(Followed by theDean,Mrs. O’Farrelmoves towards the central ladder. Suddenly he stops, hurries on tiptoe to the back, and looks cautiously over the railing. He whispers:)
(Followed by theDean,Mrs. O’Farrelmoves towards the central ladder. Suddenly he stops, hurries on tiptoe to the back, and looks cautiously over the railing. He whispers:)
Eileen!...
Mrs. O’Farrel.
What is it?
Dean.
Hush!... Clare’s coming here with Michael Cosway. I offer you a chance to substantiate the aspersions you have made against her character.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
What do you mean?
Dean.
We will conceal ourselves in the summer-house and hear what they have to say to each other.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Really, Dean!
Dean.
We may disregard the rules of ordinary morality in a situation like this. I speak professionally. Quick! (He draws her towards the summer-house.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Well, upon my word!...
(They go into the summer-house, and sit with the door open, but invisible in the gloom of the interior. Voices are heard beneath. ThenClareenters on the left, followed byMichael.)
(They go into the summer-house, and sit with the door open, but invisible in the gloom of the interior. Voices are heard beneath. ThenClareenters on the left, followed byMichael.)
Clare.
Father!... (She looks around her.) Why, they’ve gone!...
Michael.
They must have returned to the house.
Clare.
We had better go too.
Michael.
Oh, Clare, a moment.... Look at me, dear.... (He takes her hands.)
Clare.
Well?
Michael.
Are you unhappy?
Clare.
Why should I be?
Michael.
You are no longer the wild and buoyant thing you were. You have grown so pensive anddistrait. And is it my jealous imagination?—so often lately you have seemed to avoid me....
Clare.
I—I’m sorry....
Michael.
There’s trouble in your eyes, my dearest. Clare, do you chafe at the restrictions fate has put on our love?
Clare.
Oh, I—I don’t know. I’m all right, Michael—butyou—— We’d better go in now. Father’s waiting for me.
Michael.
Clare.
Clare.
Yes.
Michael.
Kiss me before you go.
Clare.
Oh, not now....
Michael.
(Bending down to her.) Kiss me, dear.
(She kisses him perfunctorily on the cheek; he sighs; she turns and descends the ladder on the left; he follows her.)
(She kisses him perfunctorily on the cheek; he sighs; she turns and descends the ladder on the left; he follows her.)
How sweet it is!...
Clare.
Sweet?
Michael.
Your “pigtail,” dear. The sight of it makes me feel a boy again. I should like to pull it and run away.
(Clarelaughs and they both descend out of sight. A pause. The nightingale starts singing.Mrs. O’Farrelemerges from the summer-house. Her step is almostjaunty with suppressed triumph, and her manner elaborately off-hand. TheDeanremains invisible in the summer-house.)
(Clarelaughs and they both descend out of sight. A pause. The nightingale starts singing.Mrs. O’Farrelemerges from the summer-house. Her step is almostjaunty with suppressed triumph, and her manner elaborately off-hand. TheDeanremains invisible in the summer-house.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Ah, the nightingale! How charmingly it sings to-night!... I do wish we had some nightingales at Ashurst. I suppose they prefer low-lying ground like this.... Do they sing in your garden at the Deanery?
(TheDeancomes out of the summer-house in a very crestfallen condition.)
(TheDeancomes out of the summer-house in a very crestfallen condition.)
Dean.
Eileen——
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Cheerfully.) Yes?
Dean.
This is dreadful—dreadful....
Mrs. O’Farrel.
On the contrary, I think it’s most delightful! One can hear every note so perfectly at this elevation.
Dean.
Is it generous of you—is it generous of you, Eileen, to flaunt your terrible triumph like this? I am heart-broken! I am distracted! What on earth am I to do?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Pouring him out a whisky-and-soda.) Drink this!
Dean.
(Pettishly.) I don’t care for whisky.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Oh, you needn’t make such a fuss! It’s perfectly obvious from what we saw just now that no real harm has been done. The way she kissed Michael——
(She bursts out laughing.)
(She bursts out laughing.)
Dean.
How can you, Eileen? How can you?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
It reminded me of a child taking castor-oil!... But Michael—the double-faced hypocrisy of the man! I’m really very sorry for Patricia.
Dean.
I don’t see the necessity for lavishing sympathy on her.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
What do you mean? Doesn’t she believe he returns her devotion?
Dean.
Her devotion doesn’t prevent her philandering with other men, as I told you just now.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Well, upon my word! I wouldn’t have believed it! In spite of this gross example of your obtuseness, you still have the—the audacity to stick to your slander against Bill! Really I—— (She stops short, listens, then hurries to the back and looks over the railing. She turns to theDeanand speaks in a quiet whisper.) We must hide in the summer-house....
Dean.
Eh? What?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
At once! Bill and Patricia are returning here. You will see for yourself there’s nothing more between them than cousinly regard.
Dean.
I refuse to eavesdrop a lady.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
But you deliberately did it a moment ago.
Dean.
Clare is my daughter.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Fiddlesticks! (Pushes him before her.) Quick now!
Dean.
I submit——
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Hush!
Dean.
—Under protest....
(She shepherds theDeaninto the summer-house just asPatriciaandBillcome up the central ladder.)
(She shepherds theDeaninto the summer-house just asPatriciaandBillcome up the central ladder.)
Lady Patricia.
Cousin Bill and I have discovered that guelder-roses are guelder-roses after all.... Why, Bill dear, they’re not here!
Bill.
Got impatient, I suppose, and went back to the house. About time we did the same. It’s getting late.
Lady Patricia.
(Dreamily.)Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now!
Bill.
What d’you say?
Lady Patricia.
I was quoting Tennyson.
Bill.
Oh....
Lady Patricia.
You know the lines, don’t you? Listen:
Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!Late, late, so late, but we can enter still!Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now!
Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!Late, late, so late, but we can enter still!Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now!
Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!
Late, late, so late, but we can enter still!
Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now!
So sweet and sad, are they not? Don’t you love sweet, sad things?
Bill.
Rather.
Lady Patricia.
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Bill.
Rather.... I say, hadn’t we better be going?
Lady Patricia.
Bill....
Bill.
Yes.
Lady Patricia.
(Her hands on his shoulders.) Do you love me as you used to?
Bill.
I say, why d’you—you don’t think——
Lady Patricia.
No—no—no—ah, no! I know well enough thatyour love is deeper and stronger than it was. But this sacred love—this hopeless love of ours has swept you suddenly into manhood. You are no longer a boy; you are graver; you are sadder.... And if sometimes you seem to avoid me now, it’s due to no cooling of passion, but to the fear lest the pent-up lava at your heart should overflow and ruin us both.
Bill.
I say, you do put things awfully well!
Lady Patricia.
Petrarch and Laura—Paolo and Francesca—Lancelot and Guinevere.... Bill—no, William and Patricia.... Ah, my poor boy, put your arm around me, and say those lines of Lovelace that I taught you.
Bill.
Oh, I say—really, you know—— On my honour, I’ve forgotten ’em....
Lady Patricia.
No, no! You’re merely shy—bashful—boyish! I love to hear you say that verse. (She starts him.)Yet this——
Bill.
Yet this—yet this—— What’s the word?
Lady Patricia.
Yet this inconstancy——
Bill.
(In a self-conscious sing-song.)
Yet this inconstancy is suchAs you, too, shall adore;I could not love thee, dear, so much,Loved I not honour more.
Yet this inconstancy is suchAs you, too, shall adore;I could not love thee, dear, so much,Loved I not honour more.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, shall adore;
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.
Lady Patricia.
Loved I not honour more....Love—duty—honour—— (She sighs deeply.) Come, dear....
(They go out on the left. A pause. TheDeancomes out of the summer-house. He barely conceals his triumph under a mask of outraged propriety.Mrs. O’Farrelfollows him.)
(They go out on the left. A pause. TheDeancomes out of the summer-house. He barely conceals his triumph under a mask of outraged propriety.Mrs. O’Farrelfollows him.)
Dean.
H’m.... Cousinly regard!...
Mrs. O’Farrel.
It’s shocking! Outrageous!
Dean.
It is indeed.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
—That you shouldn’t even pretend to hide your satisfaction at the scene we have just witnessed.
Dean.
Satisfaction! I assure you, dear lady, I’m shocked and grieved—deeply grieved, that your son should prove capable of such depravity.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
My son! You know as well as I do that the foolish boy has been bewitched by that unprincipled woman.
Dean.
Come, come, Eileen. In common fairness we should apportion the blame equally—though, indeed, my experience has generally led me to the conclusion that themanis more to blame in these cases than the woman.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Yourexperience! Quite so!... I shall give Patricia my plain, unvarnished opinion of herself and forbid her my house. You will tell Michael that he’s a scoundrel and a libertine.
Dean.
No, no, no! Tact, tact, my dear Eileen, tact and diplomacy!... Let us calmly review the position. Cosway’s and Lady Patricia’s relations with Clare and your son, though highly culpable, appear to be blameless of the worst, and considerably more—er—ardent on the part of the married couple than of the single. So much is—er—unhappily evident. Now, do you still maintain that your son is—er—interested in Clare?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
I am certain of it.
Dean.
Incredible! Of course, Iknow—in spite ofappearances—that Clare feels strongly for your son.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Fudge!
Dean.
Now, my dear Eileen, pray don’t fall back on contradiction. What we have both got to do is to bring these young people together——
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Hush! D’you hear? (She goes quickly to the back and looks out. A pause.) All four of them! Of course, they went up to the house to look for us.... What shall we do?
Dean.
Ah! (Goes to the railing at the back.) Allow me.... (Calls.) Clare....
Clare.
(Beneath.) Hullo!...
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Excitedly.) But are you going to let them know——
Dean.
I beg you, Eileen, to sit down and control yourself.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Well, but I should like to know——
Dean.
Will you kindly entrust the conduct of thesituation entirely to me. Take your cue from me, and above all, be tactful and dignified. (He sits down with unction.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
I really believe you are thoroughly enjoying yourself.
Dean.
Pray don’t be flippant, Eileen. This is a very serious matter.
(He crosses his legs and fixes his eyeglass asClareenters up the central ladder followed byLady Patricia,Bill, andMichael.)
(He crosses his legs and fixes his eyeglass asClareenters up the central ladder followed byLady Patricia,Bill, andMichael.)
Clare.
We thought you had gone back to the house.
Dean.
Indeed.
Lady Patricia.
I really believe they went to depreciate the guelder-roses as well!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
We did nothing of the sort, Patricia, and let——
Dean.
Kindly allow me, Mrs. O’Farrel.... No, Lady Patricia, we have not been to examine the guelder-roses. We have been all the time here.
Lady Patricia,Bill,Michael,Clare.
Here!...
Dean.
We have been all the time—here.
Michael.
But—but I returned a short while ago, and you were certainly not here then.
Dean.
Excuse me, sir—we were.
Clare.
But we never saw you....
Dean.
That I can quite believe. We, however, saw you and Mr. Cosway quite distinctly.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Most distinctly! And I——
Dean.
Allow me, Mrs. O’Farrel....
Bill.
But, I say——
Dean.
Sir?
Bill.
You can’t have been here a minute or two ago when Patri—— Cousin Patricia and I——
Dean.
Pardon me, sir—we were.
Bill.
But, I say, you must have hidden yourselves somewhere, because——
Dean.
Your mother and I were sitting in the summer-house.
Bill,Clare.
Oh ...!
Lady Patricia.
Oh!... O—oh!... (She gropes for a chair, she sits down heavily.)
Michael.
What—what is the matter, dear?
Lady Patricia.
Nothing.... I—I am a little faint——
Michael.
The—the night is certainly oppressive....
Lady Patricia.
I—I’m all right now....
(A pause. The nightingale starts singing.)
(A pause. The nightingale starts singing.)
Dean.
(ToClare.) I think it is high time to go.... Did you see whether the carriage had arrived?
Clare.
Yes, it’s there.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Come, Bill, we must be getting home.
Dean.
(Solemnly.) I have several weighty additions to make to my sermon to-morrow—additions which certain events to-night have suggested. I trust you will all be at the Cathedral for morning service. (An awkward silence. TheDeanwaves his hand towards the central ladder.) Mrs. O’Farrel.... (Mrs. O’Farrelpasses and descends.) Clare.... (Clarepasses him and descends. He says with impressive unconcern:) The nightingale sings most divinely to-night!
(He goes out,Billfollowing him with a hang-dog air.Baldwinenters on the left just asLady PatriciaandMichaelmove to the central ladder.)
(He goes out,Billfollowing him with a hang-dog air.Baldwinenters on the left just asLady PatriciaandMichaelmove to the central ladder.)
Baldwin.
If you please, sir....
Michael.
What is it, Baldwin? What is it?
Baldwin.
If you please, sir, will you be using them lanterns agin to-night?
Michael.
No.
Baldwin.
Then I ’ad better take ’em down, sir?
Michael.
Yes, take them down. (ToLady Patricia.) Come, dear.
(Baldwinstarts fiddling about with the strings of the lanterns.)
(Baldwinstarts fiddling about with the strings of the lanterns.)
Lady Patricia.
(Wearily.) Yes, darling.
Baldwin.
(Lowering the first lamp.) Whoa!...
Lady Patricia.
(Speaking in a passionate whisper.) Will you love me, Michael, always—always—and no matter what may happen?
Michael.
(Taking her hands.) I? How can you ask? But you—could you still love me if—if——
Lady Patricia.
If——?
Michael.
If I were unworthy?
Lady Patricia.
You!
(They descend the central ladder.)
(They descend the central ladder.)
Baldwin.
(Lowering the second lantern.) Whoa!... (He blows out the candle and folds the lamp up. Then he goes leisurely for the next lantern and lowers it.) Whoa!... (He blows it out, folds it up and goes for the next lantern and the curtain descends while he is lowering it. When it rises again, he says:) Whoa!... (And folds it up.)
(End of the Second Act.)
Scene:—The Deanery garden. At the back is a wing of the Deanery, red-bricked, Norman-arched, with mullioned windows and a heavy door opening on to the lawn. On the right, three-quarters across the background, the house ends, and an old machicholated wall begins, with a great brass-studded double gateway in the middle of it, in the left side of which is a wicket with grating. The door opens on the Deanery Close and a view of the Cathedral in the distance. The garden is all lawn, flower-bed, and old trees. From the great door, and running diagonally across the stage and out to the left in front, is a stone-flagged path. Another path from the house-door joins it about the centre of the stage. On the lawn in the foreground stands a table spread for breakfast, with two chairs beside it. It is a brilliant Sunday morning in June.
(When the curtain rises,John, theDean’sbutler and verger of the Cathedral, andRobert, the page, are putting finishing touches to the breakfast-table. After a moment theDeanenters and goes to the table.)
(When the curtain rises,John, theDean’sbutler and verger of the Cathedral, andRobert, the page, are putting finishing touches to the breakfast-table. After a moment theDeanenters and goes to the table.)
Dean.
What a morning! Fragrant! Exquisite! Ha! (He sniffs the air appreciatively, fixes his eyeglass and beams around him.) AhappyWhitsun, John.
John.
Thank you, sir. Same to you, sir.
Dean.
Eh?... Oh, certainly!
John.
Yes, sir. It’s mornings like this, sir, that one feels a inclination to sing the tedium.
Dean.
To sing the—er——?
John.
The tedium, sir.
Dean.
TheTe Deum! Ah, yes, to be sure! To sing theTe Deum. Most appropriate! (Looks at his watch.) A quarter to ten.
John.
Yes, sir. It’s highly significant to see so many people at early service this morning, sir. Highly significant.
(Robertgoes out.)
(Robertgoes out.)
Dean.
Ah, yes!... Is Miss Clare in the garden?
John.
I believe she is, sir.
Dean.
Well, she’ll be here in a minute. I think, as it’s rather late, I had better begin at once. Is this all you’re giving me to-day, John?
John.
Oh, no, sir. There’s an omelette with asparagus-tops to come.
Dean.
Good. Very good! In the meantime these delicious fruits.
(Sits at the table.)
(Sits at the table.)
John.
Yes, sir. If you please, sir, Mr. Cosway’s gardener was here this morning before you came back from church. As far as I could gather he had some message from her ladyship which he refused to leave. I gathered he had instructions to give it to you direct, sir.
Dean.
Oh ... ah ... h’m.... Is he here now?
John.
No, sir; I told him to come back at ten o’clock. He’s gone to the cemetery to visit the grave of his first wife.
Dean.
Bring him here when he comes.
John.
Very good, sir.
(Johngoes into the house. TheDeandaintily skins a peach, humming gently, “Every morn I bring thee violets.” After a momentClareenters from the left, a bunch of pink and white may in her hand. She is obviously in a shocking temper.)
(Johngoes into the house. TheDeandaintily skins a peach, humming gently, “Every morn I bring thee violets.” After a momentClareenters from the left, a bunch of pink and white may in her hand. She is obviously in a shocking temper.)
Clare.
Good morning, father.
Dean.
Good morning, Clare. May! Is it for me?
Clare.
You can have it if you like.
(She lays it beside his plate and sits down.)
(She lays it beside his plate and sits down.)
Dean.
Thank you, my dear. Fragrant, delicately-tinted, fresh and dewy as young girls. (He regards her critically.) Butyoudon’t look quite yourself, my child.
Clare.
I?
Dean.
A little tired. Perhaps you slept badly?
Clare.
I’m as fit as a fiddle, and I slept like a log.
Dean.
These peaches are delicious. Try one.
Clare.
Aren’t there any cherries yet?
Dean.
I’m afraid not. “Fruits in due season,” you know, my dear!
Clare.
What about your peaches?
Dean.
That’s different, quite different. An early peach cannot be too early. They live in glass houses——
Clare.
(Significantly.) And don’t throw their stones.... I’ll have a cup of tea.
Dean.
There’s an omelette with asparagus-tops on the way.
Clare.
I’m not hungry.
Dean.
Oh, that’s a pity! I suppose it’s this exceptionally early summer.
Clare.
Yes. I was unbearably hot all night. And so thirsty that I drank nearly all the water in my jug.
Dean.
Dear me! Wasn’t there any in the carafe?
Clare.
I drank that as well.
Dean.
Really? It seems to me that for a log you were somewhat restive last night.
Clare.
A log?
Dean.
I thought you slept like a log.
Clare.
I scarcely slept a wink.
Dean.
Well, well, my dear, so long as you feel—to use your expression—as fit as a fiddle, it——
Clare.
I feel rotten.
(Johnenters with the omelette,Robertwith plates.)
(Johnenters with the omelette,Robertwith plates.)
Dean.
I’m sorry. I didn’t go to bed until very late myself. Those little additions to my sermon took me longer than I had anticipated. (JohnandRobertgo out, having placed the dish before theDean.) This looks most inviting. And as there doesn’t seem to be much of it, I’m not, on the whole,sorry that you’ve lost your appetite this morning! It’s an ill wind that——
Clare.
May I have some, please?
Dean.
Changeable young person!
Clare.
Well, of course, if you grudge me a little piece of your omelette——
Dean.
Not at all, my dear! Not at all!
(He offers her a liberal helping.)
(He offers her a liberal helping.)
Clare.
You needn’t give me three-quarters of it.
Dean.
Very well. You had better take the other piece, then.
Clare.
Oh, it doesn’t matter!
(Impatiently she takes the larger helping.)
(Impatiently she takes the larger helping.)
Dean.
(Genially.) I don’t mind confessing that I’m very hungry, so unless you really want it, my dear——
Clare.
Oh, for goodness’ sake, father, take the wholelot! I’m sure I don’t want to deprive you of your food!
Dean.
What a peppery young lady it is! I was only joking.
Clare.
I may be sadly lacking in humour, but jokes about omelettes and the condition of one’s stomach never much appealed to me.
Dean.
Really, my dear child, I should much prefer your not using that word.
Clare.
Stomach?
Dean.
Yes.
Clare.
Oh! I do hope you’re not going to suggest I should say “Little Mary”!
Dean.
(Puzzled.) Little Mary? I—er—don’t quite see the connection.... Is there any reason for alluding to that—er—portion of the anatomy?
Clare.
I was under the impression thatyoumade the first allusion to it.
Dean.
My dear, I merely mentioned the fact that I was hungry.
Clare.
Well, you’re not hungry with your foot, are you?
Dean.
Don’t you think this bickering rather silly and childish?
Clare.
Very.
Dean.
(After a pause, and with a change of voice but unabated cheerfulness.) Unclouded sunshine and a sense of deep peace and repose! My ideal of an English Sunday! John told me just now that he feels inclined to sing theTe Deumon mornings like this.
Clare.
Why don’t you come to the point, father?
Dean.
The point?...
Clare.
Yes.
Dean.
I don’t quite understand.
Clare.
I think you owe me some explanation of your extraordinary action last night.
Dean.
Myextraordinary action!...
Clare.
Yes—in deliberately hiding yourself in the summer-house to overhear a private conversation.
Dean.
You amaze me, Clare! Instead of being grateful for my silence on the events of yesterday, you turn on me as though you had a grievance! My action was amply justified by the circumstances.
Clare.
I don’t see how eavesdropping can ever be justified. And now you’re bent on giving us “beans” from the pulpit. I’m awfully sorry to have to say it, father, but really it’s rotten bad form....
Dean.
We won’t discuss the matter any further. Believe me, I am the best judge of my actions.
Clare.
And I of mine.
Dean.
You refer to the unhappy discoveries Mrs. O’Farrel and I made last night?
Clare.
I do.
Dean.
Certainly, if you’re heartily ashamed of yourself, you’re a competent judge of your actions.
Clare.
I’m not in the least ashamed of myself.
Dean.
Then, my dear child——
Clare.
And why should I be? I’ve done nothing wrong.
Dean.
You have done very wrong indeed. But I don’t wish to exaggerate. Of course, I know this has been nothing more than a foolish flirtation. Reprehensible—most reprehensible. A grave error, but scarcely a sin. We will say no more about it.... One thing, however, I am bound to insist upon after what came to my knowledge last night. You must have nothing more to do with that young man.
Clare.
What young man? Michael’s forty, if he’s a day.
Dean.
I was not speaking of Mr. Cosway. Honestly,your future relations with him don’t cause me acute anxiety. I was alluding to young O’Farrel.
Clare.
(Sitting up.) Bill!
Dean.
I think, my dear, we will leave the use of his Christian name to the unhappy lady—or ladies—with whom he is intimate. Certain facts have come to my knowledge. He is not a fit companion for a young girl. Your acquaintance with him must cease from to-day.
Clare.
Oh!... And may I ask what he has done?
Dean.
It is quite superfluous to go into—er—unsavoury details.
Clare.
You seriously expect me to cut him because he doesn’t quite meet with your approval?
Dean.
I expect you to obey me implicitly.
Clare.
(Rising.) I had better tell you at once, father, that I shall do nothing of the kind.