CLIFFORD'S HISTORICAL PLAY
Bertha was sitting with her little brother-in-law. She was to give him
half-an-hour, after which she expected a visit from Nigel.
"What on earth is it, old boy?"
She saw he had some rather untidy papers in his hand and was looking
extremely self-conscious, so she spoke kindly and encouragingly.
"Well, I daresay you noticed, Bertha, in my report, that history was
very good."
"I think I did," she said gravely. "If I recollect right the report
said: 'History nearly up to the level of the form.'"
"Oh, I say, was that all? Gracious! Well, anyhow, I've read a lot of
history, and I'm fearfully keen about it. And, I say, my idea was, you
see, I thought I'd write a historical play."
"Oh! what a splendid idea!" cried Bertha, jumping up, looking very
pleased, but serious. "Have you got it there, Cliff?"
"Yes. Well, as a matter of fact, I have got a bit of it here."
"Are you going to let me read it?"
"Well, I don't think you can," he answered rather naively. "It's not
quite clean enough; but I'll read a bit of it to you, if you don't mind.
Er--you see--it's about Mary."
"Which Mary?"
"Oh, Bertha! what a question! As if I'd write about William and Mary,
or--er--er--I beg your pardon--I mean the other Mary. No, Mary, Queen of
Scots, is the only one who's any good for a play."
"Well, go on, Clifford."
"Well, it's a little about"--he spoke in a low, gruff voice--"at least
partly about hawking. You know, the thing historical people used to
do--on their wrists."
"Oh yes, I know, I know! I beg your pardon, Clifford."
"With birds, you know," he went on. "Oh, and I wanted to ask you, what
time of the year _do_ people hawk?"
"What time of the year? Oh, well, I should think almost any time, pretty
well, whenever they liked, or whenever it was the fashion."
"I see." He made a note. "Well, I hope you won't be fearfully bored,
Bertha."
"I say, Cliff, don't apologise so much. Get on with it."
"Well, you see, it's a scene at a country inn to begin with."
"Ah, I see. Yes, it would be," she murmured.
"At a country inn, and this is how it begins. It's at a country inn, you
see. 'Scene: a country inn. The mistress of the inn, a buxom-looking
woman of middle age, is being busy about the inn. It is a country inn.
She is making up the fire, polishing tankards, etc., drawing ale, etc.
On extreme L. of stage is seated, near a tankard, a youth of some
nineteen summers, who is sitting facing the audience, chin dropped, and
apparently wrapped in thought.'"
"Excuse me a moment, old chap, but that sounds as if his chin was
wrapped in thought."
"So it does; I'll change that. Thanks awfully for telling me, Bertha."
"Not at all, dear."
"But it is frightfully decent of you."
"All right. Get on."
"'At the back of the stage R. are seated two men; one of some eight and
twenty summers the other of some six and twenty years old. They are
seated in the corners of the stage and in apparently earnest
conversation.' (Now the dialogue begins, Bertha, listen):
"'YOUTH: Are you there, mistress? Is my ale nigh on ready? Zounds, I'm
mighty thirsty, I am.'
"'MISTRESS: Ay, ay, great Scot! here's your ale. You can't expect to be
served before the quality.'"
"What did Pickering think of this?" interrupted Bertha.
"Pickering! Oh! I wouldn't show it to a chap like that. At any rate, not
unless you think it's all right, Bertha."
"Why, my dear boy, you'd better tell me the plot, I think, before you
read me any more."
"Mr. Nigel Hillier," announced the servant.
Nigel sprang brightly in (just a little agitated though he managed to
hide it), Bertha took her toes off the sofa, Clifford took up his play
and shoved it into his pocket with a slight scowl.