Chapter 6

ACT I

The scene is a room in a small Sussex manor house that has long been for sale. It is such a silent room that whoever speaks first here is a bold one, unless indeed he merely mutters to himself, which they perhaps allow. All of this room’s past which can be taken away has gone. Such light as there is comes from the only window, which is at the back and is incompletely shrouded in sacking. For a moment this is a mellow light, and if a photograph could be taken quickly we might find a disturbing smile on the room’s face, perhaps like the Mona Lisa’s, which came, surely, of her knowing what only the dead should know. There are two doors, one leading downstairs; the other is at the back, very insignificant, though it is the centre of this disturbing history. The wall-paper, heavy in the adherence of other papers of a still older date, has peeled and leans forward here and there in a grotesque bow, as men have hung in chains; one might predict that the next sound heard here will be in the distant future when another piece of paper loosens. Save for two packing-cases, the only furnitureis a worn easy-chair doddering by the unlit fire, like some foolish old man. We might play with the disquieting fancy that this room, once warm with love, is still alive but is shrinking from observation, and that with our departure they cunningly set to again at the apparently never-ending search which goes on in some empty old houses.

Some one is heard clumping up the stair, and the caretaker enters. It is not she, however, who clumps; she has been here for several years, and has become sufficiently a part of the house to move noiselessly in it. The first thing we know about her is that she does not like to be in this room. She is an elderly woman of gaunt frame and with a singular control over herself. There may be some one, somewhere, who can make her laugh still, one never knows, but the effort would hurt her face. Even the war, lately ended, meant very little to her. She has shown a number of possible purchasers over the house, just as she is showing one over it now, with the true caretaker’s indifference whether you buy or not. The few duties imposed on her here she performs conscientiously, but her greatest capacity is for sitting still in the dark. Her work over, her mind a blank, she sits thus rather than pay for a candle. One knows a little more about life when he knows the Mrs. Oterys, but she herself is unawarethat she is peculiar, and probably thinks that in some such way do people in general pass the hour before bedtime. Nevertheless, though saving of her candle in other empty houses, she always lights it on the approach of evening in this one.

The man who has clumped up the stairs in her wake is a young Australian soldier, a private, such as in those days you met by the dozen in any London street, slouching along it forlornly if alone, with sudden stoppages to pass the time (in which you ran against him), or in affable converse with a young lady. In his voice is the Australian tang that became such a friendly sound to us. He is a rough fellow, sinewy, with the clear eye of the man with the axe whose chief life-struggle till the war came was to fell trees and see to it that they did not crash down on him. Mrs. Otery is showing him the house, which he has evidently known in other days, but though interested he is unsentimental and looks about him with a tolerant grin.

MRS. OTERY.This was the drawing-room.

HARRY.Not it, no, no, never. This wasn’t the drawing-room, my cabbage; at least not in my time.

MRS. OTERY(indifferently). I only came hereabout three years ago and I never saw the house furnished, but I was told to say this was the drawing-room. (With a flicker of spirit.) And I would thank you not to call me your cabbage.

HARRY(whom this kind of retort helps to put at his ease). No offence. It’s a French expression, and many a happy moment have I given to the mademoiselles by calling them cabbages. But the drawing-room! I was a little shaver when I was here last, but I mind we called the drawing-room the Big Room; it wasn’t a little box like this.

MRS. OTERY.This is the biggest room in the house. (She quotes drearily from some advertisement which is probably hanging in rags on the gate.) Specially charming is the drawing-room with its superb view of the Downs. This room is upstairs and is approached by——

HARRY.By a stair, containing some romantic rat-holes. Snakes, whether it’s the room or not, it strikes cold; there is something shiversome about it.

(For the first time she gives him a sharp glance.)

I’ve shivered in many a shanty in Australy, and thought of the big room at home and the warmth of it. The warmth! And now this is the best it can do for the prodigal when he returns to it expecting to see that calf done to a turn. We live and learn, missis.

MRS. OTERY.We live, at any rate.

HARRY.Well said, my cabbage.

MRS. OTERY.Thank you, my rhododendron.

HARRY(cheered). I like your spirit. You and me would get on great if I had time to devote to your amusement. But, see here, I can make sure whether this was the drawing-room. If it was, there is an apple-tree outside there, with one of its branches scraping on the window. I ought to know, for it was out at the window down that apple-tree to the ground that I slided one dark night when I was a twelve-year-old, ran away from home, the naughty blue-eyed angel that I was, and set off to make my fortune on the blasted ocean. The fortune, my—my lady friend—has still got the start of me, but the apple-tree should be there to welcome her darling boy.

(He pulls down the sacking, which lets alittle more light into the room. We see that the window, which reaches to the floor, opens outwards. There were probably long ago steps from it down into the garden, but they are gone now, and gone too is the apple-tree.)

I’ve won! No tree: no drawing-room.

MRS. OTERY.I have heard tell there was once a tree there; and you can see the root if you look down.

HARRY.Yes, yes, I see it in the long grass, and a bit of the seat that used to be round it. This is the drawing-room right enough, Harry, my boy. There were blue curtains to that window, and I used to hide behind them and pounce out upon Robinson Crusoe. There was a sofa at this end, and I had my first lessons in swimming on it. You are a fortunate woman, my petite, to be here drinking in these moving memories. There used to be a peacock, too. Now, what the hell could a peacock be doing in this noble apartment?

MRS. OTERY.I have been told a cloth used to hang on the wall here, tapestries they’re called,and that it had pictures of peacocks on it. I dare say that was your peacock.

HARRY.Gone, even my peacock! And I could have sworn I used to pull the feathers out of its tail. The clock was in this corner, and it had a wheezy little figure of a smith that used to come out and strike the hour on an anvil. My old man used to wind that clock up every night, and I mind his rage when he found out it was an eight-day clock. The padre had to reprove him for swearing. Padre? What’s the English for padre? Damme, I’m forgetting my own language. Oh yes, parson. Ishein the land of the living still? I can see him clear, a long thin man with a hard sharp face. He was always quarrelling about pictures he collected.

MRS. OTERY.The parson here is a very old man, but he is not tall and thin, he is little and roundish with a soft face and white whiskers.

HARRY.Whiskers? I can’t think he had whiskers. (Ruminating.)Hadhe whiskers? Stop a bit, I believe it is his wife I’m thinking about. I doubt I don’t give satisfaction as asentimental character. Is there any objection, your ladyship, to smoking in the drawing-room?

MRS. OTERY(ungraciously). Smoke if you want.

(He hacks into a cake of tobacco with a large clasp knife.)

That’s a fearsome-looking knife.

HARRY.Useful in trench warfare. It’s not a knife, it’s a visiting-card. You leave it on favoured parties like this.

(He casts it at one of the packing-cases, and it sticks quivering in the wood.)

MRS. OTERY.Were you an officer?

HARRY.For a few minutes now and again.

MRS. OTERY.You’re playing with me.

HARRY.You’re so irresistible.

MRS. OTERY.Do you want to see the other rooms?

HARRY.I was fondly hoping you would ask me that.

MRS. OTERY.Come along then. (She wants to lead him downstairs, but the little door at the back has caught his eye.)

HARRY.What does that door open on?

MRS. OTERY(avoiding looking at it). Nothing, it’s just a cupboard door.

HARRY(considering her). Who is playing with me now?

MRS. OTERY.I don’t know what you mean. Come this way.

HARRY(not budging). I’ll explain what I mean. That door—it’s coming back to me—it leads into a little dark passage.

MRS. OTERY.That’s all.

HARRY.That can’t be all. Who ever heard of a passage wandering about by itself in a respectable house! It leads—yes—to a single room, and the door of the room faces this way.

(He opens the door, and a door beyond is disclosed.)

There’s a memory for you! But what the hell made you want to deceive me?

MRS. OTERY.It’s of no consequence.

HARRY.I think—yes—the room in there has two stone windows—and wooden rafters.

MRS. OTERY.It’s the oldest part of the house.

HARRY.It comes back to me that I used to sleep there.

MRS. OTERY.That may be. If you’ll come down with me——

Harry.I’m curious to see that room first.

(She bars the way.)

MRS. OTERY(thin-lipped and determined). You can’t go in there.

HARRY.Your reasons?

MRS. OTERY.It’s—locked. I tell you it’s just an empty room.

HARRY.There must be a key.

MRS. OTERY.It’s—lost.

HARRY.Queer your anxiety to stop me, when you knew I would find the door locked.

MRS. OTERY.Sometimes it’s locked; sometimes not.

HARRY.Is it not you that locks it?

MRS. OTERY(reluctantly). It’s never locked, it’s held.

HARRY.Who holds it?

MRS. OTERY(in a little outburst). Quiet, man.

HARRY.You’re all shivering.

MRS. OTERY.I’m not.

HARRY(cunningly). I suppose you are just shivering because the room is so chilly.

MRS. OTERY(falling into the trap). That’s it.

HARRY.So you are shivering!

(She makes no answer, and he reflects with the help of his pipe.)

May I put a light to these bits of sticks?

MRS. OTERY.If you like. My orders are to have fires once a week.

(He lights the twigs in the fireplace, and they burn up easily, but will be ashes in a few minutes.)

Youcan’t have the money to buy a house like this.

HARRY.Not me. It was just my manly curiosity to see the old home that brought me. I’m for Australy again. (Suddenly turning on her.) What is wrong with this house?

MRS. OTERY(on her guard). There is nothing wrong with it.

HARRY.Then how is it going so cheap?

MRS. OTERY.It’s—in bad repair.

HARRY.Why has it stood empty so long?

MRS. OTERY.It’s—far from a town.

HARRY.What made the last tenant leave in such a hurry?

MRS. OTERY(wetting her lips). You have heard that, have you? Gossiping in the village, I suppose?

HARRY.I have heard some other things as well. I have heard they had to get a caretaker from a distance, because no woman hereabout would live alone in this house.

MRS. OTERY.A pack o’ cowards.

HARRY.I have heard that that caretaker was bold and buxom when she came, and that now she is a scared woman.

MRS. OTERY.I’m not.

HARRY.I have heard she’s been known to run out into the fields and stay there trembling half the night.

(She does not answer, and he resorts to cunning again.)

Of course, I see they couldn’t have meant you. Just foolish stories that gather about an old house.

MRS. OTERY(relieved). That’s all.

HARRY(quickly as he looks at the little door). What’s that?

(MRS. OTERYscreams.)

I got you that time! What was it you expected to see?

(No answer.)

Is it a ghost? They say it’s a ghost. What is it gives this house an ill name?

MRS. OTERY.Use as brave words as you like when you have gone, but I advise you, my lad, to keep a civil tongue while you are here. (In her everyday voice.) There is no use showing you the rest of the house. If you want to be stepping, I have my work to do.

HARRY.We have got on so nicely I wonder if you would give me a mug of tea. Not a cup, we drink it by the mugful where I hail from.

MRS. OTERY(ungraciously). I have no objection.

HARRY.Since you are so pressing I accept.

MRS. OTERY.Come down then to the kitchen.

HARRY.No, no, I’m sure the Prodigal got his tea in the drawing-room, though what made them make such a fuss about that man beats me.

MRS. OTERY(sullenly). You are meaning to go into that room. I wouldn’t if I was you.

HARRY.If you were me you would.

MRS. OTERY(closing the little door). Until I have your promise——

HARRY(liking the tenacity of her). Very well, I promise—unless, of course, she comes peeping out at the handsome gentleman. Your ghost has naught to do wi’ me. It’s a woman, isn’t it?

(Her silence is perhaps an assent.)

See here, I’ll sit in this chair till you come back, saying my prayers. (Feeling the chair.) You’re clammy cold, old dear. It’s not the ghost’s chair by any chance, is it?

(No answer.)

You needn’t look so scared, woman; she doesn’t walk till midnight, does she?

MRS. OTERY(looking at his knife in the wood). I wouldn’t leave that knife lying about.

HARRY.Oh, come, give the old girl a chance.

MRS. OTERY.I’ll not be more than ten minutes.

HARRY.She can’t do much in ten minutes.

(At which remarkMRS. OTERYfixes him with her eyes and departs.HARRYis now sitting sunk in the chair, staring at the fire. It goes out, but he remainsthere motionless, and in the increasing dusk he ceases to be an intruder. He is now part of the room, the part long waited for, come back at last. The house is shaken to its foundation by his presence, we may conceive a thousand whispers. Then the crafty work begins. The little door at the back opens slowly to the extent of a foot. Thus might a breath of wind blow it if there were any wind. PresentlyHARRYstarts to his feet, convinced that there is some one in the room, very near his knife. He is so sure of the exact spot where she is that for a moment he looks nowhere else.In that moment the door slowly closes. He has not seen it close, but he opens it and calls out, ‘Who is that? Is any one there?’ With some distaste he enters the passage and tries the inner door, but whether it be locked or held it will not open. He is about to pocket his knife, then with a shrug of bravado sends it quivering back into the wood—for her if she can get it. He returns to the chair, but not to close his eyes; to watch and to bewatched. The room is in a tremble of desire to get started upon that nightly travail which can never be completed till this man is here to provide the end.The figure ofHARRYbecomes indistinct and fades from sight. When the haze lifts we are looking at the room as it was some thirty years earlier on the serene afternoon that began its troubled story. There are rooms that are always smiling, so that you may see them at it if you peep through the keyhole, andMRS. MORLAND’Slittle drawing-room is one of them. Perhaps these are smiles that she has left lying about. She leaves many things lying about; for instance, one could deduce the shape of her from studying that corner of the sofa which is her favourite seat, and all her garments grow so like her that her wardrobes are full of herself hanging on nails or folded away in drawers. The pictures on her walls in time take on a resemblance to her or hers though they may be meant to represent a waterfall, every present given to her assumessome characteristic of the donor, and no doubt the necktie she is at present knitting will soon be able to pass as the person for whom it is being knit. It is only delightful ladies at the most agreeable age who have this personal way with their belongings. AmongMRS. MORLAND’Sfriends in the room are several of whom we have already heard, such as the blue curtains from whichHARRYpounced upon the castaway, the sofa on which he had his first swimming lessons, the peacock on the wall, the clock with the smart smith ready to step out and strike his anvil, and the apple-tree is in full blossom at the open window, one of its branches has even stepped into the room.MR. MORLANDand the local clergyman are chatting importantly about some matter of no importance, whileMRS. MORLANDis on her sofa at the other side of the room, coming into the conversation occasionally with a cough or a click of her needles, which is her clandestine way of telling her husband not to be so assertive to his guest. They are allmiddle-aged people who have found life to be on the whole an easy and happy adventure, and have done their tranquil best to make it so for their neighbours. The squire is lean, the clergyman of full habit, but could you enter into them you would have difficulty in deciding which was clergyman and which was squire; both can be peppery, the same pepper. They are benignant creatures, but could exchange benignancies without altering.MRS. MORLANDknows everything about her husband except that she does nearly all his work for him. She really does not know this. His work, though he rises early to be at it, is not much larger than a lady’s handkerchief, and consists of magisterial duties, with now and then an impressive scene about a tenant’s cowshed. She then makes up his mind for him, and is still unaware that she is doing it. He has so often heard her say (believing it, too) that he is difficult to move when once he puts his foot down that he accepts himself modestly as aman of this character, and never tries to remember when it was that he last put down his foot. In the odd talks which the happily married sometimes hold about the future he always hopes he will be taken first, being the managing one, and she says little beyond pressing his hand, but privately she has decided that there must be another arrangement. Probably life at the vicarage is on not dissimilar lines, but we cannot tell as we never meetMR. AMY’Swife.MR. AMYis even more sociable thanMR. MORLAND;he is reputed to know every one in the county, and has several times fallen off his horse because he will salute all passers-by. On his visits to London he usually returns depressed because there are so many people in the streets to whom he may not give a friendly bow. He likes to read a book if he knows the residence or a relative of the author, and at the play it is far more to him to learn that the actress has three children, one of them down with measles, than to follow her histrionic genius. He and his hosthave the pleasant habit of print-collecting, and a very common scene between them is that which now follows. They are bent over the squire’s latest purchase.)

(At which remarkMRS. OTERYfixes him with her eyes and departs.

HARRYis now sitting sunk in the chair, staring at the fire. It goes out, but he remainsthere motionless, and in the increasing dusk he ceases to be an intruder. He is now part of the room, the part long waited for, come back at last. The house is shaken to its foundation by his presence, we may conceive a thousand whispers. Then the crafty work begins. The little door at the back opens slowly to the extent of a foot. Thus might a breath of wind blow it if there were any wind. PresentlyHARRYstarts to his feet, convinced that there is some one in the room, very near his knife. He is so sure of the exact spot where she is that for a moment he looks nowhere else.

In that moment the door slowly closes. He has not seen it close, but he opens it and calls out, ‘Who is that? Is any one there?’ With some distaste he enters the passage and tries the inner door, but whether it be locked or held it will not open. He is about to pocket his knife, then with a shrug of bravado sends it quivering back into the wood—for her if she can get it. He returns to the chair, but not to close his eyes; to watch and to bewatched. The room is in a tremble of desire to get started upon that nightly travail which can never be completed till this man is here to provide the end.

The figure ofHARRYbecomes indistinct and fades from sight. When the haze lifts we are looking at the room as it was some thirty years earlier on the serene afternoon that began its troubled story. There are rooms that are always smiling, so that you may see them at it if you peep through the keyhole, andMRS. MORLAND’Slittle drawing-room is one of them. Perhaps these are smiles that she has left lying about. She leaves many things lying about; for instance, one could deduce the shape of her from studying that corner of the sofa which is her favourite seat, and all her garments grow so like her that her wardrobes are full of herself hanging on nails or folded away in drawers. The pictures on her walls in time take on a resemblance to her or hers though they may be meant to represent a waterfall, every present given to her assumessome characteristic of the donor, and no doubt the necktie she is at present knitting will soon be able to pass as the person for whom it is being knit. It is only delightful ladies at the most agreeable age who have this personal way with their belongings. AmongMRS. MORLAND’Sfriends in the room are several of whom we have already heard, such as the blue curtains from whichHARRYpounced upon the castaway, the sofa on which he had his first swimming lessons, the peacock on the wall, the clock with the smart smith ready to step out and strike his anvil, and the apple-tree is in full blossom at the open window, one of its branches has even stepped into the room.

MR. MORLANDand the local clergyman are chatting importantly about some matter of no importance, whileMRS. MORLANDis on her sofa at the other side of the room, coming into the conversation occasionally with a cough or a click of her needles, which is her clandestine way of telling her husband not to be so assertive to his guest. They are allmiddle-aged people who have found life to be on the whole an easy and happy adventure, and have done their tranquil best to make it so for their neighbours. The squire is lean, the clergyman of full habit, but could you enter into them you would have difficulty in deciding which was clergyman and which was squire; both can be peppery, the same pepper. They are benignant creatures, but could exchange benignancies without altering.MRS. MORLANDknows everything about her husband except that she does nearly all his work for him. She really does not know this. His work, though he rises early to be at it, is not much larger than a lady’s handkerchief, and consists of magisterial duties, with now and then an impressive scene about a tenant’s cowshed. She then makes up his mind for him, and is still unaware that she is doing it. He has so often heard her say (believing it, too) that he is difficult to move when once he puts his foot down that he accepts himself modestly as aman of this character, and never tries to remember when it was that he last put down his foot. In the odd talks which the happily married sometimes hold about the future he always hopes he will be taken first, being the managing one, and she says little beyond pressing his hand, but privately she has decided that there must be another arrangement. Probably life at the vicarage is on not dissimilar lines, but we cannot tell as we never meetMR. AMY’Swife.MR. AMYis even more sociable thanMR. MORLAND;he is reputed to know every one in the county, and has several times fallen off his horse because he will salute all passers-by. On his visits to London he usually returns depressed because there are so many people in the streets to whom he may not give a friendly bow. He likes to read a book if he knows the residence or a relative of the author, and at the play it is far more to him to learn that the actress has three children, one of them down with measles, than to follow her histrionic genius. He and his hosthave the pleasant habit of print-collecting, and a very common scene between them is that which now follows. They are bent over the squire’s latest purchase.)

MR. AMY.Very interesting. A nice little lot. I must say, James, you have the collector’s flair.

MR. MORLAND.Oh, well, I’m keen, you know, and when I run up to London I can’t resist going a bust in my small way. I picked these up quite cheap.

MR. AMY.The flair. That is what you have.

MR. MORLAND.Oh, I don’t know.

MR. AMY.Yes, you have, James. You got them at Peterkin’s in Dean Street, didn’t you? Yes, I know you did. I saw them there. I wanted them too, but they told me you had already got the refusal.

MR. MORLAND.Sorry to have been too quick for you, George, but it is my way to nip in. You have some nice prints yourself.

MR. AMY.I haven’t got your flair, James.

MR. MORLAND.I admit I don’t miss much.

(So far it has been a competition in saintliness.)

MR. AMY.No. (The saint leaves him.) You missed something yesterday at Peterkin’s though.

MR. MORLAND.How do you mean?

MR. AMY.You didn’t examine the little lot lying beneath this lot.

MR. MORLAND.I turned them over; just a few odds and ends of no account.

MR. AMY(with horrible complacency). All except one, James.

MR. MORLAND(twitching). Something good?

MR. AMY(at his meekest). Just a little trifle of a Gainsborough.

MR. MORLAND(faintly). What! You’ve got it?

MR. AMY.I’ve got it. I am a poor man, but I thought ten pounds wasn’t too much for a Gainsborough.

(The devil now has them both.)

MR. MORLAND.Ten pounds! Is it signed?

MR. AMY.No, it isn’t signed.

MR. MORLAND(almost his friend again). Ah!

MR. AMY.What do you precisely mean by that ‘Ah,’ James? If it had been signed, could I have got it for ten pounds? You are alwaysspeaking about your flair; I suppose I can have a little flair sometimes too.

MR. MORLAND.I am not always speaking about my flair, and I don’t believe it is a Gainsborough.

MR. AMY(with dignity). Please don’t get hot, James. If I had thought you would grudge me my little find—whichyoumissed—I wouldn’t have brought it to show you.

(With shocking exultation he produces a roll of paper.)

MR. MORLAND(backing from it). So that’s it.

MR. AMY.This is it. (The squire has to examine it like a Christian.) There! I have the luck this time. I hope you will have it next. (The exultation now passes from the one face into the other.)

MR. MORLAND.Interesting, George—quite. But definitely not a Gainsborough.

MR. AMY.I say definitely a Gainsborough.

MR. MORLAND.Definitely not a Gainsborough.

(By this time the needles have enteredinto the controversy, but they are disregarded.)

I should say the work of a clever amateur.

MR. AMY.Look at the drawing of the cart and the figure beside it.

MR. MORLAND.Weak and laboured. Look at that horse.

MR. AMY.Gainsborough did some very funny horses.

MR. MORLAND.Granted, but he never placed them badly. That horse destroys the whole balance of the composition.

MR. AMY.James, I had no idea you had such a small nature.

MR. MORLAND.I don’t like that remark; for your sake I don’t like it. No one would have been more pleased than myself if you had picked up a Gainsborough. But this! Besides, look at the paper.

MR. AMY.What is wrong with the paper, Mr. Morland?

MR. MORLAND.It is machine-made. Gainsborough was in his grave years before that paper was made.

(After further inspectionMR. AMYis convinced against his will, and the find is returned to his pocket less carefully than it had been produced.)

Don’t get into a tantrum about it, George.

MR. AMY(grandly). I am not in a tantrum, and I should be obliged if you wouldn’t George me. Smile on, Mr. Morland, I congratulate you on your triumph; you have hurt an old friend to the quick. Bravo, bravo. Thank you, Mrs. Morland, for a very pleasant visit. Good day.

MRS. MORLAND(prepared). I shall see you into your coat, George.

MR. AMY.I thank you, Mrs. Morland, but I need no one to see me into my coat. Good day.

(He goes, and she blandly follows him. She returns with the culprit.)

MRS. MORLAND.Now which of you is to say it first?

MR. AMY.James, I am heartily ashamed of myself.

MR. MORLAND.George, I apologise.

MR. AMY.I quite see that it isn’t a Gainsborough.

MR. MORLAND.After all, it’s certainly in the Gainsborough school.

(They clasp hands sheepishly, but the peace-maker helps the situation by showing a roguish face, andMR. AMYdeparts shaking a humorous fist at her).

MRS. MORLAND.I coughed so often, James; and you must have heard me clicking.

MR. MORLAND.I heard all right. Good old George! It’s a pity he has no flair. He might as well order his prints by wireless.

MRS. MORLAND.What is that?

MR. MORLAND.Wireless it’s to be called. There is an article about it in that paper. The fellow says that before many years have passed we shall be able to talk to ships on the ocean.

MRS. MORLAND(who has resumed her knitting). Nonsense, James.

MR. MORLAND.Of course it’s nonsense. And yet there is no denying, as he says, that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.

MRS. MORLAND(becoming grave). You and I know that to be true, James.

(For a moment he does not know to what she is referring.)

MR. MORLAND(edging away from trouble). Oh, that. My dear, that is all dead and done with long ago.

MRS. MORLAND(thankfully). Yes. But sometimes when I look at Mary Rose—so happy——

MR. MORLAND.She will never know anything about it.

MRS. MORLAND.No, indeed. But some day she will fall in love——

MR. MORLAND(wriggling). That infant! Fanny, is it wise to seek trouble before it comes?

MRS. MORLAND.She can’t marry, James, without your first telling the man. We agreed.

MR. MORLAND.Yes, I suppose I must—though I’m not certain I ought to. Sleeping dogs— Still, I’ll keep my word, I’ll tell him everything.

MRS. MORLAND.Poor Mary Rose.

MR. MORLAND(manfully). Now then, none of that. Where is she now?

MRS. MORLAND.Down at the boat-house with Simon, I think.

MR. MORLAND.That is all right. Let her play about with Simon and the like. It may make a tomboy of her, but it will keep young men out of her head.

(She wonders at his obtuseness.)

MRS. MORLAND.You still think of Simon as a boy?

MR. MORLAND.Bless the woman, he is only a midshipman.

MRS. MORLAND.A sub-lieutenant now.

MR. MORLAND.Same thing. Why, Fanny, I still tip him. At least I did a year ago. And he liked it: ‘Thanks no end, you are a trump,’ he said, and then slipped behind the screen to see how much it was.

MRS. MORLAND.He is a very delightful creature; but he isn’t a boy any more.

MR. MORLAND.It’s not nice of you to put such ideas into my head. I’ll go down to the boat-house at once. If this new invention was in working order, Fanny, I could send him packing without rising from my seat. I shouldsimply say from this sofa, ‘Is my little Mary Rose there?’

(To their surprise there is an answer fromMARY ROSEunseen.)

MARY ROSE(in a voice more quaking than is its wont). I’m here, Daddy.

MR. MORLAND(rising). Where are you, Mary Rose?

MARY ROSE.I am in the apple-tree.

(MRS. MORLANDsmiles and is going to the window, but her husband checks her with a further exhibition of the marvel of the future.)

MR. MORLAND.What are you doing in the apple-tree, hoyden?

MARY ROSE.I’m hiding.

MR. MORLAND.From Simon?

MARY ROSE.No; I’m not sure whom I’m hiding from. From myself, I think. Daddy, I’m frightened.

MR. MORLAND.What has frightened you? Simon?

MARY ROSE.Yes—partly.

MR. MORLAND.Who else?

MARY ROSE.I am most afraid of my daddy.

MR. MORLAND(rather flattered). Ofme?

(If there is anything strange about this girl of eighteen who steps from the tree into the room, it is an elusiveness of which she is unaware. It has remained hidden from her girl friends, though in the after years, in the brief space before they forget her, they will probably say, because of what happened, that there was always something a little odd aboutMARY ROSE.This oddness might be expressed thus, that the happiness and glee of which she is almost overfull know of another attribute of her that never plays with them.There is nothing splendid aboutMARY ROSE,never can she become one of those secret women so much less innocent than she, yet perhaps so much sweeter in the kernel, who are the bane or glory, or the bane and glory, of greater lovers than she could ever understand. She is just arare and lovely flower, far less fitted than those others for the tragic rôle.She butts her head intoMRS. MORLANDwith a childish impulsiveness that might overthrow a less accustomed bosom.)

There is nothing splendid aboutMARY ROSE,never can she become one of those secret women so much less innocent than she, yet perhaps so much sweeter in the kernel, who are the bane or glory, or the bane and glory, of greater lovers than she could ever understand. She is just arare and lovely flower, far less fitted than those others for the tragic rôle.

She butts her head intoMRS. MORLANDwith a childish impulsiveness that might overthrow a less accustomed bosom.)

MARY ROSE(telling everything). Mother!

MR. MORLAND.You don’t mean that anything has really frightened you, Mary Rose?

MARY ROSE.I am not sure. Hold me tight, Mother.

MRS. MORLAND.Darling, has Simon been disturbing you?

MARY ROSE(liking this way of putting it). Yes, he has. It is all Simon’s fault.

MR. MORLAND.But you said you were afraid even of me.

MARY ROSE.You are the only one.

MR. MORLAND.Is this some game? Where is Simon?

MARY ROSE(in little mouthfuls). He is at the foot of the tree. He is not coming up by the tree. He wants to come in by the door. That shows how important it is.

MR. MORLAND.What is?

MARY ROSE.You see, his leave is up to-morrow, and he—wants to see you, Daddy, before he goes.

MR. MORLAND.I am sure he does. And I know why. I told you, Fanny. Mary Rose, do you see my purse lying about?

MARY ROSE.Your purse, Dad?

MR. MORLAND.Yes, you gosling. There is a fiver in it, andthatis what Master Simon wants to see me about.

(MARY ROSEagain seeks her mother’s breast.)

MRS. MORLAND.Oh, James! Dearest, tell me what Simon has been saying to you; whisper it, my love.

(MARY ROSEwhispers.)

Yes, I thought it was that.

MARY ROSE. I am frightened to tell Daddy.

MRS. MORLAND.James, you may as well be told bluntly; it isn’t your fiver that Simon wants, it is your daughter.

(MR. MORLANDis aghast, andMARY ROSErushes into his arms to help him in this terrible hour.)

MARY ROSE(as the injured party). You will scold him, won’t you, Dad?

MR. MORLAND(vainly trying to push her from him). By—by—by the—by all that is horrible I’ll do more than scold him. The puppy, I’ll—I’ll——

MARY ROSE(entreating). Not more than scold him, Daddy—not more. Mary Rose couldn’t bear it if it was more.

MR. MORLAND(blankly). You are not in love with Simon, are you?

MARY ROSE.Oh-h-h-h!

(She makes little runnings from the one parent to the other, carrying kisses for the wounds.)

Daddy, I am so awfully sorry that this has occurred. Mummy, what can we do? (She cries.)

MRS. MORLAND(soothing her). My own, my pet. But he is only a boy, Mary Rose, just a very nice boy.

MARY ROSE(awed). Mother, that is the wonderful, wonderful thing. He was just a boy—I quite understand that—he was a mereboy till to-day; and then, Daddy, he suddenly changed; all at once he became a man. It was while he was—telling me. You will scarcely know him now, Mother.

MRS. MORLAND.Darling, he breakfasted with us; I think I shall know him still.

MARY ROSE.He is quite different from breakfast-time. He doesn’t laugh any more, he would never think of capsizing the punt intentionally now, he has grown so grave, so manly, so—soprotective, he thinks of everything now, of freeholds and leaseholds, and gravel soil, and hot and cold, and the hire system.

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