Happy Days

Note.—There are only six plots allowed to us who are not professionals. Here they are. When you have read them, then you will know all about amateur theatricals.

XL "Fair Mistress Dorothy"

The scene is an apartment in the mansion of Sir Thomas Farthingale. There is no need to describe the furniture in it, as rehearsals will gradually show what is wanted. A picture or two of previous Sir Thomas's might be seen on the walls, if you have an artistic friend who could arrange this; but it is a mistake to hang up your own ancestors, as some of your guests may recognise them, and thus pierce beneath the vraisemblance of the scene.

The period is that of Cromwell—sixteen something.

The costumes are, as far as possible, of the same period.

Mistress Dorothy Farthingale is seated in the middle of the stage, reading a letter and occasionally sighing.

Enter My Lord Carey.

~Carey.~ Mistress Dorothy alone! Truly Fortune smiles upon me.

~Dorothy~ (hiding the letter quickly). An she smiles, my lord, I needs must frown.

~Carey~ (used to this sort of thing and no longer put off by it). Nay, give me but one smile, sweet mistress. (She sighs heavily.) You sigh! Is't for me?

~Dorothy~ (feeling that the sooner he and the audience understand the situation the better). I sigh for another, my lord, who is absent.

~Carey~ (annoyed). Zounds, and zounds again! A pest upon the fellow! (He strides up and down the room, keeping out of the way of his sword as much as possible.) Would that I might pink the pesky knave!

~Dorothy~ (turning upon him a look of hate). Would that you might have the chance, my lord, so it were in fair fighting. Methinks Roger's sword–arm will not have lost its cunning in the wars.

~Carey~. A traitor to fight against his King.

~Dorothy~. He fights for what he thinks is right. (She takes out his letter and kisses it.)

~Carey~ (observing the action). You have a letter from him!

~Dorothy~ (hastily concealing it and turning pale). How know you that?

~Carey~. Give it to me! (She shrieks and rises.) By heavens, madam, I will have it! (He struggles with her and seizes it.)

Enter Sir Thomas.

~Sir Thomas~. Odds life, my lord, what means this?

~Carey~ (straightening himself). It means, Sir Thomas, that you harbour a rebel within your walls. Master Roger Dale, traitor, corresponds secretly with your daughter.

(Who, I forgot to say, has swooned.)

~Sir Thomas~ (sternly). Give me the letter. Ay, 'tis Roger's hand, I know it well. (He reads the letter, which is full of thoughtful metaphors about love, aloud to the audience. Suddenly his eyebrows go up and down to express surprise. He seizes Lord Carey by the arm.) Ha! Listen! "To–morrow when the sun is upon the western window of the gallery, I will be with thee." The villain!

~Carey~ (who does not know the house very well). When is that?

~Sir Thomas~. Why, 'tis now, for I have but recently passed through the gallery and did mark the sun.

~Carey~ (fiercely). In the name of the King, Sir Thomas, I call upon you to arrest this traitor.

~Sir Thomas~ (sighing). I loved the boy well, yet―

(

He shrugs his shoulders expressively and goes out with

Lord

Carey

to collect sufficient force for the arrest.

)

Enter Roger by secret door R.

~Roger.~ My love!

~Dorothy~ (opening her eyes). Roger!

~Roger.~ At last!

(For the moment they talk in short sentences like this. Then Dorothy puts her hand to her brow as if she is remembering something horrible.)

~Dorothy.~ Roger! Now I remember! It is not safe for you to stay!

~Roger~ (very brave). Am I a puling child to be afraid?

~Dorothy.~ My Lord Carey is here. He has read your letter.

~Roger.~ The black–livered dog! Would I had him at my sword's point to teach him manners.

(He puts his hand to his heart and staggers into a chair.)

~Dorothy.~ Oh, you are wounded!

~Roger.~ Faugh, 'tis but a scratch. Am I a puling―

(He faints. She binds up his ankle.)

Enter Lord Carey with two soldiers.

~Carey.~ Arrest this traitor! (Roger is led away by the soldiers.)

~Dorothy~ (stretching out her hands to him). Roger! (She sinks into a chair.)

~Carey~ (choosing quite the wrong moment for a proposal). Dorothy, I love you! Think no more of this traitor, for he will surely hang. 'Tis your father's wish that you and I should wed.

~Dorothy~ (refusing him). Go, lest I call in the grooms to whip you.

~Carey.~ By heaven― (Thinking better of it.) I go to fetch your father.

(Exit.)

Enter Roger by secret door L.

~Dorothy.~ Roger! You have escaped.

~Roger.~ Knowest not the secret passage from the wine cellar, where we so often played as children? 'Twas in that same cellar the thick–skulled knaves immured me.

~Dorothy.~ Roger, you must fly! Wilt wear a cloak of mine to elude our enemies?

~Roger~ (missing the point rather). Nay, if I die, let me die like a man, not like a puling girl. Yet, sweetheart―

Enter Lord Carey by ordinary door.

~Carey~ (forgetting himself in his confusion). Odds my zounds, dod sink me! What murrain is this?

~Roger~ (seizing Sir Thomas's sword, which had been accidentally left behind on the table, as I ought to have said before, and advancing threateningly). It means, my lord, that a villain's time has come. Wilt say a prayer?

(They fight, and Carey is disarmed before they can hurt each other.)

~Carey~ (dying game). Strike, Master Dale!

~Roger.~ Nay, I cannot kill in cold blood.

(He throws down his sword. Lord Carey exhibits considerable emotion at this, and decides to turn over an entirely new leaf.)

Enter two soldiers.

~Carey.~ Arrest that man! (Roger is seized again.) Mistress Dorothy, it is for you to say what shall be done with the prisoner.

~Dorothy~ (standing up if she was sitting down, and sitting down if she was standing up). Ah, give him to me, my lord!

~Carey~ (joining the hands of Roger and Dorothy). I trust to you, sweet mistress, to see that the prisoner does not escape again.

(Dorothy and Roger embrace each other, if they can do it without causing a scandal in the neighbourhood, and the curtain goes down.)

XLI "A Slight Misunderstanding"

The scene is a drawing–room (in which the men are allowed to smoke—or a smoking–room in which the women are allowed to draw—it doesn't much matter) in the house of somebody or other in the country. George Turnbull and his old College friend, Henry Peterson, are confiding in each other, as old friends will, over their whiskies and cigars. It is about three o'clock in the afternoon.

~George~ (dreamily, helping himself to a stiff soda). Henry, do you remember that evening at Christ Church College, five years ago, when we opened our hearts to each other?…

~Henry~ (lighting a cigar and hiding it in a fern–pot). That moonlight evening on the Backs, George, when I had failed in my Matriculation examination?

~George.~ Yes; and we promised that when either of us fell in love the other should be the first to hear of it? (Rising solemnly.) Henry, the moment has come. (With shining eyes.) I am in love.

~Henry~ (jumping up and grasping him by both hands). George! My dear old George! (In a voice broken with emotion.) Bless you, George!

(He pats him thoughtfully on the back three times, nods his own head twice, gives him a final grip of the hand, and returns to his chair.)

~George~ (more moved by this than he cares to show). Thank you, Henry. (Hoarsely.) You're a good fellow.

~Henry~ (airily, with a typically British desire to conceal his emotion). Who is the lucky little lady?

~George~ (taking out a picture postcard of the British Museum and kissing it passionately). Isobel Barley!

(If Henry is not careful he will probably give a start of surprise here, with the idea of suggesting to the audience that he (1) knows something about the lady's past, or (2) is in love with her himself. He is, however, thinking of a different play. We shall come to that one in a moment.)

~Henry~ (in a slightly dashing manner). Little Isobel? Lucky dog!

~George.~ I wish I could think so. (Sighs.) But I have yet to approach her, and she may be another's. (Fiercely.) Heavens, Henry, if she should be another's!

Enter Isobel.

~Isobel~ (brightly). So I've run you to earth at last. Now what have you got to say for yourselves?

~Henry~ (like a man). By Jove! (Looking at his watch.) I had no idea—is it really—poor old Joe—waiting―

(Dashes out tactfully in a state of incoherence.)

~George~ (rising and leading Isobel to the front of the stage). Miss Barley, now that we are alone I have something I want to say to you.

~Isobel~ (looking at her watch). Well, you must be quick. Because I'm engaged.

(George drops her hand and staggers away from her.)

~Isobel.~ Why, what's the matter?

~George~ (to the audience, in a voice expressing the very deeps of emotion). Engaged! She is engaged! I am too late!

(He sinks into a chair, and covers his face with his hands.)

~Isobel~ (surprised). Mr. Turnbull! What has happened?

~George~ (waving her away with one hand). Go! Leave me! I can bear this best alone. (Exit Isobel.) Merciful heavens, she is plighted to another.

Enter Henry.

~Henry~ (eagerly). Well, old man?

~George~ (raising a face white with misery—that is to say, if he has remembered to put the French chalk in the palms of his hands). Henry, I am too late! She is another's!

~Henry~ (in surprise). Whose?

~George~ (with dignity). I did not ask her. It is nothing to me. Good–bye, Henry. Be kind to her.

~Henry.~ Why, where are you going?

~George~ (firmly). To the Rocky Mountains. I shall shoot some bears. Grizzly ones. It may be that thus I shall forget my grief.

~Henry~ (after a pause). Perhaps you are right, George. What shall I tell—her?

~George.~ Tell her—nothing. But should anything (feeling casually in his pockets) happen to me—if (going over them again quickly) I do not come back, then (searching them all, including the waist coat ones, in desperate haste) give her, give her, give her (triumphantly bringing his handkerchief out of the last pocket) this, and say that my last thought was of her. Good–bye, my old friend. Good–bye.

(Exit to Rocky Mountains.)

Enter Isobel.

~Isobel.~ Why, where's Mr. Turnbull?

~Henry~ (sadly). He's gone.

~Isobel.~ Gone? Where?

~Henry.~ To the Rocky Mountains. To shoot bears. (Feeling that some further explanation is needed.) Grizzly ones.

~Isobel.~ But he was here a moment ago.

~Henry.~ Yes, he's only just gone.

~Isobel.~ Why didn't he say good–bye? (Eagerly.) But perhaps he left a message for me? (Henry shakes his head.) Nothing? (Henry bows silently and leaves the room.) Oh! (She gives a cry and throws herself on the sofa.) And I loved him! George, George, why didn't you speak?

Enter George hurriedly. He is fully dressed for a shooting expedition in the Rocky Mountains, and carries a rifle under his arm.

~George~ (to the audience). I have just come back for my pocket–handkerchief. I must have dropped it in here somewhere. (He begins to search for it, and in the ordinary course of things comes upon Isobel on the sofa. He puts his rifle down carefully on a table, with the muzzle pointing at the prompter rather than at the audience, and staggers back.) Merciful heavens! Isobel! Dead! (He falls on his knees beside the sofa.) My love, speak to me!

~Isobel~ (softly). George!

~George.~ She is alive! Isobel!

~Isobel.~ Don't go, George!

~George.~ My dear, I love you! But when I heard that you were another's, honour compelled me―

~Isobel~ (sitting up quickly). What do you mean by another's?

~George.~ You said you were engaged!

~Isobel~ (suddenly realising how the dreadful misunderstanding arose which nearly wrecked two lives). But I only meant I was engaged to play tennis with Lady Carbrook!

~George.~ What a fool I have been! (He hurries on before the audience can assent.) Then, Isobel, you will be mine?

~Isobel.~ Yes, George. And you won't go and shoot nasty bears, will you, dear? Not even grizzly ones?

~George~ (taking her in his arms). Never, darling. That was only (turning to the audience with the air of one who is making his best point) ~A slight misunderstanding.~

CURTAIN.

XLII "Miss Prendergast"

As the curtain goes up two ladies are discovered in the morning–room of Honeysuckle Lodge engaged in work of a feminine nature. Miss Alice Prendergast is doing something delicate with a crochet–hook, but it is obvious that her thoughts are far away. She sighs at intervals and occasionally lays down her work and presses both hands to her heart. A sympathetic audience will have no difficulty in guessing that she is in love. On the other hand, her elder sister, Miss Prendergast, is completely wrapped up in a sock for one of the poorer classes, over which she frowns formidably. The sock, however, has no real bearing upon the plot, and she must not make too much of it.

~Alice~ (hiding her emotions). Did you have a pleasant dinner–party last night, Jane?

~Jane~ (to herself). Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. (Looking up.) Very pleasant indeed, Alice. The Blizzards were there, and the Podbys, and the Slumphs. (These people are not important and should not be over–emphasised.) Mrs. Podby's maid has given notice.

~Alice.~ Who took you in?

~Jane~ (brightening up). Such an interesting man, my dear. He talked most agreeably about Art during dinner, and we renewed the conversation in the drawing–room. We found that we agreed upon all the main principles of Art, considered as such.

~Alice~ (with a look in her eyes which shows that she is recalling a tender memory). When I was in Shropshire last week― What was your man's name?

~Jane~ (with a warning glance at the audience). You know how difficult it is to catch names when one is introduced. I am certain he never heard mine. (As the plot depends partly upon this, she pauses for it to sink in.) But I enquired about him afterwards, and I find that he is a Mr.―

Enter Mary, the parlourmaid.

~Mary~ (handing letter). A letter for you, Miss.

~Jane~ (taking it). Thank you, Mary. (Exit Mary to work up her next line.) A letter! I wonder who it is from! (Reading the envelope.) "Miss Prendergast, Honeysuckle Lodge." (She opens it with the air of one who has often received letters before, but feels that this one may play an important part in her life.) "Dear Miss Prendergast, I hope you will pardon the presumption of what I am about to write to you, but whether you pardon me or not, I ask you to listen to me. I know of no woman for whose talents I have a greater admiration or for whose qualities I have a more sincere affection than yourself. Since I have known you, you have been the lodestar of my existence, the fountain of my inspiration. I feel that, were your life joined to mine, the joint path upon which we trod would be the path to happiness, such as I have as yet hardly dared to dream of. In short, dear Miss Prendergast, I ask you to marry me, and I will come in person for my answer. Yours truly (in a voice of intense surprise) Jas. Bootle!"

(At the word "Bootle" a wave of warm colour rushes over Alice and dyes her from neck to brow. If she is not an actress of sufficient calibre to ensure this, she must do the best she can by starting abruptly and putting her hand to her throat.)

~Alice~ (aside, in a choking voice). Mr. Bootle! In love with Jane!

~Jane.~ My dear! The man who took me down to dinner! Well!

~Alice~ (picking up her work again and trying to be calm). What will you say?

~Jane~ (rather pleased with herself). Well, really—I—this is—Mr. Bootle! Fancy!

~Alice~ (starting up). Was that a ring? (She frowns at the prompter and a bell is heard to ring.) It is Mr. Bootle! I know his ring, I mean I know― Dear, I think I will go and lie down. I have a headache.

(She looks miserably at the audience, closes her eyes, and goes off with her handkerchief to her mouth, taking care not to fall over the furniture.)

Enter Mary, followed by James Bootle.

~Mary.~ Mr. Bootle. (Exit finally.)

~Jane.~ Good morning, Mr. Bootle.

~Bootle.~ I beg—I thought—why, of course! It's Miss—er—h'm, yes. How do you do? Did you get back safely last night?

~Jane.~ Yes, thank you. (Coyly.) I got your letter.

~Bootle.~ My letter? (Sees his letter on the table. Furiously.) You opened my letter!

~Jane~ (mistaking his fury for passion). Yes, James. And (looking down on the ground) the answer is "Yes."

~Bootle~ (realising the situation). By George! (Aside.) I have proposed to the wrong lady. Tchck!

~Jane.~ You may kiss me, James.

~Bootle.~ Have you a sister?

~Jane~ (missing the connection). Yes, I have a younger sister, Alice. (Coldly.) But I hardly see―

~Bootle~ (beginning to understand how he made the mistake). A younger sister! Then you are Miss Prendergast? And my letter—Ah!

Enter Alice.

~Alice.~ You are wanted, Jane, a moment.

~Jane.~ Will you excuse me, Mr. Bootle?

(Exit.)

~Bootle~ (to Alice, as she follows her sister out). Don't go!

~Alice~ (wanly, if she knows how). Am I to stay and congratulate you?

~Bootle.~ Alice! (They approach the footlights, while Jane, having finished her business, comes in unobserved and watches from the back.) It is all a mistake! I didn't know your Christian name—I didn't know you had a sister. The letter I addressed to Miss Prendergast I meant for Miss Alice Prendergast.

~Alice.~ James! My love! But what can we do?

~Bootle~ (gloomily). Nothing. As a man of honour I cannot withdraw. So two lives are ruined!

~Alice.~ You are right, James. Jane must never know. Good–bye!

(They give each other a farewell embrace.)

~Jane~ (aside). They love. (Fiercely.) But he is mine; I will hold him to his promise! (Picking up a photograph of Alice as a small child from an occasional table.) Little Alice! And I promised to take care of her—to protect her from the cruel world. Baby Alice! (She puts her handkerchief to her eyes.) No! I will not spoil two lives! (Aloud.) Why good–bye, Alice?

(Bootle and Alice, who have been embracing all this time, unless they can think of something else to do, break away in surprise.)

~Alice.~ Jane—we—I―

~Jane~ (calmly). Dear Alice! I understand perfectly. Mr. Bootle said in his letter to you that he was coming for his answer, and I see what answer you have given him. (To Bootle.) You remember I told you it would be "Yes." I know my little sister, you see.

~Bootle~ (tactlessly). But—you told me I could kiss you!

~Jane~ (smiling). And I tell you again now. I believe it is usual for men to kiss their sisters–in–law? (She offers her cheek. Bootle, whose day it is, salutes her respectfully.) And now (gaily) perhaps I had better leave you young people alone!

(Exit, with a backward look at the audience expressive of the fact that she has been wearing the mask.)

~Bootle.~ Alice, then you are mine, after all!

~Alice.~ James! (They k― No, perhaps better not. There has been quite enough for one evening.) And to think that she knew all the time. Now I am quite, quite happy. And James—you will remember in future that I am Miss Alice Prendergast?

~Bootle~ (gaily). My dear, I shall only be able to remember that you are The Future Mrs. Bootle!

CURTAIN.

XLIII "At Dead of Night"

The stage is in semi–darkness as Dick Trayle throws open the window from outside, puts his knee on the sill, and falls carefully into the drawing–room of Beeste Hall. He is dressed in a knickerbocker suit with arrows on it (such as can always be borrowed from a friend), and, to judge from the noises which he emits, is not in the best of training. The lights go on suddenly; and he should seize this moment to stagger to the door and turn on the switch. This done he sinks into the nearest chair and closes his eyes.

If he has been dancing very late the night before, he may drop into a peaceful sleep; in which case the play ends here. Otherwise, no sooner are his eyes closed than he opens them with a sudden start and looks round in terror.

~Dick~ (striking the keynote at once). No, no! Let me out—I am innocent! (He gives a gasp of relief as he realises the situation.) Free! It is true, then! I have escaped! I dreamed that I was back in prison again! (He shudders and helps himself to a large whisky–and–soda, which he swallows at a gulp.) That's better! Now I feel a new man—the man I was three years ago. Three years! It has been a lifetime! (Pathetically to the audience.) Where is Millicent now? (The audience guesses that she is in the making–up room, but musn't say so.) Alas! (He falls into a reverie, from which he is suddenly wakened by a noise outside. He starts, and then creeps rapidly to the switch, arriving there at the moment when the lights go out. Then he goes swiftly behind the window curtain. The lights go up again as Jasper Beeste comes in with a revolver in one hand and a bull's–eye lantern of apparently enormous candle power in the other.)

~Jasper~ (in immaculate evening dress). I thought I heard a noise, so I slipped on some old things hurriedly and came down. (Fingering his perfectly–tied tie.) But there seems to be nobody here. (Turns round suddenly to the window.) Ha, who's there? Hands up, blow you (he ought to swear rather badly here, really) hands up or I fire!

(The stage is suddenly plunged into darkness, there is the noise of a struggle, and the lights go on to reveal Jasper by the door covering Dick with his revolver.)

~Jasper.~ Let's have a little light on you. (Brutally.) Now then, my man, what have you got to say for yourself? Ha! An escaped convict, eh?

~Dick~ (to himself, in amazement). Jasper Beeste!

~Jasper.~ So you know my name?

~Dick~ (in the tones of a man whose whole life has been blighted by the machinations of a false friend). Yes, Jasper Beeste, I know your name. For two years I have said it to myself every night, when I prayed Heaven that I should meet you again.

~Jasper.~ Again? (Uneasily.) We have met before?

~Dick~ (slowly). We have met before, Jasper Beeste. Since then I have lived a lifetime of misery. You may well fail to recognise me.

Enter Millicent Wilsdon—in a dressing gown, with her hair over her shoulders, if the county will stand it.

~Millicent~ (to Jasper). I couldn't sleep—I heard a noise—I—(suddenly seeing the other) Dick! (She trembles.)

~Dick.~ Millicent! (He trembles too.)

~Jasper.~ Trayle! (So does he.)

~Dick~ (bitterly). You shrink from me, Millicent. (With strong common sense.) What is an escaped convict to the beautiful Miss Wilsdon?

~Millicent.~ Dick—I—you—when you were sentenced―

~Dick.~ When I was sentenced—the evidence was black against me, I admit—I wrote and released you from your engagement. You are married now?

~Millicent~ (throwing herself on a sofa). Oh, Dick!

~Jasper~ (recovering himself). Enough of this. Miss Wilsdon is going to marry me tomorrow.

~Dick.~ To marry you! (He strides over to sofa and pulls Millicent to her feet.) Millicent, look me in the eyes! Do you love him? (She turns away.) Say "Yes" and I will go back quietly to my prison. (She raises her eyes to his.) Ha! I thought so! You don't love him! Now then I can speak.

~Jasper~ (advancing threateningly). Yes, to your friends, the warders. Millicent, ring the bell.

~Dick~ (wresting the revolver from his grasp). Ha, would you? Now stand over there and listen to me. (He arranges his audience, Millicent on a sofa on the right, Jasper, biting his finger nails, on the left.) Three years ago Lady Wilsdon's diamond necklace was stolen. My flat was searched and the necklace was found in my hatbox. Although I protested my innocence I was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to ten years' penal servitude, followed by fifteen years' police supervision.

~Millicent~ (raising herself on the sofa). Dick, you were innocent—I know it. (She flops back again.)

~Dick.~ I was. But how could I prove it? I went to prison. For a year black despair gnawed at my heart. And then something happened. The prisoner in the cell next to mine tried to communicate with me by means of taps. We soon arranged a system and held conversations together. One day he told me of a robbery in which he and another man had been engaged—the robbery of a diamond necklace.

~Jasper~ (jauntily). Well?

~Dick~ (sternly). A diamond necklace, Jasper Beeste, which the other man hid in the hatbox of another man in order that he might woo the other man's fiancée! (Millicent shrieks.)

~Jasper~ (blusteringly). Bah!

~Dick~ (quietly). The man in the cell next to mine wants to meet this gentleman again. It seems that he has some old scores to pay off.

~Jasper~ (sneeringly). And where is he?

~Dick.~ Ah, where is he? (He goes to the window and gives a low whistle. A stranger in knickerbockers jumps in and advances with a crab–like movement.) Good! here you are. Allow me to present you to Mr. Jasper Beeste.

~Jasper~ (in horror). Two–toed Thomas! I am undone!

~Two–toed Thomas~ (after a series of unintelligible snarls). Say the word, guv'nor, and I'll kill him. (He prowls round Jasper thoughtfully.)

~Dick~ (sternly). Stand back! Now, Jasper Beeste, what have you to say?

~Jasper~ (hysterically). I confess. I will sign anything. I will go to prison. Only keep that man off me.

~Dick~ (going up to a bureau and writing aloud at incredible speed). "I, Jasper Beeste, of Beeste Hall, do hereby declare that I stole Lady Wilsdon's diamond necklace and hid it in the hatbox of Richard Trayle; and I further declare that the said Richard Trayle is innocent of any complicity in the affair. (Advancing with the paper and a fountain pen.) Sign, please."

(Jasper signs. At this moment two warders burst into the room.)

~First Warder.~ There they are!

(He seizes Dick. Two–toed Thomas leaps from the window, pursued by the second Warder. Millicent picks up the confession and advances dramatically.)

~Millicent.~ Do not touch that man! Read this!

(She hands him the confession with an air of superb pride.)

~First Warder~ (reading). Jasper Beeste! (Slipping a pair of handcuffs on Jasper.) You come along with me, my man. We've had our suspicions of you for some time. (To Millicent, with a nod at Dick). You'll look after that gentleman, miss?

~Millicent.~ Of course! Why, he's engaged to me. Aren't you, Dick?

~Dick.~ This time, Millicent, for ever!

CURTAIN.

XLIV "The Lost Heiress"

The Scene is laid outside a village inn in that county of curious dialects, Loamshire. The inn is easily indicated by a round table bearing two mugs of liquid, while a fallen log emphasises the rural nature of the scene. Gaffer Jarge and Gaffer Willyum are seated at the table, surrounded by a fringe of whisker, Jarge being slightly more of a gaffer than Willyum.

~Jarge~ (who missed his dinner through nervousness and has been ordered to sustain himself with soup—as he puts down the steaming mug). Eh, bor but this be rare beer. So it be.

~Willyum~ (who had too much dinner and is now draining his liquid paraffin). You be right, Gaffer Jarge. Her be main rare beer. (He feels up his sleeve, but thinking better of it, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.) Main rare beer, zo her be. (Gagging.) Zure–lie.

~Jarge.~ Did I ever tell 'ee, bor, about t' new squoire o' these parts—him wot cum hum yesterday from furren lands? Gaffer Henry wor a–telling me.

~Willyum~ (privately bored). Thee didst tell 'un, lad, sartain sure thee didst. And Gaffer Henry, he didst tell 'un too. But tell 'un again. It du me good to hear 'un, zo it du. Zure–lie.

~Jarge~. A rackun it be a main queer tale, queerer nor any them writing chaps tell about. It wor like this. (Dropping into English, in his hurry to get his long speech over before he forgets it.) The old Squire had a daughter who disappeared when she was three weeks old, eighteen years ago. It was always thought she was stolen by somebody, and the Squire would have it that she was still alive. When he died a year ago he left the estate and all his money to a distant cousin in Australia, with the condition that if he did not discover the missing baby within twelve months everything was to go to the hospitals. (Remembering his smock and whiskers with a start.) And here du be the last day, zo it be, and t' Squoire's daughter, her ain't found.

~Willyum~ (puffing at a new and empty clay pipe). Zure–lie. (Jarge, a trifle jealous of Willyum's gag, pulls out a similar pipe, but smokes it with the bowl upside down to show his independence.) T' Squire's darter (Jarge frowns)—her bain't (Jarge wishes he had thought of "bain't")—her bain't found. (There is a dramatic pause, only broken by the prompter.) Her ud be little Rachel's age now, bor?

~Jarge~ (reflectively). Ay, ay. A main queer lass little Rachel du be. Her bain't like one of us.

~Willyum~. Her do be that fond of zoap and water. (Laughter.)

~Jarge~ (leaving nothing to chance). Happen she might be a real grand lady by birth, bor.

Enter Rachel, beautifully dressed in the sort of costume in which one would go to a fancy–dress ball as a village maiden.

~Rachel~ (in the most expensive accent). Now, Uncle George (shaking a finger at him), didn't you promise me you'd go straight home? It would serve you right if I never tied your tie for you again. (She smiles brightly at him.)

~Jarge~ (slapping his thigh in ecstasy). Eh, lass! yer du keep us old uns in order. (He bursts into a falsetto chuckle, loses the note, blushes and buries his head in his mug.)

~Willyum~ (rising). Us best be gettin' down along, Jarge, a rackun.

~Jarge.~ Ay, bor, time us chaps was moving. Don't 'e be long, lass. (Exeunt, limping heavily.)

~Rachel~ (sitting down on the log). Dear old men! How I love them all in this village! I have known it all my life. How strange it is that I have never had a father or mother. Sometimes I seem to remember a life different to this—a life in fine houses and spacious parks, among beautifully dressed people (which is surprising seeing that she was only three weeks old at the time; but the audience must be given a hint of the plot), and then it all fades away again. (She looks fixedly into space.)

Enter Hugh Fitzhugh, Squire.

~Fitzhugh~ (standing behind Rachel, but missing her somehow). Did ever man come into stranger inheritance? A wanderer in Central Australia, I hear unexpectedly of my cousin's death through an advertisement in an old copy of a Sunday newspaper. I hasten home—too late to soothe his dying hours; too late indeed to enjoy my good fortune for more than one short day. To–morrow I must give up all to the hospitals, unless by some stroke of Fate this missing girl turns up. (Impatiently.) Pshaw! She is dead. (Suddenly he notices Rachel.) By heaven, a pretty girl in this out–of–the–way village! (He walks round her.) Gad, she is lovely! Hugh, my boy, you are in luck. (He takes off his hat.) Good evening, my dear!

~Rachel~ (with a start). Good evening.

~Fitzhugh~ (aside). She is adorable. She can be no common village wench. (Aloud.) Do you live here, my girl?

~Rachel.~ Yes, I have always lived here. (Aside.) How handsome he is. Down, fluttering heart.

~Fitzhugh~ (sitting on the log beside her). And who is the lucky village lad who is privileged to woo such beauty?

~Rachel.~ I have no lover, Sir.

~Fitzhugh~ (taking her hand). Can Hodge be so blind?

~Rachel~ (innocently). Are you making love to me?

~Fitzhugh.~ Upon my word I—(He gets up from the log, which is not really comfortable.) What is your name?

~Rachel.~ Rachel. (She rises.)

~Fitzhugh.~ It is the most beautiful name in the world. Rachel, will you be my wife?

~Rachel.~ But we have known each other such a short time!

~Fitzhugh~ (lying bravely). We have known each other for ever.

~Rachel.~ And you are a rich gentleman, while I―

~Fitzhugh.~ A gentleman, I hope, but rich—no. To–morrow I shall be a beggar. No, not a beggar if I have your love, Rachel.

~Rachel~ (making a lucky shot at his name). Hugh! (They embrace.)

~Fitzhugh.~ Let us plight our troth here. See, I give you my ring!

~Rachel.~ And I give you mine.

(She takes one from the end of a chain which is round her neck, and puts it on his finger. Fitzhugh looks at it and staggers back.)

~Fitzhugh.~ Heavens! They are the same ring! (In great excitement.) Child, child, who are you? How came you by the crest of the Fitzhughs?

~Rachel.~ Ah, who am I? I never had any parents. When they found me they found that ring on me, and I have kept it ever since!

~Fitzhugh.~ Let me look at you! It must be! The Squire's missing daughter!

(Gaffers Jarge and Willyum, having entered unobserved at the back some time ago, have been putting in a lot of heavy by–play until wanted.)

~Jarge~ (at last). Lor' bless 'ee, Willyum, if it bain't Squire a–kissin' our Rachel.

~Willyum.~ Zo it du be. Here du be goings–on! What will t' passon say?

~Jarge~ (struck with an idea). Zay, bor, don't 'ee zee a zort o' loikeness atween t' maid and t' Squire?

~Willyum.~ Jarge, if you bain't right, lad. Happen she do have t' same nose!

(Hearing something, Fitzhugh and Rachel turn round.)

~Fitzhugh.~ Ah, my men! I'm your new Squire. Do you know who this is?

~Willyum.~ Why, her du be our Rachel.

~Fitzhugh.~ On the contrary, allow me to introduce you to Miss Fitzhugh, daughter of the late Squire!

~Jarge.~ Well, this du be a day! To think of our Rachel now!

~Fitzhugh.~ My Rachel now!

~Rachel~ (who, it is to be hoped, has been amusing herself somehow since her last speech). Your Rachel always. [CURTAIN.

XLV "The Literary Life"

The Scene is the Editor's room in the Office of "The Lark." Two walls of the room are completely hidden from floor to ceiling by magnificently bound books; the third wall at the back is hidden by boxes of immensely expensive cigars. The windows, of course, are in the fourth wall, which, however, need not be described, as it is never quite practicable on the stage. The floor of this apartment is chastely covered with rugs shot by the Editor in his travels, or in the Tottenham Court Road; or, in some cases, presented by admiring readers from abroad. The furniture is both elegant and commodious.

William Smith, Editor, comes in. He is superbly dressed in a fur coat and an expensive cigar. There is a blue pencil behind his ear, and a sheaf of what we call in the profession "typewritten manuscripts" under his arm. He sits down at his desk and pulls the telephone towards him.

~Smith~ (at the telephone). Hallo, is that you, Jones?…Yes, it's me. Just come up a moment. (Puts down telephone and begins to open his letters.)

Enter Jones, his favourite sub–editor. He is dressed quite commonly, and is covered with ink. He salutes respectfully as he comes into the room.

~Jones.~ Good afternoon, chief.

~Smith.~ Good afternoon. Have a cigar?

~Jones.~ Thank you, chief.

~Smith.~ Have you anything to tell me?

~Jones.~ The circulation is still going up, chief. It was three million and eight last week.

~Smith~ (testily). How often have I told you not to call me "chief," except when there are ladies present? Why can't you do what you're told?

~Jones.~ Sorry, sir, but the fact is there are ladies present.

~Smith~ (fingering his moustache). Show them up. Who are they?

~Jones.~ There is only one. She says she's the lady who has been writing our anonymous "Secrets of the Boudoir" series which has made such a sensation.

~Smith~ (in amazement). I thought you told me you wrote those.

~Jones~ (simply). I did.

~Smith.~ Then why―

~Jones.~ I mean I did tell you. The truth is they came in anonymously, and I thought they were more likely to be accepted if I said I had written them. (With great emotion.) Forgive me, chief, but it was for the paper's sake. (In matter–of–fact tones.) There were one or two peculiarities of style I had to alter. She had a way of―

~Smith~ (sternly). How many cheques for them have you accepted for the paper's sake?

~Jones.~ Eight. For a thousand pounds each.

~Smith~ (with tears in his eyes). If your mother were to hear of this―

~Jones~ (sadly). Ah, chief, I never had a mother.

~Smith~ (slightly put out, but recovering himself quickly). What would your father say if―

~Jones.~ Alas, I have no relations. I was a foundling.

~Smith~ (nettled). In that case I shall certainly tell the master of your workhouse. To think that there should be a thief in this office.

~Jones~ (with great pathos). Chief, chief, I am not so vile as that. I have carefully kept all the cheques in an old stocking, and―

~Smith~ (in surprise). Do you wear stockings?

~Jones~ When I bicycle. And as soon as the contributor comes forward―

~Smith~ (stretching out his hand and grasping that of Jones). My dear boy, forgive me. You have been hasty, perhaps, but zealous. In any case, your honesty is above suspicion. Leave me now. I have much to think of. (Rests his head on his hands. Then, dreamily.) You have never seen your father; for thirty years I have not seen my wife…. Ah, Arabella!

~Jones.~ Yes, sir. (Rings bell.)

~Smith.~ She would split her infinitives…. We quarrelled…. She left me…. I have never seen her again.

~Jones.~ (excitedly). Did you say she split her infinitives?

~Smith.~ Yes. That was what led to our separation. Why?

~Jones.~ Nothing, only—it's very odd. I wonder―

Enter Boy.

~Boy.~ Did you ring, Sir?

~Smith.~ No. But you can show the lady up. (Exit Boy.) You'd better clear out, Jones. I'll explain to her about the money.

~Smith.~ Right you are, Sir. (Exit.)

(Smith leans back in his chair and stares in front of him.)

~Smith~ (to himself). Arabella!

Enter Boy, followed by a stylishly dressed lady of middle age.

~Boy.~ Mrs. Robinson. (Exit.)

(Mrs. Robinson stops short in the middle of the room and stares at the Editor; then staggers and drops on to the sofa.)

~Smith~ (in wonder). Arabella!

~Mrs. Robinson.~ William!

(They fall into each other's arms.)

~Arabella.~ I had begun to almost despair. (Smith winces.) "Almost to despair," I mean, darling.

~Smith~ (with a great effort). No, no, dear. You were right.

~Arabella.~ How sweet of you to think so, William.

~Smith.~ Yes, yes, it's the least I can say…. I have been very lonely without you, dear…. And now, what shall we do? Shall we get married again quietly?

~Arabella.~ Wouldn't that be bigamy?

~Smith.~ I think not, but I will ask the printer's reader. He knows everything. You see, there will be such a lot to explain, otherwise.

~Arabella.~ Dear, can you afford to marry?

~Smith.~ Well, my salary as editor is only twenty thousand a year, but I do a little reviewing for other papers.

~Arabella.~ And I have—nothing. How can I come to you without even a trousseau?

~Smith.~ Yes, that's true…. (Suddenly) By Jove, though, you have got something! You have eight thousand pounds! We owe you that for your articles. (With a return to his professional manner.) Did I tell you how greatly we all appreciated them? (Goes to telephone.) Is that you, Jones? Just come here a moment. (To Arabella) Jones is my sub–editor; he is keeping your money for you.

Enter Jones.

~Jones~ (producing an old stocking). I've just been round to my rooms to get that money—(sees Arabella)—oh, I beg your pardon.

~Smith~ (waving an introduction). Mrs. Smith—my wife. This is our sub–editor, dear—Mr. Jones. (Arabella puts her hand to her heart and seems about to faint.) Why, what's the matter?

~Arabella~ (hoarsely). Where did you get that stocking?

~Smith~ (pleasantly). It's one he wears when he goes bicycling.

~Jones.~ No; I misled you this afternoon, chief. This stocking was all the luggage I had when I first entered the Leamington workhouse.

~Arabella~ (throwing herself into his arms). My son! This is your father! William—our boy!

~Smith~ (shaking hands with Jones). How are you? I say, Arabella, then that was one of my stockings?

~Arabella~ (to her boy.) When I saw you on the stairs you seemed to dimly remind me―

~Jones.~ To remind you dimly, mother.

~Smith.~ No, my boy. In future, nothing but split infinitives will appear in our paper. Please remember that.

~Jones~ (with emotion). I will endeavour to always remember it, dad. [CURTAIN.