P L AY S SECOND SERIES THE ELDEST SON THE LITTLE DREAM JUSTICE JOHN .SWORTHY THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT OF Kenneth MacKenna 9V THE SAME AUTSOM VILLA RUBEIN, mA Ottw Storiw THE ISLAND PHARISEES THE MAN OF PROPERTY THE COUNTRY HOUSE FRATERNITY THE PATRICIAN THE DARK FLOWER THE FRBELAND8 BEYOND FIVE TALES SAINT'S PROGRESS TATTERDEMALION IN CHANCERY A COMMENTARY A MOTLEY THE INN OP TRANQUILLITY THE LITTLE MAN, and Otter SaHf A SHEAF ANOTHER SHEAF ADDRESSES IN AMERICA: 191* PLAYS: FIRST SERIES and 8fparailti THE SILVER BOX JOY STRIFE PLAYS: SECOND SERIES THE ELDEST SON THE LITTLE DREAM JUSTICE PLAYS: THIRD SERIES ItiE FUGITIVE THE PIGEON THE MOB PLAYS: FOURTH SERIES and Htpar A BIT O' LOVE THE FOtTNDATIONS THE SKIN GAME MOODS, SONGS, AND DOGGERELS MEMORIES. Illustrated. AWAKENIWG PLAYS SECOND SEMES PLAYS SECOND SERIES THE ELDEST SON THE LITTLE DREAM JUSTICE BY JOHN GALSWORTHY NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1921 THE ELDEST SON COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS THE LITTLE DREAM COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS JUSTICE COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY JOHN GALSWORTHY COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SON.-) AU rights rtttrm* THE SCRIBNER PRESS College Library PR JOHN MASEFIELD AUTHOR'S NOTE The order of these plays follows the chronology of their writing, not that of their production. "The Eldest Son" was written first of the three in the early months of 1909. Accidents, happy and unhappy, have prevented its performance earlier than November, 1912. THE ELDEST SON A DOMESTIC DRAMA IN THREE ACTS PERSONS OF THE PLAY Sm WILLIAM CHESHIRE, a baronet LADY CHESHIRE, his wife BILL, their eldest son HAROLD, their second son RONALD KEITK (in the Lancers), their son-in-law CHRISTINE (his wife), their eldest daughter DOT, their second daughter JOAN, their third daugfiter MABEL LANFARNE, their guest THE REVEREND JOHN LATTER, engaged to Joan OLD STUDDENHAM, the head-keeper FREDA STUDDENHAM, the lady's-maid YOUNG DUNNING, the under-keener ROSE TAYLOR, a village girl JACKSON, the butler CHARLES, a footman TIME: The present. The action posset on December 7 and 8 at the Cheshire*' country house, in one of the shires. ACT 1. SCENE I. The hall; before dinner. SCENE II. The hall; after dinner. ACT II. Lady Cheshire's morning room; after breakfast. ACT HI. The smoking-room; tea-time. A night elapses between Acts I. and II. ACT I SCENE I The scene is a well-lighted, and large, oak-panelled hall, with an air of being lived in, and a broad, oak staircase. The dining-room, drawing-room, billiard- room, att open into it; and under the staircase a door leads to the servants' quarters. In a huge fire- place a log fire is burning. There are tiger-skins on the floor, horns on the walls; and a writing-table against the wall opposite the fireplace. FREDA STUDDENHAM, a pretty, pale girl with dark eyes, in the black dress of a lady's-maid, is standing at the foot of the staircase with a bunch of white rosts in one hand, and a bunch of yellow roses in the other. A door closes above, and SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, in evening dress, comes downstairs. He is perhaps fifty-eight, of strong build, rather bull-necked, with grey eyes, and a well-coloured face, whose choleric autocracy is veiled by a thin urbanity. He speaks before he reaches the bottom. SIR WILLIAM. Well, Freda! Nice roses. Who are they for ? FREDA. My lady told me to give the yellow to Mrs. ' Keith, Sir William, and the white to Miss Lanfarne, for their first evening. 4 THE ELDEST SON ACT i SIR WILLIAM. Capital. [Passing on towards the drawing-room} Your father coming up to-night? FREDA. Yes. SIR WILLIAM. Be good enough to tell him I specially want to see him here after dinner, will you ? FREDA. Yes, Sir William. SIR WILLIAM. By the way, just ask him to bring the game-book in, if he's got it. He goes out into the drawing-room; and FREDA stands restlessly tapping her foot against the bottom stair. With a flutter of skirts CHRIS- TINE KEITH comes rapidly down. She is a nice-looking, fresh-coloured young woman in a low-necked dress. CHRISTINE. Hullo, Freda ! How are you- ? FREDA. Quite well, thank you, Miss Christine Mrs. Keith, I mean. My lady told me to give you these. CHRISTINE. [Taking the roses] Oh! Thanks! How sweet of mother ! FREDA. [In a quick, toneless voice] The others are for Miss Lanfarne. My lady thought white would suit her better. CHRISTINE. They suit you in that black dress. [FREDA lowers the roses quickly. What do you think of Joan's engagement? FREDA. It's very nice for her. CHRISTINE. I say, Freda, have they been going hard at rehearsals ? sc. i THE ELDEST SON 5 FREDA. Every day. Miss Dot gets very cross, stage- managing. CHRISTINE. I do hate learning a part. Thanks awfully for unpacking. Any news? FREOA. [In the same quick, dull voice] The under- keeper, Dunning, won't marry Rose Taylor, after all. CHRISTINE. What a shame! But I say that's serious. I thought there was she was I mean FREDA. He's taken up with another girl, they say. CHRISTINE. Too bad! [Pinning the roses] D'you know if Mr. Bill's come? FREDA. [With a swift upward look] Yes, by the six- forty. RONALD KEITH comes slowly down, a weathered firm-lipped man, in evening dress, with eyelids half drawn over his keen eyes, and the air of a horseman. KEITH. Hallo! Roses in December. I say, Freda, your father missed a wigging this morning when they drew blank at Warnham's spinney. Where's that litter of little foxes ? FREDA. [Smiling faintly] I expect father knows, Cap- tain Keith. KEITH. You bet he does. Emigration? Or thin air? What? CHRISTINE. Studdenham'd never shoot a fox, Ronny. He's been here since the flood. KEITH. There's more ways of killing a cat eh, Freda? 6 THE ELDEST SON ACT i CHRISTINE. [Moving with her husband towards the drawing-room] Young Dunning won't marry that girl, Ronny. KEITH. Phew! Wouldn't be in his shoes, then! Sir William'll never keep a servant who's made a scandal in the village, old girl. Bill come ? As they disappear from the hall, JOHN LATTER in a clergyman's evening dress, comes sedately downstairs, a tall, rather pale young man, with something in him, as it were, both of heaven, and a drawing-room. He passes FREDA with a formal little nod. HAROLD, a fresh-cheeked, cheery-looking youth, comes down, three steps at a time. HAROLD. Hallo, Freda! Patience on the monument. Let's have a sniff! For Miss Lanfarne? Bill come down yet ? FREDA. No, Mr. Harold. HAROLD crosses the hall, whistling, and follows LATTER into the drawing-room. There is the sound of a scuffle above, and a voice crying: "Shut up, Dot ! " And JOAN comes down screw- ing her head back. She is pretty and small, with large clinging eyes. JOAN. Am I all right behind, Freda? That beast, Dot! FREDA. Quite, Miss Joan. DOT'S face, like a full moon, appears over the upper banisters. She too comes running down, a frank figure, with the face of a rebel. sc. i THE ELDEST SON 7 Dor. You little being ! JOAN. [Flying towards the drawing-room, is overtaken at the door] Oh! Dot! You're pinching! As they disappear into the drawing-room, MA- BEL LANFARNE, a tall girl with a rather charm- ing Irish face, comes slowly down. And at sight of her FREDA'S whole figure becomes set and meaning-full. FREDA. For you, Miss Lanfarne, from my lady. MABEL. [In whose speech is a touch of wilful Irishry] How sweet! [Fastening the roses] And how are you, Freda? FREDA. Very well, thank you. MABEL. And your father? Hope he's going to let me come out with the guns again. FREDA. [Stolidly] He'll be delighted, I'm sure. MABEL. Ye-es! I haven't forgotten his face last time. FREDA. You stood with Mr. Bill. He's better to stand with than Mr. Harold, or Captain Keith? MABEL. He didn't touch a feather, that day. FREDA. People don't when they're anxious to do their best. A gong sounds. And MABEL LANFARNE, giving FREDA a rather inquisitive stare, moves on to the drawing-room. Left alone without the roses, FREDA still lingers. At the slamming of a door above, and hasty footsteps, she shrinks back against the stairs. BILL runs down, and comes on her suddenly. He is a tall, good-looking 8 THE ELDEST SON ACT i edition of his father, with the same stubborn look of veiled choler. BILL. Freda! [And as she shrinks still further back] What's the matter ? [Then at some sound he looks round uneasily and draws away from her] Aren't you glad to see me? FREDA. I've something to say to you, Mr. Bill. After dinner. BILL. Mister ? She passes him, and rushes away upstairs. And BILL, who stands frowning and looking after her, recovers himself sharply as the drawing- room door is opened, and SIR WILLIAM and Miss LANFARNE come forth, followed by KEITH, DOT, HAROLD, CHRISTINE, LATTER, and JOAN, all leaning across each other, and talking. By herself, behind them, comes LADY CHESHIRE, a refined-looking woman of fifty, with silvery dark hair, and an expression at once gentle, and ironic. They move across the hall towards the dining-room. SIR WILLIAM. Ah! Bill. MABEL. How do you do ? KEITH. How are you, old chap ? Dor. [gloomily] Do you know your part ? HAROLD. Hallo, old man! CHRISTINE gives her brother a flying kiss. JOAN and LATTER pause and look at him shyly with' out speech. sc. n THE ELDEST SON 9 BILL. [Putting his hand on JOAN'S shoulder] Good luck, you two! Well mother? LADY CHESHIRE. Well, my dear boy! Nice to see you at last. What a long time! She draws his arm through hers, and they move towards the dining-room. The curtain falls. The curtain rises again at once. SCENE II CHRISTINE, LADY CHESHIRE, DOT, MABEL LANFARNE, and JOAN, are returning to the hall offer dinner. CHRISTINE, [in a low voice] Mother, is it true about young Dunning and Rose Taylor? LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid so, dear. CHRISTINE. But can't they be DOT. Ah! ah-h! [CHRISTINE and her mother are silent.] My child, I'm not the young person. CHRISTINE. No, of course not only [nodding to- wards JOAN and Mabel\. DOT. Look here! This is just an instance of what I hate. LADY CHESHIRE. My dear ? Another one ? DOT. Yes, mother, and don't you pretend you don't understand, because you know you do. CHRISTINE. Instance ? Of what ? JOAN and MABEL have ceased talking, and listen, still at the fire. 10 THE ELDEST SON ACT i Dor. Humbug, of course. Why should you want them to marry, if he's tired of her? CHRISTINE. [Ironically] Well! If your imagination doesn't carry you as far as that! DOT. When people marry, do you believe they ought to be in love with each other? CHRISTINE. [With a shrug] That's not the point. DOT. Oh ? Were you in love with Ronny ? CHRISTINE. Don't be idiotic! DOT. Would you have married him if you hadn't been? CHRISTINE. Of course not! JOAN. Dot! You are! DOT. Hallo! my little snipe! LADY CHESHIRE. Dot, dear! Dor. Don't shut me up, mother! [To JOAN.] Are you in love with John? [JoAN turns hurriedly to the fire.] Would you be going to marry him if you were not? CHRISTINE. You are a brute, Dot. DOT. Is Mabel in love with whoever she is in love with ? MABEL. And I wonder who that is. Dor. Well, would you marry him if you weren't ? MABEL. No, I would not. DOT. Now, mother; did you love father? CHRISTINE. Dot, you really are awful. Dor. [Rueful and detached] Well, it is a bit too thick, perhaps. JOAN. Dot! sc. n THE ELDEST SON 11 Dor. Well, mother, did you I mean quite calmly ? LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, dear, quite calmly. DOT. Would you have married him if you hadn't ? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes her head] Then we're all agreed ! MABEL. Except yourself. DOT. [Grimly] Even if I loved him, he might think himself lucky if I married him. MABEL. Indeed, and I'm not so sure. DOT. [Making a face at her] What I was going to LADY CHESHIRE. But don't you think, dear, you'd better not ? DOT. Well, I won't say what I was going to say, but what I do say is Why the devil LADY CHESHIRE. Quite so, Dot! DOT. [/I little disconcerted.] If they're tired of each other, they ought not to marry, and if father's going to make them CHRISTINE. You don't understand in the least. It's for the sake of the Dor. Out with it, Old Sweetness! The approaching infant! God bless it! There is a sudden silence, for KEITH and LATTER are seen coming from the dining-room. LATTER. That must be so, Ronny. KEITH. No, John; not a bit of it! LATTER. You don't think ! KEITH. Good Gad, who wants to think after dinner! DOT. Come on! Let's play pool. [She turns at the billiard-room door.] Look here! Rehearsal to-morrow is 12 THE ELDEST SON ACT! directly after breakfast; from "Eccles enters breath- less" to the end. MABEL. Whatever made you choose " Caste," Dot ? You know it's awfully difficult. Dor. Because it's the only play that's not too ad- vanced. [The girls all go into the billiard-room. LADY CHESHIRE. Where's Bill, Ronny? KEITH. [With a grimace] I rather think Sir William and he are in Committee of Supply Mem-Sahib. LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! She looks uneasily at the dining-room! then fob Imvs the girls old. LATTER. [In the tone of one resuming an argument] There can't be two opinions about it, Ronny. Young Dunning's refusal is simply indefensible. KEITH. I don't agree a bit, John. LATTER. Of course, if you won't listen. KEITH. [Clipping a cigar] Draw it mild, my dear chap. We've had the whole thing over twice at least. LATTER. My point is this KEITH. [Regarding LATTER quizzically with his half- closed eyes] I know I know but the point is, how far your point is simply professional. LATTER. If a man wrongs a woman, he ought to righ her again. There's no answer to that. KEITH. It all depends. LATTER. That's rank opportunism. KEITH. Rats! Look here Oh! hang it, John, one can't argue this out with a parson. LATTER. [Frigidly] Why not ? sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 13 HAROLD. [Who has entered from the dining-room] Pull devil, pull baker! KEITH. Shut up, Harold! LATTER. "To play the game" is the religion even of the Army. KEITH. Exactly, but what is the game ? LATTER. What else can it be in this case? KEITH. You're too puritanical, young John. You can't help it line of country laid down for you. All drag-huntin'! What! LATTER. [With concentration] Look here! HAROLD. [Imitating the action of a man pulling at a horse's head] 'Come hup, I say, you hugly beast!' KEITH. [To LATTER] You're not going to draw me, old chap. You don't see where you'd land us all. [He smokes calmly] LATTER. How do you imagine vice takes its rise? From precisely this sort of thing of young Dunning's. KEITH. From human nature, I should have thought, John. I admit that I don't like a fellow's leavin* a girl in the lurch; but I don't see the use in drawin* hard and fast rules. You only have to break 'em. Sir William and you would just tie Dunning and the girl up together, willy-nilly, to save appearances, and ten to one but there'll be the deuce to pay in a year's time. You can take a horse to the water, you can't make him drink. LATTER. I entirely and absolutely disagree with you. HAROLD. Good old John! LATTER. At all events we know where your princi- ples take you. 14 THE ELDEST SON ACT i KEITH. [Rather dangerously] Where, please? [HAROLD turns up his eyes, and points downwards] Dry up, Harold! LATTER. Did you ever hear the story of Faust? KEITH. Now look here, John; with all due respect to your cloth, and all the politeness in the world, you may go to blazes. LATTER. Well, I must say, Ronny of all the rude boors [He turns towards the billiard-room. KEITH. Sorry I smashed the glass, old chap. LATTER passes out. There comes a mingled sound through the opened door, of female voices, laugh- ter, and the click of billiard balls, clipped off by the sudden closing of the door. KEITH. [Impersonally] Deuced odd, the way a par- son puts one's back up! Because you know I agree with him really; young Dunning ought to play the game; and I hope Sir William '11 make him. The butler JACKSON has entered from the door under the stairs followed by the keeper STUD- DENHAM, a man beticeen fifty and sixty, in a full-skirted coat with big pockets, cord breechea, and gaiters; he has a steady self-respecting weath- ered face, with blue eyes and a short grey beard, which has obviously once been red. KEITH. Hullo! Studdenham! STTJDDENHAM. [Touching his forehead] Evenin', Captain Keith. JACKSON. Sir William still in the dining-room with Mr. Bill, sir? sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 15 HAROLD. [With a grimace] He is, Jackson. JACKSON goes out to the dining-room. KEITH. You've shot no pheasants yet, Studdenham ? STUDDENHAM. No, sir. Only birds. We'll be doin' the spinneys and the home covert while you're down. KEITH. I say, talkin* of spinneys He breaks off sharply, and goes out with HAROLD into the billiard-room. SIR WILLIAM enters from the dining-room, applying a gold tooth- pick to his front teeth. SIR WILLIAM. Ah! Studdenham. Bad business this, about young Dunning! STUDDENHAM. Yes, Sir William. SIR WILLIAM. He definitely refuses to marry her? STUDDENHAM. He does that. SIR WILLIAM. That won't do, you know. What rea- son does he give? STUDDENHAM. Won't say other than that he don't want no more to do with her. SIR WILLIAM. God bless me! That's not a reason. I can't have a keeper of mine playing fast and loose in the village like this. [Turning to LADY CHESHIRE, who has come in from the billiard-room] That affair of young Dunning's, my dear. LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Yes! I'm so sorry, Studden- ham. The poor girl! STUDDENHAM. [Respectfully] Fancy he's got a feeling she's not his equal, now, my lady. LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] Yes, I suppose he has made her his superior. 16 THE ELDEST SON ACT i SIR WILLIAM. What? Eh! Quite! Quite! I was just telling Studdenham the fellow must set the matter straight. We can't have open scandals in the village. If he wants to keep his place he must marry her at once. LADY CHESHIRE. [To her husband in a low voice] Is it right to force them? Do you know what the girl wishes, Studdenham? STUDDENHAM. Shows a spirit, my lady says she'U have him willin' or not. LADY CHESHIRE. A spirit ? I see. If they marry like that they're sure to be miserable. SIR WILLIAM. What! Doesn't follow at all. Besides, my dear, you ought to know by this time, there's an un- written law in these matters. They're perfectly well aware that when there are consequences, they have to take them. STUDDENHAM. Some o* these young people, my lady, they don't put two and two together no more than an old cock pheasant. SIR WILLIAM. I'll give him till to-morrow. If he re- mains obstinate, he'll have to go; he'll get no character, Studdenham. Let him know what I've said. I like the fellow, he's a good keeper. I don't want to lose him. But this sort of thing I won't have. He must toe the mark or take himself off. Is he up here to-night ? STUDDENHAM. Hangin' partridges, Sir William. Will you have him in ? Sir. WILLIAM. [Hesitating] Yes yes. I'll see him. STUDDENHAM. Good-night to you, my lady. sc. u THE ELDEST SON 17 LADY CHESHIRE. Freda's not looking well, Studden- ham. STUDDENHAM. She's a bit pernickitty with her food, that's where it is. LADY CHESHIRE. I must try and make her eat. SIR WILLIAM. Oh! Studdenham. We'll shoot the home covert first. What did we get last year ? STUDDENHAM. [Producing the game-book; but with- out reference to it] Two hundred and fifty-three pheas- ants, eleven hares, fifty-two rabbits, three woodcock, sundry. SIR WILLIAM. Sundry ? Didn't include a fox did it ? [Gravely] I was seriously upset this morning at Warn- ham's spinney STUDDENHAM. [Very gravely] You don't say, Sir William; that four-year-old he du look a handful! SIR WILLIAM. [With a sharp look] You know well enough what I mean. STUDDENHAM. [Unmoved] Shall I send young Dun- ning, Sir William ? SIR WILLIAM gives a short, sharp nod, and STUD- DENHAM retires by the door under the stairs. SIR WILLIAM. Old fox! LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be too hard on Dunning. He's very young. SIR WILLIAM. [Patting her arm] My dear, you don't understand young fellows, how should you ? LADY CHESHIRE. [With her faint irony] A husband and two sons not counting. [Then as the door under the stairs is opened] Bill, now do 18 THE ELDEST SON ACT i SIR WILLIAM. I'll be gentle with him. [Sharply] Come in! LADY CHESHIRE retires to the billiard-room. She gives a look back and a lialf smile at young DUNNING, a fair young man dressed in brown cords and leggings, and holding his cap in his hand; then goes out. SIB WILLIAM. Evenin', Dunning. DUNNING. [Twisting his cap] Evenin', Sir William. SIR WILLIAM. Studdenham's told you what I want to see you about? DUNNING. Yes, Sir. SIR WILLIAM. The thing's in your hands. Take it or leave it. I don't put pressure on you. I simply won't have this sort of thing on my estate. DUNNING. I'd like to say, Sir William, that she [He stops]. SIR WILLIAM. Yes, I daresay Six of one and half a dozen of the other. Can't go into that. DUNNING. No, Sir William. SIR WILLIAM. I'm quite mild with you. This is your first place. If you leave here you'll get no character. DUNNING. I never meant any harm, sir. SIR WILLIAM. My good fellow, you know the custom of the country. DUNNING. Yes, Sir William, but SIR WILLIAM. You should have looked before you leaped. I'm not forcing you. If you refuse you must go, that's all. DUNNING. Yes, Sir William. sc. n THE ELDEST SON 19 SIR WILLIAM. Well, now go along and take a day to think it over. BILL, who has sauntered moodily from the dining- room, stands by the stairs listening. Catching sight of him, DUNNING raises his hand to his forelock. DUNNING. Very good, Sir William. [He turns, fum- bles, and turns again] My old mother's dependent on me SIR WILLIAM. Now, Dunning, I've no more to say. [Dunning goes sadly away under the stairs. SIR WILLIAM. [Following] And look here! Just understand this [He too goes out. BILL, lighting a cigarette, has approached the writing-table. He looks very glum. The bill- iard-room door is flung open. MABEL LAN- FARNE appears, and makes him a little curtsey. MABEL. Against my will I am bidden to bring you in to pool. BILL. Sorry! I've got letters. MABEL. You seem to have become very conscien- tious. BILL. Oh! I don't know. MABEL. Do you remember the last day of the covert shooting ? BILL. I do. MABEL. [Suddenly] What a pretty girl Freda Stud- denham's grown! BILL. Has she? MABEL. "She walks in beauty." 20 THE ELDEST SON ACT i BILL. Really? Hadn't noticed. MABEL. Have you been taking lessons in conversa- tion? BILL. Don't think so. MABEL. Oh! [There is a silence] Mr. Cheshire! BILL. Miss Lanfarne! MABEL. What's the matter with you? Aren't you rather queer, considering that I don't bite, and was rather a pal! BILL. [Stolidly] I'm sorry. Then seeing that his mother has come in from the billiard-room, he sits down at the writing-table. LADY CHESHIRE. Mabel, dear, do take my cue. Won't you play too, Bill, and try and stop Ronny, he's too terrible? BILL. Thanks. I've got these letters. MABEL taking the cue passes back into the billiard- room, whence comes out the sound of talk and laughter. LADY CHESHIRE. [Going over and standing behind her son's chair] Anything wrong, darling ? BILL. Nothing, thanks. [Suddenly] I say, I wish you hadn't asked that girl here. LADY CHESHIRE. Mabel! Why? She's wanted for rehearsals. I thought you got on so well with her last Christmas. BILL. [With a sort of sullen exasperation] A year ago. LADY CHESHIRE. The girls like her, so does your father; personally I must say I think she's rather nice and Irish. sc. n THE ELDEST SON 21 BILL. She's all right, I daresay. He looks round as if to show his mother that he wishes to be left alone. But LADY CHESHIRE, having seen that he is about to look at her, is not looking at him. LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid your father's been talk- ing to you, Bill. BILL. He has. LADY CHESHIRE. Debts ? Do try and make allow- ances. [With a faint smile] Of course he is a little BILL. He is. LADY CHESHIRE. I wish 7 could BILL. Oh, Lord! Don't you get mixed up in it! LADY CHESHIRE. It seems almost a pity that you told him. BILL. He wrote and asked me point blank what I owed. LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! [Forcing herself to speak in a casiLal voice] I happen to have a little money, Bill I think it would be simpler if BILL. Now look here, mother, you've tried that be- fore. I can't help spending money, I never shall be able, unless I go to the Colonie , or something of the kind. LADY CHESHIRE. Don't talk like that, dear! BILL. I would, for two straws! LADY CHESHIRE. It's only because your father thinks such a lot of the place, and the name, and your career. The Cheshires are all like that. They've been here so long; they're all root. 2t THE ELDEST SON ACT i BILL. Deuced funny business my career will be, I expect! LADY CHESHIRE. [Fluttering, but restraining her ml/ lest he should see] But, Bill, why must you spend more than your allowance ? BILL. Why anything? I didn't make myself. LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid we did that. It was in- considerate, perhaps. BILL. Yes, you'd better have left me out. LADY CHESHIRE. But why are you so Only a little fuss about money! BILL. Ye-es. LADY CHESHIRE. You're not keeping anything from me, are you ? BILL. [Facing her] No. [He then turns very deliber- ately to the writing things, and takes up a pen] I must write these letters, please. LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, if there's any real trouble, you will tell me, won't you ? BILL. There's nothing whatever. He suddenly gets up and walks about. LADY CHESHIRE, too, moves over to the fireplace, and after an uneasy look at him, turns to the Jire. Then, as if trying to switch off' his mood, she changes the subject abruptly. LADY CHESHIRE. Isn't it a pity about young Dun- ning? I'm so sorry for Rose Taylor. There is a silence. Stealthily under the staircase FREDA has entered, and seeing only BILL, ad- vances to speak to him. sc. n THE ELDEST SON 23 BILL. [Suddenly] Oh! well, you can't help these things in the country. As he speaks, FREDA stops dead, perceiving that he is not alone; BILL, too, catching sight of her, starts. LADY CHESHIRE. [Still speaking to thejtre] It seems dreadful to force him. I do so believe in people doing things of their own accord. [Then seeing FREDA stand- ing so uncertainly by the stairs] Do you want me, Freda ? FREDA. Only your cloak, my lady. Shall I begin it ? At this moment SIR WILLIAM enters from the drawing-room. LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, yes. SIR WILLIAM. [Genially] Can you give me another five minutes, Bill ? [Pointing to the billiard-room] We'll come directly, my dear. FREDA, with a look at BILL, has gone back whence she came; and LADY CHESHIRE goes reluctantly away into the billiard-room. SIR WILLIAM. I shall give young Dunning short shrift. [He moves over to the Jireplace and divides his coat-tails] Now, about you, Bill! I don't want to bully you the moment you come down, but you know, this can't go on. I've paid your debts twice. Shan't pay them this time unless I see a disposition to change your mode of life. [.4 pause] You get your extravagance from your mother. She's very queer [A pause] All the Winterleghs are like that about money. BILL. Mother's particularly generous, if that's what you mean. 24 THE ELDEST SON ACT i SIR WILLIAM. [Drily] We will put it that way. [A pause] At the present moment you owe, as I under- stand it, eleven hundred pounds. BILL. About that. SIR WILLIAM. Mere flea-bite. [A pause] I've a prop- osition to make. BILL. Won't it do to-morrow, sir? SIR WILLIAM. "To-morrow" appears to be your motto in life. BILL. Thanks! SIR WILLIAM. I'm anxious to change it to-day. [BILL looks at him in silence] It's time you took your position seriously, instead of hanging about town, racing, and playing polo, and what not. BILL. Go ahead! At something dangerous in his voice, SIR WILLIAM modijies his attitude. SIR WILLIAM. The proposition's very simple. I can't suppose anything so rational and to your advantage will appeal to you, but [drily] I mention it. Marry a nice girl, settle down, and stand for the division; you can have the Dower House and fifteen hundred a year, and I'll pay your debts into the bargain. If you're elected I'll make it two thousand. Plenty of time to work up the constituency before we kick out these infernal Rads. Carpet-bagger against you; if you go hard at it in the summer, it'll be odd if you don't manage to get in your three days a week, next season. You can take Rocketer and that four-year-old he's well up to your weight, sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 35 fully eight and a half inches of bone. You'll only want one other. And if Miss if your wife means to hunt BILL. You've chosen my wife, then ? SIB WILLIAM. [With a quick look] I imagine, you've some girl in your mind. BILL. Ah! SIR WILLIAM. Used not to be unnatural at your age. I married your mother at twenty-eight. Here you are, eldest son of a family that stands for something. The more I see of the times the more I'm convinced that everybody who is anybody has got to buckle to, and save the landmarks left. Unless we're true to our caste, and prepared to work for it, the landed classes are going to go under to this infernal democratic spirit in the air. The outlook's very serious. We're threatened in a hun- dred ways. If you mean business, you'll want a wife. When I came into the property I should have been lost without your mother. BILL. I thought this was coming. SIR WILLIAM. [With a certain genialty] My dear fellow, I don't want to put a pistol to your head. You've had a slack rein so far. I've never objected to your sowing a few wild oats so long as you er [Unseen by SIR WILLIAM, BILL makes a sudden movement] Short of that at all events, I've not inquired into your affairs. I can only judge by the er pecuniary evidence you've been good enough to afford me from time to time. I imagine you've lived like a good many young men in your position I'm not blaming you, but there's a time for all things. 26 THE ELDEST SON ACT i BILL. Why don't you say outright that you want me to marry Mabel Lanfarne? SIR WILLIAM. Well, I do. Girl's a nice one. Good family got a little money rides well. Isn't she good- looking enough for you, or what ? BILL. Quite, thanks. SIR WILLIAM. I understood from your mother that you and she were on good terms. BILL. Please don't drag mother into it. SIR WILLIAM. [With dangerous politeness] Perhaps you'll be good enough to state your objections. BILL. Must we go on with this ? SIR WILLIAM. I've never asked you to do anything for me before; I expect you to pay attention now. I've no wish to dragoon you into this particular marriage. If you don't care for Miss Lanfarne, marry a girl you're fond of. BILL. I refuse. SIR WILLIAM. In that case you know what to look out for. [With a sudden rush ofcholcr] You young . . . [He checks himself and stands glaring at BILL, who glares back at him] This means, I suppose, that you've got some entanglement or other. BILL. Suppose what you like, sir. SIR WILLIAM. I warn you, if you play the black- guard BILL. You can't force me like young Dunning. Hearing the raised voices LADY CHESHIRE has come back from the billiard-room. LADY CHESHIRE. [Closing the door] What is it? sc. ii THE ELDEST SON 27 SIR WILLIAM. You deliberately refuse! Go away, Dorothy. LADY CHESHIRE. [Resolutely] I haven't seen Bill for two months. SIR WILLIAM. What! [Hesitating] Well we must talk it over again. LADY CHESHIRE. Come to the billiard-room, both of you! Bill, do finish those letters! With a deft movement she draws SIR WILLIAM toward the billiard-room, and glances back at BILL before going out, but he has turned to the writing-table. When the door is closed, BILL looks into trie drawing-room, then opens the door under the stairs; and backing away towards the writing-table, sits down there, and takes up a pen. FREDA who has evidently been waiting, comes in and stands by the table. BILL. I say, this is dangerous, you know. FREDA. Yes but I must. BILL. Well, then [With natural recklessness] Aren't you going to kiss me ? Without moving she looks at him with a sort of miserable inquiry. BILL. Do you know you haven't seen me for eight weeks ? FREDA. Quite long enough for you to have forgot- ten. BILL. Forgotten! I don't forget people so soon. FREDA. No? BILL. What's the matter with you, Freda ? 28 THE ELDEST SON ACT i FREDA. [After a long look] It'll never be as it was. BILL. [Jumping up] How d'you mean ? FREDA. I've got something for you. [She takes a diamond ring out of her dress and holds it out to him] I've not worn it since Cromer. BILL. Now, look here FREDA. I've had my holiday; I shan't get another in a hurry. BILL. Freda! FREDA. You'll be glad to be free. That fortnight's all you really loved me in. BILL. [Putting his hands on her arms] I swear FREDA. [Between her teeth] Miss Lanfarne need never know about me. BILL. So that's it! I've told you a dozen times nothing's changed. [FREDA looks at him and smiles. BILL. Oh! very well! If you will make yourself miserable. FREDA. Everybody will be pleased. BILL. At what? FREDA. When you marry her. BILL. This is too bad. FREDA. It's What always happens even when it's not a gentleman. BILL. That's enough. FREDA. But I'm not like that girl down in the village. You needn't be afraid I'll say anything when it comes. That's what I had to tell you. BILL. Whatl FREDA. 7 can keep a secret. sc. H THE ELDEST SON 29 BILL. Do you mean this ? [She bows her head. BILL. Good God! FREDA. Father brought me up not to whine. Like the puppies when they hold them up by their tails. [With a sudden break in her voice] Oh! Bill! BILL. [With his head down, seizing her hands] Freda! [He breaks away from her towards the fire] Good God! She stands looking at him, then quietly slips away by the door under the staircase. BILL turns to speak to her, and sees that she has gone. Pie walks up to the fireplace, and grips the mantel- piece. BILL. By Jove! This is ! The curtain falls. ACT II The scene is LADY CHESHIRE'S morning room, at ten ' o'clock on the following day. It is a pretty room, with white panelled walls; and chrysanthemums and carmine lilies in bowls. A large bow window over- looks the park under a sou' -westerly sky. A piano stands open; afire is burning; and the morning's correspondence is scattered on a writing -table. Doors opposite each other lead to the maid's workroom, and to a corridor. LADY CHESHIRE is standing in the middle of the room, looking at an opera cloak, which FREDA is holding out. LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Freda, suppose you just give it up! FREDA. I don't like to be beaten. LADY CHESHIRE. You're not to worry over your work. And by the way, I promised your father to make you eat more. [FREDA smiles. LADY CHESHIRE. It's all very well to smile. You want bracing up. Now don't be naughty. I shall give you a tonic. And I think you had better put that cloak away. FREDA. I'd rather have one more try, my lady. LADY CHESHIRE. [Sitting down at her writing-table] Very well. FREDA goes out into her workroom, as JACKSON comes in from the corridor. 31 32 THE ELDEST SON ACT n JACKSON. Excuse me, my lady. There's a young woman from the village, says you wanted to see her. LADY CHESHIRE. Rose Taylor? Ask her to come in Oh! and Jackson the car for the meet please at half-past ten. JACKSON having bowed and withdrawn, LADY CHESHIRE rises with marked signs of nervous- ness, which she has only just suppressed, when ROSE TAYLOR, a stolid country girl, comes in and stands waiting by the door. LADY CHESHIRE. Well, Rose. Do come in! [RosE advances perhaps a couple of steps. LADY CHESHIRE. I just wondered whether you'd like to ask my advice. Your engagement with Dunning's broken off, isn't it ? ROSE. Yes but I've told him he's got to marry me. LADY CHESHIRE. I see! And you think that'll be the wisest thing? ROSE. [Stolidly] I don't know, my lady. He's got to. LADY CHESHIRE. I do hope you're a little fond of him still. ROSE. I'm not. He don't deserve it. LADY CHESHIRE. And do you think he's quite lost his affection for you ? ROSE. I suppose so, else he wouldn't treat me as he's done. He's after that that He didn't ought to treat me as if I was dead. LADY CHESHIRE. No, no of course. But you will think it all well over, won't you ? ACTH THE ELDEST SON 33 ROSE. I've a-got nothing to think over, except what I know of. LADY CHESHIRE. But for you both to marry in that spirit! You know it's for life, Rose. [Looking into her face] I'm always ready to help you. ROSE. [Dropping a very slight curtsey] Thank you, my lady, but I think he ought to marry me. I've told him he ought. LADY CHESHIRE. [Sighing] Well, that's all I wanted to say. It's a question of your self-respect; I can't give you any real advice. But just remember that if you want a friend ROSE. [With a gulp] I'm not so 'ard, really. I only want him to do what's right by me. LADY CHESHIRE. [With a little lift of her eyebrows gently] Yes, yes I see. ROSE. [Glancing back at the door] I don't like meet- ing the servants. LADY CHESHIRE. Come along, I'll take you out another way. [As they reach the door, DOT comes in. DOT. [With a glance at ROSE] Can we have this room for the mouldy rehearsal, Mother ? LADY CHESHIRE. Yes, dear, you can air it here. Holding the door open for ROSE she follows her out. And DOT, with a book of "Caste" in her hand, arranges the room according to a diagram. DOT. Chair chair table chair Dash! Table piano fire window! [Producing a pocket comb] Comb for Eccles. Cradle ? Cradle [She viciously dumps a 34 THE ELDEST SON ACT n waste-paper basket down, and drops a footstool into il] Brat! [Then reading from the book gloomily] "Enter Eccles breathless. Esther and Polly rise Esther puts on lid of bandbox." Bandbox! Searching for something to represent a bandbox, she opens the workroom door. Dor. Freda? FREDA comes in. Dor. I say, Freda. Anything the matter? You seem awfully down. [FREDA does not answer. DOT. You haven't looked anything of a lollipop lately. FREDA. I'm quite all right, thank you, Miss Dot. Dor. Has Mother been givin' you a tonic ? FREDA. [Smiling a little] Not yet. DOT. That doesn't account for it then. [With a sudden warm impulse] What is it, Freda ? FREDA. Nothing. DOT. [Switching off on a different line of thought] Are you very busy this morning? FREDA. Only this cloak for my lady. DOT. Oh! that can wait. I may have to get you in to prompt, if I can't keep 'em straight. [Gloomily] They stray so. Would you mind ? FREDA. [Stolidly] I shall be very glad, Miss Dot. DOT. [Eyeing her dubiously] All right. Let's see what did I want ? JOAN has come in. JOAN. Look here, Dot; about the baby in this scene, I'm sure I ought to make more of it. ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 35 Dor. Romantic little beast! [She plucks the footstool out by one ear, and holds it forth] Let's see you try! JOAN. [Recoiling] But, Dot, what are we really going to have for the baby ? I can't rehearse with that thing. Can't you suggest something, Freda ? FREDA. Borrow a real one, Miss Joan. There are some that don't count much. JOAN. Freda, how horrible! Dor. [Dropping the footstool back into the basket] You'll just put up with what you're given. Then as CHRISTINE and MABEL LANFARNE come in, FREDA turns abruptly and goes out. DOT. Buck up! Where are Bill and Harold? [To JOAN] Go and find them, mouse-cat. But BILL and HAROLD, followed by LATTER, are already in the doorway. They come in, and LATTER, stumbling over the waste-paper basket t takes it up to improve its position. DOT. Drop that cradle, John! [As he picks the foot- stool out of it] Leave the baby in! Now then! Bill, you enter there! [She points to the workroom door where BILL and MABEL range themselves close to the piano; while HAROLD goes to the window] John! get off the stage! Now then, "Eccles enters breathless, Esther and Polly rise." Wait a minute. I know now. [She opens the workroom door] Freda, I wanted a band- box. HAROLD. [Cheerfully] I hate beginning to rehearse, you know, you feel such a fool. 36 THE ELDEST SON ACT n Dor. [With her bandbox gloomily] You'll feel more of a fool when you have begun. [To BILL, who is star- ing into the workroom] Shut the door. Now. [BiLL shuts the door. LATTER. [Advancing] Look here! I want to clear up a point of psychology before we start. DOT. Good Lord! LATTER. When I bring in the milk ought I to bring it in seriously as if I were accustomed I mean, I maintain that if I'm JOAN. Oh! John, but I don't think it's meant that you should Dor. Shut up! Go back, John! Blow the milk! Begin, begin, begin! Bill! LATTER. [Turning round and again advancing] But I think you underrate the importance of my entrance altogether. MABEL. Oh! no, Mr. Latter! LATTER. I don't in the least want to destroy the bal- ance of the scene, but I do want to be clear about the spirit. What is the spirit ? Dor. [With gloom] Rollicking! LATTER. Well, I don't think so. We shall run a great risk with this play, if we rollick. Dor. Shall we ? Now look here ! MABEL. [Softly to BILL] Mr. Cheshire! BILL. [Desperately] Let's get on! Dor. [Waving LATTER back] Begin, begin! At last! But JACKSON has come in> ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 37 JACKSON. [To CHRISTINE] Studdenham says, M'm, if the young ladies want to see the spaniel pups, he's brought 'em round. JOAN. [Starting up] Oh! come on, John! [She flies towards the door, followed by LATTER. DOT. [Gesticulating with her book] Stop! You [CHRISTINE and HAROLD also rush past. DOT. [Despairingly] First pick! [Tearing her hair] Pigs! Devils! [She rushes after them. BILL, and MABEL are left alone. MABEL. [Mockingly] And don't you want one of the spaniel pups? BILL. [Painfully reserved and sullen, and conscious of the workroom door] Can't keep a dog in town. You can have one, if you like. The breeding's all right. MABEL. Sixth pick? BILL. The girls'll give you one of theirs. They only fancy they want 'em. MABEL. [Moving near w to him, with her hands clasped behind her] You know, ) ou remind me awfully of your father. Except that you're not nearly so polite. I don't understand you English lords of the soil. The way you have of disposing of your females. [With a sudden change of voice] What was the matter with you last night ? [Softly] Won't you tell me ? BILL. Nothing to tell. MABEL. Ah! no, Mr. Bill. BILL. [Almost succumbing to her voice then sullenly] Worried, I suppose. 88 THE ELDEST SON ACT n MABEL. [Returning to her mocking] Quite got over it ? BILL. Don't chaff me, please. MABEL. You really are rather formidable. BILL. Thanks. MABEL. But, you know, I love to cross a field where there's a bull. BILL. Really! Very interesting. MABEL. The way of their only seeing one thing at a time. [She moves back as he advances] And overturning people on the journey. BILL. Hadn't you better be a little careful ? MABEL. And never to see the hedge until they're stuck in it. And then straight from that hedge into the opposite one. BILL. [Savagely] What makes you bait me this morn- ing of all mornings? MABEL. The beautiful morning! [Suddenly] It must be dull for poor Freda working in there with all this fun going on ? BILL. [Glancing at the door] Fun you call it? MABEL. To go back to you, now Mr. Cheshire. BILL. No. MABEL. You always make me feel so Irish. Is it because you're so English, d'you think ? Ah! I can see him moving his ears. Now he's pawing the ground- He's started! BILL. Miss Lanfarne! MABEL. [Still backing away from him, and drawing him on with her eyes and smile] You can't help coming ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 39 after me! [Then with a sudden change to a sort of stern gravity] Can you ? You'll feel that when I've gone. They stand quite still, looking into each other's eyes and FREDA, wJw has opened the door oj the workroom stares at them. MABEL. [Seeing her] Here's the stile. Adieu, Mon- sieur le taureau! She puts her hand behind her, opens the door, and slips through, leaving BILL to turn, following the direction of her eyes, and see FREDA with the cloak still in her hand. BILL. [Slowly walking towards her] I haven't slept all night. FREDA. No? BILL. Have you been thinking it over? [FREDA gives a bitter little laugh. BILL. Don't! We must make a plan. I'll get you away. I won't let you suffer. I swear I won't. FREDA. That will be clever. BILL. I wish to Heaven my affairs weren't in such a mess. FREDA. I shall be all right, thank you. BILL. You must think me a blackguard. [She shakes her head] Abuse me say something! Don't look like that! FREDA. Were you ever really fond of me ? BILL. Of course I was, I am now. Give me your hands. She looks at him, then drags her hands from his, and covers her face. 40 THE ELDEST SON ACT n BILL. [Clenching his fists] Look here! I'll prove it. [Then as she suddenly flings her arms round his neck and clings to him] There, there! There is a click of a door handle. They start away from each other, and see LADY CHESHIRE re- garding them. LADY CHESHIRE. [Without irony] I beg your pardon. She makes as if to withdraw from an unwarranted intrusion, but suddenly turning* stands t with lips pressed together, waiting. LADY CHESHIRE. Yes? FREDA has muffled her face. But BILL turns and confronts his mother. BILL. Don't say anything against her! LADY CHESHIRE. [Tries to speak to him and fails then to FREDA] Please go! BILL. [Taking FREDA'S arm] No. LADY CHESHIRE, after a moment's hesitation, her<- self moves towards the door. BILL. Stop, mother! LADY CHESHIRE. I think perhaps not. BILL. [Looking at FREDA, who is cowering as though from a blow] It's a d d shame! LADY CHESHIRE. It is. BILL. [With sudden resolution] It's not as you think. I'm engaged to be married to her. [FREDA gives him a wild stare, and turns away. LADY CHESHIRE. [Looking from one to the other] I don't think I quite understand. ACT n THE ELDEST SON 41 BILL. [With the brutality of his mortification] What I said was plain enough. LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! BILL. I tell you I am going to marry her. LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Is that true? [FREDA gulps and remains silent. BILL. If you want to say anything, say it to me, mother. LADY CHESHIRE. [Gripping the edge of a little table] Give me a chair, please. [BiLL gives her a chair. LADY CHESHIRE. [To FREDA] Please sit down too. FREDA sits on tJie piano stool, still turning her face away. LADY CHESHIRE. [Fixing her eyes on FREDA] Now! BILL. I fell in love with her. And she with me. LADY CHESHIRE. When? BILL. In the summer. LADY CHESHIRE. Ah! BILL. It wasn't her fault. LADY CHESHIRE. No? BILL. [With a sort of menace] Mother! LADY CHESHIRE. Forgive me, I am not quite used to the idea. You say that you are engaged ? BILL. Yes. LADY CHESHIRE. The reasons against such an en- gagement have occurred to you, I suppose? [With a sudden change of tone] Bill ! what does it mean P BILL, If you think she's trapped me into this- - 42 THE ELDEST SON ACT u LAD>T CHESHIRE. I do not. Neither do I think she nas been trapped. I think nothing. I understand nothing. BILL,. [Grimly] Good! LADY CHESHIRE. How long has this engagement lasted ? BILL. [After a silence] Two months. LADY CHESHIRE. [Suddenly] This is this is quite impossible. BILL. You'll find it isn't. . LADY CHESHIRE. It's simple misery. BILL. [Pointing to the workroom] Go and wait in there, Freda. LADY CHESHIRE. [Quickly] And are you still in love with her? FREDA, moving towards the workroom, smothers a sob. BILL. Of course I am. FREDA has gone, and as she goes, LADY CHESHIRE nses suddenly, forced by the intense feeling she has been keeping in hand. LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! Oh, Bill! What does it all mean ? [BILL, looking from side to side, only shrugs his shoulders] You are not in love with her now. It's no good telling me you are. BILL. I am. LADY CHESHIRE. That's not exactly how you would speak if you were. BILL. She's in love with me. LADY CHESHIRE. [Bitterly] I suppose so. An n THE ELDEST SON 43 BILL. I mean to see that nobody runs her down. LADY CHESHIRE. [With difficulty] Bill! Am I a hard, or mean woman ? BILL. Mother! LADY CHESHIRE. It's all your life and your fath- er's and all of us. I want to understand I must understand. Have you realised what an awful thing this would be for us all? It's quite impossible that it should go on. BILL. I'm always in hot water with the Governor, as it is. She and I'll take good care not to be in the way. LADY CHESHIRE. Tell me everything! BILL. I have. LADY CHESHIRE. I'm your mother, Bill. BILL. What's the good of these questions ? LADY CHESHIRE. You won't give her away I see! BILL. I've told you all there is to tell. We're en- gaged, we shall be married quietly, and and go to Canada. LADY CHESHIRE. If there weren't more than that to tell you'd be in love with her now. BILL. I've told you that I am. LADY CHESHIRE. You are not. [Almost fiercely] I know I know there's more behind. BILL. There is nothing. LADY CHESHIRE. [Baffled, but unconvinced] Do you mean that your love for her has been iust what it might have been for a lady ? BILL. [Bitterly] Why not? 44 THE ELDEST SON ACT n LADY CHESHIRE. [With painful irony] It is not so as a rule. BILL. Up to now I've never heard you or the girls say a word against Freda. This isn't the moment to begin, please. LADY CHESHIRE. [Solemnly] All such marriages end in wretchedness. You haven't a taste or tradition in common. You don't know what marriage is. Day after day, year after year. It's no use being sentimen- tal for people brought up as we are to have dif- ferent manners is worse than to have different souls. Besides, it's poverty. Your father will never forgive you, and I've practically nothing. What can you do ? You have no profession. How are you going to stand it; with a woman who ? It's the little things. BILL. I know all that, thanks. LADY CHESHIRE. Nobody does till thsy've been through it. Marriage is hard enough when people art of the same class. [With a sudden movement towards him] Oh! my dear before it's too late! BILL. [After a struggle] It's no good. LADY CHESHIRE. It's not fair to her. It can only end in her misery. BILL. Leave that to me, please. LADY CHESHIRE. [With an almost angry vehemence] Only the very finest can do such things. And you don't even know what trouble's like. BILL. Drop it, please, mother. LADY CHESHIRE. Bill, on your word of honour, are you acting of your own free will ? ACTII THE ELDEST SON 45 BILL. [Breaking away from her] I can't stand any more. [He goes out into the workroom. LADY CHESHIRE. What in God's name shall I do? In her distress she walks up and down the room, then goes to the workroom door, and opens it. LADY CHESHIRE. Come in here, please, Freda. After a second's pause, FREDA, white and trem- bling, appears in the doorway, followed by BILL. LADY CHESHIRE. No, Bill. I want to speak to her alone. BILL does not move. LADY CHESHIRE. [Icily] I must ask you to leave us. BILL hesitates; then shrugging his shoulders, he touches FREDA'S arms, and goes back into the workroom, closing the door. There is silence. LADY CHESHIRE. How did it come about ? FREDA. I don't know, my lady. LADY CHESHIRE. For heaven's sake, child, don't call me that again, whatever happens. [She walks to the window, and speaks from there] I know well enough how love comes. I don't blame you. Don't cry. But, you see, it's my eldest son. [FREDA puts her hand to her breast] Yes, I know. Women always get the worst of these things. That's natural. But it's not only you is it ? Does any one guess ? FREDA. No. LADY CHESHIRE. Not even your father? [FREDA shakes her head} There's nothing more dreadful than for a woman to hang like a stone round a man's neck. How far has it gone? Tell me! 46 THE ELDEST SON ACT n FREDA. I can't. LADY CHESHIRE. Come! FREDA. I won't. LADY CHESHIRE. [Smiling painfully]. Won't give him away ? Both of you the same. What's the use of that with me ? Look at me ! Wasn't he with you when you went for your holiday this summer ? FREDA. He's always behaved like a gentle- man. LADY CHESHIRE. Like a man you mean! FREDA. It hasn't been his fault! I love him so. LADY CHESHIRE turns abruptly, and begins to walk up and down the room. Then stopping, she looks intently at FREDA. LADY CHESHIRE. I don't know what to say to you. It's simple madness! It can't, and shan't go on. FREDA. [Sullenly] I know I'm not his equal, but I am somebody. LADY CHESHIRE. [Answering this first assertion of rights with a sudden steeliness] Does he love you now ? FREDA. That's not fair it's not fair. LADY CHESHIRE. If men are like gunpowder, Freda, women are not. If you've lost him it's been your own fault. FREDA. But he does love me, he must. It's only four months. LADY CHESHIRE. [Looking down, and speaking rap- idly] Listen to me. I love my son, but I know him I know all his kind of man. I've lived with one for thirty years. I know the way their senses work. When they ACT n THE ELDEST SON 47 want a thing they must have it, and then they're sorry. FKEDA. [Sullenly] He's not sorry. LADY CHESHIRE. Is his love big enough to cany you both over everything ? . . . You know it isn't. FREDA. If I were a lady, you wouldn't talk like that. LADY CHESHIRE. If you were a lady there 'd be no trouble before either of you. You'll make him hate you. FREDA. I won't believe it. I could make him happy out there. LADY CHESHIRE. I don't want to be so odious as to say all the things you must know. I only ask you to try and put yourself in our position. FREDA. Ah, yes! LADY CHESHIRE. You ought to know me better than to think I'm purely selfish. FREDA. Would you like to put yourself in my posi- tion ? [She throws up her head. LADY CHESHIRE. What! FREDA. Yes. Just like Rose. LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low, horror-stricken voice] Oh! There is a dead silence, then going swiftly up to her, she looks straight into FREDA'S eyes. FREDA. [Meeting her gaze] Oh! Yes it's the truth. [Then to Bill whc has come in from the workroom, she gasps out] I never meant to tell. BILL. Well, are you satisfied ? LADY CHESHIRE. [Below her breath] This is terrible! BILL. The Governor had better know. LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! no; not yet! 48 THE ELDEST SON ACT 11 BILL. Waiting won't cure it! The door from the corridor is thrown open; CHRIS- TINE and DOT run in with their copies of the play in their hands; seeing that something is wrong, they stand still. After a look at his mother, BILL turns abruptly, and goes back into the workroom, LADY CHESHIRE moves towards the window. JOAN. [Folloiving her sisters] The car's round. What's the matter? Dor. Shut up! SIR WILLIAM'S voice is heard from the corridor calling "Dorothy!" As LADY CHESHIRE, pass- ing her handkerchief over her face, turns round, he enters. He is in full hunting dress: well- weathered pink, buckskins, and mahogany tops. SIR WILLIAM. Just off, my dear. [To his daughters, genially] Rehearsin'? What! [He goes up to FREDA holding out his gloved right hand] Button that for me, Freda, would you ? It's a bit stiff! FREDA buttons the glove: LADY CHESHIRE and the girls watching in hypnotic silence. SIR WILLIAM. Thank you! "Balmy as May"; scent ought to be first-rate. [To LADY CHESHIRE] Good-bye, my dear! Sampson's Gorse best day of the whole year. [He pats JOAN on the shoulder] Wish you were comin' out, Joan. He goes out, leaving the door open, and as his footsteps and the chink of his spurs die away, FREDA turns and rushes into the workroom. ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 49 CHRISTINE. Mother! What ? But LADY CHESHIRE waves the question aside, passes her daughter, and goes out into the cor- ridor. The sound of a motor car is heard. JOAN. [Running to the window] They've started ! Chris! What is it? Dot? Dor. Bill, and her! JOAN. But what? DOT. [Gloomily] Heaven knows! Go away, you're not fit for this. JOAN. [Aghast] I am fit Dor. I think not. JOAN. Chris? CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] Mother ought to have told us. JOAN. It can't be very awful. Freda's so good. DOT. Call yourself in love, you milk-and-water kitten! CHRISTINE. It's horrible, not knowing anything! I wish Ronny hadn't gone. JOAN. Shall I fetch John ? Dor. John! CHRISTINE. Perhaps Harold knows. JOAN. He went out with Studdenham. DOT. It's always like this, women kept in blinkers. Rose-leaves and humbug! That awful old man! JOAN. Dot! CHRISTINE. Don't talk of father like that! DOT. Well, he is! And Bill will be just like him at fifty! Heaven help Freda, whatever she's done! I'd 50 THE ELDEST SON ACT n sooner be a private in a German regiment than a woman. JOAN. Dot, you're awful. Dor. You mouse-hearted linnet! CHRISTINE. Don't talk that nonsense about women! DOT. You're married and out of it; and Ronny's not one of these terrific John Bulls. [To JOAN who has opened the door] Looking for John ? No good, my dear; lath and plaster. JOAN. [From the door, in a frightened whisper] Here's Mabel! Dor. Heavens, and the waters under the earth! CHRISTINE. If we only knew! As MABEL comes in, the three girls are siknt, with their eyes fixed on their books. MABEL. The silent company. Dor. [Looking straight at her] We're chucking it for to-day. MABEL. What's the matter ? CHRISTINE. Oh! nothing. Dor. Something's happened. MABEL. Really! I am sorry. [Hesitating] Is it bad enough for me to go ? CHRISTINE. Oh! no, Mabel! Dor. [Sardonically] I should think very likely. While she is looking from face to face, BILL comes in from the workroom. He starts to walk across the room, but stops, and looks stolidly at the four girls. ACT ii THE ELDEST SON 51 Exactly! Fact of the matter is, Miss Lan- farne, I'm engaged to my mother's maid. No one moves or speaks. Suddenly MABEL LANFARNE goes towards him, holding out her hand. BILL, does not take her hand, but bows. Then after a swift glance at the girls' faces MABEL goes out into the corridor, and the three girls are left staring at their brother. BILL. [Coolly] Thought you might like to know. [He, too, goes out into the corridor. CHRISTINE. Great heavens! JOAN. How awful! CHRISTINE. I never thought of anything as bad as that. JOAN. Oh! Chris! Something must be done! Dor. [Suddenly to herself ] Ha! When Father went up to have his glove buttoned! There is a sound, JACKSON has come in from the corridor. JACKSON. [To Dor] If you please, Miss, Studden- ham's brought up the other two pups. He's just out- side. Will you kindly take a look at them, he says ? There is silence. Dor. [Suddenly] We can't. CHRISTINE. Not just now, Jackson. JACKSON. Is Studdenham and the pups to wait, M'm ? Dor shakes her head violently. But STUDDEN- HAM is seen already standing in the doorway, with a spaniel puppy in either side-pocket. He comes in, and JACKSON stands waiting behind him. 52 THE ELDEST SON ACT n STUDDENHAM. This fellow's the best, Miss Dot. [He protrudes the right-hand pocket] I was keeping him for my girl a proper breedy one takes after his father. The girls stare at him in silence. DOT. [Hastily] Thanks, Studdenham, I see. STUDDENHAM. I won't take 'em out in here. They're rather bold yet. CHRISTINE. [Desperately] No, no, of course. STUDDENHAM. Then you think you'd like him, Miss Dot? The other's got a white chest; she's a lady. [He protrudes the left-hand pocket. DOT. Oh, yes! Studdenham; thanks, thanks awfully. STUDDENHAM. Wonderful faithful creatures; follow you like a woman. You can't shake 'em off anyhow. [He protrudes the right-hand pocket] My girl, she'd set her heart on him, but she'll just have to do without. Dor. [As though galvanised] Oh! no, I can't take it away from her. STUDDENHAM. Bless you, she won't mind! That's settled, then. [He turns to the door. To the PUPPY] Ah! would you! Tryin' to wriggle out of it! Regular young limb! [He goes out, followed by JACKSON. CHRISTINE. How ghastly! Dor. [Suddenly catching sight of the book in her hand] "Caste!" [She gives vent to a short sharp laugh. The curtain falls. ACT III It is five o'clock of the same day. The scene is the smoking-room, with walls of Leander red, covered by old steeplechase and hunting prints. Armchairs encircle a high-fendered hearth, in which afire is burning. The curtains are not yet drawn across mullioned windows; but electric light is burning. There are two doors, leading, the one to the billiard- room, the other to a corridor. BILL is pacing up and down; HAROLD, at the fireplace, stands looking at him with commiseration. BILL. What's the time? HAROLD. Nearly five. They won't be in yet, if that's any consolation. Always a tough meet [softly] as the tiger said when he ate the man. BILL. By Jove! You're the only person I can stand within a mile of me, Harold. HAROLD. Old boy! Do you seriously think you're going to make it any better by marrying her ? [Bill shrugs his shoulders, still pacing the room. BILL. Look here ! I'm not the sort that finds it easy to say things. HABOLD. No, old man. BILL. But I've got a kind of self-respect though you wouldn't think it! HAROLD. My dar old chap! 53 51 THE ELDEST SON ACT in BILL. This is about as low-down a thing as one could have done, I suppose one's own mother's maid; we've known her since she was so high. I see it now that I've got over the attack. HAROLD. But, heavens! if you're no longer keen on her, Bill! Do apply your reason, old boy. There is silence; while BILL again paces up and down. BILL. If you think I care two straws about the morality of the thing HAROLD. Oh! my dear old man! Of course not! BILL. It's simply that I shall feel such a d d skunk, if I leave her in the lurch, with everybody knowing. Try it yourself; you'd soon see! HAROLD. Poor old chap! BILL. It's not as if she'd tried to force me into it. And she's a soft little thing. Why I ever made such a sickening ass of myself, I can't think. I never meant HAROLD. No, I know! But, don't do anything rash, Bill; keep your head, old man! BILL. I don't see what loss I should be, if I did clear out of the country. [The sound of cannoning billiard^ balls is heard] Who's that knocking the balls about ? HAROLD. John, I expect. [The sound ceases. BILL. He's coming in here. Can't stand that! As LATTER appears from the billiard-room t h$ goes hurriedly out. LATTER. Was that Bill? HAROLD. Yes. LATTER. Well? ACT m THE ELDEST SON 55 HAROLD. [Pacing up and down in his turn] Rat in a cage is a fool to him. This is the sort of thing you read of in books, John! What price your argument with Ronny now ? Well, it's not too late for you luckily. LATTER. What do you mean ? HAROLD. You needn't connect yourself with this ec- centric family! LATTER. I'm not a bounder, Harold. HAROLD. Good! LATTER. It's terrible for your sisters. HAROLD. Deuced lucky we haven't a lot of people staying here! Poor mother! John, I feel awfully bad about this. If something isn't done, pretty mess I shall be in. LATTER. How? HAROLD. There's no entail. If the Governor cuts Bill off, it'll all come to me. LATTER. Oh! HAROLD. Poor old Bill! I say, the play! Nemesis! What? Moral! Caste don't matter. Got us fairly on the hop. LATTER. It's too bad of Bill. It really is. He's be- haved disgracefully. HAROLD. [Warmly] Well! There are thousands of fellows who'd never dream of sticking to the girl, con- sidering what it means. LATTER. Perfectly disgusting! HAROLD. Hang you, John ! Haven't you any human sympathy? Don't you know how these things come about? It's like a spark in a straw-yard. 56 THE ELDEST SON ACT in LATTER. One doesn't take lighted pipes into straw- yards unless one's an idiot, or worse. HAROLD. H'm ! [With a grin] You're not allowed to- bacco. In the good old days no one would have thought anything of this. My great-grandfather LATTER. Spare me your great-grandfather. HAROLD. I could tell you of at least a dozen men I know who've been through this same business, and got off scot-free; and now because Bill's going to play the game, it'll smash him up. LATTER. Why didn't he play the game at the begin- ning? HAROLD. I can't stand your sort, John. When a thing like this happens, all you can do is to cry out: Why didn't he ? Why didn't she ? What's to be done that's the point! LATTER. Of course he'll have to HAROLD. Ha! LATTER. What do you mean by that ? HAROLD. Look here, John ! You feel in your bones that a marriage'll be hopeless, just as I do, knowing Bill and the girl and everything! Now don't you? LATTER. The whole thing is is most unfortunate. HAROLD. By Jove! I should think it was! As he speaks CHRISTINE and KEITH come in from the billiard-room. He is still in splashed hunting clothes, and looks exceptionally weath- ered, thin-lipped, reticent. He lights a cigarette and sinks into an armchair. Behind them DOT and JOAN have come stealing in. ACT in THE ELDEST SON 57 CHRISTINE. I've told Ronny. JOAN. This waiting for father to be told is awful. HAROLD. [To KEITH] Where did you leave the old man ? KEITH. Clackenham. He'll be home in ten minutes. Dor. Mabel's going. [They all stir, as if at fresh con- sciousness of discom/ftture]. She walked into Gracely and sent herself a telegram. HAROLD. Phew! DOT. And we shall say good-bye, as if nothing had happened! HAROLD. It's up to you, Ronny. KEITH, looking at JOAN, slowly emits smoke; and LATTER passing his arm through JOAN'S, draws her away wiih him into the billiard-room. KEITH. Dot? Dor. 7'm not a squeamy squirrel. KEITH. Anybody seen the girl since? DOT. Yes. HAROLD. Well? DOT. She's just sitting there. CHRISTINE. [In a hard voice] As we're all doing. DOT. She's so soft, that's what's so horrible. If one could only feel ! KEITH. She's got to face the music like the rest of us. DOT. Music! Squeaks! Ugh! The whole thing's like a concertina, and some one jigging it! They all turn as the door opens, and a FOOTMAN enters with a tray of whiskey, gin, lemons, and soda water. In dead silence the FOOTMAN puts the tray down. 58 THE ELDEST SON ACT in HAROLD. [Forcing his roice] Did you get a run, Ronny? [As KEITH nods] What point? KEITH. Eight mile. FOOTMAN. Will you take tea, sir? KEITH. No, thanks, Charles! In dead silence again the FOOTMAN goes out, and they all look after him. HAROLD. [Below his breath] Good Gad! That's a squeeze of it! KEITH. What's our line of country to be ? CHRISTINE. All depends on father. KEITH. Sir William's between the devil and the deep sea, as it strikes me. CHRISTINE. He'll simply forbid it utterly, of course. KEITH. H'm! Hard case! Man who reads family prayers, and lessons on Sunday forbids son to CHRISTINE. Ronny! KEITH. Great Scott! I'm not saying Bill ought to marry her. She's got to stand the racket. But your Dad will have a tough job to take up that position. Dor. Awfully funny! CHRISTINE. What on earth d'you mean, Dot ? Dor. Morality in one eye, and your title in the other! CHRISTINE. Rubbish! HAROLD. You're all reckoning without your Bill. KEITH. Ye-es. Sir William can cut him off; no mortal power can help the title going down, if Bill chooses to be such a [He draws in his breath with a sharp hiss t THE ELDEST SON 59 HAHOLD. I won't take what Bill ought to have; nor would any of you girls, I should think CHRISTINE and Dor. Of course not! KEITH. [Patting his wife's arm] Hardly the point, is it? DOT. If it wasn't for mother! Freda's just as much of a lady as most girls. Why shouldn't he marry her, and go to Canada ? It's what he's really fit for. HAROLD. Steady on, Dot! DOT. Well, imagine him in Parliament! That's what he'll come to, if he stays here jolly for the country! CHRISTINE. Don't be cynical! We must find a way of stopping Bill. DOT. Me cynical! CHRISTINE. Let's go and beg him, Ronny! KEITH. No earthly! The only hope is in the girl. Dor. She hasn't the stuff in her! HAROLD. I say! What price young Dunning! Right about face! Poor old Dad! CHRISTINE. It's past joking, Harold! DOT. [Gloomily] Old Studdenham's better than most relations by marriage! KEITH. Thanks! CHRISTINE. It's ridiculous monstrous! It's fan- tastic! HAROLD. [Holding up his hand] There's his horse going round. He's in! They turn from listening to the sound, to see LADY CHESHIRE coming from the billiard-room. She is very pale. They all rise and DOT puts an 60 THE ELDEST SON ACT m arm round her; while KEITH pushes forward his chair. JOAN and LATTER too have come stealing back. LADY CHESHIRE. Thank you, Ronny! [She sits down. DOT. Mother, you're shivering! Shall I get you a fur? LADY CHESHIRE. No, thanks, dear! Dor. [In a low voice] Play up, mother darling! LADY CHESHIRE. [Straightening herself] What sort of a run, Ronny? KEITH. Quite fair, M'm. Brazier's to Caffyn's Dyke, good straight line. LADY CHESHIRE. And the young horse ? KEITH. Carries his ears in your mouth a bit, that's all. [Putting his hand on her shoulder] Cheer up, Mem- Sahib! CHRISTINE. Mother, must anything be said to father ? Ronny thinks it all depends on her. Can't you use your influence ? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes her head. CHRISTINE. But, mother, it's desperate. DOT. Shut up, Chris! Of course mother can't. We simply couldn't beg her to let us off! CHRISTINE. There must be some way. What do you think in your heart, mother ? Dor. Leave mother alone! CHRISTINE. It must be faced, now or never. Dor. [In a low voice] Haven't you any self-respect ? CHRISTINE. We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole county. Oh! mother do speak to her! You ACTIH THE ELDEST SON 61 know it'll be misery for both of them. [LADY CHESHIRE bows her head] Well, then ? [LADY CHESHIRE shakes her head. CHRISTINE. Not even for Bill's sake ? Dor. Chris! CHRISTINE. Well, for heaven's sake, speak to Bill again, mother! We ought all to go on our knees to him. LADY CHESHIRE. He's with your father now. HAROLD. Poor old Bill! CHRISTINE. [Passionately] He didn't think of usJ That wretched girl! LADY CHESHIRE. Chris! CHRISTINE. There are limits! LADY CHESHIRE. Not to self-control. CHRISTINE. No, mother! I can't I never shall Something must be done! You know what Bill is. He rushes at things so, when he gets his head down. Oh! do try! It's only fair to her, and all of us! LADY CHESHIRE. [Painfully] There are things one can't do. CHRISTINE. But it's Bill! I know you can make her give him up, if you'll only say all you can. And, after all, what's coming won't affect her as if she'd been a lady. Only you can do it, mother. Do back me up, all of you! It's the only way! Hypnotised by their private longing for what CHRISTINE has been urging they have all fixed their eyes on LADY CHESHIRE, who looks from face to face> and moves her hands as if in phys* ical pain. 62 THE ELDEST SON ACT in CHRISTINE. [Softly] Mother! LADY CHESHIRE suddenly rises, looking towards the billiard-room door, listening. They all fol- low her eyes. She sits down again, passing her hand over her lips, as SIR WILLIAM enters. His hunting clothes are splashed; his face very grim and set. He walks to thejire without a glance at any one, and stands looking down into it. Very quietly, every one but LADY CHESHIRE steals away. LADY CHESHIRE. What have you done ? SIR WILLIAM. You there! LADY CHESHIRE. Don't keep me in suspense! SIR WILLIAM. The fool! My God! Dorothy! I didn't think I had a blackguard for a son, who was a fool into the bargain. LADY CHESHIRE. [Rising'} If he were a blackguard he would not be what you call a fool. SIR WILLIAM. [After staring angrily, makes her a slight bow} Very well! LADY CHESHIRE. [In a low voice} Bill, don't be harsh. It's all too terrible. SIR WILLIAM. Sit down, my dear. IShe resumes her seat, and he turns back to the fire. SIR WILLIAM. In all my life I've never been face to face with a thing like this. [Gripping the mantelpiece so hard that his hands and arms are seen shaking] You ask me to be calm. I am trying to be. Be good enough in turn not to take his part against me. LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! ACTHI THE ELDEST SON 63 SIR WILLIAM. I am trying to think. I understand that you've known this piece of news since this morn- ing. I've known it ten minutes. Give me a little time, please. [Then, after a silence] Where's the girl? LADY CHESHIRE. In the workroom. SIR WILLIAM. [Raising his clenched fist] What in God's name is he about ? LADY CHESHIRE. What have you said to him ? SIR WILLIAM. Nothing by a miracle. [He breaks away from the fire and walks up and down] My family goes back to the thirteenth century. Nowadays they laugh at that! I don't! Nowadays they laugh at everything they even laugh at the word lady I mar- ried you, and I don't. . . . Married his mother's maid ! By George! Dorothy! I don't know what we've done to deserve this; it's a death blow! I'm not prepared to sit down and wait for it. By Gad! I am not. [With sud- den fierceness] There are plenty in these days who'll be glad enough for this to happen; plenty of these d d Socialists and Radicals, who'll laugh their souls out over what they haven't the bowels to see's a tragedy. I say it would be a tragedy; for you, and me, and all of us. You and I were brought up, and we've brought the chil- dren up, with certain beliefs, and wants, and habits. A man's past his traditions he can't get rid of them. They're they're himself ! [Suddenly] It shan't go on. LADY CHESHIRE. What's to prevent it? SIR WILLIAM. I utterly forbid this piece of madness. I'll stop it. LADY CHESHIRE. But the thing we can't stop. 64 THE ELDEST SON ACT m SIR WILLIAM. Provision must be made. LADY CHESHIRE. The unwritten law! SIR WILLIAM. What! [Suddenly perceiving what she is alluding to] You're thinking of young young [SJiortly] I don't see the connection. LADY CHESHIRE. What's so awful, is that the boy's trying to do what's loyal and we his father and mother ! SIR WILLIAM. I'm not going to see my eldest son ruin his life. I must think this out. LADY CHESHIRE. [Beneath her breath] I've tried that it doesn't help. SIR WILLIAM. This girl, who was born on the estate, had the run of the house brought up with money earned from me nothing but kindness from all of us; she's broken the common rules of gratitude and decency she lured him on, I haven't a doubt! LADY CHESHIRE. [To herself] In a way, I suppose. SIR WILLIAM. What! It's ruin. We've always been here. Who the deuce are we if we leave this place? D'you think we could stay ? Go out and meet every- body just as if nothing had happened? Good-bye to any prestige, political, social, or anything! This is the sort of business nothing can get over. I've seen it be- fore. As to that other matter it's soon forgotten con- stantly happening Why, my own grandfather ! LADY CHESHIRE. Does he help? SIR WILLIAM. [Stares before him in silence suddenly] You must go to the girl. She's soft. She'll never hold out against you. ACT in THE ELDEST SON 65 LADY CHESHIRE. I did before I knew what was in front of her I said all I could. I can't go again now. I can't do it, Bill. SIB WILLIAM. What are you going to do, then fold your hands ? [Then as LADY CHESHIRE makes a move- ment of distress.] If he marries her, I've done with him. As far as I'm concerned he'll cease to exist. The title I can't help. My God ! Does that meet your wishes ? LADY CHESHIRE. [With sudden Jire] You've no right to put such an alternative to me. I'd give ten years of my life to prevent this marriage. I'll go to Bill. I'll beg him on my knees. SIR WILLIAM. Then why can't you go to the girl? She deserves no consideration. It's not a question of morality. Morality be d d! LADY CHESHIRE. But not self-respect. SIR WILLIAM. What! You're his mother! LADY CHESHIRE. I've tried; I [putting her hand to her throat] can't get it out. SIR WILLIAM. [Staring at her] You won't go to her ? It's the only chance. [LADY CHESHIRE turns away. SIR WILLIAM. In the whole course of our married life, Dorothy, I've never known you set yourself up against me. I resent this, I warn you I resent it. Send the girl to me. I'll do it myself. With a look back at him LADY CHESHIRE goes out into the corridor. SIR WILLIAM. This is a nice end to my day! He takes a small china cup from off the mantel- piece; it breaks with the pressure of his hand. 66 THE ELDEST SON ACT m and falls into the fireplace. While he stands looking at it blankly, there is a knock. SIR WILLIAM. Come in! FREDA enters from the corridor. SIR WILLIAM. I've asked you to be good enough to come, in order that [pointing to chair] You may sit down. But though she advances two or three steps, she does not sit down. SIR WILLIAM. This is a sad business. FREDA. [Below her breath] Yes, Sir William. SIR WILLIAM. [Becoming conscious of the depths of feeling before him] I er are you attached to my son ? FREDA. [In a whisper] Yes. SIR WILLIAM. It's very painful to me to have to do this. [He turns away from her and speaks to thejirc. I sent for you to ask [quickly] How old are you ? FREDA. Twenty-two. SIR WILLIAM. [More resolutely] Do you expect me to sanction such a mad idea as a marriage ? FREDA. I don't expect anything. SIR WILLIAM. You know you haven't earned the right to be considered. FREDA. Not yet! SIR WILLIAM. What! That oughtn't to help you! On the contrary. Now brace yourself up, and listen to me! She stands ivaiting to hear her sentence. SIR WILLIAM looks at her.' and his glance gradu- ally wavers. ACT m THE ELDEST SON 67 SIR WILLIAM. I've not a word to say for nr son. He's behaved like a scamp. FREDA. Oh! no! SIR WILLIAM. [With a silencing gesture] At the same time What made you forget yourself? You've no excuse, you know. FREDA. No. SIR WILLIAM. You'll deserve all you'll get. Con- found it! To expect me to It's intolerable! Do you know where my son is? FREDA. [Faintly] I think he's in the billiard-room with my lady. SIR WILLIAM. [With renewed resolution] I wanted to to put it to you as a as a what ! [Seeing her stand so absolutely motionless, looking at him, he turns abruptly, and opens the billiard-room door] I'll speak to him first. Come in here, please! [To FREDA] Go in, and wait! LADY CHESHIRE and BILL come in, and FREDA passing them, goes into the billiard-room to wait. SIR WILLIAM. [Speaking with a pause between each sentence] Your mother and I have spoken of this ca- lamity. I imagine that even you have some dim percep- tion of the monstrous nature of it. I must tell you this: If you do this mad thing, you fend for yourself. You'll receive nothing from me now or hereafter. I consider that only due to the position our family has always held here. Your brother will take your place. We shall get on as best we can without you. [There is a dead silence, till he adds sharply] Well! BILL. I shall marry her. 68 THE ELDEST SON ACT m LADY CHESHIRE. Oh! Bill! Without love without anything! BILL. All right, mother! [To SIB WILLIAM] You've mistaken your man, sir. Because I'm a rotter in one way, I'm not necessarily a rotter in all. You put the butt end of the pistol to Dunning's head yesterday, you put the other end to mine to-day. Well! [He turn* round to go out] Let the d d thing off! LADY CHESHIRE. Bill! BILL. [Turning to her] I'm not going to leave her in the lurch. SIR WILLIAM. Do me the justice to admit that I have not attempted to persuade you to. BILL. No! you've chucked me out. I don't see what else you could have done under the circumstances. It's quite all right. But if you wanted me to throw her over, father, you went the wrong way to work, that's all; neither you nor I are very good at seeing consequences. SIR WILLIAM. Do you realise your position ? BILL. [Grimly] I've a fair notion of it. SIR WILLIAM. [With a sudden outburst] You har none not the faintest, brought up as you've been. BILL. I didn't bring myself up. SIR WILLIAM. [With a movement of uncontrolled anger, to which his son responds] You ungrateful young dog.' LADY CHESHIRE. How can you both? [They drop their eyes t and stand silent. SIR WILLIAM. [With grimly suppressed emotion] lam speaking under the stress of very great pain some con- sideration is due to me. This is a disaster which I never ACT in THE ELDEST SON 69 expected to have to face. It is a matter which I natu- rally can never hope to forget. I shall carry this down to my death. We shall all of us do that. I have had the misfortune all my life to believe in our position here to believe that we counted for something that the country wanted us. I have tried to do my duty by that position. I find in one moment that it is gone smoke gone. My philosophy is not equal to that. To coun- tenance this marriage would be unnatural. BILL. I know. I'm sorry. I've got her into this I don't see any other way out. It's a bad business for me, father, as well as for you He stops, seeing that JACKSON has come in, and is standing there waiting. JACKSON. Will you speak to Studdenham, Sir William ? It's about young Dunning. After a moment of dead silence, SIR WILLIAM nods, and the butler withdraws. BILL. [Stolidly] He'd better be told. SIR WILLIAM. He shall be. STUDDENHAM enters, and touches his forehead to them all with a comprehensive gesture. STUDDENHAM. Good evenin', my lady! Evenin*, Sir William! STUDDENHAM. Glad to be able to tell you, the young man's to do the proper thing. Asked me to let you know, Sir William. Banns'll be up next Sunday. [Struck by the silence, he looks round at all three in turn, and suddenly seeing that LADY CHESHIRE is shivering] Beg pardon, my lady, you're shakin' like a leaf! 70 THE ELDEST SON ACT in BILL. [Blurting it out] I've a painful piece of news for you, Studdenham; I'm engaged to your daughter. We're to be married at once. STUDDENHAM. I don't understand you sir. BILL. The fact is, I've behaved badly; but I mean to put it straight. STUDDENHAM. I'm a little deaf. Did you say my daughter ? SIR WILLIAM. There's no use mincing matters, Stud- denham. It's a thunderbolt young Dunning's case over again. STUDDENHAM. I don't rightly follow. She's You've ! I must see my daughter. Have the good- ness to send for her, m'lady. LADY CHESHIRE goes to the billiard-room, and calls: "FREDA, come here, please." STUDDENHAM. [To SIR WILLIAM] You tell me that my daughter's in the position of that girl owing to your son ? Men ha' been shot for less. BILL. If you like to have a pot at me, Studdenham you're welcome. STUDDENHAM. [Averting his eyes from BILL at the sheer idiocy of this sequel to his words] I've been in your service five and twenty years, Sir William; but this is man to man this is! SIR WILLIAM. I don't deny that, Studdenham. STUDDENHAM. [With eyes shifting in sheer anger] No 'twouldn't be very easy. Did I understand him to say that he offers her marriage ? SIB WILLIAM. You did. ACT HI THE ELDEST SON 71 STUDDENHAM. [Into his beard] Well that's some- thing! [Moving his hands as if wringing the neck of a bird] I'm tryin' to see the rights o' this. SIB WILLIAM. [Bitterly] You've all your work cut out for you, Studdenham. Again STUDDENHAM makes the unconscious wringing movement with his hands. LADY CHESHIRE. [Turning from it with a sort of hor- ror] Don't, Studdenham! Please! STUDDENHAM. What's that, m'lady? LADY CHESHIRE. [Under her breath] Your^ your hands. While STUDDENHAM is still staring at her, FREDA is seen standing in the doorway, like a black ghost. STUDDENHAM. Come here! You! [FREDA moves a few steps towards her father] When did you start this? FREDA. [Almost inaudibly] In the summer, father. LADY CHESHIRE. Don't be harsh to her! STUDDENHAM. Harsh! [His eyes again move from tide to side as if pain and anger had bewildered them. Then looking sideways at FREDA, but in a gentler voice] And when did you tell him about what's come to you? FREDA. Last night. STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With sudden menace] You young ! [He makes a convulsive movement of one hand; then, in the silence, seems to lose grip of his thoughts, and puts his hand up to his head] I want to 72 THE ELDEST SON ACT nr clear me mind a bit I don't see it plain at all. [With* out looking at BILL] 'Tis said there's been an offer of marriage ? BILL. I've made it, I stick to it. STUDDENHAM. Oh! [With slow, puzzled anger] I want time to get the pith o* this. You don't say anything, Sir William? SIR WILLIAM. The facts are all before you. STUDDENHAM. [Scarcely moving his lips] M'lady ? [LADY CHESHIRE is silent. STUDDENHAM. [Stammering] My girl was was good enough for any man. It's not for him that's that's to look down on her. [To FREDA] You hear the hand- some offer that's been made you? Well? [FREDA moistens her lips and tries to speak, but cannot] If nobody's to speak a word, we won't get much for- rarder. I'd like for you to say what's in your mind, Sir William. SIR WILLIAM. I If my son marries her he'll have to make his own way. STUDDENHAM. [Savagely] I'm not puttin* thought to that. SIR WILLIAM. I didn't suppose you were, Studden- ham. It appears to rest with your daughter. [He sud- denly takes out his handkerchief, and puts it to his fore- head] Infernal fires they make up here! LADY CHESHIRE, who is again shivering desper- ately, as if with intense cold, makes a violent attempt to control her shuddering. ACT m THE ELDEST SON 73 STUDDENHAM. [Suddenly] There's luxuries that's got to be paid for. [To FREDA] Speak up, now. FEEDA turns slowly and looks up at SIR WILLIAM; he involuntarily raises his hand to his mouth. Her eyes travel on to LADY CHESHIRE, who faces her, but so deadly pale that she looks as if she were going to faint. The girl's gaze passes on to BILL, standing rigid, with his jaw set. FREDA. I want [Then flinging her arm up over her eyes, she turns from him] No! SIR WILLIAM. Ah! At that sound of profound relief, STUDDENHAM, whose eyes have been following his daughter's, moves towards SIR WILLIAM, all his emotion turned into sheer angry pride. STUDDENHAM. Don't be afraid, Sir William! We want none of you ! She'll not force herself where she's not welcome. She may ha' slipped her good name, but she'll keep her proper pride. I'll have no charity mar- riage in my family. SIR WILLIAM. Steady, Studdenham! STUDDENHAM. If the young gentleman has tired of her in three months, as a blind man can see by the looks of him she's not for him! BILL. [Stepping forward] I'm ready to make it up to her. STUDDENHAM. Keep back, there ? [He takes hold of FREDA, and looks around him] Well! She's not the first this has happened to since the world began, 74 THE ELDEST SON ACT m an' she won't be the last. Come away, now, come away! Taking FREDA by the shoulders, he guides her towards the door. SIR WILLIAM. D n it, Studdenham! Give us credit for something! STUDDENHAM. [ Turning his face and eyes lighted up by a sort of smiling snarl] Ah! I do that, Sir William. But there's things that can't be undone! [He follows FREDA out. As the door closes, SIR WILLIAM'S calm gives way. He staggers past his wife, and sinks heavily, as though exhausted, into a chair by the fire. BILL, following FREDA and STUDDENHAM, has stopped at the shut door. LADY CHESHIRE moves swiftly close to him. The door of the billiard-room is opened, and Dor appears. With a glance round, she crosses quickly to her mother. DOT. [In a low voice] Mabel's just going, mother! [Almost whispering] Where's Freda? Is it Has she really had the pluck ? LADY CHESHIRE bending her head for " Yes," goes out into the billiard-room. DOT clasps her hands together, and standing there in the middle of the room, looks from her brother to her father, from her father to her brother. A quaint little pitying smile comes on her lips. She gives a faint shrug of her shoulders. The curtain faUs. THE LITTLE DREAM AN ALLEGORY IN SIX SCENES CHARACTERS SEELCHEN, a mountain girl LAMOND, a climber FELSMAN, a guide CHARACTERS IN THE DREAM THE GREAT HORN} THE Cow HORN > mountains THE WINE HORN } flowers VOICES AND FIGURES IN THE DREAM COWBELLS THE FORM OF WHAT is MADH MOUNTAIN AIR BY WORK FAR VIEW OF ITALY DEATH BY SLUMBER DISTANT FLUME OF STEAM DEATH BY DROWNING THINGS IN BOOKS FLOWER CHILDREN MOTH CHILDREN GOATHERD THREE DANCING YOUTHS GOAT BOYS THREE DANCING GIRLS GOAT GOD THE FORMS OF WORKERS THE FORMS OF SLEBP SCENE I It it just after sunset of an August evening. The scene is a room in a mountain hut, furnished only with a table, benches, and a low broad window seat. Through this window three rocky peaks are seen by tlie light of a moon, which is slowly whitening the last hues of sunset. An oil lamp is burning. SEELCHEN, a mountain girl, eighteen years old, is humming a folk-song, and putting away in a cupboard freshly washed soup-bowls and glasses. She is dressed in a tight-fitting black velvet bodice, square-cut at the neck, and partly filled in with a gay handkerchief, coloured rose-pink, blue, and golden, like the alpen- rose, the gentian, and the mountain dandelion; alabaster beads, pale as edelweiss, are round her throat; her stiffened, white linen sleeves finish at the elbow; and her full well-worn skirt is of gentian blue. The two thick plaits of her hair are crossed, and turned round her head. As she puts away the last bowl, there is a knock; and LAMOND opens the outer door. He is young, tanned, and good-looking, dressed like a climber, and carries a plaid, a ruck- sack, and an ice-axe. LAMOND. Good evening! SEEIXIHEN. Good evening, gentle Sir! 3 4 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. i LAMOND. My name is Lamond. I'm very late I fear. SEELCHEN. Do you wish to sleep here ? LAMOND. Please. SEELCHEN. All the beds are full it is a pity. I will call Mother. LAMOND. I've come to go up the Great Horn at sunrise. SEELCHEN. [Awed] The Great Horn! But he is impossible. LAMOND. I am going to try that. SEELCHEN. There is the Wine Horn, and the Cow Horn. LAMOND. I have climbed them. SEELCHEN. But he is so dangerous it is perhaps death. LAMOND. Oh! that's all right! One must take one's chance. SEELCHEN. And father has hurt his foot. For guide, there is only Hans Felsman. LAMOND. The celebrated Felsman ? SEELCHEN. [Nodding; then looking at him with ad- miration] Are you that Herr Lamond who has climbed all our little mountains this year ? LAMOND. All but that big fellow. SEELCHEN. We have heard of you. Will you not wait a day for father's foot ? LAMOND. Ah! no. I must go back home to-morrow. SEELCHEN. The gracious Sir is in a hurry. LAMOND. [Looking at her intently] Alas! SEELCHEN. Are you from London ? Is it very big ? sc. i THE LITTLE DREAM 5 LAMOND. Six million souls. SEELCHEN. Oh! [After a little pause] I have seen Cortina twice. LAMOND. Do you live here all the year ? SEELCHEN. In winter in the valley. LAMOND. And don't you want to see the world ? SEELCHEN. Sometimes. [Going to a door, she calls softly] Hans! [Then pointing to another door] There are seven German gentlemen asleep in there! LAMOND. Oh God! SEELCHEN. Please? They are here to see the sun- rise. [She picks up a little book that has dropped from, LAMOND'S pocket] I have read several books. LAMOND. This is by the great English poet. Do you never make poetry here, and dream dreams, among your mountains ? SEELCHEN. [Slowly shaking her head] See ! It is the full moon. While they stand at the window looking at the moon, there enters a lean, well-built, taciturn young man dressed in Loden. SEELCHEN. Hans! FELSMAN. [In a deep voice] The gentleman wishes me ? SEELCHEN. [.^wed] The Great Horn for to-morrow! [Whispering to him] It is the celebrated London one. FELSMAN. The Great Horn is not possible. LAMOND. You say that? And you're the famous Felsman ? FELSMAN. [Grimly] We start at dawn. SEELCHEN. It is the first time for years! 6 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. i LAMOND. [Placing his plaid and rucksack on the window bench] Can I sleep here? SEELCHEN. I will see; perhaps [She runs out up some stairs] FELSMAN. [Taking blankets from the cupboard and spreading them on the window seat] So! As he goet out into the air t SEELCHEN comes slipping in again with a lighted candle. SEELCHEN. There is still one bed. This is too hard for you. LAMOND. Oh! thanks; but that's all right. SEELCHEN. To please me! LAMOND. May I ask your name? SEELCHEN. Seelchen. LAMOND. Little soul, that means doesn't it? To please you I would sleep with seven German gentlemen. SEELCHEN. Oh! no; it is not necessary. LAMOND. [With a grave bow] At your service, then. [He prepares to go]. SEELCHEN. Is it very nice in towns, in the World, where you come from ? LAMOND. When I'm there I would be here; but when I'm here I would be there. SEELCHEN. [Clasping her hands] That is like me but I am always here. LAMOND. Ah! yes; there is no one like you in towns. SEELCHEN. In two places one cannot be. [Suddenly] In the towns there are theatres, and there is beautiful fine work, and dancing, and churches and trains and all the things in books and *c. i THE LITTLE DREAM 7 LAMOND. Misery. SEELCHEN. But there is life. LAMOND. And there is death. SEELCHEN. To-morrow, when you have climbed will you not come back ? LAMOND. No. SEELCHEN. You have all the world; and I have nothing. LAMOND. Except Felsman, and the mountains. SEELCHEN. It is not good to eat only bread. LAMOND. [Looking at her hard] I would like to eat you! SEELCHEN. But I am not nice; I am full of big wants like the cheese with holes. LAMOND. I shall come again. SEELCHEN. There will be no more hard mountains left to climb. And if it is not exciting, you do not care. LAMOND. O wise little soul! SEELCHEN. No. I am not wise. In here it is always aching. LAMOND. For the moon ? SEELCHEN. Yes. [Then suddenly] From the big world you will remember? LAMOND. [Taking her hand] There is nothing in the big world so sweet as this. SEELCHEN. [Wisely] But there is the big world itself. LAMOND. May I kiss you, for good-night ? She puts her face forward; and he kisses her cheek, and, suddenly, her lips. Then as she draws away. 8 THE LITTLE DREAM so. i LAMOND. I am sorry, little soul. SEELCHEN. That's all right! LAMOND. [Taking the candle] Dream well! Good- night! SEELCHEN. [Softly] Good-night! FEL/SMAN. [Coming in from the air, and eyeing them] It is cold it will be fine. LAMOND, still looking back, goes up the stairs; and FELSMAN waits for him to pass. SEELCHEN. [From the window seat] It was hard for him here, I thought. He goes up to her, stays a moment looking down t then bends and kisses her hungrily. SEELCHEN. Art thou angry ? He does not answer, but turning out the lamp t goes into an inner room. SEELCHEN sits gazing through the window at the peaks bathed in full moonlight. Then, drawing the blankets about her t she snuggles down on the window seat. SEELCHEN. [In a sleepy voice] They kissed me both. [She sleeps] The scene falls quite dark. SCENE II The scene is slowly illumined as by dawn. SEELCHEN i* still lying on the window seat. She sits up, freeing her face and hands from the blankets, changing the swathings of deep sleep for the filmy coverings of a dream. The wall of the hut has vanished; there is nothing between her and the three mountains veiled in mist, save a trough of darkness. Then as the peaks of the mountains brighten, they are seen to have great faces. SEELCHEN. Oh! They have faces! The face of THE WINE HORN is the profile of a beardless youth. The face of THE Cow HORN is that of a mountain shepherd, solemn, and brown, with fierce black eyes, and a black beard. Between them THE GREAT HORN, whose hair is of snow, has a high beardless visage, as of carved bronze, like a male sphinx, serene, without cruelty. Far down below the faces of the peaks, above the trough of darkness, are peeping out the four little heads of the flowers of EDELWEISS, and GENTIAN, MOUN- 1 i TAIN DANDELION, and ALPENROSE; on their ,o ' heads are crowns, made of their several flowers, 9 10 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. n all powdered with dewdrops; and when THE FLOWERS lift their child-faces little tinkling bells ring. All around the peaks there is nothing bid blue sky. EDELWEISS. [In a tiny voice] Would you ? Would you? Would you? Ah! ha! GENTIAN, M. DANDELION, ALPENROSE [With their bells ringing enviously] Oo-oo-oo! From behind the Cow HORN are heard the voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR: " Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink! " "Mountain air! Mountain air!" From behind THE WINE HORN rise the rival voices of VIEW OP ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS: "/ am Italy! Italy!" "See me steam in the distance!" "O remember the things in books!" And all call out together, very softly, with THE FLOWERS ringing their bells. Then far away like an echo comes a sighing: "Mountain air! Mountain air!" And suddenly the Peak of THE Cow HORX speaks in a voice as of one unaccustomed. THE Cow HORN. Amongst kine and my black-brown sheep I live; I am silence, and monotony; I am the solemn hills. I am fierceness, and the mountain wind; clean pasture, and wild rest. Look in ray eyes, love in,- alone.' sc. H THE LITTLE DREAM 11 SEELCHEN. [Breathless] The Cow Horn! He is speaking for Felsman and the mountains. It is the half of my heart! THE FLOWERS laugh happily. THE Cow HORN. I stalk the eternal hills I drink the mountain snows. My eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy. The lowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running of the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts sim- ple, and blood hot, strength huge the cloak of gravity. SEELCHEN. Yes, yes! I want him. He is strong! The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIB cry out together: " Clinkel-clinkl Clinkel-clink! " "Mountain air! Mountain air!" THE Cow HORN. Little soul! Hold to me! Love me! Live with me under the stars! SEELCHEN. [Beloiv her breath] I am afraid. And suddenly the Peak of THE WINE HORN spejalcs in a youth's voice. THE WINE HORN. I am the will o' the wisp that dances thro' the streets; I am the cooing dove of Towns, from the plane trees and the chestnuts' shade. From day to day all changes, where I burn my incense to my thousand little gods. In white palaces I dwell, and passionate dark alleys. The life of men in crowds is mine of lamplight in the streets at dawn. [Softly] I have a thousand loves, and never one too long; for I am nimbler than your heifers playing in the sun- shine. 12 THE LITTLE DREAM ec. n THE FLOWERS, ringing in alarm, cry: "We know them!" THE WINE HORN. I hear the rustlings of the birth and death of pleasure; and the rattling of swift wheels. I hear the hungry oaths of men; and love kisses in the airless night. Without me, little soul, you starve and die. SEELCHEN. He is speaking for the gentle Sir, and the big world of the Town. It pulls my heart. THE WINE HORN. My thoughts surpass in number the flowers in your meadows; they fly more swiftly than your eagles on the wind. I drink the wine of aspiration, and the drug of disillusion. Thus am I never dull! The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS are heard catting out together: "I am Italy, Italy!" "See me steam in the distance!" "O remember, remember!" THE WINE HORN. Love me, little soul! I paint life fifty colours. I make a thousand pretty things! I twine about your heart! SEELCHEN. He is honey! THE FLOWERS ring their bells jealously and cry: "Bitter! Bitter!" THE Cow HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen! I wake thee with the crystal air. The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR sing oni Jar away: sc. n THE LITTLE DREAM 13 " Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink! ' ' "Mountain air! Mountain airl" And THE FLOWERS laugh happily. THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen! My fan, Variety, shall wake you! The voices of VIEW OF ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS chant softly: "I am Italy! Italy!" "See me steam in the distance!" "O remember, remember!" And THE FLOWERS moan. SEELCHEN. [In grief] My heart! It is torn! THE WINE HORN. With me, little soul, you shall race in the streets, and peep at all secrets. We will hold hands, and fly like the thistle-down. M. DANDELION. My puff-balls fly faster! THE WINE HORN. I will show you the sea. GENTIAN. My blue is deeper! THE WINE HORN. I will shower on you blushes. ALPENROSE. I can blush redder! THE WINE HORN. Little soul, listen! My Jewels! Silk! Velvet! EDELWEISS. I am softer than velvet! THE WINE HORN. [Proudly] My wonderful rags! THE FLOWERS. [Moaning] Of those we have none. SEELCHEN. He has all things. THE Cow HORN. Mine are the c-louds with the dark silvered wings; mine are the rocks on fire with the sun; and the dewdrops cooler than pearls. Away from my 14 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. n breath of snow and sweet grass, thou wilt droop, little soul. THE WINE HORN. The dark Clove is my fragrance! THE FLOWERS ring eagerly, and turning up their faces, cry: "We too, smell sweet." But the roices of VIEW OP ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS cry out: "I am Italy! Italy!" "See me steam in the distance!" "O remember, remember!" SEELCHEN. [Distracted} Oh! it is hard! THE Cow HORN. / will never desert thee. THE WINE HORN. A hundred times / will desert you, a hundred times come back, and kiss you. SEELCHEN. [Whispering] Peace for my heart! THE Cow HORN. With me thou shalt lie on the warm wild thyme. THE FLOWERS laugh happily. THE WINE HORN. With me you shall lie on a bed of dove's feathers. THE FLOWERS moan. THE WINE HORN. I will give you old wine. THE Cow HORN. / will give thee new milk. THE WINE HORN. Hear my song! From Jar away comes the sound as of man- dolins. SEELCHEN. [Clasping her breast] My heart it b leaving me! sc. ii THE LITTLE DREAM 15 THE Cow HORN. Hear my song! From the distance floats the piping of a Shep- herd's reed. SEELCHEN. [Curving her hand at her ears] The pip- ing! Ah! THE Cow HORN. Stay with me, Seelchen! THE WINE HORN. Come with me, Seelchen! THE Cow HORN. I give thee certainty 1 THE WINE HORN. I give you chance! THE Cow HORN. I give thee peace. THE WINE HORN. I give you change. THE Cow HORN. I give thee stillness. THE WINE HORN. I give you voice. THE Cow HORN. I give thee one love. THE WINE HORN. I give you many. SEELCHEN. [As if the words were torn from her heart] Both, both I will love! And suddenly the Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks. THE GREAT HORN. And both thou shall love, little soul! Thou shall lie on the hills with Silence; and dance in the cities with Knowledge. Both shall possess thee! The sun and the moon on the mountains shall burn thee; the lamps of the town singe thy wings, small Moth! Each shall seem all the world to thee, each shall seem as thy grave! Thy heart is a feather blown from one mouth to the other. But be not afraid! For the life of a man is for all loves in turn. 'Tis a little raft moored, then sailing out into the blue; a tune caught in a hush, then whispering on; a new-born 16 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. H babe, half courage and half sleep. There is a hidden rhythm. Change, Quietude. Chance, Certainty. The One, The Many. Burn on thou pretty flame, trying to eat the world! Thou shalt come to me at last, my little soul! THE VOICES and THE FLOWER-BELLS peal out. SEELCHEN, enraptured, stretches her arms to embrace the sight and sound, but all fades slowly into dark sleep. SCENE III The dark scene again becomes glamorous. SEELCHEN w seen with her hand stretched out towards the Piazza of a little town, with a plane tree on one side, a wall on the other, and from the open doorway of an Inn a pale path of light. Over the Inn hangs a full golden moon. Against the watt, under the glimmer of a lamp, leans a youth with the face of THE WINE HORN, in a crimson cloak, thrumming a mandolin, and singing: "Little star soul Through the frost fields of night Roaming alone, disconsolate From out the cold I call thee in Striking my dark mandolin Beneath this moon of gold." From the Inn comes a burst of laughter^ and the sound of dancing. SEELCHEN. [Whispering] It is the big world! The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings on: "Pretty grey moth, Where the strange candles shine. Seeking for warmth, so desperate 17 18 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. m Ah! fluttering dove I bid thee win Striking my dark mandolin The crimson flume of love" SEELCHBN. [Gazing enraptured at the Inn] They are dancing! As SHE speaks, from either side come moth- children, meeting and fluttering up the path of light to the Inn doorway; then wheel- ing aside, they form again, and again flutter forward. SEELCHEN. [Holding out her hands] They are real Their wings are windy. The Youth of THE WINE HORN sings on: " Lips of my song, To the white maiden's heart Go ye, and whisper, passionate, These words that burn *0 listening one! Love that flieth past is gone Nor ever may return!" SEELCHEN runs towards him but the light above him fades; he has become shadow. She turns bewildered to the dancing moth-children but they vanish before her. At the door of the Inn stands LAMOND in a dark cloak. SEELCHEN. It is youl LAMOND. Without my little soul I am cold. Come! [He holds out his arms to her] sc. in THE LITTLE DREAM 19 SEELCHEN. Shall I be safe ? LAMOND. What is safety? Are you safe in your mountains ? SEELCHEN. Where am I, here ? LAMOND. The Town. Smiling he points to the doorway. And silent as shadows there come dancing out, two by two, two girls and two youths. The first girl is dressed in white satin and jewels; and the first youth in black velvet. The second girl is in rags, and a shawl; and the second youth in shirt and corduroys. They dance gravely, each couple as if in a world apart. SEELCHEN. [Whispering] In the mountains all dance together. Do they never change partners? LAMOND. How could they, little one? Those are rich, these poor. But see! A CORYBANTIC COUPLE come dancing forth. The girl has bare limbs, a fame-coloured shift, and hair bound with red flowers; the youth wears a panther-skin. They pursue not only each other, but the oilier girls and youths. For a moment all is a furious med- ley. Then the Corybantic Couple vanish into the Inn, and the first tico couples are left, slowly, solemnly dancing, apart from each other as before. SEELCHEN. [Shuddering] Shall I one day dance like that? 20 THE LITTLE DREAM so. in The Youth of THE WINE HORN appears again beneath the lamp. He strikes a loud chord; then as SEELCHEN moves towards that sound the lamp goes out; there is again only blue shadow; but the couples have disappeared into the Inn, and the doorway has grown dark. SEELCHEN. Ah! What I do not like, he will not let me see. LAMOND. Will you not come, then, little soul? SEELCHEN. Always to dance ? LAMOND. Not so! THE SHUTTERS of the houses are suddenly thrown wide. In a lighted room on one side of the Inn are seen two pale men and a woman, amongst many clicking machines. On the other side of the Inn, in a forge, are visible two women and a man, but half clothed, making chains. SEELCHEN. [Recoiling from both sights, in turn] How sad they look all! What are they making? In the dark doorway of the Inn a light shines out, and in it is seen a figure, visible only from the waist up, clad in gold-cloth stud- ded with jewels, with a flushed complacent face, holding in one hand a glass of golden wine. SEELCHEN. It is beautiful. What is it ? LAMOND. Luxury. so. in THE LITTLE DREAM 21 SEELCHEN. What is it standing on ? I cannot see. Unseen, THE WINE HORN'S mandolin twangs oid. LAMOND. For that do not look, little soul SEELCHEN. Can it not walk ? [He shakes his head] Is that all they make here with their sadness ? But again the mandolin twangs out; the shutters fall over the houses; the door of the Inn grows dark. LAMOND. What is it, then, you would have? Is it learning? There are books here, that, piled on each other, would reach to the stars! [But SEELCHEN shakes her head} There is religion so deep that no man knows what it means. [But SEELCHEN shakes her head] There is religion so shallow, you may have it by turning a handle. We have everything. SEELCHEN. Is God here? LAMOND. Who knows? Is God with your goats? [But SEELCHEN shakes her head] What then do you want? SEELCHEN. Life. The mandolin twangs out. LAMOND. [Pointing to his breast] There is but one road to life SEELCHEN. Ah! but I do not love. LAMOND. When a feather flies, is it not loving the wind the unknown ? When the day brings not new things, we are children of sorrow. If darkness and light did not change, could we breathe? Child! To 22 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. m live is to love, to love is to live seeking for wonder. [And as she draws nearer] See! To love is to peer over the edge, and, spying the little grey flower, to climb down! It has wings; it has flown again you must climb; it shivers, 'tis but air in your hand you must crawl, you must cling, you must leap, and still it is there and not there for the grey flower flits like a moth, and the wind of its wings is all you shall catch. But your eyes shall be shining, your cheeks shall be burning, your breast shall be panting Ah! little heart! [The scene falls darker] And when the night comes there it is still, thistledown blown on the dark, and your white hands will reach for it, and your honey breath waft it, and never, never, shall you grasp that wanton thing but life shall be lovely. [His voice dies to a whisper. He stretches out his arms] SEELCHEN. [Touching his breast] I will come. LAMOND. [Drawing her to the dark doorway] Love me! SEELCHEN. I love! The mandolin twangs out, the doorway for a moment is all glamorous; and they pass through. Illumined by the glimmer of the lamp the Youth of THE WINE HORN is seen again. And slowly to the chords of his man- dolin he begins to sing: ** The windy hours through darkness fly Canst hear them, little heart ? New loves are born, and old loves die, And kissing lips must part. sc. in THE LITTLE DREAM 23 The dusky bees of passing years Canst see them, soul of mine From flower and flower supping tears, And pale sweet honey wine ? [His voice grows strange and passionate^ O flame that treads the marsh of time, Flitting for ever low, Where, through the black enchanted slime, We, desperate, following go- Untimely fire, we bid thee stay! Into dark air above, The golden gipsy thins away So has it been with love!" While he is singing, the moon grows pale, and dies. It falls dark, save for the glimmer of the lamp beneath which he stands. But as his song ends, the dawn breaks over the houses, the lamp goes out THE WINE HORN becomes shadow. Then from the doorway of the Inn, in the chill grey light SEELCHEN comes forth. She is pale, as if wan with living; her eyes like pitch against the powdery whiteness of her face. SEELCHEN. My heart is old. But as she speaks, from far away is heard a faint chiming of COWBELLS; and while she stands listening, LAMOND appears in the door- way of the Inn. 24 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. m LAMOND. Little soul! SEELCHEN. You! Always you! LAMOND. I have new wonders. SEELCHEN. [Mournfully] No. LAMOND. I swear it! You have not tired of me, that am never the same ? It cannot be. SEELCHEN. Listen! The chime of THE COWBELLS is heard again. LAMOND. [Jealously] The music of dull sleep! Has life, then, with me been sorrow? SEELCHEN. I do not regret. LAMOND. Come! SEELCHEN. [Pointing to her breast] The bird is tired with flying. [Touching her lips] The flowers have no dew. LAMOND. Would you leave me ? SEELCHEN. See! There, in a streak of the dawn, against the plane tree is seen the Shepherd of THE Cow HORN, standing wrapped in his mountain cloak. LAMOND. What is it ? SEELCHEN. He! LAMOND. There is nothing. [He holds her fast] I have shown you the marvels of my town the gay, the bitter wonders. We have known life. If with you I may no longer live, then let us die! See! Here are iweet Deaths by Slumber and by Drowning! The mandolin twangs out, and from the dim doorway of the Inn come forth the shadowy sc. in THE LITTLE DREAM 25 forms, DEATH BY SLUMBER, and DEATH BY DROWNING, who to a ghostly twanging of mandolins dance slowly towards SEELCHEN, stand smiling at her, and as slowly dance away. SEELCHEN. [Following] Yes. They are good and *weet. While she moves towards the Inn, LAMOND'S face becomes transfigured with joy. But just as she reaches the doorway, there is a distant chiming of bells and blowing of pipes, and the Shepherd of THE Cow HORN sings: '* To the wild grass come, and the dull far roar Of the falling rock; to the flowery meads Of thy mountain home, where the eagles soar, And the grizzled flock in the sunshine feeds. To the Alp, where I, in the pale light crowned With the moon's thin horns, to my pasture roam; To the silent sky, and the wistful sound Of the rosy dawns my daughter, come!" While HE sings, the sun has risen; and SEEL- CHEN has turned, with parted lips, and hands stretched out; and the forms of death have vanished. SEELCHEN. I come. LAMOND. [Clasping her knees] Little soul! Must I then die, like a gnat when the sun goes down ? With- out you I am nothing. 26 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. HI SEELCHEN. [Releasing herself\ Poor heart I am gone! LAMOND. It is dark. [He covers his face with his cloak]. Then as SEELCHEN reaches the Shepherd of THE Cow HORN, there is blown a long note of a pipe; the scene falls back; and there rises a far, continual, mingled sound of Cowbells, and Flower Bells, and Pipes. SCENE IV The scene slowly brightens with the misty flush of dawn. SEELCHEN stands on a green alp, with all around, nothing but blue sky. A slip of a crescent moon is lying on her back. On a low rock sits a brown- faced GOATHERD blowing on a pipe, and the four Flower-children are dancing in their shifts of grey- white, and blue, rose-pink, and burnt-gold. Their bells are ringing, as they pelt each other with flowers of their own colours; and each in turn, wheeling, flings one flower at SEELCHEN, who puts them to her lips and eyes. SEELCHEN. The dew! [She moves towards the rock] Goatherd! But THE FLOWERS encircle him; and when they wheel away lie has vanished. She turns to THE FLOWERS, but they too vanish. The veils of mist are rising. SEELCHEN. Gone! [She rubs her eyes; then turning once more to the rock, sees FELSMAN standing tJiere, with his arms folded] Thou! FELSMAN. So thou hast come like a sick heifer to be healed. Was it good in the Town that kept thee so long? SEELCHEN. I do not regret. 27 28 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. n FELSMAN. Why then return ? SEELCHEN. I was tired. FELSMAN. Never again shalt thou go from me! SEELCHEN. [Mocking] With what wilt thou keep me? FELSMAN. [Grasping her] Thus. SEELCHEN. I have known Change I am no timid maid. FELSMAN. [Moodily] Aye, thou art different. Thine eyes are hollow thou art white-faced. SEELCHEN. [Still mocJcing] Then what hast thou here that shall keep me? FELSMAN. The sun. SEELCHEN. To burn me. FELSMAN. The air. There is a faint wailing of wind. SEELCHEN. To freeze me. FELSMAN. The silence. The noise of the wind dies away. SEELCHEN. Yes, it is lonely. FELSMAN. Wait! And the flowers shall dance to thee. And to a ringing of their bells, THE FLOWERS come dancing; till, one by one, tliey cease, and sink down, nodding, falling asleep. SEELCHEN. See! Even they grow sleepy here! FELSMAN. I will call the goats to wake them. THE GOATHERD is seen again sitting upright on his rock and piping. And there come jour little brown, wild-eyed, naked Boys, with 3c. iv THE LITTLE DREAM 29 Goat's legs and feet, who dance gravely in and out of The Sleeping Flowers; and THE FLOWERS wake, spring up, and fly. Till each Goat, catching his flower has vanished, and THE GOATHERD has ceased to pipe, and lies motionless again on his rock. FELSMAN. Love me! SEELGIHEN. Thou art rude! FELSMAN. Love me! SEELCHEN. Thou art grim! FELSMAN. Aye, I have no silver tongue. Listen! This is my voice. [Sweeping his arm round all the still alp] It is quiet. From dawn to the first star all is fast. [Laying his hand on her heart] And the wings of the bird shall be still. SEELCHEN. [Touching his eyes] Thine eyes are fierce. In them I see the wild beasts crouching. In them 1 see the distance. Are they always fierce ? FELSMAN. Never to look on thee, my flower. SEELCHEN. [Touching his hands] Thy hands are rough to pluck flowers. [She breaks away from him to the rock where THE GOATHERD is lying] See! Nothing moves! The very day stands still. Boy! [But THE GOATHERD neither stirs nor answers] He is lost in the blue. [Passionately] Boy! He will not answer me. No one will answer me here. FELSMAN. [With fierce longing] Am 7 then no one ? SEELCHEN. Thou? [The scene darkens with evening] 30 THE LITTLE DREAM sc. iv See! Sleep has stolen the day! It is night already. There come the female shadow forms of SLEEP, in grey cobweb garments, waving their arms drowsily, wheeling round her. SEELCHEN. Are you Sleep? Dear Sleep! Smiling, she holds out her arms to FELSMAN. He takes her swaying form. They vanish, encircled by the forms of SLEEP. It is dark, save for the light of the thin horned moon suddenly grown bright. Then on his rock, to a faint piping THE GOATHERD sings: "My goat, my little speckled one, My yellow-eyed, sweet-smelling, Let moon and wind and golden sun And stars beyond all telling Make, every day, a sweeter grass, And multiply thy leaping! And may the mountain foxes pass And never scent thee sleeping! Oh! Let my pipe be clear and far f And let me find sweet water! No hawk, nor udder-seeking jar Come near thee, little daughter! May fiery rocks defend, at noon, Thy tender feet from slipping! Oh! hear my prayer beneath the moon- Great Master, Goat-God skipping!" There passes in the thin moonlight the Goat-God Pan; and with a long wail of the pipe THE sc. iv THE LITTLE DREAM 31 GOATHERD BOY is silent. Then the moon fades, and all is black; till, in the faint grisly light of the false dawn creeping up, SEELCHEN is seen rising from the side of the sleeping FELSMAN. THE GOATHERD BOY has gone; but by the rock stands the Shepherd of THE Cow HORN in his cloak. SEELCHEN. Years, years I have slept. My spirit is hungry. [Then as she sees the Shepherd of THE Cow HORN standing there] I know thee now Life of the earth the smell of thee, the sight of thee, the taste of thee, and all thy music. I have passed thee and gone by. [She moves away] FELSMAN. [Waking] Where wouldst thou go? SEELCHEN. To the edge of the world. FELSMAN. [Rising and trying to stay her] Thou shall not leave me! [But against her smiling gesture he struggles as though against solidity] SEELCHEN. Friend! The time is on me. FELSMAN. Were my kisses, then, too rude? Was I too dull ? SEELCHEN. I do not regret. The Youth of THE WINE HORN is seen sud- denly standing opposite the motionless Shep- herd of THE Cow HORN; and his mandolin twangs out. FELSMAN. The cursed music of the Town! Is it back to him thou wilt go? [Groping for sight of the hated figure] I cannot see. 32 THE LITTLE DREAM sc iv SEELCHEN. Fear not! I go ever onward. FELSMAN. Do not leave me to the wind in the rocks! Without thee love is dead, and I must die. SEELCHEN. Poor heart! I am gone. FELSMAN. [Crouching against the rock] It is cold. At the blowing of the Shepherd's pipe, THE Cow HORN stretches forth his hand to her. The mandolin twangs out, and THE WINE HORN holds out his hand. She stands unmoving. SEELCHEN. Companions, I must go. In a moment it will be dawn. J.n silence THE Cow HORN and THE WINE HORN cover their faces. The false dawn dies. It falls quite dark. SCENE V Then a faint glow stealing up, lights the snowy head of THE GREAT HORN, and streams forth on SEELCHEN. To either side of that path of light, like shadows, THE Cow HORN and THE WINE HORN stand with cloaked heads. SEELCHEN. Great One! I come! The Peak of THE GREAT HORN speaks in a far-away voice, growing, with the light, clearer and stronger. Wandering flame, thou restless fever Burning all things, regretting none; The winds of fate are stilled for ever' Thy little generous life is done t And alt its wistful wonderings cease! Thou traveller to the tideless sea, Where light and dark, and change and peace, Are One Come, little soul, to MYSTERY! SEELCHEN, falling on her knees, bows her head to the ground. The glow slowly fades till the scene is black. 33 SCENE VI Then as the blackness lifts, in the dim light of the false dawn filtering through the window of the mountain hut, LAMOND and FELSMAN are seen standing be- side SEELCHEN looking down at her asleep on the window seat. FELSMAN [Putting out his hand to wake her] In a moment it will be dawn. She stirs, and her lips move, murmuring. LAMOND. Let her sleep. She's dreaming. FELSMAN raises a lantern, till its light falls on her face. Then the two men move stealthily towards the door, and, as she speaks, pass out. SEELCHEN. [Rising to her knees, and stretching out her hands with ecstasy] Great One, I come! [Waking, she looks around, and struggles to her feet] My little dream! Through the open door, the first flush of dawn shows in the sky. There is a sound of goat- bells passing. The curtain fall*. JUSTICE A TRAGEDY IN FOUR ACTS PERSONS OF THE PLAY JAMES How > solicitors } WALTER How, his son ROBERT COKESON, their managing clerk WILLIAM FALDER, their junior clerk SWEEDLE, their office-boy WISTER, a detective COWLEY, a cashier MR. JUSTICE FLOYD, a judge HAROLD CLEAVER, an old advocate HECTOR FROME, a young advocate CAPTAIN DANSON, V.C., a prison governor THE REV. HUGH MILLER, a prison chaplain EDWARD CLEMENTS, a prison doctm WOODER, a chief warder MOANEY \ CLIFTON > convicts O'CLEARY ) RUTH HONEYWILL, a woman A NUMBER OP BARRISTERS, SOLICITORS, SPECTATORS, USHERS, REPORTERS, JURYMEN, WARDERS, AND PRISONERS TIME: The Present. ACT I. The office of James and Walter How. Morning. July. ACT II. Assizes. Afternoon. October. ACT III. A prison. December. SCENE 1. The Governor's office. SCENE II. A corridor. SCENE III. A cell ACT IV. The office of James and Walter How. Morning March, two years later. CAST OP THE FIRST PRODUCTION AT THE DUKE OF YORK'S THEATRE, FEBRUARY 21, 1910 James How MR. SYDNEY VALENTINE Walter How MB. CHARLES MAUDE Cokeson MR. EDMUND GWENN Falder MR. DENNIS EADIB The Office-boy MR. GEORGE HERSEE The Detective MR. LESLIE CARTER The Cashier MR. C. E. VERNON The Judge MR. DION BOUCICAULT The Old Advocate MR. OSCAR ADYE The Young Advocate MR. CHARLES BRYANT The Prison Governor MR. GRENDON BENTLEY The Prison Chaplain MR. HUBERT HARBEN The Prison Doctor MR. LEWIS CASSOIC Wooder MR. FREDERICK LLOYD Moaney MR. ROBERT PATEMAN Clipton MR. O. P. HEGGIH O'Cleary MR. WHITFORD KANE Ruth Honey wiii Miss EDTTH OLIVB ACT I The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of JAMES AND WALTER How, on a July morning. The room is old-fashioned, furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather, and lined with tin boxes and estate plans. It has three doors. Two of them are close together in the centre of a wall. One of these two doors leads to the outer office, which is only divided from the managing clerk's room by a partition of wood and clear glass; and when the door into this outer office is opened there can be seen the wide outer door leading out on to the stone stairway of the building. The other of these two centre doors leads to the junior clerk's room. The third door is that leading to the partners' room. The managing clerk, COKESON, is sitting at his table adding up figures in a pass-book, and murmuring their numbers to himself. He is a man of sixty, wearing spectacles,' rather short, with a bald head, and an honest, pug-dog face. He is dressed in a well-worn black frock-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers. COKESON. And five's twelve, and three fifteen, nineteen, twenty-three, thirty-two, forty-one and carry 2 JUSTICE ACT i four. [He ticks the page, and goes on murmuring] Five, seven, twelve, seventeen, twenty-four and nine, thirty-three, thirteen and carry one. He again makes a tick. The outer office door is opened, and SWEEDLE, the office-boy, appears, closing the door behind him. He is a pale youth of sixteen, with spiky hair. COKESON. [With grumpy expectation] And carry one. SWEEDLE. There's a party wants to see Falder, Mr. Cokeson. COKESON. Five, nine, sixteen, twenty-one, twenty- nine and carry two. Sent him to Morris's. What name? SWEEDLE. Honeywill. COKESON. What's his business? SWEEDLE. It's a woman. COKESON. A lady ? SWEEDLE. No, a person. COKESON. Ask her in. Take this pass-book to Mr. James. [He closes the pass-book. SWEEDLE. [Reopening the door] Will you come in, olease ? RUTH HONEYWILL comes in. She is a tall woman, twenty-six years old, unpreten- tiously dressed, with black hair and eyes, and an ivory-white, clear-cut face. She stands very still, having a natural dignity of pose and gesture. icr i JUSTICE S SWEEDLE goes out into the partners' room with the pass-book. COKESON. [Looking round at RUTH] The young man's out. [Suspiciously] State your business, please. RUTH. [Who speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, and with a slight West-Country accent] It's a personal matter, sir. COKESON. We don't allow private callers here. Will you leave a message ? RUTH. I'd rather see him, please. She narrows her dark eyes and gives him a honeyed look. COKESON. [Expanding] It's all against the rules. Suppose I had my friends here to see me! It'd never do! RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [.4 little taken aback] Exactly I And here you are wanting to see a junior clerk! RUTH. Yes, sir; I must see him. COKESON. [Turning full round to her ivith a sort of outraged interest] But this is a lawyer's office. Go to his private address. RUTH. He's not there. COKESON. [Uneasy] Are you related to the party? RUTH. No, sir. COKESON. [In real embarrassment] I don't know what to say. It's no affair of the office. RUTH. But what am I to do ? COKESON. Dear me! I can't tell you that. 4 JUSTICE ACT r SWEEDLE comes back. He crosses to the outer office and passes through into it, with a quizzical look at COKESON, carefully leaving the door an inch or two open. COKESON. [Fortified by this look] This won't do, you know, this won't do at all. Suppose one of the partners came in! An incoherent knocking and chuckling is heard from the outer door of the outer office. SWEEDLE. [Putting his head in] There's some chil- dren outside here. RUTH. They're mine, please. SWEEDLE. Shall I hold them in check? RUTH. They're quite small, sir. [She takes a step towards COKESON. COKESON. You mustn't take up his time in office hours; we're a clerk short as it is. RUTH. It's a matter of life and death. COKESON. [Again outraged] Life and death! SWEEDLE. Here is Falder. FALDEB ha.s entered through the outer office. He is a pale, good-looking young man, with quick, rather scared eyes. He moves towards the door of the clerks* office, and stands there irresolute. COKESON. Well, I'll give you a minute. It's not regular. Taking up a bundle of papers, he goes out into the partners' room. ACT i JUSTICE 5 RUTH. [In a low, hurried voice] He's on the drink again, Will. He tried to cut my throat last njght. I came out with the children before he was awake. I went round to you FALDER. IVe changed my digs. RUTH. Is it all ready for to-night ? FALDER. IVe got the tickets. Meet me 11.45 at the booking office. For God's sake don't forget we're man and wife! [Looking at her with tragic intensity] Ruth! RUTH. You're not afraid of going, are you ? FALDER. Have you got your things, and the chil- dren's ? RUTH. Had to leave them, for fear of waking Honeywill, all but one bag. I can't go near home again. FALDER. [Wincing] All that money gone for nothing. How much must you have ? RUTH. Six pounds I could do with that, I think. FALDER. Don't give away where we're going. [4* if to himself} When I get out there I mean to forget it all. RUTH. If you're sorry, say so. I'd sooner he killed me than take you against your will. FALDER. [With a queer smile] We've got to go. I don't care; I'll have you. RUTH. You've just to say; it's not too late. FALDER. It is too late. Here's seven pounds. Booking office 11.45 to-night. If you weren't what you are to me, Ruth ! 6 JUSTICE ACT i RUTH. Kiss me! They cling together passionately, then fly apart just as COKESON re-enters the room. RUTH turns and goes out through the outer office. COKESON advances deliberately to his chair and seats himself. COKESON. This isn't right, Falder. FALDER. It shan't occur again, sir. COKESON. It's an improper use of these premises. FALDER. Yes, sir. COKESON. You quite understand the party was in some distress; and, having children with her, I allowed my feelings [He opens a drawer and pro- duces from it a tract] Just take this! "Purity in the Home." It's a well-written thing. FALDER. [Taking it, with a peculiar expression] Thank you, sir. COKESON. And look here, Falder, before Mr. Walter comes, have you finished up that cataloguing Davis had in hand before he left ? FALDER. I shall have done with it to-morrow, sir for good. COKESON. It's over a week since Davis went. Now it won't do, Falder. You're neglecting your work for private life. I shan't mention about the party having called, but FALDER. [Passing into his room] Thank you, sir. COKESON stares at the door through which FALDER has gone out; then shakes his head, and is just settling dfitive quite natural. Seems to fancy everybody's dow i on him. JAMES. Bad sign. Don't like the fellow never did from the first. "Weak character" 's written all over him. WALTER. I think we owe him a leg up. JAMES. He brought it all on himself. WALTER. The doctrine of full responsibility doesn't quite hold in these days. JAMES. [Rather grimly] You'll find it safer to hold it for all that, my boy. WALTER. For oneself, yes not for other people, thanks. JAMES. Well! I don't want to be hard. COKESON. I'm glad to hear you say that. He seems to see something [spreading his arms] round him. 'Tisn't healthy. JAMES. What about that woman he was mixed up with? I saw some one uncommonly like her outside as we came in. COKESON. That, ! Well, I can't keep anything from you. He has met her. JAMES. Is she with her husband? ACT iv JUSTICE 97 COKESON. No. JAMES. Falder living with her, I suppose? COKESON. [Desperately trying to retain the new-found jollity] I don't know that of my own knowledge. 'Tisn't my business. JAMES. It's our business, if we're going to engage him, Cokeson. COKESON. [Reluctantly] I ought to tell you, perhaps. I've had the party here this morning. JAMES. I thought so. [To WALTER] No, my dear boy, it won't do. Too shady altogether! COKESON. The two things together make it very awkward for you I see that. WALTER. [Tentatively] I don't quite know what we have to do with his private life. JAMES. No, no! He must make a clean sheet of it, or he can't come here. WALTER. Poor devil! COKESON. Will you have him in? [And as JAMES nods] I think I can get him to see reason. JAMES. [Grimly] You can leave that to me, Cokeson. WALTER. [To JAMES, in a low voice, while COKESON is summoning FALDER] His whole future may depend on what we do, dad. FALDER comes in. He has pulled himself together, and presents a steady front. JAMES. Now look here, Falder. My son and I want to give you another chance; but there are two things I must say to you. In the first place: It's no good coming here as a victim. If you've any notion that 98 JUSTICE ACT iv you've been unjustly treated get rid of it. You can't play fast and loose with morality and hope to go scot- free. If Society didn't take care of itself, nobody would the sooner you realise that the better. FALDER. Yes, sir; but may I say something? JAMES. Well? FALDER. I had a lot of time to think it over in prison. [He stops. COKESON. [Encouraging him] I'm sure you did. FALDER. There were all sorts there. And what I mean, sir, is, that if we'd been treated differently the first time, and put under somebody that could look after us a bit, and not put in prison, not a quarter of us would ever have got there. JAMES. [Shaking his head] I'm afraid I've very grave doubts of that, Falder. FALDER. [With a gleam of malice] Yes, sir, so I found. JAMES. My good fellow, don't forget that you be- gan it. FALDER. I never wanted to do wrong. JAMES. Perhaps not. But you did. FALDER. [With all the bitterness of his past suffering] It's knocked me out of time. [Pulling himself up] That is, I mean, I'm not what I was. JAMES. This isn't encouraging for us, Falder. COKESON. He's putting it awkwardly, Mr. James. FALDER. [Thrcrwing over his caution from the inten- sity of his feeling] I mean it, Mr. Cokeson. JAMES. Now, lay aside all those thoughts, Falder, and look to the future. ACT iv JUSTICE 9J> FALDER. [Almost eagerly] Yes, sir, but you don't understand what prison is. It's here it gets you. He grips his chest. COKESON. [In a whisper to JAMES] I told you he wanted nourishment. WALTER. Yes, but, my dear fellow, that'll pass away. Time's merciful. FALDER. [With his face twitching] I hope so, sir. JAMES. [Much more gently] Now, my boy, what you've got to do is to put all the past behind you and build yourself up a steady reputation. And that brings me to the second thing. This woman you were mixed up with you must give us your word, you know, to have done with that. There's no chance of your keeping straight if you're going to beg'n your future with such a relationship. FALDER. [Looking from one to the other ivith a hunted expression] But sir ... but sir ... it's the one thing I looked forward to all that time. And she too ... I couldn't find her before last night. During this and what follows COKESON be- comes more and more uneasy. JAMES. This is painful, Falder. But you must see for yourself that it's impossible for a firm like this to close its eyes to everything. Give us this proof of your resolve to keep straight, and you can come back not otherwise. FALDER. [After staring at JAMES, suddenly stiffens himself] I couldn't give her up. I couldn't! Oh, sir! 100 JUSTICE ACT iv I'm all she's got to look to. And I'm sure she's all I've got. JAMES. I'm very sorry, Falder, but I must be firm. It's for the benefit of you both in the long run. No good can come of this connection. It was the cause of all your disaster. FALDER. But sir, it means having gone through all that getting broken up my nerves are in an awful state for nothing. I did it for her. JAMES. Come! If she's anything of a woman she'll see it for herself. She won't want to drag you down further. If there were a prospect of your being able to marry her it might be another thing. FALDER. It's not my fault, sir, that she couldn't get rid of him she would have if she could. That's been the whole trouble from the beginning. [Looking suddenly at WALTER] ... If anybody would help her! It's only money wanted now, I'm sure. COKESON. [Breaking in, as WALTER hesitates, and is about to speak] I don't think we need consider that it's rather far-fetched. FALDER. [To WALTER, appealing] He must have given her full cause since; she could prove that he drove her to leave him. WALTER. I'm inclined to do what you say, Falder, if it can be managed. FALDER. Oh, sir ! He goes to the window and looks down into th& street. ACT iv JUSTICE 101 COKESON. [Hurriedly] You don't take me, Mr. Walter. I have my reasons. FALDER. [From the window] She's down there, sir. Will you see her? I can beckon to her from here. WALTER hesitates, and looks from COKESON to JAMES. JAMES. [With a sharp nod] Yes, let her come. FALDER beckons from the window. COKESON. [In a low fluster to JAMES and WALTER] No, Mr. James. She's not been quite what she ought to ha' been, while this young man's been away. She's lost her chance. We can't consult how to swindle the Law. FALDER has come from the window. The three men look at him in a sort of awed silence. FALDER. [With instinctive apprehension of some change looking from one to the other] There's been nothing between us, sir, to prevent it. ... What I said at the trial was true. And last night we only just sat in the Park. SWEEDLE comes in from the outer office. COKESON. What is it ? SWEEDLE. Mrs. Honey will. [There is silence. JAMES. Show her in. RUTH comes slowly in, and stands stoically with FALDER on one side and the three men on the other. No one speaks. COKE- SON turns to his table, bending over his 302 JUSTICE ACT iv papers as though the burden of the situation were forcing him back into his accustomed groove. JAMES. [Sharply] Shut the door there. [SWEEDLE shuts the door] We've asked you to come up because there are certain facts to be faced in this matter. I understand you have only just met Falder again. RUTH. Yes only yesterday. JAMES. He's told us about himself, and we're very sorry for him. I've promised to take him back here if he'll make a fresh start. [Looking steadily at RUTH] This is a matter that requires courage, ma'am. RUTH, who is looking at FALDER, begins to twist her hands in front of her as though prescient of disaster. FALDER. Mr. Walter How is good enough to say that he'll help us to get you a divorce. RUTH flashes a startled glance at JAMES and WALTER. JAMES. I don't think that's practicable, Falder. FALDER. But, sir ! JAMES. [Steadily] Now, Mrs. Honeywill. You're fond of him. RUTH. Yes, sir; I love him. She looks miserably at FALDEH. JAMES. Then you don't want to stand in his way, do you ? RUTH. [In a faint voice] I could take care of him. JAMES. The best way you can take care of him will be to give him up. ACT iv JUSTICE 103 FALDER. Nothing shall make me give you up. You can get a divorce. There's been nothing between us, has there? RUTH. [Mournfully shaking her head without look- ing at him] No. FALDER. We'll keep apart till it's over, sir; if you'll only help us we promise. JAMES. [To RUTH] You see the thing plainly, don't you ? You see what I mean ? RUTH. [Just above a whisper] Yes. COKESON. [To himself] There's a dear woman. JAMES. The situation is impossible. RUTH. Must I, sir? JAMES. [Forcing himself to look at her] I put it to you, ma'am. His future is in your hands. RUTH. [Miserably] I want to do the best for him. JAMES. [A little huskily] That's right, that's right! FALDER. I don't understand. You're not going to give me up after all this ? There's something [Starting forward to JAMES] Sir, I swear solemnly there's been nothing between us. JAMES. I believe you, Falder. Come, my lad, be as plucky as she is. FALDER. Just now you were going to help us. [He stares at RUTH, who is standing absolutely still; his face and hands twitch and quiver as the truth dawns on him] What is it ? You've not been WALTER. Father! JAMES. [Hurriedly] There there' That'll do, that'll 104 JUSTICE ACT iv do! I'll give you your chance, Falder. Don't let me know what you do with yourselves, that's all. FALDER. [.4s if he has not heard] Ruth ? RUTH looks at him; and FALDER covers his face with his hands. There is silence. COKESON. [Suddenly] There's some one out there. [To RUTH] Go in here. You'll feel better by yourself for a minute. He points to the clerks' room and moves tow- ards the outer office. FALDER does not move. RUTH puts out her hand timidly. He shrinks back from the touch. She turn* and goes miserably into the clerks' room. With a brusque movement he follows, seiz- ing her by the shoulder just inside the door- way. COKESON shuts the door. JAMES. [Pointing to the outer*ojfice] Get rid of that, whoever it is. SWEEDLE. [Opening the office door, in a scared voice] Detective-Sergeant Wister. The detective enters, and closes the door behind him. WISTER. Sorry to disturb you, sir. A clerk you had here, two years and a half ago. I arrested him in this room. JAMES. What about him ? WISTER. I thought perhaps I might get his where- abouts from you. [There is an awkward silence. COKESON. [Pleasantly, coming to the rescue] We're not responsible for his movements; you know that. ACT iv JUSTICE * 10.5 JAMES. What do you want with him ? WISTER. He's failed to report himself this last four weeks. WALTER. How d'you mean ? WISTER. Ticket-of-leave won't be up for another six months, sir. WALTER. Has he to keep in touch with the police till then ? WISTER. We're bound to know where he sleeps every night. I dare say we shouldn't interfere, sir, even though he hasn't reported himself. But we've just heard there's a serious matter of obtaining em- ployment with a forged reference. What with the two things together we must have him. Again there is silence. WALTER and COKESON steal glances at JAMES, who stands staring steadily at the detective. COKESON. [Expansively} We're very busy at the moment. If you could make it convenient to call again we might be able to tell you then. JAMES. [Decisively] I'm a servant of the Law, but I dislike peaching. In fact, I can't do such a thing. If you want him you must find him without us. As he. speaks his eye falls on FALDER'S cap, still lying on the table, and his face contracts. WISTER. [Noting the gesture quietly] Very good, sir. I ought to warn you that, having broken the terms of his licence, he's still a convict, and sheltering a convict 106 JUSTICE ACT iv JAMES. I shelter no one. But you mustn't come here and ask questions which it's not my business to answer. WISTER. [Dryly] I won't trouble you further then, gentlemen. COKESON. I'm sorry we couldn't give you the information. You quite understand, don't you? Good-morning ! WISTER turns to go, but instead of going to the door of the outer office he goes to the door of the clerks' room. COKESOX. The other door . . . the other door! WISTER opens the clerks' door. RUTH'S voice is heard: "Oh, do!" and FALDER'S: "/ can't!" There is a little pause; then, with sharp fright, RUTH says: "Who's that?" WISTER has gone in. The three men look aghast at the door. WISTER. [From within} Keep back, please! He comes swiftly out with his arm twisted in FALDER'S. The latter gives a white, staring look at the three men. WALTER. Let him go this time, for God's sake! WISTER. I couldn't take the responsibility, sir. FALDER. [With a queer, desperate laugh] Good! Flinging a look back at RUTH, he throws up his head, and goes out through the outer office, half dragging WISTER after him. ACT iv JUSTICE 107 WALTER. [With despair] That finishes him. It'll go on for ever now. SWEEDLE can be seen staring through the outer door. There are sounds of footsteps descending the stone stairs; suddenly a dull thud, a faint "My God!" in WISTER'S voice. JAMES. What's that ? SWEEDLE dashes forward. The door swings to behind him. There is dead silence. WALTER. [Starting forward to the inner room] The woman she's fainting! He and COKESON support the fainting RUTH from the doorway of the clerks' room. COKESON. [Distracted] Here, my dear! There, there! WALTER. Have you any brandy ? COKESON. I've got sherry. WALTER. Get it, then. Quick! He places RUTH in a chair which JAMES has dragged forward. COKESON. [With sherry] Here! It's good strong sherry. [They tvy to force the sherry between her lips. There is the sound of feet, and they slop to listen. The outer door is reopened WISTER and SWEEDLE are seen carrying some burden. JAMES. [Hurrying forward] What is it? They lay the burden down in the outer office, out of sight, and all but RUTH cluster round ' it, speaking in hushed voices. 108 JUSTICE ACT iv WISTER. He jumped neck's broken. WALTER. Good God! WISTER. He must have been mad to think he could give me the slip like that. And what was it just a few months! WALTER. [Bitterly] Was that all? JAMES. What a desperate thing! [Then, in a voice unlike his own] Run for a doctor you! [SWEEDLE rushes from the outeroffice] An ambulance! WISTER goes out. On RUTH'S face an expres- sion of fear and horror has been seen grow- ing, as if she dared not turn towards the voices. She now rises and steals towards them. WALTER. [Turning suddenly] Look! The three men shrink back out of her way, one by one, into COKESON'S room. RUTH drops on her knees by the body. RUTH. [In a whisper] What is it ? He's not breath- ing. [She crouches over him] My dear! My pretty! In the outer office doorway the figures of men are seen standing. RUTH. [Leaping to her feet] No, no! No, no! He's dead! [The figures of the men shrink back. COKESON. [Stealing forward. In a hoarse voice] There, there, poor dear woman ! At the sound behind her RUTH faces round at him. ACT iv JUSTICE 109 COKESON. No one '11 touch him now! Never again! He's safe with gentle Jesus! RUTH stands as though turned to stone in the doorway staring at COKESON, who, binding humbly before her, holds out his hand as one would to a lost dog. The curtain falls. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY, LOS ANGELES C9LLEGE LIBRARY This book is due on the last date stamped below. J3 63 Octl865 Oct2765 EC*DCOLOBL Wov 865 REC'D COL. LIB, NOV 5 1965 Book Slip-25m-9,'60(.B236s4)4280 A 001 184471 9 nla, Los Angeles I 005 476 321 4 College Library PR 6013 G13A19 1921 ser.2