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 THE LIBRARY 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 ITNTVERSITY OF CATJFORNIA
 
 THE DRAMATIC WORKS OF 
 
 ST. JOHN HANKIN
 
 ^\'l^ 
 
 i'n' ^^9^, Xl^Mt/ 27.
 
 THE DRAMATIC WORKS OF 
 
 ST. JOHN HANKIN 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY JOHN DRINKWATER 
 
 VOLUME 
 ONE 
 
 I 
 
 LONDON 
 MARTIN SECKER 
 
 NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET 
 
 ADELPHI 
 
 MCMXII
 
 NOTE 
 
 This Definitive Edition of the Dramatic 
 Works of St. John Hankin is limited 
 to one thousand copies, of which nine 
 hundred only are for sale in England 
 and the United States of America. 
 The type has been distributed
 
 Dear Mrs. Hajikin ^* f 
 
 Those of St. John Hankiii's plays that were 
 dedicated to any one were^ of course., inscribed to you ; 
 and in terms that made the playzurighfs general 
 -purpose in this direction sufficiently clear. Had he 
 lived to see this collected record of the work that he 
 did for the theatre, there is hut one name that could 
 have received the rightful homage of dedication, hut 
 with this comment my right in the matter ends. 
 I may, however, be allowed to inscribe my work in 
 preparing this edition to you who have sought so 
 loyally to establish the reputation of the dramatist 
 that it celebrates. 
 
 V ery faithfully yours, 
 
 John Drinkwater 
 
 11 542? I
 
 CONTENTS OF 
 VOLUME ONE 
 
 INTRODUCTION i 
 
 THE TWO MR. WETHERBYS 29 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL 115
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 I : A
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 St. John Emile Clavering Hankin died in 1909, 
 at the age of thirty-nine. To discuss the circum- 
 stances of his death would be an irrelevancy that 
 could serve no useful purpose. The only word that 
 need be said in this connection is in answer to an 
 ill-considered suggestion that the event was hastened 
 by some sense of disappointment, an unsatisfied 
 hunger for recognition. All artists of real distinction 
 are alike in being proud of their work ; they differ 
 only, for temperamental reasons, in the manner of 
 expressing their pride. Reserve in this matter is 
 not necessarily the virtue of modesty, nor, on the 
 other hand, do we think the less of the makers who 
 have foretold that their rhymes should be more 
 durable than marble monuments. St. John Hankin 
 was proud of his work, and made frank avowal of 
 the fact. " You always think so well of your own 
 plays, Hankin," said a colleague. " Of course I 
 do," was the reply, " otherwise I shouldn't continue 
 to write them." The statement implies no undue 
 self-satisfaction. He was not easily content with 
 the thing he had written, and was a finely con- 
 scientious workman in revision and the search for 
 rightness in balance and form. But the task done, 
 he was glad to stand by it, and said so. It is, how- 
 ever, a deep injustice to his memory to suppose that 
 this frankness sprang from any overweening concern 
 
 3
 
 Introduction 
 
 for his immediate reputation, and mere folly to 
 add that it affords any clue as to the cause of his 
 last act. In the first place, artists do not die of 
 wounded pride. Keats was not " snuffed out by 
 an article," but by an organic disease, and even 
 Chatterton's tragedy might have been averted by a 
 few shillings a week. Secondly, Hankin had aheady 
 received a large measure of the only kind of recogni- 
 tion that he valued. He was not forced to write 
 for money, and he neither expected nor wished his 
 plays to be readily accepted by the general public. 
 He was deliberately in the camp of the pioneers, and 
 did not look for the rewards of conformity. But 
 his work had won the approval of progressive 
 audiences, and had been acclaimed by the most 
 liberal critical opinion. The new repertory move- 
 ment in the theatre, upon which he himself exercised 
 so important an influence, was in turn recognising 
 him as one of its most notable products. His name 
 was one of credit among the people who were seek- 
 ing to quicken a stage that had grown moribund, 
 and the knowledge that this was so gave him just 
 and genuine pleasure. He was working with a 
 clearly defined aim, and he was achieving his pur- 
 pose as rapidly as any man can hope to do. St. John 
 Hankin the neglected and disappointed dramatist 
 is a myth. At the time of his death he was winning 
 and enjoying the best kind of success, and his end 
 was one of those untimely accidents of temperament 
 and physical circumstance that we are wise to 
 accept without too curious analysis. Nor would 
 it be profitable to speculate as to what might 
 have been added to his achievement had his life
 
 Introductmi 
 
 been prolonged. We have to consider his work 
 as it stands, and examine the grounds upon 
 which its claims to permanence may be estab- 
 lished. 
 
 The decadence of English drama, that began with 
 the passing away of the Elizabethans and has been 
 arrested only in our own day, has commonly been 
 supposed to have been the penalty paid for the 
 neglect of life. By decadence we do not mean a 
 lack of superficial and momentary success. Every 
 age has produced its harvest of plays that would 
 attract and hold large, if uncritical, audiences, and 
 they have not always been wholly bad plays. The 
 great mass of them have, indeed, been radically 
 deficient in true dramatic sense, and, by substituting 
 violent events and action for ideas and character 
 focussed into action, have vulgarised a great art. 
 But a substantial minority have been the product 
 of sincere observation and some feeling for character. 
 And yet, the plays written in England between the 
 end of the Shakespearian age and the beginning of 
 the present generation that are of indisputable 
 excellence when put to the test of the stage and 
 also survive the processes of time might be numbered 
 at a bare dozen ; certainly no more. The Restora- 
 tion dramatists would contribute two or three 
 between them ; Goldsmith claims one, perhaps 
 two ; Sheridan two, possibly three. The list is 
 not easily to be lengthened. On the other hand, 
 most of the poets of high rank have written plays, 
 and in many cases plays that are immortal but 
 only by virtue of qualities that are not stage quali- 
 ties. Action is not essential to the stage, but 
 
 5
 
 hitroductio7t 
 
 in its absence there must at least be some direct 
 progression of idea or spiritual conflict that shall 
 perform its ofhce of holding the attention of an 
 audience. The poets have, justly, thrown action 
 from its usurped station in drama, but they have 
 failed either to use it in proper measure or to 
 substitute its equivalent, and for this reason their 
 influence has been deflected from the theatre. We 
 have, then, the few plays that have held the stage 
 and still live ; the poets' plays that are imperishable 
 but do not fulfil the requirements of the stage ; the 
 large number of plays that sought only a momentary 
 and sensational success and could not, by reason of 
 their essential abuse of dramatic art, achieve more. 
 And there are left those plays, cumulatively through 
 the generations a large number, that had in them 
 some sincerity and conscience and also a measure of 
 fitness for the stage, and have yet passed into 
 oblivion. If we ask ourselves why these plays have 
 perished, we find that the suggestion that the stage 
 had divorced itself from life leaves the question 
 unanswered. The truth is that the stage fell upon 
 evil days not because it divorced itself from life, 
 but because it divorced itself from literature. 
 Literature means style in the expression of life, and 
 if we look at those plays that paid some heed to life 
 and adjusted it with skill to the theatre, we find 
 that the one supreme quality that they lacked is 
 style. The poets have always brought this quality 
 to the drama, but they have neglected the rightful 
 demands of the stage in other things. Drama that 
 shall succeed in the theatre and also be a permanent 
 addition to the art of the world can only spring 
 6
 
 Introduction 
 
 from the union of an understanding of stage-craft 
 and the faculty of at once seeing and apprehending 
 life and character, or at least manners, and bringing 
 to their expression that discipline of language which 
 is style. 
 
 The loftiest style is employed in the service of 
 poetry. When the impulse to express the thing 
 seen passes beyond a certain degree of urgency the 
 expression takes on a new quality of rhythmical 
 force, shaping itself generally into verse. The 
 difference between fine prose and fine verse is 
 fundamentally rather one of urgency, of intensity, 
 than of beauty. The greatest verse may have a 
 loveliness that is not to be found in the greatest 
 prose, but this beauty is a result of the essential 
 distinction, not the distinction itself. It is for this 
 reason that our new drama, full as it is of hope and 
 even achievement, does not yet make any serious 
 challenge to that of the Elizabethans. With two 
 or three exceptions, the plays that we have pro- 
 duced have not been forced by the sheer strength 
 of their begetting impulse into poetic form. But 
 many of them have already been so forced into 
 style, a style lower than the highest, but of clear 
 authenticity, and these are plays too that are fitted 
 to the requirements of stage presentation. We 
 have not yet regained our lost estate, but we are 
 realising that it is worth regaining, and already the 
 result is a quickening of our dramatic perception. 
 A knowledge of life and the theatre is no longer 
 considered sufficient equipment for the playwright, 
 and men of real literary gifts, men, that is, with the 
 gift of style, are seeking first to understand the 
 
 7
 
 Introdiictio7i 
 
 theatre so that they may bring their labours to its 
 service. The stage is renewing its old relation to 
 literature, and that is the most wholesome thing 
 that has happened to the stage for three centuries. 
 It was St. John Hankin's privilege and distinction 
 to be one of the first dramatists in England to help 
 in the establishment of this reunion. The great 
 worth of his plays lies not in their philosophy ; 
 after all, the Eustace Jacksons of the world have 
 never lacked persuasive and perfectly logical advo- 
 cates, and Mrs. Cassilis only invents a new trick to 
 emphasise a very old truth. It is not in the technical 
 excellence of their stage-craft ; they are often merci- 
 less to producer and actors, and St. John Hankin's 
 stage has a habit of resolving itself into a veritable 
 chess-board. They will take a permanent place in 
 the theatre because they are, on the whole and in 
 spite of their flaws in this respect, constructed for 
 action on the stage, and their expression of the 
 dramatist's view of life is vibrant with style from 
 beginning to end. 
 
 The distinction between writing that has this 
 quality of style and writing that lacks it is not the 
 distinction between the same thing well and ill 
 said ; it is the distinction between two entirely 
 different things. It is the difference between the 
 dull acceptance which is knowledge and the swift 
 realisation which is imaginative thought. The 
 former might induce a man to speak of one dead 
 as, say, having " escaped from a very worrying world 
 and the annoyances of jealous and unjust people 
 and the disappointments of life in general," but it 
 is clearly a mistake to suppose that he experiences 
 8
 
 Introduction 
 
 or expresses the same spiritual emotion as the man 
 who cries out : 
 
 He has outsoared the shadow of our night ; 
 Envy and calumny and hate and pain, 
 And that unrest which men miscall delight 
 Can touch him not and torture not again ; 
 From the contagion of the world's slow stain 
 He is secure, and now can never mourn 
 A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain ; 
 Nor when the spirit's self has ceased to burn 
 With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 
 
 The difference here is that between formal assent 
 and vision. Ultimately it is sincerity that creates 
 style, and sincerity has been lost to our theatre save 
 for brief interludes until these new dramatists once 
 again began to write not from rumour but from 
 conscience. Those momentarily successful plays 
 that presented life not altogether distorted and at 
 the same time fulfilled the technical requirements 
 of the stage perished because their virtues were not 
 really sincere. Their makers said the right thing 
 because it was commonly reported to be the right 
 thing and not from conviction, and consequently 
 said it ill, which, artistically, amounted to not 
 saying it at all. Lacking the sincerity which should 
 result in style, they lacked the power of complete 
 utterance, and in art a thing either is completely 
 said or it does not exist. We must not, of course, 
 confuse completeness with over-elaboration ; reti- 
 cence is often the spirit of style. Completeness 
 implies the embodiment of the creative ecstasy of 
 the artist with the actual statement made, and this 
 ecstasy cannot exist, of course, apart from the 
 strictest sincerity. 
 
 9
 
 Intr'odtiction 
 
 Among the many vague generalities that have 
 gained currency among us none is more thoughtless 
 than the pronouncement that art should imitate 
 nature. It should do nothing of the sort. When 
 Oscar Wilde asserted that, on the contrary, nature 
 imitates art, he was only refuting what he knew to 
 be a shallow conventionalism with his usual fantastic 
 gaiety. It would need a good deal of ingenious 
 sophistry for such an ideal to find a more excellent 
 realisation than the photograph and the gramophone. 
 Nature — life — becomes art only by concentration 
 and selection. A play focusses into two hours the 
 selected and concentrated experience of many lives, 
 and it finds an expression that is correspondingly 
 artificial and purged. Its failure to do this is the 
 measure of its failure as a work of art. It is for 
 this reason that the greatest drama is the poetic 
 drama, where the expression reaches the highest 
 artificiality, and the symbol most consistently takes 
 the place of the traditional formula of speech. To 
 say that a play is true to life, in the sense that it is 
 an unshaped extract from life, and that its people 
 speak in life-like speech, is utterly to condemn it. 
 Those plays of which I have spoken frequently 
 preserved, when they were not couched in fustian 
 rhetoric, the most exact parallel to the daily use of 
 conversation. The point is that in either case they 
 were the result of hearsay and not of imagination ; 
 they accepted without question either the false 
 rumours of literature which their authors had never 
 examined or the current speech of daily life which 
 had lost all freshness and a great deal of its meaning. 
 Ibsen paused to consider this question before making 
 
 10
 
 Introduction 
 
 his plays, or perhaps it would be nearer the truth 
 to say that, bringing real creative impulse to his 
 work, he necessarily rejected at the outset the false 
 doctrines of common acceptance. St. John Hankin 
 was one of the men who, consciously or not, profited 
 by the example. His characters are as far removed 
 as possible in expression from a debased tradition of 
 literary grandiosity, and, on the other hand, they 
 are far from reaching high imaginative utterance. 
 But their speech is, nevertheless, definitely one of 
 the imagination : 
 
 Henry. It was extremely undignified and quite unnecessary. If 
 you had simply come up to the front door and rung the beU you 
 would have been received just as readily. 
 
 Eustace. I doubt it. In fact, I doubt if I should have been 
 received at all. I might possibly have been given a bed for the 
 night, but only on the distinct understanding that I left early the 
 next morning. Whereas now nobody talks of my going. A poor 
 invalid ! In the doctor's hand ! Perfect quiet essential. No. 
 My plan was best. 
 
 Henry. Why didn't that fool Glaisher see through you ? 
 
 Eustace. Doctors never see through their patients. It's not 
 what they're paid for, and it's contrary to professional etiquette. 
 [Henry snorts wrathfully?\ Besides, Glaisher's an ass, I'm glad to 
 say. 
 
 Henry [/m7kw^]. It would serve you right if I told the Governor 
 the whole story. 
 
 Eustace. I daresay. But you won't. It wouldn't be cricket. 
 Besides, I only told you on condition you kept it to yourself. 
 
 Henry [indignant]. And so I'm to be made a partner in your 
 fraud. The thing's a swindle, and I've got to take a share in it. 
 
 Eustace. Swindle ? Not a bit. You've lent a hand — without 
 intending it — to reuniting a happy family circle. Smoothed the 
 way for the Prodigal's return, A very beautiful trait in your 
 character. 
 
 Henry [grumpy]. What I don't understand is why you told me 
 all this. Why in heaven's name didn't you keep the whole dis- 
 creditable story to yourself ? 
 
 II
 
 Introduction 
 
 Eustace \with flattering candour]. The fact is I was pretty sure 
 you'd find me out. The Governor's a perfect owl, but you've got 
 brains — of a kind. You can sec a thing when it's straight before 
 your nose. So 1 thought I'd let you into the secret from the start, 
 just to keep your mouth shut. 
 
 Henry. Tck ! [Thinks for a moment^ And what are you going 
 to do now you are at home ? 
 
 Eustace [airily]. Do, my dear chap ? Why, nothing. 
 
 [And on the spectacle of Eustace's smiling self-assurance^ 
 and Henry's outraged moral sense, the curtain falls.] 
 
 That is not the speech of daily life. No two 
 brothers ever talked to each other or could talk so. 
 There is in their conversation something added to 
 the actual argument between the two men, and 
 this addition is the imagination of St. John Hankin. 
 Eustace and Henry Jackson are not wholly creatures 
 of their own independent being ; they exist partly 
 in terms of their creator's temperament and vision, 
 and they justly and inevitably bear witness to this 
 fact in their utterance. The philosophy that finds 
 a spark of the Godhead in every man is relatively 
 applicable to art. The creature bears in him some 
 token of the creator, and unless he does so he is 
 deprived of his proudest right. The dramatist 
 whose characters are set out photographically, not 
 reflected through the distinctive medium of his 
 own personality, does not create at all and he has 
 no claim to consideration as an artist. He may 
 then catch the verisimilitude of speech, but the 
 spirit with which he should invest words must 
 necessarily be beyond his consciousness, and his 
 expression will remain untranslated into style. 
 
 It is a curious fact that this essential condition 
 of all art should have been so often overlooked in 
 
 12
 
 Introduction 
 
 dramatic criticism whilst its importance has been 
 consistently recognised in the discussion of the 
 other arts. A poem or a picture or a statue is 
 accounted as deficient in the finer parts of its being 
 unless it bears in its composition some signature of 
 its source, and yet for some obscure reason we have 
 been asked to consider it as a virtue that a play 
 should be as a bough lopped from the tree of life, 
 unshaped and showing no pressure of the artist's 
 hand. The great dramatists have never bestowed 
 their approval on this monstrous notion by their 
 practice. The art of the dramatist is, indeed, more 
 essentially objective than that of his fellows, but 
 objectivity in art does not imply an abortive 
 dissociation of the thing seen from the eyes that 
 see. Strangely enough, St. John Hankin, who 
 realised this truth always in his art, appeared to 
 lend support to its violation in an essay otherwise 
 full of admirable reason. " It is the dramatist's 
 business," he says, " to represent life, not to argue 
 about it." It is, perhaps, not special pleading to 
 suggest that in speaking of argument he had in 
 mind the distortion of life to make it conform to 
 fore-ordained ends. The sentence is to be found 
 in the " Note on Happy Endings," where he justly 
 resents the sentimental intrusion of expediency on 
 the dramatist's conception of truth. His protest 
 would seem to be made rather against the sophistical 
 devices of argument than against argument in the 
 shape of commentary, but, with so important an 
 issue at stake, he would have done well to have 
 considered his statement more carefully. However 
 this may be, it is clear that all dramatists who have 
 
 13
 
 Introduction 
 
 written sincerely have not only represented life, 
 but argued about it. The very texture of their 
 expression, as in the passage that has been quoted, 
 is an implicit argument about life, in that it knits 
 up the artist's temperament into the speech of his 
 characters. But the argument has always been 
 explicit also, a deliberate as well as an incidental 
 commentary. The Greek chorus was, fundamentally, 
 a device employed by the poet whereby he might 
 exercise this privilege of argument. The characters 
 that he created might be allowed to work out their 
 own destiny as far as he could enable them to do so 
 by virtue of his experience of life ; but he was 
 careful to reserve his right of commentary upon the 
 process. The aesthetic value of this determination 
 is obvious. Our demand of the artist is that he 
 should show us not life, but his vision of life. The 
 earliest English drama made frank allowance of this 
 right, an allowance too frank, indeed, to be artisti- 
 cally sound. The explicit argument was not clearly 
 cut off from the characterisation as it had been by 
 the Greeks, nor was it yet woven into the fibre of 
 the characterisation in the manner attempted by 
 the Elizabethans. And the Elizabethans them- 
 selves were not blameless in this matter. In reject- 
 ing the classical model Shakespeare set himself 
 the most difficult of his technical problems. His 
 magnificent genius justified its own choice, but 
 the soliloquy was, inherently, a less perfect artistic 
 form than the chorus. The greatest difficulty in 
 the loyal presentation of Shakespeare's plays is in 
 dealing convincingly with these choric soliloquies. 
 To adopt the line of least resistance and cut them 
 
 H
 
 Introduction 
 
 out, as is commonly done, is merely to maim the 
 poet. Shakespeare felt the artistic necessity of 
 comment upon his creations, but in blurring the 
 dividing line between his dramatic and choric 
 statement instead of defining it sharply he deprived 
 his audience of help to which it has a legitimate 
 claim. But difficulty is no excuse for inefficiency, 
 and no Shakespearian production is of the slightest 
 aesthetic value that does not honestly seek to meet 
 the difficulty instead of resorting to cowardly 
 evasion. 
 
 The demands of art upon the artist are inexorable. 
 The artist finds certain requirements imposed upon 
 him by his work from which there is no escape. 
 And one of these is this necessity of the chorus, or 
 the poet's argument in drama. The whole signifi- 
 cance of the chorus in the drama of the theatre 
 had fallen into neglect and oblivion, because the 
 plays of the theatre were being written by men who 
 had no sincerity of artistic impulse. And then, as 
 soon as men once more bring their conscience to 
 this work and write sincerely as artists, we find the 
 necessity reasserting itself in spite of any reasoned 
 denial. The new dramatists, of whom St. John 
 Hankin was one of the ablest and sincerest, seemed 
 to be determined that the construction of their 
 plays should follow a false tradition at least in this, 
 that it should not allow anything to interfere with 
 the development of the action. But they were too 
 good artists to be able to carry out their own 
 determination. Being sincere, and creating charac- 
 ters instead of cutting them out with a pair of 
 scissors, they found it necessary, as we have seen, 
 
 15
 
 Introductio7i 
 
 to invest tKcm with something of their own temper, 
 and that in itself wholesomely disturbed the 
 mechanical continuity that had become a fetish. 
 Here was the beginning of regeneration, and the 
 beginning forced its own growth. Having brought 
 implicit argument back to the drama, they felt an 
 artistic desire for argument that was explicit. Not 
 being quite sure of themselves, they refrained from 
 satisfying the desire openly, and they started a new 
 tradition, which will, it is safe to prophesy, prove 
 nothing more than the prelude to a return to the 
 frank acceptance of an essential artistic necessity. 
 They invented the stage direction. Not the old 
 direction that set out a stage and brought people 
 on to it and off again, but a new full-bodied thing 
 that enabled them to do something which their art 
 compelled them to do. 
 
 General Bonsor \too broken with the zuorld's ingratitude to protest 
 further]. Boring ! [Follows Miss Triggs, shaking his poor old head. 
 There is a pause while we realise that one of the most tragic things in 
 life is to be a bore — and to know it. Mrs. Eversleigh, however, not 
 being cursed with the gift of an imaginative sympathy, wastes no pity 
 on the General. Instead of this she turns to her sister, and, metaphori- 
 cally speaking, knocks her out of the ring.] 
 
 That is pure chorus, and nothing else. And again : 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. But what became of your money, dear ? The 
 thousand pounds your father gave you ? 
 
 Eustace. I lost it. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [looking vaguely round as if Eustace might have 
 dropped it somewhere on the carpet, in which case, of course, it ought to 
 be picked up before some one treads on //]. Lost it ? 
 
 This is as clear in intention as a chorus of Trojan 
 women, and instances are to be found on nearly 
 
 i6
 
 Introductio7t 
 
 every page of the authentic artists who are re- 
 establishing the credit of our theatre. They are, 
 indeed, to be found on the pages only, not yet on 
 the stage in their complete and rightful authority; 
 but the fact that they are conceived and written is 
 evidence of the return of a perfectly sound instinct. 
 The most complete attempts to give this elemental 
 desire natural expression that have yet been made in 
 modern drama are, perhaps, to be found in certain 
 of Mr. Yeats's plays and in the Gaffer of Mr. 
 Masefield's "Nan. 
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherbys was written in 1902. 
 Before that date St. John Hankin had worked as 
 dramatic and literary critic, and was known as a 
 contributor to Punch. He had by him, too, the 
 usual sheaf of plays, and was wise enough to leave 
 them in their pigeon-holes when his reputation as 
 a dramatist might have lent them a value not their 
 own. He looked upon The Two Mr. Wetherbys as 
 the first achievement by which he cared to stand. 
 Mr. Punches Dramatic Sequels was published in 
 1901, but its wit is relatively immature and not 
 comparable with that of his Lost Masterpieces^ 
 published three years later. Between 1902 and his 
 death he wrote seven plays and began an eighth, 
 and it is upon these that his reputation rests. In 
 The Two Mr. Wetherbys certain of his qualities 
 appear almost in their full development, others 
 scarcely at all. The faculty of writing dialogue, 
 the style, the salty wit and the debonair, faintly 
 cynical philosophy of life, are all there. But there 
 is as yet nothing of the deeper humour and the real 
 tenderness that were to throw their gracious charity 
 
 I : B 17
 
 IjiLroduction 
 
 over the mocking satire of the later plays, nor is the 
 artistic sincerity yet perfect. It is the only one of 
 his plays that has a conventionally happy ending of 
 the kind that he laughed at so vigorously in the 
 preface from which I have already quoted, and it 
 is the only one that ends unsatisfactorily. In 
 sending Dick and Constantia off to inevitable 
 domestic tribulation he may have had his tongue 
 in his cheek, but, if so, the humour was too subtle 
 to be safe, involving as it did a direct negation of 
 his own conviction. The whole question of the 
 destiny of the artists' creations is necessarily one 
 that each artist must decide for himself. St. John 
 Hankin quite rightly decided that the romantic 
 conclusions popularly favoured w^erc false. It does 
 not follow that they are false to life or to another 
 artist's view of life, but simply that they were false 
 for him. They arc, indeed, commonly enough so 
 contrived as to fail altogether in artistic conviction, 
 but this does not affect their radical fitness when 
 conceived by the right temperament. Eustace 
 Jackson's engagement to Stella Faringford would, 
 doubtless, have trebled the popularity of The 
 Return of the Prodigal^ but any balance in our 
 knowledge of life, or, more particularly, in our 
 knowledge of Hankin's vision of life, precludes us 
 from deploring his refusal to sanction such an 
 event ; but we are, none the less, profoundly 
 disturbed by the accident that prevents the con- 
 summation of Romeo's love for Juliet. It is the 
 prerogative of passion to take no account of institu- 
 tions or social expediency. Great poets in their 
 most passionate seasons create without reference to 
 i8
 
 Introduction 
 
 anything save their own burning conception. Love's 
 moment is for them an immortal term which is 
 independent of any subsequent reaction or retribu- 
 tion. But it was Hankin's limitation as an artist 
 that he could not see life detached from such 
 institutions and expediencies. He could see clearly 
 but not very deeply ; his characters are alive and 
 considered from many points of view, but he was 
 never able to divest them of the rags of circum- 
 stance. The danger of passion v/as, in consequence, 
 a more real thing for him than its glory. Much as 
 he did for the renascence of drama in many ways, 
 he was yet far from bringing reason under the fine 
 subjection of the imagination. Eustace's marriage 
 to Stella would have been a catastrophe only 
 because these people were created by Hankin's 
 temperament ; a greater imagination might have 
 made such an event triumphant. An artist, how- 
 ever, is not to be censured for his limitations, but 
 only for his refusal to recognise and work within 
 them. Of the higher things of passion Hankin w^as 
 incapable, but he was wisely content to acknowledge 
 the incapacity, and, working consistently within his 
 powers, he rediscovered certain artistic principles 
 of first-rate importance, in the expression of an 
 impulse not of the highest order, yet in itself of no 
 mean value. 
 
 ^he Return of the Prodigal, which followed the 
 Wetherbys, was written in 1904. Not only have the 
 qualities that were found in the earlier play matured, 
 but there are new qualities discovered. If it was 
 not given to him to be passionate, Hankin here 
 shows that he could encompass a quite rare tender- 
 
 19
 
 l7itro(1tictio7i 
 
 ness. Mrs. Jackson, first-cousin to the Lady Dcnison 
 of a later date, is conceived with a charity that has 
 in it no trace of cynicism. She is not a central figure 
 in the play, and yet she is, it seems to mc, more 
 completely imagined than any other character in 
 the whole of Hankin's work. This is not to say that 
 she is the most striking of his people, but there is in 
 her just that subtlety of presentment that is the 
 product not of deliberation but of uncurbed artistic 
 instinct. She is there for no other purpose than to 
 satisfy the dramatist's impulse to embody a type for 
 which he clearly had no common affection. Eustace 
 and Henry, Samuel Jackson and even his daughter 
 Violet, admirably fashioned as they are, are yet 
 moved by a purpose that is not wholly their own, and 
 answer in some measure to the dictates of the drama- 
 tist's formal reason. But Mrs. Jackson is a complete 
 creation, arguing nothing, doing nothing, merely 
 being, and in her Hankin approaches poetic imagina- 
 tion in conception if not in utterance. And it is 
 noteworthy that, moving on this higher artistic 
 plane, her influence upon the other characters of the 
 play is more authentically dramatic than is that 
 commonly operating between Hankin's people. The 
 conflict between Eustace and his father and brother 
 is, again, primarily one of the reasons, just as, in a 
 lesser degree, is that between him and his sister. 
 They have a definite and circumstantial problem to 
 solve, and they argue the matter out consistently 
 in terms of their own personalities. But Eustace's 
 relation to his mother is an emotional one, and 
 consequently far more moving. " Dear old mater. 
 She's not clever, but for real goodness of heart I 
 
 20
 
 Iittroduction 
 
 don't know her equal." Speaking of her he becomes, 
 for a moment, greater than himself, concerned with 
 simple and fundamental and not complex and 
 superficial things. 
 
 In 1905 two plays were written, 'The Charity 
 that Began at Home and The Cassilis Engagement. 
 If Hankin saw life in something less than heroic 
 proportions, he was at least able to apply an almost 
 faultless logic to the life that he did see. His world 
 was circumscribed, but he purged it thoroughly of 
 shams ; and if to do this is not the highest function 
 of the artist, it is one of the most worthy functions 
 of the artist who professes no kinship with the 
 greatest. And it is certainly to be accounted to 
 him artistically as a virtue that, although he exposed 
 what he considered to be ethical and social fallacies 
 in some measure by statement and argument, he 
 did so in a larger measure by the operation of 
 character. In other words, although he intuitively 
 realised the necessity of the chorus in drama, he 
 was also able to preserve a just balance between 
 chorus and action. The questions that confront 
 Lady Denison and Mrs. Cassilis are considered by 
 the dramatist not only with fine subtlety and mental 
 precision, but also with a quite notable instinct for 
 dramatic form. Generally speaking, the impulse 
 behind the plays is not sufficiently imaginative to 
 raise them save at rare intervals to the level of a 
 Mrs. Jackson, but the instinct that directed the 
 adjustment of the relations of the dramatist's 
 reflections to the action of his characters was in 
 nearly every case sound. Whilst the dramatist may 
 and should argue about life, it is not his business to 
 
 21
 
 l7it7^oductio?i 
 
 argue about ideas in the abstract. If he uses his 
 characters merely as mouth-pieces for the exploita- 
 tion of abstractions he abuses them ; his privilege 
 of choric commentary is justly exercised only when 
 it is confined to the contemplation of ideas that 
 shape themselves out of the action of his characters ; 
 when, in other words, it is applied to the general 
 only as it is resolved from the particular. It is 
 not for CEdipus, crushed, blind and bereft, driven 
 from his fellows, to be conscious of more than his 
 immediate misery ; life, for him, has become the 
 present moment of fierce pain and nothing more. 
 But the poet, seeing his creation set against the 
 whole of experience, remembering this man's begin- 
 ning and story and all men's hope, can draw from 
 the disastrous moment an abstract idea purged into 
 peace, almost into exultation : 
 
 Ye citizens of Thebes, behold ; 'tis CEdipus that passeth here, 
 VVho read the riddle-word of Death, and mightiest stood of mortal 
 
 men, 
 And Fortune loved him and the folk that saw him turned and looked 
 
 again. 
 Lo, he is fallen, and around great storms and the outrcaching sea ! 
 Therefore, O man, beware and look toward the end of things that be. 
 The last of sights, the last of days, and no man's hfe account as gain 
 Ere the full tale be finished and the darkness find him without pain.* 
 
 Hankin was not a poet and did not move upon these 
 emotional planes, but within the limits of his own 
 
 * Professor Gilbert Murray's translation. It is a striking commen- 
 tary upon the common confusion as to the aesthetic meaning of the 
 choric element in drama that in the recent production of CEdipus 
 Rex in this country these last lines which, when spoken as Sophocles 
 directed, by the chorus, have an emotional value scarcely to be 
 paralleled in dramatic poetry, were allotted to CEdipus himself, and 
 so deprived of every vestige of significance. 
 
 22
 
 Introduction 
 
 less ambitious design his instinct guided him to a 
 
 Eroportion in this matter that was perfectly just, and 
 e helped definitely towards a new understanding 
 of one of the subtlest principles of dramatic form. 
 
 The Last of the De Mullins was written in 1907, 
 and was Hankin's last dramatic work save two 
 one-act plays and an unfinished comedy. The 
 sociological problem which is its theme is set out 
 with his customary lucidity and investigated fairly 
 in terms of art and not of propaganda. Great passion 
 in art is always the product of the imagination, and 
 yet it is in this play which is farther away from 
 imagination than any other of his more important 
 efforts, that he approaches most nearly to passion. 
 The reason is that Hankin's imagination being the 
 least developed of his qualities, the problems of 
 reason which he explored depended for their power 
 of moving him deeply upon the directness with 
 which they were stated. The social question of 
 Janet De Mullin is more complete and clearly 
 stated than those of Mrs. Cassilis and Geoffrey, of 
 Lady Denison or Eustace Jackson. However im- 
 probable it may be, it is remotely possible that an 
 adjustment of circumstances might show Mrs. 
 Cassilis to be mistaken. Lady Denison to be wise in 
 her charity, and the Jackson compromise to be 
 something other than the best possible solution of 
 the family conflict. This is not to suggest that 
 Hankin should have resolved these plays in any way 
 other than that he chose, but to point out that in 
 each instance it might be urged that he controlled 
 the conduct of his protagonists to certain ends, 
 and that other ends are conceivable. But Janet's 
 
 23
 
 I?itro(ltcctio7i 
 
 attitude and conduct are inevitable, and her decisions 
 are the only ones that we could accept as being 
 possible. And this tightening up of his reasoning 
 faculty served Hankin for the moment in some 
 measure as a substitute for imaginative intensity and 
 brought him near to passion. Janet is the one figure 
 among his men and women of whom we can think as 
 loving passionately and being passionately loved. 
 
 The new seriousness of The Last of the De Miillins 
 precluded any free exercise of the wit that had 
 been so admirably employed in the earlier plays, but 
 otherwise his qualities here reach their full maturity. 
 The mastery of style has developed, and the 
 characterisation has gained in subtlety and the 
 power of suggestion. Mrs. De Mullin may be set 
 beside Lady Dcnison and Mrs. Jackson, and De 
 Mullin himself, choleric and stiff-necked as he is, 
 bears witness anew to the tenderness with which 
 his creator contemplated the foibles and prejudices 
 of his creations. It was a rare gift of Hankin's, one 
 that has been memorable in many greater men, this 
 faculty of making human weakness at least not 
 contemptible. There is scarcely a noble figure in 
 his plays — even Violet Jackson lacks something of 
 courage — and yet there is scarcely one for whom we 
 cannot spare some affection. Lady Faringford 
 herself might discover a heart at any moment. 
 
 The two one-act plays, The Burglar Who Failed 
 and The Constaiit Lover^ were both written in 1908. 
 The former is an amiable little farce, not unpleasing, 
 but far from showing the dramatist at his best. It 
 has an air of being manufactured. But The Constant 
 Lover is one of the most perfectly polished excur- 
 
 24
 
 Introduction 
 
 sions in prose comedy dialogue that the new drama 
 has produced. Conceived with a fancy of quite 
 uncommon delicacy, the play is carried through 
 from the first word to the last without a flaw. It 
 is full of good sunshine and laughter, light and 
 debonair yet wholly sincere. Hankin never realised 
 his aim more fully than in this little masterpiece, 
 and although it stands of necessity below his more 
 ambitious work in many ways it is, perhaps, a more 
 perfect achievement than anything else that he 
 did. He himself valued it highly, and the last letter 
 he ever wrote closed with a reference to it, poignant 
 and yet not without cheer. 
 
 When he died Hankin left an unfinished play, 
 Thompson. He had written the first act and some 
 later fragments. Relying far more upon a con- 
 ventional and definite plot than was his custom, it 
 was clearly his intention to give free rein in the 
 dialogue to the wit of which he was a master. 
 Mr. George Calderon's able completion of an 
 extremely difficult task must speak for itself. In 
 addition to his plays Hankin wrote a number of 
 essays on the theatre which, apart from the excel- 
 lence of their matter, are remarkable for their 
 admirable prose. As in the plays, imaginative 
 beauty is beyond the writer's aim, but there is 
 always a clear-cut precision, a lucidity and balance 
 of statement, that are a lasting delight even when 
 the subject under discussion is not of permanent 
 interest or the point of view has become obsolete. 
 
 But when the Puritan stayed away from the theatre altogether, 
 irrespective of the character of the play presented, his approval or 
 disapproval became a matter of indifference to the management. 
 
 25
 
 Introduction 
 
 It is very gratifying, of course, when you put up a play to have it 
 praised by the godly for its elevating tendency. But if none of the 
 godly will come to sec it your only course is to withdraw it and 
 substitute something to attract the wicked. For the wicked, with 
 all their faults, buy scats. And so the drama, which, like the rest of 
 the arts, is in its essence neither moral nor immoral, neither religious 
 nor irreligious, got a bad name, and when a calling, or an art, or an 
 institution gets a bad name it soon begins to deserve it. 
 
 That is a fair example of the style employed in 
 these essays, and it would be diflicult to find a 
 higher excellence in the same province. 
 
 In these occasional papers Hankin makes many 
 shrewd observations upon his art and allows us 
 many entertaining glimpses of his philosophy in the 
 rough, of the materials in his workshop. How 
 suggestive, for example, in the light of the plays, is 
 that passage in the essay on " Mr. Bernard Shaw as 
 Critic," where he slyly opposes his own spirit of 
 comedy to the rather strait solemnity that he was 
 one of the few men wise enough to find in his subject. 
 Quoting a paragraph from Mr. Shaw's " Dramatic 
 Opinions," he comments, "This is not the voice of a 
 jester. It is the voice of Dr. Clifford," and proceeds, 
 
 Again, of Miss Mary Anderson's autobiography he writes : 
 
 " Note how she assumes, this girl who thinks she has been an 
 artist, that the object of going on the stage is to sparkle in the world 
 and that the object of life is happiness ! " 
 
 One can almost hear the thump on the cushion as the preacher 
 utters that sentence. Yet I fancy most people have been in the 
 habit of regarding Mr. Shaw's attitude towards the theatre as one 
 of flippant tolerance largely tinged with contempt. The republica- 
 tion of these criticisms should serve to correct that impression. 
 One would rather like to hear, by the way, what the " object of 
 life " really is from Mr. Shaw's point of view. Perhaps some day 
 he will write a play about it. 
 
 26
 
 Int7'oduction 
 
 St. John Hankin lived and wrote at the beginning 
 of a new movement, and his permanent distinction 
 in drama will be rather that of right endeavour and 
 the recapture of just instincts than of full-bodied 
 achievement. But that his plays have durable 
 qualities there is no question. Thev are a valuable 
 effort towards the re-establishment of the union 
 between drama and literature ; they contain at 
 least a suggestion of a return to true principles of 
 dramatic form ; they have not style in its rarer 
 manifestation, but they have style, and that is much. 
 Hankin's characters are not very passionately con- 
 ceived, nor are they stirred often by the essential 
 emotions of men, but they have life. The comedy 
 which is Falstaff can stale only with the change of 
 fundamental humanity : the comedy which is 
 Eustace Jackson might lose some of its flavour with 
 a change of certain social conditions ; Eustace is, 
 nevertheless, a quick creation and not a puppet. 
 The Note 07i Hapfy Efidi?igs pleasantly emphasises 
 the fine objectivity with which the dramatist saw his 
 characters. In bringing them into existence he gave 
 them also some independence of being, and is able 
 seriously to discuss their future and their problems 
 of conduct with as much detachment as he would 
 gossip of his neighbours over the teacups. In the 
 essay on Mr. Shaw he gives counsel to critics that 
 is peculiarly valuable in the consideration of his own 
 plays : 
 
 Our dramatic critics, as a class, are always asking whether the 
 dramatist is doing what they want, instead of gi'V'ing their minds to 
 the only question of any importance critically, namely, whether he 
 has done what he wants, and done it competently. 
 
 27
 
 hitro(luctio7i 
 
 And done it competently. That is the point. It 
 does not follow that even if he has done this we 
 shall like his work, but in that event it is better to 
 leave it alone than to denounce it for not being 
 something else. Swinburne was not far wide of 
 the mark when he said that the only criticism of 
 value was the criticism that praised. Those of us 
 who believe that the stage cannot regain its full 
 vigour until it has rediscovered poetry as its natural 
 expression, find in Hankin and his three or four 
 adventurous fellows invigorating promise rather than 
 fulfilment, but we are foolish if we refuse gratitude 
 to the men who have made the first step towards 
 the new estate and deny ourselves the pleasure that 
 their work can give. Among these men Hankin 
 takes an honourable place, and that he was one of 
 the few who first sought to bring back sincerity and 
 a fit dignity of form to a great art is a distinction 
 of which he will not easily be deprived. 
 
 John Drinkwater. 
 August 1912. 
 
 28
 
 THE TWO MR. WETHERBYS 
 
 A MIDDLE-CLASS COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 ' Life is a comedy to those who think, 
 a tragedy to those who feel." 
 
 Horace Walpole
 
 SCENES 
 
 Act I. 7he Drawing-room at the James Wetherbys\ 
 Act II. The Dining-rooi7i at the James Wetherbys\ 
 Act III. Same as Act I. 
 
 The curtain is dropped for a moment half-way- 
 through Act II to represent the lapse of three hours. 
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Richard Wetherbv, the bad Mr. Wetherby, living in a bachelor -flat 
 in London. 
 
 Constantia, Margaret's sister, married to Richard hut separated from 
 him. 
 
 James Wetherby, the good Mr. Wetherby, living en famille at 
 
 Norwood. 
 
 Margaret, his wife. 
 
 Aunt Clara, aunt to Margaret and Constantia, a pious old lady of 
 sixty-five. 
 
 Robert Carne, her nephew, a solemn frig with no digestion. 
 
 Maid at the James Wetherby s\ 
 
 Scene : Mr. James Wetherby's house at Norwood. The action 
 of the play takes some twenty hours, from the afternoon of one day 
 to the forenoon of the next.
 
 THE TWO MR. WETHERBYS 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene. — The James Wetherbys' drawing-room at 
 Norwood. A door on the right leads to Hall. 
 French windows at back, closed, give on to suhurhaii 
 garden. Fireplace on the left, writing-table with 
 chair, facing audience. Circular settee to seat 
 three, one with back to audience, the other two 
 facing right and left, occupies centre of stage. 
 General furnishing of room fhilistine but not 
 shabby. A profusion of plush photograph frames 
 on mantelpiece and on upright piano which stands 
 against wall on the right. One of the most 
 conspicuous frames on mantelpiece contains 
 photograph of James Wetherby. 
 
 When Curtain rises. Aunt Clara, an old lady of 
 sixty-five, is discovered in arm-chair making a 
 crochet shawl. James is sitting near her on 
 settee reading a newspaper aloud. 
 
 James \in bored voice]. " It is, however, abun- 
 dantly clear that the Government possesses the 
 confidence of the country and that unless some 
 unforeseen difficulty arises, the present administra- 
 tion will remain in power at least until the autumn." 
 [Tawns slightly.] I beg your pardon, Aunt Clara. 
 *' Meantime it is for the Prime Minister and his 
 act I I : c 33
 
 The Two Mr, IVetherhys 
 
 colleagues to take measures to prevent any diminu- 
 tion in that confidence, and to see to it that when 
 the next General Election takes place, the Con- 
 servative party arc not merely returned to power, 
 but returned with an even larger majority. Only 
 in this way can the enemies of this country be 
 convinced that her destiny is in strong and capable 
 hands, and be restrained from embarking on enter- 
 prises hurtful to her interests or damaging to her 
 prestige." [Tawns.^ " To hand over the task of 
 forming a Government to the disunited factions of 
 the Opposition would be " 
 
 Aunt Clara [ifi hard clear tone]. Will you kindly 
 pick up my wool, James ? It has rolled under the 
 settee. 
 
 James. Certainly, Aunt Clara. [Grovels for it, 
 and after disentangling it from various chair legs, 
 returns with it triumphant, but flushed with exertion.^ 
 Here it is. [Places it on the table beside her. She 
 replaces it on her lap where it is obvious that it will 
 once more fall in a minute or two."] Now where was 
 I ? All, here we are. [Resuming bored voice.~\ " It 
 is however abundantly clear that the Government 
 possesses the confidence of the country [Aunt 
 Clara's ball again seeks the floor] and that unless 
 some unforeseen difficulty arises the present adminis- 
 tration will remain in power. . . ." 
 
 [Reads on as before. 
 
 Aunt Clara [feeling for wool]. There ! It's gone 
 again ! 
 
 James [bored]. W^iere is it now, Aunt ? 
 
 Aunt Clara. On the floor. I had it on my lap 
 a moment ago. It must have rolled under that 
 34 ACT I
 
 The Two Mr, JVetherbys 
 
 chair. Will you give it me, please ? [James -puts 
 down -pafer with the least fossihle suggestion of irri- 
 tation and recommences grovelling. Finally again 
 emerges successful and places it on table."] Thank 
 you, James. [Replaces it on her lap.'] 
 
 James [eyeing the manoeuvre with strong disfavour]. 
 Wouldn't it be better to leave it on the table ? 
 Then it wouldn't be so likely to slip off. 
 
 Aunt Clara [placidly]. No, I'm used to having 
 it on my lap. 
 
 James. Very well. Aunt. Shall I go on ? [Picks 
 up paper again.] " It is however abundantly clear 
 that the Government possesses the confidence of the 
 country and that unless some unforeseen difficulty 
 arises . . ." [Tawns again.] 
 
 Aunt Clara [in her hard, clear tones]. Haven't 
 you read that pa^t before ? 
 
 James. It does sound rather familiar. 
 
 Aunt Clara [severely]. I'm afraid you're not 
 reading with much attention, James. 
 
 James. I suppose not, I'm rather tired. [S?nothers 
 another yawn.] 
 
 Aunt Clara [offended]. Perhaps we had better 
 put aside our reading for this afternoon, then. 
 
 James [putting down paper with sigh of relief and 
 rising]. Very well. Aunt. 
 
 [Strolls towards garden. 
 
 Aunt Clara [quite tmconscious of this manoeuvre]. 
 We might talk a little instead. After luncheon 
 when I'm not being read to, I like to converse for 
 a few minutes. It prevents me from going to sleep. 
 
 James [to her, turning hack from garde?i]. You're 
 sure you wouldn't rather go to sleep ? 
 ACT I 35
 
 The Two M?\ Wetherhys 
 
 Aunt Clara. No, James. I do not approve of 
 this modern habit of sleeping during the day. 
 [James sighs dismally and goes to fire where he stands 
 ivith hack to mantelpiece, looking frofoufidly bored.'\ 
 [Putting dozen crochet on table.] Has Constantia 
 come yet ? 
 
 James. No, she won't be here much before tea, 
 I expect. 
 
 Aunt Clara. And Richard ? 
 
 James. Dick comes about the same time. 
 
 Aunt Clara [reproachfully]. I cannot think how 
 you could have asked Richard to stay here ! After 
 the way he treated Constantia ! 
 
 James [casually]. Oh, Dick's not a bad fellow. 
 He didn't get on with Constantia, of course, but 
 he's got his good points all the same. 
 
 Aunt Clara [severely]. I have never been able to 
 find them. His treatment of your sister-in-law was 
 shameful. I am sure with your high principles you 
 would be the last to defend it. 
 
 James [hastily]. Of course, of course. Still one 
 mustn't judge too harshly. 
 
 Aunt Clara. I hope I do not, James. Indeed, 
 it would be hard to do so in this case. 
 
 James [bored]. He's only coming for one night. 
 And after all he is my brother. 
 
 Aunt Clara. That scarcely seems to me to be in 
 his favour. You are too forgiving, James. Per- 
 sonally I don't approve of this modern habit of 
 forgiving people. It encourages them. And to 
 invite him here ! What will Constantia think ? 
 
 James. I did it partly to oblige Constantia. When 
 the separation between her and my brother was 
 
 36 ACT I
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherbys 
 
 decided on, it was arranged that the two parties 
 should meet once a year. It was thought that this 
 might open the way to a reconciHation later. 
 When the date for the meeting approached, the 
 question immediately arose, where should it take 
 place ? Constantia wished it to be at her house 
 here in Norwood. Dick declined this, and sug- 
 gested his flat in Maddox Street. Each of them, 
 in fact, wanted it to take place on his own ground. 
 To put an end to all discussion I suggested that it 
 should be here. And here it is to be. \Smothers 
 another yawn.'\ 
 
 Aunt Clara. Ah, James, you are always thought- 
 ful for others ! If only your brother had been like 
 you ! But he has no heart. 
 
 James. Dick's all right. He's been a little wild, 
 but he'll settle down. \Looks at watch.'] I suppose 
 he'll be here about half-past four. 
 
 Aunt Clara. Robert will arrive rather earlier. 
 
 James {endeavouring to conceal his disgust]. 
 Robert ! Why, he was here to luncheon. 
 
 Aunt Clara. Yes, but he is coming back to tea. 
 In Constantia's interest he thought as many of her 
 relatives as possible should be present during the 
 interview — to support her. 
 
 James [grimly]. I don't think Robert would be 
 much support. 
 
 Aunt Clara. You never can tell. A man of his 
 high principles ! 
 
 James {impatiently]. Oh, his principles are all 
 right. 
 
 Aunt Clara. I am sure you do not undervalue 
 such things. i " 
 
 act I 37
 
 The Two M?\ JVetherbys 
 
 James [hastily]. My dear Aunt Clara, certainly 
 not. Still Robert is not exactly a strong man, is 
 he ? — except in principles, I mean. 
 
 [Crosses to the table. 
 
 Aunt Clara. My poor nephew certainly enjoys 
 wretched health. 
 
 James. I wonder whether he has enough to do ? 
 
 [At back of table. 
 
 Aunt Clara [complacently]. Robert has plenty of 
 occupation. He comes to see me every day ! 
 
 James. Yes, he's generally here, I notice. 
 
 Aunt Clara. You are so hospitable. And Robert 
 is devoted to his relations. That shows such a nice 
 nature. 
 
 James [bored]. No doubt. 
 
 Aunt Clara [enthusiastically]. And then he does 
 so much good. Always busy about collecting sub- 
 scriptions for some deserving object. I call that 
 such a useful life. His means, poor fellow, don't 
 allow of his contributing himself, but he collects 
 quite a large sum from others. 
 
 James [grimly]. Yes, I've noticed that ! 
 
 Aunt Clara. I am sure you are grateful to him. 
 He is always pointing out to you institutions where 
 money may be safely bestowed. Ill-health, which 
 makes most people selfish, has not been able to 
 spoil viy nephew. 
 
 James. Poor Robert, he is certainly a martyr to 
 indisposition. [Struck by an idea.] Do you think, 
 Aunt Clara, that the air of Norwood really agrees 
 with him ? 
 
 Aunt Clara. I have not noticed that his health 
 grows any worse. 
 38 act I
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherbys 
 
 James \eagerly\. Oh yes, it does. He 'pines ^ Aunt 
 Clara, positively pines for a more bracing air. The 
 East coast, for instance ! 
 
 Aunt Clara. Ah, James, always considerate. 
 {Complacently.'] But Robert will never go any- 
 where where he cannot constantly come and see 
 me. That I am sure of. Indeed, it would not be 
 good for him, he has so few distractions. 
 
 James [depressed]. That's true. [Walks dow7i 
 and tur7is, brightening again.] But why shouldn't 
 you go, too, Aunt Clara ? I'm sure it can't be a 
 good thing for you to remain in one place for so long 
 together. Don't you think a change would do you 
 good ? 
 
 Aunt Clara [virtuously]. I was never a gadabout. 
 And I disapprove of this modern mania for change. 
 Besides with only my little annuity 
 
 James [interrupting eagerly]. Yes, yes, I know. 
 [Crosses to left of Aunt Clara.] But for Robert's 
 sake ? You might take him with you, and of course 
 I should be delighted to contribute 
 
 Aunt Clara [patting his shoulder affectionately]. 
 No, no, James. Your heart is ever generous, but in 
 this case there is really no necessity. The air here 
 suits me excellently, and Robert is quite as well as 
 can be expected. Besides there is Margaret to be 
 thought of. I could not leave her ! 
 
 James. I'll look after Margaret. 
 
 Aunt Clara. I am sure you would. I know how 
 devoted you are to her. But Margaret likes to have 
 her own family about her. 
 
 James [ruefully]. So she does. 
 
 [Crosses to writing-table and sits down. 
 kQi I 39
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherbys 
 
 Aunt Clara [affectionately]. So you mustn't thin 
 a7iy more about this. It was generous of you to 
 propose it, but I am quite contented here. Living 
 in your house, James, with Robert and Constantia 
 coming in every day, I have everything that I need 
 for happiness. [Wipes tear from her eye.] Ah, here 
 is Robert. 
 
 Enter Robert, a cadaverous shambling man of 
 five and thirty. 
 
 Robert [nods to James]. Good morning, Aunt 
 Clara. You weren't down for lunch. 
 
 Aunt Clara. No, I had a little soup in my room. 
 I had a bad night. 
 
 Robert [sitting on settee^ gloomily']. Ah, my 
 insomnia is chronic. 
 
 Aunt Clara [bravely]. But we must not complain. 
 On the whole my health is wonderfully good. 
 
 Robert. I wish I could say that. After the 
 Otaheite mission meeting last night I felt positively 
 faint. 
 
 Aunt Clara. Did you see James ? 
 
 Robert. No, was he there ? 
 
 Aunt Clara. Of course. You know his interest 
 in Otaheite. 
 
 James [hastily]. Oh, in a large meeting like that 
 it is so easy to miss a face. 
 
 Robert [in a hard voice]. I shouldn't have called 
 it a large meeting. 
 
 James [hurriedly]. Relatively large ! Of course 
 it wasn't crowded. 
 
 Robert. I should think not. Why, there were 
 scarcely a hundred people there. 
 40 act I
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherbys 
 
 James [jtidi dally]. Indeed? I should have 
 thought more than a hundred. [To Aunt Clara, 
 with rapid change of subject.] Shall I begin to read 
 to you again, Aunt Clara ? 
 
 Aunt Clara. Not now, thank you, it is almost 
 time for my walk. 
 
 Robert. By the way, James, I have here an appeal 
 for a good object which may well claim your sup- 
 port. The Mahommedan Conversion Fund. A 
 most deserving field. 
 
 James [irritably]. Oh, come, I hardly think we 
 need go as far as the Mahommedans to find a 
 deserving object. 
 
 Robert. I don't see that. After all Arabia is 
 nearer than Otaheite. 
 
 James [indijferently]. I dare say. 
 
 Robert. And as you took the trouble to go to 
 the meeting last night — I can't think how I came 
 to miss you there; by the by, where were you sit- 
 ting ? — I should have thought 
 
 James [rising hastily and going over to him]. My 
 dear fellow, you're quite right. Converting the 
 Mahommedans is a most useful field. Leave me 
 that paper and I'll look through it. 
 
 [Takes paper and turns away. 
 
 Enter Margaret with Aunt Clara's bonnet 
 and shawl. 
 
 Hullo, Maggie. Been lying down ? [Kisses her.] 
 
 Margaret. For half an hour. 
 The sun is shining brightly now, Aunt Clara. 
 Hadn't you better have your walk ? 
 
 Aunt Clara. I hardly feel up to it. 
 act I 41
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherbys 
 
 James \_going up to her chaiT\. Oh yes, I really 
 think you should, just a turn or two in the garden. 
 
 [Helps her to rise. 
 
 Aunt Clara. Very well, perhaps a few steps. 
 [Is helped into bonnet and shawl.'] And which of my 
 dear nephews shall escort me ? [Beaming.'] James, 
 I think. 
 
 James [hastily]. No, no, Aunt. Robert shall go 
 with you while I look through this Mahommedan 
 Appeal. 
 
 Aunt Clara [much touched at this fresh evidence of 
 self-denial]. Ah, James, always willing to deny your- 
 self. Come, Robert. 
 
 Robert [rising heavily]. Very well. Perhaps a 
 gentle walk will do me good. [Exit Aunt Clara to 
 garden supported by Robert.] 
 
 [Margaret escorts both as far as window. James 
 with a sigh of relief goes to writing-table with 
 Mahommedan Appeal., eyes it with strong disfavour, 
 glances at a page or two, then with a wry face takes out 
 cheque book and writes cheque. Margaret returning 
 from window goes to him, and noticing his depression, 
 lays ha?id on shoulder. 
 
 Margaret. Tired, dear ? 
 
 James. A little. 
 
 [There is a pause, during which Margaret pats 
 James affectionately on shoulder while he fidgets with 
 paper-knife. 
 
 James [dijidently]. Don't you think, Maggie, that 
 Aunt Clara might sometimes go and stay with 
 some one else ? 
 
 Margaret [puzzled]. WTiom can she stay with ? 
 
 James [hopelessly]. That's just it, whom indeed ! 
 42 act I
 
 The Two Mr, JVethe7^bys 
 
 Margaret. You see she has no one except us — 
 and Constantia. 
 
 James. That wouldn't be much change for her ! 
 Constantia's always here anyhow. 
 
 Margaret \gently\ Not much change certainly. 
 \Jhere is another ferceftible -pause. 
 
 James \_with an effort]. Well then, Robert ? 
 Don't you think he might come rather less 
 frequently ? 
 
 Margaret. My dear ! He only comes to 
 luncheon occasionally. 
 
 James. Half a dozen times a week. 
 
 Margaret. No, no, James, only three or four. 
 
 James. Is that all ? It seems oftener ! 
 
 Margaret \h.neels by him, fondling his hair\ 
 What's the matter with you, dear ? You seem out 
 of spirits. 
 
 James \taking her hand and pressing it\. It's 
 nothing. Only we never seem to get any time to 
 ourselves, do we ? 
 
 Margaret. Not very much, perhaps. 
 
 James. And it would certainly be more comfort- 
 able if we did, eh, little girl ? 
 
 [Looking up at her face. 
 
 Margaret \^gently\ But we mustn't think only of 
 comfort, m'ust we ? 
 
 James. What an angel you are ! 
 
 [flakes her hand and kisses it. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant. Mrs. Richard Wetherby. 
 James. Confound ! 
 act I 43
 
 The Two M?\ Wetherbys 
 
 Enter Constantia, an imposing figure, handsomely 
 dressed in black, rather as if she had gone into 
 half mourning to mark her sense of her separation 
 from her husband. 
 
 Margaret [putting hand over his mouth\ Hush ! 
 \Rises to greet her sister.'\ Good afternoon, Connie. 
 [Kisses her.] 
 
 [They meet. Constantia crosses to James after 
 kissing Margaret, 
 
 James [rising"]. How arc you ? 
 
 Constantia [in her elaborate manner]. Thank you, 
 James, I am tolerably well. Has Richard arrived 
 yet ? 
 
 James. Not yet. 
 
 Constantia. I am glad of that. I would rather 
 be here to receive him. I shall feel more at home. 
 
 [James makes a face, which Margaret observes, 
 and turns towards garden window. 
 
 Margaret. Aunt Clara is in the garden. 
 
 James [hurriedly]. Yes. She has just gone out with 
 Robert. [Insinuatingly.] Oughtn't you to go and 
 say " How do you do " to her ? 
 
 Constantia. Very well. Perhaps I had better 
 do so. I shall not be long. 
 
 James [as soon as she is out of the room]. Pray don't 
 hurry. [Exit Constantia to garden. There is a 
 third significant -pause during which Margaret crosses 
 to settee. James comes to her, repossesses himself of 
 her hand, and quietly sits by her side.] [Reflectively.] 
 I suppose it wouldn't be possible to get Constantia 
 to move, would it ? 
 
 Margaret. Move ? 
 
 James. Yes, go away from Norwood altogether. 
 
 44 ACT I
 
 The Two Mr, Wether hys 
 
 Margaret. Oh no, she likes being near us. 
 
 James [gloomilyl. I was afraid so. 
 
 Margaret [kissing him]. How silly you are this 
 afternoon. I've never seen you like this before. 
 Why shouldn't Connie live near us ? 
 
 James [j)etida?itly'\. Why should she ? Why 
 doesn't she go and live with her husband like other 
 women ? 
 
 Margaret. With Richard ? But you know her 
 principles. 
 
 James \bored\ Here's another of them. 
 
 Margaret \710t understanding]. What, dear ? 
 
 James \recovering himself]. Nothing. Only I 
 seem to have heard rather a lot about principles 
 to-day. 
 
 Margaret. As a member of the Married Woman's 
 Protection League, Constantia naturally has a high 
 ideal of a husband's duty to his wife. A very high 
 ideal. So has Aunt Clara. So has Robert. 
 
 James. They're a remarkably unanimous family. 
 
 Margaret. Constantia would have considered it 
 wrong to condone Richard's infidelity. 
 
 James. There was no proof that Dick was 
 unfaithful. 
 
 Margaret. What other explanation could there 
 be of his late hours, his constant absences from 
 home ? 
 
 James. Was he ever asked to explain them ? 
 
 Margaret. Of course. Constantia never allowed 
 Richard to be out after midnight without demanding 
 an explanation. She felt it to be her duty. 
 
 James. What did Dick say ? 
 
 Margaret. He laughed at her. [James shows a 
 act I 45
 
 The Two M7\ Wetherhys 
 
 tendency to laugh a/jo.] Jim! I believe you're 
 laughing too ! 
 
 James. Well, the interviews must have been rather 
 comic. Constantia proclaiming the rights of women 
 and the w^ickcdness of husbands, and old Dick 
 grinning away on the hearthrug. 
 
 \Begins to laugh again. 
 
 Margaret [shocked]. Oh, Jim ! I never thought 
 you would make a joke of such a thing. 
 
 ] AMES [pulling himself up]. No! No! Dick didn't 
 behave at all well. Still 1 think Constantia might 
 have managed him better. 
 
 Margaret. Constantia never attempted to 
 manage her husband. She had too much sense of 
 her own dignity. She merely insisted upon her 
 rights. 
 
 James. Rather a maddening attitude that ? 
 
 Margaret. Richard was in fault. 
 
 James. Perhaps there were faults on Constantia's 
 side as well. 
 
 Margaret [pained]. Oh, Jim, I thought you 
 never judged people harshly. 
 
 James. No, no, dear. You misunderstand me. 
 I only mean that perhaps Constantia did not show 
 Dick much affection. She's not what you would 
 call a demonstrative woman. 
 
 Margaret [gently]. I don't think she ever failed 
 in her duty. 
 
 James. A woman must do a lot more than her 
 duty if she's to make her husband happy. 
 
 Margaret. Richard did not make her happy 
 either, you know. 
 
 James. That's it, you see ! They're quits. 
 
 46 ACT I
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherbys 
 
 Margaret \afjectionaUly\ It's like you, dear, to 
 try and defend Richard. You always make the 
 best of everybody. Still he was greatly to blame. 
 
 James. I'm afraid he was. [Slight pause.] But you 
 won't do anything to prevent a reconciliation, will 
 you ? 
 
 Margaret. No. But you mustn't ask me to 
 encourage it. 
 
 James [rises and comes forward]. Well, let's hope 
 they'll patch it up between them to-day. She's 
 not seen Dick for a year. And she must have been 
 fond of him once. 
 
 Margaret. What does Robert think ? 
 
 James [hastily]. Oh, I don't think we need consult 
 Robert. 
 
 Margaret. By the way, Robert and I are going 
 to the great meeting at Lambeth to-night in aid of 
 the Bishop's Sustentation Fund. We shall dine in 
 town. You don't mind ? 
 
 James. What about Dick ? He'll be here. 
 
 Margaret. It is because of Richard that I am 
 going. I was afraid it might seem rather marked 
 if I were out the only night he's dining here, but 
 what was I to do ? 
 
 James [briefly]. Not go, I suppose. 
 
 Margaret. I couldn't do that. Of course, I 
 don't want to hurt Richard's feelings, but I would 
 rather not sit at table with a man who is living 
 apart from his wife. 
 
 James. I should have thought it was no worse to 
 sit at table with a man who is separated from his 
 wife than with a wife who is separated from her 
 husband. Constantia is here often enough ! 
 ACT I 47
 
 The Two Mr. IVetherbys 
 
 Margaret [slightly scandalised]. The cases are 
 hardly parallel. 
 
 James. I should think they weren't ! Consider- 
 ing that your sister is here all day and every day, I 
 think you might manage to meet my brother at 
 dinner once a year. 
 
 Margaret [pause, rises], I'm sorry you're vexed, 
 dear. I hoped you wouldn't mind. [Pause.] How- 
 ever, it doesn't matter. I'll tell Robert I've 
 changed my plans, and he and I will both have 
 dinner with you here before the meeting. 
 
 James. Heaven forbid ! Robert was here at 
 luncheon. He will be here to tea. I'm hanged 
 if he shall dine here as well ! 
 
 Margaret. Well, dear, what can I do ? I 
 can't very well disappoint Robert. It would be 
 unkind. 
 
 James [remorsefully]. What a brute I am ! [Kisses 
 her.] Of course you mustn't. Dine in town by 
 all means. I'll make your excuses to Dick, and 
 we'll go round to the club after dinner and play 
 billiards. There, dear, I'm sorry I was cross. I 
 suppose I'm out of sorts or something. 
 
 [Crosses to table. 
 
 Margaret [crosses to James and caresses him]. 
 Poor Jim ! You won't mind dining alone with 
 him, will you ? 
 
 James. Of course not, he won't eat me. Besides 
 I shall have Aunt Clara. 
 
 Margaret. Yes, I was forgetting Aunt Clara. 
 
 James. Happy woman ! [Sits. 
 
 Margaret [laughing]. You're evidently not well 
 at all. I shall send for Dr. Long, and he'll give you 
 48 act I
 
 The Two Mj\ JVetherbys 
 
 some horrid medicine. That Otaheite meeting was 
 over ever so late last night. I expect that tired 
 you. \Tlhey embrace. 
 
 Eiiter by window Constantia, Aunt Clara and 
 Robert. Robert enters behind Aunt Clara, who 
 lea?is on Constantia's left arm. He stands by 
 the window gloomily observing the embrace, then 
 turns away. Margaret moves the arm-chair a 
 little. Constantia, after depositing Aunt Clara, 
 comes to the settee. Margaret goes to the windoiu. 
 
 James \ruefully\ Interrupted again ! 
 
 \Rises., and crosses the room. 
 
 [Constantia seats herself on settee. Aunt Clara is 
 in arm-chair. The latter resumes her crochet, Robert 
 moons about. 
 
 Robert [looking at watch]. Half-past four. Time 
 for tea. 
 
 James. Dick will be here directly. 
 
 Robert [unctuously]. I'm afraid this will be a very 
 painful meeting for all of us. 
 
 James. That reminds me. I expect, Constantia, 
 you'd rather have your interview with Richard in 
 private ? [to Constantia, standing between her and 
 Robert.] 
 
 Robert [interrupting]. I hardly think 
 
 . James. My dear Robert, will you kindly allow 
 Constantia to decide for herself ? [To Constantia] 
 Well ? 
 
 Constantia. Thank you, James, I think that will 
 certainly be the best arrangement. 
 
 James. Very well, then. [Crosses to fireplace and 
 act I I : D 49
 
 The Two Mr. W ether by s 
 
 stands hack to fire — rings bell.] Jane shall show 
 Dick into the library. Margaret and I will go 
 there and give him some tea. You, Aunt Clara 
 and Robert will have tea here. After tea I will 
 bring Dick here and leave you to have your talk 
 with him in private. 
 
 Enter Maid. 
 
 When Mr. Richard comes show him into the 
 library, and let me know. 
 
 Maid. Very well, sir. [Exit. 
 
 Robert. You are sure you would not rather have 
 some one at hand ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. Pray do not be ridiculous, Robert. 
 I trust I am able to conduct an interview with my 
 husband without outside assistance. 
 
 James. Of course ! And I hope the result will 
 be to bring you together again. 
 
 [CoNSTANTiA hows coldly. 
 
 Aunt Clara. James ! 
 
 James [hastily]. That is, of course, if you are 
 conscientiously able to forgive him. 
 
 Robert [rises — grunts]. By the way, James, about 
 that Mahommedan Appeal 
 
 James [impatiently]. Oh yes, I've looked through 
 it. There's a cheque in my pocket somewhere. 
 Here it is. [Hands it to him. 
 
 Robert [sittings after examining the amount]. 
 Thank you, James. I felt sure the good work would 
 find a supporter in you. 
 
 James. Yes, yes, of course. Always glad to do 
 what I can. [The front door bell rings.] All, that 
 must be Dick. Ready, Maggie ? [To Constantia] 
 50 act I
 
 The Two Mr, Wet her by s 
 
 Then you will see Dick alone here in say ten 
 minutes. 
 
 Maid enters. 
 
 Maid. Mr. Richard is in the library, sir. 
 
 James. Very well. Take him some tea and bring 
 some here. Com.e, Maggie. 
 
 \Exeunt Margaret and. James. 
 
 Aunt Clara \seated, by fire -place]. It must be very 
 painful for dear James to meet his brother in these 
 distressing circumstances. If only Richard were 
 more like him. But the two brothers are quite 
 different ! \Shakes her head mournfully. 
 
 Robert. Richard is by nature incurably frivolous 
 and vicious. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA \calmly\ I do not think anything is 
 to be gained by exaggerating my husband's failings. 
 
 Enter Jane with tea. Moves table a little , -puts down 
 tea-tray^ and brings down chair and puts it behind 
 table. 
 
 There was always a regrettable levity about his 
 behaviour which showed a tendency to increase 
 with years. And, of course, his moral character is 
 scandalous. {Goes over to tea-table.] But, these 
 defects are not necessarily incurable. Tea, Aunt 
 Clara ? 
 
 Aunt Clara. Thank you. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. Take this to Aunt Clara, Robert. 
 
 [Robert rises heavily from chair, gets tea and crosses 
 to Aunt Clara. 
 
 Aunt Clara. I am afraid Richard's disposition 
 always lacked the note of seriousness which is so 
 ACT I 51
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherbys 
 
 beautiiul in James. \^akes tea] — Thank you, 
 Robert — I remember people used to joke about it. 
 They called Richard " The bad Mr. Wetherby " 
 and James " The good Mr. Wetherby." 
 
 [Robert stands by arm-chair. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. I remember. However, our separa- 
 tion will have sobered him, no doubt. 
 
 [Gives Robert his tea. 
 
 Aunt Clara. Let us hope so, my dear. 
 
 Robert [taking bread-and-butter .] Have you made 
 up your mind what attitude to adopt towards him? 
 If I might advise I should urge that you receive 
 his advances with the utmost reserve. 
 
 [Sits down on settee. 
 
 Aunt Clara. Yes, Robert is right. Do not 
 allow your heart to betray you into any course 
 which your reason would not approve. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [calmlj helping herself to cake]. I 
 think you may count on me not to err in that 
 direction. 
 
 Aunt Clara. I am glad to hear it. Modern 
 wives are far too ready to forgive their husbands. 
 It is the cause of many unhappy homes. 
 
 Constantia [calmly]. I did not say I shall not 
 forgive Richard. 
 
 Aunt Clara. My dear ! 
 
 Constantia. On the contrary. It is my inten- 
 tion to forgive him this afternoon, after he has duly 
 expressed contrition and asked for forgiveness. 
 
 Aunt Clara. But can you be sure that his 
 repentance is sincere ? 
 
 Constantl\ [philoso-phically]. Of course there can 
 be no certainty in these things. But I see every 
 52 act I
 
 The Two Mr, JVetherbys 
 
 reason why it should be. He must have felt our 
 separation acutely. In the early days of our 
 marriage Richard was by no means without tender- 
 ness. 
 
 Robert \in a hollow voice']. Constantia, is this 
 wise ? [He takes bread-and-butter. 
 
 Constantia. I think so. After all, Richard is 
 my husband. And I have not found my position 
 since I decided to live apart from him altogether an 
 agreeable one. Socially indeed it has great incon- 
 veniences. \Rises and takes Aunt Clara's cup and 
 places it on tray — seating herself again.] More tea, 
 Aunt ? 
 
 Aunt Clara [making gesture of dissent]. Well, my 
 dear, of course you must do what your conscience 
 tells you to be right. 
 
 Constantia. Exactly. I shall not pardon him 
 too quickly. I shall just yield gradually to his 
 protestations. [Eats some cake delicately.] After 
 all, a year is a long time and it is better to err on 
 the side of leniency. [Pours herself out more tea.] 
 A year ago, I felt obliged to leave Richard — I could 
 not endure his heartless behaviour. Indeed a wife 
 who condones her husband's irregularities is wanting 
 in her duty. And at the time I intended never 
 to return to him. But one must not be vindic- 
 tive. And the position of a woman who is separated 
 from her husband is not a comfortable one. It 
 has all the disadvantages of widowhood without 
 its compensations. Yes, on the whole I think 
 Richard has been punished long enough. More 
 tea, Robert ? 
 
 Robert [risings and bringing his cup]. I fear you 
 ACT I 53
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherbys 
 
 are leaning unduly towards mercy. [Pause.] I 
 greatly fear it. 
 
 [CoNSTANTiA poufs out Robert's Ud. He takes it 
 and sits down again, taking bread-and-butter. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. I am willing to take the risk. At 
 least I shall feel that I have done what is right in 
 forgiving my husband. Besides there are practical 
 matters to be considered, the loss of income and 
 so forth. When I left Richard I had to move into 
 a smaller house and make other heavy sacrifices. 
 The allowance he makes me, though sufficient, is 
 considerably smaller than the income I enjoyed as 
 his wife. 
 
 Aunt Clara. I don't think you must allow that 
 to weigh with you. After all what is money ? 
 Robert [unctuously]. What indeed ! 
 
 [He takes more bread-and-butter, 
 Constantia [frigidly]. My dear Robert, of course 
 I am above all sordid considerations in this matter. 
 I shall do what I consider right in any circumstances. 
 But there is no use in shutting one's eyes to things. 
 Aunt Clara [dismally]. Well, well, my dear, 
 I trust you wall not find you have made a mistake. 
 
 Constantia [coldly]. I do not usually make mis- 
 takes, I believe. I shall forgive Richard this after- 
 noon after he has expressed his regret in suitable 
 terms. Of course I shall speak to him very seriously 
 and caution him as to his future conduct. But 
 afterwards I shall forgive him. 
 
 Enter Margaret. 
 
 Margaret [at door]. Richard will come to you 
 now, Connie, if you are ready to see him. 
 
 54 ACT I
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherhys 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. Vcry Well. 
 
 \Pours herself out some tea. 
 
 Margaret \going to Aunt Clara and. helping her 
 to rise]. Come, Aunt Clara. Let me take you to 
 your room. [To Robert.] I think you had better 
 go now, Robert. 
 
 Robert. Certainly. [Putting cup on chiffonier 
 and finishing bread-and-biLtter.'\ 
 
 [Exit Robert sulkily, 
 
 Margaret [at door]. Jim will bring Richard to 
 you in a minute or two. 
 
 [Exit with Aunt Clara. 
 
 [Constantia puts down her cup directly they leave^ 
 rises., hut hearing voices, sits on settee. There is 
 an appreciable pause. Then enter James and Dick. 
 The latter is a handsome, careless, jovial-looking man 
 of five-and-thirty, very cheerful and quite at his 
 ease. 
 
 Dick [going up to Constantia and shaking 
 hands]. How do you do, Con ? Pretty well, I 
 hope ? 
 
 Constantia. Thank you. I am quite well. 
 
 Dick [cheerfully]. That's right. 
 
 James [at door]. Now I'll leave you two together. 
 You may have things to talk of alone. 
 
 [Going. 
 
 Dick. Not at all, my dear fellow. Stay by all 
 means. Con and I have no secrets. 
 
 James [awkwardly]. But I think 
 
 [Going again. 
 
 Dick. Nonsense, Jim. Sit down. \Vhat on 
 earth should we have to talk about ? Don't be 
 absurd. 
 act I 55
 
 The Two Mr, WetJierhys 
 
 James \still going\. Oh, but — Constantia said she 
 would prefer to speak to you alone. 
 
 Dick. Ah, that's different. If Con has anything 
 private to say to me I'm agreeable. I always am. 
 Off with you. I say, what time's dinner ? 
 
 \Goe5 uf to James. 
 
 James. Seven. By the way, Margaret asks you 
 to excuse her. She has to dine out. 
 
 Dick. All right. [Nods cheerily to James, who 
 goes otit.l Well, Con, what have you got to say 
 to me, eh ? 
 
 Constantia [with dignity]. Have you nothing to 
 say to me, Richard ? 
 
 Dick. I think not. Nothing special. 
 
 Constantia. Then I hardly see the object of this 
 meeting. 
 
 Dick [cheerily]. Nor do I. But you arranged it, 
 you know. 
 
 Constantia [stiffly]. Pardon me ! 
 
 Dick. No ? Ah yes, I remember. You sug- 
 gested every six months. I thought once a year 
 quite sufficient. You see I was right. 
 
 [Crosses behind settee. 
 
 Constantia [majestically]. This is not an occasion 
 for levity. 
 
 Dick. My remark was not intentionally humorous. 
 
 [There is a 'pause during which Constantia 
 shows signs of impatience. Dick, quite at his ease, 
 strolls over to fire and warms himself. Presently he 
 takes up framed photograph of James which stands 
 conspicuo^uly on mantelpiece.] 
 
 I say, what a beastly picture of old Jim I Don't 
 you think so ? [Holds it up. 
 
 56 act I
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherhys 
 
 CoNSTANTiA \icily\. It seems to me a satisfactory- 
 likeness. 
 
 Dick. No, it's so smug and solemn. Poor old 
 chap, I expect he has a pretty boring time of it 
 down here, eh ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiA \zvlth elaborate sarcasm]. I have not 
 heard him complain. 
 
 Dick. I dare say not. He's a patient sort of 
 chap is old Jim. [Shakes his head at -photograph as 
 he puts it hack on mantelpiece. 'Then seats himself 
 in arm-chair. There is another awkward pause. 
 
 Dick. By the way, do you still like living in 
 Norwood, Con ? Ghastly sort of place I used to 
 think it. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. It suits me well enough. I like to 
 be near Margaret and James. 
 
 Dick. Ah ! Do they like that ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. Certainly. 
 
 Dick. Oh ! \A pause ^ You're tolerably con- 
 tented then, take it all together ? 
 
 [CoNSTANTIA hoWs\ 
 
 That's right. So am I. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. Of coursc a wife who is separated 
 from her husband can never be very happy. 
 
 Dick. No doubt. But a husband who isn't 
 separated from his wife can be tolerably miserable 
 too. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. Yes, marriage is a tragedy. 
 
 Dick. Just so, with comic relief. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA \impatiently\ Pray be serious. 
 
 Dick. My dear Con, I never am serious. Why 
 on earth should I be ? 
 ACT i^ 57
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherhys 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. Don't you understand that by- 
 adopting this frivolous tone you are letting a 
 golden opportunity slip ? 
 
 Dick. No. Hang me if I do. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA \rising with dignity\. Then no 
 good can come of our continuing this inter- 
 view. 
 
 Dick [rising also]. Of course not. What did you 
 expect ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [exasperaUd']. I expected that you 
 would at least have seen the propriety of expressing 
 regret for your past conduct and promising amend- 
 ment in the future. 
 
 Dick. What would have been the use of 
 that ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [bttterlyl. Oh, nothing. Nothing 
 that interests you at all, I suppose. Only it 
 might have led to a reconciliation between us. 
 
 Dick [by fire, raisitig his eyebrows]. I see. 
 [Deliberately]. I confess that possibility had ?iot 
 occurred to me ! 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [stiffly]. Indeed ! 
 
 Dick [politely]. Still it's very good of you to 
 suggest it. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [tuming hotly]. I did not suggest 
 it. 
 
 Dick. Oh ! I thought you did. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [angrily]. What I said was that had 
 you suggested it 
 
 Dick. Yes, yes, of course. What I should have 
 said was it would have been very good of me to 
 suggest it. No, that's not right either. Still I 
 appreciate the generosity of your offer. 
 
 58 ACT I
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherbys 
 
 CoNSTANTiA \cros5l'f\. I made no offer. 
 
 Dick. Dear me, I'm afraid I express myself very 
 clumsily. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA \savagely\. You certainly do. 
 
 \^its on settee. 
 
 Dick \crosses near settee. Blandly]. You must 
 put it down to excess of emotion. When a man 
 has been separated from his wife for a year, 
 and there is a suggestion — if that is the right 
 word — that she might return to his roof he 
 naturally feels it acutely. The affection implied in 
 such a proposal — no, not proposal, hypothesis — is 
 very moving. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. I Said nothing about affection. 
 
 Dick. But it was surely implied ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiA \sternly'\. No, Richard. Please 
 understand that my [Pauses for word. 
 
 Dick {sweetly\ Mention ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. — my mention of a reconciliation 
 was in no way due to affection. Had I returned to 
 you it would have been solely because I considered 
 it my duty. 
 
 Dick [insinuatingly]. Is that quite a satisfactory 
 foundation for domestic happiness ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [impatiently]. I was not thinking of 
 happiness. [There is a pause. 
 
 Dick [calmly]. Well, Con, I won't ask you to 
 make such a sacrifice. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [virtuously]. I don't mind sacrificing 
 myself. 
 
 Dick [quietly]. Ah ! / do ! 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [rising angrily]. Then there's nothing 
 more to be said. 
 ACT I 59
 
 The Two M?\ Wethej'hys 
 
 Dick [holding out hand]. Except " good-bye," 
 Con — till next year. 
 
 [CoNSTANTiA reftises hand and szueefs out with 
 dignity. Dick stands looking after her with a grim 
 smile. The front door closes sharply. 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
 60 ACT I
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene. — The Dining-room at the James Wetherbys'. 
 Dinner is half over. At the table in the middle 
 of stage are Aunt Clara, facing audience^ 
 James at one end, Dick at the other. The side 
 of table next the audience is e7nfty. The room is 
 the conve?itional suburba?i dining-room ; windows 
 curtained behind Aunt Clara, sideboard behind 
 Dick, fireplace fla^iked by two leather easy chairs 
 behind James. Door on the left. 
 
 Pause. The Maid hands two sweets. James, who 
 looks bored and ill, helps Aunt Clara to jelly. 
 Dick helps himself. James refuses. 
 
 Dick. My dear chap, you eat nothing. [Attacks 
 jelly on his plate.'] Does he, Aunt Clara ? 
 
 Aunt Clara [coldly\ James has never a large 
 appetite. 
 
 James. I'm not hungry to-night. 
 
 Dick. That's bad. [Filling his mouth.'] There's 
 nothing like eating ! It helps a man through life 
 wonderfully. 
 
 James. No doubt. 
 
 Dick. In fact it's very morbid not to eat. It's 
 not at all a thing to give way to. [To Maid.] 
 Bring me some more of that. [Helps himself. 
 
 James. My dear Dick, what nonsense you talk. 
 
 Dick. I dare say. If you talked more nonsense 
 act II 6i
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherhys 
 
 you wouldn't look so beastly seedy. Eh, Aunt 
 Clara ? [Attacks food. 
 
 Aunt Clara [coldly]. I had not noticed that 
 James was looking unwell. 
 
 Dick. He does though. And he looks beastly 
 serious too. That's bad. A man should never be 
 serious at meals. Indeed I'm not sure he should 
 ever be serious at all. 
 
 [Maid takes James's and Aunt Clara's sweet 
 ■plates and puts two cheese plates.] 
 
 Aunt Clara. Really, Richard ! Considering 
 the solemn cause which brought you here 
 to-day 
 
 Dick. Yes, Constantia is solemn, isn't she ? 
 That's why we didn't get on. 
 
 [Maid changes plates during this scene, afterwards 
 hands biscuits and cheese.] 
 
 Aunt Clara [severely]. It is a pity you are not 
 more like her. 
 
 [Maid gives Dick cheese plate.] 
 
 Dick. That's what I never can understand about 
 you solemn people. You're all propagandists. 
 You're not only as solemn as owls yourselves — you 
 want everybody else to be solemn too. 
 
 James. Oh come, you were preaching the virtue 
 of talking nonsense just now. 
 
 Dick. So I was. But only to you, Jim. 
 
 [Takes cheese, which the other two refuse. 
 You see I like you. But Aunt Clara doesn't like mc. 
 [To Aunt Clara.] Oh no, you don't. So why on 
 62 act II
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherbys 
 
 earth she should want to convert me to anything I 
 don't know. \Eats his cheese and, biscuit. 
 
 Aunt Clara. I do not expect you to appreciate 
 my motives. 
 
 [Dick grins.'] 
 
 James. Aunt Clara means that you aren't an 
 altruist, Dick. 
 
 [Maid removes plates, brushes cloth a?id puts ofi 
 dessert during this scene, then Exit. 
 
 Dick. No, I'm not. But I've got a good 
 temper and a rattling good digestion. That's 
 enough for me. 
 
 James. Is this the way you used to talk to 
 Constantia ? 
 
 Dick. Yes. 
 
 James. Then I don't wonder she left you. 
 
 [Dick laughs.] 
 
 Aunt Clara [rising]. I cannot be a witness to 
 any more of this levity. 
 
 Dick [genially]. Don't go, Aunt Clara. Stay 
 till after dessert. 
 
 Aunt Clara. No, I will not — ^I never eat dessert 
 at night. James, give me your arm. 
 
 [James and Dick both rise. Dick opens door. 
 James helps Aunt Clara out. When he returns 
 Dick is back in his chair, cracking nuts and pouring 
 himself out a glass of port. 
 
 James. What a brute you are, Dick ! You've 
 made Aunt Clara furious. 
 
 Dick. Very sorry, my dear chap. I did my best 
 to amuse her. 
 act II 63
 
 The Two M}\ Wetherbys 
 
 James [grirnly']. Well, you didn't succeed. She's 
 gone straight to bed in a tearing rage. 
 
 Dick. Fiery old lady ! Nuts, Jim ? 
 
 JAMES. No, thanks. 
 
 Dick [taking some more^ then looking at James 
 keenly but kindly~\. IMy dear old man, what's the 
 matter ? You really do look awfully pulled down. 
 
 James. Nothing. We were rather late last night. 
 Perhaps it's that. 
 
 Dick [laughing softly to himself]. Yes. How did 
 you account for the fact here P 
 
 James [with a wry face\ As usual — Missionary 
 Meeting — I nearly got found out, by the way. 
 
 Dick. How was that ? 
 
 James. That fool Robert. He was there too. 
 It wasn't a crowded house apparently, and he can't 
 make out how he didn't spot me. 
 
 [Dick laughs fnore.] 
 
 That's right ! [With a stiarl.] Laugh away ! I 
 suppose it is funny — ^to you. 
 
 Dick. I should think it was. 
 
 James. It isn't to me. It makes me sick. Fancy 
 a man of my age who has to pretend to his wife that 
 he's been to a cursed missionary meeting because 
 he can't tell her he was amusing himself at your 
 club playing cards. 
 
 Dick. Why didn't you tell her ? 
 
 James [crossly]. How can I ? She'd never for- 
 give me. Margaret's a dear little girl and she's 
 awfully fond of me, but she's tremendously strict 
 in her ideas. Besides I've got such a confoundedly 
 high character to live up to. If I were just an 
 
 64 ACT II
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherbys 
 
 ordinary person, I dare say she wouldn't be so much 
 shocked. Margaret's not a fool. But she's got it 
 into her head that I'm a sort of saint, and to please 
 her I've got into the habit of pretending to be one, 
 and now I can't give it up. Was there ever such a 
 beastly tangle ? 
 
 Dick. Why not make a clean breast of it ? 
 
 James. I can't, I tell you. It would be bad 
 enough merely to have to tell her that I'm not the 
 good young man they all think me down here. But I 
 should have to own that I'd been deceiving her 
 almost ever since our marriage. She'd never be 
 able to respect me again, and I should never be 
 able to respect myself. \Binerly?^ Indeed, I can't 
 do that now. 
 
 Dick. My dear chap, you take the whole thing 
 too seriously. 
 
 Door ofens — enter Maid. 
 
 James. Hush ! here's coffee. 
 
 [Coffee is handed — exit Maid. 
 
 Dick \refiectively\ It must be a curious thing 
 being so highly thought of — especially by one's 
 wife ! 
 
 James {crossly]. Well, you needn't sneer at it. 
 
 Dick. I wasn't. Still it seems odd — ^to me. 
 What did they think of your asking me down 
 here ? 
 
 James. Aunt Clara was rather shocked. But she 
 puts it all down to my high principles. 
 
 Dick. How does she manage that ? 
 
 James. I'm supposed to be such a thoroughly 
 act ii I : e 65
 
 The Two Mr. Wethej'bys 
 
 saintly character that I can't judge any one harshly. 
 Even a beast like you. 
 
 Dick. Ho ! Ho ! 
 
 James. Yes. That's one advantage in having a 
 good reputation. Whatever you do, people always 
 attribute it to the loftiest motives. If you ask a 
 fellow who's a bad lot to dinner, it's supposed to 
 be because you've such a forgiving disposition. 
 Tou can't say that ! 
 
 Dick. I don't want to, my dear fellow. And 
 after all, a bad reputation and a good reputation 
 amount to pretty much the same thing in the end. 
 
 James \_disgusted?^. I'm hanged if they do. 
 
 Dick. Oh yes. Tou can dine with whom you 
 please because you've such a high character. 1 can 
 dine with whom / please because I've no character 
 at all. My position is every bit as good as yours. 
 Indeed, I prefer it. 
 
 flakes cigar and pushes case across to James. 
 
 James \shockei\. Ah, you've no conscience. 
 
 Dick. No. Have you a match ? 
 
 James. Here you are. 
 
 \Gets match-hox from mantelpiece. 
 
 Dick. Won't you smoke ? 
 
 James. No. Margaret doesn't like it. 
 
 Dick. Poor chap ! [Lights cigar.'] By the way, 
 don't you find the high moral game rather fatiguing ? 
 
 James [sighing]. Sometimes. 
 
 Dick. I thought so. That's why you're looking 
 so fagged. 
 
 James [comflainingly]. And yet I'm not naturally 
 a hypocrite. I'd like to be as straightforward as the 
 day. But circumstances were against me. When 
 66 act II
 
 The Two M?'. Wetherbys 
 
 I fell in love with Margaret I really did give up all 
 the old bachelor ways. She was so good [enthusiasti- 
 cally], so wonderfully good and sweet, and I 
 determined I'd be like her. For a time I was like 
 her. It was uphill work, but I was. 
 
 [Dick gri^is.] 
 
 What are you grinning at ? 
 
 Dick. Nothing. Go on. 
 
 James. Of course she thought me a perfect saint. 
 I zvas a perfect saint, in fact. And so we were 
 married and came to live down here. And after 
 a time — six months or so — I found I couldn't keep 
 it up. I wanted amusement. But by that time I 
 was saddled with my ghastly reputation. And I've 
 been groaning under it ever since. 
 
 Dick. Much better have told her. 
 
 James [irritably, fidgeting with cigar-case which 
 remains on table all through scene\ I couldn't. 
 Margaret believed in me ; so did they all. I 
 couldn't undeceive them. It would have been 
 simply brutal. 
 
 Dick. So you took to hypocrisy. 
 
 James [savagely]. Oh well, you needn't get 
 virtuous over it. 
 
 Dick [calmly]. Not at all, my dear chap. 
 
 James [grumbling]. It isn't as if I'd been anything 
 very bad. I'm not a vicious man. I only wanted 
 to amuse myself — music-halls, an occasional race 
 meeting, a game of cards at the club. If she'd only 
 thought me just an ordinary sort of chap, I'd have 
 told her fast enough. But with my character ! 
 Good Lord ! 
 act II ^y
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherhys 
 
 Dick. You'd much better have adopted my 
 system. \Rises. 
 
 James [snappishly]. Tour system ! 
 
 Dick. You needn't sniff at it. It's a lot better 
 than yours. 
 
 James. What is your system ? 
 
 Dick [getting up from table]. It's very simple. 
 And it's based upon the easiest of all the virtues — 
 Truth ! 
 
 James. Pshaw ! 
 
 Dick. Oh yes, it is. [Goes over to -fire, selects arm- 
 chair and seats himself lazily.] I hate pretending 
 things. It's such 2i fag. So I've gone in for perfect 
 frankness. In fact, I may say I've carried frankness 
 to a fine art. 
 
 James. What rot ! 
 
 Dick. 'Tisn't rot at all, my dear chap, and so 
 you'd have found if you'd tried it. Truth's a 
 splendid thing in married life. It keeps a home 
 together wonderfully. 
 
 James [sarcastically]. You seem to have found 
 it so ! 
 
 Dick [easily]. Oh, it sometimes breaks one up 
 too. But it's awfully useful either way. 
 
 James. I'm glad you think so. 
 
 Dick. You see, in marriage what one has to aim 
 at is a quiet Hfe. Tou tried to get it by pretending 
 to be as good as Margaret thought you. That 
 wasn't very successful. / tried to get it by never 
 pretending anything at all. The result has exceeded 
 my most sanguine expectations. 
 
 James [ironically]. You're easily satisfied. 
 
 Dick. That's my beautiful nature! After I 
 
 68 ACT II
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherbys 
 
 married Constantia I found she hadn't the same 
 ideals as I had, not the same ideals at all. 
 
 James. Your ideals ! 
 
 Dick. Come, my dear chap, your ideals haven't 
 shown up particularly well. As I was saying, Con 
 and I wanted different things. She liked regular 
 hours, church on Sunday, afternoon tea parties, 
 bazaars, that ass Robert and his subscription lists, 
 Aunt Clara and her crochet — by the way, how do 
 you like Aunt Clara ? 
 
 James. Hang Aunt Clara ! \Rises irritably and 
 begins to pit away decanters into sideboard in a 
 restless mariner. 
 
 Dick \blandly\ That's exactly what / said. Well, 
 I soon realised that either Constantia's view of life 
 must prevail or mine. I rebelled — late hours, golf 
 on Sundays, no tea parties, no bazaars, no Robert, 
 no Aunt Clara. Before long I had established a 
 reputation as a complete libertine and was allowed 
 to do as I pleased. 
 
 James. I remember. Your conduct was dis- 
 graceful. 
 
 Dick. Not at all, my dear fellow. I never did 
 anything bad. I'm no more vicious than you are. 
 My bad reputation is as hollow as your good one. 
 We're both frauds together. 
 
 James [impatiently]. Anyhow, Constantia believed 
 you were vicious. 
 
 Dick. Yes. That was part of my system. In 
 this world, Jim, if you aren't always going about 
 saying you're very good, people end by believing 
 you're very bad. That was what happened to me 
 with Constantia. 
 
 ACT II 69
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherbys 
 
 James \cTOsses to table, and leans against chair]. 
 You deceived her then. 
 
 Dick. No, Constantia deceived herself. 
 [Airily.] I took no interest at all in the matter. 
 
 James [scornfully]. Well, the result was a pretty 
 abject fiasco. 
 
 Dick. Fiasco ! Why it was a triumph ! Con- 
 stantia sulked for six months and then announced 
 her intention of leaving me. For once my perfect 
 candour deserted me. I feigned distress. But it 
 would scarcely have been decent to do otherwise, 
 eh ? 
 
 [James makes inarticulate murmur of reprobation."] 
 
 So one auspicious day the lawyers were called in, 
 an amicable separation was arranged, the parties to 
 meet once a year. And that's what brought me 
 here to-day. 
 
 James [indignajitly]. I think it's perfectly shameful. 
 
 Dick [laughing]. Oh, come, look after the beam 
 in your own eye, old man, and leave me my little 
 mote. 
 
 James [disgusted]. Don't joke about it. You're 
 always joking. 
 
 Dick. That's why I keep so jolly well. 
 
 [Rises, pushes James. 
 
 [James begins to laugh, finally bursts into a roar."] 
 
 That's right, laugh away, old man, and thank 
 Heaven this deadly lively place hasn't robbed you 
 of the faculty. 
 
 [From this point to end of scene James grozus 
 70 act II
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherbys 
 
 increasingly cheerful and his gloom quite disappears. 
 He goes over to fireplace. 
 
 James \sits in arm-chair]. But don't you feel any 
 remorse ? Think of Constantia. You've ruined her 
 life. 
 
 Dick. Not a bit of it. I know Constantia. She's 
 as happy as possible. She doesn't know it, but she 
 is. She's a good woman and she's got a grievance. 
 What more can she want ? 
 
 James. Still you made her life miserable while 
 you were together. 
 
 Dick. Well, she made my life miserable too — 
 at least she did her best. We're quits. 
 
 James. Quits ! Ha, ha ! I remember that's what 
 I said to IMaggie. Do you know, Dick, I hoped you 
 two might patch things up this afternoon and live 
 together again. 
 
 Dick. No, thank you. I've no ill feeling towards 
 Con. I even like her in a way. But I'm not going 
 to live with her. Con is one of those characters 
 who are much more admirable when you aren't 
 married to them. 
 
 \Crosses back to arm-chair above fireplace and sits. 
 
 James. You're quite happy as you are ? 
 
 Dick, Quite ! I sleep well, eat well — ^you don't, 
 Jim — I make no pretence of being better than I am. 
 Rather the contrary. And I find the world a very 
 pleasant, amusing place. 
 
 James, I wonder how you two ever came to 
 marry ? 
 
 Dick [shrugging shoulders]. Lunacy, I suppose ! 
 We haven't a taste in common. Constantia has no 
 act II 71
 
 The Two M7\ Wether by 5 
 
 sense of humour, ^he likes solemn asses like Robert. 
 / don't. By the way, I suppose you see a good deal 
 of Robert ? 
 
 [James nods^ laughing^ 
 I thought so. And Aunt Clara ? 
 
 James. She lives with us. 
 
 Dick. Poor chap ! Now, Jim, can you seriously 
 imagine my having Aunt Clara to live with me ? 
 And Robert dropping in every day ? 
 
 James. I don't think I can. 
 
 Dick. Why don't you turn them out ? 
 
 James. My character ! 
 
 Dick. Oh, it's that again, is it ? 
 
 James. I'm supposed to be so awfully kind and 
 considerate and all that. That's the worst of it. If 
 I were only a brute like you ! 
 
 Dick \trium'phantly\ Now you begin to see the 
 point of having no character. Try it, old man. 
 Try it in your bath, as the advertisements say. 
 
 James [ruefully']. I can't. I've Margaret to 
 think of. 
 
 Dick. She'd get over it — if she's really fond 
 of you. 
 
 James. I daren't face the risk. 
 
 Dick. You'd better. 
 
 James [peevishly']. I ca^iH, I tell you. No, I've 
 got to go on in the old way with Aunt Clara 
 permanently on the premises, Robert dropping 
 in to collect subscriptions and Constantia living 
 next door but one. And I've a reputation for 
 amiability. 
 
 Dick. Poor old chap ! 
 
 James. 'Tisn't a pretty picture, is it ? 
 
 72 ACT II
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherbys 
 
 Dick [jumping up\. Look here, Jim, you want 
 rousing. You're simply perishing of dulness. Hang 
 billiards ! Let's run up to town for an hour, go 
 to the Empire and amuse ourselves. We can 
 be back by twelve ! 
 
 [James shakes his head.'\ 
 
 Half-past eleven then. Come along. [Pulls him 
 
 up out of chair.] Why shouldn't we ? It'll do 
 
 you a world of good. 
 
 James [wavering]. If Margaret heard of it 
 
 Dick. She won't. After all, 'tisn't the first little 
 
 jaunt you've had with me, without anybody being 
 
 the wiser. You'll come ? 
 
 [Pulls him out of chair by his arm. 
 
 James [rising half unzvillingly]. I'm sure I 
 oughtn't 
 
 Dick. Bosh, old man ! Come along. I'll look 
 after you. How do the trains go from this con- 
 founded place ? 
 
 James. Pretty often. [Looks at watch.] We shall 
 catch one now if we hurry. 
 
 Dick [dashing out for hats and coats and returning 
 immediately]. Here, get into this. [Flings him over- 
 coat.] Hurry up. [Puts ofi his own.] 
 
 James. Well, just for an hour. I think I do need 
 shaking up. I feel regularly depressed and out of 
 sorts. 
 
 Dick [dashing to table and pocketing his cigar- 
 case]. Boredom, my dear fellow. Strong men have 
 died of it ! 
 
 [7akes his arm and hurries him out as Curtain 
 falls. 
 act II 73
 
 The Two Mr. Wether by s 
 
 7he Curtain descends for a moment. When it rises 
 again the stage is dark. The scene is the same, 
 Time, three hours later. The sound of a latch- 
 key is heard in front door. Then footsteps in 
 hall. Then diiiing-room door opens letting in shaft 
 of light from hall. Enter Margaret and Robert. 
 Margaret turns up electric light, showing dining- 
 room with cloth cleared and biscuits, syphon and 
 glasses on table and whisky decanter on sideboard. 
 
 Margaret. They're not back yet. At least, I 
 don't see Jim's hat and coat. 
 
 Robert. Where have they gone ? 
 
 Margaret. To the club, to play billiards. 
 
 Robert \_gloomily\ They'll be late then. 
 
 [Puts hat and stick on table. 
 
 Margaret. I think not. 
 
 Robert. You don't know Richard ! 
 
 [Crosses to fireplace. 
 
 Margaret [comes down l.] Jim will bring him 
 back in good time. 
 
 Robert. I wonder if it was wise leaving them 
 together ? The influence of a thoroughly depraved 
 nature like Richard's is very insidious. 
 
 Margaret. Oh, with Jim's high character 
 
 Robert. Of course. Still there's always a risk. 
 
 Margaret [with conviction']. Not with Jim. 
 
 [Sits at table. 
 
 Robert [goes to table and takes three or four 
 biscuits, which he eats till end of scene by fireplace]. 
 It was curious that I did not see James at the 
 Otahcite meeting last night. 
 
 Margaret. It's so easy to miss people. 
 74 act II
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherbys 
 
 Robert. Yes. Still there weren't many there. 
 [Pause.] Did you see Constantia after her inter- 
 view to-day ? 
 
 Margaret. No. 
 
 Robert. Then there has not been a reconcilia- 
 tion ? 
 
 Margaret. I have heard of none. 
 
 Robert. I am glad of that. From what she 
 said this afternoon I was afraid Constantia was 
 inclined to forget the past and return to Richard. 
 It must have been a mere momentary weakness. 
 
 Margaret, You don't think we should desire a 
 reconciliation ? 
 
 Robert. My dear Margaret, how could we ? 
 With our principles ! Richard is a libertine. That 
 Constantia should so far forget her duty to morality 
 as to forgive him would be deplorable. Think of 
 the example to other men. If a man who treats 
 his wife as Richard did is not to be punished, there 
 would be an end of married happiness altogether. 
 
 Margaret. They have been parted for a year. 
 Is not that sufficient punishment ? 
 
 Robert [severely]. Not in my opinion. How- 
 ever deep Richard's repentance, it is too soon to 
 forgive him. 
 
 Margaret. James thinks otherwise. 
 
 Robert [sternly]. James is too good-natured. Too 
 good-natured altogether. He is almost lax — ^yes, 
 lax is the word — ^he is not severe enough with his 
 brother. Aunt Clara thinks so too. After the 
 separation he should have set his face against all 
 further relations wdth him. 
 
 Margaret. But they're in business together. 
 act II 75
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherbys 
 
 Robert. Except business relations, of course. 
 But to ask him down to stay under his roof ! It was 
 weak, Margaret — I am not sure it was not wicked. 
 \y irtuously ?[ Certainly, it is not a thing / shall 
 ever do. 
 
 Margaret. I suppose not. Indeed I hardly 
 think Richard would come. 
 
 Robert. He knows my principles too well. 
 
 \_Sou7id of key in front door is heard again. Door 
 slams. Then voices. 
 
 Margaret. There they are. [Rises. 
 
 Robert [crossing to table and taking up hat and 
 stick]. Then I think I'll be going. I do not wish 
 to see more of Richard than I can help. One must 
 not touch pitch ! 
 
 Margaret [going up to door and opening it\ Is 
 that you, Jim ? 
 
 James enters with Dick — both have hats 
 and coats. 
 
 James [enterifig]. Yes, dear. [Kisses her.] Hullo, 
 Robert, just off ? 
 
 Robert. Yes. It's rather late. Good night. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Dick. Now I call that very considerate of Robert. 
 
 [Crosses to fireplace^ putting coat on table. 
 
 ^Iargaret [coming down towards James]. Enjoyed 
 
 your billiards, dear ? 
 
 James. Thanks, yes, very much. 
 
 [Throws his overcoat on to Dick's on table. 
 j6 act II
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherhys 
 
 Margaret. Who was at the Club ? Any one I 
 know ? 
 
 James [turning azvay to sideboard]. No, I think 
 not. It was rather empty — ^in fact we saw no 
 one, 
 
 Margaret. How strange ! I wonder why that 
 was ? 
 
 James [diving into sideboard for whisky — slightly 
 confused]. Of course we were only in the billiard- 
 room. There may have been lots of people in the 
 other rooms. Drink, Dick ? 
 
 [Puts spirits on table. 
 
 Margaret. I see. Are you going to sit up, 
 dear ? 
 
 James. For a little while. Why ? 
 
 Margaret. Hadn't you better change your 
 coat ? 
 
 James. Oh, bother ! I can't go all the way up- 
 stairs. [Gives Dick his drink. 
 
 Margaret. Give it me, dear. I'm going now, 
 and I'll bring you down an old jacket. 
 
 [He half -protests.] 
 
 Oh yes, I will. It's no trouble. 
 
 [Helps him off with dress coat. 
 James. Angel ! [Kisses her. 
 
 Margaret. Goose ! 
 
 [Exit Margaret. James strolls over to fire.] 
 
 Dick [by table., watching James, taking out cigar 
 and cutting off end]. You're certainly a fluent liar, 
 Jim. 
 
 ACT II 77
 
 The Two M7\ JVethei'bys 
 
 James. Yes. [Ruefully.] I've lots of practice, 
 you see. 
 
 Dick. Tour system, eh ? I prefer mine. It's 
 not such a tax on the inventive faculties. 
 
 James [half bitterly]. Just you wait till you're as 
 fond of any one as I am of Margaret, and you'll 
 find yourself lying with the best of them. 
 
 Dick. Pessimist ! 
 
 Margaret enters with old jacket, James goes up to 
 meet her, while Dick stands by fireplace. 
 
 Margaret. Here you are, dear. [Helps him into 
 it.] Don't be late. 
 
 James [kisses her]. Of course not. Good night. 
 
 Margaret. Good night. [Kisses him.] Good 
 night, Richard. [Exit with little nod. 
 
 Dick [walks down] I'm afraid dear Margaret 
 hasn't as warm a regard for me as I deserve. 
 
 James [coming to fireplace]. I should have thought 
 she managed that ! 
 
 Dick [turning]. Bravo ! You're quite epigram- 
 matic to-night. Wonderful what a difference an 
 evening's escape from domesticity makes. 
 
 James. Sour grapes, my boy. Tou weren't happy 
 at home, so you want to pretend no one else is. 
 
 Dick [crosses, sits down at table]. Oh, come, don't 
 pretend you haven't enjoyed yourself to-night. 
 When Kitty Harding was singing " Keep your feet 
 off the grass, dearest," you laughed till I thought 
 you'd have a fit. 
 
 James [giggling at the recollection]. What a clever 
 little beast she is ! 
 78 act II
 
 The Two Mr, IV ether by s 
 
 Dick. And that fellow who danced ! What was 
 the beggar's name ? 
 
 James \_pause while thinking], I forget. I've got 
 the programme in my coat. [Goes to overcoat on 
 table and feels in fockets.] Where the deuce 
 is it ? . [Jn azvful pause, during which a look 
 of terror comes into his face.] Good heavens ! I 
 believe it's in the pocket of my dress coat. 
 
 [Searches frantically. 
 
 Dick [flacidly]. It doesn't matter. We'll look in 
 the morning. 
 
 James. But my wife's got it. 
 
 [throws coat into arm-chair. 
 
 Dick. So she has. But she's not likely to ferret 
 in the pockets, I suppose. 
 
 James. Yes, she will. She always folds my things 
 if they're lying about, and takes everything out of the 
 pockets. 
 
 Dick [jumping up and coming to him. What a 
 way to treat a wife ! Run upstairs at once. You 
 may get there before she's found it. 
 
 James [;pale with terror]. But what can I do P 
 She'd want to know what I came up for. 
 
 Dick. Say you've left your handkerchief in the 
 pocket — invent something as you go upstairs. 
 You're a better liar than I am. Off with you ! 
 
 [Pushes him across and goes to fireplace. 
 
 James. I darenH I Suppose she's found it already ! 
 
 Dick. My dear chap, she will if you don't go at 
 once. Pull yourself together. 
 
 James goes to door, opens it and goes out, returning 
 immediately and coming to arm-chair. 
 act ii 79
 
 The Two M?\ Wetherbys 
 
 James \in a hollow whisfer]. Too late. She's 
 coming downstairs. What on earth's to be 
 done ? 
 
 Dick. Steady, Jim. She may not have found 
 it. 
 
 I James. If she has ! 
 
 Dick [calmly]. Then I should make a clean breast 
 of it if I were you. 
 
 James. About to-night ? 
 
 Dick. It would be a trifle late to do that ! 
 
 James [ruefully]. I suppose it would. 
 
 Dick. Tell her about everything. Save a lot of 
 trouble in the end. And it'll make things easier for 
 you in the future. 
 
 James. I dare say you're right. But I simply 
 haven't the pluck. 
 
 Dick. Nonsense. Hush, here she is. Shall I 
 make myself scarce ? 
 
 James. No. Back me up, for Heaven's sake. 
 
 Dick. All right. Courage, old man. [Leatis his 
 hack against mantelpiece and surveys scene. 
 
 Door opens, enter Margaret — there is a long silence. 
 She stafids near the door. 
 
 Dick [aside to James]. Better say something. 
 James [in a quavering voice]. Do you want any- 
 thing, dear ? 
 
 [She is still silent, looking at him steadily.] 
 
 What is it, Maggie ? 
 
 Margaret [programme in hand — sternly]. Where 
 were you to-night, James, while Robert and I 
 were out ? 
 
 80 ACT II
 
 The Two Mr. JVethe7''bys 
 
 James. Why do you ask such a question ? 
 Margaret. Is it such a strange question for a 
 wife to ask ? 
 
 James. I went up to London with Dick. 
 Margaret. Where ? 
 James. To the Empire. 
 
 \^here is an awkward pause.] 
 
 [Aside to Dick.] Own up, can't you ? 
 
 Dick [in his calm tone~\. It was my suggestion, 
 Margaret. I'm the culprit. 
 
 Margaret \to James]. Why did you go ? 
 
 \He is silent.] 
 
 Dick. Fact is, I thought he needed livening up. 
 A surfeit of missionary meetings 
 
 Margaret [icily]. I was speaking to my husband. 
 [Turning again to James.] Why did you tell me you 
 went to the Club ? 
 
 James. We did mean to go there. 
 
 Margaret. But you didn't go ? You've not been 
 there at all ? 
 
 James. No. 
 
 [Margaret makes gesture of repulsion and walks 
 
 down the room.] 
 
 Dick. My dear Margaret, don't fret about us ! 
 The Empire's a very moral place, far more respect- 
 able than most clubs. 
 
 Margaret. I hardly consider you a judge of 
 morality, Richard. [To James.] Why did you tell 
 me what was not true ? 
 ACT II I : F 8 1
 
 The Two Mr. JVetherhys 
 
 James. I don't know — I suppose because it would 
 have displeased you. 
 
 Margaret [bitterly]. You were very conside- 
 rate ! 
 
 James [stu?2g by her tone — coming down towards 
 her]. Look here, Maggie, there's no use making 
 a fuss about it. It was just a piece of folly, 
 that's all. 
 
 Margaret. Folly ! To tell your wife a false- 
 hood ! 
 
 James [crossly]. Oh well, there's nothing so start- 
 lingly original about that. 
 
 Margaret. I didn't expect to hear a speech of 
 that kind from you, James ! With your high 
 character 
 
 James. Confound my character ! 
 
 Margaret [astonished]. An evening in Richard's 
 company seems to have produced its effect. Or is 
 that remark the result of your entertainment at a 
 music hall ? 
 
 [James is sile?it.] 
 
 Dick [airily]. Oh, 7'm the guilty party. The 
 entertainment was irreproachable. 
 
 Margaret. If you would kindly not interrupt, 
 Richard. 
 
 [Dick shrugs his shoulders.] 
 
 Well, James, have you anything to say to me ? 
 
 James. Only that I'm sorry, Maggie. I am really. 
 
 IVIargaret. Is that all ? 
 
 James [goaded]. What do you want me to say ? 
 I can't do more than apologise, can I ? The thing's 
 82 act II
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherbys 
 
 done now. Come, Maggie, shake hands and say you 
 forgive me. 
 
 \Goes towards her holding out hand. 
 
 Margaret [refusing his hand]. No, James, I shall 
 not forgive you. 
 
 [James falls hack.] 
 
 You have deceived me deliberately. 
 
 Dick [shocked]. No, no ! 
 
 Margaret. Yes, deliberately. You are not what 
 I thought you, and I will fiever forgive you. 
 
 [Turns to go, walking to door. 
 
 James [alarmed]. ■Maggie ! 
 
 Margaret [coldly, turning at door]. Have you 
 anything more to say ? 
 
 Dick [at James' side, quietly]. Now's your time. 
 Make a clean breast of it. You'll be glad of it 
 afterwards. 
 
 James [pulling himself together — speaking sharply]. 
 Stop, Margaret ! 
 
 [She turns again.] 
 
 I have something more to say. 
 
 [She comes towards him again.] 
 
 Dick [softly — aside]. Bravo, Jim ! 
 
 James. Maggie, I've been wanting to tell you 
 
 this for a long time [Hesitates. 
 
 Margaret. Go on. 
 
 During this scene Margaret gets colder and more 
 angry ; James gets more self-possessed. 
 act II 83
 
 The Two Mr. IVetherbys 
 
 James. Maggie, I'm — \he5itates\ — I'm not what 
 you think me — I'm different — very different. 
 
 Margaret. \\Tiat do you mean ? 
 
 James. You think I'm an awfully good sort of 
 chap, who doesn't care about amusement like other 
 men. You think I'm only happy when I'm attend- 
 ing missionary meetings and reading to Aunt Clara. 
 You're mistaken. 
 
 Margaret [sternly]. So you weren't at the 
 Otaheite meeting ! 
 
 James, No, nor the Tobago Diocesan Conference 
 last week, nor the Hairy Ainos Protection Society, 
 nor the Nova Zembla Mission, nor any of them. 
 I don't like missions, they bore me. 
 
 Margaret [horrified]. James ! 
 
 James. Oh yes, they do. You don't know it, but 
 they do. I've gone on pretending for months that 
 I liked them — and other things — just to please you. 
 I've read Aunt Clara her newspaper and given 
 Robert his subscriptions and generally made my 
 life a burden because you liked it. I've done it 
 long enough. I'm going to turn over a new 
 leaf. 
 
 Margaret [icily]. And all the time that you 
 were pretending to go to these meetings you 
 were " amusing " yourself at low music-halls, I 
 suppose. 
 
 Dick. Not low music-halls. 
 
 Margaret. Bah ! How you have fooled me ! 
 
 James [complacently]. Yes, I'm afraid I've not 
 been quite straightforward. But I'm going to 
 reform from to-night. 
 
 84 ACT II
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherbys 
 
 Margaret. How long has this been going 
 on ? 
 
 James. I don't know. A year — eighteen months. 
 
 Margaret \hiUerly\. And we have only been 
 married two years. 
 
 James {almost genially]. It was partly your fault, 
 you know. You would put me on a sort of pedestal. 
 Of course I tumbled off. You ought to have 
 expected it. You see your standard was too high 
 for me. I tried to live up to it at first, honestly, 
 I did, but it wasn't a success ; I wasn't strong 
 enough. But I think you ought to share the 
 blame. 
 
 Margaret. Men always throw the blame on 
 women. 
 
 James. Only when they deserve it, Maggie. 
 So you see, there's nothing to be angry about. 
 It's just a case of faults on both sides. Shake 
 hands, dear, and give me a kiss. 
 
 [Advances towards her. 
 
 Margaret [draws back a face or two and futs her 
 hands behind her back]. No, James, I will not shake 
 hands. You have fooled and cheated me. Our 
 whole married life has been a sham. 
 
 James. No, no, Maggie. 
 
 Margaret [fiercely]. Yes, a cheat and a sham 1 
 [Stamps her foot.] Oh, how I despise you ! How 
 I despise myself for having been deceived by you ! 
 Did you ever love me at all, I wonder ? 
 
 [Half crying — turns away. 
 
 James. You know I did, dear. 
 Margaret [turning, angrily]. I know nothing. 
 ACT II 85
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherhys 
 
 You deceived me in everything else. Why not in 
 that ? 
 
 James. Never mind, Maggie. Make it up and 
 we'll start afresh to-morrow. Forget about all 
 this ; it's past, and I swear I'll always be open with 
 you for the future. I will, really. 
 
 Margaret. The future ! [CoW/y.] You don't 
 suppose I can live with you again after this. 
 
 [Dick raises eyebrows?^ 
 
 I should despise myself if I even thought of such 
 a thing. 
 
 James \horrified\. Maggie ! 
 
 Margaret. No, James, I shall leave this house 
 to-morrow. I am no longer your wife. 
 
 James \alarmed\ You can't. You have no 
 right. 
 
 Margaret. Not legally, perhaps. Morally I 
 should do wrong to remain with you. 
 
 James. I shall not allow you to go. 
 
 Margaret. How will you prevent me ? Con- 
 stantia left Richard for less. 
 
 James [growing more alarmed]. Maggie, think ! 
 You're angry with me now. It is natural that you 
 should be. But don't punish me too much. Don't 
 leave me. Give me another chance. 
 
 Margaret. And be deceived again ? No, James ! 
 Indeed I don't think it would be right to forgive 
 you. Men who behave as you have done deserve 
 to suffer. 
 
 James [sadly]. I didn't expect you would cast me 
 off so readily, Maggie. 
 
 Margaret. You are unjust. You know how I 
 
 86 ACT II
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherhys 
 
 hate to do it. But I must. [Almost breaking down.'] 
 Oh, Jim, Jim, why did you tell me all this ? Why 
 didn't you leave me in ignorance ? 
 
 James [gently]. You found me out, dear. 
 
 Margaret. Only about to-night. I could have 
 forgiven you to-night. It's all these months of 
 deception that I can't forget. 
 
 James. You will. 
 
 Margaret [bursting into tears]. No. If it was 
 only to-night it would be different, but now that 
 I know your whole life has been a lie, I cannot live 
 with you any longer. [With a gulp.] Good-bye, 
 James. [Solemnly she walks up towards the door. 
 
 James [startled]. Where are you going ? 
 
 Margaret [through her tears]. To b-b-bed. I 
 shall leave this house to-morrow after breakfast. 
 
 [Exit in a burst of emotion. 
 
 \flhere is a pause, during which Dick looks halj- 
 humorously at James, who goes half-way up to door 
 as if to follow, and then turns away. He looks un- 
 utterably depressed.] 
 
 Dick. Curious how much alike sisters are. 
 
 James [brusquely]. What do you mean ? 
 
 Dick. I remember an almost similar scene a year 
 ago with Constantia. The marriage tie seems to 
 sit loosely on our family. 
 
 James [snappishly]. I shall be glad if you won't 
 jest about it. 
 
 Dick [seriously]. Steady, old man. Don't quarrel 
 with your brother as well as your wife in one 
 evening. 
 
 James [becoming penitent]. I beg your pardon. 
 act ii 87
 
 The Two M?\ JFetherhys 
 
 I'm knocked out of time by all this. \Angrily\. 
 But I won't have you sneering at Margaret. She's 
 a saint. 
 
 Dick. Aly dear Jim, to say that a lady resembles 
 one's wife isn't usually described as sneering. 
 
 James [impatiently]. Oh, you know what I 
 mean. 
 
 Dick [putting his hand on James's shoulder]. Poor 
 old boy, you do take it bad ! 
 
 [James futs his head on his hands and his shoulders 
 
 heave with sohs.] 
 
 I say, don't do that, for Heaven's sake ! Easy, 
 Jim, easy. She won't go, you know. 
 
 James [turning azvay]. She will, I'm sure she will. 
 You don't know Margaret. 
 
 Dick. And if she does, there are worse things than 
 being a bachelor again ! 
 
 James [laughing in spite of himself]. That's right — 
 make a joke about it. 
 
 Dick. My remark was perfectly serious. 
 
 [Goes to table. 
 
 James [turning again and coming towards table]. 
 And the deuce of it all is if I hadn't taken your 
 advice and blurted out the whole story like a fool, 
 she would have forgiven me. 
 
 Dick [grimly]. So she said. 
 
 [Pours himself out another drink. 
 
 James. And she would too. [Crossly.] I'll 
 trouble you not to question it. 
 
 [Dick shrugs his shoulders.] 
 88 act II
 
 The Two Mr. JV ether by s 
 
 This comes of your cursed policy of candour. After 
 this I'll never speak the truth again as long as I live. 
 Never ! 
 
 [Soda fizzes loudly into whisky as the curtain falls.'] 
 
 QUICK CURTAIN 
 
 ACT II 8(^
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene. — The drazving-room at the James Wetherbys*. 
 The French windows on to garden are of en. The 
 sun shines brilliantly. 
 
 Enter James and Dick, the former looking wretchedly 
 de-pressed. He goes to jire shivering^ and warms 
 hands. 
 
 Dick [^strolling up to open window and looking out]. 
 Jove, what a glorious morning ! 
 
 James. Is it ? I hadn't noticed. 
 
 Dick. You didn't eat any breakfast. How the 
 deuce is a fellow to notice anything on an empty 
 stomach ? 
 
 James. I wasn't hungry. 
 
 Dick. Ah ! / was. [Turning to him and noticing 
 his depression. Then going to him more sympathetic- 
 ally.] Fretting, Jim ? 
 
 James. I suppose so. 
 
 Dick [affectionately]. What a soft-hearted beggar 
 it is. Cheer up. 
 
 James (savagely). One would think being about 
 to be separated from one's wife was an everyday 
 occurrence to hear you talk ! 
 
 Dick [humouring him]. No, no, not quite that. 
 But will she go ? That's the question. 
 
 James. You heard what she said last night. 
 
 90 ACT III
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherbys 
 
 Dick \ea5ily\ Oh, I don't attach much import- 
 ance to that I 
 
 James [bitterly]. I'm afraid I can't share your 
 confidence. 
 
 Dick. Not seen her to-day ? 
 
 James. No. She wasn't at breakfast, as you 
 saw. 
 
 Dick [horrified]. Has she had no breakfast 
 either ? 
 
 James. I don't know. 
 
 Dick [holding up his hands]. What a household ! 
 Aunt Clara, too ? She wasn't down. I assume she 
 also is fasting ? 
 
 James. She always has breakfast in her room. 
 
 Dick [cheerfully]. I congratulate you. Robert 
 I suppose you're never safe from ? 
 
 Servant [announcifig]. Mr. Robert Carne ! 
 
 Dick [sitting in arm-chair — sardonically]. Ah, I 
 thought so ! 
 
 Enter Robert. 
 
 James [sulkily]. Good morning. 
 
 Robert. Good morning, James. I thought I 
 should find Margaret here. 
 
 James. She's not come down yet. 
 
 Robert. Ah ! I'll wait. [Sits on ottoman. 
 
 James. She won't be down for some time. 
 Perhaps you'd better come in later. 
 
 Robert. I've nothing special to do. 
 
 [James makes gesture of despair at Robert's obtuse- 
 ness behind Robert's back. There is a pause. Then 
 he turns back to Robert and speaks, hesitating 
 act III 91
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherhys 
 
 between each lie and obviously taxing his 'powers of 
 inventi 071.1 
 
 James. She may not be here for an hour. She 
 has a headache. I advise you to go out for a stroll. 
 She may be a long time yet. 
 
 Robert. Well, perhaps I'd better come back. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 [James gives a sigh of relief.'] 
 
 Dick [looking at James curiously]. My dear Jim, 
 do you never speak the truth ? 
 
 James. Eh ? No. \_Bitterly] I suppose I've got 
 out of the habit. [Sits down. 
 
 Dick [rises and comes to him]. WTiy didn't you 
 kick the beggar out instead of inventing all that rot 
 about Margaret ? 
 
 James. I ought to have done so, I suppose. It 
 would have been more straightforward. But I'm 
 hopelessly demoralised. I can't bear hurting the 
 feelings of any one, even an ass like Robert. 
 
 Dick. What a good chap you are ! 
 
 James [with a bitter laugh]. Good ! 
 
 Enter Margaret. She looks pale as if after a sleep- 
 less 7iight, but there is no sign of softening in her 
 face. 
 
 [Rising and going tozvards her with outstretched hands.] 
 Good morning, Maggie. 
 
 Margaret. Is that you, James ? I thought you 
 would have gone up to business by now. 
 
 [Ig7iores hand. 
 
 92 act III
 
 The Two Mr, JV ether by s 
 
 James yirops hand to his side and turns away]. I'm 
 not going. I telegraphed up this morning. They'll 
 let me know if there's anything important. 
 
 Margaret. I came to collect a few things out of 
 this room, which I should like to take with me. 
 
 James \hofelessly']. You are still resolved to 
 go ? 
 
 Margaret. Quite, James. 
 
 James. Where ? 
 
 Margaret. To Constantia in the first instance. 
 I dare say she can find room for me for a time. 
 Afterwards, some arrangement will have to be made 
 between us, I suppose. But the lawyers can see to 
 all that. They did in Constantia's case, did they 
 not ? 
 
 [She looks towards Dick as she says this, hut does 
 not address him directly.] 
 
 Dick {cheerily]. Oh yes. TheyHl manage it all 
 right. In an amicable separation of this kind, 
 they're invaluable. You leave it to them. 
 
 [At hack. 
 
 James [goes towards Margaret, standing a little 
 away from her — in a low voice]. Is it quite useless to 
 urge you to pause before you do this, Maggie ? 
 
 Margaret. Quite useless, James. My mind is 
 made up. [Moves away.] Constantia will be 
 here in a few minutes. I have written to her. 
 Perhaps it would be better if you were not here 
 when she arrived — either of you — it would be 
 painful to everybody. 
 
 [Including Dick in her look, hut still not address- 
 ing him.] 
 ACT III 93
 
 The Two Mr. Wethcrbys 
 
 Dick. Quite right. Let's go out into the gar- 
 den, Jim, and give Constantia a fair field. 
 
 \G0e5 towards zvindozVy where he stands looking 
 grimly towards the others.] 
 
 James. I shall sec you before you go ? 
 
 Margaret. If you wish it. 
 
 James {breaking out — crossing to her]. Maggie, if 
 you only knew how sorry I am ! How ashamed ! 
 
 Margaret (raising her hand]. Please ! If you 
 wish to see me to say good-bye, I am willing, but 
 don't try to change my resolution. You will not 
 succeed. 
 
 [Exeunt James and Dick.] 
 
 [Margaret, left alone, takes small tray from pianOy 
 and wanders round room collecting various trifles, a 
 small clock in case, a couple of books, and a silver 
 scent bottle. She pauses by photograph of James on 
 mantelpiece, takes it up, looks at it for some time, half 
 puts it down again, then seems to make up her mind 
 and takes it, adding it to pile on small table.] 
 
 Servant [announcing]. Mrs. Richard Wetherby. 
 [Enter Constantia. Exit Maid.] 
 
 Constantia {fussily — going over to her]. My dear 
 Margaret, what has happened ? I came at once. 
 Are you in trouble of any kind ? Your note ex- 
 plained nothing. 
 
 Margaret. I thought I would rather tell you 
 myself. I have discovered that James has been de- 
 ceiving me, and I am leaving him. Can you take 
 me in for a few days ? 
 
 94 act III
 
 The Two Mr, JVetherhys 
 
 CoNSTANTiA \astonishe^. Of course, dear, with 
 pleasure — ^that is, I mean, are you really obliged to 
 take this step ? 
 
 Margaret. I am obliged to do so. No other 
 course is open to me. 
 
 Constantia. But, my dear, this is very sudden. 
 James, too ! So high principled as he always ap- 
 peared ! Are you sure there has been no mistake ? 
 
 Margaret. He has admitted everything. 
 
 CoNSTAN*TiA. How extraordinary ! I never 
 should have thought that of James ! But there — 
 you never know men ! \^its dow?i.] When do you 
 think of coming to me ? 
 
 Margaret. To-day, if you can have me. I am 
 merely putting a few things together to take with 
 me. 
 
 [Adding something to the pile on small table. 
 
 Constantia. Quite right, dear. You can't be 
 too careful about that. I left such a lot of things 
 behind me, when I left Richard, that I wanted after- 
 wards ! Plate, for instance, and knives ! I took 
 not a single spoon or fork, and the same with table 
 linen. 
 
 Margaret {crosses and sits down]. I was not 
 thinking of those things. I shall only take a few 
 personal belongings, nothing of value. 
 
 Constantia. Is that tvise, dear ? Of course 
 James must make you a suitable allowance. My 
 own from Richard was most meagre ! And even a 
 small establishment costs so much to start. The 
 merest necessaries are so expensive. And they wear 
 out in no time nowadays. 
 
 Margaret (listlessly). I dare say. 
 act III 95
 
 The Two Mr. JVcthe^'hys 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. But tcll mc, dear, when did you 
 find out this about James ? 
 
 Margaret. Last night. It seems that for 
 months he and Richard have been spending most of 
 their evenings in low dissipation. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. Richard was the tempter, of 
 course ? 
 
 Margaret [listlessly], I suppose so. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [rtstTig etiergetically]. Margaret, 
 there must be an end of this. Richard must not 
 be allowed to exercise his malign influence un- 
 fettered. My mind is made up. I shall put a stop 
 to it ! 
 
 Margaret. How will you do that ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [Fery decidedly]. By returning to 
 his roof ! As long as he is living as a bachelor 
 there is no check on his depravities. But when 
 I am with him I can at least see that he keeps 
 within bounds. 
 
 Margaret. You will go back to him ? You will 
 forgive him ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. No. I shall not forgive him. He 
 has not deserved that. But I shall go back to him. 
 I cannot allow him to retain his liberty any longer. 
 When I separated from him it was to punish his 
 misconduct and give him an opportunity for repent- 
 ance, not to enable him to plunge deeper into vice 
 and folly. [Crosses to jire. 
 
 Margaret. But Constantia ! Ought you to do 
 this ? Won't you be very unhappy ? [Rises. 
 
 Constantia [calmly]. I shall be able to bear it. 
 Indeed, I have not found my life apart from Richard 
 so happy either. The house is very small and the 
 
 96 ACT III
 
 The Two Mr. JVethei^bys 
 
 dining-room chimney smokes. \^its at desk.] Of 
 course these things do not weigh with me, but they 
 exist. And you must remember that it was duty 
 which made me leave my husband, not pleasure. 
 The lot of a woman living apart from her husband 
 has great inconveniences. It may be right that she 
 should do it, it may be right that you should, dear, 
 but it is not -pleasant ! 
 
 Margaret \sits on ottoman — bitterly']. The life 
 of a woman who lives with a husband she no longer 
 loves is not pleasant either. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. No doubt. [In a practical tone.] 
 Still, of the two, I think I prefer it. [Pause!] 
 And in any case we can only take the course which 
 we believe to be right. My duty is clearly to return 
 to Richard and to watch over him more carefully in 
 future. 
 
 Margaret. Then you will not be able to take 
 me in for a few days ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. No, dear. I shall be going back to 
 town with Richard this afternoon. But you can 
 have my house for the present with pleasure. 
 Houses are always better occupied, aren't they ? 
 And I shall probably not be able to let it im- 
 mediately. 
 
 Margaret. You intend to speak to Richard to- 
 day ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [briskly]. Yes. At once, if you will 
 kindly send for him. 
 
 Margaret [rises]. Very well. [Rings bell.] And 
 now if you don't mind I'll go upstairs and finish my 
 packing. 
 
 Enter Maid, 
 act III I : G 97
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherhys 
 
 Will you ask Mr. Richard to come here, Jane ? 
 He is in the garden. Take these things upstairs 
 when you have done so. 
 
 [Points to things on sofa and exit. 
 
 [Exit Maid, returnifig a mometit later with Dick. 
 Then exit Maid with tray full of things.'] 
 
 Dick. Hullo, Constantia ! You here ? You 
 want to see me ?' 
 
 Constantia. Yes, Richard. 
 
 Dick. But this isn't in the agreement. The 
 agreement said that we were to meet once a year. 
 I really can't talk to you two days running ! 
 
 Constantia. This is not a time for jesting. 
 
 Dick. It never is — with you, Constantia ! 
 
 [She makes impatient gesture.^ 
 
 Well, what do you want to say to me ? 
 
 Constantia. Richard, I have heard of your 
 shocking behaviour. 
 
 Dick. Not for the first time, I am sure. 
 
 Constantia. It appears, from what Margaret 
 has told me, that you now abuse your liberty as 
 shamelessly as you formerly abused your position as 
 a husband. In the one case you made my life 
 wretched. In the other you lead others into temp- 
 tation. 
 
 Dick. Meaning poor old Jim. 
 
 Constantia. I mean your unhappy brother 
 James. 
 
 Dick [nodding]. I suppose it's the same person. 
 
 Constantia. What I have now to say to you is, 
 98 act III
 
 The Two Mr, JVetherbys 
 
 that I cannot permit you to be a source of moral 
 contamination to others any longer. 
 
 Dick. I see. You're going to keep your eye on 
 me from Norwood ? Very sporting of you to warn 
 me beforehand. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. No, Richard. I am going to return 
 to you as your wife ! \Ri5es. 
 
 Dick \his jazv drops]. Oh no, you're not ! 
 [Moves away.] 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. I beg your pardon. 
 
 Dick. My dear Constantia, pray dismiss this 
 idea from your mind altogether. You will not 
 return to me because I decline to receive 
 you. 
 
 Constantia [astonished]. You refuse ? 
 
 Dick. Of course I refuse. You don't love 
 me. You told me that yesterday. And now your 
 only idea in returning to me is to keep an eye on my 
 moral character. You don't suppose I shall like 
 that, do you ? 
 
 Constantia [frigidly]. It was not intended 
 that you should. 
 
 Dick. Precisely. So I decline to submit myself 
 to the experiment. 
 
 Constantia. I shall insist upon it. [Loftily.] 
 It is the duty of a husband and wife to live together, 
 
 Dick. It's taken you some time to find out 
 that ! [Moves away slightly. 
 
 Constantia [takes a step after him — after a pause]. 
 Tell me, Richard, what is your reason for this 
 refusal ? You must have a reason. 
 
 Dick. My dear Constantia, it's simple enough, 
 I no longer love you. 
 act hi 99
 
 The Two Mr. JVetherbys 
 
 CoNSTANTiA \starUng back]. You dare tell me 
 that ! 
 
 Dick. Why not ? You no longer love me. You 
 told mc so yesterday. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [walks away]. There's some other 
 reason. I'm sure of it. If you no longer care for 
 me it must be because you have met some one else. 
 
 Dick [sits]. My dear, don't be childish. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [tiimifig]. Oh, you can't put me off 
 in that way. A man doesn't want to live apart from 
 his wife in this discreditable manner unless there is 
 some other woman he loves better. 
 
 Dick. What shocking ideas you moral people 
 have. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [coming and standing over him]. 
 If you were not irreclaimably vicious you would 
 welcome this chance of a reconciliation. 
 
 Dick. Vicious ? Nonsense, I'm not vicious. 
 I'm a very moral person. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. Then you deceived me grossly. 
 You always told me you were vicious. 
 
 Dick. I think not. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. Well, whcn I said so, you never 
 denied it. 
 
 Dick. I always used to let you have your own 
 way. That's why you left me. Women like to be 
 tyrannised over. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [she tdkes a Jew -paces afid turns — 
 controlling herself with difficulty]. Will you answer 
 me one question ? 
 
 Dick [blandly]. No. I don't think I will. In 
 fact this whole interview is most irregular. You 
 must keep it for next year. 
 
 lOO ACT III
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherhys 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. YouTc unbearable. 
 
 Dick \rises^ triumphantly]. That's why we're so 
 much better apart. I'm sure you feel that ? 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [comiug Up to Mm, fiercely]. You 
 won't get rid of me so easily. 
 
 Dtck [sweetly]. Not altogether, perhaps. But 
 the relative freedom I at present enjoy suits me well 
 enough. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA \_furious]. I'll find a way of punish- 
 ing you for this ! 
 
 Dick [laughing]. Threats ! My dear Con, you 
 shock me. Why should you object ? You'll be 
 happy enough. You'll have Margaret with you, 
 you know. 
 
 [CoNSTANTiA makes a gesture of rage. She walks 
 away from him.] 
 
 As for Jim, he will share my flat in Maddox Street. 
 It's big enough for two. 
 
 [James passes French window. Dick calls to 
 
 him.] 
 Won't you, Jim ? 
 
 James [coming to wi?idow]. What did you say ? 
 
 Dick. I was telling Constantia you and I were 
 going to settle down together in Maddox Street. 
 
 Constantia (crosses to Dick with gesture of fury]. 
 Brute ! [Exit, in a towering passion. 
 
 Dick. Come in, Jim. I never could resist the 
 temptation to chaff Constantia. 
 
 James [coming down, sarcastically]. I suppose she 
 liked that ? 
 
 Dick. If she did, she concealed the feeling very 
 
 ACT III loi
 
 77/6' Two Mr. Wctherhys 
 
 successfully. But how about you, old man ? 
 Toil don't look very bright. Wife not forgiven you 
 yet ? 
 
 James. No. She's determined to leave me. 
 
 Dick. Lucky fellow ! My wife wants to return 
 to me I I'm far more to be pitied. 
 
 James [irritably], I wish to Heaven you'd be 
 serious sometimes. 
 
 Dick. Serious ? I'm deuced serious. Why, I 
 tell you, my dear chap, if I hadn't been absolutely 
 rude to Constantia, she'd have thrown herself 
 into my arms and we should have had to begin 
 married life all over again ! I shouldn't have liked 
 that at all. 
 
 James. Why did she want to go back ? It 
 seems an odd taste. 
 
 Dick. Taste had nothing to do with it. It was 
 pure conscientiousness on her part. She thinks she 
 ought to look after me. 
 
 James. And you refused to take her back ? 
 
 Dick \jiods\. Certainly. 
 
 James [disgusted]. You must be an absolute 
 brute. [Sits. 
 
 Dick. Why ? She left me of her own choice. 
 I'm not going to be sent about my business and then 
 whistled back again at a moment's notice. What 
 would you say — [crosses to him] — ^if Margaret told 
 you she'd altered her mind and wasn't going to leave 
 you after all ? 
 
 James [efithusiastically]. Say ? Why, that she 
 was the dearest, kindest, most forgiving little soul 
 in the world. 
 
 Dick [horrified]. My dear fellow ! 
 I02 act hi
 
 The Two Mr. JVethirhys 
 
 James. Confound you, Dick, can't you under- 
 stand that I love Margaret — ^that there's nothing on 
 earth I wish so much as to be reconciled to her ? 
 
 Dick. And go back to the old slavery ? 
 
 James. It wasn't slavery. It was happiness. 
 
 [Dick gas'ps^ 
 
 Dick. Well, you certainly have the most curious 
 conception of happiness. But there, go back to 
 your Margaret, if you must ! 
 
 James. If I only could ! 
 
 Dick. But don't expect me to take back Con- 
 stantia, because I sha'n't. 
 
 James. I don't believe you're serious. 
 
 Dick. I'm perfectly serious. [Looking at him 
 keenly.] Are you ? 
 
 James. About Margaret ? Of course. 
 
 [Dick shrugs his shoulders.] 
 
 Dash it, man, one would think it was unusual 
 for a husband to want to be reconciled to his 
 wife ! 
 
 Dick. 'Tisn't what you'd call common ! But 
 there, it's your taste. Send her down to me. Say 
 I've something to say to her. 
 
 [James rises?^^ 
 
 I dare say I can bring her to reason. 
 
 \ln an offhand, way. 
 James. She won't come. 
 Dick. Oh yes, she will — ^from curiosity. 
 
 \Exit James disgusted at this farting fiece of 
 cynicism.] 
 act III 103
 
 The Two M?\ Wetherbys 
 
 [While he is away Dick strolls about roovi^ cxan:in- 
 ing fhilistine decorations zvith every sign of contempt. 
 Notices gap o?i mantelpiece where Jim's picture used 
 to he. Whistles. Enter Margaret. He turns hur- 
 riedly and stands with hack to fireplace.^ 
 
 Margaret. You wish to speak to me ? 
 
 Dick. Yes. Sit down. 
 
 Margaret \_sits on ottoman]. I should tell you at 
 once that if your intention is to plead on James's 
 behalf, you are only wasting your time. 
 
 Dick [airily]. Oh, it isn't. I think Jim's rather 
 well out of it. 
 
 Margaret [with frozen dignity]. I beg your 
 pardon ? 
 
 Dick. It isn't half bad being a bachelor again, 
 at least that's my experience. 
 
 Margaret. James is not of your opinion. 
 
 Dick. He will be. Not at first, of course, but 
 afterwards, and anyhow he'll get accustomed to it. 
 It's astonishing how quickly men get used to things. 
 He'll drop back into the old bachelor ways. No 
 Aunt Clara ! [Impressively.] No Robert ! Oh, 
 heHl be happy enough. You needn't fret about 
 him ! 
 
 Margaret. It's not true. James is not like 
 that. 
 
 Dick. My dear Margaret, men are very much 
 alike. He'll get to enjoy his freedom as I have 
 done. 
 
 Margaret [jiercely]. He won't ! He won't ! 
 You're heartless and selfish. You don't /<?<?/ at all. 
 Jim loves me. 
 
 104 ACT III
 
 The Two Mr, Wetherbys 
 
 Dick \;pause — quietly\ I used to love Con- 
 stantia. 
 
 Margaret. Used to love ? 
 
 Dick. Yes. [With obvious sincerity.'] People say- 
 that love never dies. On the contrary love is killed, 
 oh so easily. A word, a look, moments of temper, 
 inopportune tears. How they kill love ! 
 
 Margaret. I don't believe you. 
 
 Dick. Oh yes, you do. And besides these, there 
 are other things — boredom, relations — you're not 
 very fortunate in the matter of relations, are you ? 
 Little failures of tact and taste, little errors of 
 judgment, all' these contain a drop of the poison 
 which may help to kill love ! 
 
 Margaret \wondering\. Why do you speak to me 
 like this ? You are quite serious. I thought you 
 were never serious. 
 
 Dick. I'm not often — fortunately. 
 
 Margaret (puzzled). But why now ? [Rising 
 angrily.] I see what it is. This is a trap. You 
 want to make me forgive James. 
 
 Dick [in his most exasperating manner]. My 
 dear Margaret, be sensible. Sit down. Why on 
 earth should / want you to forgive Jim ? I like 
 him ! 
 
 Margaret [stung]. What do you mean ? 
 
 Dick. You see, if you leave Jim / shall see a lot 
 more of him than I do now. As far as I am con- 
 cerned the more completely you sever your connec- 
 tion with him the better. 
 
 Margaret [triumphantly]. But he wouldn't be 
 happy. 
 
 Dick. Ah ! we don't agree about that. 
 
 o" 
 
 act hi 105
 
 The Two M?'. Wetherbys 
 
 Margaret \sining down]. Then why did you 
 send for me ? W'Tiy have you spoken to me at all ? 
 If you would rather I left James why need you 
 do anything but just leave us to part as we zvere 
 doing ? 
 
 Dick. fVere ? Your resolution is wavering, you 
 see. [Moves slightly towards her. 
 
 Margaret [hotly]. It is not ! 
 
 Dick [calmly]. I misunderstand you, then. So 
 much the better for me. / get Jim. You 
 don't ! 
 
 Margaret \hew^ldered^^. I don't understand. You 
 haven't told me yet why you're trying to bring us 
 together — if you are trying. 
 
 Dick [dispassionately]. It's a sort of random 
 benevolence on my part. I have fits of it. 
 
 Margaret (peevishly]. What do you mean ? 
 
 Dick. The fact is, I was talking to poor old 
 Jim a few minutes ago, and he really did seem most 
 awfully fond of you and all that, in spite of the way 
 you've behaved 
 
 Margaret [rising afigrily]. Pve behaved ! Thank 
 you, Richard. That will do. I told you it was 
 useless for you to plead on James's behalf. I am 
 now sure of it. [Walks away. 
 
 Dick [laughing]. Come back, Margaret. You 
 misunderstand me. If you would kindly have let 
 me finish my sentence. 
 
 Margaret. Well ? 
 
 [Turns to face him hut does not come hack. 
 
 Dick. Let me see, where was I ? Oh, I found 
 that Jim was awfully fond of you — absurdly so 
 it seemed to me — and you're awfully fond of 
 io6 act III
 
 The Two Mr. JVetherhys 
 
 him too, you know, though you won't admit it at 
 present. 
 
 Margaret. I don't sec that that is any reason 
 why you should have interfered. 
 
 Dick \inipatiently]. My dear Margaret, when I 
 see a woman deliberately throwing away her own 
 happiness, I think it's only kind to warn her. That's 
 all. 
 
 Margaret. Her happiness ? 
 
 Dick. Yes. [Pause.] Jim will get over this all 
 right, as I said. Men do. They're tough. And 
 they've lots of distractions. It's different with 
 women. [Coldly.] So I thought I'd just give you 
 a hint before it was too late. 
 
 Margaret [sarcastically]. Isn't it rather late for 
 you to begin to consider me ? 
 
 Dick. I dare say. But it's not too late for you 
 to consider yourself. 
 
 Margaret [haughtily]. I haven't the least idea 
 what you mean by that. 
 
 Dick. Sit down and I'll try to make myself 
 clear. 
 
 [She sits. He sits beside her on the ottoman. 
 Margaret on the right. Dick on the left.] 
 
 Margaret. Well ? 
 
 Dick. Do you know what passed between myself 
 and Constantia this morning ? 
 
 Margaret. Yes. A reconciliation. 
 
 Dick. No. Your sister wished for one. At 
 least she wished to patch up our marriage somehow. 
 I refused. 
 ACTjii 107
 
 The Two Mr. IVctherhys 
 
 Margaret. You refused ? 
 
 Dick. Yes. \PaMse?^ I'm happier as I am. 
 
 Margaret. And Constantia ? Didn't you tliink 
 at all of her ? 
 
 Dick. Constantia made her choice a year ago. 
 She can't alter it now. 
 
 Margaret. And arc you never going to live with 
 her again ? Never at all ? 
 
 Dick [cheerfully^ Never I On that point I am 
 quite clear. [There is a -pause. 
 
 Margaret [slowly'\. I still don't see what all this 
 has to do with me. 
 
 Dick [airily]. Merely a parallel case. That's 
 all. 
 
 Margaret [iti a whisper]. Parallel ? 
 
 Dick [sternly]. Yes. I loved Constantia once. 
 Jim loves you now. Constantia sulked with me, 
 badgered me, bored me, finally left me as you arc 
 leaving Jim. Poor woman, she thought she would 
 be happy living alone. At least she thought she 
 would be contented. So do you. She was mistaken. 
 You can see it in her face, the lonely look of the 
 woman who has no home. And we have only been 
 separated a year ! Yet she so hates her present 
 life that this morning nothing but my direct refusal 
 to receive her prevented her from returning to me. 
 What a situation ! How humiliating and disas- 
 trous ! Think carefullty, Margaret, before you do 
 as she did. 
 
 A4arcaret [half to herself]. What an escape ! 
 What an escape ! 
 
 Dick. You will think carefully ? Not for Jim's 
 sake, Margaret, but for your own. 
 
 I08 ACT III
 
 The Two M7\ Wether by s 
 
 [InIargaret hursts into ienrs.] 
 
 [Rises.] There, there, that's all right, dry your 
 eyes and then go and make it up with Jim. 
 
 Margaret [trying to stifle her sobs\ B — 
 b — but will he forgive me ? Will he make it 
 up ? 
 
 Dick [grimly]. Oh yes, he'll forgive you all 
 
 right. 
 
 ^Margaret [rising and drying her eyes]. It's very 
 unjust. Men always have the best of it. They do 
 wrong and we suffer. 
 
 Dick. Ah well, you manage to make it pretty 
 disagreeable for them too sometimes. 
 
 Margaret [half crying]. I thought I was doing 
 right. Jim behaved very badly. It was my duty 
 to punish him. 
 
 Dick. You don't call punishing your husband 
 duty P I call it pleasure. 
 
 Margaret [laughing through her tears]. You're 
 very horrid ! But you meant this kindly. You're 
 not really bad, Dick. I see that now. 
 
 Dick [alarmed]. For Heaven's sake don't begin 
 putting me on a pedestal ! It wouldn't suit 
 me at all. [Going to door, opens it and calls.] 
 Jim ! Jim ! [To Margaret.] Come, summon up a 
 smile to greet your husband. Ever such a little 
 
 one ! 
 
 [She smiles faintly. She crosses, and turns towards 
 
 him.] 
 
 Enter Jim. 
 
 Jim, go to your wife and tell her you're heartily 
 act III 109
 
 The Two Mr. IV ether by s 
 
 ashamed of yourself and will never do anything 
 wrong again, and perhaps she'll forgive you. I'll 
 go upstairs and finish packing. I sha'n't be two 
 minutes. \Exit hastily. 
 
 James [coming towards her.] Margaret ! Is it 
 true ? Will you forgive me this time ? 
 
 Margaret. Yes, Jim, if you'll promise never to 
 hide anything from me again. 
 
 [Embraces him. 
 
 James. Angel ! Of course I promise. I'll never 
 hide anything from you in future. And I'll never 
 go anywhere with Dick again as long as I live ! 
 
 Margaret. Oh no, Jim, you mustn't say that. 
 I've changed my opinion about Dick. I believe he's 
 quite good really, nearly as good as you are, only not 
 so serious. I should like him to come and stay with 
 us. He's fond of you, Jim. 
 
 James. What will Aunt Clara say to that ? 
 
 Margaret. Aunt Clara will not be here. She 
 must go away ; and Robert too. In future we must 
 have our house to ourselves, and live our lives in our 
 own way. 
 
 James [embracing]. Margaret, you're a trump ! 
 But I'll deserve it. I swear I will. I'll do whatever 
 you wish. [Draws her down on sofa beside him. 
 
 Margaret. Dear old Jim. 
 
 [Strokes his hair affectionately. 
 
 Enter Dick with bag aful overcoat. 
 
 Dick. Hullo, not finished yet ? 
 
 [Margaret moves azvay from him hastily.] 
 
 no act III
 
 The Two Mi\ Wetherbys 
 
 James. Confound you, Dick, don't interrupt. 
 \P assesses himself of Margaret's hand. 
 
 Dick. Not for worlds. But as my train goes in 
 ten minutes, I thought you might find time to say 
 good-bye to me. [(koines towards them.] 
 
 James [rising]. You're not going before 
 lunch ? 
 
 Margaret. Do stay. 
 
 Dick. No. [Getting into coat.] The atmo- 
 sphere of this place is altogether too connubial. 
 I must get back to my lonely flat in Maddox 
 Street, where no wives are admitted. Good-bye, 
 Maggie. Good-bye, Jim. Don't be too good, 
 either of you ! And when you see Constantia, tell 
 her I've [James and Margaret cross togetherl 
 decided to remain a grass widower permanently. 
 
 [Turns to go, picking uf hag and hat. Margaret a7id 
 James stand hand in hand. As he reaches the door, enter 
 Constantia dressed as for a journey. In her hand she 
 carries a dressing-bag.] 
 
 Hullo, Con, I was just speaking of you. What 
 is the use of that confounded agreement if you 
 keep popping up in this way ? What are you 
 doing here ? 
 
 Constantia. I came to find you, Richard. 
 
 Dick. But this is quite out of order. You were 
 to see me once a year, not twice a day. Besides, 
 I'm just off to London. 
 
 Constantia. I also am going to London. 
 
 Dick. By this train ? 
 
 Constantia. Yes. 
 
 act III III
 
 The Two M?\ Wetherbys 
 
 Dick \crosses\ Very well. You've just time to 
 catch it. \^its down] I'll take the next. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. No, Ricliard, we shall go together. 
 
 [Comes towards him. 
 
 Dick. What ! 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. I havc made up my mind to for- 
 give you. I consider it my duty. 
 
 Dick [with the calmness of despair]. There seems 
 to be a perfect epidemic of forgiveness down here 
 just now. Here's Margaret who has made it up with 
 Jim, and there they stand holding one another's 
 hands in a manner that's perfectly sickening. 
 
 [Margaret fulls her hand away guiltily.] 
 
 And now you want to forgive me ! 1 don't want 
 to be forgiven ! I won't be forgiven ! 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [stemly]. Margaret ! Is this 
 true ? 
 
 Margaret. Yes, Connie. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. Indeed ! Well, I only hope you 
 will not live to regret it. You appear to me to have 
 acted with undue precipitation ! 
 
 James. We're going to risk it ! 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [with grunt oj disapproval, turning 
 to Dick]. Well, Richard. I am ready. 
 
 Dick. I'm not. I decline to allow you to come 
 with me. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA [firmly]. Nothing but physical vio- 
 lence will prevent me. 
 
 Dick [rises, reproachfully]. Look here. Con, is 
 this fair ? I allowed you to leave me when you 
 wanted to. Tou^ve no right to change your mind 
 
 1 iz ACT III
 
 The Two Mr. JVetherhys 
 
 now. It's fickle, that's what I call it. Beastly 
 fickle ! 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. This IS not a moment for jesting. 
 
 Dick \d,isgusted\ It certainly isn't ! 
 
 CoNSTANTiA \sternly\. Then if you will take up 
 your bag, perhaps we had better start. 
 
 Dick. I'm dashed if I will. I can't take you 
 to Maddox Street. You'd be awfully uncomfortable 
 there. 
 
 CoNSTANTiA. I shall do very well. You said 
 there was room for two only this morning. 
 
 [Dick makes a gesture of despair. ~\ 
 
 Margaret [coaxingly]. Dick, be ?iice to her. 
 You're not hard-hearted really, though you like 
 to pretend to be. Take her back. 
 
 Dick. Look here, Maggie, I call that pretty 
 rough. Is this my reward for reconciling you to 
 your husband ? 
 
 Margaret. Well, I'm only trying to reconcile 
 you to your wife. 
 
 Dick [disgusted]. Dash it all ! Don't joke 
 about it. One humorist is enough in any family. 
 
 James. Make it up, old man. It isn't half bad 
 being married after all, eh, Maggie ? And you can't 
 prevent her from coming unless you call in the police ! 
 You only separated by mutual consent. 
 
 Dick {resigning himself). Very well. Look here, 
 Con, if you'll say you're sorry for the way you've 
 treated me, and will let me do everything that I 
 please in future and always laugh at my jokes, I'll 
 forgive you. I can't say fairer than that. 
 
 Margaret. Say yes, Connie. 
 act III I : H 113
 
 The Two Mr. Wetherhys 
 
 l^'tDiCK \to her more kindly\ Come, Con, do the 
 thing handsomely. Is it yes ? 
 CoNSTANTiA. Ycs, Richard. 
 
 \^hey shake hands. ~\ 
 CURTAIN. 
 
 \At second curtain Constantia is by door ^followed by 
 Dick carrying BOTH the bags.'] 
 
 THE END 
 
 I H ACT III
 
 THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL 
 
 A COMEDY FOR FATHERS 
 
 " Character is Fate '
 
 CHARACTERS 
 
 Samuel Jackson. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson, his wife. 
 
 Henry Jackson, their elder son. 
 
 Eustace Jackson, their younger son. 
 
 Violet Jackson, their daughter. 
 
 Sir John Faringford, Bart. 
 
 Lady Faringford, his wife. 
 
 Stella Faringford, their daughter. 
 
 Dr. Glaisher. 
 
 The Rev. Cyril Pratt, the Rector. 
 
 Mrs. Pratt, his zvife. 
 
 Baines, Butler at the Jacksons\ 
 
 Two Footmen. 
 
 The action of the play takes place at Chedleigh Court, the Jacksons' 
 house in Gloucestershire, Act. I in the Drawing-room, Act H in the 
 Breakfast-room, Act HI on the Lawn, and Act IV in the Drawing- 
 room again. Chedleigh, as everybody knows, is famous for its 
 cloth mills.
 
 THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene. The Jacksons' drawing-room, a handsome 
 room suggesting opulence rather than taste. Not 
 vulgar but not distinguished. Too full of furni- 
 ture, pictures, knick-knacks, chair covers, plants 
 in pots. Too full of everything. The door is 
 on the right. On the grand piano, which is on 
 the opposite side of the room from the door, are 
 large bowls of flowers, photograph frames, and 
 other inappropriate things. There are also plants 
 in the fireplace, as it is summer and that is the 
 Jacksons' conception of the proper way to adorn a 
 fireplace and a suitable place for growing plants. 
 Easy chairs everywhere. The room is lighted by 
 electricity, but when the curtain rises only a few 
 of the lights are turfied on. The time is after 
 dinner on a summer evening. 
 
 When the curtain rises the stage is empty. Then 
 
 the door opens and Lady Faringford enters, 
 
 followed by her daughter Stella, Mrs. Pratt, 
 
 Violet Jackson, and, after an interval, Mr=. 
 
 Jackson. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [heard calling to her husband before 
 she efiters]. You won't stay too long over your 
 cigars, will you, Samuel ? [She comes in.J I always 
 ACT I iig
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 notice the gentlemen stay far too long in the dining- 
 room unless they're specially told not to. Now, 
 Lady Faringford, where will you sit ? Try this 
 sofa. 
 
 Lady Faringford [selecting the most comfortable 
 corner of the sofa]. Thank you. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. That's right. ?vlrs. Pratt, where 
 shall I put you ? No, don't go there. That's such 
 a long way off. Come here. [Drags up arm-chair 
 ?iear Lady Faringford zviih hospitable inelegance. 
 Mrs. Pratt sits.] Are you all right, Stella ? 
 
 Stella [who has already found a seat]. Quite, 
 thanks, Mrs. Jackson. 
 
 Violet. Where will you go, mother ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. I'm going to sit here. Wait till 
 I turn on some more light. [Goes to door and does 
 so.] That's better ! 
 
 [Mrs. Jackson takes seat by Lady Faringford. 
 Violet sits by Stella and, after a deceiit interval, 
 draws work-basket towards her and quietly begins to 
 knit.] 
 
 Lady Faringford. I do envy you your electric 
 light, Mrs. Jackson. Lamps are so troublesome. 
 The servants are always setting themselves on fire 
 with them. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [comfortably]. It is convenient, 
 isn't it ? 
 
 Lady Faringford. How long have you had it ? 
 
 A'Irs. Jackson. Only about eighteen months. We 
 had it brought here at the same time that they were 
 putting it in at the Mill. It seemed a pity not to as 
 it was so close. And now I don't know what we 
 should do without it. 
 
 I 20 ACT I
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Mrs. Pratt. I saw it was all on at the Mill as we 
 passed to-night. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Yes. They can work much later 
 now it's been put in. That was Henry's idea. It 
 was almost impossible to work overtime profitably 
 before on account of the light. Now the Mill often 
 works night and day when there's a pressure. 
 
 Stella. Surely the workmen must sleep some- 
 times ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson \^lacidly\ They have different 
 sets of workmen, I believe. But you must ask 
 Henry. He knows all about it. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Mr. Jackson seems pretty 
 cheerful about his election prospects. 
 
 IVIrs. Jackson. Yes. I do hope he'll get in. It 
 will be such an amusement for him. 
 
 Mrs. Pratt. It would certainly be most regret- 
 table if Mr. Ling were elected. He is a dissenter. 
 The Rector says a clergyman should have no politics, 
 but I say a clergyman with no politics is never made 
 a bishop. 
 
 Lady Faringford. I trust the Rector will not 
 allow Mr. Ling to use the Parish Room for any of his 
 meetings. 
 
 Mrs. Pratt. I'm afraid he will. He says he 
 can't make distinctions between the two parties. If 
 he lends the room to one he must lend it to the 
 other. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Then he had better lend it to 
 neither. That will answer the purpose quite well. 
 For Mr. Jackson can easily hire some place for his 
 meetings while Mr. Ling cannot. It is such a 
 comfort that all the rich people about here are 
 
 ACT I 121
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Conservatives. But I believe the same thing may- 
 be noticed in other parts of the country. It almost 
 seems like a special Providence. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. I hope Sir John thinks my hus- 
 band will get in ? 
 
 Lady Faringford. Oh yes, I think so. It's 
 unfortunate that Mr. Ling is so popular. Only 
 with quite vulgar people no doubt, Nonconformists 
 and so forth. But even then they have votes un- 
 fortunately. Still Mr. Jackson employs a large 
 number of people and they will vote for him of 
 course — or what's the use of being an employer ? — 
 and if he is sufhcicntly liberal with his subscrip- 
 tions 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. I believe my husband subscribes 
 to everything. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Then I'm sure he'll get in. 
 It's a pity he won't have the Illingtons' support, by 
 the way. They have a great deal of influence in 
 their part of the county. 
 
 Mrs. Pratt \horriiiecl\ Surely Sir James hasn't 
 turned Radical ? 
 
 Lady Faringford. No, no. Not so bad as 
 that! But I hear he's quite ruined. His racing 
 stable has cost him a fortune in the last few years, 
 and he's never won a single race. Braden will be to 
 let in the autumn. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Poor Sir James. He will feel 
 parting with the place dreadfully. 
 
 Lady Faringford. It's his own fault. He 
 ought never to have made that absurd marriage. 
 Mary Illington — she was Mary Tremayne, you know, 
 one of the Wiltshire Tremaynes — ^hadn't a sixpence. 
 
 122 ACT I
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 What Mall become of that boy of theirs at Eton I 
 can't think. They'll never be able to pay his school 
 bills. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Public schools are dreadfully 
 expensive, aren't they ? I remember when Eustace, 
 my second boy, was at Harrow — ^Henry was never at 
 a Public School — ^his bills were terribly high. 
 
 Mrs. Pratt. I wonder whom we shall have at 
 Braden. I do hope they will be Church people. 
 The Scalebys, who took Astley Park, play tennis on 
 Sundays and seem to me to be little better than 
 heathens. It sets such a bad example. 
 
 Lady Faringford. The county is changing 
 sadly. Half the old houses have changed hands, and 
 the new people are usually quite dreadful. If this 
 sort of thing goes on there won't be a single person 
 fit to speak to within twenty miles. 
 
 [Silence falls u^on the company as Lady Faring- 
 ford makes this tactful remark, but that lady seems 
 quite unconscious of the effect she has -produced. Then 
 Stella breaks the awkward pause.l 
 
 Stella [to Violet]. What are you working 
 at ? 
 
 Violet. A pair of socks for Old Allen. I always 
 give him a pair for his birthday. That's about a 
 month from now. 
 
 Mrs. Pratt. I hope you and Mrs. Jackson have 
 got a lot of things ready for the Mission Room Fund 
 Bazaar, Violet ? We want to clear off our debt, and, 
 if possible, have something in hand as well. 
 
 Violet. Oh yes. I've done some things and so 
 has mother. I'll send them up in a day or two. 
 act I 123
 
 The Rettir7i of the P?-oriigal 
 
 Mrs. Pratt. And thank you so much, Lady 
 Faringford, for the embroidered tea-cloth you sent. 
 It is sure to sell ! 
 
 Lady Faringford. Let us hope so. It's ex- 
 tremely ugly. I bought it at the Kettlcwell sale of 
 work last year intending to give it to my poor sister 
 Adelaide. But afterwards I hadn't the heart. So 
 I sent it to your bazaar instead. 
 
 \_A710ther awkzvard pause. Poor Mrs. Pratt smiles 
 
 nervously.] 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Vi, my dear, won't you play us 
 something ? 
 
 Stella. Do, Vi. We never have any music at 
 the Hall now Fraulein Schmidt has gone. 
 
 Violet. Very well, if you'd really like it. 
 
 [Rises a?id goes to piano. 
 
 Lady Faringford [to Mrs. Jackson]. You re- 
 member her ? She was Stella's governess. Quite 
 an intelligent, good creature. But I dare say you 
 never met her. She never used to come down to 
 dinner. I always think German governesses so much 
 more satisfactory than English. You see, there's 
 never any question about having to treat them as 
 ladies. And then they're always so plain. That's a 
 great advantage. And German is such a useful 
 language, far more useful for a young girl than 
 French. There are so many more books she can be 
 allowed to read in it. French can be learnt later — 
 and should be in my opinion. 
 
 Mrs. Pratt [who has recovered from the shock of the 
 tea-cloth incident]. I quite agree with you, Lady 
 Faringford. But the Rector is less strict in these 
 
 124 ACT I
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 matters. He allowed my girls to begin French 
 directly they went to school, at Miss Thursby's. 
 But I'm bound to say they never seem to have learnt 
 any. So perhaps it did no harm. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Yes, I have always heard Miss 
 Thursby's was an excellent school. 
 
 [Violet begins to 'play. The piece selected is the 
 second movement of Beethoven'' s twenty -seventh Sonata, 
 sometimes called " ^he Conversation with the Beloved.^'' 
 Before she has played a dozen bars, hozuever, Baines, 
 the Jacksons' butler, enters, and she stops.'] 
 
 Baines [going up to Mrs. Pratt, and speaking in an 
 undertone']. If you please, Madam, Simmonds is 
 here asking if you could see him. They sent him on 
 from the Rectory. 
 
 Mrs. Pratt. Simmonds ? Did he say his busi- 
 ness ? 
 
 Baines [coughs discreetly]. Something about Mrs. 
 Simmonds, I think, A4adam. 
 
 Mrs. Pratt. Of course, I remember. I will 
 come in a moment. [Rising.] You'll excuse me, 
 won't you, dear Mrs. Jackson ? It's Mrs. Simmonds. 
 Foolish woman, she's had another baby. Her hus- 
 band is in the hall. I shall probably have to run 
 over to the Rectory for some things for her. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [rising at once]. Oh no, you 
 mustn't do that. I am sure we have everything 
 necessary here, soup and jelly and flannel, and any- 
 thing else you think wise. And, of course, they will 
 want some money. I had better come and see 
 Simmonds with you. Then we can tell the house- 
 keeper to put the things together for him. 
 act I 125
 
 The Retur7i of the Prodigal 
 
 Mrs. Pratt. But it's giving you so much trouble. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Not in the least. It's no trouble. 
 And I can't have you running away and leaving 
 us before the Rector has finished his cigar. That 
 would never do. 
 
 Violet \rising\. Can I do anything, mother ? 
 ; Mrs. Jackson. No, dear. I can manage quite 
 well. You stay here and entertain Lady Faringford 
 and Stella. We sha'n't be five minutes. 
 
 [Mrs. Jackson hurries out beaming with benevo- 
 lence, closely attended by Mrs. Pratt. Bmnes follows 
 them out with dignity, refusing to allow his comfosure 
 to be ruffled by so trivial an incident as the arrival of 
 a cottager'' s baby.^ 
 
 Violet. Poor Mrs. Simmonds. I do hope the 
 baby will be all right. 
 
 Lady Faringford. I have no doubt it will. 
 When people have far more children already than is 
 either convenient or necessary their babies always 
 exhibit extraordinary vitality. Nothing seems to 
 kill them. But you were going to play to us, dear. 
 
 [Violet returns to -piano and begins to -play again. 
 Stella listens with obvious pleasure. Lady Faring- 
 ford fidgets, picks up book, yawns, puts it down again, 
 and generally shows by her manner that she is bored to 
 death by the music. Presently she succeeds in attract- 
 ing Stella's attention by tapping gently with her fan, 
 and beckons to her. Stella gets up resignedly and 
 goes over to sit by her mother, who begins to talk to her 
 under cover of the music."] 
 
 By the way, Stella, how arc things going between 
 you and Henry ? 
 
 126 ACT I
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Stella. What do you mean, mother ? 
 
 Lady Faringford. Has he asked you to marry 
 him yet ? 
 
 Stella. No. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Strange ! I thought he 
 would have done so before now. I have given him 
 several opportunities. 
 
 Stella. Mother ! 
 
 Lady Faringford. He is going to, I suppose ? 
 
 Stella. I don't know. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Nonsense, child. Of course 
 you do. A girl always knows when a man wants to 
 propose to her, unless she is perfectly idiotic. He 
 will certainly propose if you give him proper en- 
 couragement. \Persuasively?\^ And when he does 
 you will accept him ? 
 
 Stella [thoughtfully]. I'm not sure. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Not sure ? Why not ? You 
 like him, don't you ? . . . I can't think who 
 invented music after dinner. One can hardly hear 
 oneself speak. ... As I was saying, you like him ? 
 
 Stella. Oh yes. I like him. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Then of course you will 
 accept him. When a man proposes to a girl and she 
 likes him, and he is well off and otherwise eligible, 
 she should always accept him. 
 
 Stella. But — [hesitates] — I don't love him, 
 mother. 
 
 Lady Faringford. My dear, you must not 
 expect impossibilities. Love matches aren't very 
 common among people of our class. And they're 
 by no means always successful either. Quite the 
 contrary. If you marry a man you like you may 
 ACT I 127
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 come to love him — in time. But if you marry the 
 man you love you may easily come to loathe him. 
 
 Stella \sighs\ Well, I suppose I shall have to 
 marry him in the end. 
 
 Lady Farincford. Of course you will. And 
 I'm sure you might do a great deal worse. The 
 Jacksons arc really very well off. The business has 
 grown enormously in the last few years. Of course, 
 they're farvenus. But everybody one meets nowa- 
 days is either a farvenu or a pauper. And really 
 girls are so numerous just now they can't afford to 
 be as particular as they were. Henry is the only 
 son. 
 
 Stella. No, mother. There's Eustace. 
 
 Lady Farincford. I .don't count Eustace. He 
 went away years ago — to one of the Colonies, I 
 believe — and doubtless came to a bad end. Prob- 
 ably he's dead by now. 
 
 Stella. Mother ! How can you say such terrible 
 things ! 
 
 Lady Farincford. Nonsense. Of course he's 
 
 dead. And a very good thing, too Really, 
 
 what a noise our good Violet is making If he 
 
 weren't dead one would have heard something of 
 him. That sort of young man always makes himself 
 felt by his relatives as long as the breath's in his 
 body. 
 
 Stella. But if he's abroad 
 
 Lady Farincford. Then he would write — for 
 money. People in the Colonies always do write for 
 money. You don't remember him, do you ? 
 
 Stella. Hardly at all. I've seen him, of course. 
 
 Lady Farincford. Ah ! He was a handsome 
 128 act I
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 fellow. Clever, too. But a thorough detrimental. 
 It's just as well he went to the Colonies. No, my 
 dear, you can't do better than accept Henry. He'll 
 be quite a rich man some day, and he's really very 
 fairly presentable. And his father will get into 
 Parliament. Not that that means anything nowa- 
 days. Here he is. 
 
 [Lady Faringford leans hack in her corner of the 
 sofa, and makes a decent 'pretence of having listened to 
 the music as the men enter from the drawing-room. 
 They are Sir John Faringford, the Rector, Mr. 
 Jackson, and Henry.] 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Hullo, all alone. Lady Faringford ? 
 What's become of Maria — and Mrs. Pratt ? 
 
 Violet [breaking off in the middle of her flaying and 
 rising from the piano]. Simmonds came to ask if he 
 could see Mrs. Pratt. Mrs. Simmonds is ill. Mother 
 and Mrs. Pratt are putting some things together for 
 him to take to her. 
 
 Lady Faringford [sweetly]. Your daughter has 
 been entertaining us with her charming music while 
 Mrs. Jackson was away. What was that little piece 
 you were playing, dear ? 
 
 Violet. A sonata of Beethoven, Lady Faring- 
 ford. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Indeed ? Very pretty. 
 
 The Rector. You are going to play at our next 
 Parish concert, I hope. Miss Jackson ? 
 
 Violet. Yes. Mrs. Pratt and I have been getting 
 out the programme. 
 
 Sir John. Miss Jackson is a tower of strength in 
 the musical line. Stella hardly plays a note. I 
 act i i : I 129
 
 The Retur?i of the Prodigal 
 
 always tell my wife it's the result of having had a 
 German governess. How can you expect a child to 
 learn music in German ? 
 
 Lady Faringford. I believe all modern music is 
 written in German. It certainly sounds like it. 
 
 Henry [joining Stella, who has made her escape 
 from her mother to the other side of the room at the first 
 opportunity]. I hope you haven't been dull, Miss 
 Faringford, while my mother has been out of the 
 room. It's shocking of her to leave her guests in 
 this way. 
 
 Stella. Not at all. Vi has been playing to us. 
 It has been delightful. 
 
 Henry. You're very fond of music, aren't you ? 
 
 Stella. Yes. It's curious, when I was a child 
 they made me learn, of course, but I didn't care a 
 bit about it. I was awfully troublesome over my 
 lessons, I remember. So I made nothing of it. 
 And now, when I'd give anything to be able to 
 play, I can't. 
 
 Henry. Why don't you take it up again ? 
 
 Stella. I do try sometimes. Sometimes I set to 
 work and practise feverishly for a whole week. But 
 it doesn't last. 
 
 Henry. You should persevere. 
 
 Stella. I know, but I don't. I suppose I'm lazy. 
 But that's like me. I want to do things. I see I 
 ought to do them. But somehow they don't get 
 done. I expect you can't understand that ? 
 
 Henry. I'm afraid I can't. If I want a thing 
 I take the necessary steps to get it. That's what 
 " wanting " means with me. 
 
 Stella [thoughtfully]. And do you always get it ? 
 130 ACT I
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Henry. Generally. A man can generally get a 
 thing in the end if he gives his mind to it. 
 
 Stella. Most people wouldn't say that. 
 
 Henry. That's because most people don't know 
 what they want. Instead of fixing their mind on 
 one thing, and being determined to get it, they keep 
 aiming first at one thing and then at another. So 
 of course they don't get anything. They don't 
 deserve to. 
 
 Stella \rather wistftdly]. Most people don't aim 
 at all. They simply take what comes. 
 
 Henry. Surely you don't do that ? 
 
 Stella. I believe I do. [Laughing.'] You see, 
 there's really not room for more than one will in 
 any family. In our family it's mamma's. Mamma 
 always knows what she wants — like you. The worst 
 of it is she doesn't always know what we want. 
 
 Henry. I see. What happens then ? 
 
 Stella. Oh, mamma wins. We struggle a little 
 sometimes, papa and I. But she gets her way in the 
 end. 
 
 [There is silence between them for a moment. 
 Henry looks round, and, noticing everybody else im- 
 mersed in conversation, feels that his o-pportunity has 
 come for laying his hand and heart at Miss Faring- 
 FORD'sfeet. He drops his voice to a confidential under- 
 tone and sets about it.] 
 
 Henry. Miss Faringford, there's something I 
 want to say to you. 
 
 Stella. That sounds very serious. 
 
 Henry. It is serious — ^to me. It's something 
 I've wanted to tell you for a long time. 
 act I 131
 
 The Retur?i of the Prodigal 
 
 Stella [rising nervously]. Well, don't tell it me 
 to-night. Later on, perhaps. I don't think I want 
 to hear about serious things to-night. 
 
 Henry [rising also]. When may I tell it to 
 you ? 
 
 Stella. I don't know. Some time, perhaps. 
 But not now. Here's your mother come back with 
 Mrs. Pratt. 
 
 [Jt this opportune moment Mrs. Jackson and 
 Mrs. Pratt do, as a matter of fact, re-enter from their 
 ministrations to poor Simmonds, and Stella, for the 
 moment, is saved. She goes towards them.] 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Lady Faringford, what will you 
 think of me for leaving you for so long ? But the 
 housekeeper was out. She had gone down to the 
 village to see her niece, who is ill. So Mrs. Pratt 
 and I had to put the things together for Simmonds 
 ourselves. Mrs. Simmonds has another baby, 
 Samuel. 
 
 Mrs. Pratt. The poor are terribly thoughtless 
 in these matters. That makes her sixth. But I'm 
 bound to say poor Simmonds seemed quite conscious 
 of his folly. 
 
 Lady Faringford. That, at least, is satisfactory. 
 But I have no hope that it will affect his future con- 
 duct. He will go on having children — ^at the usual 
 intervals — until he dies. And then they will all 
 come on the parish. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [puzzled]. But is Simmonds going 
 to die ? He said nothing about it. But, of course, 
 he was rather flurried. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [staggered for the moment by the 
 132 act I
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 fatuity of his wife^s remark^ hut recovering himself 
 gamely]. I hope you sent whatever was necessary, 
 Maria ? 
 
 Mrs. Pratt. Far more. I really had to inter- 
 fere to prevent Mrs. Jackson from emptying her 
 store cupboard. 
 
 The Rector. Well, well, I dare say poor Mrs. 
 Simmonds will find a use for everything. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. No doubt. And besides, with an 
 election in prospect 
 
 Sir John. Exactly ; it can do no harm. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. By the way. Sir John, as chairman 
 of my election committee, there's a point on which I 
 want your advice. The local branch of the Inde- 
 pendent Order of Good Templars wrote to me ten 
 days ago asking for a subscription. So I sent five 
 guineas. 
 
 Sir John. Quite right. The Temperance Vote 
 must be reckoned with in this Division. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Just so. But the Good Templars 
 published the fact in the local newspaper. 
 
 Sir John. Well, that's what you wanted, wasn't 
 it? 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Ye-es. No doubt. But I forgot 
 that the Secretary of the local branch of the 
 Licensed Victuallers' Association would be sure 
 to see the paragraph, and write to me for an 
 explanation. 
 
 Sir John. I see. Did he ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Yes. 
 
 Sir John. Ah ! What did you do ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson. I was in some doubt. But Sims, 
 my agent, told me the Licensed Victuallers had a 
 
 ACT I 133
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Benevolent Fund or something. So I sent ten 
 guineas to that. That seemed the best way out of 
 the difficulty. 
 
 Sir John. Much the best, much the best. 
 
 \Tlrying to escape. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [detaining hint]. But that's not the 
 end of the matter. For now the Good Templars 
 have written to ask if I am prepared to support any 
 legislation designed to combat the evil of the Drink 
 Traffic. And the Licensed Victuallers want to know 
 if I will pledge myself to oppose any Bill which 
 aims at the reduction of the sale of intoxicating 
 liquors. 
 
 Sir John. Hum ! Tliey rather had you 
 there ! 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Yes. . . . However, I think 
 I've got out of it all right. I've written a letter to 
 the Licensed Victuallers to say I'm not in favour of 
 unduly restricting the sale of liquor in the interests 
 of Temperance Propaganda. And I've written 
 another to the Good Templars saying that I'm quite 
 in favour of Temperance Propaganda providing it 
 doesn't unduly restrict the sale of intoxicating liquor. 
 I think that meets the case ? 
 
 Sir John. I see. Running with the hare and 
 hunting with the hounds, eh ? Quite right. I 
 think you got out of it very well. And now we 
 really must be saying good-night. [To Lady 
 Faringford.] Come, my dear, it's time we were 
 going. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Oh, you mustn't go yet. It's 
 quite early. 
 
 Lady Faringford. We are early people. [Rises.l 
 
 134 ACT I
 
 The Retur7i of the Prodigal 
 
 We really must go. Stella, my dear, we must be 
 putting on our things. 
 
 Henry. I'll ask if your carriage is round. 
 
 \Rings. 
 
 Lady Faringford. If you will be so good. I 
 told the coachman ten. I do hope it's stopped 
 raining. I believe the farmers want it, but it's so 
 bad for the horses. 
 
 Henry \to Baines, who ap fears in answer to his 
 ring]. Lady Faringford's carriage. 
 
 Baines. It's at the door, sir. 
 
 Henry. Very well. [Exit Baines. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Good-night, then, Mrs. 
 Jackson. Such a pleasant evening. Come, Stella. 
 
 [Getieral adieux. 'The Faringfords and Stella 
 go out escorted by Henry and Mr. Jackson.] 
 
 Mrs. Pratt. I think we ought to be going, 
 too. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. No, no. You mustn't run away 
 like that. I've not had a moment to speak to the 
 Rector. And I'm sure Vi will want to talk to you 
 about the next concert. Sit down again, Mrs. 
 Pratt. [Re-enter Henry and Mr. Jackson.] What 
 sort of a night is it, Samuel ? Has it stopped rain- 
 ing ? [Sits down beside the Rector on the soja. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Yes ; it's not raining now. But 
 it's very dark. 
 
 The Rector. The moon's full, too. But I 
 suppose there's too much cloud about. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. I do hope it will be lighter before 
 you have to go home. It's such a dark road from 
 here to the Rectory. 
 ACT I 135
 
 The Retur?i of the Prodigal 
 
 The Rector. We have a lantern. We always 
 bring it when we go out at night. We don't trust 
 the moon. She's fickle, Mrs. Jackson, like all her 
 sex. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Rector, if you talk like that I 
 shall scold you. And so will Mrs. Pratt. 
 
 Inhere is a sudden noise of footsteps outside. Then 
 the door opens hurriedly, and Baines appears. He 
 crosses at once to Mr. Jackson, and speaks in a sort of 
 breathless 7uidert07ie.'\ 
 
 Baines. If you please. Sir 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Well, what is it, Baines r 
 
 Baines. If you please. Sir, it's . . . [co?ifidefi- 
 tially] Mr. Eustace. [Mr. Jackson turns sharply 
 round.] He was lying just by the front door. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Mr. Eustace ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [hearing the name and jumping up 
 from her seat]. Eustace ! 
 
 Baines. Yes, Sir. Yes, Madam. Thomas saw 
 him just as he was coming in after shutting the 
 front gate. The moon came out for a moment 
 and he saw him. He's fainted, Sir. At least, I 
 think so. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. I must go to him. 
 
 [Hurries towards door. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. No. Not you, Maria. I'll go. 
 
 [The door opens. 
 
 Baines. I think they're bringing him in here, 
 Sir. 
 
 [Enter the Two Footmen, carrying a draggled and 
 dishevelled body by the shoulders and the heels. The 
 136 act I
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 room becomes a scene of excitement and confusion^ 
 everybody talking at once and getting into each other^s 
 way. Chairs are pushed this way and that, and the 
 sofa is dragged out into the middle of the room to receive 
 the body as it is brought in.~\ 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Oh, my poor boy ! My poor dear 
 boy ! [Rushes to him. 
 
 Violet. Wait a minute. Put him here. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Oh, he's dead ! He's dead ! I 
 know he's dead. 
 
 Violet. Hush, mother. Some brandy, quick, 
 Baines. And some cold water. I think he's only 
 fainted. 
 
 \Puts cushion under his head and opens shirt at 
 neck.] 
 
 The Rector. Poor fellow ! 
 
 Mrs. Pratt [noticing the condition of Eustace's 
 boots']. Oh, Mrs. Jackson. Your sofa ! It will be 
 utterly ruined. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [bending over him, wild with anxiety]. 
 Oh, I wish they'd be quick with the brandy. Henry, 
 go at once for Dr. Glaisher. 
 
 The Rector. Let me go. We pass his house 
 anyway. And we mustn't stay any longer. We 
 should only be in the way here. Come, my 
 dear. 
 
 Enter Baines with brandy and jug of water. 
 
 Mrs. Pratt. Good-bye, dear Mrs. Jackson. No. 
 You mustn't stir. And I do hope he'll be all 
 right soon. We'll send Dr. Glaisher round at 
 once. 
 act I 137
 
 Tlie RetUTVi of the Prodigal 
 
 The Rector. Good-bye. [To Henry.] Don't 
 come with mc, my dear fellow. Baines can find my 
 things. Stay and look after your brother. 
 
 [The Rector and, Mrs. Pratt flurry out, followed 
 by Baines. Meantime Mrs. Jackson has been trying 
 to force some brandy between the clenched teeth of 
 the -patient.] 
 
 Violet. Your handkerchief, Henry. Quick. 
 
 [Henry gives it to her. She dips it in jug, wrings 
 it out and, kneeling beside the sofa, puts it over 
 patient^ s forehead by way of bandage^ 
 
 Mrs. Jackson \lamentably\ He doesn't stir. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. I can feel his heart beating a little, 
 I think. But I'm not sure. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Oh, will he never come round ! I 
 wish Dr. Glaisher would come. If he were to 
 die! 
 
 Violet [soothing her]. Hush, mother. He's only 
 fainted. Didn't you hear father say he could hear 
 his heart beating ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Is there anything else we could 
 do ? My salts ! 
 
 Violet [rising]. I'll get them, mother. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. They're on my dressing-table. 
 [Violet nods and goes out quickly.] . . . No, I 
 remember I had them in the library this morning. 
 I'll go and look. Or was it the breakfast-room ? I'm 
 not sure. Oh dear, oh dear, poor darling Eustace ! 
 
 [j^nd the poor old lady waddles out in a burst 
 of tears.] 
 138 act i
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Mr. Jackson. She'll never find them. You 
 go, Henry, and help her. Try the breakfast- 
 room. 
 
 [Henry goes out after his mother, and Mr. Jackson 
 is left alone with his prostrate son. For a minute or so 
 he fusses round, making futile and rather grotesque 
 efforts to restore him to consciousness, re-moistening the 
 bandage on his forehead and renewing the attempt to 
 administer brandy. Then Violet's voice is heard 
 through the door, which is left open.] 
 
 Violet [without]. Father ! 
 Mr. Jackson [going to door, hurriedly]. Yes, yes, 
 what is it ? 
 
 Enter Violet. 
 
 Violet. Have you your keys ? Mother thinks 
 she may have left her salts on your desk in the library, 
 and it's locked. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [frantic with nervous irritation], 
 Tck ! Here they are. [Violet going.] I'd better 
 come or you'll disturb all my papers. 
 
 [Mr. Jackson /mj/^j out after his daughter, and for 
 a minute or so the patient is left alone. The patient 
 takes advantage of this to raise himself cautiously from 
 his recumbent posture and wring out the bandage on his 
 forehead, which he finds disagreeably wet. He also 
 removes a novel with a bright red cover, inconsiderately 
 left on the sofa, which somewhat interfered with his 
 comfort as he lay upon it. He reads the title on the 
 back of it, which is " Hester'' s Escape^'' and smiles 
 act I 139
 
 The Retur7i of the Prodigal 
 
 grimly at his sisUr^s taste in fiction. Hearing noise 
 of returning footsteps y he hurriedly replaces the hook on 
 the sofa and the bandage on his forehead^ and resumes 
 his fainting condition as his mother re-enters with 
 Henry.] 
 
 Mrs. Jackson \j>iteously\ They're not in the 
 library. Where caii I have put them ? 
 
 Henry. The others will find them. Violet is 
 looking in your bedroom. She always finds things. 
 And the governor is in the breakfast-room. They'll 
 be here in a moment. 
 
 Enter Violet with salts in her hand, followed at a 
 short interval by Mr. Jackson. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Thanks, dear. [Bending over the 
 patient and holding the salts tremulously to his nose, but 
 entirely forgetting to take out the stopper.^ WTiere 
 were they ? 
 
 Violet. In the dining-room, on the writing- 
 table. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Oh yes, I remember. I had 
 them there at lunch time. I knew I had put them 
 somewhere. 
 
 Henry \irritably\ There's no use holding those 
 salts to his nose unless you take out the stopper, 
 mother. 
 
 [Mrs. Jackson fumbles with stopper. Patient stirs 
 slightly and turns away his head.] 
 
 Mr. Jackson. He's coming round. He moved a 
 little. Try him with some more brandy. 
 
 140 ACT I
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 [Mrs. Jackson -puts down salts and takes up brandy, 
 which she pours into patient's mouth. He chokes a 
 little, heaves a realistic sigh of returning consciousness, 
 opens his eyes, then raises himself and looks round."] 
 
 Eustace [faintly]. Is that you, mother ? 
 Mrs. Jackson [overjoyed]. Yes, dear, yes. 
 Eustace [closing his eyes again]. Where am I ? 
 Mrs. Jackson. At home, dear. Your own home. 
 Oh, he's not dead ! He's not dead ! 
 
 [Embraces him, sobbing passionately as the curtain 
 falls.] 
 
 act I 141
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene: — T he breakfast-room at the ]ACKSOiis\ Around 
 breakfast-table occupies the centre of the stage, 
 laid zvith cloth, tea and coffee things, and various 
 dishes. The fireplace is on the left, a?id on either 
 side of it are leather-covered arm-chairs. There 
 is a large French window, open, at the hack of the 
 stage, through which is seen the garden bathed in 
 summer sunshine. A door on the left leads to the 
 hall. A night has passed since the ProdigaVs 
 return. Mr. Jackson, Henry, and Violet are 
 at breakfast, Violet having charge of the coffee, 
 Mr. Jackson of the bacon dish. Henry is 
 reading " The Gloucester Chronicle " in the inter- 
 vals of eating his bacon. Violet is reading 
 letters.] 
 
 Henry [holding out cup]. More coffee, please, 
 Violet. [To Mr. Jackson.] Wenhams have failed, 
 father. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. It's only what we expected, isn't 
 it ? 
 
 Henry. Yes. Forty thousand they say here. 
 But, of course, it's only a guess. No one can know 
 till the accounts are made up. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. They've been shaky for some time. 
 Well, how is he ? 
 
 \This to Mrs. Jackson, who enters at this moment 
 
 from hall. She has quite recovered her normal placidity, 
 
 142 act II
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 and hears no resemblance to the tragic, tear-stained old 
 lady whom we last saw.] 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Much better. He looks quite a 
 different person. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Did he eat any breakfast ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. He hasn't had any yet. At least, 
 only a cup of tea. He says he'd rather come down. 
 He's getting up now. 
 
 Violet. Didn't Dr. Glaisher say he was to stay 
 in bed ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Yes. But if he wants to come 
 down I don't think it can do any harm. He can lie 
 down on the sofa till lunch if he feels tired. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. What time is Glaisher coming ? 
 
 Violet. Half-past ten, he said. 
 
 Henry. Has Eustace explained how he came to 
 be lying in the drive in that state ? Last night we 
 could get nothing out of him. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. No wonder. He was dazed, poor 
 boy. He had walked all the way from London, and 
 had had nothing to eat. 
 
 Henry [irritably]. How was it he was in London ? 
 He was sent to Australia. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. He had been in Australia. He 
 worked his passage home. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. His money is all gone, I suppose — 
 the thousand pounds I gave him ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [placidly]. I don't know, Samuel. 
 I didn't ask. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Humph ! . . . [Pause.] I'll 
 trouble you for the toast, please, Henry. 
 
 Henry. I suppose we'd better make inquiries 
 about Wenhams, father ? It might be worth our 
 act II 143
 
 The Return of tlie Prodigal 
 
 while to buy the mill if it goes cheap. Then we 
 could run it and ours together. 
 
 ]\Ir. Jackson. Just so. Will you see to that ? 
 
 [Henry nods. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. I've got a letter to Aunt Isabel 
 to send by the early post. I ought to have wTitten 
 it last night. Will you put it into the box for me, 
 Samuel, as you go to the mill ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Certainly, my dear. 
 
 [Mrs. Jackson goes to writing-table and writes her 
 letter?^ 
 
 Henry \to his father~\. Very tiresome Eustace 
 turning up in that disreputable condition last night. 
 What will Stella think ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson. It's lucky the Faringfords had 
 gone before he was brought in. 
 
 Henry. The Pratts hadn't. Mrs. Pratt will have 
 told the entire village before lunch time. 
 
 Violet. I don't see why we should mind if she 
 does. There's nothing to be ashamed of. 
 
 [Rising and going over to fireplace , having finished 
 her breakfast.'] 
 
 Henry [impatiently]. Well, we won't discuss it. 
 
 [Returns to his paper. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [moving towards Henry, and speaking 
 in an undertone]. By the way, Henry, did you say 
 anything to Stella last night ? 
 
 Henry [hesitates]. No. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. I thought you were going to. 
 
 Henry. I was. In fact, I did begin. But she 
 didn't let me finish. I suppose she didn't under- 
 stand what I was going to say. 
 
 144 ACT II
 
 The Returii of the Prodigal 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Don't put it off too long. There 
 may be an election any day now, and the Faringford 
 influence means a great deal. 
 
 Henry. You've got Faringford's influence 
 already. He's chairman of your Committee. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. That's true. Still, he'll take more 
 trouble when I'm one of the family, so to speak. Yes, 
 I shouldn't put it off if I were you. 
 
 Henry. Very well, father. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Of course, Faringford is as poor as 
 Job. The estate's mortgaged up to the hilt. And 
 anything there is after he and Lady Faringford go 
 out of the coach — if there is anything — will go to the 
 son. Stella won't have a sixpence. Still, they're 
 good people — ^position in the county and all that. 
 And you'll have enough money for both. 
 
 Henry. Yes. Especially if we get hold of 
 Wenhams' mill. I'm sure I could make a good 
 thing out of that. We'd put in turbines as we 
 did here, get new machinery, and double our 
 output. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. How are the turbines working, by 
 the way ? 
 
 Henry. All right. And they'll go still better 
 when the new sluices are done. \_Rising?^ Well, I 
 shall go over to the mill now. Are you coming ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson. In a moment. 
 
 [Finishes his coffee a7id rises. 
 
 Violet. Shall I get your hat and stick, father .? 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Do, dear. [Violet goes out in 
 quest of these.] Is your letter ready, Maria ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Just done. [Fastens it up, rising.] 
 You won't forget it, will you ? 
 act II I : K " 145
 
 The Retufyi of the Prodigal 
 
 Mr. Jackson. No. Or, if I do, Henry will 
 remind me. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson \to Henry, who has collected his hat 
 and -papers, and is about to start for the mill]. Won't 
 you wait and sec Eustace before you go, Henry? 
 He'll be down in a moment. 
 
 Henry. It doesn't matter. I shall see him soon 
 enough. Coming, father ? 
 
 [Goes out by French window, crosses the lawn, and 
 disappears.] 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. I wish Henry could have stayed 
 to see Eustace before he started. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. I dare say he'll be over in the 
 course of the morning. 
 
 Violet [re-entering]. Here're your hat and stick, 
 father. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. That's a good girl. [Kisses her.] 
 Good-bye. I shall be in for lunch. 
 
 [Goes out by French window, following Henry. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [going to bacon dish and lifting cover]. 
 We must order some more bacon. Or do you think 
 Eustace had better have an egg ? 
 
 Violet. Shall I go up and ask him ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Do, dear. And I wonder if 
 you'd see cook at the same time and ask her if 
 she's wanting anything ? I have to go into the 
 village. 
 
 Violet. Very well, mother. 
 
 [Violet goes out on these errands. Mrs. Jackson 
 takes azvay plates to sideboard, clears a place for 
 Eustace where Henry sat, and lays for him,] 
 
 Footman [announcing]. Dr. Glaisher» 
 146 AQT H
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 [Dr. Glaisher enters^ very fussy and self-important, 
 a worthy, seedy little man, who has long since forgotten 
 all the medicine he ever knew.] 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [shaking hands]. Oh, Doctor. 
 Good morning. [To Footman.] Tell Mr. Eustace 
 Dr. Glaisher is here. [Footman goes out. 
 
 Dr. Glaisher [drawing off gloves in his best -pro- 
 fessional manner, and dropping them one after the other 
 into his silk hat, which he has placed on the table]. 
 Well, how does he seem ? Going on well ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Quite well, I think. 
 
 Dr. Glaisher. Did he have a good night ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Excellent, he says. 
 
 Dr. Glaisher. Ah ! [Nods sagely.] Just so. 
 Shall I go up to him ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. He's coming down for breakfast. 
 He'll be here in a moment. 
 
 Dr. Glaisher. Coming down, is he ? Come, 
 that looks satisfactory ! Still, we must be careful. 
 No over-fatigue ! His condition last night gave 
 cause for considerable anxiety. Indeed, I may say 
 that if I had not fortunately been sent for at once 
 and applied the necessary remedies, there was 
 distinct danger of collapse — um ! distinct danger. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Oh, Doctor ! 
 
 [With singular want of tact, Eustace elects to enter 
 at this moment, looking in quite robust health, and 
 wearing an admirable suit of clothes.] 
 
 Dr. Glaisher. Ah, here he is. 
 
 Eustace [cheerily]. Good morning, mother. 
 [Kisses her.] Hullo, Doctor. Come to see me ? 
 ACT II 147
 
 The Retur?i of the Prodigal 
 
 Dr. Glaisher [shaking hands']. Well, and how are 
 we this morning ? 
 
 Eustace. Getting on all right, I think. A bit 
 limp and vvashcd-out perhaps. 
 
 Dr. Glaisher. Just so. The temperature nor- 
 mal ? No fever ? [Touches forehead.'] That's right. 
 Pulse ? [Feels it.] A little irregular, perhaps. But 
 nothing serious. Excitement due to over-fatigue, no 
 doubt. Now let me see your tongue. [Does so. 
 Nods sagely.] Just so. As I should have expected. 
 Just as I should have expected, dear Mrs. Jackson. 
 Appetite not very good, I suppose ? 
 Eustace. Er — not very. 
 Dr. Glaisher. Just so. Just so. 
 
 [Nods more sagaciously than ever. 
 Eustace [gaily]. Not dead yet, eh. Doctor ? 
 Mrs. Jackson. My dear ! 
 
 Dr. Glaisher [with heavy geniality]. We shall 
 pull you through. Oh, we shall pull you through. 
 But you must take care of yourself for a few days. 
 No excitement ! No over-fatigue. The system 
 wants tone a little, wants tone. 
 
 Eustace. I see. I'm to take it easy, in fact, for a 
 bit, eh ? 
 
 Dr. Glaisher. Just so. 
 
 Eustace. I won't forget. I say, what clever 
 beggars you doctors are ! You feel a fellow's pulse 
 and look at his tongue, and you know all about him 
 at once. Don't you ? 
 
 Dr. Glaisher [-pleased]. Not all perhaps. But 
 there are indications, symptoms, which the pro- 
 fessional man can interpret . . . 
 
 Eustace [interrupting]. Quite extraordinary. I 
 
 148 act II
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 say, what do you think of these clothes ? Not bad, 
 are they ? They're Henry's. But / chose them — 
 out of his wardrobe. Poor old Henry ! 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. How naughty of you, Eustace. 
 I'm sure Henry won't like it. 
 
 Eustace. Of course he won't, mother dear. 
 Nobody does like his clothes being worn by some one 
 else. But I must wear something, you know. I 
 can't come down to breakfast in a suit of pyjamas. 
 Besides, they're Henry's pyjamas. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. But I told Thomas specially to 
 put out an old suit of your father's for you. Didn't 
 he do it ? 
 
 Eustace. Yes. But I can't wear the governor's 
 clothes, you know. We haven't the same figure. 
 I say, I'd better ring for breakfast. [Does so. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Have you ordered it, dear ? I 
 sent Vi up to ask whether you'd like bacon or 
 eggs. 
 
 Eustace. Yes. Violet asked me. I said bacon 
 and eggs. Hullo, Vi, you're just in time to pour out 
 my coffee. 
 
 \^his to Violet, who re-enters at this moment from 
 interviewing the cook and otherwise attending to her 
 mother^s household duties.] 
 
 Dr. Glaisher [shakes hands with Violet]. Well, 
 I must be off to my other patients. \^o Mrs. 
 Jackson.] Good-bye, Mrs. Jackson. He is going 
 on well — quite as well as can be expected, that is. 
 There are no fresh symptoms of an unfavourable 
 character. But you must keep him quiet for a few 
 days. There are signs of nervousness about him, 
 a sort of suppressed excitement, which I don't like. 
 act ii 149
 
 The Rctu?yi of the Prodigal 
 
 The system wants tone^ decidedly wants tone. I'll 
 send liim up a mixture to take. He has evidently 
 been through some strain lately. I knew that 
 directly I saw him last night. You can't deceive a 
 doctor ! 
 
 [Man hr'mgs in breakfast — rack of toast on table, 
 coffee and rolls on sideboard.'] 
 
 AIrs. Jackson {anxiously). You don't think 
 there's anything serious the matter ? 
 
 Dr. Glaisher. No ! no ! Let us hope not. The 
 general constitution is sound enough. Not over 
 strong perhaps, but sound. And with youth on his 
 side. Let me see, how old is he ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Nine and twenty. 
 
 Dr. Glaisher [taking refuge i?i his sage nod again]. 
 Just so. Just so. ... [Cheering up.] Well, good 
 morning. [To Eustace.] Good morning. And re- 
 member, quiet, perfectly quiet. I'll look in again 
 to-morrow and see how he's getting on. 
 
 Eustace [tiods]. Good-bye. [Goes towards break- 
 fast table, where the Footman by nozv has placed 
 coffee, toast, and bacon and eggs.] 
 
 [Dr. Glaisher shakes hands zvith Violet and goes 
 out, followed by Footman. Violet seats herself at 
 table to pour out Eustace's coffee. Mrs. Jackson 
 draws up a chair, and sits by his side with placid con- 
 tentment, watching him eat.] 
 
 Eustace [beginning his breakfast]. Mother, I 
 think I must become a doctor. It's the only profes- 
 sion I know of which seems to require no knowledge 
 150 act II
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 whatever. And it's the sort of thing I should do 
 rather well. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. I dare say, dear. You must 
 speak to your father about it. . . . And now you 
 must tell us all about yourself. What have you been 
 doing all this time ? And why did you never 
 write ? 
 
 Eustace. There was nothing to tell you — that 
 you'd have liked to hear. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. My dear, of course we should 
 have liked to hear everything about you. 
 
 Eustace. I doubt it. No news is good news. I 
 bet the governor thought that — and Henry. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. No, no, dear. I assure you your 
 father was quite anxious when we never heard — at 
 first. 
 
 Eustace. Ah, well, if the governor was so 
 anxious to know how I was he shouldn't have packed 
 me off to Australia. I never could endure writing 
 letters. 
 
 Violet. Still, you might have sent us word. It 
 would have been kinder to mother. 
 
 Eustace \laying his hand 07i his mother'' s as it lies 
 on the arm of her chair]. Poor mother. I suppose 
 I was a brute. But I've not been very prosperous 
 these five years, and as I'd nothing pleasant to say 
 I thought I wouldn't write. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. But what became of your money, 
 dear ? The thousand pounds your father gave 
 you ? 
 
 Eustace. I lost it. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [looking round vaguely as //"Eustace 
 might have dropped it somewhere on the carpet^ in 
 
 ACT II 151
 
 TJie Return of the Prodigal 
 
 which case^ of course, it ought to be picked up before 
 some one treads o?i it"]. I^ost it ? 
 
 Eustace. Yes. Part of it went in a sheep farm. 
 I suppose I was a bad farmer. Anyhow, the sheep 
 died. The other part I put in a gold mine. I 
 suppose I wasn't much of a miner. Anyhow, there 
 was no gold in it. I was in the Mounted Police 
 for a time. That was in Natal. It wasn't bad, 
 but it didn't lead to anything. So I cleared out. 
 I've been in a bank at Hong-kong. I've driven a 
 cable car in San Francisco. I've been a steward 
 on a liner. I've been an actor, and I've been a 
 journalist. I've tried my hand at most things, in 
 fact. At one time I played in an orchestra. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [withfo?id pride]. You were always 
 fond of music. 
 
 Eustace [dryly]. Yes, I played the triangle — 
 and took a whack at the big drum between 
 times. 
 
 Violet. How absurd you are ! 
 
 Eustace. Finally, I came home. That was 
 when my experience as a steward came in. I worked 
 my passage as one — ^if you can call it work ! I was 
 sick all the time. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. How dreadful ! 
 
 Eustace. It was — ^for the passengers. 
 
 Violet. How long ago was that ? 
 
 Eustace. Only about a month. Since then I've 
 been in London picking up a living one way or 
 another. At last, when I found myself at the end of 
 my tether, I started to walk here. And here I am. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. My dear boy ! You must have 
 found it terribly muddy ! 
 
 152 ACT II
 
 The Retur?i of tlie Prodigal 
 
 Eustace. I did. But life always is rather muddy, 
 isn't it ? At least, that's my experience. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. But weren't you very tired ? 
 
 Eustace. I was tired, of course. Give me some 
 more coffee, Vi. 
 
 \^he does so. Eustace takes advantage of this to 
 change the subject, gently hut firmly.^ 
 
 Well, how have you all been at home ? How's 
 the governor ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. He's been very well on the whole. 
 His lumbago was rather troublesome at the end of 
 last year. Otherwise he's been all right. 
 
 Eustace. Does he stick to business as close as 
 ever ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Not quite. You see, Henry's a 
 partner now. The firm is Jackson, Hartopp, and 
 Jackson, and he takes a good deal of work off your 
 father's shoulders. Henry is an excellent man of 
 business. 
 
 [Eustace nods.'\ 
 
 Your father gives more of his time to public 
 affairs now. He's a magistrate, and been on the 
 County Council for the last three years. And now 
 he's standing for Parliament. 
 
 Eustace. The family's looking up in the world. 
 The business is flourishing, then ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Oh yes. They've put in all 
 new machinery in the last three years. And they've 
 got turbines instead of the old water-wheels. That 
 was Henry's idea. And now they can turn out a 
 cheaper cloth than any of the mills round here. 
 
 ACT II 153
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Eustace. Cheaper ? The governor used to des- 
 pise cheap cloth. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Yes. But Henry said it was no 
 use making cloth that would last a lifetime if people 
 only wanted it to last twelve months. So he got 
 over new machines — from America. And now 
 they don't make any good cloth at all, and your 
 father has trebled his income. 
 
 Eustace. Bravo, Henry ! 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [mifj]. And now I really must 
 go down to the village and do my shopping. Have 
 you got cook's list, Vi ? 
 
 Violet. Yes, mother. But I'm coming, too. 
 I promised Mrs. Pratt I'd call at the Vicarage before 
 twelve to arrange about the next Mothers' .Meeting. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [to Eustace]. You'll find the paper 
 there, dear, and some cigarettes — ^unless you think 
 you oughtn't to smoke ? I'll ring for them to 
 clear away. And remember, dear [kisses him gently 
 on the forehead^ Dr. Glaisher said you were to keep 
 quite quiet. 
 
 Eustace. All right, mother. I'll remember. 
 
 [Mrs. Jackson and Violet go out to their shopping 
 in the village. Eustace, who has risen to open the 
 door for them, closes it, and returns slowly towards the 
 table. The smile dies out of his face, and he gives a 
 perceptible yazvn. Then he chooses a cigarette, lights 
 it in leisurely fashion, takes up a paper, selects an arm- 
 chair by the fireplace, sits down, and begins to read. 
 After a moment or two, enter Baines, with a tray in 
 his hand.] 
 
 You can clear away, Baines. 
 
 154 act II
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Baines. Thank you, sir. 
 
 \Tlhere is silence for an appreciable time, while 
 Baines goes on cleari?ig the table. Then he speaks, 
 but without pausing in his work.] 
 
 I hope you're feeling better this morning, 
 sir ? 
 
 Eustace. Thanks, Baines, the doctor thinks I'm 
 getting on all right. 
 
 Baines. Narrow escape you had last night, sir. 
 Thomas says the carriage wheels must have gone 
 within a foot of your head. 
 
 Eustace. Thomas is a — I mean, does he say 
 that ? 
 
 Baines. Curious thing we shouldn't have seen 
 you, sir. We must have been that close ! But 
 it was a very dark night except when the moon was 
 out. Then it was as bright as day almost. That 
 was how he came to see you, sir. 
 
 Eustace. Oh, that was it, was it ? 
 
 Baines. Yes, sir. [The subject interests him so 
 much that for a moment he actually stops his clearing^ 
 You see, Thomas had just shut the gate after the 
 carriage drove away and the moon happened to 
 come out . . . 
 
 Eustace [bored]. Quite so. 
 
 [Baines, snubbed, resumes his work with dignity. 
 After an interval Eustace speaks again.] 
 
 Whose carriage was it, by the way ? 
 
 Baines [still offended]. Sir John Faringford's, 
 sir. 
 
 Eustace. Well, if one's head is to be driven 
 act II 155
 
 The Retur?i of the Prodigal 
 
 over, it may as well be by a member of the 
 aristocracy. Eh, Baines ? 
 
 Baines [refusing to be mollified]. Certainly, sir. 
 
 Eustace. Sir John often dine here nowadays ? 
 
 Baines. Yes, sir. And Lady Faringford, and 
 Miss Stella. 
 
 Eustace. Miss Stella ? 
 
 Baines [thazving a little^ hut not sufficiently af- 
 'peased to fatise in his work again]. Their daughter, 
 sir. But I dare say you wouldn't remember her. 
 Only came out about a year ago. 
 
 Eustace. So my father is standing for Parlia- 
 ment, is he ? 
 
 Baines. Yes, sir. 
 
 Eustace. Will he get in ? 
 
 Baines. It's thought so, sir. 
 
 Eustace. By the way, which side is he on ? 
 
 Baines [fuz'zled]. I beg pardon, sir ? 
 
 Eustace. Wliich side ? Liberal or Conserva- 
 tive ? 
 
 Baines. Conservative, of course, sir. All the 
 people round here are Conservative. All the gentry, 
 that is. 
 
 Eustace. Most respectable, eh, Baines ? 
 
 Baines. Yes, sir. 
 
 [Baines, who has tray in his ha7id, hears bell, has 
 a mometit of indecision, then pits tray down on 
 table.] 
 
 Excuse me, sir. 
 
 [Baines goes out to answer the bell. Eustace returns 
 to his newspaper. After a minute or so Baines 
 returns, and zuanders about the room looking for some- 
 156 act II
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 thing. 'Presently this froceeding gets on Eustace's 
 nerves^ and he looks up irritably.^ 
 
 Eustace. What is it, Baines ? Do you want 
 anything ? 
 
 Baines. If you please, sir, Miss Faringford has 
 called for a book Miss Violet promised to lend 
 her. 
 
 [Continues to search. 
 
 Eustace [after pause']. Have you found it ? 
 
 Baines. No, sir. 
 
 Eustace [bored^ putting down paper on other 
 arm-chair, and rising]. I suppose I'd better see 
 her. 
 
 \He goes out. Baines folds tablecloth and puts it 
 away in sideboard drawer. Is just about to go out 
 carrying tray, when enter Stella, followed by 
 Eustace. Baines draws back to let them pass, and 
 then goes out and closes the door.] 
 
 Eustace. Come in. Miss Faringford. Perhaps I 
 can find the book for you. What was it like ? 
 
 Stella. It was just an ordinary looking novel 
 with a bright red cover — called "Hester's Escape." 
 
 Eustace [wandering round the room, looking on the 
 various tables, and then glancing hopelessly at the book- 
 shelves]. " Hestor's Escape ? " I seem to remember 
 the name. But Vi will know where it is. You'd 
 better wait till she comes in. Sit down. She'll 
 be back directly. 
 
 [This hospitable invitation is prompted partly by 
 Eustace's disinclination to search through those book- 
 shelves, partly by his observing for the first time that 
 act II 157
 
 The Retur7i of the Prodi '/a I 
 
 Stella is a very -pretty girl, a fact which had escaped 
 his notice in the relative darkness of the hall.'\ 
 
 Stella. Arc you sure ? 
 Eustace. Quite ! 
 
 [Stella takes one of the arm-chairs by the fireplace. '\ 
 
 You won't mind an untidy room, will you ? I'm 
 afraid I breakfasted late. 
 
 Stella. I wonder you are down at all. 
 
 Eustace. Oh, I'm all right. 
 
 [Turns round one of the chairs at the hreakfast- 
 tahle and sits near her.] 
 
 Stella. Arc you sure you ought to talk ? People 
 who have been ill ought to be quiet, oughtn't 
 they ? 
 
 Eustace. There's really nothing the matter with 
 me. 
 
 Stella. That's not what Mrs. Pratt told me. 
 I met her in the village as I was coming here. 
 
 Eustace. Ah yes. She was present, of course, 
 when I made my dramatic entry. Did she tell 
 you about it ? I hope it went off well ? 
 
 Stella. You frightened every one terribly, if 
 that's what you mean. Mrs. Pratt says vou looked 
 dreadful. She thought you were going to die. 
 
 Eustace. Quite a thrilling experience for her. 
 She ought to be very much obliged to me. 
 
 Stella. How can you joke about it ? You 
 might really have died, you know ! But when 
 people have travelled all over the world as you have 
 done, and endured hardship and danger, I suppose 
 death doesn't seem so terrible to tlicm as it docs to 
 us who stay at home ? 
 158 act II
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Eustace. I suppose not. They get used to it. 
 
 Stella. Have you often been in great danger ? 
 Really great, I mean ? 
 
 Eustace. I was at Singapore when the plague 
 was there. 
 
 Stella. How awful ! 
 
 Eustace. Yes. It wasn't pleasant. 
 
 Stella. I can't think how any one can stay in 
 England when he might go out and see the world. 
 ^Enthusiastic^ If I were a man I would go abroad 
 and visit strange countries, and have wonderful 
 adventures as you have done, not waste my life in a 
 dull little village like Chedleigh. 
 
 Eustace. My dear Miss Faringford, the whole 
 world is a dull little village like Chedleigh, and 
 I've wasted my life in it. 
 
 Enter Baines. 
 
 Baines. If you please, sir, the Rector has called 
 to ask how you are. 
 
 Eustace. Oh, bother. Say I'm very much 
 obliged and I'm all right. \^urns to Stella again. 
 
 Baines. He said he would like to see you if you 
 felt well enough, sir. 
 
 Eustace. Ah ! wait a minute. \^hinks^ Will 
 you say I'm not well at all and quite unfit to see him 
 this morning ? 
 
 Baines. Very well, sir. [Baines goes out. 
 
 Stella [rising]. And now I must go. I'm only 
 tiring you, and I expect you oughtn't to talk. 
 
 Eustace. But I assure you 
 
 Stella. And as you're quite unfit to see 
 visitors 
 
 ACT II I^^
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Eustace. Pm quite unfit to see the Rector. 
 That's a very different thing. But I'm perfectly 
 up to seeing you. Besides Violet should be here 
 directly, now. ^Persuasively^ Sit down again. 
 
 Stella \hesitating\. I don't think I ought to 
 stay. 
 
 Eustace. Pm sure you ought. One should visit 
 the sick, you know. 
 
 Stella \with a laugh]. You don't seem quite 
 able to make up your mind whether you're ill or 
 well. 
 
 Eustace. No. I vary. I find it more con- 
 venient. 
 
 Re-enter Baines. 
 
 Well, who is it nozu, Baines ? 
 Baines. Lady Faringford. 
 
 [Baines's remark is not a reply to Eustace's 
 question, nor yet a rebuke to his irritability, though it 
 sounds not unlike the latter. He is merely afinou?ici7ig 
 a visitor with his usual impassive dignity. The an- 
 nouncement almost startles Stella out of her self- 
 control, and she rises hastily. Eustace is less 
 impressed, as he has not yet made the acquaintance 
 of Lady Faringford, a^id is merely bored at 
 being interrupted, but he also rises.] 
 
 Stella. Alamma ! 
 
 Lady Faringford [ignoring her]. Mr. Eustace 
 Jackson, is it not ? How do you do ? [Shakes hands 
 frigidly.] I heard in the village of your sudden 
 return, and stopped the carriage to ask how you 
 were. As the servant told me you were downstairs, 
 I thought I would come in for a moment. 
 j6o act II
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Eustace. Very kind of you, Lady Faringford. 
 
 Lady Faringford \severely\ You hardly appear 
 as ill as I expected. 
 
 Eustace \_genially, quite refusing to be snubbed]. 
 I hope the disappointment is an agreeable one ? 
 
 Lady Faringford. No disappointments are 
 agreeable, sir. [Turning sternly to her daughter.] 
 And pray, what are you doing here, Stella ? 
 
 Eustace [still maddeningly genial^. Miss Faring- 
 ford called for a book my sister lent her last night, 
 *' Hester's Escape." I persuaded her to come in and 
 sit down till Violet returned. 
 
 Lady Faringford. You are expecting her soon ? 
 
 Eustace. Every moment. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Ah ! Then I don't think 
 we can wait. 
 
 Eustace. But Miss Faringford's book. . . . She 
 mustn't go away without it. Sit down for a 
 moment while I see if I can find it. [To Stella.] 
 A bright red cover, I think you said ? 
 
 [Looks round the room for it. 
 
 Lady Faringford [icily]. Pray don't trouble, 
 ]\'Ir. Jackson. 
 
 Eustace. " Hester's Escape " ? I'm sure I've seen 
 it somewhere. [Thinks a mo7nent.] I know ! It 
 was in the drawing-room last night. Excuse me for 
 a moment. I'll go and get it. 
 
 [Eustace goes out in quest of the book, which indeed 
 is the very one which interfered with his comfort on the 
 sofa the 'previous evening. The moment he has left 
 the room, Lady Faringford turns wrathfully on her 
 daughter.] 
 act ii I : l i6i
 
 TJjc Retm'n of the Prodigal 
 
 Lady Faringford. Really, Stella, I'm surprised 
 at you ! 
 
 Stella. What is it, mamma ? 
 
 Lady Faringford. You know perfectly well. 
 How long have you been here ? 
 
 Stella. About ten minutes. A quarter of an 
 hour, perhaps. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Do you make a habit of 
 paying morning calls upon young men without a 
 chaperon ? 
 
 Stella. No, mamma. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Then I hope you will not 
 begin to do so. 
 
 Stella \goaded, by her tone to the nearest a-pproach 
 to rebellion of which she is capable]. I came to call 
 for a book which Vi promised to lend me. Vi 
 was out, and Mr. Jackson very kindly asked me 
 to come in and wait. What harm is there in 
 that ? 
 
 Lady Faringford. There is every harm. Under- 
 stand, please, that ]\Ir. Eustace Jackson is not a 
 suitable acquaintance for you. 
 
 Stella. He is Henry's brother. You have no 
 objection to my knowing Henry. 
 
 Lady Faringford. That is quite different. 
 Henry has a large income and excellent pros- 
 pects. He is a man whom any young girl may 
 be allowed to know. Eustace is a mere ne'er-do- 
 well. 
 
 Stella. Am I never to speak to any one who 
 isn't rich ? The Du Cranes aren't rich, or the 
 Vere-Anstruthers. Yet we know them. We aren't 
 rich ourselves, if it comes to that. 
 162 act II
 
 The Retw^n of the Prodigal - 
 
 Lady Faringford. That has nothing to do 
 with it. The Du Cranes and poor George 
 Anstruther are gentlepeople. The Jacksons are 
 tradesmen. 
 
 Stella. I think people make far too much fuss 
 about being " gentlepeople." 
 
 Lady Faringford. Then I hope you. won't say 
 so. I don't like this pernicious modern jargon 
 about shopkeepers and gentlefolk being much the 
 same. There's far too much truth in it to be 
 agreeable. 
 
 Stella [obstinately]. If it's true why shouldn't 
 we say it ? 
 
 Lady Faringford. Because we have everything 
 to lose by doing so. We were born into this world 
 with what is called position. Owing to that posi- 
 tion we are received everywhere, flattered, made 
 much of. Though we are poor, rich people are 
 eager to invite us to their houses and marry our 
 daughters. So much the better for us. But if 
 we began telling people that position was all moon- 
 shine, family an antiquated superstition, and many 
 duchesses far less like ladies than their maids, the 
 world would ultimately discover that what we were 
 saying was perfectly true. Whereupon we should 
 lose the very comfortable niche in the social system 
 which we at present enjoy, and — ^who knows ? — 
 might actually be reduced in the end to doing some- 
 thing useful for our living like other people. Noi> 
 no, my dear, rank and birth and the peerage may be 
 all nonsense, but it isn't our business to say so. Leave 
 that to vulgar people who have something to gain 
 by it. Noblesse oblige ! 
 act II 163
 
 Tlie Retinyi of the Prodigal 
 
 [This luminous exposition of the Faringford social 
 creed has just reached its allotted end when Eustace 
 re-enters with the missing hook.'\ 
 
 Eustace. Here's the book, Miss Faringford. I 
 hope you haven't had to wait too long ? It was in 
 the drawing-room, as I thought, but it had got 
 put away under some papers. 
 
 Stella. Thank you so much. 
 
 Lady Faringford [risings icily]. Good-bye, Mr. 
 Jackson. 
 
 Stella [shaking hands with deajint cordiality]. 
 Good-bye. Give my love to Violet. 
 
 [Eustace 0'pe7is the door for Lady Faringford and 
 her daughter, and follows them out politely to see them 
 to their carriage. A moment later Henry is seen 
 crossing the lawn. He enters by the Frefich window. 
 He has some letters and other papers of a business 
 character in his hand, which he puts down on writing 
 table. He takes off his hat, sits down, and begins to 
 write a note. Presently Eustace re-enters, but Henry 
 does not notice him as his back is turned to the door.] 
 
 Eustace [after contemplating his brother^s back 
 for a moment with a grim smile]. Hullo, Henry. 
 Where did you spring from ? 
 
 Henry [turning in his chair at the sound of his 
 voice]. From the mill. I came across the lawn. 
 We had a short cut made through the shrubbery 
 and a gate put three years ago. It's quicker. 
 
 Eustace. One of your improvements, eh ? 
 
 Henry. Yes. [Eustace laughs genially.] 
 
 You're amused ? 
 
 164 act II
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Eustace. It's so like you having a path made so 
 as to get to your work quicker. 
 
 Henry \hriefly\. Yes. I'm not an idler. 
 
 Eustace. Quite so. And / am, you mean ? 
 
 Henry \shrug5\. I didn't say so. 
 
 Eustace [quite good-humoured']. You wanted to 
 spare my feelings, no doubt ? Very thoughtful of 
 you. 
 
 Henry [after a pause]. Is the mater in ? 
 
 Eustace. I beHeve not. [Jnother pause.] By 
 the way, I've been borrowing some of your clothes. 
 Not a bad fit, are they ? It's lucky we're so much 
 the same size. 
 
 Henry [grimly]. Very ! 
 
 Eustace. It's particularly lucky, as I've been 
 entertaining visitors on behalf of the family. 
 
 Henry [frigidly]. Indeed ? 
 
 Eustace. Yes. One of them a very charming 
 visitor. 
 
 Henry [not interested]. Who was that ? 
 
 Eustace. Miss Faringford. 
 
 Henry [startled]. Stella ? 
 
 Eustace. Yes. [Easily.] Very nice girl alto- 
 gether. She was here quite a long time while I told 
 her my adventures — or as much of them as I thought 
 suitable. Then unhappily her mother turned up. 
 Rather an awful woman that ! 
 
 Henry [annoyed]. What did Stella come for ? 
 
 Eustace [chaffing him gently]. Not to inquire 
 after me, if that's what you mean. Miss Faringford 
 came for a book Vi had lent her, " Hester's Escape." 
 She's certainly a very pretty girl. And a nice 
 one. 
 act II 165
 
 The Rctu7^7i of the Proaigal 
 
 Henry \_stiffly\ I may as well tell you I intend 
 to marry Stella f aringford. 
 
 Eustace. Indeed ? \Fause?[ Have you asked 
 her yet ? 
 
 Henry \sna'ps\. No. 
 
 Eustace. Then I wouldn't be too sure if I were 
 you. Perhaps she won't have you. 
 
 \^his suggestion is too much for Henry, who rises 
 sharfly from his chair, gathering up his papers with 
 a viezv to finishing his writing in another room. When 
 he has got half-way to the door he suddefily recollects 
 himself, and turns sharp rou7id to his brother.] 
 
 Henry. Oh, by the way, how are you ? 
 
 Eustace [laughing]. I'm all right, thanks. 
 
 Henry [irritably]. How on earth did you come 
 to be lying in the drive in that way last night ? 
 
 Eustace [airily]. Exhaustion, my dear chap. 
 Cold and exposure ! Hunger ! You know the kind 
 of thing. 
 
 Henry. Cold ? Why, it's the height of summer. 
 
 Eustace [shruggifig his shoulders]. Heat, then. 
 
 Henry [exasperated]. But how did you manage 
 to get there ? That's what I want to know. You 
 are supposed to be in Australia. 
 
 Eustace [beginning to laugh]. I'll tell you. Only 
 you must promise not to give me away. 
 
 Henry. Give you away ? 
 
 Eustace. Yes. [Pause. He plunges into his 
 story.] I was awfully hard up and awfully sick of 
 finding jobs and losing them, and at last I began to 
 long for a proper dinner, properly served, and a 
 decent suit of clothes. Like these. I thought of 
 i66 act II
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 writing to the governor, but that would have been 
 no good. He'd have sent me some good advice and 
 the mater would have sent a fiver, and in a fortnight 
 things would have been as bad as ever. At last 
 I thought of a dramatic cowp. The Prodigal's 
 Return ! The Fatted Calf ! A father softened, a 
 mother in tears ! The virtuous elder brother scowl- 
 ing in the background ! So I came here. Back to 
 the Old Home, you know. At the front door I 
 selected a convenient spot and lay down in an 
 elaborate faint. Excuse the pun. I chose the 
 moment just after the Faringfords' carriage had 
 gone. I knew the footman would have to come in 
 after shutting the gate, and I intended to kick his 
 leg and groan in an impressive manner. Anything 
 to attract attention. Fortunately, the moon came 
 out just at the right moment, so the fool couldn't 
 help spotting me. He called Baines, who recognised 
 me in a moment. They were very sympathetic. I 
 expect they thought I was drunk. The lower 
 classes are always sympathetic to intoxication. I 
 was borne into the drawing-room, the wandering 
 sheep returned to the fold, the exile home again. 
 Tableau ! Most pathetic ! 
 
 Henry [disgustecfj. And so you walked all the way 
 from London to Chedleigh in order to play off a 
 heartless practical joke. 
 
 Eustace. Walked ? Nonsense. I came by train. 
 
 Henry. But you told Vi you walked. 
 
 Eustace. I said I started to walk. I only got 
 as far as the station. 
 
 Henry [angrily]. It was unpardonable. The 
 mater was awfully upset. So was the governor. 
 
 ACT II 167
 
 The Retur7i of the Prodigal 
 
 Eustace. That was the idea. There's nothing 
 like a sudden shock to bring out any one's real feelings. 
 The governor had no idea how fond he was of mc 
 until he saw mc apparently dead, and unlikely to 
 give him further trouble. And by the time I came 
 round he'd forgotten the cause of his sudden affec- 
 tion — or perhaps he's never realised it — and was 
 genuinely glad to see me. Psychologically, it was 
 most interesting. 
 
 Henry. It was extremely undignified and quite 
 unnecessary. If you had simply come up to the 
 front door and rung the bell you would have been 
 received just as readily. 
 
 Eustace. I doubt it. In fact, I doubt if I 
 should have been received at all. I might possibly 
 have been given a bed for the night, but only on the 
 distinct understanding that I left early the next 
 morning. Whereas now nobody talks of my going. 
 A poor invalid ! In the doctor's hands ! Perfect 
 quiet essential. No. My plan was best. 
 
 Henry. Why didn't that fool Glaisher see 
 through you ? 
 
 Eustace. Doctors never see through their pa- 
 tients. It's not what they're paid for, and it's 
 contrary to professional etiquette. 
 
 [Henry snorts zvrathfidly.] 
 
 Besides, Glaisher's an ass, I'm glad to say. 
 
 Henry [fuming]. It would serve you right if I 
 told the governor the whole story. 
 
 Eustace. I dare say. But you won't. It 
 wouldn't be cricket. Besides, I only told you 
 on condition you kept it to yourself. 
 
 1 68 ACT II
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Henry [indignant]. And so Pm to be made a 
 partner in your fraud. The thing's a swindle, and 
 I've got to take a share in it. 
 
 Eustace. Swindle .? Not a bit. You've lent a 
 hand — ^without intending it — ^to reuniting a happy- 
 family circle. Smoothed the way for the Prodigal's 
 return. A very beautiful trait in your character. 
 
 Henry [grumpy]. What I don't understand is 
 why you told me all this. Why in heaven's name 
 didn't you keep the whole discreditable story to 
 yourself ? 
 
 Eustace [with flattering candour]. The fact is I 
 was pretty sure you'd find me out. The governor's a 
 perfect owl, but you've got brains — of a kind. You 
 can see a thing when it's straight before your nose. 
 So I thought I'd let you into the secret from the 
 start, just to keep your mouth shut. 
 
 Henry. Tck ! [Thinks for a moment.] And what 
 are you going to do now you are at home ? 
 
 Eustace [airily]. Do, my dear chap ? Why, 
 nothing. 
 
 [A7id 071 the spectacle of Eustace's smiling self- 
 assurance and Henry's outraged moral sense, the 
 curtain falls.] 
 
 act II 169
 
 ACT III 
 
 Scene. — The Law?i at Chedleigh Court. Ten days 
 have passed since Act II. It is a Saturday, and 
 the time is after luncheofi. On the left stands the 
 house, its French zvitidozos open on to the lawn. 
 The lawn is hounded by a shrubbery, through 
 which runs the path which Henry had made 
 three years previously to enable him to get to the 
 mill quicker. When the curtain rises, Eustace 
 is lying in a hammock, swinging lazily. He 
 wears a new grey flannel suit, and looks exceedingly 
 comfortable. Hard by, under a tree, are three or 
 four wicker chairs, i?i one of which Henry is 
 sitting, reading the Market Report in " The 
 Times. ^'' Eustace has a cup of coffee in his ha?id. 
 Henry has one on table beside him. Presently 
 Eustace drinks some, looking with indolent 
 amusement at his brother absorbed in his news- 
 paper. 
 
 Eustace. Not bad coffee, this. [Finishes it, and 
 begins to perform the acrobatic feat of putting his cup 
 and saucer on to the ground without falling out of the 
 hammock.^ 
 
 Henry [looking up\ I dare say. [Drinks some.] 
 You'll drop that cup. 
 
 Eustace. I think not. [Puts cup on to ground, 
 and resumes his recumbent posture indolently.] 
 
 170 act III
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Henry. If you leave it there some one's sure to 
 put his foot in it. 
 
 Eustace. I'll risk it. 
 
 Henry. Bah ! 
 
 [RiseSy and puts Eustace's cup 011 table. 
 
 Eustace. Thanks, my dear chap. Perhaps it is 
 safer there. 
 
 [Henry grunts again and returns to his newspaper. 
 Eustace gets cigarette out of pocket and lights it in a 
 leisurely manner?\^ 
 
 Anything exciting in the paper ? Any convul- 
 sions in Wool ? 
 
 Henry [snaps]. No ! 
 
 Eustace. Where's the governor ? He gene- 
 rally comes home to luncheon on Saturdays, 
 doesn't he ? 
 
 Henry. He's lunching at the Wilmingtons' with 
 the mater. He'll be back soon. There's a meeting 
 of his Election Committee at four. 
 
 Eustace. Where ? 
 
 Henry. Here. 
 
 Eustace. Will he get in ? 
 
 Henry. Faringford thinks so. But it'll be a 
 close thing. A very little might turn the scale either 
 way. 
 
 Eustace. Cost him a good deal, I suppose ? 
 
 Henry. Pretty well. 
 
 Eustace. Panem et Circenses, bread and circuses. 
 That's the Tory prescription, isn't it ? Particu- 
 larly circuses. 
 
 Henry. I dare say. 
 
 Enter Baines. 
 
 Baines. Dr. Glaisher to see you, sir. 
 
 ACT III 171
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 [The Doctor comes out of the house and advances 
 briskly to his patient. Baines collects coffee cups and 
 exit.] 
 
 Eustace [stretching out hand from hammock]. Mow 
 do you do. Doctor ? I'm following your pre- 
 scription, you see. Rest ! Rest ! There's nothing 
 like it. 
 
 Dr. Glaisher [with a sagacious nod]. Just so. 
 I really came for your father's committee. I 
 thought it was to be at three o'clock. But your 
 man tells me it's not till four. So I thought I'd 
 take a look at my patient. Well, and how are we 
 to-day ? 
 
 [During this scene Henry almost chokes with 
 indignation. Eustace enjoys himself immensely.] 
 
 Eustace. Going on all right, thanks. Still a 
 little limp perhaps. 
 
 Dr. Glaisher. Just so. The temperature nor- 
 mal ? No fever ? That's right. [Feels pulse.] 
 Pulse quite regular ? Now the tongue. Just so. 
 As I should have expected. Just as I should have 
 expected. Appetite still good ? 
 
 Eustace. Excellent, thanks. 
 
 Dr. Glaisher. You're still taking your glass of 
 port at eleven ? Just so. Oh, you'll soon be all 
 right. 
 
 Eustace. Thanks to you. Doctor. 
 
 Dr. Glaisher. Not at all. Not at all. [To 
 Henry.] He'll soon be himself again now. System 
 still wants t07ie a little, wants tone. I'll send him 
 round some more of that mixture. Otherwise he's 
 all right. [Henry grunts. 
 
 172 act III
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Eustace. And you'll look in again in a day or 
 two just to see how I am, won't you, Doctor ? 
 
 Dr. Glaisher. Certainly, if you wish it. And 
 now I must be off. I have a couple of patients near 
 here whom I can see in the next half-hour and be 
 back again by four. Good-bye. Good-bye. Don't 
 disturb yourself, pray. 
 
 [To Henry, who -pays not the smallest attention to 
 him. The Doctor /z<(/j(fj off into the house.] 
 
 Henry [savagely]. Ass ! 
 
 Eustace. My dear chap ! 
 
 Henry. Old Glaisher is a perfect noodle. 
 
 Eustace. Naturally. How much does a little 
 country doctor make hereabouts ? Four hundred 
 a year ? Say four hundred and fifty. You can't 
 expect a first-rate intellect for that. 'Tisn't the 
 market rate. 
 
 Henry. I don't expect an absolute idiot. 
 
 Eustace. Glaisher doesn't know anything, of 
 course, but his manner's magnificently impressive. 
 After he's talked to me for five minutes, felt my 
 pulse, and looked at my tongue, I almost begin to 
 wonder whether I'm not really ill after all. That's 
 a great gift for a doctor ! 
 
 Henry. You're perfectly well. Any fool can 
 see that merely by looking at you. And old Glaisher 
 goes on with his mixture and his glass of port at 
 eleven. Bah ! [Eustace laughs.] And you en- 
 courage him. How many visits has he paid you ? 
 
 Eustace. I don't know. Seven or eight. 
 
 Henry. And every one of them completely 
 unnecessary. 
 
 Eustace, Completely unnecessary for me, but 
 act III ly^
 
 The Retufyj of the Prodigal 
 
 very useful to old Glaisher, considering they mean 
 half a guinea a piece to him. 
 
 Henry. Which the governor pays. 
 
 Eustace. Which the governor pays, as you say. 
 That's why I do it. Somebody must keep old 
 Glaisher going, or what would become of all the 
 little Glaishers ? Here's the governor, with piles 
 of money to throw away on Parliamentary elec- 
 tions and similar tomfoolery. Why shouldn't I 
 divert some of it to old Glaisher. I like the little 
 man. 
 
 Henry. You're awfully generous — with other 
 people's money. 
 
 Eustace. I am. Wliose money arc you generous 
 with ? 
 
 [Henry snorts with disapproval. Further dis- 
 cussion, however, is prevented by the appearance of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, who come out of the house at 
 this moment. They are in their best apparel, having 
 just returned from their luncheon party.] 
 
 Eustace. Morning, father. I've not seen you 
 before to-day. You went out before I got down. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [g^^iffly, sitting dow7i\ Good 
 morning. 
 
 Eustace. Morning, mummy. 
 
 [Mrs. Jackson kisses him affectionately, then seats 
 herself in one of the chairs. He turns to his father 
 again.] 
 
 By the way, you've just missed one of your Election 
 
 Committee. 
 
 174 ACT in
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Mr. Jackson \alaTmed\. Not Sir John ? \Con- 
 sults watch.'] It's only half-past three. 
 
 Eustace. No — only little Glaisher. He said he 
 was too early. However, as you weren't there he 
 came and had a look at me. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. What did he say, dear ? 
 
 Eustace. Said I was getting on all right. He's 
 coming to have another look at me in a day or 
 two. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. When does he think you'll be well 
 enough to get to work again ? 
 
 Eustace. I don't know. I didn't ask'him. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Oh, Samuel, it's too soon to 
 think of that yet ! The poor boy's only convales- 
 cent. Wait till Dr. Glaisher has stopped his visits. 
 
 [Henry snorts?^ 
 
 Eustace. My dear Henry, what extraordinary 
 noises you make. It's a terrible habit. You 
 should see some one about it. Why not consult 
 Glaisher ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson \to his wife\ As you please, dear. 
 Still, I should like to know what Eustace intends to 
 do when he is well enough. I'm bound to say he 
 looks perfectly well. 
 
 Eustace \blandly\ Appearances are so deceptive, 
 father. 
 
 [Violet comes out of house and goes up to her mother. 
 She has some work in her hands.'] 
 
 Violet. Got back, mother dear ? {^Kisses her.] 
 Enjoyed yoiu lunch ? 
 act III 175
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Very much. It was quite a large 
 party. 
 
 Violet \5iuing down]. What did you talk about ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. About your father's election 
 principally. They say Parliament may dissolve any 
 day now. W^hat are you making, dear ? 
 
 Violet. Handkerchiefs. I promised Eustace I'd 
 work some initials for him. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [returning doggedly to his subject]. 
 Perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what 
 your plans are, Eustace. 
 
 Eustace. I haven't any plans, father. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. You haven't any ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Eustace said the other day he 
 thought he would like to be a doctor. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. A doctor ! Nonsense. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [mildly]. Well, I only tell you 
 what he said. 
 
 Eustace [blandly]. My remark was not intended 
 to be taken literally. I don't seriously propose to 
 enter the medical profession. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [irritably]. Do you seriously pro- 
 pose anything ? 
 
 Eustace. No, father. I don't know that I 
 do. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [meditatiiJely]. I might perhaps 
 find you a place in the office. 
 
 Henry [Jirmly]. No, father ! / object to that. 
 
 Violet. Henry ! 
 
 Henry. Yes, I do. I object to the office being 
 used as a dumping-ground for incompetents. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [■protesting]. Henry ! Your own 
 brother ! 
 
 176 ACT III
 
 The RetU7^n of the Prodigal 
 
 Henry. I can't help that. I don't see why the 
 firm should be expected to pay a salary to some- 
 one who is utterly useless merely because he's my 
 brother. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Still, we might try him. 
 
 Henry. My dear father, why not face the truth ? 
 You know what Eustace is. We got him into 
 Jenkins' ofhce. He made nothing of it. Then he 
 was in the Gloucester and Wiltshire Bank. No use 
 there. He tried farming. Same result. Finally 
 you gave him a thousand pounds to settle in Aus- 
 tralia. That was five years ago, and here he is back 
 again without a sixpence. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Eustace has been very unlucky. 
 
 Henry [im-patiently']. What has luck got to do 
 with it ? Eustace doesn't work. That's what's the 
 matter with him. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Still, if he had another chance 
 
 Henry. My dear mother, you always believe 
 people ought to have another chance. It's a little 
 mania with you. Eustace has had dozens of chances. 
 He's made a mess of every one of them. You know 
 that as well as I do. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Yes. There's no use hiding it 
 from ourselves. 
 
 Henry. Not the least — ^as we can't hide it from 
 any one else. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [after a pajise]. Well, Eustace, 
 what do you think ? 
 
 Eustace [airily]. I ? Oh, I agree with Henry. 
 
 [Lights another cigarette. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. You what P 
 
 Eustace. I agree with Henry. I think he's 
 act III I : M 177
 
 The RetiLT?! of the Prodigal 
 
 diagnosed the case with great accuracy. Henry 
 ought to have been a doctor, too ! 
 
 JNIr. Jackson [g^tti?ig up angrily and snaking an 
 orattofij. Now look here, Eustace. I've had enough 
 of this. You seem to imagine because you've been 
 ill, and come home in rags, nothing more in the way 
 of work is to be expected of you. You're to loll 
 about in a hammock smoking cigarettes, and taking 
 not the smallest interest in any plans that are sug- 
 gested for your future. Henry says the reason 
 you've always been a failure is that you don't work, 
 and you say you agree with him. Very well. What 
 I have to tell you is I'm not going to have you 
 loafing away your time here. I disapprove of 
 loafing on principle. Both as a public man and as a 
 private man I disapprove of it. There's far too much 
 of it in England to-day. That's where the Germans 
 are ahead of us. Young men who ought to be at 
 business or in the professions idle away their time 
 and live on their parents. That won't do for 
 me. I insist upon your getting something to 
 do at once and doing it. I insist upon it. If 
 you don't 
 
 [During the last sentence of this impassioned oration^ 
 Sir John and Lady Faringford and Stella come 
 out of the house, preceded by Baines.] 
 
 Baines. Sir John and Lady Faringford, Miss 
 Faringford. 
 
 [histant change of front on the part of the whole 
 family. Mr. Jackson, who has been haranguing his 
 son almost as though he were at a public meeting, 
 
 178 act III
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 stops short in the midst of his peroratioji, and hurriedly 
 substitutes a glassy smile for the irascible sternness 
 which marked his features a moment before. Mrs. 
 Jackson and the others^ who had listened in uncomfort- 
 able silence to Mr. Jackson's eloquence^ hastily assume 
 the conventional simper of politeness as they rise to 
 receive their guests. The only person who remains 
 quite self-possessed is Eustace, who smiles sardonically 
 as he gets out of his hammock.'] 
 
 Eustace [aside to Henry]. Poor old governor ! 
 Stemmed in full tide ! 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Dear Lady Faringford. How 
 nice of you to come ! Stella, my dear. 
 
 \_Shakes hands with them and with Sir John. 
 
 Lady Faringford. As Sir John was due at your 
 husband's Committee at four, Stella and I thought 
 we would drive him down. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. You'll stay and have some tea 
 now you are here, of course ? 
 
 Lady Faringford. Thank you. Tea would be 
 very pleasant. 
 
 Stella \jhaking hands with Henry]. How do you 
 do ? And how is the invalid ? [Throzving a bright 
 smile to Eustace.] Getting on well ? 
 
 Henry \_grimly\ Excellently. 
 
 Stella. That's right. 
 
 \^hakes hands with Eustace. To Henry] 
 
 He really looks better, doesn't he ? Dr. Glaisher 
 says it's been a wonderful recovery, 
 
 Henry. I suppose he does ! 
 
 Stella \to Mr. Jackson.] How glad you must be 
 to have him home again. 
 act III 179
 
 The Retnr?i of tlie Prodigal 
 
 Mr. Jackson \with ghastly attempt at effusion]. 
 It's a great pleasure, of course. 
 
 Stella. It must be so sad for parents when their 
 children go away from them. But I suppose sons 
 zvill go away sometimes, however hard their parents 
 try to keep them. Won't they ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson. That docs happen sometimes — cr 
 — ^unquestionably. [More briskly.] And, anyhow, 
 young men can't stay at home always, my dear Miss 
 Faringford. They have their own way to make in 
 the world. 
 
 Stella. And so the parents have to let them go. 
 It seems hard. But when they come back it must 
 be delightful. 
 
 Eustace. It is. 
 
 [During the following scene Henry makes one or two 
 unsuccessful efforts to approach Stella, but Eustace 
 blandly outt7ianceuvres him, and secures her for him- 
 self. They chat together in the friendliest fashion, 
 while HEtiRY fufnes ifiwardly.] 
 
 Sir John. Hadn't we better be going in, 
 Jackson ? I sha'n't be able to stay very long. I 
 have to meet my agent at 5.15 sharp to sec about 
 some fences. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [looks at zvatch]. It's barely four 
 yet. We'd better wait a minute or two. Glaisher 
 will arrive directly, and then we can get to work. 
 
 Sir John. Ling's advertised to speak at Maytrec, 
 I see, to-morrow week. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Is he ? At Maytree ? That's 
 rather out of his country. 
 
 Sir John. Yes. He doesn't go down so well in 
 
 180 ACT III
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 the villages. Thank heaven agriculture is still 
 conservative. They go to his meetings, though. 
 
 Stella [throunng a remark to Mr. Jackson]. Mr. 
 Ling is such a good speaker, they say. 
 
 Eustace. My father is a good speaker, too, when 
 he's roused. Miss Faringford. You should have 
 heard him ten minutes ago. 
 
 Sir John. What was he speaking on ? 
 
 Eustace \airily\. The Unemployed. 
 
 [Mr. Jackson nearly explodes at this, but, rewem- 
 bering that visitors are present, controls himself by a 
 great effort.'] 
 
 Sir John. I congratulate you, Jackson. It isn't 
 all sons who are so appreciative of their father's 
 efforts. My son never listens to me ! 
 
 [Mr. Jackson smiles wanly.'] 
 
 [Enter Baines announcing Dr. Glaisher and exit.] 
 
 [Dr. Glaisher issues from house, and steps briskly 
 on to the lawn, with a resolute pretence that time is 
 money to him — although he knows it isn''t.] 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Ah, here you are. Doctor. I 
 began to think you weren't coming. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [shaking hands]. Good afternoon. 
 Why didn't you bring Mrs. Glaisher ? She and I 
 and Lady Faringford could have entertained each 
 other while you were all at your Committee. 
 
 Dr. Glaisher. She would have enjoyed it of all 
 things. But I left her at home with the childi-en. 
 Tommy has the whooping-cough just nov/, and 
 requires a lot of nursing. 
 ACT III * i8i
 
 The Retur7i of tlic Prodigal 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Poor little chap. I hope he'll 
 be better soon. 
 
 A'Ir. Jackson [looking at watch]. Well, well, I'm 
 afraid we ought to go in. Come, Sir John. Arc 
 you ready, Doctor ? Shall I lead the way ? Come, 
 Henry. [Fusses off importa?itly. 
 
 Sir John. By all means. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [calling after him]. As you are 
 going would you mind ringing the bell, Samuel, and 
 telling Baines to bring tea out here ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Very well, my dear. 
 
 [Mr. Jackson, Sir John, The Doctor, and Henry 
 go off into the house to their Committee. Mrs. 
 Jackson, Lady Faringford, and Violet seat them- 
 selves by the table, to which tea is presently brought 
 by Baines and the Footman. Stella selects a chair 
 rather further off, zvhere she is soon joined by Eustace.] 
 
 Lady Faringford. I do hope your husband will 
 be elected, Mrs. Jackson. Mr. Ling has the most 
 dreadful opinions about land — and, indeed, about 
 everything else, I'm told. But that is of less 
 importance. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Indeed ? 
 
 Lady Faringford. Oh yes. Only a year ago, 
 at a meeting of the Parish Council, he made a speech 
 attacking Sir John quite violently about one of his 
 cottages. It was let to young Barrett, quite a 
 respectable, hard-working man — who afterwards 
 died of pneumonia. Mr. Ling declared the cottage 
 was damp, and not fit for any one to live in. So 
 ridiculous of him ! As if all cottages were not 
 damp. The absurd part of it was that afterwards, 
 182 act III
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 when Mrs. Barrett was left a widow and Sir John 
 gave her notice because she couldn't pay her rent, 
 and he wanted to convert the cottage into pig- 
 sties, Mr. Ling was equally indignant, and seemed 
 to think we ought to find Mrs. Barrett another 
 house ! I don't think he can be quite right in his 
 head. 
 
 Violet. Shall I make the tea, mother ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. If you please, dear. 
 
 [Violet gives her mother and Lady Faringford 
 their tea. Eustace takes a cup to Stella.] 
 
 Eustace. What do you think about damp cot- 
 tages. Miss Faringford ? Do you think they ought 
 to be left standing in order that the labourer may 
 live in them — and have pneumonia. Or be pulled 
 down in order that the labourer may have nowhere 
 to live at all ? 
 
 Stella. I don't know. I think it's dreadful 
 there should be damp cottages anywhere. 
 
 Eustace. That would never do. There must be 
 good cottages and bad cottages, in order that the 
 strong may get the good cottages and the weak the 
 bad. 
 
 Stella. You mean in order that the strong may 
 have the bad cottages and the weak the good. They 
 need them more. 
 
 Eustace. That would be quite unscientific. No, 
 the strong must have the good cottages in order 
 that they may grow stronger. And the weak must 
 have the bad cottages in order that they may die off. 
 Survival of the fittest, you know. 
 
 Stella. How horrible ! 
 act hi 183
 
 Tlie Retur7i of the Prodigal 
 
 Eustace. Yes, but how necessary ! 
 
 Lady Faringford [noticing that Eustace has 
 drawn up a chair and seated himself by her daughter]. 
 Come over here, Stella. You have the sun on your 
 face there. 
 
 Stella [rising unwillingly]. Very well, mamma. 
 [Moves to a chair o?i the other side of the tea table 
 less uifortunately situated.] 
 
 Lady Faringford. By the way, Mrs. Jackson, 
 have you heard about poor Miss Higgs, who used 
 to keep the school at Little Chcdlcigh and play the 
 harmonium so badly on Sundays ? You remember 
 her ? Quite a good creature, knew all kinds of 
 subjects, and never expected one to take any 
 notice of her. So, of course, one never did. Well, 
 two years ago an aunt died and left her a little 
 money, and Miss Higgs retired and went to live in 
 Gloucester. One of those unattractive houses near 
 the canal. But she seems to have been quite in- 
 capable of managing money. Put it into a gold- 
 mine, I believe, or gave it to her solicitor to invest — 
 which comes to the same thing — ^and lost every 
 penny. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Oh ! Poor Miss Higgs. \\Tiat a 
 sad thing. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Fortunately, she was so 
 affected by her loss that she drowned herself in the 
 canal at the bottom of her garden. Otherwise I'm 
 afraid some sort of a subscription would have had 
 to be got up for her. 
 
 [Eustace gets another cup of tea from Violet, and 
 takes advantage of the move to sit down by Stella 
 184 act hi
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 again. Lady Faringford notices this manceuvre 
 with hardly concealed irritation., and, from this -point 
 till she rises to go, watches Eustace's attentio?is to her 
 daughter resentfully out of the corner of her eye.] 
 
 Violet. I liked Miss Higgs very much, Lady 
 Faringford. 
 
 Lady Faringford. So did quite a number of 
 people, I'm told. She was quite a good creature, as 
 I said, much superior to the young woman who has 
 succeeded her at Little Chedleigh. I wanted them 
 to give the place to my maid Dawkins, who is 
 getting rather past her work, and really could have 
 taught everything that is necessary or wholesome 
 for the lower orders to learn, though I dare say 
 she might have had some difficulty with the har- 
 monium — ^at first. However, they preferred to get 
 down a young person from London with the most 
 elaborate qualifications. So highly educated, in 
 fact, that I hear she can't teach at all. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. How very awkward. 
 
 Lady Faringford. It is indeed. 
 
 [Swift glance towards Eustace and her daughter, 
 who are obviously far too much interested in one another] 
 Stella ! 
 
 Stella. Yes, mamma. 
 
 Lady Faringford. Say good-bye to Mrs. Jack- 
 son, my dear. We really must be going. \Rising. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [rising also]. Shall I let Sir John 
 know you are ready ? 
 
 Lady Faringford. Pray don't trouble. We 
 can pick him up as we go through the house. Good- 
 bye, Mrs. Jackson. [To Eustace, shaking hands.] 
 act III 185
 
 The Return of the P?'0(iigal 
 
 Good-bye. When do you go back to Australia ? 
 Quite soon, I hope. Come, Stella. 
 
 Stella [shaking hands]. Good-bye, Mr. Jack- 
 son. 
 
 [Lady Farincford afid Stella take their depar- 
 ture through the French windows, accompanied by 
 \^i0LET. Their tea has been sadly curtailed, and so 
 has the fneeting of Sir John's Committee, hut Lady 
 Farincford feels that no sacrifices are too great to 
 nip an incipient flirtation between her daughter and 
 Eustace. As soon as they have gone, Eustace goes 
 and sits by his mother^ 
 
 Eustace. Clever woman, that. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Is she, dear ? I hadn't noticed. 
 
 Eustace. Yes. We're all of us selfish. But 
 most of us make an effort to conceal the fact. With 
 the result that we are always being asked to do some- 
 thing for somebody and having to invent elaborate 
 excuses for not doing it. And that makes us very 
 unpopular. For every one hates asking for anything 
 — ^unless he gets it. But Lady Faringford proclaims 
 her selfishness so openly that no one ever dreams 
 of asking her to do tilings. It would be tempting 
 Providence. With the result that I expect she's 
 quite a popular woman. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. I'm glad you like Lady Faring- 
 ford, dear. Your father has the highest opinion of 
 her. 
 
 Eustace. Yes. The governor never could see 
 an inch before his nose. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Can't he, dear ? He has never 
 said anything about it. 
 i86 act III
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Eustace \patting her hand affectionately^ Dear 
 mother ! 
 
 [Violet returns.'] 
 
 Seen the Gorgon safely off the premises ? 
 
 Violet [laughing]. Yes — and Sir John. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. The Committee was over, then ? 
 
 Violet. It is now — ^as Lady Faringford insisted 
 on carrying off the chairman. Here is father. 
 
 [Mr. Jackson and Henry come out of house. Baines 
 follows hard after them^ with letters on salver. He 
 hands three of these to Mr. Jackson, two to Mrs. 
 Jackson, and one to Violet.] 
 
 Baines. Shall I take away, madam ? 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Wait a moment. \fTo Mr. 
 Jackson.] Will you have any tea, Samuel ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson [opening long envelope and reading 
 contents]. No. We had some indoors. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [to Baines]. Yes, you can take 
 away. [To Mr. Jackson.] Did you have a success- 
 ful meeting ? 
 
 [Baines beckons to Footman, who comes out, and 
 together they take away tea.] 
 
 Mr. Jackson [standing by table, still reading]. 
 Eh ? Oh yes. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [to Henry], What a pity Sir John 
 had to go. 
 
 Henry. It didn't matter. We'd pretty nearly 
 got through our business. 
 
 [Mrs. Jackson opens her letter, and becomes absorbed 
 in its contents.] 
 act III 187
 
 The Re/ urn of the Prodi o-al 
 
 Mr. Jackson [handing papers to Henry]. You'd 
 better look through these. They're from Fisher 
 and Thompson. It's about Wcnhams' mill. The 
 sale is next week. 
 
 Henry [?iods]. Very well. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [taking a seat at the table, and clearing 
 his throat with dignity]. Now, Eustace, I want to 
 have a serious talk with you. 
 
 Eustace. Not again, father. 
 
 Mr. Jackson \j>uz,7Lled\ VVliat do you mean ? 
 
 Eustace. Couldn't you put it off till to-morrow ? 
 I'm hardly well enough to talk seriously twice in one 
 day. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Nonsense, sir. You're perfectly 
 well. Glaishcr says there's no longer the slightest 
 cause for anxiety. 
 
 Eustace. The traitor ! 
 
 Mr. Jackson. What, sir ? 
 
 Eustace. Nothing, father. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. As I told you before tea, I'm not 
 going to have you idling away your time here. The 
 question is, what are we to do ? 
 
 Eustace. Just so, father. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. I mean, what are you to do ? 
 
 [Pause. No remark from Eustace.] 
 
 T^ady Faringford said as she went away you ought 
 to go back to Australia. She said it was a thousand 
 pities for any young man not to go to Australia. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Eustace was just saying how 
 clever Lady Faringford was when you came out. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. I'm glad to hear it. [To Eustace.] 
 Well, what do you tjiink ? 
 
 l88 ACT III
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Eustace. About Australia ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Yes. 
 
 Eustace. I don't think anything about it. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Would you like to go out there 
 again ? 
 
 Eustace. No, I shouldn't. I've been there 
 once. It was an utter failure. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Tou were a failure, you mean. 
 
 Eustace. As you please. Anyway, it was no 
 good, and I had to work as a navvy on the railway. 
 I don't propose to do that again. 
 
 Henry [looking up from Fisher a7td Thompson's 
 -papers]. Other people do well in Australia. 
 
 Eustace. Other people do well in England. Or 
 rather, the same people do well in both. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [peevishly]. What do you mean ? 
 
 Eustace. Simply that the kind of qualities which 
 make for success in one country make for success in 
 another. It's just as easy to fail in Sydney as in 
 London. I've done it and I know. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [who has just opened her second 
 letter]. A letter from Janet. She's going to be at 
 Gloucester next week, and would like to come over 
 and see us on Friday. We aren't going out on that 
 day, are we, Vi ? 
 
 [Mr. Jackson, impatient at this interruption^ opens 
 the second of his letters and glances at it.] 
 
 Violet. No, mother. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. That will do, then. She'd better 
 come to luncheon. [Rises.] I'll write and tell her 
 at once before I forget. 
 
 Violet. Shall I do it, mother ? 
 act III 189
 
 The Retu?yi of t/ie Pi'odigal 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. No, dear. I can manage it. 
 
 \Goes into house. 
 
 Mr. Jackson \zjuho has opened his third letter, and 
 contemplated its contents with indignant a?nazement, 
 strikes the table zuith his open hand]. Well ! 
 
 Violet. W'liat is it, father ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson. What's the meaning of this, I 
 wonder ! Barton must be out of his senses. 
 
 Violet. Barton ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Yes, Barton. The tailor. Why 
 does he send me in a bill like this ? Twenty-five 
 pounds ! And I've had nothing from him since 
 Easter. Listen to this. One lounge suit four 
 guineas, one dress suit eight guineas, one flannel suit 
 three pounds ten, another lounge suit four guineas, 
 one frock coat and waistcoat four guineas, one pair 
 of trousers one guinea. Total, twenty-five pounds 
 eleven. 
 
 Eustace [zvhose energies are absorbed at the moment 
 in blowing through a cigarette-holder\ They're 
 mine, father. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. What, sii ! 
 
 Eustace [calmly]. Some clothes I ordered. I 
 told him to send the bill to you. That's all right, 
 isn't it ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson [exploding]. All right ! Certainly 
 not, sir. It's very far from right. It's a great 
 liberty. 
 
 Eustace. My dear father, the bill must be sent 
 in to somebody. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. And why not to you, pray ? 
 
 Eustace. What would be the good of that, 
 father. I've nothing to pay it with. 
 
 190 ACT III
 
 The Retur7t of the Prodigal 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Then you shouldn't have ordered 
 the things. 
 
 Eustace. But I must wear something. I can't 
 go on wearing Henry's things indefinitely. It's 
 hard on him I 
 
 [Henry snorts.'] 
 
 My dear Henry ! 
 
 Mr. Jackson [gohhling with indignation\ But 
 what's become of all the clothes you had ? You 
 must have had some clothes. 
 
 Eustace [shrugs\ They're in London — and in 
 rags. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Now look here, Eustace. I'm not 
 going to have this. I'm not going to have a son of 
 mine running up bills here. 
 
 Eustace. All right, father. I'm quite willing 
 to pay for the things — if you give me the money. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. I shall not give you the money, 
 sir. If you want money you must earn it. 
 
 Eustace. That doesn't take us very far. 
 
 [^At this Mr. Jackson rises and invokes the 
 
 heavens.] 
 
 Mr. Jackson. You'll disgrace me. That's what 
 will happen. I insist on your paying Barton, and 
 giving me your word of honour never to get anything 
 on credit here again. 
 
 [Thrusts hill into Eustace's hand and trani'ps about 
 angrily.] 
 
 Eustace. I've no objection. I don't run up 
 tailors' bills for pleasure. I'd just as soon pay ready 
 money as you would. Only I haven't got it. Give 
 act III 191
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 me twenty pounds — no, twenty-five pounds eleven 
 — and I'll pay Barton to-morrow. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. I decline to give you money. I 
 decline. Your request is impudent. 
 
 Eustace \hlandly\. Let's keep our tempers, 
 father. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. What^ sir ? 
 
 Eustace. I merely suggested we should keep our 
 tempers. That's all. 
 
 NIr. Jackson. This is intolerable. I disown 
 you, sir. I disown you. 
 
 Violet. Father ! 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Be silent, Violet. [To Eustace.] 
 I'll have nothing more to do with you. I'll pay this 
 debt to Barton — and any others you may have in- 
 curred since you came back. After that I've done 
 with you. Leave my house at once. 
 
 Eustace \rising^ and throzving away his cigarette. 
 He has his temper admirably under control^ hut speaks 
 with ominous distinctness']. Very well, father. I'll 
 go if you wish it. But I warn you if I do go it will 
 be to the nearest workhouse ! 
 
 Mr. Jackson [fuming]. That's your affair. It 
 has nothing to do with me. [Turns away. 
 
 Eustace. I question that. It rather knocks 
 your election prospects on the head, I fancy. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [swinging round]. Eh ? What ? 
 
 Eustace. You don't seriously suppose if I do this 
 you'll be returned for Parliament ? If you do you 
 don't know the British Electorate. This is going 
 to be a scandal, a scandal worth five hundred votes 
 to the other side. And the last man's majority was 
 only fifty. Oh no, my dear father, if it comes out 
 192 act III
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 that the son of the rich Conservative candidate is in 
 the local workhouse, good-bye to your chances in 
 this constituency. 
 
 Henry. You wouldn't dare ! 
 
 Eustace. Dare ? Nonsense. What have I to 
 lose ? 
 
 Henry. But this is infamous. It's blackmail. 
 
 Eustace [contemptuously]. Call it what you like. 
 It's what I propose to do if you force me to it. 
 
 Violet. Eustace ! You couldn't be so wicked ! 
 
 Eustace [more gently]. My dear Vi, have I any 
 choice ? Here am I absolutely penniless. The 
 governor flies into a rage because I order some 
 clothes from his tailor, and turns me into the street. 
 What am I to do ? I've no profession, no business 
 I can turn my hand to. I might take to manual 
 labour, I suppose, break stones on the road. But 
 that would bring equal discredit on this highly 
 respectable family. In England sons of wealthy 
 cloth manufacturers don't work with their hands. 
 Besides, I don't like work. So there's nothing left 
 but to beg. If I beg in the street the police will 
 take me up. Therefore I must beg from my rela- 
 tions. If they refuse me I must go on the Parish. 
 
 Henry. Father, this is monstrous. I wouldn't 
 submit to it if I were you. If he wants to prevent 
 your election let him. I advise you to refuse. 
 
 Eustace. All right. But it knocks your pros- 
 pects on the head, too, my dear Henry — social 
 advancement and love's young dream, you know. 
 Miss Faringford won't marry you if this happens. 
 Her mother won't let her. You're not so rich as all 
 that. And if her mother would, Stella wouldn't. 
 act III I : n 193
 
 The Retu?yi of tlie Prodigal 
 
 Stella rather likes me. In fact, I think she likes me 
 better than she does you at present. I'm not 
 absolutely certain she wouldn't marry me if I asked 
 her. 
 
 Henry. Lady Faringford would forbid her. 
 
 Eustace. Perhaps we shouldn't consult her. 
 Anyhow, if you leave me to eat skilly in Chcdlcigh 
 Workhouse, Stella won't accept you. I lay you ten 
 to one on it. 
 
 [Henry O'pens his mouth to speak, realises that he 
 has nothing to say, and shuts it again. All silent. 
 Then a gong rings loudly inside the house. Another 
 'pause ^ 
 
 Well, father, what do you say ? 
 
 \Another silence. Mr. Jackson, nonplussed, turns 
 away.] 
 
 Nothing ? Tou, Henry. You're full of resource ! 
 What do you think ? 
 
 [But Henry apparently is equally at a loss, for he 
 says nothing. Another pause. Eustace shrugs his 
 shoulders.] 
 
 Well, first gong's gone. / shall go and dress for 
 dinner. 
 
 [Lounges off into the house as the curtain falls. 
 
 194 ACT III
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene. — The drawing-room at Chedleigh as we saw 
 it in the first Act. Some three hours have elapsed 
 since Eustace exploded his bomb-shell. When 
 the curtain rises, Mrs. Jackson is sitting in an 
 easy chair, nodding over a piece of work of some 
 kind. Violet is at the piano, playing softly. 
 Presently Eustace wanders in. Violet stops 
 playing, closes piano, and comes down towards 
 fireplace, later taking up handkerchief she is 
 working for Eustace. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson \waking up, drowsily']. Is that 
 you, Eustace ? Where's your father ? 
 
 Eustace [going to her]. In the library with 
 Henry. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Talking business ? 
 
 Eustace [nods]. Yes. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Can you see the time, Vi ? 
 
 Violet [sitting by fireplace]. Nearly ten, mother 
 dear. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. So late ! They must be dis- 
 cussing something very important. 
 
 Eustace [grimly]. They are. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. Have they been long in the 
 library ? 
 
 Eustace. They went directly you and Vi left 
 the table. 
 
 Mrs. Jackson. And you've been alone in the 
 act IV 195
 
 The Ret 117^71 of the Pi^odigal 
 
 dining-room all that time ? Why didn't you come 
 in to us ? 
 
 Eustace. I thought they might want to consult 
 me. 
 
 ATrs. Jackson \heaming\. About business ? I'm 
 so glad. I'm sure you would be most useful in 
 the business if you tried, though Henry doesn't 
 think so. 
 
 Eustace. Are you, mother ? 
 
 JNIrs. Jackson. Of course. Why not ? Henry 
 is. And you always learnt your lessons far quicker 
 than Henry when you were a boy. 
 
 Eustace \laying hand, on her shoulder]. Flat- 
 terer ! 
 
 Mrs. Jackson [putting work into zvork-basket\ 
 Well, I don't think I'll stay up any longer. \Rises.] 
 And I do hope Henry won't keep your father up late. 
 It can't be good for him. [Kisses Eustace.] Good- 
 night, dear. Sleep well. Are you coming, Vi ? 
 
 [Kisses her. 
 
 Violet. Directly, mother. 
 
 [Eustace holds open door for his mother to go 
 out. Then comes slowly down and sits iti chair by 
 Violet.] 
 
 Eustace. Dear old mater. She's not clever, but 
 for real goodness of heart I don't know her equal. 
 
 Violet [impatiently]. Clever ! I'm sick of clever- 
 ness. What's the good of it ? You're clever. What 
 has it done for you ? 
 
 Eustace. Kept me out of prison. That's always 
 something. 
 
 [Violet makes gesture of protest.] 
 
 196 act IV
 
 The RetU7^7i of the Prodigal 
 
 Oh yes, it has. There have been times when I 
 was so hard up I felt I would do anything, anything, 
 just for a square meal. If I had been a stupid man 
 I should have done it. I should have robbed a till 
 or forged a cheque, and that would have been the 
 end of me. Fortunately, I'd brains enough to 
 realise that that kind of thing always gets found 
 out. So here I am, still a blameless member of 
 society. 
 
 [Violet says nothing, but goes on working steadily. 
 Paused] 
 
 The mater hasn't been told ? 
 
 Violet. About what happened before dinner ? 
 No. 
 
 Eustace. I'm glad of that. 
 
 Violet. Why ? 
 
 Eustace [impatiently]. My dear Vi, I'm not 
 absolutely inhuman. Because I'm fond of her, of 
 course, and don't like giving her pain. 
 
 Violet. She'll have to know sooner or later. 
 
 Eustace. Then I'd rather it was later ; in fact, 
 when I'm not here. If anybody has got to suffer on 
 my account I'd rather not see it. 
 
 Violet. And you call Lady Faringford selfish ! 
 
 Eustace [carelessly]. Yes. It's a quality I par- 
 ticularly dislike — in others. 
 
 Violet [stopping her work for a momeftt and looking 
 at him wonderingly]. I can't understand you. As a 
 boy you were so ^liferent. You were kind and 
 affectionate and thoughtful for others. 
 
 Eustace [shrugs]. I dare say. 
 
 Violet. And now ! [Ear7testly.] Think 
 
 act IV 197
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 what you have made of your life ! You had good 
 abilities. You might have done almost anything 
 if you had only tried. You might have been a 
 successful, honourable man, with an assured position 
 and a record you could be proud of. You might 
 
 Eustace [pntttfig his fingers in his ears]. Stop, 
 Vi ; stop, I tell you. I won't listen to you. 
 
 Violet [surprised]. Why not ? 
 
 Eustace [doggedly]. Because I won't. All that 
 is over. \Vhat's past is past. I have to live my 
 life now. Do you suppose it would make it any 
 easier for me to grizzle over wasted opportunities ? 
 No ! As each year passes I turn over the page and 
 forget it. 
 
 Violet [wondering]. And do you never look 
 back ? 
 
 Eustace [with a slight shiver]. Never ! If I did 
 I should have drowned myself long ago. 
 
 Violet [with horror]. Eustace ! 
 
 Eustace [exasperated]. Oh, my dear Vi, it's all 
 very well for you to preach, but you don't under- 
 stand. It's easy enough for you living comfortably 
 here at home, working for your bazaars and visiting 
 your old women. Your life slips away in a quiet 
 round of small duties, paying calls with the mater, 
 pouring out the governor's coffee. One day just 
 like another. You've no anxieties, no temptations. 
 The lines have fallen to you in pleasant places. And 
 you think you can sit in judgment on me ! 
 
 Violet [quietly, resuming her work]. You think 
 my life happier than yours, then ? 
 
 Eustace. Isn't it ? 
 
 Violet [shaking her head]. No. I'our life is your 
 
 198 ACT IV
 
 The Retuj^n of the Prodigal 
 
 own. You can do as you please with it, use it or 
 waste it as you think best. You are free. I am not. 
 You think because I stay quietly at home, doing the 
 duty that lies nearest me and not crying out against 
 fate, therefore I've nothing more to wish for. 
 Would yoM be happy, do you suppose, if you were in 
 my case ? I live here down in Chedleigh from 
 year's end to year's end. Mother never leaves home. 
 She doesn't care to pay visits. So I cannot either. 
 I may sometimes get away for a few days, a week, 
 perhaps, but very seldom. And as mother grows 
 older I shall go less. Soon people will give up asking 
 me when they find I always refuse. And so I shall 
 be left here alone with no friends, no real companion- 
 ship, merely one of the family obliged to know the 
 people they know, visit the people they visit, not a 
 grown woman with interests of her own and a life 
 to order as she pleases. 
 
 Eustace. But you'll marry ? 
 
 Violet. Marry ! What chance have I of marry- 
 ing now ? When we hadn't so much money, and 
 Henry and father weren't so set on taking a position 
 in the county, there was some chance for me. Now 
 there is none. It's all very well for Henry. He is 
 a partner in the firm. He will be a very rich man. 
 He can marry Stella Faringford. Oh, we are to be 
 great people ! But you don't find Sir John Faring- 
 ford's son proposing to me ! No ! He wants a girl 
 of his ow^n class or else an heiress, not a manufac- 
 turer's daughter with a few thousand pounds. So 
 the great people won't marry me and I mustn't 
 marry the little people. Father wouldn't like it. He 
 hardly lets mother ask them to the house nowadays. 
 ACT IV 199
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 And so the years go by and my youth with them, 
 and I know it will be like this always, always. 
 
 Eustace. Poor old Vi ! And I thought you 
 were quite contented with your bazaars and your 
 old women. Why don't you speak to the mater ? 
 
 Violet \with a shrug that is half a sigh]. What's 
 the use ? Mother wouldn't understand. She mar- 
 ried when she was twenty-one. She doesn't know 
 what it is for a girl to go on living at home long after 
 she's grown up and ought to have a house of her 
 own. So I stay on here knitting socks for old Allen 
 and working your handkerchiefs, and here I shall 
 stay till mother and father are both dead. . . . 
 And then it will be too late. 
 
 Eustace. Poor old Vi ! . . . [J pause.] Do 
 you know, you make me feel rather mean ? Henry 
 and the governor I can stand up to. They're very 
 much like me. We belong to the predatory type. 
 Only they're more successful than I am. They live 
 on their workpeople. I propose to live on them. 
 We're birds of a feather. But you're different. I 
 suppose you get it from the mater. 
 
 Violet. Why are you so bitter against your 
 father ? 
 
 Eustace. Am I ? 
 
 Violet. Yes. Just now. And this afternoon. 
 
 Eustace [shrugs]. Oh, that—! Well, the fact 
 is, I wanted to bring things to a head. I feel I 
 can't stay here. I must get away. 
 
 Violet. Why ? 
 
 Eustace. For lots of reasons. I can't stand this 
 place. I've outgrown it, I suppose. [Pause.] And 
 then there's Stella 
 
 200 ACT IV
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Violet. Stella ? 
 
 Eustace. Yes. If I were here much longer I 
 might be falling in love with Stella. And that 
 wouldn't be fair to Henry. After all, he was first 
 in the field. And it wouldn't be fair to her either. 
 I'm not fit to marry a girl like that. No. I must 
 get away. 
 
 Violet \touche^. Poor Eustace. 
 
 Eustace. Oh, you needn't fity me. / shall get 
 along somehow. My life hasn't been successful. 
 It hasn't even been honourable. But it's been 
 devilish interesting. 
 
 \^he door opens, and Mr. Jackson and Henry 
 enter. Mr. Jackson passes Eustace iii dignified 
 silence, a?id turns to his datighter.] 
 
 Mr. Jackson. You here, Vi ? I thought you'd 
 have gone to bed. Your mother went long ago, I 
 expect ? 
 
 Violet. Only a few minutes. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Well, run away now, dear. It's 
 late. 
 
 Violet. Very well, father. [Gathers up her 
 things and rises.] Good-night. [Kisses him.] Good- 
 night, Henry. Good-night, Eustace. 
 
 Eustace [takitig her hand]. Good-night, Vi. And 
 good-bye. 
 
 [He goes to the door and opens it for her. She kisses 
 him and goes out. He closes the door after her and 
 slowly turns hack to the others, to find Mr. Jackson 
 in a commanding position on the hearthrug, and Henry 
 
 ACT IV 201
 
 The Retiir?! of the Prodigal 
 
 standing by the pia7io. Eustace selects a settee at the 
 opposite side of the room from his father, makes himself 
 comfortable on it, and waits for one of the others to 
 speak. Neither does so, however, atid after a minute 
 or more has elapsed, Evstace, feeling the silence to be 
 rather grotesque, breaks it.~\ 
 
 Eustace [cheerfully']. Well ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson \_coughs nervously, then plunges into his 
 subject]. Ahem ! We have been in consultation, 
 your brother and I, as to the right course to adopt 
 with regard to you. 
 
 Eustace [wo^j]. So I supposed. 
 
 [Henry fi7tds a chair about equidistant from his 
 father and his brother, and sits down.] 
 
 Mr. Jackson [with great dignity]. After the 
 extraordinary and — cr — undutiful attitude you took 
 up this afternoon, I might naturally have declined 
 all further relations with you. But 
 
 Eustace [matter of fact]. But as that course might 
 prove almost as disagreeable for yourself as it would 
 for me, you naturally thought better of it. Let's 
 get on. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [rearing under this touch of the spur, 
 but mastering himself]. I might point out to you 
 that we, your mother and I, have never failed in 
 our duty by you. We have been indulgent parents. 
 You were sent to a first-rate school. Nothing was 
 spared that could make you a prosperous and success- 
 ful man. But I won't speak of that. 
 
 Eustace [dryly]. Thanks, father. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [running on]. I might point out 
 
 202 ACT IV
 
 The Retufyt of the Pf^odigal 
 
 that we have given you a score of good chances for 
 establishing yourself in a satisfactory position, and 
 you have failed to profit by them. I might remind 
 you that since you returned to this roof 
 
 Eustace [impatiently]. My dear father, I thought 
 you were going to leave that part out ? And I do 
 wish you wouldn't begin talking about your roof. 
 When people refer to their roof! always know they're 
 going to suggest something quite unpractical. In 
 ordinary times they don't soar above the ceiling. 
 But in moments of fervour off goes the roof ! Let's 
 come to the point. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [rearing again, but again controlling 
 himself]. I will do so at once. . . . Your brother 
 and I feel ti{at little as you have deserved this con- 
 sideration at my hands, and wholly as you have for- 
 feited all claim to further assistance both by your 
 past failures and by your conduct this afternoon, you 
 should yet be given one more chance. 
 
 [Eustace insensibly begins to beat time to hisfather^s 
 impassioned antitheses.] 
 
 Eustace. Come, that's satisfacto'-y. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Five years ago when, after re- 
 peated failures on your part, after paying your debts 
 more than once and finding you openings again and 
 again, I sent you to Australia. I gave you a thousand 
 pounds to make a career for yourself. I told you 
 that was the last sum of money you would have from 
 me during my lifetime. What may — or may not — 
 come to you after my death is another matter. And 
 I gave it you on the express stipulation that if you 
 ACT IV 203
 
 The Retui'n of the Prodigal 
 
 lost or squandered it you were not to write for 
 more. 
 
 Eustace. I kept that stipulation. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. That is so. I now propose to do 
 again what I did five years ago. I propose to send 
 you back to Australia with a thousand pounds. 
 
 Henry [lookrng up from book which he has been 
 appearing to read]. To be paid to you after your 
 arrival there. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Exactly. I will send the thousand 
 pounds, less the cost of your passage, to an agent, 
 to be paid to you on your landing. In return for 
 this you are to promise not to come back to this 
 country without my express permission. 
 
 [Mr. Jackson pauses for a suitable expression of 
 gratitude from his son. None, however, is forthcoming, 
 and he has to go on without it.] 
 
 I think you will agree with me tliat the course I 
 am taking is a kinder one than you deserve. Few 
 fathers would do as much. I might have named a 
 smaller sum. But I prefer to err on the generous 
 side. 
 
 Eustace [nodding]. Quite so. [IVith genuine 
 curiosity.] And what do you propose that I should 
 do with a thousand pounds ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson. That is for you to decide. You 
 might start in business. 
 
 Eustace. I've tried that. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Sheep farming. 
 
 Eustace. I've tried that. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Gold mining. 
 
 Eustace. I've tried that. 
 
 204 act IV
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 jMr. Jackson \cLnnoyed\. Well, well, any line 
 which, you think offers you a favourable opening. 
 
 Eustace [insinuatingly]. And which line is that ? 
 
 Mr. Jackson [irritably]. I don't know. 
 
 Eustace. No more do I. [Pause.] No, father, 
 it would be absurd for me to accept your offer, 
 because it isn't practical. It would only be throwing 
 your money away. It would do me no good, and 
 cause you heartfelt distress. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Nonsense. Other young fellows 
 go out to Australia with less than a thousand pounds 
 and make fortufies ! Far less ! Why shouldn't 
 you ? 
 
 Eustace. Wliy, indeed ? However, we must 
 keep to the point. They make fortunes. / don't. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [exas'perated^. In fact, they're 
 active and energetic, you're useless and worthless. 
 Where other people by thrift and enterprise and 
 steady application make money, you only lose it. 
 
 Eustace. Exactly. I lose it. And doubtless 
 for lack of the qualities you mention. What 
 then ? Granted I am all you say, how does that 
 help us ? Here I am, alive, and requiring food at 
 the customary intervals. Who is going to give 
 it me ? 
 
 [Henry snorts^ 
 Really, Henry ! 
 
 Mr. Jackson [hotly]. That is to say you want to 
 go through life sponging on your family instead of 
 working for your living like an honest man ! 
 
 Eustace [very nearly losing his temper at what seems 
 to him the amazing stupidity of this remark]. Look 
 here, father, hadn't we better drop all that stuff 
 act IV 205
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 about wanting to sponge on one's family and the 
 rest of it ? Nobody wants to sponge on other 
 people. The idea's preposterous. We all want to 
 be prosperous and highly respected members of 
 Society like you and Henry, with more money than 
 we know what to do with, with a seat in Parliament 
 and a wife out of the Baronetage. That's what we 
 want. And if we haven't the luck or the brains or 
 the energy to get it, you needn't call us names. You 
 don't suppose I -prefer losing money to making it, 
 do you ? You don't suppose if I had my choice I 
 should drift about the world adding up accounts in 
 a filthy Hong-kong bank or playing steward on a 
 filthier ocean liner ? You can't be so ridiculous. 
 Pm good for nothing, as you say. I've no push, no 
 initiative, no staying power. I shall never be any- 
 thing but a failure. But don't imagine I like it ! 
 You seem to think you've a terrible grievance be- 
 cause I'm a ne'er-do-well and come to you for money, 
 but the real grievance is mine. 
 
 Henry. If you don't like coming on your family 
 for money, you needn't do it. 
 
 Eustace [impatiently\ It's not what I do but 
 what I am that is the difficulty. What does it 
 matter what one does? It's done, and then it's 
 over and one can forget it. The real tragedy is 
 what one is. Because one can't escape from that. 
 It's always there, the bundle of passions, weaknesses, 
 stupidities, that one calls character, waiting to trip 
 one up. Look at the governor, that pillar of 
 rectitude and business ability ! 
 
 [Mr. Jackson hastily assumes a less commafidifig 
 posture.] 
 
 206 ACT IV
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Do you suppose he could be like me if he tried ? 
 Of course not. Nor could I be like him. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Have you no will ? 
 
 Eustace. No. Have you ? Have we any of us ? 
 Aren't we just the creatures of our upbringing, of 
 circumstance, of our physical constitution ? We 
 are launched on the stream at our birth. Some of 
 us can swim against the current. Those who can't 
 it washes away. 
 
 \^here is a pause. Henry looks sullen, Mr. 
 Jackson puzzled. Eustace, who has grown rather 
 heated J regains his composure.^ 
 
 Mr. Jackson [with a sighl. Well, what's to be 
 done with you ? 
 
 Eustace [shrugs']. I'm afraid you'll have to keep 
 me. You're my father, you know. You've brought 
 into the world a worthless and useless human being. 
 I think those were your adjectives ? You're re- 
 sponsible. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [angry again]. Is that any reason 
 why I should support you ? 
 
 Eustace [quite sincerely]. No, father. Frankly, 
 I don't think it is. I think your sensible course 
 would be to put me quietly out of this wicked world 
 or hire some one else to do so. I'm a bad tgg. I 
 shall never hatch into anything that will do you the 
 smallest credit. Your sensible course is to destroy 
 me. But you daren't do that. Social convention 
 won't allow you. The law would make a fuss. 
 Indeed, the law won't even allow me to put an end 
 to myself and save you the trouble. I should be 
 rescued, very wet and draggled, from the muddy 
 act IV 207
 
 The Rctur7i of til e Prodigal 
 
 waters of the Ched by the solitary policeman who 
 seems to have nothing else to do but to stand about 
 rescuing people who had much better be left to 
 drown. I should be haled before the magistrates — 
 you're a magistrate yourself now, father. You'd be 
 there — I should be given a solemn lecture and then 
 " handed over to my friends " — that's you again, 
 father — who would undertake to look after me in 
 future. And I only hope you would be able to 
 conceal your annoyance at my rescue from the 
 prying eyes of your brother justices ! 
 
 Mr. Jackson \stung\. You've no right to say 
 that. You've no right to suggest that I wish you 
 were dead. 
 
 Eustace \genially\ Of course you do. You 
 want me to go to Australia, where you'll never hear 
 of me again, where, in fact, I shall be dead to you. 
 What's the difference ? 
 
 \A pause.l 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Well, I won't argue with you. 
 The question is, what do you propose ? 
 
 Eustace [as if it was the most natural suggestion 
 in the world]. In the circumstances, I think your 
 wisest course will be to make me an allowance, say 
 three hundred a year, paid quarterly. Then I'll 
 go away and live quietly in London, and you'll be 
 rid of me. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [furious]. I refuse, sir. I refuse 
 absolutely. The suggestion is utterly shameless. 
 
 Eustace [calmly]. I dare say. But it's perfectly 
 sensible. I appeal to Henry. 
 
 Henry [after a moment's thought]. Father, I 
 208 act IV
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 think you'd better do as he says. If you gave him 
 a thousand pounds, as we intended, he'd only lose 
 it. Better make him an allowance. Then you can 
 always stop it if he doesn't behave himself. It's a 
 shameless proposal, as you say, but it's practical. 
 
 Eustace. Bravo, Henry ! I always said you 
 had brains. That's it exactly. Shameless, but 
 eminently practical. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [grumbling]. What I can't see is, 
 why I should allow you this money. Here's Henry 
 who's perfectly satisfactory, and has never caused 
 me a moment's anxiety. I don't give him money. 
 Whereas you, who have never caused me anything 
 else, expect me to keep you for the remainder of 
 your life. 
 
 Eustace [with bitter contempt]. It is unreasonable, 
 isn't it ? But we live in a humanitarian age. We 
 coddle tlie sick and we keep alive the imbecile. We 
 shall soon come to pensioning the idle and the 
 dissolute. You're only a little in advance of the 
 times. England is covered with hospitals for the 
 incurably diseased and asylums for the incurably 
 mad. If a tenth of the money were spent on 
 putting such people out of the world, and the rest 
 were used in preventing the healthy people from 
 falling sick, and the sane people from starving, we 
 should be a wholesomer nation. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [after a pause]. Well, if Henry 
 thinks so I suppose I must give you an allowance — 
 but I won't go beyond two hundred. 
 
 Eustace. I can't keep out of debt on two 
 hundred. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Two hundred and fifty, then. 
 act IV I : o 209
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Eustace \persuasively\. Three hundred. 
 
 Mr. Jackson. Two hundred and fifty. Not a 
 penny more. [Breaking out again.] Why, I'd 
 starve before I consented to sponge on my family as 
 you are doing ! 
 
 Eustace [quietly]. Ah ! You evidently don't 
 know much about starving, father ! 
 
 [Silence. Mr. Jackson suddenly realises that his 
 son has actually known what hunger means, and the 
 thought makes him uncomfortable.] 
 If you write me a cheque for my first quarter 
 now I can catch the 11.15 up. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [almost gently]. You can't go 
 to-night. . . . You're not packed. . . . And you'll 
 want to say good-bye to your mother. 
 
 Eustace. I think not. As I'm to go, it had 
 better be as suddenly as I came. It saves such a lot 
 of explanations. You can send my things after me 
 to London. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [sadly]. Very well. I'll go and 
 write you a cheque. 
 
 [Mr. Jackson goes out with a heavy sigh, and 
 silence falls upon the two brothers. At last Henry 
 speaks.] 
 
 Henry [bitterly]. Well, you've got what you 
 wanted. 
 
 Eustace [genially]. Thanks to you, my dear 
 fellow. 
 
 Henry. And what a sordid plot it has been ! 
 To make your way into this house by a trick with 
 the deliberate intention of blackmailing your own 
 father. 
 
 210 ACT IV
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Eustace {remonstrating good-humouredly\. You're 
 wrong. The blackmail, as you call it, was an after- 
 thought. When I made my way into this house — 
 in the way you so accurately describe — ^my designs 
 went no further than getting some decent food and 
 a house over my head for a few days. But when I 
 got here and found you all so infernally prosperous, 
 the governor flinging money about over getting 
 into Parliament, you intending to marry Faring- 
 ford's daughter, I thought I'd better put in for a 
 share of the plunder. 
 
 Henry [disgustedl. Well, you've succeeded — 
 succeeded because you've neither honour nor con- 
 science about you. 
 
 Eustace [turning on him]. No. I've succeeded 
 because you're a snob and the governor's a snob, 
 and that put you both in my power. I might have 
 been as poor and as unscrupulous as you please 
 without getting a halfpenny out of either of you. 
 Luckily, the governor's political ambitions and 
 your social ambitions gave me the pull over you, and 
 I used it. 
 
 Henry. Faugh ! [Turns away angrily ^ then faces 
 his brother again.] You understand, of course, that 
 if you are to have this allowance it is on the express 
 condition that you give up all thoughts of Miss 
 Faringford, give them up absolutely. 
 
 Eustace [carelessly]. By all means. What should 
 / be about marrying a penniless girl like Stella ? 
 
 Henry. There's nothing you won't do for 
 money ! Even to giving up the girl you pretend to 
 care for. 
 
 Eustace [shrugs]. I dare say. Besides, what 
 
 act IV 211
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 would Stella be about marrying a penniless devil 
 like me ? 
 
 Henry [exasperated at the injustice of the world]. 
 And the best of it is, if this story ever gets about, 
 youUl get all the sympathy ! Ne'er-do-wells always 
 do. The governor and I would be despised as a 
 couple of stony-hearted wretches with no bowels of 
 compassion, who grudged money to a necessitous 
 brother, while you would be called a light-hearted 
 devil-may-care chap who is nobody's enemy but 
 his own. 
 
 Eustace [grimly]. Well, I think I'd change 
 places with you. After all, you're pretty comfort- 
 able here. And you'll marry Stella, damn you ! 
 
 [Mr. Jackson enters with a cheque in his hand, and 
 Henry is silent.] 
 
 :*7'Mr. Jackson [holding out cheque to Eustace]. 
 Here's your cheque. 
 
 Eustace [taking it and reading the amount pro- 
 saically]. Fours into two hundred and fifty. 
 £62 los. od. Thanks, father. [Holds out hand.] 
 Good-bye. 
 
 [Mr. Jackson draws himself up and puts his hands 
 behind his back with awful dignity.] 
 
 You may as well. After all, I'm your son. And 
 if I'm a sweep, it's your fault. 
 
 Mr. Jackson [takes his hand after a moment^ s 
 hesitation]. Good-bye. 
 
 [Eustace goes slowly towards door.] 
 
 You may write occasionally, just to let us know 
 how you are. 
 
 212 ACT IV
 
 The Return of the Prodigal 
 
 Eustace [offering cheque, with a grim smile]. Make 
 it three hundred, father — and I won't write. 
 
 [Mr. Jackson is about to protest angrily, then, 
 recognising the uselessness of that proceeding, says 
 nothing, but waves cheque contemptuously away. 
 Eustace, still smiling, pockets it.] 
 
 No ? Well, have it your own way. Good-bye. 
 Good-bye, Henry. [Nods to him without offering to 
 shake hands, and goes out as the curtain falls.] 
 
 THE END
 
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