ROYCE. Oh, I beg your pardon. (_He sees who it is._) Oh!

ISOBEL. It’s all right, I—— Are you waiting to see—— (_She

recognises him_) Oh!

(_They stand looking at each other, about six feet apart, not

moving, saying nothing. Then very gently he begins to hum the

refrain of a waltz. Slowly she remembers._)

ISOBEL. How long ago was it?

ROYCE. Eighteen years.

ISOBEL (_who has lived eighty years since then_). So little?

ROYCE (_distressed_). Isobel!

ISOBEL (_remembering his name now_). Austin.

ROYCE. It comes back to you?

ISOBEL. A few faded memories—and the smell of the pine woods. And

there was a band, wasn’t there? That was the waltz they played. _How_

did it go? (_He gives her a bar or two again.... She nods_) Yes. (_She

whispers the tune to herself._) Why does that make me think of——

Didn’t you cut your wrist? On the rocks?

ROYCE. You remember? (_He holds out his wrist_) Look!

ISOBEL (_nodding_). I knew that came into it. I tied it up for you.

ROYCE (_sentimentally_). I have the handkerchief still. (_More

honestly_) Somewhere.... I know I have it. (_He tries to think where

it would be._)

ISOBEL. There was a dog, wasn’t there?

ROYCE. How well you remember. Rags. A fox terrier.

ISOBEL (_doubtfully_). Yes?

ROYCE. Or was that later? I had an Aberdeen before that.

ISOBEL. Yes, that was it, I think.

ROYCE. Thomas.

ISOBEL (_smiling_). Thomas. Yes.... Only eighteen little years ago.

But what worlds away. Just give me that tune again. (_He gives it to

her, and the memories stir again._) You had a pipe you were very proud

of—with a cracked bowl—and a silver band to keep it together. What

silly things one remembers ... you’d forgotten it.

ROYCE. I remember that pink cotton dress.

ISOBEL. Eighty years ago. Or is it only eighteen? And now we meet

again. You married? I seem to remember hearing.

ROYCE (_uncomfortably_). Yes.

ISOBEL. I hope it was happy.

ROYCE. No. We separated.

ISOBEL. I am sorry.

ROYCE. Was it likely it would be?

ISOBEL (_surprised_). Was that all the chance of happiness you gave

her?

ROYCE. You think I oughtn’t to have married?

ISOBEL. Oh, my dear, who am I to order people’s lives?

ROYCE. You ordered mine.

ISOBEL (_ignoring this_). But you _have_ been happy? Marriage isn’t

everything. You have been happy in your work, in your books, in your

friends?

ROYCE (_after thinking_). Yes, Isobel, on the whole, yes.

ISOBEL. I’m glad.... (_She holds out her hand suddenly with a smile_)

How do you do, Mr. Royce? (_She is inviting him to step off the

sentimental footing._)

ROYCE (_stepping off_). How do you do, Miss Blayds? It’s delightful to

meet you again.

ISOBEL. Let’s sit down; shall we? (_They sit down together._) My

father will be coming in directly. You are here to see him, of course?

ROYCE. Yes. Tell me about him—or rather about yourself. You are still

looking after him?

ISOBEL. Yes.

ROYCE. For eighteen years.

ISOBEL. Nearly twenty altogether.

ROYCE. And has it been worth it?

ISOBEL. He has written wonderful things in those twenty years. Not

very much, but very wonderful.

ROYCE. Yes, that has always been the miracle about him, the way he

has kept his youth. And the fire and spirit of youth. You have helped

him there.

ISOBEL (_proudly_). Has it been worth it?

ROYCE (_puzzled_). I don’t know. It’s difficult to say. The world

would think so; but I—naturally I am prejudiced.

ISOBEL. Yes.

ROYCE (_smiling_). You might have looked after _me_ for those eighteen

years.

ISOBEL. Did you want it as much as he? (_As he protests_) No, I don’t

mean “want” it—need it?

ROYCE. Well, that’s always the problem, isn’t it—whether the old or

the young have the better right to be selfish. We both needed you, in

different ways. You gave yourself to him, and he has wasted your life.

I don’t think _I_ should have wasted it.

ISOBEL. I am proud to have helped him. No one will know. Everything

which he wrote will be his. Only _I_ shall know how much of it was

mine. Well, that’s something. Not wasted.

ROYCE. Sacrificed.

ISOBEL. Am I to regret that?

ROYCE. Do you regret it?

ISOBEL (_after considering_). When you asked me to marry you I—I

couldn’t. He was an old man then; he wanted me; I was everything to

him. Oh, he has had his friends, more friends than any man, but he had

to be the head of a family too, and without me—I’ve kept him alive,

active. He has sharpened his brains on me. (_With a shrug_) On whom

else?

ROYCE. Yes, I understand that.

ISOBEL. You wouldn’t have married me and come to live with us all, as

Marion and William have done?

ROYCE. No, no, that’s death.

ISOBEL. Yes, I knew you felt like that. But I couldn’t leave him.

(_ROYCE shrugs his shoulders unconvinced._) Oh, I _did_ love you then;

I _did_ want to marry you! But I couldn’t. He wasn’t just an ordinary

man—you must remember that, please. He was Blayds.... Oh, what are we

in the world for but to find beauty, and who could find it as he, and

who could help him as I?

ROYCE. I was ready to wait.

ISOBEL. Ah, but how could we? Until he died! Every day you would be

thinking, “I wonder how he is to-day,” and I should be knowing that

you were thinking that. Oh, horrible! Sitting and waiting for his

death.

ROYCE (_thoughtfully, recognising her point of view_). Yes.... Yes....

But if you were back now, knowing what you know, would you do it

again?

ISOBEL. I think so. I think it has been worth it. It isn’t fair to ask

me. I’m glad now that I have given him those eighteen years, but

perhaps I should have been afraid of it if I had known it was to be as

long as that. It has been trying, of course—such a very old man in

body, although so young in mind—but it has not been for an old man

that I have done it; not for a selfish father; but for the glorious

young poet who has never grown up, and who wanted me.

ROYCE (_looking into her soul_). But you have had your bad moments.

ISOBEL (_distressed_). Oh, don’t! It isn’t fair.

(_ROYCE, his eyes still on her, begins the refrain again._)

ISOBEL (_smiling sadly_). Oh, no, Mr. Royce! That’s all over. I’m an

old woman now.

ROYCE (_rather ashamed_). I’m sorry.... Yes, you’re older now.

ISOBEL. Twenty and thirty-eight—there’s a world of difference between

them.

ROYCE. I’m forty.

ISOBEL (_smiling_). Don’t ask me to pity you. What’s forty to a man?

ROYCE. You’re right. In fact I’m masquerading here to-day as one of

the younger writers.

ISOBEL (_glad to be off the subject of herself_). Father likes to feel

that he is admired by the younger writers. So if you’ve brought all

their signatures with you, he’ll be pleased to see you, Mr. Royce. I

had better give you just one word of warning. Don’t be too hard on the

1863 volume.

ROYCE. I shan’t even mention it.

ISOBEL. But if _he_ does——? It has been attacked so much that he has

a sort of mother-love for it now, and even I feel protective towards

it, and want to say, “Come here, darling, nobody loves you.” Say

something kind if you can. Of course I know it isn’t his best, but

when you’ve been praised as much as he, the little praise which is

withheld is always the praise you want the most.

ROYCE. How delightfully human that sounds. That is just what I’ve

always felt in my own small way.

_WILLIAM comes fussily in._

WILLIAM. Is Mr. Royce——? Ah, there you are! (_Looking round the

room_) You’ve done the flowers, Isobel? That’s right. Well, Mr. Royce,

I hope they’ve been looking after you properly.

ROYCE. Oh, yes, thanks.

WILLIAM. That’s right. Isobel—(_he looks, in a statesmanlike way, at

his watch_)—in five minutes, shall we say?

ISOBEL. Yes.

WILLIAM. How is he just now?

ISOBEL. He seems better to-day.

WILLIAM. That’s right. We shall drink the health in here.

ISOBEL. Very well.

[_She goes out._

WILLIAM. A little custom we have, Mr. Royce.

ROYCE. Oh, yes.

WILLIAM. We shall all wish him many happy returns of the day—you

understand that he isn’t dressed now until the afternoon—and then I

shall present you. After that, we shall all drink the health—you will

join us, of course.

ROYCE (_smiling_). Certainly.

WILLIAM. Then, of course, it depends how we are feeling. We may feel

in the mood for a little talk, or we may be too tired for anything

more than a few words of greeting. You have the Address with you?

ROYCE. Yes. (_Looking about him_) At least I put it down somewhere.

WILLIAM (_scandalised_). You put it down—somewhere! My dear Mr. Royce

(_he searches anxiously_)—at any moment now—— (_He looks at his

watch._) Perhaps I’d better—— (_A Maid comes in with the port and

glasses_) Parsons, have you seen a—— (_He makes vague rectangular

shapes with his hands._)

ROYCE. Here it is.

WILLIAM. Ah, that’s right. (_As the Maid puts the tray down_) Yes,

there, I think, Parsons. How many glasses have you brought?

PARSONS. Seven, sir.

WILLIAM. There should be six. One—two—three——

PARSONS (_firmly_). Madam said seven, sir.

WILLIAM. Seven, yes, that’s right. When I ring the bell, you’ll tell

Miss Isobel that we are ready.

PARSONS. Yes, sir.

(_She goes out, making way for MARION, SEPTIMA, and OLIVER as

she does so._)

WILLIAM. Ah, that’s right. Now then, let me see.... I think——

Marion, will you sit here? Septima, you there. Oliver—Oliver, that’s

a very light suit you’re wearing.

OLIVER. It’s a birthday, Father, not a funeral.

WILLIAM (_with dignity_). Yes, but whose birthday? Well, it’s too late

now—you sit there. Mr. Royce, you sit next to me, so that I can take

you up. Now are we all ready?

SEPTIMA (_wickedly_). Wait a moment. (_She blows her nose_) Right.

WILLIAM. All ready? (_He rings the bell with an air._)

(_There is a solemn silence of expectation. Then OLIVER shifts a

leg and catches his ankle against SEPTIMA’S chair._)

OLIVER. Damn! Oo! (_He rubs his ankle._)

WILLIAM (_in church_). S’sh!

(_There is another solemn silence, and then the Maid opens the

door. BLAYDS, in an invalid chair, is wheeled in by ISOBEL. They

all stand up. With his long white beard, his still plentiful white

hair curling over his ears, OLIVER BLAYDS does indeed “look like

somebody.” Only his eyes, under their shaggy brows, are still

young. Indomitable spirit and humour gleam in them. With all the

dignity, majesty even, which he brings to the part, you feel that

he realises what great fun it is being OLIVER BLAYDS._)

BLAYDS. Good-day to you all.

MARION (_going forward and kissing his forehead_). Many happy returns

of the day, Father.

BLAYDS. Thank you, Marion. Happy, I hope; many, I neither expect nor

want.

(_WILLIAM, who is just going forward, stops for a moment to jot

this down on his shirt cuff. Then, beckoning to ROYCE to follow

him, he approaches._)

WILLIAM. My heartiest congratulations, sir.

BLAYDS. Thank you, William. When you are ninety, I’ll do as much for

you.

WILLIAM (_laughing heartily_). Ha, ha! Very good, sir. May I present

Mr. A. L. Royce, the well-known critic?

BLAYDS (_looking thoughtfully at ROYCE_). We have met before,

Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. At Bournemouth, sir. Eighteen years ago.

BLAYDS (_nodding_). Yes. I remember.

WILLIAM. Wonderful, wonderful!

BLAYDS (_holding out his hand_). Thank you for wasting your time now

on an old man. You must stay and talk to me afterwards.

ROYCE. It’s very kind of you, sir. I——

WILLIAM. Just a moment, Mr. Royce. (_He indicates SEPTIMA and

OLIVER._)

ROYCE. Oh, I beg your pardon. (_He steps on one side._)

WILLIAM (_in a whisper_). Septima.

SEPTIMA (_coming forward_). Congratulations, Grandfather. (_She bends

her head, and he kisses her._)

BLAYDS. Thank you, my dear. I don’t know what I’ve done, but thank

you.

OLIVER (_coming forward_). Congratulations, Grandfather. (_He bends

down and BLAYDS puts a hand on his head._)

BLAYDS. Thank you, my boy, thank you. (_Wistfully_) I was your age

once.

(_WILLIAM, who has been very busy pouring out port, now gets busy

distributing it. When they are all ready he holds up his glass._)

WILLIAM. Are we all ready? (_They are._) Blayds!

ALL. Blayds! (_They drink._)

BLAYDS (_moved as always by this_). Thank you, thank you. (_Recovering

himself_) Is that the Jubilee port, William?

WILLIAM. Yes, sir.

BLAYDS (_looking wistfully at ISOBEL_). May I?

ISOBEL. Yes, dear, if you like. William——

WILLIAM (_anxiously_). Do you think——? (_She nods, and he pours out

a glass._) Here you are, sir.

BLAYDS (_taking it in rather a shaky hand_). Mr. Royce, I will drink

to you; and, through you, to all that eager youth which is seeking,

each in his own way, for beauty. (_He raises his glass._) May they

find it at the last! (_He drinks._)

ROYCE. Thank you very much, sir. I shall remember.

WILLIAM. Allow me, sir. (_He recovers BLAYDS’ glass._) Marion, you

have business to attend to? Oliver——? Septima——?

MARION. Yes, dear. (_Cheerfully to BLAYDS_) We’re going now,

Grandfather.

BLAYDS (_nodding_). I shall talk a little to Mr. Royce.

MARION. That’s right, dear; don’t tire yourself. Come along, children.

(_OLIVER comes along. SEPTIMA hesitates. She “means to have it out

this time.”_)

SEPTIMA (_irresolutely_). Grandfather——

BLAYDS. Well?

MARION. Come along, dear.

SEPTIMA (_overawed by the majesty of BLAYDS_). Oh—all right. (_They

go. But she will certainly have it out next time._)

WILLIAM (_in a whisper to ROYCE_). The Address? (_To BLAYDS_)

Mr. Royce has a message of congratulation from some of the younger

writers, which he wishes to present to you, sir. Mr. Royce——

(_ROYCE comes forward with it._)

BLAYDS. It is very good of them.

ROYCE (_doubtfully_). Shall I read it, sir?

BLAYDS (_smiling_). The usual thing?

ROYCE (_smiling too_). Pretty much. A little better than usual, I

hope, because I wrote it.

(_WILLIAM is now at the writing-table, waiting hopefully for

crumbs._)

BLAYDS (_holding out his hand_). Give it to me. And sit down, please.

Near me. I don’t hear too well. (_He takes the book and glances at

it._) Pretty. (_He glances at some of the names and says, with a

pleased smile_) I didn’t think they took any interest in an old man.

Isobel, you will read it to me afterwards, and tell me who they all

are?

ISOBEL. Yes, dear.

BLAYDS. Will that do, Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. Of course, sir.... I should just like you to know, to have the

privilege of telling you here, and on this day, that every one of us

there has a very real admiration for your work and a very real

reverence for yourself. And we feel that, in signing, we have done

honour to ourselves, rather than honour to Blayds, whom no words of

ours can honour as his own have done.

BLAYDS. Thank you.... You must read it to me, Isobel. (_He gives her

the book._) A very real admiration for _all_ my work, Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. Yes, sir.

BLAYDS. Except the 1863 volume?

ROYCE. I have never regretted that, sir.

BLAYDS (_pleased_). Ah! You hear, Isobel?

ROYCE. I don’t say that it is my own favourite, but I could quite

understand if it were the author’s. There are things about it——

BLAYDS. Isobel, are you listening?

ISOBEL (_smiling_). Yes, Father.

ROYCE. Things outside your usual range, if I may say so——

BLAYDS (_nodding and chuckling_). You hear, Isobel? Didn’t I always

tell you? Well, well, we mustn’t talk any more about that.... William!

WILLIAM (_jumping up_). Sir?

BLAYDS. What are you doing?

WILLIAM. Just finishing off a few letters, sir.

BLAYDS. Would you be good enough to bring me my Sordello?

WILLIAM. The one which Browning gave you, sir?

BLAYDS. Of course. I wish to show Mr. Royce the inscription—(_to

ROYCE_)—an absurd one, all rhymes to Blayds. It will be in the

library somewhere; it may have got moved.

WILLIAM. Certainly, sir.

ISOBEL. Father——

BLAYDS (_holding up a hand to stop her_). Thank you, William.

(_William goes out._) You were saying, Isobel?

ISOBEL. Nothing. I thought it was in your bedroom. I was reading to

you last night.

BLAYDS (_sharply_). Of course it’s in my bedroom. But can’t I get my

own son-in-law out of the room if I want to?

ISOBEL (_soothingly_). Of course, dear. It was silly of me.

BLAYDS. My son-in-law, Mr. Royce, meditates after my death a little

book called “Blaydsiana.” He hasn’t said so, but I see it written all

over him. In addition, you understand, to the official life in two

volumes. There may be another one called “On the Track of Blayds in

the Cotswolds,” but I am not certain of this yet. (_He chuckles to

himself._)

ISOBEL (_reproachfully_). Father!

BLAYDS (_apologetically_). All right, Isobel. Mr. Royce won’t mind.

ISOBEL (_smiling reluctantly_). It’s very unkind.

BLAYDS. You never knew Whistler, Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. No, sir; he was a bit before my time.

BLAYDS. Ah, he was the one to say unkind things. But you forgave him

because he had a way with him. And there was always the hope that when

he had finished with _you_, he would say something still worse about

one of your friends. (_He chuckles to himself again._) I sent him a

book of mine once—which one was it, Isobel?

ISOBEL. _Helen._

BLAYDS. _Helen_, yes. I got a postcard from him a few days later:

“Dear Oliver, rub it out and do it again.” Well, I happened to meet

him the next day, and I said that I was sorry I couldn’t take his

advice, as it was too late now to do anything about it. “Yes,” said

Jimmie, “as God said when he’d made Swinburne.”

ISOBEL. You’ve heard that, Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. No. Ought I to have?

ISOBEL. It has been published.

BLAYDS (_wickedly_). I told my son-in-law. Anything which I tell my

son-in-law is published.

ISOBEL. I always say that father made it up.

BLAYDS. You didn’t know Jimmie, my dear. There was nothing he couldn’t

have said. But a most stimulating companion.

ROYCE. Yes, he must have been.

BLAYDS. So was Alfred. He had a great sense of humour. All of us who

knew him well knew that.

ROYCE. It is curious how many people nowadays regard Tennyson as

something of a prig, with no sense of humour. I always feel that his

association with Queen Victoria had something to do with it. A Court

poet is so very un-stimulating.

BLAYDS. I think you’re right. It was a pity. (_He chuckles to himself.

ROYCE waits expectantly._) I went to Court once.

ROYCE (_surprised_). You?

BLAYDS (_nodding_). Yes, I went to Osborne to see the Queen. Alfred’s

doing I always suspected, but he wouldn’t own to it. (_He chuckles._)

ISOBEL. Tell him about it, dear.

BLAYDS. I had a new pair of boots. They squeaked. They squeaked all

the way from London to the Isle of Wight. The Queen was waiting for me

at the end of a long room. I squeaked in. I bowed. I squeaked my way

up to her. We talked. I was not allowed to sit down, of course; I just

stood shifting from one foot to the other—and squeaking. She said:

“Don’t you think Lord Tennyson’s poetry is very beautiful?” and I

squeaked and said, “Damn these boots!” A gentleman-in-waiting told me

afterwards that it was contrary to etiquette to start a new topic of

conversation with Royalty—so I suppose that that is why I have never

been asked to Court again.

ISOBEL. It was your joke, Father, not the gentleman-in-waiting’s.

(_BLAYDS chuckles._)

ROYCE. Yes, I’m sure of that.

BLAYDS. Isobel knows all my stories.... When you’re ninety, they know

all your stories.

ISOBEL. I like hearing them again, dear, and Mr. Royce hasn’t heard

them.

BLAYDS. I’ll tell you one you _don’t_ know, Isobel.

ISOBEL. Not you.

BLAYDS. Will you bet?

ISOBEL. It’s taking your money.

BLAYDS. Mr. Royce will hold the stakes. A shilling.

ISOBEL. You will be ruined. (_She takes out her purse._)

BLAYDS (_childishly_). Have you got one for me too?

ISOBEL (_taking out two_). One for you and one for me. Here you are,

Mr. Royce.

ROYCE. Thank you. Both good ones? Right.

BLAYDS. George Meredith told me this. Are you fond of cricket,

Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. Yes, very.

BLAYDS. So was Meredith, so was I.... A young boy playing for his

school. The important match of the year; he gets his colours only if

he plays—you understand? Just before the game began, he was sitting

in one of those—what do they call them?—deck chairs, when it

collapsed, his hand between the hinges. Three crushed fingers; no

chance of playing; no colours. At that age a tragedy; it seems that

one’s whole life is over. You understand?

ROYCE. Yes. Oh, very well.

BLAYDS. But if once the match begins with him, he has his colours,

whatever happens afterwards. So he decides to say nothing about the

fingers. He keeps his hand in his pocket; nobody has seen the

accident, nobody guesses. His side is in first. He watches—his hand

is in his pocket. When his turn comes to bat, he forces a glove over

the crushed fingers and goes to the wickets. He makes nothing—well,

that doesn’t matter; he is the wicket-keeper and has gone in last. But

he knows now that he can never take his place in the field; and he

knows, too, what an unfair thing he has done to his school to let them

start their game with a cripple. It is impossible now to confess....

So, in between the innings, he arranges another accident with his

chair, and falls back on it, with his fingers—his already crushed

fingers this time—in the hinges. So nobody ever knew. Not until he

was a man, and it all seemed very little and far away.

ISOBEL. What a horrible story! Give him the money, Mr. Royce.

BLAYDS. Keep it for me, Isobel. (_ISOBEL takes it._)

ROYCE. Is it true, sir?

BLAYDS. So Meredith said. He told me.

ROYCE. Lord, what pluck! I think I should have forgiven him for that.

BLAYDS. Yes, an unfair thing to do; but having done it, he carried it

off in the grand manner.

ISOBEL. To save himself.

BLAYDS. Well, well. But he had qualities. Don’t you think so,

Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. I do indeed.

(_There is a silence. The excitement of the occasion has died

away, and you can almost see BLAYDS getting older._)

BLAYDS (_after a pause_). I could tell you another story, Isobel,

which you don’t know.... Of another boy who carried it off.

ISOBEL. Not now, dear. You mustn’t tire yourself.

BLAYDS (_a very old man suddenly_). No, not now. But I shall tell you

one day. Yes, I shall have to tell you.... I shall have to tell you.

ISOBEL (_quietly, to ROYCE_). I think perhaps——

ROYCE (_getting up_). It is very kind of you to have seen me, sir. I

mustn’t let you get tired of me.

BLAYDS (_very tired_). Good-bye, Mr. Royce. He liked the 1863 volume,

Isobel.

ISOBEL. Yes, Father.

ROYCE. Good-bye, sir, and thank you; I shall always remember.

ISOBEL (_in a whisper to ROYCE_). You can find your way out, can’t

you? I don’t like to leave him.

ROYCE. Of course. I may see you again?

ISOBEL (_her tragedy_). I am always here.

ROYCE. Good-bye.

[_He goes._

BLAYDS. Isobel, where are you?

ISOBEL (_at his side again_). Here I am, dear.

BLAYDS. How old did you say I was?

ISOBEL. Ninety.

BLAYDS. Ninety.... I’m tired.

ISOBEL. It has been too much for you, dear. I oughtn’t to have let him

stay so long. You’d like to go to bed now, wouldn’t you? (_She walks

away to ring the bell._)

BLAYDS (_a frightened child_). Where are you going? Don’t leave me.

ISOBEL (_stopping_). Only to ring the bell, dear.

BLAYDS. Don’t leave me. I want you to hold my hand.

ISOBEL. Yes, dear. (_She holds it._)

BLAYDS. Did you say I was ninety? There’s no going back at ninety.

Only forward—into the grave that’s waiting for you. So cold and

lonely there, Isobel.

ISOBEL. I am always with you, dear.

BLAYDS. Hold me tight. I’m frightened.... Did I tell you about the

boy—who carried it off?

ISOBEL. Yes, dear, you told us.

BLAYDS. No, not that boy—the other one. Are we alone, Isobel?

ISOBEL. Yes, dear.

BLAYDS. Listen, Isobel. I want to tell you——

ISOBEL. Tell me to-morrow, dear.

BLAYDS (_in weak anger, because he is frightened_). There are no

to-morrows when you are ninety ... when you are ninety ... and they

have all left you ... alone.

ISOBEL. Very well, dear. Tell me now.

BLAYDS (_eagerly_). Yes, yes, come closer.... Listen, Isobel. (_He

draws her still closer and begins._) Isobel....

(_But we do not hear it until afterwards._)

ACT II

SCENE: _The same room a few days later._

_OLIVER comes in dressed in the deepest black, having just returned

from the funeral of OLIVER BLAYDS. He looks round the room, and then

up at the old gentleman who has now left it for ever, and draws his

first deep breath of freedom. Then, sitting at his ease on the sofa,

he takes out a cigarette and lights it._

* * * * *

OLIVER (_blowing out smoke_). Ah!

_SEPTIMA comes in._

SEPTIMA (_seeing the cigarette_). Hallo!

OLIVER (_a little on the defensive_). Hallo!

SEPTIMA. I think I’ll join you. Got one?

OLIVER. I expect so. (_He offers her one._)

SEPTIMA. Thanks. (_He lights it for her._) Thanks. (_She also takes

her first deep breath._) Well, that’s that.

OLIVER. What did you think of it?

SEPTIMA. It’s rather awful, isn’t it? I mean awe-inspiring.

OLIVER. Yes. I don’t know why it should be. Did you cry? You looked

like it once or twice.

SEPTIMA. Yes. Not because it was Grandfather. Not because it was

Oliver Blayds. But—just because.

OLIVER. Because it was the last time.

SEPTIMA. Yes.... I suppose that’s why one cries at weddings. Or

at—no, I’ve never been to a christening.

OLIVER. You have. And I bet you cried.

SEPTIMA. Oh, my own, yes....

OLIVER. Wonderful crowd of people. I don’t think I ever realised

before what a great man he was.

SEPTIMA. No, one doesn’t....

OLIVER (_after a pause_). You know there’s a lot of rot talked about

death.

SEPTIMA. A lot of rot talked about everything.

OLIVER. Here was Oliver Blayds—the greatest man of his day—seen

everything, known everybody, ninety years old, honoured by all—and

then he goes out. Well!

SEPTIMA. Nothing is here for tears, in fact.

OLIVER. Not only nothing for tears, but everything for rejoicings. I

don’t understand these religious people. They’re quite certain that

there’s an after life, and that this life is only a preparation for

it—like a cold bath in the morning to the rest of the day. And yet

they are always the people who make the most fuss, and cover

themselves with black, and say, “Poor Grandfather!” ever after. Why

poor? He is richer than ever according to them.

SEPTIMA. Can’t you _see_ Oliver Blayds in Heaven enjoying it all? What

poetry he would make of it!

OLIVER. “A Child’s Thoughts on Waking”—eh? I’ve laughed at it, and

loathed it, but it was the real stuff, you know. What’s the

text—“Except ye be born again as a little child, ye shall not enter

into the kingdom of Heaven”—is that right? _His_ thoughts—on waking

in Heaven.

SEPTIMA (_thoughtfully_). Septima Blayds-Conway. It’s rather a thing

to be, you know.

OLIVER. I used to think once that, when the old boy died, I’d chuck

the Blayds and just be plain Oliver Conway. I’m beginning to think I

was wrong.... Oliver Blayds-Conway.

SEPTIMA. The well-known statesman. Sorry—I mean engineer.

OLIVER. Well, I wonder about that.

SEPTIMA. What sort of wondering?

OLIVER. Things will be a bit different now. I’m the only genuine

Blayds left——

SEPTIMA. Oh, indeed!

OLIVER. You know what I mean—male Blayds. And it’s rather up to me

not to let the old man down. Oliver Blayds-Conway, M.P. There’s

something in it, you know. I was thinking about it in the church. Or

should I drop the Conway and just be Blayds? Or Conway Blayds and drop

the Oliver? It’s a bit of a problem.

SEPTIMA. I shall keep the Blayds when I marry. Drop the Conway, of

course.

OLIVER. It’s a dirty game, politics, but that’s all the more reason

why there should be some really good people in it. Irreproachable

people, I mean. Conway Blayds.... (_And the Duke of Devonshire, and so

forth_).

SEPTIMA (_after a pause_). I wonder what Aunt Isobel wants to talk to

us all about.

OLIVER. The old man’s last dying instructions or something. I was

rather hoping to get down to the Oval. I’ve got the day off. Bit of a

change to go to the Oval when you really _have_ buried your

grandfather. But perhaps I ought to be careful if I’m going in

seriously for politics.

SEPTIMA. Noll, have you realised that it’s all going to be rather

interesting now?

OLIVER. Of course it is. But why particularly?

SEPTIMA. Father.

OLIVER. You mean he’s lost his job.

SEPTIMA. Yes. It’s terribly exciting when your father’s out of work.

OLIVER. He’ll have more work than ever. He’ll write Blayds’ life.

That’ll take him years.

SEPTIMA. Yes; but, don’t you see, he hasn’t any real standing now. Who

is he? Only Blayds’ late secretary. Whose house is this now, do you

think?

OLIVER. Depends how the old man left it.

SEPTIMA. Of course it does. But you can be quite sure he didn’t leave

it to father. I think it’s all going to be rather exciting.

OLIVER. Well, you won’t be here to see it, my child.

SEPTIMA. Why not?

OLIVER. I thought you were going to live with that Ferguson girl.

SEPTIMA. Not so sure now. There’s no hurry anyway. I think I’ll wait

here a bit, and see what happens. It’s all going to be so different.

OLIVER. It is. (_He smiles at his thoughts._)

SEPTIMA. What?

OLIVER (_smiling broadly_). It’s just on the cards that it’s my house

now. (_Looking round the room._) I don’t think I shall let father

smoke in here.

SEPTIMA. What fun that would be!... I hope he’s left Aunt Isobel

something.

OLIVER. Yes, poor dear, she’s rather in the air, isn’t she?

SEPTIMA. It’s funny how little we know _her_.

OLIVER. We’ve hardly ever seen her, apart from the old man. I don’t

suppose there’s much to know. A born nurse, and that’s all there is to

it.

SEPTIMA. Perhaps you’re right.

OLIVER. I’m sure I am.

_WILLIAM and MARION come on._

WILLIAM (_continuing a conversation which has obviously been going on

since BLAYDS died_). I say again, Oliver Blayds ought to have been

buried in the Abbey. The nation expected it. The nation had the right

to it.

MARION. Yes, dear, but we couldn’t go against his own wish. His last

wish.

WILLIAM. If it was his wish, why did he not express it to me?

MARION. He told Isobel, dear.

WILLIAM. So we are to believe. And of course I was careful to let the

public understand that this was so in my letter to the _Times_. But in

what circumstances did he express the wish? (_He suddenly realises

OLIVER’S cigarette and says sharply_) Oliver, you know quite well that

your grandfather—— (_But then he remembers where grandfather is._)

OLIVER (_not understanding_). Yes?

MARION. I think Father meant—of course Grandfather can’t see you

now—not to mind.

WILLIAM. I should have thought your instinct would have told you that

this is hardly the moment, when Oliver Blayds is just laid to rest——

MARION. Your cigarette, dear.

OLIVER. Oh! (_He throws it away._) Sorry, Mother, if you mind. I

didn’t think it would matter either way—now.

MARION. That’s all right, dear.

WILLIAM. As I was saying, in what circumstances did he express the

wish?

MARION. What, dear?

WILLIAM. On his death-bed, his faculties rapidly going, he may have

indicated preference for a simple ceremony. But certainly up to a few

weeks of his passing, although it was naturally a subject which I did

not care myself to initiate, he always gave me the impression that he

anticipated an interment in the Abbey.

MARION. Yes, dear. I daresay I shall feel it more later, but just now

I like to think of him where he wanted to be himself.

SEPTIMA. After all, Shakespeare isn’t buried in the Abbey.

WILLIAM. I don’t think that that has anything to do with it, Septima.

I am not saying that the reputation of Oliver Blayds will suffer by

reason of his absence from the national Valhalla—he has built his own

monument in a thousand deathless lines; but speaking as an Englishman,

I say that the Abbey had a right to him.

MARION. Well, it’s too late now, dear.

WILLIAM. I shall speak to Isobel again; I still feel sure she was

mistaken.

MARION. Very well, dear. But don’t worry her more than you need. I

feel rather uneasy about her. She has been so strange since he died.

WILLIAM. She will be worried enough as it is. Of all the extraordinary

wills to make!

(_OLIVER and SEPTIMA exchange glances._)

OLIVER. Why, what’s he done? We were wondering about that.

WILLIAM. Yes, yes, yes, you will know in good time, my boy.

OLIVER. Why not now? This seems a very good time.

SEPTIMA. Are we too young to be told?

WILLIAM (_ignoring them_). Marion, don’t let me forget that message to

the public—returning thanks for their sympathy, and so on. (_Moving

to the desk._) We might draft that now.

MARION. Yes, dear.

SEPTIMA. Oliver was asking you about the will, Father.

WILLIAM. Yes, yes, another time. Marion——

OLIVER. I suppose I am mentioned in it?

WILLIAM. Of course, of course.

OLIVER. To what extent?

(_WILLIAM is too busy to answer._)

SEPTIMA. Father, don’t be so childish.

WILLIAM (_outraged_). Septima!

MARION. Septima dear, you oughtn’t to talk to your father like that.

WILLIAM (_with dignity_). I think you had better go to your room.

SEPTIMA (_unmoved_). But that’s the whole point. Is it my room?

(_WILLIAM looks bewildered._) Or is it Oliver’s, or Mother’s, or Aunt

Isobel’s?

OLIVER. I believe he has left everything to Aunt Isobel.

MARION. Oh no, dear, he wouldn’t do that. He would never have

favourites. Share and share alike.

SEPTIMA. Half for you and half for Aunt Isobel?

MARION. Of course, dear. And all to you and Oliver after our death.

And something down to you now. I forget how much. (_To WILLIAM_) What

was it, dear?

WILLIAM (_sulkily_). A thousand pounds each.

OLIVER. Sportsman! What about you, Father? Do you get anything?

MARION. Father gets a thousand too.

SEPTIMA. Then why “of all the extraordinary wills——”?

MARION. It’s because of Aunt Isobel being made sole executor—literary

executor too—isn’t that it, dear?

WILLIAM (_mumbling_). Yes.

OLIVER. Oho! Meaning that _she_ runs Blayds now? New editions,

biographies, unpublished fragments, and all the rest of it?

MARION. Naturally she will leave it in Father’s hands. But, of course,

Father is a little hurt that Grandfather didn’t think of that for

himself.

OLIVER. Oh, well, I don’t suppose it matters much. Then that’s why she

wants to see us all now.

(_WILLIAM grunts assent; and stands up as ISOBEL comes in._)

WILLIAM. Ah, here you are.

ISOBEL. I’m sorry if I have kept you waiting.

MARION. It’s all right, dear.

WILLIAM. I was just telling Marion that I am more than ever convinced

that Oliver Blayds’ rightful resting-place was the Abbey.

ISOBEL (_shaking her head wearily_). No.

WILLIAM. I was saying to Marion, even if he expressed the wish in his

last moments for a quiet interment——

ISOBEL. He never expressed the wish, one way or the other.

WILLIAM. My dear Isobel! You distinctly told us——

MARION. You did say, dear.

ISOBEL. Yes, I owe you an apology about that.

WILLIAM (_indignantly_). An apology!

ISOBEL. There is something I have to tell you all. Will you please

listen, all of you? Won’t you sit down, William? (_They sit down._)

MARION. What is it, dear?

WILLIAM. You’ve been very mysterious these last few days.

ISOBEL. I didn’t want to say anything until he had been buried. I

shall not be mysterious now; I shall be only too plain.

SEPTIMA (_to OLIVER_). I say, what’s up?

(_OLIVER shrugs his shoulders._)

WILLIAM. Well?

ISOBEL. I told you that Father didn’t want to be buried in the Abbey,

not because he had said so, but because it was quite impossible that

he should be buried in the Abbey.

WILLIAM. Impossible!

MARION. I’m sure the Dean would have been only——

ISOBEL. Impossible because he had done nothing to make him worthy of

that honour.

WILLIAM. Well!

OLIVER. Oh no, Aunt Isobel, you’re wrong there. I mean when you think

of some of the people——

ISOBEL. Will you listen to me, please? And ask any questions

afterwards. You may think I’m mad; I’m not.... I wish I were.

WILLIAM. Well, what is it?

(_She tells them; it is almost as if she were repeating a lesson

which she had learnt by heart. BLAYDS, you may be sure, made a

story of it when he told her—we seem to hear snatches of that

story now._)

ISOBEL. Nearly seventy years ago there were two young men, boys

almost, twenty-three, perhaps, living together in rooms in Islington.

Both poor, both eager, ambitious, certain of themselves, very certain

of their destiny. But only one of them was a genius. He was a poet,

this one; perhaps the greater poet because he knew that he had not

long to live. The poetry came bubbling out of him, and he wrote it

down feverishly, quick, quick before the hand became cold and the

fingers could no longer write. That was all his ambition. He had no

thoughts of present fame; there was no time for it. He was content to

live unknown, so that when dead he might live for ever. His friend was

ambitious in a different way. He wanted the present delights of fame.

So they lived together there, one writing and writing, always writing;

the other writing and then stopping to think how famous he was going

to be, and envying those who were already famous, and then regretfully

writing again. A time came when the poet grew very ill, and lay in

bed, but still writing, but still hurrying, hurrying to keep pace with

the divine music in his brain. Then one day there was no more writing,

no more music. The poet was dead. (_She is silent for a little._)

WILLIAM (_as her meaning slowly comes to him_). Isobel, what are you

saying?

MARION. I don’t understand. Who was it?

OLIVER. Good Lord!

ISOBEL (_in the same quiet voice_). The friend was left—with the body

of the poet—and all that great monument which the dead man had raised

for himself. The poet had no friends but this one; no relations of

whom he had ever spoken or who claimed him now. He was dead, and it

was left to his friend to see that he won now that immortality for

which he had given his life.... His friend betrayed him.

SEPTIMA. I say!

WILLIAM. I _won’t_ believe it! It’s monstrous!

MARION. I don’t understand.

ISOBEL (_wearily_). One can see the temptation. There he was, this

young man of talent, of great ambition, and there were these works of

genius lying at his feet, waiting to be picked up—and fathered by

him. I suppose that, like every other temptation, it came suddenly. He

writes out some of the verses, scribbled down anyhow by the poet in

his mad hurry, and sends them to a publisher; one can imagine the

publisher’s natural acceptance of the friend as the true author, the

friend’s awkwardness in undeceiving him, and then his sudden

determination to make the most of the opportunity given him.... Oh,

one can imagine many things—but what remains? Always and always this.

That Oliver Blayds was not a poet; that he did not write the works

attributed to him; and that he betrayed his friend. (_She stops and

then says in an ordinary matter-of-fact voice_) That was why I thought

that he ought not to be buried in the Abbey.

OLIVER. Good Lord!

WILLIAM (_sharply_). Is this true, Isobel?

ISOBEL. It isn’t the sort of story that I should make up.

MARION. I don’t understand. (_To WILLIAM_) What is it? I don’t

understand.

WILLIAM. Isobel is telling us that Oliver Blayds stole all his poetry

from another man.

MARION. Stole it!

WILLIAM. Passed it off as his own.

MARION (_firmly to ISOBEL_). Oh no, dear, you must be wrong. Why

should Grandfather want to steal anybody else’s poetry when he wrote

so beautifully himself?

SEPTIMA. That’s just the point, Mother. Aunt Isobel says that he

didn’t write anything himself.

MARION. But there are the books with his name on them!

ISOBEL. Stolen—from his friend.

MARION (_shocked_). Isobel, how can you? Your own father!

WILLIAM. I don’t believe it. I had the privilege of knowing Oliver

Blayds for nearly thirty years and I say that I don’t believe it.

ISOBEL. I knew him for some time too. He was my father.

WILLIAM. When did he tell you this?

OLIVER. It’s a dashed funny thing that——

WILLIAM. If you will allow me, Oliver. I want to get to the bottom of

this. When did he tell you?

ISOBEL. That last evening. His birthday.

WILLIAM. How? Why? Why should he tell you?

ISOBEL. He seemed frightened suddenly—of dying. I suppose he’d always

meant to tell somebody before he died.

MARION. Why didn’t you tell us before, dear?

WILLIAM (_holding up his hand_). Please. Let me. (_To ISOBEL_) Why

didn’t you tell us before?

ISOBEL. I promised not to say anything until he was dead. Then I

thought I would wait until he was buried.

MARION. You couldn’t have made a mistake? You couldn’t have

misunderstood him?

ISOBEL (_smiling sadly_). No.

WILLIAM. You say that this other man died—how many years ago?

ISOBEL. Sixty, seventy.

WILLIAM. Ah! (_Sarcastically_) And sixty years after he was dead he

was apparently still writing poetry for Oliver Blayds to steal?

ISOBEL. He had already written it—sixty years ago—for Oliver Blayds

to steal.

OLIVER. Good Lord! What a man!

SEPTIMA. You mean that his last volume——

WILLIAM (_holding up his hand_). Please, Septima.... Take this last

volume published when he was over eighty. You say that everything

there had been written by this other man sixty years ago?

ISOBEL. Yes.

WILLIAM. And the manuscripts were kept by Oliver Blayds for sixty

years, written out again by him and published in his old age as his

own?

ISOBEL. Yes.

WILLIAM (_triumphantly_). And can you explain how it was that he

didn’t publish them earlier if he had had them in his possession all

those years?

ISOBEL. He didn’t dare to. He was afraid of being left with nothing to

publish. He took care always to have something in reserve. And that’s

why everybody said how wonderfully vigorous and youthful his mind was

at eighty, how amazing that the spirit and fire of youth had remained

with him so long. Yes, it was the spirit and fire of youth, but of a

youth who died seventy years ago.

OLIVER (_impressed_). Gad, you know, fancy the old chap keeping it up

like that. Shows how little one really knows people. I had no idea he

was such a sportsman.

SEPTIMA. Such a liar.

OLIVER. Same thing, sometimes.

SEPTIMA. I call it perfectly disgusting.

WILLIAM. Please, please! We shan’t arrive at the truth like that. (_To

ISOBEL_) You want me to understand that Oliver Blayds has never

written a line of his own poetry in his life?

MARION. Why, Grandfather was always writing poetry. Even as a child I

remember——

SEPTIMA (_impatiently_). Mother, can’t you understand that the Oliver

Blayds we thought we knew never existed?

MARION. But I was telling you, dear, that even as a child——

SEPTIMA (_to OLIVER_). It’s no good, she’s hopelessly muddled.

WILLIAM. Yes, yes.... Do you wish me to understand——

ISOBEL. I wish you to know the truth. We’ve been living in a lie, all

of us, all our lives, and now at last we have found the truth. You

talk as if, for some reason, I wanted to spread slanders about Oliver

Blayds now that he is dead; as if in some way all this great lie were

my doing; as if it were no pain but a sort of a pleasure to me to find

out what sort of man my father really was. Ask me questions—I want

you to know everything; but don’t cross-examine me as if I were

keeping back the truth.

WILLIAM (_upset and apologetic_). Quite so, quite so. It’s the truth

which we want.

MARION. As Grandfather said so beautifully himself in his “Ode to

Truth”—What are the lines?

SEPTIMA (_hopelessly_). Oh, Mother!

MARION. Yes, and that was what I was going to say—could a man who

wrote so beautifully about Truth as Grandfather did tell lies and

deceive people as Isobel says he did? (_To ISOBEL_) I’m sure you must

have made a mistake, dear.

OLIVER. You never told us—what was the other fellow’s name?

WILLIAM. I am coming to that directly. What I am asking you now is

this. Did Oliver Blayds write no line of poetry himself at all?

ISOBEL. He wrote the 1863 volume.

WILLIAM (_staggered_). Oh!

OLIVER. The wash-out? By Jove! Then _that_ explains it!

ISOBEL. Yes, that explains it. He tried to tell himself that he was a

poet too; that he had only used the other man in order to give himself

a start. So he brought out a volume of his own poems. And then when

everybody said “Blayds is finished,” he went back hastily to his

friend and never ventured by himself again. And that explains why he

resented the criticism of that volume, why he was so pleased when it

was praised. It was all that he had written.

WILLIAM (_defeated now_). Yes, that would explain it. (_To himself_)

Oliver Blayds!...

(_They are all silent for a little._)

SEPTIMA. Then he didn’t write “Septima.”

OLIVER. Of course he didn’t. You’re illegitimate, old girl.

SEPTIMA. Who did?

ISOBEL. The other man’s name was Jenkins.

SEPTIMA (_in disgust_). Christened after Jenkins!

OLIVER. Oliver Jenkins-Conway, M.P. Good Lord!

SEPTIMA. It will have to be Oliver Conway now.

OLIVER (_gloomily_). Yes, I suppose so. But everybody will know.

WILLIAM (_still fighting_). His friends, Isobel. The great friends he

had had. The stories he has told us about them—were those all lies

too? No, they couldn’t have been. I’ve seen them here myself.

MARION. Why, I remember going to see Uncle Thomas once when I was a

little girl—Carlyle—Uncle Thomas I called him.

OLIVER. Well, if it comes to that, _I_ can remember——

ISOBEL. Oh, the friends were there. They accepted him for what he

seemed to be, just as we did. He deceived them as cleverly as he

deceived us.

WILLIAM. Tennyson, Browning, Swinburne——

ISOBEL (_bitterly_). Oh, he had his qualities. He talked well. There

were his books. Why should they doubt him?

WILLIAM. Yes.... Yes.

(_There is silence for a little._)

MARION (_going over to ISOBEL and shaking her by the arm_). Is it

really true what you’ve been saying?

ISOBEL. Oh, how I wish it weren’t.

MARION (_to WILLIAM_). _Is_ it true?

WILLIAM. He told her. She wouldn’t make it up.

MARION. But there’s all that beautiful poetry. I’ve been brought up to

believe in it all my life. I’ve lived on it. And now you’ve taken it

away, and you’ve left—nothing.

ISOBEL. Nothing.

MARION (_quite lost_). I don’t understand. (_She goes back in a vague,

bewildered way to her chair...._)

SEPTIMA (_defiantly_). The poetry is still there—and Jenkins.

OLIVER (_shouting_). Shut up, Tim!

SEPTIMA (_angrily_). Shut up about what?

OLIVER. Jenkins. Don’t rub it in. It’s much worse for Mother than it

is for us.

SEPTIMA. Oh, all right! But you don’t gain anything by not being frank

about it.

(_The little storm dies down as suddenly as it began. There is

another silence._)

OLIVER. Good Lord! I’ve just thought of something. (_They look at

him._) The money.

WILLIAM. The money?

OLIVER. All this. (_He indicates the room_) Who does it belong to?

WILLIAM. According to the provisions of your Grandfather’s will——

OLIVER. Yes, but it wasn’t his to leave.

WILLIAM. Not his to——

OLIVER. No, Jenkins.

SEPTIMA. I thought we weren’t going to mention Mr. Jenkins.

OLIVER. Shut up, Tim, that’s different. (_To the others_) All the

money comes from the books—at least I suppose it does—and the books

aren’t his, so the money isn’t either.

WILLIAM (_turning in a bewildered way to ISOBEL_). Is that so?

ISOBEL (_with a shrug_). I suppose so.

WILLIAM. You say he had no family, this other man.

ISOBEL. None who bothered about him. But there must be relations

somewhere.

WILLIAM. We shall have to find that out.

ISOBEL. Anyhow, as Oliver says, the money isn’t ours. (_Bitterly_) I

wouldn’t touch a penny.

WILLIAM. Some of the money would be rightfully his. There was that one

volume anyhow. It may not have been praised, but it was bought. Then

there’s the question of his investments. It may prove that some of his

most profitable investments were made about that time—with that very

money. In which case, if it could be established——

ISOBEL (_indignantly_). Oh, how can you talk like that! As if it

mattered. It’s tainted money, all of it.

WILLIAM. I think that is going too far. Very much too far. I

recognise, of course, that we have certain obligations towards the

relatives of this man—er—Jenkins. Obviously we must fulfil those

obligations. But when that is done——

MARION (_to ISOBEL_). We shall be generous, of course, dear, that’s

only fair.

OLIVER. Yes, but what are you going to do if no relations turn up?

WILLIAM (_turning doubtfully to ISOBEL_). Well, there is that, of

course.

MARION. In that case we couldn’t do anything, could we, dear?

ISOBEL. We could throw the money into the sea; we could bury it deep

in the ground; we could even give it away, Marion.

WILLIAM. That’s going much too far.

OLIVER. It’s rather a problem, you know.

SEPTIMA. It isn’t a problem at all. May I speak for a moment? I really

think I have a right to say something.

WILLIAM. Well?

SEPTIMA. I want to say this. Oliver and I have been brought up in a

certain way to expect certain things. Oliver wanted to be an engineer;

he wasn’t allowed to, as Grandfather wanted him to go into politics. I

wanted to share a studio with a friend and try and get on with my

painting; I wasn’t allowed to, as Grandfather wanted me at home.

Perhaps if Oliver had been an engineer, he would have been doing well

by now. Perhaps if I had had my way, I might have been earning my

living by now. As it is, we have been brought up as the children and

grandchildren of rich people; I can’t earn my own living, and Oliver

is in a profession in which money means success. Aunt Isobel has been

telling us how a young man of Oliver’s age, seventy years ago, was

cheated out of his rights. Apparently she thinks that the best way now

of making up for that is to cheat Oliver and me out of our rights. I

don’t agree with her.

OLIVER. Yes, there’s a good deal in that. Well done, Tim.

ISOBEL. It’s hard on you, I know. But you are young; you still have

your lives in front of you, to make what you will of them.

SEPTIMA. That’s what old people always say to people of our age, and

they seem to think that it excuses any injustice.

MARION. Poor Grandfather!

SEPTIMA. Yes, but I don’t see why it should be “Poor Oliver” and

“Poor Septima” too. Suppose any relation did turn up—(_to

WILLIAM_)—suppose they do, Father. Well, what will they all be?

Grand-nephews, or fifth cousins twice removed or something, who have

never heard of Jenkins, who never did anything _for_ Jenkins, and on

whose lives Jenkins has had no effect whatever. Is there any sort of

justice which says that they ought to have the money? But Noll and I

have given up a good deal for Oliver Blayds, and he owes us something.

ISOBEL (_with ironic sadness_). Oh yes, you have given up a good deal

for Oliver Blayds. It ought to be paid back to you.

WILLIAM (_still trying to be fair_). There’s another thing we must

remember. Even if this other man——

SEPTIMA. Jenkins.

WILLIAM. Yes, even if he wrote all the books—always excepting the

1863 volume—even so, it was Oliver Blayds who arranged for their

publication. He could fairly claim, therefore, an agent’s commission

on all moneys received. Ten per cent.

ISOBEL (_scornfully_). Oliver Blayds, the well-known commission agent!

WILLIAM. Ten per cent of all moneys, therefore, is, in any case,

rightfully ours.

MARION. Only ten per cent, dear. That seems very little.

WILLIAM. I am working on a minimum basis. Isobel says, “Throw all the

money into the sea; it doesn’t belong to us.” I say no, that is going

too far. We have one volume which is certainly ours. We have the ten

per cent commission which is certainly ours. There may be other sums

due to us, such as the profits of certain of the investments. We can

look into the matter carefully at our leisure. The great point, I

take it, is that we want to be fair to the relatives of this man

Jenkins, but also fair to the relatives of Oliver Blayds, who, as

Septima points out, have at least done something to earn any money

that comes to them.

MARION (_to ISOBEL_). We want to be fair to everybody, dear.

SEPTIMA. Well, I think you are going to give the Jenkinses much too

much. What right have the Jenkinses got to _any_ of the money which

Grandfather made by investing?

OLIVER. Well, it was Jenkins’ money which was invested.

MARION. We shouldn’t like to think of them starving because we weren’t

quite fair.

SEPTIMA. They let Jenkins starve. They didn’t worry about _him_.

OLIVER. Of course they didn’t, they weren’t even born.

WILLIAM. The whole question is extremely difficult. We may require an

arbitrator, or, at any rate, a qualified chartered accountant.

MARION. Yes, that would be better, dear. To let somebody else decide

what is fair and what isn’t.

ISOBEL (_in a low voice_). Oh, it’s horrible ... horrible.

MARION. What, dear?

ISOBEL. The way you talk—about the money. As if all that we had lost

was so much money. As if you could estimate the wrong that Oliver

Blayds did to his friend in the terms of money. I said the money was

tainted. It is. How can you bear to touch it? How can you bear to

profit by such a betrayal?

SEPTIMA. That’s pure sentiment, Aunt Isobel. Quite apart from not

being reasonable, it isn’t even practical. Where are you going to

draw the line? If you’re going to throw the money away, then you’ve

got to throw the house away and everything in the house away—all our

clothes to begin with. Because everything—everything that belongs to

us owes itself to that betrayal of seventy years ago.... We should

look very funny, the five of us, walking out of the house to-morrow,

with nothing on, and starting life all over again.

MARION. Septima, dear, I don’t think that’s quite——

(_SEPTIMA begins to laugh to herself at the picture of them._)

OLIVER. That isn’t fair, Tim. An extreme case makes anything seem

absurd. (_Earnestly to ISOBEL_) You know, I do see what you mean and I

do sympathise. But even if we kept all the money, would that matter

very much? All this man Jenkins wanted was to leave an immortal name

behind him. You’ve just told us that nothing else interested him.

Jenkins—I don’t say it’s much of a name, but neither was Keats for

that matter. Well, Grandfather robbed him of that, and a damned shame

too, but now we are giving it back to him. So all that’s happened is

that he’s had seventy years less immortality than he expected. But he

can’t worry seriously about that, any more than Wordsworth can worry

because he was born two hundred years after Shakespeare. They are all

equally immortal.

MARION (_to ISOBEL_). You see, dear, that’s quite fair to everybody.

ISOBEL. One can’t argue about it; you feel it or you don’t. And I give

up my share of the money, so there should be plenty for all of you,

even after you have been “fair” to the others.

WILLIAM (_who has felt ISOBEL’S scorn deeply_). Isobel! I don’t think

you can realise how much you have hurt me by your words. After the

first shock of your revelation it has been my one object to keep my

real feelings, my very deep feelings, under control. I suppose that

this revelation, this appalling revelation, has meant more to me than

to any one in this room. Put quite simply, it means the end of my life

work, the end of a career.... I think you know how I devoted myself to

Oliver Blayds——

MARION. Simply devoted himself, dear.

WILLIAM. I gave up whatever other ambitions I may have had—

MARION (_to the children_). I always said that Father could have done

anything.

WILLIAM. —And I set myself from that day on to live for one thing

only, Oliver Blayds. It was a great pride to me to be his son-in-law,

a great pride to be his secretary, but the greatest pride of all was

the thought that I was helping others to know and to love, as I knew

and loved him, that very great poet, that very great man, Oliver

Blayds. You tell me now that he is—(_he snaps his fingers_)—nothing.

A hollow mask. (_His voice rises_) I think I have some right to be

angry; I think I have some right to bear resentment against this man

who has tricked me, who has been making a fool of me for all these

years. When I think of the years of labour which I have spent already

in getting the materials together for this great man’s life; when I

think how I have listened to him and taken down eagerly his every

word; when I think that to-morrow I am to be held up to the derision

of the world for the gullible fool I have shown myself to be, I think

I have a right to be angry. (_With a great effort he controls himself

and goes on more quietly_) But I have tried to control my feelings. I

have remembered that he was your father and Marion’s father, and I

have tried to control myself. To forget my own feelings, and to

consider only how best to clear up this wreckage that Oliver Blayds

has left behind. It is not for you to scorn me, me who have been the

chief one to suffer.

MARION. Poor Father! (_She puts out a hand._)

WILLIAM (_patting it_). That’s all right. I don’t want pity. I just

want Isobel to try to realise what it means to me.

OLIVER. Yes, by Jove, it is a bit rough on the governor.

SEPTIMA. Rough on all of us.

MARION. But your father has suffered most. You must always remember

that.

ISOBEL. Poor William! Yes, it is hard on you. Your occupation’s gone.

WILLIAM. It is a terrible blow to us all, this dreadful news that you

have given us. But you can understand that to me it is absolutely

crushing.

ISOBEL (_in a whisper_). And to me? (_They look at her in surprise._)

What has it been to me?

WILLIAM. Well, as I was saying——

ISOBEL. You have enjoyed your life here, yes, every moment of it. If

you hadn’t been secretary to Oliver Blayds, you would have been

secretary to somebody else—it’s what you’re best fitted for. Yes, you

have lived your life; you have had interests, a hundred interests

every day to keep you active and eager.... (_Almost to herself_) But I

say, what of me? What has my life been? Look at me now—what am I?—a

wasted woman. I might have been a wife, a mother—with a man of my

own, children of my own, in my own home. Look at me now...!

MARION. My dear, I never dreamt——

ISOBEL (_eighteen years away from them all_). He asked me to marry

him. Tall and straight and clean he was, and he asked me to marry him.

Ah, how happy we should have been together, he and I—should we not

have been happy? He asked me to marry him.

MARION. Isobel!

ISOBEL. Such a long time ago. I was young then, and pretty then, and

the world was very full then of beautiful things. I used to laugh

then—we laughed together—such a gay world it was all those years

ago. And he asked me to marry him.... (_In a hard voice_) I didn’t. I

sent him away. I said that I must stay with my father, Oliver Blayds,

the great poet. Yes, I was helping the great poet. (_With a bitter

laugh_) Helping!... And I sent my man away.

SEPTIMA (_distressed_). Oh, don’t!

ISOBEL. You thought I liked nursing. “A born nurse”—I can hear you

saying it. (_Fiercely it bursts out after all these years_) I hated

it! Do you know what it’s like nursing a sick old man—day after day,

night after night? And then year after year. Always a little older, a

little more difficult. Do you know what it is to live with an old man

when you are young, as I was young once, to live always with old age

and never with youth, and to watch your own youth gradually creeping

up to join his old age? Ah, but I was doing it for Blayds, for the

sake of his immortal poetry. (_She laughs—such a laugh_) And look

at me now, all wasted. The wife I might have been, the mother I might

have been. (_In a whisper_) How beautiful the world was, all those

years ago!

(_They say nothing, for there is nothing to say. ISOBEL looks in

front of her, seeing nothing which they can see. Very gently they

go out, leaving her there with her memories...._)

ACT III

_Afternoon, three days later. ROYCE is at the desk, at work on a

statement for publication. He has various documents at hand, to which

he refers from time to time. OLIVER comes in._

* * * * *

OLIVER. Hallo!

ROYCE (_without looking up_). Hallo!

OLIVER (_after waiting hopefully_). Very busy! (_He sits down._)

ROYCE. Yes.

OLIVER. Where is everybody?

ROYCE. About somewhere.

OLIVER. Oh!... I’ve been away for a couple of days. My chief made a

speech at Bradford. My God! Just for my benefit he dragged in a

reference to Oliver Blayds. Also “My God.”

ROYCE (_realising suddenly that somebody is talking_). Oh! (_He goes

on with his work._)

OLIVER. Yes, you seem quite excited about it.

ROYCE. Sorry, but I’ve really got rather a lot to do, and not too much

time to do it in.

OLIVER. Oh!... You won’t mind my asking, but are you living in the

house?

ROYCE. Practically. For the last three days.

OLIVER. Oh, I say, are you really? I was being sarcastic—as practised

by the best politicians.

ROYCE. Don’t mention it.

OLIVER. What’s happened?

ROYCE. Miss Blayds asked me to help her. As you know, she is executor

to Blayds. Of course your father is helping too, but there’s a good

deal to be done.

OLIVER. I see. (_Awkwardly_) I say, I suppose you—I mean has she—I

mean, what about——

ROYCE. Miss Blayds has told me.

OLIVER. Oh! Nobody else yet?

ROYCE. No.

OLIVER. I’ve been rushing for the papers every morning expecting to

see something about it.

ROYCE. We want to get everything in order first—the financial side of

it as well as the other—and then make a plain straightforward

statement of what has happened and what we propose to do.

OLIVER. Yes, of course you can’t just write to _The Times_ and say:

“Dear Sir, Blayds’ poetry was written by Jenkins, Yours

faithfully.”... When will it be, do you think?

ROYCE. We ought to have it ready by to-morrow.

OLIVER. H’m.... Then I had better start looking for a job at once.

ROYCE. Nonsense!

OLIVER. It isn’t nonsense. What do you think my chief will want me

for, if I’m not Blayds the poet’s grandson?

ROYCE. Your intrinsic qualities.

OLIVER. I’m afraid they are not intrinsic enough in the present state

of the market.

ROYCE. Well, you said you wanted to be a motor engineer—now’s your

chance.

OLIVER. Helpful fellow, Royce. Now, as he says, is my chance. (_There

is a pause and then he says suddenly_) I say, what do _you_ think

about it all?

ROYCE. What do you mean, think about it all? What is there to think?

One tries not to think. It’s—shattering.

OLIVER. No, I don’t mean that. I mean—do you really think he did it?

ROYCE. Did what?

OLIVER. Did _it_. Did Jenkins.

ROYCE. I don’t understand. Is there any doubt about it?

OLIVER. Well, that’s just it.... The fact is, I had a brain-wave at

Bradford.

ROYCE. Oh?

OLIVER. Yes. Quite suddenly it flashed across me, and I said, “By

Jove! Of course! That’s it!”

ROYCE. What’s what?

OLIVER. He never did it! He just imagined it! It was all—what was the

word I used?

ROYCE. Hallucination?

OLIVER. Hallucination. (_He nods_) That’s the word. I wrote to Father

last night. I said, “Hallucination.” You can back it both ways, Royce,

and you won’t be far out.

ROYCE. Yes, I can see how attractive the word must have looked—up at

Bradford.

OLIVER. You don’t think it looks so well down here?

ROYCE. I’m afraid not.

OLIVER. Well, why not? Which is more probable, that Oliver Blayds

carried out this colossal fraud for more than sixty years, or that

when he was an old man of ninety his brain wobbled a bit, and he

started imagining things?

ROYCE (_shaking his head regretfully_). No.

OLIVER. It’s all very well to say “No.” Anybody can say “No.” As the

Old Man said yesterday, you refuse to face the facts, Royce. Look at

all the Will cases you see in the papers. Whenever an old gentleman

over seventy leaves his money to anybody but his loving nephews and

nieces, they always bring an action to prove that he can’t have been

quite right in the head when he died; and nine times out of ten they

win. Well, Blayds was ninety.

ROYCE. Yes, but I thought he left you a thousand pounds.

OLIVER. Well, I suppose that was a lucid interval.... Look here, _you_

think it over seriously. I read a book once about a fellow who stole

another man’s novel. Perhaps Blayds read it too and got it mixed up.

Why not at that age? Or perhaps he was thinking of using the idea

himself. And turning it over and over in his mind, living with it, so

to speak, day and night, he might very easily begin to think that it

was something that had happened to himself. At his age. And then on

his death-bed, feeling that he must confess something—thoroughly

muddled, poor old fellow—well, you see how easily it might happen.

Hallucination.

ROYCE (_regarding him admiringly_). You know, Oliver, I think you

underrate your intrinsic qualities as a politician. You mustn’t waste

yourself on engineering.

OLIVER. Thanks very much. I suppose Father hasn’t mentioned the word

“hallucination” to you yet?

ROYCE. No, not yet.

OLIVER. Perhaps he hadn’t got my letter this morning. But it’s worth

thinking about, it is really.

ROYCE (_hard at it again_). Yes, I am sure it is.

OLIVER. You know——

ROYCE. You know, Oliver, I’m really very busy.

OLIVER (_getting up_). Oh, all right. And I want a wash anyway. Is

Father in his study?

ROYCE. Yes. Also very busy. If you really are going, I wish you’d see

if Miss Blayds could spare me a moment.

OLIVER. Right. (_Turning to the door and seeing ISOBEL come in_) She

can. Hallo, Aunt Isobel!

ISOBEL. I thought I heard your voice. Did you have an interesting

time?

OLIVER. Rather! I was telling Royce. (_He takes her hand and pats it

kindly_) And I say, it’s all right. Quite all right. (_He kisses her

hand_) Believe me, it’s going to be absolutely all right. You see.

(_He pats her hand soothingly and goes out._)

ISOBEL (_rather touched_). Dear boy!

ROYCE. Yes, Oliver has a great future in politics.

ISOBEL (_going to the sofa_). I’m tired.

ROYCE. You’ve been doing too much. Sit down and rest a little.

ISOBEL (_sitting_). No, go on. I shan’t disturb you?

ROYCE. Talk to me. I’ve worked quite enough too.

ISOBEL. Shall we be ready by to-morrow?

ROYCE. I think so.

ISOBEL. I want to be rid of it—to get it out of my head where it just

goes round and round. It will be a relief when the whole world knows.

(_With a little smile_) What a sensation for them!

ROYCE. Yes. (_Also smiling_) Isn’t it funny how that comes in?

ISOBEL. What?

ROYCE. The excitement at the back of one’s mind when anything unusual

happens, however disastrous.

ISOBEL (_smiling_). Did I sound very excited?

ROYCE. You sounded alive for the first time.

ISOBEL. These last two days have helped me. It has been a great

comfort to have you here. It was good of you to come.

ROYCE. But of course I came.

ISOBEL. I was looking up _Who’s Who_ for an address, and I went on to

your name—you know how one does. I hadn’t realised you were so famous

or so busy. It was good of you to come.... Your wife died?

ROYCE (_surprised_). Yes.

ISOBEL. I didn’t know.

ROYCE. Ten years ago. Surely——

ISOBEL. Is there a special manner of a man whose wife died ten years

ago which I ought to have recognised?

ROYCE (_laughing_). Well, no. But one always feels that a fact with

which one has lived for years must have impressed itself somehow on

others.

ISOBEL. I didn’t know....

ROYCE (_suddenly_). I wish I could persuade you that you were quite

wrong not to take any of this money.

ISOBEL. Am I “quite wrong”?

ROYCE (_shaking his head_). No. That’s why it’s so hopeless my trying

to persuade you.... What are you going to do?

ISOBEL (_rather sadly_). Aren’t I a “born nurse”?

ROYCE. You tied my hand up once.

ISOBEL (_smiling_). Well, there you are.... Oh, I daresay it’s just

pride, but somehow I can’t take the money. The others can; you were

right about that—I was wrong; but they have not been so near to him

as I have.... I thought the whole world was at an end at first. But

now——

ROYCE. But now you don’t.

ISOBEL. No. I don’t know why. How hopeful we are. How—unbreakable. If

I were God, I should be very proud of Man.

ROYCE. Let Him go on being proud of you.

ISOBEL. Oh, I’m tough. You can’t be a nurse without being tough. I

shan’t break.

ROYCE. And just a smile occasionally?

ISOBEL (_smiling_). And even perhaps just a smile occasionally?

ROYCE. Thank you.

(_WILLIAM comes in fussily. But there is a suppressed air of

excitement about him. He has OLIVER’S letter in his hand._)

WILLIAM. Isobel, there are two pass-books missing—two of the early

ones. I thought you had found them all. You haven’t seen them,

Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. No, I’ve had nothing to do with them.

WILLIAM. You found most of the early ones in the bottom drawer of his

desk, you told me.

ISOBEL (_getting up_). I may have overlooked one; I’ll go and see.

There was a great deal of rubbish there.

ROYCE. Can’t I?

ISOBEL. Would you? You know where. Thank you so much.

ROYCE (_going_). Right.

WILLIAM. Thank you very much, Mr. Royce, I’m sorry to trouble you.

(_There is a little silence after ROYCE is gone. ISOBEL is

thinking her own thoughts, not quite such unhappy ones now;

WILLIAM is nervous and excited. After much polishing of his

glasses he begins._)

WILLIAM. Isobel, I have been thinking very deeply of late about this

terrible business.

ISOBEL. Yes?

WILLIAM (_going to the desk_). Is this the statement?

ISOBEL. Is it?

WILLIAM (_glancing over it_). Yes ... yes. I’ve been wondering if

we’ve been going too far.

ISOBEL. About the money?

WILLIAM. No, no. No, no, I wasn’t thinking about the money.

ISOBEL. What, then?

WILLIAM. Well.... Well.... I’m wondering.... Can we feel quite certain

that if we make this announcement—can we feel quite certain that we

are not—well—going too far?

ISOBEL. You mean about the money?

WILLIAM. No, no, no, no.

ISOBEL. Then what else? I don’t understand.

WILLIAM. Suppose—I only say suppose—it were not true. I mean, can we

be so certain that it _is_ true? You see, once we make this

announcement it is then too late. We cannot contradict it afterwards

and say that we have made a mistake. It is irrevocable.

ISOBEL (_hardly able to believe it_). Are you suggesting that we

should—hush it up?

WILLIAM. Now you are putting words into my mouth that I have not yet

used. I say that it has occurred to me, thinking things over very

earnestly, that possibly we are in too much of a hurry to believe this

story of—er—this Jenkins story.

ISOBEL. You mean that I have invented it, dreamed it, imagined it——?

WILLIAM. No, no, no, no, please. It would never occur to me to suggest

any such thing. What I do suggest as a possibility worth considering

is that Oliver Blayds—er—imagined it.

ISOBEL. You mean he thought it was the other man’s poetry when it was

really his own?

WILLIAM. You must remember that he was a very old man. I was saying to

Marion in this very room, talking over what I understood then to be

his last wish for a simple funeral, that the dying words of an old man

were not to be taken too seriously. Indeed, I used on that occasion

this actual phrase, “An old man, his faculties rapidly going.” I

repeat the phrase. I say again that an old man, his faculties rapidly

going, may have imagined this story. In short, it has occurred to me

that the whole thing may very well be—hallucination.

ISOBEL (_looking at him fixedly_). Or self-deception.

WILLIAM (_misunderstanding her_). Exactly. Well, in short, I suggest

there never was anybody called Jenkins.

ISOBEL (_brightly—after a pause_). Wouldn’t it be nice?

WILLIAM. One can understand how upon his death-bed a man feels the

need of confession, of forgiveness and absolution. It may well be that

Oliver Blayds, instinctively feeling this need, bared his soul to you,

not of some real misdeed of his own, but of some imaginary misdeed

with which, by who knows what association of ideas, his mind had

become occupied.

ISOBEL. You mean he meant to confess to a murder or something, and got

muddled.

WILLIAM. Heaven forbid that I should attribute any misdeed to so

noble, so knightly a man as Oliver Blayds.

ISOBEL. Knightly?

WILLIAM. I am of course assuming that this man Jenkins never existed.

ISOBEL. Oh, you _are_ assuming that?

WILLIAM. The more I think of it, the more plain it becomes to me that

we _must_ assume it.

ISOBEL. Yes, I quite see that the more one thinks of it, the more——

(_She indicates the rest of the sentence with her fingers._)

WILLIAM. Well, what do you think of the suggestion?

ISOBEL. It’s so obvious that I’m wondering why it didn’t occur to you

before.

WILLIAM. The truth is I was stunned.

ISOBEL. Oh yes.

WILLIAM. And then, I confess, the fact of the 1863 volume seemed for

the moment conclusive.

ISOBEL. But now it doesn’t?

WILLIAM. I explain it now, as one always explained it when he was

alive. Every great poet has these lapses.

ISOBEL. Oh! (_She is silent, looking at WILLIAM wonderingly, almost

admiringly._)

WILLIAM (_after waiting for her comment_). Well?

ISOBEL. What can I say, William, except again how nice it will be? No

scandal, no poverty, no fuss, and his life in two volumes just as

before. We are a little too late for the Abbey, but, apart from that,

everything is as nice as it can be.

WILLIAM (_solemnly_). You have not mentioned the best thing of all,

Isobel.

ISOBEL. What?

WILLIAM (_looking up reverently at the picture_). That our faith in

him has not been misplaced.

(_She wonders at him, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry._)

ISOBEL. Oh!... oh!... (_But there are no words available._)

_MARION comes in._

MARION (_excitedly_). Isobel, dear, have you heard? Have you heard the

wonderful news?

ISOBEL (_turning to her blankly_). News?

MARION. About the hallucination. I always felt that there must have

been some mistake. And now our faith has been justified—as faith

always is. It’s such a comfort to know. Really to know at last. Poor

dear Grandfather! He was so very old. I think sometimes we forget how

very old he was. And the excitement of that last day—his

birthday—and perhaps the glass of port. No wonder.

WILLIAM (_shaking his head wisely_). Very strange, very strange, but,

as you say, not unexpected. One might almost have predicated some such

end.

MARION. I shall never forgive myself for having doubted. (_To ISOBEL_)

I think Grandfather will forgive us, dear. I can’t help feeling that

wherever he is, he will forgive us.

WILLIAM (_nodding_). Yes, yes.... I shall say nothing about it in the

book, of course—this curious lapse in his faculties at the last.

MARION. Of course not, dear.

WILLIAM. I shall merely——

ISOBEL. Then you won’t want that pass-book now?

MARION. Pass-book?

ISOBEL. Yes. You were going into the accounts, weren’t you, to see how

much——

WILLIAM. Oh—ah—yes, the Jenkins Fund.

MARION. But of course there is no Jenkins now! So there can’t be a

Jenkins Fund. Such a comfort from every point of view.

ISOBEL (_to WILLIAM_). You’re quite happy about the money, then?

WILLIAM (_who obviously isn’t_). Er—yes—I.... That is to say, that,

while absolutely satisfied that this man Jenkins never existed, I—at

the same time—I—well, perhaps to be on the safe side—there are

certain charities.... As I say, there _are_ certain charities for

distressed writers, and so on, and perhaps one would feel—you see

what I mean. (_He goes to the desk._)

ISOBEL. Yes. It’s what they call conscience-money, isn’t it?

WILLIAM. But of course all that can be settled later. (_He picks up

ROYCE’S statement._) The main point is that this will not now be

wanted. (_He prepares to tear it in two._)

ISOBEL (_fiercely_). No! Put that down!

(_Startled he puts it down, and she snatches it up and holds it

close to her heart._)

MARION. Isobel, dear!

ISOBEL. It’s his, and you’re not to touch it! He has given his time to

it, and you’re not going to throw it away as if it were nothing. It’s

for _him_ to say.

WILLIAM (_upset_). Really! I was only just——

_ROYCE comes in._

ROYCE (_excitedly_). I say!

ISOBEL. Mr. Royce, we have some news for you. We have decided that the

man Jenkins never existed. Isn’t it nice?

ROYCE. Never existed?

ISOBEL. He was just an hallucination. (_To WILLIAM_) Wasn’t that the

word?

ROYCE (_laughing_). Oh, I see. That’s rather funny. For what do you

think I’ve got here? (_He holds up a faded piece of paper._) Stuck in

this old pass-book. A letter from Jenkins!

WILLIAM (_staggered_). O-o-o-o-oh!

MARION (_bewildered_). It must be another Jenkins. Because we’ve just

decided that our one never lived.

ISOBEL. What is it? What does it say?

ROYCE (_reading_). “Dear Oliver, You have given me everything. I leave

you everything. Little enough, but it is yours. God bless you, dear

Oliver.”

ISOBEL (_moved_). Oh!

WILLIAM. Let me look. (_He takes it._)

ISOBEL (_to herself_). All those years ago!

WILLIAM. Yes, there’s no doubt of it. (_He gives the paper back to

ROYCE._) Wait! Let me think. (_He sits down, head in hands._)

ROYCE. Well, that settles the money side of it, anyway. Whatever

should have been the other man’s came rightly to Oliver Blayds.

ISOBEL. Except the immortality.

ROYCE. Ah, yes. I say nothing of that. (_Going to the desk and picking

up his statement_) I shall have to rewrite this.... Well, the first

part can stand.... I’m glad we aren’t going to be bothered about

money. It would have been an impossible business to settle.

WILLIAM (_triumphantly_). I’ve got it!

MARION. What, dear?

WILLIAM. Now I understand everything.

ROYCE. What?

WILLIAM. The 1863 volume. That always puzzled me. Always! Now, at

last, we have the true explanation. (_Dramatically_) The 1863 volume

was written by Jenkins!

(_ISOBEL and ROYCE look at him in amazement; MARION in

admiration._)

ROYCE (_to himself_). Poor old Jenkins.

MARION. Of course I liked all Grandfather’s poetry. There was some of

it I didn’t understand, but I felt that _he_ knew——

WILLIAM. No, we can be frank now. The 1863 volume was bad. And now we

see why. He wished to give this dear dead friend of his a chance. I

can see these two friends—Oliver—and—er—— (_Going to ROYCE_) What

was Mr.—er—Jenkins’ other name? (_He reads it over ROYCE’S

shoulder_) Ah, yes, Willoughby—I can see that last scene when

Willoughby lay dying, and his friend Oliver stood by his side. I can

hear Willoughby lamenting that none of his poetry will ever be heard

now in the mouths of others—and Oliver’s silent resolve that in some

way, at some time, Willoughby’s work shall be given to the world. And

so in 1863, when his own position was firmly established, he issues

this little collection of his dead friend’s poetry, these few choicest

sheaves from poor Willoughby’s indiscriminate harvest, sheltering

them, as he hoped, from the storm of criticism with the mantle of his

own great name. A noble resolve, a chivalrous undertaking, but alas!

of no avail.

ROYCE. You will say this in your life of Oliver Blayds?

WILLIAM. I shall—er—hint at the doubtful authorship of the 1863

volume; perhaps it would be better not to go into the matter too

fully.

MARION (_to ISOBEL_). It would be much nicer, dear, if we didn’t refer

to any of the unhappy thoughts which we have all had about Grandfather

in the last few days. We know now that we never ought to have doubted.

He was—Grandfather.

ISOBEL (_after a pause, to ROYCE_). Well? (_He shrugs his shoulders._)

Will you find the children? I think they ought to know this.

ROYCE. Right. Do you want me to come back?

ISOBEL. Please. (_He goes out. When he has gone she turns to WILLIAM_)

I am going to publish the truth about Oliver Blayds.

MARION. But that’s what we all want to do, dear.

WILLIAM. What do you mean by the truth?

ISOBEL. What we all know to be the truth in our hearts.

WILLIAM. I deny it. I deny it utterly. I am convinced that the

explanation which I have given is the true one.

ISOBEL. Then I shall publish the explanation which he gave _me_.

WILLIAM. Isobel, I should have thought that you, of all people, would

have wanted to believe in Oliver Blayds.

ISOBEL. Wanted to! If only “wanting to” were the same as believing,

how easy life would be!

MARION. It _is_ very nearly the same, dear. If you try very hard. I

have found it a great comfort.

WILLIAM. I must beg you to reconsider your decision. I had the honour

of the friendship of Oliver Blayds for many years, and I tell you

frankly that I will not allow this slander of a dead man to pass

unchallenged.

ISOBEL. Which dead man?

WILLIAM (_a little upset_). This slander on Oliver Blayds.

ISOBEL. It is not slander. I shall tell the truth about him.

WILLIAM. Then I shall tell the truth about him too.

(_ISOBEL turns away with a shrug, and sees SEPTIMA, ROYCE, and

OLIVER coming in._)

ISOBEL. Thank you, Mr. Royce. Septima, Oliver——

(_She gives them the letter to read._)

OLIVER (_after reading_). By Jove! Sportsman! I always said——

(_Frankly_) No, I didn’t.

SEPTIMA (_after reading_). Good. Well, that’s all right then.

ISOBEL. We have been talking over what I told you the other day, and

your father now has a theory that it was the 1863 volume which was

written by this man, and that your grandfather in telling me the story

had got it into his head somehow——

WILLIAM. A very old man, his faculties rapidly going——

ISOBEL. Had muddled the story up.

OLIVER (_brightening up_). Good for you, Father! I see! Of course!

Then it was hallucination after all?

ISOBEL. You had discussed it before?

OLIVER. Oh, rather!

ISOBEL (_to SEPTIMA_). And you?

OLIVER. I told Septima the idea.

ISOBEL. And what does Septima say?

(_They all turn to her._)

SEPTIMA (_emphatically_). Rot!

MARION (_shocked_). Septima! Your father!

SEPTIMA. Well, you asked me what I said, and I’m telling you. Rot.

R-O-T.

WILLIAM (_coldly_). Kindly explain yourself a little more lucidly.

OLIVER. It’s all rot saying “rot”——

WILLIAM. One at a time, please. Septima?

SEPTIMA. I think it’s rot, trying to deceive ourselves by making up a

story about Grandfather, just because we don’t like the one which he

told Aunt Isobel. What does it all matter anyhow? There’s the poetry,

and jolly good too, most of it. What does it matter when you’ve quoted

it, whether you add, “As Blayds nobly said” or “As Jenkins nobly

said”? It’s the same poetry. There was Grandfather. We all knew him

well, and we all had plenty of chances of making up our minds about

him. How can what he did seventy years ago, when he was another person

altogether, make any difference to our opinion of him? And then

there’s the money. I said that it ought to be ours, and it is ours.

Well, there we are.

WILLIAM. You are quite content that your Aunt should publish, as she

proposes to, this story of—er—Willoughby Jenkins, which I am

convinced is a base libel on the reputation of Oliver Blayds?

OLIVER. I say, Aunt Isobel, are you really going to? I mean do you

_still_ believe——

ISOBEL. I am afraid I do, Oliver.

OLIVER. Good Lord!

WILLIAM. Well—Septima?

SEPTIMA. I am quite content with the truth. And if you want the truth

about Septima Blayds-Conway, it is that the truth about Blayds is not

really any great concern of hers.

OLIVER. Well, that’s a pretty selfish way of looking at it.

MARION. I don’t know what Grandfather would say if he could hear you.

ISOBEL. Thank you, Septima. You’re honest anyhow.

SEPTIMA. Well, of course.

OLIVER. It’s all very well for _her_ to talk like that, but it’s a

jolly big concern of mine. If it comes out, I’m done. As a politician

anyway.

ROYCE. What do _you_ believe, Oliver?

OLIVER. I told you. Hallucination. At least it seems just as likely as

the other. And that being so, I think we ought to give it the benefit

of the doubt. What _is_ the truth about Blayds—I don’t know——

ISOBEL (_calmly_). I do, Oliver.

WILLIAM (_sharply_). So do I.

OLIVER. Well, I mean, there you are. Probably the truth lies somewhere

in between——

ROYCE (_with a smile, speaking almost unconsciously_). No, no, you

mustn’t waste yourself on engineering. (_Recovering himself with a

start_) I beg your pardon.

OLIVER. Anyway, I’m with Father. I don’t think we ought to take the

risk of doing Oliver Blayds an injustice by saying anything about

this—this hallucination.

WILLIAM. There is no question of risk. It’s a certainty. Come, Marion.

(_He leads the way to the door._) We have much to do.

(_Challengingly_) We have much work yet to do upon the life of this

great poet, this great and chivalrous gentleman, Oliver Blayds!

MARION (_meekly_). Yes, dear.

[_They go out._

OLIVER. Oh, Lord, a family row! I’m not sure that that isn’t

worse.... “Interviewed by our representative, Mr. Oliver Blayds-Conway

said that he preferred not to express an opinion.” I think that’s my

line.

SEPTIMA. Yes, it would be.

OLIVER. Well, I must go. (_Grandly_) We have much work yet to do....

Coming, Tim?

SEPTIMA (_getting up_). Yes. (_She goes slowly after him, hesitates,

and then comes back to ISOBEL. Awkwardly she touches her shoulder and

says_) Good luck!

[_Then she goes out._

(_ROYCE and ISOBEL stand looking at each other. First he begins to

smile; then she. Suddenly they are both laughing._)

ISOBEL. How absurd!

ROYCE. I was afraid you wouldn’t appreciate it. Well, what are you

going to do?

ISOBEL. What can I do but tell the world the truth?

ROYCE. H’m! I wonder if the world will be grateful.

ISOBEL. Does that matter?

ROYCE. Yes, I think it does. I think you ought to feel that you are

benefiting somebody—other than yourself.

ISOBEL (_with a smile_). I am hardly benefiting myself.

ROYCE. Not materially, of course—but spiritually? Aren’t you just

easing your conscience?

ISOBEL. I don’t see why the poor thing shouldn’t be eased.

ROYCE. At the other people’s expense?

ISOBEL. Oh, but no, Austin, no. I’m sure that’s wrong. Surely the

truth means more than that. Surely it’s an end in itself. The only

end. Call it Truth or call it Beauty, it’s all we’re here for.

ROYCE. You know, the trouble is that the Truth about Blayds won’t seem

very beautiful. There’s your truth, and then there’s William’s truth,

too. To the public it will seem not so much like Beauty as like an

undignified family squabble. And William will win. His story can be

made to sound so much more likely than yours. No, it’s no good. You

can’t start another miserable Shakespeare-Bacon controversy. Because

that is what it would be in a few years. There would be no established

truth, but just a Jenkins’ theory. Hadn’t we better just leave him

with the poetry?

ISOBEL. It seems so unfair that this poor dead boy should be robbed of

the immortality which he wanted.

ROYCE. Hasn’t he got it? There are his works. Didn’t he have the

wonderful happiness and pain of writing them? How can you do anything

for him now? It’s just pure sentiment, isn’t it?

ISOBEL (_meekly_). If you say so, sir.

ROYCE (_laughing_). Am I lecturing? I’m sorry.

ISOBEL. No, I don’t mind. And I expect you’re right. I can’t do

anything. (_After a pause_) Are one’s motives ever pure?

ROYCE. One hopes so. One never knows.

ISOBEL. I keep telling myself that I want the truth to prevail—but is

it only that? Or is it that I want to punish him?... He hurt me so.

All those years he was pretending that I helped him. And all the time

it was just a game to him. A game—and he was laughing. Do you wonder

that I was bitter? It was just a game to him.

ROYCE. As he said, he carried it off.

ISOBEL. Yes, he carried it off.... Even in those last moments he was

carrying it off. Just that. He was frightened at first—he was dying;

it was so lonely in the grave; there was no audience there; no one to

listen, to admire. Only God. Ah, but when he had begun his story, how

quickly he was the artist again! No fear now, no remorse. Just the

artist glorying in his story; putting all he knew into the telling of

it, making me see that dead boy whom he had betrayed so vividly that I

could have stretched out my hand to him and said, “Oh, my dear, I’m

sorry—I will make it all right for you.” Oh, he had his qualities,

Oliver Blayds. My father, yes; but somehow he never seemed that. A

great man; a little man; but never quite my father.

ROYCE. A great man, I think.

ISOBEL. Yes, he was a great man, and he did less hurt to the world

than most great men do.

ROYCE (_picking up his statement_). Then I can tear up this?

ISOBEL (_after a little struggle with herself_). Yes! Let us bury the

dead, and forget about them. (_He tears it up. She gives a sigh of

relief_) There!

ROYCE (_coming to her_). Isobel!

ISOBEL. Ah—but she’s dead too. Let’s forget about her.

ROYCE. She is not dead. I have seen her.

ISOBEL. When did you see her?

ROYCE. To-day I have seen her. She peeped out for a moment, and was

gone.

ISOBEL. She just peeped out to say good-bye to you.

ROYCE (_shaking his head_). No. To say “How do you do” to me.

ISOBEL. My dear, she died eighteen years ago, that child.

ROYCE (_smiling_). Then introduce me to her mother.

ISOBEL (_gravely, with a smile behind it_). Mr. Royce, let me

introduce you to my mother—thirty-eight, poor dear. (_Bowing_) How do

you do, Mr. Royce? I have heard my daughter speak of you.

ROYCE. How do you do, Mrs. Blayds? I’m glad to meet you, because I

once asked your daughter to marry me.

ISOBEL. Ah, don’t, don’t!

ROYCE (_cheerfully_). Do you know what she said? She said, like all

properly brought up girls, “You must ask my mother.” So now I ask

her—“Isobel’s mother, will _you_ marry me?”

ISOBEL. Oh!

ROYCE. Isobel was quite right. I was too old for her. Look, I’m grey.

And then I’ve got a bit of rheumatism about me somewhere—I really

want a nurse. Isobel said you were a born nurse.... Isobel’s mother,

will you marry me?

ISOBEL. I’m afraid to. I shall be so jealous.

ROYCE. Jealous! Of whom?

ISOBEL. Of that girl we call my daughter. You will always be looking

for her. You will think that I shan’t see; you will try to hide it

from me; but I shall see. Always you will be looking for her—and I

shall see.

ROYCE. I shall find her.

ISOBEL. No, it’s too late now.

ROYCE (_confidently_). I shall find her. Not yet, perhaps; but some

day. Perhaps it will be on a day in April, when the primroses are out

between the wood-stacks, and there is a chatter of rooks in the tall

elms. Then, a child again, she will laugh for joy of the clean blue

morning, and I shall find her. And when I have found her, I shall

say——

ISOBEL (_gently_). Yes?

ROYCE. I shall say, “Thank God, you are so like your mother—whom I

love.”

ISOBEL. No, no, it can’t be true.

ROYCE. It is true. (_Holding out his hands_) I want you—not her.

ISOBEL. Oh, my dear!

(_She puts out her hands to his. As he takes them, MARION comes in

hurriedly. Their hands drop, and they stand there, looking happily

at each other._)

MARION. Isobel! I had to come and tell you how hurt William is. Dear,

don’t you think you _could_ believe—just for William’s sake——

ISOBEL (_gently_). It’s all right, dear. I am not going to say

anything.

MARION (_eagerly_). You mean you believe? (_WILLIAM comes in, and she

rushes to him_) She believes! She believes!

(_ISOBEL and ROYCE exchange a smile._)

WILLIAM (_with satisfaction_). Ah! I am very glad to hear this. As

regards the biography. In the circumstances, since we are all agreed

as to the facts, I almost think we might record the story of Oliver

Blayds’ chivalrous attempt to assist his friend, definitely assigning

to Willoughby Jenkins the 1863 volume. (_He looks at them for

approval. MARION nods._)

ISOBEL (_looking demurely at ROYCE and then back again_). Yes,

William.

WILLIAM. I feel strongly, and I am sure you will agree with me, that

it is our duty to tell the _whole_ truth about that great man. (_Again

he looks to MARION for approval. She assents._)

ISOBEL (_aside to ROYCE—enjoying it with him_). Do I still say, “Yes,

William”? (_He smiles and nods._) Yes, William.

(_And so that is how the story will be handed down. But, as

SEPTIMA says, the poetry will still be there._)

_Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh._

Transcriber’s Note

Inconsistent hyphenation (buttonhole/button-hole, Good

morning/Good-morning, half-measures/half measures, postcard/post-card,

runaway/run-away, safety-razor/safety razor) and inconsistent spelling

(Hallo/Hullo) have been left as printed in the original.