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Lady Milanor, Ills mother Miss Le Thiere. Ethel Glyndon, his cousin. Miss Dora Barton. Joseph Trevor, Ids uncle Mr. H. H. Vincent. The Hon. Jack Kennerly Mr.W. Grahame Browne. Lady Honoria Pawson Mrs. Edward Saker. Mr. Gilbert Pawson, her son. . . Mr. Lennox Pawle. Mrs. Buckley Weston Miss M. Talbot. Mabel, her daughter Miss Eva Moore. Grinstead Worburn, a rich breiver Mr. Edward Arthur, Hugh Graeme Mr. C. Aubrey Smith. Edith Cadogan Miss Julie 0pp. Harold j 3Irs. Buckley West- ) Master Vyvian Thomas. Marjorie \ 07i's ticins. ) Jliss Phyllis Dare. Miss Anstruther, EtheVs aunt. . Miss Henrietta Cowen. ACT I.— THE NIGHT. The Scene of Act I. is a fashionable afternoon tea-room in Bond Street. ACT II.— THE DARK HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN. The Scene of Act II. is a lonely spot in the Borcambe woods. ACT III.— THE DAY. The Scene of Act III. is the drawing-room in Sir Harry ^Milanor's house, Chesterfield Street, May fair, THE WILDERNESS, ACT I. THE NIGHT. rScENE.^-Fas/jtona&Ze tea-rooms in Bond Street. A large room at hack opening on to balcony, overlooking the street. Near the centre of the stage an arch, and the lower tea-room, in the front. Tea-tables everywhere. A band somewhere at the back jJlaying at intervals during the Act. The maids are smart, lady-like girls. At the table to the right, in the lower room nearest the audience, are seated Lady Honoria Pawson and her son Gilbert Pawson. hxDY lioyoRix is a funereal remnant of pa.^t splendor. Her son Gilbert is about forty-five and has lived too well ; he is short, fat and biliou^i. Ttro viaids are in the act of .netting tea and mnfflns before them iclien ' the curtain rises. Many of the tables are empty, a few are occupied; during the Act all the tcd^lesfdl, and occa- sionally fJte chatter is so general that pauses occur in the principal dialogue. Lady H. (ferreting a handkerchief out of a smcdl bag at her large icaisl) That was Sir Charles at the corner table. Mr. Gilbert, {puffihj eating) No, it wasn't ; it was AVorburn the brewer. Lady H. {powdering her nose, then pulling her veil over it) It wasn't ; it was Sir Charles. Mr. Gilbert. It was Worburn. I lunched with liini to-day. Lady H. (returning her handkerchief to her bag and shutting it icith a snap) It was Sir Charles. I bowed to him. Mr. Gilbert. Worburn don'f- mind, he's accustomed to it. Lady H. I never forget a face. I've a royal memory. Gilbert, you're getting stouter. Mr. Gilbert, (in a huff) Whenever I disagree with you, you say I am stouter. o 7571 23 4 THE WILDERNESS. Lady H. Everything that disagrees with one makes one stouter. Mr. Gilbert, (sadly contemplaiing his mvffin) Every- thing disagrees with nie — but one must eat. Everybody does. (Grinstead WoRBURN comes down from the upper room, evident Iji looking for some one. He is a man of about Jiftij, very cold and dignified in Ins manner — his contume rather suggests the stock period — he is more aristocratic in his vianner and appearance than the oldest duke in the jJeerage. Mr. Gilbert rises effusively) My dear Wor- burn, we meet again — delightful lunch you gave us. May I present you to my mother ? [he does so) WoRBURN. (gravely) My dear Lady Pawson. I'm so glad, I liad lieard you were indisposed — east wind, purely east wind^it affects even me. Lady H. I have heard so much of you from Gilbert lately, that I positively recognized you as I came in. (her son is a little staggered by Iter tact and untridhful- ness) AVoRBURN. (bozos slightly — then moves a little apologeti- cally) I liave a few young people to entertain this after- noon ; but. like most young people. I fear they have no notion of punctuality. I am now wondering whether by any chance they are waiting for me in tlie rooms below. Lady H. My dear Mr. Woiburn, find them by all means ; don't let us detain you. Worburx. (gravely) Thank you, I hope to see you on my return, (lie bows, and goes uj]) Lady H. A brewer ! Surely a Queen's Counsel ? Mr. Gilbert, (sadly) A brewer, and a most immoral one, owns most of the shares in a certain theatre and — gets liis money's worth. Lady H. Why don't you tell me more about these people ? Mr. Gilbert. It's so dull to talk about other people when one's present oneself ; besides, one couldn't discuss Worburn thoroughly with one's mother, he really is so cold-blooded. Lady H. Shocking ! Mr. Gilbert. It's all right, he's decided to marry and settle down at last, (he turns to a j^ctssing maid) I have no spoon. Maid. I beg your pardon, sir. {she gives him one) Lady H. {eating her viuffln) Who's he going to marry ? Mr. Gilbert. Oh, anybody! I don't thinK he's made up his mind. He's making 'em all show tlieir paces — that's one advantage in being a millionaire, they're all ready to doit, (he passes his mother the muffins) Won't you? (Mabel Buckley Weston is seen in the %ipper room ; she THE WILDERNESS. 5 Jiurries doimi to the left table in the loicer room and seats herself behind it. She is an exceedingly beautiful girl about eighteen, and appears happily excited and flushed. The Hon. Jack Kennerly joins Iter and sits left of Iter, first helping her to remove her cloak. He is a smart young ■man about town, of aboxit five-and-twenty) Jack. It's all right, they didn't see us ! Mabel. Tiiank the lates, old Worbuin's as blind as a bat. Oh, Jack, what a lipping day we have had ! Jack. We've been jolly lucky too, considering we haven't been spotted once. Mabel, {witlt a long drawn breath) Oli. if one could only go on doing what one shouldn't all one's life, wouldn't it be exciting ! Jack, {doubtfully) Um'm ! Mabel. Where are the muffins? OIi, Jack, doesn't it run to muffins ? Jack, (looking at disJi) Aren't the}- — how silly of 'em. I ordered 'em. (the muffins are brought) Oh. here they are. Cut into 'em, Mab. If we don't clear out of tliis before the afternoon gang arrives we're bound to be spotted. {Mabel, pours out the tea) Mabel. As soon as I'm fortified by tea, I shall be ready to face even mamma. Jack. Thanks, I shan't. Mabel. (p?/is doicn her cup and gives a. long sigh) Oh, Jack, do you realize that this is absolutely the last tiine we ■can do this sort of thing? Jack. Oh, one never knows. Mabel, /know. My future is looming very obviously just no%v. and tete-a-tete teas with a detrimental must take a back seat. Oh. Jack, I'm so glad you're a detrimen- tal, and needn't be taken seriously ; you're really just as useful as a brother and much more exciting. Jack, {laughs a little) I'm glad, {then gloomily) I say, do you really wajit to go to the Aquarium ? (Mabel nods her head vehemently , her mouth being full of muffin) But it's a deadly place in the afternoon. Mabel. The deadlier tlie better ; it's our last day of freedom, so let's finish it off feeling fearfully tomb}-. Jack. Ranelagh's more fun. Mabel. Jack, don't be sill)-. Harry's sure to be there. A nice thing for me if he saw me alone with you. All mamma's castles in tiie air would topple on top of lier. Jack. It's all very well to prpteiid that it's onlj^ your mother who builds castles upon Sir Harry. You do a bit of building on your own. Mabel, {making a little grimace) I know I do. I've :got to marry him for heaps of reasons. Firstly, he's the lichest man in the market just now; secondly — well. Q THE WILDERNESS. that's all ; secondly is the same as firstly, and so's thirdly. Jack. You mercenary little devil ! Mabel. Ami? (a pause — then rather sadly) No, I'm not really ! It's only a part of wliat mamma calls the great social scheme. We're all parts of a great social scheme. Jack — you're a part, I'm a part. Fat old Wor- burn's a part — these girls that wait on us are a part, only I suppose they failed in their parts, so that's why they have to wait on the otiier parts, {then she tosses her head as if to shake off unpleasant thoughts— and tnrns in her chair, looking round the room) I wish tiiey'd play the "Belle of New York." {she turns back and meets Jack's glance. So they remain for an instant) Jack, don't look at me as if 5'ou didn't know me. Jack, {gravely) I wonder, do I? Mabel. Don't you ? Jack. You'i'e ready to marry a man for his monej' ? Mabel. Of course I am. {she laughs) What else is there for a girl to do if she doesn't ? Spend her days carry- ing muffins to the old woman in that corner? No, thank you. Jack, I've been well brought up, so I know now tliat it's a girl's first duty to marry money, money with position if possible, but money anyhow. Jack. It's beastly I Mabel. Is it— how ? Jack. Oh, I can't explain. Mabel. Well, anyhow, whatever it is — it's what's- drummed into us from the word go. It's all part of the great social sclieme. It's our one outlook. No, tliere are others : be a governess — I don't want to. Go on the stage — I'm mucli too good an actress to have a chance on tlie stage. No, Jack, if you were a girl you'd be told it from morning till night, marry well. Mind you marry well, it's, everything ; and so you see, rightly or wrongly, we begin to believe it at last, and we jump at £10,000 a year, {theit she leans a little towards him, half closing her eyes in a smile) But tlie scheme has its compensations, it makes ua enjoy a day like to-day, doesn't it, Jack? Jack. I s'pose so. Mabel. Dear old Jack, may I have nnother muffin? There's iiot enougli butter on this, {more muffins, trJiich she re(dly doesn't want, are set beforeher — then she becomes a trifle pensive) Ami when I'm married to Sir Harry- you'U come and stay with us often, won't you, and cheer- me up? Jack. Do you think you'll want cheering up ? Mabel. Oli, I expect so. Most of the girls who marrjr well seem to be able to do with a lot of cheering up. Jack. Is that part of the scheme too ? MABiiL. I suppose so. THE WILDERNESS. 7 Jack. I'm rather glad I'm not a girl. Mabel. So am I, Jack. (tJiere's a 2MUse — Jie fiddles with his cup, and her eyes rove round the room) Jack, {siuldenlij) In this scheme, doesn't it strike you that something lias been left out ? Mabel. What ? Jack. Well, there's a curious, somewhat old-fashioned emotion that crops up sometimes even in modern life. Mabel. Whafs that ? Jack. Love. Mabel, (bui'sts into a little Imtgh of surprise) Of course, we've left tliat out ! How could one have a work- able scheme witli love in it? No scheme would hold to- gether for a minute. Jack. I see — so you ignore it. MABEli. One can't afford to waste one's time on love nowadays. Life's mucli too serious a problem. Love's all very well when one's quite young, but one can't let it stand in tlie way of tangible things, can one? Jack. No, I sujipose not. Mabel. I tliink, personall}', that love would die out altogether if it weren't for the prolificosity of the modern novelist. Jack, {sarcasticcdhj) You know more about it than I do, j'ou're eigliteeii. Mabel, (quite lighfli/ — putting on her gloves) No, I don't really know anytliing about it — it'snotone of my subjects. I've always let tliat sort of tiling slide. Jack. Some day it may enter into your head to take it up. Mabel. Well, when I do, Jack, you .shall teach me the rudiments. Jack. That's a bargain. You won't find it half so dull a thing as j'ou imagine. Mabel. Shan't I ? Perhai^s not. But I'm not going to think about it now. Jack. I wonder what Milanor's views on the subject of love are. Mabel. Oh! I hope to goodness he hasn't got any. I — I'm afraid I shovild laugh if he began to get romantic, and that would be awful, wouldn't it ? Jack. You'd never be my Lady Milanor then. - Mabel. Oh, never, and I'd never be mistress of that lovely place in Derl)yshire with tliat divine trout stream. Jack. Or tlie litile house in Chesterfield Street with the green shutters. Mabel. I've quite made up mj- mind to do away with those sliutters. Oh, you will dine with us often and often, won't you. Jack? Jack. Perhaps Milanor won't approve. S THE WILDERNESS. Mabel. Oh, lie'll have to — because a girl marries it doesn't mean that she gives up her old friends. Jack. It'll be an awful sell for you, Mab, if he doesn't come up to tlie scratch. Mabel. Awful. Oh, but lie will. It's not really diffi- cult to convince a man he's in love with you, it only re- quires plenty of concentration. Watch his moods and fall in with them, — if lie's sentimental, sigh with him ; if he's cheerful, keep him in the sunshine. Jack, you should Avatch me at work — it's really very instructive, and then, of course, mamma is very useful. I'jn not fearfully fond of mamma, but I must say she's a good manager. What do j^ou think she's done ? Jack. What ? Mabel. She's rented that cottage under the hill — you know, just on the corner of his moor — for three months, so 3'ou see I shouldn't be surjirised if he and I didn't fre- quently run up against each other this summer. Jack. Ah ! Mabel. He's awfully fond of rambling about the coun- try alone — and — and I feel a tendency towards that sort of thing myself. Jack. Well, of course that does help to clear the ground a bit, doesn't it ? Mabel. Decidedlj-. AVORBURN reapioears in the upper room with a j^arty of ladies, among tliem Ethel Glyndon, a sicect-Iooking girl of about seventeen, and her aunt. Miss Anstruther, a plump, cheery little u-oman of forty. WoRBURN. {motioning them all to their seats with grave dignity) I secured this table — it — it is near the band. Miss Anstruther. Sweet of you ! WoRBURN. {to Ethel) MissGlyndon, will you be com- fortable ? Ethel. I'm always comfortable anywhere, {and they all sit dozen, out of sight of the audience) Mr. Gilbert, {to his mother) I have not experienced that curious sense of fulness nearly so acutely to-day. Lady H. The muffins were better done. I ordered the carriage to come, it should be here. Are you ready to move ? Mr. Gilbert, I would prefer to sit q"ite still for fifteen minutes. Lady H, Perhaps it would be wiser, {they relapse into inertia) Jack. I wish you'd fixed on anybody but ]\Iilanor. IMabel. Why ? Jack. I don't know. He's sucli an odd sort of chap — always doing such rum things. He's just been and en- THE WILDERNESS. 9 ■dowod a nospital for children ; that strikes me as rather snobbish, Mabel. I don't see that. Jack. Oh, because a man's rich he needn't shove it down your throat like that. Mabel,, {lightly) I think it's very nice of him, it's better than throwing away your money on a horse. Jack. Oh, I don't know. One's usual, the other isn't. Everything that attracts attention is bound to be bad form. Anyho-w — he's putting on flesh. Mabel. I shall have to check that if possible. I'm afraid you'll have to make the best of it. Jack. Mamma and I have agreed to him, so it's no good going back. Mamma tried to persuade me to consider old Worburn— but Worburn ! {she griviaces)— there must be limits even to a social scheme. Edith Cadogan comes through the rooms, looking about her, folloioed by an aimless iidddle-uged lady. She sees Mabel and comes down. Edith. Hullo ! Mabel— and Jack— and no chaperon ! What's the meaning of this ? ]\Iabel. Jack and I are out on the razzle. Edith. T'J. better have tea with you for propriety's sake. Jack. I don't think it matters in our case— we're too young. Mabel. Besides, we're cousins. Edith. Have you seen Sir Harry ? Mabel. He's at Ranelagh. Edith. He isn't — at least his mother told me she was going to meet him here at four. Mab, you look worried. Mabel. What at"? Edith. I don't know if you don't. Mabel. I'm not worried — thank you. Edith. Mab, will you tell me the truth if I ask you ? Mabel. It depends. Edith. Are you to be congratidated ? Mabel. No, I'm not— there's a chance for everybody, you see. {laughs and. shrugs her shoulders) Edith. There's none for me — we're much too friendly — you see, he's my trustee, {she turns avd looks round the rooms) I hate this band, don't you? I — there's Mr. ■Graeme. We're tea-ing with him this afternoon — pity me ! And Julia is with me, and she positively hasn't an idea outside window-boxes. But I say, before I go — I do think you two are silly to come here like this. Of course, I know it means nothing, but— but people will talk. There's Julia, for instance. Oil, Mab, what is the good of 10 THE WILDERNESS. all the eloquence I wasted on you when you name to Miss- Grand's in Cliill Street ! Good-bye. (site saunters ^ip) Jack. Who's Miss Grand? Mabel. I went to school there, with her — she's ages older than I am, and was always telling me things. I hate- her — rather. She wanted to marry Sir Harry, and it didn't come otf. So I suppose she hates me — rather. Jack. Because it will come off ? Mabel. Oh, I daresay— don't talk about it. It seems different when slie's about. She makes me think of what things are really, and that makes one feel beastly. Don't let's think at all, Jack. It's the only way to be linppy. I say, this place is beginning to fill up. Hadn't we better make a move ? Shall I pay, or have you got enough ? Jack. Oh, I daresay I can manage it. Mabel, {suddenly trlieeling round) Heavens, Jack I Is this the twenty-fourth ? Jack. Yes. Mabel. Oli, and I've promised to fetch the twins and bring them here to meet mamma at half-past four. Jack. That'll spoil our afternoon. Mabel. No it won't. I'll bring them here, and I can easily make an excuse to mother and meet you anj'where^ I've got till seven, then I must get back to dress. Sir Harry is dining with us to-night, and Jack. And you fancy Mabel. Never mind what I fancy. What time is it? Jack. Five past four. Mabel. I must go for them in ten minutes. Where shall we meet afterwards? Jack. You wanted to go to the Aquarium. Mabel. Nobody ever goes there, that's why. Well, any- how (she stops suddenlj/, looking into the other room , then turns and faces him with a gasp) Jack, the worst has- happened. Edith was right, he's here. Jack. Who? Mabel. Harry ! (they stare at each other for an instant, then her jyresence of mind retiirns) My gracious, I can't be- found alone with you; we mnst have a chajjeron. Jack, come and join tliose two old frumps. Jack, (aghast) But I don't know 'em. Mabel, (vehemently) Neither do I. AYhat matter? Come and join tliem. (she stops one of the waiting maids who is passing irith tea) What's tliat lady's name ? I\Iaid. That's old Lady Pawson. miss, and her son, Mr. Gilliei't Pawson. (Mabel sweeps doini towai-ds Lady Pawsox's table, zcith an outstretched hand and a siccet smile) Mabel. I really can't go without saying how-do-you-do. Lady Pav/son. We haven't met since that delightful after- THE WILDERNESS. H ■noon . (67(6 turns to Mr. Gilbert and shakes hands with him wannli/) How do you do? I hopn your gout is l)etter. {the old lady avd her sen are deeply agitated. Mabel smiles at Mr. Gilbert) Mabel. I'm afraid j'our motlier doesn't remember me. Lady H. (not knowing Jier i)L tJie leant) Perfectly, my dear. How do you do ? Mr. Gilbert, (feebly) My mother never forgets a face. She has a royal memory. Mabel, (sitting'doicn at their table and making herself quite eomfortable) I'm waiting for mamma. But you know how dreailfully nnpunctual she always is. Oli, didn't you have any inuffins? You really ought to make an effort in the direction of mufhns. Lady H. Gilbert's digestion is very fluctuating. Mabel, {icith an affectation of great concern) Oh, don't say you've got to be careful still V I hoped that trouble hail passed long ago. Why, you've suffered from that ever since Mr. Gilbert. Last April twelve months. Mabel. I remember mamma telling us about it at the time. (Jack is hovering about the table much embarrassed. Mabel smiles in surjjrise at Lady Pawson) Don't you know Mr. Kennerly? Jack, I'm disappointed in you. I thought you knew everybody worth knowing. Lady Paw- son, do let me introduce Mr, Jack Kennerly — Lady Pawson, Mr. Kennerly. Jack, (sitting down beside Gilbert Pawsox) Awfully good place to meal in, this, don't you find ? Jolly secluded, and all that, and yet you're always running up against people vou know. ]\Ir. Gilbert. j\Iy mother and I have not run up against anybody for I\iother, you desire Lady H. (making a brilliant effort to recover herseif and remember somebody — snajis out at Mabel) How's your aunt ? Mabel, {ingenuously) Which aunt? Lady H. (after a pause, Lady Pawson retrieves herself} Your dear aunt. Mabel, (with a sigh) She's still on the wane, we fear. Lady H. Ah. she was always delicate as a girl, (a long and melancholy silence falls u-hich Mabel thoroughly enjoys, then say.-;, with another deep sigh) Mabel. Yes, and she never really got over that afTair — you know. Mr. Gilbert, (getting interested) Dear me. Mabel, (to ]\Ir. Gilbert) I always imagine there was- sometliing more in that than met the eye, don't you V Mr. Gilbert. Oh, I really :12 TKE WILDERNESS. Mabel. You wouldn't like to say so. That's sweet of you. You live up to 3-our well-earned reputation for dis- cretion—very wise, that's wiiy you're always so popular. (Mabel, turns to say something' to Jack, and old Lady Pawso.v seizes the opportunity to gasp at her son) Lady H. Who are they ? Mr. Gilbert. Don't know. Can't think. Lady II. Take me away. (she viaJces an effort to rise) Mabel. Oh, dear Lady Pawson. j-ou will stay and see mamma? She won't be a moment, and she'd be so disap- pointed if she missed you. Siu Harry Milanor Jias been seen, in the upper room, he now comes doivn to their table. Sir Harry. How do you do. Miss Weston ? Mabel, (looking up in surprise and giving him her hand with a bright smile of u'clcome) Oh, how do you do? Fancy you coming to this out-of-the-way little cornei'. Lad}' Pawson. may I introduce Sir Harry Milanor? (bows) Mr. Gilbert Pawson, Sir Harry Milanor. (bon's) We're all ■svaiting for mamma, she's so fearfully late again, and Lady Pawson was almost giving her up in despair, weren't you ? LadyH. (tcho is approaching a condition of mental pulp) I — I surely was. Sir Harry, (looking curiously at Jack) Hullo, Ken- uerly — it is Kennerly, isn't it? Jack. It is. How are you? (they nod to each other smilingly) Sir Harry. Fancy knocking up against you — and at a tea-figlit too ! (then he turns brightly to the tea table, ■signing to one of the loaiting maids) I'm sure Lady Paw- son can have some more tea — fresh tea. And muffins. Would you bring us — let's see, how manj'' are Ave ? One, two, three, five — and some hot muffins, (as he gives the maid the order Lady Pawson has another gasp at her son) Lady H. Who is he ? Mr. Gilbert. 1 don't know. Lady H. Take me away ! Sir Harry, (turning to Lady Pawsox) I think you know my aunt. Lady Pawson. Lady H. More aunts ! Yes, of course, your dear aunt. • She was always delicate as a girl. (aside to Iter son) Take me away ! Something's gone wrong with my head. I positively don't i-emember anybodj'. Sir Harry, (to Mabel) How are the twins? Mabel. Oli, they're si)lendid. I'm just oil to fetch them from home now to meet mamma. As a matter of fact. I'd forgotten I'd promised to do it. Lady Pawson, did I tell you that lovely story of the twins? You remem- ber the twins, Mr. Pawson ? THE AYILDERNESS. 13' Mr. Gilbert. Dear creatures ! Lady H. {aside to her son) They've gone too. Take me away ! Mabel. Mamma had been awfully busy during the morning, and Harold didn't think lie'd had half the atten- tion he was — oli, liere's the fresli tea — he was entitled to, and so (Mr. Gilbert leaves his tea aicay) Sir Harry, (siirjjrised) No tea? Mabel, {very syntxiatheticallij) He daren't, he's still a martyr to that dreadful dyspepsia. It's been incessant, ever since July twelvemonth. Mr. Gilbert. April. Lady H. (iiaving 2}idled herself together, rises inistead- ily) I — I fear I shan't be able to wait for your mother. I — I find this room too warm. Gilbert dear, the carriage is there, isn't it ? (a. passing maid overhears the question) Maid. Your carriage has been waiting some minutes. Lady Pawson. Mr. Gilbert. Ah ! {tltey all rise) Mabel. Are you going ? Lady H. {to her son) I'm going to Dr. Crawley — it's something mental. Mabel. In Harley Street ? You pass our house. Mr. Gir^BERT. May we {Ice is going to bid her fare- urll), Mabel. Drop me ! OIi, would you ! It would be veiy nice of you. You're sure I shan't be in the way ? Mr. Gilbert, {quite nonjilussed) Not in the least. Mabel. It's awfully kind of you. Then I may bring them here in time after all. Good-bye, Sir Harr}-. Sir Harry, {very gravely) Until this evening. Mabel. Oh yes, you're coming to dinner, aren't you? Good-bye. I shall be back with the twins in ten miruites, anyhow. I'm sure you'd like to see them. Sir Harry. I should. CMr. Gilbert shakes hands luith Sir Harry and Jack Kennerly) ]\Iabel. Good-bye, Jack. You're off to keep your ap- pointuient, I suppose. Lady Pawson, what would you do if you had a cousin wlio declined to take you to tiie Academy because lie liad an appointment to meet a mys- terious some one at the Westminster Aquarium':' At the- south entrance, too ? Jack. The mysterious some one is only a chap who wants to see the prize fight on .the biograpii. Mabel. What time are you due there ? {sJic fixes Jack's eye vieanivgly) Jack, (looking at his wateh) Five fifteen. JIabel. Oh, tiien, as an appointment of that sort is a serious matter, I'll say good-bye to you. Lady. H, Take we away! {A.i,h to each other, iviik 14: THE WILDERNESS. smiles and nods, " Good-bye,'" and Mabel goes otd chatter- ing gall (I to Mr. Gilbert and Lady Pawson. Jack Jiangs about for a i)io)n.e)it, then crosses to tlie other table, piclis up his gloves, a)id begins tojjut them on. Thelxnid is play- ing, and the various tea-fables have filled uj) irith a fashion- able throng. Tlie chatter is getting loiider) Jack, {shortly) Good-bye, Milanor, Sir Harry. Good-bye. {and Jack goes ?/p through the throng and out of the roo^ns. Sir Harry sits staring at the carpet, drawing a p)attern on it irith his stick, then he looks np and all round him, and leans back in his chair iritli- a sigh) Wliy the devil does she always bolt whenever she meets me ? {to Maid) My mother isn"t by any chance in any of tlie other rooms, is she ? Maid, No. Sir Harry, she always has this table. Sir Harry. Yes, I thought she did. Old Lady Milanor enters. She is abojit sixty-four, but the judicious use of dye and the poivder puff has made her look at least seventy. Lady' Milanor. Oh, Harry, you're here. Are you early, or am I late ? Sir Harry, {rising) Well, mother dear, we'll say I'm early, Lady' Milanor. But, as a matter of fact. I'm late, you think. Well, well, there was a sale at Hampton's, and I could not get away from some lamp-shades — the most ridic- ulous reductions — positively giving them awaj'. Sir Harry. My dear motlier, what satisfaction do you get in buying things at less than tlieir value ? Lady Milanor. Harry, don't be a fool ! If I had your means Sir Harry'. I wish to God you had ! Lady Milanor. Don't fly in the face of Providence. Sir Harry. Wliat right liad Providence to saddle me witli twenty thousand a year ? (the maids put a variety of things before Lady' Milanor. ,S7(e u-ares them aivay) Lady Milanor. No. not those— tea-cakes, please. You're an inveterate grumbler. What on earth would you have said, or done, for the matter of that, if you'd been a poor man ? Sir Harry\ (sloicly) I should have liad some friends ; and— and I should have known exactly how I stood, as regards my fellow man — and woman. Lady Milanor. I think you know pretty well, as it is. You're thirty-five, liorribly wealthy, and unmarried. Con- sidering tliose three facts, it's obvious that what you don't know really isn't worth knowing. What did vou want to talk to me about to-day ? I'm sorry I couldu't'be at home. THE WILDERNESS. 15 T liate being at liome. Do ask that band to play. What is it, Harry ? Sir Harry. It's what you just said, I'm thirty-five, I've got twenty thousand a year, and I'm unmarried. Lady Milanor. Well, isn't it a blessed state ? Sir Harry. No. Lady Milanor. What do you want to do ? Sir Harry. Marry. Lady Milanor. Why don't you ? Sir Harry. Because I've got twenty thousand a year. Lady Milanor. Oli, I see. "Love me for myself alone " — you've been reading poetry. Sir Harry. No, I've been through several London .seasons. Lady Milanor. You vrant a tonic. Sir Harry. No, I want a home. Lady Milanor. Buy one. Sir Harry. Tliat's the dread. I want to make one. Suppose I try, and tind out, when it's too late, that it isn't liand-made at all. Lady Milanor. Machine-made articles flood the mar- ket now. Sir Harry. So I observe. Lady Milanor. Well, they serve their purpose. Sir Harry. They may, but their purpose isn't mine. Lady Milanor. My dear boy, marry to-morrow, and with your disposition and wealtli no woman would be fool enough to allow you to realize that you weren't perfectly liappy. Come, come, amuse me. I've been bored for days. Sir Harry, I wanted to talk to you seriously. I sup- pose it's no use. Lady Milanor. (briskij/) Not a bit, in the afternoon. Come to Hanover Square, about eleven on Friday morn- ing. I can talk seriously then, because I'm due at the dentist's at twelve. Do ask that band to stop playing. It <iuite takes my thoughts from my tea. I suppose all this rigmarole means that you think you're in love with some one. Sir Harry. I can trace several of the symptoms. Lady JIilanor. You're thirty-five, so it's somebody quite young, I suppose ? Sir Harry. Quite young. Lady Milanor. And somebody to whom you would appear in tiie light of a great " catch." Sir Harry. That's tlie devil of it. Lady Milanor. Well, it's everybody's duty to get mar- ried and be disillusioned. She's not on the stage, I sup- jiose ? Sir Harry. She is not on the stage. IG THE WILDERNESS. Lady Milanor. Then take a tonic, plenty of fresh air and exercise, and we'll go into the matter thoroughl}' on Friday morning This is perfectly dreadful tea. Wlia is she ? 8iR Harry. Do j'ou know Mrs. Buckley Weston ? Lady Milanor. Took in a paying guest before she married her second husband, and just managed to live in Bruton Street ? Sir Harry. Yes. Lady JIilanor. Buckley Weston would be far happier in West Kensington now the family is so numerous — twins, I believe. Her first husband, Mabel's father, was a deitr. Sir Harry. Mabel takes after her father. Lady Milaxor. He icordd play the cornet. Sir Harry. Mabel has no small vices. Lady Milanor. Then what first attracted you to her ? Sir Harry. Don't think me a fool — but — bui — I've •watched her playing with the children. Lady Milanor. Ah I slie's a clever girl. Sir Harry. She didn't know I was watching. Lady Milanor. A clever girl is always preparing for the unforeseen. Sir Harry, (shmgs his shoulders desjxiii-ingli/) Per- haps it tcoidd be better to postpone this conversation till Friday. Lady Milanor. Certainly, but you icoidd talk. Sir Harry, (lie suddenly leans forivard and faces her) Mother, when you were young were you ever real ? I;ADY Milanor. {aghast) Eh ? Sir Harry. Or did everybody always go on like this? Lady Milanor. Like what ? Is anything Avrong ? Sir Harry. Everything's wrong. Nobody has the courage to be natural — does the difference never striko you between you as you are now and you as you arewlien your maid draws the blinds in your bedroom in the morn- ing? Lady Milanor. (horrified) Harry ! Sir Harry. That's when you are yourself. What j^ou are now is a creature of j'our own creating. Lady Milanor. You'd be exceedingly pleased and proud to walk down Bond Street with me as I am when my maid draws my blinds of a morning, wouldn't you, dear ? Sir Harry. I don't see that Bond Street matters. Lady Milanor. You have obviously never seen a some- what battered old lady of sixty-four sitting on the edge of her bed, realizing that it's time to get up and prepare for the amusements of the day. Sir Harry. It must be a pathetic picture. Lady Milanor. It is, for the first ten minutes, but it's THE WILDERNESS. 17 wonderful what a tactful maid can achieve. Be grateful^ iny dear boy. tliafc we do hide our real selves from eacli otiier ; if we didn't, somebody's popularity would be dis- tinctly on the wane. Sir Harry, {louksat her steadily for some time, then (Innvs a deep breath and rines) I shall go down to Derby- shire next Wednesday. I begin to feel 1 want fresli air. Lady Milanor. Ah! that's different : people can affordl to be themselves wlien they're all ))y them.selves in the country. Your poor dear father never dreamt C)f wearing his toupet wlienever lie was outside the four-mile radius. {she shakes herself info shape and rises) I'm going to talk to Lady Carruthers ; I saw her nodding in the corner. ^l.<? she passes info the upper room she meets 1\Irs. Bucklf-Y AVeston, a jaded, somewhat pompjous-looking iconian of forty. Mrs. Buckley Wkstox. How do you do, Lady Mila- nor ? Lady ;Milanor. How do, Mrs. Weston ? Mrs. Buckley' Weston. Is my daughter here ? Lady Milanor. Haven't seen her. Mrs. Buckley Weston. She was to meet me herewith the children. Lm taking them to — Jiow du you do. Mr. Worburn ? (Lady IMilanor joins Lady Carruthers. Mrs. Buckley V\}i^-vo:s disappearshehind arch to another table. There's a bur.^t of lartghter from the upper room, and the little j^irty at Worburn's t(d)le breaks np and tiioves towards the door, ehattering eheerfnlli/. Ethel, as she goes, sees Sir Harry and rims doivn to him leith a glad cry and outsfretehed hands) Ethel. Hai-ry ! Sir Harry, {starting iq)) Ethel— bless the girl— what ai"e you doing here V Ethel. Aunt Gertrude and the Granger girls have been liaving tea with Mr. V.'orburn — and he's taking us all to the Opera to-night, {she stojjs) Oh, I forgot, you don't like him. Sir Harry, (drily) As I know all about him I occa- sionally have the jileasin-e of cutting him. Ethel. Harry, being your youngest lirst cousin, I can call you a crank without being rude. He's perfectly charm- ing iiiiil Sir Harry. And he's a millionaire. Ethel. Just so. Sir Harry, (after a pause) Heard from Phil lately? Ethel, (looking swiftly up at him) Yes — this morn- ing. Sir H.A.v.iV. AnytJiing fresh ? Ethel, (shaking her head sadly) Lord Headmouut 2 IS THE WILDERNESS. told mamma he'd try his best to get him the appointment, but you know what that means. Sir Harry. Poor old Pliil ! Ethel, (slowly) Poor old Phil— poor old me. (then. a pause, and she shrugs her shoulders with, a laugh) Oh, "Harry, wliat's the use of breaking one's lieart in this world ? Let's" keep something to look forward to in tiie next. Sir Harry. Don't talk like that. Ethel,, You goose, I didn't mean it. Sir Harry, (looking at her gravely) You love Pliil, Etliel, you told me yourself you did. Ethel, (shudders a little) Don't, don't, it isn't kind of you. Worbcrn. (fro'in upper room) Are you coming, Miss Glyndon? Ethel. (brigJttly) Are you waiting for me? I'm so sorry. Good-bye, old goose, good-bye. (and she runs up and rejoins the others, and they go out. Sir Harry stands ■motionless a minute, then draws a long breath) Sir Harry. Yes, I'll get out of it for a bit, that's what I'll do. (he starts up as a gau)it, gray-bearded, iron-faced man comes awkwardly towards Jiim) Uncle Jo, wliat the devil are you doing here? Uncle Jo. Your man told me where you were — so here I am. (he looks round at all tlte fasliionable people in dis- gust) Wliat a hole ! Sir Harry. Isn't it ? Un'CLE Jo. What goes on here ? Sir Harry. Tea, and old women and — and other things. Uncle Jo. Come out of it. Sir Harry. That's just what I've been making up my mind to do — get out of it altogether. Uncle Jo, will you <;ome for a week's fishing to Derbj'shire? Uncle Jo. A week's fishing ? I don't often take a holi- day. Sir Harry. You can't afford to, you're so rich. Uncle Jo. Next week? Sir Harry. Or sooner. Uncle Jo. Next week. Sir Harry. Right. Come down there, just you and I, not another soul, and I'll show you life. Uncle Jo. Any females ? Sir Harry. Not a soul. Uncle Jo. Ai\y fish ? Sir Harry. Slioals. Uncle Jo. None of this ? Sir Harry. Heaven forbid ! Just real true life — we'll git out of tiiis wilderness if only for ten days, put back our shoulders and breathe. Uncle Jo. I want to see you on business. THE AVILDERXESS. 19 Sir Harry. To the lions witli business. (Mabel comes .iJu-onylitlieroomiilcadiiKj tlictiriuti) Look, do you see that girl? Uncle Jo. Yes. Sir Harry. Isn't she glorious? (lie seizeft his tmele's ■arm) Uncle Jo, come away from liiis place. I'm sure that I'iu falling in love. Mabel. {sa-ectJij) Still here, .Sir Harry? I made sure you'd be gone by now. Sir Harry. I'm going at once. Mabel. Tliat looks as if I drove you away, (sees her mother (tt table hcltind arch) Oh, mamma, I"m so sorry I'm late. Here they are, and they're both going to be fearfully good. Mrs. Buckley Weston. You're coming with us? Mabel. No, I'm going home ; I'm tired, I've got ahead- ache. (Sir Harry is icatchingher. Slic turns tuLcardsliim icith a little sigh) Sir Harry. A headache ? Mabel. It's nothing, only this hateful, ceaseless London racket, (then she s)}iiles sirectli/ upon him) I'm glad you haven't gone. I thought j'ou'd like to shake hands with the twins, because you won't r.ee them for ages. Sir Harry. Are tliey going away ? Mabel. Yes, mannna's taken a little place in the coun- try, and we're all going down for a change — away from all this sort of thing. Sir Harry, {eagerly — bending towards her) You too? Out of the wilderness into the light. Mabel. Into the light, yes— into the light, (the;/ tool- at each other, then kIic saijs slouii/ and softli/, still looking into his ei/es) AVe meet again this evening ? Sir Harry, {gravehj) This evening. Mabel, (snddenli/) What do you mean by " out of the Avilderness into the light"? Sir Harry. I thought you understood. Mabel. I thought I did too, but now somehow I won- der if my meaning joined with yours. I didn't fancy such thoughts ever came to men. Sir Harry. PerJiaps you've never known a man — or I a woman. Tlie precious " real" is well wrapped round. Mabel. Don't tlie wraps unwind ? Sir Harry. Not in the wilderness. The air's too cold. Mabel. But out in the light ? Sir Harry. Please fJod — some day — out in the light. Mabel, (looks straight into his ei/es, and says very sei^i- ously and slou'ly, giring him her hand) I — I'm glad you're dining with us to-night. Sir Harry, (grarely) Tiiank you. Till then (they shake hands, and he goes iip through the rooms and out) 20 THE WILDERNESS. Mabel, {after n jwin^e. smiles to lierself) TJuit's rooJ^ {then site looks at Iter wa I eh) Half-past four. Tlie soutlu tMitrance at quarter-past live, I «aid. It's all right, liniik plenty of time. ACT II. THE DARK HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN. Scene. — ^4 earner of the icoods s^irrounding the Bor- canibe Valley. Large trees overhang on either side, irlide- all around the inidergron'th of braeken and hrainhlf. grons thieklij — an iinpenetrahle trail of green leaves (tiid. reel berries. The elearing in tlie centre is thick moss// grass, iitidnlating into tnounds. There is a small bt-eak in the undergrowth at the hack. In the centre of the clearing, the grass grooving in the holloic betireeti tiro [ mounds is of a lighter color and circular. There are also- on either side laitior bre(d:s in the braeken through which the children can enter the sacred 2^>'ecincts by going down on their hands and knees. It is now the second of June, and (d)out the middle of the day. tvhen to the singing of birds the curtain rises. After a jmiise. Sir Harry Torres' his way through the bushes, his hat on the back of his head, his necktie flying, his IudhIs deep in the poclcets of his shooting coat, the jrhole man brimful of the joy of life. He looks 7'on ml at the scene and smiles. He is fol- lowed by Uncle Jo, who looks partictdarly grim and imimpressioncdjle. Sir Harry, (beaming) Now, didn't I tell you I'd take you somewhere whei'e you coidd ])ut your shoulders back and breathe ? Didn't I tell you I'd show you a spot "r" Uncle Jo. Is this it '/ Sir Harry. This is it. Uncle Jo. {shortly) Oh ! Sir Harry, {not to bedashed) I knew you'd like it, I discovered this place when I was a kid, I grew u\> on that mound, under these trees. I've known these ferns when they were ten feet high, and I fought my way through them despite the attacks of frogs and — and snakes and bears and elephants, and all the other might}' denizens of the forest — fought my way through 'em, yes, that's where I came, (he points to a little break in the undergrowth) That's the pass I stormed, till victory was mine, and the great peace of this space spread out before me. and I sat down under this mighty hill and looked around upon xay kingdom, (protidly) My kingdom [ Uncle Jo. Very interesting. THE WILDERNESS. 0| Sir Harry. Yes, isn't it ? Look ! Look ! (he point. t to -the circular patch of grass in the centre) The fairies' riiij^ ! Just us green, just as Uncle Jo, don't loolc at it ia tliat sniffy way. Uncle Jo. I sliall look at it in my own way. Sir Harry. Well, y' know, the lairies won't like it, I'm jolly well sure they won't. Unx'LE Jo. {taking out his paper angrily) Ugh ! Sir Harry. You're very fidgett3'. Uncle Jo. You asked me this morning with tears in yoiu- eyes to show jou the fipots where I used to play as a child, and because I allow you to look at 'em, you become sniffy. Uncle Jo. I asked you to take me somev^here where I could smoke in peace without running the risk of meet- ing any females. Sir Harry. Well, it's done. Nobody knows of the •existence of this spot except mo. I ought really to have blindfolded you before I brought you here, and I almost fancy I should chloroform you before I take j'ou away. Uncle Jo. You're a fool. Sir Harry. Don't be so short with me. Uncle Jo. I'm really very fond of you when you're not short with me. Now. you make yourself comfortable against that mountain. :and I'll make myself comfortable iigaiiist this one, and we'll each smoke a cigar, think over our past lives, and forget that there's such a place as London, or such an abomination of desolation as a London season. Uncle Jo. You told me there were to be no females — we're not here two days, when who should we meet but the Buckley Westons. Sir Harry. Coincidence. How was I to know they'd rented the cott;i.ge ? Uncle Jo. Ugh ! Sir Harry. Personally I'm verj' glad, it's given me just the chance I wanted. Uncle Jo. How ? Sir Harry, {softly, almost to himself) I've seen a real woman at last. Uncle Jo. I've seen too many. Sir Harry. I never saw one before, and I'm thirty-five. Perhaps it's my fault, I may have been blind, (a pause) Don't j-ou tiiink she's real? Uncle Jo. Who ? Sir Harry. Mabel Weston, {they smoke in silence) I like to think of her as I see her here, a wandering wild flower in a world of wild flowers, (aiiotlier jxiiise) There are no wild flowers in Bond Street ; perhaps you haven't observed that fact. V Uncle Jo. {uriviug paper) Damn the gnats! Sir Harry. {blandly) (Jnats now— gnats ! there's 22 THE WILDERNESS. something very toucliiug about gnats, (and he tcipea one- out of his eye. Uncle Jo moves to a tree with a qmiit) Now, don't tidget and snort ulioiit, and don't dare to put your great hoof inside tliat ring ; just come peacefully back and sit on your mountain if you please. Here are the matches for you. {he tosses them to his unclz"^ How old are j'ou, Uncle Jo ? Uncle Jo. {lighting his cigar) Sixty-five. Sir Harry. AV^ell, are you as good a man as you were fifty-five years ago? (Uncle Jo grunts Jiercely) It's no- use grunting, you're not — you can't see as well now as you did tiien — I can't either. In those days these ferns were ten feet high at least — we've grown up. opened our eyes wider — and behold ! the ferns are only three feet high — we've lost siglit of seven feet of beautiful ferns, because' we don't see as clearly as we did when we were eight years old. Uncle Jo. If I had many walks with you, young man,. I think I should do you a mischief. Sir Harry. Oli, no, you wouldn't — you like my con- versation very much indeed really — you think it over while you're trying to go to .sleeji and it does you a lot of good. Look at that bird's nest ; that bint's nest was- there thirty years ago. I remember it perfectly, only it was miles anil miles higher up the tree, or perhaps the tree was miles and miles taller, it was one or the other- Uncle Jo, don't you feel rather dozy? Uncle Jo. No, I doiTt. Sir Harry. You don't ! You are an odd old person,, aren't you. Uncle Jo? (a pause) Uncle Jo, if you don't feel dozy — there used to be a rabl)it-hole behind tiiat oak tree, tliirt.y years ago, with a rabbit in it ; you might go and grub about and see if he's there still; if he is, you might tell him I'm here too, it'll interest him very much ; we used to be very friendly, at least I used to be, he was rather retiring. (Harry fs- Jijiug at full length on one of the inou)ids — his hands folded l>e]iind his Jiead) I'm not looking at you. Uncle Jo, but I know perfectly well that you're reading a paper — a financial paper, all about thing* tliat go up and down, aren't you, Uncle Jo? Uncle Jo. I am. Sir Harry. The fairies won't like it. I'm jolly well sure they won't, right on the top of their mountain too. Uncle Jo. it must be very hartl on you being a mone3-grub. Of all sorts of grubs, it nuist l)e wor.st to be a nroneygrub ;: doesn't it make you very, very sad, being ."^"ich a nasty sort of grub. Uncle Jo? Uncle Jo. No. it doesn't. Sir Harry. Your goloshes don't keep yoti dry while you're sitting down. Uncle Jo. THE WILDERNESS. 25 Uncle Jo. I'm aware of tliat, sir. Sir Harry. {sleei)ili/) Dear old Uncle Jo ! Un'CLE Jo. I'll thank j'ou not to Uncle Jo me quite so tliorouglily. Sir Harry. Not — dear old Uncle Jo. {a long jmusc) Uncle Jo? Uncle Jo. What ? Sir Harry. You are said to be the sine udest, as well as one of the wealthiest men on the Stock Exchange. Uncle Jo. Ugh ! Sir Harry. Is it true ? Uncle Jo. Quite. Sir Harry. Then why don't you give me some money for my hospital ? Uncle Jo. Ugh ! Sir Harry. Won't you give me some, Uncle Jo ? Uncle Jo. No. Sir Harry. Oh, don't sny it off like that so quickly — thiidv it over a little. Uncle Jo, won't you ? Uncle Jo. No. Sir Harry. You snid you didn't like my keeping on saying Uncle Jo, didn't yoa, Uncle Jo ";:' Uncle Jo. I did. Sir Harry. Well, if T promise I won't mention such a horrid thing as Uncle Jo — for — for — two hours, will you give me a thousand pounds? Uncle Jo. No I Sir Harry. Oh. well, will you give me back my matches? (Uncle Jo tosses ther.i to liiin irith a grunt) Uncle Jo, have you noticed anything odd about me lately ':• Uncle Jo. Nothing odder than usual. Sir Harry. I'm awfully in love. I'm glad you've not noticed it. Wouldn't it be awful, if when one had a real bad attack of love, one came out in spots ? I think that's a. very lucky thing about love. Uncle Jo. ]\Iabel ? Sir Harry. Mabel, {apcmse) And the dear thing won't even look at me. I thought there was hope ten days ago, but lately — Uncle Jo, do you know, she's been positively Rnnl)by? (a imnse) I seem to be talking about this very lightly — but — don't you be deceived — that's only my safety- valve. Ui2^i(iise) I've written a poem on her. (a pause) I don't mean I've writte?! on her — I mean it's about her — would you like to hear it ? Uncle Jo. No ! Sir Harry. I'm .sorry for that — it might cheer you up. You are looking so grumpy. Uncle Jo. Uncle Jo. Ami? (ct pdiisr. Siu Harry ^^'i^s o«-a?/ contenierlli/at Jtis cigar, and Uncle Jo becomes immersed in finance) 24 THE WILDERNESS. Sir Harry. Uncle Jo, there's a lizard going along round that tree, I wonder where he's going. Where should you say he was going. Uncle Jo ? Uncle Jo. To the devil, like most other young people ! Sir Harry. Tlie fairies won't like your language ; I'm jolly \vell sure they won't, (a jxaisc) Uncle Jo, do you see that sort of a tunnelly kind of hole, under those ferns':' Uncle Jo. Yes. Sir Harry. That's wliere I used to crawl through when 1 — oh, I forgot— I told you that before, (a ^ja^f.s*?. Sill Harry is looking at the hole — suddcalii he sits up listen- ing) Do you hear that ? (he riseft) Come away. Uncle Jo. Le roi est mort, vive le roi ! Come away ! {he seizes ]di)i) Uncle Jo. Wliat the devil Sir Harry. Hush, come away — we've no riglit here — we're only "grown-ups" now\ Come away, the King and Queen are coming to tlieir throne, come away, {and he hurries Uncle Jo out through the huslies at the hack, and forces him to liide behind a tree. After a 2)ause a small golden head ajipears through, the undergrowth, and Harold crawls solemulji on, folloieed by liis twin sinter Marjorir. When thei/ have suceessfuUi/ got through the brand>les and ferns they turn and cautioush/ drag in after them a minia- ture barrow heavily laden irith stores wliieh they solemnly wheel to the centre of the glade. Harold then sits down on one side of the barrow and Marjorie .s/^s oh the other, and they both, simultaneously give vent to a sigh of satis- faction over labor nobly done, contemplating with triumph the contents of the barrow) Harold. \Ve gotted 'em. IMarjorie. I gotted llie bones." Harold. I do hope Piippy won't know wlio wented to his kennel when he was out. Marjorie. He won't — imless the fairies tells him. Harold. Whicli they won't — 'cos Ave only stoled 'em for tliem — let's put 'em mi their table, {they then jjrocced to remove the old bones from the barrow and put them into the fairies' ring) Marjorie. Tliis is a splendashious dinner for 'em. isn't it? {she holds np the d"nt]f i^emains of a haddock and sur- veys it with much admiration) I specs thev'U just love that, Harold. I specs so. I gotted this from tlie dust- liole. Marjorie. I specs they'd like it better to have jam wiv it. Harold, {contemplating his sister irith. a reproachful sigh) You etted up all your jam — you ;ilwnyr does. Marjorie. {solemnly) I likes jam — "sides, ^'~:u's not THE WILDERNESS, 25 good for these sort of fairies — it's bones and yaddicbs tvuJ sawdust tliey likes best. Harold. How do you know ? Marjorie. I — I must have 3'eard 'em say so. (ajiciusc) Yes. I must "ave. Harold, (sniffing at fJie dilapidated Jitilt) It's werry nice and smelly— tliis one is. (heholds it out ^oMarjorie, wJio sniffs it ecstatic(dly) Marjorie. Werry nice. I specs that's what 'tracts 'em. {then follows a silence, during ichieh, tlieij sniff dream ilji at . the haddock skin. Their Joy is interrupted by the distant voice of NURSK calling through the trees — "Master Har- old ! Miss Marjorie ! where are 5'^ou ? '') Harold, (after a scared pause — during ivhich the two listen) She mushn't know 'bout thish ])lache. mush she — we's the only jieople that know 'bout thish plache — no uii ■else mus ever know. Marjorie. Cert'ny not. Come on. Harold, (pointing pensively to the haddock) Marj — she's so snilTy — think she'll be able to sniff as far as to this ? Marjorie. (gloomily) I specs so. (and she crawls off) Harold, (follou-ing Marjorie) I yope she won't, she's so very gyeedy. she won't leave none for ye poor little fairies. ( and they both solonnly disappear under the ferns, pmshinq the empty barrow before them) Sir Harry, (coming down) It was beastly caddish of us to listen, but — but wasn't it beautiful, Uncle Jo ? UXCLE Jo. Cliildren's talk ! Sir Harry. I wish we didn't forget how to talk like that. What a selfish little brute I must have been when I was a child. I used to be very friendly with the fairies — but — but I used to think it was their business to do things for me, not me for them. It never struck me that they had appetites like other people. 7 never brought them luxuries on a barrow — did you, Uncle Jo? Uncle Jo. No ! Sir Harry. And s\ich delicate dishes too. (he gingerly picks up the haddock) I think the new generation is ;i little in advance of tiie old. I must have long talks witli that King and Queen— they — they'll do me good, (and he reverently replaces the dilapidated fish-skin in the ring) UnX'LE Jo. You fail to observe that they are supplying their friends with other people's goods. The bones belong to the puppy, and the— tiiat — whatever it is. is tlie penpii- site of the dustnum. That's the sort of generosity we arc all (juite ready to indulge in. •* Sir Harry. Uncle Jo, how did you get ail the money j^ou've got? 2G THE WILDERNESS. Uncle Jo. By hard work and keeping my ej^es open. Sir Harry. That's how they got thei'' treasure — this — and these bones. Uncle Jo. Ugh ! Sir Harry. But they've been beautiful and given their gains away. Uncle Jo. Wise children ! Sir Harry. Of course tliey are — but how about you ? You've kept your liaddock in your pocket and your bones under your pillow. It's very wrong of you. Uncle Jo. very Avrong, and I'm not at all sure that it's health}'. {2Kiuse) Do you see the point? Uncle Jo. \'es, but I don't mean to give you a thou- sand jwunds, so that's all about it. Sir Harry. You do put things so concisely, Uncle Jo^ that's why I'm so very fond of you. Uncle Jo. (witJi a grunt of disapproved) You going to loll there all day '? Sir Harry. I must have a serious talk to myself occa- sionally, you know. Uncle Jo. Well, I'm going back. Sir Harry. Have another, {offering cigar-case) Uncle Jo. No, thank you, this'll take me as far as tlie- liouse. Good-bye for the present. Sir Harry. Good-bye ! (Uncle Jo disappears ihroiigh trees at the hack) Sir Harry, (makes Jiimself quite comfortable) Now I shouldn't be a bit surprised — if I didn't have just a littl<v doze — nobody in tlie world knows wliere I am. except me. (Edith Cadogan's I'oice is heard talking to Uncle Jo) Edith. It's very fortunate meeting j-ou. I'll find him. (andsJie piislies her way through the ferns) Sir Harry. JM}' gracious, it's Edith — what on earth are you doing here ? Edith. I drove over with your mother and Hugli Graeme from the Hydro. I've brought you some more papers to go through. Sir Harry. Oh. lord, if anybody ever makes me a trustee again — I — I'll {he leaves politely to her) Take a mound ? Edith, (looking down at him) No, thank you. Sir Harry. How's mother? Edith. Blooming. Sir Harry. She going to be at the Hydro long ? Edith. I don't know. ^ Sir Harry. How did you find Oi.i, this spot — nobody knows of it. except me. Edith. We ran into your uncle pist tliis minute. Sir Harry. It's very careless of Uncle Jo, that's all I can say. THE WILDERNESS. 27 Edith. Aren't you glad to see me ? Sir Hakuy. No. Edith. Not a bit ? Sir Harry. Not a bit. Edith. I don't believe you, Harry, You're very fond of me really, because I haven't thiovvu myself at your head as other girls have. Sir Harry. Oh ! Edith. Your mother has been telling me this morning how very trying you find it— being so badgered. Why not give all your money away— to me, for instance— then per- haps some one who isn't too particular might (she IdHghs (loini at him ) What is it ? " Love you for yourself alone ! " Sir Harry. I wish you'd go away. Edith, {smiluig) You're a sentimental old darling, that's what you are. You will go througii those papers, for me. won't you ':' Sir Harry. Um ! Edith. And send them bnok to me to-night ? Sir Harry. Yes. (she pulls a fern and sUs oeside hiviy then casually strokes Jiis cheek with it) Edith, {softli/) Harry? Sir Harry, idozili/) Um ! Edith. Is that nil? Sir Harry. What more do you w.nnt ? Edith. You never care to understand now — doj'ou? Sir Harry. No. Edith. Do you remember the tnllcs we used to have ? Sir Harry. ' Christians, awake 1 What a question I Wliich talks — what about? Edith. About life — serious life. Sir Harry. 0!i. lord, yes I Edith. We never liave them now. Sir Harry. Wlio wants to repeat oneself ? Edith. Would it be repeating oneself ? Sir Harry. Wouldn't it? Besides, the facts aren't the- same. Edith. You do remember the talks? Sir Harry. If you mean a serious talk I had with j'ou at tlie Gordons' dance? Edith. (senfimentaU!/) Out on the leads off the land- ing, under that shabby awning. You do remember? Sir Harry. Yes, you were engaged to Dick Rliodes, and for some odd reason you confided to v.i*^ that you rather despised liim. Edith. Well, 1 <-lid as you wished — I broke it off next> day. Sir Harry, {sifting vj}) As I wished! I like that;: •28 THE WILDERNESS. ■what difference did it iiKike to me? I said I thoiipht j'ou Avere a fool, or perhaps rather worse, to be engaged to be married to a man you •' rather despised," tliat's all — and — and — J'OU cliucked him — no fool you. Edith. Do you know Hugh Graeme? Sir Harry. Yes— at school with him. Edith. What do you think of him? Sir Harry. Danni good chap. Not brainy — but damn good chap. Edith, He wants me to marry him ! Sir Harry. Oh ! Damn good cliai), not brainy — but a damn good chap. Edith. I think I shall. Sir Harry. Ah ! Edith. You haven't any advice to give me voir, I sup- jiose ? Sir Harry, (stretching himsdf lazily) My dear girl — out on the leads — under a shabby awning — with an occa- sional star and a soothing band from the room below, one may let oneself drift into giving advice — but not here. We live here — we don"t float about in darkness un a tune. Edith, (shortlij) I shall marry him. Sir Harry. I should. Edith. Thank you. Hugh, ['eanl calling) 1 say. Miss Cadogan? Edith. There he is. Sir Harry. Nice voice. Hugh. Where are you ? Edith. I'm coming. Hugh. Oh ! in there, (he comes in. He is a heavily huilt man irith a vcri/ large nioustuche) Here you are. Lady Milanor is beginning to complain of cramp. Hullo, Milanor ! Sir Harry. Hullo ! Edith. Very well, (she moves aivay hrighil/j smiling) I'll give your love to your mother, Harry, and so leave you. and seriously I'll take your advice this time. Sir Harry. Eh ! (she bends doivn and ivhispers) Edith. rU marry liim. Sir Harry. I believe you will. What are some women made of ? (she laughs, and turns to Graeue siceetly) Let's SO. Hugh, (crossing swiftly to Sir Harry) I say— has she tohl vou? Sir Harry. What ? Hugh. Tliat I want to Sir Harry. Oh, yes. Hugh. Wish jou'd jiut in a good word. Sir Harry. I" liave. Hugh. Awfully good of you — at one time she led me to THE WILDERNESS. 20 suppose that you — er — and of course you're so deuced ricli that 1 knew if you did l"d liave uu earthly — but voii don't. SiK Harry, Certainly not. I'm her trustee ; it would be illegal. Hu(iH. {much intjjressed) Oh, M-ould it? I didn't know — I'm an awful ass really ; peoi)le don't know it, but I am. Think she'll ? Sir Harry. Sure she'll — she said she would. Hugh, (delightedly) Did she ? Edith, (from back calling) Must I go alone, Hugh? HuciH. Coming! (and he dasJies after her) Sir Harry. What a nuisance they all are. If all this rabble keep on coming here tiie fairies won't like it — I'm jolly well sure they won't, (his eyes rove lovingly round the scene, and at length come to a stctndstill at the sight of (I note sticking out of a- cleft in the trunk of a tree) Well, I'm hanged if somebody hasn't written a note and stuck it up ill that tree. How dare they do such a thing? How positivel}' dare they? (he gets up and approaches it gingerly) Now, who put it there? It couldn't be the King — lie's too small — or the Queen either. No, they couldn't liave done it, not even by standing on each other's heads. The fairies wouldn't ajiprove of this sort of thing — I'lu jolly well sure they wouldn't. I'd better put a stoj) to it at once, (he takes out the note and looks at it) Not addressed to a single .soul — this is very embarrassing — it may be meant for me — it must be meant for me — I'm tlu^ only person here. I — I hope it isn't important, (he opens ■it (Old reads) "If I'm a. minute late I don't suppose 1 .shall ccHue at all." — Hm 1 concise. Now, I wonder who it's from an<l to. and liow long it's been there. It's alto- gether really very odd. I think I'll put it back again. (he does so) Hullo, more ]ieople — somebody must have told everybody about this place. It isn't half such a cosy cor- ner as it used to be when I was eight years old, (he goes behind one of the bushes) It's killed that rabbit ; I'm jolly well sure it has. (and down, throughthc opening strolls the innn'tcnlate youth Jack Kexxerly. He comes to the tree and takes the note, opens it. reads it carelessly, tears it vjj, 2>nts the pieces in, his pocket, and proceeds to light a cigar- ette, remarking to himself after about the third pvff) .Jack. Well, if she thinks I'm going to kick my heels al)o\it here all day she's jolly well mistaken — my train goes at one fifty. Sir Harry, (having recognized voice, says) Hello, Kennerly ! Jack. ' Who the Hello ! (as Sir Harry comes round the l)ush there is anau-kard jwuse ; it is obvious that Jack is not over glad to see Sir Harryj ."30 THE WILDERNESS. Sir Harry, {contentedhj Hitting doivn against tr;c) By gad, isift it a beautiful day? J.\CK. It is. {anothi'r patiae) Sir Harry. Now. ye know, I can't help wondering to .myself what brings you here. Jack. I was wondering the same about you. Sir Harry. I belong here. I — I understand this plare — you don't — you ouglit to keep on the gravel ])a.th. you ought indeed. You seem lidgetty, are you expecting any one? Jack. No. Sir Harry. If she's a minute or two late she isn't coming at all— so I'm not in your wa}^ am I ? Jack. Oh ! you read it ? Sir Harry. Yes. I thought somebody ought to read it. It — it looked as if it was just pining for a little atten- tion. Jack. There's a great charm about you. Milanor. Sir Harry, (blnndhj) Yes, tiiere is, isn't there? Are you going to wait here much longer ? Jack. Yes. Sir Harry. Oh ! then I think I'll go away. Jack. Thank you. Sir Harry. Don't mention it. Is she pretty ? Jack. Yes. Sir Harry. Luckj^ man. (he looks at Jack icitli a sigJi) You've no income, no prospects, nothing in the world but just yourself ; and — and — " If she's a minute or two late, .she isn't coming at all." {a pause) Kennerly, she means coming. Stand there waiting for her, if you have to wait a thousand years, it's worth it — she's coming just to see you. (he goes au-ai/ through trees — touehing a berry here and a fern, there as lie goes) Jack, to himself) 'Pon my soul, I believe that fellow's mad. (tliea he begins sniffing) Fish ! I smell bad fisli. (Jie sees the fish a)id the bones) How the dickens did tliis filth get here ? (and he gingerly chuel's it all away over the biishes. After a moment's pause Mabel comes quickly through the ferns, a little out of breath, but looking very sweet and happy) Mabel. Oh ! I am so sorry, Jack, but I've been look- ing for the twins. Jack. Lost again ? ^Iabel. Yes, they've been lost for half-au-liour. Jack. They'll turn up. Mabel. Oh jes, I hope so. Jack. They can't climb the wall, and there's no jioncl for them to fall into, so they're sure to be all right. Mabel. You think so ? Jack. Sure so— aren't yon ? THE WILDERNESS. 31 Mabel. Yes, I suppose I a,m. Jack. Tlien we can have a minute or two all alone. IMabel. Yes, if you're very good. Jack. I"ni always good. Mabel. Pretty good ? Jack, {softly) Would you like me to be wicked ? Mabel. I don't know. Jack. Would you like to experimentalize? Mabel. (looking at liim) No, I don't think so. Jack. You seem doubtful. Mabel. I'm not a bit. Jack, (getting a little nearer to her) Tliere's a liorrible fascination in doing things you know are quite wrong. Mabel. I know there is — that's wliy I'm here. Jack, (slowly, icitli a great deal of intention) Do you mean that ? Mabel. What ? .Jack. Yoii know. Mabel. I don't, (their eyes meet, she sJirinls a little from him) What do you look at me like that for ? .Jack. I — I'm awfully — head-over-ears in lovewitli j'ou. Mabel. Does that make you look at me like thatV Jack. Yes ! Mabel. It isn't a nice look — it — it seems to have a lot ^behind it. Jack. It has ! Mabel. I'm sorry I came. Jack. Tiiat's not true — you— you know it isn't true ! ■(he bends quite close to her) Mabel. (re2)nlsing him) No, I don't want you any nearer, (a jxiuse. He hacls off, she sits on one of the mounds. Iter chin in her Jiands, and stares at him) Jack, it's awfull}' curious, isn't it 'i Jack. What is? Mabel. Why, all this — the way we're going on now. Just fancy you and I being so silly after having known each other all these years ! Jack. It isn't being silly — it's being wise. Mabel. We never dreamed of this sort of thing in London. What's happened? Both of us .seem to be two people now, wlien we meet with other people about Jack, (bending over her, interrupts softly) There's no fun in that ! Mabel. I know thei'e isn't now. that's the funny part, everything's so changed — but — but — when we're quite alone — and — and — together like this — it all gets so — so <;urious — it gets — gets as if it were dizzy — doesn't it ? You -<lon't seem to be a bit like you. You don't seem to be a bit like anybody real — you're just a — a— oli ! I can't ex- plain — and I seem to be — a — oh ! not myself a bit — or — no :>> THE WILDERNESS. o- — yes — I am myself. I'm part of myself — but the part of me tliat I know and everybody else knows seems far away. It's awfully curious. I — I wonder why I came 'i Jack. Because you couldn't help it. Mabel. I won't come any more ! Jack. Yes, you will ! Mabel. No, I won't ! Jack. I love you, Mabel ! Mabel. Do you? {a lo')ig pmise) I don't love you— at least, I don't think I do. No, I'm quite sure I don't — be- cause, when I think you over, somehow it strikes me that you're quite ordinary, and if I loved you. you couldn't be ordinary, could you"? (then she lireatcfi off, and says in a. most matter-of-fact manner) And, besides, I don't believe in love. Jack. May I come and sit quite close to you ? {she- doesn't answer, lie conies quiethj and stands beside her) You're not really sorry you came ? Mabel. lam — and — I'm not — that's where it's so funny. (he pids out Jiis hand, and gentli/ touches her liair, then, heads to kiss her, she shrinks from hitn) No — don't — Jack — don't, please. Jack, (softly) I kissed you before once, why mayn't I now ■? A kiss is such a little thing. Mabel. It isn't — it — it's an awful thing — that kiss began it all. Jack. ' Of course it did. Mabel. Wliy should it be — be so unsettling to one ? No — don't, (she vioves from him) I'm serious about this —I thought you'd understand, (then suddenly) This is the last time I'm ever going to be alone with you. Jack. I made up my mind to that while I was coming here — you — you — you're not a good influence — j'ou make me per- turbed. Jack, (in a tchisper) Mab, there isn't a soul anywhere near us — we're all alone. God's beautiful sky, and the trees, and— and the soft grass — and — and— oh, everything that makes life beautiful; and, if I come and sit quite close to you, like this, and just put my arm round you. like this— and— oh ! Mab, I may kiss you again, mayn't I ? IMabel. (slowly) No, Jack— don't. It— it's awfully wrong really. I've been in a sort of a cloud ever since that night, but— but— every time I see you now, I know that it all means nothing between you and me. Jack. "VVhy doesn't it ? You liked it when I kissed you^ didn't 3'ou ? Mabel. Yes, but I don't think that's quite the point. You (lidn't kiss me. you — you — kissed the ivomav in me — and— and — that kiss has made a difference. Don't. Jack — you mustn't do it again, (tlus quite serious and sloio) THE WILDERNESS. 33 Jack. As you please, {he saunters aicay) Mabel. Oh, Jack, if one could only understand what it all means ! Jack, {with a laugh) /can. Mabel. Oh no, you can't, you can't at ull, that's wliy it's so horrid. Why should you be able to inisettle nie, when you can't really understand anj-thinf^V You talk about " the sky and the trees '' — but, oh, Jack, you — you — don't care a bit about them really — you {fJien tcitli. a ci»aplete change she breaks off) Oli, don't lefs talk about til is any more— let's ro and look for the twins. Jack, {reproachfully) Oh, I say, Mab, don't go on like this ; it isn't as if we had all the morning, my beastly train goes at one fift}', and I shan't see you again for niontlis. Mabel. Tliat's a good thing. Jack, {coming to her and holding out his arms) Mab ! Mabel. Don't be silly, Jack— we'll forget this last ten dnys, and go back to where Ave were before. Jack. We can't. I can't, and I'm sure j-ou can't. BIabel. lean, {a long jianse) I am. Jack, (n-liispers) Are you reallj-, Mabel ? {she is sif- ting on the slope of the mound. He is k)ieeling close, and a little above her. Ashe sjjeaks. he steals hislaaids round her throat, and turns her face vjy towards his, till their eyes meet in a long look. She shivers a little, but makes no resistance ; as he bends his face nearer her. she whispers) Mabel. Don't, Jack — oh, don't — it's so awfully wrong. {and their lij^s meet — the7i there is a long pause, during irhich he draivs her closer to him. Tliey become listless, she stares out in front of her. He takes her hand and .strokes it gently with Jus own. She says slowly) Where are we drifting, do you know. Jack ? Jack. I'm too happy to think. Mabel. I must think, (a pause) Are you really happy. Jack ? Jack. Yes. Mabel. Really and truly happy ? Jack, {kissing her hands tenderly) Really and truly. Mabel. I'm not. I'm miserable— oh, so miserable I {she flings herself away from him and lies on the mound, her face Iddden in her hands) Jack. Mab! Mab! Mabel. I— I'm beginning to understand, {she gets up and walks towards the bushes at one side and pulls at the leaves; then after a jKmse, she says quietly) Jack, you — you say you — love me? Jack, {softly) You know I love you. (Mabel bows her head a little, still pulling abstractedly at the leaves, passing them through and through her fingers) 3 34 THE WILDERNESS, Mabel. Then you — you'd like to marry me ? (there is <t pause — she realizes the silence — looks iip qiriclclij, and turns questioningly to him) Why don't you answer? Jack, {sloidy and a Utile lamehj) Of course I' ' like to marry you. Mabel. AVhy liave you never said anything about it? Jack. Oh, because— {he laughs lightly) — it's impos- sible — it would be too absurd. Mabel, (stares at him in silence, then says quietly ) I don't quite luiderstand that. Jack, (nervously) Wliy, my dear girl, I've no money, you've no money, A pretty figure we should cut if we married. Mabel, (sloicly) "A pretty figure we should cut" — and j-et you love me. Jack. That's very different, I can't help loving you. Mabel. But you can lielp marr\'ing me, I see. How nice to have so much self-control ! (tJie two stand staring at each other, fill he drops liis eyes and kicks at the tnrf in embarrassment) I'm glad I caTneout here to you to-day — you've steadied me, (a pause. Tliey look at each other enriously) Do you know, during this last week, I've been seriously thinlcing of letting my chances of a brilliant future slip tlu-ough my fingers ? .Lack. Wliy? Mabel. You. (looking at him intently) Tlie new " you " — what you said and — and — did — made it seem suddenly wrong of me to marry him. Jack. I didn't mean Mabel. (interrupting sorrowfidly) You didn't mean anything, I know that now. Do you remember talking to me chaftingly in London about love, and telling me if ever I took up tlie subject you'd teach me the rudiments ? I thiidv. you've done it, don't you ? But the odd jmrt is, that up to a minute ago, I had begun to think love too serious to he a game. Jack, A minute ago ? Mabel. You made me imderstand tliat love is nothing really ; you can take my hands, j-ou can kiss me, shame me in my own eyes and your own. because you love me. What comes of it? (she laughs a little) "I've no money — you've no money, A pretty figure we should cut," Your own words. Jack, your own words, just think them over. You've brought me back again to common sense. No, no ! Love may be very attractive, but mariiage is more tangible. I'll marry Sir Harry and find my amuse- ment in seeing how it turns out. (she gives a hard little laugh and swings on her heel as if to go) Jack. You're angry with me ? Mabel, You're onlv a coward, that's all. THE WILDERNESS. 35 Jack. You're unjust. I should be a coward to marry jou. I can give you nothing, lie can give you everything. {then passionately) Oh. Mabel! Mabel. {cJiecks him with a bitter little smile) Don't worry yourself. I'm very grateful to you, Jack, But for you I might have made a fool of mj'self. As you love me so very dearly I promise you one thing. I'll write and let you know when the wedding day is fixed. Jack, (shortly) Tliank vou ! I sujipose it will come ■oflf? Mabel. Oh yes, with a little tact — I'm very young, but I've been well trained, {then her voiee breaks a little, and she turns a)id faecs hi)]i. her lips quivering, her eyes filling until tears) But look liere, Jack ; don't go on tlnidcing you're in love and kissing peojile — it may be all right for you, but — but it's a little dangerous for the girl. Jack. You mean Mabel. I mean — that — that — it very nearly made a dif- ference to me. Jack, (coining to her) "What difference? Mabel. It tempted me for a moment to think that perhaps there were things in life more important than making one of the biggest matches of the season. Sir Harry comes down through the trees, is surprised at seeing Mabel. Sir Harry. You I You ! Mabel, {with a complete change of manner turns to Sir Harry irith a sunny smile) I — I suppose we're trespass- ing, aren't we? Sir Harry. Not a bit. But how on earth did you dis- cover this out-of-the-way corner of the world ? Mabel. I came here to meet Jack, because I thought we should be quite alone. Sir Harry, (gravely) I see ! Then it is clearly my duty to remove myself. Mabel. That doesn't follow. .Jack and I have had a very serious talk, but we've said all we had to say — and — and it's over — and he has forgiA'en me. Sir Harry, (looking from one to the other) What had lie to forgive ? Mabel. A great deal, hadn't you, Jack ? Jack, (laughing) A great deal — are you coming back to the house? Mabel. No, I'm going to sit here and talk to Sir Harry. Sir Harry. Seriously ? Mabel. I always talk seriously. Jack. It's nearly Innch-tinie. jMabel. I hate lunch ! If I'm late, explain to mamma that I've lost myself in the woods with Sir Harry. S3 THE WILDERNESS. Jack, (slioyflij) I will. {]te strolls aicay. She laughs lightly as he moves, then calls after him) JMabel. I'll write to you as I promised, you ought to get the letter in two days. Good-bye. Jack. Thanks ! I slian't see you again then — my train goes at one fifty. Mabel. So it does ! Good-bye. Jack. Good-bye. {and he goes) Sir Harry, {looking at Mabel, 7cho ?'s lying aaainst the mound, her hands clasped behind her head, looking iip into the sky) Why have you sent him away 'f Mabel. I haven't. He just went. Sir Harry. Did I drive him away? Mabel. No ; he was going before you came. Sir Harry. I read the note j'ou stuck in the tree. ' Mabel, {calmly) Did you ? Sir Harry. Have vou been having a very serious talk ? Mabel. Very. Sir Harry, do all girls hate themselves as much as I hate myself? Sir Harry. Do you hate yourself ? Mabel. Awfully ! So would you if j'ou knew what I've done. Sir Harry. .Should I? {he comes a little toicards her) Tell me what you've done. Mabel, {sloidy) I'm afraid I've been flirting with Jack. Sir Harry. Have you ? Mabel. Yes, I think I must have been. I didn't mean to. I didn't know it was flirting, he says it was, and i ex- pect he knows more about it tlian I do. Sir Harry. I shouldn't wonder. Mabel. And then quite suddenly it all got serious, and — and so I wn'ote that note and came out here to — to ttU him how sorry I was — and — and to ask him to forgive me. It's awful when a person asks you to marry thetn and you don't want to, and so have to say no. You've never been through that, have you ? Sir Harry. Almost ; you see I've twenty thousand a year. Mabel, {sitting iip and facing him) You mean — oh. how horrid for you ! What fools women are — as if money mattered ! {she lies back again) That's what made Jack so angry just now. He said I wouldn't marry him because he was poor. Why, one couldn't help marrying a man if one loved him, however poor he was, could one ? Sir Harry. Poverty is a blessing sometimes. Mabel, {suddenly) Oh, Sir Harry — Sir Harry — why is there such a thing as life ? i wish to goodness I was a beetle ! THE WILDERNESS. 37 Sir Harry, (smiling down at her) What would you gain ? Mabel, (icearily) Nothing, I suppose— even beetles get trodden on at tlie finish, (a jitmse, then she looks vp at him suddenly, and says) Did it strike you that I'd been tlirting with Jack ? Sir Harry. I've never seen you together. Mabel. Haven't you ? Oh, I suppose you haven't — but does it strike you as likely ? Sir Harry. No. Mabel. I'm sure I haven't been. Jack must have mis- understood me. Why, I've known Jack since he was a little boy. (she sighs serdimentally) Poor old Jack ! Sir Harry. Poor old Jack ! Mabel. I hope it won't pi'event our remaining friends. Sir Harry. I Jiope not. Mabel. Well, I can't help it if it does, can I? Just fancy what it would be to many any one one didn't love. Sir Harry. You talk very glibly of love. What do 3'ou know about it ? Mabel. Nothing. I only dream. Sir Harry. You have dreamt of love — tell me what ■" love " seems to you. Mabel, (a little at a loss) Oh — a man Sir Harry. Naturally. Mabel. And, if you love him— it— means that— that you love him — that you— that you— oh — tliat you're able to be your real self when you are witli him. That you— oh, I ■tlon't think I know reall.y, anyhow, I can't put it into words. (site tiirns on her shoulder, and looks up at hivi) You tell me what you mean by " love." Sir Harry. When I was about your age, I think I must have had the same ideas about love that you have. Mabel. You can't tell what ideas I have, because I couldn't think of the words to ])ut them in, and tell you. Sir Harry. It doesn't want words to tell wliat your ideas of love are. He's a fairy ])rince. (she makes an amused grimace to herself, then says sentimentally) Mabel. I shouldn't care if he was a beggar, so long as he was Love. Sir Harry. Wouldn't you really ! (then he moves to- ivards her, vith a laugh of delight) Oh, what a treat it is to talk to you ! Mabel, 'i^ou're making fun of me. Sir Harry. I'm not. I'm in deadly earnest. You've no idea what a treat it is to meet some one who wouldn't care a liang if you were a pauper. Now look here, let you and I be tlioroughly ourselves and have a talk. Mabel, (falling into his mood at once) Oh, if one 38 THE WILDERNESS. could always be oneself wouldn't it be splendid ? But there are so few people who'd understand. Sir Harry. I'd understand. Mabel. Yes, I think you would. Sir Harry. Then if you think that, you know I — I"ni ■worth making a friend of. Mabel. Yes, I know that too. Sir Harry. Then wliy have you avoided me so steadily these last ten days, won't you tell nie ? You can trust me. Remember we're botli being thoroughly ourselves. so nothing we say matters. Why have you avoided me ? Mabel. Because {very sloidy) I've got a friend — a girl friend — who, when she heard we were coming down to stay here, said it was " clever "' of me — as j'ou were a great catch. Sir Harry, {icith disgust) Isn't it like them ? Oh, how I hate my friends ! Mabel. So do I. That one especially. Sir Harry. And that's wlij- j-ou've Mabel. That's why. (a pmese) Isn't it awful for you ? Sir Harry. What ? Mabel. Being such a catch. Sir Harry. I've not been caught yet. Mabel. You will be some day. Sir Harry. I keep my ej-es open. Mabel. Wliafs the good of that 'i Love's eyes may be- open, but Love is blind. Sir Harry. {gently) Not alwaj-s. {she rises and ^L1alks slowly to the centre and stands staring at the fairy ring. He iratches her) Mabel. Do vou know what that is? Sir Harry. 'What? Mabel, (pointing) That. Sir Harry. That circle of pale grass ? I I\Iai?el. Yes. Sir Harry, {watching her) Bad turf, of course. Mabel. No. {very gravely) That's the fairies" ring. Sir Harry. Is it really ? Mabel. Yes. really. And — they come here when the- ■wicked people in the world are asleei), and solemnly dance round and round. Sir Harry, (anxiously) Do — do you like to believe that ? Mabel, (gravely) Yes. Sir Harry. Oh, ]\lal)el, so <lo I. (he seizes her hands and laughs delightedly) I love to believe those things, tliey make life beautiful — what — what — oh, what a dear you are ! THE WILDERNESS. 3<> Mabel. Don't be foolish, Harry ! Sir Harry. I — I can't heli) it. Tell me more about the fairies. Mabel. You wouldn't care to hear. Sir Harry. Wouldn't care? Why — why — look here — ril tell you something. Before you came I brought Uncle Jo here, and I told him all about 'em — and he didn't care a bit — he kept on reading- his stuffy paper all about beastly money and — I told him the fairies wouldn't like it, but he went on just tiie same. Oh, I'm so glad we've liad this talk — we might have been j^ears before we got to know eacli other as well as we do now. {the bell of the old church clock is heard faintly in the distance) Mabel. Half-past one. Oh, I nuist go. Sir Harry. Not yet. Oh, don't go yet. What does time matter? We've all our lives before us. IMabel. You can do as j'ou please. I can't. I'm only a girl — and stern duty Sir Harry. Stern duty saj-s stay here. Why, all our future may be at stake — we're here in the fairies' ring. (she tries to iiwve lier hands from his) No — no — don't — not yet. I — Ive got a heap to say. You were talking of love just now — wondering — we botli wei'e — what it was. I'll tell you wiiat it is— it's what I've got for you. Mabel. Don't — don't Sir Harry. I must. It— it isn't the stuff they write about in books — it's just " love.'' Mabel, we've both got to live our lives, and — oh, it's so Iiard to live one's life effectively alone, but if you'll take ])ity on me. join liands with me forever as we've joined hands now, what a chance we'd have, wouldn't we? Why, we could go back into the wilderness witii perfect faith, trust and confidence — we could stand shoulder to shoulder and go through with everything without a fear. You're real — I'm realat last. Will you liave me, IMabel, will you have me? (then, with a crij, she flings herself froui him, and throios herself sobbing upon the grass) Mabel. No— no— oh, don't ! No! No! Sir Harry, (going to her and kneeling in great distress) My dear ! My dear ! Mabel. Oh, don't ! don't— go away !— I didn't think— I didn't mean Sir Harry. Hush, dear, hush! W^hy, my little one— what is there so terrible in knowing that there is some one ready and willing to lay down his life for you? (a long pause. She gets up and moves away, controlling her- self) Mabel. T— I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be a fool. (then she t}ums to him, and they look lung into each other's eyes — till su-iflly she flings out her arms to himicitha cry — 40 THE WILDERNESS. half sob, half laugh) Oh, Harry, Harrj', if you were starving I'd inarry you to-morrow. Sir Harry, {very gravely) You'll marry me this day month ? Mabel. Don't ask me to — oh, please don't ask me to. {and he slowly draws her to him and kisses her. Slie ■stands passive and suhviissive, and as he releases her she .•^inks again to the ground and buries her face in her It a.) ids) Sir Harry, {after a pause, raises her very tenderly — holds her at amis lengtli, looking at her proudly) My wife ! {then he tvhispers, bending towards her) What have you got to say ':' Mabel, {slowly) Notliing — nothing at all, except that — {with^ a. little sob) I — I'm very tired. Sir Harry, {tenderly) Poor dear, (he puts Jiis arm round Iter. They turn to go. As they reach the opening in the trees he stops and looks doivn) A violet ! Mabel, {quickly) Don't — don't pick that. Sir Harry, {looldng vp at tier) I wasn't going to, really, {lie smiles happily) Oh, isn't it all good? (then he lifts his head and stands for a moment listoiing) Hush, <;ome away, {they back off beliind the tree as the golden, lieads appear throngh the bushes and, the twins solemnly toddle to tlie fairy ring and contemplate it gravely) Harold. They've etted up the yaddick. I knowed they was hungry. CURTAIN. ACT III. THE DAY. Scene. — A very comfortable home room, half library, half drau'ing-room. A big fire burning. In front of it, in a big arm-chair, Sir Harry lying reading a book. At a table not far off I\Iabel sitting tvorking. The curtain rises and then, a long silence, no movement. Sir Harry, {suddenly looking vp) from his book) Sweetheart ! Mabkl. (quietly) Yes ? Sir Harry. Edith and Hugh are coming in about nine, they're in a fix over some business or other. Mabel. Poor Edith ! Sir Harry. Poor me ! I'll never be a trustee again, as long as I live, (he goes on reading. Another long THE WILDERNESS. 41 jiause. She rises and com:r. and siands beside him — jmts her hand on his head. He puts itis hand up and takes hers) Sir Harry, (softly) Dear old sweet ! I feel awfully- dozy — play something. (Mabel goes to jiiano and plays, a)id Sir Harry continues dreaindy) Life's a beautiful thing when it goes straight, don't you think so? Mabel. Beautiful, {she leaves the piano and comes don-n and sits on. the floor beside him ; wiili one hand he strokes her hair, tlie other holds up his book. He goes on reading) 3Iabel. You've taught uie such a lot, Harry. Sir Harry. Have I ? Mabel. There's such a lot in you, I don't understand — but— but I'm trying, Harry. Sir Harry. Don't worry, it's not worth it. I'm glad you told me to read this book, it's jolly good, (another long pause ; he reads, and she stares at the fire) Mabel. I'm awfully happy, and 1 know I don't de- serve to be. Sir Harry, (reading) Who does, if you don't ? Mabel. I don't know ; but I know I \lon't. (a pause) Hariy, put down that stuffj' book, and talk to me — I — I want to say heai)s of things. Sir Harry. Oh, my dear. I'm at such an interesting part. She's just discovered that her motlier drinks, and it's upset her fearfully, (he chucks the book away) What do you want to say, old sober-sides V Mabel. Lots of things. Sir Harry. Fire away, (a pause, Maeel stares into the fire) JNlABEL. Do lies really matter ? Sir Harry. I don't like lies— but I'm rather old- fashioned. Mabel. Aren't they all right if they're in what turns ■ out to be a good cause ? Sir Harry. I'm afraid lies are rather a matter of temperament. Mabel, (thoughtfully) A good cause! Why did I say that ? How is one to know if it's a good cause ? What's a good cause to-day seems a bad cause to-morrow. Sir Harry. Um ! 3IABEL. Don't say um. Now, suppose a person who didn't know anything about anything was shown some- tliing she didn't want, and was made to believe that that something tliat she didn't want was what she ought to have, and so she set to work and got it. Well, wiien she's got it, she finds out that it is what she wanted, that she couldn't possibly live without it : ougiit she then to tell what she got, that she really didn't want it when slie was getting it. or ought she jiist to be content because she's got it ? 42 THE WILDERNESS. Sir Harry, {gravely turns and looks at her) Mabel^ will you kindly ring the bell ? Mabel. Why ? Sir Harry, I want to send for two doctors, and probably a, strait-jacket. My brain has given way. (slie rises and he bursts out laugliing) Why, you silly old girl — what on earth are j'ou driving at ? Mabel. Nothing, (lightly) I thought I had a problem to solve, but it doesn't seem to pan out. What time is Edith coming ? Sir Harry. Not yet. Come back. I didn't mean to be a brute — what's the problem, old lady ? {she doesn't move till he says very tenderly) Won't you comeV {she conies-^ hack and sits on the floor beside liini) That's right. Now then, say it all over again right from the beginning, and we'll get it straight. Mabel. j» No. (s/te makes herself comfortable) It's oidy that I know of something that happened once that began all wrong — but tui-ned out all right. Well, is it right going on being all right when one person in it knows that it wouldn't be all right if the other people in it knew that when it began it was all wrong ? Sir Harry. My sweetheart. I don't want to appear- stupid, but would you mind writing it down ? {a pause — she looks at him — then she bends over and kisses hinu rising and leaving her hand resting on his head) Mabel. Its awfully hard to be — to be— (.s7/^ falters). to be so — happy — it makes things difificult! {then siid- denly changing her tone and conversation) Harry deai". you're getting very tliin on the top. Sir Harry. That's occurred since Thursday — it was Thursday your motlier came to stay, wasn't it? ]\Iabel. {with. a. sigh) Oh, yes, it was Thursday. Sir Harry. There's a lot of good in your mother — misdirected — but good. Mabel. Misdirected, but good. It's awfully funny to- watcii your motlier and my mother togetiier. Sir Harry. I'm afraid they don't hit it off. Mrs. Buckley Westox enters. Mrs. Buckley Weston. How tiresome children are ! Sir Harry, Your children, never. I Mabel. Are they in bed ? Mrs. Buckley Weston. At last. Sir Harry. When are j'ou going out ? Mrs. Buckley Weston, Shortly before nine. The car- riage is ordered. Sir Harry. Oh, all right. THE WILDERNESS. 43: Mrs. Buckley Weston. Mabel, it distresses rae veiy mucli to see you in tliose dowd}- frocks. Mabel. I'm sorry tliey're dowdy. Sir Harry. They' re not, they're beautiful. Wliat on earth would you have her wear ? Mrs. Buckley Weston. I iiate people to be eccentric. It's all very well for artists and that class of people ; they live by it, but it's ridiculous for a married woman, witii an assured position, to dress like a schoolgirl with nothing at all. Sir Harry. Does she dress like a schoolgirl ? I thinlc she looks perfect. Mrs. Buckley Weston. People who didn't know might think you'd married a bank clerk. Sir Harry. Why — what Mabel. I dress as I please, mamma — Harry likes it. I like it. I don't think other people matter. Mrs. Buckley Weston. As a girl you were very fond of jesvels, and rightly ; you always made the best of your- self. I'm sure you carried my amethysts superbly. Now,. your extreme simplicity isn't even mitigated by a bangle.. I know it isn't because you haven't got jewels, because- wiiile you were engaged Harrj' was most lavish. Sir Harry, By Jove, it's true. I confess I never noticed it, but you have never worn any of those things^ have you, Mab? Mabel, (sloidi/) Not yet Sir Harry. Wliy? D"on"t you like them? You did then. Mabel. Yes, I did then. One of these fine days, when I've justified my existen(?e. l"ll make the best of myself again, and burst on you. in all my splendor, or rather your splendor ; till then, I'll just be myself, if you don't mind, mamma. Sir Harry, {looks at her curloushj) Is anything the matter '? Mabel, {quietly) No, Harry — no — no — only mamma rubs me the wrong way — and — and I'm rather a cat this evening. Mrs. Buckley Weston. {looking at her critioxilhj} Wlio makes those dreadful gowns? 3Iabel. I make these dreadful gowns. Sir Harry, {surprised) You do — gracious — why? Mabel. I always used to at home — and — I didn't see- wliy I sliould change. Mrs. Buckley Weston. You used to hale it then. Mabel. Well, I like it now. Mrs. Buckley Weston. Of course, marriage makes a, difference to a girl, but it has no right to make such a difference as tiiat. 44 THE WILDERNESS. Mabel. Lots of things make a diflference that have no riglit to make a difference. Mrs. Buckley Westox. I call it a little ungracious to Harry. He'd naturally like j-ou to be smartly gowned — but no— you jnake yourself a — I can only call it a pinafore — I don't mind that, but j'ou-wear it — that's the mistake. Mabel. That will do. mamma, suppose you keep quite still and read your paper till the carriage is round. I'm feeling a little aggressive this evening. ^IRS. Buckley Weston. You alwavs were an odd child, Mill). Sir Harry. That is her chief charm. Bless you, my sweetheart. (a)id he, as lie jx/s.sfs, takes her Jiancl and 2)resses it lovingly. SJie sighs, goes to the fire and sits down) I heard the bell, it's the Graemes, 1 expect. I'll go down, we'd better have our chat in the study. We shan't be long, dear. I'll bring 'em up before they go. 31 ABEL. Very well ! Sir Harry. By the way, where's mother ? 3Irs. Buckley Weston. (iritJi- an aggressive sniff) She retired to lier room immediately after dinner to write letters — she said good-night to me as she felt they would occupy her until I went to the Gordons'. Sir Harry, {apologetically) I'm sure she didn't mean it that way. jMrs. Buckley W^eston. (blandly) What way? Mabel, {aside to Sir Harry) Be quiet — mamma never sees your motlier's meanings. Sir Harry. Heavens ! I nearly explained 'em ! (lie iiglifly touches his irife's cheek and goes cloion to the study) Mrs. Buckley W^eston. I find Harry's mother a very iliflRcult old Avoman to entertain. I supi^ose at her age the intellect does become dim. Mabel. I daresay ! {a long pause. jMabel bends over herifork. looking up noiv and then in thought at the fire) Mrs. Buckley W'ESTOX. I see great changes in people. (pause) You are not nearly as chatty and light-hearted us you used to be. rilABEL. Really ! 3Irs. Buckley Weston. I suppose that's always the Avay wlien one has everything one wants. IMabel. And knows all the time one doesn't deserve it ! Mrs. Buckley Weston. Unless you have been singu- larly secretive you liave done nothing to make you un- worthy of anything. Mabel. Haven't!? (« pcn^sc) I've lied, I've cheated, I've tricked a man ! Mrs. Buckley Weston, (in horror) What man ? Mabel. I've only met one man in my life, and I sup- l)0se that's the reason I cheated him. THE WILDERNESS. 45- Mrs. Buckley Westox. Wlio is lie. pray ? Mabel, {rising snddeiili/ and to.ssiiu/ iter work amn/) Does it matter? I tliink I'd better ring. I m sure the carriage must be there by nov,\ ^ Mrs. Buckley Westox. {luoliincf of icatch) No, ten minutes yet. Kindly explain this to me, Mabel. Yovi're my daughter, and — it's my duty to see that you're ha])]ty. Mabel. I have everytliing tliat money can buy and other things besides — so" it's obvious that I'm perfectly happy. Mrs. Buckley Westox. Your manner makes me posi- tivel.y cold. Mabel. I really wouldn't alter your temperature on my account, mamma — it can't hel|» me. Mrs. Buckley Westox. But 1 nuist positively inter- fere. Mabel, (quietly) No. please. Nobodyshall ever inter- fere in my life's affairs again. You've done your duty, you started me carefully— on the '• broad, straight road tiiat leadetli to'' — well, you know the Bible backwards, so I needn't tell you where it leads. J\lRs. Buckley Westox. (liorrijicd) Mabel! Mabel, Don't worry. I've stopped walking. I'm stand- ing still, thinking of a way out. Mrs. Buckley Westox". I haven't the remotest idea wliat you're talking about, but I almost fancy that you're having a dig at me. Mabel. No, I think I'm " having a dig," as you call it, at myself. ]Mi{S. Buckley Westox. Why— why — what have you done":* Mabel, (rising) What have I done ? I've been a fraud. You want to know the reason of many things — well, liere it is — quite quietly. When I think of how we schemed to trap him into this marriage — it gets on my ners'es — it — it makes me sick — that's all — it makes me sick — and— it may likewise interest you to know that I have made up my" mind to get straight. I'm going to tell him, manuna. I'm going to tell him everything. I shall never be honestly happy till I do. ]Mrs. "Buckley Westox. (agliast) You'll never be happy if you do. Mabel. Do you really think that? (fthe stares at her mother, then flings from her in despair) Oh! what's tlie \\M' of asking you what you really think — you never have tliouglit — you never will. Mrs. Buckley Westox. Wliat are you going to lell him? Mabel. Everything that he should have known before- lie married me. 40 THE AVILDERNESS. Mrs. Buckley AVestox. Ygu daren't do it, no womaa Mould be svich a fool. 31 ABEL.. 1 would, (til c clock strikes) Servant enters. Servant. The carriage is at the door, m'm. Mrs. ISucKLEY Weston. Thank you. {exit Servant) Mabel, there are times when I should like to shake you. Mabel. I daresay. Mrs. Buckley Weston. If you do — this — this wicked thing — I — I will positively never tlarken your doors again ! Mabel. I may not have a door to darken. You'd bet- ter get j^our wraps, mamma, Harry hates the horses to be kept waiting. Mrs. Buckley Weston. I — I"m going. Mabel. I wonder what he'll say when I repeat to hini • our conversation as to the relative values of himself and old Worburn as investnrents. You recommended Woi'burn very highly, you may remember. Of course he does own half Park Lane. Mrs. Buckley Weston. You— wicked — wicked Avoman ! Mabel. I'm glad you couldn't convince me — I'm glad I drew the line at AVorburn. Good-night, mamma dear, I hope you'll have a cheery evening. Mrs. Buckley Weston, {after a pause, during which she glares at her daughter, u-Jio is still j^laying) 1 — I can't trust myself to speak to you to-night, I will come to your room in the morning, (and. site goes out. Mabel, j^laj/s on and on, till at length sJie leans her head forivard on the music-rest and cries quietlij. then after a time she dries her eyes, gets up and ivalks to the iciiidoui, is going to open the shutters, suddenly eJianges her mind, goes quickly hack to the piano and dashes into a mad gallop. The Servant announces "Mr. Kennerly") Mabel, (starts up in siuprise) Jack — back again? (««rf Jack Kennerley enters) Why — you are a surjirise. When did you get back ? Jack. This morning. Mabel. And came straight here to see us — that's nice of you. Jack. Of course I came straight here — what else should I do? Mabel. Wasn't your mother glad you weren't killed ? Jack. I hope so. {ajMuse. Mabel, looks at him witJi a smile, then draios in a long breath and almost laughs) Mabel. How funny to look at j^ou, Jack — and — think back. I'm glad you've come — because you've come in the nick of time — you — the only person in the world who knows what I really am. THE WILDERNESS. 47 Jack, {looking at her curionslij) What do you mean ^y that ? Mabel. You remind me of eveiything. Jack. You only remind me of yourselfo Mabel, (meeting Ms glance) How? Jack. Memories. Mabel, Have you memories ? Jack. Yes — one must live. 3IABEL. Life's easier without them. Jack. Life wouldn't be worth having without them. Mabel. I don't think we look at life from the same point of view, {slieviovesaivaji to the piano and plays — <iftei' a jianse he goes to the other sideof the piano and leans 4)11 it u-atching her, then he says) Jack. Well. Mai) ! Mabel, (not looking tip) Well, Jack! Jack. Lady Mabel Milanor. Mabel. Lady Mabel Milanor. Jack. Like to come to the Aquarium ? Mabel. No, thank you. Jack. Like to steal a tea in Bond Street ? Mabel. No. thank you. Jack. Bored ? Mabel. Bored — no. I read about vour being woundeel. Jack. Oh ! Mabel. Were you pleased ? Jack. It was all beastly uncomfortable. Mabel. Glad to be back ? Jack. Very ! Glad to see you again, Mab. Mabel. That's very nice of you. Jack. I — I've often tliought of how — and — and where Ave should meet again. Mabel. Have you ? Jack. Yovi remember you told me I was to dine witli you often to — to cheer you up ? Mabel. Yes, I remember. Jack. Perhaps you don't want cheering up : Mabel. I don't — in the sense that I thought I should liave wanted it then. You're looking very brown and well, Jack. Jack. I'm splendid — and — and — Mab, marriage hasn't spoilt you — you — you look ripping I Mabel, (pleased) Do I "? Jack. Where is your lord and master? Mabel, (smiling) My lord and master is with Mrs. Hugh and her liusband in the study. Jack. The king Avas in his covuiting-liouse counting out his money — tlie queen was — Mab, I'm awfully glad to see you again — aren't you glad to see me ? Mabel. Of course I am, Jack. 48 THE WILDERNESS. Jack. Then sliake hands with me properly. Mabel, (looks at him) I did. {he drops his hand a little dashed. Another pause, she still playing, he ^catching- her) Jack. Well — tell me things. Mabel. Wliat sort of things ? Jack. I haven't seen you since your marriage. Mabel. No. Jack. Well ? Mabel. Well— what ? Jack. Are you satisfied ? Has the scheme worked well? IMabel. Yes, thank you. very well. Jack. You've been married — how long is it ? Mabel. Long enough. Jack. Already ? Mabel. I don't mean it that way. {a pause) Jack. And you are perfectly happy? Mabel. Oh, no, I'm not. Jack. Why aren't you ? Mabel. Because I don't deserve to be, I suppose. Jack. It isn't our fault — it's the rotten state of society.- I'm sorry you're not happy — and — yet somehow I'm glad. Mabel. That's friendly of you. Jack. I can't help it — I always said what I meant, to you. {going nearer her) Mab, it's been awful out there, thinking of you as — as some one else's wife. jNIabel. (looking up at h im swiftly) W^hat ? — (a pa use)' Oh — really — has it ? Jack. I see what a fool I made of mj'self that daj'. Mabel. Do you ? — that's a good thing, {a pause) Jack. Are you fearfully busy ? Mabel. What do you mean ? Jack. I mean, can you get out — away at all — can w& have — {he laughs a, little awku-ardly) Well — there's Bond Street, and tlie A(piarium, you know. Mabel. I think I've passed that, Jack, I've been learn- ing things. Jack. Well — now take a holiday — get away from all " learning," let's have a day out — shake a loose leg. IMabel. I tell you, I've been learning tilings, {site looks at him) What a child you are, Jack! you're as ignorant as mother. Jack, {blankly) What's happened? JMabel. The unforeseen. Jack. Don't be a sphinx, Mab, it doesn't suit you. Mabel. Don't be inquisitive, Jack, you're not a woman. Jack. I'm glad of that. THE WILDERNESS. 4^ Mabel. Oli, women needn't have a bad time if they choose to be lionest. Jack. Marriage lias changed 3-011. JMabel. ^Marriage has taught me a great deal. Jack. What ? Mabel. That there are a great many fools in the world. Jack. All of them husbands? (sJie stops in her plaii- ing and aguinlooks up at him, then says with half a smile)' Mabel. No — not all of them. Jack. You mean that you think I"m a fool too? IMabel. Sometimes. Jack. So do I, but one lives to repent one's folly. Do you remember that day in the woods, the day you got en- gaged ? Mabel. I remember. Jack. I was a fool that day, and I've never ceased to. regret it. JMabel. What do you regret ? Jack. A lost opportunity. I loved you — you — you loved' me and — and you would have been my wife now and not liis. I've cursed myself for that folly often. Mabel. How odd ! I've blessed you for your wisdom. Jack. People have no right to be wise when love is at stake. I thought I was doing the wise thing for you when I tried to kill our love. Mabel, (smiles) Poor old Jack ! Jack. But life is a poor thing without it, isn't it, Mab? Do j'ou remember telling me j'ou didn't believe in it ? JIabel. Yes ! Jack. But you were wrong, weren't you ? AIabel. Yes, I was wrong. Jack. All the riches in tlie Avorld mean nothing along- side of love. Mabel. Nothing at all. Jack. I've dreamed of this talk with you often and often, while I've been away. And now — here we .are, and — and it's real — and I can hardly believe it. Mab, you're not as glad to see me as I thought you'd be. ]\Iabel. You're so different — why — you — you're almost a stranger. Jack. Jack, (shortly) I'm not changed. IMabel. Aren't you really? Then if you remember the last time we had a serious talk together — you gently but jirmly declined to marry me, so what do you expect me t<> do now that we meet again — fall into your arms and sob? Jack. Well, not exactly. Mabel. You're a very amusing boy. Jack. How long does it take a soldier to grow up and be a man ? Jack. What do vou mean ? 50 THE WILDERNESS. Mabel. I mean how long does it take some men to learn common sense ? Jack. Common sense is a curse. Common sense made nie give you up. Common sense made you marry Milanor. Mabel. And still you consider it a curse ? Did jou fall in love with any one on the steamer ? Jack, {angrihj) You know I didn't. Mabel, {surprised) How do I? Jack. You know there's only one woman in the world I ever think of. Mabel, (looks up at him with a smile) Do you mean me ? Jack, {shortly) Yes. {she rises and comes doini to him) Mabel. Jack, you and I have known each other since we were little children, {she holds out her hand, and leads him to arm-chair by fire. Sits hi))i down in it, puts a cushion for his head, then sits opposite to him — a p)(tuse) Now, say that over again, quite slowly. There is only one woman in tiie world you ever think of. Jack. There is only one woman in the world I ever think of. IMabel. And that woman is me ? Jack. You. Mabel. What do you think of me? How do you think of me ? Jack. Do you want to know ? Mabel. Of course I want to know. Go on. I must understand this very thoroughly. Jack. You — well, I don't quite see what you're driv- ing at. Mabel. You know me very well — and I want to know how j'ou think of me. I want to see how we stand. When you think of me, what do you tliink of me as ? As I was that day when I stole off v.-ithyou to the Aquarium? Is that how you think of me? Jack. No. Mabel. As I am now — married to Harry ? Is that how 30U think of me ? Jack. No. Mabel. As the sly, scheming, contemptible husband- hunter, who laughed at love, and all the real beauty of life, because she didn't understand it? Jack. No, indeed. Mabel. How then ? Jack. I think of the girl I kissed, that day on the mounds, by the fairy ring. Mabel. I see. (a long pause) AVhy do you think of that ? Jack. Because I can't forget it. Can you ? THE AVILDERNESS. 51 Mabel. No. (she gets serious, he eomes to lier and takes her hands) Jack. IMabel, wliy is it we can't forget ? {she with- draifs her Juinds and ptds them behind her) Mabel. Would you like to know 'i Jack. I do kno\v. Mabel. Well ! {Jie moves toirards Iter— site cliecks him) No, tliaiik you, sit down and tell me your view of the matter, and then I'll try and tell j'ou mine, {a pause) Go on, I'm listening. Jack. You — ^aren't \o\x making it rather difficult for me. Mab ? Mabel. Difficult, how — we know each other verj' well, •Jack — and — we want to know each other better — don't ve ? Jack. Yes. IMabel. And I've got a sort of a feeling that this is • either our last meeting or our tirst. Jack. It can't be our first — we met that day. Mabel. We weren't ourselves. I remember trying to •explain that to you then. Jack. You're wrong — we were ourselves that day — we've not been quite ourselves since. Madel. Oh — what's the matter with us now ? Jack. W^e — we — we're incomplete somehow. ]\IabeL. Oh, are we — what's to be done about it ? Jack, {sloidtj) Let us get back to where we were that day. Mabel, (looking at him a little puzzled) You know that I am married ? Jack. Married, yes — to him — but I love you. Mabel. Jack, are all men like you ? Jack. I liope not. Mabel. 8o do I. Go on, I'm learning a great deal. You loved me. Out of consideration for my happiness you didn't marry me — you went away, and I married some one else. Now you've come back — and — and you seem to have something on your mind. Jack. I liave. Mabel. Wliat ? Jack. 1 can't tell you now. Mabel. I — I'm much more learned in the world's ways now tliau I was when you went away. Jack, shall I help you out '.'' — you remember so vividly what I was then — that you feel justified in classifying nie now — I suppose I have jio riglit to object. Jack. I don't understand that. jVIabel. Let's get it clear. Well now — where do we stand ? You tliink that in reality you and I belong to each -otlier, and he's only an interloper. 52 THE WILDERNESS. Jack. Isn't he ? If it hadn't been for him we should have been married. Mabel. Well, we're not married and he's here — a very palpable fact. What do you suggest 'i — this is very inter- esting. Jack. It's impossible to discuss it like this. Mabel. No, it isn't. Life's a very serious thing, Jack, and it's better to talk tilings over thoroughly before one tries to alter it to sviit oneself. You think we're iucuui- jjlete ? Jack. We are incomplete. Mabel, Well, of course that's bad. Now, how are wp to complete ourselves? Shall we go away together to-niglit to Dieppe — Dieppe is tlie place people usually goto to com- plete themselves, isn't it V Jack. I'm only thinking of you. You told me you- were unhappj'. Mabel. I know — and — it's very kind of you. How should we put the case to Harrj^V We could — at least I mean I should, of course, leave a letter behind on juy dress- ing-table to explain that I lack completion, and have left everything I have of value in life that I ma,y seek it. That's right, isn't it — when wives leave their husbands they always leave a letter on their dressing-table, don't they ? It's a stiff railway fare, Jack, and I've no money ; have you ? Jack. Stop this ! I'm serious. Mabel. Oh, we needn't go — this is his house — we could stay here, but it would be an undignified hole-in-corner business— wouldn't it? Stand up, Jack — look at me. I've suggested the two only possible methods. You're a man of the world — our liappiness — our future is at stake — which do you prefer? Well, haven't you got anything to say ? Jack. How can I say anything when you talk like this ? Mabel. How else am I to talk — we want to get this thing straight, don't we ? We onghtn't to go on in this dreadfully incomplete state. What are vou prepared to- do ? Jack. Anything ! Mabel, (suddenly with a long breath) Oh, my God. liow you show me to myself as I might have been — but for — for him — you are prepared to do anything. Well, there's one thing 3'ou've got to do, and I think the .sooner you do it the better. Open that door — go quietly down- stairs — take your hat off the hat-rack, and sneak out into the street. lEither our last meeting or our first, Jack — it's our last. Jack. You don't mean Mabel, (smiling) I mean that you are the most con- temptible thing I have ever had the misfortune to know,. THE WILDERNESS. 5,'> ■except myself. I'm not in the least angry with you, but — but do go and get your hat and run back to Afiica as quickly as ever you can. You've done lots of very brave things out there I know — now go and do a lot nioi'e. and your mother and sisters and all the other people wlio don't know you will keep on being fearfully i)roud of j'ou. and vou and I who know each other will kee]) the laugh ujiour sleeves. Good-bye. (she goes back to the piano and re- sumes her playing — Jie stands staring at her) Jack. You won't think like this to-morrow, 31 ABEL, (playing) Won't I ? Jack, (moving to her almost fiercely) Do you think I •don't know what your life is ? Mabel. I'm sure you don't. Jack. You don't love your liusbaud, and to you life Avithout love must be hell. Mabel. Do get your hat. Jack. Don't play the fool with nie. I k)iOW, you know I know, (hoarsely) Six months ago you asked me to marry you. It — it was impossible, and so j^ou married Milanor. You're right, of cour?e, to hide your misery even from me ; but I know what things are, and I know what Jiell must be in your heart. Mabel, (still jilayiitg) Harry will be here soon. We might talk the hell in my heart over, mightn't we ? Three heads are better than two, even if one's a husband's. Jack. Perliaps you'd like me to read him this letter. Mabel. Wliat letter ? Jack. The letter you wrote me the night you got en- gaged, (she closes the piano icith. a, snap and rises) Mabel. Tliat letter! You've kept it ? (3 XCK takes it from his pocket) Give it to me please, (she reads it. A pause. She turns, looks at Jack, smiles sadly, and says irith (t long draicn breath) I know what's right now — I'll give it to him to-night — and tell him all. Jack. You'd give him that letter— j'ou daren't — why, he'd know you Mabel. He'd know I didn't love him when I married him — I want him to know it. Jack. Why V Mabel. Because I love iiiin now. (ax>ciuse) .Tack. You love him- -you're sure ? 3Iabel. (quietly) I'd sooner starve with him in a cellar than to be the greatest queen in all tlie world. Jack. You love him, Mabel ? Mabel, don't — don't play tlie fool about this — is it true? ^Iabel. Quite true. .Tack. Then — then (a very long pause) I've been a fool — I — I'm very sorry — I beg your ]iardon. Mabel, (with a bitter little laugh that is hcdf a sob) 54 THE WILDERNESS. We've all been fools — worse than fools, at one time or an- other in our lives. I don't think you need apologize to me. {slie wcdks up to ihe u'lnclow, and he turns and stai-es blankly into the fire. At last he says) Jack. I— I'm not good at thinking things out — but — but, Mab— if 3'ou love him — and he— he loves you — isn't it better to leave things as they are V Mabel. No ! Jack, (sloicly) Suppose — he Mabel. I know — {long imnse) I know the risk — but — I'm going straight at last. Jack, you don"t know how — how awful the whole of nry life has been — I mean when I was quite young — truth didn't seem to matter _ then. I seem to have lived in an atmosphere of lies — and it was all nice — and easy — and pleasant — but since I've married him — I've somehow begun to imderstand that it's trutli that counts— it's truth that means life, Jack — the otlier isn't real. Jack, {very earnestly) Mab, don't tell him. Mabel, {slowly) I can't help telling him. I want tO' know that I can love him without being ashamed. Jack. I don't know what to say. You must think me an awful cad. The door opens and Mrs. Graeme enters Umqhing, foUoivcd by her husband and Sir Harry. Mrs. Graeme. You've been a perfect angel, Harry, I don't How are you, Mr. Kennerly? Heavens ! I thought you were in South Africa. Sir Harry. Hallo, Kennerly — how are you ? Glad tO' see you safe and Jack. Fairly sound. Sir Harry. By gad ! Wliat a time you fellows must have had. Jolly glad I wasn't witii you. Sorrj' we were so long, Mab — but Edith's notions of business are nearly as staggering as Hugh's. Hugh. Oh, you've made it clear now. It's all awfully simple— it was all that " brought forward" business that worried me. Edith. Poor dear old Hugh. I'm afraid you've no brain. I notice that men with your stj'le of over-developed mustache seldom have. Sir Harry. He's the only husband j^ou've got, so you'd much better make the best of him. Mabel, {very brightly) Never mind, Hugh, I've nO' brain either. Hugh. Somehow I don't miss mine. Edith, (to Hugh) Now if you'd married Mabel — and {turning to Sir Harry) — and yon liad married me when I suggested it, how well arranged it would all have been I THE AVILDERNESS. 55 Sir Harry. Beautiful— but see ho\v fond j-ou are of Hugli ! Edith, {maid nri a face) It's qviite pathetic, isn t it? Hugh dear, do sit "straight— we're all looking at you. Lady Milaxor enters, reading a letter. Sir Harry. Tliatthe nine o'clock post? Lady M. Yes. Only one, for me. Yours have gone to your study, Harry. Mine's from Aunt Gertrude, and it actually has something in it. Your cousin Ethel is en- gaged, Harry. Sir Harry, {spruirjing vp) To Phil Lennox — I'm jolly glad. Lady M. Phil Lennox ! don't be ridiculous. Phil hasn't- two brass farthings to rul) together. Sir Harry. (a.stonis])cd) Then wlio else? Lady M. To Worburn, the great brewer. Sir Harry, (horrijied) Worburn! T7te Worburn? Lady M. There is only one Worburn. Sir Harry. But slie was in love with young Phil Len- nox Lady ]\I. That didn't count. Sir Harry. What do you mean ? — engaged to Wor- burn ! — it — it can't be true. Lady M. It is. All those girls have been lucky — haven't they ? — it's extraordinaiy. HuC4H. How liave they been luck}'? Edith. In marrying so well. HuuH. Is it lucky to marry that brute Worburn? Edith. It's lucky to be in control of that brute's mil- lions. Sir Harry. (?(*//o lias been standing dnmfmnided) Ethel, poor little Ethel ! — who forced her into that shame? (Mabel listens, and watches Iter husband intently during this) Lady Milanor. Forced her ? Shame ? Harry, you've been at tliat poetry again. Why, she won him in the teeth of the opi^osition of all the marriageable girls in the county. Sir Harry. (breaMng out almost passionately) I call it damnable ; and tliere's something rotten in the life and morality of a country that countenances sucli things. Lady Milanor. My dear boy Sir Harry. There is — and I re]ieat it's damnable ! Ethel — one of the sweetest, prettiest, liap])iest little fairy cliildren tliat ev^r sent u]) tlie sunsliine of lier laugh to heaven — to be sold to an old brute like that. Lady Milanor. Harry ! Sir Harry. I mean it, it makes my lilood l)oiI. Lady IMilanor. She did it of her own free will. 56 THE AVILDERNES8. Edith. I saw the way the land lay at Henlej' — I thought she'd pull it off — she was playing him beauti- fully. Sir Harry. You mean to say Ethel Lady Milanor. How is Ethel different from all other marriageable girls ? Sir Harry. If she did this willingly — then I hope to <jrod she is different from other girls. Lady Milanor. Rubbish ! Sir Harry, (fiercely) I tell you that a woman wlio marries a man for his money or position is a — is a — well, it's a difficult thing to discuss this subject in a drawing- room, but you know what I mean. (Jack Kexnerly is .standing icUJl his back to the fire. Mabel /.s standing hi/ thepiano. As Sir Harry says ^/i is she turns icitli a sad little smile and meets Jack's look) Edith. I think your views are absurd. Sir Harry. Merely because you won't look at the mat- ter fairly. Edith. According to you there isn't an honest woman in the world. Sir Harry. Rubbish — there are thousands. Edith. But they cease to be when they marry — tliat's so odd. Sir Harry. They don't when they marry men tliey love. Edith. How many women have jou met who married men they loved ? Sir Harry. Heaps. Edith. It would be interesting to hear j-ou name one or two, wouldn't it, Mab V Mabel, [turning away icitli a light laugh) I've never thought about it. Edith. Do name one or two, Harry. Sir Harry. Well, there's my mother. Edith. Do you bear your son out in his statement, Lady Milanor V Lady Milanor. My dear, I was a parson's daughter — the middle one of nine. My father's income never ex- ceeded £240 a year. Edith. Are you answered ? (SiR Harry sits down tcilJi. u shrug of despair) Hugh, (sitting up and solemnly facing Lady Milaxok) When you married Sir Robert, with luige rent rolls, it <licin't strike you that j'ou were selling yourself, did it, Lady ]\Iilanor ? Lady Milanor. In my young days a girl never thought of sucli things. My dear man, it's lier duty to marry well — she owes it to lierself — to her people — and — and to any family of lier own that she may happen to have after- THE WILDERNESS. 57 wards, {she turns to her son) Take your own cnse — wliere would you have been if I hadn't married your father? Edith. Bah — men don't understand these things. Sir Harry. No — and, thank God, some women don't cither. Bless you, Mab. (he Jdsses her as shejMiiscs him) AVe know better — don't we ? Mabel, (sitting down at the piano— jjlaying softly) Yes — we know better. (Edith watches Mabel and is ■ struck by her face) Sir Harry, (half to liimself) Ethel— poor little Ethel — tlie dearest little thing — oh, God, it's brutal ! Hugh, (slowly unfolding himself fro7n his chair) Well, ye know I don't often talk, but it seems to me it don't matter much. Edie's often told me she didn't give a but- ton for me when we married — but that don't amount to a }ow of pins, because since that day, don't ye see, I've grown ■on her — and we jog along in double harness — er — swim- mingly, don't we, Edith ? Edith. Of course we do. Sir Harry. Well, all I can say is from the man's f)oint ■of view, sooner than have been married for my money I'd Edith, (lightly touching him on the arm) Change the conversation. Sir Harry, (laughing) Yes, I'll change the conversa- tion. I beg every bodj-'s pardon, I was getting hot, but (sadly) I was very fond of Ethel — look — the mater, having sliattered all my faith in her, has calmly gone to sleep. Edith. She's wiser than you, Harry. Oh, ever so much wiser tlian you. Lady Milanor. (j-ousing herself) I wasn't asleep, I was just remembering something, (and she leaves the room hurriedly) Sir Harry. Well, I don't care what any of you say, I stick to my belief, there are real true, haiapy, honest mar- ried people in the world. Hugh, (turning s^iddenly to Jack) You're jolly silent, Kennerly, what have you got to say about all this? Jack, (u-ith a laugh) I'm not a married man, so I daren't confess to knowing anything about love, Edith. Very discreet of you. Jack. But I do agree Muth jMilanor, there are real true, honest, happy people in the world. I've met two. (he hows slightly to SiR Harry and Mabel) Mabel, if you'll i'orgive me I've got to be off, the mater's rather seedy, and I i)romised I'd not keep her late, she still waits up for me. Sir Harry, (rising) I say, now you're back, let's see .something of you — can you dine witli us to-morrow ? Jack, (embarrassed) I should be delighted, but IJS THE WILDERNESS. Mabel, {from piano) Do, Jack — it's onlj' just our* selves. Jack. Verj' well — I — I should like to. {general fare- wells, and he goes) Edith. Well, we must be moving too, if we're to get ta the Argyles to-night. Aren't you two coming ? Mabel. No ! Sir Harry. AVe've realized that there's more in life than dining out and spending hours miserably with people you don't care a bit about. Edith. What is there ? Sir Harry. There is home — you go — we've been out so much we're taking a night otf the treadmill for a cliange. Edith. Well, it's been awfully sweet of you, Harry,, to put us right. If Hugh had only had even a little brain I needn't have worried you. Good-night, dear, {she kisses Mabel) Sir Harry, You'd better leave the letters, Hugh. I'll go through 'em more thoroughly and report on 'em in the morning. Hugh. Right j-ou are ! {he puts a lot of loose letters o)i the table — on top of Mabel's letter to Jack) Good-bye, old man, and tlianks awfully. (Sir Harry and Mabel wove iinth them to the door. Sir Harry goes doicnstairs irith them, and Mabel stands tvatching for an instant, then moves doicn to the fire) MABEii. " The woman who marries a man for money or positior is a " Oh, why did he say that to-niglit 'i Sir Harry' re-enters very cheerfidhj. Sir Harry. Poor old Edith, she does amuse me — mind you, she's really awfully fond of Hugh, and I'm sure they're as happy as kings. Mabel. Despite the fact that she didn't care for him when slie married? {he has gathered vp all the letters Hugh left, including Mabel's letter to Jack) Sir Harry. Bali ! — she cared for \\\\n right enough — that's only her pose. Mabel. {sloicUj) Harry, there is something I want to tell you. Sir Harry, {looking vp in surjirise) To tell me?- (Uncle Jo eomes in) Uncle Jo. The jabberers gone? {he makes himself comfortable by the fire) Sir Harry. Tliey have, {still lookin^ it his irife) W^hat do you want to tell me? Mabel, {glancing at Uncle Jo) I — by-and-bye — wlien we are — alone, {she goes ovt of the room) Sir Harry, {docketing the various letters) Poor little- Ethel ! I can't get that tragedy out of my mind. THE WILDERNESS. 59. Uncle Jo. Wliat tragedj- ? Sir Harry. Oli, only a suicide. Uncle Jo. Some one you knew ? Sir Harry, (ven/ sadly) Yes, a dear little girl I knew. (Sir Harry is looking through the letters wtten he stops suddenly and looks up) Now what the devil lias this got to do with Edith ? — it's Mab's writing, {he reads it, then he turns and looks at his unele, tcho is smoking jAacidly staring at the fire, then he slou-ly reads it again, and after a long pa.nse, he says ivitli a little shake in his voice) It's — it's a joke. (Jo turns and looks at him, he has the en- velojie in one hand and the letter in another, and is alter- nately staring at them) Uncle Jo. Hullo ! Sir Harry, (lamely) They're playing a joke on me,, listen! {he reads the letter) " Dear Jack " — It's to Ken- iierly, her cousin Jack Kennerly, you know. " Dear Jack,. I promised to tell you the result of the hunt — the wheel lias come full circle — I am there — we are to be married in February — so, lam to rule in Chesterfield Street, and play Lady Bountiful at Fawn Court. Well, I worked hard for it, and I've got it all. It may amuse you to know that I am thoroughly ashamed of myself, and more miserable than I've ever been in my life — it would be a great relief to tell him all alxnit it, and ask him to kindly buy some one else. — Yours, Mabel. P.S. — Burn this."' {a longptause)' Uncle Jo. Practical jokes of that sort are very silly. Sir Harry. Very silly. (Sir Harry sits motionless, staring out ' 1 front of him. Uncle Jo watches him un- easily) Uncle Jo. AYho wrote the stuff ? Sir Harry. She did. Uncle Jo. I don't believe it — she doesn't play tricks like that. Sir Harry, {quite motionless) It — it — isn't like her, is it, but — but she has. Uncle Jo. {crossing to him) Let me see. {he takes it) Where did you find it V Sir Harry. Among Edith's papers — don't say anything about it — we — we'll pretend we haven't read it, and then the laugh will be upon our side, won't it V (Uncle Jo is turning over the letter, then on the envelope something strikes him) Uncle Jo. The Borcambe postmark. Sir Harry. I saw. Uncle Jo. Date, June the second— wlij', that was the- very day Sir Harry, {very sloidy — half to himself) The very day we met by the fairies' ring — the very day we — slie wrote it that night — she — the very day we • {then almost, 00 THE WILDERNESS. fiercchi) No — no — don't Iffs jump to conclusions — let's tliiiik it over — quietly — quite quietly, (a long pause) It — it can't be true — it — it isn't possible — why — why — I re- lueiaber everything she said — and just how she looked wlieu she said it. Why — wiiy — siie held out her arms to me — and said — Harry — Harry — if you were starving I'd marry you to-morrow. It — it couldn't have been a lie — ■ she — she wouldn't have lied to me then — like tliat. Oli, no — it isn't true — of course it isn't true. Wliere's tlie letter ? (he rises, jJicliS it up. Then he sinks hack into his chair again, and sits sileyit. Tlien lie trliispers — almost to himself) I remember her last words to him — "I'll write to you — 3'ou ought to get the letter in two days " — and — and — is this what she promised to write (a lonrj pause — vhile he stares at the letter) Uncle Jo. How did it get here anyhow ? Sir Harry. He must have brought it back to lier to- night. He wanted to marry her — she refused him the day she accepted me. and — and Etliel loved Lennox and mar- ried Worburii. " How is Ethel different fioni other mar- riageable girls ? " — my motlier said that. (Uncle Jo moves a little towards him) No. no — give me time. Uncle Jo. I — I've got to think this out. {and he buries his head on his folded arms. There's a long pause, and nometliing ver>/ like a sob is heard. Uncle Jo goes to him quickly, almost ■angrily) Uncle Jo. Come, come — don't be a fool, man — if she did write it slie didn't mean it, and what matter if she did mean it then, she knows a damn sight better now ! Come, come, I shouldn't give it another thought if I were J'ou. Sir Harry, (lifting a haggard face — says hoarsely) Seven months of it — how she must loathe me ! — Oli, God, wliat a cur I feel ! Uncle Jo. (looking at him in amazement) You! What liave you done "/ Sir Harry. Robbed lier of everything — her youth — lier love — her purity — robbed her of heaven and shut her up in liell — oh, wliy didn't she tell me? I wouldn't have done it — I didn't know — how could I know'? Why didn't she tell me — why didn't she tell me? Uncle Jo. If any one is to blame she is. Sir Harry. Don't ! She wns a cliikl — slie didn't un- derstand, (he starts from his chair and icalks raindly to and fro, thinking. Then sialdody lie breaks out fiercely again) I won't believe it — it's humanly impossible — all her life witli me can't liave been a piece of acting — it can't have been a lie. She couldn't have kept it up, day and jiight, night and day, for seven months, (he stops, listen- ing intently, hearing her footfall. Thenhe turns almost })iti fully to his uncle, and n-his2-)ers) She's coming — watch THE WILDERNESS. GI her — watch her — it can't be all a lie. (^Iaeel enters quictJ;/, humming softly to herself. The tiro men, appeal' absorbed, but are in reality ivatchiiig her. HJie is looking about her furtively for the letter. She sees it and jncks it up. Sir PIauky, not looking vji, sjjcaks unconcernedly) Wliafs that? Mabel, Nothing of importance — an old letter, {there's a 2)ause) I — am I in the way ? Sir Harry. No. (another pause. Something in his face disturbs her, and she moves towards him) Mabel. Harry dear — you're looking so tired. Uncle Jo. don't make him work any more to-nigiit. (softly) I'll come back again when he has gone, (and she goes out) Sir Harry, (verij slou-ly) Poor little girl! poor little girl! Did you see? did you see? You heard what she said about the letter, and how she said it. If we hadn't known — we should never have suspected anything. Lies — lies — lies — and I'ju the cause of them. I have made truth impossible. Uncle .Jo. I don't see that she's to be pitied. Sir Harry. Don't you':' If tlie prospect of marriage Avitii me made her "more miserable than she'd ever been in her life" — what must it be for her now that we're mar- ried and she can't escape me niglit or day V Uncle Jo. You're making a mountain out of a molehill — girls get accustomed to anything. Sir Harry. Not to the kisses of a man they hate. Uncle Jo. Rubbisli ! Now, look here, forget all about that damned letter — look at it from a sensible man's point. You wanted her — 3^ou've got her — she's made you as hajijjv us a king — and what more can u man expect from a woman '? Sir Harry. A great deal. Uncle Jo. It's unreasonable. I'm sure she makes an admirable wife. Sir Harry, (icith a passionate outburst, striking the table with his fist) Makes an admirable wife — what a foul j)hrase — that's it — she's been an admirable wife ; gentle, uncomplaining, submissive, she's laughed when I laughed, sighed when I sighed — danced to me, sung to me — fed me and kept me comfortable — soothed my body — and satisfied my mind. Oh, the bargain has been honestl.y fulfilled. I give her money and position — she gives up herself, in com- ]ilete surrender — this has gone on for seven months. Uncle Jo, would you like to speculate how often, during tiiese seven months, a longing has come over her to kill either- herself or me? Uncle Jo. You're talking damn nonsense. Here you are, the pair of you — you've made a beautiful home Sir Harry, (interrupting) Oh no — we've never had -02 THE WILDERNESS. a home. It's been a stable for me — a prison for lier. (lie rises and goes to tlie firepUice and rings the hell) Uncle Jo. You — you'll think differently in the morn- ing, when you've cooled down. Sir Harry. AVe'lI see — I don"t think I"m excited — I'nx numbed — that's all. {a pause — he goes haeJc to the table — then he suddenly shudders andf drops his Jieadon his Jiands) The past conies over me in waves and makes me sick, {a Man Servant enters) Pack some things for me, will you ? — I — I shall be away some days, (Man Servant boics and goes aicaij again) Uncle Jo. You're going? Sir Harry. Of course I'm going. Uncle Jo. Without speaking to her ? Sir Harry. I— I'll write— I— I couldn't speak to her of this. T couldn't — man. don't you understand, I love her more than anything in all the wide, wide world ! {and with a drij choking sob, he turns his back and tvalksto the far corner of the room. There's a j^ause. Then he conies back and resumes his seat at the table. Uncle Jo ivatches liini anxiously) Uncle Jo. Don't do anything foolish. Sir Harry. I won't ! Uncle Jo. What do you mean to do ? Sir Harry, (slowly) Nothing— at least, nothing that matters to anybody except myself. (Mabel comes in- quietly and says reproachfully.) Mabel. Oh, Harry — still working ! (Uncle Jo grunts — she goes to the i^iano and plays softly) Sir Harry, (to his nncle) Go — go — I — I'll try and speak to her now. (Uncle Jo goes quietly out of the room, and Mabel pZa?/s on) Mabel. Harry, I want you to be very gentle with me — it's very difficult to tell you — and — and I don't know if j'ou will be able to imderstand. (he is not looking at her, nor she at him) Do you remember — that day, in Bond Street, sa.ying tome," Come out of the wilderness into the light" ? Sir Harry. Yes. Mabel. I pretended to understand j'ou — it was a lie ! (Sir Harry looks ?(p startled) That day in the woods — when you asked me to marry, you — and — and I said I'd marry you if you were starving — it — it was the truth, and yet it was half a lie then. Sir Harry, (he turns toivards her wearily) I don't understand ! Mabel. Don't look at me, Harry — you'll never care for me again — after what I've got to tell you — at least I hope some day you will — but — but it's bound to be a long time. (all the time sJie jjlays and he stands by his table listening) I was told to marry you, I made up my mind to marry THE WILDERNESS. 03 you, and I — 1 thought it all out. That day by the fairies' ring — wlien you came I didn't love you, I thought I loved some one else, he — he had kissed me — and I didn't know — hut before that I liad laid plans to marry you — tiien when he kissed me — I — I wanted to marry him. That's wliero I was such a fool, but he wouldn't, so it was all all right — and so I — I married you. This letter, it's to Jack. 1 wr^te it tlie day we got engaged — it tells how I'd won you — I'd sold myself and that I knew I was a beast — that's all. Sir Harry, {very sadly) If you'd only told me before ! IMabel. I was a coward and afraid. Sir Harry. I would have gone away ages ago. and then it wouldn't have been so bad. {she looks swiftly at liim — appealing. Then her head droops a little. A pause) Well, it's no good crying over spilt milk — we can't undotlie past — but— but — we'll tliink of the future, {he turns to her nu'tJi a look of infinite tenderness) You're very young — - just nineteen, aren't you V It will be better after I've gone away. Mabel. You'll go away ? Sir Harry. I'll go to-night. Mabel, {shivers a little and turns sadly from Jiiin) I — I thought you would if I told j'ou. Sir Harry. Then you do understand me a little ? Mabel, {looking at him sadly) A little, yes. {then she turns from him and sits listless, and there is a silence. At ■last she asks him almost pitifully) What shall J do ? Sir Harry. I don't know — what do j'ou want to do? Mabel. WJiatever you wish. Sir Harry, {shrinking) Don't talk like that — tliafs finished — you — j-ou're free. 3Iabel. {icistfully) Won't you let me do what you'd like me to do ? Sir Harry, {bitterly) Don't — don't — our bargain's over — I'm not your owner now. ]Mabel. Harry ! {then he breaks out almost fiercely) Sir Harry. Be fair to me ! I've spoilt your life, I know — but it wasn't my fault — nobody told me — I loved you. I meant no harm — be fair to me. {then he stojjs) I'm sorry — I didn't mean to break out like tliat. {a long pause) I've thought it all out — there's only one tiling to be done. I — I'll go away and — and then, soon, you will be quite free. Mabel, {looks at him puzzled) Free? — I — free of you? — I don't understand. Sir Harry, (icitli a bitter laugh) Great happiness takes time to realize. Mabel, {shrinking) Harry ! Sir Harry. Don't mind what I say — I'm not quite myself, {he laughs a little) You see — you — you've hit me 64 THE AVILDERNESS. rather liard — and — and I was very fond of you — Tvef always tried to do my best for you. I"ni going to do all I can for you now. Mabel. How do you help nie by going away ? Sir Harry. You'll know soon — but afterwards (her iiiDis and faces her) I don't care who he is, or what he is, he'll never love you as — as I have loved you — good-b3'e. {avcl lie turns to leave the room — she rises u-ith a cry) Mabel. No, no — not yet — not yet — Harry, you're very hard — my fault — I've made you hard — wait a minute — oii, do wait a minute — I {a pause, he comes down to her) Sir Harry. Well ? Mabel. Wlien — when you've gone— after a time — time is a wonderful thing, Harr}', and — it might even make things seem different to 5-ou. If it should and 3'ou should remember me — and what we've been to each other — do- you think you'd ever ask me to come home ";' Sir Harry. What do you mean ? Mabel. Only that I {she falters — he stares at hcr^ then moves quicJdi/ towards her) Sir Harry. You said — ask j^ou to come home — home — where ? Mabel.^ I've only known one home, that's ours. (iJtcn jKissionately) I didn't mean to ask you this — I thought I could be brave — but, oh, it's so hard to be brave. I'm not asking favors of you. I don't want you to be good to me — but, later on when you think of me — and I know you'll have to think of me — think of me as I've been these last few months, because that's me, don't think of me as I was. when we were first engaged, because I — I was different then, I didn't know, (his eyes on hers — Ids voice strained ivith excitement) Sir Harry. You — what are you saying ? What do you mean ? Mabel. I can't help it — don't be hard on me. Oh, Harry, Harry, let me think that — some day you'll writo to me — come to me — send for me — let me come home again. Sir Harry, {tossing hack his head with a glad, sltont) Great God — you don't know what you've done, {he rings' the bell violently) You've pulled us out of the fire — my dear — oh, my dear, I was going to make such a fool of myself, {the Man Servant enters, folloived by Uncle. Jo) Have yon packed ? Servant. Nearly, Sir Harry. Sir Harry. Then unpack and be damned to you. Uncle Jo. {amazed) What the Sir Harry. Go away ! Go away !— we don't want you — go away ! {he holds out his arms to his wife) My dear. Oh, my dear. . _ . , .^ THE WILDERNESS. G5 Mabel. Harry ! (she stands bewildered for an instant — then realizing the truth, she goes to him with a sob) Sir Harry. {holding her tightly in his arms, half laughing and half crying) Out of the wilderness into the light at last ! THE END. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE Comers in ifour Bets BY H. V. ESMOND Copyright, 1903, by Samuel French ^/: ' l.€^ JtyJ A £ u:^■ti^^ Caution : — Amateurs are hereby notified that this play is fully copyrighted under the existing laws of the United States Government, and they are not allowed to produce this play without first having obtained permission from Samuel French, 24 West 22d Street, New York City, U.S. A. New York SAMUEL FRENCH PUBLISHER 26 WEST 22D STREET London SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd. PUBLISHERS 89 STRAND WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Performed at the Comedy Theatre, London, Sept. 2, 1901. CHARACTERS. Richard Carewe Mr. Nat Goodwin Sib Horace Plumely, Baet. (commonly called Wad- dles ) Mr. Neil O'Brien Colonel Miles Grahame (the Soldier Man) Mr. J. R. Crawford Teerence McGrath (the Doctor) Mr. F. H. Tyler Richard Teerence Miles Audaine (the Imp.) Mr. Arnold Daly Herbert Coerie Mr. Fred Tiden David Hirsch Mr. Bassett Roe Hughie Helmont Mr. Ernest Lawf ord Wallis Brundalll Mr. Ivo Dawson Mrs. Ericson Miss Ingram Phyllis (her daughter Miss Maxine Elliott Kara Glynesk (known as the Firefly) Miss Constance Collier Budgie Culpepper Babette (Kara's Maid) 2 WHEN WE WEEE TWENTY-ONE. ACT I. Scene. — Dick Carew's room in his flat in Clement's Inn. A man's room. Old-fashioned, comfortable chairs, with the leather well-worn. On the r. side of the room a big fire-place with fender seat all round it. The wall is nearly entirely book-cases. The hangings are dark red. The over-mantel is old black oak, also the old-fashioned bureau, which is down l. against the wall. There is a deep, comfortable Ches- terfield sofa above the fire-place, and a comfortable arm'Chair below it, facing up stage. There is a door down B. of the fire-place, and a door l. c. at back, which opens into the hall — showing the hall — hat- racks, coats, etc., and the hall door, which opens on to the staircase of the building. There is a large win- dow opposite the fire-place with a very crooked blind. A card-table is set out between the ivindow and the fire-place, a little l. of the centre, beloiv it is a smaller table, with a half-empty, old-fashioned whiskey decan- ter, five glasses, and numerous syphons of soda-aoater — both on and under the table. Various ash-trays, pipes, and cigar-ends about — also packs of cards. The room has evidently just been the scene of a card party. The door is open that leads to the hall, and through it comes the sound of men's voices and laugh- ter. A moment after the curtain rises, Mrs. Ericson comes in from the door, dotvn r. She is a sweet- looking, fragile old lady. She gives a little ejacula- tion of dismay. * Mrs. E. Oh, my dear — the smoke. Phyllis, dearie, come and help me to open the window. 3 4: WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. (Phyllis enters after her mother, and is likewise a lit- tle dismayed at the disorder of the room.) Phyll. They are having a party, aren't they? Foo! the heat! Mrs. E. Dick would have a fire — and it's June! Phyll. (has helped to open the window and is now trying to straighten the blind) Dick says a "card- party " wouldn't be anything without a fire. What is the matter with this beastly old blind — it will keep crooked? Mrs. E. {nervously) My dear — there's something burning. Phyll. {turning excitedly) Oh, look about — look about, it's Dick's cigar end for a certainty. {The two women commence to hunt) Here it is — on the oak, of course. He is a careless old thing, isn't he? He'd be burnt down regularly if I wasn't here to look after him He dropped one into the drawing-room piano yesterday, and we didn't find it out for a quarter of an hour, and then we couldn't get at it, so we had to spill milk down to put it out, and that isn't the best thing for a piano. {The hall-door bell rings, and as Mrs. Ebicson is close to it, she opens it and — ) Mrs. E. Oh, Mr. Corrie, it's you. Hkrbert. (a frank, cheerful youth) Hallo, Mrs. Ericson, Dick sent down to me about an hour ago, to know if I had any cards. I was out, but I got his message when I came in just now, and thought I'd bring 'em up myself. How are you? {smiling at Phyllis) One pack's nearly new, the two others aren't quite, and, in fact, I don't think any of 'em are perfect. What does this sudden burst of dissipation mean? Phyll. {gravely) One of the Trinity has got a birthday. Herbp^rt. {with due solemnity) Ohoh! Which one? Phyll. Sir Horace. The little fat one. Herbert. Is that the one they call "Waddles"? Phyll. Yes. Mrs. E. I do hope that little bed in the box-room will hold him. Phyll. Of course it will hold him, mother — he's not so very fat. He's " just comfortable." WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE 5 Herbert. He's staying here? Phyll. Dick's putting him up for the night, other- wise he'd have had to go early to catch the last train, and as it's his birthday, of course that wouldn't have done at all. Herbert, (fanning himself) I say— you're awfully hot in here. Phyll. Dick would have a fire. Herbert. Where's the Imp? Phyll. Oh, the Imp's gone out to have a quiet even- ing of his own. He's too young to stand the shock of such a revel as this party. Herbert, (chuckles) H'm! It strikes me that the Imp isn't quite as young as he looks. Oh, I beg your pardon. Miss Ericson. Phyll. Not at all. Herbert. Somehow it's difficult to think of the Imp as an engaged man. Phyll. It is very difficult, isn't it? Herbert. He's a jolly lucky chap — oh, I beg pardon, I didn't mean that. Phyll. Oh, I hope you did, because I quite agree with you. Herbert. That's a spiffing dog-cart Dick's given him. Mrs. E. (turning round aghast) What? Phyll. Dog-cart! Herbert. Oh! Didn't you know — er — well, p'raps it was a hired one — only — well — he did rather lead me to suppose that he was its sole proprietor. (Sound of pushing hack chairs comes mingled with the chatter from the adjoining room.) Hallo! I must get. Mrs. E. Stop and see Dick. Herbert. Not I — when four old veterans like that get together and have a birthday, they don't want any extraneous juveniles knocking about — give him the cards. I hope the packs are perfect, but I doubt it. Mrs. E. Oh, I don't think it'll matter one or two being gone, nothing ever seems to matter much to Dick. (Herbert laughs, and with a cheery " Good-night " goes out, not closing the hall-door after him.) Phyll. (gravely) That's funny about Imp and the dog-cart. I wonder, does Dick know? 6 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Mrs. E. I don't expect he knows half that young man is up to behind his bacli. Phyll. (gravely) Mother, you mustn't say disre- spectful things about the Imp, he's my future husband! Mks. E. Yes, dear, I know he is — bother the boy! He's left the door open, {she goes to the outer door, her eye falls on something by the mat) Goodness! {she stops and picks up a key) The latch-key— now who put that under the mat? (a pause) Are any of the ser- vants out at this hour? No, they're not. I saw them go to bed ages ago. Phyll. I put it there, mother. It's all right — oh, don't look amazed. The Imp asked me to — he's likely to be a little late and he's mislaid his own. Mrs. E. {puzzled) But he's gone to his aunt's at Phyll. {ivith a little laugh) Oh, no, he hasn't. Mrs. E. But Phyll. Mother dear, don't be old-fashioned. The Imp isn't a child — he can go to a Music-hall if he likes. Another dirty old damp cigar, {looking at cigar) It's Dick's — he chews his ends. Mrs. E. But — Oh, Dick thinks he's gone to his aunt's, and it seems almost like deceiving him. Phyll. If the Imp deceives Dick — Dick's only got himself to blame. I think Dick makes himself very ridiculous about the Imp. I don't deceive Dick. I merely push a silly little latch-key under a very dirty mat, that's all. Mother dear, if anybody saw you glar- ing at me like that, they'd be bound to think I was a monstrosity out of a show. Smooth your face out, and come to bed, there's a dear. Mrs. E. Phyllis, I really don't believe I shall ever be able to understand you. Phyll. That's because of the difference in our ages — you're so very young, and I'm so very old. Mrs. E. (feebly) Why are you? Phyll. (with a laugh) Because, if I'm going to be married to the Imp, I shall need to know a great deal, Mrs. E. It's very upsetting. Phyll. What is? Mrs. E. Oh, everything. I'm sometimes tempted to think — you won't marry him at all. Phyll. I will. I said I would, and everybody was pleased, and so I suppose I was — fearfully — pleased. After all, nothing matters as long as other people are pleased, does it? Mrs. E. It's very nice to please others, if it doesn't worry one. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 7 Phyll. Well, now could it worry one to be married to such an ideal husband as the Imp? Mrs. E. I suppose not. Phyll. (suddenly) Come along, mother dear, they're coming. We don't want to be convicted of keeping them tidy. (She puts her arm round her mother and hurries her off. The door is flung open, and amid a general bab- ble, Waddles and the Soldier-Man stalk in arm-in-arm. The Soldier-Man is smoking a large cigar and Wad- dles is carrying a drink. Waddles, otherwise known as Sir Horace Plumely, is a little, round, cherubic man of about 45- The Soldier-Man, otherwise known as Colonel Miles Grahame, is very tall — very mili- tary, bronzed and handsome, a suspicion of grey in his hair.) Waddles, (with a sigh of content) Oh, good gra- cious me — we're having a splendid evening. S. Man. It's a very impressive sight to watch you over a dish of plover's eggs. Waddles. Waddles. Can't resist 'em — never could — there's something in their shape that appeals to me. (The Doctor, a well set up, genial Irishman of about five and forty, enters with a small spirit-lamp in his hand — lighting his cigar and speaking through the puffs.) Doctor. Will ye believe it, boys — wid all my flow of eloquence, I can't persuade Master Dick that it's his duty to marry the old lady. What's to be done about it at all— at all? (Dick enters laden with cigars and cigarette boxes.) Dick. Lazy demons. Leave me to carry everything, as usual. Waddles. You're the host — I'm the guest of honour — it's your duty, all of you, to wait on me. Soldier-Man, fetch me more plover's egggs. S. Man. Daren't; you'd burst, and I'd be called to the inquest. Dick. Oh, dear, oh, dear, I haven't laughed as much for years as I have this evening. Doctor. If you'd only propose to the old lady Dick. Shut up, or I'll — (throws cushion at him) 8 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. S. Man. (gravely) Really, ye know, this fire's a damn nuisance. Doctor. It is that. Couldn't ye put it out somehow, Dick? Dick, (ruefully staring at it) It was such a devil of a job to put it in. Waddles, (fanning himself) I must own, I really have felt it a little oppressive once or twice. Dick, (hopefully) 1 vote we don't notice it; it'll be all right then. S. Man. Theoretically it may be all right — but prac- tically — phew! Dick. Let's take our coats off. (then with a chuckle to the Soldier-Man) Do you remember the night we took our coats off in Princes' Street, Edinburgh? S. Man. Rather. By Gad, what a pasting you gave the brute, Dickie! Doctor, (with a note of solemn admiration in his voice) Ah — it's a beautiful fighter ye were in those days, Masther Dick. (Dick chuckles.) Waddles, (sparring at the Doctor) I was a bit use- ful if I was pushed, wasn't I, Miles? Doctor. Ye were so — but, thank the Lord — ye weren't often pushed. Waddles. D'ye remember the day that by my su- perior agility and address I compelled you to apologise on one knee for winking at my best girl behind my back? Doctor. I have never yet managed to remember what never happened. Dick. Come, boys. The cards are getting cold. Waddles, (rising quickly and going to table) That's right! What I say is — is this a card-party, or is it isn't? Doctor. Come along, then. Waddles. My luck must turn. I've lost pounds and pounds. S. Man. You don't look it. Waddles. Dick. Leave my little friend's figure alone — who in- sults him, insults me — Hello! (then turning with a chuckle to Waddles) D'ye remember that night in the Rue Mont Pamane, we upset the claret over one pack of cards — and then sent down to the room under- neath WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 9 Waddles, (chuckling) I know, the room with the red blinds. S. Man. Ha! Always drawn. Dick. Yes — and — d'ye remember the message that came back — and then we went down ourselves — we three. Waddles. Me first. Dick. Yes, and I was next, and slipped over those Infernal tins. S. Man. Gads, yes, I remember. Dick. And how all the giggling stopped dead when we opened the door. S. Man. By George, yes! (And all the inien sit iack, their faces beaming with the memories of that night so long ago. There is a pause. ) Waddles, (breaks it by m,urmuring with his eyes half closed and a beaming smile on his plump little face) One of 'em — the fair one — had her hair all down. I re- member. (Another pause.) S. Man. (gravely) Ah! Soft hair it was too, very soft and long — very — very long. Waddles, (sitting up quickly) Yes, I remember now — you did me out of a nice thing that night with your lanky legs and your bony shoulders. I'm not sure it's diplomacy for a man of my build to be seen about by ladies with a man of yours. S. Man. You wern't your present magnificent propor- tions then. Waddles — you were a slim little freckled, im- pudent — scaramouch. Waddles. I was — I was — oh, I know I was. (and he beams again loith renewed delight) Dick. Oh, those days — those nights. What times we used to have. Waddles. And will again. Doctor. Dick. S. Man. (together) Rather — one of these fine days. Waddles, (after a pause) I don't think I was ever very, was I? Dick. Well, I don't know about very freckled, was he, Miles? 10 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Doctor. Well, he was freckled, anyhow. Waddles. I don't care if I was. (he looks cheer- fully at the circle round the table — the Soldier-Man has begun to deal) Oh dear, oh dear. We're all just as young as we were then. {There is a pause, the three men look up with a wry face. ) Dick. Just as young. S. Man. Doctor. {together) Ahem — just. Waddles, (patting his own bald spot apprehensively) Well!! almost — anyhow. I fear I'm beginning to lose a little control over my figure, but in some respects I'm sure we're younger, aren't we, Dickie? Dick. Much younger. Misdeal again. Miles. Doctor. That's the third time. It's the lobster's flown to your head, my poor boy. S. Man. (smiling) Ah, the young 'uns of to-day don't know how to enjoy life as we knew how to enjoy it. They're all so damned calculatory. Dick. No such word. 5S. Man. You know what I mean. We, Dickie, you and I, never stopped in the old days to turn things over in our minds and grow grey over counting the chances of what would or wouldn't happen. We went slap at everything, like the healthy young devils we were. Waddles. Are. All. Are, of course. S. Man. And if we got our ears boxed — damme — it did us good — and — er — if we didn't get our ears boxed — well Dick, (cheerfully, speaking for him) Damme, that did us good, too. General Chorus, (cheerfully) So it did, of course it did. Doctor. Ah, we are a merry Trinity. Waddles, (quickly) Quadrity! Don't forget me, if you please. S. Man. Ah, Waddy, you're not an original member — you grew on to it later. Dick. You did — you plump little parasite. Doctor. It was three years later you threw in your- self on us, Waddy dear. Waddles, (gloomy) I know it was. But oh, after all these years don't you think it would be more gen- WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. H tlemanly of you three to forget your blessed Trinity, and start friends level? S. Man. Damme! I've mis-dealt again. Doctor. It must be the lobster — it couldn't be the wine. Dick. Here, I'll have a go this time. S. Man. {leaning back in his chair and stretching his long legs) Remember that night in Boulogne when we Dick, (gravel) Ought we to discuss that before Waddles — he's very young. Doctor. And very immature. Waddles. It is my birthday. I won't keep on being got at, and my glass has been empty for ages. Dick, (rising quickly) My dear Waddy, I'm aw- fully sorry. I left the drinks in the dining room. You deal on where I left off — oh — where did I leave off — never mind, go on where I did. I don't know, a card or two more or less won't make much difference at this time of night. Doctor, (counting the cards) Count your cards, boys. (They do so. Then the Doctor folds his hands across Ms middle and lets his roving eyes rest on a photo- graph of Phyllis that hangs on the wall.) (placidly) It's a wonderful invention, this photography — sure that's a speaking likeness of the child. (The other two, absorbed in counting, merely grunt.) She's a beautiful gyurl! S. Man. She is. Waddles. Beautiful indeed. Doctor. Why did none of us have the chance of meeting such an angel when we were the Imp's age? S. Man. Because we'd all have got married, and then none of us would have been here to-night. Waddles, (having counted) Seven. S. Man. And seven here. The Imp's a lucky little chap. Waddles. He is so — no, it's eight I have. Doctor. Be — devil the cyards. I can't count for thinking. Waddles. It's my belief the Imp will have to let off a lot of steam before he's fit to run in double har- ness. 12 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. (^The two others give grunts of mutual acquiescence. Then there is a pause, broken hy — ) All. I wish — (they stop and each looks at the other) Doctor. What? (Waddles and the Soldiee-Man pick up their cards a little sheepishly.) S. Man. Nothing. Doctor, (looking at them both, quizzically) It's the same case wid all of us, I'm thinking. Waddles. What's that? S. Man. I fail to follow. Doctor, (gravely) Why, all of us u'd gladly lay down in the mud, and let Miss Phylley dance herself thro' life on our bedabbled corpses. Waddles, (loftily) Not at all — not at all. S. Man. Not I. Doctor, (shaking his head) Ye're fooling your- selves, the facts is as I say. Howld yer whist. Here he comes and the whiskey wine. (Dick enters with a bottle from Tantalus.) Dick. It's nearly empty. Doctor. Nearly empty, it is that an' more. Never mind — when it's finished, we can all go and forage in the barrel. Here are your cards, my son. Dick, (sitting down and picking up his cards') Miles, how the dickens do you keep so tidy? You don't even get tobacco ash on your trousers (and he brushes himself vigorously with his hands) S. Man. It's constitutional. Doctor, (looking at his cards) I propose. Waddles, (looking at his hand) I pass. Dick. Half a minute. I haven't looked at my hand. I wish to goodness the Imp were here. I find his ad- vice at cards most invaluable. Doctor. His father was a good card player. Dick. Card playing's a gift, (then looking round at the other players) What's happened? S. Man. Proposal over there. Dick, (as he laboriously arranges and examines his cards) Jolly tactful of him to go out to-night, so that we four should be all to ourselves, wasn't it? Waddles. Very — we're waiting for you — what do you do? WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 13 Dick. Oh, is it me to shout? Oh, I pass— no, I don't — I'll accept you, Doctor. Waddles. Come on, we'll down 'em. My lead. Dick. Hallo, I've only got twelve cards, {he counts them out) S. Man. It's an imperfect pack — it must be. Dick. Try another, and deal again. S. Man. I'm a bit sick of dealing, somebody else have a go. Doctor, (cheerfully) I'll do it. {and he deals while the others watch him) S. Man. I say, old man — I hear you didn't take that fishing after all. Dick. No. S. Man. Why the dickens didn't you— it's quite the best. Dick. I daresay, but I came to the conclusion that I couldn't afford it. S. Man. Rubbish! Dick. It's fact. S. Man. Then I expect you let the Imp run away with all the spare cash, eh, Master Dick? (Dick smiles.) Dick. He runs away with a good deal, bless him. Doctor. It's a mistake. Dick. What is? Waddles. You spoil him. Dick. I don't. Doctor, {interposing quickly) Ah, now do let's drop the Imp, and get on with our game. We're the Imps to- night, not 21, any man Jack of us. {The others pay no attention to him, and the Soldieb- Man goes on gravely.) S. Man. I think, Dick, if you'll allow me to say so, you're wrong in letting him run away with the idea that his income is unlimited. Dick. He's welcome to all I've got — and he knows it. Waddles. And doesn't scruple to make use of his knowledge, I'm thinking. S. Man. That's all very well, old man — but I don't think you've got more than enough for yourself. Dick. Oh, I want very little. Waddles. Why have you given up your cob, Dickie? , Dick, yshoving his fingers through his hair) Oh, I I dunno. 14: WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. S. Man. You didn't shoot last year. How was that? Dick. Er — I dunno. Waddles. I do; you think the money is more profita- ble squandered on the boy. Dick. Well, p'raps I do. S. Man. Rot. Doctor. Not at all. Waddles. You spoil him. S. Man. Does he know that you're giving up all the fun you used to get out of life, that he may enjoy him- self more than's good for him? Dick. He doesn't, because I'm not. Doctor. You let him have every mortal thing he wants. Dick. I don't. Waddles. If he cried for the moon you'd make an effort to get it for him. Dick. So would all of you. Waddles. It can't be a good training. Doctor. No, indeed it can't. Dick. Look here, it's all very well to round on me, but — but, under the circumstances, I don't think I've turned the boy out badly. (Waddles shakes Ms head and groans.) I think he's a splendid fellow, if you ask me. S. Man. So do I — that's not quite the point. Dick. Of course, I may have gone wrong in one or two little things Doctor. Ye've gone wrong on more than one or two little things to my certain knowledge. Dick. Still I've done my best to turn him out all right. Suppose you three chaps have a go at him now. Every little helps, and I'm jolly sure that out of our united experiences we ought to be able to teach him a thing or two. Waddles, (beamingly) I'm sure any one of us could instruct him how to have a high old time. Dick, (shortly) That's not what I mean. Doctor. Shut up, Waddles, you're a rake. (Waddles chortles with conscious pride.) S. Man. Now we are on this subject, I should like to know how he does really stand — financially, I mean. Dick, (a little embarrassed) Oh, he's all right that way. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 15 Doctor. Let's see, how auld was he when he became our property? Dick. Two. S. Man. And from then till now Waddles. Nineteen years. S. Man. He has been your old man of the sea — that is to say — he has lived with you? (Dick nods.) Doctor. And we've each contributed a paltry £25 per annum for the little beggar's maintenance. Waddles. And what with tutors for this and tutors for that and sending him to Harrow and buying him books and cricket bats, I don't think that there can be much margin on that hundred a year. S. Man. Dickie, as co-guardians with you of that boy — we demand to know — what is his financial position? Dick. Well, as a matter fact, he's all right. That— er — £100 a year that we've arranged to let him have — I — er — well, as a matter of fact, I've made 'that a sort of a sinking fund for him — I — I've never touched that. It's been left to accumulate and — er — well, it's about £3000 now. Waddles, (bangs the table) I thought as much. Doctor. So did I. S. Man. Then you have paid for his entire bringing up — ever since he's belonged to us? Dick. It's been all right. I didn't want the money for myself, and I thought our allowances would be very handy for him in a lump sum when he came of age. S. Man. You've done more than was necessary. Waddles. Much more than he had any right to ex- pect. Dick, (rising quietly) I don't think so, any one of you in my place would have done just the same. (He rises and goes to his desk.) He is Charlie's boy — (a silence falls on the men) you remember when old Charlie came and told the four of us he meant to be married. Waddles. And what a silly ass sort of thing we thought it was then. Doctor, (shaking his head sadly) Oh, dear old Charlie — one of the best. Dick, (sadly) One of the best. 16 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. {Another pause — the men's minds drift back into the past.) That wedding day. Waddles. One of my boots was too tight. S. Man. I was best man. Waddles. Only because ye looked most showy walk- ing up the aisle. Dick. Then two years afterwards the coming of the Imp, and the passing away of Mrs. Charlie. Poor old chap, how lonely and desolate it seemed to leave him. Do you remember how we used to watch him from our windows walking up and down that field behind the stables day in, day out, with the Imp huddled up in his arms? Doctor. He was hard hit — poor old son. Waddles. He was that. S. Man. Broke him up. Dick. He'd have got out of it, had it not been for his dread of leaving the Imp alone. Do you remember this — (he goes to the desk and takes out a worn letter and reads) " Im going, old man — and somehow I don't much care. I've never given much thought to the other side — but anyhow she's there. Dick, I want to speak of my boy. I'm leaving him. I'm helpless. I'm leaving him alone, there is only you, you and the Trinity, boys look after my boy when I'm gone. Make a man of him, make him what you know he ought to be. Make the Trinity proud of him, for their old Charlie's sake, let him step into my place with you all, let him be one of us. I'm leaving him so terribly alone. Oh, for God's sake, Dick, be Father — Mother — be air to him." (Dick stops and refolds the letter) And — and — I've done it, boys. I've been father and mother and — and, oh, I've been a damn fool, I dai^esay — but I've done my best. (then loith a sudden outburst) Hang it all, so have you, you've all made fools of yourselves about him at one time or another. You — {he points a scornful finger at the Soldieb-Man) You've swaggered down Piccadilly with him sittting on your shoulders rubbing your top hat the wrong way. I was with you and saw even the cabmen laughing, {then he turns fiercely on Waddles) You — you were caught in a four-wheeler in Pall Mall with a rocking horse on top, a most invidious position for an unmarried man. {they all laugh) You laugh at me. Very well — laugh away. I'm a hen with one chicken, I daresay, and a hen with one chicken I'll be to the end of the chapter, but I mean that chicken to be a WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 17 bally swan before I go and tell Charlie how we've reared his boy. (And very excited he goes across to the bureau and re- places the letter, shutting the drawer with a snap.) Doctor. Well, well, well— he's a fine ould youngster— but all this has given me the doldrums, Dickie, me son — excursh into the larder, and trot out another jug of whiskey wine. Dick. I — I — I'm awfully sorry. I didn't mean to get so serious. Waddles. Let's get on with our game; there won't be time for me to get that £7 back if we don't. Dick. Come along, Waddy, — you shall have it, if I have to revoke to give it you — wait till I get the whiskey, where the devil are the matches. Waddles. Hurry up. S. Man. You chaps drink too much. Waddles, how is it you can not keep your waistcoat buttoned? Waddles. Oh, do leave my wardrobe alone. (Dick retires to the pantry, laughing.) S. Man. There never was a man so completely de- voted to any one as Dick is to that boy. Waddles. Talk of love of women. Doctor. If anything happened to him he's — what's that? (A pause, they all listen.) S. Man. Some one at the front door. (Another pause. The door is heard to open and close softly, then another paxise, then the room door opens softly and the Imp peers in — he is surprised at the sight of the Trinity, hut smiles at them a little va- santly.) Imp. Hullo! (The Trinity glare at him in dismay.) S. Man. Good God! Waddles. Imp, where have you been? Imp. (tvith a chuckle) Sh— 1. Spen'in' the evenin' with my fiancee. 18 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Doctor, (with a shout) What! S. Man. You young idiot, where in thunder have you been? Imp. Sh — 1 — it's a secret — doncher tell Dick. Waddles. Phyllis. Imp. Sir Horace, I dinnot refer to Phyllis. Phyllis' sweet girl — but she's not my fiancee. Don't you tell Dick I sezzo, I'm keepin' my fiancee back for a bit. I'll s'prize you all with her some day. Now if I could get to bed. They made me drink heaps of things all mixed up together to see if I was a man now that's over. I shewed 'em I was a man — and so — now — now do you think you could put me to bed, Sir 'Grace? (Dick heard off.) S. M\N. Here's Dick — keep him out. I'll get the young beggar to bed. Waddles. Oh, Dick must never know. Doctor. Quick! Man — quick! He must know he's come home. S. Man. Yes, but not hoiv he's come home. Imp. Oh, I'm so awfully unwell — don' mention this lir matter to Dick. Doctor. He's coming. S. Man. Lock the door. {He grabs the 'bewildered Imp and rushes off with him, while Waddles goes to intercept Dick. He shuts the door and hunts for the key.) Waddles. There's no key. S. Man. Keep him out for a minute anyhow. (He and Doctor exit with Imp.) Dick, (pushing against door) Hullo, what's against the door? (a pause) Open, one of you chaps — my hands are full. Waddles. Ye can't come in. DicH. What do ye mean? Waddles. I won't let ye in till ye swear that for a whole year ye won't make a single rude remark about the gradual disappearance of the hair on the top of my head. Dick. All right. I swear. Waddles, (looking round in agony for the others) Holy powers, I wonder will they be long. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY- ONE. 19 Dick. Take your fat little carcas out of the way, Waddles. Waddles. What's that? Fat little carcas — I think you said. Dick. Fat little carcas^at head! Open the door. Waddles. Withdraw your " fat little carcas " and I will move. Apologise — apologise! Dick. Oh, I apologise. Miles, take the little beggar away. (A crash of glass from outside the door.) Oh, damn! Waddles. What's that? Dick. You blithering idiot, you've made me drop the whiskey. Waddles. Oh, and here's a blessed stream trickling under the door. Dick. Lap it up — I'm soaked to the skin. Waddles. Oh, think of the waste of whiskey. Go, get some more, there's a pet lamb. (Dick retires, grumbling, as the Doctok and Soldieb- Man re-enter.) Waddles, (excitedly) I kept him out — is he Doctor. Yes, he's in bed — Phew — what the dickens are we to do now at all — at all. S. Man. Dick mustn't see him till the morning. Waddles. Don't let him know he's home — he doesn't expect him to-night — so, it'll be all right. Doctor. What the devil did he mean about his " fiancee." Waddles. Who can she be? S. Man. a bar-maid for a sovereign. Waddles. What'll Dick say? S. Man. Nothing— if he's wise. Eh! Here he comes. (Dick enters tvith the whiskey in a jug and the broken Tantalus bottle.) Dick. Here I am— look at me — thanks to you luna- tics, I'm smelling like a preambulating public house. Doctor. Good gracious — what's up wid you? Dick. What do you mean by letting him play such tricks? You're old enough to know better — so you are. Miles— just look at the state of my trousers. Doctor. Well— well. Maybe it's a blessing in dis-. 20 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. guise. What wid whiskey inside and out, the prospects of the evening are improving. Waddles. It serves you right; how dare you be serious on my forty -seventh birthday? S. Man. Forty-seventh nonsense! Twenty-first — time enough to be forty-seven to-morrow morning. Here's fortune to us boys! Dickie, what's that thing of old Thackeray's you used to spout under the influence of liquor? Waddles, (clapping his hands) " In the brave days when I was twenty-one." S. Man. That's it. Doctor. Sure, I've not heard it for years. Dick. Here's your drink, Waddles! Good gad, I feel as if I was at school again. How did the old thing go? (And he recites the poem, the three fellows waving their glasses and chiming in cheerily with the re- frain. ) With pensive eyes the little room I view Where in my youth I weathered it so long With a wild mistress, a staunch friend or two. And a light heart, still bursting into song. Making a mock of Life and all its cares Rich in the glory of my rising sun, Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs. In the brave days when I was twenty-one. To dream long dreams of beauty, love, and power. From founts of hope that never will out-run, To drain all life's quintessence in an hour. Give me the days when I was twenty-one. (And as he finishes he lifts his glass.) A toast, boys, a toast — all standing! (They all rise.) Good luck and long life to the Trinity. Waddles, (fiercely) Quadrity! Omnes. (raising glasses) Quadrity! {They drink; as they are doing so, the door softly opens and Phyllis looks in, smiling.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 21 Phyll. (softly) Good-night! (All the men wheel round towards her and echo.) Omnes. Good-night! (There is a slight pause, no one moves and she kisses her hand; they all gravely kiss theirs to her, and she softly closes the door and disappears — there is an- other pause, and a half sigh escapes from all the men as they stand looking at the door.) Dick, (tenderly) Bless her. (then, with a change of tone) Come along. I'm sure it's my turn to deal. (They all go hack to the card table and sit down as the) CURTAIN FALLS. 22 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. ACT II. The same scene. Next morning. (Dick and Phyllis and Mrs. Ericson and Waddles just finishing hreakfact.) Dick, (passing his cup to Phyllis) You're a terri- ble chap for late hours, Waddles. Sir H. Only on my birthday. Dick. What's the matter with the Imp, he's not down yet? Phyll. This is your third cup, Dick. Dick. I always require four after a night with Wad- dles—don't I, Waddles? (Sir H., half buried in his tea-cup, mumhles an indis- tinct reply.) Mrs. E. I hope that little bed didn't inconvenience you, Sir Horace. Sir H. Oh, not a bit. I only rolled out once. Mrs. B. Oh, Sir Horace, I'm so grieved. Dick. Not at all — his tendency to roll is not due to the size of the bed, is it Waddles? {The Imp enters, a little heavy-eyed, but ivith an affecta- tion of cheerfulness.) Imp. Morning — morning, every one. DicH. Hullo, boy. Others. Good morning. Imp. Imp. I'm jolly late — so sorry. I was shaving. Sir H. (gravely enquiring) I beg pardon? Imp. (turning to him) Shaving — Sir Horace! Sir H. (as if much impressed) Oh — I see — shaving ^yes, of course, very wise — very wise. Mrs. E. (giving him a plate) I'm afraid the bacon is quite cold, dear. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 23 Imp. (with a slight shudder) Bacon — I really don't think I can this morning. (Waddles chuckles.) Is there any toast left? (Phyllis rings the bell.) Thanks, old girl. Dick. You weren't at a birthday, Impy — you ought to be able to take your food. Sir H. I have often found that an evening spent in peaceful, homely talk produces a disinclination for rich food in the morning. I observe my theory proved in your case this morning, Master Richard. Imp. (with a nervous laugh) Do you? Could I have some more hot water? (Phtllis runs and rings.) Thanks, old girl. (Maid enters.) Some more toast and hot water, Dodd. Dick. You bolted off to bed very mysteriously last night. Sib H. Richard did as his elders bid him, like a good boy — didn't you, Richard? Imp. Yes. Sir H. Richard was most desirous to say good-night to you, Dick — but, on our promising that you would tuck him up when he was safely in bed — he consented to retire without your good-night kiss. Dick. Shut up, Waddles. Phyllis, it's Friday — if you let me have your accounts and my cheque book, I'll write one out. I shan't be a minute, Waddles, old man; you're not going till the three-thirty, are you? Sib H. (tvho has never taken his eyes off the Imp, much to the Imp's discomfort) No! Richard, don't you think a Bromo Seltzer would do you good? Dick. Eh? Sir H. He doesn't feel well— do you, Richard? Imp. (quickly, darting a furious glance at Sib H.) Quite well, thank you. Sib H. Dick, I think he's sickening for soifiething. Won't somebody look at his tongue? 24: WHEN "WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Dick, (cheerily) Anything wrong, Imp? Imp. (laughing) Of course not, Dick. It's Sir Horace's joke, that's all. Wish they'd bring that toast. Phyll. They had to make it, you know — you're so late, I expect the fire was just made up. Dick, (at door) Here's his toast. No, it's his hot water. I shan't be a moment, old man. (Dick goes out as the Maid enters with water jug. Mrs. Ericson goes to small work table. Sir H. ap- pears absorbed in the morning paper.) Sir H. (to himself) Sh! Dear — dear — dear! Mrs. E. What's that? Sir H. Sad — sad case! Poor young fellow! Phyll. (lightly) What happened? Sir H. Oh, sad case. This young fellow, it appears — nice young fellow — sweet nature and all that — plenty of loving friends — happy home and all that. But weak — very weak — falls into bad hands — sits up late — drinks heaps of things all mixed up to prove that he was a man — what's the result? Proves he's only a young fool — and next morning at breakfast he's seized with a violent {The Imp chokes into his tea-cup — and Phyllis and Sib H. rise hurriedly to avoid damage.) Sir H. (waving the paper at him) Damme, Sir — pull yourself together or you'll choke. Phyll. Well, Imp, as you don't seem to be eating any breakfast, I'll go and get the accounts for Dick. Imp. (through his choke) Cut along. Mrs. E. Did you change your vest, this morning? Sir H. (looking up, then turning fiercely to the Imp) Do you hear, sir — did you change your vest this morning? Imp. Hang it all — yes, I suppose so. Mrs. E. (almost to herself) I'd better see those new ones must be marked — (she gathers up her work and hurries out) (Pause. Sir H. glares at the Imp a moment, then re- turns with a grunt to his paper. The Imp rises and lights a cigarette.) Sir H. (not looking up) That's mere bravado — you can't enjoy your cigarette this morning. Imp. (after a pause, chucks it into the grate) I can't. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 26 (Sir H. grunts.) Imp. (loith Ms hack to Sir H. and Ms foot on the fender, stares into the empty grate) I say (Sir H., not moving, grunts again.) ■9 It — it — was jolly good of you chaps not to tell Dick. Sir H. {shortly) Don't call me a chap, boy. Imp. I beg your pardon. Sir H. And Colonel Grahame would be exceedingly annoyed if he heard himself described so familiarly by a boy of your age. Imp. He's too good a sort to mind. Sir H. He's no such thing. Imp. You needn't run him down — you know he's a friend of Dick's. Sir H. Run him down! God bless my soul. How dare you! Imp. He's a good sort, whatever you may say. Sir H. Whatever I — good gracious — are you aware that you're a young scamp? Imp. I am not (He lights another cigarette.) Sir H. You'll be sick, sir — throw it away. The Colonel has often expressed to me the deep regret with which he has noticed the growing disrespect that the young men of to-day have for their elders. Imp. (quietly) I don't think any one would have occasion to say that if all our elders were like you four chaps. (A pause.) Sir H. (completely mollified) Give me one of your cigarettes. (The Imp hands him his case.) Now, then, what's all this about this woman? Imp. (innocently) What woman? Sir H. (with scorn) Your disreputable fiancee. Imp. (with an affectation of surprise) Phyllis? Sir H. (jumping out of his chair) How dare you, sir? Imp. Isn't Phyllis my fiancee? 26 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Sir H. She is, sir. Imp. Then, what do you mean by calling her disrep- utable? I don't think it's right to speak of your friends behind their backs in the way you do. Sir H. I do not. Imp. You said the Colonel wasn't a good sort. Sir H. No such thing. Imp. And now you tell me Phyllis is disreputable. Sir H. How dare you? Imp. I shall have to ask you to prove your state- ment. Sir H. I meant the woman you're keeping back — the one you're going to surprise us with. Tell me all about her. Imp. (gravely) Really, Sir Horace — gentlemen do not discuss their little affaires de coeur with each other after breakfast — not good form. Sir H. Good form be damned — how dare you? Imp. Dick has always begged me to endeavour to dis- courage bad language among my friends — would you mind trying to check your tendency? You'll find it will get quite a hold on you, if you don't watch yourself. Even I have had to be careful. Sir H. You're an impertinent young jackanapes. Imp. (slowly) No, I'm not — (there is a long pause) I'm awfully miserable, that's all. Sir H. (insinuatingly) Poor old Imp — (lie goes to the hoy and puts his hand on his shoulder) "What's her name? Imp. Nothing of the sort. Sir H. Don't you think you'd better tell Dick all about it? Imp. Not yet. Sir H. (very quietly) Are you behaving quite hon- orably towards Phyllis? (A pause.) You had too much liquor last night, you've got a head on you. Come along, sir — we'll walk briskly down to my club, have a Brandy and Soda, and chat the whole thing over like men. Imp. (languidly) I don't mind the Brandy and Soda — but, you'll have to tackle the talk. Sir H. (handing him clothes brush) We'll see about that. Kindly brush me. {The Imp does as he is told.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE, 27 And don't you ever allow yourself to fall into Dick's never sufficiently to be regretted notion that a peck or two of dust on a man's frock coat is a matter of minor importance. I was very fond of a dear dirty fellow of that sort once — but he came to no good — the dust was too heavy on him, it weighed him down. P'raps the way he whiskeyed and watered it made it a little heavier. Ready? Imp. Yes. Sir. H. Trot along, then, there's a good boy — we'll be back before lunch anyhow. (The tivo of them turn to go out; Sib H. takes the Ijip's arm affectionately. As they do so, Dick and Phyllis enter.) Dick. Sorry I was so long, but the Chancellor of the Exchequer was very complicated this morning. Phyllls. I wasn't a bit — it's only one or two places in the adding up that I got wrong. Dick. How the Imp and I ever paid for a single meal before you and your mother came and took us in hand, beats me. Going out, Waddles? Sir H. Richard and I were going for a short consti- tutional to the club. I want to see if there are any let- ters; we shan't be more than twenty minutes at the outside. Dick. The Doctor and the Soldier-Man are to be round here about 12:30. SiE H. I know — come, Richard. (Exit as before.) Dick, (sitting down, resignedly) Well, I'm ready to hear the rest now. Phyll. It's no good making a joke of it — you know it's true. Dick. Well, say it is. I'm living beyond my means. Phyll. No, you're not — we're living beyond your mea ns — look at the money you squander on me — look at the money you squander on mother — look at the money you squander on the Imp — look at his clothes, look at my clothes — then look at your own old things, it's per- fectly disgraceful — and then, Colonel Grahame tells me you used to have a little shooting in Scotland, and since you've supported us you've had to give it up — so with your horse and everything else — it's all for other people — never anything for yourself. 28 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Dick. That's where you're all wrong — it's all for myself. I'm very fond of your mother. I love the Imp — and — I (a pause; he looks up and meets her eye) have the greatest respect for you — so, when I see those that I'm fond of, those I love, and those I respect, all happy and contented, I puff myself up with righteous pride and wouldn't change places with the Emperor of Germany. Phyll. Dick why do you respect me? Dick, (bluntly) I don't know. Phyll. It's very unkind of you, I consider. Is it because I owe everything in the world to you? Dick. Good Lord, no! Phyll. Is it because I'm such a good adder up? Dick. P'raps! Phyll. Or is it because the Imp has graciously con- sented to make me his wife? Dick. Why do you put it that way? Phyll. Isn't that the proper way to speak of his omnipotence? I'm the sort of woman who loves to bow down before her husband and beg him to put his heel upon her neck. Dick, (o little puzzled) Are you really? Phyll. And the Imp is to be my husband, and I long for him to show his power and grind me beneath an iron heel of authority. Dick. Oh, I don't think the Imp would ever do a thing like that. He'll be master of his own house and all that, of course, but Phyll. Will he — do you really think he will? Dick. I don't think I've considered the matter. Phyll. I have; the Imp and I will chat it over some day; I daresay we shall come to an understanding. I think I must try and do something that'll make you not respect me quite so much. Dick. Eh ? Phyll. It's an awful nuisance to be so fearfully re- spected — it makes one feel quite lonely, almost as if one was a marble statue out in the east wind. I should have to put up with being respected if I were a fright like the pictures of Queen Elizabeth — but as I'm only me — it's different. Couldn't you give up respecting me so fearfully? Just now and then. Dick. I — I don't see that it's possible — but — I'll have a try if you like. Phyll. {delightedly) Will you, really? Oh do — begin now. Dick. Well — I — er — it isn't a thing one can do all at WHEN WE WERE TWENTY ONE. 29 once, is it? You'd have to — sort of — give me a lead, you know. Phyll. Would I — oh, yes, I suppose that is the best way — well, suppose I do this — I put this arm round your shoulder, so — {she is standing behind his chair) and then I lean my cheek against the back of your head sympathetically, like this — How does that feel? Dick. Feels as if I was going to be electrocuted. Phyll. Oh! Dick. You mustn't ruffle my hair, you know, coz the Soldier-Man's coming to lunch, and — if — everybody's hair isn't smarmy, he loses his appetite. Phyll. Oh, bother the Colonel — let's talk about our- selves. Dick, what is the thing you wish for most in the world? Dick. To see Phyll. Don't say it — {quickly) I know exactly what you're going to say. {and with a choke, she moves quickly from him and goes up to the window) Dick. (a little surprised at her tone) Do you really? Phyll. Yes. Dick. What was I going to say? Phyll. To see me and the Imp happily married, weren't you? Dick. Well, as a matter of fact, I was. Phyll. Oh, I'm so glad — it's the thing I v/ish for most, too — isn't it lucky that you should make all these plans for us — and we should be so pleased about it? Oh, but doesn't such happiness make one nervous — one begins to dread one's unworthiness and to feel sure that some- thing must happen sooner or later to prevent it coming off. Oh! if anything happened to prevent this — I — think I should die — just fade away from grief — don't you, Dick? Dick. Nothing will happen, dear! Phyll. Are you sure — Oh, say you're quite sure. Dick. I'm quite sure — sure. Phyll. Suppose the Imp were to tire of me? Dick. That's impossible. Phyll. {snuggling up to him) Is it, Dick — why is it? Dick. Because — oh — because you are you, I suppose. Phyll. Don't you think if you were in the Imp's place you might get a little tired of me sometimes, just a little? Dick. No — not a little. 30 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Phyll. Ah — but you haven't ever pictured yourself in the Imp's place. Dick, {softly, as if to himself) Yes, I have often. Phyll. {Rising and looking him full in the eyes) Have you — pictured yourself married to me — oh, Dick! {then tenderly) Was it nice? Dick. {with a laugh) Here — here — here — come along now — Finances! we've chatted enough nonsense for one morning. Phyll. Yes, I think we've done very well — consid- ering. Dick. Let's see — £473 — in the current account wasn't it? Phyll. Yes. Dick, {lightly) Then who dares to say the firm isn't flourishing? (A pause, Phyllis looks out at nothing in particular.) Phyll. How odd it would be, wouldn't it? Dick, {looking up) What? Phyll. What you're always picturing to yourself. Dick, {aghast at the notion) You're a trying young woman to make a casual remark to. I'm always pic- turing myself married to all sorts of very nice people — why I've pictured myself married to your mother be- fore now. Phyll. So have I — in fact, I've suggested it to mother often. Dick. Thank you, very much. I think I shall get through these papers more quickly in my own room. {He rises — so does she.) Phyll. I'll come with him. Dick, {firmly) You'll do no such thing. Phyll. But I'd like to. Dick. I don't care — you've pictured your mother as my wife {Enter Mrs. Eeicsox.) So you've pictured me as your other parent, so perhaps you will go a step further and picture yourself doing what your parent tells you for once in a way. Phyll. Yes, papa dear. Mrs. E. Papa dear! Dick, {aghast) No, no, dear lady — No — no — not at WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 31 all — merely a silly dream. Please don't consider it seriously — a dream — merely a dream, (he dashes out) (Mes. E. looks after Dick, then back to his door, and says hurriedly.) Mrs. E. Phyllis! Phyll. (somewhat startled by her tone) Mother! Mbs. E. Oh my dear, I've done a dreadful thing, I know it was very wrong of me — but I couldn't help it. Phyll. Gracious — what have you done? Mrs. E. I found a crumpled letter in the hall — and I picked it up and smoothed it out to see who it belonged to, and, as I was smoothing it out I accidentally read a little and — and — oh it gave me such a shock that I read it all — I — I've read it twice or three times — I don't know which and oh — I really don't know what to say or think. Phyll. Whose letter was it? Mrs. E. It was a woman's letter — (a pause) to Dick. Phyll. To Dick? Mrs. E. Yes! he — he's making arrangements to be married, and — he doesn't want any of us to know. Phyll. (sloivly) Making arrangements to be — How do you know? Mrs. E. Oh, there's quite a lot about it in the letter. Phyll. Arrangements to be (A pause.) Mrs. E. It will be terribly inconvenient for us — of course, he won't want us with him then. Phyll. Are you sure? Mrs. E. Oh, perfectly sure. I think Dick might have been more open with us — after all we've done for him. Phyll. What have we done for him, but sponge on him and spend his money? Mrs. E. (helplessly waving the letter) Oh, what am I to do with it — (a pause) I — I think I'll go and drop It behind the coats again. Phyll. No — give it to Dick — if it's his. Mbs. E. My dear, I daren't. Phyll. Give it to me, then — I will. Mrs. E. (a little nervous) I don't think you ought to read it dear — some of it is a little Phyll. (with a bitter smile) Don't be alarmed, I don't intend to read it. Mrs. E. (handing it to her with a parting glance at 32 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. it) They really must be very much in love with each other. (Phyllis takes the letter and fights against her desire to read it — but eventually she gives way, and with a little gasp, she reads it hurriedly — then she turns her horrified gaze and meets her mother's eyes.) Phyll. {completely awed) What sort of woman is she? Mrs. B. (feebly) I think she must be a foreigner, I've heard foreign ladies are frequently very fluent. (Phyllis is standing staring into space— her mother is sitting on the sofa, in an attitude of deep dejection — as Dick enters.) Dick. I told you that the Trinity are lunching with us again to (he stops and looks at them both in surprise) (Phyllis, toithout turning to him or looking at him, holds out the letter towards him.) Phyll. You dropped this. {He takes it in surprise — reads it in silence, then folds it up, puts it in his pocket, and looks steadily at Phyllis. ) Dick. Where did you find it? Phyll. Mother found it behind the coats in the hall. Dick. Oh! (a pause) You have read it? Mrs. E. (with a gulp) I didn't mean to. Dick. Of course not. Phyll. (haughtily) I read it because I chose to. Dick. Yes — (a pause) — Well! Mrs. E. The— I'm very sorry— but this is very unex- pected—I'm sure, I wish you every happiness, Mr. Carew, if you're half as good a husband as you have been a friend — your wife will be a lucky woman. (holding out her hand to him) Phyll. I hope you'll be very happy, Dick— very- very — happy. You deserve to be, only — you might have trusted me with the secret, mightn't you? Dick. I — I wish I had. Phyll. Kara Glynesk. It's a pretty name — I seem to have seen it somewhere. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 33 Dick. You may have — it's all over the walls and on most of the 'buses. She performs at the Garden Thea- tre. Mrs. E. (horrified) She performs! Dick. You've seen the large, scarlet picture of her on the walls, there's one on the boardings opposite. Phyll. That woman! Oh, Dick! (then she re- covers herself) I do hope that you'll both be very — very happy. Dick. Oh, I expect it'll be all right. I daresay she is not as red as she's painted, you know. Mrs. B. It was a lucky thing the servants didn't find the letter. Dick. Very. Phyll. Does the Imp know? Dick. Nobody knows — but you and your mother. Mrs. E. You may rely on our discretion — at least, I can only answer for my own. We shall be seven for lunch. I had better attend to my household duties be- fore they are transferred to abler hands than mine. Dick. Eh? Mrs. E. The future Mrs. Carewe. Dick. Oh, yes, of course — she will naturally expecet to er (Mrs. E.fiToes out a little stiffly.) Phyll. (stands staring at the floor, then at last she says, with an effort) It's a terrible thing for a woman to have to acknowledge herself a failure. Dick. What do you mean? Phyll. I don't think you'd understand. (another pause, and then she laughs a little) Fancy my having to say that of you — I couldn't have said that yester- day. Dick. There are a great many things none of us can understand. Phyll. It was the dearest wish of my heart to be your true friend and — and — see how hopeless it has been. Dick. Don't say that — oh, don't say that, you hurt me. Phyll. Haven't you hurt me? Dick. How? I — I didn't mean to. Phyll. Of course, I'm awfully glad you're going to get married. The Imp and I have often felt that the one drawback to our complete happiness was the fact that you'd be left so lonely. Now, of course — it's all 3 34 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. splendid — but what hurts is that you didn't let me share your secret with you — that you didn't trust me. And ' all these years I've tried so hard to make you trust me —and see how miserably I have failed. (a long pause, then she says, impulsively) Dick — Dick — I didn't mean to be a beast — I hope you'll be awfully happy — I do, in- deed — I do, indeed. {The hall door opens and the Imp and Sir H. reappear. The liip is seen to disappear hurriedly down the outer passage, ivhile Sir H. comes into the room.) Sir H. God bless my soul — young lady, your future husband is a most erratic young man. I take him out for a short walk, and a serious chat, to be washed down with a glass of milk — and we haven't gone a hundred yards — before he gives a gasp and makes a bolt for home, saying he'd forgotten his pocket handkerchief or something equally infantile. I — hallo! Dick, what's gone wrong with you? Dick. Nothing, old man — come to my sanctum — we'll have a quiet smoke. Phyll. (aside to Dick) Do the Trinity know? Dick. Not a word. Sir H. There's something in that prospect that pleases — but surely we're as well off here? Dick. Not a bit of it. Come to my room, (Dick goes out.) Sir H. Lord — he's a masterful creature — that's the way he used to order me about 30 years ago. Phyll. (bitterly) Is it? Sir H. When he was a boy Phyll. Oh, I daresay he was just like other boys as now he is just like other men. Sir H. (puzzled) I'm referring to Dick. Phyll. So am I (Sir H. is about to speak, when Dick calls him sharply, and Sir H. hurries out very perplexed and with his face full of concern. Phyllis stands motionless for a moment, then swiftly presses her hands to her tem- ples,, and cries out.) I won't believe it — it isn't true. How could such a thing be true? WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 35 (The Imp enters in a great state of agitation, looking hurriedly about him — she watches his movements listlessly for a moment.) Lost anything? Imp. (shortly) No. (A pause. He glances round the room furtively — she watching him; suddenly a thought flashes into her face, and she gasps.) Phyll. Richard— Dick! (she springs to her feet, pointing at him) You!— you!— Oh, you darling, you darling! (And, to his intense astonishment, she flings her arms round his neck and hugs him — laughing hysteric- ally) Imp. Here — good gracious! Hang it all, Phyllis, don't be an ass. Phyll. (half laughing, half crying) Isn't it like him? Oh, isn't it just like him? Imp. Like who? Phyll. Nobody. Imp — Imp — you're a miserable — hopeless — immoral, horrid young man — but, oh, Imp, you darling — you've made me fearfully happy. Imp. (gloomily) Have I? I— I suppose I have, (a pause) that's the worst of it. Phyll. What's that? Imp. I — er — look here, Phyllis, it's no good going on like this, is it? I — I can't stand it, you know — it keeps me awake at nights thinking of it — and goodness knows what with everything I want all the sleep I can get just now. Phyll. Beauty sleep? Imp. Look here — I — that is — you and I — er — I mean it's no good beating about the bush is it? Phyll. I don't understand — I — Imp, what is it? — something terrible has happened, I see it in your face. Oh— Imp, don't, don't tell me anything has happened. Imp. Well — you see it's this way. (he stops awk- wardly) Phyll. (with an assumption of terrified anticipa- tion) Don't say any more just yet— give me time — you're a man — be — be very gentle with me, Imp — I — I'm only a weak, loving woman. Imp. (with a gulp) Well, you see— when you and I 36 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. — were engaged — we — well — we didn't know as much of the world as we do now — did we? (a pause, she rises and faces Mm.) (nervously) I say, Phyllis, don't look at a fellow like that — it's hard enough for me as it is. Goodness knows. Phyll. (slowly) What is hard enough for you as it is? Imp. Why, to have to tell a girl that's fond of you (he stops again) Phyll. Don't say it, Mr. Audaine, I understand. (A long pause.) Imp. You — you don't think any the worse of me, do you, Phyllis? Phyll. I — I — somehow, I can't think at all — every- thing seems dark — my brain won't work — it's numb. Imp. (in agony) Oh, I say, don't — there's a dear girl — I — know it must be awful for you — but — but — Oh, what could I do, Phyllis — I couldn't help myself. I fought against it, I did, indeed. Phyll. You — you — love — some one — else? Imp. I — I — couldn't help it, really. Phyll. Tell me — everything. I — I won't faint, I can be very brave. Imp. I will — there isn't very much to tell. Phyll. Who is she? Imp. She's the most beautiful woman in the world. Phyll. Oh, Imp — what does beauty matter? Is she very — very good? Imp. Er — of course, she's good. Phyll. Is she very — very religious — and domesti- cated? Imp. I don't know about very religious or the other thing. But she's got glorious eyes. Oh, if you could only look into her eyes — you'd know how good she was then. Phyll. Yes, I expect I should — Imp, I will not let the world know the — the heartaches I shall have to bear, I will be very brave, you shall take mother and me to call. Imp. Eh? Oh, would you — you see — it — it isn't quite definite just yet. Phyll. Doesn't she love you? Imp. Yes, of course, that part of it's all right, but — you see, marriage is a jolly serious thing — it's for life. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 37 you know. For good and all — and all that. So one can't only think of the love part — there are settlements and things. I shall have to settle all I've got on her, of course. Phyll. Does she insist on that? Imp. She doesn't, of course — but — she's got a friend — a sort of business manager, she calls him — rather a cad of a fellow, I think — and — er Phyll. He does. Imp. Yes — yes — He's quite right — and all that, of course — but — I — well, I don't exactly know how much I've got to settle. I expect I'm pretty well off — but — that, of course, up to now has been Dick's affair. Phyll. What will Dick say? Imp. Ah — that's it. Phyll. You haven't told him? Imp. Of course, I haven't — not yet — he couldn't un- derstand. Phyll. Why couldn't he? Imp. Oh, what could a fellow like Dick know about love, and all that! Phyll. Ah — what, indeed? Imp. It's awfully good of you to take it so well, Phyl — it is indeed — not one girl in a hundred would have been such a brick. Phyll. I feel it very deeply, Richard — but I show nothing I — I am very proud; if — if — this blow should happen to change my nature, — I — I — shall do something great — I — I'll go on the stage. My name shall be in every man's mouth, my photograph on every man's man- telpiece, my face in every shop window and my figure in full upon every wall. I've got a tendency that way, I know, because, when a week ago an old man with a long brush and a pail pasted on the boarding opposite this window a poster of a glorious creature — an ideal woman with crimson limbs and flame coloured hair, something seemed to wake up inside me, and as I watched the figure standing boldly out limb by limb against a background of gauzy drapery — I realized how narrow was life's look-out for me. How could I hope to win and keep the love of an honest man — and now it has all come true. Oh, Imp, Imp, if years ago I had cast to the winds all petticoats and prudery, I might have proved worthy of you now. But — but — as it is, I must school myself to think that all is for the best. Imp. Well, of course, it is no good crying over spilt milk, is it, Phyl — and — and — it's awfully odd you should mention her — but — it — that's she 38 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Phyll. (looking up at Mm as if completely "bewil- dered) She — {the7i in an awed whisper) The one on the wall? (He nods.) Oh, Imp — she loves you? Imp. Yes — it — it somehow takes my breath away when I think of it. Phyll. (after a pause) Oh, Richard, where will you be able to keep such a wonderful thing as that? Imp. I haven't spoken to her about it yet — but I've been looking about for a flat. Phyll. (ivith a shudder) A flat! You couldn't — you couldn't — that would be terrible — don't you see? Can't you feel how terrible that would be? Imp. Well — we must make a beginning somewhere — mustn't we? Phyll. It seems such a waste to keep her in one flat. Imp. She — she's a good deal more homely than you'd think she is from that picture you know. Phyll. Ah? (Mrs. Eeicson calls from the other room.) Mrs. E. Phyllis, dear — you'll make the hock cup, won't you? Phyll. Yes, mother, I'm coming — (then, in a whis- per) Does she make hock cup, Richard? Imp. I don't know. Phyll. You've drunk so much of mine — but — I don't mean to reproach you, Imp, I don't, indeed — perhaps you wouldn't have if you'd known how everything was going to turn out. Imp. (suddenly) Great Scott! Phyll. What is it? Imp. That letter — I forgot. I must find it. I came home on purpose. Phyll. There was a letter picked up behind the coats in the hall. Imp. Where is it? Phyll. Dick has it. Imp. (with horror) Dick! Phyll. Does it matter? Imp. Oh, my goodness — suppose he should read it! Phyll. (loftily) People with any sense of honour don't read other people's letters. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 39 Imp. But — but — this was a fearfully private letter. Phyll. Oh, of course, that does make a difference. (Dick enters — a pause.) Dick, (gravely to Imp) Will you come to my study, I want to have a talk with you. Phyll. {quickly seeing the Imp's dismay) He can't come now. He has something very important to do for me. Dick. But — Phyll. It's very important, Dick. Go at once, Imp. Imp. (looking at her gratefully) I — I must go now, Dick — I — I — won't be long. Dick. Very well, (he goes to the window and looks out listlessly) (Phyllis watches him mischievously.) Phyll. Is it a good likeness, Dick? Dick, (not understanding) What? Phyll. The picture on the wall. (Dick catches her meaning, and ivith a groan pulls the blind down and leaves the window.) (very gravely) I should have thought that you were the last man in the world to fall In love with that sort of woman. Dick, (shortly) Oh. Phyll. Yes — it only proves to me how right mother always is. Dick. What do you mean? Phyll. You see, mother having been married — knows a great deal about men. Dick. Ah! Phyll. And she isn't a bit surprised. Dick. Isn't she? I'm glad. Phyll. No — she says the quiet, fair men are gener- ally like that. Dick. Like what? Phyll. Oh — you know — easily attracted by — by pic- tures on the wall. Dick. I didn't know your mother was so observant. Phyll. Because you're going to be married, you needn't be rude to my mother. Dick. I wasn't rude to your mother. 40 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Phyll. I think you were — you mayn't have meant it, Dick — but I think you decidedly were Dick. Oh, don't worry me, dear — I — I'm not in the mood to-day. Phyll. Poor old Dick — have you got a headache? Dick. Yes. Phyll. Then I won't worry — I — I'll be very sympa- thetic. I — I'll let you tell me about yourself — and — and your plans for the future with your wife that is to be. (Dick groans a little.) She — she seems to be very beautiful, Dick. Is she really as beautiful as that? Dick. I suppose so. Phyll. Oh, you must know. " Suppose so " sounds so cold — perhaps you don't like talking about her to me, do you mind talking about her to me, Dick? DicK^ No. Phyll. I wonder do you love her as much as I love the Imp? Dick. I daresay. Phyll. Isn't it beautiful, being in love, Dick — doesn't it make one feel good and peaceful — and — and sunshiny. Don't you glow all over with pride and hap- piness every time you see that picture on the wall. Dick. No, I don't, if you really want to know. Phyll. Don't you — how odd. I should love to see a picture of the Imp on the wall — that size. Dick. Would you? Phyll. Yes, and every time I saw a crowd of ladies looking at it I should say to myself — look away ladies, all that belongs to me. Just how you must feel when you see everybody — even the policeman, looking at your future wife's picture. Do you approve of the drap- ery being so — so far away? Dick. No. Phyll. I'm glad you don't, because I don't either. Dick. Will you kindly be quiet? I'm not in the mood for this sort of talk. Phyll. Dick. Dick. Oh, run away, there's a dear — I've lots of things to think about. Phyll. You've loFt your temper. Dick. I daresay I have. Phyll. Well, as you've lost your temper and prac- WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 41 tically told me to leave the room — I won't try to be nice to you any more. Dick. That's a good thing. Phyll. Is it? And I'll tell the truth to you now. I think it's disgusting your being in love with a woman like that. Dick. I daresay. Phyll. And if it had been any one I'd been really fond of Dick, (rising) If — if it had been the Imp? Phyll. (proudly) That's impossible, the Imp is en- gaged to me, but if it had been the Imp, even the Imp — no matter how much I loved him, I'd never have spoken to him again. Dick. Would it break your heart never to speak to him again? Phyll. That's a curious question for you to ask, con- sidering that our marriage has been almost entirely ar- ranged by you. Dick, (sadly) Yes — yes — I know. Phyll. I think it's rather mean to suggest to me of all people that the Imp co2(.ld do such a thing. Dick. I didn't. Phyll. I'm in error again, I suppose, or my hearing must be defective. Dick. Oh, do leave me alone. Phyll. You won't be worried with me much longer. After I'm married and you're married, I don't suppose we shall see much of each other, for I don't think either the Imp or I would ever be likely to be very friendly with the red lady on the wall. Dick. Have you done? Phyll. Very nearly. I don't mind telling you that now mother's worst suspicions are confirmed, it's just possible that her principles won't allow us to trespass on your hospitality much longer. Dick. Oh, and how long has your mother had these suspicions of me, may I ask? Phyll. Oh, about three years. Dick. Ever since you've been living here — eating my bread and Phyll. We didn't eat much bread. Dick. It's a pity your mother didn't realize what a bad lot I was a year or two sooner. Piiyll. Oh, I think she did — but she often said to me — it wasn't wise to throw out dirty water before we'd got in clean, (a pause — she says softly, thinking she 42 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. has gone too far) Dick, that isn't true. She never said that. Dick, (wearily) No, I don't suppose she did. (He is sitting listlessly, very tired, very dejected, look- ing at the pattern on the carpet. Phyllis goes to the door — turns and stands looking lovingly at him for a moment, then, with a little happy silent laugh, she creeps quietly to the hack of his chair, throtcs her arms round his neck and kissing him gently, runs from the room. Dick looks up, startled — half rises, then sinks hack again.) Now, what made her do a silly thing like that? (Tie runs his fingers hopelessly through his hair) (Sir H. comes in from the study.) Sir H. Isn't he about? Dick. He's just gone out to get something for Phyl. Sir H. It's a bit of a facer, isn't it? Dick. On my soul, I don't quite know where to be- gin. Sir H. I don't expect it's anything very serious — boys will be boys. Dick. He is engaged to be married to the sweetest girl in England. Sir H. Oh, I don't defend it. Dick, (going to the windoio and pulling up the hlind — then again remembering the poster) Damn the poster. (The hell rings.) There he is. (The Maid goes to the hall door and opens it.) Doctor, (heard off) Any one at home? Dick. It's Terry and the Soldier-Man. (He goes out into the hall.) Morning, you fellows — You're just in time. S. Man. Morning, Dick— where's Waddles? Dick. He's here — we— we're all here, you're just in time for a council of war. (lie comes doivn) Doctor, (to the S. Man) Corporal — it's all out. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 43 S. Man. Council of war — good — what's the trouble, Dick? Dick. Sit down! {They sit down.) Read this. S. Man. (glancing at letter) To you? Dick. No, to the Imp. (He hands the letter to the Doctor, who reads it in silence — and gives a low ivhistle.) Doctor. Shall I Dick, (grimly) Pass it on. (The Doctor hands it to Col. Grahame, who also reads it and grunts — offers it to Waddles.) Sir H. Not again, thank you. (The Soldier-Man puts it on the table and there is a mo- ment's silence.) Doctor. What sort of looking woman is she? Dick. Judge! (He goes up to the window, the three men follow him and follow the direction of his pointing finger.) Sir H. (gazes placidly at the poster, then murmurs to himself) Very — very soothing. S. Man. The Firefly! by all that's damnable. Dick. Is she S. Man. (answering the unspoken question) Quite one of the most notorious. Dick, (facing the three silent men) And now I shall be glad to know what we are going to do. Doctor. How did you find it out? Dick. Mrs. Ericson picked up that letter, read it, handed it on to Phyllis, who also read it and handed it on to me. Doctor. To Phyllis! Good God— and she engaged to him! S. Man. Poor girl! What a blow for her. Dick. That's the one slice of luck in the whole mis- erable business. Doctor. Doesn't she care for him? 44 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Dick. Of course, she worships him. DocTOB. Then where's the slice of luck? Dick. They think the lady is in love with me, Omnes. What! Dick, (taking up letter) "Dick." I'm Dick. The Imp's Richard, too, but he's never Dick to us — he's the Imp. So I'm — thanks to that trivial misunderstanding — the future husband of that scarlet horror stuck upon the wall. However, that doesn't matter, my shoulders are broad enough to bear even that. I'm all right, it's the Imp's got to be looked after, or else he'll burn his fingers. Good God, I've rescued from danger before I — I've seen him through scarlet fever — diphtheria — all the other ills of his babyhood — this is a very similar sort of complaint, and if we can't pull him through, his father was a poor judge of guardians when he gave the boy to us. We'll talk to him — we'll open his juvenile eyes — we'll S. Man. Do you suppose we'll succeed in convincing him? (A long paiise.) . . Dick, (wearily) No. I don't suppose we shall — at first. We've got to put this thing right, ye know. We're responsible to Charlie for the boy's life and we'll take jolly good care he doesn't spoil it by this sort of thing. S. Man. Phyllis must be considered — wouldn't it be as well to let their marriage be broken off for the pres- ent? Dick. Man alive, if she knew he'd — he'd turned his at- tention to this sort of thing, she'd never speak to him again — she's as proud as Lucifer. Sir H. Are you sure she loves him? Dick. Certain. I asked her just now — she was rounding on me about it — telling me how contemptible she thought it all — and — and^and I asked her what she'd have done if — if it had been the Imp — and she said that she'd give him up and hate him forever — though she knew it would break her heart. S. Man. Um! That does make it awkward, doesn't it? Sir H. Well, there's fact one she loves him — now then — fact two is he doesn't love her. And fact three, they certainly ought not to be married under such condi- tions. Dick. No, no — you're going all wrong. You're wrong WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 45 in saying lie doesn't love her— he does in his heart of hearts. This (pointing to the window) — sort of thing —is— isn't pleasant, of course, but it— it's only his youth —you know. We all seem to go through it— at least so I'm told. When he finds out what it's all worth he'll sicken of it, damn quick, and then he'll marry and set- tle down — and — and — be the man we all want to see him. Doctor. Do you think that sort of thing (pointing to poster) is a necessary part of a young man's education? Dick. Certainly not, but now that he has tumbled into the water, let's pick him out and dry him as quickly as we can. Sir H. I don't think it will do him any harm. Doctor. And I'm sure it won't do him any good. (The door opens and the Imp enters quietly — he glances at the four men — closes the door behind him and comes sloioly down into the room.) Iirp. Yon— {he clears his throat) You are all very solemn — are you talking about me? Dick. Yes. Imp. I — I dropped a letter. Dick, Here it is. (The Imp takes it, folds it up — and puts it in his pocket — he then strolls with affected nonchlance to the fire- place and lights a cigarette — a pause.) (slowly) I have read your letter. Imp. (looking at him as if greatly astonished) You have read my letter? Dick, (gravely) Yes. Sir H. We've all read your letter. Imp. Really? I always thought there were some things gentlemen did not do. Dick, (gently) Don't let's begin like this. You know that we four would do anything in the world to help you. Imp. Even to reading my letters. I'm grateful. S. Man. So you ought to be. There are damn few boy's letters I'd take the trouble to read. Imp. I hope you all found it interesting. Doctor, (slowly) We did that. (A pause — none of the Quadrity knoio quite how to he- gin — the Imp's attitude has rather upset their calcula- tions. The Imp blows a few rings of smoke and 46 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE, waves them aside gracefully with his hand, then says enquiringly.) Imp. Well — and now? Dick. Now we — we want you to tell us all about it. Imp. Surely, the letter doesn't leave me much to tell. Dick. It leaves a great deal. Come, come, old man — we've all been young 'uns in our time — let's have your version of this little love story. Imp. There is very little to tell. I have asked Miss Glynesk S. Man. The Firefly. Imp. (gives him a glance and continues) I have asked Miss Glynesk to be my wife, and she has done me the honour to say all right. Sir H. Oh, has she? Sir H. Devil doubt her! Dick. Yes — I — I gathered that from the letter — but — but — you see, old man — there are many things to be considered — things, that in your impetuosity you may have overlooked. Now here we are — four sober-minded, middle-aged men — whose — well, I know I'm in this speaking for myself — whose principal thought in life is to try and make things smooth for you. That's so, isn't it, you chaps? S. Man. Certainly. Sir H. Quite so. Doctor. It is that. Imp. I know, of course, I know all about that, and I don't want you to think I'm a conceited young ass — but there comes a time in every man's life when his own judgment is of greater use to him than other people's. Dick. Perhaps this is not that time. Imp. I think it is. {then there is a pause and the Imp throws his cigarette, half finished, into the fire- place) Dick, (slowly) What does your own judgment prompt you to do? Imp. To marry the woman I love. S. Man. The Firefly. Dick. She — she is a good deal older than you are — isn't she, old man? Imp. She is a little older. Dick, (slowly) And I hear— that she has seen a good deal of the world. Imp. I believe she has travelled a great deal. Sir H. (chiming in) I suppose you know that peo- ple say WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 47 Imp. (interrupting) I should have thought, Sir Horace, you'd have learnt by this time to pay no atten- tion to what "people say " — for myself, when I know a person, I form my own judgment — and — " People can say " what they please — for all I care. Dick. You're right — you're quite right, of course — but in this instance Imp. {breaking in) Look here. I know you were all great friends of my father— and you've been jolly good to me and all that, but on this subject, I may as well tell you I shouldn't have allowed even him to in- terfere — it's my affair, and I've made up my mind about it. Dick, (gently) You're wrong, old man — nothing in this life is ever entirely one's own affair. Nobody can ever say, I stand alone — every step you take in life, whether towards evil or towards good, reacts upon your surroundings. Now I — oh, good God! you know I don't want to preach — I couldn't, I'm not built that way — I only want you to be — well, here we are, five fellows — let's all talk this matter over, find out what's the best thing to do and make up our minds, whether we like it or not, to do it. If it's best for you to marry this lady — marry her, and good luck to you — if it's best not to marry her — don't; let's hammer it out amongst us. Your father — the dearest, bravest, truest chap that ever stepped in shoe leather — gave you into our keeping when you were so high — we swore among ourselves to make you worthy of him — and we're going to try to keep our word. Imp. Is it making me worthy of him to try and make me break my promise to a woman? S. Man. (quietly) Which woman — which promise, you have given two. (The shot goes home. The Imp looks at him for a mo- Tuent, then turns away — and leans his head against his arms on the mantelpiece, then speaks brokenly, after a pause.) Imp. I — you can't ask me to marry a woman I don't love— I thought I did once — but I didn't— I know that now. S. Man. You got engaged to her. Imp. I — I was a fool — but — but everybody seemed to think it was all right — Dick wished it — you all wished it — and — and — (in a low voice) she seemed to wish it, too. 48 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Sib H. {jumps up, excited) You young cad — do you Dick, (restraining him) Hush! Imp. (breaking in hotly) Oh, I don't mean that she said so. I merely mean, everybody seemed to expect it — and — and — we drifted into it. I'm very sorry and all that, of course — but it's done, and it can't be helped. Dick. It can be helped. Now, listen • Imp. (getting rather flustrated — quickly) Oh, it's no good talking — you may just as well realize that in this matter I'll listen to no one. I know what a good friend you've been to me, Dick, and I'm grateful — but I'm no longer a boy. I'm old enough to manage my own affairs, and I intend to do it. S. Man. (breaking in brightly) Of course — we're all on the wrong tack, Dick, old fellow, we've been mounting the high horse and talking to the Imp as if he were a child. He isn't, he's a man of the world as we are — except that he's handicapped by being in love — we aren't . Now then. Imp — let's have your view of the situation as a man of the world. So it is absolutely es- sential to your happiness that you — er — marry this lady? Imp. (shortly) Yes. S. Man. Then you must have put your case before her very clumsily. Imp. (fiercely) What do you mean? S. Man. I don't think she has ever been approached with ceremony before. Imp, (starts forward furiously) You coward! (All the men rise except the Soldieb Man.) 'D(silencing them all with a shout) Stop there!' Imp. (passionately) Don't believe it, Dick — don't believe it — it isn't true. Dick. Hush! Hush! Let's talk it out quietly — for pity's sake. Imp. I won't stand quietly here and hear the woman I love insulted, even by you. S. Man. Quite right — and if I told you certain facts concerning this lady's past, and gave you my honour that they were facts, you wouldn't believe me. Imp. I'd know that they were lies. S. Man. Quite right. Now that we know where we are — I can hold my tongue. Imp. You'd better. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 49 {The Soldiee-Man laughs — there is going to he another outbreak — again Dick checks it.) Dick. Stop this, I say. Imp. Yes, I will stop this once and for all — I'll go. Dick. Where? Imp. To her! I'll get her to fix our wedding day once and for all. Dick, (springs to the door and intercepts him) Not yet. Not yet! Imp. You can't keep me. I'm of age — I do as I choose now. Dick. Listen Imp. I've listened till I'm tired— what's the use of staying here with my hands behind my back while the woman I love is insulted? Dick. No — no! Imp. (stamping) I say yes — (a pause, then very quietly) Let me go, please, Dick. Dick, (gently) We — we're all a little excited now, old man — when you come back Imp. (slowly) I shall not come back. (A pause.) Dick, (looks at him and at last speaks with an ef- fort) You will not come back? Imp. What's the use? I love her — nobody under- stands. Dick. You — you want to go away from me? Imp. I don't " want " to. You leave me no choice — you believe what he says — (he points to Col. Grahame — a pause) Don't you? Dick, (slowly) Yes. Imp. (with a little choke) Then wouldn't you de- spise me if I stayed? (There is a pause and Dick slowly moves away from the door and down towards the fireplace. The Imp stands irresolute for a moment, as if there was some- thing he would like to say— but the thought fails to find expression, and h" turns to go — at the door he stops and turns to Dick pleadingly.) You — you've been very good to me, Dick — I — I'm going to her — won't you wish me luck? Dick, (after a pause, says huskily) I — I'm think- ing of your father— if she is worthy of him— worthy of 50 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. you — then, good luck to you, Imp — good luck. {he buries his head on his folded arms) Imp. (gladly) Thanks, Dick, thanks. I'll tell her what you say. (and he turns and darts out, slamming the door) (They all rise except Dick.) S. Man. Great Scott, Dick — what do you mean by that? Dick. God knows — the boy may be right, after all — he knows the woman — I don't. S. Man. (emphatically) I do — she's been the ruin of half a dozen men of my acquaintance. Dick. No — no! S. Man. I tell you, yes; if the boy wants to marry her, she'll marry him — spend his money — then he who bids more will carry her off, husband or no husband. She's for sale, I tell you — for sale. To be bought as one would buy a flower. Dick, (starting up fiercely — striking the table with his fist) Is she? Then, I'll buy her — I'll buy her — she's mine — she shan't belong to him and wreck his life — she shall belong to me, if the price is high — stand by me SiK H. Mine's yours. Doctor. And mine. S. Man. And mine! Dick. Good men! The Trinity sees this through. QUICK CURTAIN. WHEN WE WEKE TWENTY-ONE. 51 ACT III. Scene. — A. gaudily furnished room. Many photographs of The Firefly. A flaming red poster pinned to the curtains; a table, carpet on the centre of stage, and much debris about; soda water bottles and a tanta- lus lying on the floor — the room giving every evi- dence of having been the scene of a disturbance. (Various lithos of Kara on walls and floor in her various big parts. Babette, a French maid, viciously pretty, heard expostulating in Kaba's room.) Bab. Oh, Madame, mais c'est impossible — vraiment, vraiment, c'est impossible. Kara, (off) I don't care if it is — it's got to be done. Look alive now, look alive! ( Babette enters. ) Bab. Oh, I 'ate air. I ate 'air! An' she 'ave spilt de table — Oh, I say — too bad — too bad — too bad! (pick- ing up the things) She 'ave crack 'im — so stoopid! so very stoopid! I 'ate air! (Bells rings.) Dat is Mistaire 'Ughie's ring. Oh, he will catch it 'ot — so 'ot! pretty quick, I tell 'im! (Goes up and out at back. Hall door heard to open and Hughie's voice.) Babette. Hello, Babette, what's all the bobbery? Bab. Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu! Hughie. (enters) Mon Dieu-ing ain't enlightening, Babette. I repeat, what's the bobbery? (he looks round ot the disordered room ) Hello — been havin' a bit of a beano here, ain't yon? B.\B. Beano! Oh, mon Dieu! dat word is much too 52 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. little. You know quite soon — pretty dam quick. Vas Madame's brougham at ze door? HuGHiE. Yes. Bab. Good! {she goes to door) Ze carriage is wait- ing, Madame. Kara. Let it wait! Bab. (picks up some broken china) Look, she crack 'im in her rage. I sink she crack you, too, pretty dam quiclt, too. HuGHiE. Crack me? Really that seems superfluous, considering she broke me a few years ago. Again I en- quire solicitously, what is the bobbery? Bab. {with meaning) I think you know. HuGHiE. "Well, if you put it like that — I think I do. Bab. She sent for you, eh? HuGHiE. To be sent for by the Firefly is a distinc- tion. Bab. This time it is an extinction, my frien'. HuGHiE. Your English is getting quite encyclopaedic. Bab. Encyclopsedic? I do not know him. Madame have sent for ze ozair damn fool, too. HuGHiE. {sitting up) Wallis? Bab. Wallis. Oui, oui, oui — oh yes. She crack 'im, too, I 'ope so. HuGHiE. Again superfluous. Our firefly likewise broke him beyond any riveting exactly four months be- fore she performed the same operation for me — but, tell me why this craving to jump upon the pieces now? Bab. You know, you — you little peeg — you have played a trick on us. What was it you both tell her about zat nice little boy — ze Imp boy? HuGHiE. Young Audaine? Oh, only a few facts about his great wealth. Bab. {tvith a squeal) His wealth — is — oh — if you was not so infant, so young, I would like to say some sings in my own language. It was your plot — Mr. Wallis' plot — his plot — little damn fool! He swear he was so rich, so rich — five thousand a year to come soon. She, Madame, lose her head — she believe, and she get what you call hustle, and she have HuGHiE. {springing to his feet with a shout of de- light) Not married him — don't tell me she's married him! Bab. I tell you nozing. I leave dat to Madame — she tell you all damn quick. {Bell rings, and a faint cough heard.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 53 Mr. Wallis! I know 'is cough — stoopid, stoopid, silly cough. HuGHiE. (almost to himself) By Jove! if we've bluffed Ler into that! what a score! Jumping Jehosha- phat, what a score! (Wallis enters, an immaculate youth.) Wallis. Hello, Hughie! Firefly telegraphed for me to call. HuGHiE. And for me. Wallis, my little one, she's swallowed it, hook and all, hook and all — we can call quits at last. Wallis. What! Has she — you don't Hughie. And our friend, the amorous youth Wallis. She's not Hughie. She has — she's married him! She's mar- ried him! Christians awake! ain't there going to be a row. Bab. Zare has been a row already. She 'ave turned 'im out of doors. Hughie. Already! Bab. Dey was married dis morning. Wallis. Who was present? Bab. Only I — me — was. Oh, it is a grand secret. No one at all know, save Madame, Monsieur et moi. Hughie. My word, when his people find out, won't there be a shindy! Bab. He have not told zem yet. By Gar, I don't think he evaire tell anyone at all now — after what oc- cur zis afternoon. Hughie. You mean to say she turned him out of doors? Bab. Ah, oui — pourquoi non? Wallis But her husband — whoop! wouldn't I have liked to have been present! Hughie. Get on, Babette, you're slow enough to be English. Tell us what happened? Bab. Well, zis is it. Affaire ze ceremony, zay come home 'ere and have a little lunch — quite charming — oh, quite nice — but Monsieur 'e seem to 'ave somesing on his mind. Wallis. Should think he had just! Bab. But still all vaire charming, vaire nice! After lunch zey come in here and Madame Kara smoke a cigarette — 'e light it for her — vaire nice — vaire charm- ing — zen, all of a sudden, Madame take his hand. For- give her, she say, she very extravagant woman, and she 54 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. go to ze bureau and she take out all zese. (pointing to letters of all sorts and conditions that are scattered about the room) HuGHiE. What are those? Bab. Bills, bills, bills — all zem is damn nasty bills. Oh, I 'ate bills! And she says to Monsieur, in such a sweet, sweet way, dat he will forgive her not mention- ing zem before — zey slip 'er memory — and she know he. will pay zem all at once — so nice of 'im. Wallis. Go on — go on — this is great! HuGHiE. What then? Bab. Zen it was mos' surprisin' — suddenly he springs up an' zrow out 'is arms, and say wiz passion: " I 'ave deceive you, I am not rich man, only poor man rich in love. I love you, I love you, I am liar, cheat, black- guard, but I love you — all I 'ave is I love you. HuGHiE. ■) AND I And then? Wallis. j (A pause — Babette says very quietly.) Bab. (quaintly) You 'ave met Madame! HUGHIE. ] AND y What happened? Wallis. ) Bab. (softly) Oh, a few little sings 'appen— just a few. (she points to broken china) I feel sorry for ze boy — ze — Oh, I mus' say I feel sorry for ze husband — she strike him full — once, twice, three times. HuGHiE. (quietly) What did he do? Bab. (gravely) He stand quite still — ver' white — ver' white and ver', ver still, and look at her wiz his great, sad eyes, and — and he bow his head. (Bell rings violently.) Madame'a bell! I come, pretty so damn quick, I come. (She exits hurriedly.) HuGHiE. By Jove, who would have thought she'd have been fooled so easily? Wallis. Greed, old son, greed — they're all alike. Dangle a golden plum and they'll gollop it down and chance the indigestion — and I must say we played our cards very well. There was every excuse for her be- lievin' the young 'un was a bally little gold mine. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 55 HuGHiE. An' of course, when he didn't deny it, she Wallis. Oh, we're brainy little fellahs, both of us — ain't we, little son? HuGHiE. I'm brainy enough to think it wiser to (pantomimes "getting out'') before her ladyship has her little chat with us. You see, one must never neg- lect precedent, and she hit him — once, twice, three times. And I never was good in the ring. Will you Wallis. Oh, let's see her — she'll be deuced waxy — and the laugh's up to us now. HucHiE. But the one, two, three Wallis. Chance it, little son — we're both of us pretty dodgy. I wonder what she'll do about it? Married to that kid without a farthing — gad, it's a rare lark! What the devil will his people say when they hear of it! It's pretty rough on them. HuGniE. Yes, she isn't exactly an acquisition to a domestic circle. (HuGHiE has been up at back helping himself to whiskey and soda.) Have one? It's about the last time we'll drink with the Firefly — we ain't so popular as we were. Wallis. Better fortify myself for the meeting. (he helps himself) Heard the news about Jimmy Hirsch? HuGHiE. Bankrupt? Wallis. No, on top again — cleared fourteen thou, over a Caranian deal. He'll be buzzin' around the Fire- fly again before you know where you are — that's my prophecy, little son. HuGHiE. If Jimmy Hirsch has got the dibs that means good-bye to little Hubby. 'Pon my soul, I b'lieve Jimmy Hirsch is the only man Firefly ever cared a brass button for. (Bell rings.) HuGHiE. Perhaps this is the redoubtable James. Wallis. What'll he say to the marriage? HuGHiE. That also will be interesting to observe. (Babette crosses and opens door. A handsome, rather loud voiced girl enters in ball dress.) Budgie. Isn't your mistress ready, Babette? 56 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Bab. Not yet — not quite yet — it is only her 'air. HUGHIE. ) AND >• Hello, Budgie. Wallis. ) Budgie. Hello, you chaps, aren't you coming to Covent Garden? HuGHiE. Later. Wallis. Kara has, what she is pleased to call, busi- ness with us. (Kara calls.) Kara. Babette! Babette! Bab. I come. HuGHiE. Oh, we must tell Budgie — it's too rich. Budgie. Fire away. HuGHiE. You know the young chap Kara met at the races — you were there. Budgie. The boy who blushed if one said " Boo." Wallis. That's the chap — ward of a barrister, Carewe. Budgie. Well, what of it? HuGHiE. It's the rarest thing you ever heard — come here and I'll whisper. Kara married him secretly this morning, so I'm told. Budgie. What!! Wallis. Isn't it regal? I tell you, Hughie and I de- serve a medal — we spoofed her clean. Budgie. Kara married him? Nonsense! He hasn't a sixpence. HuGUiE. We know that — that's where the joke comes in. Our Firefly was led to believe that the young 'un was a bally little gold mine. Budgie, (amazed and delighted) You don't mean to say she — oh, go on — go on — what a lark! Wallis. 'Course, Hughie and I are very fond of the Firefly, but well, she didn't let either of us down too gently, did she? So when she told us about this youth wantin' to marry her, we got this brilliant idea. Hughie dropped a hint about his colossal prospects, and I chimed in with a bit on my own- HuGHiE. Then we got hold of the youth- Wallis. And having convinced him that she'd send him to the right — about if he hadn't £5000 a year Hughie. He apparently posed as the possessor of many but imaginary millions, sooner than get the push. Budgie. By Jove, it's ripping! What a sell for Kara — won't she be sick! WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 57 HuGHiE. I think she is. Budgie, {hubbling over with suppressed delight, goes quickly to door of Kara's room and calls) Kara, dear, I can't wait — I positively can't wait — I'll take a han- som. Kara. All right. Budgie. I must get there before she does — it's one of the best stories I've ever had a chance to tell. By-by, boys— we shall all meet later, if there's anything left of you when she's had her little say. By-by. HUGHIE. "I AND y By-by. Wallis. j HuGHiE. Sweet girl! Wallis. Sympathetic little soul! (Enter Babette. ) Bab. Madame comes— en garde, Messieurs— she is very calm. (Exit Babette at back.) Wallis. Calm!— Rather wish we hadn't stayed, don't you? HuGHiE. She always was rather — difficult — when she calm. Wally, my son, one toast before we expire — Here's wishing all women where they ought to be. Wallis. Where's that? HuGHiE. Well, I was goin' to say the bottom of the sea, but it would be such a doocid chilly process callin' on 'em. (Kaea heard calling " Babette.") Wallis. Buck up! She's coming. (They link arms and stand with their backs to the fire. Kara enters.) Kara. Oh, you're here? Wallis. Hello, Kara. HuGHiE. You look beautiful, ma heller Kara. I want just five minutes' chat with you two boys. Wallis. Delighted— only too delighted! HuGHiE. We're in luck, ain't we, old friend? 68 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Kara. Do you know what you are — yes, the pair of you? HuGHiE. Liars? Wallis. Do tell us what we've done. Kara. You know. You think you've both been clever — you will find your joke a poor one before I've done. He has told me everything — he has nothing — nothing whatever. Oh, I don't blame him — the young fool is in love with me — lies were his only chance, but if the power is ever given me to repay you two, I'll flay you for your joke — I'll flay you! You can remember that. HuGHiE. Such remarks make general conversation just a little diflBcult — don't you think, ma belle? Wallis. I — I — er — well, I positively don't know where to look, and that's a fact, old son. HuGHiE. Ain't he really got any fortune, Kara? Kara. As if you didn't know. HuGHiE. Then, 'pon my word, it just shows how dif- ficult it is to believe in appearances. Wallis. We thought he was a gold mine, didn't we? HuGHiE. I'd have backed my boots on it — after all we'd heard. Kara, (looking at them with scorn) I sent for you to tell you what I thought of you. I wanted to — but now you're here and I look at you, I wonder why I can be angry with such things as you — you're not men, or if you are, then men are such worms that I don't wonder that it's a glory to some of us to trample you under- foot. HuGHiE. Not worms, ma belle, not worms — don't trample worms. Call us grapes, ma belle, not worms — beautiful, beautiful grapes — then crush us under your feet and give us to tae world in wine — charming — quite charming. I'm in rather good form, ain't I, old son? (he hums jovially " Oh. call us the fine Muscatel" to the tune of "They Call Me the Belle of Neiv York.") (Babette enters hurriedly.) Bab. Madame will pardon me Kara. What — what — what? Bab. Madame get married in all such a hurry, she forget sings. Kara. What's that? Bab. Zis letter from Mr. Carewe. HUGHIE. ') AND > Carewe!! Wallis. j WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 59 (Kaba is struggling angrily into pair of long gloves.) Kara. Carewe? Who is he? Bab. Ze Unknown Man — ze lunatic — ze £1000. Kara. Bah! Tear it up — who said I'd see him? Bab. Ze letter made Madame so laugh. Madame said " I will see him," and he is coming to-night. I 'ad forgot. You fix the appointment. I post ze letter — but den we get married so damn quick — we forgot sings. Kara. Send him away. I'm not in the mood to laugh at fools to-night. Bab. He is, of course, fool. But £1000 — that not so fool. Kara. Who wants his £1000. Bab. Madame does. Kara. Quite right — so I do. Wallis. Unknown man? HUGHIE. £1000. Wallis. Carewe, too. What's up? Kara, {fiercely) Give me the letter, (she snatches it and reads, then laughs) It's preposterous! No man could be such a fool. HuGHiE. May we know? Kara. What's it got to do with you? (she reads again) £1000 — what if he should mean it — it — what if it shouldn't be a joke? Bab. I think him no joke — it read like great sense to me. Kara. It would to a fool like you. Shall I see him? (A pause — again she looks at the letter.) What time did I say I'd see him? Bab. Just now — it is on the strike. Kara. Oh, is it? (a pause, then suddenly) I won't see him! I've had enough worry for one day. My cloak, Babette. I'm going to the ball. Bab. Mais Madame — ! Kara. My cloak, I say. Bab. Oil, mon Dieu, mon Dieu — ! (She picks up cloak from chair; as she puts it on Kara she whispers.) £1000 is a £1000 — Madame forgets. Suppose he mean it? Sousand pounds {The outdoor bell rings.). 60 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. He is yere! (A pause; they all look at each other; then suddenly Kara flings off Tier cloak.) Kara. Hang it all — I'll see him! Get out, you two! HuGHiE. But, Kara Wallis. Ma belle Kara. I'll settle our little score later; for the present —get out. I'm going to talk over a little business with this gentleman. HuGHiE. I wonder would your husband quite app- rove. ^ Kara, {comes to him — he moves behind chair) Have you forgotten the old saying: "He laughs best who laughs last?" You'll both of you remember it yet. Good-night. Stop. I know nothing of this fel- low. He may be a madman for all I know — wait there you two. If he's tame, I can manage him— if he isn't, you must — that's all. Wallis. (aghast) A madman! HuGHiE. They have the strength of ten men. Kara. What's his name again? (looks at letter) Richard Carewe — know him? HuGHiE. Richard Carewe? (to W.) Do we? Wallis. Richard Carewe? (to H.) Do we? (A pause.) HuGHiE. No, we don't. ■ Wallis, Never heard of him. (Kara talks to Babette.) Wallis. (to Hughie) The Imp's guardian. Hughie. Let's stay and see the fun. Wallis. Rather! Hughie. What makes you think he's mad? Kara. He has practically written and told me so. Into that room, please — you needn't come out unless I call you — into that room, please. Hughie. Charmed, I'm sure, to be chucker-out. Wallis. Always ready to die in the cause of beauty in distress. Kara. Thank you. — Into that room. (They retire into room, l.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 61 Kara, {to Babette) Bring me the glass. (Babette brings her hand-glass and Kara arranges her hair.) All right. (Babette goes out, closing the door. Kara suddenly rises and goes to door of the room where the two men have retired, shaking her fist at it.) You've tricked me — you've tricked me — but you shall pay for it — you shall all pay for it — every man Jack of you! (Babette now returns with a card on tray.) {takes it and reads) Richard Carewe — what have you done with him? Babette. He is in ze dining room. Kara. Idiot! If you'd only use the little brains you've got, Babette, you would realize that I can't see Mr. Carewe through brick walls and a hall passage — bring him here. Babette. Oui, Madame. Kara, {re-reading letter) £1000, and he doesn't wish to see me — doesn't wish to talk to me It's the most extraordinary proposition; I wonder what's his game? Babette. {announces) Mr. Richard Carewe. (Dick enters. Kara rises and meets him — there is a slight pause.) Kara. How do you do, Mr. Carewe? DicKN. How do you do? {Another pause.) Kara. I— I— {laughs) It's a little awkward .isn't it? Won't you sit down? Dick, {sloivly) You got my letter? Kara. Oh, yes, I got your letter. Do you know, I pictured you quite a different sort of man. I thought you must be a very old man. {pause) Are you sane? Dick. Perfectly. Kara. Your proposition is — odd — isn't it? Dick. I suppose it is. 62 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Kara. I beg your pardon — would you like a whiskey and soda? Dick. No, thank you. Kara, {taking up letter) Here's your letter. Come now — it's a joke, isn't it? Dick. No. Dick. No. Kara. You really mean it? Dick. Absolutely. Kara, {slowly, looking at letter) You will give me £1000 if I will make my friends believe that you are — a — friend of mine? Dick. Yes. Kara, {referring to letter) For a month, you desire that our names shall be linked together — dear me, how comic it seems! And during that time you do not wish to speak to me — nor even to see me? (Dick botvs his head.) You must be quite mad, you know? Dick. Do you accept my offer? Kara. Well, one can hardly accept £1000 without seriously thinking it over, can one? What does it en- tail? Dick. Nothing but what is expressed in the letter. Kara. It seems just a little too good to be true, doesn't it? You don't happen to have brought the money with you, do you? Dick. Yes — I told you in my letter that I would. Kara, {rising in amazement) Then it's real — it's not a joke? Dick. Why should I joke? aeARA. Well, upon my word — {she stares at him) Oh, I think I see the game. You want to waken my curiosity — to arouse my interest in you? Dick. No. Kara. Oh, yes, you do. Well, it's an expensive way, but I'm not sure that it's a bad one. {she laughs) Come now — I challenge you — you won't give me your word of honour that you will never seek to improve upon the conditions of your offer? That you'll never want to change your mind about not seeing me? Dick. I give you my word of honour now. Kara. Well, you're quite the oddest person I have ever come across. Let me see the money — convince me it isn't a dream. Dick, {taking out letter) The money is here. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 63 Kara. It's not a cheque, is it? Dick. No, two bank notes. Kara. By Jove — you do mean business. Dick. Understand, from the time you take this our compact begins. Kara. Quite so — and it holds good for one month. Dick. Yes. Kara. You know you've no earthly security that I shall earn this money. Dick. Oh, yes, I have. Kara. What? Dick. Your sense of honour. Kara. Is that meant for a joke? Dick. No. (A pause.) Kara. You're a most extraordinary person. Dick. Is it to be a bargain? Kara. Yes. (she holds out her hand for the notes) Dick, {gives them to her) Thank you. I — I can go now — we have met for the first and the last time. Good-bye. (A pause.) I must ask you to forgive me for — for this insult. Kara. I like it, believe me. It's one of the pleas- antest insults I've ever experienced. Dick. But — but there is so much at stake. Kara. What do you mean? Dick. I — I cannot tell you. Kara. It really doesn't matter — the money speaks — and between you and me and the post, I wanted it rather badly. Good-bye, Protector-of-the-Poor. Dick. Good-bye. (The bell rings.) Dick, (turns and says hesitatingly) Some one Kara. Well? Oh, you don't want to be seen here, don't you? Is that it? You do good by stealth and blush to be caught on the stairs! (Babette is heard to open the door and exclaim in surprise.) Bab. Monsieur! 64 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY- ONE. (A man's voice is heard.) HiBSCH. Back again! Is she in? Kara, (starts up) Hirsch! Jim! Back again! Back again! Quick — quick! do you mind? — go in there. I — I — this gentleman — I'd rather he didn't see you. Quick — just for a minute — do you mind. (Dick bows and goes into the other room, r.) Kara. Jim! — why has he come back? Why has he come back? {The door opens and Hirsh enters. He is a heavily- built, powerful-looking man of Jewish extraction. She stands rigid — he comes slowly down — a silence.) Hirsch. Well? Kara. How dare you come back? Hirsch. That's foolish — you knew I'd come sooner or later, didn't you? Kara. I — I Hirsch. Kara, (he holds out his arms) Kara. No, no! Hirsch. What do you mean? Kara, You must go — you must go — we — we — never again! (fiercely) It's over — I told you! (she'stamps) I told you once and for all, it's over. Never again! Hirsch. Wrong — always again — always and always — and you know it. Kara. Oh, why have you come back? Hirsch. You left me eight months ago because luck turned against me. Kara. I left you because you were sold up. I'm not good at sleeping on bare boards. Hirsch. Luck has turned again — you must come back. Kara. Must! Hirsch. Must! You know me — when I say a thing I mean it. We will go South to-morrow. Kara. Not to-morrow. Hirsch. When will you be ready? Kara, (taking up letter, glancing at it, then slowly tearing it up) I have just made a contract. Hirsch. For how long? Kara. One month from to-day. Hirsch. It is too long — break it. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 65 Kara. No — curiously enough, it's a contract I cannot break. HiRSCH. Strange contract. Kara. It is. HiRSCH. What prevents you breaking it? Kara. (witJi a laugh) My sense of honour. HiRSCH. Rubbish! Kara. I thought that would amuse you — it amuses me rather. HiRSCH. Break it. Kara. You must be patient. HiRSCH. I have been patient for eight months. I have stifled every thought — I have shut myself up with my dream of you, and compelled the luck to turn. It has turned. We are £14,000 to the good. When that is gone, I will be patient again— for the present, we will go South to-morrow. Kara. I have said no. HiRSCH. Look at me.— It isn't wise to play the fool with me. Kara. You must wait a month. HiRSCH. I will wait until, to-morrow. Kara. Don't be foolish — you bore me. HiRSCH. It's no contract — it's a man. (Enter Imp.) Kara. What if it is— that's my affair! HiRSCH. You dare! Kara. My dear Jimmy, you're not the only man in the world, you know. HiRSCH. Who is he? Kara. You wouldn't know him. HiRSCH. Who is he? Kara. If you really wish to know, his name is Rich- ard Carewe. {she calls) Mr. Carewe. HiRSCH. {starting forivard fiercely) He's there! — you love him. (Dick enters.) Kara, {with a defiant laugh) What if I do? HiRSCH. {throwing over the table) You devil! Kara. Help me! {she backs to the sideboard) (HiRSCH springs towards her with uplifted hand; simul- taneously the Imp rushes doivn to stop him. Then Dick by a quick movement, intercepts and seizes the boy. 5 66 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Imp. Keep back! Dick, {liolding Mm) Go home. This is my quarrel, Kara moves down r. You heard what she said. She's mine. Imp. (facing Mm in a blaze of anger) Liar! She's my wife! (There is a long silence. Hughie, Wallis and Babette have entered. Dick turns slowly to Kara. Dick. Is this true? Kara. Yes. Imp. (in a voice shaken by pardon, and still facing Dick) Tell them you have lied. Dick, (very sloivly) I've lied — I beg your pardon. (Another long, tense silence, broken by a light laugh from Kara.) Imp. (turns to her, imploringly) Kara! Kara, (coldly) Have you forgotten what I said to you to-day? (There is a pause, and, as the Imp sinks back heart- broken upon the sofa, she flings back her head haught- ily and sweeps to the door, saying loudly.) Kara. My cloak, Babette. Show these gentlemen out. Jimmy, take me to my carriage. I will explain. (HiRSCH laughs, and she stveeps out of the room on his arm. The hall door shuts with a bang.) Dick, (holding out his arms, pleadingly) My boy, my boy! Imp. (facing him, says slowly and quietly) Never again — you've killed it! (He turns from him and goes out of the house. Dick stands for a moment, motionless, heart-broken; then he repeats in a whisper, mechancially.) Dick. You've killed it! Why, since he was so high, I've Never again — he doesn't mean it — he — he can't mean it. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 67 Bab. {comes to him with his hat and cloak) For Monsieur. Dick, (looks at her dazed, then realizes) Yes — I forgot — Oh, yes. He didn't mean it. I — I will go after him — he didn't mean it — he didn't mean it! {He goes sloivly out after the hoy. Wallis and Hughie turn to each other and lift their glasses meaningly.) Hughie. Chin-chin, old son! Quite a busy evening! CURTAIN. 08 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. ACT IV. Time. — The same night — about an hour later. ScEXE. — Dick's room in the Clement's Inn. Mrs. Eric- son dozing in an easy chair — Phyllis ivorking by her side. After a slight pause, she rises and goes to the window — draws the curtains a little and looks out. Mrs. E. sits up ivith a start) I must have dozed, it must be very late. Phyll. Very late. Mrs. E. Oh, my dear — we can't sit up any more. Phyll. We must — he can't be much longer now, at least — you needn't, mother, dear — I must. Mrs. E. Well, anyhow if I do sit up, I'll do it lying down in my room, this low chair gives me cricks in my neck. Phyll. It'll be an awful blow to him. Mrs. E. Yes, dear, I'm afraid it will. What it is about young men that makes them go off and get mar- ried like that, I don't know. Are you going to stay here, or are you coming with me? Phyll. I'll stay here. Mrs. E. I couldn't keep my eyes open sitting up, perhaps it'll be better lying down. Oh, do lie down, too, dear, you look worn out. Phyll. I'm all right. We must be very kind to him when he comes, mother. Mrs. E. Yes, we will be — if I can keep awake. (Mrs. Eeicson goes sleepily to her room — leaving Phyl- lis at the window.) Phyll. Oh, what can it be that keeps him! (Footsteps heard outsiie — then the electric bell rings.) Here they are! (she runs to hall door and opens it) (SiE Horace, the Doctor and Col. Graeme come in.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 69 Where's Dick? Waddles. Isn't he here? Col. We thought he was here. Phyll. Hasn't he been with you? Col. Yes! Phyll. (looking from one to the other — observing their emharrassment) What's happened? (They don't answer.) He had a letter from that woman this afternoon. I recognized the writing on the envelope. Are they mar- ried? CoL. Who? F HYLL. The Imp and she. (The three look greatly surprised.) Col. You know — how did you know? PiiYLL. I knew days ago. The Imp told me — and — and — I got this letter this afternoon, saying that by the time I received it he'd be a married man. Waddles. Oh, why didn't you tell Dick? Phyll. I'd promised not to. He wanted to tell Dick himself. Besides, Dick must have known, because he got a note from the Imp's wife this afternoon. CoL. But unfortunately the note did not say a word about the marriage. Phyll. (amazed) Didn't say — I don't understand that. Would you mind telling me what's happened? I'm quite old enough to be told things. I'm not break- ing my heart for the Imp. I gave him his freedom very willingly. Tell me — Dick is suffering, I know that. He's keeping everything from me. I want to help him — I must help him — tell me what's happened. CoL. I think we'd better. Doctor. Ah, shure — I'm glad you're not breakin' your heart for the boy. Phyll. So am I. Tell me about Dick, please. CoL. Well— this lady that the Imp has married Doctor. Wasn't a desirable party at all — at all. Col. And so Dick went to-night by appointment to — to buy her off. Phyll. Too late? Waddles. Too late. Doctor. That's just the devil of it. Col. And — and — the Imp and Dick have — well — they 70 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. haven't exactly quarreled — but the boy knows now that his marriage has been a mistake. Phyll. Already? Col. I think the lady has transferred her affections to some one else. Phyll. But she only got married to-day. Waddles. Some ladies are a little fickle, Phyllis dear. Phyll. Something awful must have happened. The three men nod.) {in a tchisper) What? CoL. We don't know — yet. Phyll. Oh, Dick — poor Dick! Waddles. If you'd seen him walk out of that place to-night, you'd have said poor Dick, indeed. Col. You see Dick, knowing nothing of the marriage, proved to the boy — that the woman wasn't fit to be any man's wife. Doctor. And all the time the two were married. (There is a long, disconsolate pause.) Phyll. Where is he now — somewhere out there alone with it all. Oh, dear, oh, dear! (she goes to the win- dow and leaning against the curtains she has one quiet little sob all to herself) (The three men look at each other — then the Doctob says in a whisper.) Doctor. It's Dick she loves, after all. (The other tivo look at his incredulously for a moment, then, as the idea takes root — the Col. gives a low whistle.) Waddles, (gasps) You're right, you're right. Oh, what fools we've been! Doctor. We've found the silver lining, boys, there'll be a new member in the firm. CoL. But, does Dick Doctor, (breaking in with a smile) Av course he does — shure, don't we all? (The three men draw a long breath and turn and look gently at the girl — she is still standing staring out into the night waiting for Dick to come.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 71 (tenderly) When he comes in, ye'll try and comfort him — won't you, my dear? Phyll. Oh, if only I could. Sir H. He'll be very lonely, Phyl. Doctor. Ah, if there was only some sweet woman who loved him — who could take his tired head upon her heart and tell him not to grieve — that 'ud do him good, I'm thinkin'. Waddles, (abruptly) Is your mother up? Doctor, (rounds on him) Ah, shure — what's the good of that? Waddles. My gracious, I didn't mean that. I was only thinking. Phyll. (coming away from the window wearily) It's very late, if you'd like anything to eat and drink — it's all on the table in the dining room. Waddles. That's what I meant, man, when I said Phyll. (suddenly listening) Hush! (a pause) He's coming. (She goes up to door and listens.) Doctor. What did I tell you! She knows his step. ■Boys! I'm thinkin' this blow is the softest thing Mas- ther Dick has ever sthruck. Phyll. Shall — shall we go into the dining room? Doctor, (a little astonished) For why? Phyll. Perhaps he — he might like to be alone to- night — just to-night. Waddles. Well, I think p'raps four of us is too many, but — maybe — one. Doctor. AND Colonel. Yes, yes! (They move hurriedly out.) Waddles, (to Phyllis) You stay! (He goes out after the other two. The outer door is opened with a latch-key and Dick comes in wearily — he passes across the hall and into his own room. Throws his hat and coat on to a chair and stands for a moment lost in his thoughts. He doesn't see Phyl- lis, who is in an alcove of the icindoiv. After a bit, he goes to the desk, unlocks it, takes out the letter — • 72 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. and reads it through, then holding it tenderly, as if it were a living thing — he whispers.) Dick. I did my best, old man, I did my best. (Phyllis comes in quietly — closing the door after her. She steals across to him and puts her hand tenderly on his shoulder.) Aren't you in bed? Phyll. No, dear. Dick. You should be child, it's late. Phyll. Is it? {then, with great tenderness, she slips her hand into his) Oh, Dick, dear, you look so tired. Dick. Do I? Phyll. You're not angry because I waited up? I knew you'd be tired, and I — I thought you might be lonely. So — so — I wanted to be with you, if you'd let me. I know about it all, Dick — the marriage — and — the rest. Dick. You know? Phyll. The Trinity told me. Dick, (a great pity comes over him for herq I did it for the best, dear. I'm very sorry. Phyll. Don't be sorry for me, Dick. He told me days ago about her, and I was glad he didn't love me — because — I didn't love him either. Dick. You didn't? Phyll. No! Where is he? Dick. I don't know. {then, with a long, indrawn sob, he sinks into the chair by the table and buries his head on his hands) Ih, my boy — my boy! Phyll. Oh, don't, Dick, don't. Dick. I tried my best to save him, I did, indeed. Phyll. I know you did, he knows you did. Dick. He doesn't, he hates me — how can he help it, he hates me — oh, my boy, my boy! Phyll. Dick! Dick, {rising and moving from her) Don't, dear, please don't. Leave me alone, I — I'd sooner be alone, just now. {And Phyllis, understanding, goes quietly away. He has moved toioards the mantelpiece and botved his head, there is a long silence, he stands there alone in his grief.) WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 73 Be father — mother — all to him — and this is what I've done! {The hall door is heard to open and shut again softly, Dick is heedless of it, then the door of his room opens and the Imp comes in. Dick, at the sound, looks up and sees him. There is a pause.) Dick, (gently) You have come back? Imp. (with a laugh) Are you surprised? Dick. Yes. Imp. (bitterly) When a man arranges to lie away a woman's reputation to her husband, he shouldn't be surprised if the husband has a word to say on the sub- ject. (Dick looks at him., then says slowly.) Dick. I knew nothing of the marriage. What I did, I did for your sake. Imp. Thank you very much. Dick. I don't think you were wise to come here to- night — we — we can't see things clearly yet. You'd bet- ter go; come back to-morrow, perhaps then you will be able to understand. Imp. Oh, I quite understand now. I've learnt my lesson pretty thoroughly, thanks to you all. A woman, even, a man's wife, is a thing to be bought and sold. If you've taught me nothing else, Dick, you've taught me that. Dick. I've never taught you anything that wasn't true. No woman worthy of the name is to be bought. Ifflp. Ah, I know 'em now — you don't. Who was the chap who said every woman was at heart a wrong 'un? He knew life. It's only the accident of birth and cir- cumstances. Why, I daresay Phyllis Dick, (sternly) Stop there! (then very quietly) You'd better go, we are neither of us in a fit state to talk this matter over. We'd say what we didn't mean, and — and I might get angry with you. (a pause) I have asked your pardon for my share in this; at the same time, I must ask you to remember that I did what I thought was right. Imp. Our views of right and wrong differ. Dick, (gently) They may to-night. I'm sure they won't to-morrow. (he goes to the door and opens it) Imp. (hotly) I'm not going yet. There's a good deal I've got to say to you. 74 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Dick. And a good deal I've got to say to you, but not to-night. Imp. (raising his voice) I will Dick. Hush! I said not to-night. Imp. (stamping) I will know the truth of this damned conspiracy against me. Dick. Stop! Imp. It has been a conspiracy, and you know it. What were you all at the club for? Dick, (quietly) I shall expect you in the morning. Imp. (getting beyond himself, faces Dick in a rage) Tell me now. Dick. I shall expect you in the morning. Imp. (lifting his hand to strike) You — you (Dick seizes his arm and holds him for an instant as in a vice, then lets him go, and says gently.) Dick. That would have been a pity, wouldn't it? (A long pause, then he takes the letter.) This is your father's letter to me, written when he lay dying, and you were a little child; in it he asks me to try and take his place. I have tried — you are of age now — you need me no longer. (and he tears the letter into two pieces) (The Imp is sitting upon the sofa, his head buried in his hands. A knock is heard at the outside door.) Who's that? (Dick goes and opens the door. A Cabman is seen out- side.) Cabman, (enquiringly) Richard Carewe? Dick. Yes. Cabman. Lady told me to deliver this note, most spechul. (Dick takes it and fumbles in his pockets for a coin, hasn't got one. He turns to the Imp.) Dick. Got a couple of shillings? Imp. Yes. (He hands Dick the coins, tmho, in his turn, hands them, WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 75 to the Cabman, who disappears, saying " Thank ye, sir." Dick closes the door and comes down to fire- place, opening the letter as he comes. He reads a lit- tle, then looks up at the Imp, who rises quickly, guess- ing intuitively.) Imp. It's from her. Dick. Yes. Imp. You can read it out. I'm not afraid — she can't write harder things than slie said. Dick. " I have learnt from Mr. Hirsch that you are the young man's guardian, so I see now the reason of our compact. I am sorry you were too late, for his, for my own, and for your sal^e. However, don't worry, your young friend will have no difficulty in obtaining his freedom. I return your cheque for two reasons; one is, I'm sure Hirsch wouldn't approve of my receiving such a present even from my husband's guardian, the other is I don't want you to think you are the only fool in the world. I'll send you some roses from Monte Carlo." {A pause, he looks at the Imp, loho laughs and goes up into the windoio, xohere he stands staring into the darkness. Then he speaks without turning.) Imp. When I told her that I should kill him, she laughed and said, " Very well; but when you are hanged, there'll be nobody left to deal with his successors "; that seemed logical, so I came away and left him to eat his supper. Dick, (amazed) You saw them? Imp. (nods) Just left 'em— they're together now. Dick, (going quickly to him) Oh, my poor old boy. Imp. I — I can't help laughing. My position is so very ridiculous, (he rises icearily) I — I'll go now. Dick. Where are you staying? Imp. Metropole. Good-night. Dick. Good-night. (The Imp goes slowly to the door, then turns to Dick and says huskily.) Imp. You — you might ask me to stay here. Dick, (gladly) Would you? Imp. Oh, Dick! (and he breaks down utterly as Dick, deeply moved, catches Mm in his arms) Dick, (half laughing, half sobbing) Come, come, Y6 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. it'll all dry straight, we will work it through together, old man, shoulder to shoulder, as we used to be. Imp. All that I've said, just now, I didn't mean it, I didn't, indeed. I've been a brute to you, Dick, but I didn't mean to be. Dick. I know, old man — bless you, I know. You had to work it off on somebody, and I was nearest. Imp. (passionately) Dick — Dick! I'd like to get out of this country, just a bit. I must, I must — can't I go? There's always a war somewhere — I'd like to fight. Dick. Why not? Get along out and show 'em you're your father's boy, our boy. Then come back all over Victoria crosses and things, and — and the Trinity shall entertain you at a banquet. That's right, boy, buck up. The world's a damned hard fight, you've had the first knock, a stiff 'un, right under the jaw, but you're up again, old son, and the fight is yours to win, if you only choose. Imp. I choose. {And Dick wrings his outstretched hand.) Dick, (cheerily) Good man! Get along to bed, old son, you're dog tired, we'll think of the future in the morning (And! the Imp goes out.) Dick. He's true grit, every inch of him. (then sud- denly) Here, here, I tore up his father's letter. I was a fool, (he picks up one piece) It's all right, Charlie, old man, I'll be able to face you yet. (he picks up the other piece) Come here. Come here! Get back into your place — I've been a fool! (And he puts the torn pieces back into his drawer as Phyllis comes in.) Phyll. (comes in quickly) He's back. I heard him go into his room. Dick. Yes, he's back. Phyll. Poor old Imp. Dick. Thank goodness he's got the pluck to take it like this. God knows it may be for the best after all. (then he turns and looks at Phyllis) Hullo! why — why — why — I can't have my little girl looking like this WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. 77 — black shadows under her eyes, this won't do — you're the tired one now. Phyll. (smiling sadly) No, I'm not. I'm only tired for you. I know how you must feel about all this, and somehow I don't seem to be able to help you a bit. Dick, {stroking her hair softly) Yes, you do, dear, you help me all the time. Phyll. (moving a little from him) Oh, I wish I could think I did. But (cheerfully) it's all right. The Imp's come back. And the Trinity is in the dining room having whiskies and sodas, so as you've got all you want, you'd like to go to bed. Dick. No, I shouldn't, but it's getting very late. (Phyllis turns on her heel and goes to the door.) (he calls her) Phyllis, it — it was very sweet of you to wait up for me, dear. Good-night. Phyll. Good-night. (She again goes to the door — again he calls her softly.) Dick. Phyllis! Phyll. (turning) What? (a pause) Dick. Nothing, I — I think you'd better go to bed, dear. Phyll. You were going to say something. Dick;. No, no (She turns away — he stands watching her, then says quickly.) You're quite sure you never — (he stops, there is a pause — she looks at him and then away) Phyll. I was never in love with him, if that's what you mean. Dick. You never were — really? (gladly) Phyll. Never was, really — really. Dick, (after a pause) Ah, well, it's only postpon- ing the evil day. He's gone — you'll be the next to go, but you've been fairly happy while you've been here, haven't you, dear? Phyll. I've been very happy, Dick. Dick, (with a gasp) Iwonder — (he stops again) Phy-ll. (coming a little nearer to him) What do you wonder? Dick, (hacking a little) Nothing. You really ought to go to bed, dear. 78 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Phyll. I'm going. Dick. I suppose what you said the other day about your mother — well, I suppose you'll be going altogether soon. Phyll. (gravely) I don't think I was quite just about mother the other day — she didn't say those things, really. Dick. Didn't she? Then, why Phyll. (slowly) Oh, because I was in a silly mood — you would keep on saying things to me about the Imp and how happy I ought to be, and all that, and of course I wasn't a bit happy. I'm much hapier now. Dick. Now? Phyll. Well, because now he's not going to marry me, so I needn't marry him. I'm free now, Dick. Dick. Oh, I wish I was ten years younger. Phyll. I don't. Dick, (eagerly) Don't you? (he moves to her) Oh, Phyllis! (She meets his eye and he hacks off again.) You really ought to go to bed, dear, it's quite late. Pkyll. Does it matter for once? Dick, (gathering courage) Phyllis, I — I — oh, I'm a fool, don't laugh at me. Phyll. I haven't. Dick. I — I — oh, Phyllis, I've never dared to tell any- one. I've never dared to tell myself — much less you. (A pause.) Phyll. What, Dick? Dick. That — that — oh, my dear, it's striking two — what would your mother say? Phyll. (very matter of factly) You're quite right, Dick, dear, it is very late. Good-night. The Trinity are in the dining room, I'm keeping you from them. Good-night. (She goes to door.) Dick. Don't go just yet. (She comes back.) Dick. I'm not usually such a fool — but somehow this seems so fearfully serious. I — I — you're a young girl. WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Y9 I'm forty. It isn't fair, is it? I mean, I daresay, you would out of the kindness of your heart, but — but — No, I'm a fool, everything's better as it is. Good-night, dear. (He turns from her and goes to the table — she stands looking at him for a moment, then says softly.) Phyll. You don't mean to say good-night, Dick, like that. Good-night. [she comes to him with her hands outstretched — their eyes meet, the touch of her hands conquers him) Dick. I must tell you — (o long pause, and he says in a whisper almost) I love you! Phyll. (simply) I love you, too, Dick. Dick. You love me! Phyll. I've always loved you, but you didn't seem to care. Dick, (dazed) You love me! Phyll. I love you. (There is a silence, and then he kisses her — there is another silence — then he says with a long sigh.) Dick. I thought everything had ended. Everything is just beginning — You love me — say it again. Phyll. Need I? Dick. Yes, say it again. Phyll. I love you. Dick. You love me. (A long pause — he kisses her — and whispers.) Again! Phyll. Again and always, I love you. Dick. Then what's the matter with anything? Phyll. Nothing. Dick, (in a hushed whisper) Nobody must ever know. Phyll. Why not? Dick. I don't know — but — but — oh, they mustn't — say it again. Phyll. Tell everybody — are you ashamed of me? Dick. Ashamed! Here — hi! No, no, before they come, say it again — just in a whisper. I love you, of it's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Phyllis, Phyllis, where have I been hiding myself all these years? you've opened out life to me. Phyll. (whispers) I love you. 80 WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE. Dick. But — but oh, I'm forty, dear. Phyll. I love you. Dick. I'm — I'm an old bachelor. Phyll. I love you. Dick, (with a cry of delight) Don't whisper it, shout it. We love eacvh other, and we're going to be married. Let's tell 'em, let's tell 'em. Waddles, Miles, Doctor — what are they doing? How shall I tell 'em? Phyll. It's very easy. Dick, (ruefully) Is it? Here, I've called 'em, you tell 'em — that's fair. (Waddles, the Doctoe, and the Soldier-Man enter hur- riedly.) The Three. Old man Dick. The Imp's come home — and — and we're none of us to worry, because he's going to be a man. The Three. Oh! {vaguely) Dick. And — and — Phyllis has got something to say to you. {The three men, with instant comprehension, wheel round to Phyllis.) Colonel, {eagerly) Is it all right? Phyll. {smiling) Yes. Colonel. Oh, my dear! {and he takes her hands and kisses her fervently) It's our right. {He hands her to the Doctor, toho does the same and hands her to Waddles, who folloics suit.) The Three. Good luck to you — it — it — it's splendid. Dick, {taking her) Yes, isn't it? Splendid. Omnes. Kiss her, kiss her! Dick. I'm not afraid. I — I did it all by myself just now. {He kisses her.) Waddles. Thank goodness, it isn't a quadrity any longer — it's a quantity. Omnes. It is — it is! Waddles. With a power to increase our number. 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