The scene shows the summer-house and platform
built in an oak-tree at “Ultima Thule.” The
stage, slightly raised, represents the platform.
In the right-hand corner is the summer-house,
built on branches a few feet higher than the
platform. The entrance to the platform is
through a square hole, reached by a ladder
from beneath. The tree, a vast, ancient, and
mossy oak, comes straight through the centre
of the platform, its branches spreading aloft in
every direction.
(Lady Patricia, in a loose and exquisite
costume, lies full length in a deck-chair,
reading aloud from some beautiful vellum
MSS. She is a woman of about thirty-five,
languid, elegant, exotic, romantic, and sentimental.
Beside her is a tall vase with
arum-lilies and a table with a samovar.
It is a late afternoon in May.)
Lady Patricia.
(Reading with fine feeling.)
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life shall I command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forebore—
Thy touch upon the palm——
(Ellis, the footman, enters carrying a tray
with a cup and saucer, and some sliced
lemon. Lady Patricia raises her hand
to command silence. He stands rigid.
She continues with scarcely a break:)
The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy hand in mine,
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee as the wine
Must taste of its own grape. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two....
(A pause; she repeats in a deep voice)
And sees within my eyes the tears of two ...
... the tears of two....
What is it, Browning?
(Ellis stands motionless; a pause; she looks
round at him.)
Did I call you Browning? How absurd! I meant
Ellis.... Oh, the tea! Yes, of course. Please
put everything near me on the table.
(She repeats dreamily) ... the tears of
two....
Ellis.
I beg your pardon, my lady?
Lady Patricia.
Nothing. I will look after myself.
Oh, Ellis....
Ellis.
Yes, my lady?
Lady Patricia.
You have brought only one cup.
Ellis.
I thought you were taking tea by yourself, my
lady.
Lady Patricia.
Please bring another cup.
Ellis.
Yes, my lady. And milk and cream, my lady?
Lady Patricia.
Milk and cream.... (After a dreamy pause.)
Yes, I am afraid so. But don’t put it on the table.
Hide it in the summer-house. And will you send
Baldwin to me?
Ellis.
Yes, my lady.
Lady Patricia.
(Turns over the pages of a MS., and then
reads with thrilling beauty.)
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me,
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress-tree.
Be green the grass above me,
With showers and dewdrops wet,
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain,
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain.
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise or set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
(With dramatic emphasis.)
When I am dead, my dearest——
(Enter Baldwin, a gardener of about seventy,
heavy, slow, phlegmatic.)
Baldwin.
(In spite of Lady Patricia’s raised hand.) Beg
pardon, m’lady?
Lady Patricia.
Sing no sad songs—— (Fretfully.) Oh,
Baldwin, what do you want?
Baldwin.
Mr. Ellis said as you wished to speak to me,
mum.
Lady Patricia.
Mr. Ellis?... Oh, yes, I remember now.
What is it I wanted to tell you?
Baldwin.
Mr. Ellis didn’t make mention, m’lady.
Lady Patricia.
How stupid of him! (She regards Baldwin
dreamily.) Baldwin....
Baldwin.
Yes, ’um?
Lady Patricia.
You ought to be very happy.
Baldwin.
Yes, ’um.
Lady Patricia.
Very happy. Because you are a gardener. I
can imagine no calling more beautiful. You are
the father of innumerable children, and they are
all lovely.
Baldwin.
Thank ’ee, m’lady. I’ve ’ad thirteen—and two
of ’em by my first wife.
Lady Patricia.
Thir-teen!... Good heavens, Baldwin, what
are you talking about?
Baldwin.
You made mention of my family, m’lady.
Lady Patricia.
Oh, but I meant the flowers you tend and rear.
The gillyflowers and eglantine, myrtle, rosemary,
columbine, and daffydowndillies. Not—how
strange and dreadful! Thirteen!
Baldwin.
I’ve ’eard tell that thirteen’s an unlucky number,
m’lady. But I ain’t suspicious.
Lady Patricia.
Suspicious?
Baldwin.
Yes, ’um. And if I was, fac’s won’t change for
the wishin’. Thirteen’s the number, and thirteen
it’s like to remain, seeing as Mrs. Baldwin’s turned
sixty-three.
Lady Patricia.
I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you’re
talking about.
Baldwin.
I——
Lady Patricia.
You needn’t repeat it.... Oh, I remember now
why I sent for you, Baldwin. I wonder if, without
hurting the beauty of the tree, you could open
a window to the sunset?
Baldwin.
Open a winder?...
Lady Patricia.
You don’t understand me? Let me put it
differently! I should like you to cut away some
of the foliage so that I can watch the sun dropping
behind the hills.
Baldwin.
Yes, m’lady. But——
Lady Patricia.
I know what you are going to say. When we
built this place in the tree, I gave you special
directions not to touch the western foliage as it
hid the view of Ashurst Manor, which I found
distressingly unsightly. Yes! But since my
aunt, Mrs. O’Farrel, has taken the house, it seems
to me far less offensive. Likes and dislikes are,
after all, so much a matter of temperament and
association! The former owner was an impossible
person.
Baldwin.
The Scotch gentleman?
Lady Patricia.
He was a Jew, Baldwin, though his name was
Mackintosh. I don’t wish to speak of him. When
you cut the foliage, please use restraint and feeling.
On no account disfigure the tree. Watch
from this spot the sun going down, and lop away
a little branch here and a little branch there, so as
to give me some perfect glimpses of gold and rose.
(Ellis enters with cup and saucer, milk,
cream, whisky, soda, and a tumbler.)
Baldwin.
Yes, ’m.
Lady Patricia.
(To Ellis.) What have you got there?
Ellis.
The cup and saucer and the milk and cream,
my lady. And I thought I had better bring
whisky and soda as well, my lady.
Lady Patricia.
I never told you to. I wish you wouldn’t be
so enterprising. Please hide it with the cream in
the summer-house. (Ellis does so.) So you
think I can safely trust you with this important
piece of work, Baldwin?
Baldwin.
Yes, ’m.
Lady Patricia.
Do it as soon as possible, as I shall often be
sitting here during these adorable summer evenings—
(Bill O’Farrel enters during the rest of
her sentence. He is a wholesome, typically
English young man of about twenty-six.)
—and I couldn’t bear to miss many sunsets like
yesterday’s.
Bill.
Patricia!
Lady Patricia.
(Without rising.) Bill!
Bill.
(Seizing her hands.) Patricia!
Lady Patricia.
Bill!... That will do, Baldwin.
Bill.
Quite well, Baldwin?
Baldwin.
Pretty middlin’, Mr. O’Farrel, sir, thank you....
Then it don’t matter showin’ up Ashurst
Manor, m’lady?
Bill.
(With a laugh, to Patricia.) Hullo! what’s
this?
Lady Patricia.
No, no, Baldwin! I wish to see it. It has
suddenly grown beautiful! A fairy palace!
Bill.
Great Scott!
Baldwin.
Yes, ’m. But——
Lady Patricia.
That will do, Baldwin.
Baldwin.
Yes, ’m.
Bill.
What’s this about Ashurst?
Lady Patricia.
I have asked Baldwin to cut away some of those
branches so that I can see it. I used to loathe the
sight of the house. Then your mother bought it,
and I liked it. I love it now that you have come
to stay there.... You may kiss me, Bill.
Bill.
May I?
(He kisses her forehead.)
Lady Patricia.
You may kiss me again.
Bill.
May I?
Lady Patricia.
You may kiss me again.
Bill.
Patricia!
Lady Patricia.
(Clinging to him.) Oh, how I’ve longed for this
moment—how I’ve longed for it!... All these
weary months I’ve lived in the past and future,
on memories and anticipations. Now, at last I
have the present—I have reality—you—to have
and to hold—you—you.... Kiss me.
Bill.
(Embracing her ardently.) Patricia!
Lady Patricia.
Hush! (Disengaging herself.) We mustn’t be
foolish.... Sit down.... (He sits at her
feet.) So you got my telegram?
Bill.
Directly the boat came alongside. But it took
me a deuce of a time to make out! My French is
a bit rusty, and the rotters had jumbled up some
of the words. As it is, I only made out the gist
of it—to take an earlier train from London than
I’d intended, and to call on you before going on
to Ashurst, as I’d find you alone in a summer-house
you’d built on some tree or other. The
twiddly bits of the message didn’t somehow seem
to make sense....
Lady Patricia.
The ... twiddly bits?
Bill.
Yes; something about a star in red water, and
horses with white manes. Couldn’t make it out
at all.
Lady Patricia.
That was a quotation from De Musset, my poor
boy.
Bill.
Great Scott! I thought it was a cypher. People
don’t generally quote poetry in their telegrams.
Lady Patricia.
I do.
Bill.
In any case, it seemed to me a bit rash of you
to send the wire at all—even in French.
Lady Patricia.
Oh, did it? As a matter of fact, I used French,
not to conceal the message, but because the language
seemed to me so beautifully appropriate
for making a clandestine meeting.
Bill.
By Jove! Fancy thinking of that!
Lady Patricia.
To sin beautifully is the less a sin. Don’t
forget, dear, that, however innocent, our love is
wrong. We should never neglect an opportunity
of ennobling it with little touches of beauty, should
we?
Bill.
Rather not!... So Michael’s away?
Lady Patricia.
Only this afternoon. He has gone to a garden
party at the Fitzgeralds’. Your mother’s there as
well. Everybody’s there. But I wanted to see
you for a little while before any one else, so I
sent you that wire and pretended a headache.
A petty deceit that avenged itself! For directly
I told it, I felt a slight twinge of neuralgia.
Bill.
Hard luck! But it’s better, dear, isn’t it?
Lady Patricia.
I suppose it is. But you mustn’t say “hard
luck.” My life, alas! is so full of deceits that
when one of them is punished, I always try to
be grateful. But tell me now, about yourself—everything
that has happened these last months.
Your letters have been too full of facts to tell
me anything. And I do so long to hear all your
news....
Bill.
Patricia....
Lady Patricia.
Yes, dear?
Bill.
What an awfully good woman you are!
Lady Patricia.
Am I?... I wonder!
Bill.
And your eyes are simply ripping.
Lady Patricia.
Are they?
Bill.
And your hands, by Jove!
Lady Patricia.
What of my hands, dear?
Bill.
They’re simply ripping.
Lady Patricia.
Dear heart! (Stroking his head.) Dear soft
hair. But I’m waiting.
Bill.
Oh yes, I forgot. But there really ain’t much
to tell that I haven’t told you in my letters.
I arrived in New York on a Saturday after an
awfully jolly passage. Those big Cunarders are
corking boats. Had a bit of a dust-up at the
Customs, but I squared the chap with a ten-dollar
bill. A chap on board advised me to put up at
the Waldorf-Astoria. He told me it was one of
their swaggerest hotels, but I must say——
Lady Patricia.
(Laughing.) Yes, yes, dear, you’ve told me all
that before! And about the nigger waiter whose
thumb was always in the soup—and the Californian
peach as big as a baby’s head—and the factory
that was burned down in Chicago—and the card-sharper
who tried to swindle you at poker, “but
he got hold of the wrong chap, by Jove!”—and
so many other thrilling details. (Almost with
passion, taking his face in her hands.) You darling!
Oh, you darling!
Bill.
I thought I’d told you everything.
Lady Patricia.
Of course you did—everything. (With far-off
eyes.) I wonder why I am so foolish as to expect
the essentials from you—those labourings of the
soul at midnight, yearnings, ecstasies, and long,
long thoughts under the stars. If you had been
capable of these I should never have loved you.
It’s just your simplicity and eternal boyishness
that took my heart. Poor Michael’s spiritual
nature, his dreams, his subtlety, his devotion, never
touched me deeper than the intellect. I mistook
sympathy for love—I seemed to have found a
kindred spirit—I married him. Yes! we are all
born to suffer and endure.... Which reminds
me, my poor dear boy, you must be dying for tea.
(Pouring out the tea.) I hope you had some
lunch?
Bill.
Rather! I had a luncheon-basket in the train,
and put away the best part of a chicken, among
other things.
Lady Patricia.
How young and hungry you are!
(Hands him a cup of tea with a lemon slice
in the saucer.)
Bill.
I say!...
Lady Patricia.
Yes, dear?
Bill.
Have you any milk or cream?
Lady Patricia.
(Sorrowfully.) Oh, Bill!...
Bill.
I can’t help it. This Russian mess ain’t a
Christian drink. I can’t think how you can
swallow it.
Lady Patricia.
I don’t suppose I like it any better than you,
dear. But the mixture of cream and tea, as I have
often told you, produces an odious colour—and I
refuse to encourage it. You should try to do
likewise.... However, you will find cream in
the summer-house.
Bill.
Right-ho! (Goes into summer-house.) Hullo!
Good man! Here’s whisky-and-soda. (Talking
in the summer-house, half to himself, half to her.)
That’s the stuff! Nothing like a syphonated spot
when one’s got a real thirst! No tea for me,
thanks.
Lady Patricia.
(To herself, smiling.) Dear babbler....
Bill.
(Coming down, a glassful in his hand.) Here’s
to you, Patricia!
Lady Patricia.
(In a deep voice, looking into eternity.) We
are all born to suffer, to endure, to renounce....
Bill.
Oh, well! I’ll drink that Russian stuff if you
like.
Lady Patricia.
I was not thinking of tea. I was thinking of life.
Bill.
(Unfeignedly relieved.) Yes, it’s an awfully
hard world. (Takes a long draught.) By Jove,
that’s clinking good!
Lady Patricia.
It becomes more and more difficult to play my
part, and return Michael’s love, which seems to
grow stronger and deeper day by day. His eyes
follow my every movement, his mind anticipates
my every wish, he surrounds me with an atmosphere
of passionate worship. Few women have ever
received such love. It is the love that poets dream
of—the love that must follow those marriages that
are made in heaven.
Bill.
Good Lord, it’s awfully rough on you!
Lady Patricia.
I think and I think and I think, but I can see
no solution to the mystery. Surely love is the
best gift of God, and that such love as Michael’s—so
noble, so pure, so unselfish—should be utterly
wasted, is inconceivable. It must be that I am
unworthy.
(She pauses expectantly.)
Bill.
And it puts me in such a rotten position. If
Michael treated you badly, I shouldn’t care a rap
how much I made love to you.
Lady Patricia.
(With slight asperity.) Can it be that I am
unworthy?
Bill.
As it is I often feel such a beastly cad....
Lady Patricia.
Then you think me unworthy?
Bill.
I?
Lady Patricia.
You never denied it.
Bill.
But I didn’t know you wanted me to! You’re
worthy of anything! You know that!
Lady Patricia.
Dear, dear boy! But am I? I wonder!
Heaven only knows how desperately I tried to love
him, and when I found it impossible, how I never
faltered in pretending a love equal to his. And
I knew that it would kill him should he learn
the truth. But if the part I played was difficult
before you came, after you came, and I knew what
love was, it was almost beyond my power. And
yet I drew strength somehow, not only to resist
temptation and keep our love pure, but never by
word, deed, or expression to let Michael suspect
for one moment that his devotion was not returned.
Yes! I think a woman who has done all this
cannot be altogether unworthy.
Bill.
You’re—you’re a saint—you’re an angel!
Lady Patricia.
Am I? I wonder!
Bill.
You really are!
Lady Patricia.
Dear, inarticulate boy!... And, Bill, remember
this. We have put our hands to the plough,
and there must be no turning back. The martyrdom
which must be lifelong has only just begun.
I feel I shall find strength to play my bitter rôle
to the final curtain. For I love renunciation,
endurance, and purity. They are such exquisite
virtues. And virtue is very beautiful.... But
you are made of more earthly materials, my poor
boy. Do you realise that your love must always
remain unsatisfied? Can you love me without the
faintest hope of more reward than a look, a touch,
a kiss?...
Bill.
That’s all right, Patricia. Don’t you worry
about me.
Lady Patricia.
But you are young and vigorous and passionate....
Bill.
That’s all right!
Lady Patricia.
I can only offer you the shadow; your nature
will some day cry out for the substance.
Bill.
Not it!
Lady Patricia.
Ah, if only I had the strength and courage to
bid you good-bye for ever!
Bill.
I shouldn’t go.
Lady Patricia.
Ah, Bill!...
(She invites his caress with a beautiful movement.
Kneeling beside her, he gathers her
in his arms and kisses her. At that
moment Baldwin enters, carrying a saw
and a pair of shears. They are blissfully
unconscious of his presence. He glances
at them with complete indifference, then
comes down looking carefully at the sky
on the right, his head dodging from side
to side as though he were spying for something
among the branches.)
Baldwin.
If you please, ’m....
(Bill, with an inarticulate cry, starts to his
feet.)
Bill.
What the devil are you doing here?
Lady Patricia.
(Calmly.) Well, Baldwin?
Baldwin.
If you please, m’lady, I thought as I ’ad best
watch the sun early. It’s close on six ’m, and I
thought as p’raps you’d like some branches lopped
’igher up. The sun’s a fine sight at six, mum—much
more light in it than a hour later, an’ it’s a
neasier job loppin’ they ’igher branches than them
out there, as I shan’t need no ladder.
Bill.
Quite mad!
Lady Patricia.
I don’t want to sit here and look at the sun
through a pair of smoked glasses. You may return
here when the sun is lower.
Baldwin.
Yes, m’lady. But——
Lady Patricia.
Go away....
Baldwin.
Yes, ’m.
Lady Patricia.
Very tiresome, isn’t he?
Bill.
I don’t half like the old ass catching us like
that.
Lady Patricia.
Catching us?
Bill.
Yes, fairly caught us in the act....
Lady Patricia.
Bill!
Bill.
Well, he must have seen me kiss you. I don’t
half like it.
Lady Patricia.
How very bourgeois you are!
Bill.
Well, I don’t know about that. But——
Lady Patricia.
Not bourgeois, then! No, no! Young and self-conscious!
Fancy getting red and embarrassed
because a gardener saw you looking affectionate!...
Dear, dear boy!... Now sit down again
and listen. I caught an impression of the sunset
yesterday, a few lines, but I believe they are
precious—not precieux—precious in the true sense
of the word.... Don’t you hate this modern
artistic jargon?
Bill.
Rather!
Lady Patricia.
Listen.... (She recites.)
A dreamy blue invests the lonely hill,
Far off against the orient green and cold;
Silence declines upon these branches old;
The level land is still;
The lofty azure deepens; faintlier glows
The delicate beauty of the sunset rose;
And pensive grey encroaches on the gold.
Tenderly coloured, are they not?
Bill.
Yours?
Lady Patricia.
Mine.
Bill.
Ripping!
Lady Patricia.
Ripping.... Oh, how unpleasant! Say that
other word instead.
Bill.
What word?
Lady Patricia.
I don’t quite know. Something to do with
bottles.
Bill.
Clinking?
Lady Patricia.
No.... Something to do with wine....
Bill.
Oh! you mean—corking.
Lady Patricia.
Yes, corking.
Bill.
Right-ho!
Lady Patricia.
Thank you, dear.... And so you like my
lines?
Bill.
They’re corking. And so’s your voice when you
read ’em.
Lady Patricia.
(Dreamily.) I write corking verses, and I read
them with a corking voice. (With passion.) Oh,
Bill! Oh, my dear——
Bill.
Yes?
Lady Patricia.
How I wish that you and I were alone on a
little island in the Ægean Archipelago!...
Hush! (The sound of a motor in the distance.)
Do you hear? A motor-car coming up the drive!
You can see if you look through the branches there.
(Points to the left.) Be careful, dear. Don’t let
any one see you.
Bill.
(Looking over the rail of the platform.) Great
Scott!
Lady Patricia.
Yes?
Bill.
It’s the mater’s car, and——
(The sound of the motor stops.)
Lady Patricia.
It’s stopping! Oh, Bill——
Bill.
The mater and Michael, and the Dean—and
who’s the jolly-looking girl?
Lady Patricia.
With a face like a naughty boy’s?
Bill.
Yes.
Lady Patricia.
That must be Clare Lesley. Michael has been
very kind to her lately. He is trying to give her
a serious view of life.
Bill.
I say, you don’t mean to tell me that’s Clare,
the Dean’s daughter? Why, I thought she was
a flapper!
Lady Patricia.
A flapper?...
Bill.
Yes. When last I saw her, a little more than a
year ago, her skirts weren’t much below her knees,
and——
Lady Patricia.
Flapper.... What a strange word! How do
you spell it? With a “ph”?
Bill.
No, with a double p. Hullo!
Lady Patricia.
What is it?
Bill.
They’re all coming here!
Lady Patricia.
No!
Bill.
They are, by Jove! The whole crowd. What
shall we do?
Lady Patricia.
Your mother and Michael mustn’t find you here.
You must fly!
Bill.
That’s all very well. But where can I go to?
They’re bound to spot me if I get down the steps.
Lady Patricia.
Oh, but can’t you climb somewhere up the tree
and hide yourself like a bird among the branches?
Bill.
What?...
Lady Patricia.
It’s the only thing to do. And so simple! And
so romantic!
Bill.
Yes, that’s all right. But supposing they see
me—what am I to say?
Lady Patricia.
Oh, anything! Use a little imagination....
Say you are looking for birds’ eggs. But they
won’t see you if you lie along that thick branch
up there.
Bill.
Birds’-nesting....
Lady Patricia.
I shall pretend to be asleep.
Bill.
Why?
Lady Patricia.
Why not?
Bill.
(Grumbling as he moves towards the trunk.)
I’ll look such a bally ass if they spot me....
Lady Patricia.
Bill!
Bill.
Eh?
Lady Patricia.
This glass mustn’t be found here.
Bill.
By Jove!
(He returns and takes hold of the glass, which
is half-full.)
Lady Patricia.
And the cup and saucer....
Bill.
Good Lord!
(He stands helplessly, the cup and saucer in
one hand, the glass in the other.)
Lady Patricia.
Put them into your pockets.
Bill.
But——
Lady Patricia.
Quick—quick! (He drinks the whisky.) Now
the tea. (He makes as though to throw it away.)
No! no! they might see or hear. Drink it.
Bill.
I really couldn’t.
Lady Patricia.
For my sake.
Bill.
(Gulping it down.) Muck! (Making for the
tree.) By Jove, they’re nearly here!
Lady Patricia.
(Pointing to the left.) I really must have
another ladder built on this side.
Bill.
I hope they won’t see me climbing.
(He starts climbing the tree.)
Lady Patricia.
Be small—for my sake....
(She composes herself elaborately into a sleeping
posture. Bill is seen disappearing on
high. Voices are audible beneath. A
pause.)
Bill.
(He has climbed out of sight.) I say....
Lady Patricia.
S-sh!...
Bill.
It’s all right. They’re standin’ about talkin’.
Can you see me?
Lady Patricia.
Where are you?
Bill.
Here.
Lady Patricia.
Oh, yes, I see....
Bill.
The devil you do! What part o’ me?
Lady Patricia.
Er—well—your—your back....
Bill.
Damn! Oh, confound this beastly cup and
saucer! They keep on rattling.
Lady Patricia.
Put the saucer in the other pocket.
Bill.
The glass is in the other pocket.
Lady Patricia.
Have you only two pockets?
Bill.
Hush! they’re coming.
(The voices approach. Lady Patricia arranges
herself, one hand supporting her
face, the other hanging over the side of
the chair lightly holding a manuscript.
Mrs. O’Farrel enters, followed by Clare
Lesley, Dean Lesley, and Michael Cosway.
Mrs. O’Farrel is a genuine, downright,
humorous lady of fifty-seven; Clare
Lesley, the Dean’s daughter, a pretty
girl of about twenty; Dean Lesley, a
clerical exquisite, who carries his sixty
years as lightly as his silver-knobbed stick
and monocle; and Michael Cosway, Lady
Patricia’s husband, a tall, serious man
of thirty-eight.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Out of breath.) Ah.... I’m green with
envy of you, Dean! You’re at least five years my
senior, and your wind is as sound as your doctrines.
Look at me! I can’t climb a tree without getting—what’s
the word, Clare?
Clare.
Punctured.
Dean.
My dear child!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Scold me, Dean, scold me! I meant the word,
but hadn’t the pluck to say it.
Michael.
And how do you like our little eyrie, Mrs.
O’Farrel?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Charming, Michael, charming! It’s quite worth
getting—getting—give me the word, Clare.
Clare.
Winded.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Laughs and pats Clare’s cheek.) Yes, it’s
quite worth getting punctured—and winded—to see
the view from here, Michael. How like you and
Patricia to think of such a piece of arboreal sentimentality!
Now whose idea—— (Perceives Lady
Patricia for the first time.) Why, Patricia!
(Michael with an exclamation rushes to Lady
Patricia’s side. Clare looks bored.)
Dean.
Delightful!
Michael.
S-sh.... She’s asleep....
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Asleep! I should think she was, for my strident
voice not to awake her!
Clare.
Perhaps she’s shamming.
Dean.
My dear child!
Michael.
(In a solemn whisper.) We must be very careful
not to wake her. She had a bad headache this
morning.... See how she leans her cheek upon
her hand!
Dean.
I would I were a glove upon that hand!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Dean!
Clare.
Shocking!
Dean.
And why? I love all that is beautiful with all
my senses.... And why shouldn’t I?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Because such youthful depravity makes me
envious again.
Dean.
Pardon me, my dear lady, I remember you far
too well as a girl to believe that even now—
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Hastily.) Michael!... Will you and Clare
take the car and meet Bill’s train? It won’t take
you ten minutes; I’m too comfortable to move at
present. Besides, we must have the place to ourselves,
the Dean and I, as he is becoming indiscreetly
reminiscent. Bring Bill back with you
here, and he and I will drive home together....
You don’t mind?
Michael.
I shall be delighted.
Clare.
I’m not surprised you want to get rid of me,
pater, if you’re going to talk about your gay youth.
You must have been an awful rip.
Dean.
Really, Clare!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
It was my gay youth your father was threatening
us with.
Clare.
You must have been a dear then, as now!...
(She kisses Mrs. O’Farrel impulsively, and
goes out past Michael. Michael follows
her, turns and comes back with a twig
of oak in his hand. He gives it to the
Dean.)
Michael.
Will you kindly keep the flies off Patricia’s face
while I’m away?
Dean.
Oh, delighted! Delighted!
(Michael goes out. Mrs. O’Farrel looks
with amusement at the Dean, who stands
with the twig in his hand glancing quizzically
at her and longingly at Lady
Patricia.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
When duty and pleasure are combined, there’s
no reason to hesitate. I saw a fly settle on
Patricia’s chin.
Dean.
Happy fly!
(He tiptoes up to Patricia and starts
fanning her and daintily examining her
through his eyeglass. Mrs. O’Farrel
puts up her lorgnette and regards them
with vast amusement. Suddenly a rotten
branch falls from above on to the platform.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Lorgnetting upwards.) How very strange!
And not a breath of wind!
Dean.
(Monocling upwards.) Merely a squirrel. I
believe I caught sight of its tail.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
I hope the tree’s not rotten. I’m considerably
heavier than a squirrel!
(She goes over to the Dean.)
Dean.
Oh, softly, please....
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Laughing.) Softly yourself!
Dean.
(Pointing to Patricia.) Did you ever see the
like?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
What are you talking about?
Dean.
The wonder of this sleeping woman. Was there
ever anything more beautiful?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
I thought you knew better than to praise one
woman to another.
Dean.
Oh, but you are not another! You are Eileen
who, ever since I met her in short skirts, have
been the fairest of all.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Fiddle-de-dee! I’m old and ugly!
Dean.
No woman can ever be old and ugly—you least
of all.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Charming old humbug! Well, I agree with you—Patricia’s
certainly ornamental.
Dean.
The pose, my dear lady, the pose! Unstudied
grace of abandonment, artless perfection! Perfection
as a whole, perfection in detail! Consider
the right hand: so blissfully burdened. Consider
the left: still clasping some poem only less exquisite
than itself. The eyelids are faintly blue—surely
with the sky of a delicate dream. From
head to foot every curve is a lyric—from head—I
should like to see her foot.
(He looks sadly at her covered feet.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Haven’t you the courage?
Dean.
I beg your pardon?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
To look at it.
Dean.
Mrs. O’Farrel!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Well, if I admired her feet as much as you do,
I shouldn’t hesitate.
Dean.
But supposing she woke and found me—er—er—
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Arranging her skirt?... My dear man, I
know Patricia; she would gladly show you several
inches of her ankle.
Dean.
Eileen, you’re a wicked woman!
(They move to the other side of the platform.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
And you’re a scandalous example of clerical
depravity!
(Lady Patricia looks cautiously over her
shoulder at them, yawns, and pretends to
sleep again.)
Dean.
Tut, tut, tut, my dear!... Eileen, do you
know why I went into the Church?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
You thought it a convenient cloak for your
peccadilloes.
Dean.
Out of sheer gratitude to my Maker for creating
woman.... Eileen, why did you refuse to
marry me?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
There must be at least half a dozen flies on
Patricia’s face.
Dean.
Never mind the flies—it’s their turn for the
moment.... Why did you refuse me, Eileen?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Because my love for you made me a blind fool!
I misunderstood your admiration for women. I
thought your homage of every girl you met, personal—not
universal, as I learned too late—a
superb compliment to the whole sex. Dear friend,
I repented in sackcloth and ashes! Not that
O’Farrel wasn’t a good fellow, every inch of him.
He made life very happy. But life with you—well,
I missed it!
Dean.
Will you marry me, Eileen?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
No.
Dean.
Why not?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
I’m far too old for a boy like you.
Dean.
Is this final?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Final.
Dean.
Ah!... Your companionship would have
been so good for Clare. A tactfully restraining
influence....
Mrs. O’Farrel.
I doubt it. I’m too much in sympathy with the
child.
Dean.
But you wouldn’t encourage her to tell every
one she meets—including the Bishop—that she is
an Atheist, or ride astride through the town without
the formality of—er—divided skirts....
Mrs. O’Farrel.
No—perhaps not. (She lowers her voice.) I
should first of all put a stop to her galavantin’
about every other day with Michael.
Dean.
Really, my dear Eileen, I think the friendship
between Michael Cosway and Clare is wholly
charming and can only do the child good. Surely
you don’t——
Mrs. O’Farrel.
No, of course I don’t! Michael’s far too infatuated
with your sleeping beauty there. Still, I’d
put a stop to it. And then I should marry your
daughter to Bill with indecent haste.
Dean.
Eh, what? Your son? Dear me!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Why shouldn’t they marry? They are obviously
kindred spirits.
Dean.
I don’t know your son sufficiently well to—er——
Mrs. O’Farrel.
A thoroughly healthy, young animal....
You’ll meet him in a moment. I hear the
motor....
Dean.
How quick they’ve been!... Marry them!
Dear me!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Now then, Mr. Dean, to work!
Dean.
I don’t quite——
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Patricia’s flies! If Michael catches you idling!
Dean.
Now, fancy my forgetting it!
(They both laugh. He hurries back to Lady
Patricia and starts fanning her. Voices
are audible beneath.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Looking over the railing.) But where’s Bill?
(She hurries towards the entrance and calls down.)
Have you people dropped my only son out of the
car?
(Clare enters, followed by Michael.)
Clare.
He never turned up!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Nonsense! He wired from Southampton
that——
Michael.
S-s-sh! You might wake Patricia!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Oh, confound Patricia!
Clare.
But——
(Suddenly a saucer falls from above on to the
middle of the platform. They all are
startled and Patricia sits up with a cry.)
Dean.
Dear me!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Well, I never!
Michael.
What on earth!
Clare.
There’s some one up the tree!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
The squirrel.... (Looks at the Dean.)
Dean.
Most awkward....
Michael.
Don’t be alarmed, Patricia. (Sternly.) Who
are you, sir? What are you doing there? Come
down at once.... Do you hear me, sir?
Bill.
(Still invisible to the audience.) All right—I’m
coming....
Clare.
There he is, Mike! I see his leg!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(To herself.) Mike? Hm!
Michael.
Bill!
Bill.
(From aloft.) Hullo!
(Astonished exclamations of “What!” and
“Bill!”)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Bill?
(Bill comes into sight descending the trunk.)
Bill!
(Bill reaches terra firma. He smiles, embarrassed,
from one person to the other.)
Bill.
How are you, mother? How-de-do, Mr. Dean?
How-de-do, Miss Lesley? How’s yourself, Michael?
Lady Patricia.
And have you no greeting for poor me, Cousin
Bill?
Bill.
Oh, I say, I’m awfully sorry! How-de-do,
Cousin Patricia?
Mrs. O’Farrel.
But what on earth were you doing up the tree?
Bill.
Birds’-nesting.
Mrs. O’Farrel, Michael, Dean.
Birds’-nesting?
Clare.
(Gravely.) And you took a saucer up with you
to put the eggs in?
Bill.
Oh, did I?
Clare.
Of course. It’s the usual thing to do when you
go birds’-nesting. Didn’t you always take a saucer
with you as a boy, Mr. Cosway?
Michael.
I can’t say I remember doing so.
Clare.
So long ago that you’ve forgotten? I’ve read
somewhere that when they look for ostrich-eggs
in America they take soup-tureens.
Bill.
I say ...!
Michael.
There are no ostriches in America.
Clare.
Then I wonder why they look for ostrich-eggs.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
(Laughing.) Do stop talking nonsense, Clare!...
Really, Bill, I’m curious to know quite a
lot of things. Why did you take an earlier train?
Why did you come here? Why did you climb up
the tree with a saucer? Why did you let Michael
and Miss Lesley fetch you at the station? And
why did you remain in the tree while the Dean
and I—er——
Dean.
Talked over old times together.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Talked over old times together. It’s all rather
mysterious.
Dean.
Unusual....
Bill.
I dropped a rotten branch.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Quite so. And the Dean thought a squirrel had
done it.
Bill.
Oh yes, you caught sight of my tail!
(He goes into a shout of lonely laughter.)
Mrs. O’Farrel.
That’s all very well. But what was your idea
in playing such a prank? It seems to me rather
childish.
Dean.
Primitive....
Michael.
Very.
Clare.
Quite.
Lady Patricia.
(With disarming vivacity.) Oh, my dear, dear
friends, why do you take this so heavily? Surely
a charming piece of boyishness! May I tell them
what happened, Cousin Bill? I saw through the
whole thing at once.
Bill.
I’m sure you did.
Lady Patricia.
He so longed to see his mother that he came
down by an earlier train.... Didn’t you,
Cousin Bill?
Bill.
That’s right.
Lady Patricia.
But when he arrived he found she had gone to
a garden party. He was so disappointed....
Weren’t you, Cousin Bill?
Bill.
That’s right.
Lady Patricia.
Did you learn to say “that’s right” in
America? It sounds so successful.... When he
found his mother was out, he thought he would
come and see Michael and—me. Michael had gone
to the garden party, but he was told that I was
here. He found me asleep....
Clare.
(Imitating Lady Patricia’s voice and manner.)
And he kissed me—didn’t you, Cousin Bill?
(Bill goes into a shout of long and lonely
laughter.)
Lady Patricia.
(In a pained voice.) He found me asleep.
I had not been feeling very well....
Michael.
Are you better, my darling?
Lady Patricia.
Thank you, Michael dear, a little better....
He found me asleep. He was thirsty, poor fellow!
So he helped himself to tea. Providentially, Ellis
had brought two cups. Then he saw you all
coming, and thought it would be “such jolly fun”
to climb up the tree and drop a saucer....
Didn’t you?
Clare.
—Cousin Bill.
Lady Patricia.
He had meant to do it at once. But he couldn’t
resist the joke of letting Clare and Michael fetch
him at the station. And when they had gone he
simply had to wait till they came back again—or,
perhaps, the Dean and Aunt Eileen were so enjoying
each other’s company, he hadn’t the heart to
disturb them.... Then Clare and Michael
returned, and he thought the joke had gone far
enough.
Clare.
So he threw a saucer at us.
(Bill indulges in a third lonely laugh.)
Michael.
(Shortly.) Crown Derby....
Bill.
Sorry.
Lady Patricia.
Isn’t that more or less the true story, Cousin
Bill?
Bill.
I say, what an awfully clever woman you are!
Lady Patricia.
Am I?... I wonder!
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Clever at writing verses, Patricia. But prose
fiction’s not in your line. (Patricia smiles pityingly
and examines her rings.) Bill we must be
off. There’s barely time to dress, and some people
are dining with us to-night.
Bill.
All right, mother. (He goes to Clare.) I say,
Miss Lesley, when last we met you had long hair.
Clare.
(Gravely.) I still have long hair, Mr.
O’Farrel.
Bill.
Oh, but what I meant was——
Lady Patricia.
(To Clare.) Your father tells me you are
dining with us, Clare. I’m so glad!
Clare.
If you don’t mind me in this dress, Lady
Patricia. Mr. Cosway has promised to show me
the—er—what’s its name?
Michael.
The spiral nebula in Andromeda.
Bill.
How much?
Michael.
A cluster of minute stars in the constellation of
Andromeda. I say stars designedly. For I differ
from many authorities in believing this nebula to
be irresolvable or gaseous. Indeed, the remarkable
observations of Sir William McKechnie leave
no doubt in my mind that this so-called nebula is
an external galaxy. In which case——
Bill.
Oh, help! So you still rot about with a telescope,
Michael?
Michael.
(Coldly.) I am greatly interested in astronomy.
Bill.
(To Clare.) You, too?
Clare.
I like the stars....
(She turns loftily from him and talks to Mrs.
O’Farrel and Michael.)
Lady Patricia.
(To the Dean.) I’m so sorry! (To Clare.) I
was trying to persuade your father to stay with
you, Clare. But he’s bent on putting finishing-touches
to to-morrow’s sermon.
Michael.
(To the Dean.) I’ll see Miss Lesley home, of
course.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Can we drop you at the Deanery?
Dean.
It’s very kind of you.
Mrs. O’Farrel.
Come along, Bill. Good-bye, all!
(She goes out. The Dean shakes hands with
Lady Patricia and follows her.)
Bill.
(To Patricia, in a low voice.) I’ve left the
cup and glass up the tree. (Aloud.) Good-bye,
Cousin Patricia.
Lady Patricia.
Good-bye, Cousin Bill.
Bill.
Good-bye, Clare.
Clare.
(Haughtily.) Clare?
Bill.
Yes. (To Michael, in passing.) Sorry about
the saucer. Good-bye.
Clare.
Cheek!
(He goes out. A pause. Voices are heard
below and the sound of a departing motor.
Michael waves good-bye.)
Lady Patricia.
(Stretching out her arms.) Michael!
Michael.
(Putting his arms about her.) Patricia! And
the poor head is really better, darling? I’m so
glad you were able to sleep!
(Clare looks at them with bored contempt,
shrugs her shoulders, goes to the tree, and
starts climbing up it during the following.)
Lady Patricia.
And my sleep was full of dreams, Michael.
Strange and mystic dreams—oh, and such beautiful
dreams! For they all led up to a vision of
my dearest’s face.
(Clare has vanished aloft.)
Michael.
Heart of my heart!
Lady Patricia.
Soul of my soul!
Michael.
Patricia....
Lady Patricia.
Michael....
(Baldwin enters unnoticed with his saw and
garden shears. He stares fixedly up the
tree.)
Michael.
One night I shall find a new star in the depths
of the sky——
Lady Patricia.
One day I shall write a poem that will ring
down the ages——
Michael.
And the star shall be called Patricia.
Lady Patricia.
And the poem—Michael.
Michael.
(Lingering on the word.) Patricia!
Lady Patricia.
(Lingering on the word.) Michael!
Baldwin.
Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but there be summin’
white movin’ about up the tree.
Lady Patricia.
Baldwin!
Baldwin.
It a’most looks to me as though a young lady ’ad
climbed up the tree, sir.
Michael.
What on earth——!
Clare.
(Shrilly from above.) Don’t you dare to look
up here, Baldwin—nor you, Mi—Mr. Cosway! If
there’s something white to be seen it’s certainly
not for you to look at! (Baldwin continues
stolidly looking up.) D’you hear me, Baldwin?
Oh! Tell him to turn his head somewhere else.
Michael.
Baldwin!
Baldwin.
Yessir?
Lady Patricia.
But, my dear child, what are you doing there?
Clare.
Birds’-nesting.
Michael and Lady Patricia.
Birds’-nesting!
Clare.
I don’t believe there’s a nest here at all. He was
simply kidding us.
Baldwin.
If it’s h’eggs you’re wantin’, miss, there’s a rare
lot of ’em in the ivy up at the ’ouse. Sparrers—drat’em!
Lady Patricia.
(To Michael.) What an amazing young
creature! (To Clare.) But you’ll ruin your
frock, my child.
Clare.
I can’t help that. I mean to find out whether
there’s a nest here or not. Besides, I simply
couldn’t hang around while you and Mr. Cosway
were canoodleing.
Lady Patricia.
(Puzzled.) Canoodleing?
Clare.
Spooning.
Lady Patricia.
How very vulgar you can be!
Clare.
Can’t I!
Lady Patricia.
(Shrugs her shoulders and speaks to Michael
with a plaintive languor.) I think it would be
very pleasant to dine here, Michael. I’ll go indoors
and change into something warmer.
Michael.
You’re not cold, my love?
Lady Patricia.
No, no, dear, no. But I might be later on.
(To Baldwin, who has been staring fixedly into
the branches.) What are you doing, Baldwin?
Baldwin.
It’s main ’ard to keep a h’eye on the sun, m’lady,
an’ mine ain’t no longer w’at they was. Might I
arst, mum, if the sun’s ’bout right for loppin’ off
they branches?
Michael.
Lopping off the branches?
Clare.
(From above.) Oh! I’ve found a cup!
Michael.
A cup!
Clare.
And a glass!
Michael.
A cup and a glass!
Lady Patricia.
(Languidly.) Oh, I suppose Cousin Bill left
them up there. You needn’t trouble to bring them
down, Clare. Baldwin can fetch them.
Clare.
He seems to have been doing himself uncommonly
well. I daresay I shall find plates, knives and
forks, napkins and finger-bowls. What ho!
Michael.
(To Lady Patricia.) Has that fellow gone
quite off his head?
Lady Patricia.
(Going out.) Bill? Oh, no, dear! Oh, no!
It’s only youth—youth will out! Beautiful rose-white
youth!
(She gives him her hand to kiss, and he looks
after her with a fatuous smile so long
as she is in sight. Then you hear her
singing below:)
When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green,
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen,
Then, hey! for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away!
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog its day!
(Michael turns slowly from the railing,
heaves a deep sigh, and stands with
clenched hands, rigid, looking straight
before him with tragic eyes. The beautiful
voice grows fainter in the distance.
The sun is westering on the right, and
sheds a golden light on the scene. Baldwin
stands staring out into the sunset.)
Clare.
(From above.) Mike!
Michael.
Yes?
Clare.
Has she gone?
Michael.
Yes.
Clare.
Mike.
Michael.
Yes?
Clare.
Why is she like a collar?
Michael.
I don’t know.
Clare.
Because she’s always round your neck.
Michael.
(With clenched hands.) Oh....
Clare.
You and she are enough to make a saint ill.
You ought to have more tact than to spoon about
in public. (Michael stands rigid.) Mike.
Michael.
Yes?
Clare.
Sulky?
Michael.
No.
Clare.
What’s up, then?
Michael.
Nothing.
Clare.
I’m coming down. There’s not a nest to be
seen anywhere. By Jove, I am in a mess! It’s
all your fault for driving me up a tree with your
disgusting billing and cooing.
Michael.
(Hoarsely.) Don’t....
Clare.
Sorry. (Michael makes a movement.) No,
no! Stay where you are! And don’t look up
here. Oh, damn!... Sorry! But I’ve torn my
frock and ripped open the hooks behind. All your
fault.
Michael.
You shall have another frock.
Clare.
Thanks.
Michael.
Two frocks.
Clare.
No—one and a pinafore. Oh, confound this
branch!... I think the pater would draw the
line at two frocks.
(She descends into view, and jumps on to the
ground. She is sadly dishevelled, her
gloves filthy, her dress all open at the
back, and with a great tear at the side
of the skirt.)
At last!... Hullo, Baldwin, I thought you had
gone....
Baldwin.
No, miss.
Michael.
What are you doing here, Baldwin?
Baldwin.
The mistress’s orders, sir. I was to keep a
h’eye on the sun.
Michael.
(Mystified.) Keep a h’eye on the sun? What
do you mean?
Baldwin.
’Er ladyship said as I was to keep a h’eye on
the sun, so as to lop away the branches.
Michael.
I don’t understand in the least what you are
talking about. Come back later on.
Baldwin.
Yessir. But the mistress’s orders——
Michael.
Yes, yes—another time. I’m busy now.
Baldwin.
Yessir....
Clare.
(Exhibiting the damages in her dress.) And
now perhaps, sir, you will keep a h’eye on me,
while I show you the result of your ’andiwork!
Michael.
My dear child!... But in common fairness,
you can’t put all the blame on me.
Clare.
Well, I shan’t say anything more at present,
since you’re going to give me a new frock. (Looking
at her hands.) Oh, dear! I wish it were
gloves.
Michael.
(With fascinated eyes.) A dozen pair....
Clare.
All right—five and three-quarters. Now then—pins.
Michael.
Pins?
Clare.
Yes, pins. Look alive!
Michael.
(Going.) I’ll be back in a moment.
Clare.
No, stay here. Your tie-pin will do for one.
I’ve a safety-pin here (fiddling at her waist),
and another somewhere in my collar.... Bring
a cushion here.
Michael.
A cushion?...
Clare.
(Still searching for her pins.) Yes—a cushion.
(In a dazed way he fetches one from Lady
Patricia’s chair.) Put it down.
Michael.
The cushion?...
(He stands helplessly holding the cushion, then
puts it back, on the chair.)
Clare.
Don’t play the giddy goat, Mike! Put the
cushion on the ground.
Michael.
Oh, yes—yes, of course.
(He places it at her feet.)
Clare.
Kneel down.
Michael.
Eh?
Clare.
Kneel on the cushion. I want to spare your
old joints.
Michael.
Oh....
(He kneels with a mirthless laugh.)
Clare.
Now we’ll see if you’re worth your keep. Here
are two safety-pins. Make that tear look respectable.
Michael.
But——
Clare.
If these safety-pins aren’t enough, use your
tie-pin.
Michael.
(Setting to work.) Very well.
Clare.
I shall want you afterwards to fasten up the
hooks behind.... (A pause.) How are you
getting on?
Michael.
All right, thanks.
(He works at her skirt for a moment in
silence.)
Clare.
(Abruptly.) What’s that boy like?
Michael.
What boy?
Clare.
Bill O’Farrel.
Michael.
He’s given you a fair specimen of himself in
the silly prank he played just now.
Clare.
Oh, that seemed to me rather a sporting thing
to do.
Michael.
A sporting thing!
Clare.
Yes. To make an utter ass of himself, and then
carry it off with a string of lies. How are you
getting on?
Michael.
(Surveying his handiwork.) I think that looks
better.
Clare.
It’ll have to do, anyhow.... Now for the
hooks. (Michael sets to work at the back of
her dress.) Begin at the top. I daresay some of
the eyes have got torn. I gave the dress an awful
wrench on the tree. Do the best you can....
Oh, don’t fumble about like that!
(Michael’s hands tremble as he works. A
pause.)
Michael.
(In a low voice.) Clare....
Clare.
Well?
Michael.
I love you....
(A long pause. He stares with breathless
expectation at the back of her head. She
looks straight before her.)
Clare.
Have you finished all the hooks?
Michael.
The hooks?... I—I beg your pardon....
(He goes on with his work for a time in silence.)
Are you angry with me?
Clare.
I don’t know.
Michael.
You must have known for some time that I
loved you.
Clare.
(Turning on him.) Then why do you always
annoy me by making love to—to your wife when
I’m there? (Michael still kneels on the cushion,
looking up at her with abject eyes.) Why don’t
you speak?
Michael.
Clare——
Clare.
(With a sudden burst of laughter.) Oh, get up
from that cushion! You don’t know what a fool
you look! (Michael gets up with a pained
expression and stands staring tragically before
him. A pause. She speaks in a gentler voice.)
Well, Mike?
Michael.
Since I have spoken so much and done you
wrong and Patricia wrong, I must tell you all and
throw myself on your mercy.... When I
married Patricia I sincerely believed I loved her.
She seemed to me a kindred spirit—with her sensitive,
beautiful nature. I found out too late that
love depends as often on mutual difference as
mutual sympathy. My love for her never went
deeper than the intellect. Oh, the tragedy of it!
She is such a fair, white soul, and so worthy of
my whole love!...
Clare.
If you don’t love her, why do you pretend to?
Michael.
Can’t you see—can’t you see I have no alternative?
Patricia’s love for me is unearthly in its
depth and intensity. She worships me, little as
I deserve it. If for one moment she thought my
love had slackened, that moment would be her
last. You don’t know how sensitive she is....
Do you suppose, Clare, I enjoy playing this dreadful
game? But I must—it is my duty. I have
sworn to love and cherish her.
Clare.
(After a pause, going up to him.) Michael,
how long have you loved me?
Michael.
Almost since first I met you, you wild thing!
You soul of youth and incarnation of the morning!
(He looks longingly down at her.)
Clare.
Oh, you poor old thing! (She looks up sideways
at him.) Mike, you may if you like.
Michael.
Clare....
Clare.
Get it over soon. (He bends down and kisses
her reverently, then turns away from her with
tragic eyes.) Didn’t you like it?...
Michael.
But the wrong I am doing you, and the wrong
I am doing Patricia....
Clare.
But if Patricia doesn’t know and I don’t mind,
I don’t see where the wrong comes in.... Do
you?
Michael.
(Taking her hands.) Do you love me, Clare?
Clare.
I don’t know.... Yes, I think I do. You’re
such a solemn old donkey!... Michael, if I
love you, will it really make you a happier
man?
Michael.
Happier? Oh, my dear, with the knowledge of
your love I should be able to endure anything!
Clare.
Even Patricia?
Michael.
Hush, Clare, hush!... Patricia’s is a pure
and delicate soul. It is I who am unworthy, since
I cannot return her wonderful love.... Little
girl, do you understand that this love of yours
may bring much suffering into your life? I
can never, by word or deed, change my attitude
towards Patricia—never! She must never know
that I do not love her.... And what of us?
Our love must stand alone in the world. It must
be something wholly pure and noble and self-sacrificing—the
love that asks for nothing, that
hopes for nothing—the love of the angels that
neither marry nor are given in marriage....
Do you realise all this?
Clare.
Yes.... You see, Mike, I always believe in
platonic love.
Michael.
(A little doubtfully.) Platonic....
Clare.
Well, platonic lovers do kiss each other now and
then ... don’t they?
Michael.
(Solemnly.) I believe they do.
Clare.
And, Mike....
Michael.
Well?
Clare.
I don’t want you to give me that frock.
Michael.
But——
Clare.
Or the gloves.
Michael.
But why not, Clare? I don’t understand....
Clare.
Don’t you, old boy? Neither do I. But I’d
much rather you didn’t—now.
Michael.
Surely, dear——
(Lady Patricia’s voice is heard speaking
beneath.)
Clare.
Hush!... And I’m going home now. Don’t
try to prevent me, like a good chap. And I want
to walk back alone.
(Lady Patricia emerges speaking to Baldwin,
who follows her.)
Lady Patricia.
We’ve come just at the wonderful moment, Baldwin.
All the west is a ritual of gold. (She has
a wrap over her of a wonderful sunset hue and a
white lily in her hand.) Here’s poor Baldwin
deeply grieved because he’s shooed away every
time he gets to work!
Michael.
He didn’t seem to be doing anything particular,
dearest, when I sent him away.
Lady Patricia.
But, Michael——
(Baldwin, with his shears and saws, crosses
to the right and examines the sunset.)
Clare.
Don’t you remember he was keeping a h’eye on
the sun?
Lady Patricia.
But, Clare! What a dreadful state you’re in!
Clare.
I know. Your trees are shockingly dirty. You
really ought to get Baldwin to scrub them with
soap and water!... Lady Patricia, I hope you
won’t think me very rude if I run away. I had
quite forgotten it was father’s sermon night when
I accepted Mr. Cosway’s invitation to dinner. I
always help him with his sermons.
Lady Patricia.
You, my dear child!
Clare.
I verify the quotations and prune the adjectives....
Then you’ll forgive me?
Lady Patricia.
Sweet girl! (She strokes Clare’s unwilling
face.) I’m very sorry, because I’m going to do
such a wicked and decadent thing at dinner. You
see this lily? So virginal and nun-like! I am
going to put her into a glassful of wine and make
her tipsy.
Clare.
Oh!...
Lady Patricia.
You must come some other evening. We are
both so very fond of you.
Clare.
Good-bye. Good-bye, Mr. Cosway.
Michael.
Are you sure you don’t want me to come with
you?
Clare.
Quite, thanks. Good-bye.
Lady Patricia.
She seems to be in a chastened frame of mind.
Michael.
Perhaps she’s not quite well.
Lady Patricia.
(Holding out her hands to him.) Michael....
Michael.
(Taking her hands.) Dearest!
Lady Patricia.
It will be just—just you and I!
Michael.
You and I, Patricia!
Lady Patricia.
You needn’t stay, Baldwin.
Baldwin.
(Who is still staring into the sunset.) Beg
pardon, mum?
Lady Patricia.
You needn’t stay.
Baldwin.
But if you’ll excuse my sayin’ so, mum, the
sun——
Lady Patricia.
Another time, Baldwin.
Baldwin.
Yes, ’m.
Lady Patricia.
Just you and I, Michael.... Kiss me.
Michael.
(Kissing her.) Just you and I.
Lady Patricia.
You and I and the sunset....
(End of the First Act.)
