything? Imp. (shortly) No. (A pause. Be glances round the room furtively — she watching him; suddenly a thought flashes into her face, and she gasps.) Phyll. Richard — Dick! (.she springs to her feet, pointing at him) You! — you! — Oh, you darling, you darling! (And, to his intense astonishment, she flings her arms round his neck and hugs him — laughing hysteric- ally) Imp. Here — good gracious! Hang it all, Phyllis, don't be an ass. Phtll. (half laughing, half crying) Isn't it like him? Oh, isn't it just like him? Imp. Like who? Phyll. Nobody. Imp — Imp — you're a miserable — hopeless — immoral, horrid young man — but, oh. Imp, you darling — you've made me fearfully happy. Imp. (gloomily) Have I? I — I suppose I have, (a pause) that's the worst of It. Phyll. What's that? Imp. I — er — look -here, Phyllis, it's no good going on like this, is it? I — I can't stand it, you know — it keeps me awake at nights thinking of it — and goodness knows what with everything I want all the sleep I can get just now. Phyll. Beauty sleep? Imp. Look here — I — ^that is — you and I — er — I mean it's no good beating about the bush is it? Phyll. I don't understand — I — Imp, what is it? — something terrible has happened, I see it in your face. Oh — Imp, don't, don't tell me anything has happened. Imp. Well — you see it's this way. (he stops awk- wardly) Phyll. (with an assumption of terrified anticipa- tion) Don't say any more just yet — give me time — you're a man — be — be very gentle with me. Imp — I — I'm only a weak, loving woman. Imp. (with a gulp) Well, you see — when you and I 36 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. — were engaged — we — well — we didn't know as much of the world as we do now — did we? (o pause, she rises and faces Mm.) (nervously) I say, Phyllis, don't look at a fellow like that — it's hard enough for me as it Is. Goodness knows. Phyll. (slowly) What is hard enough for you as It is? Imp. Why, to have to tell a girl that's fond of you (he stops again) Phyll. Don't say it, Mr. Audaine, I understand. (A long pause.) Imp. You — you don't think any the worse of me, do you, Phyllis? Phtll. I — I — somehow, I can't think at all — every- thing seems dark — my brain won't work — it's numb. Imp. (in agony) Oh, I say, don't — there's a dear girl — I — know it must be awful for you — but — but — Oh, what could I do, Phyllis — I couldn't help myself. I fought against it, I did, indeed. Phtll. You — you— love — some one — else? Imp. I — I — couldn't help it, really. Phtll. Tell me — everything. I — I won't faint, I can be very brave. Imp. I will — there isn't very much to tell. Phtll. Who is she? Imp. She's the most beautiful woman in the world. Phtll. Oh, Imp — what does beauty matter? Is she very — very good? Imp. Er — of course, she's good. Phtll. Is she very — very religious — and domesti- cated? Imp. I don't know about very religious or the other thing. But she's got glorious eyes. Oh, if you could only look into her eyes — you'd know how good she was then. Phyll. Yes, I expect I should — Imp, I will not let the world know the — the heartaches I shall have to bear, I will be very brave, you shall take mother and me to call. Imp. Eh? Oh, would you — you see — it — it isn't quite definite just yet. Phtll. Doesn't she love you? Imp. Yes, of course, that part of it's all right, but — you see, marriage is a jolly serious thing — it's for life. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 37 you know. For good and all— and all that. So one can't only think of the love part — there are settlements and things. I shall have to settle all I've got on her, of course. Phtll. Does she insist on that? Imp. She doesn't, of course — but — she's got a friend — a sort o^ business manager, she calls him — rather a cad of a fellow, I think — and — er Phyll. He does. Imp. Yes — yes— He's quite right— and all that, of course — but — I — well, I don't exactly know how much I've got to settle. I expect I'm pretty well off— but— that, of course, up to now has been Dick's affair. Phyll. What will Dick say? Imp. Ah— that's it. Phyll. You haven't told him? Imp. Of course, I haven't — not yet — he couldn't un- derstand. Phyll. Why couldn't he? Imp. Oh, what could a fellow like Dick know about love, and all that! Phtll. Ah — what, indeed? Imp. It's awfully good of you to take it so well, Phyl — it is indeed — not one girl in a hundred would have been such a brick. Phyll. I feel it very deeply, Richard — but I show nothing I — I am very proud; if — if — this blow should happen to change my nature,^I — I— shall do something great — I — I'll go on the stage. My name shall be in every man's mouth, my photograph on every man's man- telpiece, my face in every shop window and my figure in full upon every wall. I've got a tendency that way, I know, because, when a week ago an old man with a long brush and a pail pasted on the boarding opposite this window a poster of a glorious creature — an ideal woman with crimson limbs and flame coloured hair, something seemed to wake up inside me, and as I watched the figure standing boldly out limb by limb against a background of gauzy drapery — I realized how narrow was life's look-out for me. How could I hope to win and keep the love of an honest man — and now it has all come true. Oh, Imp, Imp, if years ago I had cast to the winds all petticoats and prudery, I might have proved worthy of you now. But — but — as it is, I must school myself to think that all is for the best. Imp. Well, of course, it is no good crying over spilt milk, is it, Phyl^and — and — it's awfully odd you should mention her— but— it— that's she 38 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Phyll. {looking up at him as if completely bewil- dered) She — (then in an awed whisper) The one on the wall? (He nods.) Oh, Imp — she loves you? Imp. Yes — it — it somehow takes my breath away when I think of it. Phyll. (after a pause) Oh, Richard, where will you be able to keep such a wonderful thing as that? Imp. I haven't spoken to her about it yet — but I've been looking about for a flat. Phyll. (with a shudder) A fiat! You couldn't — you couldn't — that would be terrible — don't you see? Can't you feel how terrible that would be? Imp. Well — we must make a beginning somewhere — mustn't we? Phyll. It seems such a waste to keep her in one flat. Imp. She — she's a good deal more homely than you'd think she is from that picture you know. Phyll. Ah? (Mrs. Ehicson calls from the other room.) Mes. E. Phyllis, dear — you'll make the hock cup, won't you? Phyll. Yes, mother, I'm coming — (then, in a whis- per) Does she make hock cup, Richard? Imp. I don't know. Phyll. You've drunk so much of mine — but — I don't mean to reproach you. Imp, I don't, indeed — perhaps you wouldn't have if you'd known how everything was going to turn out. Imp. (suddenly) Great Scott! Phyll. What is it? Imp. That letter — I forgot. I must find it. I came home on purpose. Phyll. There was a letter picked up behind the coats in the hall. Imp. Where is it? Phyll. Dick has it. Imp. (loith horror) Dick! Phyll. Does it matter? Imp. Oh, my goodness — suppose he should read it! Phyll. (loftily) People with any sense of honour don't read other people's letters. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 39 Imp. But — but — this was a fearfully private letter. Phyll. Oh, of course, that does make a difference. (Dick enters — a pause.) Dick, {gravely to Imp) Will you come to my study, I want to have a talk with you. Phyll. {guicMy seeing the Imp's dismay) He can't come now. He has something very important to do for me. Dick. But— Phyll. It's very important, Dick. Go at once. Imp. Imp. {looking at her gratefully) I — I must go now, Dick — I — I — won't be long. Dick. Very well, {he goes to the window and looks out listlessly) (Phyllis watches him mischievously.) Phyll. Is it a good likeness, Dick? Dick, {not understanding) What? Phyll. The picture on the wall. (Dick catches her meaning, and with a groan pulls the blind down and leaves the window.) {very gravely) I should have thought that you were the last man in the world to fall in love with that sort of woman. Dick, {shortly) Oh. Phyll. Yes — it only proves to me how right mother always is. Dick. What do you mean? Phyll. You see, mother having been married — knows a great deal about men. Dick. Ah! Phyll. And she isn't a bit surprised. Dick. Isn't she? I'm glad. Phyll. No — she says the quiet, fair men are gener- ally like that. Dick. Like what? Phyll. Oh — you know — easily attracted by — by pic- tures on the wall. Dick. I didn't know your mother was so observant. "Phyll. Because you're going to be married, you needn't be rude to my mother. Dick. I wasn't rude to your mother. 40 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Phyll. I think you were— you mayn't have meant it, Dick — but I think you decidedly were Dick. Oh, don't worry me, dear — I — I'm not in the mood to-day. Phyll. Poor old Dick — have you got a headache? Dick. Yes. Phyll. Then I won't worry — I — I'll be very sympa- thetic. I — I'll let you tell me about yourself — and — and your plans for the future with your wife that is to be. (Dick groans a little.) She — she seems to be very beautiful, Dick. Is she really as beautiful as that? Dick. I suppose so. Phyll. Oh, you must know. " Suppose so " sounds so cold — perhaps you don't like talking about her to me, do you mind talking about her to me, Dick? Dick. No. Phyll. I wonder do you love her as much as I love the Imp? Dick. I daresay. Phyll. Isn't it beautiful, being in love, Dick — doesn't it make one feel good and peaceful — and — and sunshiny. Don't you glow all over with pride and hap- piness every time you see that picture on the wall. Dick. No, I don't, if you really want to know. Phyll. Don't you — how odd. I should love to see a picture of the Imp on the wall — that size. Dick. Would you? Phyll. Yes, and every time I saw a crowd of ladles looking at it I should say to myself^look away ladies, all that belongs to me. Just how you must feel when you see everybody — even the policeman, looking at your future wife's picture. Do you approve of the drap- ery being so — so far away? Dick. No. Phyll. I'm glad you don't, because I don't either. Dick. Will you kindly be quiet? I'm not in the mood for this sort of talk. Phyll. Dick. Dick. Oh, run away, there's a dear — I've lots of things to think about. Phyll. You've lost your temper. Dick. I daresay I have. Phyll. Well, as you've lost your temper and prac- WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 41 tically told me to leave the room — I won't try to be nice to you any more. Dick. That's a good thing. PiiTLL. Is it? And I'll tell the truth to you now. I think it's disgusting your being in love with a woman like that. Dick. I daresay. Phyll. And if it had been any one I'd been really fond of Dick, (rising) If— if it had been the Imp? Phyll. (proudly) That's impossible, the Imp is en- gaged to me, but if it had been the Imp, even the Imp- no matter how much I loved him, I'd never have spoken to him again. Dick. Would it break your heart never to speak to him again? Phyll. That's a curious question for you to ask, con- sidering that our marriage has been almost entirely ar- ranged by you. Dick, (sadly) Yes — yes — I know. Phyll. I think it's rather mean to suggest to me of all people that the Imp could do such a thing. Dick. I didn't. Phyll. I'm in error again, I suppose, or my hearing must be defective. Dick. Oh, do leave me alone. Phyll. You won't be worried with me much longer. After I'm married and you're married, I don't suppose we shall see much of each other, for I don't think either the Imp or I would ever be likely to be very friendly with the red lady on the wall. Dick. Have you done? Phyll. Very nearly. I don't mind telling you that now mother's worst suspicions are confirmed, it's just possible that her principles won't allow us to trespass on your hospitality much longer. Dick. Oh, and how long has your mother had these suspicions of me, may I ask? Phyll. Oh, about three years. Dick. Ever since you've been living here — eating my bread and Phyll. We didn't eat much bread. Dick. It's a pity your mother didn't realize what a bad lot I was a year or two sooner. Phyll. Oh, I think she did— but she often said to me — it wasn't wise to throw out dirty water before we'd got in clean, (a pause — she says softly, thinking she 42 WHEN "WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. has gone too far) Dick, that Isa't true. She never said that. Dick, {wearily) No, I don't suppose she did. {He is sitting listlessly, very tired, very dejected, look- ing at the pattern on the carpet. Phyllis goes to the door— turns and stands looking lovingly at him for a moment, then, with a little happy silent laugh, she creeps quietly to the l)ack of his chair, throws her arms round his neck and kissing him gently, runs from the room. Dick looks up, startled — half rises, then sinks back again.) Now, what made her do a silly thing like that? {he runs his fingers hopelessly through his hair) (Sib H. comes in from the study.) Sir H. Isn't he about? Dick. He's just gone out to get something for Phyl. Sir H. It's a bit of a facer, isn't it? Dick. On my soul, I don't quite know where to be- gin. Sir H. I don't expect it's anything very serious — boys will be boys. Dick. He is engaged to be married to the sweetest girl in England. Sir H. Oh, I don't defend it. Dick, {going to the window and pulling up the Hind — then again rememliering the poster) Damn the poster. {The hell rings.) There he is. {The Maid goes to the hall door and opens it.) Doctor, {heard off) Any one at home? Dick. It's Terry and the Soldier-Man. {He goes out into the hall.) Morning, you fellows — You're just in time. S. Man. Morning, Dick — where's Waddles? Dick. He's here — we — we're all here, you're just in time for a council of war. {lie comes down) Doctor, {to the S. Man) Corporal — it's all cut. When we were twenty-one. 43 S. Man. Council of war— good— what's the trouble, Dick? ' Dick. Sit down! {They sit down.) Read this. S. Man. (glancing at letter) To you? Dick. No, to the Imp. (He hands the letter to the Doctok, who reads it in silence — and gives a low whistle.) Doctor. Shall I Dick, (grimly) Pass it on. (The Doctor hands it to Col. Grahame, who also reads it and grunts — offers it to Waddles.) Sib H. Not again, thank you. (The Soldier-Man puts it on the tatle and there is a mo- ment's silence.) Doctor. What sort of looking woman is she? Dick. Judge! (He goes up to the window, the three men follow him and follow the direction of his pointing finger.) Sir H. (gazes placidly at the poster, then murmurs to himself) Very — very soothing. S. Man. The Firefly! by all that's damnable. Dick. Is she S. Man. (answering the unspoken question) Quite one of the most notorious. Dick, (facing the three silent men) And now I shall be glad to know what we are going to do. Doctor. How did you find it out? Dick. Mrs. Bricson picked up that letter, read it, handed it on to Phyllis, who also read it and handed it on to me. Doctor. To Phyllis! Gpod God — and she engaged to him! S. Man. Poor girl! What a blow for her. Dick. That's the one slice of luck in the whole mis- erable business. Doctor. Doesn't she care for him? 44 WHEN "WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Dick. Of course, she worships him. DooTOB. Then where's the slice of luck? Dick. They think the lady is in love with me. Omnes. What! Dick, (taking up letter) "Dick." I'm Dick. The Imp's Richard, too, but he's never Dick to us — he's the Imp. So I'm — thanks to that trivial misunderstanding ^the future husband of that scarlet horror stuck upon the wall. However, that doesn't matter, my shoulders are broad enough to bear even that. I'm all right, it's the Imp's got to be looked after, or else he'll burn his fingers. Good God, I've rescued from danger before I — I've seen him through scarlet fever — diphtheria — all the other ills of his babyhood — this is a very similar sort of complaint, and if we can't pull him through, his father was a poor judge of guardians when he gave the boy to us. We'll talk to him — we'll open his juvenile eyes — we'll S. Man. Do you suppose we'll succeed in convincing him? (A long pause.) . . DiOK. (.wearily). No. I don't suppose we shall — at first. We've got to put this thing right, ye know. We're responsible to Charlie for the boy's life and we'll take jolly good care he doesn't spoil it by this sort of thing. S. Man. Phyllis must be considered — wouldn't it be as well to let their marriage be broken off for the pres- ent? Dick. Man alive, if she knew he'd — he'd turned his at- tention to this sort of thing, she'd never speak to him again — she's as proud as Lucifer. Sir H. Are you sure she loves him? Dick. Certain. I asked her just now — she was rounding on me about it — telling me how contemptible she thought it all — and — and — and I asked her what she'd have done if — if it had been the Imp — and she said that she'd give him up and hate him forever — though she knew it would break her heart- S. Man. Um! That does make it awkward, doesn't it? Sir H. Well, there's fact one she loves him — now then — tact two is he doesn't love her. And fact three, they certainly ought not to be married under such condi- tions. Dick. No, no — you're going all wrong. You're wrong WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE, 45 In saying he doesn't love her — he does in his heart of hearts. This {pointing to the window) — sort of thing — is — isn't pleasant, of course, but it — it's only his youth — you know. We all seem to go through it — at least so I'm told. When he finds out what it's all worth he'll sicken of it, damn quick, and then he'll marry and set- tle down — and — and — be the man we all want to see him. DocTOK. Do you think that sort of thing (pointing to poster) is a necessary part of a young man's education? Dick. Certainly not, but now that he has tumbled into the water) let's pick him out and dry him as quickly as we can. Sir H. I don't think it will do him any harm. Doctor. And I'm sure it won't do him any good. (The door opens and the Imp enters quietly — he glances at the four men — closes the door iehind him and comes slowly down into the room.) Imp. You — (he clears, his throat) You are all very solemn — are you talking about me? Dick. Yes. Imp. I — I dropped a letter. Dick. Here it is. (The Imp takes it, folds it up — and puts it in his pocket — he then strolls with affected nonchlance to the fire- place and lights a cigarette — a pause.) (slowly) I have read your letter. Imp. (looking at him as if greatly astonished) You have read my letter? Dick, (gravely) Yes. Sir H. We've all read your letter. Imp. Really? I always thought there were some things gentlemen did not do. Dick, (gently) Don't let's begin like this. You know that we four would do anything in the world to help you. Imp. Even to reading my letters. I'm grateful. S. Man. So you ought to be. There are damn few boy's letters I'd take the trouble to read. Imp. I hope you all found it interesting. Doctor, (slowly) We did that. (A pause — none of the Quadrity know quite how to lie- gin — the Imp's attitude has rather upset their calcula- tions. The Imp blows a few rings of smoke and 4:6 WHEN "WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. waves them aside gracefully with his hand, then says enquiringly. ) Imp. Well — and now? Dick. Now w&— we want you to tell us all about it. Imp. Surely, the letter doesn't leave me much to tell. Dick. It leaves a great deal. Come, come, old man — we've all been young 'uns in our time — let's have your version of this little love story. Imp. There is very little to tell. I have asked Miss Glynesk ■ S. Man. The Firefly. Imp. (gives him a glance and continues) I have asked Miss Glynesk to be my wife, and she has done me the honour to say all right. Sir H. Oh, has she? Sir H. Devil doubt her! Dick. Yes — I — I gathered that from the letter — but — but — you see, old man — there are many things to be considered — things, that in your impetuosity you may have overlooked. Now here we are — four sober-minded, middle-aged men — whose — well, I know I'm in this speaking for myself — whose principal thought in life is to try and make things smooth for you. That's so, isn't it, you chaps? S. Man. Certainly. Sir H. Quite so. Doctor. It is that. Imp. I know, of course, I know all about that, and I don't want you to think I'm a conceited young ass — but there comes a time in every man's life when his own judgment is of greater use to him than other people's. Dick. Perhaps this is not that time. Imp. I think it is. (then there is a pause and the Imp throws his cigarette, half finished, into the /ire- place) Dick, (slowl-y) What does your own judgment prompt you to do? Imp. To marry the woman I love. S. Man. The Firefly. Dick. She — she is a good deal older than you are — isn't she, old man? Imp. She is a little older. Dick, (slowly) And I hear — that she has seen a good deal of the world. Imp. I believe she has travelled a great deal. Sir H. (chiming in) I suppose you know that peo- ple say WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 47 Imp. (interrupting) I should have thought, Sir Horace, you'd have learnt by this time to pay no atten- tion to what "people say " — for myself, when I know a person, I form my own judgment — and — " People can say " what they please — for all I care. Dick. You're right — you're quite right, of course — but in this instance Imp. (breaking in) Look here. I know you were all great friends of my father — and you've been jolly good to me and all that, but on this subject, I may as well tell you I shouldn't have allowed even him to in- terfere — it's my affair, and I've made up my mind about it. Dick, (gently) You're wrong, old man — nothing in this life is ever entirely one's own affair. Nobody can ever say, I stand alone — every step you take in life, whether towards evil or towards good, reacts upon your surroundings. Now I^oh, good God! you know I don't want to preach — I couldn't, I'm not built that way — I only want you to be — well, here we are, five fellows — let's all talk this matter over, find out what's the best thing to do and make up our minds, whether we like it or not, to do it. If it's best for you to marry this lady- — marry her, and good luck to you — if it's best not to marry her — don't; let's hammer it out amongst us. Your father — the dearest, bravest, truest chap that ever stepped in shoe leather — gave you into our keeping when you were so high — we swore among ourselves to make you worthy of him — and we're going to try to keep our word. Imp. Is it making me worthy of him to try and make me break my promise to a woman? S. Man. (quietly) Which woman — which promise, you have given two. (The shot goes home. The Imp looks at him for a mo- m,ent, then turns away — and leans his head against his arms on the mantelpiece, then speaks brokenly, after a pause.) Imp. I — you can't ask me to marry a woman I don't love — I thought I did once — but I didn't — I know that now. S. Man. You got engaged to her. Imp. I — I was a fool — but — but everybody seemed to think it was all right — Dick wished it — you all wished it — and — and — (in a low voice) she seemed to wish it, too, 4:8 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Sib H. (jumps up, excited) You young cad — do you Dick, (restraining him) Hush! Imp. (ireaking in hotly) Oh, I don't mean that she said so. I merely mean, everybody seemed to expect it — and — and — we drifted into it. I'm very sorry and all that, of course — hut it's done, and it can't be helped. Dick. It can be helped. Now, listen Imp. (getting rather flustrated — guiclcly) Oh, It's no good talking — you may just as well realize that in this matter I'll listen to no one. I know what a good friend you've been to me, Dick, and I'm grateful^but I'm no longer a boy. I'm old enough to manage my own affairs, and I intend to do it. S. Man. (breaking in brightly) Of course — we're all on the wrong tack, Dick, old fellow, we've been mounting the high horse and talking to the Imp as if he were a child. He isn't, he's a man of the world as we are — except that he's handicapped by being in love — we aren't . Now then, Imp — let's have your view of the situation as a man of the world. So it is absolutely es- sential to your happiness that you — er — marry this lady? Imp. (shortly) Yes. S. Man. Then you must have put your case before her very clumsily. Imp. (fiercely) What do you mean? S. Man. I don't think she has ever been approached with ceremony before. Imp. (starts forward furiously) You coward! (All the men rise except the Soldier Man.) D (silencing them all with a shout) Stop there! Imp. (passionately) Don't believe it, Dick — don't believe it — it isn't true. Dick. Hush! Hush! Let's talk it out quietly — for pity's sake. Imp. I won't stand quietly here and hear the woman I love insulted, even by you. S. Man. Quite right — and if I told you certain facts concerning this lady's past, and gave you my honour that they were facts, you wouldn't believe me. Imp. I'd know that they were lies. S. Man. Quite right. Now that we know where we are — I can hold my tongue. Imp. You'd better. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 49 (The Soldieb-Man laughs — there is going to 6e another outbreak — again Dick checks it.) Dick. Stop this, I say. Imp. Yes, I will stop this once and for all — I'll go. Dick. Where? Imp. To her! I'll get her to fix our wedding day once and for all. Dick, (springs to the door and intercepts him) Not yet. Not yet! Imp. You can't keep me. I'm of age — I do as I choose now. Dick. Listen Imp. I've listened till I'm tired — what's the use of staying here with my hands behind my back while the woman I love is insulted? Dick. No — no! Imp. (stamping) I say yes — (a pause, then very quietly) Let me go, please, Dick. Dick, (gently) We — we're all a little excited now, old man^ — when you come back Imp. (slowly) I shall not come back. (A pause.) Dick, (looks at him and at last speaks with an ef- fort) You will not come back? Imp. What's the use? I love her — nobody under- stands. Dick. You — you want to go away from me? Imp. I don't " want " to. You leave me no choice — you believe what he says — (he points to Col. Grahame — a pause) Don't you? Dick, (slowly) Yes. Imp. (with a little choke) Then wouldn't you de- spise me if I stayed? (There is a pause and Dick slowly moves away from the door and down towards the fireplace. The Imp stands irresolute for a moment, as if there was some- thing he would like to say — hut the thought fails to find expression, and hi turns to go — at the door he stops and turns to Dick pleadingly.) You — you've been very good to me, Dick — I — I'm going to her — won't you wish me luck? Dick, (after a pause, says huskily) I — I'm think- ing of your father — if she is worthy of him — worthy of 50 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. you — then, good luck to you. Imp — good luck. [he buries his head on his folded arms) Imp. (gladly) Thanks, Dick, thanks. I'll tell her what you say. (and he turns and darts out, slamming the door) (They all rise except Dick.) S. Man. Great Scott, Dick — what do you mean by that? Dick. God knows — the boy may be right, after all — he knows the woman — I don't. S. Man. (emphatically) 1 do — she's been the ruin of half a dozen men of my acquaintance. Dick. No — no! S. Man. I tell you, yes; if the boy wants to marry her, she'll marry him— spend his money — then he who bids more will carry her off, husband or no husband. She's for sale, I tell you — for sale. To be bought as one would buy a flower. Dick, (starting up fiercely — striking the table with his fist) Is she? Then, I'll buy her — I'll buy her — she's mine — she shan't belong to him and wreck his life — she shall belong to me, if the price is high — stand by me Sm H. Mine's yours. DocTOE. And mine. S. Man. And mine! Dick. Good men! The Trinity sees this through. QUICK CURTAIN. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 51 ACT III. Scene. — A gaudily furnished room. Many photographs of The Firefly. A flaming red poster pinned to the curtains; a table, carpet on the centre of stage, and much debris about; soda water bottles and a tanta- lus lying on the floor — the room giving every evi- dence of having been the scene of a disturbance. (Various lithos of Kaba on walls and floor in her various big parts. Babette, a French maid, viciously pretty, heard expostulating in Kaba's room.) Bab. Oh, Madame, mais c'est impossible — vraiment, vraiment, c'est Impossible. Kaba. (off) I don't care if it is — it's got to be done. Look alive now, loolc alive! (Babette enters.) Bab. Oh, I 'ate air. I ate 'air! An' she 'ave spilt de table — Oh, I say — too bad — too bad — too bad! (pick- ing up the things) She 'ave crack 'im— so stoopid! so very stoopid! I 'ate air! (Bells rings.) Dat is Mistaire 'Ughie's ring. Oh, he will catch it 'ot — so 'o|! pretty quick, I tell 'im! (Ooes up and out at back. Hall door heard to open and Hughie's voice.) Babette. Hello, Babette, what's all the bobbery? Bab. Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dleu, mon Dieu! Htjghie. (enters) Mon Dieu-ing ain't enlightening, Babette. I repeat, what's the bobbery? (he looks round at the disordered room) Hello— been havin' a bit of s beano here, ain't you? Bab. Beano! Oh, mon Dieu! dat word is much too 62 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. little. You know quite soon — pretty dam quick. Vas Madame's brougham at ze door? HuGHiE. Yes. Bab. Good! {she goes to door) Ze carriage is wait- ing, Madame. Kara. Let it wait! Bab. (picks up some broken china) Look, she crack 'im in her rage. I sink she crack you, too, pretty dam quick, too. HuGHiE. Crack me? Really that seems superfluous, considering she broke me a few years ago. Again I en- quire solicitously, what is the bobbery? Bab. (with meaning) I think you know. HoGHiE. Well, if you put it like that — I think I do. Bab. She sent for you, eh? HuGHiE. To be sent for by the Firefly is a distinc- tion. Bab. This time it is an extinction, my frien'. HuGHiE. Your English is getting quite encyclopaedic. Bab. Encyclopaedic? I do not know him. Madame have sent for ze ozair damn fool, too. HuGHiE. (sitting up) Wallis? Bab. Wallis. Oui, oui, oui — oh yes. She crack 'im, too, I 'ope so. HuGHiE. Again superfluous. Our firefly likewise broke him beyond any riveting exactly four months be- fore she performed the same operation for me — but, tell me why this craving to jump upon the pieces now? Bab. You know, you — you little peeg^you have played a trick on us. What was it you both tell her about zat nice little boy — ze Imp boy? HuGHiE. Young Audaine? Oh, only a few facts about his great wealth. Bab. (with a squeal) His wealth — is — oh — if you was not so infant, so young, I would like to say some sings in my own language. It was your plot — Mr. Wallis' plot — his plot — little damn fool! He swear he was so rich, so rich — five thousand a year to come soon. She, Madame, lose her head — she believe, and she get what you call hustle, and she have HuGHiE. (springing to his feet with a shout of de- light) Not married him — don't tell me she's married him! Bab. I tell you nozing. I leave dat to Madame — she tell you all damn quick. (Bell rings, and a faint cough heard.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 63 Mr. Wallis! I know 'is cough — stoopid, stoopid, silly cougli. HuGHiE. (almost to himself) By Jove! if we've bluffed Ler into that! what a score! Jumping Jehosha- phat, what a score! (Wallis enters, an immaculate youth.) Wallis. Hello, Hughie! Firefly telegraphed for me to call. Hughie. And for me. Wallis, my little one, she's swallowed it, hook and all, hook and all — we can call quits at last. Wallis. What! Has she — you don't • Hughie. And our friend, the amorous youth Wallis. She's not Hughie. She has — she's married him! She's mar- ried him! Christians awake! ain't there going to be a row. Bab. Zare has been a row already. She 'ave turned 'im out of doors. Hughie. Already! Bab. Dey was married dis morning. Wallis. Who was present? Bab. Only I — me — was. Oh, it is a grand secret. No one at all know, save Madame, Monsieur et moi. Hughie. My word, when his people find out, won't there be a shindy! Bab. He have not told zem yet. By Gar, I don't think he evaire tell anyone at all now — after what oc- cur zis afternoon. Hughie. You mean to say she turned him out of doors? Bab. Ah, oui — pourquoi non? Wallis But her husband — whoop! wouldn't I have liked to have been present! Hughie. Get on, Babette, you're slow enough to be English. Tell us what happened? Bab. Well, zis is it. Affaire ze ceremony, zay come home 'ere and have a little lunch — quite charming — oh, quite nice — but Monsieur 'e seem to 'ave somesing on his mind. Wallis. Should think he had just! Bab. But still all vaire charming, vaire nice! After lunch zey come in here and Madame Kara smoke a cigarette — 'e light it for her — vaire nice — vaire charm- ing — zen, all of a sudden, Madame take his hand. For- give her, she say, she very extravagant woman, and she 54 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. go to ze bureau and she take out all zese. {pointing to letters of all sorts and conditions that are scattered about the room) HuGHiE. What are those? Bab. Bills, bills, bills — all zem is damn nasty bills. Oh, I 'ate bills! And she says to Monsieur, in such a sweet, sweet way, dat he will forgive her not mention- ing zem before — zey slip 'er memory — and she know he will pay zem all at once — so nice of 'im. Wallis. Go on — go on — this is great! HuGHiE. What then? Bab. Zen it was mos' surprisln' — suddenly he springs up an' zrow out 'is arms, and say wiz passion: " I 'ave deceive you, I am not rich man, only poor man rich in love. I love you, I love you, I am liar, cheat, black- guard, but I love you — all I 'ave is I love you. HUGHIE. AND y And then? Waixis. {A pause — Babette says very quietly.) Bab. (quaintly) You 'ave met Madame! HUGHIE. ] AND V What happened? Wallis. ) Bab. (softly) Oh, a few little sings 'appen — just a few. (she points to broken china) I feel sorry for ze boy — ze — Oh, I mus' say I feel sorry for ze husband — she strike him full — once, twice, three times. HUGHIE. (quietly) What did he do? Bab. (gravely) He stand quite still — ver' white — ver' white and ver', ver still, and look at her wiz his great, sad eyes, and — and he bow his head. (Bell rings violently.) Madame's bell! I come, pretty so damn quick, I come. (She exits hurriedly.) HoGHiE. By Jove, who would have thought she'd have been fooled so easily? Wallis. Greed, old son, greed — they're all alike. Dangle a golden plum and they'll gollop it down and chance the indigestion — and I must say we played our cards very well. There was every excuse for her be- Uevin' the young 'un was a bally little gold mine. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 65 HuGHiE. An' of course, when he didn't deny It, she Wallis. Oh, we're brainy little fellahs, both of us — ain't we, little son? HuGHiE. I'm brainy enough to think it wiser to (pantomimes "getting out") before her ladyship has her little chat with us. You see, one must never neg- lect precedent, and she hit him — once, twice, three times. And I never was good in the ring. Will you Wallis. Oh, let's see her— she'll be deuced waxy — and the laugh's up to us now. HUGHIE. But the one, two, three Wallis. Chance it, little son — we're both of us pretty dodgy. I wonder what she'll do about it? Married to that kid without a farthing— gad, it's a rare lark! What the devil will his people say when they hear of it! It's pretty rough on them. HuoHiE. Yes, she isn't exactly an acquisition to a domestic circle. (HuGHiE has been up at back helping himself to whiskey and soda.) Have one? It's about the last time we'll drink with the Firefly — we ain't so popular as we were. Wallis. Better fortify myself for the meeting, (.he helps himself) Heard the news about Jimmy Hirsch? HuGHiE. Bankrupt? Wallis. No, on top again — cleared fourteen thou, over a Caranian deal. He'll be buzzin' around the Fire- fly again before you know where you are — that's my prophecy, little son. HUGHIE. If Jimmy Hirsch has got the dibs that means good-bye to little Hubby. 'Pon my soul, I b'lieve Jimmy Hirsch is the only man Firefly ever cared a brass button for. (Bell rings.) HuGHiE. Perhaps this is the redoubtable James. Wallis. What'll he say to the marriage? HuGHiE. That also will be interesting to observe. (Babette crosses and opens door. A handsome, rather loud voiced girl enters in ball dress.) Budgie. Isn't your mistress ready, Babette? 56 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Bab. Not yet — not quite yet — it is only her 'air. Hug HIE. ) AND }■ Hello, Budgie. Wallis. ) Budgie. Hello, you chaps, aren't you coming to Covent Garden? HuGHiE. Later. Wallis. Kara has, what she is pleased to call, busi- ness with us. (Kara calls.) Kara. Bahette! Bahette! Bab. I come. HuGHiE. Oh, we must tell Budgie — it's too rich. Budgie. Fire away. HuGHiE. You know the young chap Kara met at the races — you were there. Budgie. The boy who blushed if one said " Boo." Wallis. That's the chap — ward of a barrister, Carewe. Budgie. Well, what of it? HuGHiE. It's the rarest thing you ever heard — come here and I'll whisper. Kara married him secretly this morning, so I'm told. Budgie. What!! Wallis. Isn't it regal? I tell you, Hughie and I de- serve a medal — we spoofed her clean. Budgie. Kara married him? Nonsense! He hasn't a sixpence. Huguie. We know that — that's where the joke comes In. Our Firefly was led to believe that the young 'un was a bally little gold mine. Budgie, {amazed and delighted) You don't mean to say she — oh, go on — go on — what a lark! Wallis. 'Course, Hughie and I are very fond of the Firefly, but well, she didn't let either of us down too gently, did she? So when she told us about this youth wantin' to marry her, we got this brilliant idea. Hughie dropped a hint about his colossal prospects, and I chimed in with a bit on my own Hughie. Then we got hold of the youth Wallis. And having convinced him that she'd send him to the right — about if he hadn't £5000 a year Hughie. He apparently posed as the possessor of many but imaginary millions, sooner than get the push. Budgie. By Jove, it's ripping! What a sell for Kara — won't she be sick! WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 67 HuGHiE. I think she is. Budgie, (bubbling over with suppressed delight, goes quickly to door of Kara's room and calls) Kara, dear, I can't wait — I positively can't wait — I'll take a han- som. Kara. All right. Budgie. I must get there before she does — it's one of the best stories I've ever had a chance to tell. By-by, boys — we shall all meet later, if there's anything left of you when she's had her little say. By-by. HUGHIE. ] AND > By-by. Wallis. j HUGHIE. Sweet girl! Wallis. Sympathetic little soul! (Enter Babette. ) Bab. Madame comes — en garde, Messieurs — she is very calm. (Exit Babette at back.) Wallis. Calm! — Rather wish we hadn't stayed, don't you? HuGHiE. She always was rather — difficult — when she calm. Wally, my son, one toast before we expire — Here's wishing all women where they ought to be. Wallis. Where's that? HuGHiE. Well, I was goin' to say the bottom of the sea, but it would be such a doocid chilly process callin' on 'em. (Kara heard calling " Babette.") Wallis. Buck up! She's coming. (They link arms and stand with their backs to the fire. Kara enters.) Kara. Oh, you're here? Wallis. Hello, Kara. HuGHiE. You look beautiful, ma belle. Kara. I want just five minutes' chat with you two boys. Wallis. Delighted — only too delighted! HuGHiE. We're in luck, ain't we, old friend? 58 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Kara. Do you know what you are — yes, the pair of you? HuGHiE. Liars? Wallis. Do tell us what we've done. Kaba. You know. You think you've both been clever — you will find your joke a poor one before I've done. He has told me everything — he has nothing — nothing whatever. Oh, I don't blame him — the young fool is in love with me — lies were his only chance, but If the power Is ever given me to repay you two, I'll flay you for your joke— I'll flay you! You can remember that. HuGHiE. Such remarks make general conversation just a little difficult — don't you think, ma belle? Wallis. I — I — er — well, I positively don't know where to look, and that's a fact, old son. HuGHiE. Ain't he really got any fortune, Kara? Kara. As if you didn't know. HuGHiE. Then, 'pon my word, it just shows how dif- ficult it is to believe in appearances. Wallis. We thought he was a gold mine, didn't we? HuGHiE. I'd have backed my boots on it — after all we'd heard. Kara, (looking at them with scorn) I sent for you to tell you what I thought of you. I wanted to — but now you're here and I look at you, I wonder why I can be angry with such things as you — you're not men, or if you are, then men are such worms that I don't wonder that it's a glory to some of us to trample you under- foot. HuGHiE. Not worms, ma belle, not worms — don't trample worms. Call us grapes, ma belle, not worms — beautiful, beautiful grapes — then crush us under your feet and give us to tie world in wine — charming — quite charming. I'm In rather good form, ain't I, old son? (he hums jovially " Oh, call us the fine Muscatel " to the tune of " They Call Me the Belle of Neio York. ") (Babette enters hurriedly.) Bab. Madame will pardon me Kara. What— what— what? Bab. Madame get married in all such a hurry, she forget sings. Kaba. What's that? Bab. Zis letter from Mr. Carewe. HUGHIE. and 5- Carewe! ! Wallis. WPIEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 59 (Kara is struggling angrily into pair of long gloves.) Kara. Carewe? Who is he? Bab. Ze Unknown Man — ze lunatic — ze £1000. Kara. Bah! Tear it up — who said I'd see him? Bab. Ze letter made Madame so laugh. Madame said " I will see him," and he is coming to-night. I 'ad forgot. You fix the appointment. I post ze letter — but den we get married so damn quick — we forgot sings. Kara. Send him away. I'm not in the mood to laugh at fools to-night. Bab. He is, of course, fool. But £1000— that not so fool. Kara. Who wants his £1000. Bab. Madame does. Kara. Quite right — so I do. Wallis. Unknown man? HUGHIE. £1000. Wallis. Carewe, too. What's up? Kara, (fiercely) Give me the letter, (she snatches it and reads, then laughs) It's preposterous! No man could be such a fool. HuGHiE. May we know? Kara. What's it got to do with you? (she reads again) £1000 — what if he should mean it — it — what if it shouldn't be a joke? Bab. I think him no joke — it read like great sense to me. Kara. It would to a fool like you. Shall I see him? (A pause — again she looks at the letter.) What time did I say I'd see him? Bab. Just now — it is on the strike. Kara. Oh, is it? (o pause, then suddenly) I won't see him! I've had enough worry for one day. My cloak, Babette. I'm going to the ball. Bab. Mais Madame — ! Kara. My cloak, I say. Bab. Oh, mon Dieu, mon Bieu — ! (She picks up cloak from chair; as she puts it on Kara she whispers.) £1000 is a £1000 — Madame forgets. Suppose he mean it? Sousand pounds (The outdoor bell rings.) 60 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. He is yere! (A pause; they all looTc at each other; then suddenly Kara flings oft her cloak. ) Kaba. Hang It all — I'll see him! Get out, you two! HUGHIE. But, Kara Wallis. Ma belle Kara. I'll settle our little score later; for the present — get out. I'm going to talk over a little business with this gentleman. HucHiE. I wonder would your husband quite app- rove. Kaba. (comes to him — he moves behind chair) Have you forgotten the old saying: "He laughs best who laughs last? " You'll both of you remember it yet. Good-night. Stop. I know nothing of this fel- low. He may be a madman for all I know — wait there you two. If he's tame, I can manage him — if he isn't, you must — that's all. Wallis. {aghast) A madman! HuGHiE. "They have the strength of ten men. Kara. What's his name again? (looks at letter) Richard Carewe — know him? HuGHiE. Richard Carewe? (to W.) Do we? Wallis. Richard Carewe? (to H.) Do we? (A pause.) HuGHiE. No, we don't. Wallis. Never heard of him. (Kara talks to Babette.) Wallis. (to Hugiiie) The Imp's guardian. HuGHiE. Let's stay and see the fun. Wallis. Rather! HuGHiE. What makes you think he's mad? Kara. He has practically written and told me so. Into that room, please — you needn't come out unless I call you — into that room, please. HuGHiE. Charmed, I'm sure, to be chucker-out. Wallis. Always ready to die in the cause of beauty in distress. Kara. Thank you.^Into that room. (They retire into room, l.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 61 Kaba. (to Babettb) Bring me the glass. (Babette brings her hand-glass and Kaba arranges her hair.) All right. (Babette goes out, closing the door. Kaba suddenly rises and goes to door of the room where the two men have retired, shaking her fist at it.) You've tricked me — you've tricked me — but yoii shall pay for it — you shall all pay for it — every man Jack of you! (Babette now returns with a card on tray.) (takes it and reads) Richard Carewe — what have you done with him? Babette. He is in ze dining room. Kara. Idiot! If you'd only use the little brains you've got, Babette, you would realize that I can't see Mr. Carewe through brick walls and a hall passage — bring him here. Babette. Oul, Madame. Kara, (re-reading letter) £1000, and he doesn't wish to see me — doesn't wish to talk to me It's the most extraordinary proposition; I wonder what's his game? Babette. (announces) Mr. Richard Carewe. (Dick enters. Kara rises and meets him — there is a slight pause.) Kara. How do you do, Mr. Carewe? DiCKN. How do you do? (Another pause.) Kara. I— I— (laughs) It's a little awkward .isn't it? Won't you sit down? Dick, (slowly) You got my letter? Kara. Oh, yes, I got your letter. Do you know, I pictured you quite a different sort of man. I thought you must be a very old man. (pause) Are you sane? Dick. Perfectly. Kara. Your proposition is — odd — isn't it? Dick. I suppose it is. 62 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Kara. I beg your pardon— would you like a whiskey and soda? Dick. No, thank you. Kaka. (taking up letter) Here's your letter. Come now— It's a joke, isn't it? Dick. No. Dick. No. Kaba. You really mean it? Dick. Absolutely. Kara, (slowly, looking at letter) You will give me £1000 if I will make my friends believe that you are — a — friend of mine? Dick. Yes. Kara, (referring to letter) For a month, you desire that our names shall be linked together — dear me, how comic it seems! And during that time you do not wish to speak to me — nor even to see me? (Dick bows his head.) You must be quite mad, you know? Dick. Do you accept my ofCer? Kara. Well, one can hardly accept £1000 without seriously thinking it over, can one? What does it en- tail? Dick. Nothing but what is expressed in the letter. K.\.EA. It seems just a little too good to be true, doesn't it? You don't happen to have brought the money with you, do you? Dick. Yes — I told you in my letter that I would. Kara, (rising in amazement) Then it's real — it's not a joke? Dick. Why should I joke? ssAEA. Well, upon my word — (she stares at him) Oh, I think I see the game. You want to waken my curiosity — to arouse my interest in you? Dick. No. Kara. Oh, yes, you do. Well, it's an expensive way, but I'm not sure that it's a bad one. (she laughs) Come now — I challenge you — you won't give me your word of honour that you will never seek to improve upon the conditions of your offer? That you'll never want to change your mind about not seeing me? Dick. I give you my word of honour now. Kara. Well, you're quite the oddest person I have ever come across. Let me see the money — convince me it isn't a dream. Dick, (taking out letter) The money is here. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 63 Kara. It's not a cheque, is It? Dick. No, two bank notes. Kaea. By Jove — you do mean business. Dick. Understand, from the time you take this our compact begins. Kara. Quite so — and it holds good for one month. Dick. Yes. Kara. You know you've no earthly security that I shall earn this money. Dick. Oh, yes, I have. Kara. What? Dick. Your sense of honour. Kara. Is that meant for a joke? Dick. No. (A pause.) Kara. You're a most extraordinary person. Dick. Is it to be a bargain? Kara. Yes. (she holds out her hand for the notes) Dick, (gives them to her) Thank you. I — I can go now — we have met for the first and the last time. Good-bye. (A pause.) I must ask you to forgive me for — for this insult. Kara. I like it, believe me. It's one of the pleas- antest insults I've ever experienced. Dick. But — but there is so much at stake. Kara. What do you mean? Dick. I — I cannot tell you. Kara. It really doesn't matter — the money speaks — and between you and me and the post, I wanted it rather badly. Good-bye, Protector-of-the-Poor. Dick. Good-bye. (The hell rings.) Dick, (turns and says hesitatingly) Some one Kara. Well? Oh, you don't want to be seen here, don't you? Is that it? You do good by stealth and blush to be caught on the stairs! (Babette is heard to open the door and exclaiin in surprise. ) Bab. Monsieur! 64 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. (A man's voice is heard.) HiKSCH. Back again! Is she in? Kaea. {starts up) Hirsch! Jim! Back again! Back again! Quick — quick! do you mind? — go in there. I^I — this gentleman — I'd rather he didn't see you. Quick — just for a minute — do you mind. (Dick iows and goes into the other room, r.) Kara. Jim! — why has he come back? Why has he come back? (The door opens and Hiksh enters. He is a heavily- built, powerful-looking man of Jewish extraction. She stands rigid — he comes slowly down — o silence.) HiKSCH. Well? Kara. How dare you come back? Hirsch. That's foolish — you knew I'd come sooner or later, didn't you? Kara. I— I Hirsch. Kara. (he holds out his arms) Kara. No, no! Hirsch. What do you mean? Kara. You must go — you must go — we — we — never again! (fiercely) It's over — I told you! (she stamps) I told you once and for all, it's over. Never again! Hirsch. Wrong — always again — always and alwayg — and you know it. Kara. Oh, why have you come back? Hirsch. You left me eight months ago because luck turned against me. Kara. I left you because you were sold up. I'm not good at sleeping on bare boards. Hirsch. Luck has turned again — you must come back. Kara. Must! Hirsch. Must! You know me — when I say a thing I mean it. We will go South to-morrow. Kara. Not to-morrow. Hiesch. When will you be ready? Kara, (taking up letter, glancing at it. then slowly tearing it up) I have just made a contract. Hirsch. For how long? Kara. One month from to-day. Hiksch. It is too long — break it. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 65 Kara. No — curiously enough, it's a contract I cannot break. HiBSCH. Strange contract. Kaba. It is. HiRSCH. What prevents you breaking it? Kaba. (with a laugh) My sense of honour. HiRSCH. Rubbish! Kara. I thought that would amuse you — it amuses me rather. HiRSCH. Break it. Kara. You must be patient. HiRSCH. I have been patient for eight months. I have stifled every thought — I have shut myself up with my dream of you, and compelled the luck to turn. It has turned. We are fl4,000 to the good. When that is gone, I will be patient again — for the present, we will go South to-morrow. Kara. I have said no. HiRSCH. Look at me. — It isn't wise to play the fool with me. Kara. You must wait a month. HiRSCH. I will wait until, to-morrow. Kara. Don't be foolish — you bore me. HiRSCH. It's no contract — it's a man. (Enter Imp.) Kara. What if it is — that's my affair! HiRSCH. You dare! Kara. My dear Jimmy, you're not the only man in the world, you know. HiBSCH. Who is he? Kara. You wouldn't know him. HiRSCH. Who is he? Kara. If you really wish to know, his name is Rich- ard Carewe. (she calls) Mr. Carewe. HiRscH. (starting forward fiercely) He's there! — you love him. (Dick enters.) Kara, (with a defiant laugh) What if I do? HiRSCH. (throwing over the table) You devil! Kara. Help me! (she backs to the sideboard) (HiRSCH springs towards her with uplifted hand; simul- taneously the Imp rushes down to stop him. Then Dick, by a quick movement, intercepts and seizes the boy. 5 66 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Imp. Keep back! Dick, {holding Mm) Go home. This is my quarrel. Kaba moves down r. You heard what she said. She's mine. Imp. {facing Mm in a blaze of anger) Liar! She's my wife! {There is a long silence. Hughie, Wallis and Babette have entered. Dick turns slowly to Kaba. Dick. Is this true? Kaba. Yes. Imp. {in a voice shaken by pascion, and still facing Dick) 'Tell them you have lied. Dick, {very slowly) I've lied — I beg your pardon. {Another long, tense silence, broken by a light laugh from Kaba.) Imp. {turns to her, imploringly) Kara! Kara, {coldly) Have you forgotten what I said to you to-day? {There is a pause, and, as the Imp sinks back heart- broken upon the sofa, she flings back her head haught- ily and sweeps to the door, saying loudly.) Kaba. My cloalc, Babette. Show these gentlemen out. Jimmy, take me to my carriage. I will explain. (HiRSCH laughs, and she sweeps out of the room on his arm. The hall door shuts with a bang.) Dick, {holding out Ms arms, pleadingly) My boy, my boy! Imp. {facing him, says slowly and quietly) Never again — you've killed it! {He turns from him and goes out of the house. Dick stands for a moment, motionless, heart-broken; then he repeats in a whisper, mechancially.) Dick. You've killed it! Why, since he was so high, I've • Never again — he doesn't mean it — he — he can't mean it. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 67 Bab. (comes to him with his hat and cloak) For Monsieur. Dick, (looks at her dazed, then realizes) Tes — I forgot — Oh, yes. He didn't mean It. I — I will go after him — he didn't mean It — he didn't mean It! (He goes slowly out after the boy. Wallis and Hughie turn to each other and lift their glasses meaningly.) Hughie. Chin-chin, old son! Quite a busy evening! CURTAIN. G8 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. ACT IV. Time. — The same night — a'boict an hour later. Scene. — Dick's room in the Clement's Inn. Mrs. Bric- son dozing in an easy chair — Phyllis working by her side. After a slight pause, she rises and goes to the window — draws the curtains a little and looks out. Mrs. E. sits up with a start) I must have dozed, it must be very late. Phyll. Very late. Mrs. E. Oh, my dear — we can't sit up any more. Phyll. We must — he can't be much longer now, at least — you needn't, mother, dear — I must. Mrs. E. Well, anyhow if I do sit up, I'll do it lying down in my room, this low chair gives me cricks in my neck. Phyll. It'll be an awful blow to him. Mrs. E. Yes, dear, I'm afraid it will. What it is about young men that makes them go off and get mar- ried like that, I don't know. Are you going to stay here, or are you coming with me? Phyll. I'll stay here. Mrs. E. I couldn't keep my eyes open sitting up, perhaps it'll be better lying down. Oh, do lie down, too, dear, you look worn out. Phyll. I'm all right. We must be very kind to him when he comes, mother. Mrs. E. Yes, we will be — if I can keep awake. (Mrs. Ericson goes sleepily to her room — leaving Phyl- lis at the window.) Phyll. Oh, what can it be that keeps him! {Footsteps heard outsiie — then the electric hell rings.) Here they are! {she runs to hall door and opens it) (Sib Horace, the Doctor and Col. Graeme come in.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 69 Where's Dick? Waddles. Isn't he here? Col. We thought he was here. Phyll. Hasn't he been with you? Col. Yes! Phyll. (looking from one to the other — observing their embarrassment) What's happened? (They don't answer.) He had a letter from that woman this afternoon. I recognized the writing on the envelope. Are they mar- ried? Col. Who? i* hyll. The Imp and she. (The three look greatly surprised.) CoL. You know — how did you know? Phyll. I knew days ago. The Imp told me — and — and — I got this letter this afternoon, saying that by the time I received it he'd he a married man. Waddles. Oh, why didn't you tell Dick? Phyll. I'd promised not to. He wanted to tell Dick himself. Besides, Dick must have known, because he got a note from the Imp's wife this afternoon. CoL. But unfortunately the note did not say a word about the marriage. Phyll. (amazed) Didn't say — I don't understand that. Would you mind telling me what's happened? I'm quite old enough to be told things. I'm not break- ing my heart for the Imp. I gave him his freedom very willingly. Tell me — Dick is suffering, I know that. He's keeping everything from me. I want to help him — I must help him — tell me what's happened. CoL. I think we'd better. DocTOK. Ah, shure — I'm glad you're not breakin' your heart for the boy. Phyll. So am I. Tell me about Dick, please. CoL. Well — this lady that the Imp has married Doctor. Wasn't a desirable party at all— at all. CoL. And so Dick went to-night by appointment to — to buy her off. Phyll. Too late? Waddles. Too late. Doctor. That's just the devil of it. Col. And — and — the Imp and Dick have — well — they 70 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. haven't exactly quarreled — but the boy knows now that his marriage has been a mistake. Phyll. Already? Col. I think the lady has transferred her affections to some one else. Phyll. But she only got married to-day. Waddles. Some ladies are a little fickle, Phyllis dear. Phyll. Something awful must have happened. The three men nod.) (in a whisper) What? Col. We don't know — yet. Phyll. Oh, Dick — poor Dick! Waddles. If you'd seen him walk out of that place to-night, you'd have said poor Dick, indeed. CoL. You see Dick, knowing nothing of the marriage, proved to the boy — that the woman wasn't fit to be any man's wife. Doctor. And all the time the two were married. (There is a long, disconsolate pause.) Phyll. Where is he now — somewhere out there alone with it all. Oh, dear, oh, dear! (she goes to the win- dow and leaning against the curtains she has one quiet little sob all to herself) (The three men look at each other — then the Doctor says in a whisper.) Doctor. It's Dick she loves, after all. (The other two look at his incredulously for a moment, then, as the idea takes root — the Col. gives a low whistle.) Waddles, (gasps) You're right, you're right. Oh, what fools we've been! Doctor. We've found the silver lining, boys, there'll be a new member in the firm. CoL. But, does Dick Doctor, (breaking in ivith a smile) Av course he does — shure, don't we all? (The three men draw a long breath and turn and look gently at the girl— she is still standing staring out into the night waiting for Dick to come.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 71 (tenderly) When he coiiies in, ye'U try and comfort him — won't you, my dear? Phyix. Oh, If only I could. Sib H. He'll be very lonely, Phyl. DocTOK. Ah, if there was only some sweet woman who loved him — who could take his tired head upon her heart and tell him not to grieve — that 'ud do him good, I'm thinkin'. Waddles, (airuptly) Is your mother up? Doctor, (rounds on him) Ah, shure — what's the good of that? Waddles. My gracious, I didn't mean that. I was only thinking. Phyll. (coming away from the window wearily) It's very late, if you'd like anything to eat and drink — it's all on the table in the dining room. Waddles. That's what I meant, man, when I said Phyll. (suddenly listening) Hush! (a pause) He's coming. (She goes up to door and listens.) Doctor. What did I tell you! She knows his step. Boys! I'm thinkin' this blow is the softest thing Mas- ther Dick has ever sthruck. Phyll. Shall — shall we go into the dining room? Doctor, (o little astonished) For why? Phyll. Perhaps he — he might like to be alone to- night — just to-night. Waddles. Well, I think p'raps four of us is too many, but — maybe — one. DOCTOB. and Colonel. Yes, yes! (They move hurriedly out.) Waddles, (to Phyllis) You stay! (He goes out after the other two. The outer door is opened with a latch-key and Dick comes in wearily — he passes across the hall and into his own room. Throws his hat and coat on to a chair and stands for a moment lost in his thoughts. He doesn't see Phyl- lis, who is in an alcove of the window. After a bit, he goes to the desTi, unlocks it, takes out the letter— 72 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. and reads it through, then holding it tenderly, as if it were a living thing — he whispers.) Dick. I did my best, old man, I did my best. (Phyllis comes in quietly — closing the door after her. She steals across to him and puts her hand tenderly on his shoulder.) Aren't you in bed? Phtll. No, dear. Dick. You should be child, it's late. Phyll. Is it? {then, with great tenderness, she slips her hand into his) Oh, Dick, dear, you look so tired. Dick. Do I? Phyll. You're not angry because I waited up? I knew you'd be tired, and I — I thought you might be lonely. So — so — I wanted to be with you, if you'd let me. I know about it all, Dick — the marriage — and — the rest. Dick. You know? Phyll. The Trinity told me. Dick, (o great pity comes over him for herQ I did it for the best, dear. I'm very sorry. Phyll. Don't be sorry for me, Dick. He told me days ago about her, and I was glad he didn't love me — because — I didn't love him either. Dick. You didn't? Phyll. No! Where is he? Dick. I don't know. {then, with a long, indrawn so6, he sinks into the chair by the table and buries his head on his hands) Ih, my boy— my boy! Phyll. Oh, don't, Dick, don't. Dick. I tried my best to save him, I did, indeed. Phyll. I know you did, he knows you did. Dick. He doesn't, he hates me — how can he help it, he hates me — oh, my boy, my boy! Phyll. Dick! Dick, {rising and moving from her) Don't, dear, please don't. Leave me alone, I — I'd sooner be alone, just now. {And Phyllis, understanding, goes quietly away. He has moved towards the mantelpiece and bowed his head, there is a long silence, he stands there alone in his grief.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 73 Be father — mother — all to him— and this Is what I've done! (The hall door is heard to open and shut again softly, Dick is heedless of it, then the door of his room opens and the Imp comes in. Dick, at the sound, looks up and sees him. There is a pause.) Dick, (gently) You have come back? Imp. (with a laugh) Are you surprised? Dick. Yes. Imp. (Utterly) When a man arranges to lie away a woman's reputation to her husband, he shouldn't be surprised if the husband has a word to say on the sub- ject. (Dick looks at him, then says slowly.) Dick. I knew nothing of the marriage. What I did, I did for your sake. Imp. Thank you very much. Dick. I don't think you were wise to come here to- night — we — we can't see things clearly yet. You'd bet- ter go; come back to-morrow, perhaps then you will be able to understand. Imp. Oh, I quite understand now. I've learnt my lesson pretty thoroughly, thanks to you all. A woman, even, a man's wife, is a thing to be bought and sold. If you've taught me nothing else, Dick, you've taught me that. Dick. I've never taught you anything that wasn't true. No woman worthy of the name is to be bought. Ifflp. Ah, I know 'em now — you don't. Who was the chap who said every woman was at heart a wrong 'un? He knew life. It's only the accident of birth and cir- cumstances. Why, I daresay Phyllis Dick, (sternly) Stop there! (t?ien. very quietly) You'd better go, we are neither of us in a fit state to talk this matter over. We'd say what we didn't mean, and — and I might get angry with you. (a pause) I have asked your pardon for my share in this; at the same time, I must ask you to remember that I did what I thought was right. Imp. Our views of right and wrong differ. Dick, (gently) They may to-night. I'm sure they won't to-morrow, (he goes to the door and opens it) Imp. (hotly) I'm not going yet. There's a good deal I've got to say to you. 74 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Dick. And a good deal I've got to say to you, but not to-nigM. Imp. {raising Ms voice) I will Dick. Hush! I said not to-night. Imp. (stamping) I will know the truth of this damned conspiracy against me. Dick. Stop! Imp. It has been a conspiracy, and you know it. What were you all at the club for? Dick, (quietly) I shall expect you in the morning. Imp. (getting ieyond himself, faces Dick in a rage) Tell me now. Dick. I shall expect you in the morning. Imp. (lifting his hand to strike) You — you (Dick seizes his arm and holds him for an instant as in a vice, then lets him go, and says gently.) Dick. That would have been a pity, wouldn't it? (A long pause, then he takes the letter.) This is your father's letter to me, written when he lay dying, and you were a little child; in it he asks me to try and take his place. I have tried — you are of age now — you need me no longer, (and he tears the letter into two pieces) (The Imp is sitting upon the sofa, his head huried in his hands. A knock is heard at the outside door.) Who's that? (Dick goes and opens the door. A Cabman is seen out- side.) Cabman, (enquiringly) Richard Carewe? Dick. Yes. Cabman. Lady told me to deliver this note, most spechul. (Dick takes it and fumiles in his pockets for a coin, hasn't got one. He turns to the Imp.) Dick. Got a couple of shillings? Imp. Yes. (He hands Dick the coins, who, in his turn, hands them WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Y5 to the Cabman, who disappears, saying " Thank ye, sir." Dick closes the door and comes down to fire- place, opening the letter as he comes. He reads a lit- tle, then looks up at the Imp, who rises quickly, guess- ing intuitively.) Imp. It's from her. Dick. Yes. Imp. You can read it out. I'm not afraid — she can't write harder things than she said. Dick. " I have learnt from Mr. Hirsch that you are the young man's guardian, so I see now the reason of our compact. I am sorry you were too late, for his, for my own, and for your sake. However, don't worry, your young friend will have no difficulty in obtaining his freedom. I return your cheque for two reasons; one is, I'm sure Hirsch wouldn't approve of my receiving such a present even from my husband's guardian, the other is I don't want you to think you are the only fool in the world. I'll send you some roses from Monte Carlo." (A pause, he looks at the Imp, who laughs and goes up into the window, where he stands staring into the darkness. Then he speaks without turning.) Imp. When I told her that I should kill him, she laughed and said, " Very well; but when you are hanged, there'll be nobody left to deal with his successors "; that seemed logical, so I came away and left him to eat his supper. Dick, (amazed) You saw them? Imp. (nods) Just left 'em — they're together now. Dick, (going quickly to him) Oh, my poor old boy. Imp. I — I can't help laughing. My position is so very ridiculous, (he rises wearily) 1 — I'll go now. Dick. Where are you staying? Imp. Metropole. Good-night. Dick. Good-night. (The Imp goes slowly to the door, then turns to Dick and says huskily.) Imp. You — you might ask me to stay here. Dick, (gladly) Would you? Imp. Oh, Dick! (and he breaks down utterly as Dick, deeply moved, catches him in his arms) Dick, (half laughing, half sobbing) Come, come, T6 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. It'll all dry straight, we will work it through together, old man, shoulder to shoulder, as we used to be. Imp. All that I've said, just now, I didn't mean it, I didn't, indeed. I've been a brute to you, Dick, but I didn't mean to be. Dick. I know, old man — bless you, I know. You had to work it off on somebody, and I was nearest. Imp. (passionately) Dick — Dick! I'd like to get out of this country, just a bit. I must, I must— can't I go? There's always a war somewhere — I'd like to fight. Dick. Why not? Get along out and show 'em you're your father's boy, our boy. Then come back all over Victoria crosses and things, and — and the Trinity shall entertain you at a banquet. That's right, boy, buck up. The world's a damned hard flght, you've had the first knock, a stiff 'un, right under the jaw, but you're up again, old son, and the fight Is yours to win, if you only choose. Imp. I choose. (.And Dick wrings his outstretched hand.) Dick, (cheerily) Good man! Get along to bed, old son, you're dog tired, we'll think of the future in the morning (And the Imp goes out.) Dick. He's true grit, every inch of him. (then sud- denly) Here, here, I tore up his father's letter. I was a fool, (he picks up one piece) It's all right, Charlie, old man, I'll be able to face you yet. (he picks up the other piece) Come here. Come here! Get back into your place — I've been a fool! (And he puts the torn pieces tack into his drawer as Phyllis comes in.) Phyll. (comes in quickly) He's back. I heard him go into his room. Dick. Yes, he's back. Phyll. Poor old Imp. Dick. Thank goodness he's got the pluck to take it like this. God knows it may be for the best after all. (then he turns and looks at Phyllis) Hullo! why — Why — why— I can't have my little girl looking like this WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 77 — black shadows under her eyes, this won't do — you're the tired one now. Phyll. (smiling sadly) No, I'm not. I'm only tired for you. I know how you must feel about all this, and somehow I don't seem to be able to help you a bit. Dick, (stroking her hair softly) Yes, you do, dear, you help me all the time. Phyll. (moving a little from him) Oh, I wish I could think I did. But (cheerfully) it's all right. The Imp's come back. And the Trinity is in the dining room having whiskies and sodas, so as you've got all you want, you'd like to go to bed. Dick. No, I shouldn't, but it's getting very late. (Phyllis turns on her heel and goes to the door.) (he calls her) Phyllis, it — it was very sweet of you to wait up for me, dear. Good-night. Phyll. Good-night. (She again goes to the door — again he calls her softly.) Dick. Phyllis! Phyll. (turning) What? (a pause) Dick. Nothing, I— I think you'd better go to bed, dear. Phyll. You were going to say something. Dick. No, no (She turns away — he stands watching her, then says quickly.) You're quite sure you never — (he stops, there is a pause — she looks at him and then away) Phyll. I was never in love with him, if that's what you mean. Dick. You never were — really? (gladly) Phyll. Never was, really — really. Dick, (after a pause) Ah, well, it's only postpon- ing the evil day. He's gone — you'll be the next to go, but you've been fairly happy while you've been here, haven't you, dear? Phyll. I've been very happy, Dick. Dick, (with a gasp) Iwonder — (he stops again) Phyll. (coming a little nearer to him) What do you wonrler? Dick, (backing a little) Nothing. You really ought to go to bed, dear. 78 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Phtil. I'm going. Dick. I suppose what you said the other day about your mother — well, I suppose you'll be going altogether soon. Phtll. (gravely) I don't think I was quite just about mother the other day — she didn't say those things, really. Dick. Didn't she? Then, why Phyll. (slowly) Oh, because I was in a silly mood — you would keep on saying things to me about the Imp and how happy I ought to be, and all that, and of course I wasn't a bit happy. I'm much hapier now. Dick. Now? Phtll. Well, because now he's not going to marry me, so I needn't marry him. I'm free now, Dick. Dick. Oh, I wish I was ten years younger. Phyli,. I don't. Dick, (eagerly) Don't you? (he moves to her) Oh, Phyllis! (She meets his eye and he backs oft again.) You really ought to go to bed, dear, it's quite late. Pkyll. Does it matter for once? Dick, (gathering courage) Phyllis, I — I — oh, I'm a fool, don't laugh at me. Phyxl. I haven't. Dick. I — I — oh, Phyllis, I've never dared to tell any- one. I've never dared to tell myself — much less you. (A pause.) Phyll. What, Dick? Dick. That— that — oh, my dear, it's striking two — what would your mother say? Phyll. (very matter of factly) You're quite right, Dick, dear, it is very late. Good-night. The Trinity are in the dining room, I'm keeping you from them. Good-night. (She goes to door.) Dick. Don't go just yet. (She comes tack.) Dick. I'm not usually such a fool — but somehow this seems so fearfully serious. I— I — you're a young girl. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Yg I'm forty. It isn't fair, is it? I mean, I daresay, you would out of the kindness of your heart, hut — hut — ^No, I'm a fool, everything's better as it is. Good-night, dear. {He turns from Tier and goes to the table — she stands looking at him for a m,oment, then says softly.) Phyll. You don't mean to say good-night, Dick, like that. Good-night, (she comes to him with her hands outstretched — their eyes meet, the touch of her hands conquers him) Dick. I must tell you — (a long pause, and he says in a whisper almost) I love you! Phtix. (simply) I love you, too, Dick. Dick. You love me! Phyll. I've always loved you, but you didn't seem to care. Dick, {dazed) You love me! Phyll. I love you. (There is a silence, and then he kisses her — there is another silence — then he says with a long sigh.) Dick. I thought everything had ended. Everything is just beginning — You love me — say it again. Phyll. Need I? Dick. Yes, say it again. Phyll. I love you. Dick. You love me. (A long pause — he kisses her — and whispers.) Again! Phyll. Again and always, I love you. Dick. Then what's the matter with anything? Phyll. Nothing. Dick, (in a hushed whisper) Nobody must ever know. Phyll. Why not? Dick. I don't know— but— but— oh, they mustn't— say it again. Phyll. Tell everybody — are you ashamed of me? Dick. Ashamed! Here- hi! No, no, before they come, say it again — just in a whisper. I love you, of it's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Phyllis, Phyllis, where have I been hiding myself all these years? you've opened out life to me. Phyll. (whispers) I love you. 80 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Dick. But — but oh, I'm forty, dear. Phyll. I love you. Dick. I'm — I'm an old bachelor. Phyll. I love you. Dick, {with a cry of delight) Don't whisper it, shout it. We love eacvh other, and we're going to be married. Let's tell 'em, let's tell 'em. Waddles, Miles, Doctor — what are they doing? How shall I tell 'em? Phyll. It's very easy. Dick, (ruefully) Is it? Here, I've called 'em, you tell 'em — that's fair. (Waddles, the Doctoe, and the Soldieb-Man enter hur- riedly. ) The Thbee. Old man Dick. The Imp's come home — and — and we're none of us to worry, because he's going to be a man. The Three. Oh! {vaguely) Dick. And — and — Phyllis has got something to say to you. {The three men, with instant comprehension, wheel round to Phyllis.) Colonel, (eagerly) Is it all right? Phyll. (smiling) Yes. Colonel. Oh, my dear! (and he takes her hands and kisses her fervently) It's our right. (He hands her to the Doctor, who does the same and hands her to Waddles, who follows suit.) The Three. Good luck to you — it — it — it's splendid. Dick, (taking her) Yes, isn't it? Splendid. Omnes. Kiss her, kiss her! Dick. I'm npt afraid. I — I did it all by myself just now. (He kisses her.) Waddles. Thank goodness, it isn't a quadrity any longer — it's a quantity. Omnes. It is — it is! Waddles. With a power to increase our number. CURTAIN. French's International Copyrigl^ted (.in England, her Colonies, and the United States) Edition Of the Works of the Best Authors. No. 48. I Xhe Wilderness 'iT'-: H Comebg tn XEbree Hcts >^j^ BY : I H. V. ESMONE) ; t Copyright, igor, by T. H. French. ^ Amateurs ate not allowed to produce tMs play without ^ payment of the authors' royalty. All inquiries concern- ^ Ing same should be addressed to the publishers. ^ ^ PRICE 25 CENTS .^f. ; W . / London ;-^,; SAMUEL. FRENCH, Ltd, ■^. ' "• PUBLISHERS 89 STRAND New York • ''jj| SAMUEL. FRENCH A PUBLISHER Jj 26 W. 22P Street A FRENCH'S STANDARD DRAMA. Price 15 Cents each.— Bound Volumes $1.25. VOL. I. 1 I*n t Fftit* J Th« htiy •rLyom 4 RUhcliau 5 Th« WIft % TlivHoiiaymoon < 1 Thi Sehoyl for Scandal VOL. II. I Th« Stronger 10 Qranafftthtr Whitehead n Richiird,ll[ 19 LoTa'i.S&crificB 13 Xht Giolaiter 14 A Cur« for th* HeRrtacbi U th* HunchbAck 16 Don Criar dt Biuaa VOL. III. IT The P«or Qoutlemmi 18 Hain]it 19 Charlti II 50 Venice Fnierred 51 Pixarro 99 Tira Lore Ohaie 93lOthelld^ 14 Lend me Fir* Shilling! VOL. IV. 56 Virginliii SS King or the Commons SI London Aiii;rKnc« , SI The Rent Day SI Two Gentlemen of Verona t&The Jealoui Wif« i\ The RlTali it Ferfection VOL. V. [Debti 12 A New Way to Pay Old 14 Look Before You Ltrnp U King John S< Ner-TOui Man t7 DKmoD ftnd Pvthias It Clandeitine Marriage ly Willinrn Tell 40 Day after the We 'ding VOL. VL 43 5|>«d tba PlMgh 4C Romeo and Juliet- 43 Feiidiil Timet 44 Chitrlei the Tv^ellvk 4t The bride 46TheFol]ieiofRNight 47 IroiiClieet [ Fair Lady '4S Faint Heart Never Won VOL. VII. 49 Road to Ruin CO Macbeth 61 Temper &t Evadne 63 Bertram 64 The Duenna 65 Much Ado About Nothing 66Tlie Criiic VOL. vni. CT'The AnoitaLe 68 Twelfth Night ft9 BrutuB 50 Simpion & Co 61 Merchant of Venice 82 OidHeadjAVouDg Hearts Hi Mountaineer! [rlage fi4 Three Weeki nft^r Mar \0' iX. 65 Love 60 At You I xe It 67 The Elo-or Brother 63 "Werner 69 Gfilppiii 70 ToWd and Country 71 King Lear 73 Blue Derila VOL.. X. 7«Henrv VHI' 74 Married and Single 76 lienrv IV 78 Paul Pry 77 Guy Mannering 78 Sweeth^arti and Wives IB Sarioni Fapiily 80 Slie Ptoops to Ooi^qoer i VOfi. ,XI. 81 Juliuf Cseiar 89 Vionr of Wakefield 83 Leap Ytar 84 The Catipaw HS The Pasihig Cloud 86 Dniiikard 87 Rob Roy 88 George BRrnwell VOL. XII. 89 Ingoniat' 90 8Lc[chei in India' 91 Two-Friends 9 ' Jane Shore 93 Coriican BrolherB 94 Mind yonr own Business 95 Writing on the Wall 96 Heir at Law VOL. XIIL 97 Soliiier'i Daughter g-* Douglas 99 Marco Spada 100 Nature'* Nobleman 101 SaVdnnapalus 102 CiviIt7jrtlon lOSTlie Rnlibers 104 KtLtharlne and Petrnchio VOL. XIV. 105 Game of Lo\e 106 Midiunniier Night's 101 Ernestine [Dream 108 Rag Picker of Paris 109 Flying Dutchman 110 Hypocrite 111 TherCFe 112 LaTonr de Neale VOL. XV. 113 Ireland As It Is ir4Seaof Ice 116 Seven Clerks n6 6ame of Life 117 Forty Thieves 118, Bryan Borothme ' 119 Romance and Reality 120 Ugolino VOL. XVL 131 The Tempest 122 The Pilot 123 Carpenter of Rouen ,1 -4 King'f Rivul IWLlltle'Trt-asnre ) !!>6 Donibey and Son l!.'7 Pnrenls and Guardians 128 Jewess « VOL. XVIL 139 Camille l;{0 Mai-ried Life 131 Wenlock of Wenlnck 132 Rose of Eltrickvale 133 Darid Cnpperfield 134 Allno, or the Rose of 13i Pnulirie [Killarney 136 Jane K\to vui'.. xviii. 13T Niglit and Morning 138 .'tiliiop 139 TliTL-e Guardsmen 140T..m Crmgle " 141 Henriette, the Forsaken 142 Ensti>c]ic Baudin. liS Ernest MaUravers 144 Bold Dragoons VOI- XIX. 145 Drsd, or the Dismal [Swamp 146 Last Dnv« ofPomii " HT KiiiiL-riilili 148 I'eter Wili,ips ■ 149 Ben the Bo Jack. Oh, 1 daresay I can manage it. Mabel, {suddenly wheeling round) Heavens, Jack ! Is this the twenty-fourth ? Jack. Yes. Mabel. Oh, and I've promised to fetch the twins and bring them here to meet mamma at half-past four. Jack. That'll .spoil our afternoon. Mabel. No it won't. I'll bring them here, and I can easily make an excuse to mother and meet you anywhere — I've got till seven, then I must get back to dress. Sir Harry is dining with us to-night, and Jack. And you fancy Mabel. Never mind what I fancy. What time is it? Jack. Five past four. Mabel. I must go for them in ten minutes. Where shall we meet afterwards ? Jack. You wanted to go to the Aquarium. Mabel. Nobody ever goes there, that's why. Well, any- how {she stops suddenly, looking into the other room, then turns and faces him with a gasp) Jack, the worst has happened. Edith was right, he's here. Jack. Wlio ? Mabel. Harry 1 {they stare at each other for an instant, then her presence of mind returns) My gracious, I can't be found alone with you: we must have a chaperon. Jack, come and join those two old frumps. Jack, {aghaxt) But I don't know 'em. Mabel, {vehemently) Neither do I. What matter? Come and join them, (she stops one of the icaiting maids who is passing unth tea) What's that lady's name ? Maid. That's old Lady Pawson. miss, and her son, Mr. Gilbert Pawson. (Mabel sioeeps down towards Lady Pawson's table, with an outstretched hand and a sweet smile) Mabel. I really can't go without saying how-do-you-do, Lady Pawson. We haven't met since that delightful after- THE WILDERNESS. H noon . (she turns to Mr. Gilbeet and shakes hands with him warmly) How do you do ? I hopi:) your gout is better. (the old lady and her son are deeply agitated. Mabel sm,iles at Mr. Gilbert) Mabel. I'm afraid your mother doesn't remember me. Lady H. {not knowing her in the least) Perfectly, my dear. How do you do ? Mr. 'Gilbert, (feebly) My mother never forgets a face. She has a royal memory. Mabel, (sitting down at their table and making herself quite comfortable) I'm waiting for mamma. But you know how dreadfully unpunctual she always is. Oh, didn't you have any muffins? You really ought to make an effort in the direction of muffins. Lady H. Gilbert's digestion is very fluctuating. Mabel, (ivith an affectation of great concern) Oh, don't say you've got to be careful still ? I hoped that trouble had passed long ago. Why, you've suffered from that ever since Mr. Gilbert. Last April twelve months. Mabel. I remember mamma telling us about it at the time. (Jack is hovering about the table much embarrassed. Mabel smiles in surprise at Lady Pawson) Don't you know Mr. Kennerly ? Jack, I'm disappointed in you. I thought you knew everybody worth knowing. Lady Paw- son, do let me introduce Mr. Jack Kennerly — Lady Pawson, Mr. Kennerly. Jack, (sitting down beside Gvusert: 'Pa.'w^ov) Awfully good place to meal in, this, don't you find ? Jolly secluded, and all that, and yet you're always running up against people you know. Mr. Gilbert. My mother and I have not run up against anybody for Mother, you desire- — Lady H. (making a brilliant effort to recover herself and remember somebody — snaps out at Mabel) How's your aunt? Mabel, (ingenuously) Which aunt ? Lady H. (after a pause, Lady Pawson retrieves herself) Your dear aunt. Mabel, (with a sigh) She's still on the wane, we fear. Lady H. Ah, she was always delicate as a girl, (a long and melancholy silence falls ivhich Mabel thoroughly enjoys, then says, with another deep sigh) Mabel. Yes, and she never really got over that affair — you know. Mr. Gilbert, (getting interested) Dear me. Mabel, (to Mr. Gilbert) I always imagine there was something more in that than met the eye, don"t you ? Mr. Gilbert. Oli, I really 12 THE WILDERNESS. Mabel. You wouldn't like to say so. That's sweet of you. You live up to your well-eaiTied reputation for dia- cretion — very wise, that's why you're always so popular. (Mabel turns to say sometliing to Jack, and old Lady Pawson seizes the opportunity to gasp at her son) Lady H. Who are they ? Mb. Gilbert. Don't know. Can't think. Lady H. Take me away. (she makes an effort^ to rise) Mabel. Oh, dear Lady Pawson, you will stay and see mamma ? She won't be a moment, and she'd be so disap- pointed if she missed you. Sir Harky Milanor has been seen in the tipper roovi, he noiv comes down to their table. Sir Harey. How do you do, Miss Weston ? Mabel, (looking up in surprise and giving him her hand with a bright smile of tcelcome) Oh, how do you do? Fancy you coming to this out-of-the-way little corner. Lady Pawson, may I introduce Sir Harry Milanor ? (bows) Mr. Gilbert Pawson, Sir Harry Milanor. (bows) We're all waiting for mamma, she's so fearfully late again, and Lady Pawson was almost giving her up in despair, weren't you ? LadyH. (irho is approaching a condition of mental pulp) I — I surely was. Sir Harry, (looking curio^isly at Jack) Hullo, Ken- nerly — it is Kennerly, isn't it? Jack. It is. How are you ? (they nod to each other smilingly) Sir Harry. Fancy knocking up against you — and at a tea-fight too ! (then he turns brightly to the tea table, signing to one of the waiting maids) I'm sure Lady Paw- son can have some more tea — fresh tea. And muffins. Would you bring us — let's see, how many are we ? One, two, three, five — and some hot muffins, (as he gives the maid the order Lady Pawson has another gasp at her son) LadyH. Who is he? Mr. Gilbert. 1 don't know. Lady H. Take me away ! Sir Harry, (turning to Lady Pawson) I think you know my aunt, Lady Pawson. LadyH. More aunts 1 Yes, of course, your dear aunt. She was always delicate as a girl. (aside to her son) Take me away ! Something's gone wrong with my head. I positively don't remember anybody. Sir Harry. (ensively to the haddock) Marj — she's so sniffy — think she'll be able to sniff as far as to this ? Marjorie. (gloomily) I specs so. (and she crawls off) Harold, (following Marjorie) I yope she won't, she'.s so very gyeedy. she won't leave none for ye poor little fairies. ( and they both solemn ly disappear under the ferns, pushing the empty harrow before them) Sir Harry, (coming doivn) It was beastly caddisli of us to listen, but — but wasn't it beautiful, Tjncle Jo ? Uncle Jo. Cliildreu's talk ! Sir Harry. I wish we didn't forget how to talk like that. What a selfisli little brute I must have been when I was a child. I used to be very friendly with the faiiies — but — but I used to think it was their business to do things for me, not me for them. It never struck me tliat tliey had appetites like other people. J never brought them luxuries on a barrow — did you, Uncle Jo ? Uncle Jo. No ! Sir Harry. And such delicate dishes too. (he gingerly picks up the haddock) I think the new generation is a little in advance of the old. I must have long talks with that King and Queen — they — they'll do me good, (and he reverently replaces the dilapidated fish-skin in the ring) Uncle Jo. You fail to observe that they are supplying their fi'iends with other people's goods. 'The bones belong to the puppy, and the — that — whatever it is, is the perqui- site of the dustman. That's the sort of generosity we are all quite ready to indulge in. Sir Harry. Uncle Jo, how did you get all the money you've got ? 26 THE WILDERNESS. Uncle Jo. By hard work and keeping my eyes open. Sir Haery. That's liovv they got their treasure — this — and tliese bones. Uncle Jo. Ugh ! Sir Harry. But they've been beautiful and given their gains away. Uncle Jo. Wi.se children ! Str Harry. Of course tliey are — but how about you ? You've kept your liaddook in your pocket and your bones under your pillow. It's very wrong of you. Uncle Jo, very wrong, and I'm not at all sure that it's healthy, (pause) Do you see tlie point ? Uncle Jo. Yes, but I don't mean to give you a thou- sand pounds, so that's all about it. Sir Harry. You do put things so concisely, Uncle Jo, that's why I'm so very fond of you. Uncle Jo. (imth a grunt of disapproval) You going to loll there all day ? Sir Harrv. I must have a serious talk to myself occa- sionally, you know. Uncle Jo. Well, I'm going back. Sir Harry. Have another, {offering cigar-case) Uncle Jo. No, thank you, tliis'll take nie as far as the house. Good-bye for the present. Sir Harry. Good-bye ! (Uncle Jo disappears through trees at the back) Sir Harry, (makes himself quite comfortable) Now I shouldn't be a bit surprised — if I didn't have just a little doze — nobody in the world knows where I am. except me. (Edith Cadogan's voice is heard talking to Uncle Jo) Edith. It's very fortunate meeting you. I'll find liim. (and she pushes Iter way through the ferns) Sir Harry. My gracious, it's Edith — what on earth are you doing here ? Edith. I drove over with your mother and Hugh Graeme from the Hydro. I've brought you some more papers to go through. Sir Harry. Oli. lord, if anj'body ever makes me a trustee again — I — I'll (he leaves p>olitely to her) Take It mound? Edith, (loolcing donniat him) No, thank j'ou. Sir Harry. How's motlier? Edith. Blooming. Sir Harry. Sl)e going to be at the Hydro long ? Edith. I don't know. Sir Harry. How did you find out this spot — nobody knows of it. except me. Edith. We ran into your uncle just this minute. Sir Harry. It's very careless of Uncle Jo, that's all I can say. THE WILDERNESS. 27 Edith. Aren't you glad to see me ? Sir Harry. No. Edith. Not a bit ? Sir Harry. Not a bit. Edith. I don't believe you, Harry. You're very fond of me really, because I haven't thrown myself at your head as other girls have. Sir Harry. Oh ! Edith. Your mother has been telling me this morning how very trying you find it — being so badgered. Why not give all your money away — to me, for instance — then per- liaps some one who isn't too particular might (she laughs down at him) What is it ? " Love you for yourself alone ! " Sir Harry. I wish you'd go away. Edith, (smiling) You're a sentimental old darling, that's what you are. You wiU go through those papers for me. won't you ? Sir Harry. Um ! Edith. And send them back to me to-night ? Sir Harry. Yes. (she pulls a fern and sots beside him, then casually strokes his clieek leith it) Edith, (softly) Harry? Sir HarBy. (dozily) Um ! Edith. Is that all ? Sir Harry. What more do you want? Edith. You never care to understand now — do you ? Sir Harry. No. Edith. Do you remember the tajks we used to have ? Sir Harry. Christians, awake! What a question! Which talks — what about ? Edith. About life — serious life. Sir Harry. Oh, lord, yes ! EdiiH. We never have them now. SlE Harry. Who wants to repeat oneself? Edith. Would it be repeating orreself ? Sir Harry. Wouldn't it? Besides, the facts aren't the same. Edith. You do remember the talks ? Sir Harry. If you mean a serious talk I had with you at the Gordons' dance ? Edith, (sentimentally) Out on the leads off the land- ing, under that shabby awning. You do remember '■' Sir Harry. Yes, you were engaged to Dick Rliodes, and for some odd reason you confided to me that you rather despised him. Edith. Well, I did as you wished — I broke it off next day. Sir Harry, (sitting up) As I wished ! I like that ; 2,^ THE WILDERNESS. «hnt difference did it make to me ? I said I thought you were H fool, or perhaps rather worse, to be engaged to be married to a man you " ratlier despised," tliat's all — and — and — you chucked liim — no fool you. Edith. Do you know Hugli Graeme? Sir Harry. Yes— at sdiool witli him. Edith. What do you think of him ? Sir Harry. Damn good chap. Not brainy — but damn good chap. Edith. He wants me to marry liim ! Sir Harry. Oh ! Damn goodchap, not brainy — but a damn good chap. Edith. I think I shall. Sir Harry. Ah ! Edith. You haven't any advice to give me nniv, I sup- pose ? Sir Harry, {stretching himself lazib/) My dear girl — out on the leads — under a sliabby awning — with an occa- sional star and a soothing band from the room below, one may let oneself drift into giving advice — but not liere. We live jiere — we don't float nbout in darkness on a tune. Edith, {shortly) 1 shall marry liiui. Sir Harry. I should. Edith. Thank j'ou. Hugh, (heard calling) 1 say, Miss Cadogan? Edith. There he is. Sir Harry. Nice voice. Hugh. Where are you ? Edith. I'm coming. Hugh. Oh ! in there, {he conies in. He is a heavily huilt man with a very large motistuche) Here yon are. Lady Milanor is beginning to complain of cramp. Hullo, Milanor ! Sir Harry. Hullo ! Edith. Very well, {she mores aivay brightly smiling) I'll give youi- love to your motlier, Harry, and so leave you. and seriouslv I'll take your advice this time. Sir Harry. Eh I {she bends clon-n and irliis^iers) Edith. Ill marry him. Sir Harry. I believe you will. What are some women made of? {slie laughs, and turns to Grav.me sireetly) Let's go. Hugh, {crossinr/ swifthj to Sir Harry) I say— has she told vou ? Sir Harry. What ? Hugh. Tliat J want to Sir Harry, cih, yes. Hugh. Wish you'd put in a good word. Sir Harry. I" have. Hugh. Awfully good of you— at one time she led me to THE WILDERNESS. 29 supjjose that you — er— and of course you're so deuced ricli that I knew if you did I'd have no eartlily — but you don't. Sir Haeey. Certainly not. I'm her trustee ; it would be illegal. Hugh, {much impressed) Oh, would it? I didn't know— I'm an awful ass really ; people don't know it, but I am. Think she'll ? Sir Haeey. Sure she'll— she said she would. Hugh, (delightedly) Did she ■:■ Edith, (frovi back calling) Must I go alone, Hugh ? Hugh. Coming ! {and he dashes after her) Sir Haeey. What a nuisance they all are. If all this rabble keep on coming here the fairies won't like it— I'm jolly well sure they won't, {his eyes rove lovingly round the scene, and at length come to a standstill at the sight of a note sticking out of a cleft in the trunk of a tree) Well, I'm hanged if somebody hasn't written a note and stuck it up in that tree. How dare they do such a thing ? How positively dare they? {he gets up and approaches it gingerly) Now, who put it there ? It couldn't be the King — he's too small — or the Queen either. No, they couldn't have done it, not even by standing on each other's heads. The fairies wouldn't approve of this sort of thing — I'm jolly well sure they wouldn't. I'd better put a stop to it at once, {he takes out the note and looks at it) Not addressed to a single soul — this is very embarras.sing — it may be meant for me — it must be meant for me — I'm the only person here. I — I hope it isn't important, {he opens it and reads) "If I'm a minute late I don't suppose I shall come at all." — Hm ! concise. Now. I wonder who it's from and to, and how long it's been there. It's alto- gether really -very odd. I think I'll put it back again. {he does so) Hullo, more peojjle — somebody must have told everybody about this place. It isn't half such a cosy cor- ner as it used to be when I was eight years old. {he goes behind one of the bushes) It's killed that rabbit ; I'm jolly ■well sure it has. {and doum through the opening strolls the hnmacnlate youth Jack Kennerly". He conies to the tree and takes the note, opens if. reads it carelessly, tears it up. puts the pieces in his pocket, and proceeds to light a cigar- ette, remarking to himself after about the third puff) Jack. Well, if she thinks I'm going to kick my heels about liere all day she's jolly well mistaken — my train goes at one fifty. Sir Harey. {having recognized voice, says) Hello, Kennerly ! Jack. Who the Hello ! {as Sir Haeey comes round the bush there is a n. awkaril jiause ; it is obvious that Jack is not over glad to sec Sir Haery-) 30 THE WILDERNESS. Sir Hakry. (contentedly sitting down against tree) By gad, isn't it a beautiful day? Jack. It is. (another pause) Sir Harry. Now, ye linovv, I can't help wondering to myself what brings you here. Jack. I was wondering the same about you. Sir Harry. I belong here. I — I understand this place — you don't — you ought to keep on the gravel path, you ought indeed. You seem fidgetty, are you expecting any one? Jack. No. Sir Harry. If she's a minute or two late she isn't coming at all— so I'm not in your way, am I ? Jack. Oh ! you read it ? Sir Harry. Yes. I thought somebody ought to read it. It — it looked as if it was just pining for a little atten- tion. Jack. There's a great charm about you, Milanor. Sir Harry, (blandly) Yes, there is, isn't there ? Are you going to wait here much longer ? Jack. Yes. ' Sir Harry. Oh ! then I think I'll go away. Jack. Thank you. Sir Harry. Don't mention it. Is she pretty ? Jack. Yes. Sir Harey. Lucky man. (he looks at Jack irith a sigh) You've no income, no prospects, nothing in the world but just yourself ; and — and — " If she's a minute or two late, she isn't coming at all.'' (a pause) Kennerly, she means coming. Stand there waiting for her, if you have to wait a thousand years, it's worth it — she's coming just to see you. (he goes a ii'uy through frees — touching a berry here and a fern there as he goes) Jack, to himself) 'Pon my soul. I believe that fellow's mad. (then he begins sniffing) Fish ! I smell bad fish. (he sees tliefish an'rl the bones) How the dickens did this filth get here ? (and he gingerly chucks it all aicay over the bushes. After a mnmenVs pause Mabel comes quickly through the ferns, a little out of breath, but looking very sweet and happy) JIabel. Oh ! I am so sorry, Jack, but I've been look- ing for the twins. Jack. Lost again ? JIabel. Yes. they've been lost for half-an-hour. Jack. They'll turn up. Mabel. Oh yes. I hope so. Jack. They can't climb the wall, and there's no pond for them to fall into, so they're sure to be all right. Mabel. You think so? Jack. Sure so — aren't vou? THE WILDERNESS. 31 Mabel. Yes, I suppose I am. Jack. Then we can liave a minute or two all alone. Mabel. Yes, if you're very good. Jack. I'm always good. Mabel. Pretty good 'i Jack, (softly) Would you like me to be wicked ? Mabel. I don't know. Jack. Would you like to experimentalize ? Mabel, {looking at him) No, I don't think so. Jack. You seem doubtful. Mabel. I'm not a bit. Jack, (getting a little nearer to her) Tliere's a liorrible fascination in doing things j^ou know are quit? wrong. M.\bel. I know there is — that's why I'm liere. Jack, (slowly, with a great deal of intention) Do you mean that ? Mabel. What ? Jack. You know. Mabel. I don't, (their eyes meet, she shrinks a little from him,) What do you look at me like that for ? Jack. I — I'm awfully — head-over-ears in love witli you. Mabel. Does that make you look at me like that? Jack. Yes I Mabel. It isn't a nice look — it — it seems to have a lot behind it. Jack. It has ! Mabel. I'm sorry I came. Jack. That's not true — you — you know it isn't true ! (he bends quite close to her) Mabel, (repidsing him) No, I don't want you any nei^rer. (a pause. He hacks off. she sits on one of the mounds, her chin in her hands, and stares at him) Jack, it's awfully curious, isn't it ? Jack. What is ? Mabel. Why, all this — the way we're going on now. Just fancy you and I being so silly after having known each other all these years ! Jack. It isn't being silly — it's being wise. Mabel. We never dreamed of this sort of thing in London. What's happened ? Both of us seem to be two people now. when we meet with other people about Jack, (bending over her, interrupts softly) There's no fun in that ! Mabel. I know there isn't now, that's the funny part, everything's so changed — but — but — when we're quite alone— and— and— together like this— it all gets so— so curious — it gets — gets as if it were dizzy — doesn't it ? You don't seem to be a bit like you. You don't seem to be a bit like anybody real — you're just a — a— oh ! I can't ex- plain — and I seem to be— a — oh ! not myself a bit— or — no 32 THE WILDERNESS. — yes — I am myself. I'm part of my.self — but the part of me that I know and everybody else knows seems far away. It's awfully curious. I — I wonder why I came ? Jack. Because you couldn't help it. Mabel. I won't come any more ! Jack. Yes, you will ! Mabel. No, I won't ! Jack. I love you, Mabel ! Mabel. Do you ? (a long pause) I don't love yon — at least, I don't'tliink I do. No, I'm quite sure I don't — be- cause, when I think you over, somehow it strikes me that you're quite ordinary, and if I loved you. you couldn't be ordinary, could you'? (then she breaks off, and says in a most matter-of-fact manner) And, besides, I don't believe in love. Jack. Ma;^ I come and sit quite close to you ? (she doesn't answer, he comes quietly and stands beside her) You're not really sorry you came ? Mabel. lam — and — I'm not — that's where it's so funny. (lie pats out his hand and gently touches her hair, then bends to kiss Iter, she shrinks from hiin) No — don't — .Jack — don't, please. Jack, (softly) I kissed you before once, why mayn't I now ? A kiss is such a little thing. Mabel. It isn't — it — it's an awful tiling — that kiss began it all. Jack. Of course it did. Mabel. Why should it be — be so unsettling to one ? No — don't, (slie moves from him) I'm serious about this — I thought you'd understand, (then suddenly) This is the last time I'm ever going to be aloiie with you. Jack. I made up my mind to that while I w-as coming here — you — you — you're not a good influence — you make me per- turbed. Jack, (in a, ichisper) Mab, there isn't a soul anywhere near us — we're all alone. God's beautiful sky, and the trees, and — and the soft grass — and — and — oh, everything that makes life beautiful ; and, if I come and sit quite close to you, like this, and Just put my arm round 3'ou, like this — and — oh ! Mab, I ma}' kiss you again, niaj'n't I ? Mabel, (sloivly) No, Jack — don't. It — it's awfully wrong really. I've been in a sort of a cloud ever since that niglit, but — but — every time I see you now, I know that it all means nothing between you and me. Jack. Why doesn't it ? You liked it vi'lien I kissed you, didn't you? JIabel. Yes, but I don't think that's quite the point. You didn't kiss me, you — you — kissed the woman in me — and — and — that kiss has made a difference. Don't, Jack — you mustn't do it again, (this quite serious and slow) THE WILDEUNESS. gg Jack. As you please, (he saunters away) Mabel. Oi), Jack, if one could only understand what it all means ! Jack, {ii-ith a laugh) Joan. Mabel. OU no. you can't, you can't at all, that's why it's so horrid. Why should you be able to unsettle me, when you can't really understand anything? You talk about " the sky and the trees " — but, oh. Jack, you — you — don't care a bit about them really — you (fimn with a complete change she breaks off) Oh, don't let's talk about this any more — let's go and look for the twins. Jack, (reproachfully) Oh, I say, Mab, don't go on like this ; it isn't as if we had all the morning, my beastly train goes at one fifty, and I shan't see you again, for months. Mabel. That's a good thing. Jack, (coming to her and holding out his arms) Mab ! Mabel. Don't be silly. Jack— we'll forget this last ten days, and go back to where we were before. Jack. We can't. I can't, and I'm sure you can't. Mabel. lean, (a long pause) I am. Jack, (whispers) Are you really, Mabel ? (she is sit- ting on the slope of the mound. He is kneeling close, and a little above lier. Ashe speaks, he steals his hands round her tliroat, and turns her face up towards his, till their eyes meet in a long look. She shivers a little, but makes no resistance ; as he bends his faccnearer her, she whispers) Mabel. Don't, Jack — oh. don't — it's so awfully wrong. (and their lips meet — t}i,en there is a long pause, during ivhich he draws her closer to him. They become listless, she stares out in front of her. He takes her hand a^id strokes it gently with his own. She says slowly) Where are we drifting, do you know. Jack ':' Jack. I'm too happy to think. Mabel. I must think, (a pause) Are you really hiippj'. Jack ? Jack. Yes. Mabel. Really and truly happy ? Jack, (kissing her hands tenderly) Really and truly. Mabel. I'm not. I'm miserable — oh, so miserable! (she flings herself away from him and lies on the mound, her face hidden in her hands) Jack. Mab ! Mab ! Mabel. I — I'm beginning to understand, (she gets up and lualks towards the bushes at one side and pidls at the leaves ; then after a pause, she says quietly) Jack, you — you say you — love me ? Jack, (softly) You know I love yon. (Mabel bows her head a little, still pulling abstractedly at the leaves, passing them through and through her fingers) 3 34 THE WILDERNESS. Mabel. Then you — you'd like to marry me ? (there is a pause — she realizes the silence — looks up quickly, and turns questioningly to him) Why don't you answer ? Jack, (slowly and a Utile lamely) Of course I'd like to marry you. Mabel. Why have you never said anything about it? Jack. Oh, because (he laughs ligldly) — it's impos- sible — it would be too absurd. Mabel, (stares at him in silence, then says quietly ) I don't quite understand that. Jack, (nervously) Wliy, my dear girl, I've no money, you've no money. A pretty figure we should cut if we married. Mabel, (sloivly) "A pretty figure w-e should cut" — and yet you love me. Jack. That's very different. I can't help loving you. Mabel. But you can lielp marrying me, I see. How nice to have so much self-control ! (tlie tun stand staring at each other, till lie drops his eyes and kicks at the turf in embarrassment) I'm glad I cameo\it liere to you to-day — you've steadied me. (a pause. Tliey look at each other curiously) Do you know, duringthis last week, I've been seriously thinking of letting my chances of a brilliant future slip througli my fingers ? Jack. Why? Mabel. You. (looking at him intently) The new " you " — what you said and — and — did— made it seem suddenly wrong of me to marry him. • Jack. I didn't mean Mabel. (intei-rnjjiing sorroivfully) You didn't mean anything, I know that now. Do you remember talking to me chaffingly in London about love, and telling me if ever I took up the subject you'd teach me the rudiments ? I think you've done it, don't you ? But the odd part is, that up to a minute ago, I had begun to think love too serious to be a game. Jack. A minute ago? Mabel. You made me understand tliat love is nothing really ; you can take my hands, you can kiss me, shame me in my own eyes and your own, because you love me. What comes of it? (she laughs a little) " I've no money — you've no money. A pretty figure we should cut." Your own words, Jack, your own words, just think them over. You've brought me back again to common sense. No. no ! Love may be very attractive, but marriage is more tangible. I'll marry Sir Harry and find my amuse- ment in seeing how it turns out. (she gives a hard little laugh and strings on her heel as if to go) Jack. You're angry with me ? Mabel. Ybu're only a cbward. that's all. THE WILDERNESS. 35 Jack. You're unjust. I should be a coward to marry you. I can give you nothing, he can give you everything. (then passionately) Oh, Mabel ! Mabel, {checks him withabitter little smile) Don't worry yourself. I'm very grateful to you, Jack. But for you I might have made a fool of myself. As you love me so very dearly I promise you one thing. I'll write and let you know when the wedding day is fixed. Jack, {shortly) Thank you ! I suppose it will come off? Mabel. Oh yes, with a little tact — I'm very yoimg, but I've been well trained, {then her voice breaks a. little, and she turns and faces him, her lips quivering, her eyes filling with tears) But look here, Jack ; don't go on thinking you're in love and kissing people — it may be all right for you, but — but its a little dangerous for the girl. Jack. You mean Mabel. I mean — that — that — it very nearly made a dif- ference to me. Jack, {coming to her) What difference ? Mabel. It tempted me for a moment to think tliat perhaps there were things in life more important than making one of the biggest matches of the season. Sir Haery comes doion through the trees, is surprised at seeing Mabel. ' Sir Harry. You ! You ! Mabel, {loith a complete cliange of manner turns to Sir Habry vnth a siinny smile) I — I suppose we're trespass- ing, aren't we? Sir Harry. Not a bit. But how on earth did you dis- cover this out-of-the-way corner of the world ? Mabel. I came here to meet Jack, because I thought we should be quite alone. Sir Hakry. {gravely) I see I Then it is clearly my duty to remove myself. Mabel. That doesn't follow. Jack and I have had a very serious talk, but we've said all we had to say — and — and it's over — and he has forgiven me. Sir Harry, {looking from one to the other) What had he to forgive ? Mabel. A great deal, hadn't you. Jack ? Jack, {laughing) A great deal — are you coming back to the house ? Mabel. No, I'm going to sit here and talk to Sir Harry. Sir Harry. Seriously ? Mabel. I always talk seriously. Jack. It's nearly lunch-time. Mabel. I hate lunch ! If I'm late, explain to mamma that I've lost myself in the woods with Sir Harry. 36 THE WILDERNESS. Jack, {sliortly) I will, (he strolls away. She laughs lightly as he movci, then calls after him) Mabel. I'll write to you as I promised, you ought to get the letter in two days. Good-bye. Jack. Thanks ! I slian't see you again then — my train goes at one fifty. Mabel. So it does ! Good-bye. Jack. Good-bye. (and he goes) Sir Harry, (looking at Mabel, who is lying against the mound, her hand.)i clasped behind her head, looking up into the sky) Why have you sent him away 'i Mabel. I haven't. He just went. Sir Harry. Did I drive iiim away ? Mabel. No ; he was going before you came. Sir Harry. I read the note you stuck in tlie tree. Mabel, (calmly) Did you ? Sir Harry. Have vou been having a very serious talk ? Mabel. Very. Sir Harry, do all girls hate themselves as much as I hate myself ? Sir Harry'. Do you hate yourself ? Mabel. Awfully ! So would you if j-ou knew what I've done. Sir Harry. Should I ? (he comes a little towards her) Tell me what you've done. Mabel, (slowly) I'm afraid I've been flirting with Jack. Sir Harry. Have you ? Mabel. Yes, I think I must have been. I didn't mean to. I didn't know it was flirting, he says it was, and I ex- pect he knows more about it than I do. Sir Harry. I shouldn't wonder. Mabel. And then quite suddenly it all got serious, and — and so I wrote that note and came out here to — to ttll him how sorry I was — and — and to ask him to forgive me. It's awful when a person asks you to marry them and you don't want to, and so have to say no. You've never been through that, have you ? Sir Harry. Almost ; you see I've twenty thousand a year: Mabel, (sitting up and facing him) You mean — oh, how horrid for you ! Wliat fools women are — as if money mattered ! (she lies back again) That's what made Jack so angry just now. He said I wouldn't marry him because he was poor. Why, one couldn't help marr3'ing a man if one loved him, however poor he was, could one? Sir Harry. Poverty is a blessing sometimes. Mabel, (suddeidy) Oh, Sir Harry — Sir Hai-ry — why is there such a thing as life ? I wish to goodness I was a beetle I THE WILDERNESS. 37 Sir Harry, (smiling down at her) What would you gain ? Mabel, {wearily) Nothing, I suppose— even beetles get ti-odden on at the finish, (a pause, then she looks up at him suddenly, and says) Did it strike you that I'd been flirting with JacJc ? Sir Habey. I've never seen you together. Mabel. Haven't you ? Oh, I suppose you haven't — but does it strike you as likely ? Sir Harry. No. Mabel. I'm sure I haven't been. Jack must have mis- understood me. Why, I've known Jack since he was a little boy. (she sighs sentimentally) Poor old Jack ! Sir Harry. Poor old Jack ! Mabel. I hope it won't prevent our remaining friends. Sir Harry. I hope not. Mabel. Well, I can't help it if it does, can I? Just fancy what it would be to marry any one one didn't love. Sir Harry. You talk very glibly of love. What do you know about it ? Mabel. Nothing. I only dream. Sir Harry. You have dreamt of love — tell me what " love " seems to you. Mabel, (a little at a loss) Oh — a man Sir Harry. Naturally. Mabel. And, if youlovehim — it — meansthat — that you* love him — that you — that you — oh — that you're able to be your real self when you are with liim. That you — oh, I don't think I know i-eally, anyhow, I can't put it into words. (she turns on her shoulder, and looks up at him) You tell me what you mean by "' love." Sir Harry. When I was about your age, I think I must have had the same ideas about love that j'ou have. Mabel. You can't tell what ideas I have, because I couldn't think of the words to put them in, and tell you. Sir Haeey. It doesn't want words to tell wliat your ideas of love are. He's a fairy prince, (she m.akes an amused grimace to herself, then says sentimentally) Mabel. I shouldn't care if he was a beggar, so long as he was Love. Sir Harry. Wouldn't you really ! (then he moves to- wards her, with a laugh of delight) Oh, what a treat it is to talk to you ! Mabel. You're making fun of me. Sir Haery. I'm not. I'm in deadly earnest. You've no idea what a treat it is to meet some one who wouldn't care a hang if you were a pauper. Now look here, let you and I be thoipughly ourselves and have a talk. Mabel, (falling into his mood at once) Oh, if one 38 THE WILDERNESS. could always be oneself wouldn't it be splendid ? But there are so few people who'd understand. Sir Harry. I'd understand. Mabel. Yes, I think you %vould. Sir Harry. Then if you think that, you know I— I'm worth making a friend of. Mabel. Yes, I know that too. Sir Harry. Then wliy have yo\i avoided me so steadily these last ten days, won't you tell me? You can trust me. Remember "we're both being thoroughly ourselves, so nothing we say matters. Why have you avoided me ? Mabel. Because {very alowly) I've got a friend — a girl friend — who, when she heard we were coming down to stay here, said it was '• clever " of me — as you were a great catch. Sir Harry, {ivith disgust) Isn't it like tliem ? Oh, how I hate my friends ! Mabel. So do I, That one especially. Sir H.4.RRY. And that's why you've Mabel. That's why. (a pause) Isn't it awful for you? Sir Harry. What ? Mabel. Being such a catch. Sir Harry. I've not been caught yet. Mabel. You will be some da)'. Sir Harry. I keep my eyes open. Mabel. What's the good of that ? Love's eyes may be open, but Love is blind. Sir Harry. {gently) Not always, {she rises and walks slowh/ to the centre and stands staring at the fairy ring. He icatches her) Mabel. Do you know wliat that is? Sir Harry. What ? Mabel, {pointing) Tliat. Sir Harry. That circle of pale grass ? Mabel. Yes. Sir Harry, {watching her) Bad turf, of course. M.\BEL. No. {very gravely) That's the fairies' ring. Sir Harry. Is it really ? Mabel. Yes. really. And — they come here when the wicked people in the world are asleep, and solemnly dance round and round. Sir Harry, {anxiously) Do — do you like to believe that? Mabel, {gravely) Yes. Sir Harry. Oh, Mabel, so do I. {he seizes her hands and laughs delightedly) I love to believe those things, they make life beautiful — what — what — ohj what a dear you are ! THE WILDERNESS. 39 Mabel. Don't be foolish, Harry ! Sir Harry. I— I can't }ielp it. Tell me more about the fairies. Mabel. You wouldn't care to hear. Sir Haeby. Wouldn't care? Why— -why— look here — I'll tell you something. Before you came I brought Uncle Jo here, and I told him all about 'em — and he didn't care a bit — ^he kept on reading his stuffy paper all about beastly money and — I told him the fairies wouldn't like it, but he went on just the same. Oh, I'm so glad we've had this talk — we might have been years before we got to know each other as well as we do now. {the bell of the old church clock is heard faintly in the distance) Mabel. Half-past one. Oh, I must go. Sir Harry. Not yet. Oh, don't go yet. What does time matter ? We've all our lives before us. Mabel. You can do as you please. I can't. I'm only a girl — and stern duty Sir Harry. Stern duty says stay here. Why, all our future may be at stake — we're liere in the fairies' ring. (she tries to move her hands from his) No — no — don't — not yet. I — I've got a heap to say. You were talking of love just now — wondering — we both were — what it was. I'll tell you what it is — it's what I've got for you. Mabel. Don't — don't Sir Harry. I must. It^t isn't the stuff they write about in books — it's just." love." Mabel, we've both got to live our lives, and — oh, it's so hard to live one's life effectively alone, but if you'll take pity on me. join hands with me forever as we've joined hands now, what a chance we'd have, wouldn't we ? Why, we could go back into the wilderness with perfect faith, trust and confidence — we could stand shoulder to shoulder and go through with everything without a fear. You're real — I'm real at last. Will you have me, Mabel, will you have me? (then, ivith a cry, she flings herself from him, and throws herself sobbing upon the grass) Mabel. No — no — oh, don't ! No ! No ! Sir Harry, (going to her and kneeling in great distress) My dear ! My dear ! Mabel. Oh, don't ! don't — go away ! — I didn't think — I didn't mean Sir Harry. Hush, dear, hush ! Why, my little one — what is there so terrible in knowing that there is some one ready and willing to lay down his life for you? (a long pause. She gets up and moves away, controlling her- self) Mabel. I — I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be a fool. (then she turns to him, and they look long into each other's eygs — till swiftly she flings out her arms to him with a cry — J,0 THE WILDERNESS. half sob, half laugh) Oli, Hairy, Havry, if you were starving I'd marry you to-morrow. .Sire Harry, (reiij gravely) You'll marry me this clay moutli ? M.vBEL. Don't ask me to — oli, please don't ask me to. (and he slowly draws her to him and kisses her. She stands xxtssive and submissive, and as he releases her she siiik.'< again to the ground and buries he)- face in her hands) Sir Harry, {after a pan.se, raises her very tenderly — holds her at arm's length, looking at her proudly) My wife ! {then he irliispers, bending towards her) What have you got to say '■ Mabel, {slowly) Notliing — notliing at all. except that — {u-ith. a little .tob) I — I'm very tired. Sir Harry, {tenderly) Poor dear, {he puts his arm round her. Tliey turn to go. As they reach the opening in tlip trees he stops and looks doivn) A violet ! Mabel, (quickly) Don't — don't pick that. Sir Harry, (looking irp at her) I wasn't going to, really, {he smiles haj>j)ily} Oh, isn't it all good? (then he lifts his head and stands for a moment listening) Hush, come away, {they back off behind the tree as the golden. heads appear through the bushes and the tn^ins solemnly toddle to the fairy ring and contemplate it gravely) Harold. Tliey've etted up the yaddick. I knowed they was hungry. CURTAIN. ACT III. St'EXE. — A very comfortable home room, half library, half drawing-room. A big fire burning. In front of it, in a big arm-chair. SiR Harry lying reaidng a booh. At a table not far off Mabel sitting working. Tlie curtain rises and then a long silence, no movement. .Sir Harry, {suddenly looking up from his book) Sweetheart ! i\lABEL. {quietly) Yes ? Sir Harry'. Edith and Hugh are cominginabout nine, thev're in a fix over some business or other. ?.fABEL. Pour Editli ! Sir Harry. Poor me .' I'll never be a trustee again, as long as I live, (he goes on reading. Another long THE WILDERNESS. 41 pause. She rises and comes and stands beside him— puts her hand on his head. He puts his hand up and takes hers) Sir Harry, {softly) Dear old sweet ! I feel awfuUv dozy— play something. (Mabel g-oes to piano and play's, and Sir Haery continues dreamily) Life's a beautiful tiling when it goes straight, don't you think so? Mabel. Beautiful, {she leaves the piano and comes down and sits on the floor beside him ; icith one hand he strokes her hair, the other holds up his book. He goes on reading) Mabel. You've taught me such a lot, Harry. Sir Harry. Have I ? Mabel. There's such a lot in you, I don't understand-^ but — but I'm trying. Harry. Sir Harry. Don't worry, it's not worth it. I'm glad you told me to read this book, it's jolly good, {another long pause ; he reads, and she stares at the fire) Mabel. I'm awfully happy, and I know I don't de- serve to be. Sir Haery. (reading) Who does, if you don't ? Mabel. I don't know ; but I know I don't, {a pause) Harry, put down that stuffy book, and talk to me — I — 1 want to say lieaps of things. Sir Harry. Dh, iny dear, I'm at such an interesting part. She's just discovered that her mcither drinks, and it's upset her fearfully, {he chucks the book aiuay) What do you want to say, old sober-sides ? Mabel. Lots of things. Sir Harry. Fire away, (ft pause. Mabel stares into the fire) Mabel. Do lies really matter ? Sir Harry. I don't like lies — but I'm rather old- fashioned. Mabel. Aren't they all right if they're in what turns out to be a good cause ? Sir Harry. I'm afraid lies are rather a matter of temperament. Mabel, {thoughtfully) A good cause! Why did I say that ? How is one to know if it's a good cause ? What's a good cause to-day seems a bad cause to-morrow. Sir Harey. tJm ! Mabel. Don't say um. Now, suppose a person who didn't know anything about anything was shown some- tliing she didn't want, and was made to believe that that something that she didn't want was what she ought to have, and so she set to work and got it. Well, wlien she's got it. she finds out that it is what she wanted, that she couldn't possibly live without it ; ouglit she then to tell what she got, that she really didn't want it when she was getting it, or ought she just to be content because she's got it ? 42 THE WILDERNESS. Sir Harry, (gravely turns and looks at her) Mabel, will vou kindly ring the bell ? Mabel. Why ? Sir Harry, t want to send for two doctors, and probably a strait-jacket. My brain has given way. (she rises and he biirsts out laughing) Wliy, you silly old girl — what on earth are you driving at ? Mabel. Nothing, (lightly) I thought I had a problem to solve, but it doesn't seem to pan out. "What time is Edith coming ? Sir Harry. Not yet. Come back. I didn't mean to be a brute — vi'hat's the problem, old lady ? (she doesn't more till he says very tenderly) Won't you come ? (she comes back and sits on the floor beside him) That's right. Now then, say it all over again right from the beginning, and we'll get it straight. Mabel. No. (she makes herself comfortable) It's only that I know of something that happened once that began all wrong — but turned out all right. Well, is it right going on being all right when one person in it knows that it wouldn't be all right if the other people in it knew that when it began it was all wrong ? Sir Harry. My sweetheart. I don't want to appear stupid, but would you mind writing it down ? (a pause — she looks at him — then she bends over and kisses him, rising and leaving her ha)id resting on. his head) JIabel. It's awfully hard to be — to be — (she falters) to be so — happ3' — if makes things difficult! (then sud- denly changing her ti»ie and conversation) Harry dear, you're getting very tliin on the top. Sir Harry. That's occurred since Thursday — it was Thursday j'our motlier came to Ftaj', wasn't it ? Mabel, (with a sigh) Oh, yes, it was Thursday. Sir Harry. There's a lot of good in j'our mother- misdirected — but good. Mabel. Misdirected, but good. It's awfully funny to watch your mother and my mother together. Sir Harry. I'm afraid they don't hit it off. Mrs. Buckley Weston enters. Mrs. Buckley Weston. How tiresome children are ! Sir Harry. Your children, never. M.vbel. Are they in bed ? JNlRS. BucKLFA" Weston. At last. Sir Harry. When are you going out ? Mrs. Buckley Weston, Shortly before nine. The car- riai;p is ordered. Sir Harry. Oh, all right. THE WILDERNESS. 4,3 Mrs. Buckley Weston. Mabel, it distresses me very much to see you in those dowdy frocks. Mabel. I'm sorry they're dowdy. ' Sir Harry. They' re not, they're beautiful. What on earth would you have her wear ? Mrs. Buckley Weston. I hate people to be eccentric. It's all very well for artists and that class of people ; they live by it, but it's ridiculous for a married woman, with an assui-ed position, to dress like a schoolgirl with nothing at all. Sir Harry. Does she dress like a schoolgirl ? I think she looks perfect. Mrs. Buckley Weston. People who didn't know might think you'd married a bank clerk. Sir HaSry. Why — what Mabel. I dress as I please, mamma — Harry likes it. I like it. I don't think other people matter. Mrs. Buckley Weston. As a girl you were very fond of jewels, and rightly ; you always made the best of your- self. I'm sure you carried my amethysts superbly. Now, your extreme simplicity isn't even mitigated by a bangle. I know it isn't because you haven't got jewels, because while you were engaged Harry was most lavish. Sir Harry. By Jove, it's true. ' I confess I never noticed it, but you have never worn any of those things, have you, Mab ? Mabel, (slowly) Not yet Sir Harry. Why? Don't you like them? You did then. Mabel. Yes, I did then. One of these fine days, when I've justified my existence, I'll make the best of myself again, and burst on j'ou. in all my splendor, or rather your splendor ; till then, I'll just be myself, if you don't mind, mamma. Sir Harry, (looks at her curiously) Is anything the matter ? Mabel, (quietly) No, Harry — no — no — only mamma rubs me the wrong way — and — and I'm rather a cat tliis evening. Mrs. Buckley Weston, (looking at her critically) Who makes those dreadful gowns ? Mabel. I make these dreadful gowns. Sir Harry, (surprised) You do — gracious — why ? MabeIj. I always used to at home — and — I didn't see why I should change. JIrs. Buckley Weston. You used to hate it then. Mabel. Well, I like it now. Mrs. Buckley Weston. Of course, man-iage makes a difference to a girl, but it has no right to make such a difference as that. 44 THE WILDEEXESS. Mabel. Lots of tilings make a difference that have no right to make a difference. BIbs. Buckley Weston. I call it a little ungracious to Harry. He'd naturally like you to be smartly gowned — but no — you niakf yourself a — I can only call it a pinafore — I don't mind that, but you wear it — that's the mistake. Mabel. That will do, nianinia, suppose you keep quite still and read your jjaper till the carriage is round. I'm feeling a little aggressive this evening. Mrs. Buckley Wkston. You always were an odd child, MH,b. Sir Harry. That is her chief charm. Bless you, my sweetheart, (and lie, as he 2^'^sses, takes her hand and presses il loriiajl)/. She siglis, goes to the fire and sits down) I heard the bell, it's the Graemes. I expect. I'll go down, Ave'd better liave our chat in the study. We shan't be long, dear. I'll bring 'em up before they go. Mabel. Very well ! Sir Harry. By the way, whore's mother ? Mrs. Buckley Weston, (ivifli an aggressive sniff) She retired to her room immediately after dinner to write letters — she said good-night to me as she felt they would occupy her until 1 went to the Gordons'. Sir Harry, (apologetically) I'm sure she didn't mean it that way. Mrs. Buckley Weston, (blandly) What way ? Mabel, (aside to Siu Harry) Be quiet — mamma never sees your mother's meanings. Sir Harry. Heavens ! I nearly explained "em ! (he lightly touches his irife's ehi_fl; and goes dincn to the study) Mrs. Buckley ■\^'ESTON. I find Harry's mother a very difficult old woman to entertain. I suppose at her age the intellect does become dim. Mabel. I daresay ! (a long pause. Mabel bends over her irork, lookinr/ U]> now and then in thought at the fire) Mrs. Buckley A\'eston. I see great changes in people. (jtanse) You nre not nearly as chaltj' and light-hearted as you used to be. Mabel. Really ! Mrs. Buckley Weston. I .suppose that's always the wny when one has everj-thing one wants. Mabel. And knows all the time one doesn't deserve it ! Mrs. BuckIjEY Weston. Unless you have been singu- larly secretive you have done nothing to make j'ou un- worthy of anything. Mabel. Haven't I? (a pause) I've lied, I've cheated, I've tricked a man ! IMrs. Buckley AVeston. (in horror) What man ? JIabel. I've only met one man in my life, and I sup- pose that's the reason I cheated him. THE ViaLDERNESS. 45 Mrs. Buckley Weston. Who is he, pray ? Mabel, (rising sudden It/ and tossing her u-orlc avjny) Does it matter? I think I'd better ring. I'm sure tiie carriage must be there by now. Mrs. Buckley Weston, {looldng at tvatcU) No, ten minutes yet. Kindly explain this to me, Mabel. You'jo my daughter, and — it's my duty to see that you're Iiappy. Mabel. I have everything that money can buy and other things beside.s — so it's obvious that I'm perfectly happy. Mrs. Buckley Weston. Your manner makes me posi- tively cold. Mabel. I really wouldn't alter your temperature on, my account, mamma — it can't help me. Mrs. Buckley Weston. But I must po.sitively inter- fere. Mabel, (quietly) No. please. Nobody shall ever inter- fere in my life's affairs again. You've done your duty, you stnrted me cai-efuUy — on the " broad, straight rond that 1=) ideth to" — well, you know the Bible backwards, so I nesJa't tell you where it leads. MRS. Buckley Weston, (horrified) Mabel ! Mabel. Don't worry. I've stopped walking. I'm stand- ing still, thinking of a way out. Mrs. Buckley' W^eston. I haven't the remotest idea what you're talking about, but I almost fancy that j'ou're having a dig at me. Mabel. No, I think I'm " having a dig,'' as you call -it, at myself. . Mrs. Buckley Weston. Why — why — what have you done? Mabel, (rising) What have I done ? I've been a fraud. You want to know the reason of many things — well, here it is — quite quietly. When I think of how we schemed to trap him into this marriage — it gets on my nerves — it — it makes me sick — tliat'sall — it makes me sick — and — it may likewise interest you to know that I have made \\p my mind to get straight. I'm going to tell him, mamma. I'm going to tell him everything. I shall never bo honestly happy till I do. Mrs. Buckley Weston, (aghast) You'll never be happy if you do. Mabel. Do you really think that? (she stares at her mother, then flings from her in despair) Oh! what's the use of asking you what you really think — you never have thought^you never will. Mrs. Buckley Weston. Wliat are yon going to tell him ? Mabel. Everj'thing that lie should have known before he mairiod me. U'> THE WILDERNESS. Mrs. Buckley Weston. You daren't do it no woman would be such a fool. Mabel. I would, (the clock strikes) Servant cyders. Servant. The carriage is at the door, m'm. Mrs. Buckley Weston. Thank you. {exit Servant) Mabel, there are times when I should like to shake you. Mabel. I daresay. ' Mrs. Buckley Weston. If you do — this — this wicked thing — I — I will positively never darken your doors again ! Mabel. I may not have a door to darken. You'd bet- ter get your wraps, mamma, Harrj' hates the horses to be kept waiting. Mrs. Buckley Weston. I — I'm going. Mabel. I wonder what he'll say when I repeat to him our conversation as to the relative xalues tof himself and old Worburn as investments. You recommended Worburn very highly, you may remember. Of course he does own half Park Lane. Mrs. Buckley Weston. You— wicked— wicked woman I Mabel. I'm glad you couldn't convince nie — I'm glad I drew the line at Worburn. Good-night, mamma dear, I hope you'll ha.ve a cheery evening. Mrs. Buckley Weston, {after a pause, during which she glares at her daughter, irho is still playing) I — I can't trust myself to speak to you to-night, I will come to j'our room in the morning, {and she goes out. Wasel plays on and on, till at length she leans her head forward on the music-rest and cries quietly, then after a time she dries her eyes, gets uji and ycalks to the irindoiv, is going to open the shutters, suddenly changes her mind, goes quickly hack to the piano anil dashes into a mad gallop. The Servant announces "Mr. Kennerly'") Mabel, {starts -up in. surprise) Jack — back again? {and Jack Kennerley enters) Why — you are a smprise. When did you get back ? Jack. 'This morning. i\lABEL. And came straight here to see us — that's nice of yiiu. Jack. Of course I came straight here — what else should I do ? M.\BEL. Wasn't your mother glad you weren't killed ? Jack. I hope so. {apause. Mabel looks at him witli a smile, then d.rav;s in a long breath and almost laughs) jNIabel. How funny to look at you, Jack — and — think back. I'm glad you've come — because you've come in liie nick of time — you — the only person in the world w'no knows what I really a.m. THE WILDERNESS. 47 Jack, [looking at her curiously) What do you mean by that? Mabel. You remind me of everything. Jack. You only remind me of youiself. Mabel, {meeting his glance) How ? Jack. Memories. Mabel. Have you memories? Jack. Yes — one must live. Mabel. Life's easier vpithout them. Jack. Life wouldn't be worth having without them. Mabel. I don't think we look at life from the same point of view, (she moves away to the piano and plays — after a pause he goes to the other sideof the piano and leans on it li^atching her, then he says) Jack. Well, Mab ! Mabel, (not looking up) Well, Jack ! Jack. Lady Mabel Milanor. Mabel. Lady Mabel Milanor. Jack. Like to come to the Aquarium ? Mabel. No, thank you. Jack. Like to steal a tea in Bond Street ? Mabel. No, thank you. Jack. Bored ? Mabel. Bored — no. I read about your being wounded. Jack. Oh ! Mabel. Were you pleased ? Jack. It was all beastly uncomfortable. Mabel. Glad to be back ? Jack. Veiy ! Glad to see you again, Mab. Mabel. That's very nice of you. Jack. I — I've often thought of how — and — and where we should meet again. Mabel. Have you ? Jack. You i-emember you told me I was to dine with you often to — to cheer you up ? Mabel. Yes, I remember. Jack. Perhaps you don't want cheering up ! Mabel. I don't — in the sense that I thought I should have wanted it then. You're looking very brown and well. Jack. Jack. I'm splendid — and — and — Mab, marriage hasrf't spoilt you — you — you look ripping ! Mabel, (pleased) Do I ? Jack. Where is your lord and master ? Mabel, (smiling) My lord and master is with Mrs. Hugh and her husband in the study. Jack. The king was in his counting-house counting out his money — the queen was — Mab, I'm awfully glad to see you again — aren't you glad to see me ? Mabel. Of course I am. Jack. 48 THE WILDERNESS. Jack. Then shake hands with me properly. Mabel, (looks at him) I did. (he drops his haivl a little dashed. Another pause, she still playing, lie ivatching her) Jack. Well — tell me things. Mabfx. What sort of things ? J.vCK. I haven't seen you since your marriage. JIabel. No. Jack. Well ? Mabel. Well— what ? Jack. Are you satisfied ? Has the scheme worked well ? Mabel. Yes, thank you, very well. Jack. You've been married — how long is it ? Mabel. Long enough. Jack. Already ? Mabel. I don't mean it that way. (a pause) Jack. And you are perfectly happy ? Mabel. OU, no, I'm not. Jack. Wliy aren't you? Mabel. Because I don't deserve to be. I suppose. Jack. It isn't our fault — it's the rotten state of society. I'm sorry you're not happy — and — yet somehow I'm glad. JIaBEI/. That's friendly of you. Jack. I can't lielp it — I always said what I meant, to you. (going nearer her) Mab, it's been awful out there, thinking of you a.s — as some one else's wife. Mabel, (looliinr/ up at hhn swiftly) What? — (a pause) Oh — really — lias it ? Jack. 1 see what a fool I made of myself that day. Mabel. Do you ? — that's a good tiling, (a pause) Jack. Are you fearfully busy ? JlABEL. What do you mean ? Jack. I mean, can you get out — away at all — can we have — (he laiir/hs- a little airktrardly) Well — there's Bond Street, and the Aciuarium, you know. M.vbel. I think I've passed that, Jack, I've been learu- ing tilings. Jack. Well— now take a holiday — get away from all '■ li^arning,'' let* have a day out — shake a loose leg. V \bel. I tell you, I've been learning things, (she looks at hi in.) What a child you are, Jack! you're as ignorant as mother. Jack, (blankly) Wiiat's happened? ifABEL. The unforeseen. Jack. Don't be a sphinx, Mab, it doesn't suit you. JIabel. Don't be inquisitive, Jack, you're not a woman. Jack. I'm glad of that. THE WILDERNESS. 49 Mabel. Oh, women needn't have a bad time if they choose to be honest. Jack. Marriage has changed you. Mabel. Marriage has tauglit me a great deal. Jack. What ? Mabel. That there are a great many fools in the world. Jack. All of tliem husbands? {she stops in her play- ing and again looks up at him, then says with half a smile) Mabel. No— not all of tliem. Jack. You mean that you think I'm a fool too ? Mabel. Sometimes. Jack. So do I, but one lives to repent one's folly. Do you remember that day in the woods, the day you got en- gaged ? Mabel. I remember. Jack. I was a fool that day, and I've never ceased to regret it. Mabel. What do you regret ? Jack. A lost opportunity. I loved you — you — you loved me and — and you would have been my wife now and not his. I've cursed myself for that folly, often. Mabel. How odd ! I've blessed you for your wisdom. Jack. People have no riglit to be wise when love is at stake. I thought I was doing the wise thing for you when I tried to kill our love. Mabel, (smiles) Poor old Jack I Jack. But life is a poor thing without it, isn't it, Mab? Do you remember telling me you didn't believe in it ? Mabel. Yes ! Jack. But you were wrong, weren't you ? Mabel. Yes, I was wrong. Jack. All the riches in the world mean nothing along- side of love. Mabel. Nothing at all. Jack. I've dreamed of this talk with you often and often, while I've been away. And now — here we are, and — and it's real — and I can hardly believe it. Mab, you're not as glad to see me as I thought you'd be. Mabel. You're so different — why — you — you're almost a stranger, Jack. Jack, (shortly) I'm not changed. Mabel. Aren't you really ? Then if you remember the last time we had a serious talk together — you gently but firmly declined to marry me, so what do you expect me to do now that we meet again — fall into your arms and sob? Jack. Well, not exactly. Mabel. You're =1 very amusing boy, Jack. How long does it take a soldier to grow up and be a man ? Jack. What do you mean ? 50 THE WILDERNESS. Mabel. I mean how long does it take some men to learn common sense ? Jack. Common sense is a curse. Common sense made me give you up. Common sense made j'ou marry Milanor. Mabel. And still you consider it a curse ? Did you fall in love with any one on the steamer? Jack, {angrily) You know I didn't. Mabel, (surprised) How do I ? Jack. You know there's only one woman in the world I ever think of. Mabel, (looks up at him loith a smile) Do you mean me? Jack, (shortly) Y^es. (she rises a?id comes doicn to him) Mabel. Jack, you and I have known each other since we were little children, (she holds out her hand, and leads him to arm-chair by fire. Sits him down in it, puts a cushion for Ids head, then sits opposite to him — a pause) Now, say that over again, quite slowly. There is only one woman in the world you ever think of. Jack. There is only one woman in the world I ever think of. Mabel. And that woman is me ? Jack. You. Mabel. What do you think of me ? How do you think of me ? Jack. Do you want to know ? Mabel. Of course I want to know. Go on. I must understand this very thoroughly. Jack. You — well, I don't quite see what you're driv- ing at. Mabel. Y^ou know me very well — and I want to know how you think of me. I want to see how we stand. When you think of me, what do you think of me as ? As I was that day when I stole off with you to the Aquarium ? Is that how you think of me? Jack. No. Mabel. As I am now — married to Harry ? Is that how you think of me ? Jack. No. Mabel. As the sly, scheming, contemptible husband- hunter, wlio laughed at love, and all the real beauty of life, because she didn't understand it? Jack. No, indeed. ' Mabel. How then? J.ACK. I think of the girl I kissed, that day on the mounds, by the fairy ring. Mabel. I see.- (a long pause) Why do you think of that ? Jace, Because I can't forget it. Can you ? THE WILDERNESS. 51 Mabel. No. {she gets serious, he comes to her and takes her hands) Jack. Mabel, why is it we can't forget? (she vrith- draws her hands and puts them behind tier) Mabel. Would you like to know ? Jack. I do know. Mabel. Well ! (he moves towards her — she cheeks him) No, thank you, sit down and tell me your view of the matter, and then I'll try and tell you mine, (a pause) Go on, I'm listening. Jack. You — aren't you making it rather difficult for me, Mab ? Mabel. Difficult, how — we Imow each other very well. Jack — and — we want to know each other better — don't we? Jack. Yes. Mabel. And I've got a sort of a feeling that this is either our last meeting or our first. Jack. It can't be our first — we met that day. Mabel. We weren't ourselves. I remember trying to explain that to you then. Jack. You're wrong — we were ourselves that day — we've not been quite ourselves since. Mabel. Oh — what's the matter with us now ? Jack. We — we — we're incomplete somehow. Mabel. Oh, are we — what's to be done about it? Jack, (slowly) Let us get back to where we were that day. Mabel, (looking at him a little puzzled) You know that I am married ? Jack. Married, yes^to him — but I love you. Mabel. Jack, are all men like you ? Jack. I hope not. Mabel. So do I. Go on, I'm learning a great deal. You loved me. Out of consideration for my happiness you didn't marry me — you went away, and I married- some one else. Now you've come back — and — and you seem to have something on your mind. Jack. I have. Mabel. What? Jack. I can't tell you now. Mabel. I — I'm much more learned in the world's ways now than I was when you went away. Jack, shall I help vou out ? — you remember so vividly what I was then — that you feel justified in classifying me now — I suppose I have no right to object. Jack. I don't understand that. Mabel. Let's get it clear. Well now— where do we stand ? You think that in reality you and X belong to each other, and he's only an interloper. 53 THE Vv'ILDERNESS. Jack. Isn't he ? If it hadn't been for him we should have been married. Mabel. Well, we're not married and he's here — a very palpable fact. ^Vhat do you .suggest ? — this is very inter- esting. Jack. It's impossible to discuss it like this. Mabel. No, it isn't. Life's a very serious thing, Jack, and it's l.)etter to talk things over thoroughl}- before one tries to alter it to suit oneself. You think we're incom- plete ? Jack. We are incomplete. Mabel. Well, of course that's bad. Now, how are we to complete ourselves? Shall wo go away together to-night to Dieppe — Dieppe is the place people usually go to to com- plete themselves, isn't it? Jack. I'm only thinking of you. You told rae you were unhappy. Mabel. I know — and — it's very kind of you. How should we put the case to Harry? We could — at least I mean I should, of course, leave a letter behind on my dress- ing-table to explain that I lack completion, and have left everything I have of value in life tliat I may seek it. That's right, isn't it — when wives leave their husbands they always leave a letter on their dressing-table, don't they? It's a stiff railway fare, Jack, and I've no money ; have you? Jack. Stop this ! I'm serious. Mabel. Oh, we needn't go — this is his house — v.-e could stay liere, but it would be an undignified hole-in-corner business — wouldn't it? Stand up, Jack — look at me. I've suggested the two only possible methods. You're a man of the world — our happiness — our future is at stake — which do you prefer ? Well, haven't you got anything to say ? Jack. How can I say anytliing wjien you talk like this? Mabel. How else am I to talk — we want to get this thing straight, don't we ? We ouglitn't to go on in this dreadfuUv incomplete state. What are you prepared to do? Jac'k. Anything! Mahel. (tiudch'iihj vith a long oreath) Oh. my God, how you sliow me to myself as I might have been — but for — for liim — you are prepared to do anything. Well, there's one tiling you've got to do, and I think the sooner you do it the better. Open tliat door — go quietly down- stiiii's — take your hat off the hat-rack, and sneak out into the street. Either our last meeting or our first, Jack — it's our last. Jack. You don't mean Mabel, (smiling) I mean that you are the most con- temptible thing I have ever liad tlie misfortune to know, THE WILDERNESS. 53 except myself. I'm not in tho least angry with you, but — but do go and get your hat and run back to Africa as quickly as ever you can. You've done lots of very brave things out there I know — now go and do a lot more, and your mother and sisters and all the other people wlio don't know you will keep on being fearfully proud of you, and you and I who know each other will keep the laugh up our sleeves. Grood-b3'e. (she goes back to the piano and re- sumes her playing — he stands staring at her) Jack. You won't think like tliis to-morrow. Mabel, (playing) "Won't I ? Jack, (moving to her almost fiercely) Do you think I don't know what your life is ? Mabel. I'm sure you don't. Jack. You don't love your husband, and to you life without love must be hell. Mabel. Do get your hat. Jack. Don't play the fool with me. I know, you know I know, (hoarsely) Six months ago you asked me to marry you. It — it was impossible, and so you married Milanor. You're light, of course, to hide your misery even from me ; but I know what things are, and I know what hell must be in your heart. Mabel, (still playing) Harry will be here soon. We miglit talk the hell in my heart over, mightn't we ? Three heads are better than two, even if one's a husband's. Jack. Perhaps you'd like me to read him this letter. Mabel. What letter ? Jack. The letter you wrote me the night you got en- gaged, (she closes the piano with a snap and rises) Mabel. 'That letter ! You've kept it ? (Jack takes it from his pocket) Give it to me please, (she reads it. A pause. She turns, looks at Jack, smiles sadly, and says ivith a long draion breath) I know what's right now — I'll give it to him to-night — and tell him all. Jack. You'd give him that letter— you daren't — why, he'd know you , Mabel. He'd know I didn't love him when I married him — I want him to know it. Jack. Why? Mabel. Because I love him now. (a pause) Jack. You love him — you're sure ? , Mabel, (quietly) I'd sooner starve with him in a cellar than to be the greatest queen in all the world. .Jack. You love him, Mabel ? Mabel, don't— don't play the fool about this— is it true ? Mabel. Quite true. Jack. Then— then (a very long pause) I've been a^ fool — I — I'm very sorry — I beg your paidon. Mabel, (with a bitter tittle laugh that is half a sob) 5i THE WILDERNESS. We've all been fools — worse than fools, at one time or an- other in our lives. I don't tliink 3'ou need apologize to me. (she walka up iu the wiiidoic, and he turns and stares blankly into the fire. At last lie says) Jack. I— I'm not good at tliinking things out — but — but. Mab — if you love him — and he — he loves yon — isn't it better to leave things as they are ? M.A.BEL. No ! Jack, {slowly) Suppose — he Mabel. I know — (long pause) I know the )isk — but — I'm going straight at last, Jack, you don't know how — how awful the whole of my life has been — I mean when I was quite young — truth didn't seem to luatter then. I seem io have lived in an atmosphere of lies — and it was all nice — and ea.sy — and pleasant — but since I've married liini — I've someliow begun to understand that it's trutli that counts — it's truth tliat means life. Jack — the other isn't real. Jack, {very earnestly) Mab, don't tell him. Mabel, {slowly) I can't help telling Jiim. I want to know that I can love him without being ashamed. Jack. I don't know what to say. You must think me an awful cad. The door opens and Mr.s. Graeme enters laughing, followed by her husband and SiK Harry. Mrs. Graeme. You've been a perfect angel, Harry, I don't How are you, Mr. Kennerly? Heavens ! I thought you were in South Africa. Sir Harry. Hallo, Kennerly — how are you ? Glad to see you safe and Jack. Fairly sound. Sir Harry. By gad ! What a time you fellows must have had. Jolly glad I wasn't witli you. Sorry we were so long, Mab — but Editli's notions of business are nearly as staggering as Hugh's. HunH. Oil. you've made it clear now. It's all awfully simple— it was all that " brought forward " business that W(]rried me. Edith. Poor dear old Hugli. I'm afraid you've no brain. I notice that men with your style of over-developed mustache seldom have. Sill Harry. He's the only husband you've got, so you'd much better make the best of him. Mabel, {very brightly) Never mind, Hugh, I've no brain either. Hugh. Somehow I don't miss inine. Edith, (to Hugh) Now if yon'd married Mabel— and {turning to Sir Harry)— :ind yon had married me when I suggested it, how well arranged it would all have been ! THE WILDERNESS. . 55 Sir Harry. Beautiful — but see how fond you are of Hugh ! Edith, (making a face) It's quite pathetic, isn't it? Hugh dear, do sit straight — we're all looking at you. Lady Milanok enters, reading a letter. Sir Harry. That the nine o'clock post ? Lady M. Yes. Only one, for nae. Yours have gone to your study, Harry. Mine's from Aunt Gertrude, and it actually has something in it. Your cousin Ethel is en- gaged, Harry, , Sir Harry, (springing up) To Phil Lennox — I'm jollj' glad. Lady M. Phil Lennox ! don't be ridiculous. Phil hasn't two brass farthings to rub together. Sir Harry, (astonished) Then who else? Lady M. To Worburn, the great brewer. Sir Harry, (horrified) Worburn ! The Worburn ? Lady M. There is only one Worburn. Sir Harry. But she was in love with young Phil Len- nox Lady M. That didn't count. Sir Harry. What do you mean ? — engaged to Wor- burn ! — it — it can't be true. Lady M. It is. All those girls have been lucky — haven't they ? — it's extraordinaiy. Hugh. How have they been lucky ? Edith. In marrying so well. Hugh. Is it lucky to marry that brute Worburn ? Edith. It's lucky to be in control of that brute's mil- lions. Sir Harry, (toho has been standing duwfoitnded) Etliel, poor little Ethel ! — vvlio forced lier into that shame ? (Mabel listens, aiid watches her husband intently during this) Lady MiLANOR. Forced her? Shame? Harry, you've been at that poetry again. Why, slie won him in the teeth of the opposition of all the marriageable girls in the county. Sir Harry, (breaking out almost passionately) I call it damnable ; and tliere's something rotten in tlie life and morality of a country that countenances such things. Lady Milanor. My dear boy Sir Harry. There is — and I repeat it's damnable ! Ethel — one of the sweetest, prettiest, happiest little fairy children that ever sent up the sunshine of her laugh to heaven — to be sold to an old brute like that. Lady Milanor. Harry ! 1 Sir Harry. I mean it. it makes my blood boil. Lady Milanor. She did it of her own free will. 56 THE WILDERNESS. Edith. I saw the way the land lay at Henley — I thought she'd p\i\l it oflf — she was playing him beauti- fully. SiE Harry. You mean to say Ethel Lady Milanob. How is Ethel different from all other marriageable girls ? Sir Harry. If she did this willingly — then I hope to God she in different from other girls. Lady Milanor. Rubbish ! Sir Harky. (fiercely) I tell you that a woman who marries a man for his money or position is a — is a — well, it's a difficult thing to discuss this subject in a drawing- room, but you know what I mean. (Jack Kennerly is standing with hi f; hack to the fire. Mabel is standing by tliejnano. As Sir Harry says this she turns icith a sad little smile and meets Jack's look) Edith. I think your views are absurd. Sir Harry. Jlerely because you won't look at the mat- ter fairly. Edith. According to you there isn't an honest woman in the world. Sir Harry. Rubbish — there are thovisands. Edith. But tliey cease to be when they marry — tliat's so odd. Sir Harry. They don't when they marry men they love. Edith. How many women have you met who married men tliey loved ? Sir Harry. Heaps. Edith. It would be interesting to hear you name one or two, wouldn't it, Mab ? Mabel, (turning uiuatj with a light laugh) I've never thought about it. Edith. Do name one or two, Harry. Sir Harry. Well, there's my mother. Edith. Do you bear your son out in liis statement, Lady Milanor ? Lady JIilanor. My dear, I was a parson's daughter — the middle one of nine. My father's income never ex- ceeded £'3-10 a year. Edith. Are you answered ? (Sir Harry sits doivn with a shrrig of dcspcdr) Hugh, (silti)iii vp and solemnly facing Lady Milanor) Wlien you married Sir Robert, with huge rent rolls, it didn't strike you that you were selling yourself, did it. Lady Milanor ? Lady Milanor. In mj' young days a girl never thought of such things. My dear man, it's her duty to marry well — she owes it to herself — to her people — and — and to any family of her own that she may happen to have after- THE WILDERNESS. 57 wards, [she turns to her son) Take your own case — wliere would you have been if I hadn't married your father ? Edith. Bah — men don't understand these things. Sir Harry. No — and, thank God, some women don't either. Bless you, Mab. {he kisses her as she passes him) We know better — don't we? Mabel, (sitting down at the piano— playing softly) Yes — we know better. (Edith watches Mabel and is struck by her face) Sir Harry, {half to himself) Ethel — poor little Ethel — tlie dearest little thing— oh, God. it's brutal ! Hugh, {slowly unfolding himself from his chair) Well, ye ktiow I don't often talk, but it seems to me it don't matter much. Edie's often told me she didn't give a but- ton for me when we married — but that don't amount to a row of pins, because since that day, don't ye see, I've gi-own on her — and we jog along in double harness — er — swim- mingly, don't we, Edith ? Edith. Of course we do. Sir Harry. Well, all I can say is from the man's point of view, sooner than have been married for my money I'd Edith, {lightly touching him on the arm) Change the conversation. Sir Harry, {laughing) Yes, I'll change the conversa- tion. I beg everybody's pardon, I was getting hot, but {sadly) I was very fond of Ethel — look — the mater, having shattered all my faith in her, has calmly gone to sleep. Edith. She's wiser than you, Harry. Oh, ever so much wiser than you. Lady Milanor. {rousing herself) I wasn't asleep, I was just remembering something, (and she leaves the room hurriedly) Sir Harry. Well, I don't care what any of you say. I stick to my belief, there are real true, happy, honest mar- ried people in the world. Hugh, (turning suddenly to 3 kc^) You're jolly silent, Keimerly, what have you got to say about all this? Jack, (with a laugh) I'm not a married man, so I daren't confess to knowing anything about love. Edith. Very discreet of yovi. Jack. But I do agree with Milanor, there are real true, honest, happy people in the world. I've met two. (he bows sUahtly to Sir Harry and Mabel) Mabel, if you'll forgive me I've got to be off, the mater's rather seedy, and T promised I'd not keep her late, she still waits up for me. Sir Harry, (rising) I say, now you're back, let's see something of you— can you dine with us to-morrow? Jack, (embarrassed) I should be delighted, but 58 THE WILDERNESS. Mabel, (from piano) Do, Jack — it's only just our- selves. Jack. Very well — I — I should like to. {general fare- wells, and he goes) Edith. Well, we must be moving too, if we're to get to the Argyles to-night. Aren't you two coming ? Mabel. No ! Sir Harry. ■ We've realized that there's more in life than dining out and spending hours miserably with people you don't care a bit about. Edith. What is there ? Sir Harry. There is home — you go — we've been out so much we're taking a night oflf the treadmill for a change. Edith. Well, it's been awfully sv^eet of you, Harry, to put us right. If Hugh had only had even a little brain I needn't have worried you. Good-night, dear. (sheMssea Mabel) Sir Harry. You'd better leave tlie letters, Hugh. I'll go through 'em more thoroughly and report on 'em in the morning. Hugh. Right you are ! (he puts a lot of loose letters on the table — on top of SIabel's letter to Jack) Good-bye, old man, and thanks awfully. (Sir Harry and Mabel move tvith them to the door. Sir Harry goes doivnstairs with them, and Mabel stands icatching for an instant, then moves doivn to the fire) Mabel. " The woman who marries a man for money or position is a " Oil, why did he say that to-night ? Sir Harry re-enters vei~y cheerfidly. Sir Harry. Poor old Edith, she does amuse me — mind you, she's really awfully fond of Hugh, and I'm sure they're as happy as kings. Mabel. Despite the fact that she didn't care for hira when she married ? (he has gathered up all the letters Hugh left, including Mabel's letter to Jack) Sir Harry. Bali ! — she cared for him right enough — that's only her pose. Mabel, (slowly) Harry, there is something I want to tell you. Sir Harry, (looking up in surprise) To tell me? (Uncle Jo comes in) Uncle Jo. The jabberers gone? (he makes himself comfortable by the fire) Sir Harry. They have, (still looking at his wife) AVliat do you want to tell me? Mabel, (glancing at Uncle Jo) I — b3'-and-bye — when we are — alone, (she goes out of the room ) Sir Harry, (docketing the various letters) Poor little Ethel ! I can't get that tragedy out of my mind. THE WILDERNESS. 59 Uncle Jo. What tragedy ? Sir Harry. Oh, only a suicide. Uncle Jo. Some one you knew ? Sir Harry, {very sadly) Yes, a dear little girl Ilcnew. (Sir Harry is looking through the letters ivhen he stops suddenly and looks up) Now wliat the devil has this got to do with Edith ? — it's Mab's writing, (he reads it, then he turns and looks at his uncle, who is smoking placidly staring at the fire, then he slowly reads it again, and after a long pause;, he says ivith a little shake in his voice) It's — it's a joke. (Jo turns and looks at him, he has the en- velope in one hand and the letter in another, and is alter- nately staring at them) Uncle Jo. Hullo ! Sir Harry, (lamely) They're playing a joke on me, listen! (he reads the letter) "Dear Jack" — It's to Ken- nerly, her cousin Jack Kennerly, you know. " Dear Jack, I promised to tell you the result of the hunt — the wheel has come full circle — I am there — we are to be married in February — so, I am to rule in Chesterfield Street, and play Lady Bountiful at Fawn Court. Well, I worked hard for it, and I've got it all. It may amuse you to know that I am thoroughly ashamed of myself, and more miserable than I've ever been in my life — it would be a great relief to tell him all about it, and ask him to kindly buy some one else. — ^Yours, Mabel. P.S. — Burn this." (a long pause) Uncle Jo. Practical jokes of that sort are very silly. Sir Harry. Very silly. (Sir Harry sits motionless, staring out in front of him. Uncle Jo watches him un- easily) Uncle Jo. Who wrote the stuff ? Sir Harry. She did. Uncle Jo. I don't believe it — she doesn't play tricks like that. Sir Harry, (quite m,otionless) It — it — isn't like her, is it, but — but she has. Uncle Jo. (crossing to him) Let me see. (he takes it) Where did you find it ? Sir Harry. Among Edith's papers — don't say anything about it — we — we'll pretend we haven't read it, and then the laugh will be upon our side, won't it? (Uncle Jo is turning over the letter, then on the envelope something strikes him) Uncle Jo. The Borcambe postmark. Sir Harry. I saw. Uncle Jo. Date, June the second — why, that was the very day — — Sir Harry, (ve^ry slowly — half to himself) The very day we met by the fairies' ring — the very day we — she wrote it that night — she — the very day we (tlien almost 60 THE WILDERNESS. fierccli/) No — no — don't let's jump to conclusions — lefs think it over — quietly — quite quietly, (a lonr/ pause) It — it can't be true — it — it isn't possible — why — why — I re- member everything she said — and ju.st how she looked wlien she said it. Why — why — she held out her arms to me — and said — Harry — Harry — if you were starving I'd marry you to-morrow. It — it couldn't have been a lie — she — she wouldn't have lied to me then — like that. Oh, no — it isn't true — of course it isn't true. Where's the letter ? (lie rines, picks it up. Then he sinks hack into his chiiir again, and sits silent. Tlien he tvhispers — almost to himself) I remember her last words to him — "I'll write to you — you ought to get tlje letter in two days" — and — and — is this what she promised to write (a long pause — irhiU he stares at tire letter) UxcLE Jo. Hou- did it get here anyhow ? Sir Harry. He must liave brought it back to her to- night. He wanted to marry iier — she refused him the day she accepted me, and — and Ethel loved Lennox and mar- ried Worburn. " How is Ethel different from other mar- riageable girls ? " — my mother said that. (Uncle Jo moves a little towards liini) No, no — give me time. Uncle Jo. I — I've got to think this out. {mid heburic.-,- his head on his folded arms. There's a loiu/ pause, and .something very like a. sob is heard. Uncle Jo grogs to him quickly, almost augrily) Uncle Jo. Come, come — don't be a fool, man — if she did write it slie didn't mean it, and what matter if she did mean it then, slie knows a damn sight better now ! Come, come, I shouldn't give it another thought if I were you. Sir Harey. {lifting a haggard face — says hoarsely) Seven months of it — how she must loathe me ! — Oh, God, what a cur I feel ! Uncle Jo. {looking at him in amazement) You! What have yovi done ? Sir Harry. Robbed her of everything — her youth — her love — her purity — robbed her of heaven and shut her up in hell — oh, why didn't she tell me ? I wouldn't have done it— I didn't know — how could I know? Why didn't she tell me — why didn't .she tell me ? Uncle Jo. If any one is to blame she is. Sir Harry. Doii"'t I She was a child— she didn't un- derstand, {he starts from his chair and walks rapidly to and fro, thinking, then suddenly he breaks out fiercely again) I won't believe it— it's humanly impossible — all her life with me can't have been a piece of acting — it can't have been a lie. She couldn't have kept it up, day and niglit, night and day, for seven months, {he stops, listen- ing intently, hearing her footfall. Then he turns almost pitifully to his uncle, and niiisjjcrs) She's coming — watch THE WILDERNESS. . 61 her — watch her — it can't be all a lie. (Mabel enters quietly, humming softly to herself. The tico men appear absorbed, but are in reality watching her. She is looking about her furtively for the letter. She sees it and picks it up. Sir Harry, iwt looking up, speaks unconcernedly) Whafs that ? Mabel. Nothing of importance — an old letter, (there's a pause) I — am I In the way ? Sir Harry. No. {another pause. Something in his face disturbs her, and she moves towards him) Mabel. Harry dear — you're looking so tired. Uncle Jo, don't make hin\ work any more to-night, (softly) I'll come back again when he has gone, (and she goes out) Sir Harry, (very slowly) Poor little girl ! poor little girl ! Did you see ? did you see ? You heard what she said about the letter, and how she said it. If we hadn't known — we should never have suspected anything. Lies — lies — lies — and I'm the cause of them. I have made truth impossible. Uncle Jo. I don't see that she's to be pitied. Sir Harry. Don't you? If the prospect of marriage with me made her " more miserable than she'd ever been in her life " — what must it be for her now that we're mar- ried and she can't escape me night or day ? Uncle Jo. You're making a mountain out of a molehill — girls get accustomed to anything. Sir Harry. Not to the kisses of a man they hate. Uncle Jo. Rubbish ! Now, look here, forget all about that damned letter — look at it from a sensible man's point. You wanted her — you've got her — slie's made you as happy as a king — and what more can a man expect from a woman ? Sir Harry. A great deal. Uncle Jo. It's unreasonable. I'm sure she makes an admirable wife. Sir Harry, (with a passionate outburst, striking the table with his fist) Makes an admirable wife — what a foul phrase — that's it — she's been an admirable wife ; gentle, uncomplaining, submissive, she's laughed when I laughed, sighed when I sighed — danced to me, sung to me — fed me and kept me comfortable — soothed my body — and satisfied my mind. Oh, the bargain has been honestly fulfilled. I give lier money and position — slie gives up herself, in com- plete surrender — this has gone on for seven months. Uncle Jo, would you like to speculate how often, during these seven months, a longing has come over her to kill either herself or me ? Uncle Jo. You're talking damn nonsense. Here you are, the pair of you — you've made a beautiful home Sir Harry, (interrupting) Oh no — we've never had 02 . THE WILDERNESS. a home. It's been a stable foi- me — a prison for her. (he rises and goes to the fireplace and rings the bell) Uncle Jo. You — you'll think differently in the morn- ing, when you've cooled down. Sir Harry. We'll see — I don't think I"m excited — I'm numbed — that's all. {ajpaiise — he goes hack to the table — then he suddenly shudders and drops Ms head on his hands) The past comes over me in waves and makes me sick, (a Man Servant enters) Pack some things for me, will you ? ^I—I shall be away some days. (Man Servant bows and goes aivay again) Uncle Jo. You're going? Sir Harry. Of course I'm going. Uncle Jo. Without speaking to her ? Sir Harry. I — I'll write— I — I couldn't speak to her of this. I couldn't — man, don't you understand, I love her more than anything in all the wide, wide world ! (and with a dry choking sob, he turns his hack and walks to the far corner of the room. There's a pause. Then he comes hack and resumes his seat at the table. Uncle Jo watches him aiixiously) Uncle Jo. Don't do anything foolish. Sir Harry. I won't ! Uncle Jo. What do you mean to do ? SiK Harry', (sloicly) Notliing — at least, nothing that matters to anybody except myself. (Mabel comes in quietly and says reproachfully. ) Mabel. Oh, Harry— still working ! (Uncle Jo grunts — she goes to the piano and plays softly) Sir Harry, (to his uncle) Go — go — I — I'll try and speak to lier now. (Uncle Jo groes quietly out of the room, and MABBh 2}lays on) Mabel. Harry, I want you to be verj' gentle with me — it's very difficult to tell you — and — and I don't know if you will be able to understand, (he is not looking at her, nor she at him) Do you remember — that day, in Bond Street, saying to me," Come out of the wilderness into tlie light " ? Sir Harry. Yes. Mabel. I pretended to understand you — it was a lie ! (Sir Harry looks up starilcd) That day in the woods — when you asked me to marry you — and — and I said I'd marry you if j'ou were starving — it — it was the truth, and yet it was half a lie then. Sib Harry, (he turns towards her ivcarily) I don't understand ! Mabel. Don't look at me, Harry — you'll never care for me again — after what I've got to tell you — at least I hope .some day you will — but — but it's bound to be a long time. (all the time she plays and he stands by his table listening) I was told to marry you, I made up my mind to marry THE WILDERNESS. 63 you, and I— 1 thought it all out. That day by the fairies' ring — when you came I didn't love you, I thought I loved some one else, he — he had kissed me — and I didn't know — but before that I had laid plans to marry you — then when he kissed me — I — I wanted to marry him. That's where I was such a fool, but he wouldn't, so it was all all right — and so I — I married you. This letter, it's to Jack. 1 wrote it the day we got engaged — it tells how I'd won you — I'd sold myself and that I knew I was a beast — that's all. Sib Harry, {very sadly) If you'd only told me before ! Mabel. I was a coward and afraid. Sir Harry. I would have gone away ages ago. and then it wouldn't have been so bad. (she looks swiftly at him — appealing. Then her head droops a little. A pause) Well, it's no good crying over spilt milk — we can't undo the past — but — but — we'll think of the future, (he turns to her with a look of infinite tenderness) You're very young — just nineteen, aren't you 't It will be better after I've gone away. Mabel. You'll go away ? Sir Harry. I'll go to-night. Mabel, (shivers a little and turns sadly from him) I — I thought you would if I told you. Sib Harry. Tlien you do understand me a little ? Mabel, (looking at him sadly) A little, yes. (then she turns from him and sits listless, and there is a silence. At last she asks him almost pitifully) Wliat shall Jdo ? Sir Harry. I don't know — what do you want to do ? Mabel, Wliatever you wish. , Sir Harry, (shrinking) Don't talk like that — that's finished — you — you're free. Mabel, (wistfully) Won't you let me do what you'd like ine to do ? Sib Harry, (bitterly) Don't — don't — our bargain's over — I"in not your owner now. Mabel. Harry ! (then he breaks out almost fiercely) Sib Harry. Be fair to me ! I've spoilt your life, I know — but it wasn't my fault — nobody told me — I loved you. I meant no harm — be fair to me. (tli.en he stops) I'm sorry — I didn't mean to break out like that, (a long patise) I've thought it all out — there's only one thing to be done. I — I'll go away and — and then, soon, you will be quite free. Mabel, (looks.at him puzzled) Free? — I — free of you? — I don't understand. Sir Harry, (ivith a bitter laugh) Great happiness takes time to realize. Mabel, (shrinking) Harry ! Sir Harry. Don't mind what I say — I'm not quite mj'self. (he laughs a little) You see — you — you've hit me 64 THE WILDERNESS. rather hard — and — and I was very fond of you— I've always tried to do my best for you. I'm going to do all I can for you now. JVIabel. How do you help me by going away ? SirHarey. You'll know soon — but afterwards (he. turns and faces her) I don't care who he is, or what he is, he'll never love you as — as I have loved you — good-bye. (and lie turns to leavr the room — site rises witJi a ci-y) Mabel. No, no — not yet — not yet — Harry, you're very hard — my fault — I've made 3'ou hard — wait a minute — oh, do wait a minute — I {a pause, he comes down to her) Sir Harry. Well ? Mabel. When — when you've gone — after a time — time is a wonderful tiling, Harry, and — it might even make things seem different to you. If it should and you sliould remember me — and what we've been to each other — do you think you'd ever ask me to come home ? Sir Harry. Wliat do you mean ? JIabel. Only that I (she falters — he stares at her, then moves quickly towards her) Sir Harry. You said — ask you to come home — home — where ? Mabel. I've only known one home, that's ours, (then passionately) I didn't mean to ask you this — I thought I could be brave — but, oli. it's so hard to be brave. I'm not asking favors of you. I don't want .you to be good to me — but, later on when you think of me — and I know you'll have to think of me — think of me as I've been these last few months, because that's me, don't think of me as I was, when we were lirst ejigaged. because I — I was different tlien, I didn't know, (his eyes on hers — his voice strained with excitement) Sir Harry. You — what are you saying ? What do you mean ? Mabel. I can't help it — don't be hard on me. Oh, Harry, Harry, let me think that — some day you'll write to me — come to me — send for me — let me come liome again. Sir Harry, (tossing back It is head with a glad shont) Great God — you don't know what you've done, {he rings the bell violently) You've pulled us out of the fire — my dear — oh, my dear, I was going to make such a fool of myself, (the Max Servant enters, followed by Uncle Jo) Have you packed ? Servant. Nearly, Sir Harry. Sir Harry. Then unpack and be damned to you. Uncle Jo. (amazed) What the Sir Harry. Go away ! Go away ! — ^ve don't want you— go away ! (he holds out his arms to his loife) My dear. Oh, my dear. THE WILDERNESS. 65 Mabel. Harry ! (she stands bewildered for an instant — tlien realizing the truth, she goes to him with a sob) Sir Harry. (holding her tightly in his arms, half laughing and half crying) Out of the wilderness into the light at last ! THE END. ep-servfl FOR A NEW DESCRIPTIVE CATALOQUB. {Frenches Standard Drama Continued from 2d page of Cover.) VOL. h. 398 Fine Fealhers 394 Promptflr's Box 395 Iron Master :j96 Elngaged :i97 Pyirmalion & Galatea 398 Leah ■^99 Scrap of Prxpfi , -100 Lost in Lotjdua ' ' VOL. LI. 401 Octoroon 402 Confederate Spy 403 Mariner's Return 4,04 Ruined by Drink 405 Dreami 406 M. P. 407 War 408 Birth VOL. LIL 409 NigliLingale 410Progres8 411 Play 412 Midnight Cliarge 4U Confidential Clerk 414 Snowball 415 Our Retfiment 416 Married for Money Hainlet in Three Acti Gullle & Uulpit FRENCH'S INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHTED EDITION OF THE WORKS OF THE BEST AUTHORS. The following very successful plays have just been issued at 25 cents per copy. A PAIR OF SPECTACLES. Comedy In 3 Acts - - by SvDNKY Qhundy^ author of " Sowing the Wind," &c. S male, 3 female characters. A FOOL'S PAKADISE. An oritrinul play In 3 Acts bv Sydnky ('itr.r>rY, aulhiir ol "Sowing the Wind,'* Ac. 5 male, 4 feuiale characters. THE SILVER SHIELD. An orlginni comedy In 3 Acts by Syonky Gritndv, author of "Sowing the Wind," &c. 5 mak', 3 female "characters. THE GLASS OP FASHIOK. An original com- edy in 4 Acts by Syrnky Ghundy, author of "Sowing the Wind," 4c. £ male, fi female characters. POL. XLt. VOL. XLIV. VOL. XLVn. S21 The Pirate's Legacy 345 Drunkard's Doom 369 Sftriitojra 322 The Charcoal Unrner 34t> Chimney Corner J47 Fifteen YfiirsotaDrunk- 370NeveiT.,o Late to Mend 823 Adelgitlia 371 Lily of France 372 Led Astray 324 Seuor Valienta ?Afi No Thoroughfare fard's ;U9 Peep 0' Day lUia 825 Forest Rose 373 Henry V 826 Duke's Daughter 350 Everybody's Friend ' 374 Unequal Match 827 Camilla's Husbam ;if.l Gen. Gr.ant 375 May or Dolly's Delusion 328 Pure Gold :i5-2 Kathle«n Mavourneen 376 AUatoona ' VOL. XLII. VOL. XLV. Vol. xlviii. 329 TIcltet of Leave Man 3ri3Nick Whim^'s 377 Enoch Arden 330 Fool's Revenge 354 Fruits of the Wine Cup 378 Under the Gas Light 831 O'Nuil the Great 355 Drunkard's Warning 379 Daiiiel'Rochat 332 Handy Andy .556 Temperance Doctor 3811 Caste 333 Pirate of the Islei .557 Aunt Dinah. 3S1 School 334 f anchon ;i58 Widow Freeheart 3B2 Home 336 Little Barefoot .i59 Frou Frou 383 David Gorrick 336 Wild Irish Girl 360 Long Strike ^'OL. XLVI. 384 Ours VOL. XLIIL VOL. XLIX. 337 Pearl of Savoy ;itil Lancers 385 Social Glass 338 Dead Heart :i6i: Lucille 386 Danict Dnice 339 Ten W iehts In a Bar-room 340 DmnbBoYof Manchester :!f,3 Randall's Thumb 387 Two Ruses , ;:K4 Wicked World 388 Adrienne 341 BfllphecortlieMauatob'k ■M5 Two Orphans d89 The Bells 34:3 Cricltct on tiie Hearth ;!i;6 Colleen Bawn 390 Uncle 843 Printer's Devil 3(17 'Twixt Axe and Crown 891 Courtship 344 Meg's Diversion dm Lady Clancarthy 392 iSot Such a Fool THE BALLOON. Farcical comedy In 3 Acts by J. H. D-iUM.EY and Manville Fenn. 6 male, 4 female characters. MISS CLEOPATRA. Farce In 3 Acts by Aethub :Stiiri.1',y. , 7 male, 3 female I'baracters. SIX PERSONS. Comedy Act by I. Zanswill. 1 male, 1 female character. FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE. Comedi- etta in 1 Act by Fcacv Fendall. 1 male, 1 female character. HIGHLAND LEGACY. Comedy In 1 Act by Brandon '^homas,, author of "Charley's Aunt." 5 male, 2 female characters. Contents of Catalogue which is sent Free. Amateur Drama Amateur Operas ArtUies Needed by Amateurs Art of Scene Painting Baker's Reading Club Beards, Whiskers, Mustachesj etc. Bound Sets of I'laj's- Bulwer Lytton's Flays Burlesque Dramas ' Burnt Cork Cabman's Story Carnival of Authors Charfide Pla\a Children's P*Iays Comic Dramas for Male Characters only Costume Books Crape Hair Cumberland Edition Darkey Dramas Dramas for Boys Drawiiip-room Monologues Elocution', Reciters and Speakers Ethiopian Dramas Evening's Entertainment Fairy and Home Plays French's Costumes French's Editioits Freneh's Italian Ofieins French's Parlor CnuH'dies Frehch's Standard and Minor Drama French's Standard and Minor Drama, bound French's Scenes for Amateurs Frobisher'a I'opular Recitals Grand Army Dramas Guide Books for Amateurs Guide to Selecting Plays Hints on Costumes Home Plays for Ladies Irish Plays Irting's Plays Juvenile Plays Make-Up Book Make-Up Boi MnLk Trial Mrs. Jnriey's Wax Works New Pl.iys New Recitation Books Nigger Jokes and StumJ) Spefiones Parlor Magic Parli>r Pantomimes Pieces of Pleasantry Poems for Recitations Plays fur Male Characters only Round Games . Scenei-y Scrijjtural and Historical Dramas Sensation Dramas Serio-Comic Dramas Shadow Piuiluuiimes Shakespear.'b PlaJ's for Amateurs Shakespeare'- Plays Stanley's Dwarfs Spirit Gum Tableaux Vivants Talma Actor's Art Temperance Plays Vocal Music of Shakespeare's Play* Webster's Acting Edition Wigs, etc. VOL. XLT. 321 Ad-ventures' of a Love 322 I ost Child [Letter 323 Court Cards 324 Cox and Box 325 Fortv Winks 326 Wonderful Woman 327 Curious Case 328 Tweedleton's Tail Coat {Frenches Minor Drama Continued from 4th page 0/ Cover.) VOL. XLIIL VOL. XLIV. 337 Sunset 345 Who's To Win Him 338 For Half a Million 346 Which is Which 339 Cable Car .340 Early Bird 341 Alumni Play 342 Show of Hands 343 Barbara 344 Who's Who VOL. XLTI. 329 As Like as Two Peas 330 Presumptive Evidence .'Wl Happy Band 'i''<'l Pinafore 333 Mock Trial 334 My Uncle's Will 336 Happy Pair 336 My Turn Next 347 Cup of Tea 345 Sarah's Young Man 349 Hearts 350 Tn Honor Bound [Law 351 Freezing a Mother-in- 352 My Lord In Livei'y 5AMUEL FRENCH, 26 West 22d St., New York City. ^r* New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request. FRENCH'S MINOR DRAMA. Price 15 Cents each.— Bound Volumes $1.25. VOL. I. 1 The Irish Attnrnef 2 BooLs Mtthe Swan 3 How to Pay the Rent 4 Tbd Loan c.f a Lover 5 The DmA Shot 6 His Liist Less 7 The hiv! ihlePrincfl 6 The <,;o|.|..-i( Farmer VI H, II. irket 9 Pride of th 10 Used Uji 11 The Irish Tiitnr 12 The Barrauk Room 13 Luke the Lalwrer 14 Beautv ami the Beast 15 St. i'atriL-k's Eve 16 Caiitain of llie Watch VUL. IIL 17 The ScLTtt IpeTB 18 Whit.- Horse of the I'ep- 19 The Ji\iThe Old iJii;.r,l ■M Raising tilt 31 Slasher ait< ■.i2 ^;lY:ll Kiir m r,,i-knies 34 Wiiu S|" 35 Bomba-l. ;iK M^u'beih 37 Iri^h Am HH Di'liLfttii 39 The Wl-! 411 All tliril \'i 41 l!rin,-l,^i Wind rr:iaher irk [Hnhl . Bagshaw anil 44 Two Bni 4:. Bnrn tr> >i I Luck 4b Kiss HI llie Hark [jurer 47 'Twould I'lizzle a Cuu- 48 Kill or Cure VOL, VTI. 49 Box and Cox Married and 60 St. CiJ|.i,] [bfttled 61 (i->-lo-t,L-a Tom 62 Tlie L:i«\rrB 63 Jack olH-;,|ar.J 54Th.; T II. i; 55 The M.il.. ap 66 Lad' " VOL. XL 91 O'FlannigannndtheFal- yj Irish Post [rie; s;i My Neiglihor's Wife M Irish Tiir.-r .So P. v., or M.ui and Tiger .s6 To (Jt.li^re Ui-iiEon 87 State Secrt^ls 88 Irish Yankee VOL. XIL 89 A Good Fellow 90 Cherry and Fair Star 91 G;ile Breezely 92 Our Jemimy , Mv W if^-'- riushand K'7 M.insieiir Tonson Us llluitriuui Slriiuger VOL XVIL r^'l ■\nfchiet-:\laKirtr[Mine^ 130 A Live Woman in th^ 131 The Cr.rsair 132Shvlock in:! ,S|ioiled Child i;i4 ICvil E\e ]:','. NollnnV toNtirae l.iti Wariteil a Widow VUL. XVIH. 117 l,r.tti'rv Ticket l.iS Kurtiine'* Finlio ].'.•< is I,,- Jeah.u.'^l 14u Marnt-.l lia2 Yaiikfe L.rid i.i N..rali Cr.;ii,a 14 fJood for N.ithing )5 The F)r't Night 206 The Kim, Boy '07 Waudeiinc Minslrel :o8 Wanted, lium Milliners VOL. XWIl. 209 pu.r Pil.-oddy "The \lu V [rWassf's 1 D.tii't F(.rt;-t vnir Opera 212 Love m Liiery 13 Anthony and C'leopatra ■.'14Tr\iri^' It On 216 M ii;e Stiuck Yankee 216 Young Wife & Old Um- brella VOL. XXVIIL 217 CriHr,lL[je 218 A Family Fatling 219 Adopted 'Child 220 Turned Heads 21 A Match in the D.irk 222 Advice to Husbands 223 Siamese Twins 224 Sent to the Tower VOL. XXIX. 225Someh,.,lv Ehc fi Ladies' Hittle 227 Art..f A. tinu' The La.lv of the Lions Thi' R^izlils of Mni M-, llu^lMri.l's (-Jli.wt 2.n Two Can Play at that name ■32 FiLihliiiKhv Proxy " VOL. 'WX. ■1:1 T'iipr..tMri,-,| F. male :U iVi >■( tU.- I'..|iir..at3 ■;iT l'"orty and Filly [book ■;i6 Whn Stole Ihu Pockei- ■.■17 My Son Diana [sion '.:■> Unwarrnnlahle Intru- '.(9 Mr. and Mr-. White '40 A Quiet F; 'i>4 N I g for Love iiing Sacri6ce let de "Shhm ■holaa Mckleby VOL. XXXIV. 2ii'; The Last of the Pigtails ■J^i'i King Rene's Daughter :i>7 The Grotto Nymph 2r.s A Devilish Good Joke ■Jh;< \ Twice Told Tale 270 Pas de Fascination ill Revolutionary Soldier 272 A Man Without a Head VOL. X\XV. 27.1 The Olio, Part 1 ?74 Tne Olio, Part 2 '.'75 The Olio, Part 3 [ter 27il The TrumpetT's Daugh- 277 s,.uirig Warr,-n v7^ Oreen M.uioLiin Boy 279 That Nose '.'Mj Tom Noddy's Secret XXXVI. -1 ' Onkll (French's Minor Draiti.i Continued on )d pa^e of Cover.) 2^2 \ U.^-iilarFix 2S,; Dick l-orpm 2s4 Vr.yi,i:Scni,p 2S'i Voun? Actress •J-.i\ Call .il N-j. 1—7 ■.'■^7 0,ieT..u.-h .)/ Nature ■.'--5 Two B'hoys VOL. XXXVIL 2S') All the World's a Stage ,"ui Quash, or Nigger Prac- 291 Turn Hiin Out" [ticB 292 Pretty Girls of Stillberg 2'! Atigel of the Attic •i94 Ci re u 111 •itaucesalter Cases 295 Kairy O'Sheal 296 A Supper in Dfxie VOL. XXXV III. 207 IH on Parle Fiancais ■-"IS Who Killed Cuck R..hin 299 Declaration '>( Independ- jnO Heads or Tails [ence 301 t iliitinate Family 302 My Aunt 303 Th'at Rascal Pat '1114 Don Paddy da Bnzan VOL. XXXI X. [ture 305 Too Much for Good Na- 306 Cure for the Fidgets 307 Jack's the Lad 308 Much AdoAboutN'othing 309 AMlvil Dodger no Wiiuiinp Hazard 111 Da\\ Fishing [Ac. .'112 Di.I you ever send your, VOL. XL. 313 An Irishman's Maneuver ■iUCoir^m F'iJime .;i.'. 'Ti' the Darkest Hourhe- 111'. Mi-qiiera.le |l"..n;Dawn .117 ''rowdii.^'lh.. Sf",Mm ils t-i.iod Nii;hl'^ l;.-t 319 Man with the 1 ^irpct Bag 320 Terrible Tinker 5AMUEL FRENCH, 26 West aad Street. New York City. New and Explicit Descriptive Catalogue Mailed Free on Request,