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diff --git a/3490-h/3490-h.htm b/3490-h/3490-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..06d8d33 --- /dev/null +++ b/3490-h/3490-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5719 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + The Admirable Crichton, by J. M. Barrie + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Admirable Crichton, by J. M. Barrie + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Admirable Crichton + +Author: J. M. Barrie + +Release Date: February 28, 2009 [EBook #3490] +Last Updated: October 14, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Franks, Ralph Zimmermann, the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team, and David Widger + + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON + </h1> + <h2> + From The Plays Of J. M. Barrie + </h2> + <h2> + A COMEDY + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By J. M. Barrie + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> ACT I. </a> + </td> + <td> + AT LOAM HOUSE, MAYFAIR + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> ACT II. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE ISLAND + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ACT III. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE HAPPY HOME + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> ACT IV. </a> + </td> + <td> + THE OTHER ISLAND + </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + ACT I. AT LOAM HOUSE, MAYFAIR + </h2> + <p> + A moment before the curtain rises, the Hon. Ernest Woolley drives up to + the door of Loam House in Mayfair. There is a happy smile on his pleasant, + insignificant face, and this presumably means that he is thinking of + himself. He is too busy over nothing, this man about town, to be always + thinking of himself, but, on the other hand, he almost never thinks of any + other person. Probably Ernest’s great moment is when he wakes of a morning + and realises that he really is Ernest, for we must all wish to be that + which is our ideal. We can conceive him springing out of bed + light-heartedly and waiting for his man to do the rest. He is dressed in + excellent taste, with just the little bit more which shows that he is not + without a sense of humour: the dandiacal are often saved by carrying a + smile at the whole thing in their spats, let us say. Ernest left Cambridge + the other day, a member of The Athenaeum (which he would be sorry to have + you confound with a club in London of the same name). He is a bachelor, + but not of arts, no mean epigrammatist (as you shall see), and a favourite + of the ladies. He is almost a celebrity in restaurants, where he dines + frequently, returning to sup; and during this last year he has probably + paid as much in them for the privilege of handing his hat to an attendant + as the rent of a working-man’s flat. He complains brightly that he is hard + up, and that if somebody or other at Westminster does not look out the + country will go to the dogs. He is no fool. He has the shrewdness to float + with the current because it is a labour-saving process, but he has + sufficient pluck to fight, if fight he must (a brief contest, for he would + soon be toppled over). He has a light nature, which would enable him to + bob up cheerily in new conditions and return unaltered to the old ones. + His selfishness is his most endearing quality. If he has his way he will + spend his life like a cat in pushing his betters out of the soft places, + and until he is old he will be fondled in the process. + </p> + <p> + He gives his hat to one footman and his cane to another, and mounts the + great staircase unassisted and undirected. As a nephew of the house he + need show no credentials even to Crichton, who is guarding a door above. + </p> + <p> + It would not be good taste to describe Crichton, who is only a servant; if + to the scandal of all good houses he is to stand out as a figure in the + play, he must do it on his own, as they say in the pantry and the boudoir. + </p> + <p> + We are not going to help him. We have had misgivings ever since we found + his name in the title, and we shall keep him out of his rights as long as + we can. Even though we softened to him he would not be a hero in these + clothes of servitude; and he loves his clothes. How to get him out of + them? It would require a cataclysm. To be an indoor servant at all is to + Crichton a badge of honour; to be a butler at thirty is the realisation of + his proudest ambitions. He is devotedly attached to his master, who, in + his opinion, has but one fault, he is not sufficiently contemptuous of his + inferiors. We are immediately to be introduced to this solitary failing of + a great English peer. + </p> + <p> + This perfect butler, then, opens a door, and ushers Ernest into a certain + room. At the same moment the curtain rises on this room, and the play + begins. + </p> + <p> + It is one of several reception-rooms in Loam House, not the most + magnificent but quite the softest; and of a warm afternoon all that those + who are anybody crave for is the softest. The larger rooms are magnificent + and bare, carpetless, so that it is an accomplishment to keep one’s feet + on them; they are sometimes lent for charitable purposes; they are also + all in use on the night of a dinner-party, when you may find yourself + alone in one, having taken a wrong turning; or alone, save for two others + who are within hailing distance. + </p> + <p> + This room, however, is comparatively small and very soft. There are so + many cushions in it that you wonder why, if you are an outsider and don’t + know that, it needs six cushions to make one fair head comfy. The couches + themselves are cushions as large as beds, and there is an art of sinking + into them and of waiting to be helped out of them. There are several + famous paintings on the walls, of which you may say ‘Jolly thing that,’ + without losing caste as knowing too much; and in cases there are glorious + miniatures, but the daughters of the house cannot tell you of whom; ‘there + is a catalogue somewhere.’ There are a thousand or so of roses in basins, + several library novels, and a row of weekly illustrated newspapers lying + against each other like fallen soldiers. If any one disturbs this row + Crichton seems to know of it from afar and appears noiselessly and + replaces the wanderer. One thing unexpected in such a room is a great + array of tea things. Ernest spots them with a twinkle, and has his epigram + at once unsheathed. He dallies, however, before delivering the thrust. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. I perceive, from the tea cups, Crichton, that the great function + is to take place here. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (with a respectful sigh). Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (chuckling heartlessly). The servants’ hall coming up to have tea + in the drawing-room! (With terrible sarcasm.) No wonder you look happy, + Crichton. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (under the knife). No, sir. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Do you know, Crichton, I think that with an effort you might look + even happier. (CRICHTON smiles wanly.) You don’t approve of his lordship’s + compelling his servants to be his equals—once a month? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. It is not for me, sir, to disapprove of his lordship’s radical + views. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Certainly not. And, after all, it is only once a month that he is + affable to you. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. On all other days of the month, sir, his lordship’s treatment of + us is everything that could be desired. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. (This is the epigram.) Tea cups! Life, Crichton, is like a cup of + tea; the more heartily we drink, the sooner we reach the dregs. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (obediently). Thank you, sir. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (becoming confidential, as we do when we have need of an ally). + Crichton, in case I should be asked to say a few words to the servants, I + have strung together a little speech. (His hand strays to his pocket.) I + was wondering where I should stand. + </p> + <p> + (He tries various places and postures, and comes to rest leaning over a + high chair, whence, in dumb show, he addresses a gathering. CRICHTON, with + the best intentions, gives him a footstool to stand on, and departs, + happily unconscious that ERNEST in some dudgeon has kicked the footstool + across the room.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (addressing an imaginary audience, and desirous of startling them + at once). Suppose you were all little fishes at the bottom of the sea— + </p> + <p> + (He is not quite satisfied with his position, though sure that the fault + must lie with the chair for being too high, not with him for being too + short. CRICHTON’S suggestion was not perhaps a bad one after all. He lifts + the stool, but hastily conceals it behind him on the entrance of the + LADIES CATHERINE and AGATHA, two daughters of the house. CATHERINE is + twenty, and AGATHA two years younger. They are very fashionable young + women indeed, who might wake up for a dance, but they are very lazy, + CATHERINE being two years lazier than AGATHA.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (uneasily jocular, because he is concealing the footstool). And how + are my little friends to-day? + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (contriving to reach a settee). Don’t be silly, Ernest. If you want + to know how we are, we are dead. Even to think of entertaining the + servants is so exhausting. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (subsiding nearer the door). Besides which, we have had to + decide what frocks to take with us on the yacht, and that is such a mental + strain. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. You poor over-worked things. (Evidently AGATHA is his favourite, + for he helps her to put her feet on the settee, while CATHERINE has to + dispose of her own feet.) Rest your weary limbs. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (perhaps in revenge). But why have you a footstool in your hand? + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Yes? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Why? (Brilliantly; but to be sure he has had time to think it + out.) You see, as the servants are to be the guests I must be butler. I + was practising. This is a tray, observe. + </p> + <p> + (Holding the footstool as a tray, he minces across the room like an + accomplished footman. The gods favour him, for just here LADY MARY enters, + and he holds out the footstool to her.) + </p> + <p> + Tea, my lady? + </p> + <p> + (LADY MARY is a beautiful creature of twenty-two, and is of a natural + hauteur which is at once the fury and the envy of her sisters. If she + chooses she can make you seem so insignificant that you feel you might be + swept away with the crumb-brush. She seldom chooses, because of the + trouble of preening herself as she does it; she is usually content to show + that you merely tire her eyes. She often seems to be about to go to sleep + in the middle of a remark: there is quite a long and anxious pause, and + then she continues, like a clock that hesitates, bored in the middle of + its strike.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (arching her brows). It is only you, Ernest; I thought there was + some one here (and she also bestows herself on cushions). + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (a little piqued, and deserting the footstool). Had a very tiring + day also, Mary? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (yawning). Dreadfully. Been trying on engagement-rings all the + morning. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (who is as fond of gossip as the oldest club member). What’s that? + (To AGATHA.) Is it Brocklehurst? + </p> + <p> + (The energetic AGATHA nods.) + </p> + <p> + You have given your warm young heart to Brocky? + </p> + <p> + (LADY MARY is impervious to his humour, but he continues bravely.) + </p> + <p> + I don’t wish to fatigue you, Mary, by insisting on a verbal answer, but + if, without straining yourself, you can signify Yes or No, won’t you make + the effort? + </p> + <p> + (She indolently flashes a ring on her most important finger, and he starts + back melodramatically.) + </p> + <p> + The ring! Then I am too late, too late! (Fixing LADY MARY sternly, like a + prosecuting counsel.) May I ask, Mary, does Brocky know? Of course, it was + that terrible mother of his who pulled this through. Mother does + everything for Brocky. Still, in the eyes of the law you will be, not her + wife, but his, and, therefore, I hold that Brocky ought to be informed. + Now— + </p> + <p> + (He discovers that their languorous eyes have closed.) + </p> + <p> + If you girls are shamming sleep in the expectation that I shall awaken you + in the manner beloved of ladies, abandon all such hopes. + </p> + <p> + (CATHERINE and AGATHA look up without speaking.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (speaking without looking up). You impertinent boy. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (eagerly plucking another epigram from his quiver). I knew that was + it, though I don’t know everything. Agatha, I’m not young enough to know + everything. + </p> + <p> + (He looks hopefully from one to another, but though they try to grasp + this, his brilliance baffles them.) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (his secret admirer). Young enough? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (encouragingly). Don’t you see? I’m not young enough to know + everything. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. I’m sure it’s awfully clever, but it’s so puzzling. + </p> + <p> + (Here CRICHTON ushers in an athletic, pleasant-faced young clergyman, MR. + TREHERNE, who greets the company.) + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. Ernest, say it to Mr. Treherne. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Look here, Treherne, I’m not young enough to know everything. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. How do you mean, Ernest? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. (a little nettled). I mean what I say. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Say it again; say it more slowly. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. I’m—not—young—enough—to—know—everything. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. I see. What you really mean, my boy, is that you are not old + enough to know everything. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. No, I don’t. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. I assure you that’s it. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Of course it is. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. Yes, Ernest, that’s it. + </p> + <p> + (ERNEST, in desperation, appeals to CRICHTON.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. I am not young enough, Crichton, to know everything. + </p> + <p> + (It is an anxious moment, but a smile is at length extorted from CRICHTON + as with a corkscrew.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Thank you, sir. (He goes.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (relieved). Ah, if you had that fellow’s head, Treherne, you would + find something better to do with it than play cricket. I hear you bowl + with your head. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE (with proper humility). I’m afraid cricket is all I’m good for, + Ernest. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (who thinks he has a heavenly nose). Indeed, it isn’t. You are + sure to get on, Mr. Treherne. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Thank you, Lady Catherine. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. But it was the bishop who told me so. He said a clergyman who + breaks both ways is sure to get on in England. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. I’m jolly glad. + </p> + <p> + (The master of the house comes in, accompanied by LORD BROCKLEHURST. The + EARL OF LOAM is a widower, a philanthropist, and a peer of advanced ideas. + As a widower he is at least able to interfere in the domestic concerns of + his house—to rummage in the drawers, so to speak, for which he has + felt an itching all his blameless life; his philanthropy has opened quite + a number of other drawers to him; and his advanced ideas have blown out + his figure. He takes in all the weightiest monthly reviews, and prefers + those that are uncut, because he perhaps never looks better than when + cutting them; but he does not read them, and save for the cutting it would + suit him as well merely to take in the covers. He writes letters to the + papers, which are printed in a type to scale with himself, and he is very + jealous of those other correspondents who get his type. Let laws and + learning, art and commerce die, but leave the big type to an intellectual + aristocracy. He is really the reformed House of Lords which will come some + day. + </p> + <p> + Young LORD BROCKLEHURST is nothing save for his rank. You could pick him + up by the handful any day in Piccadilly or Holborn, buying socks—or + selling them.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (expansively). You are here, Ernest. Feeling fit for the voyage, + Treherne? + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Looking forward to it enormously. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. That’s right. (He chases his children about as if they were + chickens.) Now then, Mary, up and doing, up and doing. Time we had the + servants in. They enjoy it so much. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. They hate it. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Mary, to your duties. (And he points severely to the + tea-table.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (twinkling). Congratulations, Brocky. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (who detests humour). Thanks. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Mother pleased? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (with dignity). Mother is very pleased. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. That’s good. Do you go on the yacht with us? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Sorry I can’t. And look here, Ernest, I will not be + called Brocky. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Mother don’t like it? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. She does not. (He leaves ERNEST, who forgives him and + begins to think about his speech. CRICHTON enters.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (speaking as one man to another). We are quite ready, Crichton. + (CRICHTON is distressed.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (sarcastically). How Crichton enjoys it! + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (frowning). He is the only one who doesn’t; pitiful creature. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (shuddering under his lord’s displeasure). I can’t help being a + Conservative, my lord. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Be a man, Crichton. You are the same flesh and blood as myself. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (in pain). Oh, my lord! + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (sharply). Show them in; and, by the way, they were not all here + last time. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. All, my lord, except the merest trifles. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. It must be every one. (Lowering.) And remember this, Crichton, + for the time being you are my equal. (Testily.) I shall soon show you + whether you are not my equal. Do as you are told. + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON departs to obey, and his lordship is now a general. He has no + pity for his daughters, and uses a terrible threat.) + </p> + <p> + And girls, remember, no condescension. The first who condescends recites. + (This sends them skurrying to their labours.) + </p> + <p> + By the way, Brocklehurst, can you do anything? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. How do you mean? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Can you do anything—with a penny or a handkerchief, make + them disappear, for instance? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Good heavens, no. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. It’s a pity. Every one in our position ought to be able to do + something. Ernest, I shall probably ask you to say a few words; something + bright and sparkling. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. But, my dear uncle, I have prepared nothing. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Anything impromptu will do. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Oh—well—if anything strikes me on the spur of the + moment. + </p> + <p> + (He unostentatiously gets the footstool into position behind the chair. + CRICHTON reappears to announce the guests, of whom the first is the + housekeeper.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (reluctantly). Mrs. Perkins. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (shaking hands). Very delighted, Mrs. Perkins. Mary, our friend, + Mrs. Perkins. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. How do you do, Mrs. Perkins? Won’t you sit here? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (threateningly). Agatha! + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (hastily). How do you do? Won’t you sit down? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (introducing). Lord Brocklehurst—my valued friend, Mrs. + Perkins. + </p> + <p> + (LORD BROCKLEHURST bows and escapes. He has to fall back on ERNEST.) + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. For heaven’s sake, Ernest, don’t leave me for a moment; + this sort of thing is utterly opposed to all my principles. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (airily). You stick to me, Brocky, and I’ll pull you through. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Monsieur Fleury. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. The chef. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (shaking hands with the chef). Very charmed to see you, Monsieur + Fleury. + </p> + <p> + FLEURY. Thank you very much. + </p> + <p> + (FLEURY bows to AGATHA, who is not effusive.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (warningly). Agatha—recitation! + </p> + <p> + (She tosses her head, but immediately finds a seat and tea for M. FLEURY. + TREHERNE and ERNEST move about, making themselves amiable. LADY MARY is + presiding at the tea-tray.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Mr. Rolleston. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (shaking hands with his valet). How do you do, Rolleston? + </p> + <p> + (CATHERINE looks after the wants of ROLLESTON.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Mr. Tompsett. + </p> + <p> + (TOMPSETT, the coachman, is received with honours, from which he shrinks.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Miss Fisher. + </p> + <p> + (This superb creature is no less than LADY MARY’S maid, and even LORD LOAM + is a little nervous.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. This is a pleasure, Miss Fisher. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (unabashed). If I might venture, Miss Fisher (and he takes her unto + himself). + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Miss Simmons. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (to CATHERINE’S maid). You are always welcome, Miss Simmons. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (perhaps to kindle jealousy in Miss FISHER). At last we meet. Won’t + you sit down? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Mademoiselle Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Charmed to see you, Mademoiselle Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + (A place is found for AGATHA’S maid, and the scene is now an animated one; + but still our host thinks his girls are not sufficiently sociable. He + frowns on LADY MARY.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (in alarm). Mr. Treherne, this is Fisher, my maid. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (sharply). Your what, Mary? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. My friend. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Thomas. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. How do you do, Thomas? + </p> + <p> + (The first footman gives him a reluctant hand.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. John. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. How do you do, John? + </p> + <p> + (ERNEST signs to LORD BROCKLEHURST, who hastens to him.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (introducing). Brocklehurst, this is John. I think you have already + met on the door-step. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Jane. + </p> + <p> + (She comes, wrapping her hands miserably in her apron.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (doggedly). Give me your hand, Jane. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Gladys. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. How do you do, Gladys. You know my uncle? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Your hand, Gladys. + </p> + <p> + (He bestows her on AGATHA.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Tweeny. + </p> + <p> + (She is a very humble and frightened kitchenmaid, of whom we are to see + more.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. So happy to see you. + </p> + <p> + FISHER. John, I saw you talking to Lord Brocklehurst just now; introduce + me. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (at the same moment to ERNEST). That’s an uncommon + pretty girl; if I must feed one of them, Ernest, that’s the one. + </p> + <p> + (But ERNEST tries to part him and FISHER as they are about to shake + hands.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. No you don’t, it won’t do, Brocky. (To Miss FISHER.) You are too + pretty, my dear. Mother wouldn’t like it. (Discovering TWEENY.) Here’s + something safer. Charming girl, Brocky, dying to know you; let me + introduce you. Tweeny, Lord Brocklehurst—Lord Brocklehurst, Tweeny. + </p> + <p> + (BROCKLEHURST accepts his fate; but he still has an eye for FISHER, and + something may come of this.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (severely). They are not all here, Crichton. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (with a sigh). Odds and ends. + </p> + <p> + (A STABLE-BOY and a PAGE are shown in, and for a moment no daughter of the + house advances to them.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (with a roving eye on his children). Which is to recite? + </p> + <p> + (The last of the company are, so to say, embraced.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (to TOMPSETT, as they partake of tea together). And how are all + at home? + </p> + <p> + TOMPSETT. Fairish, my lord, if ‘tis the horses you are inquiring for? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. No, no, the family. How’s the baby? + </p> + <p> + TOMPSETT. Blooming, your lordship. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. A very fine boy. I remember saying so when I saw him; nice + little fellow. + </p> + <p> + TOMPSETT (not quite knowing whether to let it pass). Beg pardon, my lord, + it’s a girl. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. A girl? Aha! ha! ha! exactly what I said. I distinctly remember + saying, If it’s spared it will be a girl. + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON now comes down.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Very delighted to see you, Crichton. + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON has to shake hands.) + </p> + <p> + Mary, you know Mr. Crichton? + </p> + <p> + (He wanders off in search of other prey.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Milk and sugar, Crichton? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I’m ashamed to be seen talking to you, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. To such a perfect servant as you all this must be most + distasteful. (CRICHTON is too respectful to answer.) Oh, please do speak, + or I shall have to recite. You do hate it, don’t you? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. It pains me, your ladyship. It disturbs the etiquette of the + servants’ hall. After last month’s meeting the pageboy, in a burst of + equality, called me Crichton. He was dismissed. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I wonder—I really do—how you can remain with us. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I should have felt compelled to give notice, my lady, if the + master had not had a seat in the Upper House. I cling to that. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Do go on speaking. Tell me, what did Mr. Ernest mean by saying + he was not young enough to know everything? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I have no idea, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. But you laughed. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. My lady, he is the second son of a peer. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Very proper sentiments. You are a good soul, Crichton. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (desperately to TWEENY). And now tell me, have you been + to the Opera? What sort of weather have you been having in the kitchen? + (TWEENY gurgles.) For Heaven’s sake, woman, be articulate. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (still talking to LADY MARY). No, my lady; his lordship may + compel us to be equal upstairs, but there will never be equality in the + servants’ hall. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (overhearing this). What’s that? No equality? Can’t you see, + Crichton, that our divisions into classes are artificial, that if we were + to return to nature, which is the aspiration of my life, all would be + equal? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. If I may make so bold as to contradict your lordship— + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (with an effort). Go on. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. The divisions into classes, my lord, are not artificial. They + are the natural outcome of a civilised society. (To LADY MARY.) There must + always be a master and servants in all civilised communities, my lady, for + it is natural, and whatever is natural is right. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (wincing). It is very unnatural for me to stand here and allow + you to talk such nonsense. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (eagerly). Yes, my lord, it is. That is what I have been striving + to point out to your lordship. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (to CATHERINE). What is the matter with Fisher? She is looking + daggers. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. The tedious creature; some question of etiquette, I suppose. + </p> + <p> + (She sails across to FISHER.) + </p> + <p> + How are you, Fisher? + </p> + <p> + FISHER (with a toss of her head). I am nothing, my lady, I am nothing at + all. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Oh dear, who says so? + </p> + <p> + FISHER (affronted). His lordship has asked that kitchen wench to have a + second cup of tea. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. But why not? + </p> + <p> + FISHER. If it pleases his lordship to offer it to her before offering it + to me— + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. So that is it. Do you want another cup of tea, Fisher? + </p> + <p> + FISHER. No, my lady—but my position—I should have been asked + first. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Oh dear. + </p> + <p> + (All this has taken some time, and by now the feeble appetites of the + uncomfortable guests have been satiated. But they know there is still + another ordeal to face—his lordship’s monthly speech. Every one + awaits it with misgiving—the servants lest they should applaud, as + last time, in the wrong place, and the daughters because he may be + personal about them, as the time before. ERNEST is annoyed that there + should be this speech at all when there is such a much better one coming, + and BROCKLEHURST foresees the degradation of the peerage. All are thinking + of themselves alone save CRICHTON, who knows his master’s weakness, and + fears he may stick in the middle. LORD LOAM, however, advances cheerfully + to his doom. He sees ERNEST’S stool, and artfully stands on it, to his + nephew’s natural indignation. The three ladies knit their lips, the + servants look down their noses, and the address begins.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. My friends, I am glad to see you all looking so happy. It used + to be predicted by the scoffer that these meetings would prove distasteful + to you. Are they distasteful? I hear you laughing at the question. + </p> + <p> + (He has not heard them, but he hears them now, the watchful CRICHTON + giving them a lead.) + </p> + <p> + No harm in saying that among us to-day is one who was formerly hostile to + the movement, but who to-day has been won over. I refer to Lord + Brocklehurst, who, I am sure, will presently say to me that if the + charming lady now by his side has derived as much pleasure from his + company as he has derived from hers, he will be more than satisfied. + </p> + <p> + (All look at TWEENY, who trembles.) + </p> + <p> + For the time being the artificial and unnatural—I say unnatural + (glaring at CRICHTON, who bows slightly)—barriers of society are + swept away. Would that they could be swept away for ever. + </p> + <p> + (The PAGEBOY cheers, and has the one moment of prominence in his life. He + grows up, marries and has children, but is never really heard of again.) + </p> + <p> + But that is entirely and utterly out of the question. And now for a few + months we are to be separated. As you know, my daughters and Mr. Ernest + and Mr. Treherne are to accompany me on my yacht, on a voyage to distant + parts of the earth. In less than forty-eight hours we shall be under + weigh. + </p> + <p> + (But for CRICHTON’S eye the reckless PAGEBOY would repeat his success.) + </p> + <p> + Do not think our life on the yacht is to be one long idle holiday. My + views on the excessive luxury of the day are well known, and what I preach + I am resolved to practise. I have therefore decided that my daughters, + instead of having one maid each as at present, shall on this voyage have + but one maid between them. + </p> + <p> + (Three maids rise; also three mistresses.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. My lord! + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. My mind is made up. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. I cordially agree. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. And now, my friends, I should like to think that there is some + piece of advice I might give you, some thought, some noble saying over + which you might ponder in my absence. In this connection I remember a + proverb, which has had a great effect on my own life. I first heard it + many years ago. I have never forgotten it. It constantly cheers and guides + me. That proverb is—that proverb was—the proverb I speak of— + </p> + <p> + (He grows pale and taps his forehead.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Oh dear, I believe he has forgotten it. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (desperately). The proverb—that proverb to which I refer— + </p> + <p> + (Alas, it has gone. The distress is general. He has not even the sense to + sit down. He gropes for the proverb in the air. They try applause, but it + is no help.) + </p> + <p> + I have it now—(not he). + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (with confidence). Crichton. + </p> + <p> + (He does not fail her. As quietly as if he were in goloshes, mind as well + as feet, he dismisses the domestics; they go according to precedence as + they entered, yet, in a moment, they are gone. Then he signs to MR. + TREHERNE, and they conduct LORD LOAM with dignity from the room. His hands + are still catching flies; he still mutters, ‘The proverb—that + proverb’; but he continues, owing to CRICHTON’S skilful treatment, to look + every inch a peer. The ladies have now an opportunity to air their + indignation.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. One maid among three grown women! + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Mary, I think I had better go. That dreadful + kitchenmaid— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I can’t blame you, George. + </p> + <p> + (He salutes her.) + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Your father’s views are shocking to me, and I am glad I + am not to be one of the party on the yacht. My respect for myself, Mary, + my natural anxiety as to what mother will say. I shall see you, darling, + before you sail. + </p> + <p> + (He bows to the others and goes.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Selfish brute, only thinking of himself. What about my speech? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. One maid among three of us. What’s to be done? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Pooh! You must do for yourselves, that’s all. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Do for ourselves. How can we know where our things are kept? + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Are you aware that dresses button up the back? + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. How are we to get into our shoes and be prepared for the + carriage? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Who is to put us to bed, and who is to get us up, and how shall + we ever know it’s morning if there is no one to pull up the blinds? + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON crosses on his way out.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. How is his lordship now? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. A little easier, sir. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Crichton, send Fisher to me. + </p> + <p> + (He goes.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. I have no pity for you girls, I— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Ernest, go away, and don’t insult the broken-hearted. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. And uncommon glad I am to go. Ta-ta, all of you. He asked me to + say a few words. I came here to say a few words, and I’m not at all sure + that I couldn’t bring an action against him. + </p> + <p> + (He departs, feeling that he has left a dart behind him. The girls are + alone with their tragic thoughts.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (becomes a mother to the younger ones at last). My poor sisters, + come here. (They go to her doubtfully.) We must make this draw us closer + together. I shall do my best to help you in every way. Just now I cannot + think of myself at all. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. But how unlike you, Mary. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. It is my duty to protect my sisters. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. I never knew her so sweet before, Agatha. (Cautiously.) What do + you propose to do, Mary? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I propose when we are on the yacht to lend Fisher to you when I + don’t need her myself. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Fisher? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (who has the most character of the three). Of course, as the + eldest, I have decided that it is my maid we shall take with us. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (speaking also for AGATHA). Mary, you toad. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Nothing on earth would induce Fisher to lift her hand for either + me or Catherine. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I was afraid of it, Agatha. That is why I am so sorry for you. + </p> + <p> + (The further exchange of pleasantries is interrupted by the arrival of + FISHER.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Fisher, you heard what his lordship said? + </p> + <p> + FISHER. Yes, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (coldly, though the others would have tried blandishment). You + have given me some satisfaction of late, Fisher, and to mark my approval I + have decided that you shall be the maid who accompanies us. + </p> + <p> + FISHER (acidly). I thank you, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. That is all; you may go. + </p> + <p> + FISHER (rapping it out). If you please, my lady, I wish to give notice. + </p> + <p> + (CATHERINE and AGATHA gleam, but LADY MARY is of sterner stuff.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (taking up a book). Oh, certainly—you may go. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. But why, Fisher? + </p> + <p> + FISHER. I could not undertake, my lady, to wait upon three. We don’t do + it. (In an indignant outburst to LADY MARY.) Oh, my lady, to think that + this affront— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (looking up). I thought I told you to go, Fisher. + </p> + <p> + (FISHER stands for a moment irresolute; then goes. As soon as she has gone + LADY MARY puts down her book and weeps. She is a pretty woman, but this is + the only pretty thing we have seen her do yet.) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (succinctly). Serves you right. + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON comes.) + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. It will be Simmons after all. Send Simmons to me. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (after hesitating). My lady, might I venture to speak? + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. What is it? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I happen to know, your ladyship, that Simmons desires to give + notice for the same reason as Fisher. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. Oh! + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (triumphant). Then, Catherine, we take Jeanne. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. And Jeanne also, my lady. + </p> + <p> + (LADY MARY is reading, indifferent though the heavens fall, but her + sisters are not ashamed to show their despair to CRICHTON.) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. We can’t blame them. Could any maid who respected herself be got + to wait upon three? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (with languid interest). I suppose there are such persons, + Crichton? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (guardedly). I have heard, my lady, that there are such. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (a little desperate). Crichton, what’s to be done? We sail in + two days; could one be discovered in the time? + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (frankly a supplicant). Surely you can think of some one? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (after hesitating). There is in this establishment, your + ladyship, a young woman— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Yes? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. A young woman, on whom I have for some time cast an eye. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (eagerly). Do you mean as a possible lady’s-maid? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I had thought of her, my lady, in another connection. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Ah! + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. But I believe she is quite the young person you require. Perhaps + if you could see her, my lady— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I shall certainly see her. Bring her to me. (He goes.) You two + needn’t wait. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. Needn’t we? We see your little game, Mary. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. We shall certainly remain and have our two-thirds of her. + </p> + <p> + (They sit there doggedly until CRICHTON returns with TWEENY, who looks + scared.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. This, my lady, is the young person. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (frankly). Oh dear! + </p> + <p> + (It is evident that all three consider her quite unsuitable.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Come here, girl. Don’t be afraid. + </p> + <p> + (TWEENY looks imploringly at her idol.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Her appearance, my lady, is homely, and her manners, as you may + have observed, deplorable, but she has a heart of gold. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. What is your position downstairs? + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (bobbing). I’m a tweeny, your ladyship. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. A what? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. A tweeny; that is to say, my lady, she is not at present, + strictly speaking, anything; a between maid; she helps the vegetable maid. + It is she, my lady, who conveys the dishes from the one end of the kitchen + table, where they are placed by the cook, to the other end, where they + enter into the charge of Thomas and John. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I see. And you and Crichton are—ah—keeping company? + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON draws himself up.) + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (aghast). A butler don’t keep company, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (indifferently). Does he not? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. No, your ladyship, we butlers may—(he makes a gesture with + his arms)—but we do not keep company. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. I know what it is; you are engaged? + </p> + <p> + (TWEENY looks longingly at CRICHTON.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Certainly not, my lady. The utmost I can say at present is that + I have cast a favourable eye. + </p> + <p> + (Even this is much to TWEENY.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. As you choose. But I am afraid, Crichton, she will not suit us. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. My lady, beneath this simple exterior are concealed a very sweet + nature and rare womanly gifts. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Unfortunately, that is not what we want. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. And it is she, my lady, who dresses the hair of the + ladies’-maids for our evening meals. + </p> + <p> + (The ladies are interested at last.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. She dresses Fisher’s hair? + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. Yes, my lady, and I does them up when they goes to parties. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (pained, but not scolding). Does! + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. Doos. And it’s me what alters your gowns to fit them. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. What alters! + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. Which alters. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Mary? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I shall certainly have her. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. We shall certainly have her. Tweeny, we have decided to make a + lady’s-maid of you. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. Oh lawks! + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. We are doing this for you so that your position socially may be + more nearly akin to that of Crichton. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (gravely). It will undoubtedly increase the young person’s + chances. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Then if I get a good character for you from Mrs. Perkins, she + will make the necessary arrangements. + </p> + <p> + (She resumes reading.) + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (elated). My lady! + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. By the way, I hope you are a good sailor. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (startled). You don’t mean, my lady, I’m to go on the ship? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Certainly. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. But—(To CRICHTON.) You ain’t going, sir? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. No. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (firm at last). Then neither ain’t I. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. YOU must. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. Leave him! Not me. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Girl, don’t be silly. Crichton will be—considered in your + wages. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. I ain’t going. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I feared this, my lady. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. Nothing’ll budge me. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Leave the room. + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON shows TWEENY out with marked politeness.) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Crichton, I think you might have shown more displeasure with her. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (contrite). I was touched, my lady. I see, my lady, that to part + from her would be a wrench to me, though I could not well say so in her + presence, not having yet decided how far I shall go with her. + </p> + <p> + (He is about to go when LORD LOAM returns, fuming.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. The ingrate! The smug! The fop! + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. What is it now, father? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. That man of mine, Rolleston, refuses to accompany us because + you are to have but one maid. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Hurrah! + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (in better taste). Darling father, rather than you should lose + Rolleston, we will consent to take all the three of them. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Pooh, nonsense! Crichton, find me a valet who can do without + three maids. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Yes, my lord. (Troubled.) In the time—the more suitable + the party, my lord, the less willing will he be to come without the—the + usual perquisites. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Any one will do. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (shocked). My lord! + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. The ingrate! The puppy! + </p> + <p> + (AGATHA has an idea, and whispers to LADY MARY.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I ask a favour of a servant?—never! + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Then I will. Crichton, would it not be very distressing to you to + let his lordship go, attended by a valet who might prove unworthy? It is + only for three months; don’t you think that you—you yourself—you— + </p> + <p> + (As CRICHTON sees what she wants he pulls himself up with noble, offended + dignity, and she is appalled.) + </p> + <p> + I beg your pardon. + </p> + <p> + (He bows stiffly.) + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (to CRICHTON). But think of the joy to Tweeny. + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON is moved, but he shakes his head.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (so much the cleverest). Crichton, do you think it safe to let + the master you love go so far away without you while he has these + dangerous views about equality? + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON is profoundly stirred. After a struggle he goes to his master, + who has been pacing the room.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. My lord, I have found a man. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Already? Who is he? + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON presents himself with a gesture.) + </p> + <p> + Yourself? + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. Father, how good of him. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (pleased, but thinking it a small thing). Uncommon good. Thank + you, Crichton. This helps me nicely out of a hole; and how it will annoy + Rolleston! Come with me, and we shall tell him. Not that I think you have + lowered yourself in any way. Come along. + </p> + <p> + (He goes, and CRICHTON is to follow him, but is stopped by AGATHA + impulsively offering him her hand.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (who is much shaken). My lady—a valet’s hand! + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. I had no idea you would feel it so deeply; why did you do it? + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON is too respectful to reply.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (regarding him). Crichton, I am curious. I insist upon an + answer. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. My lady, I am the son of a butler and a lady’s-maid—perhaps + the happiest of all combinations, and to me the most beautiful thing in + the world is a haughty, aristocratic English house, with every one kept in + his place. Though I were equal to your ladyship, where would be the + pleasure to me? It would be counterbalanced by the pain of feeling that + Thomas and John were equal to me. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. But father says if we were to return to nature— + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. If we did, my lady, the first thing we should do would be to + elect a head. Circumstances might alter cases; the same person might not + be master; the same persons might not be servants. I can’t say as to that, + nor should we have the deciding of it. Nature would decide for us. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. You seem to have thought it all out carefully, Crichton. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Yes, my lady. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. And you have done this for us, Crichton, because you thought + that—that father needed to be kept in his place? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I should prefer you to say, my lady, that I have done it for the + house. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Thank you, Crichton. Mary, be nicer to him. (But LADY MARY has + begun to read again.) If there was any way in which we could show our + gratitude. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. If I might venture, my lady, would you kindly show it by + becoming more like Lady Mary. That disdain is what we like from our + superiors. Even so do we, the upper servants, disdain the lower servants, + while they take it out of the odds and ends. + </p> + <p> + (He goes, and they bury themselves in cushions.) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Oh dear, what a tiring day. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. I feel dead. Tuck in your feet, you selfish thing. + </p> + <p> + (LADY MARY is lying reading on another couch.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I wonder what he meant by circumstances might alter cases. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (yawning). Don’t talk, Mary, I was nearly asleep. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I wonder what he meant by the same person might not be master, + and the same persons might not be servants. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. Do be quiet, Mary, and leave it to nature; he said nature would + decide. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I wonder— + </p> + <p> + (But she does not wonder very much. She would wonder more if she knew what + was coming. Her book slips unregarded to the floor. The ladies are at rest + until it is time to dress.) + </p> + <p> + End of Act I. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT II. THE ISLAND + </h2> + <p> + Two months have elapsed, and the scene is a desert island in the Pacific, + on which our adventurers have been wrecked. + </p> + <p> + The curtain rises on a sea of bamboo, which shuts out all view save the + foliage of palm trees and some gaunt rocks. Occasionally Crichton and + Treherne come momentarily into sight, hacking and hewing the bamboo, + through which they are making a clearing between the ladies and the shore; + and by and by, owing to their efforts, we shall have an unrestricted + outlook on to a sullen sea that is at present hidden. Then we shall also + be able to note a mast standing out of the water—all that is left, + saving floating wreckage, of the ill-fated yacht the Bluebell. The + beginnings of a hut will also be seen, with Crichton driving its walls + into the ground or astride its roof of saplings, for at present he is + doing more than one thing at a time. In a red shirt, with the ends of his + sailor’s breeches thrust into wading-boots, he looks a man for the moment; + we suddenly remember some one’s saying—perhaps it was ourselves—that + a cataclysm would be needed to get him out of his servant’s clothes, and + apparently it has been forthcoming. It is no longer beneath our dignity to + cast an inquiring eye on his appearance. His features are not + distinguished, but he has a strong jaw and green eyes, in which a yellow + light burns that we have not seen before. His dark hair, hitherto so + decorously sleek, has been ruffled this way and that by wind and weather, + as if they were part of the cataclysm and wanted to help his chance. His + muscles must be soft and flabby still, but though they shriek aloud to him + to desist, he rains lusty blows with his axe, like one who has come upon + the open for the first time in his life, and likes it. He is as yet far + from being an expert woodsman—mark the blood on his hands at places + where he has hit them instead of the tree; but note also that he does not + waste time in bandaging them—he rubs them in the earth and goes on. + His face is still of the discreet pallor that befits a butler, and he + carries the smaller logs as if they were a salver; not in a day or a month + will he shake off the badge of servitude, but without knowing it he has + begun. + </p> + <p> + But for the hatchets at work, and an occasional something horrible falling + from a tree into the ladies’ laps, they hear nothing save the mournful + surf breaking on a coral shore. + </p> + <p> + They sit or recline huddled together against a rock, and they are farther + from home, in every sense of the word, than ever before. Thirty-six hours + ago, they were given three minutes in which to dress, without a maid, and + reach the boats, and they have not made the best of that valuable time. + None of them has boots, and had they known this prickly island they would + have thought first of boots. They have a sufficiency of garments, but some + of them were gifts dropped into the boat—Lady Mary’s tarpaulin coat + and hat, for instance, and Catherine’s blue jersey and red cap, which + certify that the two ladies were lately before the mast. Agatha is too gay + in Ernest’s dressing-gown, and clutches it to her person with both hands + as if afraid that it may be claimed by its rightful owner. There are two + pairs of bath slippers between the three of them, and their hair cries + aloud and in vain for hairpins. + </p> + <p> + By their side, on an inverted bucket, sits Ernest, clothed neatly in the + garments of day and night, but, alas, bare-footed. He is the only cheerful + member of this company of four, but his brightness is due less to a manly + desire to succour the helpless than to his having been lately in the + throes of composition, and to his modest satisfaction with the result. He + reads to the ladies, and they listen, each with one scared eye to the + things that fall from trees. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (who has written on the fly-leaf of the only book saved from the + wreck). This is what I have written. ‘Wrecked, wrecked, wrecked! on an + island in the Tropics, the following: the Hon. Ernest Woolley, the Rev. + John Treherne, the Ladies Mary, Catherine, and Agatha Lasenby, with two + servants. We are the sole survivors of Lord Loam’s steam yacht Bluebell, + which encountered a fearful gale in these seas, and soon became a total + wreck. The crew behaved gallantly, putting us all into the first boat. + What became of them I cannot tell, but we, after dreadful sufferings, and + insufficiently clad, in whatever garments we could lay hold of in the + dark’— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Please don’t describe our garments. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST.—‘succeeded in reaching this island, with the loss of only + one of our party, namely, Lord Loam, who flung away his life in a gallant + attempt to save a servant who had fallen overboard.’ (The ladies have wept + long and sore for their father, but there is something in this last + utterance that makes them look up.) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. But, Ernest, it was Crichton who jumped overboard trying to save + father. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (with the candour that is one of his most engaging qualities). + Well, you know, it was rather silly of uncle to fling away his life by + trying to get into the boat first; and as this document may be printed in + the English papers, it struck me, an English peer, you know— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (every inch an English peer’s daughter). Ernest, that is very + thoughtful of you. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (continuing, well pleased).—‘By night the cries of wild cats + and the hissing of snakes terrify us extremely’—(this does not + satisfy him so well, and he makes a correction)—‘terrify the ladies + extremely. Against these we have no weapons except one cutlass and a + hatchet. A bucket washed ashore is at present our only comfortable seat’— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (with some spirit). And Ernest is sitting on it. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. H’sh! Oh, do be quiet.—‘To add to our horrors, night falls + suddenly in these parts, and it is then that savage animals begin to prowl + and roar.’ + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Have you said that vampire bats suck the blood from our toes as + we sleep? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. No, that’s all. I end up, ‘Rescue us or we perish. Rich reward. + Signed Ernest Woolley, in command of our little party.’ This is written on + a leaf taken out of a book of poems that Crichton found in his pocket. + Fancy Crichton being a reader of poetry. Now I shall put it into the + bottle and fling it into the sea. + </p> + <p> + (He pushes the precious document into a soda-water bottle, and rams the + cork home. At the same moment, and without effort, he gives birth to one + of his most characteristic epigrams.) + </p> + <p> + The tide is going out, we mustn’t miss the post. + </p> + <p> + (They are so unhappy that they fail to grasp it, and a little petulantly + he calls for CRICHTON, ever his stand-by in the hour of epigram. CRICHTON + breaks through the undergrowth quickly, thinking the ladies are in + danger.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Anything wrong, sir? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (with fine confidence). The tide, Crichton, is a postman who calls + at our island twice a day for letters. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (after a pause). Thank you, sir. + </p> + <p> + (He returns to his labours, however, without giving the smile which is the + epigrammatist’s right, and ERNEST is a little disappointed in him.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Poor Crichton! I sometimes think he is losing his sense of humour. + Come along, Agatha. + </p> + <p> + (He helps his favourite up the rocks, and they disappear gingerly from + view.) + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. How horribly still it is. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (remembering some recent sounds). It is best when it is still. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (drawing closer to her). Mary, I have heard that they are always + very still just before they jump. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Don’t. (A distinct chapping is heard, and they are startled.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (controlling herself). It is only Crichton knocking down trees. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (almost imploringly). Mary, let us go and stand beside him. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (coldly). Let a servant see that I am afraid! + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. Don’t, then; but remember this, dear, they often drop on one + from above. + </p> + <p> + (She moves away, nearer to the friendly sound of the axe, and LADY MARY is + left alone. She is the most courageous of them as well as the haughtiest, + but when something she had thought to be a stick glides toward her, she + forgets her dignity and screams.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (calling). Crichton, Crichton! + </p> + <p> + (It must have been TREHERNE who was tree-felling, for CRICHTON comes to + her from the hut, drawing his cutlass.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (anxious). Did you call, my lady? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (herself again, now that he is there). I! Why should I? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I made a mistake, your ladyship. (Hesitating.) If you are afraid + of being alone, my lady— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Afraid! Certainly not. (Doggedly.) You may go. + </p> + <p> + (But she does not complain when he remains within eyesight cutting the + bamboo. It is heavy work, and she watches him silently.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I wish, Crichton, you could work without getting so hot. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (mopping his face). I wish I could, my lady. + </p> + <p> + (He continues his labours.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (taking off her oilskins). It makes me hot to look at you. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. It almost makes me cool to look at your ladyship. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (who perhaps thinks he is presuming). Anything I can do for you + in that way, Crichton, I shall do with pleasure. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (quite humbly). Thank you, my lady. + </p> + <p> + (By this time most of the bamboo has been cut, and the shore and sea are + visible, except where they are hidden by the half completed hut. The mast + rising solitary from the water adds to the desolation of the scene, and at + last tears run down LADY MARY’S face.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Don’t give way, my lady, things might be worse. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. My poor father. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. If I could have given my life for his. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. You did all a man could do. Indeed I thank you, Crichton. (With + some admiration and more wonder.) You are a man. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Thank you, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. But it is all so awful. Crichton, is there any hope of a ship + coming? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (after hesitation). Of course there is, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (facing him bravely). Don’t treat me as a child. I have got to + know the worst, and to face it. Crichton, the truth. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (reluctantly). We were driven out of our course, my lady; I fear + far from the track of commerce. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Thank you; I understand. + </p> + <p> + (For a moment, however, she breaks down. Then she clenches her hands and + stands erect.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (watching her, and forgetting perhaps for the moment that they + are not just a man and woman). You’re a good pluckt ‘un, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (falling into the same error). I shall try to be. (Extricating + herself.) Crichton, how dare you? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I beg your ladyship’s pardon; but you are. + </p> + <p> + (She smiles, as if it were a comfort to be told this even by CRICHTON.) + </p> + <p> + And until a ship comes we are three men who are going to do our best for + you ladies. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (with a curl of the lip). Mr. Ernest does no work. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (cheerily). But he will, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I doubt it. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (confidently, but perhaps thoughtlessly). No work—no dinner—will + make a great change in Mr. Ernest. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. No work—no dinner. When did you invent that rule, + Crichton? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (loaded with bamboo). I didn’t invent it, my lady. I seem to see + it growing all over the island. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (disquieted). Crichton, your manner strikes me as curious. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (pained). I hope not, your ladyship. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (determined to have it out with him). You are not implying + anything so unnatural, I presume, as that if I and my sisters don’t work + there will be no dinner for us? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (brightly). If it is unnatural, my lady, that is the end of it. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. If? Now I understand. The perfect servant at home holds that we + are all equal now. I see. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (wounded to the quick). My lady, can you think me so + inconsistent? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. That is it. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (earnestly). My lady, I disbelieved in equality at home because + it was against nature, and for that same reason I as utterly disbelieve in + it on an island. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (relieved by his obvious sincerity). I apologise. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (continuing unfortunately). There must always, my lady, be one to + command and others to obey. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (satisfied). One to command, others to obey. Yes. (Then suddenly + she realises that there may be a dire meaning in his confident words.) + Crichton! + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (who has intended no dire meaning). What is it, my lady? + </p> + <p> + (But she only stares into his face and then hurries from him. Left alone + he is puzzled, but being a practical man he busies himself gathering + firewood, until TWEENY appears excitedly carrying cocoa-nuts in her skirt. + She has made better use than the ladies of her three minutes’ grace for + dressing.) + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (who can be happy even on an island if CRICHTON is with her). Look + what I found. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Cocoa-nuts. Bravo! + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. They grows on trees. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Where did you think they grew? + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. I thought as how they grew in rows on top of little sticks. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (wrinkling his brows). Oh Tweeny, Tweeny! + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (anxiously). Have I offended of your feelings again, sir? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. A little. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (in a despairing outburst). I’m full o’ vulgar words and ways; and + though I may keep them in their holes when you are by, as soon as I’m by + myself out they comes in a rush like beetles when the house is dark. I + says them gloating-like, in my head—‘Blooming’ I says, and ‘All my + eye,’ and ‘Ginger,’ and ‘Nothink’; and all the time we was being wrecked I + was praying to myself, ‘Please the Lord it may be an island as it’s + natural to be vulgar on.’ + </p> + <p> + (A shudder passes through CRICHTON, and she is abject.) + </p> + <p> + That’s the kind I am, sir. I’m ‘opeless. You’d better give me up. + </p> + <p> + (She is a pathetic, forlorn creature, and his manhood is stirred.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (wondering a little at himself for saying it). I won’t give you + up. It is strange that one so common should attract one so fastidious; but + so it is. (Thoughtfully.) There is something about you, Tweeny, there is a + je ne sais quoi about you. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (knowing only that he has found something in her to commend). Is + there, is there? Oh, I am glad. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (putting his hand on her shoulder like a protector). We shall + fight your vulgarity together. (All this time he has been arranging sticks + for his fire.) Now get some dry grass. (She brings him grass, and he puts + it under the sticks. He produces an odd lens from his pocket, and tries to + focus the sun’s rays.) + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. Why, what’s that? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (the ingenious creature). That’s the glass from my watch and one + from Mr. Treherne’s, with a little water between them. I’m hoping to + kindle a fire with it. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (properly impressed). Oh sir! + </p> + <p> + (After one failure the grass takes fire, and they are blowing on it when + excited cries near by bring them sharply to their feet. AGATHA runs to + them, white of face, followed by ERNEST.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Danger! Crichton, a tiger-cat! + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (getting his cutlass). Where? + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. It is at our heels. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Look out, Crichton. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. H’sh! + </p> + <p> + (TREHERNE comes to his assistance, while LADY MARY and CATHERINE join + AGATHA in the hut.) ERNEST. It will be on us in a moment. (He seizes the + hatchet and guards the hut. It is pleasing to see that ERNEST is no + coward.) + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Listen! + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. The grass is moving. It’s coming. + </p> + <p> + (It comes. But it is no tiger-cat; it is LORD LOAM crawling on his hands + and knees, a very exhausted and dishevelled peer, wondrously attired in + rags. The girls see him, and with glad cries rush into his arms.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Father. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Mary—Catherine—Agatha. Oh dear, my dears, my dears, + oh dear! + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Darling. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Sweetest. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. Love. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Glad to see you, sir. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Uncle, uncle, dear old uncle. + </p> + <p> + (For a time such happy cries fill the air, but presently TREHERNE is + thoughtless.) + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Ernest thought you were a tiger-cat. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (stung somehow to the quick). Oh, did you? I knew you at once, + Ernest; I knew you by the way you ran. + </p> + <p> + (ERNEST smiles forgivingly.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (venturing forward at last). My lord, I am glad. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (with upraised finger). But you are also idling, Crichton. (Making + himself comfortable on the ground.) We mustn’t waste time. To work, to + work. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (after contemplating him without rancour). Yes, sir. + </p> + <p> + (He gets a pot from the hut and hangs it on a tripod over the fire, which + is now burning brightly.) + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Ernest, you be a little more civil. Crichton, let me help. + </p> + <p> + (He is soon busy helping CRICHTON to add to the strength of the hut.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (gazing at the pot as ladies are said to gaze on precious + stones). Is that—but I suppose I’m dreaming again. (Timidly.) It + isn’t by any chance a pot on top of a fire, is it? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Indeed, it is, dearest. It is our supper. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I have been dreaming of a pot on a fire for two days. + (Quivering.) There ‘s nothing in it, is there? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Sniff, uncle. (LORD LOAM sniffs.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (reverently). It smells of onions! + </p> + <p> + (There is a sudden diversion.) + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. Father, you have boots! + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. So he has. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Of course I have. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (with greedy cunning). You are actually wearing boots, uncle. It’s + very unsafe, you know, in this climate. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Is it? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. We have all abandoned them, you observe. The blood, the arteries, + you know. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I hadn’t a notion. + </p> + <p> + (He holds out his feet, and ERNEST kneels.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. O Lord, yes. + </p> + <p> + (In another moment those boots will be his.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (quickly). Father, he is trying to get your boots from you. + There is nothing in the world we wouldn’t give for boots. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (rising haughtily, a proud spirit misunderstood). I only wanted the + loan of them. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (running her fingers along them lovingly). If you lend them to any + one, it will be to us, won’t it, father. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Certainly, my child. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Oh, very well. (He is leaving these selfish ones.) I don’t want + your old boots. (He gives his uncle a last chance.) You don’t think you + could spare me one boot? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (tartly). I do not. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Quite so. Well, all I can say is I’m sorry for you. + </p> + <p> + (He departs to recline elsewhere.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Father, we thought we should never see you again. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I was washed ashore, my dear, clinging to a hencoop. How awful + that first night was. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Poor father. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. When I woke, I wept. Then I began to feel extremely hungry. + There was a large turtle on the beach. I remembered from the Swiss Family + Robinson that if you turn a turtle over he is helpless. My dears, I + crawled towards him, I flung myself upon him—(here he pauses to rub + his leg)—the nasty, spiteful brute. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. You didn’t turn him over? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (vindictively, though he is a kindly man). Mary, the senseless + thing wouldn’t wait; I found that none of them would wait. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. We should have been as badly off if Crichton hadn’t— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (quickly). Don’t praise Crichton. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. And then those beastly monkeys, I always understood that if you + flung stones at them they would retaliate by flinging cocoa-nuts at you. + Would you believe it, I flung a hundred stones, and not one monkey had + sufficient intelligence to grasp my meaning. How I longed for Crichton. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (wincing). For us also, father? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. For you also. I tried for hours to make a fire. The authors say + that when wrecked on an island you can obtain a light by rubbing two + pieces of stick together. (With feeling.) The liars! + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. And all this time you thought there was no one on the island + but yourself? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I thought so until this morning. I was searching the pools for + little fishes, which I caught in my hat, when suddenly I saw before me—on + the sand— + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. What? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. A hairpin. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. A hairpin! It must be one of ours. Give it me, father. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. No, it’s mine. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I didn’t keep it. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (speaking for all three). Didn’t keep it? Found a hairpin on an + island, and didn’t keep it? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (humbly). My dears. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (scarcely to be placated). Oh father, we have returned to nature + more than you bargained for. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. For shame, Agatha. (She has something on her mind.) Father, + there is something I want you to do at once—I mean to assert your + position as the chief person on the island. + </p> + <p> + (They are all surprised.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. But who would presume to question it? + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. She must mean Ernest. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Must I? + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. It’s cruel to say anything against Ernest. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (firmly). If any one presumes to challenge my position, I shall + make short work of him. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Here comes Ernest; now see if you can say these horrid things to + his face. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I shall teach him his place at once. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (anxiously). But how? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (chuckling). I have just thought of an extremely amusing way of + doing it. (As ERNEST approaches.) Ernest. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (loftily). Excuse me, uncle, I’m thinking. I’m planning out the + building of this hut. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I also have been thinking. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. That don’t matter. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Eh? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Please, please, this is important. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I have been thinking that I ought to give you my boots. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. What! + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Father. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (genially). Take them, my boy. (With a rapidity we had not + thought him capable of, ERNEST becomes the wearer of the boots.) And now I + dare say you want to know why I give them to you, Ernest? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (moving up and down in them deliciously). Not at all. The great + thing is, ‘I’ve got ‘em, I’ve got ‘em.’ + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (majestically, but with a knowing look at his daughters). My + reason is that, as head of our little party, you, Ernest, shall be our + hunter, you shall clear the forests of those savage beasts that make them + so dangerous. (Pleasantly.) And now you know, my dear nephew, why I have + given you my boots. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. This is my answer. + </p> + <p> + (He kicks off the boots.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (still anxious). Father, assert yourself. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I shall now assert myself. (But how to do it? He has a happy + thought.) Call Crichton. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Oh father. + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON comes in answer to a summons, and is followed by TREHERNE.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (wondering a little at LADY MARY’S grave face). Crichton, look + here. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (sturdily). Silence! Crichton, I want your advice as to what I + ought to do with Mr. Ernest. He has defied me. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Pooh! + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (after considering). May I speak openly, my lord? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (keeping her eyes fixed on him). That is what we desire. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (quite humbly). Then I may say, your lordship, that I have been + considering Mr. Ernest’s case at odd moments ever since we were wrecked. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. My case? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (sternly). Hush. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Since we landed on the island, my lord, it seems to me that Mr. + Ernest’s epigrams have been particularly brilliant. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (gratified). Thank you, Crichton. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. But I find—I seem to find it growing wild, my lord, in the + woods, that sayings which would be justly admired in England are not much + use on an island. I would therefore most respectfully propose that + henceforth every time Mr. Ernest favours us with an epigram his head + should be immersed in a bucket of cold spring water. + </p> + <p> + (There is a terrible silence.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (uneasily). Serve him right. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. I should like to see you try to do it, uncle. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (ever ready to come to the succour of his lordship). My feeling, + my lord, is that at the next offence I should convey him to a retired + spot, where I shall carry out the undertaking in as respectful a manner as + is consistent with a thorough immersion. + </p> + <p> + (Though his manner is most respectful, he is firm; he evidently means what + he says.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (a ramrod). Father, you must not permit this; Ernest is your + nephew. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (with his hand to his brow). After all, he is my nephew, + Crichton; and, as I am sure, he now sees that I am a strong man— + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (foolishly in the circumstances). A strong man. You mean a stout + man. You are one of mind to two of matter. (He looks round in the old way + for approval. No one has smiled, and to his consternation he sees that + CRICHTON is quietly turning up his sleeves. ERNEST makes an appealing + gesture to his uncle; then he turns defiantly to CRICHTON.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Is it to be before the ladies, Mr. Ernest, or in the privacy of + the wood? (He fixes ERNEST with his eye. ERNEST is cowed.) Come. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (affecting bravado). Oh, all right. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (succinctly). Bring the bucket. + </p> + <p> + (ERNEST hesitates. He then lifts the bucket and follows CRICHTON to the + nearest spring.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (rather white). I’m sorry for him, but I had to be firm. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Oh father, it wasn’t you who was firm. Crichton did it himself. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Bless me, so he did. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Father, be strong. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (bewildered). You can’t mean that my faithful Crichton— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Yes, I do. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Lady Mary, I stake my word that Crichton is incapable of acting + dishonourably. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I know that; I know it as well as you. Don’t you see that that + is what makes him so dangerous? + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. By Jove, I—I believe I catch your meaning. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. He is coming back. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (who has always known himself to be a man of ideas). Let us all + go into the hut, just to show him at once that it is our hut. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (as they go). Father, I implore you, assert yourself now and for + ever. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I will. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. And, please, don’t ask him how you are to do it. + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON returns with sticks to mend the fire.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (loftily, from the door of the hut). Have you carried out my + instructions, Crichton? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (deferentially). Yes, my lord. + </p> + <p> + (ERNEST appears, mopping his hair, which has become very wet since we last + saw him. He is not bearing malice, he is too busy drying, but AGATHA is + specially his champion.) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. It’s infamous, infamous. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM: (strongly). My orders, Agatha. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Now, father, please. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (striking an attitude). Before I give you any further orders, + Crichton— + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Yes, my lord. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. (delighted) Pooh! It’s all right. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. No. Please go on. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Well, well. This question of the leadership; what do you think + now, Crichton? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. My lord, I feel it is a matter with which I have nothing to do. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Excellent. Ha, Mary? That settles it, I think. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. It seems to, but—I’m not sure. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. It will settle itself naturally, my lord, without any + interference from us. + </p> + <p> + (The reference to nature gives general dissatisfaction.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Father. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (a little severely). It settled itself long ago, Crichton, when + I was born a peer, and you, for instance, were born a servant. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (acquiescing). Yes, my lord, that was how it all came about quite + naturally in England. We had nothing to do with it there, and we shall + have as little to do with it here. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE (relieved). That’s all right. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (determined to clinch the matter). One moment. In short, + Crichton, his lordship will continue to be our natural head. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I dare say, my lady, I dare say. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. But you must know. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Asking your pardon, my lady, one can’t be sure—on an + island. + </p> + <p> + (They look at each other uneasily.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (warningly). Crichton, I don’t like this. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (harassed). The more I think of it, your lordship, the more + uneasy I become myself. When I heard, my lord, that you had left that + hairpin behind—(He is pained.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (feebly). One hairpin among so many would only have caused + dissension. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (very sorry to have to contradict him). Not so, my lord. From + that hairpin we could have made a needle; with that needle we could, out + of skins, have sewn trousers of which your lordship is in need; indeed, we + are all in need of them. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (suddenly self-conscious). All? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. On an island, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Father. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (really more distressed by the prospect than she). My lady, if + nature does not think them necessary, you may be sure she will not ask you + to wear them. (Shaking his head.) But among all this undergrowth— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Now you see this man in his true colours. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (violently). Crichton, you will either this moment say, ‘Down + with nature,’. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (scandalised). My Lord! + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (loftily). Then this is my last word to you; take a month’s + notice. + </p> + <p> + (If the hut had a door he would now shut it to indicate that the interview + is closed.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (in great distress). Your lordship, the disgrace— + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (swelling). Not another word: you may go. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (adamant). And don’t come to me, Crichton, for a character. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (whose immersion has cleared his brain). Aren’t you all forgetting + that this is an island? + </p> + <p> + (This brings them to earth with a bump. LORD LOAM looks to his eldest + daughter for the fitting response.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (equal to the occasion). It makes only this difference—that + you may go at once, Crichton, to some other part of the island. + </p> + <p> + (The faithful servant has been true to his superiors ever since he was + created, and never more true than at this moment; but his fidelity is + founded on trust in nature, and to be untrue to it would be to be untrue + to them. He lets the wood he has been gathering slip to the ground, and + bows his sorrowful head. He turns to obey. Then affection for these great + ones wells up in him.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. My lady, let me work for you. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Go. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. You need me so sorely; I can’t desert you; I won’t. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (in alarm, lest the others may yield). Then, father, there is + but one alternative, we must leave him. + </p> + <p> + (LORD LOAM is looking yearningly at CRICHTON.) + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. It seems a pity. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (forlornly). You will work for us? + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Most willingly. But I must warn you all that, so far, Crichton + has done nine-tenths of the scoring. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. The question is, are we to leave this man? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (wrapping himself in his dignity). Come, my dears. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. My lord! + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Treherne—Ernest—get our things. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. We don’t have any, uncle. They all belong to Crichton. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Everything we have he brought from the wreck—he went back + to it before it sank. He risked his life. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. My lord, anything you would care to take is yours. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (quickly). Nothing. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Rot! If I could have your socks, Crichton— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Come, father; we are ready. + </p> + <p> + (Followed by the others, she and LORD LOAM pick their way up the rocks. In + their indignation they scarcely notice that daylight is coming to a sudden + end.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. My lord, I implore you—I am not desirous of being head. Do + you have a try at it, my lord. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (outraged). A try at it! + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (eagerly). It may be that you will prove to be the best man. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. May be! My children, come. + </p> + <p> + (They disappear proudly in single file.) + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Crichton, I’m sorry; but of course I must go with them. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Certainly, sir. + </p> + <p> + (He calls to TWEENY, and she comes from behind the hut, where she has been + watching breathlessly.) + </p> + <p> + Will you be so kind, sir, as to take her to the others? + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Assuredly. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. But what do it all mean? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Does, Tweeny, does. (He passes her up the rocks to TREHERNE.) We + shall meet again soon, Tweeny. Good night, sir. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Good night. I dare say they are not far away. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (thoughtfully). They went westward, sir, and the wind is blowing + in that direction. That may mean, sir, that nature is already taking the + matter into her own hands. They are all hungry, sir, and the pot has come + a-boil. (He takes off the lid.) The smell will be borne westward. That pot + is full of nature, Mr. Treherne. Good night, sir. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Good night. + </p> + <p> + (He mounts the rocks with TWEENY, and they are heard for a little time + after their figures are swallowed up in the fast growing darkness. + CRICHTON stands motionless, the lid in his hand, though he has forgotten + it, and his reason for taking it off the pot. He is deeply stirred, but + presently is ashamed of his dejection, for it is as if he doubted his + principles. Bravely true to his faith that nature will decide now as ever + before, he proceeds manfully with his preparations for the night. He + lights a ship’s lantern, one of several treasures he has brought ashore, + and is filling his pipe with crumbs of tobacco from various pockets, when + the stealthy movements of some animal in the grass startles him. With the + lantern in one hand and his cutlass in the other, he searches the ground + around the hut. He returns, lights his pipe, and sits down by the fire, + which casts weird moving shadows. There is a red gleam on his face; in the + darkness he is a strong and perhaps rather sinister figure. In the great + stillness that has fallen over the land, the wash of the surf seems to + have increased in volume. The sound is indescribably mournful. Except + where the fire is, desolation has fallen on the island like a pall. + </p> + <p> + Once or twice, as nature dictates, CRICHTON leans forward to stir the pot, + and the smell is borne westward. He then resumes his silent vigil. + </p> + <p> + Shadows other than those cast by the fire begin to descend the rocks. They + are the adventurers returning. One by one they steal nearer to the pot + until they are squatted round it, with their hands out to the blaze. LADY + MARY only is absent. Presently she comes within sight of the others, then + stands against a tree with her teeth clenched. One wonders, perhaps, what + nature is to make of her.) + </p> + <p> + End of Act II. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT III. THE HAPPY HOME + </h2> + <p> + The scene is the hall of their island home two years later. This sturdy + log-house is no mere extension of the hut we have seen in process of + erection, but has been built a mile or less to the west of it, on higher + ground and near a stream. When the master chose this site, the others + thought that all he expected from the stream was a sufficiency of drinking + water. They know better now every time they go down to the mill or turn on + the electric light. + </p> + <p> + This hall is the living-room of the house, and walls and roof are of stout + logs. Across the joists supporting the roof are laid many home-made + implements, such as spades, saws, fishing-rods, and from hooks in the + joists are suspended cured foods, of which hams are specially in evidence. + Deep recesses half way up the walls contain various provender in barrels + and sacks. There are some skins, trophies of the chase, on the floor, + which is otherwise bare. The chairs and tables are in some cases hewn out + of the solid wood, and in others the result of rough but efficient + carpentering. Various pieces of wreckage from the yacht have been turned + to novel uses: thus the steering-wheel now hangs from the centre of the + roof, with electric lights attached to it encased in bladders. A lifebuoy + has become the back of a chair. Two barrels have been halved and turn + coyly from each other as a settee. + </p> + <p> + The farther end of the room is more strictly the kitchen, and is a great + recess, which can be shut off from the hall by folding doors. There is a + large open fire in it. The chimney is half of one of the boats of the + yacht. On the walls of the kitchen proper are many plate-racks, containing + shells; there are rows of these of one size and shape, which mark them off + as dinner plates or bowls; others are as obviously tureens. They are + arranged primly as in a well-conducted kitchen; indeed, neatness and + cleanliness are the note struck everywhere, yet the effect of the whole is + romantic and barbaric. + </p> + <p> + The outer door into this hall is a little peculiar on an island. It is + covered with skins and is in four leaves, like the swing doors of + fashionable restaurants, which allow you to enter without allowing the hot + air to escape. During the winter season our castaways have found the + contrivance useful, but Crichton’s brain was perhaps a little lordly when + he conceived it. Another door leads by a passage to the sleeping-rooms of + the house, which are all on the ground-floor, and to Crichton’s work-room, + where he is at this moment, and whither we should like to follow him, but + in a play we may not, as it is out of sight. There is a large window space + without a window, which, however, can be shuttered, and through this we + have a view of cattle-sheds, fowl-pens, and a field of grain. It is a fine + summer evening. + </p> + <p> + Tweeny is sitting there, very busy plucking the feathers off a bird and + dropping them on a sheet placed for that purpose on the floor. She is + trilling to herself in the lightness of her heart. We may remember that + Tweeny, alone among the women, had dressed wisely for an island when they + fled the yacht, and her going-away gown still adheres to her, though in + fragments. A score of pieces have been added here and there as necessity + compelled, and these have been patched and repatched in incongruous + colours; but, when all is said and done, it can still be maintained that + Tweeny wears a skirt. She is deservedly proud of her skirt, and sometimes + lends it on important occasions when approached in the proper spirit. + </p> + <p> + Some one outside has been whistling to Tweeny; the guarded whistle which, + on a less savage island, is sometimes assumed to be an indication to cook + that the constable is willing, if the coast be clear. Tweeny, however, is + engrossed, or perhaps she is not in the mood for a follower, so he climbs + in at the window undaunted, to take her willy nilly. He is a jolly-looking + labouring man, who answers to the name of Daddy, and—But though that + may be his island name, we recognise him at once. He is Lord Loam, settled + down to the new conditions, and enjoying life heartily as handy-man about + the happy home. He is comfortably attired in skins. He is still stout, but + all the flabbiness has dropped from him; gone too is his pomposity; his + eye is clear, brown his skin; he could leap a gate. + </p> + <p> + In his hands he carries an island-made concertina, and such is the + exuberance of his spirits that, as he lights on the floor, he bursts into + music and song, something about his being a chickety chickety chick chick, + and will Tweeny please to tell him whose chickety chick is she. + Retribution follows sharp. We hear a whir, as if from insufficiently oiled + machinery, and over the passage door appears a placard showing the one + word ‘Silence.’ His lordship stops, and steals to Tweeny on his tiptoes. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I thought the Gov. was out. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. Well, you see he ain’t. And if he were to catch you here idling— + </p> + <p> + (LORD LOAM pales. He lays aside his musical instrument and hurriedly dons + an apron. TWEENY gives him the bird to pluck, and busies herself laying + the table for dinner.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (softly). What is he doing now? + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. I think he’s working out that plan for laying on hot and cold. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (proud of his master). And he’ll manage it too. The man who + could build a blacksmith’s forge without tools— + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (not less proud). He made the tools. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Out of half a dozen rusty nails. The saw-mill, Tweeny; the + speaking-tube; the electric lighting; and look at the use he has made of + the bits of the yacht that were washed ashore. And all in two years. He’s + a master I’m proud to pluck for. + </p> + <p> + (He chirps happily at his work, and she regards him curiously.) + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. Daddy, you’re of little use, but you’re a bright, cheerful + creature to have about the house. (He beams at this commendation.) Do you + ever think of old times now? We was a bit different. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (pausing). Circumstances alter cases. (He resumes his plucking + contentedly.) + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. But, Daddy, if the chance was to come of getting back? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I have given up bothering about it. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. You bothered that day long ago when we saw a ship passing the + island. How we all ran like crazy folk into the water, Daddy, and screamed + and held out our arms. (They are both a little agitated.) But it sailed + away, and we’ve never seen another. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. If we had had the electrical contrivance we have now we could + have attracted that ship’s notice. (Their eyes rest on a mysterious + apparatus that fills a corner of the hall.) A touch on that lever, Tweeny, + and in a few moments bonfires would be blazing all round the shore. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (backing from the lever as if it might spring at her). It’s the + most wonderful thing he has done. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (in a reverie). And then—England—home! + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (also seeing visions). London of a Saturday night! + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. My lords, in rising once more to address this historic chamber— + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. There was a little ham and beef shop off the Edgware Road—(The + visions fade; they return to the practical.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Tweeny, do you think I could have an egg to my tea? (At this + moment a wiry, athletic figure in skins darkens the window. He is carrying + two pails, which are suspended from a pole on his shoulder, and he is + ERNEST. We should say that he is ERNEST completely changed if we were of + those who hold that people change. As he enters by the window he has heard + LORD LOAM’s appeal, and is perhaps justifiably indignant.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. What is that about an egg? Why should you have an egg? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (with hauteur). That is my affair, sir. (With a Parthian shot as + he withdraws stiffly from the room.) The Gov. has never put my head in a + bucket. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (coming to rest on one of his buckets, and speaking with excusable + pride. To TWEENY). Nor mine for nearly three months. It was only last + week, Tweeny, that he said to me, ‘Ernest, the water cure has worked + marvels in you, and I question whether I shall require to dip you any + more.’ (Complacently.) Of course that sort of thing encourages a fellow. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (who has now arranged the dinner table to her satisfaction). I will + say, Erny, I never seen a young chap more improved. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (gratified). Thank you, Tweeny, that’s very precious to me. + </p> + <p> + (She retires to the fire to work the great bellows with her foot, and + ERNEST turns to TREHERNE, who has come in looking more like a cow-boy than + a clergyman. He has a small box in his hand which he tries to conceal.) + What have you got there, John? + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Don’t tell anybody. It is a little present for the Gov.; a set + of razors. One for each day in the week. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (opening the box and examining its contents.) Shells! He’ll like + that. He likes sets of things. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE (in a guarded voice). Have you noticed that? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Rather. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. He’s becoming a bit magnificent in his ideas. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (huskily). John, it sometimes gives me the creeps. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE (making sure that TWEENY is out of hearing). What do you think of + that brilliant robe he got the girls to make for him. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (uncomfortably). I think he looks too regal in it. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Regal! I sometimes fancy that that’s why he’s so fond of wearing + it. (Practically.) Well, I must take these down to the grindstone and put + an edge on them. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (button-holing him). I say, John, I want a word with you. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Well? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (become suddenly diffident). Dash it all, you know, you’re a + clergyman. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. One of the best things the Gov. has done is to insist that none + of you forget it. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (taking his courage in his hands). Then—would you, John? + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. What? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (wistfully). Officiate at a marriage ceremony, John? + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE (slowly). Now, that’s really odd. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Odd? Seems to me it’s natural. And whatever is natural, John, is + right. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. I mean that same question has been put to me today already. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (eagerly). By one of the women? + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Oh no; they all put it to me long ago. This was by the Gov. + himself. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. By Jove! (Admiringly.) I say, John, what an observant beggar he + is. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Ah! You fancy he was thinking of you? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. I do not hesitate to affirm, John, that he has seen the love-light + in my eyes. You answered— + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. I said Yes, I thought it would be my duty to officiate if called + upon. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. You’re a brick. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE (still pondering). But I wonder whether he was thinking of you? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Make your mind easy about that. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Well, my best wishes. Agatha is a very fine girl. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Agatha? What made you think it was Agatha? + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Man alive, you told me all about it soon after we were wrecked. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Pooh! Agatha’s all very well in her way, John, but I’m flying at + bigger game. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Ernest, which is it? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Tweeny, of course. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Tweeny? (Reprovingly.) Ernest, I hope her cooking has nothing to + do with this. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (with dignity). Her cooking has very little to do with it. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. But does she return your affection. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (simply). Yes, John, I believe I may say so. I am unworthy of her, + but I think I have touched her heart. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE (with a sigh). Some people seem to have all the luck. As you + know, Catherine won’t look at me. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. I’m sorry, John. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. It’s my deserts; I’m a second eleven sort of chap. Well, my + heartiest good wishes, Ernest. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Thank you, John. How’s the little black pig to-day? + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE (departing). He has begun to eat again. + </p> + <p> + (After a moment’s reflection ERNEST calls to TWEENY.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Are you very busy, Tweeny? + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (coming to him good-naturedly). There’s always work to do; but if + you want me, Ernest— + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. There’s something I should like to say to you if you could spare + me a moment. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. Willingly. What is it? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. What an ass I used to be, Tweeny. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (tolerantly). Oh, let bygones be bygones. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (sincerely, and at his very best). I’m no great shakes even now. + But listen to this, Tweeny; I have known many women, but until I knew you + I never knew any woman. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (to whose uneducated ears this sounds dangerously like an epigram). + Take care—the bucket. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (hurriedly). I didn’t mean it in that way. (He goes chivalrously on + his knees.) Ah, Tweeny, I don’t undervalue the bucket, but what I want to + say now is that the sweet refinement of a dear girl has done more for me + than any bucket could do. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (with large eyes). Are you offering to walk out with me, Erny? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (passionately). More than that. I want to build a little house for + you—in the sunny glade down by Porcupine Creek. I want to make + chairs for you and tables; and knives and forks, and a sideboard for you. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (who is fond of language). I like to hear you. (Eyeing him.) Would + there be any one in the house except myself, Ernest? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (humbly). Not often; but just occasionally there would be your + adoring husband. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (decisively). It won’t do, Ernest. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (pleading). It isn’t as if I should be much there. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. I know, I know; but I don’t love you, Ernest. I’m that sorry. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (putting his case cleverly). Twice a week I should be away + altogether—at the dam. On the other days you would never see me from + breakfast time to supper. (With the self-abnegation of the true lover.) If + you like I’ll even go fishing on Sundays. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. It’s no use, Erny. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (rising manfully). Thank you, Tweeny; it can’t be helped. (Then he + remembers.) Tweeny, we shall be disappointing the Gov. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (with a sinking). What’s that? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. He wanted us to marry. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (blankly). You and me? the Gov.! (Her head droops woefully. From + without is heard the whistling of a happier spirit, and TWEENY draws + herself up fiercely.) That’s her; that’s the thing what has stole his + heart from me. (A stalwart youth appears at the window, so handsome and + tingling with vitality that, glad to depose CRICHTON, we cry thankfully, + ‘The Hero at last.’ But it is not the hero; it is the heroine. This + splendid boy, clad in skins, is what nature has done for LADY MARY. She + carries bow and arrows and a blow-pipe, and over her shoulder is a fat + buck, which she drops with a cry of triumph. Forgetting to enter demurely, + she leaps through the window.) (Sourly.) Drat you, Polly, why don’t you + wipe your feet? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (good-naturedly). Come, Tweeny, be nice to me. It’s a splendid + buck. (But TWEENY shakes her off, and retires to the kitchen fire.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Where did you get it? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (gaily). I sighted a herd near Penguin’s Creek, but had to creep + round Silver Lake to get to windward of them. However, they spotted me and + then the fun began. There was nothing for it but to try and run them down, + so I singled out a fat buck and away we went down the shore of the lake, + up the valley of rolling stones; he doubled into Brawling River and took + to the water, but I swam after him; the river is only half a mile broad + there, but it runs strong. He went spinning down the rapids, down I went + in pursuit; he clambered ashore, I clambered ashore; away we tore + helter-skelter up the hill and down again. I lost him in the marshes, got + on his track again near Bread Fruit Wood, and brought him down with an + arrow in Firefly Grove. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (staring at her). Aren’t you tired? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Tired! It was gorgeous. (She runs up a ladder and deposits her + weapons on the joists. She is whistling again.) + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (snapping). I can’t abide a woman whistling. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (indifferently). I like it. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (stamping her foot). Drop it, Polly, I tell you. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (stung). I won’t. I’m as good as you are. (They are facing each + other defiantly.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (shocked). Is this necessary? Think how it would pain him. (LADY + MARY’s eyes take a new expression. We see them soft for the first time.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (contritely). Tweeny, I beg your pardon. If my whistling annoys + you, I shall try to cure myself of it. (Instead of calming TWEENY, this + floods her face in tears.) Why, how can that hurt you, Tweeny dear? + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. Because I can’t make you lose your temper. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (divinely). Indeed, I often do. Would that I were nicer to + everybody. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. There you are again. (Wistfully.) What makes you want to be so + nice, Polly? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (with fervour). Only thankfulness, Tweeny. (She exults.) It is + such fun to be alive. (So also seem to think CATHERINE and AGATHA, who + bounce in with fishing-rods and creel. They, too, are in manly attire.) + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. We’ve got some ripping fish for the Gov.‘s dinner. Are we in + time? We ran all the way. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (tartly). You’ll please to cook them yourself, Kitty, and look + sharp about it. (She retires to her hearth, where AGATHA follows her.) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (yearning). Has the Gov. decided who is to wait upon him to-day? + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (who is cleaning her fish). It’s my turn. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (hotly). I don’t see that. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (with bitterness). It’s to be neither of you, Aggy; he wants Polly + again. + </p> + <p> + (LADY MARY is unable to resist a joyous whistle.) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (jealously). Polly, you toad. (But they cannot make LADY MARY + angry.) + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (storming). How dare you look so happy? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (willing to embrace her). I wish, Tweeny, there was anything I + could do to make you happy also. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. Me! Oh, I’m happy. (She remembers ERNEST, whom it is easy to + forget on an island.) I’ve just had a proposal, I tell you. + </p> + <p> + (LADY MARY is shaken at last, and her sisters with her.) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. A proposal? + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (going white). Not—not—(She dare not say his name.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (with singular modesty). You needn’t be alarmed; it’s only me. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (relieved). Oh, you! + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (happy again). Ernest, you dear, I got such a shock. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. It was only Ernest. (Showing him her fish in thankfulness.) + They are beautifully fresh; come and help me to cook them. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (with simple dignity). Do you mind if I don’t cook fish to-night? + (She does not mind in the least. They have all forgotten him. A lark is + singing in three hearts.) I think you might all be a little sorry for a + chap. (But they are not even sorry, and he addresses AGATHA in these + winged words:) I’m particularly disappointed in you, Aggy; seeing that I + was half engaged to you, I think you might have had the good feeling to be + a little more hurt. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Oh, bother. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (summing up the situation in so far as it affects himself). I shall + now go and lie down for a bit. (He retires coldly but unregretted. LADY + MARY approaches TWEENY with her most insinuating smile.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Tweeny, as the Gov. has chosen me to wait on him, please may I + have the loan of it again? (The reference made with such charming delicacy + is evidently to TWEENY’s skirt.) + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (doggedly). No, you mayn’t. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (supporting TWEENY). Don’t you give it to her. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (still trying sweet persuasion). You know quite well that he + prefers to be waited on in a skirt. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. I don’t care. Get one for yourself. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. It is the only one on the island. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. And it’s mine. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (an aristocrat after all). Tweeny, give me that skirt directly. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. Don’t. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. I won’t. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (clearing for action). I shall make you. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. I should like to see you try. + </p> + <p> + (An unseemly fracas appears to be inevitable, but something happens. The + whir is again heard, and the notice is displayed ‘Dogs delight to bark and + bite.’ Its effect is instantaneous and cheering. The ladies look at each + other guiltily and immediately proceed on tiptoe to their duties. These + are all concerned with the master’s dinner. CATHERINE attends to his fish. + AGATHA fills a quaint toast-rack and brings the menu, which is written on + a shell. LADY MARY twists a wreath of green leaves around her head, and + places a flower beside the master’s plate. TWEENY signs that all is ready, + and she and the younger sisters retire into the kitchen, drawing the + screen that separates it from the rest of the room. LADY MARY beats a + tom-tom, which is the dinner bell. She then gently works a punkah, which + we have not hitherto observed, and stands at attention. No doubt she is in + hopes that the Gov. will enter into conversation with her, but she is too + good a parlour-maid to let her hopes appear in her face. We may watch her + manner with complete approval. There is not one of us who would not give + her £26 a year. + </p> + <p> + The master comes in quietly, a book in his hand, still the only book on + the island, for he has not thought it worth while to build a + printing-press. His dress is not noticeably different from that of the + others, the skins are similar, but perhaps these are a trifle more + carefully cut or he carries them better. One sees somehow that he has + changed for his evening meal. There is an odd suggestion of a dinner + jacket about his doeskin coat. It is, perhaps, too grave a face for a man + of thirty-two, as if he were over much immersed in affairs, yet there is a + sunny smile left to lighten it at times and bring back its youth; perhaps + too intellectual a face to pass as strictly handsome, not sufficiently + suggestive of oats. His tall figure is very straight, slight rather than + thick-set, but nobly muscular. His big hands, firm and hard with labour + though they be, are finely shaped—note the fingers so much more + tapered, the nails better tended than those of his domestics; they are one + of many indications that he is of a superior breed. Such signs, as has + often been pointed out, are infallible. A romantic figure, too. One can + easily see why the women-folks of this strong man’s house both adore and + fear him. + </p> + <p> + He does not seem to notice who is waiting on him to-night, but inclines + his head slightly to whoever it is, as she takes her place at the back of + his chair. LADY MARY respectfully places the menu-shell before him, and he + glances at it.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Clear, please. + </p> + <p> + (LADY MARY knocks on the screen, and a serving hutch in it opens, through + which TWEENY offers two soup plates. LADY MARY selects the clear, and the + aperture is closed. She works the punkah while the master partakes of the + soup.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (who always gives praise where it is due). An excellent soup, + Polly, but still a trifle too rich. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Thank you. + </p> + <p> + (The next course is the fish, and while it is being passed through the + hutch we have a glimpse of three jealous women. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY’S movements are so deft and noiseless that any observant + spectator can see that she was born to wait at table.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (unbending as he eats). Polly, you are a very smart girl. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (bridling, but naturally gratified). La! + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (smiling). And I’m not the first you’ve heard it from, I’ll + swear. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (wriggling). Oh God! + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Got any followers on the island, Polly? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (tossing her head). Certainly not. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I thought that perhaps John or Ernest— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (tilting her nose). I don’t say that it’s for want of asking. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (emphatically). I’m sure it isn’t. (Perhaps he thinks he has gone + too far.) You may clear. + </p> + <p> + (Flushed with pleasure, she puts before him a bird and vegetables, sees + that his beaker is fitted with wine, and returns to the punkah. She would + love to continue their conversation, but it is for him to decide. For a + time he seems to have forgotten her.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Did you lose any arrows to-day? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Only one in Firefly Grove. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. You were as far as that? How did you get across the Black Gorge? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I went across on the rope. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Hand over hand? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (swelling at the implied praise). I wasn’t in the least dizzy. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (moved). You brave girl! (He sits back in his chair a little + agitated.) But never do that again. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (pouting). It is such fun, Gov. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (decisively). I forbid it. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (the little rebel). I shall. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (surprised). Polly! (He signs to her sharply to step forward, but + for a moment she holds back petulantly, and even when she does come it is + less obediently than like a naughty, sulky child. Nevertheless, with the + forbearance that is characteristic of the man, he addresses her with grave + gentleness rather than severely.) You must do as I tell you, you know. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (strangely passionate). I shan’t. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (smiling at her fury). We shall see. Frown at me, Polly; there, + you do it at once. Clench your little fists, stamp your feet, bite your + ribbons—(A student of women, or at least of this woman, he knows + that she is about to do those things, and thus she seems to do them to + order. LADY MARY screws up her face like a baby and cries. He is + immediately kind.) You child of nature; was it cruel of me to wish to save + you from harm? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (drying her eyes). I’m an ungracious wretch. Oh God, I don’t try + half hard enough to please you. I’m even wearing—(she looks down + sadly)—when I know you prefer it. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (thoughtfully). I admit I do prefer it. Perhaps I am a little + old-fashioned in these matters. (Her tears again threaten.) Ah, don’t, + Polly; that’s nothing. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. If I could only please you, Gov. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (slowly). You do please me, child, very much—(he half + rises)—very much indeed. (If he meant to say more he checks himself. + He looks at his plate.) No more, thank you. (The simple island meal is + ended, save for the walnuts and the wine, and CRICHTON is too busy a man + to linger long over them. But he is a stickler for etiquette, end the + table is cleared charmingly, though with dispatch, before they are placed + before him. LADY MARY is an artist with the crumb-brush, and there are few + arts more delightful to watch. Dusk has come sharply, and she turns on the + electric light. It awakens CRICHTON from a reverie in which he has been + regarding her.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Polly, there is only one thing about you that I don’t quite + like. (She looks up, making a moue, if that can be said of one who so well + knows her place. He explains.) That action of the hands. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. What do I do? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. So—like one washing them. I have noticed that the others + tend to do it also. It seems odd. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (archly). Oh Gov., have you forgotten? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. What? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. That once upon a time a certain other person did that. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (groping). You mean myself? (She nods, and he shudders.) + Horrible! + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (afraid she has hurt him). You haven’t for a very long time. + Perhaps it is natural to servants. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. That must be it. (He rises.) Polly! (She looks up expectantly, + but he only sighs and turns away.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (gently). You sighed, Gov. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Did I? I was thinking. (He paces the room and then turns to her + agitatedly, yet with control over his agitation. There is some + mournfulness in his voice.) I have always tried to do the right thing on + this island. Above all, Polly, I want to do the right thing by you. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (with shining eyes). How we all trust you. That is your reward, + Gov. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (who is having a fight with himself). And now I want a greater + reward. Is it fair to you? Am I playing the game? Bill Crichton would like + always to play the game. If we were in England—(He pauses so long + that she breaks in softly.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. We know now that we shall never see England again. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I am thinking of two people whom neither of us has seen for a + long time—Lady Mary Lasenby, and one Crichton, a butler. (He says + the last word bravely, a word he once loved, though it is the most + horrible of all words to him now.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. That cold, haughty, insolent girl. Gov., look around you and + forget them both. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I had nigh forgotten them. He has had a chance, Polly—that + butler—in these two years of becoming a man, and he has tried to + take it. There have been many failures, but there has been some success, + and with it I have let the past drop off me, and turned my back on it. + That butler seems a far-away figure to me now, and not myself. I hail him, + but we scarce know each other. If I am to bring him back it can only be + done by force, for in my soul he is now abhorrent to me. But if I thought + it best for you I’d haul him back; I swear as an honest man, I would bring + him back with all his obsequious ways and deferential airs, and let you + see the man you call your Gov. melt for ever into him who was your + servant. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (shivering). You hurt me. You say these things, but you say them + like a king. To me it is the past that was not real. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (too grandly). A king! I sometimes feel—(For a moment the + yellow light gleams in his green eyes. We remember suddenly what TREHERNE + and ERNEST said about his regal look. He checks himself.) I say it + harshly, it is so hard to say, and all the time there is another voice + within me crying—(He stops.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (trembling but not afraid). If it is the voice of nature— + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (strongly). I know it to be the voice of nature. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (in a whisper). Then, if you want to say it very much, Gov., + please say it to Polly Lasenby. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (again in the grip of an idea). A king! Polly, some people hold + that the soul but leaves one human tenement for another, and so lives on + through all the ages. I have occasionally thought of late that, in some + past existence, I may have been a king. It has all come to me so + naturally, not as if I had had to work it out, but-as-if-I-remembered. ‘Or + ever the knightly years were gone, With the old world to the grave, I was + a king in Babylon, And you were a Christian slave.’ It may have been; you + hear me, it may have been. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (who is as one fascinated). It may have been. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I am lord over all. They are but hewers of wood and drawers of + water for me. These shores are mine. Why should I hesitate; I have no + longer any doubt. I do believe I am doing the right thing. Dear Polly, I + have grown to love you; are you afraid to mate with me? (She rocks her + arms; no words will come from her.) ‘I was a king in Babylon, And you were + a Christian slave.’ + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (bewitched). You are the most wonderful man I have ever known, + and I am not afraid. (He takes her to him reverently. Presently he is + seated, and she is at his feet looking up adoringly in his face. As the + tension relaxes she speaks with a smile.) I want you to tell me—every + woman likes to know—when was the first time you thought me nicer + than the others? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (who, like all big men, is simple). I think a year ago. We were + chasing goats on the Big Slopes, and you out-distanced us all; you were + the first of our party to run a goat down; I was proud of you that day. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (blushing with pleasure). Oh Gov., I only did it to please you. + Everything I have done has been out of the desire to please you. (Suddenly + anxious.) If I thought that in taking a wife from among us you were + imperilling your dignity— + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (perhaps a little masterful). Have no fear of that, dear. I have + thought it all out. The wife, Polly, always takes the same position as the + husband. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. But I am so unworthy. It was sufficient to me that I should be + allowed to wait on you at that table. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. You shall wait on me no longer. At whatever table I sit, Polly, + you shall soon sit there also. (Boyishly.) Come, let us try what it will + be like. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. As your servant at your feet. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. No, as my consort by my side. + </p> + <p> + (They are sitting thus when the hatch is again opened and coffee offered. + But LADY MARY is no longer there to receive it. Her sisters peep through + in consternation. In vain they rattle the cup and saucer. AGATHA brings + the coffee to CRICHTON.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (forgetting for the moment that it is not a month hence). Help + your mistress first, girl. (Three women are bereft of speech, but he does + not notice it. He addresses CATHERINE vaguely.) Are you a good girl, + Kitty? + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (when she finds her tongue). I try to be, Gov. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (still more vaguely). That’s right. (He takes command of himself + again, and signs to them to sit down. ERNEST comes in cheerily, but + finding CRICHTON here is suddenly weak. He subsides on a chair, wondering + what has happened.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (surveying him). Ernest. (ERNEST rises.) You are becoming a + little slovenly in your dress, Ernest; I don’t like it. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (respectfully). Thank you. (ERNEST sits again. DADDY and TREHERNE + arrive.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Daddy, I want you. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (with a sinking). Is it because I forgot to clean out the dam? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (encouragingly). No, no. (He pours some wine into a goblet.) A + glass of wine with you, Daddy. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (hastily). Your health, Gov. (He is about to drink, but the + master checks him.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. And hers. Daddy, this lady has done me the honour to promise to + be my wife. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (astounded). Polly! + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (a little perturbed). I ought first to have asked your consent. I + deeply regret—but nature; may I hope I have your approval? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. May you, Gov.? (Delighted.) Rather! Polly! (He puts his proud + arms round her.) + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. We all congratulate you, Gov., most heartily. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Long life to you both, sir. + </p> + <p> + (There is much shaking of hands, all of which is sincere.) + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. When will it be, Gov.? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (after turning to LADY MARY, who whispers to him). As soon as the + bridal skirt can be prepared. (His manner has been most indulgent, and + without the slightest suggestion of patronage. But he knows it is best for + all that he should keep his place, and that his presence hampers them.) My + friends, I thank you for your good wishes, I thank you all. And now, + perhaps you would like me to leave you to yourselves. Be joyous. Let there + be song and dance to-night. Polly, I shall take my coffee in the parlour—you + understand. + </p> + <p> + (He retires with pleasant dignity. Immediately there is a rush of two + girls at LADY MARY.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Oh, oh! Father, they are pinching me. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (taking her under his protection). Agatha, Catherine, never + presume to pinch your sister again. On the other hand, she may pinch you + henceforth as much as ever she chooses. + </p> + <p> + (In the meantime TWEENY is weeping softly, and the two are not above using + her as a weapon.) + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. Poor Tweeny, it’s a shame. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. After he had almost promised you. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (loyally turning on them). No, he never did. He was always + honourable as could be. ‘Twas me as was too vulgar. Don’t you dare say a + word agin that man. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (to LORD LOAM). You’ll get a lot of tit-bits out of this, Daddy. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. That’s what I was thinking. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (plunged in thought). I dare say I shall have to clean out the dam + now. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (heartlessly). I dare say. (His gay old heart makes him again + proclaim that he is a chickety chick. He seizes the concertina.) + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE (eagerly). That’s the proper spirit. (He puts his arm round + CATHERINE, and in another moment they are all dancing to Daddy’s music. + Never were people happier on an island. A moment’s pause is presently + created by the return of CRICHTON, wearing the wonderful robe of which we + have already had dark mention. Never has he looked more regal, never + perhaps felt so regal. We need not grudge him the one foible of his rule, + for it is all coming to an end.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (graciously, seeing them hesitate). No, no; I am delighted to see + you all so happy. Go on. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. We don’t like to before you, Gov. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (his last order). It is my wish. + </p> + <p> + (The merrymaking is resumed, and soon CRICHTON himself joins in the dance. + It is when the fun is at its fastest and most furious that all stop + abruptly as if turned to stone. They have heard the boom of a gun. + Presently they are alive again. ERNEST leaps to the window.) + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE (huskily). It was a ship’s gun. (They turn to CRICHTON for + confirmation; even in that hour they turn to CRICHTON.) Gov.? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Yes. + </p> + <p> + (In another moment LADY MARY and LORD LOAM are alone.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (seeing that her father is unconcerned). Father, you heard. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (placidly). Yes, my child. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (alarmed by his unnatural calmness). But it was a gun, father. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (looking an old man now, and shuddering a little). Yes—a + gun—I have often heard it. It’s only a dream, you know; why don’t we + go on dancing? + </p> + <p> + (She takes his hands, which have gone cold.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Father. Don’t you see, they have all rushed down to the beach? + Come. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Rushed down to the beach; yes, always that—I often dream + it. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Come, father, come. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Only a dream, my poor girl. + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON returns. He is pale but firm.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. We can see lights within a mile of the shore—a great ship. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. A ship—always a ship. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Father, this is no dream. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (looking timidly at CRICHTON). It’s a dream, isn’t it? There’s + no ship? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (soothing him with a touch). You are awake, Daddy, and there is a + ship. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (clutching him). You are not deceiving me? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. It is the truth. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (reeling). True?—a ship—at last! + </p> + <p> + (He goes after the others pitifully.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (quietly). There is a small boat between it and the island; they + must have sent it ashore for water. + </p> + <p> + LADY MART. Coming in? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. No. That gun must have been a signal to recall it. It is going + back. They can’t hear our cries. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (pressing her temples). Going away. So near—so near. + (Almost to herself.) I think I’m glad. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (cheerily). Have no fear. I shall bring them back. + </p> + <p> + (He goes towards the table on which is the electrical apparatus.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (standing on guard as it were between him and the table). What + are you going to do? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. To fire the beacons. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Stop! (She faces him.) Don’t you see what it means? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (firmly). It means that our life on the island has come to a + natural end. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (husky). Gov., let the ship go— + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. The old man—you saw what it means to him. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. But I am afraid. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (adoringly). Dear Polly. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Gov., let the ship go. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (she clings to him, but though it is his death sentence he + loosens her hold). Bill Crichton has got to play the game. (He pulls the + levers. Soon through the window one of the beacons is seen flaring red. + There is a long pause. Shouting is heard. ERNEST is the first to arrive.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Polly, Gov., the boat has turned back. They are English sailors; + they have landed! We are rescued, I tell you, rescued! + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (wanly). Is it anything to make so great a to-do about? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (staring). Eh? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Have we not been happy here? + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. Happy? Lord, yes. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (catching hold of his sleeve). Ernest, we must never forget all + that the Gov. has done for us. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (stoutly). Forget it? The man who could forget it would be a + selfish wretch and a—But I say, this makes a difference! + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (quickly). No, it doesn’t. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (his mind tottering). A mighty difference! + </p> + <p> + (The others come running in, some weeping with joy, others boisterous. We + see blue-jackets gazing through the window at the curious scene. LORD LOAM + comes accompanied by a naval officer, whom he is continually shaking by + the hand.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. And here, sir, is our little home. Let me thank you in the name + of us all, again and again and again. + </p> + <p> + OFFICER. Very proud, my lord. It is indeed an honour to have been able to + assist so distinguished a gentleman as Lord Loam. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. A glorious, glorious day. I shall show you our other room. + Come, my pets. Come, Crichton. + </p> + <p> + (He has not meant to be cruel. He does not know he has said it. It is the + old life that has come back to him. They all go. All leave CRICHTON except + LADY MARY.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (stretching out her arms to him). Dear Gov., I will never give + you up. + </p> + <p> + (There is a salt smile on his face as he shakes his head to her. He lets + the cloak slip to the ground. She will not take this for an answer; again + her arms go out to him. Then comes the great renunciation. By an effort of + will he ceases to be an erect figure; he has the humble bearing of a + servant. His hands come together as if he were washing them.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (it is the speech of his life). My lady. + </p> + <p> + (She goes away. There is none to salute him now, unless we do it.) + </p> + <p> + End of Act III. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACT IV. THE OTHER ISLAND + </h2> + <p> + Some months have elapsed, and we have again the honour of waiting upon + Lord Loam in his London home. It is the room of the first act, but with a + new scheme of decoration, for on the walls are exhibited many interesting + trophies from the island, such as skins, stuffed birds, and weapons of the + chase, labelled ‘Shot by Lord Loam,’ ‘Hon. Ernest Woolley’s Blowpipe’ etc. + There are also two large glass cases containing other odds and ends, + including, curiously enough, the bucket in which Ernest was first dipped, + but there is no label calling attention to the incident. It is not yet + time to dress for dinner, and his lordship is on a couch, hastily yet + furtively cutting the pages of a new book. With him are his two younger + daughters and his nephew, and they also are engaged in literary pursuits; + that is to say, the ladies are eagerly but furtively reading the evening + papers, of which Ernest is sitting complacently but furtively on an + endless number, and doling them out as called for. Note the frequent use + of the word ‘furtive.’ It implies that they do not wish to be discovered + by their butler, say, at their otherwise delightful task. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (reading aloud, with emphasis on the wrong words’). ‘In conclusion, + we most heartily congratulate the Hon. Ernest Woolley. This book of his, + regarding the adventures of himself and his brave companions on a desert + isle, stirs the heart like a trumpet.’ + </p> + <p> + (Evidently the book referred to is the one in LORD LOAM’S hands.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (handing her a pink paper). Here is another. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (reading). ‘From the first to the last of Mr. Woolley’s + engrossing pages it is evident that he was an ideal man to be wrecked + with, and a true hero.’ (Large-eyed.) Ernest! + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (calmly). That’s how it strikes them, you know. Here’s another one. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (reading). ‘There are many kindly references to the two servants + who were wrecked with the family, and Mr. Woolley pays the butler a + glowing tribute in a footnote.’ + </p> + <p> + (Some one coughs uncomfortably.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (who has been searching the index for the letter L). Excellent, + excellent. At the same time I must say, Ernest, that the whole book is + about yourself. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (genially). As the author— + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Certainly, certainly. Still, you know, as a peer of the realm—(with + dignity)—I think, Ernest, you might have given me one of your + adventures. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. I say it was you who taught us how to obtain a fire by rubbing two + pieces of stick together. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (beaming). Do you, do you? I call that very handsome. What page? + </p> + <p> + (Here the door opens, and the well-bred CRICHTON enters with the evening + papers as subscribed for by the house. Those we have already seen have + perhaps been introduced by ERNEST up his waistcoat. Every one except the + intruder is immediately self-conscious, and when he withdraws there is a + general sigh of relief. They pounce on the new papers. ERNEST evidently + gets a shock from one, which he casts contemptuously on the floor.) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA (more fortunate). Father, see page 81. ‘It was a tiger-cat,’ says + Mr. Woolley, ‘of the largest size. Death stared Lord Loam in the face, but + he never flinched.’ + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (searching his book eagerly). Page 81. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. ‘With presence of mind only equalled by his courage, he fixed an + arrow in his bow.’ + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Thank you, Ernest; thank you, my boy. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. ‘Unfortunately he missed.’ + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Eh? + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. ‘But by great good luck I heard his cries’— + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. My cries? + </p> + <p> + AGATHA.—‘and rushing forward with drawn knife, I stabbed the monster + to the heart.’ + </p> + <p> + (LORD LOAM shuts his book with a pettish slam. There might be a scene here + were it not that CRICHTON reappears and goes to one of the glass cases. + All are at once on the alert and his lordship is particularly sly.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. Anything in the papers, Catherine? + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. No, father, nothing—nothing at all. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (it pops out as of yore). The papers! The papers are guides that + tell us what we ought to do, and then we don’t do it. + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON having opened the glass case has taken out the bucket, and + ERNEST, looking round for applause, sees him carrying it off and is + undone. For a moment of time he forgets that he is no longer on the + island, and with a sigh he is about to follow CRICHTON and the bucket to a + retired spot. The door closes, and ERNEST comes to himself.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (uncomfortably). I told him to take it away. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST. I thought—(he wipes his brow)—I shall go and dress. + (He goes.) + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. Father, it’s awful having Crichton here. It’s like living on + tiptoe. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (gloomily). While he is here we are sitting on a volcano. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. How mean of you! I am sure he has only stayed on with us to—to + help us through. It would have looked so suspicious if he had gone at + once. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (revelling in the worst) But suppose Lady Brocklehurst were to + get at him and pump him. She’s the most terrifying, suspicious old + creature in England; and Crichton simply can’t tell a lie. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. My dear, that is the volcano to which I was referring. (He has + evidently something to communicate.) It’s all Mary’s fault. She said to me + yesterday that she would break her engagement with Brocklehurst unless I + told him about—you know what. + </p> + <p> + (All conjure up the vision of CRICHTON.) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Is she mad? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. She calls it common honesty. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. Father, have you told him? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (heavily). She thinks I have, but I couldn’t. She’s sure to find + out to-night. + </p> + <p> + (Unconsciously he leans on the island concertina, which he has perhaps + been lately showing to an interviewer as something he made for TWEENY. It + squeaks, and they all jump.) + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE. It’s like a bird of ill-omen. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (vindictively). I must have it taken away; it has done that + twice. + </p> + <p> + (LADY MARY comes in. She is in evening dress. Undoubtedly she meant to + sail in, but she forgets, and despite her garments it is a manly entrance. + She is properly ashamed of herself. She tries again, and has an + encouraging success. She indicates to her sisters that she wishes to be + alone with papa.) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. All right, but we know what it’s about. Come along, Kit. + </p> + <p> + (They go. LADY MARY thoughtlessly sits like a boy, and again corrects + herself. She addresses her father, but he is in a brown study, and she + seeks to draw his attention by whistling. This troubles them both.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. How horrid of me! + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (depressed). If you would try to remember— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (sighing). I do; but there are so many things to remember. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (sympathetically). There are—(in a whisper). Do you know, + Mary, I constantly find myself secreting hairpins. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I find it so difficult to go up steps one at a time. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I was dining with half a dozen members of our party last + Thursday, Mary, and they were so eloquent that I couldn’t help wondering + all the time how many of their heads he would have put in the bucket. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I use so many of his phrases. And my appetite is so scandalous. + Father, I usually have a chop before we sit down to dinner. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. As for my clothes—(wriggling). My dear, you can’t think + how irksome collars are to me nowadays. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. They can’t be half such an annoyance, father, as—(She + looks dolefully at her skirt.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (hurriedly). Quite so—quite so. You have dressed early + to-night, Mary. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. That reminds me; I had a note from Brocklehurst saying that he + would come a few minutes before his mother as—as he wanted to have a + talk with me. He didn’t say what about, but of course we know. (His + lordship fidgets.) (With feeling.) It was good of you to tell him, father. + Oh, it is horrible to me—(covering her face). It seemed so natural + at the time. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (petulantly). Never again make use of that word in this house, + Mary. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (with an effort). Father, Brocklehurst has been so loyal to me + for these two years that I should despise myself were I to keep my—my + extraordinary lapse from him. Had Brocklehurst been a little less good, + then you need not have told him my strange little secret. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (weakly). Polly—I mean Mary—it was all Crichton’s + fault, he— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (with decision). No, father, no; not a word against him though. + I haven’t the pluck to go on with it; I can’t even understand how it ever + was. Father, do you not still hear the surf? Do you see the curve of the + beach? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. I have begun to forget—(in a low voice). But they were + happy days; there was something magical about them. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. It was glamour. Father, I have lived Arabian nights. I have sat + out a dance with the evening star. But it was all in a past existence, in + the days of Babylon, and I am myself again. But he has been chivalrous + always. If the slothful, indolent creature I used to be has improved in + any way, I owe it all to him. I am slipping back in many ways, but I am + determined not to slip back altogether—in memory of him and his + island. That is why I insisted on your telling Brocklehurst. He can break + our engagement if he chooses. (Proudly.) Mary Lasenby is going to play the + game. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. But my dear— + </p> + <p> + (LORD BROCKLEHURST is announced.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (meaningly). Father, dear, oughtn’t you to be dressing? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (very unhappy). The fact is—before I go—I want to + say— + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Loam, if you don’t mind, I wish very specially to have + a word with Mary before dinner. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM. But— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Yes, father. (She induces him to go, and thus courageously + faces LORD BROCKLEHURST to hear her fate.) I am ready, George. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (who is so agitated that she ought to see he is thinking + not of her but of himself). It is a painful matter—I wish I could + have spared you this, Mary. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Please go on. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. In common fairness, of course, this should be + remembered, that two years had elapsed. You and I had no reason to believe + that we should ever meet again. + </p> + <p> + (This is more considerate than she had expected.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (softening). I was so lost to the world, George. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (with a groan). At the same time, the thing is utterly + and absolutely inexcusable— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (recovering her hauteur). Oh! + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. And so I have already said to mother. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (disdaining him). You have told her? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Certainly, Mary, certainly; I tell mother everything. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (curling her lip). And what did she say? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. To tell the truth, mother rather pooh-poohed the whole + affair. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (incredulous). Lady Brocklehurst pooh-poohed the whole affair! + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. She said, ‘Mary and I will have a good laugh over + this.’ + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (outraged). George, your mother is a hateful, depraved old + woman. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Mary! + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (turning away). Laugh indeed, when it will always be such a pain + to me. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (with strange humility). If only you would let me bear + all the pain, Mary. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (who is taken aback). George, I think you are the noblest man— + </p> + <p> + (She is touched, and gives him both her hands. Unfortunately he simpers.) + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. She was a pretty little thing. (She stares, but he + marches to his doom.) Ah, not beautiful like you. I assure you it was the + merest flirtation; there were a few letters, but we have got them back. It + was all owing to the boat being so late at Calais. You see she had such + large, helpless eyes. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (fixing him). George, when you lunched with father to-day at the + club— + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. I didn’t. He wired me that he couldn’t come. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (with a tremor). But he wrote you? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. No. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (a bird singing in her breast). You haven’t seen him since? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. No. + </p> + <p> + (She is saved. Is he to be let off also? Not at all. She bears down on him + like a ship of war.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. George, who and what is this woman? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (cowering). She was—she is—the shame of it—a + lady’s-maid. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (properly horrified). A what? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. A lady’s-maid. A mere servant, Mary. (LADY MARY whirls + round so that he shall not see her face.) I first met her at this house + when you were entertaining the servants; so you see it was largely your + father’s fault. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (looking him up and down). A lady’s-maid? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (degraded). Her name was Fisher. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. My maid! + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (with open hands). Can you forgive me, Mary? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Oh George, George! + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Mother urged me not to tell you anything about it; but— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (from her heart). I am so glad you told me. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. You see there was nothing wrong in it. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (thinking perhaps of another incident). No, indeed. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (inclined to simper again). And she behaved awfully + well. She quite saw that it was because the boat was late. I suppose the + glamour to a girl in service of a man in high position— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Glamour!—yes, yes, that was it. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Mother says that a girl in such circumstances is to be + excused if she loses her head. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (impulsively). George, I am so sorry if I said anything against + your mother. I am sure she is the dearest old thing. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (in calm waters at last). Of course for women of our + class she has a very different standard. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (grown tiny). Of course. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. You see, knowing how good a woman she is herself, she + was naturally anxious that I should marry some one like her. That is what + has made her watch your conduct so jealously, Mary. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (hurriedly thinking things out). I know. I—I think, + George, that before your mother comes I should like to say a word to + father. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (nervously). About this? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Oh no; I shan’t tell him of this. About something else. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. And you do forgive me, Mary? + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (smiling on him). Yes, yes. I—I am sure the boat was very + late, George. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (earnestly). It really was. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I am even relieved to know that you are not quite perfect, + dear. (She rests her hands on his shoulders. She has a moment of + contrition.) George, when we are married, we shall try to be not an + entirely frivolous couple, won’t we? We must endeavour to be of some + little use, dear. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (the ass). Noblesse oblige. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (haunted by the phrases of a better man). Mary Lasenby is + determined to play the game, George. + </p> + <p> + (Perhaps she adds to herself, ‘Except just this once.’ A kiss closes this + episode of the two lovers; and soon after the departure of LADY MARY the + COUNTESS OF BROCKLEHURST is announced. She is a very formidable old lady.) + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Alone, George? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Mother, I told her all; she has behaved magnificently. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (who has not shared his fears). Silly boy. (She casts a + supercilious eye on the island trophies.) So these are the wonders they + brought back with them. Gone away to dry her eyes, I suppose? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (proud of his mate). She didn’t cry, mother. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. No? (She reflects.) You’re quite right. I wouldn’t have + cried. Cold, icy. Yes, that was it. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (who has not often contradicted her). I assure you, + mother, that wasn’t it at all. She forgave me at once. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (opening her eyes sharply to the full). Oh! + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. She was awfully nice about the boat being late; she + even said she was relieved to find that I wasn’t quite perfect. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (pouncing). She said that? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. She really did. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. I mean I wouldn’t. Now if I had said that, what would + have made me say it? (Suspiciously.) George, is Mary all we think her? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (with unexpected spirit). If she wasn’t, mother, you + would know it. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Hold your tongue, boy. We don’t really know what + happened on that island. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. You were reading the book all the morning. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. How can I be sure that the book is true? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. They all talk of it as true. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. How do I know that they are not lying? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Why should they lie? + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Why shouldn’t they? (She reflects again.) If I had been + wrecked on an island, I think it highly probable that I should have lied + when I came back. Weren’t some servants with them? + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Crichton, the butler. (He is surprised to see her ring + the bell.) Why, mother, you are not going to— + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Yes, I am. (Pointedly.) George, watch whether Crichton + begins any of his answers to my questions with ‘The fact is.’ + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Why? + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Because that is usually the beginning of a lie. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (as CRICHTON opens the door). Mother, you can’t do these + things in other people’s houses. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (coolly, to CRICHTON). It was I who rang. (Surveying him + through her eyeglass.) So you were one of the castaways, Crichton? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Yes, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Delightful book Mr. Woolley has written about your + adventures. (CRICHTON bows.) Don’t you think so? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I have not read it, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Odd that they should not have presented you with a + copy. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Presumably Crichton is no reader. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. By the way, Crichton, were there any books on the + island? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. I had one, my lady—Henley’s poems. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Never heard of him. + </p> + <p> + (CRICHTON again bows.) + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (who has not heard of him either). I think you were not + the only servant wrecked? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. There was a young woman, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. I want to see her. (CRICHTON bows, but remains.) Fetch + her up. (He goes.) + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (almost standing up to his mother). This is scandalous. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (defining her position). I am a mother. + </p> + <p> + (CATHERINE and AGATHA enter in dazzling confections, and quake in secret + to find themselves practically alone with LADY BROCKLEHURST.) + </p> + <p> + (Even as she greets them.) How d’you do, Catherine—Agatha? You + didn’t dress like this on the island, I expect! By the way, how did you + dress? + </p> + <p> + (They have thought themselves prepared, but—) + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Not—not so well, of course, but quite the same idea. + </p> + <p> + (They are relieved by the arrival of TREHERNE, who is in clerical dress.) + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. How do you do, Mr. Treherne? There is not so much of + you in the book as I had hoped. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE (modestly). There wasn’t very much of me on the island, Lady + Brocklehurst. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. How d’ye mean? (He shrugs his honest shoulders.) + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. I hear you have got a living, Treherne. + Congratulations. + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. Thanks. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Is it a good one? + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE. So—so. They are rather weak in bowling, but it’s a good + bit of turf. (Confidence is restored by the entrance of ERNEST, who takes + in the situation promptly, and, of course, knows he is a match for any old + lady.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (with ease). How do you do, Lady Brocklehurst. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Our brilliant author! + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (impervious to satire). Oh, I don’t know. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. It is as engrossing, Mr. Woolley, as if it were a work + of fiction. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (suddenly uncomfortable). Thanks, awfully. (Recovering.) The fact + is—(He is puzzled by seeing the Brocklehurst family exchange meaning + looks.) + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (to the rescue). Lady Brocklehurst, Mr. Treherne and I—we + are engaged. + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. And Ernest and I. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (grimly). I see, my dears; thought it wise to keep the + island in the family. + </p> + <p> + (An awkward moment this for the entrance of LORD LOAM and LADY MARY, who, + after a private talk upstairs, are feeling happy and secure.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (with two hands for his distinguished guest). Aha! ha, ha! + younger than any of them, Emily. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Flatterer. (To LADY MARY.) You seem in high spirits, + Mary. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (gaily). I am. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (with a significant glance at LORD BROCKLEHURST). After— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. I—I mean. The fact is— + </p> + <p> + (Again that disconcerting glance between the Countess and her son.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (humorously). She hears wedding bells, Emily, ha, ha! + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (coldly). Do you, Mary? Can’t say I do; but I’m hard of + hearing. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (instantly her match). If you don’t, Lady Brocklehurst, I’m sure + I don’t. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (nervously). Tut, tut. Seen our curios from the island, Emily; I + should like you to examine them. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Thank you, Henry. I am glad you say that, for I have + just taken the liberty of asking two of them to step upstairs. (There is + an uncomfortable silence, which the entrance of CRICHTON with TWEENY does + not seem to dissipate. CRICHTON is impenetrable, but TWEENY hangs back in + fear.) + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (stoutly). Loam, I have no hand in this. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (undisturbed). Pooh, what have I done? You always begged + me to speak to the servants, Henry, and I merely wanted to discover + whether the views you used to hold about equality were adopted on the + island; it seemed a splendid opportunity, but Mr. Woolley has not a word + on the subject. + </p> + <p> + (All eyes turn to ERNEST.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (with confidence). The fact is— + </p> + <p> + (The fatal words again.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (not quite certain what he is to assure her of). I assure you, + Emily— + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (as cold as steel). Father, nothing whatever happened on the + island of which I, for one, am ashamed, and I hope Crichton will be + allowed to answer Lady Brocklehurst’s questions. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. To be sure. There’s nothing to make a fuss about, and + we’re a family party. (To CRICHTON.) Now, truthfully, my man. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (calmly). I promise that, my lady. + </p> + <p> + (Some hearts sink, the hearts that could never understand a Crichton.) + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (sharply). Well, were you all equal on the island? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. No, my lady. I think I may say there was as little equality + there as elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Ah the social distinctions were preserved? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. As at home, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. The servants? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. They had to keep their place. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Wonderful. How was it managed? (With an inspiration.) + You, girl, tell me that? + </p> + <p> + (Can there be a more critical moment?) + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (in agony). If you please, my lady, it was all the Gov.‘s doing. + </p> + <p> + (They give themselves up for lost. LORD LOAM tries to sink out of sight.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. In the regrettable slang of the servants’ hall, my lady, the + master is usually referred to as the Gov. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. I see. (She turns to LORD LOAM.) You— + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (reappearing). Yes, I understand that is what they call me. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (to CRICHTON). You didn’t even take your meals with the + family? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. No, my lady, I dined apart. + </p> + <p> + (Is all safe?) + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (alas). You, girl, also? Did you dine with Crichton? + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (scared). No, your ladyship. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (fastening on her). With whom? + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. I took my bit of supper with—with Daddy and Polly and the + rest. + </p> + <p> + (Vae victis.) + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (leaping into the breach). Dear old Daddy—he was our monkey. + You remember our monkey, Agatha? + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. Rather! What a funny old darling he was. + </p> + <p> + CATHERINE (thus encouraged). And don’t you think Polly was the sweetest + little parrot, Mary? + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Ah! I understand; animals you had domesticated? + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (heavily). Quite so—quite so. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. The servants’ teas that used to take place here once a + month— + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. They did not seem natural on the island, my lady, and were + discontinued by the Gov.‘s orders. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. A clear proof, Loam, that they were a mistake here. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (seeing the opportunity for a diversion). I admit it frankly. I + abandon them. Emily, as the result of our experiences on the island, I + think of going over to the Tories. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. I am delighted to hear it. + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (expanding). Thank you, Crichton, thank you; that is all. + </p> + <p> + (He motions to them to go, but the time is not yet.) + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. One moment. (There is a universal but stifled groan.) + Young people, Crichton, will be young people, even on an island; now, I + suppose there was a certain amount of—shall we say sentimentalising, + going on? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Yes, my lady, there was. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST (ashamed). Mother! + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (disregarding him). Which gentleman? (To TWEENY) You, + girl, tell me. + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (confused). If you please, my lady— + </p> + <p> + ERNEST (hurriedly). The fact is—(He is checked as before, and + probably says ‘D—n’ to himself, but he has saved the situation.) + </p> + <p> + TWEENY (gasping). It was him—Mr. Ernest, your ladyship. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (counsel for the prosecution). With which lady? + </p> + <p> + AGATHA. I have already told you, Lady Brocklehurst, that Ernest and I— + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Yes, now; but you were two years on the island. + (Looking at LADY MARY). Was it this lady? + </p> + <p> + TWEENY. No, your ladyship. + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST. Then I don’t care which of the others it was. (TWEENY + gurgles.) Well, I suppose that will do. + </p> + <p> + LORD BROCKLEHURST. Do! I hope you are ashamed of yourself, mother. (To + CRICHTON, who is going). You are an excellent fellow, Crichton; and if, + after we are married, you ever wish to change your place, come to us. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY (losing her head for the only time). Oh no, impossible— + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (at once suspicious). Why impossible? (LADY MARY cannot + answer, or perhaps she is too proud.) Do you see why it should be + impossible, my man? + </p> + <p> + (He can make or mar his unworthy MARY now. Have you any doubt of him?) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Yes, my lady. I had not told you, my lord, but as soon as your + lordship is suited I wish to leave service. (They are all immensely + relieved, except poor TWEENY.) + </p> + <p> + TREHERNE (the only curious one). What will you do, Crichton? (CRICHTON + shrugs his shoulders; ‘God knows’, it may mean.) + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. Shall I withdraw, my lord? (He withdraws without a tremor, + TWEENY accompanying him. They can all breathe again; the thunderstorm is + over.) + </p> + <p> + LADY BROCKLEHURST (thankful to have made herself unpleasant). Horrid of + me, wasn’t it? But if one wasn’t disagreeable now and again, it would be + horribly tedious to be an old woman. He will soon be yours, Mary, and then—think + of the opportunities you will have of being disagreeable to me. On that + understanding, my dear, don’t you think we might—? (Their cold lips + meet.) + </p> + <p> + LORD LOAM (vaguely). Quite so—quite so. (CRICHTON announces dinner, + and they file out. LADY MARY stays behind a moment and impulsively holds + out her hand.) + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. To wish you every dear happiness. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON (an enigma to the last.) The same to you, my lady. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Do you despise me, Crichton? (The man who could never tell a + lie makes no answer.) You are the best man among us. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. On an island, my lady, perhaps; but in England, no. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Then there’s something wrong with England. + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. My lady, not even from you can I listen to a word against + England. + </p> + <p> + LADY MARY. Tell me one thing: you have not lost your courage? + </p> + <p> + CRICHTON. No, my lady. + </p> + <p> + (She goes. He turns out the lights.) + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Admirable Crichton, by J. M. Barrie + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ADMIRABLE CRICHTON *** + +***** This file should be named 3490-h.htm or 3490-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/9/3490/ + +Produced by Charles Franks, Ralph Zimmermann, the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team, and David Widger + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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