your pardon. I had no idea. No idea even that I was thinking it.
Ridiculous! (_After a pause_) She’s married now, you know.
MANNOCK (_wishing to be done with the subject_). I’m glad.
EVERSLEY. But not very happily.
MANNOCK. Ah, I’m sorry about that. The Old Man’s dead long ago, of
course?
EVERSLEY. Of course.
MANNOCK (_with a laugh_). The Old Man. (_Tapping his head_) Never
quite all there, was he?
EVERSLEY. I don’t think that we used to say that when we were boys,
Dick. Sally didn’t.
MANNOCK. Of course! Her own father!
EVERSLEY. Unworldly.... Perhaps that’s the same nowadays as not being
quite all there.
MANNOCK. The two of them alone together all those years in that
rambling old house!
EVERSLEY (_with a chuckle_). Hardly alone. We practically lived there
in the holidays.
MANNOCK. What happened to the place?
EVERSLEY. She lives there still. That was all he left her, you know.
I think she married to save it.
MANNOCK. It all seems very long ago.
(_They sit there silently thinking of the long ago...._ FREDA
_comes in, followed by_ BERTIE CAPP, _a stout young man, who
tries to hide his extreme cleverness beneath the make-up of a
fool_.)
FREDA. Here’s Bertie, Father.
MANNOCK (_coming out of the past_). Hullo, Bertie. How are you?
BERTIE (_dropping his eye-glass_). Pretty well, thanks.
FREDA. Don’t go too close to him, he’s covered with eucalyptus.
BERTIE. A precautionary measure only. The cold belongs to somebody
else. My private microbes----
MANNOCK (_to_ EVERSLEY). Do you know Bertie Capp?... This is Mr.
Eversley.
BERTIE. How are _you_, sir?
EVERSLEY. How do you do?
BERTIE. My private microbes, who distribute gout and insomnia, are
resting for the moment. It’s a hard life.
MANNOCK. How’s the Prime Minister?
BERTIE (_waving his handkerchief_). Like that.
FREDA (_with a face_). Oh, put it away, Bertie. I’d rather have the
cold.
BERTIE. I give him two more days in bed. Between ourselves he likes
it there.
FREDA (_to_ EVERSLEY). Bertie is the P.M.’s P.P.S.
EVERSLEY (_with a smile_). Thank you very much.
FREDA. The Prime Minister’s Principal Private Secretary. In other
words, Bertie runs England.
BERTIE. I consult Miss Freda on all the important points.
MANNOCK. (_to_ BERTIE). Did you want to see me?
BERTIE. Well--er----
FREDA. Come on, Mr. Eversley. We’ll go upstairs.
EVERSLEY (_to_ MANNOCK). Perhaps I’d better say good-bye, Dick.
MANNOCK (_carelessly_). Good-bye. I’ll be seeing you again before
very long. Talk to my wife about that week-end.
EVERSLEY. Thank you, thank you. (_To_ BERTIE) Good-night.
BERTIE. Good-night. (_He opens the door_) I hope I haven’t given you
the Prime Minister’s cold.
EVERSLEY (_smiling_). It would be an honour to have it.
BERTIE. Oh well, he’s nearly finished with it. Good-night.
Good-night, Freda, if I don’t see you again.
FREDA. Good-night.
[_They go out._
BERTIE (_closing the door_). Is that the Garden Eversley?
MANNOCK (_surprised_). Yes. Do you know him?
BERTIE. I know his book, of course.
MANNOCK. Oh! (_With a faint touch of pride_) We were boys together.
BERTIE. He’s a good bit older than you, isn’t he?
MANNOCK (_hastily_). There was not much in it. Well?
BERTIE (_taking a large envelope from his pocket_). The Prime
Minister’s compliments, and would you rather have a Baronetcy or an
absolute snip for the 2.30?
MANNOCK (_not surprised_). Ah! It’s all right, then?
BERTIE. Very much all right. Between ourselves, it’s a damn good
speech. I read it to him. He just lay there, without a movement.
Absorbed.
MANNOCK. Asleep, probably.
BERTIE (_candidly_). Well, so _I_ thought at first. But I drank his
medicine once by mistake--being a thirsty sort of speech, I had put
a glass of water handy--and the subsequent noise woke him. I mean it
was obvious he was awake all the time.
MANNOCK (_unamused_). Any comments?
BERTIE. Well, yes.
MANNOCK What?
BERTIE. “Clever fellow, Mannock. Er----”
MANNOCK. Go on.
BERTIE. “Clever fellow, Mannock. He brings to the obvious such a
wealth of reticence that it almost sounds improper.” Said between
coughs and grunts, you know, it sounded rather good. But I daresay
there isn’t much in it.
MANNOCK. You have to be obvious on the platform.
BERTIE. Oh, quite.... I say, do you see _The Sunday Socialist_?
MANNOCK (_curtly_). Never.
BERTIE (_taking it from his pocket_). You haven’t seen this week’s?
MANNOCK. Why should I?
BERTIE. We take it in, of course. “My attention has been drawn ...”
and all that sort of thing. (_Pointing to the place_) There! (_As_
MANNOCK _reads_) I thought I’d better bring it along.
MANNOCK (_reading_). Yes.... Yes.
BERTIE. Once doesn’t matter--you can deny anything once--but if he’s
going to make a habit of it----
MANNOCK (_firmly_). He is not. (_He goes on reading._)
BERTIE. Well, I’ll be getting along.
MANNOCK. Thanks very much for letting me see this. Are you going
upstairs?
BERTIE. Just for a moment.
MANNOCK. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling Arthur that I should like
to see him.
BERTIE. Right. (_Going to the door_) By the way, where are you
sleeping to-morrow night? Hotel?
MANNOCK (_still reading the paper_). Carchester’s putting me up. He’s
got some sort of place in the neighbourhood, I believe.
BERTIE. Ah! I didn’t know that you----(_He hesitates._)
MANNOCK. We don’t.
BERTIE (_tolerantly_). Oh, well, it takes all sorts to make a party.
MANNOCK. Exactly. This is politics. He’s popular down there, they
say. He’s taking the chair at the evening meeting.
BERTIE. Oh, quite. Well, good-night and good luck.
MANNOCK. Good-night.
(_He settles down to this damnable article again._ ARTHUR _comes
in_.)
ARTHUR. Bertie said you wanted me.
MANNOCK (_getting up_). Yes; sit down, won’t you? (ARTHUR _sits
down_) Did you write this? (_He gives him the paper._)
ARTHUR (_bracing himself for the row that’s coming_). Yes.
MANNOCK. Ah! Proud of it?
ARTHUR. Not ashamed of it anyway.
MANNOCK. Then you ought to be.
ARTHUR. I don’t see why.
MANNOCK. An inflammatory article in a revolutionary rag----
ARTHUR. Papers aren’t rags just because you don’t agree with their
opinions.
MANNOCK. An impertinent article in a revolutionary rag, charging
members of the Government, amongst them your own Father, with every
sort of crime and folly.
ARTHUR (_calmly_). It just means that I take the opposite side to
you, that’s all.
MANNOCK (_reading_). “There is more here than political dishonour.
There is personal dishonour.”
ARTHUR (_uncomfortably_). Well--I mean----
MANNOCK. Thank you, Arthur.
ARTHUR. Well, it isn’t _my_ fault you’re a Cabinet Minister. I happen
to be a Socialist----
MANNOCK. A Socialist!
ARTHUR. Why not?
MANNOCK (_contemptuously_). Why not! Have another cigar? Have another
glass of port? A Socialist! Look at yourself in the glass!
ARTHUR. Well, you can’t have it both ways. If I’m a poor, uneducated
devil, you say contemptuously, “Of course you’re a Socialist; you
want my money,” and if I happen to be well-off and educated, you say
contemptuously, “You a Socialist! Look at yourself in the glass!” You
can’t have it both ways.
MANNOCK. I beg your pardon. In fact, I’m not sure that I ought to be
discussing this with you at all. This article (_tapping the paper_)
is signed “Arthur _Selby_ Mannock.” I don’t think I know him. Who is
he?
ARTHUR. That’s not my fault. I suppose----
MANNOCK. Your name, I think, is Arthur James Mannock? Why do you give
a false name?
ARTHUR. I signed it “Arthur Mannock.” Of course it had this address
on it. I suppose----
MANNOCK. You suppose that the editor, wishing everybody to know that
a Cabinet Minister was being accused of personal dishonour by his own
son, altered it to Selby Mannock so that there should be no chance of
misapprehension.
ARTHUR. I suppose he thought it was a double-barrelled name. All the
papers call you Selby Mannock as if it were.
MANNOCK (_quietly_). You know quite well why he did it. (ARTHUR _is
silent_.) How many more of these articles are you writing--from my
house?
ARTHUR. Well--well, as a matter of fact, they’ve offered me a job,
sort of assistant editor--two fifty--I could get rooms somewhere--I
mean, naturally I want to. I mean----
MANNOCK (_with a sneer_). Assistant editor!... As assistant editor
it would be your job to see that the “Selby” didn’t go into your
articles----
ARTHUR. Naturally----
MANNOCK. Or did go in, according as the editor wished.
ARTHUR. Well, of course I should----(_His voice trails away._)
(_They are silent._ MANNOCK, _realising that he is not getting
much further, decides on a new line of attack_.)
MANNOCK (_with a friendly smile_). Look here, Arthur, let’s talk this
over reasonably.
ARTHUR. I shall be only too glad to.
MANNOCK (_charmingly_). Well, then, first, thank you for having kept
your temper so well. I’m afraid I’ve been rather provocative.
ARTHUR. Oh, I say, not at all.
MANNOCK. I do say it. And that’s the trouble, Arthur. You’ve got such
a lot of fine qualities. Brains--more brains than I have, I fancy----
ARTHUR. Oh, rot!
MANNOCK. Enthusiasm, good temper, courage----Well, I mean, how many
young men would have dared to do that? (_He waves at the paper._)
ARTHUR. Oh, I don’t know.
MANNOCK. As the Prime Minister said to me the other day, “That boy
of yours will go far.” I know it. But in which direction?... It’s a
funny thing, Arthur, how so many great political geniuses, writers
too, have started in the wrong direction. Disraeli began as a
Radical, Gladstone as a Tory----It almost seems as if one false start
were necessary before you can get going. The trouble is that your
enemies remember that false start, and bring it up against you. Happy
the man who has no past, as somebody said. Well, that’s what I’m
anxious about. You’re preparing a past for yourself _now_. I wonder
if----You don’t mind my talking like this?
ARTHUR (_interested and flattered_). Of course not.
MANNOCK. You’re a Socialist. Right. I don’t agree with your opinions,
but that has nothing to do with it. Now what I’m wondering is----Need
you be a _public_ Socialist for--well, say for a year?
ARTHUR. How do you mean? (_With a laugh_) I shan’t change in a year,
if that’s what you’re hoping.
MANNOCK (_laughing too_). I’m afraid you won’t. (_With an air
of great seriousness_) But frankly, Arthur, old boy, I’m in a
difficulty. I’ve been wanting to make a suggestion to you for some
weeks now, only--I’ve been afraid.
ARTHUR. Afraid?
MANNOCK. Yes, afraid of your refusing it. I’ve preferred to go on
hoping, rather than to close the door on my hopes by speaking to you.
ARTHUR (_after waiting for him_). Well?
MANNOCK. My secretary is leaving me. It puts me in rather an awkward
position.
ARTHUR. Which of the many?
MANNOCK. Well, naturally I don’t mean at the Ministry. Reader. (_He
jerks his head at the door behind him._)
ARTHUR. Reader? Why?
MANNOCK. He’s got a better job in prospect. He’s been with me a long
time, but he’s leaving me at last. I shall be rather lost without
him. Arthur, old boy, I wish you’d take his place.
ARTHUR (_staggered_). But----
MANNOCK. Three hundred a year I’ll give you. Three fifty if you want
to live out, but I’d rather you didn’t.
ARTHUR. But I’m--my political opinions----
MANNOCK. I know, I know. That’s why I was afraid to ask you. But
couldn’t you manage to keep an open mind for a year? I want you to
see something of the inside of politics. If at the end of a year,
you’re more of a Socialist than ever, well, what a chance for you!
You’ll be able to expose us properly! You’ll know all about us! But
if I’m lucky enough to win your confidence, why perhaps one day the
proudest moment of my life will come. Do you know what that will be?
ARTHUR. What?
MANNOCK. The moment when I introduce you to the Speaker in the House
of Commons. Arthur Mannock, M.P. for ----. We can find you a dozen
seats.
(_They sit there, Arthur thinking, Mannock watching him
anxiously._)
ARTHUR (_after a pause_). It’s really awfully decent of you, Father.
MANNOCK. You see, I want you rather badly.
ARTHUR. You’re sure it doesn’t commit me to anything?
MANNOCK (_quickly_). Not a bit.
ARTHUR. And if, after a year----
MANNOCK. Exactly.
ARTHUR. And you would absolve me of any charge of disloyalty, if----
MANNOCK. Of course! of course!
ARTHUR (_after thinking_). Right you are, Father. I’ll take it on.
(MANNOCK _turns away with a big sigh of relief_.)
MANNOCK. Thank you, old boy. I’m sure you won’t regret it.... Oh,
there’s just one other thing. I shall keep you pretty busy. Better
take a holiday now, while Reader is still here.
ARTHUR. Well----
MANNOCK. Hard up?
ARTHUR (_smiling_). Fairly.
MANNOCK (_smiling_). I’ll see to that.
ARTHUR. I say, you are a sportsman. Thanks awfully!
Mannock. That’s all right. (_Dismissing him_) Well, I must go through
my speech with Reader.
ARTHUR. That’s to-morrow, isn’t it? At Leeds.
MANNOCK. Yes.
ARTHUR (_smiling_). Well, entirely without prejudice to my political
opinions, I hope they won’t throw anything at you.
(_He goes._ MANNOCK _laughs heartily until the door closes. Then,
in a flash, his pleasant manner disappears. He walks to his desk
and picks up the telephone._)
MANNOCK. Hullo! Come in, will you? (_He sits down and writes out a
cheque. While he is so engaged_, JOHN READER _comes in, a serious
young man with the great virtues of industry and loyalty, but a
pathetic lack of anything else_.) Ah, Reader, just wait a moment. Got
the speech?
READER. Yes, sir.
MANNOCK (_getting up, cheque in hand_). Good. All right?
READER. I have verified the dates and the extracts from other
speeches. There was one misquotation from Wordsworth which I have
corrected.
MANNOCK. I’m not sure that a misquotation isn’t a good thing
sometimes. Some fool is sure to write to the papers to point it out,
and then one writes back and says that it’s the fault of the reporter
or the printer, and then the reporter writes and says--well, it’s all
publicity.
READER (_reproachfully_). You remember what _The Spectator_ said last
week--the one member of the Cabinet who could be trusted not to
bungle a literary quotation.
MANNOCK. Yes, well, that’s something.
READER (_turning the pages_). One or two little angularities of style
I have ventured to----Oh, and then there’s this passage. This was not
in the Prime Minister’s draft----
MANNOCK (_looking over his shoulder_). No, it wasn’t, was it?
READER. You seem to go some way beyond your colleagues. Of course
it’s not for me----
MANNOCK. Naturally.
READER. I just wanted to be sure that there was no mistake.
MANNOCK. There is no mistake, Reader--at present. It may be necessary
for there to be one later on. I may find--later on--that I spoke from
the wrong draft, in error. You understand?
READER. Quite so, sir. I thought I would just mention it.
MANNOCK. That’s right.... And now, my dear fellow, I have something
to tell you which I cannot flatter myself will be the distress to you
that it is to me. The fact is that I am unable to avail myself of
your services, your very great services, any longer.
READER (_utterly taken aback_). You mean that I--that you----
MANNOCK. I’m afraid so, Reader.
READER. But what have I--aren’t you----
MANNOCK. Perfectly satisfied. Oh, it’s not that at all. I can
recommend you with the utmost confidence, and, in fact, I will make
it my business to see that you are comfortably settled with some one
else. But my son is very anxious to get an insight into politics,
and I have been thinking that the best way--it has been in my mind
for some weeks, and he is delighted at the suggestion--the best way
would be for him to take over your duties, and----(_Fingering the
cheque_) In the circumstances, I have ventured to make this out for
two months’ salary, although I shall only require your services for
one month longer. Here you are, my dear fellow.
READER (_mechanically_). That’s very good of you, sir.... It’s
a little awkward--my wife--coming just now--she’s not--she will
be----(_Looking at the cheque_) Of course this is very generous of
you----
MANNOCK. Not at all. I owe it to you. But you understand that I must
think of my boy--it is his desire----
READER. Of course, sir. Naturally that comes first with you. I only
wish--you see, just now my wife----
MANNOCK (_holding up his hand_). I don’t think, Reader, that I can be
expected----(_Reproachfully_) I can hardly be expected----
READER. No, no, of course not.... Coming just now--she will be
frightened----
MANNOCK. I think that both of you will be distressing yourselves
needlessly. There will be no difficulty whatever about finding
you----I will speak to Mr. Capp to-morrow. Remind me. I fancy that
Carfax----
LADY JANE _comes in_.
LADY JANE. Busy?
MANNOCK (_glad of the interruption_). Oh no, not at all. (_To_
READER) Then that’s understood. I will speak to-morrow to Mr. Capp.
I think Carfax is the man. (_Taking the speech from him_) Thank you.
Good-night, Reader.
READER (_a trifle dazed_). Good-night, sir. Good-night, Lady Jane.
LADY JANE. Good-night. (_He goes out._ LADY JANE _sits down
gracefully_. MANNOCK _stands at the fireplace, turning over the pages
of his speech_) Arthur tells me he’s coming to you.
MANNOCK. Yes.
LADY JANE. I’m glad.
MANNOCK. You heard what he’d been doing?
LADY JANE. Yes. Silly boy.
MANNOCK. He didn’t realise--and I didn’t tell him.
LADY JANE. The least thing might make the difference now.
MANNOCK. Yes.
LADY JANE. Bertie tells me that C. J. is going to the Lords almost at
once.
MANNOCK. I thought you knew.
LADY JANE. Not definitely. I suppose Mowbray will be Chancellor of
the Exchequer?
MANNOCK. Sure to be.
LADY JANE. Bertie seemed to think it wasn’t absolutely settled yet.
MANNOCK. The Duke doesn’t like Mowbray, of course.
LADY JANE. No.... It’s all been so sudden. We haven’t had time to do
anything.
MANNOCK. C. J. has been breaking up for months.
LADY JANE. Yes, but not publicly before. He might easily have lasted
another year.
MANNOCK. Yes.
LADY JANE. Suppose it _is_ Mowbray, who’ll have the Admiralty?
(MANNOCK _shrugs his shoulders_.) Would _you_ take it?
MANNOCK (_not sure_). What do you think?
LADY JANE. No.
MANNOCK. Yes, that’s what I feel.
LADY JANE. “Too devoted to your present work,” and so on. That always
sounds well with the public.
MANNOCK. Yes. (_They smile faintly at each other, and are silent,
both thinking...._) Eversley gone?
LADY JANE. Yes.
MANNOCK. What did you do about that week-end?
LADY JANE. Left it vague. Said I’d write.
MANNOCK (_relieved_). Ah! Then, in that case, I think perhaps----
LADY JANE. So do I.... It’s always a mistake--trying to get back.
MANNOCK. Yes.... Bertie knew about him. The Garden Eversley.
LADY JANE (_surprised_). Oh?... Oh! (_meaning that, of course, that
makes a difference_) ... Oh, then perhaps----
MANNOCK (_shaking his head_). I think I would rather--He’s a little
disturbing.
LADY JANE. They always are--coming in suddenly from outside like
that. Particularly when----
MANNOCK (_wishing to be fair_). He was the Vicar’s son, I was the
Doctor’s.
LADY JANE. Oh, _then_, yes.... (_She gets up_) Shall I see you in the
morning?
MANNOCK. I don’t expect so. I have a fairly early train. There are
the two meetings.
LADY JANE. Yes.... Leeds might make a difference.
MANNOCK. It might.
LADY JANE. I suppose Mowbray _is_ a certainty?
MANNOCK (_with a shrug_). He may not last long.
LADY JANE. If only we had seen it coming.... Bertie doesn’t think
much of him.
MANNOCK. Bertie, no.
LADY JANE. Bertie counts for a good deal with the Prime Minister.
MANNOCK. Up to a point, yes. Not beyond.
LADY JANE. Still--(_she is silent for a little and then says_) I
sometimes wonder if Freda--(_and is silent again_).
MANNOCK. It would help, of course.
LADY JANE. Yes.... Good-night. (_She holds up her cheek and he kisses
it carelessly._)
MANNOCK. Good-night. (_She goes out--to_ FREDA’S _room, we may be
sure._)
(MANNOCK _glances at his speech, spreads it out on the desk
beside him, puts on his glasses, and with a final glance at the
opening, stands up and delivers it._)
MANNOCK. Mr. Chairman, my lords, ladies and gentlemen. In coming
before you to-night at this great crisis in our political affairs,
when, not for the first time in her eventful history our country
stands at the parting of the ways, I am conscious--(_He glances at
the speech and corrects himself_)--I am not unconscious--I am not
unconscious of a certain pride in the knowledge that it is before
my own good friends of Yorkshire--my own people, as I must always
think of them--that I am privileged to plead my cause. I was born
on Yorkshire soil, I was nurtured through youth to early manhood
in the bosom of your hills. Memories of my boyhood come back to me
as I stand here to-night ... memories of those happy days return
to me (_And quite unexpectedly, just for a moment, they do. He
breaks off, and says in a whisper_) Those happy days.... (_He is at
Enderways now. There, armed to the teeth, march_ NITE _and_ SQUIER;
_there, waiting to be rescued_, sits the BUTEUS MAIDEN. _Now it is_
DICK _and_ TEDDY _and_ SALLY. _“Sally!” With a jerk he comes awake
again, and hurries back to Leeds_) And so, ladies and gentlemen,
in delivering my message to you to-night--speaking as I do, not
only for myself, but for the Government which I have the honour to
represent.... (_And so on. We can always read it in “The Times.”_)
ACT II
SCENE 1: _Enderways, Yorkshire_
_It was known as Dick’s room in the old days, so perhaps we may
still call it that. For a small boy, home for his holidays, it
was all very well, this exciting nest in the roof, but it is
terrible to think that a Cabinet Minister is now expected to
sleep there._
_The room is empty at first, and in darkness. Then we hear a
voice outside, and_ LORD CARCHESTER _opens the door and puts
the light on for us. So we get our one glimpse of him--Sally’s
husband; a big, easy-going, easy-moralled, rather battered
man-of-the-world, who, as usual with him at this time of the
night, has had just enough to drink and means to have one or two
more._
CARCHESTER (_outside_). Wait a moment. I’d better go first and put
the light on. (_He does so, and makes way for_ MANNOCK) There you are.
MANNOCK (_coming in_). Thanks. (_He sees the room_) By Jove!
CARCHESTER (_for the tenth time_). I really do apologise, but Sally
insisted on it.
MANNOCK (_impatiently_). My dear Carchester, of course! (_To
himself_) Of course she did.
CARCHESTER. Said you would understand.
MANNOCK. I understand.
(_He is still looking, looking at the room, drinking it in. The
years are dropping off him._)
CARCHESTER. Never argue with a woman. I’ve learnt that--(_the
man-of-the-world laughs_)--if I’ve learnt nothing else.
MANNOCK (_carelessly_). I shall be quite all right here, thanks. (_He
wants to be alone with the memories of the room._)
CARCHESTER (_sitting down on the bed_). Funny your turning out to be
an old friend of Sally’s like this.
MANNOCK. We were boy and girl together. I used to stay here in the
holidays. (_With a deep sigh of remembrance_) This was my room.
CARCHESTER. Ah well, then, that accounts for it. Still, why not
be comfortable in a decent room when you can? (_He sinks into
somnolence, rousing himself a moment to say sleepily_) That was a
damn good speech you made.
(MANNOCK _is not listening to his host; it is the room which is
calling to him. He goes quickly to the window, to the cupboard,
finding, remembering, missing. Suddenly he bends down, and turns
back a corner of the carpet._)
MANNOCK. Hullo!
CARCHESTER (_waking up with a start_). What’s the matter?
MANNOCK (_accusingly_). There used to be a rat-hole here. It’s been
boarded up.
CARCHESTER. Good Lord, what do _you_ do to rat-holes? (_He settles
down to sleep again. But not for long._)
MANNOCK (_severely_). That bed ought to be over here!
CARCHESTER (_dimly feeling that it is his fault_). I beg your pardon,
I didn’t--(_he tries to rise in apology, but sinks back again._)
MANNOCK. Up against the wall.
(_He goes to the wall suddenly and taps; a peculiar rhythmic
series of taps, just above where the bed used to be._)
CARCHESTER. Hullo!
MANNOCK (_coming to himself with an apologetic laugh_). Who sleeps
there now?
CARCHESTER. The staff. I dunno. P’raps it’s the cook. (_Wagging his
head in reproof_) Too old, Mannock, my boy. Too stout.
(MANNOCK _turns away in disgust. Then he goes back to the wall,
and begins to talk, looking at_ CARCHESTER, _but seeing only
himself as a boy, thirty-five years ago_.)
MANNOCK. That was the signal. That meant “I want to talk to you.”
Then we talked to each other through the wall. One tap for A, two
for B, and so on, spelling out messages. Oh, for hours sometimes ...
just making up things to say ... plans for to-morrow ... wonderful
plans for to-morrow ... adventures which never quite happened. “G”
meant “Good-bye”--if one sent it, the other had to stop and go to
sleep. “G.D.” meant “Good-bye, dear”--that was when we had had a
specially happy day together. Then, in the morning, the first one
awake sent the signal. If the other one answered it, the first one
sent “S.W.”--that meant “Shall we?” Shall we get up? “Y” for “Yes,”
and we’d race each other to be first down on that old broken wall in
the Wilderness.
(_He stops; he is racing to be first down_; SALLY’S _door
flies open; she has the start of him. She can run--how she can
run!--but he will catch her_ ... CARCHESTER _breaks in on his
vision_.)
CARCHESTER. A damn good speech. (_He yawns_) And mind you, I know
what I’m talking about, because I was awake practically all the time.
(_He struggles to his feet_) I say, what about another spot of whisky?
MANNOCK (_curtly_). No, thanks.
CARCHESTER. Just a little baby spot? You won’t? Well, I will. Quite
sure you’re all right here?
MANNOCK. Yes, thanks.
CARCHESTER (_getting to the door_). Well then, g’night.
MANNOCK. Good-night.
CARCHESTER (_after thought_). G’night. (_He opens the door, and then
turns round with the air of one having a message to deliver. He
delivers it._) G’night. (_He goes._)
(MANNOCK _is alone with his room; alone with a thousand ghosts, a
thousand memories; most of them happy ones, bringing a smile to
his face; all of them tearing at that solemn mask of success in
which, for so many years, he has hidden himself. You can see the
mask falling from him, you can see those years dropping away...._
_He takes off his coat and waistcoat and puts on a dressing-gown;
takes off his shoes and puts on bedroom slippers. Then he sits
on the bed, still smiling at his thoughts. He swings his feet
up and puts his head back on the pillows, looking up at the
well-remembered ceiling. He gives a deep sigh, and just breathes
the word “Sally!” Sleepily he puts his hand up to the wall and
gives that rhythmic knock. There is no answer; it is the wrong
wall; it was a thousand years ago. But, still sleepily, he taps
out G.D., “Good-bye, dear, God be with you, dear.” Then his hand,
coming down from the wall, feels the electric switch. With the
happy sigh of one on the very threshold of sleep, he turns off
the light ... and the thousand ghosts, who have been waiting for
him, rush thronging into his dreams...._
* * * * *
_Listen! Very faint, very far-off, a tune is coming--the War Song
of the Dreadnought Nite ... Pom-perom-perompity-pom...._
_Now it comes again, clearer, louder ...
Pom-perom-perompity-pom...._
_Now the_ DREADNOUGHT NITE _is here; here too is his faithful_
SQUIER.... _Pom-perom-perompity-pom.... A whole orchestra of
sound._
_Listen! It is only a child’s trumpet.... And--see!--there are
the children. For it is light now, and we can see where we are.
Yet, even so, we are not quite certain. For there is the bed
with_ MANNOCK _(is it?) still lying there, but there also is that
overgrown, tangled corner of the Wilderness, and the broken wall
where_ DICK _and_ SALLY _used to meet_.
_“Pom-perom-perompity-pom.” It is the faithful_ SQUIER _who has
the trumpet_. NITE, _in a paper cap, and with a martial sword in
hand, leads the way_. SQUIER, _a toy gun hung round him, follows
tooting_....
_Enough, however, of toots. Let_ NITE _give tongue_.)
NITE (_singing lustily_).
Half a pound of tuppenny rice,
Half a pound of treacle,
That’s the way the money goes--
Pop goes the weasel!
Come on, Squier!
SQUIER.
Half a pound of ham and eggs,
Half a pound of treacle--
That’s the way--
NITE. That’s _not_ the way! It’s “tuppenny rice.”
SQUIER (_reproachfully_). You know I _always_ say ham and eggs, Nite!
NITE. Well, what’s the good of being my Squier, if you don’t sing
the same as me? Squiers _always_ sing the same as Nites.
SQUIER. _Sally_ said----
NITE (_seeing_ MANNOCK). Hullo! Here’s an old, dead gentleman.
SQUIER. Oughtn’t I to salute him? (_He unslings his gun._)
NITE (_sternly_). Wait till I give the order. Now then, Squier, shun!
Shoulder--_arms_! (SQUIER _slopes_) That’s not shouldering arms,
stupid, that’s sloping.
SQUIER. That’s all the shouldering you’ll get. (_Proudly_) We don’t
shoulder in _our_ regiment.
NITE. Then you can jolly well take a month’s notice, and I shall
engage an entirely new Squier. (SQUIER _salutes, walks away a few
paces and comes back again_.) Are you an entirely new Squier?
SQUIER (_saluting_). Yes.
NITE. Then I shall give you 350 a year.
SQUIER. 350 what?
NITE. Oh, I dunno. Stand easy. (_Kindly_) You can look at the old
gentleman if you like.
SQUIER (_looking_). Is he a _very_ old gentleman, Nite?
NITE. Not so tremendous. About 25 or 50 or something.
SQUIER. Is he dead?
NITE. Oh, a long time ago, I should think. Just as dead as dead.
SQUIER. Then I shall sing to him. (_Singing_) “Half a pound----”
MANNOCK (_sitting up_). I’m not dead. I’ve heard every word you’ve
been saying.
NITE (_to_ SQUIER). He says he isn’t dead.
SQUIER. Ask him if he can sing.
NITE. Can you sing?
MANNOCK. Rather!
NITE. All right, sing!
MANNOCK. “Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle----”
NITE (_triumphantly_). There you are, Squier!
SQUIER (_wistfully_). I always say “Ham and eggs.”
MANNOCK (_shaking his head_). Wrong!
NITE. There you are, Squier!
SQUIER (_sadly_). I don’t like rice.
MANNOCK. Ah, but wait till you try the tuppenny sort. Whew!
SQUIER. Is that a bit better?
MANNOCK. Ever so much.
SQUIER. Oh! (_Humbly_) Still, I think I’ll go on saying ham and eggs,
if you don’t mind very much.
MANNOCK. Right!
NITE (_pointing to_ SQUIER’S _trumpet_). That’s his loot, what he
plays on.
SQUIER (_proudly_). I got it at the sack of Jerusalem.
NITE. When there’s a sack on, there’s always a lot of loots. Almost
everybody gets one. I lost mine. (_Carelessly_) Don’t mind, because a
Nite has such a lot of fighting to do, he can’t bother about loots. I
say, where’s the Buteus Maiden?
MANNOCK. That’s just what I was going to ask _you_.
SQUIER. I’m going to shout for her. Shall we shout for her, Nite?
NITE. Yes, let’s shout for her.
MANNOCK. All together. One, two, three----_Buteus Maiden_!
NITE (_apologetically_). I don’t expect she heard.
SQUIER. Perhaps she’s being Sleeping Beauty, and is waiting for Nite
to kiss her.
NITE (_rather hot and red_). Shut up, Squier.
MANNOCK. Well, _I_ shall try calling “Sally.”
NITE. Yes, let’s call Sally.
ALL. Sally! Sally! Sally!
BUTEUS MAIDEN. Here I am!
(_And here she is. Only ten at the moment, but as sweet, as
precious, as daintily dignified, as our Sally when she grew up._)
NITE (_rushing to her--even then she was everything to him_).
Oh, Sally, you _have_ been a long time. We’ve found an old, dead
gentleman to play with us.
MANNOCK (_indignantly_). I’m not dead! I’m not dead!
NITE. Yes, you are. Isn’t he, Squier?
SQUIER. I thought he was at first. And then I thought p’raps he
wasn’t.
MANNOCK (_almost in tears_). I’m _not_ dead. I shan’t play if he says
I’m dead.
MAIDEN. Do play! Then that will show you’re not.
MANNOCK. I’m a very important, successful man.
SQUIER. I saw at once he was a very important, successful man, so
that’s what made me think he was all dead. (_Kindly_) But p’raps he
isn’t.
MANNOCK (_doggedly_). I’m _not_ dead.
NITE. Yes, he is.
MAIDEN (_to_ NITE). Dear, if he says he isn’t dead, I don’t think it
would be kind not to believe him.
SQUIER. We can pretend he isn’t, anyhow.
MAIDEN (_to_ NITE). Please, dear.
NITE (_magnanimously_). All right, we’ll pretend you’re alive, and
see how you get on.
MANNOCK (_humbly_). Thank you very much.
NITE (_moving him_). Now you just stand there, out of the way. What
shall we be, Squier?
SQUIER. I think--I think----
NITE. I know! We’ll be Three Suitors. Sally, you sit over
there----We’ll be Three Suitors, Squier.
SQUIER (_wistfully_). I suppose I shan’t be the _Third_ Suitor?
NITE. No, _I’ll_ be----(_Impatiently_) Sally, why don’t----
MAIDEN (_sitting down_). Here I am, dear.
NITE (_to_ MANNOCK). What would you like to be? You could be another
Squier, if you like, (SQUIER _looks sadly at the Buteus Maiden_.)
MAIDEN (_gently_). There couldn’t be more than one Squier, dear.
MANNOCK (_hopefully_). Could I be a Lord of High Degree?
NITE (_doubtfully, to_ MAIDEN). Could he?
MANNOCK. I’m a Right Honourable, really.
NITE. That’s an _awful_ thing to be.
MANNOCK (_humbly_). Oh!
SQUIER. Couldn’t he just be a wight or a varlet or something?
NITE. A wight of low renowne! A wight of low renowne! That’s what he
is. Isn’t he, Sally?
MAIDEN. If you like, dear.
MANNOCK. Thank you very much.
NITE. Now, Squier goes first. We’re all Suitors, and Squier goes
first. Go on, Squier. (_In a whisper to_ MANNOCK) You go next.
(SQUIER _slopes his gun, makes a long detour of the castle walls,
and arrives at the Great Gate. He pulls an imaginary bell._)
NITE. Bom! Bom! Bom! (_To_ MANNOCK) That’s the bell ringing inside to
summon the agéd Seneschal. Go on, Squier.
SQUIER. What ho, within!
NITE (_as Seneschal_). What ho, without!
SQUIER. Open the door, thou scurvy bald-pate!
NITE. What name, please?
SQUIER. Faithful Squier. I am come to pay attentions to thy mistress,
the Buteus Maiden.
NITE. Not at home.
SQUIER. Have a care, agéd man, lest I carve thee to the brisket! (_He
pushes past the_ SENESCHAL _into the_ MAIDEN’S _presence_.)
MAIDEN (_turning to him_). Who seeks me?
SQUIER. It is I, thy faithful Squier, who loves thee.
MAIDEN. Alas!
SQUIER. If thou wilt wed with me, I will give thee a golden castle,
two palfreys, a box of fireworks and--and--lots of things.
MAIDEN (_drooping_). I want none of these things.
SQUIER. Oh!... Not even a box of fireworks?
MAIDEN. No.
SQUIER. Oh! (_He salutes_) Good-bye! (_He retreats._)
NITE. Well done, Squier!
(SQUIER, _rather pleased with himself, lies down and rests_.)
MAIDEN (_kindly_). Dear Squier. (_She resumes her character._)
NITE (_to_ MANNOCK). Now then, Low Renowne, it’s your turn.
MANNOCK (_confidently_). Right! (_He marches up to the castle gate
and pulls the bell. There is dead silence. He pulls it again. Still
there is silence. He looks round, a little alarmed, at_ NITE) This
bell doesn’t ring! (NITE _laughs loudly_. MANNOCK _rings it again,
vigorously, but with no effect. He turns round to_ NITE _again_) I
say----(_But_ NITE _and_ SQUIER _have vanished. He calls out loudly,
frightened_) I say! (_There is no answer. The_ BUTEUS MAIDEN _still
waits silent_. MANNOCK _suddenly drops the bell, and attempts to push
his way into the castle, but_ DIGBY, _the immaculate butler, bars the
way_.)
DIGBY. Yes, sir?
MANNOCK. Open the door, thou scurvy bald-pate.
DIGBY (_coldly_). What name, please?
MANNOCK. Wight of Low Renowne.
DIGBY. Then it’s no good your hanging about here. Only people of high
renown, successful people, are allowed in _this_ house.
MANNOCK. Have a care, agéd man, lest I carve thee to the brisket.
DIGBY (_calmly_). Those are my instructions. Her ladyship is not at
home to _any_ of her husband’s old friends. Mr. Selby Mannock says he
might perhaps give you a job in the garden, if you come round to the
back door.
MANNOCK (_desperately_). But--but I’ve come to see the Buteus Maiden!
DIGBY (_contemptuously_). Dressed like that?
MANNOCK. You don’t understand. I’ve just come up from the country
for a day. (_He turns round_) Nite, how _can_ I play this game
if----(_But_ NITE _is not there; and when he turns back_, DIGBY _has
vanished. He rings the bell again_. ARTHUR _appears_.)
ARTHUR. Name, please.
MANNOCK. Wight of Low Renowne.
ARTHUR (_coldly_). I don’t think I know him. Who is he?
MANNOCK. I--I don’t---- It was Nite, who----
ARTHUR. _Your_ name, I think, is Richard Selby Mannock?
MANNOCK. Y--Yes.
ARTHUR. Then why do you give a false name? It only leads to
misapprehension.
MANNOCK. I want to see the Buteus Maiden.
ARTHUR. Dressed like that?
MANNOCK. I--I----
ARTHUR. Look at yourself in the glass! A wight of low renowne! Have a
glass of port! Have a cigar! A wight of low renowne!
MANNOCK (_turning round_). Nite! I can’t get in! People keep
stopping me! (_He turns back._ ARTHUR _has gone. He rings the bell._
BERTIE CAPP _is there_.)
BERTIE. Name, please.
MANNOCK. Selby Mannock--I mean Wight of Low--(_pathetically_) I don’t
know.
BERTIE. I thought perhaps it was the Chancellor of the Exchequer?
MANNOCK. N--no, I don’t think so.
BERTIE. What a pity! Couldn’t you work it somehow? Pull a few
strings? Talk to the Duke? Square an editor? I’m sure, if you had
a little time, you could think of something. Ask the Archbishop of
Canterbury to dinner! Invent a scandal about Mowbray! Intrigue a bit!
Surely you can do _something_!
MANNOCK. I--I want to see the Buteus Maiden.
BERTIE. Dressed like that? Without the Chancellor’s robes?
MANNOCK. I _must_ speak to her! I want to tell her----
BERTIE. You know, that was a damn good speech of yours. The Prime
Minister knows what he is talking about, and he was awake practically
all the time.
MANNOCK. Let me in! I must get in!
BERTIE. I don’t know what the Prime Minister will say. You see,
Eversley--the Garden Eversley--has just given him a month’s notice,
and the Chancellor of the Exchequer----But, of course, if I were to
marry Freda, we should keep it in the family. It all helps.
MANNOCK (_despairingly_). Nite, Squier, where are you? (_He pulls the
bell again. To his surprise it rings--or is it the_ BUTEUS MAIDEN
_saying “Bom, bom, bom”? He takes a step forward, and is there at
last--at her feet._)
MAIDEN (_turning to him_). Who seeks me?
MANNOCK. Er--er--(_but he can say nothing_).
MAIDEN (_leaning to him_). Tell me.
MANNOCK (_struggling desperately to tell her_). Er--er--(_and
behold! Reader, his secretary, is prompting him_) Mr. Chairman, my
lords, ladies and gentlemen!
MAIDEN (_turning away in disappointment_). Oh!
MANNOCK (_longing to say just the one word “Sally”--and then, “Sally,
I love you!” but Reader won’t have it_). Mr. Chairman, my lords,
ladies and gentlemen!
MAIDEN (_sadly_). Have you nothing more to say to me?
MANNOCK (_after another desperate struggle_). Mr. Chairman, my lords,
ladies and gentlemen!
MAIDEN (_knowing that it is hopeless_). Alas! he hath a sickness!
(_And now, suddenly_, NITE _and_ SQUIER _have him by the arms,
and are leading him away_.)
NITE. That’s not the way, is it, Squier?
SQUIER (_sadly_). I s’pose he _must_ have been dead all the time.
NITE. _I’ll_ show you! Now you watch _me_! (_He walks bravely up to
the_ BUTEUS MAIDEN. _No door-bells, no parleyings for him._) Buteus
Maiden, I would speak with thee.
MAIDEN. Who seeks me?
NITE. It is I, thy love-lorn Nite.
MAIDEN (_wistfully_). What wouldst thou, Nite?
NITE. Fain would I marry thee.
MAIDEN. Ah!
NITE. No jewels do I bring thee; no golden palaces do I offer thee;
only----
MAIDEN (_whispering_). Only----?
NITE. Only my love and my faithful service.
MAIDEN (_getting down off the wall and giving him her hand_). Then do
I plight thee my troth.
(_He goes on one knee to her and kisses her hand. Then, her arm
in his, he marches out of the castle, followed by the faithful_
SQUIER, _who plays the War Song of the Dreadnought Nite_.)
MANNOCK (_as they go_). Don’t go! Don’t go! (_But they go_) Sally!
Sally!
SQUIER (_popping back_). Tell her it’s Dick calling. (_He hurries
back after the others._)
MANNOCK. Sally! Where are you? It’s Dick! (_He goes from one side
to the other, calling_ “Sally!” _and then_ “It’s Dick!” _And as he
comes back to the castle, there she is, sitting on the wall in just
the same attitude as that child Sally--and as beautiful, as dear.
Nineteen, twenty; and_ MANNOCK, _seeing her, is himself no older, so
eagerly his face lights up_.) Ah, Sally, Sally! (At last he has found
her again.)
SALLY. Here I am, Dick.
MANNOCK. Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.
SALLY. Just down by the river.
MANNOCK (_jealously_). What were you doing?
SALLY. Just sitting in the buttercups, looking at the river.
MANNOCK. Is that all?
SALLY (_nodding_). That’s all, dear.
MANNOCK (_after a pause_). Did you look at yourself in the river,
Sally?
SALLY (_nodding_). Yes.
MANNOCK (_with a deep sigh_). Oh, Sally! (_There is so much that he
cannot say, that words cannot express. She cannot help him now. She
waits, tremulous_) Sally, listen! (_She is listening. He taps the
signal. She nods. Then he sends “I.” She nods again_) Did you get
that?
SALLY. Yes.
MANNOCK. What was it?
SALLY. “I.”
MANNOCK. That’s right. That’s all the word.
SALLY (_to herself_). Dick.
MANNOCK. Listen! (_He taps “L.” She nods._)
SALLY (_so gently_). “L.”
MANNOCK. That’s right. (_He taps “O.” She nods._)
SALLY (_as gently_). “O.”
MANNOCK. Yes. (_He taps “V.” When he gets as far as “U,” he pauses a
moment, his hand up._ SALLY _is waiting breathlessly. With a smile he
makes it “V”; out comes her deep sigh of relief; she laughs back at
him._)
SALLY (_nodding_). “V.”
MANNOCK. Did you think it would be “V,” Sally?
SALLY (_shyly_). I wondered if it might be “V.”
MANNOCK (_tapping “E”_). There!
SALLY. “Love!” (_She looks straight in front of her seeing--who shall
say what?_) “I love----”
MANNOCK. I haven’t finished yet.
SALLY (_softly_). No, you haven’t finished yet.
MANNOCK. Shall I do the alphabet backwards for this letter?
SALLY. Does it come at the end of the alphabet?
MANNOCK. It does come rather at the end, Sally.
SALLY (_with a deep sigh of happiness_). I think I’d like you to do
it forward, Dick. (_Gently_) To make it longer.
MANNOCK. All right. (_He taps “Y.”_)
(_Breathlessly, her chin up, her eyes all love_, SALLY _is
counting_.)
SALLY (_certain now_). Ah!
MANNOCK. Did you know it would be “Y,” Sally?
SALLY (_ever so softly_). I think I knew, Dick.
MANNOCK. Did you--did you want it to be “Y,” Sally?
SALLY. Oh, I wanted it to be “Y”!
MANNOCK. (_holding out his arms to her_). Oh, Sally, Sally, I love
you! Could you ... do you----
SALLY (_nodding_). Always, dearest, always.
MANNOCK. Sally!
(_If it were real, he would have her in his arms now, but it is
a dream, insubstantial._ BERTIE _and_ FREDA _are there suddenly,
between them. They each have an arm of_ MANNOCK’S, _and are
marching him away; yet talking to each other across him, as if he
were not there_.)
BERTIE. As I said to the Prime Minister, the more these things are
kept in the family, the better.
FREDA. That’s just what Father said, when Marjory married Robert.
BERTIE. It will be useful for me, my wife being the Chancellor’s
daughter, and it will be useful for your Father, his daughter being
married to the Prime Minister’s secretary.
FREDA. Exactly, Bertie. It all helps.
(_They have let go of_ MANNOCK, _and are now arm-in-arm, but
still talking as if he had never been there_.)
BERTIE. In these days, we must stick together, or where are we?
FREDA. Exactly! Where _are_ we?
(_And they are gone. But, alas!_ SALLY _is gone too_.)
MANNOCK. Sally! Where are you?
(_He hurries from one side to the other, calling for her. But it
is_ EVERSLEY, _as old as when we last saw him, who appears_.)
MANNOCK (_turning round with a shout of welcome_). Teddy!
EVERSLEY. I beg your pardon?
MANNOCK (_coming closer_). I’m sorry, sir--you looked much younger--I
thought at first----
EVERSLEY (_smiling_). Not at all. Very charming of you to think so.
You live here, I suppose?
MANNOCK (_charmingly boyish_). I’m staying here. Teddy and I stay
here in the vac. sometimes. We’re up at Cambridge. At least, we’ve
just come down.
EVERSLEY (_smiling_). And what are you going to do?
MANNOCK. I’m going to the Bar. But--(_shyly_) I want to write.
EVERSLEY. Ah!
MANNOCK. You see, you don’t get much money at the Bar, and I _must_
have _some_, because you see--you see, Sally and I--we’ve just got
engaged.
EVERSLEY. Oh, youth, youth! Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive.
But to be young was very heaven!
MANNOCK. Only between ourselves, you know. We shan’t tell anybody
until I’m making a living.
EVERSLEY. I shan’t say a word--except just to myself sometimes,
“Bless them.”
MANNOCK (_shyly_). I say, thanks awfully. Sally would love that.
EVERSLEY. Perhaps I shall be able to give you a hand later on. I
write too. I daresay I could introduce you--a word in the right
ear----
MANNOCK. I say, that’s awfully decent of you. I don’t suppose I’m
much good. But it’s fun.... It _is_ fun, isn’t it? I mean being alive
... and trying ... and wondering ... and having somebody else who
wonders too.... Oh, what a lot there is in the world that nobody
knows anything about! All the lovely things! All the precious things!
(_Ashamed suddenly_) I say, I’m awfully sorry--talking such rot----
EVERSLEY. Keep on looking for the lovely things.... And bless you
both.
LADY JANE (_off_). Edward!
(MANNOCK _looks up at the voice_.)
EVERSLEY. There she is!
(LADY JANE _comes on in full evening dress_.)
LADY JANE. Ah, there you are, Edward!
(MANNOCK _gazes at her, struggling with horrible memories_.)
EVERSLEY. Here I am, my dear. (_To_ MANNOCK) This is my wife, Lady
Jane.
MANNOCK (_to himself_). _His_ wife! (_He draws a deep breath of
relief_) How do you do?
LADY JANE (_casually_). How do you do? Are we ready, Edward?
EVERSLEY. Yes, my dear.
(_They turn and go off together, talking loudly to each other as
if_ MANNOCK _were not there_.)
LADY JANE. Who is he?
EVERSLEY. Just a nice young man.
LADY JANE. He looks as if he had possibilities. Ask him to Drayton,
if you like. He might do. (_They are gone._)
MANNOCK (_still looking for her_). Sally, where _are_ you?... Sally!
(NITE _and_ SQUIER _march across, singing the Dreadnought war
song_.)
SQUIER (_as they disappear_). Say it’s Dick calling.
MANNOCK. Sally! Where are you? It’s Dick!
(_And there she is, on her wall again, just as if she had never
gone._)
SALLY. Here I am, dear.
MANNOCK (_rushing to her_). Oh, Sally, I’ve had the most awful dream!
I dreamed--just for a moment--I was married to--to somebody else. It
was horrible. And then I couldn’t find you, and--Oh, Sally, it _is_
you, isn’t it? Say it’s you.
SALLY (_nodding_). It is, dearest, it is. Never mind the dream.
MANNOCK. It couldn’t happen, could it?
SALLY (_trembling_). Oh it couldn’t, it couldn’t.... Oh, if it did!
MANNOCK (_comforting her_). It couldn’t, Sally. It will always be you.
SALLY. It was always you. From the very first. Those dear, silly
games we played as children--do you remember?----
MANNOCK. I remember.
SALLY. I think I _liked_ Teddy better--(_doubtfully_) I think he was
_nicer_, Dick--(_hurriedly_) Oh no, no, he wasn’t----
MANNOCK. He was. I was a little beast.
SALLY. You weren’t, you weren’t. It was always you.... I loved Teddy;
I love him now; it’s sort of friendly, loving _him_. But you were
different. It’s sort of terrible, loving _you_, Dick. You’re right in
my heart, so twined that it can hardly beat without hurting me. You
can’t go now; not unless you tear my heart out too.
MANNOCK. I’m happy being in your heart.
SALLY. It was always you. I used to say to myself when we were
children, “Squier’s heaps nicer, _really_”--(_nodding_) Yes, he
was--but Squier couldn’t hurt me. Only you could hurt me. I think
that was how I knew that I loved you.
MANNOCK. I won’t hurt you, darling. Never again.
SALLY (_wistfully, wondering at his innocence_). Oh, my dear!...
(_Very gently_) If you stop hurting me, I have stopped loving you.
MANNOCK (_softly_). I will stay in your heart.
SALLY (_putting her hands to her heart_). You are all that I have
there.
(_They are silent together.... Very faintly the War Song of the
Dreadnought Nite is heard._ SALLY _stands up_.)
SALLY. Come, dearest.
MANNOCK. I come, my beautiful.
SALLY. Into the world, for whatever the world may send, but always
together.
MANNOCK. Always together, my lovely.
(_They begin to move, but are held there. It is a deputation
arriving. The War Song grows louder, as all the people of_
MANNOCK’S _dream file in. Now they are between_ SALLY _and her
lover. She calls to him with her eyes, “Come, dearest,” but he
cannot.... She is gone._)
DIGBY. Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! The Chancellor of the Exchequer will now put
on his robe of office.
(_The deputation solemnly presents_ MANNOCK _with the robe and
departs with dignity_.)
MANNOCK. Half a moment, Sally, I must just put this on. (_He
struggles into it_) Sally! (_He looks up, still struggling. She is
not there_) Wait a moment, Sally! (_He struggles_) Sally, I must get
this on! Don’t you understand, dear?... (_Frightened_) Sally! Wait
for me! (_Desperately_) Sally!... Sally!----
(_But he has lost her._)
ACT II
SCENE 2: _A Corner of the Wilderness_
_It is early morning, perhaps seven o’clock, in that corner of
the Wilderness which we have already seen in_ MANNOCK’S _dream.
On the wall sits_ SALLY, LADY CARCHESTER, _a woman in the forties
now, but still our_ SALLY. MANNOCK, _seeking the fresh air after
a restless night, his dream still strong upon him, comes suddenly
upon her_.
MANNOCK (_with a shout_). Sally! Oh, my darling! (_And then he
realises suddenly_) I beg your pardon! (_He is staggered at what he
has said._) I--I beg your pardon, Lady Carchester. Please forgive me.
SALLY (_smiling sadly_). It’s all right.
MANNOCK. I’m really----What can you think? My only excuse--but I’m
ashamed to give it.
SALLY. Please tell me.
MANNOCK (_with a laugh_). It’s absurd. (_Then he tells her_) I dreamt
last night--the most vivid, absurd--(_softly_) the most wonderful
dream. You and I--here; first as children, then--afterwards.
Sometimes I seemed to be looking on at myself; in some funny way
there were two of me. Sometimes you were a child, sometimes you
were grown up. But always it was you and I. Other people came in;
everybody; you know how; but always you and I. Here. Just where you
are sitting now--just where, just how, you always used to sit.... And
then I woke up and came out here--it was early, nobody else could be
up--and there you were. Just as you always used to sit.
SALLY (_leaning back on her hands and nodding_). I understand.
MANNOCK. Don’t! Don’t!
SALLY. What?
MANNOCK (_in distress_). It’s the Sally I used to know! Everything.
The way she sits, the way she talks, the way she moves. Oh, Sally,
don’t! (_He recovers himself with an effort_) I beg your pardon.
SALLY (_smiling faintly_). It’s all right.
MANNOCK (_trying not to look at her_). I’ve never had such a real
dream. It almost seems as if _you_ must have been dreaming it too.
(_With an awkward laugh_) Were you?
SALLY. I have those dreams. (_Poor dear, it’s all she has._)
MANNOCK. I suppose it was being in that room again. (_With a laugh_)
There are ghosts in that room, Lady Carchester.
SALLY. There are ghosts in every room--in every corner of the
gardens----
MANNOCK. And here.
SALLY. And here....
MANNOCK. It must be--how many years since we met?
SALLY. I don’t know.... Did your speeches go off well?
MANNOCK. I think so. Yes. I don’t know.
SALLY. I expect they did ... I’m sorry I wasn’t up when you came. I
went to bed early.
MANNOCK. We were late. Nearly midnight. I dined at the hotel, in
between the speeches.
SALLY. I thought you would ... I thought you wouldn’t mind if I was
not up when you came.
MANNOCK. But you were. (_She turns to him_) In every room--in every
corner of the house.... I tapped on the wall--G.D. (_Gently to
himself_) Good-bye, dear. That’s “God be with you, dear.”
SALLY (_softly_). I heard it.
(_And suddenly, the unearthly sweetness of his dream still with
him_, MANNOCK _forgets that he is married, father of a family,
an important and successful man; forgets that this is Lady
Carchester. They are boy and girl still, just as in the dream. Is
it too late?_)
MANNOCK. Sally, Sally, I love you! Oh, my beautiful, I’ve always
loved you. It’s too late now--I’ve thrown your love away--but I love
you, I love you. Oh, just to say it again--I love you.
SALLY (_whispering to herself_). Oh, just to hear you say it
again--“I love you.”
MANNOCK. I’ve thrown them away--all the lovely things of life, all
the precious things. I’ve thrown them away--for nothing. Oh, if you
could forgive me--it’s too late now, but if you could forgive me!
I’ve hurt you, but I’ve hurt myself more, for it was always you. How
can you forgive me? I tore myself out of your heart--you said that
would hurt you, Sally--but if you could forgive!
SALLY. I forgive, dearest.
MANNOCK. Success! It closes in on you. That’s what Teddy said. I
tried to get free--I did try, Sally--but I couldn’t. It had got me.
It closes in on you.
SALLY. I understand, dearest.
MANNOCK. Oh, but just to say, “I love you, Sally,” again!
SALLY. Oh, just to hear you say it, dearest.
MANNOCK (_timidly_). I suppose you couldn’t say, “I love you, Dick.”
Oh no, how can I ask it?
SALLY. “If you stop hurting me, I have stopped loving you”--do you
remember?
MANNOCK (_remorsefully_). Sally!
SALLY (_her hand to her heart_). It has never stopped hurting....
I had to make something of my life. To sit alone with Pain--(_she
shakes her head_) I had to make something of it. But it has never
stopped hurting.
MANNOCK. Oh, my dear! Forgive me.
SALLY. It is early. We are alone with the world. This is part of the
dream--you and I. And so--I love you, Dick.
MANNOCK (_humbly_). Thank you, Sally.
SALLY (_giving him her hand_). It is part of the dream. (_They are
hand in hand--silent._)
MANNOCK (_quietly_). Need it be a dream? There is so much in the
world that nobody knows anything about--is it too late to find it
together?
SALLY (_trembling_). It is only part of the dream, dearest.
MANNOCK (_earnestly_). Need it be? Here we are, you and I--need it be
a dream?
SALLY (_how she loves him_). Your career.
MANNOCK (_bitterly_). My career! My successful career! (_He tears it
away_) Let me get away from it! Help me to get away from it! It is
not too late. Come with me, my beautiful.
SALLY (_her last defence_). It means giving up everything.
MANNOCK (_triumphantly_). It means finding everything....
SALLY (_quietly_). I have always loved you. From the first--from the
very first. It was always you. It is you now. If you want me--if you
think it is not too late--if it would be better for you--(_she breaks
off, and then begins again_) I don’t know if it’s wrong. I don’t
know much about Right and Wrong. But I think, perhaps, that there
are some wrongs which are better and braver than Right, and some
rights which are worse and more destroying than Wrong.... It is only
of you I am thinking. If it would be better for you--(_she breaks
off again, and then nods gently to herself_) I will come with you,
dearest.
MANNOCK. Sally, my lovely one! (_He holds out his hands to her; she
takes them_) But you _want_ to come? You do love me still--after all
I’ve done to you? Say “I love you, Dick.”
SALLY (_from her broken heart_). God knows how I love you, Dick.
MANNOCK. Oh, my dear, my dear! (_He kisses her hands reverently, and
is silent for a little. Then, thinking it out slowly, now for the
first time seeing the thing as it is, he says_) Now then, you must
give me a week, a week to get out of it all, a week to get clear.
Sally, you _do_ see, don’t you? I can’t only think of myself--now.
Not now. That was the old way--only myself--my success--my
career--but now! I must get out of it all first. I must have a
week--to get clear.
SALLY (_perhaps she guesses_). You must have a week--to be certain.
MANNOCK (_confidently_). Oh, I’m certain enough. (_He laughs
happily._)
SALLY. Yet I want you to have a week. Not seeing me, not writing to
me. I can do nothing for you now, dear. It is for you.... Here am I.
If, at the end of a week, you want me, tell me where you want me, and
I will come.
MANNOCK. There is a place I’ve seen, a little sleepy village between
hills; you will feel at rest there. Nobody comes, nobody will know
us. When we are there together, then I will try to thank you.
SALLY (_seeing it then, if never afterwards_). I will wait for you to
say “Come!”
MANNOCK (_nodding_). A week. Only a week. (_He makes a movement as
if to go; she too_). No, don’t move! Let me have this picture of you
for our last week away from each other.... Hands behind you in that
way you always had. There! Sally the child, Sally the girl, Sally the
woman--and always my belovéd. (_Clasping his hands to her_) Oh, my
lovely!
(_He is gone; she waits there. So it was twenty-five years ago.
So it is now._)
ACT III
SCENE 1: _Cavendish Square_
_It is the afternoon of the same day._ BERTIE, _ushered in by_
DIGBY, _comes into the empty library. He has just been told that_
MR. MANNOCK _is not yet home_.
BERTIE (_looking at his watch_). I suppose the train was late.
DIGBY. No, sir, apparently not. The car has returned with Mr.
Mannock’s dressing-case.
BERTIE. Then where----
DIGBY. I understand from Lawson that Mr. Mannock gave instructions
that he would be walking home.
BERTIE (_amazed_). Walking! Why?
DIGBY. Naturally I can’t say, sir, except that it is a fine
afternoon, and that Mr. Mannock may have felt in good spirits.
BERTIE. Good spirits! Good Lord!
DIGBY. Yes, sir. Even if he walked all the way he should be here very
soon now, sir. Of course, if he popped on to a ’bus----
BERTIE. My good Digby, you can’t pop on to a ’bus without years of
practice. If he has taken his life in his hands like that, he may be
at Crouch End, or God knows where, by now. Well, I shall wait, if I
wait all day.
DIGBY. Yes, sir.
BERTIE. Tell her ladyship I’m here.
DIGBY. Very good, sir.
(_He goes out._ BERTIE _sits down with a paper and waits_. FREDA
_comes in_.)
FREDA. Hullo, Bertie.
BERTIE (_getting up and taking her hand_). Hullo, Freda.
(_Petulantly_) Why on earth do you let your Father dash off to
Cricklewood like this?
FREDA. Is that where he is?
BERTIE. _I_ don’t know. Oh, confound their knavish tricks!
FREDA (_surprised_). Bertie, you’re quite ruffled.
BERTIE. I’ve had a ruffling morning.
FREDA. Bobo a trifle tetchy?
BERTIE. If you are referring to the Prime Minister----
FREDA. I am.
BERTIE. The answer is in the affirmative. “Tetchy,” perhaps, hardly
does it justice.
FREDA. How very grim for you.
BERTIE. Oh, I shall survive.
FREDA. I’m sure you will. You’re the surviving sort. (_She sits
down._)
BERTIE (_thoughtfully_). Now I wonder if that’s a compliment or not.
(_He sits down too._)
FREDA. Well, I shouldn’t have much use for anybody who wasn’t a
survivor.
BERTIE. Ah, then it _is_ a compliment.
FREDA. Of course it is.
BERTIE (_tentatively_). But if he _were_ a survivor, if he very
distinctly were, then you--you could imagine yourself having some
slight use for him?
FREDA (_demurely_). You might go as far as that, Mr. Capp--quite
unofficially.
BERTIE. Yes.... I’m forty. I just mention it.
FREDA. I’m nineteen. I just throw it out.
BERTIE. In a mid-Victorian novel I should point out sadly that I was
old enough to be your father.
FREDA. And in a modern novel I should agree that, if you had married
at twenty, and got to work at once, you might just have done it.
BERTIE (_after a pause_). Did I tell you that my Uncle Joseph died
the other day?
FREDA.. No.... My sister’s small baby has just been vaccinated.
BERTIE (_reproachfully_). He was the rich one, you know.
FREDA. Oh, I beg his pardon! (_Tactfully_) Did he--was his mind clear
at the last?
BERTIE. Perfectly, I’m glad to say.
FREDA. How clear?
BERTIE. About a hundred and twenty thousand.
FREDA (_delighted_). Bertie, what a brain!
BERTIE (_looking at her proudly_). You know, every now and then,
you’re just like the Freda of ten years ago, who used to sit on my
knee and try to wear my eye-glass.
FREDA. My dear Bertie, surely I’ve sat on your knee since then!
BERTIE. Not so systematically.
FREDA (_sitting on it and wearing his eye-glass_). But how absurd to
let these old customs die out. (_After a pause_) Have you actually
proposed to me yet?
BERTIE (_with dignity_). I am just going to.
FREDA. I don’t want to hurry you.
BERTIE (_beginning_). Freda!
FREDA. Yes?
BERTIE. What about it? I should like to be married to
you--tremendously.
FREDA. Nice person.
BERTIE. Would you care about it at all?
FREDA. Terribly.
BERTIE. I think your Father and Mother would like the idea. I don’t
know if that matters nowadays.
FREDA. My dear Bertie, of course it does. Family quarrels are so
vulgar--besides upsetting things. I want you to get on.
BERTIE. Quite.... Then that’s all right.
FREDA. Yes, that’s all right.
BERTIE. Do we celebrate it in the usual way?
FREDA. Well, we shall have to begin some time. (_Kissing him_) Dear
Bertie!
BERTIE (_rather moved_). Thank you. I’ll try not to let you down.
(LADY JANE _comes in_. BERTIE, _full of apologetic noises,
struggles to get up_.)
FREDA (_calmly_). Subterfuge is useless, Bertie. (_She gets off his
knee_) Bertie has just asked me to marry him, Mother.
LADY JANE (_delighted_). My dear Bertie! How--(_she seeks for the
right word_)--how satisfactory! (_She holds out her hand, which he
kisses_) I am _so_ glad. (_To_ FREDA) Dear child! (_She puts up a
cheek._)
FREDA. Tell her about your Uncle Joseph.
BERTIE. He died, you know, the other day.
LADY JANE. Not unexpectedly, I hope?
BERTIE. Oh, no! On the contrary.
LADY JANE. That’s a comfort. And--all satisfactory?
BERTIE. Very.
LADY JANE. You must tell Richard the details. (_To_ FREDA) Run along
now, dear. Bertie really came here on business, I suspect. (_To him_)
Isn’t that so?
FREDA (_holding up a finger_). Now, Bertie, don’t say I was just an
accident.
BERTIE. A delightful interlude.
FREDA. That’s better. But I still think----
LADY JANE. Nonsense, Freda, you know how busy Bertie is.
FREDA. “For men must work, and women must weep....” I shall be
weeping upstairs, if you want another interlude before you go.
BERTIE (_opening the door for her_). Rather! Of course I do. (_She
goes out. He closes the door and comes quickly to_ LADY JANE) I say,
what about it? You read the speech, of course.
LADY JANE. Naturally.
BERTIE. The P.M.’s furious.
LADY JANE. That’s also natural.
BERTIE. Did you know he was going to? I beg your pardon, I oughtn’t
to have asked you that.
LADY JANE. I knew what Richard’s views were. Naturally.
BERTIE. Well, of course, we all did. (_He takes a turn up and down_)
Look here, we had a draft of the speech. Knowing his views, the P.M.
insisted on it. That draft merely echoed the policy of the Cabinet.
It went no further. I brought it back to Mannock the night before
last, and told him that the P.M. approved. He goes down to Leeds,
gives ’em the speech, and at the critical point throws over the
Cabinet and dashes off on his own. Just as we were afraid he would.
LADY JANE. It won’t be difficult to explain that.
BERTIE. So I told the P.M. Naturally he feels that he has been done,
Mannock having practically promised him that the other speech was----
LADY JANE (_horrified_). Bertie, you’re not suggesting anything
against Richard’s honour!
BERTIE (_equally horrified_). Good Lord, of course I’m not!
LADY JANE. But is the Prime Minister?
BERTIE (_apologetically_). You must make allowances for him. You see,
he’s just getting over influenza. When he’s quite strong again,
he’ll see that it’s ridiculous to talk about honour--it’s just a
question of tactics. But at present--well, you know how you feel
after influenza.
LADY JANE (_in the voice of one who knows the explanation by heart_).
It’s perfectly simple. Richard made a private memorandum of his own
views, which he intended to lay before the Cabinet. Accidentally,
owing to some carelessness of his secretary, this must have been
included in the first draft of the speech. When it was discovered,
the speech was typed out afresh and sent to the Prime Minister.
Richard, again owing to some carelessness, took the earlier draft to
Leeds.
BERTIE (_also knowing it by heart_). Quite, quite.
LADY JANE. Richard will tell us what happened then. He may have
found himself in the middle of it before he realised that he had the
wrong draft, and have been carried away. Or he may have thought that
this was the draft which had been submitted to the Prime Minister,
and that the P.M., though not approving it, had wished a kite to be
flown, knowing that he could always repudiate Richard afterwards.
BERTIE. Quite.
LADY JANE. Of course it was careless of Reader. He has been
dismissed, by the way.
BERTIE. Quite. Oh, there are plenty of explanations. And if the P.M.
had been in normal health----
LADY JANE. What does he want?
BERTIE. Well, he wants an explanation of some kind, and he wants it
for the Press. And he wants something pretty humble from Mannock
personally. And he wants to smoke very badly and can’t, because of
his throat--that’s really what’s worrying him.
LADY JANE. Oh!... Oh, well!... Who’s going to the Admiralty?
BERTIE (_uncomfortably_). Nothing’s settled as far as I know. And
won’t be until he’s well again.
LADY JANE. Not even Mowbray?
BERTIE. No....
LADY JANE. Bertie, you’re one of the family now. Tell me frankly: is
it certain that Mowbray will be Chancellor of the Exchequer?
BERTIE. Nothing is certain.
LADY JANE. Oh! Well, that’s something. (_After a pause_) Has Leeds
done Richard any harm?
BERTIE. At the moment, yes, certainly. Ultimately, I should say, no.
LADY JANE. He’s played the wrong card?
BERTIE. I think so. But you never know. The P.M.’s queer in some
ways. And it depends a little on how the Press takes it up. They were
very non-committal this morning.
LADY JANE. In the circumstances, to be non-committal is to be on our
side.
BERTIE. Quite.... (_Looking at his watch_) But where _is_ he, where
_is_ he? What’s all this about walking home?
LADY JANE. Walking home? What do you mean?
BERTIE. Why, Digby said----(_and now_ MANNOCK _comes in_) Ah!
MANNOCK (_cheerfully_). Hullo, Bertie. Digby told me you were here.
(_To his wife_) Ah, you’ve been looking after him. That’s good. (_He
is younger than when we first saw him, more eager._)
BERTIE. We wondered what had happened to you.
MANNOCK. I sent the car on and walked. It was such a jolly afternoon.
LADY JANE. Walked! From Euston? (_She looks at him in amazement._)
MANNOCK. Yes. Such a jolly afternoon.
LADY JANE. Oh!... (_Before words come to her, she decides that, after
all, it doesn’t matter very much._) Bertie has come round about the
speech.
MANNOCK (_at a loss_). Speech?
LADY JANE. He thinks it was a mistake in tactics, as it turns out.
BERTIE. Yes, but there’s more to it than that. The P.M.----
MANNOCK. Oh, the speech! Oh, I see.
LADY JANE. I was telling him that that could easily be explained.
BERTIE. Quite.
LADY JANE. He thinks--oh, by the way, we may regard Bertie as one of
the family now. Freda----
BERTIE. Please.
LADY JANE. Freda----
MANNOCK. Freda and Bertie?
LADY JANE. Yes. I have told Bertie how delighted we are.
MANNOCK (_violently_). No! I won’t have it!
LADY JANE (_amazed_). Richard!
BERTIE (_equally amazed_). Why, what----
MANNOCK (_recovering himself with an effort_). I beg your pardon.
LADY JANE. But I don’t understand. Only the other day----
MANNOCK. I want Freda to marry for love ... I’m sorry, Bertie.
Perhaps she does love you.
BERTIE (_embarrassed_). Well, I--I don’t understand. I asked her to
marry me, and she--apparently she----
MANNOCK. Are you in love with _her_?
BERTIE (_out of his depth_). Well, I--I asked her to marry me,
and----Yes, of course I am. I mean--(_bewildered_) I don’t understand.
MANNOCK. Good God, man, you must know if you’re in love or not.
LADY JANE (_interposing firmly_). Bertie, perhaps you wouldn’t mind
fetching Freda.
BERTIE (_relieved_). Right.
[_He goes out._
LADY JANE. Thank you.... Richard, what’s the matter? What has
happened?
(MANNOCK _takes a turn up the room, wondering how much to tell
her, when to tell her_.)
MANNOCK (_looking up suddenly_). Do you mean about Freda?
LADY JANE. Why this sudden change? Two nights ago we were both
saying----
MANNOCK. That’s just it. I want to be sure that she is not doing it
just because she thinks we want it.
LADY JANE. I probably know Freda better than you----
MANNOCK. I don’t know her at all.
LADY JANE. Then you may take my word for it that, if she marries
anybody, it will be because she wants to do so.
MANNOCK (_thoughtfully_). Yes, I suppose so. (_With a laugh to
himself_) After all, it hasn’t really very much to do with me--now.
LADY JANE. Naturally we both want her to be happy. Bertie has come
into money, he tells me. I suppose he was waiting for that. I think
it’s the most satisfactory thing that could have happened.
MANNOCK (_thoughtfully_). Yes, I’m not sure that it isn’t.
LADY JANE. Well, then!
MANNOCK. Yes.... (_To himself_) God, how difficult it all is, when
you get close to it.
LADY JANE. All what?
MANNOCK (waving his hands). Life. Everything.
(_Before_ LADY JANE _can take his temperature_, BERTIE _and_
FREDA _come in_.)
FREDA. What is it?
MANNOCK. Come here, Freda. (_She comes to him, looking up into his
face_) Fond of Bertie?
FREDA (_smiling_). I’ve adored him for years.
MANNOCK. Going to be happy with him?
FREDA. I hope so.
MANNOCK (_kissing her forehead_). Well, good luck to you both.
(_Shaking Bertie’s hand_) Good luck to you, Bertie.
LADY JANE. I think Freda is a very lucky girl. Bertie has a wonderful
career in front of him.
BERTIE (_modestly_). Well, I hope----
FREDA. Oh, Bertie’s all right.
MANNOCK (_with a note of dismissal_). All right, Freda. I just wanted
to feel quite sure----That’s all right, Bertie.
[BERTIE _opens the door for_ FREDA, _who goes out_.
LADY JANE. Now then, tell Richard just what you were telling me.
(_She sits down for it._)
BERTIE (_coming back to them_). Well, what it really comes to----
MANNOCK (_smiling to himself happily_). I have sent in my resignation
to the Prime Minister.
LADY JANE. Richard! Is that wise? At this moment? (_She turns to
Bertie for help_) Bertie?
BERTIE (_shaking his head_). He’s in the mood to accept it. You can’t
hold a pistol to his head just now.
LADY JANE. That’s what I felt. (_Anxiously to her husband_) Has the
letter gone?
MANNOCK. It has gone.
BERTIE. Good Lord!
LADY JANE. Is it too late? (_To_ BERTIE) Can’t _you_----
MANNOCK (_patiently_). I have resigned. He will accept my
resignation. He can’t help himself. Well, I intend him to. That’s why
I resigned.
LADY JANE (_with restraint_). I don’t want to--I daresay you know
best. But surely it was a matter which should have been discussed
first. You must think that it was wise, or you wouldn’t have done it.
But at least let us hear your reasons. Here are Bertie and I, only
too anxious to help.
(MANNOCK _looks at her--and at_ BERTIE. _A smile comes on to his
face as he imagines himself saying, “Well, the fact is, I am
running away with another woman.” Impossible, of course, with_
BERTIE _there. Impossible anyhow, yet. He cannot mention_ SALLY’S
_name in this atmosphere; cannot hint that there is another
woman, for fear of_ SALLY _being identified. Impossible to
discuss her, them, the situation, with anybody. Unless it were a
friend of_ SALLY’S. EVERSLEY, _perhaps. But he must be out of the
Government first. Some such thoughts as these are in his mind,
even if we cannot read them._)
MANNOCK. Well, yes, that’s reasonable. And yet--it’s no good. I can’t
explain now. Except to say that I’m doing it with my eyes open. (_In
a whisper_) At last. (_To_ LADY JANE) You must give me a week--then
I’ll explain everything.
LADY JANE (_uncertain_). Well--of course you know best----
BERTIE (_quite certain_). That’s all right, Lady Jane. (_He almost
winks at her_) I understand.
LADY JANE. Do you really think----
BERTIE. You never can tell with the P.M. I’ve said that before.
Mannock’s way--he has always played his cards well--there’s
something up his sleeve--you leave it to him.
(MANNOCK _has wandered away in search of an A.B.C. Trains don’t
touch that sleepy little village between hills, but they can
bring lovers within reach of it. Just to look up the train is
something._)
LADY JANE (_nodding to_ BERTIE). Very well. If you think----
BERTIE. He knows what he’s doing.
LADY JANE. Very well, Richard. You do it your own way. Meanwhile----
BERTIE. Meanwhile no harm in letting it be known that----
LADY JANE. Important changes in the Cabinet are pending.
BERTIE. Well, yes, _that_----
LADY JANE. I’ll ask Roger Coombes to lunch to-morrow, and drop a hint.
BERTIE. Yes.... I was going to say that I could let fall a word
or two. By the way, perhaps we’d better say nothing about Freda
until this is safely over. I should like to be able to preserve my
impartiality for what it’s worth. A suggestion that, from what I
have seen of Mannock lately, he is tired of the confinements of his
present office----
LADY JANE. And that a post of greater freedom----
BERTIE. And more responsibility--exactly. (_Chuckling_) Otherwise he
seriously thinks of retiring from public life altogether.
LADY JANE (_laughing at the absurdity of it_). I think that can be
safely left to you, Bertie. And you’re right about Freda. I hope she
hasn’t been ringing up all her friends. I’d better see about that at
once.
BERTIE. I’ll come along too. Well, so long, Mannock.
MANNOCK (_who was just stepping out of the train_). Going?
BERTIE. You’ll be seeing some more of me before very long, I expect.
(_With sudden enthusiasm_) By Jove, if you play this hand properly, I
believe--well, almost anything might happen.
MANNOCK (_happily_). I believe it might, Bertie.
[LADY JANE _and_ BERTIE _go out_.
(MANNOCK, _with the A.B.C. in his hands, is back in the train
with_ SALLY.... _This time it is_ READER _who interrupts them_.)
READER. Are you busy, sir?
MANNOCK (_looking up_). No ... no.
READER (_formally_). I gather, from what I have read in the papers,
that I accidentally gave you the wrong draft of the speech. It was
very careless of me, and I wish to express my regret.
MANNOCK (_smiling_). _Very_ careless of you, Reader.
READER (_his first smile in_ MANNOCK’S _house_). I thought I had
better mention it.
MANNOCK. Thank you.... But we are not bothering about that now.
READER. Oh?
MANNOCK. No. Life has other things to offer than speeches at
Leeds.... (_Suddenly remembering_) By the way, what were you trying
to tell me about Mrs. Reader the other day?
READER (_distressed_). I oughtn’t to have--it was only in the shock
of your----
MANNOCK (_smiling_). Yes, never mind all that. I should like to know,
if you would like to tell me.
READER (_awkwardly, after a pause_). She--we--we’re going to have a
baby.
MANNOCK. Ah!... The first? (READER _nods_) Frightened? (READER _nods
again_.)
READER (_suddenly_). I--I do love her so.
MANNOCK (_gently_). How long have you been married?
READER. Ten years.... It’s like yesterday.
MANNOCK (_moved_). Yes.... Oh, before I forget, I’d better write to
Carfax. I know he wants somebody. (_He goes to his desk_) Sit down,
won’t you?
READER. Thank you very much. It’s very kind of you. You see, I
haven’t liked to tell her yet----
MANNOCK (_writing_). Well, don’t, until we’ve got this fixed up.
READER. No.
MANNOCK. I daresay Carfax will stand for another fifty, if he’s sure
he’s getting the right man. Then that will be a pleasant surprise for
her.
READER (_thawing_). I am afraid she won’t look at it quite like that.
You see, she is--if I may say so--very much interested in you. In
your career. She will be sorry to.... You see, we often talk about
you in the evenings. We wonder what you are going to do. Having no
career of our own, so to speak----
MANNOCK (_writing_). No career of your own. Lucky man!
READER. We find our interest in following yours. I believe that if
I could go home to-morrow and tell my wife--before it got into the
papers, you understand--that you were to be the new Chancellor of the
Exchequer, she would be as happy and excited as if it had happened to
me.
MANNOCK (_with a laugh for the vanity of these things_) Chancellor of
the Exchequer, eh? (_Shaking his head_) No, Reader, no.
READER. Well, that’s as may be.... (_Enthusiastically_) To be
Chancellor of the Exchequer! Think of the power it gives you! To know
that there isn’t a house in the whole country which isn’t waiting
for _your_ decision--from the tiniest cottage to the hugest castle!
Not a family that won’t be affected! It must be wonderful. The
power of affecting all those people! It has always seemed to me the
supreme goal for any man to reach. (_Apologetically_) Sometimes we
have pretended--only in play, you understand--that it was I who had
reached it ... we have wondered ... the power it gives you ... (_he
sees himself there, Ethel with him_)--we have talked over what we
should do----
(_And_ MANNOCK _has been seeing himself there too. Just for a
moment he has been there._)
MANNOCK (_with a sigh_). Yes.... (_Then he is back with_ SALLY
_again. Gently he says_) But there is something better than that.
Something.... (_You can see him thinking of it, smiling.... But now
his thoughts have changed; the smile gives place to a frown. The
career is fighting its way back into his mind. Fighting with_ SALLY.
_He jerks his head round at_ READER, READER _who is tempting him,
and says sharply_) Chancellor of the Exchequer, eh? No, Reader, no.
(_Returning to the letter_) I shan’t be a moment.
ACT III
SCENE 2: _Cavendish Square_, MANNOCK’S _library_.
_It is afternoon, two days later._ MANNOCK _is alone, restlessly
doing nothing_. ARTHUR _comes in._
ARTHUR. Busy?
MANNOCK _(looking up_). No ... no.
ARTHUR. Thought I’d say good-bye. I’m just off.
MANNOCK. Off?
ARTHUR. Yes, that’s right, isn’t it? You said you didn’t want me till
the end of the month.
MANNOCK (_remembering_). Oh!... Oh, yes. (_He remembers that now he
won’t want_ ARTHUR _at all_) Yes. (_With an effort_) What are you
going to do?
ARTHUR. Going to Marjory’s for a week. Then down to Cornwall for a
little golf.
MANNOCK (_remembering his elder daughter_). Marjory.... Yes. (_How
complicated life is!_)
ARTHUR. Any messages for any of them?
MANNOCK. Yes--no. I’ll write. (_To himself_) Yes, I shall have to
write to Marjory.
ARTHUR. Right. Then if I’m back by the 30th, that will do?
MANNOCK (_after a silence_). Arthur!
ARTHUR. Yes?
MANNOCK. I’ve sent in my resignation.
ARTHUR. Your resignation? Why? Oh, I see. The old resignation stunt.
Hasn’t that been rather overdone?
MANNOCK. You don’t understand, Arthur----
ARTHUR. All these political tactics--there’s something so tawdry
about them, so shoddy, so----Sorry, Father, I was forgetting. I’m a
neutral now. Well, I suppose I shall get used to them.
MANNOCK. I say again, I have resigned my seat in the Cabinet.
ARTHUR (_with a smile_). If you’re not careful, the P.M. will accept
it, and then where will you be?
MANNOCK (_sharply_). Out of the Cabinet, which is where I want to be.
ARTHUR. Not really? Why? (MANNOCK _shrugs his shoulders_.) No, but
why, Father?
MANNOCK. I’m tired of it. I want to get out of it all.
ARTHUR (_eagerly_). I say! You’re not crossing over, are you? How
terribly sporting of you!
MANNOCK (_firmly_). I’m giving up politics altogether.
ARTHUR (_his jaw falling_). Giving up----? Then what about me?
MANNOCK. That’s been worrying me.
ARTHUR. Worrying you! I should think it had! You made me chuck a
jolly good job to come to _you_, and then when it’s been filled up by
somebody else----
MANNOCK. Are you sure? I hoped that perhaps----
ARTHUR (_shaking his head gravely_). I say, Father, this really is a
bit steep.
MANNOCK (_humbly_). I’m very sorry, Arthur. I’m to blame. I never
ought to have persuaded you to come to me. It was your career to
choose for yourself. I’m sorry.
ARTHUR (_still aggrieved_). You practically ruin a man’s life----
MANNOCK (_smiling sadly_). Twenty-two, aren’t you? No man’s life
is ruined at twenty-two. (_With sudden emotion_) Oh, my God, to be
twenty-two again!
ARTHUR. Well, but I mean----
MANNOCK. Arthur, forget all that I’ve said to you, will you, just for
a week? Enjoy yourself at Marjory’s, don’t say anything to her about
it, and I’ll write to you. I can’t talk about it now--not for another
week. Will you do that for me?
ARTHUR (_reluctantly_). Oh, all right. (_Looking thoughtfully at
his father_) You know, I believe it _is_ a stunt, after all. A
super-stunt. I don’t know what the game is----
_Enter_ DIGBY.
DIGBY. Mr. Eversley is here, sir.
MANNOCK. Yes, that’s right, Digby. Show him in here.
ARTHUR (_to_ DIGBY). Is the car here?
DIGBY. Yes, sir.
[_He goes out._
ARTHUR. Then I’ll be getting on. (_Holding out his hand_) Good-bye,
Father--and I’ll wait for your letter.
MANNOCK. Yes. (_Taking his hand_) Good-bye, Arthur. (_When will he
see him again?_) Good-bye, old boy. Good luck to you always.
ARTHUR (_a little surprised_). Thanks!
[_He goes out._
(MANNOCK _walks up and down, thinking, thinking. How difficult it
all is!... Then_ DIGBY _announces_ EVERSLEY.)
DIGBY. Mr. Eversley.
MANNOCK (_eagerly_). I knew you would come. (_To_ DIGBY, _who still
waits_) What is it? (DIGBY _presents a letter_) Oh, put it down.
(DIGBY _walks across to the writing-desk and places the letter
there_) Were you in London, or did I drag you up from the country? I
had to see you.
[DIGBY _goes out_.
EVERSLEY. Well, I _was_ at home, but of course I was only too glad to
come up, if you wanted me.
MANNOCK (_looking at him fondly_) I never ought to have let you go,
Teddy. I ought always to have kept you with me.
EVERSLEY (_happy at the “Teddy”_). And what should _I_ have been
doing all the time?
MANNOCK (_settling him in a chair_). Nothing. Just admiring me. What
else is a Squier for?
EVERSLEY. What else? The world is full of Nites and Squiers--the
admired and the admiring. I wonder which are the happier?
MANNOCK (_gently_). The loved and the loving.
EVERSLEY. Yes. Which are the happier, Dick?
MANNOCK (_suddenly, after a little silence_). Got your pipe with you?
(EVERSLEY _nods_.) Well, fill it, then.
EVERSLEY (_taking it out_). It is filled.
MANNOCK. Well, light it, then.
EVERSLEY (_lighting it_). There! (_He smokes._)
MANNOCK. Teddy, I’m giving it all up.
EVERSLEY. All what?
MANNOCK. Everything. Politics. My career. My successful career.
EVERSLEY (_smoking placidly_). Any particular reason?
(MANNOCK _looks at him, and hesitates. Then he gives reasons--but
not the particular reason._)
MANNOCK. It’s odd how wrapped up in my career I have been. I never
saw it from outside. I’ve been looking at it lately. I think it was
you--that other night--who made me struggle outside and look at it.
You were the first. That was the beginning of it.
EVERSLEY. I had no idea I was precipitating a political crisis. What
did I say?
MANNOCK. You said, “And then success closed in on you.”
EVERSLEY. Yes, I remember. But I apologised for it.
MANNOCK. It’s a stifling thing, success. It shuts out so much.
(_Gently_) All the lovely things, all the precious things ... I’ve
been looking back at my career. After all, he’s in a position of
trust, a Cabinet Minister. He is responsible for the happiness of the
people, his fellow countrymen and women. How often have I thought of
their happiness? How often of my personal triumph--my success? What
are all our intrigues for, our strategy, our tactics? To improve the
condition of England? Or to improve our personal position? I look
back on my career, and never once can I say, “He did that for others.”
EVERSLEY. The others are no better.
MANNOCK. That isn’t a very proud thought for----
EVERSLEY. For a Dreadnought Nite?
MANNOCK. Don’t!... Oh, my God, to be twenty-two again!
EVERSLEY. What would you do?
MANNOCK. Live. There is so much that I have missed. All the lovely
things of life. But, perhaps, even now, it isn’t too late.
EVERSLEY (_after smoking in silence for a little_). And so you’re
giving it all up?
MANNOCK. Yes. This is between ourselves, of course, until it is made
public.
EVERSLEY. Of course.... It’s a big career to give up, as the world
judges it.
MANNOCK (_a little vain of his sacrifice_). I suppose it is.
EVERSLEY. They were talking politics in the train--as they always
do--and one or two of them were saying that you ought to be the new
Chancellor of the Exchequer.
MANNOCK (_pleased_). Oh? Oh, but I shouldn’t have been anyhow.
Mowbray.
EVERSLEY. They didn’t seem to think very much of Mowbray.
MANNOCK. He’s the obvious man.
EVERSLEY. A little too obvious, they felt....
MANNOCK (_after a pause_). It was my one ambition in the old days.
EVERSLEY (_smiling_). Not such very old days.
MANNOCK (_a little annoyed_). You know what I mean ... I wanted to be
that, even more than to be Prime Minister. It fascinated me.
EVERSLEY. It would terrify _me_.
MANNOCK. I think I’ve only realised lately how much I wanted it;
how certain I was I could be one of the Great Ones.... It may never
come now. (_Remembering suddenly_) Well, of course _now_ it never
will--obviously. (_He sighs_) I’m well out of it all. But even if--I
mean Mowbray--well, he’ll last this Government--and after the next
Election, who knows? (_He is thoughtful._)
EVERSLEY. And what are you going to do when you retire?
MANNOCK. Teddy, you do think I’m right, don’t you?
EVERSLEY. Well, I don’t quite know all the circumstances, do I?
MANNOCK. I must have _you_ on my side. Everybody here--well,
naturally----
EVERSLEY. They think you’re mad? They’ve sent for the doctor?
MANNOCK. They simply don’t believe it. But _you_--you’re not
prejudiced--_you_ think----?
EVERSLEY. Aren’t I prejudiced?
MANNOCK. You?
EVERSLEY (_through clouds of smoke_). I had a friend once. I lived
with him, played with him, made plans with him, for--how many years?
I was fond of him, Dick. I don’t think he knew how fond we were of
him, Sally and I; two of the admiring ones, the loving ones; yes,
the happier ones. Then I lost him ... and more than twenty years
afterwards I found him again. And he was dead. Now you say that he
is coming to life again, and you ask me to tell you--quite without
prejudice--whether I should like him to come to life again.... It is
a little difficult for me, Dick, to be quite unprejudiced.
MANNOCK (_remorsefully_). Teddy!
EVERSLEY (_a little wistfully_). But--I _should_ like to find him
again, you know. Just to talk to him about those--rather jolly days.
MANNOCK. They _were_ good days.
EVERSLEY. Perhaps we didn’t realise at the time how good they were.
MANNOCK. Do you remember--(_he breaks off impetuously_) Oh, Teddy,
there are a hundred things I want to talk to you about, a hundred
things I want to tell you.
EVERSLEY. Well, that’s why I came.
MANNOCK. I know. (_Suddenly_) Teddy! I--(_and then he pulls himself
up_) No, I can’t tell you now. Not here. I must see you--where can I
see you? Not in this house. Where can I see you, where can we really
talk?
EVERSLEY. Couldn’t we dine together somewhere?
MANNOCK. Yes, that’s it. Somewhere where we can be by ourselves. Now,
let me think----
EVERSLEY. “The Cock,” in Fleet Street? Not many people there in the
evening.
MANNOCK. That will do.... I wonder what you’ll think.... But I can’t
tell you here.... I’ll call for you. Where are you staying? Your club?
EVERSLEY. I am staying with friends. At Porchester Terrace. But they
don’t expect me to dinner.
MANNOCK. Then I’ll call for you at a quarter to eight. What number?
You’d better write it down. (EVERSLEY _takes out a card_) Got a
pencil?
EVERSLEY (_feeling in his pockets_). Somewhere.
MANNOCK (_going to the desk_). Here you are. (_And then he sees the
letter and stops short._)
EVERSLEY (_finding his own_). It’s all right. (_He writes the
address._)
(MANNOCK _gazes at the letter. This is from the Prime
Minister--to accept his resignation. So his career is over. He
stands there, letter in hand, breathing heavily as if he had been
running._ EVERSLEY _looks at him in surprise_.)
MANNOCK. When did this----
EVERSLEY. What is it?
MANNOCK (_turning, letter in hand_). How long----
EVERSLEY. Your butler brought it in, didn’t he, when he brought _me_
in?
MANNOCK. Yes, of course.
EVERSLEY. Don’t mind me, Dick, if it’s important.
MANNOCK. No, no, it’s nothing. I----
(LADY JANE _comes in, followed by_ BERTIE. _They are obviously
excited._)
LADY JANE (_eagerly_). Richard! (_She sees_ EVERSLEY) Oh,
I--(_coldly_) Oh, how do you do, Mr. Eversley?
EVERSLEY. How do you do, Lady Jane? I was just going. (_He and_
BERTIE _nod to each other_) Well, good-bye, Dick. (_Giving him the
card_) Here’s the address. And a quarter to eight?
MANNOCK (_mechanically_). Yes, yes. Good-bye. (_He rings the bell,
and puts down the card._)
EVERSLEY (_to_ LADY JANE). Good-bye. (_To_ BERTIE) Good-bye. (BERTIE
_nods_.)
LADY JANE (_with an effort_). Oh, but we mustn’t drive you away like
this.
EVERSLEY (_smiling pleasantly_). But I really was going. Good-bye.
LADY JANE. Good-bye.
[DIGBY _is there to show him out. He goes._
(_All this time_ MANNOCK _has been standing with the unopened
letter in his hands, fingering the envelope_.)
LADY JANE (_in suppressed excitement_). Richard! Bertie says.... Why,
what’s that? (_She is looking at the letter_) But that’s--why don’t
you open it? That’s the letter. Open it! Open it!
MANNOCK (_dully_). This is just acknowledging and accepting my
resignation.
LADY JANE. But have you opened it yet? (_She snatches it from him,
looks at it, and gives it back to him_) But you haven’t opened it
yet! Open it! Bertie says----
BERTIE. The omens are distinctly favourable. But--well, now we shall
know.
MANNOCK (_opening it_). It’s only just to accept my resignation. (_He
reads. You can see at once that it is not that._)
LADY JANE. (_watching his face_). It is! (MANNOCK _looks in front
of him, seeing visions_) May I--(_she takes the letter from him_) I
must. (_She reads_) Oh, well done, Richard!
(MANNOCK _stands there, breathing heavily. To be Chancellor of
the Exchequer!_)
BERTIE. He has? (_She nods_) By Jove! Congratulations!
LADY JANE. I never thought----
BERTIE. Well, I don’t know. Mowbray has a good deal against him one
way and another.
LADY JANE. Yes. But I was almost afraid to hope.
BERTIE (_proudly_). Didn’t I tell you to leave it to him? (_He nods
towards_ MANNOCK.)
LADY JANE. Yes, you were quite right, Bertie. (_She looks admiringly
at her husband._)
BERTIE. Of course, I know all about the resignation stunt--it’s as
old as the hills. But if you can do it with conviction, you can still
pull it off sometimes.
LADY JANE. Yes, yes.
BERTIE. Mannock carried conviction--that’s where he’s such an artist.
The P.M. really thought he was going. Didn’t dare to lose him.
Prepared to offer anything to keep him.
LADY JANE. Yes.
BERTIE. I’ve always said that, in the matter of political strategy,
Mannock can give them all points. Even the P.M. I knew he’d pull it
off.
LADY JANE. Richard! (_She means “Come and talk to us.”_)
MANNOCK (_his control suddenly giving way_). So you knew I’d pull it
off? (_He is almost shouting._)
BERTIE. Rather!
MANNOCK. I can give ’em all points in political strategy?
BERTIE. I’ve always said so.
MANNOCK. And I carry conviction--eh?--that’s where I’m such an artist.
BERTIE. Exactly. (MANNOCK _gives a loud, bitter laugh_.) Well, I
mean----
MANNOCK (_half hysterically_). An artist! That’s what I am. Carry
conviction! I carried conviction all right. I pulled _your_ leg
pretty well, Bertie. (_To_ LADY JANE) _And_ yours. You thought I
meant to resign--yes, you did, both of you--you thought I meant
it--you were frightened to death, yes, you were. You thought I really
meant to give it all up. So did Arthur. I had Arthur in here just
now--frightened to death--thought I meant to give it all up--talked
about _his_ career--his career!--my God!--frightened to death he
was, just like you two. Ha! I pulled your legs pretty well. Resign?
Why the devil should I resign? Haven’t I got what I always wanted?
You ask Reader--he’ll tell you--the supreme goal for any man to
reach. Chancellor of the Exchequer--_that_ gives you power. Me! I’ve
done it! Just pure strategy. Pretending I wanted to give up politics.
Why should I? Success--it closes in on you! My God, there’s nothing I
can’t do! Nothing! (_His voice rises almost to a shriek, as he drops
into a chair, and sits there, his hands over his face, his shoulders
shaking with long, tearless sobs._)
BERTIE (_soothingly_). I say, old fellow----
LADY JANE (_quietly_). No. Go, Bertie.
BERTIE. Oh, right. (_Going_) I’ll come in this evening if I can.
He’ll be all right? (_She nods._) Right.
[_He goes out._
LADY JANE (_putting an arm calmly on_ MANNOCK’S _shoulders_). It’s
all right now, Richard. I know how you must feel. It has been a very
anxious time for both of us. But it’s all over now. You’ve got what
you wanted. I’m proud of you, very proud of you.
MANNOCK (_pulling himself together_). I’m sorry. I----
LADY JANE (_calmly_). It’s all right. I understand perfectly. The
strain--naturally.
MANNOCK. Yes.
LADY JANE. I’ll leave you now. You’ll want to be alone. But come and
talk to me afterwards.
MANNOCK (_nodding_). Yes.
LADY JANE (_giving him the letter_). You’ll want to answer this.
MANNOCK. Yes. Thank you.
LADY JANE (_looking at him admiringly_). I’m very proud of you,
Richard.
[_She goes out._
(_Alone_, MANNOCK _walks slowly to his desk, a tired man. There,
he sees_ EVERSLEY’S _card, picks it up, looks at it, puts it
down, and takes up the telephone_.)
MANNOCK (_at the telephone_). Hullo! Come in, will you? (_He goes
back to his chair and waits._ READER _comes in, note-book in hand_.)
I want a telegram sent at once. To Mr. Eversley. You’ll find a
card on my desk. (READER _goes there_). Got it? With an address in
Porchester Terrace.
READER. Yes, sir. (_He writes down the name and address and waits._)
MANNOCK. “Afraid cannot dine to-night.”
READER (_writing_). “Afraid cannot dine to-night.”
MANNOCK. That’s all.
READER. Signed?
MANNOCK. Yes, “Dick.” ... (_An end to this weakness. He corrects
himself firmly_) No--Mannock.
READER. “Afraid cannot dine to-night. Mannock.” ... Anything else,
sir?
MANNOCK. No.... Yes.... Yes.... (READER _waits_) Another telegram.
READER (_waiting_). Yes?
MANNOCK. Lady Carchester, Enderways, Riley, Yorkshire.
READER (_murmuring to himself_). Enderways, Riley, R-I-L-E-Y?
MANNOCK. Yes.
READER. Yorkshire. (_He waits_).
MANNOCK (_after a long pause_). “I beg your pardon.” (READER _says
nothing_. MANNOCK _looks up_) That’s all.
READER. Oh, I beg--I see--I didn’t understand. (_Writing_) “I beg
your pardon.”
MANNOCK. We had a--a discussion. I--I was wrong. I have found out
since that I was wrong. This is--(_he shrugs_).
READER (_pleasantly_). A very graceful way of saying so, if I may be
allowed----
MANNOCK (_to himself_). Graceful!
READER (_after waiting_). Signed? Or will she understand?
MANNOCK. She will understand. (_To himself, ashamed_) I think she will
understand.... All right, Reader.
[READER _goes out_.
(MANNOCK _walks slowly to his desk. For a little while he sits
there, holding the letter in his hand...._
SALLY _is dead. He has killed her. No good explaining,
apologising, whining, to a person whom you have killed. Let him
be man enough to spare her that last insult. No, there’s nothing
to say. It was_ EVERSLEY _and that damned tune that got into a
man’s head, and made him dream.... The sweetness of her in his
dream! But that was twenty-five years ago. They’re dead now; both
dead.... But--Chancellor of the Exchequer! It will be in all the
papers to-morrow. Chancellor of the Exchequer! What will the
papers say? What will people say? Everybody will see it.... Sally
will see it. Will know, will understand. No, there’s nothing to
be said. That damned tune, that damned dream. O Sally, Sally,
Sally! Don’t! Don’t come into my dreams again...._
_So for a little he sits, thinking. Then, with a bitter,
contemptuous laugh, he tosses away his thoughts and comes back to
the letter. Chancellor of the Exchequer! Briskly he dips his pen
into the ink, and writes to the Prime Minister._)
_Printed in Great Britain by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
silently corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences in
this work and consultation of external sources. Some hyphens in words
have been silently removed and some silently added when a predominant
preference was found in the original work. Except for those changes
noted below, original spellings in the text and inconsistent or
archaic usage have been retained.
Page 31: “Madame Boolager” replaced by “Madame Boulager”.
Page 74: “I I don’t know” replaced by “I don’t know”.
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Page numbers for Acts and Scenes have been added to the original
Table of Contents. The formatting of Scene titles was also
standardized.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.