The Project Gutenberg eBook of Four Short Plays, by Florence Eveleen Bell (Lady Bell).

CONTENTS
THE STORY OF RACHEL , play in one act
KIRSTIN , dramatic sketch in three scenes
THE PARACHUTE , comedy in one act
A SECOND-CLASS DUKE , comedy in one act.

Rachel [ continuing conversation as the curtain goes up ]. Don't you agree with what I'm saying? I'm sure men are like that. Will, do you mean to say you don't agree?

Rachel. I know quite well what it means when a man says in that way [ imitating his tone ]—'Yes, I daresay,' and goes on reading. It means you're not thinking of what I'm saying—you're thinking of nothing but the paper.

Carteret [ still looking up and down the columns ]. Well, there are very interesting things in the paper.

Rachel. Of course there are. And it's still more interesting trying to guess which of them are true. [12] But still it is rather boring that you should be reading the newspaper while I'm talking.

Carteret. Absolutely and entirely. Even when you talk unceasingly when I'm having a quiet read and smoke before dressing for dinner.

Rachel. Anyhow, you'd have to be interrupted soon, because you must go up when the clock strikes, and see Mary in bed.

Carteret [ laughing happily ]. Yes, the little monkey. I should never hear the end of it if I didn't. She's a tremendous tyrant, isn't she.

Carteret [ smiling ]. Like her mother, I daresay. Apt to talk when her husband's reading.

Carteret. You see, men don't want to be taking their souls to pieces perpetually as women do, to see what they're made of. [13]

Rachel. But it is so interesting to do it, even if one's afraid of what one finds there.

Rachel. Oh, yes. There are times when I'm thinking of things, when I'm all over the place. I can't help it.

Rachel. Well, as I said, I've been thinking—and I see that in heaps of ways men and women are so different.

Carteret. That's a very profound remark. Don't get beyond my depth, Rachel, pray.

Rachel. Will, you horrid old thing! But I don't care for your laughing at me. I'll go on. Men are so simple ——

Rachel. Sometimes. Men take things and people for granted so much more than women do—sailors I do believe especially, are made like that. You take things for granted; you like everybody; you believe in everybody.

Carteret. Well, my experience has shewn me that you come fewer croppers in life if you believe in people, than if you're suspicious of them. It may be an illusion, but that's my experience.

Rachel. I wonder?… And there is another great difference. Women—so many women—are cowards; afraid, always afraid.

Rachel. Of all sorts of things. I was full of terrors when I was a child. Not only of robbers and ghosts, of absurd things that never happened, but of people, who were cross or unkind … of everything. And then I was left by myself, and I was poor, and had to earn my own living. It was dreadful. [14]

Carteret. Well, that's all over. You needn't think of it any more. I'll take care of you, never fear. Nothing and nobody shall frighten you now.

Rachel. Oh, I know. I've always felt what a rock of defence you were ever since that first evening, when we had broken down in the motor and you stopped yours beside us in the dark.

Carteret. And found you, the pretty little governess, by the side of the road with the son of the house! having broken your employer's motor. By George, you looked frightened then. I don't think I ever saw a more woebegone little object than you were, standing there huddled together, looking as if you were trying to escape from the lights of the motor.

Rachel [ shuddering ]. Yes, those horrible lights that would keep blazing away all round us, and oh, I did so want to hide, to sink under the earth, never to be found again!

Carteret. Come, come, it wasn't as bad as that: though I must admit it was pretty awful when we had to go back and face your infuriated employer.

Carteret. I think she had a case, mind you! Going out for a joy ride with her son at that time of night in her car!

Rachel. Oh, the rapture of that moment when you stood up for me, and then, when you found out you had known my dad!

Rachel. I can hear you saying it now, 'Tom Farrar, my old shipmate.' Oh, the relief of it! the relief!

Rachel [ recovering herself ]. But we needn't think about it; and you were there, and you brought [15] me back with you, and then, as they say in the fairy tales, we married and lived happily ever after.

Carteret. Except that I had to go off to the Cape directly afterwards. Good Lord! How I used to laugh at the other men on board, when they were wanting to go ashore to see their wives and babies, or to come back home when they were aboard. I used to think what fools they were; but they weren't. I was the fool all right. And now I know better—I have done just the same. And after getting that splendid ship I was so proud of, and after always saying that I would not take a shore-going job for the world, I jumped at this job at the Admiralty just to be near you and Mary, and, oh, I am so glad I did.

Rachel [ musingly ]. Mary—Mary—[ she says the name twice ]. How I love that child! I love her absurdly, fiercely. If I tried to love her more I couldn't. I have sometimes a wild sense of the joy of having her that makes me afraid of fate…. [ She speaks on in a more ordinary tone ]. Men aren't like that, I daresay.

Carteret [ smiling ]. No, I don't believe they are. They just love and love their child, that's all.

[ Rachel sitting looking before her — Carteret leaning back in his chair looking up at ceiling; not at her ].

Carteret. That night, at Simonstown, that I got your telegram saying the child was born, that you had a daughter—it was so wonderful, so impossible to understand. That night I remember, after I knew, I went for a blow on the quarter deck quite late, before [16] turning in—in the sort of dark it is out there when the sky is deep purple and the huge stars are blazing in it like holes opening into glory—and I kept saying to myself, A child! I have a child—my child! I really believe for a while I was almost mad. It seemed to me that the plash of the sea, the choppy little waves beating against the gangway ladder were answering me, were saying the same thing, too—my child! Life had changed in that hour. And I wondered if I could go on waiting, waiting for the moment when I should be with you both. I didn't tell any of them about it out there. I didn't trust myself. I didn't know what I should say if I began to speak of it.

Carteret [ trying to hide his emotion ]. I believe I should, for once. Good old Tom! I was with him when he died in the East. He would have been glad to know I had got his little girl out of a scrape.

Carteret [ still smiling ]. Now, Rachel, were you in love with that young Thornton?

Carteret [ smiling, but sighing too ]. Yes, boy and girl. I suppose when there are young people together that sort of thing happens.

Rachel. Oh, don't say it in that tone. You don't mean to say you're jealous of him—because he was young? [17]

Carteret. I'm not in a book, and that sort of thing isn't good enough for me. [ Goes on in an ordinary tone ]. I wonder what became of Thornton. Have you ever heard anything of him?

Rachel. You find me on the road in the dark with a young man. How do you know I was not running away with him?

Carteret [ smiling ]. Well, if you were, you weren't doing it very successfully. To tell the truth, there were so many things to think of that night after fettling up the motor and taking you back, that I hadn't time to wonder what you were after. [ A pause ].

Rachel. As a matter of fact, I have heard something about Jack Thornton—he's dead.

Rachel. I saw it in an evening paper six weeks ago. It was a night you were away inspecting at Portsmouth or something. I meant to tell you. It was a horrible story. He was in East Africa—he went there to farm—he was one of a party who had a skirmish with some natives—they had quarrelled about something and he and another Englishman were killed.

Rachel [ impulsively ]. I was not, very—I couldn't bear to think of all that time he had been mixed up in. No, when I heard that he was dead, it [18] was a relief. I don't want to be reminded of him—to be reminded of all that time. Oh, Will, if you knew what the sense of security and happiness is of being married to you. I do love you.

Carteret. I'm very glad to hear it. Look here; confess you weren't in love with me when we married.

Rachel. But I was as quick as I could. Before we had been married a month I adored you.

Carteret. Of course I do. Oh, Rachel—I wonder if you know the absolute trust I have in you. How I love and reverence you more than I can put into words, and how I wonder every day at the great gifts that have come to me from you and the child. My life is overflowing with happiness—and when I think of those lonely days when I was going ahead thinking I had got all I wanted, and I had nothing!—darling, I must try to be worthy of it all.

[ He stands up by her. She holds out her hand to him. He takes it in both his, then they part as the maid comes in with a letter. Carteret takes it, looks at it, and throws it down on the table ].

Rachel [ speaking very lightly as the maid goes out ]. Nothing for me; how dull the evening post always is. [19]

Carteret [ trying to open the letter ]. And then the brutes stick it down so that you can't get it open.

[ She throws him the paper-knife and leans back idly, comfortable in her chair. Carteret takes the knife and cuts it open ].

Carteret [ reading the name at the top of the paper ]. It's from Threlfold and Bixley, solicitors. They're—[ then he looks at Rachel as though hesitating to speak the name suddenly ]—Jack Thornton's solicitors.

[ Rachel aghast stands up transfixed — Carteret is so full of the letter that he doesn't look at her ].

Carteret. Listen! 'Dear Sir—We have to inform you that we have received from East Africa the will of our late client, Mr John Thornton, deceased, in which he instructs us that a third of the fortune he acquired there, is to be assigned, on her twenty-first birthday, to Mary Carteret, his [ he is going to turn over the page when Rachel rushes forward with a shriek ].

Rachel [ beside herself ]. Wait, wait! don't turn over! wait—stop—I want to tell you something—first—say you won't look—

Carteret [ amazed ]. Rachel! [ Getting up ]. [20] What is it? You are not well! Is it hearing about this so suddenly? [ He makes a movement. She thinks he is going to turn the page ].

Rachel. Don't, don't! you promised, you promised you wouldn't. I want to tell you what is on the next page before you read it—I know how it goes on—'Mary Carteret his—child!'

Rachel [ compelling herself to speak less wildly; with concentrated utterance ]. Mary Carteret is his child—Jack Thornton's child. Yes! Mary—is—Jack Thornton's child.

Carteret [ seizing her wrists ]. It isn't true! [ She stands silent ]. Is it true?—is it?

[ Carteret has the letter in his hand still. He looks at the bottom of the page he has read and turns it over with shaking hands, and reads what is on the next ].

Rachel [ almost beside herself ]. Now you know it's true. You see yourself what it says.

Rachel [ petrified, looks at him, her lips forming the words, almost in a whisper ]. Doesn't say so! [21]

Rachel [ gives a smothered cry ]. Oh! It's not in the letter—and I told you—I myself….

Carteret [ with a sudden impulse of hope ]. Rachel, I still don't believe it. You don't know what you are saying.

Rachel. Yes, yes, I tell you, it's true—and I've told you— I did—if I hadn't, you wouldn't have known.

Carteret. What—it is true then! and that is all you can think of—that you needn't have told me—that if you had not, you could have gone on pretending….

Carteret. Happy—you could have lived with that lie in your heart and have been happy?

Rachel. The lie was buried—he was dead—I was safe [ wringing her hands ]. We were happy, we should always have been happy now he is dead.

Rachel. Oh, women are afraid. All these years I have been so terrified—so haunted by terror—till I knew he was dead. Then—then—I thought I was safe. I used to think—suppose—suppose, you ever came to know it! I tried to tell you, at first, I did, indeed, but my heart died at the thought…. And then when I fell in love with you and saw how desperately you cared for Mary—

Rachel. I couldn't—and then, I thought it was [22] in the letter—and you'd see it, and so I told you—I told you.

Carteret [ looking at the letter and reading ]. 'His god-child'—is that true?

Carteret. A lie, too, like all the rest? Oh, my God! [ He sits down and buries his face in his hands ]. And if the letter hadn't come I should have gone on being fooled to the end. You had better have told me, Rachel, before we married. I should have done exactly what I did—I should have married you all the same.

Carteret [ stopping her ]. No, you needn't go on with that now. I shouldn't have had those illusions—I shouldn't have had that dream of love and pride in—in the child, but I should not have had this ghastly awakening. Good God! that night that I told you about just now—the night I first heard—I've never told another human being about that night of revelation, of knowing what it meant to have a child—and it was all a lie. It was none of it true. She's not mine—I have no child—she's a child without a name.

Rachel [ fiercely, in an agony of apprehension ]. No, no! I won't have you say that! She has your name, your splendid name—Will, you're not going to take it from her? You're not going to make her suffer for something she had no part in?

Carteret. Am I likely to make a child suffer? Do you understand me as little as that—it is not the child who will have to endure—

Carteret. No. You shall not go from here. I must have the truth—all you've kept back—the whole of this damnable story.

Rachel. They were all so unkind to me there—when I was the governess. [ She stops. ]

Carteret. Do you understand that you are not going from here till you have told me?

Rachel [ looking wildly round her ]. Oh, when you look like that I feel I have no one!

[ Rachel waits. He takes down her hands. She looks up at him, then makes up her mind and begins again.

Carteret [ bitterly ]. Yes, you had to marry someone…. [ Rachel looks at him imploringly ]. Go on to the end.

Rachel [ with an effort ]. He was going to East Africa. He was to sail next day, and I was going with him. We were going up by the late train to be married in the morning, and we meant to leave the car at the station with a letter to his parents—and then the car broke down by the roadside—and you came, and the next day he sailed…. Now you know it all.

Carteret. Yes, that sounds like the truth at last. I know that I have dragged the truth from you bit by bit. My God! I was far enough from it that night when I thought I was protecting an innocent little girl who was being bullied by her employer. You called me simple just now—I was simple indeed.

Rachel. Yes, you were simple and trusting and wonderful—you say you would have married me all the same if I had dared to tell you. I know you would. It would have been like you—like your greatness and goodness. But, oh, how could I tell you—how could I! Oh, Will, you say you could have forgiven me then—can't you forgive me now?

Carteret. Forgiveness! What does forgiveness matter, if there's no belief when trust has gone? Rachel, I believed in you as I believe in my Redeemer. You knew I did. What was in your thoughts, this very evening was it, or was it another lifetime? when I [25] told you how I trusted and reverenced you? Did you feel nothing but mockery at the success of your deceit?

Rachel. No, no. I thought when you were telling me, what a great pure heart you had, how I would try to be worthy of you.

Carteret [ with a bitter laugh ]. Worthy of me! by letting me believe every day of our lives something that was false, false; something that had never been. Oh, I can't bear it.

Rachel. Don't let her suffer! Oh, don't let suffering come to her, let me have it all.

Carteret. You have it all? Is that what you think? Suffering is round us all everywhere like the darkness.

Rachel [ looking round her as if terrified ]. The darkness! Will, I'm so frightened—you have been my shelter, my rock, my love. Help me now! Help me! I cannot do without you!

Carteret [ without looking at her ]. You need not be so frightened. I will always shelter you—you—and your child….

Carteret [ as she slowly turns away, puts out his hand, the other still covering his face ]. Poor little Rachel! [26]

KIRSTIN.

In Scene 1, at a remote sheep farm in Queensland at the end of the 19th Century .

Between Scenes 1 and 2, fifteen years elapse .
Between Scenes 2 and 3, a night .

Scene I. : Outside Thwaite's sheep farm in Australia . A double wooden railing at back runs the whole length of stage, supposed to be continued behind house — L. part of the house is seen—wooden house with veranda . Thwaite leaning against railing smoking a pipe C. Merton R.C. on wooden seat, wooden table beside him C. He is arranging, strapping, etc., a wallet or satchel. [30]

Merton. There now, I think everything's ready. There's one strap more somewhere [ looking round ]. I must have left it in the house. And then I shall have to say good-bye. How can I thank you, Mr Thwaite, for all you have done for me! [ Thwaite , unsmiling, smokes on in silence ]. The way you took me in when you found me dying and let me stay under your roof all these weeks—

Merton. Good Lord! What an escape! I can't think how it was I didn't die, when my horse pitched me off on to my head and left me senseless. I should have died if you hadn't found me, and no one would have been the wiser.

Thwaite. It was the gal. She would have it we ought to pick you up, but I was in a hurry with some sheep in the cart going to Banooga.

Thwaite. And you didn't seem to be. But the gal, she thought you were. So I said, 'Well, if there's room for him and the sheep too, I'll take him along—But what'll we do with him next?' 'Well,' she says, [31] 'I'll look after him.' And I says, 'You've your work to do, remember.' You can understand, Mr Merton, that if a man has a sheep farm in this country, that's his job. His sheep must come first. You don't want no dead men along.

Thwaite. Well, it was just the lambing time, and Kirstin had to look after the ewes. Lucky it were a healthy season.

Thwaite [ scornfully ]. Wonderful? What's there wonderful in it, a strong, healthy gal like that? I'd be ashamed if she didn't know what a farmer's daughter's got to know—about dipping the sheep, washing 'em, and shearing, and breaking a horse, and riding him bareback round the boundary. She'd need to be ashamed if she couldn't. And she can use her eyes and her ears. There's nothing she can't see or hear, that gal. Oh, any woman can learn to work if you just make her.

Merton. I shall think of your life out here, Mr Thwaite, when I'm back in London.

Thwaite. No, no, you won't, young man. Nothing of the kind. You won't be thinking of us, no more than we shall be thinking of you. I shall be thinking of my sheep, and you—well, whatever folks do think of in London.

Merton. I shall have to think a great deal about my job. I'm going to be a doctor, and it's uphill work at first. But my uncle is a successful doctor, and that will be a help.

Thwaite [ sombrely ]. Yes, I'm an Englishman. My father was a Yorkshire farmer; my mother was a Scotch woman. I quarrelled with him and ran away from home and I went to Liverpool. And the captain of a steamer going to Sydney took me on as cabin boy, and on board there was an Australian sheep farmer. And he brought me to his sheep run—and afterwards I married his daughter, and he died, and I went on with the sheep farming. That's my tale.

Thwaite. I never went back. I never knew my mother. She died when I was born. Kirstin, she never knew her mother neither.

Thwaite [ smokes reflectively ]. Mebbe, mebbe. But she's no need of a mother. I've learned her what she'd need to know, and though I says it, she's been brought up by an honest man to earn an honest living in honest ways. And that's enough for anyone.

Thwaite. I don't know—but if she did, want 'd be her master. [ Passes his hand along the railing ]. There's that fence going again. I believe the wood's rotting. Kirstin! [ Kirstin comes out of the house with a strap in her hand ]. Look at this place in the fence—it's rotting. That's bad.

Kirstin [ looking at it ]. Yes, I know. There's some more going the same way, further up.

Thwaite. Well, you'd better go round and see where the places are; it'll have to be looked to.

[ Thwaite goes on looking at the fence and passing his hand along it . Kirstin gives the strap to Merton .]

Merton. Oh, thank you so much. [ Tries to put strap round bag ]. I'm afraid it's about time for me to be off.

Merton. Have you done that besides everything else? I'm not going to try to thank you for it all—

Thwaite. No, I wouldn't. If the mare is saddled, you'd best be mounting, you've got a long way to go. [34]

Kirstin [ looking at him struggling with the strap ]. You want another hole there. Here, let me. [ Taking the strap and pulling out a knife ].

Thwaite [ looking impatiently at Kirstin ]. Well, I'll be stepping, Mr Merton. I'm rather busy to-day.

Merton [ smiling ]. I'm so sorry, Mr Thwaite—this is the last time I shall interrupt the farm work.

Thwaite. I'll be going on. Kirstin, you follow me down there away—when you're ready [ rather sarcastically ].

Thwaite [ interrupting him ]. Now don't start thanking me again! Good-bye, and don't break your neck this time.

Merton. It's no use saying it over and over again, but I do want you to believe how grateful I am to you for saving my life.

Merton [ half to himself, looking round ]. It's so queer when you're leaving a place. It looks different, somehow. [35]

Merton. Why, to find you and your father here miles away from anyone, leading this life.

Kirstin. The same thing? No. There's the feeding to look after in the winter, and the lambing in the spring, and the shearing in the summer—

Kirstin. March and April? Those are our beautiful autumn months. Oh, how odd. When do your lambs come, then?

Kirstin. I don't believe anyhow there was a school near enough. Father learned me to read, and I write a bit too, but not very well. [ Smiling ]. I've [36] always worked with the sheep ever since I can remember. When I was little I used to drive them in and see if any were missing.

Kirstin [ surprised ]. Oh, no; but I knew them all one from another and could tell which was gone.

Kirstin. Do I? But then [ quite simply as though asking the question ] perhaps you know things in London that we don't know out here?

Merton [ smiling ]. Perhaps we do…. I shall think of you when I'm back in my London home.

Kirstin. You needn't to wonder that—I've told you what we'll be doing all the year round.

Kirstin. Content? I've never thought about it. Oh, yes, I suppose I am. I've always been content up to now.

Merton. But when you read stories about other [37] kinds of lives, doesn't it make you want to see something else?

Kirstin. I'm not much of a reader. Father has some books put away but I don't care about it.

Merton [ laughing ]. Well, I didn't think such people existed. This place will seem a dream to me when I get back.

Merton. Yes, you and your life here, and looking out and seeing wide pastures, and the palm trees, and the eucalyptus instead of seeing plane trees dropping their leaves on the London pavements. Oh! to see a wet plane leaf shining in the lights of London! There's no place like it after all. And now I'm going back to it.

Merton. Well, all Londoners do. I'm a Londoner, you see—I was born and bred there, just as you were born and bred here.

Kirstin. Of course, yes. Mr Merton, you said you'd think of us when you was away. I'd like to think of you too, and what you was doing in London, if you could tell me what it's like.

Merton [ smiling ]. Well, it's rather difficult to tell you—it's all so very different. For one thing, when I look out of my window in London, I see the wall of somebody else's house, instead of a wide expanse like this.

Merton. Scores! Hundreds! Thousands! of houses wherever you go, wherever you look. [38]

Kirstin. Oh! painted on every house—like a brand! It must be very difficult to count up to so many thousands.

Merton. That depends. Sometimes there are fifty, sometimes two hundred and more. My house is 147.

Merton. But the number won't be enough. You must remember the street too. The street I live in is called Devonshire Street—so that if you want to know where to find me, it's 147 Devonshire Street.

Merton. I'll write it down for you [ takes out his pocket-book, tears out a sheet and writes on it ].

Merton. Yes, I'll write it very clear. There now, you can't mistake it—Henry Merton, 147 Devonshire Street, London. So when you come to London, Kirstin, don't forget. Look, I shall write that down too—to remind you! [ writing ] Come to London, Kirstin, don't forget.

Kirstin [ looking at it ]. Yes, that's very clear. I can read that. [ Reads ] 'Henry Merton, 147 Devonshire Street. Come to London, Kirstin, don't forget.' I shan't forget, but I shan't come to London. [39]

Merton. Who knows? Perhaps by the time you come, I shall have got on in the world.

Merton. Oh, Kirstin, you are too delightful! It means … well … it means—it's rather difficult to explain.

Merton. Um—not altogether! Something of the kind perhaps. It means getting on in the thing you're doing. I'm going to try to be a successful doctor.

Merton. Not always. But a great many people come to him to be cured and give him money whether he cures them or not.

Merton. Oh, well, it'll come all right, I daresay, when I'm back in London and can start work.

Thwaite. You had better. Well, Mr Merton, I suppose you'll just be about starting? [ Evidently waiting for Merton to leave ]. [40]

Merton [ laughing ]. So sorry I'm still here, Mr Thwaite. I'm really going now. I've been telling Kirstin what London is like.

Thwaite. She won't find that very useful, I expect. The boy's got your mare at the door. I'll come and see you off.

Merton [ turning back to Kirstin ]. Good-bye, Kirstin. Once more, thank you. [ Kirstin looks up at him with a little smile ].

Merton goes out, followed by Thwaite . Kirstin remains alone. She stands quite still for a moment, her left hand on the fence, looking in the direction they have gone in. She leans forward and gives a little wave of her hand, then turns round facing the audience, and leaning with her back to the railing, her two hands on it behind her. Thwaite comes back .

Thwaite. Well, now we shall get some work done. What are you standing gaping there for? Where's that ewe?

Scene : Dr Merton's rooms in Devonshire Street—a room with a deep bay window at back. Room empty as curtain goes up. Enter Merton , with hat on. He takes it off and throws it down, flings himself into a chair by table. [41]

Merton. Oh, dear, I'm tired! [ Sees a letter lying on table, opens it, smiles ] 'Next week'…. [ sits reflecting a moment, evidently with pleasure, hands behind his head, then takes up letter again and reads it. Begins writing as though answering the letter to which he refers, then rings handbell on table. ]

Mrs Plant. Yes, sir? [ she waits ]. It wasn't about the soup being cold, sir? For it was, there's no denying it. But then you did keep your dinner waiting to-night.

Merton. Yes, the soup was cold as a matter of fact—and I did keep dinner waiting—but that's not what I have to say.

Mrs Plant. It does seem too much really for you to come in so late, sir, and then have to go out again after dinner. Your uncle, Dr. John, he never liked doing that.

Merton. I don't like it either. But that's what a doctor's life is like—to be sent for at all sorts of hours. It would be worse, you know, if I were never sent for at all.

Merton. I rang for you to say first that I shall be going into Surrey to-morrow for the day probably.

Mrs Plant [ impressed ]. Indeed, sir—with the Countess? Oh! indeed . You would see a letter that the Countess sent round by hand just after you went out.

Merton. Yes, I've seen it. It's about the journey. It's rather a difficult place to get to, it seems.

Merton. And I also wanted to say to you that I am thinking of making a change in my arrangements—[ he hesitates ].

Merton [ hesitates ]. I was going to tell you—the fact is I am thinking of marrying.

Mrs Plant. No reason at all, sir—on the contrary—but I thought perhaps you was too comfortable to marry, so to speak. Of course, Dr John, he always said he thought it better for doctors to marry, though he didn't carry it out himself, as it were.

Merton [ rather impatiently ]. Well, it's my marrying I'm talking about—and I'll tell you when I come back from Scotland who it is.

Mrs Plant. Thank you, sir. The Countess's daughter is a very nice young lady, isn't she—Lady Betty?

Mrs Plant. Of course, sir, her ladyship—I mean the lady you are going to marry—will want to make changes in the household?

Mrs Plant. No, sir. To tell the truth, sir, I shouldn't be sorry to have another maid instead of Jane. Jane's so excitable at times—she's quite a trouble.

Mrs Plant. Just as you like, sir. Dr John, he always liked to look forward, as it were.

Mrs Plant. I hope it's not one of those poor people patients—they're the worst. At nearly ten o'clock at night, it's really a shame.

Merton [ hesitating ]. I'd rather not, unless it's someone who is really ill. Go and see who it is.

[ Mrs Plant goes out R. to answer door . Merton goes on writing his letter at the writing table. After a moment Mrs Plant comes in and closes door ].

Merton. She's some sort of impostor, I suppose. You shouldn't have let her in. Bring her in, then, and I'll send her away.

Merton. Now, my good woman, what do you [44] want? It's rather late, you know, to consult a doctor.

Kirstin. I've not come to consult you, Mr Merton. [ He looks at her bewildered ]. Don't you know me again? [ She smiles ]. [ He looks at her trying to remember ]. Don't you remember me in Australia?

Merton. Kirstin!… [ he holds out his hand ] I'm—I'm—very glad to see you.

Kirstin. Do you remember you said 'Come to London, Kirstin.' You wrote it down, and where you lived.

Kirstin. My father died five years ago, and I was left alone and I've run the farm ever since. Then I thought I'd come.

Kirstin. It was a business. I rode sixty miles from Banooga to the railroad, and then I got into the train and went to Brisbane and then on to a ship to London. Oh, we was such a long time on the sea. And then after I got off the ship in the river I asked the way here and I walked.

Kirstin. Yes, it took me a good bit of time. I believe I've been wandering round and round. There's so many people and things everywhere that I was sort of mazed. At home I'd know my way by the stars [ she smiles ] but here they don't seem no use to me. [45]

Merton. Well, now you must sit down. You must be very tired. [ She is going to sit on a small chair ]. No. [ He motions her to an armchair ]. That's more comfortable. [ He draws forward the armchair ].

Kirstin. Oh, I don't mind for that—I'm used to a wooden settle at home, you remember.

Merton. Yes, I remember. [ With a sudden thought ]. When did you have anything to eat?

Merton. Good heavens, you must be starving. [ Puts out his hand to the bell, then pauses ].

Kirstin [ smiling ]. Not as bad as that. I'm used to being out for long stretches.

Kirstin. Thank you. I won't say no. Oh, I'm so glad I've got here! I thought I never should.

Merton. Kirstin, where are you … [ stops — hesitates ]. What are you going to do next?

Kirstin. You see, I have no one to please but myself now that father's gone. He died five years ago, and I worked hard ever since and made money, and saved up. I sold my sheep, and when you was with us you told me you weren't rich, and wanted more money, so I thought I'd come to London and bring you some. [46]

Kirstin. Yes, it's in here [ lifting bundle from round her neck and putting it on table ]—all in £10 notes. I tied them up in bundles myself. And I've never left it off me till this minute, night or day. A rough fellow nearly got it away from me on the road to the railway, but I soon sent him about his business. [ Taps her pocket and shows end of revolver ].

Merton [ gasps — tries to recover himself ]. It's very good of you, Kirstin, to bring it to me, but—but—I can't take that money, you know. I really can't.

Kirstin. You can't take it! But you must—it's for you—that's why I worked for it all the time—for you to have it and be rich. I've got plenty for myself. I don't want it—I've got a lot sewn into my belt.

Merton. Of course they do—but I can't take that . But I'll explain it to you in the morning. Now [ passing his hand over his forehead ] I'm—you're—too tired. I'll tell my housekeeper to take you up to a bedroom and give you something to eat. [ Rings ].

Kirstin [ after he has rung ]. Can't you explain now? I'm not tired really. I'm never tired, and nothing matters now that I've got here. Oh, I was so afraid I shouldn't!

[47] Merton [ nervously ]. Mrs Plant, will you get the spare room ready, please.

Merton. Yes, for Miss Thwaite, whom I knew in Australia. She … has come to visit me.

Mrs Plant [ still addressing Merton ]. I could bring some tea and bread and butter, if that would do.

Merton. Perhaps, Kirstin, you'd like to go now with Mrs Plant, and she will show you your room and take you some tea there.

Kirstin [ surprised and embarrassed ]. Yes—if you'd like me to go now. [ She stretches out her hand towards the bundle ].

Merton. It's rather a risk to leave that about. Hadn't Mrs Plant better lock it up in the safe? [ He is about to hand it to Mrs Plant ].

Kirstin [ snatching it hastily ]. No, no—I'll keep it for the night, thank you.

Merton. Yes, of course. [ Mrs Plant is standing at the door, waiting for Kirstin to go out ]. Good-night then, dear Kirstin. Mrs Plant will see that you have everything that you want. [48]

Kirstin. Thank you. [ Mrs Plant is entirely unresponsive ]. [ Then to Merton as she goes out ] I can't hardly believe that I'm here.

[ Merton looking worried and anxious comes hastily into the room and takes up his letters that are lying in a pile, evidently having come by the morning post . He looks through them as he stands. Enter Mrs Plant ].

Mrs Plant [ stands silent for a moment; he looks up, then goes on with his letters ]. Might I speak to you for a moment, sir?

[49] Mrs Plant. It's only that I don't know what to do for the best. [ Merton has sat down and is cutting open his letters, throwing things into waste-paper basket, etc ]. If it were only for one night it wouldn't matter so much.

Mrs Plant. It's about the spare room, sir. At least—at least—Jane's in such a state.

Mrs Plant. She's been so dreadfully frightened because she went into the room and that—person—pointed a revolver at her. [ Merton looks up quickly, perturbed ]. And now she is shrieking and carrying on so that I am afraid people will hear her in the street.

Merton [ dashing his letters down ]. Shrieking? What hysterical fools women are. Where is she?

[ Merton goes out hastily and angrily . Mrs Plant alone, listens. Shakes her head. A ring at the door. Mrs Plant goes out to open, leaving door open. Then comes in again. ]

Lady Gairloch [ smiling, to Mrs Plant ]. We've come very early, I fear. Will you tell Dr Merton that we are leaving for Scotland to-day instead of to-morrow, and we have come in on our way to King's Cross as I wanted to explain something to him about his journey when he comes to us next week? Is he very busy? I won't keep him a moment.

Lady Gairloch. Oh, don't disturb him. We have a few minutes to spare. We are a little earlier than I thought.

Betty. Surely we saw enough of him during Mary's illness to know him very well indeed, and after all, since he saved my sister's life I ought to be grateful to him, and perhaps something more. [ Smiling ].

Lady Gairloch. Yes, I suppose he did save her life—at any rate she got well when he was attending her.

Betty. Oh, mother, of course he saved it. And how delightful he was all through that anxious time.

Lady Gairloch. Because I do feel that by asking him to stay at Gairloch we are giving him an answer.

Lady Gairloch [ with a smile and a sigh ]. Well, no one will be able to say it's a brilliant marriage, or a worldly marriage.

Betty. I'm not a worldly person. Nor is he, I am sure. There is nothing small or mean about him.

Betty. I believe my dear father would have [51] wanted me to be happy whatever kind of marriage it was. Come, darling mother, don't have any more misgivings. I feel as certain of myself as—that the sun is shining in at that window!

[ Lady Gairloch smiles and kisses her. They go towards the window at the back, into which the sun is shining ].

Betty. Even the view from Devonshire Street looks passable on such a morning as this!

[ As they are standing at the back window looking out, so that the door in front room is hidden from them , Merton bursts in, followed by Jane ].

Jane [ violently ]. I've always been used to be respectable, sir, and I won't stay, not another hour, in the house with that female as you brought in to sleep last night. And then her trying to shoot me dead when I went into the room! I leave your service to-night, sir, and I won't stay where there are such goings on.

Merton [ furious ]. Look here, if you want to go, go to the devil! and be damned! Not another word will I hear. [ He pushes her out and shuts the door, turns back into the room ]. Damn it all! What shall I do?

[ Lady Gairloch and her daughter look at one another, horrified. They come forward. Merton starts on seeing them, and stands rooted to the ground. He recovers himself and speaks in his usual tones ].

Merton. Lady Gairloch! I didn't know you were here. I ought to have been told. I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. [ He shakes hands with her, and then with Betty ]. Won't you sit down?

Lady Gairloch. Oh, thank you, we really have hardly a moment [ they remain standing, embarrassed ]. We came in on our way to King's Cross to [52] tell you about the cross-country journey to Gairloch. Your housekeeper said you were speaking to somebody and that you would be here directly. So I told her not to disturb you. [ A pause ].

Merton. I'm afraid you must have heard that very unpleasant scene I had with one of my maids.

Merton [ attempting to speak lightly ]. It's rather difficult sometimes for a bachelor to deal with his household.

[ Looks smiling at Lady Gairloch , who also smiles, but looks uncomfortable. He is standing with his back to the door. It opens slowly while he is speaking and Kirstin stands in the doorway . Dr Merton sees Lady Gairloch looking at the door. He turns round and sees Kirstin . She comes forward a step and looks at Merton with an appealing smile ].

Merton. Oh, Kirstin—[ then he turns to Lady Gairloch ]—This is Miss Thwaite who came last night. Kirstin, I am sorry, I'm very much engaged just now, would you mind going to your room again till I call you? [ Goes and opens the door. Kirstin goes out silently, looking at him as she goes . He comes back into the room—an embarrassed silence ]

Merton [ hesitating ]. Yes, I knew her in Australia. She arrived in England yesterday, and she came here for the night.

Merton. Very—she comes from the wilds, you [53] know. [ Talking as though to cover his embarrassment ]. She's quite uncivilised, really.

Merton [ catching at suggestion ]. No, I don't think she is quite right—that's the difficulty.

Merton. It really is. To tell the truth I was utterly taken aback when she appeared—I was rather horrified, in fact. [ Making up his mind ]. It's rather a long story—[ Enter Kirstin ].

Kirstin. You needn't to send me away again. I'm going off myself. But first I want to tell you that I've heard what you was saying. I didn't know where to go as your housekeeper was upstairs—and so I just waited in the passage and I couldn't help hearing what you said. I have terrible good ears, as you know, and I heard you tell these two ladies that I'm not in my right mind. I suppose that means I'm mad. [ To Lady Gairloch ]. I want to tell you that I'm not mad.

Kirstin. Will you wait for one moment while I tell you the truth, instead of what you've been told? I am in my right mind, and it's a lie to say I am not—even if you do think I look so. I want to tell you why I came here. I came because he asked me.

Fifteen years ago he was nearly killed in Australia. [54] My father and I found him lying by the roadside and picked him up for dead. We took him home and kept him and looked after him. When we had made him well and he went away back to England, he told me I was to come and see him in London, at his house. I am a rough woman and know nothing of fine folks' ways, and I didn't know but they spoke the truth like us. So I came.

Kirstin [ answering Betty's gesture ]. It's all true. Here is the paper he wrote out for me with his name on it, and the street he lived in, and the number of his house and all for me to come. It's got very rubbed out—it was written fifteen years ago, you see. [ Reads aloud from paper ] 'Henry Merton, 147 Devonshire Street, London. Come to London, Kirstin. Don't forget.'

Lady Gairloch [ looks at watch ]. Come, Betty, it is more than time for us to go. [ They go towards door ].

Lady Gairloch. I'm afraid we really mustn't stay now, or we shall miss our train.

Merton [ at door with them ]. Then … you kindly said you would tell me about the cross-country journey?

Merton [ in a quick whisper to Betty as she goes [55] out ]. May I tell you the whole story when I come to Scotland?

Kirstin [ who has overheard ]. Oh! [ She looks after them as much as to say, He is going to tell her about me ].

Merton. I'm sorry I said them, and I'm sorry you heard them. But what of the things you said about me, before that girl—the girl I want to marry?

Merton. You have made her believe all sorts of things about me—that I'm an ungrateful cad, and that I had forgotten all you did for me.

Merton. I had forgotten till last night that I had written that paper, I must admit—but, after all, it was a sort of joke [ she looks at him ]. I never for a moment imagined you would come, and you said you wouldn't….

Kirstin. Oh, if I hadn't! But I thought you were so different. I thought you'd remember—and be like you were in Australia. Oh, I didn't know you'd be like this and that you would be—oh! horrified when I came! Oh, if I could forget that ! I almost can't believe it now. It's so dreadful—because I had believed something so different—when you was over there with us. I thought there could be no one else like you. I'd never seen such a fine gentleman before, and I thought there was no one else so clever [56] or so good or so handsome. Though father he was always saying you was just like other folk, neither better nor worse. Oh, all those years that I've lived for you and thought you'd be glad when I came. When my father died and I was left, the first thing I thought was 'At last! Now I can go. Some day I'll go to him.' And you had told me you were poor and hadn't enough money and wanted more—and I made up my mind I'd bring you some. And I worked day after day—I worked that hard, to make money for you—and I made it, and I saved it, and when I had sold my sheep and got enough, I brought it to you and every day and every hour of that fearful long journey I've thought of when I should get here, and how strange it would be—and I should be rather frightened. But then I thought you'd be so glad to see me, and so glad I had brought you so much money. And then I got here … and you weren't so very glad. I knew that last night. But I didn't know you were horrified. And you wouldn't take the money I had worked so hard to get. And you say I've spoilt everything—and it's all been for nothing, all these years—worse than nothing.

Merton. Kirstin! What can I say … I know it looks as if I had been such a rotten beast—but—

Kirstin [ stopping him ]. You needn't to say no more. I'm going away—I'm going back again. I'd best be in the wilds like you said. I can't understand what people are like here.

Merton. No, no—you can't go away like that—I must know what you are going to do—I must see what we can arrange. [ Kirstin shakes her head . Merton perturbed, looks at his watch ]. I was going out of London this morning—I ought to be leaving now. [ Hesitates, then makes up his mind ]. I'll telephone [57] and say I'm prevented. I shan't be five minutes. Wait here for me. [ Goes out hastily ].

[ Kirstin alone, looks at the paper again, reads aloud '147 Devonshire Street, London'—looks round her as if taking a last look at the house, puts away the paper, takes from her neck the bale of notes which was still slung round her, and puts it on the table, opens door with precaution, listens, then goes swiftly out. Street door heard shutting ].

THE PARACHUTE.

Scene : Mrs Maitland's little house, looking on to a village green . Mrs Maitland knitting at a small table R., a book open beside her . Mary doing nothing, sitting on chair down stage from window L.

Mrs Maitland. My dear child, what is the matter? You never seem able to settle to anything now.

Mrs Maitland. Bored, when after our long separation during the war you've come home to live with your mother?

Mary. That's what you're always saying, [60] mamma, but I can't help being of the present day, can I? I'd cheerfully be of another time if I could. [ Going to window ]. Nothing ever happens here—nothing exciting, and I, who have been a V.A.D. in France during the war, and have conveyed wounded officers by myself to hospitals at midnight [ Mrs Maitland holds up her hands in horror ] look out of the window for months and see nothing at all. [ Goes aimlessly to window—gives a cry ].

Mary. Something is happening at last! Look, look, something is coming down from the sky. Oh, what can it be? Yes, it's a parachute and a man hanging to it. He'll come down in the garden; I must render first aid quick.

Mrs Maitland [ agitated, goes to window, looks out, starts ]. Yes. He has fallen! Oh, dear! Oh, I can't bear that kind of sight. He must be knocked to pieces. [ Covers her face with her hands ]. Mary has picked him up; she is wonderful.

Mary. He is suffering from shock. [ In a business-like tone ]. Lie down, warmth, and quiet—cover extremities.

Welburn [ feebly ]. Yes, quite right—keep me warm and quiet and cover my extremities.

Welburn. Very well, I won't. But I must tell you in case you should ask me—I remember nothing before it happened. [61]

Welburn [ emphatically ]. It's more than that—I'm so anxious there should be no mistake about it—I've quite lost my memory. I've forgotten who I am—clean forgotten—it's no use your asking me, it would only excite me.

Welburn. I like being called young man. It's a compliment when one's turned forty.

Welburn. No, no, I couldn't have said that if I don't know who I am. I have no idea.

Mrs Maitland. It's too sad, really. The poor fellow! He may have a wife and family, and we can't tell them he is here.

Welburn. No, no, you can't. I should be sure to remember my wife if I had one. Don't tell me about it—it will excite me.

Mrs Maitland. Oh, dear, it's all so mysterious and disquieting, Mary. I shall go round to the Rectory and tell the Canon about it. He is so wise.

Mary [ anxious to get her away ]. Yes, do, mamma. I'm sure that will be the best thing.

Mrs Maitland [ going out ]. I shall be back in a minute. I shan't put on my hat. I'll just take my parasol to look respectable.

Welburn. Yes, that's what I always do when I go to sleep—I close my eyes first.

Welburn. You don't think I'm mad? Don't you mind being left alone with someone who has dropped from the sky and has lost his memory?

Welburn. Admirable one! Have you a good head, a ready brain, a resourceful mind?

Welburn. Not in the least. I'm as sane as you are. Listen, I must have a confederate to get me out of this hole.

Welburn. Why, my disappearing from my home, jumping from an aeroplane, and tumbling into your garden. [63]

Welburn. Very well then—this is my sad story. I'm tired of life—I'm tired of the world and of all the things that are happening in it.

Welburn. Not at all! On the contrary. I don't mean to take my own life—that is, I want to take it for my own and nobody else's. And my wife will insist on my sharing hers. It's a perfect mania with her, and I can't bear it any longer and I mean to disappear. She has opinions about everything in creation, and I have none!

Welburn. Dull? If I were left to myself I shouldn't be dull for a moment. I have two cherished pursuits—golf and music. I play golf and I play the 'cello. And that would be enough for me. I don't want to know about the things they talk about in the papers. My wife does. She went to College, and a woman always comes away from the 'Varsity with her head chock full of ideas—I never knew one who didn't—it's something awful. And my wife has views about every blessed thing that's mentioned in the papers, and she will talk to me about them all. I can't stand it any longer. I don't want to hear about Politics or Commerce or New Art or Advanced Science, [64] or the rates or the taxes or the Axes or inflammation of the lung or inflation of the currency or the Moplahs or the blacks or the whites or the browns, or the East and the West, and the Tigris, and the Thames, and Ireland, and Mesopotamia, and the Dublin Parliament whose name I can't pronounce, and the London Parliament whose doings I can't follow, and Bridge, and the film, and the censors, and the traffic, and the Czecho-Slovaks, and the Japanese, and the Murmanskis, and Bolsheviskis, and the Colonies, and the bank rate, and deferred shares, and preferred shares, and committees, and conferences, and Coalitions, or France, or Belgium, or Italy, or America, and the Colonies, and the Dominion, and Australia, and housing questions, and the servant problem, and the League of Nations, and amalgamations, or reparations, or war babies, or adoption, or the Church, or the stage, or the Cubists, or the psycho-analysts, or the unemployed, and the doles, and the Poles, the South Pole, or the North Pole, or the Polish Poles, or the telephone, or the penny postage, and the trams, and the strikes, and the weather, and prize-fighting, and the football matches. She has views on 'em all! And she tries to make me share them by suggestion. Can you wonder that I fly?

Welburn. No, no, you mistake. I use the word fly in a metaphorical sense. I mean, can you wonder that I keep trying to escape?

Welburn. I have tried four times. The first time by train, the next by steamer, the third by car, the fourth on foot, and every time that too devoted woman has got me back. The moment I disappear she circulates a description of me and I'm found at once. It's up in all the police offices. 'A [65] man of good appearance, looking between 35 and 40, of middle height, pleasant and genial countenance. Probably suffering from loss of memory; answers to the name of Tom.' You see that's enough to identify me at once.

Welburn. Of course I don't. But when I'm found I have to say something, so I pretend I don't know who I am.

Welburn [ groaning ]. Well, then she tries bringing my memory back by suggestion! And when I can't bear that any longer, I pretend I've got it back. And now this last—the fifth—time I've tried a new way. I've come by aeroplane and jumped out.

Welburn. Yes, I'll tell you what I did. I have a pal who is mad on flying and who was going to do a stunt in Norfolk, somewhere near King's Lynn, so I went to Paddington and took a ticket for a small station due west of London to put them off the scent—a place I saw in Bradshaw called Camperton.

Welburn. Never heard of it before. We went off north-east—at least I hope we did, but I believe the fellow lost his way or something went wrong. He was turning round and round and his confounded things made such a row I couldn't make him hear, so I thought I'd chance it and I jumped out. I have practised jumping with his parachute several times before. And now I haven't an idea where I am, but a good bit north-east of London, I hope.

Welburn. Good heavens! Then I'm undone! [66] She'll come down in the car and find me as sure as I'm alive. Oh, my dear girl, what am I to do? You'll help me, won't you?

Mary [ looking from window ]. Oh, there's my mother! and the Rector coming. Quick, quick, lie down again.

Welburn. Good Lord! He was with me at Oxford. We used to make music together, and he used to pretend I played out of tune. Good gracious, what are we to do?

Mary. You be quiet, and remember you have lost your memory, and I'll play up. I'm a great authority on shocks and accidents.

Rector [ heartily, but speaking with a little precaution ]. Well, Miss Mary, at work again! at work again!

Rector. These cases are most distressing. Have you no clue at all to where he came from or who he is?

Mary [ firmly ]. None whatever. The only thing we can do is to let him lie still for the present.

[67] Rector. He seems to be suffering, but it is uncertain. He may be quite unconscious that he is groaning. I have seen a good many of these cases and have indeed had a good deal of success in dealing with them. I should like to see this man, that I may judge for myself of his condition.

Mary. No, no, Rector—really if he is disturbed I will not answer for the consequences.

Rector [ stiffly ]. Really, my dear young lady, may I say that you take a little too much on yourself. It is most important to do everything we possibly can to prove this poor fellow's identity. As Rector of this parish I feel it to be my duty to investigate this case. [ Goes toward Welburn , and lifts up the cover . Welburn rolls over with his face away from him and groans ].

Rector [ soothingly ]. Now, now, my poor friend, I won't disturb you. [ Welburn groans again ]. I only want to help.

Rector. All the same, I think I know this man, and I must see his face. [ He bends over Welburn and succeeds in seeing his face ]. Yes, I do! Isn't that amazing!

Rector. Yes, unless I'm strangely mistaken, we were at Oxford together; his name is Welburn.

Rector. It is my duty to do what we can to help my poor friend back to his normal condition. I shall interrogate him quite quietly—nothing to excite him. Welburn! Welburn! [ Welburn looks at him vaguely ].

Rector [ to the others ]. There isn't a doubt that it's Welburn. [ To Welburn ]. Look here, old boy, don't you remember the good old times we had at Oxford when we used to make music together?

Rector. Don't you remember the Beethoven Sonata in A and that place in the last movement where you always got that E on the A string out of tune—

Rector [ excited ]. There, you see he remembers! Yes, yes; you remember that E.

Rector. 'Cello player—this sort of thing, you know. [ Pretending to play on a 'cello. Welburn looks at him vaguely, then tries to imitate him ].

Welburn. Oh, is that what it is? Like that? No, I don't remember. Why should I have done like that? [69]

Rector. My dear girl, it is not. Leave him to me. He had a glimmer just now of recollection. It may gradually come back to him.—Come now, you remember the pretty girls at Somerville?

Rector. Come now, nothing to groan at in that. Do you remember that charmer in pink? Who got a First, by Jove!

Rector. At Somerville, dear friend, at Somerville. [ To the others ]. It needs an infinite patience and kindness to deal with these sad cases. At Somerville, the ladies' college, you know.

Welburn. I tell you I don't remember. I remember nothing! I've lost my memory and I've lost my senses, and I don't know who I am or how I came here or anything. And I don't know who you are and why you're going on talking.

Welburn. It's you who are exciting me with all this chattering and wanting me to remember this and remember that. You're doing me a great deal of harm, and I tell you what, if I don't know anything that happened in the past I do know what's going to happen in the future, and that is that I shall punch [70] your head in a minute if you ask me any more questions—so now! [ Behaves as if he were mad ].

Rector [ retreating ]. Oh, pray, dear sir, keep calm. [ Trying to smile ]. No need for you to punch my head or any one else's.

Rector [ to the others ]. What a sad condition to find him in. But there isn't a doubt that he's Welburn.

Welburn. What's that you're saying—that I'm Welburn? What's that? Don't call me names. You take care not to say it again.

Rector. My dear sir, I won't say it if you don't like it. I'll leave you to rest a little longer, and I will call again.

Welburn. Thank you very much. [ Lies down — Mary covers him and he draws the things over his head and groans ].

Mrs Maitland. Oh, Rector, what do you think about it? I do depend on your advice.

Rector. My dear lady, you are positively trembling. These harrowing scenes are not good for you. Come out into the air for a few minutes. Walk across the green with me to the Rectory; the air will do you good.

Mrs Maitland [ faintly ]. Yes, I think I will. [ To Mary ]. We are within call if you want us.

Mary [ ironically ]. Thank you, mamma. [ Mary watches them out of window ]. They're gone.

[71] Welburn. The old fool badgering me about Oxford! That was an inspiration, wasn't it, pretending to be mad. How was it? Was that all right?

Welburn. Upon my word, I feel almost mad in reality when I think of his saying that I played out of tune, and raking up the Somerville girls, and all that.

Welburn. My wife? Of course she was—of course she is —that's the point I mind most.

Welburn. That's just it. She is—that's the awful part. Now I'm not clever, you know. I didn't take a First. She knows that, so she thinks she has a better head than I have, and upon my soul, I don't know what to do about it.

Welburn. Yes, but I have never succeeded. That's where the brains come in, you see. Each time I try to get away and hide from her, she gets me back again. Oh! if only I can pull it off this time.

[ Welburn gets up, pulls his coat down, etc., and begins strolling up and down, his hands in his pockets while he thinks it out ].

Mary. Take care you're not seen from outside. [72] It's all right—they're still talking at the Rectory gate. They're both wondering evidently what to do next.

Welburn. A very simple one. I shall be left some time with you to look after me, and when that happens you will avert your eyes for a moment, and I shall open the door and walk out. That's always the best thing to do when you're shut up anywhere if it can be managed.

Mary. Well, really, I'm awfully grateful to you for having brought excitement into our lives.

Welburn. Oh, they are coming back this way. Then I must subside again. [ Jumps on to couch. Mary covers him ].

Mary [ looking from window ]. Oh! this really is a wonderful day. Something else is happening. There's a car driving through the village—

Mary. She is looking at a map. Now she is speaking to my mother. She must be asking the way—

Mrs Maitland. Mary, I want the large scale map. This lady is asking the way to Camperton.

Mrs Welburn. Thank you very much. [ She is tall and masculine looking, and speaks in a deep voice ].

Mrs Maitland. Yes, this poor gentleman fell from an aeroplane into our garden—at least he jumped from a parachute. He might have been killed.

Mrs Maitland. I don't think he is very much hurt, but he is suffering from shock and loss of memory, and ought to be kept absolutely quiet.

Mrs Welburn. Loss of memory, indeed? I have a good deal of experience in dealing with loss of memory, as a near relation of mine frequently suffers from it. But I find that it always yields to suggestion. Have you tried that?

Mary. We have not. From the patient's condition it was evidently most essential that he should be kept quiet.

Mrs Welburn. Suggestion would do him no harm. You can suggest to a patient that he should be calm, and he becomes calm—and then after that it is very rare that loss of memory does not yield to further treatment—at least that is my experience.

Mrs Welburn. Ah! You believe in it too? I am glad to hear this from one of your cloth.

Rector. I don't know that I do in every case. But this one has special interest for me, and I am [74] anxious to try everything, as I know this man, although he has not so far recognised me.

Mrs Welburn. Quite a common symptom. But it is an extremely important factor in the case that you recognise him. Are you quite certain?

Mrs Welburn [ advancing to couch and uncovering Welburn ]. Of course, yes, that's my husband. He is always doing it. Thomas!

Mrs Welburn. Yes, that's the way he groans in his sleep when he has one of these attacks. He has had four of them—and he wanders away from home unconscious of his actions.

Mrs Welburn. Young lady, I am much obliged to you for your kind care of my husband, but now you had better leave him to me.

Welburn. My wife? I don't think I've got one. At least I can't remember. [ As though trying to collect his thoughts ]. [75]

Mrs Welburn. Oh, you will remember presently. You'll get your memory back all right. Now look at me. Look straight into my eyes.

Mrs Welburn. He has these delusions at times, but they pass off. I will take him away with me in the car, at once, back to his home. Come, Thomas.

Welburn. Where do you want me to go? [ To Mary , with a forlorn hope ]. Can't you help me? I don't like going away with this stranger.

Mary [ to Mrs Welburn ]. Do you mind my saying that we have no proof that this is your husband?

Mrs Welburn. No—now that was a sensible remark for a girl. Girls are generally foolish. You shall have proof. I can tell you what the motto and crest are on that signet ring he wears: the motto is Semper Volans and the crest is a swallow. Though a goose would have been more appropriate. [ Takes his hand ]. There you may see for yourself.

Rector. So it is. Oh, my dear madam, we have every confidence in you, and we have only to congratulate you and your husband on being brought together by such a wonderful chance.

Mrs Welburn. Thank you very much. Come then, dear, we must go. [ Helping Welburn up ]. Lean on my arm—I daresay you still feel shaky.

[ Welburn looks round him desperately, then thrusts his arm through hers. They go towards the door ].

The plot of this piece was suggested to the writer by the late Charles Brookfield. Under the title of An Underground Journey , it was successfully produced at a benefit matinée at the Comedy Theatre in February, 1893, with the following cast:

A SECOND-CLASS DUKE.

At Victoria Station, S.E. Line. A railway carriage seen endways; a passenger ( Tom ) in it reading a paper .

[ Duke jumps into carriage breathless ; Guard whistles, train goes off. Tom in corner of carriage, reading paper, looks up ].

Tom [ before seeing who it is ]. Ran it fine that time! [ Sees Duke ] Hallo, it's you, Pecky!

Tom. Yes, it sounds well. And which of your palaces are you living in at this moment?

Duke. The person I'm really looking for is her employer. She has a little country retreat outside Penge, made of five workmen's cottages knocked into one.

Duke. Yes, I've been up to London, to try to find her in Berkeley Square. She was out. Now I'm going to see if she's at Penge. We've exchanged letters already—we've had a wonderful correspondence, even though it began on what is generally considered [81] an unromantic subject. She came across my life at a time when it was overshadowed by misfortune; my French chef had just left me to go to America.

Duke. But she brought light into the gloom. I took up the Times one morning in despair.

Duke. But that day I found comfort in it. I scanned the advertisements; then I read, "A Russian Princess strongly recommends her admirable cook." Imagine! I wrote to the Princess in words of burning anxiety. She answered. I wrote again. She replied by a letter breathing sympathy and comprehension in every line. Listen. [ He draws out letter and reads it ]. "The Princess Blakowska presents her compliments to the Duke of Peckham Rye. She deeply sympathises with the unfortunate predicament in which he finds himself, and will indeed be glad to hear that he has secured the services of an artist like Susan Jennings." What feeling! What tenderness! How she understands! Don't you see her? Can you not evoke her?

Tom. Well, I never had your imagination, you know, Pecky, especially as regards the ladies.

Tom. Well, you buck up and get a family life, too. You are beginning at the right end, by the cook. [82] Good-bye. Why do you travel second-class?

Duke. Is it second? I meant to come third, like everyone else. I didn't know there were still seconds on this line.

Tom. Well, I'll leave you to your second-class solitude, unmolested by the millionaire or the pauper. [ Goes off ]. Ta, ta.

Guard. Stop! We can't stop. Come along, ma'am, or you'll be left behind. [ Opens door ].

Mrs Jennings [ looking in ]. But the other isn't. There's a man. Some careless woman's forgotten her husband in the carriage.

Guard. Are you going to get in, ma'am? If you're not, the platform's empty. You can have that to yourself if you like.

[83] Mrs Jennings [ sharply ]. Yes, I'm quite out of it for the moment. I hope to have another supply in shortly, if you would only let me be quiet.

Duke. Certainly, certainly, madam. In fact I shall not be sorry to gasp a little more myself, too.

Mrs Jennings [ after a pause, fanning herself ]. And the fellow putting me into a second-class carriage, too. I knew what would happen if I came second-class.

Mrs Jennings. Pant! No! I mean that in a second-class it's impossible to keep one's self to one's self as one would wish.

Mrs Jennings. Third! I wasn't going third; I was going first, but I arrived in such a hurry, that I got into the carriage without stopping to look.

Mrs Jennings [ aside, looking at him ]. He does look an inoffensive creature certainly.

Duke [ opening his eyes, turning his collar up ]. There is a great draught in this carriage, don't you think so? [84]

Mrs Jennings. I have no doubt whatever about it. I can tell by my hat. [ Pulling her hat straight ].

Duke. Suppose you were to sit in this corner opposite me? I think you would feel it less.

Mrs Jennings [ aside—looking at him ]. Friendly little man—a commercial traveller, of course. [ Aloud ]. Do you travel?

Duke [ surprised ]. No, madam; I generally travel in tweed unless I am in London, when I wear a black coat, and generally a black face and hands as well, especially in the train.

Mrs Jennings. It is true that the smuts are very disagreeable. I really have a hard struggle sometimes to be fit to be seen. [ Looking complacently at her clothes ].

Mrs Jennings. In my position it is so very essential that I should be well dressed.

Mrs Jennings [ firmly ]. Yes, in my position. Now I'm not going to tell you what it is, so you needn't think it.

Duke. My dear madam, I never dreamt of being so indiscreet. I only meant that it is evident that you must shine in society. [85]

Duke [ gallantly ]. I can well imagine it. Have you been out much in London this season?

Duke. Ah, I see that like the rest of your sex, you don't seem to care much about the noble art of dining.

Mrs Jennings. I assure you, you are very much mistaken. I flatter myself that if anyone in Europe understands that art, I do.

Mrs Jennings. No, I can't say that I do. I don't like having much in common with people I meet in the train.

Duke. That is the beauty of it. I think that going about unknown is rather enjoyable.

Mrs Jennings. It's a cheap enjoyment at any rate. [ Whistle heard ]. Oh, there's a horrid tunnel. Now we shall be smothered.

Duke. Chatter, my dear madam? I thought you made a remark which I didn't quite catch.

Duke. I really must apologise—it was my natural anxiety not to lose what you said.

Mrs Jennings. Come, come, my good man, none of your cheap compliments. I'd keep those for third-class passengers if I were you.

Ticket Collector. Because it's the Company's rules. Come, be quick, please, m'm. A third-class passenger has no business in a second-class carriage.

Mrs Jennings [ indignantly ]. Third-class! Now do I look like a third-class passenger?

Mrs Jennings. Well, I've got a first-class ticket. Now, perhaps you will tell me what the difference is and pay me.

Ticket Collector. No, I'm not going to pay [87] you anything, m'm. It's no look-out of the Company's if parties choose to worsen themselves; but if you've got a first-class ticket, m'm, you may stay where you are, free of charge.

Ticket Collector. Something to pay? I should rather think there is. Why can't you gents and ladies sort yourselves properly before you start, instead of mixing the Company's accounts in this way? It's sixteen and two-thirds per cent. since just before the Bank Holiday, added to 50 per cent. in January, 1918. [ Does a rapid sum ]. That comes to 4½d. from Victoria to Penge.

Ticket Collector. By your paying me 4½d., now, if you please. The train's late as it is.

Duke. The railway company must make a good deal of money in these days, I should think.

Ticket Collector [ pocketing money ]. Well, sir, if time is money as people say, the Company must have lost a good deal of it at this station, through you keeping me here talking. Why, all the windows of the train is black with heads sticking out of them to know what we're waiting here for.

Mrs Jennings. If I had thought of it, I might have got into a first-class at Herne Hill, and have avoided all this bother.

Mrs Jennings. Now look here, my good friend, just stick to your travelling and don't make any more pretty speeches to me; that's the worst of third-class people, you never know what they will say next.

Duke. But my dear madam, I trust I have not said anything very startling—as yet.

Mrs Jennings. Ah! I see you don't understand—Never mind, I might have expected it, for you don't look very bright. I wonder where I put my newspaper. Oh, there it is.

Mrs Jennings [ behind paper ]. Particularly agreeable—when I can enjoy it in peace. [ Holding up paper between them ].

Duke [ half to himself ]. I, on the contrary, dread being left alone with my own thoughts! For I am haunted, possessed by one idea—the thought of that beautiful unknown—that lovely Russian I am seeking. [ Looking cautiously at his companion ]. Don't go on reading too long, madam; do talk to me again. Your fresh unconventionality takes me out of myself.

Mrs Jennings [ moves her paper to one side, and looks angrily at him ]. My fresh what?

Mrs Jennings [ returning to her paper ]. I'll thank you not to use that language to me.

Mrs Jennings. Not it! Something much more important! Here's a recipe for tomatoes with cream, which I've been looking for all my life.

Duke [ much excited ]. Tomatoes! Oh, how immensely interesting! I am passionately fond of tomatoes!

Mrs Jennings. Listen! "Cut off the tops, scoop out the seeds without breaking the outer skin—put them into a large stew pan—"

Mrs Jennings [ impatiently ]. No, no, man! The tomatoes! "Put them in a stew pan with a gill of oil"—that's the secret of frying, mind you. Oil, not butter! Frying oil, the very best oil!

Mrs Jennings. "Chop up some button mushrooms, some parsley, some endive, some celery, some [90] olives, some oysters, some minced ham, and some fat bacon; fry all together for five minutes, add the yolks of two eggs and a tablespoonful of the thickest cream; fill some patties with the mixture, bake for ten minutes and serve. This makes a delicious dish." I'm sure it must be! A dish fit for a Duke!

Mrs Jennings. And to think I should have taken up the paper accidentally and come upon it all at once!

Duke [ with feeling ]. Yes, indeed! It was a rare piece of good fortune. I am glad to see, madam, that you are interested in cookery.

Duke. Oh, how I admire you for it! Now that is my ideal of what a woman's interest in life should be. I love to picture her graceful feminine intelligence playing round such things as—as—

Duke. Exactly. Tomatoes, or some other fragrant product of the soil. There is to me something repulsive in the idea of a woman's mind endeavouring to grapple with magisterial problems or political research. No! Let her rather spend hours of patient investigation amongst her saucepans, endeavouring to wring from them their secrets.

Mrs Jennings. It doesn't take me as long as that, I can tell you, to find out if a saucepan is clean or dirty.

Duke. I was thinking of the finer problems of the saucepan, the delicate combinations which reveal the true artist. Tell me, dear lady, do you ever go into your kitchen, and play the part of tutelary genius of your establishment?

Mrs Jennings. Into my kitchen!!! I should think so! I'm hardly ever out of it. [91]

Duke. I was sure of it. I picture you flitting to and fro, presiding over the culinary labours of the day, surrounded by a bevy of deft and noiseless maidens—

Mrs Jennings. Oh, as to that, the less we say about them, the better. Kitchen-maids are a set of careless, chattering hussies. They break the plates and burn the vegetables, and then they say their mothers are ill and they must go away.

Mrs Jennings. Of course it's the Crystal Palace; there it is, shining away like anything.

Mrs Jennings. Beautiful? Never thought about that, but it's a most wonderful place.

Mrs Jennings. I don't hold much with concerts, or fireworks either. It's the restaurant I am thinking of—the most wonderful restaurant with a chef in it who's the best in Europe, they say.

Mrs Jennings. I believe you. They say the Crystal Palace will soon get up again in the world if he stays there.

Mrs Jennings [ reading her paper ]. Ah, here is something in your line—autumn fashions and materials.

Duke [ gallantly ]. Sometimes, madam, when I am travelling my attention is forcibly called to these things—when I have such exquisite specimens of the art under my eyes.

Mrs Jennings. There you are again with your pretty speeches—but I must say I think I do look rather nice to-day. I've a particular reason.

Duke [ looking at her admiringly ]. It must be a very particular reason that would justify such a hat as that.

Mrs Jennings. Yes, the hat I must admit is rather a triumph. You'd hardly believe that it's a last year's hat, would you?

Mrs Jennings. No, not hashed, I flatter myself. All my friends tell me it looks like a hat from Paris.

Mrs Jennings. The fact is that last year, when I was in Paris, I saw one just like it and copied it.

Mrs Jennings. Oh, yes. I've been a good deal in Paris. I studied there—[ catching herself up ]

Mrs Jennings. Ah, that's because you're a John Bull, my good friend, and haven't seen enough of the world. You should try to get leave, and travel on the Continent for a month or so. It opens one's mind considerably.

Mrs Jennings. Oh, pretty much all over—to Germany, to Italy, and to all sorts of foreign watering places.

Duke [ starting ]. Foreign watering places? Have you ever met any Russian Princesses?

Mrs Jennings. Russian Princesses! I should think so, all over the place. They're as common as blackberries!

Mrs Jennings. Oh, dear, yes! Russian Princesses of all kinds, good, bad, and indifferent.

Duke. I wonder to which of those kinds a Princess belongs that I am interested in?

Mrs Jennings. Intimately. [ Duke is thrilled [94] with excitement ]. I should call her one of the indifferent ones—indifferent to what people say about them, I mean.

Duke. Princess Blakowska! But I imagine her to be a most delightful charming woman.

Mrs Jennings. So she is, most beguiling—most fascinating, but, after all, that is not the way to prevent people talking about you. A good many people seem to talk about Princess Blakowska.

Mrs Jennings. Very elegant looking; she is about my height and figure. We can quite well wear each other's clothes. She's got rather a temper.

Mrs Jennings. Oh, yes! And it's that—and other things that made it rather difficult—[ she checks herself ]. But in one respect she would be a woman after your own heart.

Mrs Jennings. She understands more about dining than any other woman I ever met.

Mrs Jennings. Yes, she is! She has been a very good friend to me, I must say, until—until we parted company. But why are you so interested in her? Do you know her?

Duke. No, I don't know her exactly—but—from what I have heard and imagine of her, I should like to. [95]

Duke. To tell you the truth, I have been making an attempt to see her to-day, but without success. I went to her house in Berkeley Square, but now I am trying elsewhere.

Mrs Jennings [ looking at him with a sudden thought ]. I wonder if you are looking for something, too?

Mrs Jennings [ archly ]. Something connected with a situation—for someone….

Mrs Jennings. Of course. And here you get another view of it. You see that bulge in the roof?

Mrs Jennings. Well, whatever it's called, there's where the restaurant is. Oh, it does shine, doesn't it? Oh, what a place, isn't it? I do love seeing it. [96]

Mrs Jennings. Look here, my good friend, I'll give you a word of advice. It isn't my business, I daresay, but if I were you, I don't think I'd try for the Princess Blakowska.

Mrs Jennings. Always. You know your own business best, of course, but there's a word to the wise for you, if you choose to take it. After all, these things are always a gamble, one never knows how they will turn out.

Mrs Jennings. I'm embarked on the same sort of adventure myself—I'm going for the Duke of Peckham Rye.

Mrs Jennings. I daresay it won't be an altogether easy job. They say he's a queer customer sometimes.

Mrs Jennings. And that he can't be five minutes with one without making himself agreeable to her.

Mrs Jennings. No, I daresay not, but I know nothing about that, of course, as my relations with him have been entirely on a business footing.

Duke. Exchanging letters for the last week! [ With a sudden idea—aside ]. Ha! can it be that—no—it is not possible!

Mrs Jennings. You'd never guess what subject he's been corresponding with me about—not quite the sort of thing you'd expect from a Duke.

Duke [ aside ]. I really believe it is! [ Aloud ] Can it be the subject we were speaking about just now? Is it—

Mrs Jennings. Cooking? Yes, it is! Now what do you think of that for the Duke of Peckham Rye?

Duke. Madam, [ with emotion ] your words almost convince me that what I have been expecting is a certainty—yes, I have guessed your secret!

Mrs Jennings [ amazed ]. My secret. [ With an idea ]. Oh, you have guessed that what you are trying for, I am very near to?

Duke [ excited ]. Ah! You admit how nearly the mention of that name has touched you.

Duke. No good! It would be useless, for my heart tells me too surely that I am right.

Duke. From the moment you spoke, I was interested in you. It began to dawn on me who you were—you spoke of being abroad in foreign watering places—interested in cookery. A wild thought darted into my mind, but I hardly dared to hope. [ Mrs Jennings alarmed ]. Then you told me of your correspondence with the Duke, and my heart filled with delight.

Duke. Now I know that you are she whom I have been seeking! Oh, what unlooked for happiness! You are the Princess Blakowska!

Mrs Jennings [ humouring—heartily ]. Of course, yes, of course! I am the Princess Blakowska.

Duke. Oh, what unlooked for good fortune! That after thinking of you, dreaming of you, going across London to seek you in vain, Providence should bring us together!

Mrs Jennings [ aside ]. This is horrible! He is quite out of his mind! Oh, what shall I do? Where is the cord of communication with the guard! Outside that window probably! [ Aloud ]. I feel a little faint—I should like to have some air. [ Goes to window ].

Mrs Jennings. No, no, I tell you. [ Puts her hand out, gropes wildly about ]. Nothing! [ Tries to shut window ].

Mrs Jennings [ returning quickly to her seat, aside ]. They're so fearfully strong at times!

Mrs Jennings. Oh, where can that cord be? [ Sees a printed notice—reads it ]. No, the story of a man who was fined forty shillings for travelling in the wrong class. I shall have to pay £2 for travelling with a madman!

Duke [ smiling tenderly ]. And now, dear Princess, that I know your name, will you not try and guess mine?

Mrs Jennings [ aside ]. This is positively awful! It's like a fairy tale. He'll eat me if I don't guess right.

Mrs Jennings [ pretending to have an idea ]. I have it; you are a dethroned king!

Duke. Is it possible you can still doubt who I am, after the letters we have exchanged? [ Mrs Jennings bewildered ]. I am the Duke of Peckham Rye!

Mrs Jennings [ humouring him ]. Oh, indeed, yes! The Duke of Peckham Rye! Very nice, indeed!

Duke [ aside ]. How curiously she takes it! She doesn't seem a bit interested. [ Aloud ]. I hoped, madam, after what had passed between us, that you would, perhaps, not be sorry that we should meet.

Duke. Shall I confess to you with what a subtle mysterious charm my fancy had already, and rightly, invested you? The very paper on which your letters were written, the perfume which clung to them was dear to me.

Mrs Jennings [ trying to conceal her uneasiness ]. Oh, yes, indeed, yes! Most kind of you, I'm sure!

Mrs Jennings [ starts and shrieks ]. What—what do I see! Princess Blakowska's hand-writing!

Mrs Jennings [ agitated ]. But tell me—tell me quickly—how did you get that letter?

Duke [ surprised ]. In the simplest way in the world, since it was addressed to me—my name's on the envelope!

Mrs Jennings [ gasping ]. What—the Duke of Peckham Rye! It is not possible that you are really! Oh! [101]

Mrs Jennings. Oh, Princess! Was there ever such a situation as this? It is awful!

[ Mrs Jennings suddenly bursts into fits of laughter . Duke looks excessively alarmed . Mrs Jennings hides her face in her hands, rocks backwards and forwards ].

Duke [ looking at her terrified ]. That is the way a maniac laughs for nothing. I wonder if there is a cord. Perhaps, madam, you would like a little air? [ Goes to window, lets it down, and feels furtively about outside ]. [ Sadly ]. No, there is nothing.

Mrs Jennings [ going into fresh fits of laughter ]. It's no use—I've already looked!

Mrs Jennings. Oh, I must laugh! I do beg your pardon, your Grace, but the whole thing is too extraordinarily absurd. You would never guess for whom I took you!

Mrs Jennings. Yes, you, your Grace! Did you ever hear anything like it; but, after all, you took me for a Princess.

Mrs Jennings [ laughing again ]. I was laughing to think how surprised you would be if you knew who I was.

Mrs Jennings. Look inside your letter again, your Grace, the one Princess Blakowska wrote to you.

Duke. What is all this mystery about? [ Opens letter and reads ]. "She will be glad to hear that he has secured the services of an artist like Susan Jennings." Well?

Mrs Jennings. Now, can't you guess who I am? I am not the Princess Blakowska, your Grace, I am not, indeed; and yet—that letter concerns me.

Duke [ gasping, looks at her transfixed ]. What! Is it possible that you are—

Mrs Jennings. Susan Jennings! Yes! Oh, pray forgive me, it is not my fault that you thought I was the Princess.

Duke. And you're the cook! [ Mrs Jennings bows her head silently ]. What a precious fool I've been making of myself. But then why did you pretend you were somebody else? You said you were a first-class passenger.

Mrs Jennings [ with dignity ]. Excuse me, your Grace! I didn't pretend. I had to come first because I'm on my way to call on your Grace. I'm still with [103] the Princess at Penge till the end of the week. I went to your house at Grosvenor Gardens, and you were out, and now I am going back. I thought it was more suitable, everything considered, that I shouldn't run the risk of travelling with servants or people of inferior position.

Duke. But my dear Princess—I mean, my dear madam—tut-tut—I mean, my good woman, what do you call yourself?

Mrs Jennings. And, oh, your Grace, I should like to try those tomatoes for you.

Duke. Those tomatoes! Well, Mrs Jennings, if you are sure you can be discreet and silent, and will reveal to no one what has passed between us to-day—

Guard [ loud ]. Penge! [ Duke and Mrs Jennings start and pick up papers, etc. ]. Well, this is a business-like betrothal as ever I see! [ Aloud ]. This is your station, sir. Better come out and have the rest of the ceremony on the platform.

Mrs Jennings [ speaking to Guard at window ]. You mustn't speak to him like that; he's the Duke of Peckham Rye. [104]

Guard. Ah, yes, likely! And you're a Member of Parliament, I suppose. All right!

Duke [ coming to window—says hesitatingly ]. One thing I should like to ask, Mrs Jennings—I believe it is customary—why did you leave Princess Blakowska?

Mrs Jennings [ sarcastically ]. Why? Well, of course, I left her—with her goings on!

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Henry Merton ( a young Englishman ).
Peter Thwaite ( a Sheep Farmer in Australia ).
Kirstin ( Thwaite's Daughter ).
Mrs Plant ( Housekeeper to Merton ).
Lady Gairloch.
Lady Betty Craigie ( her Daughter ).
Jane ( a maid ).

Mrs Maitland.
Mary ( her daughter ).
Tom Welburn.
Canon Hartley ( the Rector of the Parish ).
Mrs Welburn.

The Duke of Peckham Rye	Cyril Maude.
A Railway Guard	William Wyes.
Mrs Jennings	Fanny Brough.

Characters.

The Duke of Peckham Rye.
Tom ( his friend ).
Mrs Jennings.
A Ticket Collector.
A Railway Guard.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE Occasional missing punctuation has been silently added. In a very few instances, "you" was substituted for "your" and vice versa, as required by the context. A missing final "s" was added on a couple of occasions. In one instance, where the same word appeared at the end of one line and the beginning of the next, one of the two was removed. The following substantive changes were made (the first two in KIRSTIN, scene III, the third at the beginning of THE PARACHUTE; they can be identified in the body of the text by a grey dotted underline:
[MERTON] (…) takes up his letters that are lying in a pile, evidently having come by the morning past	[MERTON] (…) takes up his letters that are lying in a pile, evidently having come by the morning post
It if were only for one night it wouldn't matter so much.	If it were only for one night it wouldn't matter so much.
[ Goes to door L. Mary appears at door L, support Welburn ].	[ Goes to door L. Mary appears at door L, supporting Welburn ].