_The scene is a room in a small Sussex manor house that has long been
for sale. It is such a silent room that whoever speaks first here is
a bold one, unless indeed he merely mutters to himself, which they
perhaps allow. All of this room’s past which can be taken away has
gone. Such light as there is comes from the only window, which is at
the back and is incompletely shrouded in sacking. For a moment this is
a mellow light, and if a photograph could be taken quickly we might
find a disturbing smile on the room’s face, perhaps like the Mona
Lisa’s, which came, surely, of her knowing what only the dead should
know. There are two doors, one leading downstairs; the other is at the
back, very insignificant, though it is the centre of this disturbing
history. The wall-paper, heavy in the adherence of other papers of a
still older date, has peeled and leans forward here and there in a
grotesque bow, as men have hung in chains; one might predict that the
next sound heard here will be in the distant future when another piece
of paper loosens. Save for two packing-cases, the only furniture is
a worn easy-chair doddering by the unlit fire, like some foolish old
man. We might play with the disquieting fancy that this room, once
warm with love, is still alive but is shrinking from observation, and
that with our departure they cunningly set to again at the apparently
never-ending search which goes on in some empty old houses._
_Some one is heard clumping up the stair, and the caretaker enters. It
is not she, however, who clumps; she has been here for several years,
and has become sufficiently a part of the house to move noiselessly
in it. The first thing we know about her is that she does not like to
be in this room. She is an elderly woman of gaunt frame and with a
singular control over herself. There may be some one, somewhere, who
can make her laugh still, one never knows, but the effort would hurt
her face. Even the war, lately ended, meant very little to her. She
has shown a number of possible purchasers over the house, just as she
is showing one over it now, with the true caretaker’s indifference
whether you buy or not. The few duties imposed on her here she performs
conscientiously, but her greatest capacity is for sitting still in the
dark. Her work over, her mind a blank, she sits thus rather than pay
for a candle. One knows a little more about life when he knows the Mrs.
Oterys, but she herself is unaware that she is peculiar, and probably
thinks that in some such way do people in general pass the hour before
bedtime. Nevertheless, though saving of her candle in other empty
houses, she always lights it on the approach of evening in this one._
_The man who has clumped up the stairs in her wake is a young
Australian soldier, a private, such as in those days you met by the
dozen in any London street, slouching along it forlornly if alone,
with sudden stoppages to pass the time (in which you ran against
him), or in affable converse with a young lady. In his voice is the
Australian tang that became such a friendly sound to us. He is a rough
fellow, sinewy, with the clear eye of the man with the axe whose chief
life-struggle till the war came was to fell trees and see to it that
they did not crash down on him. Mrs. Otery is showing him the house,
which he has evidently known in other days, but though interested he is
unsentimental and looks about him with a tolerant grin._
MRS. OTERY. This was the drawing-room.
HARRY. Not it, no, no, never. This wasn’t the drawing-room, my cabbage;
at least not in my time.
MRS. OTERY (_indifferently_). I only came here about three years ago
and I never saw the house furnished, but I was told to say this was the
drawing-room. (_With a flicker of spirit._) And I would thank you not
to call me your cabbage.
HARRY (_whom this kind of retort helps to put at his ease_). No
offence. It’s a French expression, and many a happy moment have I given
to the mademoiselles by calling them cabbages. But the drawing-room!
I was a little shaver when I was here last, but I mind we called the
drawing-room the Big Room; it wasn’t a little box like this.
MRS. OTERY. This is the biggest room in the house. (_She quotes
drearily from some advertisement which is probably hanging in rags on
the gate._) Specially charming is the drawing-room with its superb view
of the Downs. This room is upstairs and is approached by----
HARRY. By a stair, containing some romantic rat-holes. Snakes, whether
it’s the room or not, it strikes cold; there is something shiversome
about it.
(_For the first time she gives him a sharp glance._)
I’ve shivered in many a shanty in Australy, and thought of the big room
at home and the warmth of it. The warmth! And now this is the best it
can do for the prodigal when he returns to it expecting to see that
calf done to a turn. We live and learn, missis.
MRS. OTERY. We live, at any rate.
HARRY. Well said, my cabbage.
MRS. OTERY. Thank you, my rhododendron.
HARRY (_cheered_). I like your spirit. You and me would get on great if
I had time to devote to your amusement. But, see here, I can make sure
whether this was the drawing-room. If it was, there is an apple-tree
outside there, with one of its branches scraping on the window. I
ought to know, for it was out at the window down that apple-tree to
the ground that I slided one dark night when I was a twelve-year-old,
ran away from home, the naughty blue-eyed angel that I was, and set
off to make my fortune on the blasted ocean. The fortune, my--my lady
friend--has still got the start of me, but the apple-tree should be
there to welcome her darling boy.
(_He pulls down the sacking, which lets a little more light into
the room. We see that the window, which reaches to the floor, opens
outwards. There were probably long ago steps from it down into the
garden, but they are gone now, and gone too is the apple-tree._)
I’ve won! No tree: no drawing-room.
MRS. OTERY. I have heard tell there was once a tree there; and you can
see the root if you look down.
HARRY. Yes, yes, I see it in the long grass, and a bit of the seat that
used to be round it. This is the drawing-room right enough, Harry, my
boy. There were blue curtains to that window, and I used to hide behind
them and pounce out upon Robinson Crusoe. There was a sofa at this
end, and I had my first lessons in swimming on it. You are a fortunate
woman, my petite, to be here drinking in these moving memories. There
used to be a peacock, too. Now, what the hell could a peacock be doing
in this noble apartment?
MRS. OTERY. I have been told a cloth used to hang on the wall here,
tapestries they’re called, and that it had pictures of peacocks on it.
I dare say that was your peacock.
HARRY. Gone, even my peacock! And I could have sworn I used to pull the
feathers out of its tail. The clock was in this corner, and it had a
wheezy little figure of a smith that used to come out and strike the
hour on an anvil. My old man used to wind that clock up every night,
and I mind his rage when he found out it was an eight-day clock. The
padre had to reprove him for swearing. Padre? What’s the English for
padre? Damme, I’m forgetting my own language. Oh yes, parson. Is _he_
in the land of the living still? I can see him clear, a long thin man
with a hard sharp face. He was always quarrelling about pictures he
collected.
MRS. OTERY. The parson here is a very old man, but he is not tall and
thin, he is little and roundish with a soft face and white whiskers.
HARRY. Whiskers? I can’t think he had whiskers. (_Ruminating._) _Had_
he whiskers? Stop a bit, I believe it is his wife I’m thinking about. I
doubt I don’t give satisfaction as a sentimental character. Is there
any objection, your ladyship, to smoking in the drawing-room?
MRS. OTERY (_ungraciously_). Smoke if you want.
(_He hacks into a cake of tobacco with a large clasp knife._)
That’s a fearsome-looking knife.
HARRY. Useful in trench warfare. It’s not a knife, it’s a
visiting-card. You leave it on favoured parties like this.
(_He casts it at one of the packing-cases, and it sticks quivering in
the wood._)
MRS. OTERY. Were you an officer?
HARRY. For a few minutes now and again.
MRS. OTERY. You’re playing with me.
HARRY. You’re so irresistible.
MRS. OTERY. Do you want to see the other rooms?
HARRY. I was fondly hoping you would ask me that.
MRS. OTERY. Come along then. (_She wants to lead him downstairs, but
the little door at the back has caught his eye._)
HARRY. What does that door open on?
MRS. OTERY (_avoiding looking at it_). Nothing, it’s just a cupboard
door.
HARRY (_considering her_). Who is playing with me now?
MRS. OTERY. I don’t know what you mean. Come this way.
HARRY (_not budging_). I’ll explain what I mean. That door--it’s coming
back to me--it leads into a little dark passage.
MRS. OTERY. That’s all.
HARRY. That can’t be all. Who ever heard of a passage wandering about
by itself in a respectable house! It leads--yes--to a single room, and
the door of the room faces this way.
(_He opens the door, and a door beyond is disclosed._)
There’s a memory for you! But what the hell made you want to deceive me?
MRS. OTERY. It’s of no consequence.
HARRY. I think--yes--the room in there has two stone windows--and
wooden rafters.
MRS. OTERY. It’s the oldest part of the house.
HARRY. It comes back to me that I used to sleep there.
MRS. OTERY. That may be. If you’ll come down with me----
HARRY. I’m curious to see that room first.
(_She bars the way._)
MRS. OTERY (_thin-lipped and determined_). You can’t go in there.
HARRY. Your reasons?
MRS. OTERY. It’s--locked. I tell you it’s just an empty room.
HARRY. There must be a key.
MRS. OTERY. It’s--lost.
HARRY. Queer your anxiety to stop me, when you knew I would find the
door locked.
MRS. OTERY. Sometimes it’s locked; sometimes not.
HARRY. Is it not you that locks it?
MRS. OTERY (_reluctantly_). It’s never locked, it’s held.
HARRY. Who holds it?
MRS. OTERY (_in a little outburst_). Quiet, man.
HARRY. You’re all shivering.
MRS. OTERY. I’m not.
HARRY (_cunningly_). I suppose you are just shivering because the room
is so chilly.
MRS. OTERY (_falling into the trap_). That’s it.
HARRY. So you are shivering!
(_She makes no answer, and he reflects with the help of his pipe._)
May I put a light to these bits of sticks?
MRS. OTERY. If you like. My orders are to have fires once a week.
(_He lights the twigs in the fireplace, and they burn up easily, but
will be ashes in a few minutes._)
_You_ can’t have the money to buy a house like this.
HARRY. Not me. It was just my manly curiosity to see the old home that
brought me. I’m for Australy again. (_Suddenly turning on her._) What
is wrong with this house?
MRS. OTERY (_on her guard_). There is nothing wrong with it.
HARRY. Then how is it going so cheap?
MRS. OTERY. It’s--in bad repair.
HARRY. Why has it stood empty so long?
MRS. OTERY. It’s--far from a town.
HARRY. What made the last tenant leave in such a hurry?
MRS. OTERY (_wetting her lips_). You have heard that, have you?
Gossiping in the village, I suppose?
HARRY. I have heard some other things as well. I have heard they had to
get a caretaker from a distance, because no woman hereabout would live
alone in this house.
MRS. OTERY. A pack o’ cowards.
HARRY. I have heard that that caretaker was bold and buxom when she
came, and that now she is a scared woman.
MRS. OTERY. I’m not.
HARRY. I have heard she’s been known to run out into the fields and
stay there trembling half the night.
(_She does not answer, and he resorts to cunning again._)
Of course, I see they couldn’t have meant you. Just foolish stories
that gather about an old house.
MRS. OTERY (_relieved_). That’s all.
HARRY (_quickly as he looks at the little door_). What’s that?
(_MRS. OTERY screams_.) I got you that time! What was it you expected
to see?
(_No answer._)
Is it a ghost? They say it’s a ghost. What is it gives this house an
ill name?
MRS. OTERY. Use as brave words as you like when you have gone, but I
advise you, my lad, to keep a civil tongue while you are here. (_In her
everyday voice._) There is no use showing you the rest of the house. If
you want to be stepping, I have my work to do.
HARRY. We have got on so nicely I wonder if you would give me a mug of
tea. Not a cup, we drink it by the mugful where I hail from.
MRS. OTERY (_ungraciously_). I have no objection.
HARRY. Since you are so pressing I accept.
MRS. OTERY. Come down then to the kitchen.
HARRY. No, no, I’m sure the Prodigal got his tea in the drawing-room,
though what made them make such a fuss about that man beats me.
MRS. OTERY (_sullenly_). You are meaning to go into that room. I
wouldn’t if I was you.
HARRY. If you were me you would.
MRS. OTERY (_closing the little door_). Until I have your promise----
HARRY (_liking the tenacity of her_). Very well, I promise--unless, of
course, she comes peeping out at the handsome gentleman. Your ghost has
naught to do wi’ me. It’s a woman, isn’t it?
(_Her silence is perhaps an assent._)
See here, I’ll sit in this chair till you come back, saying my prayers.
(_Feeling the chair._) You’re clammy cold, old dear. It’s not the
ghost’s chair by any chance, is it?
(_No answer._)
You needn’t look so scared, woman; she doesn’t walk till midnight, does
she?
MRS. OTERY (_looking at his knife in the wood_). I wouldn’t leave that
knife lying about.
HARRY. Oh, come, give the old girl a chance.
MRS. OTERY. I’ll not be more than ten minutes.
HARRY. She can’t do much in ten minutes.
(_At which remark MRS. OTERY fixes him with her eyes and departs._
_HARRY is now sitting sunk in the chair, staring at the fire. It goes
out, but he remains there motionless, and in the increasing dusk he
ceases to be an intruder. He is now part of the room, the part long
waited for, come back at last. The house is shaken to its foundation
by his presence, we may conceive a thousand whispers. Then the crafty
work begins. The little door at the back opens slowly to the extent
of a foot. Thus might a breath of wind blow it if there were any
wind. Presently HARRY starts to his feet, convinced that there is
some one in the room, very near his knife. He is so sure of the exact
spot where she is that for a moment he looks nowhere else._
_In that moment the door slowly closes. He has not seen it close, but
he opens it and calls out, ‘Who is that? Is any one there?’ With some
distaste he enters the passage and tries the inner door, but whether
it be locked or held it will not open. He is about to pocket his
knife, then with a shrug of bravado sends it quivering back into the
wood--for her if she can get it. He returns to the chair, but not to
close his eyes; to watch and to be watched. The room is in a tremble
of desire to get started upon that nightly travail which can never be
completed till this man is here to provide the end._
_The figure of HARRY becomes indistinct and fades from sight. When
the haze lifts we are looking at the room as it was some thirty
years earlier on the serene afternoon that began its troubled story.
There are rooms that are always smiling, so that you may see them
at it if you peep through the keyhole, and MRS. MORLAND’S little
drawing-room is one of them. Perhaps these are smiles that she has
left lying about. She leaves many things lying about; for instance,
one could deduce the shape of her from studying that corner of the
sofa which is her favourite seat, and all her garments grow so like
her that her wardrobes are full of herself hanging on nails or
folded away in drawers. The pictures on her walls in time take on a
resemblance to her or hers though they may be meant to represent a
waterfall, every present given to her assumes some characteristic
of the donor, and no doubt the necktie she is at present knitting
will soon be able to pass as the person for whom it is being knit.
It is only delightful ladies at the most agreeable age who have this
personal way with their belongings. Among MRS. MORLAND’S friends in
the room are several of whom we have already heard, such as the blue
curtains from which HARRY pounced upon the castaway, the sofa on
which he had his first swimming lessons, the peacock on the wall, the
clock with the smart smith ready to step out and strike his anvil,
and the apple-tree is in full blossom at the open window, one of its
branches has even stepped into the room._
_MR. MORLAND and the local clergyman are chatting importantly about
some matter of no importance, while MRS. MORLAND is on her sofa at
the other side of the room, coming into the conversation occasionally
with a cough or a click of her needles, which is her clandestine
way of telling her husband not to be so assertive to his guest.
They are all middle-aged people who have found life to be on the
whole an easy and happy adventure, and have done their tranquil
best to make it so for their neighbours. The squire is lean, the
clergyman of full habit, but could you enter into them you would have
difficulty in deciding which was clergyman and which was squire; both
can be peppery, the same pepper. They are benignant creatures, but
could exchange benignancies without altering. MRS. MORLAND knows
everything about her husband except that she does nearly all his work
for him. She really does not know this. His work, though he rises
early to be at it, is not much larger than a lady’s handkerchief,
and consists of magisterial duties, with now and then an impressive
scene about a tenant’s cowshed. She then makes up his mind for him,
and is still unaware that she is doing it. He has so often heard her
say (believing it, too) that he is difficult to move when once he
puts his foot down that he accepts himself modestly as a man of this
character, and never tries to remember when it was that he last put
down his foot. In the odd talks which the happily married sometimes
hold about the future he always hopes he will be taken first, being
the managing one, and she says little beyond pressing his hand, but
privately she has decided that there must be another arrangement.
Probably life at the vicarage is on not dissimilar lines, but we
cannot tell as we never meet MR. AMY’S wife. MR. AMY is even more
sociable than MR. MORLAND; he is reputed to know every one in the
county, and has several times fallen off his horse because he will
salute all passers-by. On his visits to London he usually returns
depressed because there are so many people in the streets to whom
he may not give a friendly bow. He likes to read a book if he knows
the residence or a relative of the author, and at the play it is far
more to him to learn that the actress has three children, one of them
down with measles, than to follow her histrionic genius. He and his
host have the pleasant habit of print-collecting, and a very common
scene between them is that which now follows. They are bent over the
squire’s latest purchase._)
MR. AMY. Very interesting. A nice little lot. I must say, James, you
have the collector’s flair.
MR. MORLAND. Oh, well, I’m keen, you know, and when I run up to London
I can’t resist going a bust in my small way. I picked these up quite
cheap.
MR. AMY. The flair. That is what you have.
MR. MORLAND. Oh, I don’t know.
MR. AMY. Yes, you have, James. You got them at Peterkin’s in Dean
Street, didn’t you? Yes, I know you did. I saw them there. I wanted
them too, but they told me you had already got the refusal.
MR. MORLAND. Sorry to have been too quick for you, George, but it is my
way to nip in. You have some nice prints yourself.
MR. AMY. I haven’t got your flair, James.
MR. MORLAND. I admit I don’t miss much.
(_So far it has been a competition in saintliness._)
MR. AMY. No. (_The saint leaves him._) You missed something yesterday
at Peterkin’s though.
MR. MORLAND. How do you mean?
MR. AMY. You didn’t examine the little lot lying beneath this lot.
MR. MORLAND. I turned them over; just a few odds and ends of no account.
MR. AMY (_with horrible complacency_). All except one, James.
MR. MORLAND (_twitching_). Something good?
MR. AMY (_at his meekest_). Just a little trifle of a Gainsborough.
MR. MORLAND (_faintly_). What! You’ve got it?
MR. AMY. I’ve got it. I am a poor man, but I thought ten pounds wasn’t
too much for a Gainsborough.
(_The devil now has them both._)
MR. MORLAND. Ten pounds! Is it signed?
MR. AMY. No, it isn’t signed.
MR. MORLAND (_almost his friend again_). Ah!
MR. AMY. What do you precisely mean by that ‘Ah,’ James? If it had been
signed, could I have got it for ten pounds? You are always speaking
about your flair; I suppose I can have a little flair sometimes too.
MR. MORLAND. I am not always speaking about my flair, and I don’t
believe it is a Gainsborough.
MR. AMY (_with dignity_). Please don’t get hot, James. If I had thought
you would grudge me my little find--which _you_ missed--I wouldn’t have
brought it to show you.
(_With shocking exultation he produces a roll of paper._)
MR. MORLAND (_backing from it_). So that’s it.
MR. AMY. This is it. (_The squire has to examine it like a Christian._)
There! I have the luck this time. I hope you will have it next. (_The
exultation now passes from the one face into the other._)
MR. MORLAND. Interesting, George--quite. But definitely not a
Gainsborough.
MR. AMY. I say definitely a Gainsborough.
MR. MORLAND. Definitely not a Gainsborough.
(_By this time the needles have entered into the controversy, but
they are disregarded._)
I should say the work of a clever amateur.
MR. AMY. Look at the drawing of the cart and the figure beside it.
MR. MORLAND. Weak and laboured. Look at that horse.
MR. AMY. Gainsborough did some very funny horses.
MR. MORLAND. Granted, but he never placed them badly. That horse
destroys the whole balance of the composition.
MR. AMY. James, I had no idea you had such a small nature.
MR. MORLAND. I don’t like that remark; for your sake I don’t like it.
No one would have been more pleased than myself if you had picked up a
Gainsborough. But this! Besides, look at the paper.
MR. AMY. What is wrong with the paper, Mr. Morland?
MR. MORLAND. It is machine-made. Gainsborough was in his grave years
before that paper was made.
(_After further inspection MR. AMY is convinced against his will,
and the find is returned to his pocket less carefully than it had
been produced._)
Don’t get into a tantrum about it, George.
MR. AMY (_grandly_). I am not in a tantrum, and I should be obliged if
you wouldn’t George me. Smile on, Mr. Morland, I congratulate you on
your triumph; you have hurt an old friend to the quick. Bravo, bravo.
Thank you, Mrs. Morland, for a very pleasant visit. Good day.
MRS. MORLAND (_prepared_). I shall see you into your coat, George.
MR. AMY. I thank you, Mrs. Morland, but I need no one to see me into my
coat. Good day.
(_He goes, and she blandly follows him. She returns with the
culprit._)
MRS. MORLAND. Now which of you is to say it first?
MR. AMY. James, I am heartily ashamed of myself.
MR. MORLAND. George, I apologise.
MR. AMY. I quite see that it isn’t a Gainsborough.
MR. MORLAND. After all, it’s certainly in the Gainsborough school.
(_They clasp hands sheepishly, but the peace-maker helps the
situation by showing a roguish face, and MR. AMY departs shaking a
humorous fist at her_).
MRS. MORLAND. I coughed so often, James; and you must have heard me
clicking.
MR. MORLAND. I heard all right. Good old George! It’s a pity he has no
flair. He might as well order his prints by wireless.
MRS. MORLAND. What is that?
MR. MORLAND. Wireless it’s to be called. There is an article about it
in that paper. The fellow says that before many years have passed we
shall be able to talk to ships on the ocean.
MRS. MORLAND (_who has resumed her knitting_). Nonsense, James.
MR. MORLAND. Of course it’s nonsense. And yet there is no denying, as
he says, that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt
of in our philosophy.
MRS. MORLAND (_becoming grave_). You and I know that to be true, James.
(_For a moment he does not know to what she is referring._)
MR. MORLAND (_edging away from trouble_). Oh, that. My dear, that is
all dead and done with long ago.
MRS. MORLAND (_thankfully_). Yes. But sometimes when I look at Mary
Rose--so happy----
MR. MORLAND. She will never know anything about it.
MRS. MORLAND. No, indeed. But some day she will fall in love----
MR. MORLAND (_wriggling_). That infant! Fanny, is it wise to seek
trouble before it comes?
MRS. MORLAND. She can’t marry, James, without your first telling the
man. We agreed.
MR. MORLAND. Yes, I suppose I must--though I’m not certain I ought to.
Sleeping dogs-- Still, I’ll keep my word, I’ll tell him everything.
MRS. MORLAND. Poor Mary Rose.
MR. MORLAND (_manfully_). Now then, none of that. Where is she now?
MRS. MORLAND. Down at the boat-house with Simon, I think.
MR. MORLAND. That is all right. Let her play about with Simon and the
like. It may make a tomboy of her, but it will keep young men out of
her head.
(_She wonders at his obtuseness._)
MRS. MORLAND. You still think of Simon as a boy?
MR. MORLAND. Bless the woman, he is only a midshipman.
MRS. MORLAND. A sub-lieutenant now.
MR. MORLAND. Same thing. Why, Fanny, I still tip him. At least I did a
year ago. And he liked it: ‘Thanks no end, you are a trump,’ he said,
and then slipped behind the screen to see how much it was.
MRS. MORLAND. He is a very delightful creature; but he isn’t a boy any
more.
MR. MORLAND. It’s not nice of you to put such ideas into my head. I’ll
go down to the boat-house at once. If this new invention was in working
order, Fanny, I could send him packing without rising from my seat. I
should simply say from this sofa, ‘Is my little Mary Rose there?’
(_To their surprise there is an answer from MARY ROSE unseen._)
MARY ROSE (_in a voice more quaking than is its wont_). I’m here, Daddy.
MR. MORLAND (_rising_). Where are you, Mary Rose?
MARY ROSE. I am in the apple-tree.
(_MRS. MORLAND smiles and is going to the window, but her husband
checks her with a further exhibition of the marvel of the future._)
MR. MORLAND. What are you doing in the apple-tree, hoyden?
MARY ROSE. I’m hiding.
MR. MORLAND. From Simon?
MARY ROSE. No; I’m not sure whom I’m hiding from. From myself, I think.
Daddy, I’m frightened.
MR. MORLAND. What has frightened you? Simon?
MARY ROSE. Yes--partly.
MR. MORLAND. Who else?
MARY ROSE. I am most afraid of my daddy.
MR. MORLAND (_rather flattered_). Of _me_?
(_If there is anything strange about this girl of eighteen who steps
from the tree into the room, it is an elusiveness of which she is
unaware. It has remained hidden from her girl friends, though in
the after years, in the brief space before they forget her, they
will probably say, because of what happened, that there was always
something a little odd about MARY ROSE. This oddness might be
expressed thus, that the happiness and glee of which she is almost
overfull know of another attribute of her that never plays with them._
_There is nothing splendid about MARY ROSE, never can she become
one of those secret women so much less innocent than she, yet perhaps
so much sweeter in the kernel, who are the bane or glory, or the bane
and glory, of greater lovers than she could ever understand. She is
just a rare and lovely flower, far less fitted than those others for
the tragic rôle._
_She butts her head into MRS. MORLAND with a childish impulsiveness
that might overthrow a less accustomed bosom._)
MARY ROSE (_telling everything_). Mother!
MR. MORLAND. You don’t mean that anything has really frightened you,
Mary Rose?
MARY ROSE. I am not sure. Hold me tight, Mother.
MRS. MORLAND. Darling, has Simon been disturbing you?
MARY ROSE (_liking this way of putting it_). Yes, he has. It is all
Simon’s fault.
MR. MORLAND. But you said you were afraid even of me.
MARY ROSE. You are the only one.
MR. MORLAND. Is this some game? Where is Simon?
MARY ROSE (_in little mouthfuls_). He is at the foot of the tree. He is
not coming up by the tree. He wants to come in by the door. That shows
how important it is.
MR. MORLAND. What is?
MARY ROSE. You see, his leave is up to-morrow, and he--wants to see
you, Daddy, before he goes.
MR. MORLAND. I am sure he does. And I know why. I told you, Fanny. Mary
Rose, do you see my purse lying about?
MARY ROSE. Your purse, Dad?
MR. MORLAND. Yes, you gosling. There is a fiver in it, and _that_ is
what Master Simon wants to see me about.
(_MARY ROSE again seeks her mother’s breast._)
MRS. MORLAND. Oh, James! Dearest, tell me what Simon has been saying to
you; whisper it, my love.
(_MARY ROSE whispers._)
Yes, I thought it was that.
MARY ROSE. I am frightened to tell Daddy.
MRS. MORLAND. James, you may as well be told bluntly; it isn’t your
fiver that Simon wants, it is your daughter.
(_MR. MORLAND is aghast, and MARY ROSE rushes into his arms to help
him in this terrible hour._)
MARY ROSE (_as the injured party_). You will scold him, won’t you, Dad?
MR. MORLAND (_vainly trying to push her from him_). By--by--by
the--by all that is horrible I’ll do more than scold him. The puppy,
I’ll--I’ll----
MARY ROSE (_entreating_). Not more than scold him, Daddy--not more.
Mary Rose couldn’t bear it if it was more.
MR. MORLAND (_blankly_). You are not in love with Simon, are you?
MARY ROSE. Oh-h-h-h!
(_She makes little runnings from the one parent to the other,
carrying kisses for the wounds._)
Daddy, I am so awfully sorry that this has occurred. Mummy, what can we
do? (_She cries._)
MRS. MORLAND (_soothing her_). My own, my pet. But he is only a boy,
Mary Rose, just a very nice boy.
MARY ROSE (_awed_). Mother, that is the wonderful, wonderful thing.
He was just a boy--I quite understand that--he was a mere boy till
to-day; and then, Daddy, he suddenly changed; all at once he became a
man. It was while he was--telling me. You will scarcely know him now,
Mother.
MRS. MORLAND. Darling, he breakfasted with us; I think I shall know him
still.
MARY ROSE. He is quite different from breakfast-time. He doesn’t laugh
any more, he would never think of capsizing the punt intentionally now,
he has grown so grave, so manly, so--so _protective_, he thinks of
everything now, of freeholds and leaseholds, and gravel soil, and hot
and cold, and the hire system.
(_She cries again, but her eyes are sparkling through the rain._)
MR. MORLAND (_with spirit_). He has got as far as that, has he! Does he
propose that this marriage should take place to-morrow?
MARY ROSE (_eager to soften the blow_). Oh no, not for quite a long
time. At earliest, not till his next leave.
MRS. MORLAND. Mary Rose!
MARY ROSE. He is waiting down there, Mummy. May I bring him in?
MRS. MORLAND. Of course, dearest.
MR. MORLAND. Don’t come with him, though.
MARY ROSE. Oh! (_She wonders what this means._) You know how shy Simon
is.
MR. MORLAND. I do not.
MRS. MORLAND. Your father and I must have a talk with him alone, you
see.
MARY ROSE. I--I suppose so. He so wants to do the right thing, Mother.
MRS. MORLAND. I am sure he does.
MARY ROSE. Do you mind my going upstairs into the apple-room and
sometimes knocking on the floor? I think it would be a help to him to
know I am so near by.
MRS. MORLAND. It would be a help to all of us, my sweet.
MARY ROSE (_plaintively_). You--you won’t try to put him against me,
Daddy?
MR. MORLAND. I would try my hardest if I thought I had any chance.
(_When she has gone they are a somewhat forlorn pair._)
Poor old mother!
MRS. MORLAND. Poor old father! There couldn’t be a nicer boy, though.
MR. MORLAND. No, but-- (_He has a distressing thought._)
MRS. MORLAND (_quietly_). Yes, there’s that.
MR. MORLAND. It got me on the quick when she said, ‘You won’t try to
put him against me, Daddy’--because that is just what I suppose I have
got to do.
MRS. MORLAND. He must be told.
MR. MORLAND (_weakly_). Fanny, let us keep it to ourselves.
MRS. MORLAND. It would not be fair to him.
MR. MORLAND. No, it wouldn’t. (_Testily._) He will be an ass if it
bothers him.
MRS. MORLAND (_timidly_). Yes.
(_SIMON comes in, a manly youth of twenty-three in naval uniform.
Whether he has changed much since breakfast-time we have no means of
determining, but he is sufficiently attractive to make one hope that
there will be no further change in the immediate future. He seems
younger even than his years because he is trying to look as if a
decade or so had passed since the incident of the boat-house and he
were now a married man of approved standing. He has come with honeyed
words upon his lips, but suddenly finds that he is in the dock. His
judges survey him silently, and he can only reply with an idiotic but
perhaps ingratiating laugh._)
SIMON. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! (_He ceases uncomfortably, like
one who has made his statement._)
MR. MORLAND. You will need to say more than that, you know, Simon, to
justify your conduct.
MRS. MORLAND. Oh, Simon, how could you!
SIMON (_with a sinking_). It seems almost like stealing.
MR. MORLAND. It is stealing.
SIMON (_prudently_). Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
(_From the ceiling there comes a gentle tapping, as from a senior
officer who is indicating that England expects her lieutenant this
day to do his duty. SIMON inflates._)
It is beastly hard on you, of course; but if you knew what Mary Rose is!
MRS. MORLAND (_pardonably_). We feel that even we know to some extent
what Mary Rose is.
SIMON (_tacking_). Yes, rather; and so you can see how it has come
about. (_This effort cheers him._) I would let myself be cut into
little chips for her; I should almost like it. (_With a brief glance
at his misspent youth._) Perhaps you have thought that I was a rather
larky sort in the past?
MRS. MORLAND (_sarcastically_). We see an extraordinary change in you,
Simon.
SIMON (_eagerly_). Have you noticed that? Mary Rose has noticed it too.
That is my inner man coming out. (_Carefully._) To some young people
marriage is a thing to be entered on lightly, but that is not my style.
What I want is to give up larks, and all that, and insure my life, and
read the political articles.
(_Further knocking from above reminds him of something else._)
Yes, and I promise you it won’t be like losing a daughter but like
gaining a son.
MRS. MORLAND. Did Mary Rose tell you to say that?
SIMON (_guiltily_). Well-- (_Tap, tap._) Oh, another thing, I should
consider it well worth being married to Mary Rose just to have you,
Mrs. Morland, for a mother-in-law.
MR. MORLAND (_pleased_). Well said, Simon; I like you the better for
that.
MRS. MORLAND (_a demon_). Did she tell you to say that also?
SIMON. Well-- At any rate, never shall I forget the respect and
affection I owe to the parents of my beloved wife.
MR. MORLAND. She is not your wife yet, you know.
SIMON (_handsomely_). No, she isn’t. But can she be? Mrs. Morland, can
she be?
MRS. MORLAND. That is as may be, Simon. It is only a possible
engagement that we are discussing at present.
SIMON. Yes, yes, of course. (_Becoming more difficult to resist as his
reason goes._) I used to be careless about money, but I have thought of
a trick of writing the word Economy in the inside of my watch, so that
I’ll see it every time I wind up. My people----
MR. MORLAND. We like them, Simon.
(_The tapping is resumed._)
SIMON. I don’t know whether you have noticed a sound from up above?
MR. MORLAND. I did think I heard something.
SIMON. That is Mary Rose in the apple-room.
MRS. MORLAND. No!
SIMON. Yes; she is doing that to help me. I promised to knock back as
soon as I thought things were going well. What do you say? May I?
(_He gives them an imploring look, and mounts a chair, part of a
fishing rod in his hand._)
MR. MORLAND (_an easy road in sight_). I think, Fanny, he might?
MRS. MORLAND (_braver_). No. (_Tremulously._) There is a little thing,
Simon, that Mary Rose’s father and I feel we ought to tell you about
her before--before you knock, my dear. It is not very important, I
think, but it is something she doesn’t know of herself, and it makes
her a little different from other girls.
SIMON (_alighting--sharply_). I won’t believe anything against Mary
Rose.
MRS. MORLAND. We have nothing to tell you against her.
MR. MORLAND. It is just something that happened, Simon. She couldn’t
help it. It hasn’t troubled us in the least for years, but we always
agreed that she mustn’t be engaged before we told the man. We must have
your promise, before we tell you, that you will keep it to yourself.
SIMON (_frowning_). I promise.
MRS. MORLAND. You must never speak of it even to her.
SIMON. Not to Mary Rose? I wish you would say quickly what it is.
(_They are now sitting round the little table._)
MR. MORLAND. It can’t be told quite in a word. It happened seven
years ago, when Mary Rose was eleven. We were in a remote part of
Scotland--in the Outer Hebrides.
SIMON. I once went on shore there from the _Gadfly_, very bleak and
barren, rocks and rough grass, I never saw a tree.
MR. MORLAND. It is mostly like that. There is a whaling-station. We
went because I was fond of fishing. I haven’t had the heart to fish
since. Quite close to the inn where we put up there is--a little island.
(_He sees that little island so clearly that he forgets to go on._)
MRS. MORLAND. It is quite a small island, Simon, uninhabited, no sheep
even. I suppose there are only about six acres of it. There are trees
there, quite a number of them, Scotch firs and a few rowan-trees, they
have red berries, you know. There seemed to us to be nothing very
particular about the island, unless, perhaps, that it is curiously
complete in itself. There is a tiny pool in it that might be called a
lake, out of which a stream flows. It has hillocks and a glade, a sort
of miniature land. That was all we noticed, though it became the most
dreaded place in the world to us.
MR. MORLAND (_considerately_). I can tell him without your being here,
Fanny.
MRS. MORLAND. I prefer to stay, James.
MR. MORLAND. I fished a great deal in the loch between that island
and the larger one. The sea-trout were wonderful. I often rowed Mary
Rose across to the island and left her there to sketch. She was fond of
sketching in those days, we thought them pretty things. I could see her
from the boat most of the time, and we used to wave to each other. Then
I would go back for her when I stopped fishing.
MRS. MORLAND. I didn’t often go with them. We didn’t know at the time
that the natives had a superstition against landing on the island, and
that it was supposed to resent this. It had a Gaelic name which means
‘The Island that Likes to be Visited.’ Mary Rose knew nothing of this,
and she was very fond of her island. She used to talk to it, call it
her darling, things like that.
SIMON (_restless_). Tell me what happened.
MR. MORLAND. It was on what was to be our last day. I had landed her on
this island as usual, and in the early evening I pulled across to take
her off. From the boat I saw her, sitting on a stump of a tree that was
her favourite seat, and she waved gaily to me and I to her. Then I
rowed over, with, of course, my back to her. I had less than a hundred
yards to go, but, Simon, when I got across she wasn’t there.
SIMON. You seem so serious about it. She was hiding from you?
MRS. MORLAND. She wasn’t on the island, Simon.
SIMON. But--but--oh, but----
MR. MORLAND. Don’t you think I searched and searched?
MRS. MORLAND. All of us. No one in the village went to bed that night.
It was then we learned how they feared the island.
MR. MORLAND. The little pool was dragged. There was nothing we didn’t
try; but she was gone.
SIMON (_distressed_). I can’t--there couldn’t--but never mind that.
Tell me how you found her.
MRS. MORLAND. It was the twentieth day after she disappeared. Twenty
days!
SIMON. Some boat----?
MR. MORLAND. There was no boat but mine.
SIMON. Tell me.
MRS. MORLAND. The search had long been given up, but we couldn’t come
away.
MR. MORLAND. I was wandering one day along the shore of the loch,
you can imagine in what state of mind. I stopped and stood looking
across the water at the island, and, Simon, I saw her sitting on the
tree-trunk sketching.
MRS. MORLAND. Mary Rose!
MR. MORLAND. She waved to me and went on sketching. I--I waved back to
her. I got into the boat and rowed across just in the old way, except
that I sat facing her, so that I could see her all the time. When I
landed, the first thing she said to me was, ‘Why did you row in that
funny way, Dad?’ Then I saw at once that she didn’t know anything had
happened.
SIMON. Mr. Morland! How could--? Where did she say she had been?
MRS. MORLAND. She didn’t know she had been anywhere, Simon.
MR. MORLAND. She thought I had just come for her at the usual time.
SIMON. Twenty days. You mean she had been on the island all that time?
MR. MORLAND. We don’t know.
MRS. MORLAND. James brought her back to me just the same merry
unselfconscious girl, with no idea that she had been away from me for
more than an hour or two.
SIMON. But when you told her----
MRS. MORLAND. We never told her; she doesn’t know now.
SIMON. Surely you----
MRS. MORLAND. We had her back again, Simon; that was the great thing.
At first we thought to tell her after we got her home; and then, it was
all so inexplicable, we were afraid to alarm her, to take the bloom off
her. In the end we decided never to tell her.
SIMON. You told no one?
MR. MORLAND. Several doctors.
SIMON. How did they explain it?
MR. MORLAND. They had no explanation for it except that it never took
place. You can think that, too, if you like.
SIMON. I don’t know what to think. It has had no effect on her, at any
rate.
MR. MORLAND. None whatever--and you can guess how we used to watch.
MRS. MORLAND. Simon, I am very anxious to be honest with you. I have
sometimes thought that our girl is curiously young for her age--as
if--you know how just a touch of frost may stop the growth of a plant
and yet leave it blooming--it has sometimes seemed to me as if a cold
finger had once touched my Mary Rose.
SIMON. Mrs. Morland!
MRS. MORLAND. There is nothing in it.
SIMON. What you are worrying about is just her innocence--which seems a
holy thing to me.
MRS. MORLAND. And indeed it is.
SIMON. If that is all----
MR. MORLAND. We have sometimes thought that she had momentary glimpses
back into that time, but before we could question her in a cautious way
about them the gates had closed and she remembered nothing. You never
saw her talking to--to some person who wasn’t there?
SIMON. No.
MRS. MORLAND. Nor listening, as it were, for some sound that never
came?
SIMON. A sound? Do you mean a sound from the island?
MRS. MORLAND. Yes, we think so. But at any rate she has long outgrown
those fancies.
(_She fetches a sketch-book from a drawer._)
Here are the sketches she made. You can take the book away with you and
look at them at your leisure.
SIMON. It is a little curious that she has never spoken to me of that
holiday. She tells me everything.
MRS. MORLAND. No, that isn’t curious, it is just that the island has
faded from her memory. I should be troubled if she began to recall it.
Well, Simon, we felt we had to tell you. That is all we know, I am sure
it is all we shall ever know. What are you going to do?
SIMON. What do you think!
(_He mounts the chair again, and knocks triumphantly. A happy tapping
replies._)
You heard? That means it’s all right. You’ll see how she’ll come
tearing down to us!
MRS. MORLAND (_kissing him_). You dear boy, you will see how I shall go
tearing up to her. (_She goes off._)
SIMON. I do love Mary Rose, sir.
MR. MORLAND. So do we, Simon. I suppose that made us love her a little
more than other daughters are loved. Well, it is dead and done with,
and it doesn’t disturb me now at all. I hope you won’t let it disturb
you.
SIMON (_undisturbed_). Rather not. (_Disturbed._) I say, I wonder
whether I _have_ noticed her listening for a sound?
MR. MORLAND. Not you. We did wisely, didn’t we, in not questioning her?
SIMON. Oh, lord, yes. ‘The Island that Likes to be Visited.’ It is a
queer name. (_Boyishly._) I say, let’s forget all about it. (_He looks
at the ceiling._) I almost wish her mother hadn’t gone up to her. It
will make Mary Rose longer in coming down.
MR. MORLAND (_humorous_). Fanny will think of nicer things to say to
her than you could think of, Simon.
SIMON. Yes, I know. Ah, now you are chaffing me. (_Apologetically._)
You see, sir, my leave is up to-morrow.
(_MARY ROSE comes rushing in._)
Mary Rose!
(_She darts past him into her father’s arms._)
MARY ROSE. It isn’t you I am thinking of; it is father, it is poor
father. Oh, Simon, how could you? Isn’t it hateful of him, Daddy!
MR. MORLAND. I should just say it is. Is your mother crying too?
MARY ROSE (_squeaking_). Yes.
MR. MORLAND. I see I am going to have an abominable day. If you two
don’t mind very much being left alone, I think I’ll go up and sit in
the apple-room and cry with your mother. It is close and dark and musty
up there, and when we feel we can’t stick it any longer I’ll knock on
the floor, Simon, as a sign that we are coming down.
(_He departs on this light note. We see how the minds of these two
children match._)
SIMON. Mary Rose!
MARY ROSE. Oh, Simon--you and me.
SIMON. You and me, that’s it. We are _us_, now. Do you like it?
MARY ROSE. It is so fearfully solemn.
SIMON. You are not frightened, are you?
(_She nods._)
Not at me?
(_She shakes her head._)
What at?
MARY ROSE. At _it_-- Being--married. Simon, after we are married you
will sometimes let me play, won’t you?
SIMON. Games?
(_She nods._)
Rather. Why, I’ll go on playing rugger myself. Lots of married people
play games.
MARY ROSE (_relieved_). I’m glad; Simon, do you love me?
SIMON. Dearest--precious--my life--my sweetheart. Which name do you
like best?
MARY ROSE. I’m not sure. They are all very nice. (_She is conscious of
the ceiling._) Oughtn’t we to knock to those beloveds to come down?
SIMON. Please don’t. I know a lot about old people, darling. I assure
you they don’t mind very much sitting in dull places.
MARY ROSE. We mustn’t be selfish.
SIMON. Honest Injun, is isn’t selfishness. You see, I have a ton of
things to tell you. About how I put it to them, and how I remembered
what you told me to say, and the way I got the soft side of them. They
have heard it all already, so it would really be selfish to bring them
down.
MARY ROSE. I’m not so sure.
SIMON. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Let’s go back to the boat-house,
and then they can come down and be cosy here.
MARY ROSE (_gleeful_). Let’s! We can stay there till tea-time. (_She
wants to whirl him away at once._)
SIMON. It is fresh down there; put on a jacket, my star.
MARY ROSE. Oh, bother!
SIMON (_firmly_). My child, you are in my care now; I am responsible
for you, and I order you to put on a jacket.
MARY ROSE. Order! Simon, you do say the loveliest things. I’ll put it
on at once.
(_She is going towards the little door at the back, but turns to say
something important._)
Simon, I’ll tell you a funny thing about me. I may be wrong, but I
think I’ll sometimes love you to kiss me, and sometimes it will be
better not.
SIMON. All right. Tell me, what were you thinking as you sat up there
in the apple-room, waiting?
MARY ROSE. Holy things.
SIMON. About love?
(_She nods._)
MARY ROSE. We’ll try to be good, won’t we, Simon, please?
SIMON. Rather. Honest Injun, we’ll be nailers. Did you think of--our
wedding-day?
MARY ROSE. A little.
SIMON. Only a little?
MARY ROSE. But frightfully clearly. (_Suddenly._) Simon, I had such a
delicious idea about our honeymoon. There is a place in Scotland--in
the Hebrides--I should love to go there.
SIMON (_taken aback_). The Hebrides?
MARY ROSE. We once went to it when I was little. Isn’t it funny, I had
almost forgotten about that island, and then suddenly I saw it quite
clearly as I was sitting up there. (_Senselessly._) Of course it was
the little old woman who pointed it out to me.
(_SIMON is disturbed._)
SIMON (_gently_). Mary Rose, there are only yourselves and the three
maids in the house, aren’t there?
MARY ROSE (_surprised_). You know there are. Whatever makes you ask?
SIMON (_cautiously_). I thought--I thought I had a glimpse of a little
old woman on the stair to-day.
MARY ROSE (_interested_). Who on earth could that be?
SIMON. It doesn’t matter, I had made a mistake. Tell me, what was there
particular about that place in the Hebrides?
MARY ROSE. Oh, the fishing for father. But there was an island where I
often-- My little island!
SIMON (_perhaps quite unnecessarily_). What are you listening for, Mary
Rose?
MARY ROSE. Was I? I don’t hear anything. Oh, my dear, my dear, I should
love to show you the tree-trunk and the rowan-tree where I used to
sketch while father was in the boat. I expect he used to land me on the
island because it was such a safe place.
SIMON (_troubled_). That had been the idea. I am not going to spend
my honeymoon by the sea, though. And yet I should like to go to the
Hebrides--some day--to see that island.
MARY ROSE. Yes, let’s.
(_She darts off through the little door for her jacket._)