ACT III[It is after dinner in BELINDA'S hall. BELINDA is lying on the sofa with a coffee-cup in her hand. DELIA, in the chair on the right, has picked up "The Lute of Love" from a table and is reading it impatiently.]DELIA. What rubbish he writes!BELINDA (coming back from her thoughts). Who, dear?DELIA. Claude—Mr. Devenish. Of course, he's very young.BELINDA. So was Keats, darling.DELIA. I don't think Claude has had Keats' advantages. Keats started life as an apothecary.BELINDA. So much nicer than a chemist.DELIA. Now, Claude started with nothing to do.BELINDA (mildly). Do you always call him Claude, darling? I hope you aren't going to grow into a flirt like that horrid Mrs. Tremayne.DELIA. Silly mother! (Seriously) I don't think he'll ever be any good till he really gets work. Did you notice his hair this evening?BELINDA (dreamily). Whose, dear?DELIA. Mummy, look me in the eye and tell me you are not being bad.BELINDA (innocently). Bad, darling?DELIA. You've made Mr. Robinson fall in love with you.BELINDA (happily). Have I?DELIA. Yes; it's serious this time. He's not like the other two.BELINDA. However did you know that?DELIA. Oh, I know.BELINDA. Darling, I believe you've grown up. It's quite time I settled down.DELIA. With Mr. Robinson?(BELINDA looks thoughtfully at DELIA for a little time and then sits up.)BELINDA (mysteriously). Delia, are you prepared for a great secret to be revealed to you?DELIA (childishly). Oh, I love secrets.BELINDA (reproachfully). Darling, you mustn't take it like that. This is a great, deep, dark secret; you'll probably need your sal volatile.DELIA (excitedly). Go on!BELINDA. Well—(Looking round the room.) Shall we have the lights down a little?DELIA. Goon, mummy.BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is—(impressively)—is not quite the Robinson he appears to be.DELIA. Yes?BELINDA. In fact, child, he is—Hadn't you better come and hold your mother's hand?DELIA (struggling with some emotion). Goon.BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is a—sort of relation of yours; in fact—(playing with her rings and looking down coyly)—he is your—father. (She looks up at DELIA to see how the news is being received.) Dear one, this is not a matter for mirth.DELIA (coming over and kissing her). Darling, it is lovely, isn't it? I am laughing because I am so happy.BELINDA. Aren't you surprised?DELIA. No. You see, Claude told me this morning. He found out just before Mr. Baxter.BELINDA. Well! Every one seems to have known except me.DELIA. Didn't you see how friendly father and I got at dinner? I thought I'd better start breaking the ice—because I suppose he'll be kissing me directly.BELINDA. Say you like him.DELIA. I think he's going to be awfully nice. Does he know you know? (She goes back to her seat.)BELINDA. Not yet. Just at present I've rather got Mr. Baxter on my mind. I suppose, darling, you wouldn't like him as well as Mr. Devenish! (Pathetically.) You see, they're so used to going about together.DELIA. Claude is quite enough.BELINDA. I think I must see Mr. Baxter and get it over. Do you mind if I have Mr. Devenish too? I feel more at home with both of them. I'll give you him back. Oh dear, I feel so happy to-night! (She jumps up and goes over to DELIA.) And is my little girl going to be happy too? That's what mothers always say on the stage. I think it's so sweet.DELIA (smiling at her). Yes, I think so, mummy. Of course, I'm not romantic like you. I expect I'm more like father, really.BELINDA (dreamily). Jack can be romantic now. He was telling me this morning all about the people he has proposed to. I mean, I was tellinghim. Anyhow, he wasn't a bit like a father. Of course, he doesn't know he is a father yet. Darling, I think you might take him into the garden; only don't let him know who he is. You see, he ought to propose to me first, oughtn't he? (As the men come in, she gets up.) Here you all are! I do hope you haven't been throwing away your cigars, because smoking is allowed all over the house.TREMAYNE. Oh, we've finished, thank you.BELINDA. Isn't it a wonderful night?—and so warm for April. Delia, you must show Mr. Robinson the garden by moonlight—it's the only light he hasn't seen it by.DEVENISH (quickly). I don't think I've ever seen it by moonlight, Miss Delia.BELINDA. I thought poets were always seeing things by moonlight.BAXTER. I was hoping, Mrs. Tremayne, that—er—perhaps—DELIA. Come along, Mr. Robinson.(TREMAYNElooks atBELINDA, who gives him a nod.)TREMAYNE. It's very kind of you, Miss Robinson. I suppose there is no chance of a nightingale?BELINDA. There ought to be. I ordered one specially for Mr. Devenish. (DELIA and TREMAYNE go out together. BELINDA settles herself comfortably on the sofa.) Now we're together again. Well, Mr. Devenish?DEVENISH. Er—I—BELINDA. No; I think I'll let Mr. Baxter speak first. I know he's longing to.BAXTER. Yes. H'r'm! Mrs. Tremayne, I beg formally to claim your hand.BELINDA (sweetly). On what grounds, Mr. Baxter?DEVENISH (spiritedly). Yes, sir, on what grounds?BAXTER. On the grounds that, as I told you this morning, I had succeeded in the quest.DEVENISH (appearing to be greatly surprised). Succeeded?BAXTER. Yes, Mr. Devenish, young fellow, you have lost. I have discovered the missing Mr. Robinson.DEVENISH. Who—where—BAXTER (dramatically). Miss Robinson has at this moment gone out with her father.DEVENISH. Good heavens! It was he!BELINDA (sympathetically). Poor Mr. Devenish!DEVENISH (pointing tragically to the table). And to think that I actually sat on that table—no, that seat—no, not that one, it was the sofa—that I sat on the sofa with him this morning, and never guessed! Why, ten minutes ago I was asking him for the nuts!BAXTER. Aha, Devenish, you're not so clever as you thought you were.DEVENISH. Why, I must have given you the clue myself! He told me he had a scar on his arm, and I never thought any more of it. And then I went away innocently and left you two talking about it.BELINDA (alarmed). A scar on his arm?DEVENISH. Where a lion mauled him.(BELINDA gives a little shudder.)BAXTER. It's quite healed up now, Mrs. Tremayne.BELINDA (looking at him admiringly). A lion! What you two have adventured for my sake!BAXTER. I suppose you will admit, Devenish, that I may fairly claim to have won?(Looking the picture of despair, DEVENISH droops his head, raises his arms and lets them fall hopelessly to his sides.)BELINDA. Mr. Devenish, I have never admired you so much as I do at this moment.BAXTER (indignantly to DEVENISH). I say, you know, that's not fair. It's all very well to take your defeat like a man, but you mustn't overdo it. Mrs. Tremayne, I claim the reward which I have earned.BELINDA (after a pause). Mr. Baxter—Mr. Devenish, I have something to tell you. (Penitently.) I have not been quite frank with you. I think you both ought to know that—I—I made a mistake. Delia is not my niece; she is my daughter.DEVENISH. Your daughter! I say, how ripping!(BELINDA gives him an understanding look.)BAXTER. Your daughter!BELINDA. Yes.BAXTER. But—but you aren't old enough to have a daughter of that age.BELINDA (apologetically). Well, there she is.BAXTER. But—but she's grown up.BELINDA. Quite.BAXTER. Then in that case you must be—(He hesitates, evidently working it out.)BELINDA (hastily). I'm afraid so, Mr. Baxter.BAXTER. But this makes a great difference. I had no idea. Why, when I'm fifty you would be—BELINDA (sighing). Yes, I suppose I should.BAXTER. And when I'm sixty—BELINDA (pleadingly to DEVENISH). Can't you stop him?DEVENISH. Look here, Baxter, another word from you and you'll nevergetto sixty.BAXTER. And then there's Miss—er—Delia. In the event of our marrying, Mrs. Tremayne, she, I take it, would be my step-daughter.BELINDA. I don't think she would trouble us much, Mr. Baxter. I have an idea that she will be getting married before long. (She glances at DEVENISH, who returns her look gratefully.)BAXTER. None the less, the fact would be disturbing. I have never yet considered myself seriously as a step-father. I don't think I am going too far if I say that to some extent I have been deceived in this matter.BELINDA (reproachfully). And so have I. I thought you loved me.DEVENISH (sympathetically). Yes, yes.BELINDA (turning to him suddenly).AndMr. Devenish too.BAXTER. Er—DEVENISH. Er—(They stand before her guiltily and have nothing to say.)BELINDA (with a shrug). Well, I shall have to marry somebody else, that's all.BAXTER. Who?BELINDA. I suppose Mr. Robinson. After all, if I am Delia's mother, and Mr. Baxter says that Mr. Robinson's her father, it's about time weweremarried.DEVENISH (eagerly). Mrs. Tremayne, what fools we are! Heisyour husband all the time!BELINDA. Yes.BAXTER. You've had a husband all the time?BELINDA (apologetically). I lost him; it wasn't my fault.BAXTER. Really, this is very confusing. I don't know where I am. I gather—I am to gather, it seems, that you are no longer eligible as a possible wife?BELINDA. I am afraid not, Mr. Baxter.BAXTER. But this is very confusing—this is very disturbing to a man of my age. For weeks past I have been regarding myself as a—a possible benedict. I have—ah—taken steps. Only this morning, in writing to my housekeeper, I warned her that she might hear at any moment a most startling announcement.DEVENISH (cheerfully). Oh, that's all right. That might only mean that you were getting a new bowler-hat.BAXTER (suddenly). Ah, and what about you, sir? How is it that you take this so lightly? (Triumphantly.) I have it. It all becomes clear to me. You have transferred your affections to her daughter!DEVENISH. Oh, I say, Baxter, this is very crude.BELINDA. And why should he not, Mr. Baxter? (Softly.) He has made me very happy.BAXTER. He has made you happy, Mrs. Tremayne!BELINDA. Very happy.BAXTER (thoughtfully). Ah! (He takes a turn round the room in, silence, and then comes back to her.) Mrs. Tremayne, I have taken a great resolve. (Solemnly.) I also will make you happy. (Thumping his heart.) I also will woo Miss Delia. (Suddenly seizing DEVENISH'S arm) Come, we will seek Miss Delia together. It may be that she will send us upon another quest in which I shall again be victorious. (Tempestuously) Come, I say! (He marches the resisting DEVENISH to the swing doors.)DEVENISH (to BELINDA). Please!BELINDA (gently). Mr. Baxter... Harold. (BAXTER stops and turns round.) You are too impetuous. I think that as Delia's mother—BAXTER. Your pardon, Mrs. Tremayne. In the intoxication of the moment I am forgetting. (Formally.) I have the honour to ask your permission to pay my addresses—BELINDA. No, no, I didn't mean that. But, as Delia's mother, I ought to warn you that she is hardly fitted to take the place of your housekeeper. She is not very domesticated.BAXTER (indignantly). Not domesticated? Why, did I not hear her tell her father at dinner that she had arranged all the flowers?BELINDA. There are other things than flowers.DEVENISH. Bed-socks, for instance, Baxter. It's a very tricky thing airing bed-socks. I am sure your house-keeper—BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, she will learn. The daughter of such a mother... I need say no more.BELINDA. Oh, thank you. But there is something else, Mr. Baxter. You are not being quite fair to yourself. In starting out upon this simultaneous wooing, you forget that Mr. Devenish has already had his turn this morning alone. You should have yours... alone... too.DEVENISH. Oh, I say!BAXTER. Yes, yes, you are right. I must introduce myself first as a suitor. I see that. (To DEVENISH)Youstay here;Iwill go alone into the garden, and—BELINDA. It is perhaps a little cold out of doors for people of... ofourage, Mr. Baxter. Now, in the library—BAXTER (astonished). Library?BELINDA. Yes.BAXTER. You have a library?BELINDA (to DEVENISH). He doesn't believe I have a library.DEVENISH. You ought to see the library, Baxter.BAXTER. But you are continually springing surprises on me this evening, Mrs. Tremayne. First a daughter, then a husband, and then—a library! I have been here three weeks, and I never knew you had a library. Dear me, I wonder how it is that I never saw it?BELINDA (modestly). I thought you came to seeme.BAXTER. Yes, yes, to see you, certainly. But if I had known you had a library....BELINDA. Oh, I am so glad I mentioned it. Wasn't it lucky, Mr. Devenish?BAXTER. My work has been greatly handicapped of late by lack of certain books to which I wanted to refer. It would be a great help—BELINDA. My dear Mr. Baxter, my whole library is at your disposal. (To DEVENISH, as she leads the way to the door, in a confidential whisper.) I'm just going to show him the "Encyclopedia Britannica." (She smiles at him, and he opens the door for them both. Then he goes towards the garden door and looks outside.)DELIA (from the garden). Hullo, we're just coming in. (He goes back and waits for them.)TREMAYNE. Where's Mrs. Tremayne?DEVENISH. She's gone to the library with Baxter.TREMAYNE (carelessly). Oh, the library. Where's that?DEVENISH (promptly going towards the door and opening it). The end door on the right. Right at the end. You can't mistake it. On the right.TREMAYNE. Ah, yes. (He looks round at DELIA.) Yes. (He looks at DEVENISH.) Yes. [He goes out.](DEVENISH hastily shuts the door and comes back to DELIA.)DEVENISH. I say, your mother is a ripper.DELIA (enthusiastically). Isn't she! (Remembering.) At least, you mean my aunt?DEVENISH (smiling at her). No, I mean your mother. To think that I once had the cheek to propose to her.DELIA. Oh! Is it cheek to propose to people!DEVENISH. Toher.DELIA. But not to me?DEVENISH. Oh I say, Delia!DELIA (with great dignity). Thank you, my name is Miss Robinson—I mean, Tremayne.DEVENISH. Well, if you're not quite sure which it is, it's much safer to call you Delia.DELIA (smiling). Well, perhaps it is.DEVENISH. And if I did propose to you, you haven't answeredDELIA. If you want an answer now, it's no; but if you like to wait till next April—DEVENISH (reproachfully). Oh, I say, and I cut my hair for you the same afternoon. You haven't really told me how you like it yet.DELIA. Oh, how bad of me! You look lovely.DEVENISH. And I promised to give up poetry for your sake.DELIA. Perhaps I oughtn't to have asked you that.DEVENISH. As far as I'm concerned, Delia, I'll do it gladly, but, of course, one has to think about posterity.DELIA. But you needn't be a poet. You could give posterity plenty to think about if you were a statesman.DEVENISH. I don't quite see your objection to poetry.DELIA. You would be about the house so much. I want you to go away every day and do great things, and then come home in the evening and tell me all about it.DEVENISH. Then youarethinking of marrying me!DELIA. Well, I was just thinking in case I had to.DEVENISH. It would be rather fun if you did. And look here—Iwillbe a statesman, if you like, and go up to Downing Street every day, and come back in the evening and tell you all about it.DELIA. How nice of you!DEVENISH (magnificently, holding up his hand to Heaven). Farewell, Parnassus!DELIA. What does that mean?DEVENISH. Well, it means that I've chucked poetry. A statesman's life is the life for me; behold Mr. Devenish, the new M.P.—no, look here, that was quite accidental.DELIA (smiling at him). I believe I shall really like you when I get to know you.DEVENISH. I don't know if it's you, or Devonshire, or the fact that I've had my hair cut, but I feel quite a different being from what I was three days ago.DELIA. Youaredifferent. Perhaps it's your sense of humour coming back.DEVENISH. Perhaps that's it. It's a curious feeling.DELIA (holding out her hand). Let's go outside; there's a heavenly moon.DEVENISH (taking her hand). Moon? Moon? Now where have I heard that word before?DELIA. Whatdoyou mean?DEVENISH. I was trying not to be a poet. Well, I'll come with you, but I shall refuse to look at it. (Putting his left hand behind his back, he walks slowly out with her, saying to himself) The Prime Minister then left the House.[BELINDA and TREMAYNE come from the library.]BELINDA (as he opens the door). Thank you. I don't think it's unkind to leave him, do you? He seemed quite happy.TREMAYNE. I shouldn't have been happy if we'd stayed.BELINDA (going to the sofa and putting her feet up). Yes, but I was really thinking of Mr. Baxter.TREMAYNE. Not of me?BELINDA. Well, I thought it was Mr. Baxter's turn. Poor man, he's had a disappointment lately.TREMAYNE (eagerly). A disappointment?BELINDA. Yes, he thought I was—younger than I was.TREMAYNE (smiling to himself). How old are you, Belinda?BELINDA (dropping her eyes). Twenty-two. (After a pause.) He thought I was eighteen. Such a disappointment!TREMAYNE (smiling openly at her). Belinda, how old are you?BELINDA. Just about the right age, Mr. Robinson.TREMAYNE. The right age for what?BELINDA. For this sort of conversation.TREMAYNE. Shall I tell you how old you are?BELINDA. Do you mean in figures or—poetically?TREMAYNE. I meant—BELINDA. Mr. Devenish said I was as old as the—now, I must get this the right way round—as old as the—TREMAYNE. I don't want to talk about Mr. Devenish.BELINDA (with a sigh). Nobody ever does—except Mr. Devenish. As old as the stars, and as young as the dawn. (Settling herself cosily.) I think that's rather a nice age to be, don't you?TREMAYNE. A very nice age to be.BELINDA. It's a pity he's thrown me over for Delia; I shall miss that sort of thing rather. You don't say those sort of things about your aunt-in-law—not so often.TREMAYNE (eagerly). He really is in love with Miss Robinson!BELINDA. Oh yes. I expect he is out in the moonlight with her now, comparing her to Diana.TREMAYNE. Well, that accounts forhim.Now what about Baxter?BELINDA. I thought I told you. Deeply disappointed to find that I was four years older than he expected, Mr. Baxter hurried from the drawing-room and buried himself in a column of the "Encyclopedia Britannica."TREMAYNE. Well, that settles Baxter. Are there any more men in the neighbourhood?BELINDA (shaking her head). Isn't it awful? I've only had those two for the last three weeks.(TREMAYNE sits on the back of the sofa and looks down at her.)TREMAYNE. Belinda.BELINDA. Yes, Henry!TREMAYNE. My name is John.BELINDA. Well, you never told me. I had to guess. Everybody thinks they can call me Belinda without giving me the least idea what their own names are. You were saying, John?TREMAYNE. My friends call me Jack.BELINDA. Jack Robinson. That's the man who always goes away so quickly. I hope you're making more of a stay?TREMAYNE. Oh, you maddening, maddening woman!BELINDA. Well, I have to keep the conversation going. You do nothing but say "Belinda."TREMAYNE (taking her hand). Have you ever loved anybody seriously, Belinda?BELINDA. I don't ever do anything very seriously. The late Mr. Tremayne, my first husband—Jack—Isn't it funny,hisname was Jack—he used to complain about it too sometimes.TREMAYNE (with conviction). Silly ass!BELINDA. Ah, I think you are a little hard on the late Mr. Tremayne.TREMAYNE. Has he been dead long?BELINDA. Dead to me.TREMAYNE. You quarrelled?BELINDA. Yes. It was his fault entirely.TREMAYNE. I'm sure it was.BELINDA. How sweet of you to say that!TREMAYNE. Belinda, I want you to marry me and forget about him.BELINDA (happily to herself). This is the proposal that those lamb cutlets interrupted this morning.TREMAYNE. Belinda, I love you—do you understand?BELINDA. Suppose my first husband turns up suddenly like—like E. A.?TREMAYNE. Like who?BELINDA. Well, like anybody.TREMAYNE. He won't—I know he won't. Don't you love me enough to risk it, Belinda?BELINDA. I haven't really said I love you at all yet.TREMAYNE. Well, say it now. (BELINDA looks at him, and then down again.) You do! Well, I'm going to have a kiss, anyway, (He comes round the sofa and kisses her quickly.) There!BELINDA (rising). O-oh! The late Mr. Tremayne never did that.TREMAYNE. I have already told you that he was a silly ass. (Sitting down on the sofa) Belinda—BELINDA. Yes, Henry—I mean, Jack?TREMAYNE. Do you know who I am! (He is thoroughly enjoying the surprise he is about to give her.)BELINDA (nodding). Yes, Jack.TREMAYNE. Who?BELINDA. Jack Tremayne.TREMAYNE (jumping up). Good heavens, youknow!BELINDA (gently). Yes, Jack.TREMAYNE (angrily). You've known all the time that I was your husband, and you've been playing with me and leading me on?BELINDA (mildly). Well, darling, you knew all the time that I was your wife, and you've been making love to me and leading me on.TREMAYNE. That's different.BELINDA. That'sjustwhat the late Mr. Tremayne said, and then he slammed the door and went straight off to the Rocky Mountains and shot bears; and I didn't see him again for eighteen years.TREMAYNE (remorsefully). Darling, I was a fool then, and I'm a fool now.BELINDA. I was a fool then, but I'm not such a fool now—I'm not going to let you go. It's quite time I married and settled down.TREMAYNE. You darling! How did you find out who I was?BELINDA (awkwardly). Well, it was rather curious, darling. (After a pause.) It was April, and I felt all sort of Aprily, and—and—there was the garden all full of daffodils—and—and there was Mr. Baxter—the one we left in the library—knowing all about moles. He's probably got the M volume down now. Well, we were talking about them one day, and I happened to say that the late Mr. Tremayne—that was you, darling—had rather a peculiar one on his arm. And then he happened to see it this morning and told me about it.TREMAYNE. What an extraordinary story!BELINDA. Yes, darling; it's really much more extraordinary than that. I think perhaps I'd better tell you the rest of it another time. (Coaxingly.) Now show me where the nasty lion scratched you. (TREMAYNE pulls up his sleeve.) Oh! (She kisses his arm.) You shouldn't have left Chelsea, darling.TREMAYNE. I should never have found you if I hadn't.BELINDA (squeezing his arm). No, Jack, you wouldn't. (After a pause.) I—I've got another little surprise for you if—if you're ready for it. (Standing up) Properly speaking, I ought to be wearing white. I shall certainly stand up while I'm telling you. (Modestly.) Darling, we have a daughter—our little Delia.TREMAYNE. Delia? You said her name was Robinson.BELINDA. Yes, darling, but you said yours was. One always takes one's father's name. Unless, of course, you were Lord Robinson.TREMAYNE. But you said her name was Robinson before you—oh, never mind about that. A daughter? Belinda, how could you let me go and not tell me?BELINDA. You forget how you'd slammed the door. It isn't the sort of thing you shout through the window to a man on his way to America.TREMAYNE (taking her in his arms). Oh, Belinda, don't let me ever go away again.BELINDA. I'm not going to, Jack. I'm going to settle down into a staid old married woman.TREMAYNE. Oh no, you're not. You're going on just as you did before. And I'm going to propose to you every April, and win you, over all the other men in love with you.BELINDA. You darling![DELIA and DEVENISH come in from the garden.]TREMAYNE (quietly to BELINDA). Our daughter.DELIA (going up to TREMAYNE). You're my father.TREMAYNE. If you don't mind very much, Delia.DELIA. You've been away a long time.TREMAYNE. I'll do my best to make up for it.BELINDA. Delia, darling, I think you might kiss your poor old father.(As the does to, DEVENISH suddenly and hastily kisses BELINDA on the cheek.)DEVENISH. Just in case you're going to be my mother-in-law.TREMAYNE. We seem to be rather a family party.BELINDA (suddenly). There! We've forgotten Mr. Baxter again.BAXTER (who has come in quietly with a book in his hand). Oh, don't mind about me, Mrs. Tremayne. I've enjoyed myself immensely. (Referring to his book.) I have been collecting some most valuable information on (looking round at them) lunacy in the—er—county ofDevonshire.THE RED FEATHERSAN OPERETTA IN ONE ACT[In the living-room of a country-house, half farm, half manor, a MOTHER and her DAUGHTER are sitting. It is any year you please—between, let us say, the day when the fiddle first came to England and the day when Romance left it. As for the time of the year, let us call it May. Oh yes, it is certainly May, and about twelve o'clock, and the DAUGHTER is singing at the spinet, while her MOTHER is at her needlework. Through the lattice windows the murmur of a stream can be heard, on whose banks—but we shall come to that directly. Let us listen now to what the DAUGHTER is singing:]Life passes by.I do not know its pleasure or its pain—The Spring was here, the Spring is here again,The Spring will die.Life passes by.The doors of Pain and Pleasure open wide,The crowd streams in—and I am left outside....They know; not I.[You don't like it? Neither did her Mother.]MOTHER (looking up from her work). Yes, I should call that a melancholy song, dear.DAUGHTER. It is sung by a melancholy person, Mother.MOTHER. Why are you that, child?DAUGHTER (getting up). I want so much that I shall never have.MOTHER. Well, so do we all.DAUGHTER (impatiently). Oh, why does nothing ever happen? We sit here all day, and we sing or do our embroidery, and we go to bed, and the next day we get up and do the same things over again, and so it goes on. Mother, is that all there is in the world?MOTHER. It's all there is in our world.DAUGHTER. Are we so very poor?MOTHER. We have the house—and very little else.DAUGHTER. Oh, I wish that we werereallypoor—MOTHER. You needn't wish, child.DAUGHTER. Oh, but I mean so that it wouldn't matter what clothes we wore; so that we could wander over the hills and down into the valleys, and sleep perhaps in a barn and bathe ourselves in the brook next morning, and—MOTHER. I don't think I should like that very much. Perhaps I'm peculiar.DAUGHTER. Oh, if only I were a boy to go out and make my own way in the world. Would you let me go, Mother, if I were a boy?MOTHER. I don't suppose you'd ask me, dear.DAUGHTER (sighing). Oh, well! We must make the best of it, I suppose. Perhaps one day something will happen. (She goes back to the spinet and sings again.)Lads and lasses, what will you sell,What will you sell?Four stout walls and a roof atop,Warm fires gleaming brightly,Well-stored cellar and garnered crop,Money-bags packed tightly;An ordered task in an ordered day,And a sure bed nightly;Years which peacefully pass away,Until Death comes lightly.Lads and lasses, what will you buy?What will you buy?Here is a cap to cover your head,A cap with one red feather;Here is a cloak to make your bedWarm or winter weather;Here is a satchel to store your ware,Strongly lined with leather;And here is a staff to take you thereWhen you go forth together.Lads and lasses, what will you gain,What will you gain?Chatter of rooks on tall elm-treesNew Spring houses taking;Daffodils in an April breezeGolden curtsies making;Shadows of clouds across the wealdFrom hill to valley breaking,The first faint stir which the woodlands yieldWhen the world is waking.Lads and lasses, this is your gain,This is your gain.(Towards the end of the song the face and shoulders of the TALKER appear at the open lattice window on the left. He listens with a bland and happy smile until the song is finished.)TALKER. Brava! Brava! (They turn round towards the window in astonishment.) A vastly pleasing song, vastly well sung. Mademoiselle Nightingale, permit me to felicitate you. (Turning to the Mother) The Mother of the Nightingale also. Mon Dieu, what is voice, of a richness, of a purity! To live with it always! Madame, I felicitate you again.MOTHER. I must ask you, sir, to explain the meaning of this intrusion.TALKER. Intrusion? Oh, fie! Madame, not intrusion. My feet stand upon the highway. The road, Madame, is common to all. I can quote you Rex—What does Rex, cap. 27, para. 198, say?Via, says Rex, meaning the road;communisis common;omnibusto all, meaning thereby—but perchance I weary you?DAUGHTER. Mother, who is he?TALKER. Ah, Mademoiselle Nightingale, you may indeed ask. Who is he? Is he the Pope of Rome? Nay, he is not the Pope of Rome. Is he the Cham of Tartary? Nay, he is not the Cham of Tartary, for an he were the Cham of Tartary—MOTHER. I beg you, sir, to tell us as shortly as you can who you are and what you want.TALKER. Madam, by nature I am a taciturn man; Silent John I am named by my friends. I am a glum body, a reserved creature. These things you will have already noticed. But now I will commit to you it secret, known only to my dearest friends. Uncommunicative as I am by nature (he disappears and reappears at the middle window), I am still more so when compelled to hold converse with two such ornaments of their sex (he disappears and reappears at the right-hand window) through a lattice window. Am I getting any nearer the door?MOTHER (resigned). Pray, sir, come in and tell us all about it. I see that we must have your tale.TALKER. To be exact, Madame, I have two tails who follow me about everywhere. One is of my own poor sex, a man, a thing of whiskers; the other has the honour to belong to that sex which—have I said it?—you and Mademoiselle so adorn. Have I your ladyship's permission?DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, Mother, let them come.MOTHER. Well, I suppose I must have you all.TALKER (with a bow). Madame, I shall never forget this. Though I live to be ninety-three, this will always be engraved upon my memory. My grandchildren climbing upon my knee will wonder sometimes of what the old man is thinking. Little will they know—But I will attend you further within. [He bows and disappears.]DAUGHTER. Mother, somethingisgoing to happen at last.MOTHER. Oh, child, were you as weary as that?[The TALKER comes in at the door, followed by the SINGER and the FIDDLER. The SINGER is a pleasant-looking man of middle height, the FIDDLER a tall, silent girl. The TALKER himself is short and round, with a twinkling eye. Each wears a cap with a red feather in it.]TALKER. Madame, your humble and most devoted servants. I have the honour to present to you her Royal Sweetness the Princess Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a mere Marquis.DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, they're wandering minstrels.MOTHER. I bid you all welcome, sir.TALKER. Permit me to expound further. The Princess—a courtesy title bestowed by myself last Michaelmas Day—plays upon the fiddle with an unerring beauty which makes strong men weep. You shall hear her. I pray you have your handkerchers ready. His Flutiness the Duke—the title was granted last Candlemas—has a voice of a rare richness. He is cursed with a melancholy disposition most pleasing. He suffers from a surfeit of rejected love. A most waggish companion withal.DAUGHTER. Oh, what a shame!SINGER. You must not believe all that Johannes says, ladies.MOTHER. I had already learnt that much, sir.TALKER. For myself, I play upon the pipe. You shall hear. (He plays "cuckoo" with an air.)SINGER. The only notes he knows, ladies.TALKER (indignantly). Oh, fie, Sir, fie! I protest, Madame, he maligns me. Have I not a G of surpassing splendour, of a fruitiness rarely encountered in this vale of tears? Madame, you must hear my G. Now, where is it? (He arranges his fingers with great care on the pipe.) I have it. (He blows a G, and bows deeply first to MOTHER and then to DAUGHTER.)SINGER. Marvellous!MOTHER (to TALKER). I thank you, Sir.DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, isn't he splendid?TALKER (to MOTHER). Would you like my G again, Madame?MOTHER. Not just now, I thank you, sir. Doubtless we shall feel more in need of it a little later on. But tell me, Sir, have you no other talent to match the singing and playing of your friends?FIDDLER. He talks.MOTHER. I had noticed it.TALKER. This gift of talking with which her Royal Sweetness is good enough to credit me, irksome though it is to a man of silent habit like myself, a creature, as you will have noticed, of taciturn disposition; this—I—(Frankly) Madame, I have lost that sentence. Have I your gracious permission to begin again?MOTHER. I think it would be better, Sir.TALKER. Then, to put it shortly, Madame—MOTHER. If you could, sir.TALKER. To be completely frank in this matter, Madame, I—er—go round with the hat. It is a sordid but necessary business.DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, I hope they give you plenty of money.TALKER. Enough to support life, Mademoiselle. The hungry look which you observe upon His Flutiness is, as I have explained, due to melancholy.DAUGHTER. You are going to perform, aren't you?TALKER. Of a surety, Mademoiselle. Perhaps I should add that for myself I am resting just now, and that my part of the performance will be limited to nothing more than a note or two upon the pipe.MOTHER (with a friendly smile). Sir, you are generous. We shall be glad to hear your friends.(The TALKER bows and turns to his company.)TALKER. A song, good Master Duke, a song which her Royal Sweetness will accompany upon the fiddle. Let it end, I pray you, with a G, so that I may bring the thing to a climax upon the last note.FIDDLER (to SINGER). Morland Hill.SINGER. You like that? (She nods.) Very well. (He sings.)
[It is after dinner in BELINDA'S hall. BELINDA is lying on the sofa with a coffee-cup in her hand. DELIA, in the chair on the right, has picked up "The Lute of Love" from a table and is reading it impatiently.]
DELIA. What rubbish he writes!
BELINDA (coming back from her thoughts). Who, dear?
DELIA. Claude—Mr. Devenish. Of course, he's very young.
BELINDA. So was Keats, darling.
DELIA. I don't think Claude has had Keats' advantages. Keats started life as an apothecary.
BELINDA. So much nicer than a chemist.
DELIA. Now, Claude started with nothing to do.
BELINDA (mildly). Do you always call him Claude, darling? I hope you aren't going to grow into a flirt like that horrid Mrs. Tremayne.
DELIA. Silly mother! (Seriously) I don't think he'll ever be any good till he really gets work. Did you notice his hair this evening?
BELINDA (dreamily). Whose, dear?
DELIA. Mummy, look me in the eye and tell me you are not being bad.
BELINDA (innocently). Bad, darling?
DELIA. You've made Mr. Robinson fall in love with you.
BELINDA (happily). Have I?
DELIA. Yes; it's serious this time. He's not like the other two.
BELINDA. However did you know that?
DELIA. Oh, I know.
BELINDA. Darling, I believe you've grown up. It's quite time I settled down.
DELIA. With Mr. Robinson?
(BELINDA looks thoughtfully at DELIA for a little time and then sits up.)
BELINDA (mysteriously). Delia, are you prepared for a great secret to be revealed to you?
DELIA (childishly). Oh, I love secrets.
BELINDA (reproachfully). Darling, you mustn't take it like that. This is a great, deep, dark secret; you'll probably need your sal volatile.
DELIA (excitedly). Go on!
BELINDA. Well—(Looking round the room.) Shall we have the lights down a little?
DELIA. Goon, mummy.
BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is—(impressively)—is not quite the Robinson he appears to be.
DELIA. Yes?
BELINDA. In fact, child, he is—Hadn't you better come and hold your mother's hand?
DELIA (struggling with some emotion). Goon.
BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is a—sort of relation of yours; in fact—(playing with her rings and looking down coyly)—he is your—father. (She looks up at DELIA to see how the news is being received.) Dear one, this is not a matter for mirth.
DELIA (coming over and kissing her). Darling, it is lovely, isn't it? I am laughing because I am so happy.
BELINDA. Aren't you surprised?
DELIA. No. You see, Claude told me this morning. He found out just before Mr. Baxter.
BELINDA. Well! Every one seems to have known except me.
DELIA. Didn't you see how friendly father and I got at dinner? I thought I'd better start breaking the ice—because I suppose he'll be kissing me directly.
BELINDA. Say you like him.
DELIA. I think he's going to be awfully nice. Does he know you know? (She goes back to her seat.)
BELINDA. Not yet. Just at present I've rather got Mr. Baxter on my mind. I suppose, darling, you wouldn't like him as well as Mr. Devenish! (Pathetically.) You see, they're so used to going about together.
DELIA. Claude is quite enough.
BELINDA. I think I must see Mr. Baxter and get it over. Do you mind if I have Mr. Devenish too? I feel more at home with both of them. I'll give you him back. Oh dear, I feel so happy to-night! (She jumps up and goes over to DELIA.) And is my little girl going to be happy too? That's what mothers always say on the stage. I think it's so sweet.
DELIA (smiling at her). Yes, I think so, mummy. Of course, I'm not romantic like you. I expect I'm more like father, really.
BELINDA (dreamily). Jack can be romantic now. He was telling me this morning all about the people he has proposed to. I mean, I was tellinghim. Anyhow, he wasn't a bit like a father. Of course, he doesn't know he is a father yet. Darling, I think you might take him into the garden; only don't let him know who he is. You see, he ought to propose to me first, oughtn't he? (As the men come in, she gets up.) Here you all are! I do hope you haven't been throwing away your cigars, because smoking is allowed all over the house.
TREMAYNE. Oh, we've finished, thank you.
BELINDA. Isn't it a wonderful night?—and so warm for April. Delia, you must show Mr. Robinson the garden by moonlight—it's the only light he hasn't seen it by.
DEVENISH (quickly). I don't think I've ever seen it by moonlight, Miss Delia.
BELINDA. I thought poets were always seeing things by moonlight.
BAXTER. I was hoping, Mrs. Tremayne, that—er—perhaps—
DELIA. Come along, Mr. Robinson.
(TREMAYNElooks atBELINDA, who gives him a nod.)
TREMAYNE. It's very kind of you, Miss Robinson. I suppose there is no chance of a nightingale?
BELINDA. There ought to be. I ordered one specially for Mr. Devenish. (DELIA and TREMAYNE go out together. BELINDA settles herself comfortably on the sofa.) Now we're together again. Well, Mr. Devenish?
DEVENISH. Er—I—
BELINDA. No; I think I'll let Mr. Baxter speak first. I know he's longing to.
BAXTER. Yes. H'r'm! Mrs. Tremayne, I beg formally to claim your hand.
BELINDA (sweetly). On what grounds, Mr. Baxter?
DEVENISH (spiritedly). Yes, sir, on what grounds?
BAXTER. On the grounds that, as I told you this morning, I had succeeded in the quest.
DEVENISH (appearing to be greatly surprised). Succeeded?
BAXTER. Yes, Mr. Devenish, young fellow, you have lost. I have discovered the missing Mr. Robinson.
DEVENISH. Who—where—
BAXTER (dramatically). Miss Robinson has at this moment gone out with her father.
DEVENISH. Good heavens! It was he!
BELINDA (sympathetically). Poor Mr. Devenish!
DEVENISH (pointing tragically to the table). And to think that I actually sat on that table—no, that seat—no, not that one, it was the sofa—that I sat on the sofa with him this morning, and never guessed! Why, ten minutes ago I was asking him for the nuts!
BAXTER. Aha, Devenish, you're not so clever as you thought you were.
DEVENISH. Why, I must have given you the clue myself! He told me he had a scar on his arm, and I never thought any more of it. And then I went away innocently and left you two talking about it.
BELINDA (alarmed). A scar on his arm?
DEVENISH. Where a lion mauled him.
(BELINDA gives a little shudder.)
BAXTER. It's quite healed up now, Mrs. Tremayne.
BELINDA (looking at him admiringly). A lion! What you two have adventured for my sake!
BAXTER. I suppose you will admit, Devenish, that I may fairly claim to have won?
(Looking the picture of despair, DEVENISH droops his head, raises his arms and lets them fall hopelessly to his sides.)
BELINDA. Mr. Devenish, I have never admired you so much as I do at this moment.
BAXTER (indignantly to DEVENISH). I say, you know, that's not fair. It's all very well to take your defeat like a man, but you mustn't overdo it. Mrs. Tremayne, I claim the reward which I have earned.
BELINDA (after a pause). Mr. Baxter—Mr. Devenish, I have something to tell you. (Penitently.) I have not been quite frank with you. I think you both ought to know that—I—I made a mistake. Delia is not my niece; she is my daughter.
DEVENISH. Your daughter! I say, how ripping!
(BELINDA gives him an understanding look.)
BAXTER. Your daughter!
BELINDA. Yes.
BAXTER. But—but you aren't old enough to have a daughter of that age.
BELINDA (apologetically). Well, there she is.
BAXTER. But—but she's grown up.
BELINDA. Quite.
BAXTER. Then in that case you must be—(He hesitates, evidently working it out.)
BELINDA (hastily). I'm afraid so, Mr. Baxter.
BAXTER. But this makes a great difference. I had no idea. Why, when I'm fifty you would be—
BELINDA (sighing). Yes, I suppose I should.
BAXTER. And when I'm sixty—
BELINDA (pleadingly to DEVENISH). Can't you stop him?
DEVENISH. Look here, Baxter, another word from you and you'll nevergetto sixty.
BAXTER. And then there's Miss—er—Delia. In the event of our marrying, Mrs. Tremayne, she, I take it, would be my step-daughter.
BELINDA. I don't think she would trouble us much, Mr. Baxter. I have an idea that she will be getting married before long. (She glances at DEVENISH, who returns her look gratefully.)
BAXTER. None the less, the fact would be disturbing. I have never yet considered myself seriously as a step-father. I don't think I am going too far if I say that to some extent I have been deceived in this matter.
BELINDA (reproachfully). And so have I. I thought you loved me.
DEVENISH (sympathetically). Yes, yes.
BELINDA (turning to him suddenly).AndMr. Devenish too.
BAXTER. Er—
DEVENISH. Er—
(They stand before her guiltily and have nothing to say.)
BELINDA (with a shrug). Well, I shall have to marry somebody else, that's all.
BAXTER. Who?
BELINDA. I suppose Mr. Robinson. After all, if I am Delia's mother, and Mr. Baxter says that Mr. Robinson's her father, it's about time weweremarried.
DEVENISH (eagerly). Mrs. Tremayne, what fools we are! Heisyour husband all the time!
BELINDA. Yes.
BAXTER. You've had a husband all the time?
BELINDA (apologetically). I lost him; it wasn't my fault.
BAXTER. Really, this is very confusing. I don't know where I am. I gather—I am to gather, it seems, that you are no longer eligible as a possible wife?
BELINDA. I am afraid not, Mr. Baxter.
BAXTER. But this is very confusing—this is very disturbing to a man of my age. For weeks past I have been regarding myself as a—a possible benedict. I have—ah—taken steps. Only this morning, in writing to my housekeeper, I warned her that she might hear at any moment a most startling announcement.
DEVENISH (cheerfully). Oh, that's all right. That might only mean that you were getting a new bowler-hat.
BAXTER (suddenly). Ah, and what about you, sir? How is it that you take this so lightly? (Triumphantly.) I have it. It all becomes clear to me. You have transferred your affections to her daughter!
DEVENISH. Oh, I say, Baxter, this is very crude.
BELINDA. And why should he not, Mr. Baxter? (Softly.) He has made me very happy.
BAXTER. He has made you happy, Mrs. Tremayne!
BELINDA. Very happy.
BAXTER (thoughtfully). Ah! (He takes a turn round the room in, silence, and then comes back to her.) Mrs. Tremayne, I have taken a great resolve. (Solemnly.) I also will make you happy. (Thumping his heart.) I also will woo Miss Delia. (Suddenly seizing DEVENISH'S arm) Come, we will seek Miss Delia together. It may be that she will send us upon another quest in which I shall again be victorious. (Tempestuously) Come, I say! (He marches the resisting DEVENISH to the swing doors.)
DEVENISH (to BELINDA). Please!
BELINDA (gently). Mr. Baxter... Harold. (BAXTER stops and turns round.) You are too impetuous. I think that as Delia's mother—
BAXTER. Your pardon, Mrs. Tremayne. In the intoxication of the moment I am forgetting. (Formally.) I have the honour to ask your permission to pay my addresses—
BELINDA. No, no, I didn't mean that. But, as Delia's mother, I ought to warn you that she is hardly fitted to take the place of your housekeeper. She is not very domesticated.
BAXTER (indignantly). Not domesticated? Why, did I not hear her tell her father at dinner that she had arranged all the flowers?
BELINDA. There are other things than flowers.
DEVENISH. Bed-socks, for instance, Baxter. It's a very tricky thing airing bed-socks. I am sure your house-keeper—
BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, she will learn. The daughter of such a mother... I need say no more.
BELINDA. Oh, thank you. But there is something else, Mr. Baxter. You are not being quite fair to yourself. In starting out upon this simultaneous wooing, you forget that Mr. Devenish has already had his turn this morning alone. You should have yours... alone... too.
DEVENISH. Oh, I say!
BAXTER. Yes, yes, you are right. I must introduce myself first as a suitor. I see that. (To DEVENISH)Youstay here;Iwill go alone into the garden, and—
BELINDA. It is perhaps a little cold out of doors for people of... ofourage, Mr. Baxter. Now, in the library—
BAXTER (astonished). Library?
BELINDA. Yes.
BAXTER. You have a library?
BELINDA (to DEVENISH). He doesn't believe I have a library.
DEVENISH. You ought to see the library, Baxter.
BAXTER. But you are continually springing surprises on me this evening, Mrs. Tremayne. First a daughter, then a husband, and then—a library! I have been here three weeks, and I never knew you had a library. Dear me, I wonder how it is that I never saw it?
BELINDA (modestly). I thought you came to seeme.
BAXTER. Yes, yes, to see you, certainly. But if I had known you had a library....
BELINDA. Oh, I am so glad I mentioned it. Wasn't it lucky, Mr. Devenish?
BAXTER. My work has been greatly handicapped of late by lack of certain books to which I wanted to refer. It would be a great help—
BELINDA. My dear Mr. Baxter, my whole library is at your disposal. (To DEVENISH, as she leads the way to the door, in a confidential whisper.) I'm just going to show him the "Encyclopedia Britannica." (She smiles at him, and he opens the door for them both. Then he goes towards the garden door and looks outside.)
DELIA (from the garden). Hullo, we're just coming in. (He goes back and waits for them.)
TREMAYNE. Where's Mrs. Tremayne?
DEVENISH. She's gone to the library with Baxter.
TREMAYNE (carelessly). Oh, the library. Where's that?
DEVENISH (promptly going towards the door and opening it). The end door on the right. Right at the end. You can't mistake it. On the right.
TREMAYNE. Ah, yes. (He looks round at DELIA.) Yes. (He looks at DEVENISH.) Yes. [He goes out.]
(DEVENISH hastily shuts the door and comes back to DELIA.)
DEVENISH. I say, your mother is a ripper.
DELIA (enthusiastically). Isn't she! (Remembering.) At least, you mean my aunt?
DEVENISH (smiling at her). No, I mean your mother. To think that I once had the cheek to propose to her.
DELIA. Oh! Is it cheek to propose to people!
DEVENISH. Toher.
DELIA. But not to me?
DEVENISH. Oh I say, Delia!
DELIA (with great dignity). Thank you, my name is Miss Robinson—I mean, Tremayne.
DEVENISH. Well, if you're not quite sure which it is, it's much safer to call you Delia.
DELIA (smiling). Well, perhaps it is.
DEVENISH. And if I did propose to you, you haven't answered
DELIA. If you want an answer now, it's no; but if you like to wait till next April—
DEVENISH (reproachfully). Oh, I say, and I cut my hair for you the same afternoon. You haven't really told me how you like it yet.
DELIA. Oh, how bad of me! You look lovely.
DEVENISH. And I promised to give up poetry for your sake.
DELIA. Perhaps I oughtn't to have asked you that.
DEVENISH. As far as I'm concerned, Delia, I'll do it gladly, but, of course, one has to think about posterity.
DELIA. But you needn't be a poet. You could give posterity plenty to think about if you were a statesman.
DEVENISH. I don't quite see your objection to poetry.
DELIA. You would be about the house so much. I want you to go away every day and do great things, and then come home in the evening and tell me all about it.
DEVENISH. Then youarethinking of marrying me!
DELIA. Well, I was just thinking in case I had to.
DEVENISH. It would be rather fun if you did. And look here—Iwillbe a statesman, if you like, and go up to Downing Street every day, and come back in the evening and tell you all about it.
DELIA. How nice of you!
DEVENISH (magnificently, holding up his hand to Heaven). Farewell, Parnassus!
DELIA. What does that mean?
DEVENISH. Well, it means that I've chucked poetry. A statesman's life is the life for me; behold Mr. Devenish, the new M.P.—no, look here, that was quite accidental.
DELIA (smiling at him). I believe I shall really like you when I get to know you.
DEVENISH. I don't know if it's you, or Devonshire, or the fact that I've had my hair cut, but I feel quite a different being from what I was three days ago.
DELIA. Youaredifferent. Perhaps it's your sense of humour coming back.
DEVENISH. Perhaps that's it. It's a curious feeling.
DELIA (holding out her hand). Let's go outside; there's a heavenly moon.
DEVENISH (taking her hand). Moon? Moon? Now where have I heard that word before?
DELIA. Whatdoyou mean?
DEVENISH. I was trying not to be a poet. Well, I'll come with you, but I shall refuse to look at it. (Putting his left hand behind his back, he walks slowly out with her, saying to himself) The Prime Minister then left the House.
[BELINDA and TREMAYNE come from the library.]
BELINDA (as he opens the door). Thank you. I don't think it's unkind to leave him, do you? He seemed quite happy.
TREMAYNE. I shouldn't have been happy if we'd stayed.
BELINDA (going to the sofa and putting her feet up). Yes, but I was really thinking of Mr. Baxter.
TREMAYNE. Not of me?
BELINDA. Well, I thought it was Mr. Baxter's turn. Poor man, he's had a disappointment lately.
TREMAYNE (eagerly). A disappointment?
BELINDA. Yes, he thought I was—younger than I was.
TREMAYNE (smiling to himself). How old are you, Belinda?
BELINDA (dropping her eyes). Twenty-two. (After a pause.) He thought I was eighteen. Such a disappointment!
TREMAYNE (smiling openly at her). Belinda, how old are you?
BELINDA. Just about the right age, Mr. Robinson.
TREMAYNE. The right age for what?
BELINDA. For this sort of conversation.
TREMAYNE. Shall I tell you how old you are?
BELINDA. Do you mean in figures or—poetically?
TREMAYNE. I meant—
BELINDA. Mr. Devenish said I was as old as the—now, I must get this the right way round—as old as the—
TREMAYNE. I don't want to talk about Mr. Devenish.
BELINDA (with a sigh). Nobody ever does—except Mr. Devenish. As old as the stars, and as young as the dawn. (Settling herself cosily.) I think that's rather a nice age to be, don't you?
TREMAYNE. A very nice age to be.
BELINDA. It's a pity he's thrown me over for Delia; I shall miss that sort of thing rather. You don't say those sort of things about your aunt-in-law—not so often.
TREMAYNE (eagerly). He really is in love with Miss Robinson!
BELINDA. Oh yes. I expect he is out in the moonlight with her now, comparing her to Diana.
TREMAYNE. Well, that accounts forhim.Now what about Baxter?
BELINDA. I thought I told you. Deeply disappointed to find that I was four years older than he expected, Mr. Baxter hurried from the drawing-room and buried himself in a column of the "Encyclopedia Britannica."
TREMAYNE. Well, that settles Baxter. Are there any more men in the neighbourhood?
BELINDA (shaking her head). Isn't it awful? I've only had those two for the last three weeks.
(TREMAYNE sits on the back of the sofa and looks down at her.)
TREMAYNE. Belinda.
BELINDA. Yes, Henry!
TREMAYNE. My name is John.
BELINDA. Well, you never told me. I had to guess. Everybody thinks they can call me Belinda without giving me the least idea what their own names are. You were saying, John?
TREMAYNE. My friends call me Jack.
BELINDA. Jack Robinson. That's the man who always goes away so quickly. I hope you're making more of a stay?
TREMAYNE. Oh, you maddening, maddening woman!
BELINDA. Well, I have to keep the conversation going. You do nothing but say "Belinda."
TREMAYNE (taking her hand). Have you ever loved anybody seriously, Belinda?
BELINDA. I don't ever do anything very seriously. The late Mr. Tremayne, my first husband—Jack—Isn't it funny,hisname was Jack—he used to complain about it too sometimes.
TREMAYNE (with conviction). Silly ass!
BELINDA. Ah, I think you are a little hard on the late Mr. Tremayne.
TREMAYNE. Has he been dead long?
BELINDA. Dead to me.
TREMAYNE. You quarrelled?
BELINDA. Yes. It was his fault entirely.
TREMAYNE. I'm sure it was.
BELINDA. How sweet of you to say that!
TREMAYNE. Belinda, I want you to marry me and forget about him.
BELINDA (happily to herself). This is the proposal that those lamb cutlets interrupted this morning.
TREMAYNE. Belinda, I love you—do you understand?
BELINDA. Suppose my first husband turns up suddenly like—like E. A.?
TREMAYNE. Like who?
BELINDA. Well, like anybody.
TREMAYNE. He won't—I know he won't. Don't you love me enough to risk it, Belinda?
BELINDA. I haven't really said I love you at all yet.
TREMAYNE. Well, say it now. (BELINDA looks at him, and then down again.) You do! Well, I'm going to have a kiss, anyway, (He comes round the sofa and kisses her quickly.) There!
BELINDA (rising). O-oh! The late Mr. Tremayne never did that.
TREMAYNE. I have already told you that he was a silly ass. (Sitting down on the sofa) Belinda—
BELINDA. Yes, Henry—I mean, Jack?
TREMAYNE. Do you know who I am! (He is thoroughly enjoying the surprise he is about to give her.)
BELINDA (nodding). Yes, Jack.
TREMAYNE. Who?
BELINDA. Jack Tremayne.
TREMAYNE (jumping up). Good heavens, youknow!
BELINDA (gently). Yes, Jack.
TREMAYNE (angrily). You've known all the time that I was your husband, and you've been playing with me and leading me on?
BELINDA (mildly). Well, darling, you knew all the time that I was your wife, and you've been making love to me and leading me on.
TREMAYNE. That's different.
BELINDA. That'sjustwhat the late Mr. Tremayne said, and then he slammed the door and went straight off to the Rocky Mountains and shot bears; and I didn't see him again for eighteen years.
TREMAYNE (remorsefully). Darling, I was a fool then, and I'm a fool now.
BELINDA. I was a fool then, but I'm not such a fool now—I'm not going to let you go. It's quite time I married and settled down.
TREMAYNE. You darling! How did you find out who I was?
BELINDA (awkwardly). Well, it was rather curious, darling. (After a pause.) It was April, and I felt all sort of Aprily, and—and—there was the garden all full of daffodils—and—and there was Mr. Baxter—the one we left in the library—knowing all about moles. He's probably got the M volume down now. Well, we were talking about them one day, and I happened to say that the late Mr. Tremayne—that was you, darling—had rather a peculiar one on his arm. And then he happened to see it this morning and told me about it.
TREMAYNE. What an extraordinary story!
BELINDA. Yes, darling; it's really much more extraordinary than that. I think perhaps I'd better tell you the rest of it another time. (Coaxingly.) Now show me where the nasty lion scratched you. (TREMAYNE pulls up his sleeve.) Oh! (She kisses his arm.) You shouldn't have left Chelsea, darling.
TREMAYNE. I should never have found you if I hadn't.
BELINDA (squeezing his arm). No, Jack, you wouldn't. (After a pause.) I—I've got another little surprise for you if—if you're ready for it. (Standing up) Properly speaking, I ought to be wearing white. I shall certainly stand up while I'm telling you. (Modestly.) Darling, we have a daughter—our little Delia.
TREMAYNE. Delia? You said her name was Robinson.
BELINDA. Yes, darling, but you said yours was. One always takes one's father's name. Unless, of course, you were Lord Robinson.
TREMAYNE. But you said her name was Robinson before you—oh, never mind about that. A daughter? Belinda, how could you let me go and not tell me?
BELINDA. You forget how you'd slammed the door. It isn't the sort of thing you shout through the window to a man on his way to America.
TREMAYNE (taking her in his arms). Oh, Belinda, don't let me ever go away again.
BELINDA. I'm not going to, Jack. I'm going to settle down into a staid old married woman.
TREMAYNE. Oh no, you're not. You're going on just as you did before. And I'm going to propose to you every April, and win you, over all the other men in love with you.
BELINDA. You darling!
[DELIA and DEVENISH come in from the garden.]
TREMAYNE (quietly to BELINDA). Our daughter.
DELIA (going up to TREMAYNE). You're my father.
TREMAYNE. If you don't mind very much, Delia.
DELIA. You've been away a long time.
TREMAYNE. I'll do my best to make up for it.
BELINDA. Delia, darling, I think you might kiss your poor old father.
(As the does to, DEVENISH suddenly and hastily kisses BELINDA on the cheek.)
DEVENISH. Just in case you're going to be my mother-in-law.
TREMAYNE. We seem to be rather a family party.
BELINDA (suddenly). There! We've forgotten Mr. Baxter again.
BAXTER (who has come in quietly with a book in his hand). Oh, don't mind about me, Mrs. Tremayne. I've enjoyed myself immensely. (Referring to his book.) I have been collecting some most valuable information on (looking round at them) lunacy in the—er—county ofDevonshire.
[In the living-room of a country-house, half farm, half manor, a MOTHER and her DAUGHTER are sitting. It is any year you please—between, let us say, the day when the fiddle first came to England and the day when Romance left it. As for the time of the year, let us call it May. Oh yes, it is certainly May, and about twelve o'clock, and the DAUGHTER is singing at the spinet, while her MOTHER is at her needlework. Through the lattice windows the murmur of a stream can be heard, on whose banks—but we shall come to that directly. Let us listen now to what the DAUGHTER is singing:]
Life passes by.I do not know its pleasure or its pain—The Spring was here, the Spring is here again,The Spring will die.Life passes by.The doors of Pain and Pleasure open wide,The crowd streams in—and I am left outside....They know; not I.
[You don't like it? Neither did her Mother.]
MOTHER (looking up from her work). Yes, I should call that a melancholy song, dear.
DAUGHTER. It is sung by a melancholy person, Mother.
MOTHER. Why are you that, child?
DAUGHTER (getting up). I want so much that I shall never have.
MOTHER. Well, so do we all.
DAUGHTER (impatiently). Oh, why does nothing ever happen? We sit here all day, and we sing or do our embroidery, and we go to bed, and the next day we get up and do the same things over again, and so it goes on. Mother, is that all there is in the world?
MOTHER. It's all there is in our world.
DAUGHTER. Are we so very poor?
MOTHER. We have the house—and very little else.
DAUGHTER. Oh, I wish that we werereallypoor—
MOTHER. You needn't wish, child.
DAUGHTER. Oh, but I mean so that it wouldn't matter what clothes we wore; so that we could wander over the hills and down into the valleys, and sleep perhaps in a barn and bathe ourselves in the brook next morning, and—
MOTHER. I don't think I should like that very much. Perhaps I'm peculiar.
DAUGHTER. Oh, if only I were a boy to go out and make my own way in the world. Would you let me go, Mother, if I were a boy?
MOTHER. I don't suppose you'd ask me, dear.
DAUGHTER (sighing). Oh, well! We must make the best of it, I suppose. Perhaps one day something will happen. (She goes back to the spinet and sings again.)
Lads and lasses, what will you sell,What will you sell?Four stout walls and a roof atop,Warm fires gleaming brightly,Well-stored cellar and garnered crop,Money-bags packed tightly;An ordered task in an ordered day,And a sure bed nightly;Years which peacefully pass away,Until Death comes lightly.Lads and lasses, what will you buy?What will you buy?Here is a cap to cover your head,A cap with one red feather;Here is a cloak to make your bedWarm or winter weather;Here is a satchel to store your ware,Strongly lined with leather;And here is a staff to take you thereWhen you go forth together.Lads and lasses, what will you gain,What will you gain?Chatter of rooks on tall elm-treesNew Spring houses taking;Daffodils in an April breezeGolden curtsies making;Shadows of clouds across the wealdFrom hill to valley breaking,The first faint stir which the woodlands yieldWhen the world is waking.Lads and lasses, this is your gain,This is your gain.
(Towards the end of the song the face and shoulders of the TALKER appear at the open lattice window on the left. He listens with a bland and happy smile until the song is finished.)
TALKER. Brava! Brava! (They turn round towards the window in astonishment.) A vastly pleasing song, vastly well sung. Mademoiselle Nightingale, permit me to felicitate you. (Turning to the Mother) The Mother of the Nightingale also. Mon Dieu, what is voice, of a richness, of a purity! To live with it always! Madame, I felicitate you again.
MOTHER. I must ask you, sir, to explain the meaning of this intrusion.
TALKER. Intrusion? Oh, fie! Madame, not intrusion. My feet stand upon the highway. The road, Madame, is common to all. I can quote you Rex—What does Rex, cap. 27, para. 198, say?Via, says Rex, meaning the road;communisis common;omnibusto all, meaning thereby—but perchance I weary you?
DAUGHTER. Mother, who is he?
TALKER. Ah, Mademoiselle Nightingale, you may indeed ask. Who is he? Is he the Pope of Rome? Nay, he is not the Pope of Rome. Is he the Cham of Tartary? Nay, he is not the Cham of Tartary, for an he were the Cham of Tartary—
MOTHER. I beg you, sir, to tell us as shortly as you can who you are and what you want.
TALKER. Madam, by nature I am a taciturn man; Silent John I am named by my friends. I am a glum body, a reserved creature. These things you will have already noticed. But now I will commit to you it secret, known only to my dearest friends. Uncommunicative as I am by nature (he disappears and reappears at the middle window), I am still more so when compelled to hold converse with two such ornaments of their sex (he disappears and reappears at the right-hand window) through a lattice window. Am I getting any nearer the door?
MOTHER (resigned). Pray, sir, come in and tell us all about it. I see that we must have your tale.
TALKER. To be exact, Madame, I have two tails who follow me about everywhere. One is of my own poor sex, a man, a thing of whiskers; the other has the honour to belong to that sex which—have I said it?—you and Mademoiselle so adorn. Have I your ladyship's permission?
DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, Mother, let them come.
MOTHER. Well, I suppose I must have you all.
TALKER (with a bow). Madame, I shall never forget this. Though I live to be ninety-three, this will always be engraved upon my memory. My grandchildren climbing upon my knee will wonder sometimes of what the old man is thinking. Little will they know—But I will attend you further within. [He bows and disappears.]
DAUGHTER. Mother, somethingisgoing to happen at last.
MOTHER. Oh, child, were you as weary as that?
[The TALKER comes in at the door, followed by the SINGER and the FIDDLER. The SINGER is a pleasant-looking man of middle height, the FIDDLER a tall, silent girl. The TALKER himself is short and round, with a twinkling eye. Each wears a cap with a red feather in it.]
TALKER. Madame, your humble and most devoted servants. I have the honour to present to you her Royal Sweetness the Princess Carissima, His Flutiness the Duke of Bogota, and myself a mere Marquis.
DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, they're wandering minstrels.
MOTHER. I bid you all welcome, sir.
TALKER. Permit me to expound further. The Princess—a courtesy title bestowed by myself last Michaelmas Day—plays upon the fiddle with an unerring beauty which makes strong men weep. You shall hear her. I pray you have your handkerchers ready. His Flutiness the Duke—the title was granted last Candlemas—has a voice of a rare richness. He is cursed with a melancholy disposition most pleasing. He suffers from a surfeit of rejected love. A most waggish companion withal.
DAUGHTER. Oh, what a shame!
SINGER. You must not believe all that Johannes says, ladies.
MOTHER. I had already learnt that much, sir.
TALKER. For myself, I play upon the pipe. You shall hear. (He plays "cuckoo" with an air.)
SINGER. The only notes he knows, ladies.
TALKER (indignantly). Oh, fie, Sir, fie! I protest, Madame, he maligns me. Have I not a G of surpassing splendour, of a fruitiness rarely encountered in this vale of tears? Madame, you must hear my G. Now, where is it? (He arranges his fingers with great care on the pipe.) I have it. (He blows a G, and bows deeply first to MOTHER and then to DAUGHTER.)
SINGER. Marvellous!
MOTHER (to TALKER). I thank you, Sir.
DAUGHTER. Oh, Mother, isn't he splendid?
TALKER (to MOTHER). Would you like my G again, Madame?
MOTHER. Not just now, I thank you, sir. Doubtless we shall feel more in need of it a little later on. But tell me, Sir, have you no other talent to match the singing and playing of your friends?
FIDDLER. He talks.
MOTHER. I had noticed it.
TALKER. This gift of talking with which her Royal Sweetness is good enough to credit me, irksome though it is to a man of silent habit like myself, a creature, as you will have noticed, of taciturn disposition; this—I—(Frankly) Madame, I have lost that sentence. Have I your gracious permission to begin again?
MOTHER. I think it would be better, Sir.
TALKER. Then, to put it shortly, Madame—
MOTHER. If you could, sir.
TALKER. To be completely frank in this matter, Madame, I—er—go round with the hat. It is a sordid but necessary business.
DAUGHTER (eagerly). Oh, I hope they give you plenty of money.
TALKER. Enough to support life, Mademoiselle. The hungry look which you observe upon His Flutiness is, as I have explained, due to melancholy.
DAUGHTER. You are going to perform, aren't you?
TALKER. Of a surety, Mademoiselle. Perhaps I should add that for myself I am resting just now, and that my part of the performance will be limited to nothing more than a note or two upon the pipe.
MOTHER (with a friendly smile). Sir, you are generous. We shall be glad to hear your friends.
(The TALKER bows and turns to his company.)
TALKER. A song, good Master Duke, a song which her Royal Sweetness will accompany upon the fiddle. Let it end, I pray you, with a G, so that I may bring the thing to a climax upon the last note.
FIDDLER (to SINGER). Morland Hill.
SINGER. You like that? (She nods.) Very well. (He sings.)