GERVASE. That's very friendly of them. Being more of a stranger I

shall call you Ernest. Well, Ernest-- (getting up) Just excuse me a

moment, will you? Very penetrating bark this tree has. It must be a

Pomeranian. (He folds his cloak upon it and sits down again) That's

better. Now we can talk comfortably together. I don't know if there's

anything you particularly want to discuss--nothing?--well, then, I

will suggest the subject of breakfast.

ERN (grinning). 'Ad my breakfast.

GERVASE. You've _had_ yours? You selfish brute! . . . Of course, you're

wondering why I haven't had mine.

ERN. Bacon fat. (He makes reminiscent noises.)

GERVASE. Don't keep on going through all the courses. Well, what

happened was this. My car broke down. I suppose you never had a motor

car of your own.

ERN. Don't like moty cars.

GERVASE. Well, really, after last night I'm inclined to agree with

you. Well, no, I oughtn't to say that, because, if I hadn't broken

down, I should never have seen Her. Ernest, I don't know if you're

married or anything of that sort, but I think even your rough stern

heart would have been moved by that vision of loveliness which I saw

last night. (He is silent for a little, thinking of her.) Well, then,

I lost my way. There I was--ten miles from anywhere--in the middle of

what was supposed to be a short cut--late at night--Midsummer

Night--what would _you_ have done, Ernest?

ERN. Gone 'ome.

GERVASE. Don't be silly. How could I go home when I didn't know where

home was, and it was a hundred miles away, and I'd just seen the

Princess? No, I did what your father or your Uncle George or any wise

man would have done, I sat in the car and thought of Her.

ERN. Oo!

GERVASE. You are surprised? Ah, but if you'd seen her. . . . Have you

ever been alone in the moonlight on Midsummer Night--I don't mean just

for a minute or two, but all through the night until the dawn came?

You aren't really alone, you know. All round you there are little

whisperings going on, little breathings, little rustlings. Somebody is

out hunting; somebody stirs in his sleep as he dreams again the hunt

of yesterday; somebody up in the tree-tops pipes suddenly to the dawn,

and then, finding that the dawn has not come, puts his silly little

head back under his wing and goes to sleep again. . . . And the fairies

are out. Do you believe in fairies, Ernest? You would have believed in

them last night. I heard them whispering.

ERN. Oo!

GERVASE (coming out of his thoughts with a laugh). Well, of course, I

can't expect you to believe me. But don't go about thinking that

there's nothing in the world but bacon fat and bull's-eyes. Well,

then, I suppose I went to sleep, for I woke up suddenly and it was

morning, the most wonderful sparkling magical morning--but, of course,

_you_ were just settling down to business then.

ERN. Oo! (He makes more reminiscent noises.)

GERVASE. Yes, that's just what I said. I said to myself, breakfast.

ERN. 'Ad my breakfast.

GERVASE. Yes, but I 'adn't. I said to myself, "Surely my old friend,

Ernest, whom I used to shoot bison with in the Himalayas, has got an

estate somewhere in these parts. I will go and share his simple meal

with him." So I got out of the car, and I did what you didn't do,

young man, I had a bathe in the river, and then a dry on a

pocket-handkerchief--one of my sister's, unfortunately--and then I

came out to look for breakfast. And suddenly, whom should I meet but

my old friend, Ernest, the same hearty fellow, the same inveterate

talker as when we shot dragon-flies together in the swamps of Malay.

(Shaking his hand) Ernest, old boy, pleased to meet you. What about

it?

ERN. 'Ad my--

GERVASE. S'sh. (He gets up) Now then--to business. Do you mind looking

the other way while I try to find my purse. (Feeling for it.) Every

morning when you get up, you should say, "Thank God, I'm getting a big

boy now and I've got pockets in my trousers." And you should feel very

sorry for the poor people who lived in fairy books and had no trousers

to put pockets in. Ah, here we are. Now then, Ernest, attend very

carefully. Where do you live?

ERN. 'Ome.

GERVASE. You mean, you haven't got a flat of your own yet? Well, how

far away is your home? (ERN grins and says nothing) A mile? (ERN

continues to grin) Half a mile? (ERN grins) Six inches?

ERN (pointing). Down there.

GERVASE. Good. Now then, I want you to take this-- (giving him

half-a-crown)--

ERN. Oo!

GERVASE. Yes, I thought that would move you--and I want you to ask

your mother if you can bring me some breakfast up here. Now, listen

very carefully, because we are coming to the important part.

Hard-boiled eggs, bread, butter, and a bottle of milk--and anything

else she likes. Tell her that it's most important, because your old

friend Mallory whom you shot white mice with in Egypt is starving by

the roadside. And if you come back here with a basket quickly, I'll

give you as many bull's-eyes as you can eat in a week. (Very

earnestly) Now, Ernest, with all the passion and emotion of which I am

capable before breakfast, I ask you: have you got that?

ERN (nodding). Going 'ome. (He looks at the half-crown again.)

GERVASE. Going 'ome. Yes. But--returning with breakfast. Starving

man--lost in forest--return with basket--save life. (To himself) I

believe I could explain it better to a Chinaman. (to ERN) Now then,

off you go.

ERN (as he goes off). 'Ad my breakfast.

GERVASE. Yes, and I wonder if I shall get mine.

(GERVASE walks slowly after him and stands looking at him as he goes

down the hill. Then, turning round, he sees another stranger in the

distance.)

GERVASE. Hullo, here's another of them. (He walks towards the log)

Horribly crowded the country's getting nowadays. (He puts on his

coat.)

(A moment later a travelling Peddler, name of SUSAN, comes in singing.

He sees GERVASE sitting on the log.)

SUSAN (with a bow). Good morning, sir.

GERVASE. (looking round). Good morning.

SUSAN. I had thought to be alone. I trust my singing did not

discommode you.

GERVASE. Not at all. I like it. Do go on.

SUSAN. Alas, the song ends there.

GERVASE. Oh, well, couldn't we have it again?

SUSAN. Perhaps later, sir, if you insist. (Taking off his hat) Would

it inconvenience you if I rested here for a few minutes?

GERVASE. Not a bit. It's a jolly place to rest at, isn't it? Have you

come far this morning?

SUSAN. Three or four miles--a mere nothing on a morning like this.

Besides, what does the great William say?

GERVASE. I don't think I know him. What does he say?

SUSAN. A merry heart goes all the way.

GERVASE. Oh, Shakespeare, yes.

SUSAN. And why, you ask, am I merry?

GERVASE. Well, I didn't, but I was just going to. Why are you merry?

SUSAN. Can you not guess? What does the great Ralph say?

GERVASE (trying hard). The great Ralph. . . . No, you've got me there.

I'm sure I don't know him. Well, what does he say?

SUSAN. Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of Empires

ridiculous.

GERVASE. Emerson, of course. Silly of me.

SUSAN. So you see, sir--I am well, the day is well, all is well.

GERVASE. Sir, I congratulate you. In the words of the great Percy--(to

himself) that's got him.

SUSAN (at a loss). The--er--great Percy?

GERVASE. Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

SUSAN (eagerly). I take you, I take you! Shelley! Ah, there's a poet,

Mr.--er--I don't think I quite caught your name.

GERVASE. Oh! My name's Gervase Mallory--to be referred to by

posterity, I hope, as the great Gervase.

SUSAN. Not a poet, too?

GERVASE. Well, no, not professionally.

SUSAN. But one with the poets in spirit--like myself. I am very glad

to meet you, Mr. Mallory. It is most good-natured of you to converse

with me. My name is Susan, (GERVASE bows.) Generally called Master

Susan in these parts, or sometimes Gentleman Susan. I am a travelling

Peddler by profession.

GERVASE. A delightful profession, I am sure.

SUSAN. The most delightful of all professions. (He begins to undo his

pack,) Speaking professionally for the moment, if I may so far

venture, you are not in any need of boot-laces, buttons, or

collar-studs?

GERVASE (smiling). Well, no, not at this actual moment. On almost any

other day perhaps--but no, not this morning.

SUSAN. I only just mentioned it in passing--_en passant_, as the

French say. (He brings out a paper bag from his pack.) Would the fact

of my eating my breakfast in this pleasant resting place detract at

all from your appreciation of the beautiful day which Heaven has sent

us?

GERVASE. Eating your _what_?

SUSAN. My simple breakfast.

GERVASE (shaking his head). I'm very sorry, but I really don't think I

could bear it. Only five minutes ago Ernest--I don't know if you know

Ernest?

SUSAN. The great Ernest?

GERVASE (indicating with his hand). No, the very small one--Well,

_he_ was telling me all about the breakfast he'd just had, and now

_you're_ showing me the breakfast you're just going to have--no, I

can't bear it.

SUSAN. My dear sir, you don't mean to tell me that you would do me the

honour of joining me at my simple repast?

GERVASE (jumping up excitedly). The honour of joining you!--the

_honour_! My dear Mr. Susan! Now I know why they call you Gentleman

Susan. (Shaking his head sadly) But no. It wouldn't be fair to you. I

should eat too much. Besides, Ernest may come back. No, I will wait.

It wouldn't be fair.

SUSAN (unpacking his breakfast). Bacon or cheese?

GERVASE. Cheese--I mean bacon--I mean--I say, you aren't serious?

SUSAN (handing him bread and cheese). I trust you will find it up to

your expectations.

GERVASE (taking it). I say, you really--(Solemnly) Master Susan, with

all the passion and emotion of which I am capable before breakfast, I

say "Thank you." (He takes a bite) Thank you.

SUSAN (eating also). Please do not mention it. I am more than repaid

by your company.

GERVASE. It is charming of you to say so, and I am very proud to be

your guest, but I beg you to allow me to pay for this delightful

cheese.

SUSAN. No, no. I couldn't hear of it.

GERVASE. I warn you that if you will not allow me to pay for this

delightful cheese, I shall insist on buying all your boot-laces. Nay,

more, I shall buy all your studs, and all your buttons. Your

profession would then be gone.

SUSAN. Well, well, shall we say tuppence?

GERVASE. Tuppence for a banquet like this? My dear friend, nothing

less than half-a-crown will satisfy me.

SUSAN. Sixpence. Not a penny more.

GERVASE (with a sigh). Very well, then. (He begins to feel in his

pocket, and in so doing reveals part of his dress. SUSAN opens his

eyes at it, and then goes on eating. GERVASE finds his purse and

produces sixpence, which he gives to SUSAN.) Sir, I thank you. (He

resumes his breakfast.)

SUSAN. You are too generous. . . . Forgive me for asking, but you are not

by chance a fellow-traveller upon the road?

GERVASE. Do you mean professionally?

SUSAN. Yes. There is a young fellow, a contortionist and

sword-swallower, known locally in these parts as Humphrey the Human

Hiatus, who travels from village to village. Just for a moment I

wondered--

(He glances at GERVASE's legs, which are uncovered. GERVASE hastily

wraps his coat round them.)

GERVASE. I am not Humphrey. No. Gervase the Cheese Swallower. . . .

Er--my costume--

SUSAN. Please say nothing more. It was ill-mannered of me to have

inquired. Let a man wear what he likes. It is a free world.

GERVASE. Well, the fact is, I have been having a bathe.

SUSAN (with a bow). I congratulate you on your bathing costume.

GERVASE. Not at all.

SUSAN. You live near here then?

GERVASE. Little Malling. I came over in a car.

SUSAN. Little Malling? That's about twenty miles away.

GERVASE. Oh, much more than that surely.

SUSAN. No. There's Hedgling down there.

GERVASE (surprised). Hedgling? Heavens, how I must have lost my

way. . . . Then I have been within a mile of her all night. And I never

knew!

SUSAN. You are married, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. No. Not yet.

SUSAN. Get married.

GERVASE. What?

SUSAN. Take my advice and get married.

GERVASE. You recommend it?

SUSAN. I do. . . . There is no companion like a wife, if you marry the

right woman.

GERVASE. Oh?

SUSAN. I have been married thirty years. Thirty years of happiness.

GERVASE. But in your profession you must go away from your wife a good

deal.

SUSAN (smiling). But then I come back to her a good deal.

GERVASE (thoughtfully). Yes, that must be rather jolly.

SUSAN. Why do you think I welcomed your company so much when I came

upon you here this morning?

GERVASE (modestly). Oh, well----

SUSAN. It was something to tell my wife when I got back to her. When

you are married, every adventure becomes two adventures. You have your

adventure, and then you go back to your wife and have your adventure

again. Perhaps it is a better adventure that second time. You can say

the things which you didn't quite say the first time, and do the

things which you didn't quite do. When my week's travels are ever, and

I go back to my wife, I shall have a whole week's happenings to tell

her. They won't lose in the telling, Mr. Mallory. Our little breakfast

here this morning--she will love to hear about that. I can see her

happy excited face as I tell her all that I said to you, and--if I

can remember it--all that you said to me.

GERVASE (eagerly). I say, how jolly! (Thoughtfully) You won't forget

what I said about the Great Percy? I thought that was rather good.

SUSAN. I hope it wasn't too good, Mr. Mallory. If it was, I shall find

myself telling it to her as one of my own remarks. That's why I say

"Get married." Then you can make things fair for yourself. You can

tell her all the good things of mine which _you_ said.

GERVASE. But there must be more in marriage than that.

SUSAN. There are a million things in marriage, but companionship is at

the bottom of it all. . . . Do you know what companionship means?

GERVASE. How do you mean? Literally?

SUSAN. The derivation of it in the dictionary. It means the art of

having meals with a person. Cynics talk of the impossibility of

sitting opposite the same woman every day at breakfast. Impossible to

_them_, perhaps, poor shallow-hearted creatures, but not impossible to

two people who have found what love is.

GERVASE. It doesn't sound very romantic.

SUSAN (solemnly). It is the most romantic thing in the whole world. . . .

Some more cheese?

GERVASE (taking it). Thank you. . . . (Thoughtfully) Do you believe in

love at first sight, Master Susan?

SUSAN. Why not? If it's the woman you love at first sight, not only

the face.

GERVASE. I see. (After a pause) It's rather hard to tell, you know. I

suppose the proper thing to do is to ask her to have breakfast with

you, and see how you get on.

SUSAN. Well, you might do worse.

GERVASE (laughing). And propose to her after breakfast?

SUSAN. If you will. It is better than proposing to her at a ball as

some young people do, carried away suddenly by a snatched kiss in the

moonlight.

GERVASE (shaking his head). Nothing like that happened last night.

SUSAN. What does the Great Alfred say of the kiss?

GERVASE. I never read the _Daily Mail_.

SUSAN. Tennyson, Mr. Mallory, Tennyson.

GERVASE. Oh, I beg your pardon.

SUSAN. "The kiss," says the Great Alfred, "the woven arms, seem but to

be weak symbols of the settled bliss, the comfort, I have found in

thee." The same idea, Mr. Mallory. Companionship, or the art of having

breakfast with a person. (Getting up) Well, I must be moving on. _We_

have been companions for a short time; I thank you for it. I wish you

well.

GERVASE (getting up). I say, I've been awfully glad to meet you. And I

shall never forget the breakfast you gave me.

SUSAN. It is friendly of you to say so.

GERVASE (hesitatingly). You won't mind my having another one when

Ernest comes back--I mean, if Ernest comes back? You won't think I'm

slighting yours in any way? But after an outdoor bathe, you know, one

does----

SUSAN. Please! I am happy to think you have such an appetite.

GERVASE (holding out his hand). Well, good-bye, Mr. Susan, (SUSAN

looks at his hand doubtfully, and GERVASE says with a laugh) Oh, come

on!

SUSAN (shaking it). Good-bye, Mr. Mallory.

GERVASE. And I shan't forget what you said.

SUSAN (smiling). I expect you will, Mr. Mallory. Good-bye.

[He goes off.

GERVASE (calling after him). Because it wasn't the moonlight, it

wasn't really. It was just _Her_. (To himself) It was just _Her_. . . . I

suppose the great Whatsisname would say, "It was just She," but then,

that isn't what I mean.

(GERVASE watches him going down the hill. Then he turns to the other

side, says, "Hallo!" suddenly in great astonishment, and withdraws a

few steps.)

GERVASE. It can't be! (He goes cautiously forward and looks again) It

is!

(He comes back, and walks gently off through the trees.)

(MELISANDE comes in. She has no hat; her hair is in two plaits to her

waist; she is wearing a dress which might belong to any century. She

stands in the middle of the glade, looks round it, holds out her hands

to it for a moment, and then clasps them with a sigh of happiness. . . .)

(GERVASE, his cloak thrown away, comes in behind her. For a moment he

is half-hidden by the trees.)

GERVASE (very softly). Princess!

(She hears but thinks she is still dreaming. She smiles a little.)

GERVASE (a little more loudly). Princess!

(She listens and nods to herself, GERVASE steps out into the open.)

GERVASE. Princess!

(She turns round.)

MELISANDE (looking at him wonderingly). You!

GERVASE. At your service, Princess.

MELISANDE. It was you who came last night.

GERVASE. I was at your father's court last night. I saw you. You

looked at me.

MELISANDE. I thought it was only a dream when I looked at you. I

thought it was a dream when you called me just now. Is it still a

dream?

GERVASE. If it is a dream, let us go on dreaming.

MELISANDE. Where do you come from? Fairyland?

GERVASE. This is Fairyland. We are in the enchanted forest.

MELISANDE (with a sigh of happiness). Ah!

GERVASE. You have been looking for it?

MELISANDE. For so long. (She is silent for a little, and then says

with a smile) May one sit down in an enchanted forest?

GERVASE. Your throne awaits you. (He spreads his cloak over the log.)

MELISANDE. Thank you. . . . Won't you sit, too?

GERVASE (shaking his head). I haven't finished looking at you yet. . . .

You are very lovely, Princess.

MELISANDE. Am I?

GERVASE. Haven't they told you?

MELISANDE. Perhaps I wondered sometimes.

GERVASE. Very lovely. . . . Have you a name which goes with it?

MELISANDE. My name is Melisande.

GERVASE (his whole heart in it). Melisande!

MELISANDE (content at last). Ah!

GERVASE (solemnly). Now the Princess Melisande was very beautiful. (He

lies down on the grass near her, looks up at her and is silent for a

little.)

MELISANDE (smiling shyly). May we talk about _you_, now?

GERVASE. It is for the Princess to say what we shall talk about. If

your Royal Highness commands, then I will even talk about myself.

MELISANDE. You see, I don't know your name yet.

GERVASE. I am called Gervase.

MELISANDE. Gervase. It is a pretty name.

GERVASE. I have been keeping it for this morning.

MELISANDE. It will be Prince Gervase, will it not, if this is

Fairyland?

GERVASE. Alas, no. For I am only a humble woodcutter's son. One of

seven.

MELISANDE. Of seven? I thought that humble woodcutters always had

three sons, and that it was the youngest who went into the world to

seek his fortune.

GERVASE. Three--that's right. I said "one of several." Now that I

count them up, three. (Counting on his fingers) Er--Bowshanks,

er--Mulberry-face and myself. Three. I am the youngest.

MELISANDE. And the fairies came to your christening?

GERVASE. Now for the first time I think that they did.

MELISANDE (nodding). They always come to the christening of the third

and youngest son, and they make him the tallest and the bravest and

the most handsome.

GERVASE (modestly). Oh, well.

MELISANDE. You _are_ the tallest and the bravest and the most

handsome, aren't you?

GERVASE (with a modest smile). Well, of course, Mulberry-face is

hardly a starter, and then Bowshanks-- (he indicates the curve of his

legs)--I mean, there's not much competition.

MELISANDE. I have no sisters.

GERVASE. The Princess never has sisters. She has suitors.

MELISANDE (with a sigh). Yes, she has suitors.

GERVASE (taking out his dagger). Tell me their names that I may remove

them for you.

MELISANDE. There is one dressed in black and white who seeks to win my

hand.

GERVASE (feeling the point). He bites the dust to-morrow.

MELISANDE. To-morrow?

GERVASE. Unless it rains in the night. Perhaps it would be safer if we

arranged for him to bite it this afternoon.

MELISANDE. How brave you are!

GERVASE. Say no more. It will be a pleasure.

MELISANDE. Ah, but I cannot ask you to make this sacrifice for me.

GERVASE. The sacrifice will be his.

MELISANDE. But are you so certain that _you_ will kill him? Suppose he

were to kill _you_?

GERVASE (getting up). Madam, when the third son of a humble woodcutter

engages in mortal combat with one upon whom the beautiful Princess has

frowned, there can be but one end to the struggle. To doubt this would

be to let Romance go.

MELISANDE. You are right. I should never have doubted.

GERVASE. At the same time, it would perhaps be as well to ask the help

of my Uncle Otto.

MELISANDE. But is it fair to seek the assistance of an uncle in order

to kill one small black and white suitor?

GERVASE. Ah, but he is a wizard. One is always allowed to ask the help

of a wizard. My idea was that he should cast a spell upon the

presumptuous youth who seeks to woo you, so that to those who gazed

upon him he should have the outward semblance of a rabbit. He would

then realise the hopelessness of his suit and . . . go away.

MELISANDE (with dignity). I should certainly never marry a small black

and white rabbit.

GERVASE. No, you couldn't, could you?

MELISANDE (gravely). No. (Then their eyes meet. There is a twinkle in

his; hers respond; and suddenly they are laughing together.) What

nonsense you talk!

GERVASE. Well, it's such an absurdly fine morning, isn't it? There's a

sort of sparkle in the air. I'm really trying to be quite sensible.

MELISANDE (making room for him at her feet). Go on talking nonsense.

(He sits down on the ground and leans against the log at her side.)

Tell me about yourself. You have told me nothing yet, but that (she

smiles at him) your father is a woodcutter.

GERVASE. Yes. He--er--cuts wood.

MELISANDE. And you resolved to go out into the world and seek your

fortune?

GERVASE. Yes. You see if you are a third son of a humble woodcutter,

nobody thinks very much of you at home, and they never take you out

with them; and when you are cutting wood, they always put you where

the sawdust gets into your mouth. Because, you see, they have never

read history, and so they don't know that the third and youngest son

is always the nicest of the family.

MELISANDE. And the tallest and the bravest and the most handsome.

GERVASE. _And_ all the other things you mention.

MELISANDE. So you ran away?

GERVASE. So I ran away--to seek my fortune.

MELISANDE. But your uncle the wizard, or your godmother or somebody,

gave you a magic ring to take with you on your travels? (Nodding) They

always do, you know.

GERVASE (showing the ring on his finger). Yes, my fairy godmother gave

me a magic ring. Here it is.

MELISANDE (looking at it). What does it do?

GERVASE. You turn it round once and think very hard of anybody you

want, and suddenly the person you are thinking of appears before you.

MELISANDE. How wonderful! Have you tried it yet?

GERVASE. Once. . . . That's why you are here.

MELISANDE. Oh! (Softly) Have you been thinking of me?

GERVASE. All night.

MELISANDE. I dreamed of you all night.

GERVASE (happily). Did you, Melisande? How dear of you to dream of me!

(Anxiously) Was I--was I all right?

MELISANDE. Oh, yes!

GERVASE (pleased). Ah! (He spreads himself a little and removes a

speck of dust from his sleeve)

MELISANDE (thinking of it still). You were so brave.

GERVASE. Yes, I expect I'm pretty brave in other people's dreams--I'm

so cowardly in my own. Did I kill anybody?

MELISANDE. You were engaged in a terrible fight with a dragon when I

woke up.

GERVASE. Leaving me and the dragon still asleep--I mean, still

fighting? Oh, Melisande, how could you leave us until you knew who had

won?

MELISANDE. I tried so hard to get back to you.

GERVASE. I expect I was winning, you know. I wish you could have got

back for the finish. . . . Melisande, let me come into your dreams again

to-night.

MELISANDE. You never asked me last night. You just came.

GERVASE. Thank you for letting me come.

MELISANDE. And then when I woke up early this morning, the world was

so young, so beautiful, so fresh that I had to be with it. It called

to me so clearly--to come out and find its secret. So I came up here,

to this enchanted place, and all the way it whispered to me--wonderful

things.

GERVASE. What did it whisper, Melisande?

MELISANDE. The secret of happiness.

GERVASE. Ah, what is it, Melisande? (She smiles and shakes her

head). . . . I met a magician in the woods this morning.

MELISANDE. Did he speak to you?

GERVASE. _He_ told _me_ the secret of happiness.

MELISANDE. What did he tell you?

GERVASE. He said it was marriage.

MELISANDE. Ah, but he didn't mean by marriage what so many people

mean.

GERVASE. He seemed a very potent magician.

MELISANDE. Marriage to many people means just food. Housekeeping. _He_

didn't mean that.

GERVASE. A very wise and reverend magician.

MELISANDE. Love is romance. Is there anything romantic in

breakfast--or lunch?

GERVASE. Well, not so much in lunch, of course, but---

MELISANDE. How well you understand! Why do the others not understand?

GERVASE (smiling at her). Perhaps because they have not seen

Melisande.

MELISANDE. Oh no, no, that isn't it. All the others---

GERVASE. Do you mean your suitors?

MELISANDE. Yes. They are so unromantic, so material. The clothes they

wear; the things they talk about. But you are so different. Why is it?

GERVASE. I don't know. Perhaps because I am the third son of a

woodcutter. Perhaps because they don't know that you are the Princess.

Perhaps because they have never been in the enchanted forest.

MELISANDE. What would the forest tell them?

GERVASE. All the birds in the forest are singing "Melisande"; the

little brook runs through the forest murmuring "Melisande"; the tall

trees bend their heads and whisper to each other "Melisande." All the

flowers have put on their gay dresses for her. Oh, Melisande!

MELISANDE (awed). Is it true? (They are silent for a little, happy to

be together. . . . He looks back at her and gives a sudden little laugh.)

What is it?

GERVASE. Just you and I--together--on the top of the world like this.

MELISANDE. Yes, that's what I feel, too. (After a pause) Go on

pretending.

GERVASE. Pretending?

MELISANDE. That the world is very young.

GERVASE. _We_ are very young, Melisande.

MELISANDE (timidly). It is only a dream, isn't it?

GERVASE. Who knows what a dream is? Perhaps we fell asleep in

Fairyland a thousand years ago, and all that we thought real was a

dream, until now at last we are awake again.

MELISANDE. How wonderful that would be.

GERVASE. Perhaps we are dreaming now. But is it your dream or my

dream, Melisande?

MELISANDE (after thinking it out). I think I would rather it were your

dream, Gervase. For then I should be in it, and that would mean that

you had been thinking of me.

GERVASE. Then it shall be _my_ dream, Melisande.

MELISANDE. Let it be a long one, my dear.

GERVASE. For ever and for ever.

MELISANDE (dreamily). Oh, I know that it is only a dream, and that

presently we shall wake up; or else that you will go away and I will

go away, too, and we shall never meet again; for in the real world,

what could I be to you, or you to me? So go on pretending.

(He stands up and faces her.)

GERVASE. Melisande, if this were Fairyland, or if we were knights and

ladies in some old romance, would you trust yourself to me?

MELISANDE. So very proudly.

GERVASE. You would let me come to your father's court and claim you

over all your other suitors, and fight for you, and take you away with

me?

MELISANDE. If this were Fairyland, yes.

GERVASE. You would trust me?

MELISANDE. I would trust my lord.

GERVASE (smiling at her). Then I will come for the Princess this

afternoon. (With sudden feeling) Ah, how can I keep away now that I

have seen the Princess?

MELISANDE (shyly--happily). When you saw me last night, did you know

that you would see me again?

GERVASE. I have been waiting for you here.

MELISANDE. How did you know that I would come?

GERVASE. On such a morning--in such a place--how could the loved one

not be here?

MELISANDE (looking away). The loved one?

GERVASE. I saw you last night.

MELISANDE (softly). Was that enough?

GERVASE. Enough, yes. Enough? Oh no, no, no!

MELISANDE (nodding). I will wait for you this afternoon.

GERVASE. And you will come away with me? Out into the world with me?

Over the hills and far away with me?

MELISANDE (softly). Over the hills and far away.

GERVASE (going to her). Princess!

MELISANDE. Not Princess.

GERVASE. Melisande!

MELISANDE (holding out her hand to him). Ah!

GERVASE. May I kiss your hands, Melisande?

MELISANDE. They are my lord's to kiss.

GERVASE (kissing them). Dear hands.

MELISANDE. Now I shall love them, too.

GERVASE. May I kiss your lips, Melisande?

MELISANDE (proudly). Who shall, if not my lord?

GERVASE. Melisande! (He touches her lips with his.)

MELISANDE (breaking away from him). Oh!

GERVASE (triumphantly). I love you, Melisande! I love you!

MELISANDE (wonderingly). Why didn't I wake up when you kissed me? We

are still here. The dream goes on.

GERVASE. It is no dream, Melisande. Or if it is a dream, then in my

dream I love you, and if we are awake, then awake I love you. I love

you if this is Fairyland, and if there is no Fairyland, then my love

will make a faery land of the world for you. For I love you,

Melisande.

MELISANDE (timidly). Are we pretending still?

GERVASE. No, no, no!

(She looks at him gravely for a moment and then nods her head.)

MELISANDE (pointing). I live down there. You will come for me?

GERVASE. I will come.

MELISANDE. I am my lord's servant. I will wait for him. (She moves

away from him. Then she curtsies and says) This afternoon, my lord.

(She goes down the hill.)

(He stands looking after her. While he is standing there, ERN comes

through the trees with breakfast.)

ACT III

(It is about four o'clock in the afternoon of the same day. JANE is

sitting on the sofa in the hall, glancing at a paper, but evidently

rather bored with it, and hoping that somebody--BOBBY, did you

say?--will appear presently. However, it is MR. KNOWLE who comes in.)

MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Jane!

JANE (looking up). Hallo, Uncle Henry. Did you have a good day?

MR. KNOWLE. Well, Peters and I had a very enjoyable drive.

JANE. But you found nothing at the sale? What a pity!

MR. KNOWLE (taking a catalogue from his pocket). Nothing which I

wanted myself, but there were several very interesting lots. Peters

was strongly tempted by Lot 29--"Two hip-baths and a stuffed

crocodile." Very useful things to have by you if you think of getting

married, Jane, and setting up house for yourself. I don't know if you

have any thoughts in that direction?

JANE (a little embarrassed). Well, I suppose I shall some day.

MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Where's Bobby?

JANE (carelessly). Bobby? Oh, he's about somewhere.

MR. KNOWLE. I think Bobby would like to hear about Lot 29. (Returning

to his catalogue) Or perhaps Lot 42. "Lot 42--Twelve aspidistras,

towel-horse, and 'The Maiden's Prayer.'" All for seven and sixpence. I

ought to have had Bobby with me. He could have made a firm offer of

eight shillings. . . . By the way, I have a daughter, haven't I? How was

Sandy this morning?

JANE. I didn't see her. Aunt Mary is rather anxious about her.

MR. KNOWLE. Has she left us for ever?

JANE. There's nothing to be frightened about really.

MR. KNOWLE. I'm not frightened.

JANE. She had breakfast before any of us were up, and went out with

some sandwiches afterwards, and she hasn't come back yet.

MR. KNOWLE. A very healthy way of spending the day. (MRS. KNOWLE comes

in) Well, Mary, I hear that we have no daughter now.

MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, there you are, Henry. Thank Heaven that _you_ are

back safely.

MR. KNOWLE. My dear, I always meant to come back safely. Didn't you

expect me?

MRS. KNOWLE. I had given up hope. Jane here will tell you what a

terrible morning I have had; prostrate on the sofa, mourning for my

loved ones. My only child torn from me, my husband--dead.

MR. KNOWLE (surprised). Oh, I was dead?

MRS. KNOWLE. I pictured the car smashed to atoms, and you lying in the

road, dead, with Peters by your side.

MR. KNOWLE. Ah! How was Peters?

MRS. KNOWLE (with a shrug). I didn't look. What is a chauffeur to one

who has lost her husband and her only child in the same morning?

MR. KNOWLE. Still, I think you might have looked.

JANE. Sandy's all right, Aunt Mary. You know she often goes out alone

all day like this.

MRS. KNOWLE. Ah, _is_ she alone? Jane, did you count the gardeners as

I asked you?

MR. KNOWLE. Count the gardeners?

MRS. KNOWLE. To make sure that none of them is missing too.

JANE. It's quite all right, Aunt Mary. Sandy will be back by tea-time.

MRS. KNOWLE (resigned). It all comes of christening her Melisande. You

know, Henry, I quite thought you said Millicent.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, talking about tea, my dear--at which happy meal our

long-lost daughter will be restored to us--we have a visitor coming, a

nice young fellow who takes an interest in prints.

MRS. KNOWLE. I've heard nothing of this, Henry.

MR. KNOWLE. No, my dear, that's why I'm telling you now.

MRS. KNOWLE. A young man?

MR. KNOWLE. Yes.

MRS. KNOWLE. Nice-looking?

MR. KNOWLE. Yes.

MRS. KNOWLE. Rich?

MR. KNOWLE. I forgot to ask him, Mary. However, we can remedy that

omission as soon as he arrives.

MRS. KNOWLE. It's a very unfortunate day for him to have chosen.

Here's Sandy lost, and I'm not fit to be seen, and--Jane, your hair

wants tidying----

MR. KNOWLE. He is not coming to see you or Sandy or Jane, my dear; he

is coming to see me. Fortunately, I am looking very beautiful this

afternoon.

MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, you had better be in the garden, dear, and see if

you can stop Sandy before she comes in, and just give her a warning. I

don't know _what_ she'll look like after roaming the fields all day,

and falling into pools----

MR. KNOWLE. A sweet disorder in the dress kindles in clothes a

wantonness.

MRS. KNOWLE. I will go and tidy myself. Jane, I think your mother

would like you to--but, after all, one must think of one's own child

first. You will tell Sandy, won't you? We had better have tea in

here. . . . Henry, your trousers--(she looks to see that JANE is not

listening, and then says in a loud whisper) your trousers----

MR. KNOWLE. I'm afraid I didn't make myself clear, Mary. It's a young

fellow who is coming to see my prints; not the Prince of Wales who is

coming to see my trousers.

MRS. KNOWLE (turning to JANE). You'll remember, Jane?

JANE (smiling). Yes, Aunt Mary.

MRS. KNOWLE. That's a good girl.

[She goes out.

MR. KNOWLE. Ah! . . . Your aunt wasn't very lucid, Jane. Which one of you

is it who is going to marry the gentleman?

JANE. Don't be so absurd, Uncle Henry.

MR. KNOWLE (taking out his catalogue again). Perhaps _he_ would be

interested in Lot 29. (BOBBY comes in through the windows.) Ah, here's

Bobby. Bobby, they tell me that you think of setting up house.

BOBBY (looking quickly at JANE). Who told you that?

MR. KNOWLE. Now, starting with two hip-baths and a stuffed crocodile

for nine shillings and sixpence, and working up to twelve aspidistras,

a towel-horse and "The Maiden's Prayer" for eight shillings, you

practically have the spare room furnished for seventeen and six. But

perhaps I had better leave the catalogue with you. (He presses it into

the bewildered BOBBY'S hands) I must go and tidy myself up. Somebody

is coming to propose to me this afternoon.

[He hurries out.

(BOBBY looks after him blankly, and then turns to JANE.)

BOBBY. I say, what's happened?

JANE. Happened?

BOBBY. Yes, why did he say that about my setting up house?

JANE. I think he was just being funny. He is sometimes, you know.

BOBBY. You don't think he guessed----

JANE. Guessed what? About you and Melisande?

BOBBY. I say, shut up, Jane. I thought we agreed not to say anything

more about that.

JANE. But what else could he have guessed?

BOBBY. _You_ know well enough.

JANE (shaking her head). No, I don't.

BOBBY. I told you this morning.

JANE. What did you tell me?

BOBBY. _You_ know.

JANE. No, I don't.

BOBBY. Yes, you do.

JANE. No, I don't.

BOBBY (coming closer). All right, shall I tell you again?

JANE (edging away). I don't want to hear it.

BOBBY. How do you know you don't want to hear it, if you don't know

what it is?

JANE. I can guess what it is.

BOBBY. There you are!

JANE. It's what you say to everybody, isn't it?

BOBBY (loftily). If you want to know, Miss Bagot, I have only said it

to one other person in my life, and that was in mistake for you.

JANE (coldly). Melisande and I are not very much alike, Mr. Coote.

BOBBY. No. You're much prettier.

JANE (turning her head away). You don't really think so. Anyhow, it

isn't true.

BOBBY. It is true, Jane. I swear it.

JANE. Well, you didn't think so yesterday.

BOBBY. Why do you keep talking about yesterday? I'm talking about

to-day.

JANE. A girl has her pride, Bobby.

BOBBY. So has a man. I'm awfully proud of being in love with _you_.

JANE. That isn't what I mean.

BOBBY. What do you mean?

JANE (awkwardly). Well--well--well, what it comes to is that you get

refused by Sandy, and then you immediately come to me and expect me to

jump at you.

BOBBY. Suppose I had waited a year and then come to you, would that

have been better?

JANE. Of course it would.

BOBBY. Well, really I can't follow you, darling.

JANE (indignantly). You mustn't call me darling.

BOBBY. Mustn't call you what?

JANE (awkwardly). Darling.

BOBBY. Did I call you darling?

JANE (shortly). Yes.

BOBBY (to himself). "Darling." No, I suppose I mustn't. But it suits

you so awfully well--darling. (She stamps her foot) I'm sorry,

darl---- I mean Jane, but really I can't follow you. Because you're so

frightfully fascinating, that after twenty-four hours of it, I simply

have to tell you how much I love you, then your pride is hurt. But if

you had been so frightfully unattractive that it took me a whole year

to see anything in you at all, then apparently you'd have been awfully

proud.

JANE. You _have_ known me a whole year, Bobby.

BOBBY. Not really, you know. Directly I saw you and Sandy together I

knew I was in love with one of you, but--well, love is a dashed rummy

thing, and I thought it was Sandy. And so I didn't really see you till

last night, when you were so awfully decent to me.

JANE (wistfully). It sounds very well, but the trouble is that it will

sound just as well to the next girl.

BOBBY. What next girl?

JANE. The one you propose to to-morrow.

BOBBY. You know, Jane, when you talk like that I feel that you don't

deserve to be proposed to at all.

JANE (loftily). I'm sure I don't want to be.

BOBBY (coming closer). Are you?

JANE. Am I what?

BOBBY. Quite sure.

JANE. I should have thought it was pretty obvious seeing that I've

just refused you.

BOBBY. Have you?

JANE. Have I what?

BOBBY. Refused me.

JANE. I thought I had.

BOBBY. And would you be glad if I went away and never saw you again?

(She hesitates) Honest, Jane. Would you?

JANE (awkwardly). Well, of course, I _like_ you, Bobby. I always have.

BOBBY. But you feel that you would like me better if I were somebody

else's husband?

JANE (indignantly). Oh, I _never_ said that.

BOBBY. Dash it, you've been saying it all this afternoon.

JANE (weakly). Bobby, don't; I can't argue with you. But really, dear,

I can't say now that I will marry you. Oh, you _must_ understand. Oh,

_think_ what Sandy----

BOBBY. We won't tell Sandy.

JANE (surprised). But she's bound to know.

BOBBY. We won't tell anybody.

JANE (eagerly). Bobby!

BOBBY (nodding). Just you and me. Nobody else for a long time. A

little private secret.

JANE. Bobby!

BOBBY (coming to her). Is it a bargain, Jane? Because if it's a

bargain----

JANE (going away from him). No, no, Bobby. Not now. I must go upstairs

and tidy myself--no, I mustn't, I must wait for Melisande--no, Bobby,

don't. Not yet. I mean it, really. Do go, dear, anybody might come in.

(BOBBY, who has been following her round the hall, as she retreats

nervously, stops and nods to her.)

BOBBY. All right, darling, I'll go.

JANE. You mustn't say "darling." You might say it accidentally in

front of them all.

BOBBY (grinning). All right, Miss Bagot . . . I am going now, Miss

Bagot. (At the windows) Good-bye, Miss Bagot. (JANE blows him a kiss.

He bows) Your favour to hand, Miss Bagot. (He turns and sees MELISANDE

coming through the garden) Hallo, here's Sandy! (He hurries off in the

opposite direction.)

MELISANDE. Oh, Jane, Jane! (She sinks into a chair.)

JANE. What, dear?

MELISANDE. Everything.

JANE. Yes, but that's so vague, darling. Do you mean that----

MELISANDE (dreamily). I have seen him; I have talked to him; he has

kissed me.

JANE (amazed). _Kissed_ you? Do you mean that he has--kissed you?

MELISANDE. I have looked into his eyes, and he has looked into mine.

JANE. Yes, but who?

MELISANDE. The true knight, the prince, for whom I have been waiting

so long.

JANE. But _who_ is he?

MELISANDE. They call him Gervase.

JANE. Gervase _who_?

MELISANDE (scornfully). Did Elaine say, "Lancelot who" when they told

her his name was Lancelot?

JANE. Yes, dear, but this is the twentieth century. He must have a

name.

MELISANDE (dreamily). Through the forest he came to me, dressed in

blue and gold.

JANE (sharply). Sandy! (Struck with an idea) Have you been out all day

without your hat, darling?

MELISANDE (vaguely). Have I?

JANE. I mean--blue and gold. They don't do it nowadays.

MELISANDE (nodding to her). _He_ did, Jane.

JANE. But how?--Why? Who can he be?

MELISANDE. He said he was a humble woodcutter's son. That means he was

a prince in disguise. He called me his princess.

JANE. Darling, how could he be a prince?

MELISANDE. I have read stories sometimes of men who went to sleep and

woke up thousands of years afterwards and found themselves in a

different world. Perhaps, Jane, _he_ lived in those old days, and----

JANE. Did he _talk_ like an ordinary person?

MELISANDE. Oh no, no!

JANE. Well, it's really extraordinary. . . . Was he a gentleman?

MELISANDE (smiling at her). I didn't ask him, Jane.

JANE (crossly). You know what I mean.

MELISANDE. He is coming this afternoon to take me away.

JANE (amazed). To take you away? But what about Aunt Mary?

MELISANDE (vaguely). Aunt Mary? What has _she_ got to do with it?

JANE (impatiently). Oh, but---- (With a shrug of resignation) I don't

understand. Do you mean he's coming _here_? (MELISANDE nods gravely)

Melisande, you'll let me see him?

MELISANDE. Yes. I've thought it all out. I wanted you here, Jane. He

will come in; I will present you; and then you must leave us alone.

But I should like you to see him. Just to see how different, how

utterly different he is from every other man. . . . But you will promise

to go when you have seen him, won't you?

JANE (nodding). I'll say, "I'm afraid I must leave you now, and----"

Sandy, how _can_ he be a prince?

MELISANDE. When you see him, Jane, you will say, "How can he not be a

prince?"

JANE. But one has to leave princes backward. I mean--he won't

expect--_you_ know----

MELISANDE. I don't think so. Besides, after all, you are my cousin.

JANE. Yes. I think I shall get that in; just to be on the safe side.

"Well, cousin, I must leave you now, as I have to attend my aunt." And

then a sort of--not exactly a curtsey, but--(she practises, murmuring

the words to herself). I suppose you didn't happen to mention _me_ to

him this morning?

MELISANDE (half smiling). Oh no!

JANE (hurt). I don't see why you shouldn't have. What did you talk

about?

MELISANDE. I don't know. (She grips JANE'S arm suddenly) Jane, I

didn't dream it all this morning, did I? It did happen? I saw him--he

kissed me--he is coming for me--he----

(Enter ALICE)

ALICE. Mr. Gervase Mallory.

MELISANDE (happily). Ah!

(GERVASE comes in, an apparently ordinary young man in a loud golfing

suit.)

GERVASE. How do you do?

MELISANDE (looking at him with growing amazement and horror). Oh!

(JANE looks from one to the other in bewilderment.)

GERVASE. I ought to explain. Mr. Knowle was kind enough to lend me

some petrol last night; my car broke down; he was good enough to say I

might come this afternoon and see his prints. I am hoping to be

allowed to thank him again for his kindness last night. And--er--I've

brought back the petrol.

MELISANDE (still with her eyes on him). My father will no doubt be

here directly. This is my cousin, Miss Bagot.

GERVASE (bowing). How do you do?

JANE (nervously). How do you do? (After a pause) Well, I'm afraid I

must leave you now, as----

MELISANDE (with her eyes still on GERVASE, putting out a hand and

clutching at JANE). No!

JANE (startled). What?

MELISANDE. Don't go, Jane. Do sit down, won't you, Mr.--er----

GERVASE. Mallory.

MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory.

GERVASE. Thank you.

MELISANDE. Where will you sit, Mr. Mallory? (She is still talking in

an utterly expressionless voice.)

GERVASE. Thank you. Where are you---- (he indicates the sofa.)

MELISANDE (moving to it, but still holding JANE). Thank _you_.

(MELISANDE and JANE sit down together on the sofa. GERVASE sits on a

chair near. There is an awkward silence.)

JANE (half getting up). Well, I'm afraid I must----

(MELISANDE pulls her down. She subsides.)

MELISANDE. Charming weather we are having, are we not, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE (enthusiastically). Oh, rather. Absolutely top-hole.

MELISANDE (to JANE). Absolutely top-hole weather, is it not, Jane?

JANE. Oh, I love it.

MELISANDE. You play golf, I expect, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. Oh, rather. I've been playing this morning. (With a smile)

Pretty rotten, too, I'm afraid.

MELISANDE. Jane plays golf. (to JANE) You're pretty rotten, too,

aren't you, Jane?

JANE. Bobby and I were both very bad to-day.

MELISANDE. I think you will like Bobby, Mr. Mallory. He is staying

with us just now. I expect you will have a good deal in common. He is

on the Stock Exchange.

GERVASE (smiling). So am I.

MELISANDE (valiantly repressing a shudder). Jane, Mr. Mallory is on

the Stock Exchange. Isn't that curious? I felt sure that he must be

directly I saw him.

(There is another awkward silence.)

JANE (getting up). Well, I'm afraid I must----

MELISANDE (pulling her down). Don't go, Jane. I suppose there are a

great many of you on the Stock Exchange, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. Oh, quite a lot.

MELISANDE. Quite a lot, Jane. . . . You don't know Bobby--Mr. Coote?

GERVASE. N--no, I don't think so.

MELISANDE. I suppose there are so many of you, and you dress so much

alike, and look so much alike, that it's difficult to be quite sure

whom you do know.

GERVASE. Yes, of course, that makes it more difficult.

MELISANDE. Yes. You see that, don't you, Jane? . . . You play billiards

and bridge, of course, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. Oh yes.

MELISANDE. They are absolutely top-hole games, aren't they? Are

you--pretty rotten at them?

GERVASE. Well----

MELISANDE (getting up). Ah, here's my father.

(Enter MR. KNOWLE)

MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Mr. Mallory, delighted to see you. And Sandy and Jane

to entertain you. That's right.

(They shake hands)

GERVASE. How do you do?

(ALICE comes in with tea)

MR. KNOWLE. I've been wasting my day at a sale. I hope you spent yours

more profitably, (GERVASE laughs pleasantly) And what have you been

doing, Sandy?

MELISANDE. Wasting mine, too, Father.

MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. Well, they say that the wasted hours are the

best.

MELISANDE (moving to the door). I think I will go and---- (MRS. KNOWLE

comes in with outstretched hands)

MR. KNOWLE. My dear, this is Mr. Mallory.

MRS. KNOWLE. My dear Mr. Mallory! (Turning round) Sandy, dear!

(MELISANDE comes slowly back) How do you do?

GERVASE (shaking hands). How do you do?

MRS. KNOWLE. Sandy, dear! (to GERVASE) My daughter, Melisande, Mr.

Mallory. My only child.

GERVASE. Oh--er--we----

MELISANDE. Mr. Mallory and I have met, Mother.

MRS. KNOWLE (indicating JANE). And our dear Jane.

My dear sister's only daughter. But dear Jane has a brother. Dear

Harold! In the Civil Service. Sandy, dear, will you pour out tea?

MELISANDE (resigned). Yes, Mother. (She goes to the tea-table.)

MRS. KNOWLE (going to the sofa). I am such an invalid now, Mr.

Mallory----

GERVASE (helping her). Oh, I'm so sorry. Can I----?

MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. Dr. Anderson insists on my resting as much as

possible. So my dear Melisande looks after the house for me. Such a

comfort. You are not married yourself, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. No. Oh no.

MRS. KNOWLE (smiling to herself). Ah!

MELISANDE. Jane, Mother's tea. (JANE takes it.)

GERVASE (coming forward). Oh, I beg your pardon. Let me----

JANE. It's all right.

(GERVASE takes up a cake-stand.)

MR. KNOWLE. Where's Bobby? Bobby is the real expert at this.

MELISANDE. I expect Mr. Mallory is an expert, too, Father. You enjoy

tea-parties, I expect, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. I enjoy most things, Miss Knowle. (To MRS. KNOWLE) What will

you have?

MRS. KNOWLE. Thank you. I have to be careful. Dr. Anderson insists on

my being careful, Mr. Mallory. (Confidentially) Nothing organic, you

understand. Both my husband and I--Melisande has an absolutely sound

constitution.

MELISANDE (indicating cup). Jane . . . Sugar and milk, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. Please. (To MR. KNOWLE) Won't _you_ have this, sir?

MR. KNOWLE. No thank you. I have a special cup.

(He takes a large cup from MELISANDE). A family tradition, Mr.

Mallory. But whether it is that I am supposed to require more

nourishment than the others, or that I can't be trusted with anything

breakable, History does not relate.

GERVASE (laughing). Well, I think you're lucky. I like a big cup.

MR. KNOWLE. Have mine.

GERVASE. No, thanks.

BOBBY (coming in). Hallo! Tea?

MR. KNOWLE. Ah, Bobby, you're just in time. (to GERVASE) This is Mr.

Coote. Bobby, this is Mr. Mallory. (They nod to each other and say,

"How do you do?")

MELISANDE (indicating a seat next to her). Come and sit here, Bobby.

BOBBY (who was making for JANE). Oh--er--righto. (He sits down.)

MR. KNOWLE (to GERVASE). And how did the dance go last night?

JANE. Oh, were you at a dance? How lovely!

MELISANDE. Dance?

MR. KNOWLE. And a fancy dress dance, too, Sandy. _You_ ought to have

been there.

MELISANDE (understanding). Ah!

MRS. KNOWLE. My daughter is devoted to dancing, Mr. Mallory. Dances so

beautifully, they all say.

BOBBY. Where was it?

GERVASE. Collingham.

MR. KNOWLE. And did they all fall in love with you? You ought to have

seen him, Sandy.

GERVASE. Well, I'm afraid I never got there.

MR. KNOWLE. Dear, dear. . . . Peters is in love just now. . . . I hope he

didn't give you cider in mistake for petrol.

MRS. KNOWLE. You have a car, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. Yes.

MRS. KNOWLE. Ah! (to MELISANDE) Won't Mr. Mallory have some more tea,

Sandy?

MELISANDE. Will you have some more tea, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. Thank you. (to MRS. KNOWLE) Won't you----

(He begins to get up.)

MRS. KNOWLE. _Please_ don't trouble. I never have more than one cup.

Dr. Anderson is very firm about that. Only one cup, Mrs. Knowle.

BOBBY (to MELISANDE). Sandwich? Oh, you're busy. Sandwich, Jane?

JANE (taking one). Thank you.

BOBBY (to GERVASE). Sandwich?

GERVASE. Thank you.

BOBBY (to MR. KNOWLE). Sandwich?

MR. KNOWLE. Thank you, Bobby. Fortunately nobody minds what _I_ eat or

drink.

BOBBY (to himself). Sandwich, Mr. Coote? Thank you. (He takes one.)

MRS. KNOWLE (to GERVASE). Being such an invalid, Mr. Mallory, it is a

great comfort to me to have Melisande to look after the house.

GERVASE. I am sure it is.

MRS. KNOWLE. Of course, I can't expect to keep her for ever.

MELISANDE (coldly). More tea, Jane?

JANE. Thank you, dear.

MRS. KNOWLE. It's extraordinary how she has taken to it. I must say

that I do like a girl to be a good housekeeper. Don't you agree, Mr.

Mallory?

GERVASE. Well, of course, all that sort of thing _is_ rather

important.

MRS. KNOWLE. That's what I always tell Sandy. "Happiness begins in the

kitchen, Sandy."

MELISANDE. I'm sure Mr. Mallory agrees with you, Mother.

GERVASE (laughing). Well, one must eat.

BOBBY (passing plate). Have another sandwich?

GERVASE (taking one). Thanks.

MRS. KNOWLE. Do you live in the neighbourhood, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. About twenty miles away. Little Malling.

JANE (helpfully). Oh, yes.

MRS. KNOWLE. Well, I hope we shall see you here again.

GERVASE. That's very kind of you indeed. I shall love to come.

MELISANDE. More tea, Father?

MR. KNOWLE. No, thank you, my love.

MELISANDE. More tea, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. No, thank you.

MR. KNOWLE (getting up). I don't want to hurry you, Mr. Mallory, but

if you have really finished----

GERVASE (getting up). Right.

MRS. KNOWLE. You won't go without seeing the garden, Mr. Mallory?

Sandy, when your father has finished with Mr. Mallory, you must show

him the garden. We are very proud of our roses, Mr. Mallory. Melisande

takes a great interest in the roses.

GERVASE. I should like very much to see the garden. (Going to her)

Shall I see you again, Mrs. Knowle. . . . Don't get up, _please_.

MRS. KNOWLE (getting up). In case we don't--(she holds out her hand).

GERVASE (shaking it). Good-bye. And thank you so much.

MRS. KNOWLE. Not good-bye. _Au revoir_.

GERVASE (smiling). Thank you. (With a bow to JANE and BOBBY) Good-bye,

in case----

BOBBY. Cheero.

JANE. Good-bye, Mr. Mallory.

MR. KNOWLE. Well, come along. (As they go out) It is curious how much

time one has to spend in saying "How do you do" and "Good-bye." I once

calculated that a man of seventy. . . .

[MR. KNOWLE and GERVASE go out.

MRS. KNOWLE. Jane, dear, would you mind coming with me to the

drawing-room, and helping me to--er----

JANE (resigned). Of course, Aunt Mary.

[They go towards the door.

BOBBY (with his mouth full). May I come too, Mrs. Knowle?

MELISANDE. You haven't finished your tea, Bobby.

BOBBY. I shan't be a moment. (He picks up his cup.)

MRS. KNOWLE. Please come, dear Mr. Coote, when you have finished.

[MRS. KNOWLE goes out.

(JANE turns at the door, sees that MELISANDE is not looking, and blows

a hasty kiss to BOBBY.)

MELISANDE. More tea, Bobby?

BOBBY. No thanks.

MELISANDE. Something more to eat?

BOBBY. No thanks. (He gets up and walks towards the door.)

MELISANDE. Bobby!

BOBBY (turning). Yes?

MELISANDE. There's something I want to say to you. Don't go.

BOBBY. Oh! Righto. (He comes slowly back.)

MELISANDE (with difficulty, after a pause). I made a mistake

yesterday.

BOBBY (not understating). A mistake? Yesterday?

MELISANDE. Yes. . . . You were quite right.

BOBBY. How do you mean? When?

MELISANDE. When you said that girls didn't know their own minds.

BOBBY. Oh! (With an awkward laugh) Yes. Well--er--I don't expect any

of us do, really, you know. I mean--er--that is to say----

MELISANDE. I'm sorry I said what I did say to you last night, Bobby. I

oughtn't to have said all those things.

BOBBY. I say, that's all right

MELISANDE. I didn't mean them. And--and Bobby--I _will_ marry you if

you like.

BOBBY (staggered). Sandy!

MELISANDE. And it was silly of me to mind your calling me Sandy, and

to say what I did about your clothes, and I _will_ marry you, Bobby.

And--and thank you for wanting it so much.

BOBBY. I say, Sandy. I say! I say----

MELISANDE (offering her cheek). You may kiss me if you like, Bobby.

BOBBY. I say! . . . Er--er--(he kisses her gingerly) thanks! . . . Er--I

say----

MELISANDE. What is it, Bobby?

BOBBY. I say, you know--(he tries again) I don't want you to--to feel

that--I mean, just because I asked you twice--I mean I don't want you

to feel that--well, I mean you mustn't do it just for _my_ sake,

Sandy. I mean Melisande.

MELISANDE. You may call me Sandy.

BOBBY. Well, you see what I mean, Sandy.

MELISANDE. It isn't that, Bobby. It isn't that.

BOBBY. You know, I was thinking about it last night--afterwards, you

know--and I began to see, I began to see that perhaps you were right.

I mean about my not being romantic and--and all that. I mean, I'm

rather an ordinary sort of chap, and----

MELISANDE (sadly). We are all rather ordinary sort of chaps.

BOBBY (eagerly). No, no. No, that's where you're wrong, Sandy. I mean

Melisande. You _aren't_ ordinary. I don't say you'd be throwing

yourself away on me, but--but I think you could find somebody more

suitable. (Earnestly). I'm sure you could. I mean somebody who would

remember to call you Melisande, and who would read poetry with you

and--and all that. I mean, there are lots of fellows----

MELISANDE. I don't understand. Don't you _want_ to marry me now?

BOBBY (with dignity). I don't want to be married out of pity.

MELISANDE (coldly). I have told you that it isn't out of pity.

BOBBY. Well, what _is_ it out of? I mean, after what you said

yesterday about my tie, it can't be love. If you really loved me----

MELISANDE. Are you under the impression that I am proposing to you?

BOBBY (taken aback). W-what?

MELISANDE. Are you flattering yourself that you are refusing me?

BOBBY. I say, shut up, Sandy. You know it isn't that at all.

MELISANDE. I think you had better join Jane. (Carelessly) It _is_

Jane, isn't it?

BOBBY. I say, look here---- (She doesn't) Of course, I know you think

I'm an awful rotter. . . . Well . . . well--oh, _damn_!

MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you.

(MRS. KNOWLE comes in.)

MRS. KNOWLE. Oh, Mr. Coote, Jane is waiting for you.

BOBBY. Oh--er----

MELISANDE. Jane is waiting for you.

BOBBY (realising that he is not quite at his best). Er--oh--er,

righto. (He goes to the door and hesitates there) Er--(Now if he can

only think of something really good, he may yet carry it off.)

Er--(something really witty)--er--er, righto! (He goes out--to join

JANE, who is waiting for him.)

MRS. KNOWLE (in a soft gentle voice). Where is your father, dear? In

the library with Mr. Mallory? . . . I want to speak to him. Just on a

little matter of business. . . . Dear child!

[She goes to the library.

MELISANDE. Oh! How horrible!

(She walks about, pulling at her handkerchief and telling herself that

she won't cry. But she feels that she is going to, and she goes to the

open windows, and stands for a moment looking out, trying to recover

herself)

(GERVASE comes in.)

GERVASE (gently). Princess! (She hears; her hand closes and tightens;

but she says nothing.) Princess!

(With an effort she controls herself, turns round and speaks coldly)

MELISANDE. Please don't call me by that ridiculous name.

GERVASE. Melisande!

MELISANDE. Nor by that one.

GERVASE. Miss Knowle.

MELISANDE. Yes? What do you want, Mr. Mallory?

GERVASE. I want to marry you.

MELISANDE (taken by surprise). Oh! . . . How dare you!

GERVASE. But I told you this morning.

MELISANDE. I think you had better leave this morning out of it.

GERVASE. But if I leave this morning out of it, then I have only just

met you.

MELISANDE. That is what I would prefer.

GERVASE. Oh! . . . Then if I have only just met you, perhaps I oughtn't

to have said straight off that I want to marry you.

MELISANDE. It is unusual.

GERVASE. Yes. But not unusual to _want_ to marry you.

MELISANDE. I am not interested in your wants.

GERVASE. Oh! (Gently) I'm sorry that we've got to forget about this

morning. (Going closer to her) Is it so easy to forget, Melisande?

MELISANDE. Very easy for you, I should think.

GERVASE. But not for you?

MELISANDE (bitterly). You dress up and amuse yourself, and then laugh

and go back to your ordinary life again--you don't want to remember

_that_, do you, every time you do it?

GERVASE. You let your hair down and flirt with me and laugh and go

home again, but _you_ can't forget. Why should I?

MELISANDE (furiously). How dare you say I flirted with you?

GERVASE. How dare you say I laughed at you?

MELISANDE. Do you think I knew you would be there when I went up to

the wood?

GERVASE. Do you think _I_ knew you would be there when _I_ went up?

MELISANDE. Then why were you there all dressed up like that?

GERVASE. My car broke down and I spent the night in it. I went up the

hill to look for breakfast.

MELISANDE. Breakfast! That's all you think about.

GERVASE (cheerfully). Well, it's always cropping up.

MELISANDE (in disgust). Oh! (She moves away from him and then turns

round holding out her hand) Good-bye, Mr. Mallory.

GERVASE (taking it). Good-bye, Miss Knowle. . . . (Gently) May I kiss

your hands, Melisande?

MELISANDE (pathetically). Oh, don't! (She hides her face in them.)

GERVASE. Dear hands. . . . May I kiss your lips, Melisande? (She says

nothing. He comes closer to her) Melisande!

(He is about to put his arms round her, but she breaks away from him.)

MELISANDE. Oh, don't, don't! What's the good of pretending? It was

only pretence this morning--what's the good of going on with it? I

thought you were so different from other men, but you're just the

same, just the same. You talk about the things they talk about, you

wear the clothes they wear. You were my true knight, my fairy Prince,

this morning, and this afternoon you come down dressed like that (she

waves her hand at it) and tell me that you are on the Stock Exchange!

Oh, can't you see what you've done? All the beautiful world that I had

built up for you and me--shattered, shattered.

GERVASE (going to her). Melisande!

MELISANDE. No, no!

GERVASE (stopping). All right.

MELISANDE (recovering herself). Please go.

GERVASE (with a smile). Well, that's not quite fair, you know.

MELISANDE. What do you mean?

GERVASE. Well, what about _my_ beautiful world--the world that _I_ had

built up?

MELISANDE. I don't understand.

GERVASE. What about _your_ pretence this morning? I thought you were

so different from other women, but you're just the same, just the

same. You were my true lady, my fairy Princess, this morning; and this

afternoon the Queen, your mother, disabled herself by indigestion,

tells me that you do all the housekeeping for her just like any

ordinary commonplace girl. Your father, the King, has obviously never

had a battle-axe in his hand in his life; your suitor, Prince Robert

of Coote, is much more at home with a niblick than with a lance; and

your cousin, the Lady Jane----

MELISANDE (sinking on to the sofa and hiding her face). Oh, cruel,

cruel!

GERVASE (remorsefully). Oh, forgive me, Melisande. It was horrible of

me.

MELISANDE. No, but it's true. How could any romance come into this

house? Now you know why I wanted you to take me away--away to the ends

of the earth with you.

GERVASE. Well, that's what I want to do.

MELISANDE. Ah, don't! When you're on the Stock Exchange!

GERVASE. But there's plenty of romance on the Stock Exchange. (Nodding

his head) Oh yes, you want to look out for it.

MELISANDE (reproachfully). Now you're laughing at me again.

GERVASE. My dear, I'm not. Or if I am laughing at you, then I am

laughing at myself too. And if we can laugh together, then we can be

happy together, Melisande.

MELISANDE. I want romance, I want beauty. I don't want jokes.

GERVASE. I see what it is. You don't like my knickerbockers.

MELISANDE (bewildered). Did you expect me to?

GERVASE. No. (After a pause) I think that's why I put 'em on. (She

looks at him in surprise.) You see, we had to come back to the

twentieth century some time; we couldn't go on pretending for ever.

Well, here we are--(indicating his clothes)--back. But I feel just as

romantic, Melisande. I want beauty--your beauty--just as much. (He

goes to her.)

MELISANDE. Which Melisande do you want? The one who talked to you this

morning in the wood, or the one who--(bitterly) does all the

housekeeping for her mother? (Violently) And badly, badly, badly!

GERVASE. The one who does all the housekeeping for her mother--and

badly, badly, badly, _bless_ her, because she has never realised what

a gloriously romantic thing housekeeping is.

MELISANDE (amazed). Romantic!

GERVASE (with enthusiasm). Most gloriously romantic. . . . Did you ever

long when you were young to be wrecked on a desert island?

MELISANDE (clasping her hands). Oh yes!

GERVASE. You imagined yourself there--alone or with a companion?

MELISANDE. Often!

GERVASE. And what were you doing? What is the romance of the desert

island which draws us all? Climbing the bread-fruit tree, following

the turtle to see where it deposits its eggs, discovering the spring

of water, building the hut--_housekeeping_, Melisande. . . . Or take

Robinson Crusoe. When Man Friday came along and left his footprint in

the sand, why did Robinson Crusoe stagger back in amazement? Because

he said to himself, like a good housekeeper, "By Jove, I'm on the

track of a servant at last." There's romance for you!

MELISANDE (smiling and shaking her head at him). What nonsense you

talk!

GERVASE. It isn't nonsense; indeed, indeed it isn't. There's romance

everywhere if you look for it. _You_ look for it in the old

fairy-stories, but did _they_ find it there? Did the gentleman who had

just been given a new pair of seven-league boots think it romantic to

be changed into a fish? He probably thought it a confounded nuisance,

and wondered what on earth to do with his boots. Did Cinderella and

the Prince find the world romantic after they were married? Think of

the endless silent evenings which they spent together, with nothing in

common but an admiration for Cinderella's feet--do you think _they_

didn't long for the romantic days of old? And in two thousand or two

hundred thousand years, people will read stories about _us_, and sigh

and say, "Will those romantic days never come back again?" Ah, they

are here now, Melisande, for _us_; for the people with imagination;

for you and for me.

MELISANDE. Are they? Oh, if I could believe they were!

GERVASE. You thought of me as your lover and true knight this morning.

Ah, but what an easy thing to be! You were my Princess. Look at

yourself in the glass--how can you help being a princess? But if we

could be companions, Melisande! That's difficult; that's worth trying.

MELISANDE (gently). What do you want me to do?

GERVASE. Get used to me. See me in a top-hat--see me in a bowler-hat.

Help me with my work; play games with me--I'll teach you if you don't

know how. I want to share the world with you for all our lives. That's

a long time, you know; we can't do it on one twenty-minutes' practice

before breakfast. We can be lovers so easily--can we be friends?

MELISANDE (looking at him gravely). You are very wise.

GERVASE. I talked with a wise man in the wood this morning; I've been

thinking over what he said. (Suddenly) But when you look at me like

that, how I long to be a fool and say, "Come away with me now, now,

now," you wonderful, beautiful, maddening woman, you adorable child,

you funny foolish little girl. (Holding up a finger) Smile, Melisande.

Smile! (Slowly, reluctantly, she gives him a smile.) I suppose the

fairies taught you that. Keep it for _me_, will you--but give it to me

often. Do you ever laugh, Melisande? We must laugh together

sometimes--that makes life so easy.

MELISANDE (with a happy little laugh). Oh, what can I say to you?

GERVASE. Say, "I think I should like you for a companion, Gervase."

MELISANDE (shyly). I think I should like you for a companion, Gervase.

GERVASE. Say, "Please come and see me again, Gervase."

MELISANDE. Please come and see me again, Gervase.

GERVASE (Jumping up and waving his hand) Say, "Hooray for things!"

MELISANDE (standing up, but shyly still). Hooray for things!

GERVASE. Thank you, Melisande . . . I must go. (He presses her hand and

goes; or seems to be going. But suddenly he comes back, bends on one

knee, raises her hand on his, and kisses it) My Princess!

[Then GERVASE goes out.

(MELISANDE stays there, looking after him, her hand to her cheek. . . .

But one cannot stand thus for ever. The new life must begin. With a

little smile at herself, at GERVASE, at things, she fetches out the

Great Book from its hiding-place, where she had buried it many weeks

ago in disgust. Now it comes into its own. She settles down with it in

her favourite chair. . . .)

MELISANDE (reading). To make Bread-Sauce. . . . Take an onion, peel and

quarter it, and simmer it in milk. . . .

(But you know how the romantic passage goes. We have her with it,

curled up in the chair, this adorable child, this funny foolish little

girl.)

THE STEPMOTHER

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

CHARACTERS

SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P.

LADY PEMBURY.

PERKINS.

THE STRANGER.

* * * * *

The first performance of this play was given at the Alhambra Theatre

on November 16, 1920, with the following cast:

Sir John Pembury--GILBERT HARE.

Lady Pembury--WINIFRED EMERY.

Perkins--C.M. LOWNE.

The Stranger--GERALD DU MAURIER.

THE STEPMOTHER

(A summer morning. The sunniest and perhaps the pleasantest room in

the London house of SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P. For this reason LADY

PEMBURY uses it a good deal, although it is not officially hers. It is

plainly furnished, and probably set out to be a sort of waiting-room

for SIR JOHN'S many callers, but LADY PEMBURY has left her mark upon

it.)

(PERKINS, the butler, inclining to stoutness, but not yet past his

prime, leads the may in, followed by THE STRANGER, PERKINS has already

placed him as "one of the lower classes," but the intelligent person

in the pit perceives that he is something better than that, though

whether he is in the process of falling from a higher estate, or of

rising to it, is not so clear. He is thirty odd, shabbily dressed (but

then, so are most of us nowadays), and ill at ease; not because he is

shabby, but because he is ashamed of himself. To make up for this, he

adopts a blustering manner, as if to persuade himself that he is a

fine fellow after all. There is a touch of commonness about his voice,

but he is not uneducated.)

PERKINS. I'll tell Sir John you're here, but I don't say he'll see

you, mind.

STRANGER. Don't you worry about that. He'll see me right enough.

PERKINS. He's busy just now. Well---- (He looks at THE STRANGER

doubtfully.)

STRANGER (bitterly). I suppose you think I've got no business in a

gentleman's house. Is that it?

PERKINS. Well, I didn't say so, did I? Maybe you're a constituent?

Being in the 'Ouse of Commons, we get some pretty queer ones at times.

All sorts, as you might say. . . . P'raps you're a deputation?

STRANGER (violently). What the hell's it got to do with you who I am.

You go and tell your master I'm here--that's all you've got to do.

See?

PERKINS (unruffled). Easy, now, easy. You 'aven't even told me your

name yet. Is it the Shah of Persia or Mr. Bottomley?

STRANGER. The less said about names the better. You say, "Somebody

from Lambeth"--_he'll_ know what I mean.

PERKINS (humorously). Ah, I beg your pardon--the Archbishop of

Canterbury. I didn't recognise your Grace.

STRANGER (angrily). It's people like you who make one sick of the

world. Parasites--servile flunkeys, bolstering up an effete

aristocracy. Why don't you get some proper work to do?

PERKINS (good-naturedly). Now, look here, young man, this isn't the

time for that sort of talk. If you've got anything you want to get off

your chest about flunkeys or monkeys, or whatever it may be, keep it

till Sunday afternoon--when I'm off duty. (He comes a little closer to

THE STRANGER) Four o'clock Sunday afternoon--(jerking his thumb over

his shoulder)--just round the corner--in the Bolton Mews. See? Nobody

there to interrupt us. See? All quite gentlemanly and secluded, and a

friend of mine to hold the watch. See? (He edges closer as he talks.)

STRANGER (retreating nervously). No offence meant, mate. We're in the

same boat--you and me; we don't want to get fighting. My quarrel isn't

with you. You go and tell Sir John that there's a gentleman come to

see him--wants a few minutes of his valuable time--from Lambeth way.

_He'll_ know. That's all right.

PERKINS (drawing back, disappointedly). Then I shan't be seeing you

Sunday afternoon?

STRANGER (laughing awkwardly). There, that's all right. No offence

meant. Somebody from Lambeth--that's what _you've_ got to say. And

tell 'im I'm in a hurry. _He'll_ know what I mean.

PERKINS (going slowly to the door). Well, it's a queer game, but being

in the 'Ouse of Commons, one can't never be surprised. All sorts, as

you might say, _all_ sorts.

[Exit PERKINS.

(THE STRANGER, left alone, walks up and down the room, nervously

impatient.)

(LADY PEMBURY comes in. In twenty-eight years of happy married life,

she has mothered one husband and five daughters, but she has never had

a son--her only sorrow. Her motto might be, "It is just as easy to be

kind"; and whether you go to her for comfort or congratulation, you

will come away feeling that she is the only person who really

understands.)

LADY PEMBURY. Oh! (She stops and then comes towards THE STRANGER) How

do you do? Are you waiting to see my husband?

STRANGER (taken aback at seeing her). Yes.

(He is not sure for the moment if this upsets his plans or forwards

them.)

LADY PEMBURY. I think he's engaged just now. But he won't be long.

Perkins will tell him as soon as he is free.

STRANGER (contemptuously). His name is Perkins, is it?

LADY PEMBURY (surprised). The butler? Yes.

STRANGER (contemptuously). Mister Perkins, the Butler.

LADY PEMBURY (with a friendly smile). You don't _mind_ our having a

butler? (She picks up some work from the table and takes it to the

sofa)

STRANGER (shrugging his shoulders). One more parasite.

LADY PEMBURY (interested). I always thought parasites were much

smaller than Perkins. (Sitting down) Do sit down, won't you? (He sits

down reluctantly.) You mustn't mind my being here. This is really my

work-room. I expect my husband will take you into his own room when

he's ready.

STRANGER. Your work-room?

LADY PEMBURY (looking up at him with a smile). You don't seem to like

our domestic arrangements.

STRANGER (waving his hand at her embroidery). You call that work?

LADY PEMBURY (pleasantly). Other people's work always seems so

contemptible, doesn't it? Now I expect if you tried to do this, you

would find it very difficult indeed, and if I tried to do yours--what

_is_ your work, Mr.--er--Dear me, I don't even know your name.

STRANGER (bitterly). Never mind my name. Take it that I haven't got a

name.

LADY PEMBURY. But your friends must call you something.

STRANGER. Take it that I haven't got any friends.

LADY PEMBURY. Oh, _don't_ say that! How _can_ you?

STRANGER (surly). What's it matter to you whether anybody cares about

me?

LADY PEMBURY. Oh, never mind whether anybody cares about _you_; don't

_you_ care about anybody?

STRANGER. Nobody.

LADY PEMBURY. Poor, poor man! (Going on with her work) If you can't

tell me your name, I wish you would tell me what work you do.

(Winningly) You don't mind my asking, do you?

STRANGER. I can tell you what work I'm going to do after to-day.

LADY PEMBURY. Oh, do!

STRANGER (violently). None!

LADY PEMBURY (surprised). None?

STRANGER. No more work after to-day.

LADY PEMBURY. Won't that be rather dull?

STRANGER. Well, _you_ ought to know. I'm going to be one of the idle

rich--like you and Sir John--and let other people work for me.

LADY PEMBURY (thoughtfully). I shouldn't have said my husband was

idle. But there it is. No two people ever agree as to what is work and

what isn't.

STRANGER. What do you know about work--you aristocrats?

LADY PEMBURY (mildly). My husband is only a K.B.E., you know. Quite a

recent creation.

STRANGER (not heeding her). You, who've been brought up in the lap of

luxury--never known a day's discomfort in your life----

LADY PEMBURY. My dear young man, you really mustn't tell a woman who

has had five children that she has never known a day's discomfort in

her life. . . . Ask any woman.

STRANGER (upset). What's that? . . . I didn't come here to argue with

you. You began it. Why can't you let me alone?

LADY PEMBURY (going to a side-table and taking up a photograph). Five

children--all girls--and now I'm a grandmother. (Showing him the

photograph) There! That's my eldest daughter with her eldest son and

my eldest grandchild. Isn't he a duck? He's supposed to be like me. . . .

I never had a son of my own. (THE STRANGER has taken the photograph in

his hand and is holding it awkwardly.) Oh, let me take it away from

you. Other's people's relations are so uninteresting, aren't they?

(She takes it away and puts it back in its place. Then she returns to

her seat and goes on with her work.) So you've made a lot of money?

How exciting for you!

STRANGER (grimly). I haven't got it yet, but it's coming.

LADY PEMBURY. Soon?

STRANGER. To-day.

LADY PEMBURY. You're not married, are you?

STRANGER. You want to know a lot, don't you? Well, I'm not married.

LADY PEMBURY. I was thinking how much nicer it is when you can share

that sort of news with somebody else, somebody you love. It makes good

news so much better, and bad news so much more bearable.

STRANGER. That's what you and your husband do, is it?

LADY PEMBURY (nodding). Always. For eight-and-twenty years.

STRANGER. He tells you everything, eh?

LADY PEMBURY. Well, not his official secrets, of course. Everything

else.

STRANGER. Ha! I wonder.

LADY PEMBURY. But you have nobody, you say. Well, you must share your

good news with _me_. Will you?

STRANGER. Oh yes, you shall hear about it all right.

LADY PEMBURY. That's nice of you. Well then, first question. How much

money is it going to be?

STRANGER (thoughtfully). Well, I don't quite know yet. What do you say

to a thousand a year?

LADY PEMBURY. Oh, but what a lot!

STRANGER. You think a thousand a year would be all right. Enough to

live on?

LADY PEMBURY. For a bachelor, ample.

STRANGER. For a bachelor.

LADY PEMBURY. There's no one dependent on you?

STRANGER. Not a soul. Only got one relation living.

LADY PEMBURY. Oh?

STRANGER (enjoying a joke of his own). A father. But I shall not be

supporting _him_. Oh no. Far from it.

LADY PEMBURY (a little puzzled by this, though the is not going to

show it) Then I think you will be very rich with a thousand a year.

STRANGER. Yes, that's what _I_ thought. I should think it would stand

a thousand.

LADY PEMBURY. What is it? An invention of some sort?

STRANGER. Oh no, not an invention. . . . A discovery.

LADY PEMBURY. How proud she would have been!

STRANGER. Who?

LADY PEMBURY. Your wife if you had had one; your mother if she had

been alive.

STRANGER (violently). Look here, you leave my mother out of it. My

business is with Sir John---- (sneeringly) Sir John Pembury, K.B.E. If

I want to talk about my mother, he and I will have a nice little talk

together about her. Yes, and about my father, too.

(LADY PEMBURY understands at last. She stands up slowly, and looks at

him, horrified.)

LADY PEMBURY. What do you mean?

STRANGER. A thousand a year. You said so yourself. Yes, I think it's

worth a thousand a year.

LADY PEMBURY. Who is your father? What's your name?

STRANGER. Didn't I tell you I hadn't got a name? (Bitterly) And if you

want to know why, ask Sir John Pembury, K.B.E.

LADY PEMBURY (in a whisper). He's your father.

STRANGER. Yes. And I'm his loving son--come to see him at last, after

all these years.

LADY PEMBURY (hardly able to ask it). How--how old are you?

STRANGER. Thirty.

LADY PEMBURY (sitting down on the sofa). Oh, thank God! Thank God!

STRANGER (upset by her emotion). Look here, I didn't want all this. I

ask you--did I begin it? It was you who kept asking questions. I just

came for a quiet talk with Sir John--Father and Son talking together

quietly--talking about Son's allowance. A thousand a year. What did

you want to come into it for?

(LADY PEMBURY is quiet again now. She wipes away a tear or two, and

sits up, looking at him thoughtfully.)

LADY PEMBURY. So _you_ are the son that I never had.

STRANGER. What d'you mean?

LADY PEMBURY (almost to herself). The son whom I wanted so. Five

girls--never a boy. Let me look at you. (She goes up to him.)

STRANGER (edging away). Here, none of that.

LADY PEMBURY (looking at him earnestly to see if she can see a

likeness). No--and yet--(shaking her head sadly) Poor boy! What an

unhappy life you must have had!

STRANGER. I didn't come here to be pitied. I came to get my rightful

allowance--same as any other son.

LADY PEMBURY (to herself). Poor boy! (She goes back to her seat and

then says) You don't mind my asking you questions _now_, do you?

STRANGER. Go on. There's no mistake about it. I can promise you that.

LADY PEMBURY. How did you find out? Did your Mother tell you?

STRANGER. Never a word. "Don't ask questions, sonny----" "Father's

dead"--all that sort of thing.

LADY PEMBURY. Does Sir John know? Did he ever know?

STRANGER (feeling in his pocket). _He_ knew right enough. (Bringing

out letters) Look here--here you are. This was how I found out.

(Selecting one) There--read that one.

LADY PEMBURY (taking it). Yes--that's John's writing. (She holds it

out to him.)

STRANGER. Aren't you going to read it?

LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head pathetically). He didn't write it to

_me_.

STRANGER. He didn't write it to _me_, if it comes to that.

LADY PEMBURY. You're her son--you have a right. I'm--nobody.

STRANGER (putting it back in his pocket). Oh well, please yourself.

LADY PEMBURY. Did Sir John provide for your mother?

STRANGER. Well, why shouldn't he? He was a rich man.

LADY PEMBURY. Not in those days. . . . But indeed--why shouldn't he? What

else could he do? I'm glad he did.

STRANGER. And now he's going to provide for his loving son. He's rich

enough for that in these days.

LADY PEMBURY. He's never seen you?

STRANGER. Never. The historic meeting of Father and Son will take

place this afternoon. (With a feeble attempt at what he thinks is the

aristocratic manner) Afraid the Governor will be in the deuce of a

rage. Been exceedin' my allowance--what? Make it a thousand, dear old

Gov.

LADY PEMBURY. Don't they call that blackmail?

STRANGER (violently). Now look here, I'd better tell you straight that

there's no blackmail about this at all. He's my father, isn't he?

Well, can't a son come to his father if he's hard up? Where are your

threatening letters? Where's the blackmail? Anyway, what's he going to

do about it? Put his son in prison?

LADY PEMBURY (following her own thoughts). You're thirty. Thank God

for that. We hadn't met then. . . . Ah, but he ought to have told me. He

ought to have told me.

STRANGER. P'raps he thought you wouldn't marry him, if he did.

LADY PEMBURY. Do you think that was it? (Earnestly to him, as if he

were an old friend) You know men--young men. I never had a son; I

never had any brothers. Do they tell? They ought to, oughtn't they?

STRANGER. Well--well, if you ask _me_--I say, look here, this isn't

the sort of thing one discusses with a lady.

LADY PEMBURY. Isn't it? But one can talk to a friend.

STRANGER (scornfully). You and me look like friends, don't we?

LADY PEMBURY (smiling). Well, we do, rather.

(He gets up hastily and moves further away from her.)

STRANGER. I know what _your_ game is. Don't think I don't see it.

LADY PEMBURY. What is it?

STRANGER. Falling on your knees, and saying with tears in your eyes:

"Oh, kind friend, spare me poor husband!" _I_ know the sort of thing.

And trying to work me up friendly before you begin.

LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head). No, if I went on my knees to you, I

shouldn't say that. How can you hurt my husband now?

STRANGER. Well, I don't suppose the scandal will do him much good. Not

an important Member of Parliament like _him_.

LADY PEMBURY. Ah, but it isn't the outside things that really hurt

you, the things which are done to you, but the things which you do to

yourself. And so if I went on my knees to you, it would not be for my

husband's sake. For I should go on my knees, and I should say: "Oh, my

son that might have been, think before you give up everything that a

man should have. Ambition, hope, pride, self-respect--are not these

worth keeping? Is your life to end now? Have you done all that you

came into the world to do, so that now you can look back and say, 'It

is finished; I have given all that I had to give; henceforward I will

spend'?" (Very gently) Oh, my son that might have been!

STRANGER (very uncomfortable). Here, I say, that isn't fair.

LADY PEMBURY (gently). When did your mother die?

STRANGER. Look here, I wish you wouldn't keep on about mothers.

LADY PEMBURY. When did she die, proud mother?

STRANGER (sulkily). Well, why shouldn't she be proud? (After a pause)

Two years ago, if you want to know.

LADY PEMBURY. It was then that you found out who your father was?

STRANGER. That's right. I found these old letters. She'd kept them

locked up all those years. Bit of luck for me.

LADY PEMBURY (almost to herself). And that was two years ago. And for

two years you had your hopes, your ambitions, for two years you were

proud and independent. . . . Why did you not come to us then?

STRANGER (with a touch of vanity). Well, I was getting on all right,

you know--and----

LADY PEMBURY. And then suddenly, after two years, you lost hope.

STRANGER. I lost my job.

LADY PEMBURY. Poor boy! And couldn't get another.

STRANGER (bitterly). It's a beast of a world if you're down. He's in

the gutter--kick him down--trample on him. Nobody wants him. That's

the way to treat them when they're down. Trample on 'em.

LADY PEMBURY. And so you came to your father to help you up again. To

help you out of the gutter.

STRANGER. That's right.

LADY PEMBURY (pleadingly). Ah, but give him a chance!

STRANGER. Now, look here, I've told you already that I'm not going to

have any of _that_ game.

LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head sadly). Foolish boy! You don't

understand. Give him a chance to help you out of the gutter.

STRANGER. Well, I'm----! Isn't that what I am doing?

LADY PEMBURY. No, no. You're asking him to trample you right down into

it, deeper and deeper into the mud and slime. I want you to let him

help you back to where you were two years ago--when you were proud and

hopeful.

STRANGER (looking at her in a puzzled way). I can't make out what your

game is. It's no good pretending you don't hate the sight of me--it

stands to reason you must.

LADY PEMBURY (smiling). But then women _are_ unreasonable, aren't

they? And I think it is only in fairy-stories that stepmothers are

always so unkind.

STRANGER (surprised). Stepmother!

LADY PEMBURY. Well, that's practically what I am, isn't it?

(Whimsically) I've never been a stepmother before. (Persuasively)

Couldn't you let me be proud of my stepson?

STRANGER. Well, you _are_ a one! . . . Do you mean to say that you and

your husband aren't going to have a row about this?

LADY PEMBURY. It's rather late to begin a row, isn't it, thirty years

after it's happened? . . . Besides, perhaps you aren't going to tell him

anything about it.

STRANGER. But what else have I come for except to tell him?

LADY PEMBURY. To tell _me_. . . . I asked you to give him a chance of

helping you out of your troubles, but I'd rather you gave _me_ the

chance. . . . You see, John would be very unhappy if he knew that I knew

this; and he would have to tell me, because when a man has been

happily married to anybody for twenty-eight years, he can't really

keep a secret from the other one. He pretends to himself that he can,

but he knows all the time what a miserable pretence it is. And so John

would tell me, and say he was sorry, and I would say: "It's all right,

darling, I knew," but it would make him ashamed, and he would be

afraid that perhaps I wasn't thinking him such a wonderful man as I

did before. And it's very bad for a public man like John when he

begins to lose faith in what his wife is thinking about him. . . . So let

_me_ be your friend, will you? (There is a silence between them for a

little. He looks at her wonderingly. Suddenly she stands up, her

finger to her lips) H'sh! It's John. (She moves away from him)

(SIR JOHN PEMBURY comes in quickly; big, good-looking, decisive,

friendly; a man who wears very naturally, and without any

self-consciousness, an air of being somebody.)

PEMBURY (walking hastily past his wife to her writing-desk). Hallo,

darling! Did I leave a cheque-book in here? I was writing a cheque for

you this morning. Ah, here we are. (As he comes back, he sees THE

STRANGER) I beg your pardon, Kate. I didn't see---- (He is making for

the door with the cheque-book in his hand, and then stops and says

with a pleasant smile to THE STRANGER) But, perhaps you are waiting to

see _me_? Perkins said something----

STRANGER (coming forward). Yes, I came to see you, Sir John.

(He stands close in front of SIR JOHN, looking at him. LADY PEMBURY

watches them steadfastly.)

PEMBURY (tapping his cheque-book against his hand). Important?

STRANGER. I came to ask your help.

PEMBURY (looking at his cheque-book and then back with a smile at THE

STRANGER). A good many people do that. Have you any special claim on

me?

STRANGER (after a long pause). No.

(PEMBURY looks at him, undecided, LADY PEMBURY comes forward.)

LADY PEMBURY. All right, dear. (Meaning that she will look after THE

STRANGER till he comes back.)

PEMBURY. I'll be back in a moment. (He nods and hurries out)

(There is silence for a little, and then LADY PEMBURY claps her hands

gently.)

LADY PEMBURY (with shining eyes). Oh, brave, brave! Ah, but I am a

proud stepmother to-day. (She holds out her hand to him) Thank you,

son.

STRANGER (not seeing it, and speaking in a hard voice). I'd better go.

LADY PEMBURY. Mayn't I help you?

STRANGER. I'd better go.

LADY PEMBURY (distressed). You can't go like this. I don't even know

your name, nor where you live.

STRANGER. Don't be afraid--you shan't hear from _me_ again.

LADY PEMBURY (gently). Not even when you've got back to where you were

two years ago? Mayn't I then?

STRANGER (looking at her, and then nodding slowly). Yes, you shall

then.

LADY PEMBURY. Thank you. I shall wait. I shall hope. I shall pray.

(She holds out her hand again) Good-bye!

STRANGER (shaking his head). Wait till you hear from me. (He goes to

the door, and then stops and comes slowly back. He says awkwardly)

Wish you'd do one thing for me?

LADY PEMBURY. Yes?

STRANGER. That fellow--what did you say his name was--Perkins?

LADY PEMBURY (surprised). The butler? Perkins--yes?

STRANGER. Would you give him a message from me?

LADY PEMBURY. Of course.

STRANGER (still awkwardly). Just to say--I'll _be_ there--at the

Mews--on Sunday afternoon. _He'll_ know. Tell him I'll be there. (He

squares his shoulders and walks out defiantly--ready to take the world

on again--beginning with PERKINS on Sunday afternoon)

(LADY PEMBURY stands watching him as he goes. She waits after he has

gone, thinking her own thoughts, out of which she comes with something

of a shock as the door opens and SIR JOHN comes in.)

PEMBURY. Hallo! Has he gone?

LADY PEMBURY. Yes.

PEMBURY. What did he want? Five pounds--or a place in the Cabinet?

LADY PEMBURY. He came for--a subscription.

PEMBURY. And got it, if I know my Kate. (Carelessly) What did he take

from you?

LADY PEMBURY (with a wistful little sigh). Yes; he took something from

me. Not very much, I think. But just--something. (She takes his arm,

leads him to the sofa, and says affectionately) And now tell me all

that you've been doing this morning.

(So he begins to tell her--just as he has told her a thousand times

before. . . . But it isn't quite the same)

Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh.