FOUR SHORT PLAYS
BY
LADY BELL
1. THE STORY OF RACHEL.
2. KIRSTIN.
3. THE PARACHUTE.
4. A SECOND-CLASS DUKE.
LONDON
ARTHUR L. HUMPHREYS
187 PICCADILLY, W.
1922
_All Rights Reserved_
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
THE DUNEDIN PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH
_To
SYBIL THORNDIKE._
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE STORY OF RACHEL, play in one act 11
KIRSTIN, dramatic sketch in three scenes 29
THE PARACHUTE, comedy in one act 59
A SECOND-CLASS DUKE, comedy in one act 81
THE STORY OF RACHEL.
A Play in One Act.
_Characters_:
CAPTAIN WILLIAM CARTERET, R.N. (about 48).
RACHEL (his wife, 28).
_A maid--not a speaking part--who only brings in a letter._
RACHEL _and_ CARTERET _sitting in their comfortable drawing
room_, RACHEL _in armchair R.C. near a table, cutting a book
with a paper-knife_. CARTERET _on small sofa, L.C., with a
little table near him on which is an ash-tray. He is smoking,
and reading the "Pall Mall Gazette"._
RACHEL [_continuing conversation as the curtain goes up_]. Don't you
agree with what I'm saying? I'm sure men are like that. Will, do you
mean to say you don't agree?
CARTERET [_absently, looking up and down columns of paper_]. Yes, I
daresay.
RACHEL. I know quite well what it means when a man says in that way
[_imitating his tone_]--'Yes, I daresay,' and goes on reading. It means
you're not thinking of what I'm saying--you're thinking of nothing but
the paper.
CARTERET [_still looking up and down the columns_]. Well, there are very
interesting things in the paper.
RACHEL. Of course there are. And it's still more interesting trying to
guess which of them are true. But still it is rather boring that you
should be reading the newspaper while I'm talking.
CARTERET. Oh? I thought you were talking while I was reading the
newspaper.
RACHEL. That _is_ a one-sided view, I must say.
[CARTERET _smiles, shakes the ash off his cigarette, and goes on
reading without speaking_].
RACHEL. It is a pity you don't enjoy my society, isn't it?
CARTERET [_smiling_]. A great pity.
RACHEL. Will, I suppose that you like me as I am?
CARTERET. Absolutely and entirely. Even when you talk unceasingly when
I'm having a quiet read and smoke before dressing for dinner.
RACHEL. Anyhow, you'd have to be interrupted soon, because you must go
up when the clock strikes, and see Mary in bed.
CARTERET [_laughing happily_]. Yes, the little monkey. I should never
hear the end of it if I didn't. She's a tremendous tyrant, isn't she.
RACHEL. Yes. I wonder what she'll be like when she grows up.
CARTERET [_smiling_]. Like her mother, I daresay. Apt to talk when her
husband's reading.
RACHEL. To-night I want to talk. Do listen, Will--just this once!
[CARTERET _smiles and puts his paper down on his knee_].
CARTERET. Just this once, if you're sure it won't happen again.
RACHEL. I was thinking about what men are like, and what women are like.
CARTERET. You see, men don't want to be taking their souls to pieces
perpetually as women do, to see what they're made of.
RACHEL. But it is _so_ interesting to do it, even if one's afraid of
what one finds there.
CARTERET. Afraid!
RACHEL. Oh, yes. There are times when I'm thinking of things, when I'm
all over the place. I can't help it.
CARTERET. All over the place! Yes, that's quite true. You are.
RACHEL. Well, as I said, I've been thinking--and I see that in heaps of
ways men and women are so different.
CARTERET. That's a very profound remark. Don't get beyond my depth,
Rachel, pray.
RACHEL. Will, you horrid old thing! But I don't care for your laughing
at me. I'll go on. Men are so simple----
CARTERET. And women so complicated?...
RACHEL. Sometimes. Men take things and people for granted so much more
than women do--sailors I do believe especially, are made like that. You
take things for granted; you like everybody; you believe in everybody.
CARTERET. Well, my experience has shewn me that you come fewer croppers
in life if you believe in people, than if you're suspicious of them. It
may be an illusion, but that's my experience.
RACHEL. I wonder?... And there is another great difference. Women--so
many women--are cowards; afraid, always afraid.
CARTERET. Afraid of what, you foolish creature?
RACHEL. Of all sorts of things. I was full of terrors when I was a
child. Not only of robbers and ghosts, of absurd things that never
happened, but of people, who were cross or unkind ... of everything.
And then I was left by myself, and I was poor, and had to earn my own
living. It was dreadful.
CARTERET. Well, that's all over. You needn't think of it any more. I'll
take care of you, never fear. Nothing and nobody shall frighten you now.
RACHEL. Oh, I know. I've always felt what a rock of defence you were
ever since that first evening, when we had broken down in the motor and
you stopped yours beside us in the dark.
CARTERET. And found you, the pretty little governess, by the side of
the road with the son of the house! having broken your employer's motor.
By George, you looked frightened then. I don't think I ever saw a more
woebegone little object than you were, standing there huddled together,
looking as if you were trying to escape from the lights of the motor.
RACHEL [_shuddering_]. Yes, those horrible lights that would keep
blazing away all round us, and oh, I did so want to hide, to sink under
the earth, never to be found again!
CARTERET. Come, come, it wasn't as bad as that: though I must admit it
was pretty awful when we had to go back and face your infuriated
employer.
[RACHEL _shudders at the thought_].
CARTERET. I think she had a case, mind you! Going out for a joy ride
with her son at that time of night in her car!
RACHEL. Oh, the rapture of that moment when you stood up for me, and
then, when you found out you had known my dad!
CARTERET. Rather a good moment, that--a trump card, wasn't it?
RACHEL. I can hear you saying it now, 'Tom Farrar, my old shipmate.' Oh,
the relief of it! the relief!
CARTERET [_smiling_]. Poor little girl!
RACHEL [_recovering herself_]. But we needn't think about it; and you
were there, and you brought me back with you, and then, as they say in
the fairy tales, we married and lived happily ever after.
CARTERET. Except that I had to go off to the Cape directly afterwards.
Good Lord! How I used to laugh at the other men on board, when they were
wanting to go ashore to see their wives and babies, or to come back home
when they were aboard. I used to think what fools they were; but they
weren't. I was the fool all right. And now I know better--I have done
just the same. And after getting that splendid ship I was so proud of,
and after always saying that I would not take a shore-going job for the
world, I jumped at this job at the Admiralty just to be near you and
Mary, and, oh, I am so glad I did.
RACHEL [_caressingly_]. We are awfully happy, aren't we?
CARTERET. Awfully.
RACHEL [_musingly_]. Mary--Mary--[_she says the name twice_]. How I
love that child! I love her absurdly, fiercely. If I tried to love her
more I couldn't. I have sometimes a wild sense of the joy of having her
that makes me afraid of fate.... [_She speaks on in a more ordinary
tone_]. Men aren't like that, I daresay.
CARTERET [_smiling_]. No, I don't believe they are. They just love and
love their child, that's all.
RACHEL. Yes, that's all. And that's everything.
CARTERET [_smiling_]. And that's everything.
[RACHEL _sitting looking before her_--CARTERET _leaning back in
his chair looking up at ceiling; not at her_].
CARTERET. That night, at Simonstown, that I got your telegram saying
the child was born, that you had a daughter--it was so wonderful, so
impossible to understand. That night I remember, after I knew, I went
for a blow on the quarter deck quite late, before turning in--in the
sort of dark it is out there when the sky is deep purple and the huge
stars are blazing in it like holes opening into glory--and I kept saying
to myself, A child! I have a child--my child! I really believe for a
while I was almost mad. It seemed to me that the plash of the sea, the
choppy little waves beating against the gangway ladder were answering
me, were saying the same thing, too--my child! Life had changed in that
hour. And I wondered if I could go on waiting, waiting for the moment
when I should be with you both. I didn't tell any of them about it out
there. I didn't trust myself. I didn't know what I should say if I began
to speak of it.
RACHEL [_smiling_]. _You'd_ have been all over the place.
CARTERET [_trying to hide his emotion_]. I believe I should, for once.
Good old Tom! I was with him when he died in the East. He would have
been glad to know I had got his little girl out of a scrape.
RACHEL. And that you had married her.
CARTERET. Well ... he would have thought me a bit old for you, perhaps.
RACHEL. You're not to say that! You're just the right age.
CARTERET. You really think so?
RACHEL. Of course I do.
CARTERET [_still smiling_]. Now, Rachel, were you in love with that
young Thornton?
RACHEL. No, I don't think I was. It was a boy and girl sort of thing.
CARTERET [_smiling, but sighing too_]. Yes, boy and girl. I suppose when
there are young people together that sort of thing happens.
RACHEL. Oh, don't say it in that tone. You don't mean to say you're
jealous of him--because he was young?
CARTERET [_more seriously_]. Jealous? Of you? Of my wife? No.
RACHEL. Well, some people are. They always are in books.
CARTERET. I'm not in a book, and that sort of thing isn't good enough
for me. [_Goes on in an ordinary tone_]. I wonder what became of
Thornton. Have you ever heard anything of him?
RACHEL [_with an impulse_]. Will, how different you are from other
people!
CARTERET [_surprised_]. Why?
RACHEL. You find me on the road in the dark with a young man. How do you
know I was not running away with him?
CARTERET [_smiling_]. Well, if you were, you weren't doing it very
successfully. To tell the truth, there were so many things to think
of that night after fettling up the motor and taking you back, that I
hadn't time to wonder what you were after. [_A pause_].
RACHEL. As a matter of fact, I have heard something about Jack
Thornton--he's dead.
CARTERET [_interested but not suspicious_]. Dead! How do you know?
RACHEL. I saw it in an evening paper six weeks ago. It was a night you
were away inspecting at Portsmouth or something. I meant to tell you. It
was a horrible story. He was in East Africa--he went there to farm--he
was one of a party who had a skirmish with some natives--they had
quarrelled about something and he and another Englishman were killed.
CARTERET [_sympathetically_]. Oh, a bad business. Yes. I am sorry.
RACHEL [_impulsively_]. I was not, very--I couldn't bear to think of all
that time he had been mixed up in. No, when I heard that he was dead,
it was a relief. I don't want to be reminded of him--to be reminded of
all that time. Oh, Will, if you knew what the sense of security and
happiness is of being married to you. I do love you.
CARTERET. I'm very glad to hear it. Look here; confess you weren't in
love with me when we married.
RACHEL. We married so very soon, you see. I hadn't time.
CARTERET. You didn't fall in love at first sight as I did.
RACHEL. But I was as quick as I could. Before we had been married a
month I adored you.
CARTERET. Did you really, Rachel?
RACHEL. You know I did.
CARTERET. Yes, I know it too, but I like hearing you say it.
RACHEL. You ought to believe it by this time without having to be told.
CARTERET. Of course I do. Oh, Rachel--I wonder if you know the absolute
trust I have in you. How I love and reverence you more than I can put
into words, and how I wonder every day at the great gifts that have come
to me from you and the child. My life is overflowing with happiness--and
when I think of those lonely days when I was going ahead thinking I had
got all I wanted, and I had nothing!--darling, I must try to be worthy
of it all.
[_He stands up by her. She holds out her hand to him. He takes
it in both his, then they part as the maid comes in with a
letter._ CARTERET _takes it, looks at it, and throws it down on
the table_].
RACHEL [_speaking very lightly as the maid goes out_]. Nothing for me;
how dull the evening post always is.
CARTERET. You shall have half of mine; it looks fearfully dull, too.
RACHEL. Yes, a letter of that shape always is. It's about business, I
suppose.
[_She leans back in her chair and goes on cutting the book with
a paper-knife_].
CARTERET [_trying to open the letter_]. And then the brutes stick it
down so that you can't get it open.
RACHEL [_laughing_]. No great loss, I daresay. Here!
[_She throws him the paper-knife and leans back idly,
comfortable in her chair._ CARTERET _takes the knife and cuts it
open_].
CARTERET [_excited_]. Oh! Rachel!
RACHEL [_interested but not anxious_]. What is it? Who's it from?
CARTERET [_reading the name at the top of the paper_]. It's from
Threlfold and Bixley, solicitors. They're--[_then he looks at_ RACHEL
_as though hesitating to speak the name suddenly_]--Jack Thornton's
solicitors.
[RACHEL _aghast stands up transfixed_--CARTERET _is so full of
the letter that he doesn't look at her_].
CARTERET. Listen! 'Dear Sir--We have to inform you that we have received
from East Africa the will of our late client, Mr John Thornton,
deceased, in which he instructs us that a third of the fortune he
acquired there, is to be assigned, on her twenty-first birthday, to Mary
Carteret, his [_he is going to turn over the page when_ RACHEL _rushes
forward with a shriek_].
RACHEL [_beside herself_]. Wait, wait! don't turn over! wait--stop--I
want to tell you something--first--say you won't look--
CARTERET [_amazed_]. Rachel! [_Getting up_]. What is it? You are not
well! Is it hearing about this so suddenly? [_He makes a movement. She
thinks he is going to turn the page_].
RACHEL. Don't, don't! you promised, you promised you wouldn't. I want to
tell you what is on the next page before you read it--I know how it goes
on--'Mary Carteret his--child!'
CARTERET [_alarmed_]. Rachel! what has happened to you?
RACHEL [_compelling herself to speak less wildly; with concentrated
utterance_]. Mary Carteret is his child--Jack Thornton's child. Yes!
Mary--is--Jack Thornton's child.
[_A silence_--CARTERET _stands looking at her_].
CARTERET [_seizing her wrists_]. It isn't true! [_She stands silent_].
Is it true?--is it?
RACHEL. Oh! you hurt me.
CARTERET. Is it true?
RACHEL [_looking straight at him_]. Yes. Read it. Turn over the page
now.
[CARTERET _has the letter in his hand still. He looks at the
bottom of the page he has read and turns it over with shaking
hands, and reads what is on the next_].
RACHEL [_almost beside herself_]. Now you know it's true. You see
yourself what it says.
[CARTERET _waits a moment, gazing at the page, then looks up at
her_].
CARTERET. It doesn't say so.
RACHEL [_petrified, looks at him, her lips forming the words, almost in
a whisper_]. Doesn't say so!
CARTERET. No! [_reading_]--'to Mary Carteret--his [_pause_] god-child!'
RACHEL [_gives a smothered cry_]. Oh! It's not in the letter--and _I_
told you--I myself....
CARTERET [_with a sudden impulse of hope_]. Rachel, I still don't
believe it. You don't know what you are saying.
RACHEL. Yes, yes, I tell you, it's true--and I've told you--_I_ did--if
I hadn't, you wouldn't have known.
CARTERET. What--it _is_ true then! and _that_ is all you can think
of--that you needn't have told me--that if you had not, you could have
gone on pretending....
RACHEL. We should have gone on being happy--and--now it's gone.
CARTERET. Happy--you could have lived with that lie in your heart and
have been happy?
RACHEL. The lie was buried--he was dead--I was safe [_wringing her
hands_]. We were happy, we should always have been happy now he is dead.
CARTERET. But the truth! Do you care so little about the truth?
RACHEL. The truth can be so terrible.
CARTERET. Is _that_ what women are like?
RACHEL. Oh, women are afraid. All these years I have been so
terrified--so haunted by terror--till I knew he was dead. Then--then--I
thought I was safe. I used to think--suppose--suppose, you ever came to
know it! I tried to tell you, at first, I did, indeed, but my heart died
at the thought.... And then when I fell in love with you and saw how
desperately you cared for Mary--
CARTERET [_he shrinks_]. Don't--
RACHEL. I couldn't--and then, I thought it was in the letter--and you'd
see it, and so I told you--I told you.
CARTERET [_looking at the letter and reading_]. 'His god-child'--is that
true?
[RACHEL _shakes her head_].
CARTERET. A lie, too, like all the rest? Oh, my God! [_He sits down and
buries his face in his hands_]. And if the letter hadn't come I should
have gone on being fooled to the end. You had better have told me,
Rachel, before we married. I should have done exactly what I did--I
should have married you all the same.
[RACHEL _moves with an irresistible impulse of love and
gratitude towards him_].
CARTERET [_stopping her_]. No, you needn't go on with that now. I
shouldn't have had those illusions--I shouldn't have had that dream of
love and pride in--in the child, but I should not have had this ghastly
awakening. Good God! that night that I told you about just now--the
night I first heard--I've never told another human being about that
night of revelation, of knowing what it meant to have a child--and it
was all a lie. It was none of it true. She's not mine--I have no
child--she's a child without a name.
RACHEL [_fiercely, in an agony of apprehension_]. No, no! I won't have
you say that! She has your name, your splendid name--Will, you're not
going to take it from her? You're not going to make her suffer for
something she had no part in?
CARTERET. Am I likely to make a child suffer? Do you understand me as
little as that--it is not the child who will have to endure--
[_The clock strikes the hour--they look at each other_].
RACHEL. Are you going up to her?
CARTERET [_without looking at her_]. No.
RACHEL [_hesitatingly_]. I'll go instead. She'll be wondering.
CARTERET. No. You shall not go from here. I must have the truth--all
you've kept back--the whole of this damnable story.
RACHEL. I can't, I can't--you terrify me when you look like that....
CARTERET [_regardless_]. I must have it. I must know.
[RACHEL _is silent_.
CARTERET [_quietly_]. Do you understand? I must have the truth.
[RACHEL _tries to make up her mind to speak_.
CARTERET. Go on.
RACHEL. They were all so unkind to me there--when I was the governess.
[_She stops._]
CARTERET. Go on; that's not what I want to hear.
RACHEL. Jack--[_She stops_]. Oh, I can't!
CARTERET. Do you understand that you are not going from here till you
have told me?
RACHEL [_looking wildly round her_]. Oh, when you look like that I feel
I have no one!
[_She buries her face in her hands._
CARTERET. Go on. Let me hear.
[RACHEL _waits. He takes down her hands. She looks up at him,
then makes up her mind and begins again._
RACHEL. He was the only one who was kind--and--and--
CARTERET [_sternly_]. And--what?
RACHEL. He made love to me.
CARTERET. You let him ... make love to you?
RACHEL [_hardly audibly_]. Yes.
CARTERET. The scoundrel!
RACHEL. Now then, you know it all.
CARTERET. No, not all. Were you going away with him that night?
RACHEL. Yes--he said we must be married. I knew we must--
CARTERET [_bitterly_]. Yes, you had to marry someone.... [RACHEL _looks
at him imploringly_]. Go on to the end.
RACHEL [_with an effort_]. He was going to East Africa. He was to sail
next day, and I was going with him. We were going up by the late train
to be married in the morning, and we meant to leave the car at the
station with a letter to his parents--and then the car broke down by the
roadside--and you came, and the next day he sailed.... Now you know it
all.
CARTERET. Yes, that sounds like the truth at last. I know that I have
dragged the truth from you bit by bit. My God! I was far enough from it
that night when I thought I was protecting an innocent little girl who
was being bullied by her employer. You called me simple just now--I was
simple indeed.
RACHEL. Yes, you were simple and trusting and wonderful--you say you
would have married me all the same if I had dared to tell you. I
know you would. It would have been like you--like your greatness and
goodness. But, oh, how could I tell you--how could I! Oh, Will, you
say you could have forgiven me then--can't you forgive me now?
CARTERET. Forgiveness! What does forgiveness matter, if there's no
belief when trust has gone? Rachel, I believed in you as I believe in my
Redeemer. You knew I did. What was in your thoughts, this very evening
was it, or was it another lifetime? when I told you how I trusted and
reverenced you? Did you feel nothing but mockery at the success of your
deceit?
RACHEL. No, no. I thought when you were telling me, what a great pure
heart you had, how I would try to be worthy of you.
CARTERET [_with a bitter laugh_]. Worthy of me! by letting me believe
every day of our lives something that was false, false; something that
had never been. Oh, I can't bear it.
RACHEL [_suddenly with a wild impulse_]. Oh, don't let Mary know!
CARTERET. Don't speak her name. I can't endure it yet.
RACHEL. Don't let her suffer! Oh, don't let suffering come to her, let
me have it all.
CARTERET. _You_ have it all? Is that what you think? Suffering is round
us all everywhere like the darkness.
[_He sits on sofa, covering his face with his hands._]
RACHEL [_looking round her as if terrified_]. The darkness! Will, I'm
so frightened--you have been my shelter, my rock, my love. Help me now!
Help me! I cannot do without you!
[_She stands looking at him, waiting for him to speak._]
CARTERET [_without looking at her_]. You need not be so frightened. I
will always shelter you--you--and your child....
[RACHEL _stands for a moment as if transfixed, then speaks_].
RACHEL. I am going up to say good-night to her--she will be lying awake.
CARTERET [_as she slowly turns away, puts out his hand, the other still
covering his face_]. Poor little Rachel!
[_She takes his hand, timidly--they clasp hands, and loose them
again. It is not a lovers' embrace: it is a compact between
them._]
CURTAIN _comes down as_ RACHEL _goes out_.
CARTERET _still sitting with his face hid in his hands, broken
with emotion_.
* * * * *
KIRSTIN.
A Dramatic Sketch in Three Scenes.
SCENE 1.
_Characters in the order of their appearance_:
HENRY MERTON (_a young Englishman_).
PETER THWAITE (_a Sheep Farmer in Australia_).
KIRSTIN (THWAITE'S _Daughter_).
MRS PLANT (_Housekeeper to_ MERTON).
LADY GAIRLOCH.
LADY BETTY CRAIGIE (_her Daughter_).
JANE (_a maid_).
THE ACTION _takes place_:--
_In_ SCENE 1, _at a remote sheep farm in Queensland at the end of the
19th Century_.
SCENE 2, _at_ DR MERTON'S _House in Devonshire Street_.
SCENE 3, _the same_.
_Between_ SCENES 1 _and_ 2, _fifteen years elapse_.
_Between_ SCENES 2 _and_ 3, _a night_.
SCENE I.: _Outside_ THWAITE'S _sheep farm in Australia. A
double wooden railing at back runs the whole length of stage,
supposed to be continued behind house_--L. _part of the house
is seen--wooden house with veranda_. THWAITE _leaning against
railing smoking a pipe_ C. MERTON R.C. _on wooden seat, wooden
table beside him_ C. _He is arranging, strapping, etc., a wallet
or satchel._
MERTON. There now, I think everything's ready. There's one strap more
somewhere [_looking round_]. I must have left it in the house. And then
I shall have to say good-bye. How can I thank you, Mr Thwaite, for all
you have done for me! [THWAITE, _unsmiling, smokes on in silence_]. The
way you took me in when you found me dying and let me stay under your
roof all these weeks--
THWAITE [_gruffly_]. That's all right.
MERTON. You have been endlessly good to me. I shall never forget it,
never.
THWAITE. Never's a long time.
MERTON. But I mean it, I assure you.
THWAITE. Oh, yes, I daresay, you mean it--yes.
MERTON. Good Lord! What an escape! I can't think how it was I didn't
die, when my horse pitched me off on to my head and left me senseless. I
should have died if you hadn't found me, and no one would have been the
wiser.
THWAITE. There's plenty dies over here and no one the wiser.
MERTON. I daresay.
THWAITE. There's plenty of others that's alive.
MERTON. I wonder you troubled to keep another in the world then, Mr
Thwaite.
THWAITE. It was the gal. She would have it we ought to pick you up, but
I was in a hurry with some sheep in the cart going to Banooga.
MERTON. And they mattered more, of course.
THWAITE. Well, they was alive, you see.
MERTON. To be sure--yes.
THWAITE. And you didn't seem to be. But the gal, she thought you were.
So I said, 'Well, if there's room for him and the sheep too, I'll take
him along--But what'll we do with him next?' 'Well,' she says, 'I'll
look after him.' And I says, 'You've your work to do, remember.' You can
understand, Mr Merton, that if a man has a sheep farm in this country,
that's his job. His sheep must come first. You don't want no dead men
along.
MERTON. Oh, I quite see that. And no live ones either if they are in the
way.
THWAITE. That's about it.
MERTON. I must have been most awfully inconvenient.
THWAITE. Well, it was just the lambing time, and Kirstin had to look
after the ewes. Lucky it were a healthy season.
MERTON [_smiling_]. And she managed to look after me as well as the
ewes.
THWAITE. She knows she's got to get her work done.
MERTON. She seems able to do it.
THWAITE. She knows her job. I've kept her at it since she was a little
wench.
MERTON. It's wonderful, all she can do.
THWAITE [_scornfully_]. Wonderful? What's there wonderful in it, a
strong, healthy gal like that? I'd be ashamed if she didn't know what a
farmer's daughter's got to know--about dipping the sheep, washing 'em,
and shearing, and breaking a horse, and riding him bareback round the
boundary. She'd need to be ashamed if she couldn't. And she can use her
eyes and her ears. There's nothing she can't see or hear, that gal. Oh,
any woman can learn to work if you just make her.
MERTON. Any woman?... that kind of work? [_smiling and shaking his
head._]
THWAITE. I daresay women isn't much use where you come from.
MERTON. I come from London.
THWAITE [_with a pitying smile_]. London ... ah!
MERTON. I shall think of your life out here, Mr Thwaite, when I'm back
in London.
THWAITE. No, no, you won't, young man. Nothing of the kind. You won't
be thinking of us, no more than we shall be thinking of you. I shall
be thinking of my sheep, and you--well, whatever folks do think of in
London.
MERTON. A good many things.
THWAITE [_indifferently and rather incredulously_]. Do they?
MERTON. I shall have to think a great deal about my job. I'm going to be
a doctor, and it's uphill work at first. But my uncle is a successful
doctor, and that will be a help.
THWAITE. Ah, you mean he's done the work for you.
MERTON [_smiling_]. Some of it perhaps.
THWAITE. I've not much use for doctors. Never had one inside my door.
MERTON. They seem to be needed in London, luckily for me.
THWAITE. Never been there.
MERTON. But you are an Englishman, aren't you?
THWAITE [_sombrely_]. Yes, I'm an Englishman. My father was a Yorkshire
farmer; my mother was a Scotch woman. I quarrelled with him and ran away
from home and I went to Liverpool. And the captain of a steamer going
to Sydney took me on as cabin boy, and on board there was an Australian
sheep farmer. And he brought me to his sheep run--and afterwards I
married his daughter, and he died, and I went on with the sheep farming.
That's my tale.
MERTON. And you never saw your parents again?
THWAITE. I never went back. I never knew my mother. She died when I was
born. Kirstin, she never knew her mother neither.
MERTON. That's a bad loss.
THWAITE [_smokes reflectively_]. Mebbe, mebbe. But she's no need of a
mother. I've learned her what she'd need to know, and though I says it,
she's been brought up by an honest man to earn an honest living in
honest ways. And that's enough for anyone.
MERTON. It's a great deal. But is it enough for her? Doesn't she want
any more?
THWAITE. I don't know--but if she did, want 'd be her master. [_Passes
his hand along the railing_]. There's that fence going again. I believe
the wood's rotting. Kirstin! [KIRSTIN _comes out of the house with a
strap in her hand_]. Look at this place in the fence--it's rotting.
That's bad.
KIRSTIN [_looking at it_]. Yes, I know. There's some more going the same
way, further up.
THWAITE. Well, you'd better go round and see where the places are; it'll
have to be looked to.
KIRSTIN. Yes, father; I'll see to it.
[THWAITE _goes on looking at the fence and passing his hand
along it_. KIRSTIN _gives the strap to_ MERTON.]
KIRSTIN. Here's a strap you left in the house, Mr Merton.
MERTON. Oh, thank you so much. [_Tries to put strap round bag_]. I'm
afraid it's about time for me to be off.
KIRSTIN. Yes, I suppose it is. I've saddled your mare for you; she's
ready.
MERTON. Have you done that besides everything else? I'm not going to try
to thank you for it all--
THWAITE. No, I wouldn't. If the mare is saddled, you'd best be mounting,
you've got a long way to go.
KIRSTIN [_looking at him struggling with the strap_]. You want another
hole there. Here, let me. [_Taking the strap and pulling out a knife_].
THWAITE [_looking impatiently at_ KIRSTIN]. Well, I'll be stepping, Mr
Merton. I'm rather busy to-day.
MERTON [_smiling_]. I'm so sorry, Mr Thwaite--this is the last time I
shall interrupt the farm work.
KIRSTIN [_repeats half to herself_]. The last time--yes.
THWAITE. I'll be going on. Kirstin, you follow me down there away--when
you're ready [_rather sarcastically_].
KIRSTIN. Yes, father. [_Still doing strap_].
MERTON [_shaking hands with_ THWAITE]. Good-bye, then, Mr Thwaite.
And----
THWAITE [_interrupting him_]. Now don't start thanking me again!
Good-bye, and don't break your neck this time.
[THWAITE _goes out_]. [KIRSTIN _finishes the strap and hands it
to_ MERTON].
MERTON. You must let me thank you, Kirstin.
KIRSTIN [_looking up at him and smiling_]. Must I?
MERTON. And then I shall have to say good-bye to you, too.
KIRSTIN [_forcing herself to be calm_]. Yes, it's good-byes, to-day.
MERTON. It's no use saying it over and over again, but I do want you to
believe how grateful I am to you for saving my life.
KIRSTIN. You needn't to thank me. I was glad I did.
MERTON [_half to himself, looking round_]. It's so queer when you're
leaving a place. It looks different, somehow.
KIRSTIN. Does it?
MERTON. Don't you know what I mean?
KIRSTIN. No, I've never left a place. I've always been here.
MERTON. Isn't it extraordinary!
KIRSTIN. What?
MERTON. Why, to find you and your father here miles away from anyone,
leading this life.
KIRSTIN. Why is it extraordinary? We've always done it.
MERTON. That's just it. You've never done anything else.
KIRSTIN. Of course not.
MERTON. And you do the same thing day after day.
KIRSTIN. The same thing? No. There's the feeding to look after in the
winter, and the lambing in the spring, and the shearing in the summer--
MERTON. Yes, the summer in January.
KIRSTIN. January--when else should it be?
MERTON. Our summer's in July.
KIRSTIN [_interested_]. Is it? I didn't know that.
MERTON. Didn't you, Kirstin? And our spring is in March and April.
KIRSTIN. March and April? Those are our beautiful autumn months. Oh, how
odd. When do your lambs come, then?
MERTON. In February and March.
KIRSTIN. Oh, how strange!
MERTON. Kirstin, did you never go to school?
KIRSTIN. To school? No, how could I? Father couldn't have spared me.
MERTON. Not even when you were little?
KIRSTIN. I don't believe anyhow there was a school near enough.
Father learned me to read, and I write a bit too, but not very well.
[_Smiling_]. I've always worked with the sheep ever since I can
remember. When I was little I used to drive them in and see if any were
missing.
MERTON. Could you count them?
KIRSTIN [_surprised_]. Oh, no; but I knew them all one from another and
could tell which was gone.
MERTON. Could you? Can you do that now?
KIRSTIN. Well, of course. Anyone could.
MERTON. Anyone? Do you really believe that?
KIRSTIN. Yes, anyone living out here, like us.
MERTON. Ah, you know things we don't know in London.
KIRSTIN. Do I? But then [_quite simply as though asking the question_]
perhaps you know things in London that we don't know out here?
MERTON [_smiling_]. Perhaps we do.... I shall think of you when I'm back
in my London home.
[_All through this scene_ MERTON _is not in the least
sentimental--he is obviously not sorry to be turning his face
homewards_].
KIRSTIN. Shall you? I'm glad of that.
MERTON. And wonder what you're doing.
KIRSTIN. You needn't to wonder that--I've told you what we'll be doing
all the year round.
MERTON. And is it enough for you, Kirstin?
KIRSTIN. Enough! It fills up all the time, I can tell you.
MERTON. Are you content?
KIRSTIN. Content? I've never thought about it. Oh, yes, I suppose I am.
I've always been content up to now.
MERTON [_cheerfully_]. Then there's no reason why you should leave off.
KIRSTIN. Daresay not.
MERTON. But when you read stories about other kinds of lives, doesn't
it make you want to see something else?
KIRSTIN. I'm not much of a reader. Father has some books put away but I
don't care about it.
MERTON. Doesn't he ever read a newspaper even?
KIRSTIN. There's none comes here.
MERTON [_laughing_]. Well, I didn't think such people existed. This
place will seem a dream to me when I get back.
KIRSTIN. A dream, will it?
MERTON. Yes, you and your life here, and looking out and seeing wide
pastures, and the palm trees, and the eucalyptus instead of seeing plane
trees dropping their leaves on the London pavements. Oh! to see a wet
plane leaf shining in the lights of London! There's no place like it
after all. And now I'm going back to it.
KIRSTIN. You like London best then?
MERTON. Well, all Londoners do. I'm a Londoner, you see--I was born and
bred there, just as you were born and bred here.
KIRSTIN. Of course, yes. Mr Merton, you said you'd think of us when you
was away. I'd like to think of you too, and what you was doing in
London, if you could tell me what it's like.
MERTON [_smiling_]. Well, it's rather difficult to tell you--it's all so
very different. For one thing, when I look out of my window in London, I
see the wall of somebody else's house, instead of a wide expanse like
this.
KIRSTIN. Oh, is there a house as near as that?
MERTON. A house? Dozens.
KIRSTIN. Dozens of houses close to yours?
MERTON. Scores! Hundreds! Thousands! of houses wherever you go, wherever
you look.
KIRSTIN. Oh, is that really true?
MERTON. Of course it is.
KIRSTIN. But how do you know them apart?
MERTON. They have numbers on them--a number painted on every house.
KIRSTIN. Oh! painted on every house--like a brand! It must be very
difficult to count up to so many thousands.
MERTON. Oh, no; they begin at _one_ again in each street.
KIRSTIN. How many houses are there in a street?
MERTON. That depends. Sometimes there are fifty, sometimes two hundred
and more. My house is 147.
KIRSTIN. 147. I shall remember that.
MERTON. But the number won't be enough. You must remember the street
too. The street I live in is called Devonshire Street--so that if you
want to know where to find me, it's 147 Devonshire Street.
KIRSTIN. 147 Devonshire Street--I shall remember that.
MERTON. I'll write it down for you [_takes out his pocket-book, tears
out a sheet and writes on it_].
KIRSTIN. Write it very clear, won't you, so as I can read it.
MERTON. Yes, I'll write it very clear. There now, you can't mistake
it--Henry Merton, 147 Devonshire Street, London. So when you come to
London, Kirstin, don't forget. Look, I shall write that down too--to
remind you! [_writing_] _Come to London, Kirstin, don't forget._
KIRSTIN [_looking at it_]. Yes, that's very clear. I can read that.
[_Reads_] 'Henry Merton, 147 Devonshire Street. Come to London, Kirstin,
don't forget.' I shan't forget, but I shan't come to London.
MERTON. Who knows? Perhaps by the time you come, I shall have got on in
the world.
KIRSTIN. What does that mean?
MERTON. Oh, Kirstin, you are too delightful! It means ... well ... it
means--it's rather difficult to explain.
KIRSTIN. Does it mean being better than other people?
MERTON. Um--not altogether! Something of the kind perhaps. It means
getting on in the thing you're doing. I'm going to try to be a
successful doctor.
KIRSTIN. Does a successful doctor cure everybody?
MERTON. Not always. But a great many people come to him to be cured and
give him money whether he cures them or not.
KIRSTIN. Do they? Then you'll have a great deal of money.
MERTON. I hope so--I want it most dreadfully.
KIRSTIN [_surprised_]. Do you?
MERTON. I have hardly any--that's one of my difficulties.
KIRSTIN. What a pity.
MERTON. Oh, well, it'll come all right, I daresay, when I'm back in
London and can start work.
KIRSTIN [_looking at paper_]. When you're back at 147 Devonshire
Street--
[_Enter_ THWAITE. KIRSTIN _puts the paper back in her pocket_].
THWAITE. Kirstin, the black ewe's missing.
KIRSTIN [_quietly_]. What, again? I'll go and seek her.
THWAITE. You had better. Well, Mr Merton, I suppose you'll just be about
starting? [_Evidently waiting for_ MERTON _to leave_].
MERTON [_laughing_]. So sorry I'm still here, Mr Thwaite. I'm really
going now. I've been telling Kirstin what London is like.
THWAITE. She won't find that very useful, I expect. The boy's got your
mare at the door. I'll come and see you off.
MERTON. Thank you very much.
THWAITE [_exasperated_]. Ah!
MERTON [_turning back to_ KIRSTIN]. Good-bye, Kirstin. Once more, thank
you. [KIRSTIN _looks up at him with a little smile_].
KIRSTIN [_in a low voice_]. Oh, that's all right.
MERTON _goes out, followed by_ THWAITE. KIRSTIN _remains alone_.
_She stands quite still for a moment, her left hand on the
fence, looking in the direction they have gone in. She leans
forward and gives a little wave of her hand, then turns round
facing the audience, and leaning with her back to the railing,
her two hands on it behind her._ THWAITE _comes back_.
THWAITE. Well, now we shall get some work done. What are you standing
gaping there for? Where's that ewe?
KIRSTIN. I'll go and find her.
CURTAIN _comes down slowly as she goes out_ R.
THWAITE _looking at railing and feeling it to see where it is
giving_.