The scene is a drawing-room (in which the men are allowed to smoke—or a smoking-room in which the women are allowed to draw—it doesn't much matter) in the house of somebody or other in the country. George Turnbull and his old College friend, Henry Peterson, are confiding in each other, as old friends will, over their whiskies and cigars. It is about three o'clock in the afternoon.
George (dreamily helping himself to a stiff soda). Henry, do you remember that evening at Christ Church College, Oxford, five years ago, when we opened our hearts to each other…
Henry (lighting a cigar and hiding it in a fern-pot). That moonlight evening on the Backs, George, when I had failed in my Matriculation examination?
George. Yes; and we promised that when either of us fell in love the other should be the first to hear of it? (Rising solemnly.) Henry, the moment has come. (With shining eyes.) I am in love.
Henry (jumping up and grasping him by both hands). George! My dear old George! (In a voice broken with emotion.) Bless you, George!
[He pats him thoughtfully on the back three times, nods his own head twice, gives him a final grip of the hand, and returns to his chair.
George (more moved by this than he cares to show). Thank you, Henry.(Hoarsely.) You're a good fellow.
Henry (airily, with a typically British desire to conceal his emotion). Who is the lucky little lady?
George (taking out a picture postcard of the British Museum and kissing it passionately). Isobel Barley!
[If Henry is not careful he will probably give a start of surprise here, with the idea of suggesting to the audience that he (1) knows something about the lady's past, or (2) is in love with her himself. He is, however, thinking of a different play. We shall come to that one in a moment.
Henry (in a slightly dashing manner). Little Isobel? Lucky dog!
George. I wish I could think so. (Sighs.) But I have yet to approach her, and she may be another's. (Fiercely.) Heavens, Henry, if she should be another's!
Enter Isobel.
Isobel (brightly). So I've run you to earth at last. Now, what have you got to say for yourselves?
Henry (like a man). By Jove! (looking at his watch)—I had no idea—is it really—poor old Joe—waiting—
[Dashes out tactfully in a state of incoherence.
George (rising and leading Isobel to the front of the stage). Miss Barley, now that we are alone, I have something I want to say to you.
Isobel (looking at her watch). Well, you must be quick. Because I'm engaged—
[George drops her hand and staggers away from her.
Isobel. Why, what's the matter?
George (to the audience, in a voice expressing the very deeps of emotion). Engaged! She is engaged! I am too late!
[He sinks into a chair and covers his face with his hands.
Isobel (surprised). Mr Turnbull! What has happened?
George (waving her away with one hand). Go! Leave me! I can bear this best alone. (Exit Isobel.) Merciful heavens, she is plighted to another!
Enter Henry.
Henry (eagerly). Well, old man?
George (raising a face white with misery—that is to say, if he has remembered to put the French chalk in the palms of his hands). Henry, I am too late! She is another's!
Henry (in surprise). Whose?
George (with dignity). I did not ask her. It is nothing to me.Good-bye, Henry. Be kind to her.
Henry. Why, where are you going?
George (firmly). To the Rocky Mountains. I shall shoot some bears.Grizzly ones. It may be that thus I shall forget my grief.
Henry (after a pause). Perhaps you are right, George. What shall I tell—her?
George. Tell her—nothing. But should anything (feeling casually in his pockets) happen to me—if (going over them again quickly) I do not come back, then (searching them all, including the waistcoat ones, in desperate haste), give her—give her—give her (triumphantly bringing his handkerchief out of the last pocket) this, and say that my last thought was of her. Good-bye, my old friend. Good-bye.
[Exit to Rocky Mountains.
Enter Isobel.
Isabel. Why, where's Mr Turnbull?
Henry (sadly). He's gone.
Isabel. Gone? Where?
Henry. To the Rocky Mountains—to shoot bears. (Feeling that some further explanation is needed.) Grizzly ones.
Isobel. But he was HERE a moment ago.
Henry. Yes, he's only JUST gone.
Isobel. Why didn't he say good-bye? (Eagerly.) But perhaps he left a message for me? (Henry shakes his head.) Nothing? (Henry bows silently and leaves the room.) Oh! (She gives a cry and throws herself on the sofa.) And I loved him! George, George, why didn't you speak?
Enter George hurriedly. He is fully dressed for a shooting expedition in the Rocky Mountains, and carries a rifle under his arm.
George (to the audience). I have just come back for my pocket-handkerchief. I must have dropped it in here somewhere. (He begins to search for it, and in the ordinary course of things comes upon Isobel on the sofa. He puts his rifle down carefully on a table, with the muzzle pointing at the prompter rather than at the audience, and staggers back.) Merciful heavens! Isobel! Dead! (He falls on his knees beside the sofa.) My love, speak to me!
Isobel (softly). George!
George. She is alive! Isobel!
Isobel. Don't go, George!
George. My dear, I love you! But when I heard that you were another's, honour compelled me—
Isobel (sitting up quickly). What do you mean by another's?
George. You said you were engaged!
Isobel (suddenly realizing how the dreadful misunderstanding arose which nearly wrecked two lives). But I only meant I was engaged to play tennis with Lady Carbrook!
George. What a fool I have been! (He hurries on before the audience can assent.) Then, Isobel, you WILL be mine?
Isobel. Yes, George. And you won't go and shoot nasty bears, will you, dear? Not even grizzly ones?
George (taking her in his arms). Never, darling. That was only (turning to the audience with the air of one who is making his best point) A Slight Misunderstanding.
As the curtain goes up two ladies are discovered in the morning-room of Honeysuckle Lodge engaged in work of a feminine nature. Miss Alice Prendergast is doing something delicate with a crochet-hook, but it is obvious that her thoughts are far away. She sighs at intervals, and occasionally lays down her work and presses both hands to her heart. A sympathetic audience will have no difficulty in guessing that she is in love. On the other hand, her elder sister, Miss Prendergast, is completely wrapped up in a sock for one of the poorer classes, over which she frowns formidably. The sock, however, has no real bearing upon the plot, and she must not make too much of it.
Alice (hiding her emotions). Did you have a pleasant dinner-party last night, Jane?
Jane (to herself). Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. (Looking up.) Very pleasant indeed, Alice. The Blizzards were there, and the Podbys, and the Slumphs. (These people are not important and should not be over-emphasized.) Mrs Podby's maid has given notice.
Alice. Who took you in?
Jane (brightening up). Such an interesting man, my dear. He talked most agreeably about Art during dinner, and we renewed the conversation in the drawing-room. We found that we agreed upon all the main principles of Art, considered as such.
Alice (with a look in her eyes which shows that she is recalling a tender memory). When I was in Shropshire last week—What was your man's name?
Jane (with a warning glance at the audience). You know how difficult it is to catch names when one is introduced. I am certain he never heard mine. (As the plot depends partly upon this, she pauses for it to sink in.) But I inquired about him afterwards, and I find that he is a Mr—
Enter Mary, the Parlour-maid.
Mary (handing letter). A letter for you, miss.
Jane (taking it). Thank you, Mary. (Exit Mary to work up her next line.) A letter! I wonder who it is from! (Reading the envelope.) "Miss Prendergast, Honeysuckle Lodge." (She opens it with the air of one who has often received letters before, but feels that this one may play an important part in her life.) "Dear Miss Prendergast, I hope you will pardon the presumption of what I am about to write to you, but whether you pardon me or not, I ask you to listen to me. I know of no woman for whose talents I have a greater admiration, or for whose qualities I have a more sincere affection than yourself. Since I have known you, you have been the lodestar of my existence, the fountain of my inspiration. I feel that, were your life joined to mine, the joint path upon which we trod would be the path to happiness, such as I have as yet hardly dared to dream of. In short, dear Miss Prendergast, I ask you to marry me, and I will come in person for my answer. Yours truly—" (In a voice of intense surprise) "Jas. Bootle!"
[At the word "Bootle," a wave of warm colour rushes over Alice and dyes her from neck to brow. If she is not an actress of sufficient calibre to ensure this, she must do the best she can by starting abruptly and putting her hand to her throat.
Alice (aside, in a choking voice). Mr Bootle! In love with Jane!
Jane. My dear! The man who took me down to dinner! Well!
Alice (picking up her work again and trying to be calm). What will you say?
Jane (rather pleased with herself). Well, really—I—this is—MrBootle! Fancy!
Alice (starting up). Was that a ring? (She frowns at the prompter and a bell is heard to ring.) It is Mr Bootle! I know his ring, I mean I know—Dear, I think I will go and lie down. I have a headache.
[She looks miserably at the audience, closes her eyes, and goes off with her handkerchief to her mouth, taking care not to fall over the furniture.
Enter Mary, followed by James Bootle.
Mary. Mr Bootle. (Exit finally.)
Jane. Good-morning, Mr Bootle!
Bootle. I beg—I thought—Why, of course! It's Miss—er-h'm, yes—How do you do? Did you get back safely last night?
Jane. Yes, thank you, (Coyly.) I got your letter.
Bootle. My letter? (Sees his letter on the table. Furiously.) You opened my letter!
Jane (mistaking his fury for passion). Yes—James. And (looking down on the ground) the answer is "Yes."
Bootle (realizing the situation). By George!
(Aside.) I have proposed to the wrong lady! Tchck!
Jane. You may kiss me, James.
Bootle. Have you a sister?
Jane (missing the connection). Yes, I have a younger sister, Alice.(Coldly.) But I hardly see—
Bootle (beginning to understand how he made the mistake). A younger sister! Then you are Miss Prendergast? And my letter—Ah!
Enter Alice.
Alice. You are wanted, Jane, a moment.
Jane. Will you excuse me, Mr Bootle? [Exit.
Bootle (to Alice, as she follows her sister out). Don't go!
Alice (wanly—if she knows how). Am I to stay and congratulate you?
Bootle. Alice! (They approach the footlights, while Jane, having finished her business, comes in unobserved and watches from the back.) It is all a mistake! I didn't know your Christian name—I didn't know you had a sister. The letter I addressed to Miss Prendergast I meant for Miss Alice Prendergast.
Alice. James! My love! But what can we do?
Bootle (gloomily). Nothing. As a man of honour I cannot withdraw. So two lives are ruined!
Alice. You are right, James. Jane must never know. Good-bye!
[They give each other a farewell embrace.
Jane (aside). They love. (Fiercely.) But he is mine; I will hold him to his promise! (Picking up a photograph of Alice as a small child from an occasional table.) Little Alice! And I promised to take care of her—to protect her from the cruel world Baby Alice! (She puts her handkerchief to her eyes.) No! I will not spoil two lives! (Aloud.) Why "Good-bye," Alice?
[Bootle and Alice, who have been embracing all this time—unless they can think of something else to do—break away in surprise.
Alice. Jane—we—I—
Jane (calmly). Dear Alice! I understand perfectly. Mr Bootle said in his letter to you that he was coming for his answer, and I see what answer you have given him. (To Bootle.) You remember I told you it would be "Yes." I know my little sister, you see.
Bootle (tactlessly). But—you told me I could kiss you!
Jane (smiling). And I tell you again now. I believe it is usual for men to kiss their sisters-in-law? (She offers her cheek. Bootle, whose day it is, salutes her respectfully.) And now (gaily) perhaps I had better leave you young people alone!
[Exit, with a backward look at the audience expressive of the fact that she has been wearing the mask.
Bootle. Alice, then you are mine, after all.
Alice. James! (They k—No, perhaps better not. There has been quite enough for one evening.) And to think that she knew all the time! Now I am quite, quite happy. And James—you WILL remember in future that I am Miss ALICE Prendergast?
Bootle (gaily). My dear, I shall only be able to remember that you are The Future Mrs Bootle!
The stage is in semi-darkness as Dick Trayle throws open the window from outside, puts his knee on the sill, and falls carefully into the drawing-room of Beeste Hall. He is dressed in a knickerbocker suit with arrows on it (such as can always be borrowed from a friend), and, to judge from the noises which he emits, is not in the best of training. The lights go on suddenly; and, he should seize this moment to stagger to the door and turn on the switch. This done, he sinks into the nearest chair and closes his eyes.
If he has been dancing very late the night before he may drop into a peaceful sleep; in which case the play ends here. Otherwise, no sooner are his eyes closed than he opens them with a sudden start and looks round in terror.
Dick (striking the keynote at once). No, no! Let me out—I am innocent! (He gives a gasp of relief as he realizes the situation.) Free! It is true, then! I have escaped! I dreamed that I was back in prison again! (He shudders and helps himself to a large whisky-and-soda, which he swallows at a gulp.) That's better! Now I feel a new man—the man I was three years ago. Three years! It has been a lifetime! (Pathetically to the audience.) Where is Millicent now?
[He falls into a reverie, from which he is suddenly wakened by a noise outside. He starts, and then creeps rapidly to the switch, arriving there at the moment when the lights go out. Thence he goes swiftly behind the window curtain. The lights go up again as Jasper Beeste comes in with a revolver in one hand and a bull's-eye lantern of apparently enormous candle-power in the other.
Jasper (in immaculate evening dress). I thought I heard a noise, so I slipped on some old things hurriedly and came down. (Fingering his perfectly-tied tie.) But there seems to be nobody here. (Turns round suddenly to the window.) Ha, who's there? Hands up, blow you—(He ought to swear rather badly here, really)—hands up, or I fire!
[The stage is suddenly plunged into darkness, there is the noise of a struggle, and the lights go on to reveal Jasper by the door covering Dick with his revolver.
Jasper. Let's have a little light on you. (Brutally.) Now then, my man, what have you got to say for yourself? Ha! An escaped convict, eh?
Dick (to himself in amazement). Jasper Beeste!
Jasper. So you know my name?
Dick (in the tones of a man whose whole life has been blighted by the machinations of a false friend). Yes, Jasper Beeste, I know your name. For two years I have said it to myself every night, when I prayed Heaven that I should meet you again.
Jasper. Again? (Uneasily.) We have met before?
Dick (slowly). We have met before, Jasper Beeste. Since then I have lived a lifetime of misery. You may well fail to recognize me.
Enter Millicent Wilsdon—in a dressing-gown, with her hair over her shoulders, if the county will stand it.
Millicent (to Jasper). I couldn't sleep—I heard a noise—I—(suddenly seeing the other) Dick! (She trembles.)
Dick. Millicent! (He trembles too.)
Jasper. Trayle! (So does he.)
Dick (bitterly). You shrink from me, Millicent. (With strong common sense.) What is an escaped convict to the beautiful Miss Wilsdon?
Millicent. Dick—I—you—when you were sentenced—
Dick. When I was sentenced—the evidence was black against me, I admit—I wrote and released you from your engagement. You are married now?
Millicent (throwing herself on the sofa). Oh, Dick!
Jasper (recovering himself). Enough of this. Miss Wilsdon is going to marry me to-morrow.
Dick. To marry YOU! (He strides over to the sofa and pulls Millicent to her feet.) Millicent, look me in the eyes! Do you love him? (She turns away.) Say "Yes," and I will go back quietly to my prison. (She raises her eyes to his.) Ha! I thought so! You don't love him! Now then I can speak.
Jasper (advancing threateningly). Yes, to your friends the warders.Millicent, ring the bell.
Dick (wresting the revolver from his grasp). Ha, would you? Now stand over there and listen to me. (He arranges his audience, Millicent on a sofa on the right, Jasper, biting his finger-nails, on the left.) Three years ago Lady Wilsdon's diamond necklace was stolen. My flat was searched and the necklace was found in my hatbox. Although I protested my innocence, I was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to ten years' penal servitude, followed by fifteen years' police supervision.
Millicent (raising herself on the sofa). Dick, you were innocent—I know it. (She falls back again.)
Dick. I was. But how could I prove it? I went to prison. For a year black despair gnawed at my heart. And then something happened. The prisoner in the cell next to mine tried to communicate with me by means of taps. We soon arranged a system and held conversations together. One day he told me of a robbery in which he and another man had been engaged—the robbery of a diamond necklace.
Jasper (jauntily). Well?
Dick (sternly). A diamond necklace, Jasper Beeste, which the other man hid in the hatbox of another man in order that he might woo the other man's fiancee! (Millicent shrieks.)
Jasper (blusteringly). Bah!
Dick (quietly). The man in the cell next to mine wants to meet this gentleman again. It seems that he has some old scores to pay off.
Jasper (sneeringly). And where is he?
Dick. Ah, where is he? (He goes to the window and gives a low whistle. A Stranger in knickerbockers jumps in and advances with a crab-like movement.) Good! here you are. Allow me to present you to Mr Jasper Beeste.
Jasper (in horror). Two-toed Thomas! I am undone!
Two-toed Thomas (after a series of unintelligible snarls). Say the word, guv'nor, and I'll kill him. (He prowls round Jasper thoughtfully.)
Dick (sternly). Stand back! Now, Jasper Beeste, what have you to say?
Jasper (hysterically). I confess. I will sign anything. I will go to prison. Only keep that man off me.
Dick (going up to a bureau and writing aloud at incredible speed). "I, Jasper Beeste, of Beeste Hall, do hereby declare that I stole Lady Wilsdon's diamond necklace and hid it in the hatbox of Richard Trayle; and I further declare that the said Richard Trayle is innocent of any complicity in the affair." (Advancing with the paper and a fountain pen.) Sign, please.
[Jasper signs. At this moment two warders burst into the room.
First Warder. There they are!
[He seizes Dick. Two-toed Thomas leaps from the window, pursued by the second Warder. Millicent picks up the confession and advances dramatically.
Millicent. Do not touch that man! Read this!
[She hands him the confession with an air of superb pride.
First Warder (reading). Jasper Beeste! (Slipping a pair of handcuffs on Jasper.) You come along with me, my man. We've had our suspicions of you for some time. (To Millicent, with a nod at Dick.) You'll look after that gentleman, miss?
Millicent. Of course! Why, he's engaged to me. Aren't you, Dick?
Dick. This time, Millicent, for ever!
The scene is laid outside a village inn in that county of curious dialects, Loamshire. The inn is easily indicated by a round table bearing two mugs of liquid, while a fallen log emphasizes the rural nature of the scene. Gaffer Jarge and Gaffer Willyum are seated at the table, surrounded by a fringe of whisker, Jarge being slightly more of a gaffer than Willyum.
Jarge (who missed his dinner through nervousness and has been ordered to sustain himself with soup—as he puts down the steaming mug). Eh, bor, but this be rare beer. So it be.
Willyum (who had too much dinner and is now draining his sanatogen). You be right, Gaffer Jarge. Her be main rare beer. (He feels up his sleeve, but thinking better of it wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.) Main rare beer, zo her be. (Gagging.) Zure-lie.
Jarge. Did I ever tell 'ee, bor, about t' new squoire o' these parts—him wot cum hum yesterday from furren lands? Gaffer Henry wor a-telling me.
Willyum (privately bored). Thee didst tell 'un, lad, sartain sure thee didst. And Gaffer Henry, he didst tell 'un too. But tell 'un again. It du me good to hear 'un, zo it du. Zure-lie.
Jarge. A rackun it be a main queer tale, queerer nor any them writing chaps tell about. It wor like this. (Dropping into English, in his hurry to get his long speech over before he forgets it.) The old Squire had a daughter who disappeared when she was three weeks old, eighteen years ago. It was always thought she was stolen by somebody, and the Squire would have it that she was still alive. When he died a year ago he left the estate and all his money to a distant cousin in Australia, with the condition that if he did not discover the missing baby within twelve months everything was to go to the hospitals. (Remembering his smock and whiskers with a start.) And here du be the last day, zo it be, and t' Squoire's daughter, her ain't found.
Willyum (puffing at a new and empty clay pipe). Zure-lie. (Jarge, a trifle jealous of Willyum's gag, pulls out a similar pipe, but smokes it with the bowl upside down to show his independence.) T' Squire's darter (Jarge frowns), her bain't (Jarge wishes he had thought of "bain't")—her bain't found. (There is a dramatic pause, only broken by the prompter.) Her ud be little Rachel's age now, bor?
Jarge (reflectively). Ay, ay. A main queer lass little Rachel du be.Her bain't like one of us.
Willyum. Her do be that fond of zoap and water. (Laughter.)
Jarge (leaving nothing to chance). Happen she might be a real grand lady by birth, bor.
Enter Rachel, beautifully dressed in the sort of costume in which one would go to a fancy-dress ball as a village maiden.
Rachel (in the most expensive accent). Now Uncle George (shaking a finger at him), didn't you promise me you'd go straight home? It would serve you right if I never tied your tie for you again. (She smiles brightly at him.)
Jarge (slapping his thigh in ecstasy). Eh, lass, yer du keep us old 'uns in order. (He bursts into a falsetto chuckle, loses the note, blushes and buries his head in his mug.)
Willyum (rising). Us best be gettin' down along, Jarge, a rackun.
Jarge. Ay, bor, time us chaps was moving. Don't 'e be long, lass.[Exeunt, limping heavily.
Rachel (sitting down on the log). Dear old men! How I love them all in this village! I have known it all my life. How strange it is that I have never had a father or mother. Sometimes I seem to remember a life different to this—a life in fine houses and spacious parks, among beautifully dressed people (which is surprising, seeing that she was only three weeks old at the time; but the audience must be given a hint of the plot), and then it all fades away again. (She looks fixedly into space.)
Enter Hugh Fitzhugh, Squire.
Fitzhugh (standing behind Rachel, but missing her somehow). Did ever man come into stranger inheritance? A wanderer in Central Australia, I hear unexpectedly of my cousin's death through an advertisement in an old copy of a Sunday newspaper. I hasten home—too late to soothe his dying hours; too late indeed to enjoy my good fortune for more than one short day. To-morrow I must give up all to the hospitals, unless by some stroke of Fate this missing girl turns up. (Impatiently.) Pshaw! She is dead. (Suddenly he notices Rachel.) By heaven, a pretty girl in this out-of-the-way village! (He walks round her.) Gad, she is lovely! Hugh, my boy, you are in luck. (He takes off his hat.) Good-evening, my dear!
Rachel (with a start). Good-evening.
Fitzhugh (aside). She is adorable. She can be no common village wench. (Aloud.) Do you live here, my girl?
Rachel. Yes, I have always lived here. (Aside.) How handsome he is.Down, fluttering heart.
Fitzhugh (sitting on the log beside her). And who is the lucky village lad who is privileged to woo such beauty?
Rachel. I have no lover, sir.
Fitzhugh (taking her hand). Can Hodge be so blind?
Rachel (innocently). Are you making love to me?
Fitzhugh. Upon my word I—(He gets up from the log, which is not really comfortable.) What is your name?
Rachel. Rachel. (She rises.)
Fitzhugh. It is the most beautiful name in the world. Rachel, will you be my wife?
Rachel. But we have known each other such a short time!
Fitzhugh (lying bravely). We have known each other for ever.
Rachel. And you are a rich gentleman, while I—
Fitzhugh. A gentleman, I hope, but rich—no. To-morrow I shall be a beggar. No, not a beggar, if I have your love, Rachel.
Rachel (making a lucky shot at his name). Hugh! (They embrace.)
Fitzhugh. Let us plight our troth here. See, I give you my ring!
Rachel. And I give you mine.
[She takes one from the end of a chain which is round her neck, and puts it on his finger. Fitzhugh looks at it and staggers back.
Fitzhugh. Heavens! They are the same ring! (In great excitement.)Child, child, who are you? How came you by the crest of theFitzhughs?
Rachel. Ah, who am I? I never had any parents. When they found me they found that ring on me, and I have kept it ever since!
Fitzhugh. Let me look at you! It must be! The Squire's missing daughter!
[Gaffers Jarge and Willyum, having entered unobserved at the back some time ago, have been putting in a lot of heavy byplay until wanted.
Jarge (at last). Lor' bless 'ee, Willyum, if it bain't Squire a-kissin' our Rachel!
Willyum. Zo it du be. Here du be goings-on! What will t' passon say?
Jarge (struck with an idea). Zay, bor, don't 'ee zee a zort o' loikeness atween t' maid and t' Squire?
Willyum. Jarge, if you bain't right, lad. Happen she do have t' same nose!
[Hearing something, Fitzhugh and Rachel turn round.
Fitzhugh. Ah, my men! I'm your new Squire. Do you know who this is?
Willyum. Why, her du be our Rachel.
Fitzhugh. On the contrary, allow me to introduce you to MissFitzhugh, daughter of the late Squire!
Jarge. Well, this du be a day! To think of our Rachel now!
Fitzhugh. MY Rachel now.
Rachel (who, it is to be hoped, has been amusing herself somehow since her last speech). Your Rachel always!
The scene is the Editor's room in the office of The Lark. Two walls of the room are completely hidden from floor to ceiling by magnificently-bound books: the third wall at the back is hidden by boxes of immensely expensive cigars. The windows, of course, are in the fourth wall, which, however, need not be described, as it is never quite practicable on the stage. The floor of this apartment is chastely covered with rugs shot by the Editor in his travels, or in the Tottenham Court Road; or, in some cases, presented by admiring readers from abroad. The furniture is both elegant and commodious.
William Smith, Editor, comes in. He is superbly dressed in a fur coat and an expensive cigar. There is a blue pencil behind his ear, and a sheaf of what we call in the profession "typewritten manuscripts" under his arm. He sits down at his desk and pulls the telephone towards him.
Smith (at the telephone). Hallo, is that you, Jones? … Yes, it's me. Just come up a moment. (Puts down telephone and begins to open his letters.)
Enter Jones, his favourite sub-editor. He is dressed quite commonly, and is covered with ink. He salutes respectfully as he comes into the room.
Jones. Good-afternoon, chief.
Smith. Good-afternoon. Have a cigar?
Jones. Thank you, chief.
Smith. Have you anything to tell me?
Jones. The circulation is still going up, chief. It was three million and eight last week.
Smith (testily). How often have I told you not to call me "chief," except when there are ladies present? Why can't you do what you're told?
Jones. Sorry, sir, but the fact is there ARE ladies present.
Smith (fingering his moustache). Show them up. Who are they?
Jones. There is only one. She says she's the lady who has been writing our anonymous "Secrets of the Boudoir" series which has made such a sensation.
Smith (in amazement). I thought you told me YOU wrote these.
Jones (simply). I did.
Smith. Then why—
Jones. I mean I did tell you. The truth is, they came in anonymously, and I thought they were more likely to be accepted if I said I had written them. (With great emotion.) Forgive me, chief, but it was for the paper's sake. (In matter-of-fact tones.) There were one or two peculiarities of style I had to alter. She had a way of—
Smith (sternly). How many cheques for them have you accepted for the paper's sake?
Jones. Eight. For a thousand pounds each.
Smith (with tears in his eyes). If your mother were to hear of this—
Jones (sadly). Ah, chief, I have never had a mother.
Smith (slightly put out, but recovering himself quickly). What would your father say, if—
Jones. Alas, I have no relations. I was a foundling.
Smith (nettled). In that case, I shall certainly tell the master of your workhouse. To think that there should be a thief in this office!
Jones (with great pathos). Chief, chief, I am not so vile as that. I have carefully kept all the cheques in an old stocking, and—
Smith (in surprise). Do you wear stockings?
Jones. When I bicycle. And as soon as the contributor comes forward—
Smith (stretching out his hand and grasping that of Jones). My dear boy, forgive me. You have been hasty, perhaps, but zealous. In any case, your honesty is above suspicion. Leave me now. I have much to think of. (Rests his head on his hands. Then, dreamily.) YOU have never seen your father; for thirty yearsIhave not seen my wife. … Ah, Arabella!
Jones. Yes, sir. (Rings bell.)
Smith. She WOULD split her infinitives. … We quarrelled. … She left me. … I have never seen her again.
Jones (excitedly). Did you say she split her infinitives?
Smith. Yes. That was what led to our separation. Why?
Jones. Nothing, only—it's very odd. I wonder—
Enter Boy.
Boy. Did you ring, sir?
Smith. No. But you can show the lady up. (Exit Boy.) You'd better clear out, Jones. I'll explain to her about the money.
Jones. Right you are, sir.
[Exit.
[Smith leans back in his chair and stares in front of him.
Smith (to himself). Arabella!
Enter Boy, followed by a stylishly-dressed lady of middle age.
Boy. Mrs Robinson.
[Exit.
[Mrs Robinson stops short in the middle of the room and stares at the Editor; then staggers and drops on to the sofa.
Smith (in wonder). Arabella!
Mrs Robinson. William!
[They fall into each other's arms.
Arabella. I had begun to almost despair. (Smith winces.) "Almost to despair," I mean, darling.
Smith (with a great effort). No, no, dear. You were right.
Arabella. How sweet of you to think so, William.
Smith. Yes, yes, it's the least I can say. … I have been very lonely without you, dear. … And now, what shall we do? Shall we get married again quietly?
Arabella. Wouldn't that be bigamy?
Smith. I think not, but I will ask the printer's reader. He knows everything. You see, there will be such a lot to explain otherwise.
Arabella. Dear, can you afford to marry?
Smith. Well, my salary as editor is only twenty thousand a year, butI do a little reviewing for other papers.
Arabella. And I have—nothing. How can I come to you without even a trousseau?
Smith. Yes, that's true. … (Suddenly.) By Jove, though, you have got something! You have eight thousand pounds! We owe you that for your articles. (With a return to his professional manner.) Did I tell you how greatly we all appreciated them? (Goes to telephone.) Is that you, Jones? Just come here a moment. (To Arabella.) Jones is my sub-editor; he is keeping your money for you.
Enter Jones.
Jones (producing an old stocking). I've just been round to my rooms to get that money—(sees Arabella)—oh, I beg your pardon.
Smith (waving an introduction). Mrs Smith—my wife. This is our sub-editor, dear—Mr Jones. (Arabella puts her hand to her heart and seems about to faint.) Why, what's the matter?
Arabella (hoarsely). Where did you get that stocking?
Smith (pleasantly). It's one he wears when he goes bicycling.
Jones. No; I misled you this afternoon, chief. This stocking was all the luggage I had when I first entered the Leamington workhouse.
Arabella (throwing herself into his arms). My son! This is your father! William—our boy!
Smith (shaking hands with Jones). How are you. I say, Arabella, then that was one of MY stockings?
Arabella (to her boy). When I saw you on the stairs you seemed to dimly remind me—
Jones. To remind you dimly, mother.
Smith. No, my boy. In future, nothing but split infinitives will appear in our paper. Please remember that.
Jones (with emotion). I will endeavour to always remember it, dad.
John walked eight miles over the cliffs to the nearest town in order to buy tobacco. He came back to the farmhouse with no tobacco and the news that he had met some friends in the town who had invited us to dinner and Bridge the next evening.
"But that's no reason why you should have forgotten the tobacco," I said.
"One can't remember everything. I accepted for both of us. We needn't dress. Put on that nice blue flannel suit of yours—"
"And that nice pair of climbing boots with the nails—"
"Is that all you've got?"
"All I'm going to walk eight miles in on a muddy path."
"Then we shall have to take a bag with us. And we can put in pyjamas and stay the night at an hotel; it will save us walking back in the dark. We don't want to lose you over the cliff."
I took out a cigar.
"This is the last," I said. "If, instead of wandering about and collecting invitations, you had only remembered—Shall we cut it up or smoke half each?"
"Call," said John, bringing out a penny. "Heads it is. You begin."
I struck a match and began.
. . . . .
Next day, after lunch, John brought out his little brown bag.
"It won't be very heavy," he said, "and we can carry it in turns. An hour each."
"I don't think that's quite fair," I said. "After all, it's YOUR bag. If you take it for an hour and a half, I don't mind taking the other half."
"Your shoes are heavier than mine, anyhow."
"My pyjamas weigh less. Such a light blue as they are."
"Ah, but my tooth-brush has lost seven bristles. That makes a difference."
"What I say is, let every man carry his own bag. This is a rotten business, John. I don't wish to be anything but polite, but for a silly ass commend me to the owner of that brown thing."
John took no notice and went on packing.
"I shall buy a collar in the town," he said.
"Better let me do it for you. You would only go getting an invitation to a garden-party from the haberdasher. And that would mean another eight miles with a portmanteau."
"There we are," said John, as he closed the bag, "quite small and light. Now, who'll take the first hour?"
"We'd better toss, if you're quite sure you won't carry it all the way. Tails. Just my luck."
John looked out of the window and then at his watch.
"They say two to three is the hottest hour of the day," he said. "It will be cooler later on. I shall put you in."
I led the way up the cliffs with that wretched bag. I insisted upon that condition anyhow—that the man with the bag should lead the way. I wasn't going to have John dashing off at six miles an hour, and leaving himself only two miles at the end.
"But you can come and talk to me," I said to him after ten minutes of it. "I only meant that I was going to set the pace."
"No, no, I like watching you. You do it so gracefully. This is my man," he explained to some children who were blackberrying. "He is just carrying my bag over the cliffs for me. No, he is not very strong."
"You wait," I growled.
John laughed. "Fifty minutes more," he said. And then after a little silence, "I think the bag-carrying profession is overrated. What made you take it up, my lad? The drink? Ah, just so. Dear, dear, what a lesson to all of us."
"There's a good time coming," I murmured to myself, and changed hands for the eighth time.
"I don't care what people say," said John, argumentatively; "brown and blue DO go together. If you wouldn't mind—"
For the tenth time I rammed the sharp corner of the bag into the back of my knee.
"There, that's what I mean. You see it perfectly like that—the brown against the blue of the flannel. Thank you very much."
I stumbled up a steep little bit of slippery grass, and told myself that in three-quarters of an hour I would get some of my own back again. He little knew how heavy that bag could become.
"They say," said John to the heavens, "that if you have weights in your hands you can jump these little eminences much more easily. I suppose one hand alone doesn't do. What a pity he didn't tell me before—I would have lent him another bag with pleasure."
"Nobody likes blackberries more than I do," said John. "But even I would hesitate to come out here on a hot afternoon and fill a great brown bag with blackberries, and then carry them eight miles home. Besides, it looks rather greedy…. I beg your pardon, my lad, I didn't understand. You are taking them home to your aged mother? Of course, of course. Very commendable. If I had a penny, I would lend it to you. No, I only have a sixpence on me, and I have to give that to the little fellow who is carrying my bag over the cliffs for me…. Yes, I picked him up about a couple of miles back. He has mud all up his trousers, I know."
"Half an hour more," I told myself, and went on doggedly, my right shoulder on fire.
"Dear, dear," he said solicitously, "how lopsided the youth of to-day is getting. Too much lawn-tennis, I suppose. How much better the simply healthy exercises of our forefathers; the weightlifting after lunch, the—"
He was silent for ten minutes, and then broke out rapturously once more.
"What a heavenly day! I AM glad we didn't bring a bag—it would have spoilt it altogether. We can easily borrow some slippers, and it will be jolly walking back by moonlight. Now, if you had had your way—"
"One minute more," I said joyfully; "and oh, my boy, how glad I am we brought a bag. What a splendid idea of yours! By the way, you haven't said much lately. A little tired by the walk?"
"I make it TWO minutes," said John.
"Half a minute now…. There! And may I never carry the confounded thing another yard."
I threw the bag down and fell upon the grass. The bag rolled a yard or two away. Then it rolled another yard, slipped over the edge, and started bouncing down the cliff. Finally it leapt away from the earth altogether, and dropped two hundred feet into the sea.
"MY bag," said John stupidly.
And that did for me altogether.
"I don't care a hang about your bag," I cried. "And I don't care a hang if I've lost my pyjamas and my best shoes and my only razor. And I've been through an hour's torture for nothing, and I don't mind that. But oh!—to think that you aren't going to have YOUR hour—"
"By Jove, neither I am," said John, and he sat down and roared with laughter.