DELIA. Aren’t you a poet?
BELINDA. Yes, darling, but that doesn’t prevent him eating. He’ll be absolutely lyrical over Betty’s sandwiches.
DEVENISH. You won’t deny me that inspiration, I hope, Miss Robinson.
BELINDA. Well, let’s go and see what they’re like. (DELIA and DEVENISH begin to move towards the house.) Mr. Baxter, just a moment.
BAXTER. Yes?
BELINDA (secretly). Not a word to her about Mr. Robinson. It must be a surprise for her.
BAXTER. Quite so, I understand.
BELINDA. That’s right. (Raising her voice.) Oh, Mr. Devenish.
DEVENISH. Yes, Mrs. Tremayne? (He comes back.)
BELINDA (secretly). Not a word to her about Mr. Robinson. It must be a surprise for her.
DEVENISH. Of course! I shouldn’t dream–(Indignantly.) Robinson! _What_ an unsuitable name!
[BAXTER _and_ DELIA _are just going into the house.]
BELINDA (dismissing DEVENISH). All right, I’ll catch you up.
[DEVENISH goes after the other two.]
(Left alone, BELINDA _laughs happily to herself, and then begins to look rather aimlessly about her. She picks up her sunshade and opens it. She comes to the hammock, picks out her handkerchief, says, “Ah, there you are!” and puts it away. She goes slowly towards the house, turns her head just as she comes to the door, and comes slowly back again. She stops at the table looking down the garden.)
BELINDA (to herself). Have you lost yourself, or something? No; the latch is this side. … Yes, that’s right.
[TREMAYNE comes in. He has been knocking about the world for eighteen years, and is very much a man, though he has kept his manners. His hair is greying a little at the sides, and he looks the forty-odd that he is. Without his moustache and beard he is very different from the boy BELINDA married.]
TREMAYNE (with his hat in his hand). I’m afraid I’m trespassing.
BELINDA (winningly). But it’s such a pretty garden (turns away, dosing her parasol), isn’t it?
TREMAYNE (rather confused). I-I beg your pardon, I-er– (He is wondering if it can possibly be she. BELINDA thinks his confusion is due to the fact that he is trespassing, and hastens to put him at his ease.)
BELINDA. I should have done the same myself, you know.
TREMAYNE (pulling himself together). Oh, but you mustn’t think I just came in because I liked the garden–
BELINDA (clapping her hands). No; but say you do like it, quick.
TREMAYNE. It’s lovely and–(He hesitates.)
BELINDA (hopefully). Yes?
TREMAYNE (with conviction). Yes, it’s lovely.
BELINDA (with that happy sigh of hers). O-oh! … Now tell me what really did happen?
TREMAYNE. I was on my way to Marytown–
BELINDA. To where?
TREMAYNE. Marytown.
BELINDA. Oh, you mean Mariton.
TREMAYNE. Do I?
BELINDA. Yes; we always call it Mariton down here. (Earnestly.) You don’t mind, do you?
TREMAYNE (smiling). Not a bit.
BELINDA. Just say it–to see if you’ve got it right.
TREMAYNE. Mariton.
BELINDA (shaking her head). Oh no, that’s quite wrong. Try it again (With a rustic accent.) Mariton.
TREMAYNE. Mariton.
BELINDA. Yes, that’s much better. … (As if it were he who had interrupted.) Well, do go on.
TREMAYNE. I’m afraid it isn’t much of an apology really. I saw what looked like a private road, but what I rather hoped wasn’t, and– well, I thought I’d risk it. I do hope you’ll forgive me.
BELINDA. Oh, but I love people seeing my garden. Are you staying in Mariton?
TREMAYNE. I think so. Oh yes, decidedly.
BELINDA. Well, perhaps the next time the road won’t feel so private.
TREMAYNE. How charming of you! (He feels he must know.) Are you Mrs. Tremayne by any chance?
BELINDA. Yes.
TREMAYNE (nodding to himself). Yes.
BELINDA. How did you know?
TREMAYNE (hastily inventing). They use you as a sign-post in the village. Past Mrs. Tremayne’s house and then bear to the left–
BELINDA. And you couldn’t go past it?
TREMAYNE. I’m afraid I couldn’t. Thank you so much for not minding. Well, I must be getting on, I have trespassed quite enough.
BELINDA (regretfully). And you haven’t really seen the garden yet.
TREMAYNE. If you won’t mind my going on this way, I shall see some more on my way out.
BELINDA. Please do. It likes being looked at. (With the faintest suggestion of demureness) All pretty things do.
TREMAYNE. Thank you very much. Er–(He hesitates.)
BELINDA (helpfully). Yes?
TREMAYNE. I wonder if you’d mind very much if I called one day to thank you formally for the lesson you gave me in pronunciation?
BELINDA (gravely). Yes. I almost think you ought to. I think it’s the correct thing to do.
TREMAYNE (contentedly). Thank you very much, Mrs. Tremayne.
BELINDA. You’ll come in quite formally by the front-door next time, won’t you, because–because that seems the only chance of my getting to know your name.
TREMAYNE. Oh, I beg your pardon. My name is–er–er–Robinson.
BELINDA (laughing). How very odd!
TREMAYNE (startled). Odd?
BELINDA. Yes; we have someone called Robinson staying in the house. I wonder if she is any relation?
TREMAYNE (hastily). Oh no, no. No, she couldn’t be. I have no relations called Robinson–not to speak of.
BELINDA (holding out her hand). You must tell me all about your relations when you come and call, Mr. Robinson.
TREMAYNE. I think we can find something better worth talking about than that.
BELINDA. Do you think so? (He says “Yes” with his eyes, bows, and goes off down the garden. BELINDA stays looking after him, then gives that happy sigh of hers, only even more so) O-oh!
[Enter BETTY.]
BETTY. If you please, ma’am, Miss Delia says, are you coming in to tea?
BELINDA (looking straight in front of her, and taking no notice of BETTY, in a happy, dreamy voice). Betty, … about callers. … If Mr. Robinson calls–he’s the handsome gentleman who hasn’t been here before–you will say, “Not at home.” And he will say, “Oh!” And you will say, “I beg your pardon, sir, was it Mr. _Robinson_?” And he will say, “Yes!” And you will say, “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir–” (Almost as if she were BETTY, she begins to move towards the house.) “This way–” (she would be smiling an invitation over her shoulder to MR. ROBINSON, if he were there, and she were BETTY)– “please!” (And the abandoned woman goes in to tea.)
ACT II
[It is morning in BELINDA’S hall, a low-roofed, oak-beamed place, comfortably furnished as a sitting-room. There is an inner and an outer front-door, both of which are open.]
[DEVENISH, who has just rung the bell, is waiting with a bouquet of violets between the two. Midway on the right is a door leading to a small room where hats and coats are kept. A door on the left leads towards the living-rooms.]
BETTY. Good morning, sir.
DEVENISH. Good morning. I am afraid this is an unceremonious hour for a call, but my sense of beauty urged me hither in defiance of convention.
BETTY. Yes, sir.
DEVENISH (holding up his bouquet to BETTY). See, the dew is yet lingering upon them; how could I let them wait until this afternoon?
BETTY. Yes, sir; but I think the mistress is out.
DEVENISH. They are not for your mistress; they are for Miss Delia.
BETTY. Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. If you will come in, I’ll see if I can find her. (She brings him in and goes away to find DELIA.)
(DEVENISH tries a number of poses about the room for himself and his bouquet, and finally selects one against the right side of the door by which he has just come in.)
[Enter DELIA from the door on the left.]
DELIA (shutting the door and going to_ DEVENISH). Oh, good morning, Mr. Devenish. I’m afraid my–er–aunt is out.
DEVENISH. I know, Miss Delia, I know.
DELIA. She’ll be so sorry to have missed you. It is her day for you, isn’t it?
DEVENISH. Her day for me?
DELIA. Yes; Mr. Baxter generally comes to-morrow, doesn’t he?
DEVENISH. Miss Delia, if our friendship is to progress at all, it can only be on the distinct understanding that I take no interest whatever in Mr. Baxter’s movements.
DELIA. Oh, I’m so sorry; I thought you knew. What lovely flowers! Are they for my aunt?
DEVENISH. To whom does one bring violets? To modest, shrinking, tender youth.
DELIA. I don’t think we have anybody here like that.
DEVENISH (with a bow). Miss Delia, they are for you.
DELIA. Oh, how nice of you! But I’m afraid I oughtn’t to take them from you under false pretences; I don’t shrink.
DEVENISH. A fanciful way of putting it, perhaps. They are none the less for you.
DELIA. Well, it’s awfully kind of you. I’m afraid I’m not a very romantic person. Aunt Belinda does all the romancing in our family.
DEVENISH. Your aunt is a very remarkable woman.
DELIA. She is. Don’t you dare to say a word against her.
DEVENISH. My dear Miss Delia, nothing could be further from my thoughts. Why, am I not indebted to her for that great happiness which has come to me in these last few days?
DELIA (surprised). Good gracious! and I didn’t know anything about it. But what about poor Mr. Baxter?
DEVENISH (stiffly). I must beg that Mr. Baxter’s name be kept out of our conversation.
DELIA. But I thought Mr. Baxter and you–do tell me what’s happened. I seem to have lost myself.
DEVENISH. What has happened, Miss Delia, is that I have learnt at last the secret that my heart has been striving to tell me for weeks past. As soon as I saw that gracious lady, your aunt, I knew that I was in love. Foolishly I took it for granted that it was she for whom my heart was thrilling. How mistaken I was! Directly you came, you opened my eyes, and now–
DELIA. Mr. Devenish, you don’t say you’re proposing to me?
DEVENISH. I am. I feel sure I am. Delia, I love you.
DELIA. How exciting of you!
DEVENISH (with a modest shrug). It’s nothing; I am a poet.
DELIA. You really want to marry me?
DEVENISH. Such is my earnest wish.
DELIA. But what about my aunt?
DEVENISH (simply). She will be my aunt-in-law.
DELIA. She’ll be rather surprised.
DEVENISH. Delia, I will be frank with you. I admit that I made Mrs. Tremayne an offer of marriage.
DELIA (excitedly). You really did? Was it that first afternoon I came?
DEVENISH. Yes.
DELIA. Oh, I wish I’d been there!
DEVENISH (with dignity). It is not my custom to propose in the presence of a third party. It is true that on the occasion you mention a man called Baxter was on the lawn, but I regarded him no more than the old apple-tree or the flower-beds, or any other of the fixtures.
DELIA. What did she say?
DEVENISH. She accepted me conditionally.
DELIA. Oh, do tell me!
DEVENISH. It is rather an unhappy story. This man called Baxter in his vulgar way also made a proposal of marriage. Mrs. Tremayne was gracious enough to imply that she would marry whichever one of us fulfilled a certain condition.
DELIA. How sweet of her!
DEVENISH. It is my earnest hope, Miss Delia, that the man called Baxter will be the victor. As far as is consistent with honour, I shall endeavour to let Mr. Baxter (banging the table with his hand) win.
DELIA. What was the condition?
DEVENISH. That I am not at liberty to tell. It is, I understand, to be a surprise for you.
DELIA. How exciting! … Mr. Devenish, you have been very frank. May I be equally so? (DEVENISH bows.) Why do you wear your hair so long?
DEVENISH (pleased). You have noticed it?
DELIA. Well, yes, I have.
DEVENISH. I wear it so to express my contempt for the conventions of so-called society.
DELIA. I always thought that people wore it very very short if they despised the conventions of society.
DEVENISH. I think that the mere fact that my hair annoys Mr. Baxter is sufficient justification for its length.
DELIA. But if it annoys me too?
DEVENISH (heroically). It shall go.
DELIA (apologetically). I told you I wasn’t a very romantic person, didn’t I? (Kindly.) You can always grow it again if you fall in love with somebody else.
DEVENISH. That is cruel of you, Delia. I shall never fall in love again.
[Enter BELINDA in a hat.]
BELINDA. Why, it’s Mr. Devenish! How nice of you to come so early in the morning! How is Mr. Baxter?
DEVENISH. I do not know, Mrs. Tremayne.
BELINDA (to DELIA). I got most of the things, Delia. (To DEVENISH.) “The things,” Mr. Devenish, is my rather stuffy way of referring to all the delightful poems that you are going to eat to-night.
DEVENISH. I am looking forward to it immensely, Mrs. Tremayne.
BELINDA. I do hope I’ve got all your and Mr. Baxter’s favourite dishes.
DEVENISH. I’m afraid Mr. Baxter and I are not likely to appreciate the same things.
BELINDA (coyly). Oh, Mr. Devenish! And you were so unanimous a few days ago.
DELIA. I think Mr. Devenish was referring entirely to things to eat.
BELINDA. I felt quite sad when I was buying the lamb cutlets. To think that, only a few days before, they had been frisking about with their mammas, and having poems written about them by Mr. Devenish. There! I’m giving away the whole dinner. Delia, take him away before I tell him any more. We must keep some surprises for him.
DELIA (to DEVENISH as she picks up the flowers). Come along, Mr. Devenish.
BELINDA (wickedly). Are those my flowers, Mr. Devenish?
DEVENISH (after a little hesitation, with a bow which might refer to either of them). They are for the most beautiful lady in the land.
BELINDA. Oh, how nice of you!
[DEVENISH follows DELIA out through the door on the left.]
BELINDA (unpinning her hat before a mirror). I suppose he means Delia–bless them! (She gives a few pats to her hair and then walks about the room singing softly to herself. She does to the front-door and looks happily out into the garden. Suddenly she sees MR. BAXTER approaching. She hurries back into a chair and pretends to be very busy reading.)
BAXTER (rather nervously). Er–may I come in, Mrs. Tremayne?
BELINDA (dropping her book and turning round with a violent start). Oh, Mr. Baxter, how you surprised me! (She puts her hand to her heart.)
BAXTER. I must apologize for intruding upon you at this hour, Mrs. Tremayne.
BELINDA (holding up her hand). Stop!
BAXTER (startled). What?
BELINDA. I cannot let you come in like that.
BAXTER (looking down at himself). Like what?
BELINDA (dropping her eyes). You called me Belinda once.
BAXTER (coming down to her). May I explain my position, Mrs. Tremayne?
BELINDA. Before you begin–have you been seeing my niece lately?
BAXTER (surprised). No.
BELINDA. Oh! (Sweetly.) Please go on.
BAXTER. Why, is _she_ lost too?
BELINDA. Oh no; I just–Do sit down. Let me put your hat down somewhere for you.
BAXTER (keeping it firmly in his hand, and sitting down on the sofa). It will be all right here, thank you.
BELINDA (returning to her chair). I’m dying to hear what you are going to say.
BAXTER. First as regards the use of your Christian name. I felt that, as a man of honour, I could not permit myself to use it until I had established my right over that of Mr. Devenish.
BELINDA. All my friends call me Belinda.
BAXTER. As between myself and Mr. Devenish the case is somewhat different. Until one of us is successful over the other in the quest upon which you have sent us, I feel that as far as possible we should hold aloof from you.
BELINDA (pleadingly). Just say “Belinda” once more, in case you’re a long time.
BAXTER (very formally). Belinda.
BELINDA. How nicely you say it–Harold.
BAXTER (half getting out of his seat). Mrs. Tremayne, I must not listen to this.
BELINDA (meekly). I won’t offend again, Mr. Baxter. Please go on. Tell me about the quest; are you winning?
BAXTER. I am progressing, Mrs. Tremayne. Indeed, I came here this morning to acquaint you with the results of my investigations. Yesterday I located a man called Robinson working upon a farm close by. I ventured to ask him if he had any marks upon him by which he could be recognized. He adopted a threatening attitude, and replied that if I wanted any he could give me some. With the aid of half-a- crown I managed to placate him. Putting my inquiry in another form, I asked if he had any moles. A regrettable misunderstanding, which led to a fruitless journey to another part of the village, was eventually cleared up, and on my return I satisfied myself that this man was in no way related to your niece.
BELINDA (admiringly). How splendid of you! Well, now, we know _he’s_ not. (She holds up one finger.)
BAXTER. Yes. In the afternoon I located another Mr. Robinson following the profession of a carrier. My first inquiries led to a similar result, with the exception that in this case Mr. Robinson carried his threatening attitude so far as to take off his coat and roll up his sleeves. Perceiving at once that he was not the man, I withdrew.
BELINDA. How brave you are! That makes two. (She holds up another finger). It still leaves a good many. (Pleadingly.) Just call me Belinda again.
BAXTER (nervously). You mustn’t tempt me, Mrs. Tremayne.
BELINDA (penitently). I won’t!
BAXTER. To resume, then, my narrative. This morning I have heard of a third Mr. Robinson. Whether there is actually any particular fortune attached to the number three I cannot say for certain. It is doubtful whether statistics would be found to support the popular belief. But one likes to flatter oneself that in one’s own case it may be true; and so–
BELINDA. And so the third Mr. Robinson–?
BAXTER. Something for which I cannot altogether account inspires me with hope. He is, I have discovered, staying at Mariton. This afternoon I go to look for him.
BELINDA (to herself). Mariton! How funny! I wonder if it’s the same one.
BAXTER. What one?
BELINDA. Oh, just one of the ones. (Gratefully.) Mr. Baxter, you are doing all this for _me_.
BAXTER. Pray do not mention it. I don’t know if it’s Devonshire, or the time of the year, or the sort of atmosphere you create, Mrs. Tremayne, but I feel an entirely different man. There is something in the air which–yes, I shall certainly go over to Mariton this afternoon.
BELINDA (gravely). I have had the same feeling sometimes, Mr. Baxter. I am not always the staid respectable matron which I appear to you to be. Sometimes I–(She looks absently at the watch on her wrist.) Good gracious!
BAXTER (alarmed). What is it!
BELINDA (looking anxiously from the door to him). Mr. Baxter, I’m going to throw myself on your mercy.
BAXTER. My dear Mrs. Tremayne–
BELINDA (looking at her watch again). A strange man will be here directly. He must not find you with me.
BAXTER (rising, jealously). A man?
BELINDA (excitedly). Yes, yes, a man! He is pursuing me with his attentions. If he found you here, there would be a terrible scene.
BAXTER. I will defend you from him.
BELINDA. No, no. He is a big man. He will–he will overpower you.
BAXTER. But you–?
BELINDA. I can defend myself. I will send him away. But he must not find you here. You must hide before he overpowers you.
BAXTER (with dignity). I will withdraw if you wish it.
BELINDA. No, not withdraw, hide. He might see you withdrawing. (Leading the way to a door on the right) Quick, in here.
BAXTER (embarrassed at the thought that this sort of thing really only happens in a bedroom farce). I don’t think I quite–
BELINDA (reassuring him). It’s perfectly respectable; it’s where we keep the umbrellas. (She takes him by the hand.)
BAXTER (still resisting). I’m not at all sure that I–
BELINDA (earnestly). Oh, but don’t you see what _trust_ I’m putting in you? Some people are so nervous about their umbrellas.
BAXTER. Well, of course, if you–but I don’t see why I shouldn’t just slip out of the door before he comes.
BELINDA (reproachfully). Of course, if you grudge me every little pleasure–Quick! Here he is.
(She bundles him through the door, and with a sigh of happiness comes back and looks at herself in the mirror. She goes to the front-door, moves her hand to somebody in the distance, and comes into the hall again. Seeing MR. BAXTER’S bowler hat on the sofa, she carries across to his door, knocks, hands it to him, saying, “Your hat. S’sh!” and returns to her chair. TREMAYNE comes in.)
TREMAYNE (at the door). It’s no good your pretending to be surprised, because you said I could come.
BELINDA (welcoming him). But I can still be surprised that you wanted to come.
TREMAYNE Oh no, you aren’t.
BELINDA (marking it off on her fingers). Just a little bit–that much.
TREMAYNE. It would be much more surprising if I hadn’t come.
BELINDA (sitting down on the sofa). It is a pretty garden, isn’t it?
TREMAYNE (sitting down next to her). You forget that I saw the garden yesterday.
BELINDA. Oh, but the things have grown so much since then. Let me see, this is the third day you’ve been and we only met three days ago. And then you’re coming to dinner again to-night.
TREMAYNE (eagerly). Am I?
BELINDA. Yes. Haven’t you been asked?
TREMAYNE. No, not a word.
BELINDA. Yes, that’s quite right; I remember now, I only thought of it this morning, so I couldn’t ask you before, could I?
TREMAYNE (earnestly). What made you think of it then?
BELINDA (romantically). It was at the butcher’s. There was one little lamb cutlet left over and sitting out all by itself, and there was nobody to love it. And I said to myself, suddenly, “I know, that will do for Mr. Robinson.” (Prosaically.) I do hope you like lamb?
TREMAYNE. I adore it.
BELINDA. Oh, I’m so glad! When I saw it sitting there I thought you’d love it. I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more about the rest of the dinner, because I wouldn’t tell Mr. Devenish, and I want to be fair.
TREMAYNE. Who’s Mr. Devenish?
BELINDA. Oh, haven’t you met him? He’s always coming here.
TREMAYNE Is he in love with you too?
BELINDA. Too? Oh, you mean Mr. Baxter.
TREMAYNE. Confound it, that’s three!
BELINDA (innocently). Three? (She looks up at him and down again.)
TREMAYNE. Who is Mr. Baxter?
BELINDA. Oh, haven’t you met him? He’s always coming here.
TREMAYNE. Who is Mr. Baxter?
BELINDA. Oh, he’s a sort of statistician. Isn’t that a horrid word to say? So stishany.
TREMAYNE. What does he make statistics about?
BELINDA. Oh, umbrellas and things. Don’t let’s talk about him.
TREMAYNE. All right, then; who is Mr. Devenish?
BELINDA. Oh, he’s a poet. (She throws up her eyes and sighs deeply.) Ah me!
TREMAYNE. What does he write poetry about? (BELINDA looks at him, and down again, and then at him again, and then down, and gives a little sigh–all of which means, “Can’t you guess?”) What does he write poetry about?
BELINDA (obediently). He wrote “The Lute of Love and other Poems, by Claude Devenish.” The Lute of Love–(To herself.) I haven’t been saying that lately. (With great expression.) The Lute of Love–the Lute. (She pats her mouth back.)
TREMAYNE. And what is Mr. Devenish–
BELINDA (putting her hand on his sleeve). You’ll let me know when it’s my turn, won’t you?
TREMAYNE. Your turn?
BELINDA. Yes, to ask questions. I love this game–it’s like clumps. (She crosses her hands on her lap and waits for the next question.)
TREMAYNE. I beg your pardon. I–er–of course have no right to cross-examine you like this.
BELINDA. Oh, do go on, I love it. (With childish excitement.) I’ve got my question ready.
TREMAYNE (smiling). I think perhaps it _is_ your turn.
BELINDA (eagerly). Is it really? (He nods.) Well then–_who_ is Mr. Robinson?
TREMAYNE (alarmed). What?
BELINDA. I think it’s a fair question. I met you three days ago and you told me you were staying at Mariton. Mariton. You can say it all right now, can’t you?
TREMAYNE. I think so.
BELINDA (coaxingly). Just say it.
TREMAYNE. Mariton.
BELINDA (clapping her hands). Lovely! I don’t think any of the villagers do it as well as that.
TREMAYNE. Well?
BELINDA. Well, that was three days ago. You came the next day to see the garden, and you came the day after to see the garden, and you’ve come this morning–to see the garden; and you’re coming to dinner to-night, and it’s so lovely, we shall simply have to go into the garden afterwards. And all I know about you is that you _haven’t_ any relations called Robinson.
TREMAYNE. What do I know about Mrs. Tremayne but that she _has_ a relation called Robinson?
BELINDA. And two dear friends called Devenish and Baxter.
TREMAYNE (annoyed). I was forgetting them.
BELINDA (to herself). I mustn’t forget Mr. Baxter.
TREMAYNE (getting up). But what does it matter? What would it matter if I knew nothing about you? I know everything about you– everything that matters.
BELINDA (closing her eyes contentedly). Tell me some of them.
TREMAYNE (bending over her earnestly). Belinda–
BELINDA (still with her eyes shut). He’s going to propose to me. I can feel it coming.
TREMAYNE. Confound it! how many men _have_ proposed to you?
BELINDA (surprised). Since when?
TREMAYNE. Since your first husband proposed to you.
BELINDA. Oh, I thought you meant this year. (Sitting up.) Well now, let me see. (Slowly and thoughtfully.) One. (She pushes up her first finger.) Two. (She pushes up the second.) Three. (She pushes up the third finger, holds it there for a moment and then pushes it gently down again.) No, I don’t think that one ought to count really. (She pushes up two more fingers and the thumb.) Three, four, five–do you want the names or just the total?
TREMAYNE. This is horrible.
BELINDA (innocently). But anybody can propose. Now if you’d asked how many I’d accepted–Let me see, where was I up to? I shan’t count yours, because I haven’t really had it yet. Six, seven–Yes, Betty, what is it?
[BETTY has just come in from the door on the left.]
BETTY. If you please, ma’am, cook would like to speak to you for a minute.
BELINDA (getting up). Yes, I’ll come. (To TREMAYNE.) You’ll forgive me, won’t you? You’ll find some cigarettes there. (She starts to go, but comes back and adds confidentially) It’s probably about the lamb cutlets; I expect your little one refuses to be cooked.
[She goes out after BETTY.]
(Left alone, TREMAYNE stalks moodily about the room, occasionally kicking things which come in his way. He takes up his hat suddenly and goes towards the door; stops irresolutely and comes back. He is standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets when DEVENISH comes in from the door on the left.)
DEVENISH (surprised). Hullo!
TREMAYNE Hullo! … Are you Mr. Devenish?
DEVENISH. Yes.
TREMAYNE. Devenish the poet?
DEVENISH (coming up and shaking him warmly by the hand). My dear fellow, you know my work?
TREMAYNE (grimly). My dear Mr. Devenish, your name is most familiar to me.
DEVENISH. I congratulate you. I thought your great-grandchildren would be the first to hear of me.
TREMAYNE. My name’s Robinson, by the way.
DEVENISH. Then let me return the compliment, Robinson. Your name is familiar to _me_.
TREMAYNE (hastily). I don’t think I’m related to any Robinsons you know.
DEVENISH. Well, no, I suppose not. When I was very much younger I began a collection of Robinsons. Actually it was only three days ago, but it seems much longer. Many things have happened since then.
TREMAYNE (uninterested). Really!
DEVENISH. There is a man called Baxter who is still collecting, I believe. For myself, I am only interested in one of the great family–Delia.
TREMAYNE (eagerly). You are interested in _her_?
DEVENISH. Devotedly. In fact, I am at this moment waiting for her to put on her hat.
TREMAYNE (warmly). My dear Devenish, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. (He seizes his hand and grips it heartily.) How are you?
DEVENISH (feeling his fingers). Fairly well, thanks.
TREMAYNE. That’s right. (They sit on the sofa together.)
DEVENISH (still nursing his hand). You are a very lucky fellow, Robinson.
TREMAYNE. In what way?
DEVENISH. People you meet must be so very reluctant to say good-bye to you. Have you ever tried strangling lions or anything like that?
TREMAYNE (with a laugh). Well, as a matter of fact, I have.
DEVENISH. I suppose you won all right?
TREMAYNE. In the end, with the help of my beater.
DEVENISH. Personally I should have backed you alone against any two ordinary lions.
TREMAYNE. One was quite enough. As it was, he gave me something to remember him by. (Putting up his left sleeve, he displays a deep scar.)
DEVENISH (looking at it casually). By Jove, that’s a nasty one! (He suddenly catches sight of the mole and stares at it fascinated.) Good heavens!
TREMAYNE. What’s the matter?
DEVENISH (clasping his head). Wait. Let me think. (After a pause.) Have you ever met a man called Baxter?
TREMAYNE. No.
DEVENISH. Would you like to?
TREMAYNE (grimly). Very much indeed.
DEVENISH. He’s the man I told you about who’s interested in Robinsons. He’ll be delighted to meet you. (With a nervous laugh.) Funny thing, he’s rather an authority on lions. You must show him that scar of yours; it will intrigue him immensely. (Earnestly.) _Don’t_ shake hands with him too heartily just at first; it might put him off the whole thing.
TREMAYNE. This Mr. Baxter seems to be a curious man.
DIVENISH (absently). Yes, he is rather odd. (Looking at his watch.) I wonder if I–(To TREMAYNE.) I suppose you won’t be–(He stops suddenly. A slight tapping noise comes from the room where they keep umbrellas.)
TREMAYNE. What’s that!
(The tapping noise is repeated, a little more loudly this time.)
DEVENISH. Come in.
(The door opens and BAXTER comes in nervously, holding his bowler hat in his hand.)
BAXTER. Oh, I just–(TREMAYNE _stands up)–I just–(He goes back again.)
DEVENISH (springing across the room). Baxter! (The door opens nervously again and BAXTER’S head appears round it.) Come in, Baxter, old man; you’re just the very person I wanted. (BAXTER comes in carefully.) Good man. (To TREMAYNE) This is Mr. Baxter that I was telling you about.
TREMAYNE (much relieved at the appearance of his rival). Oh, is this Mr. Baxter? (Holding out his hand with great friendliness) How are you, Mr. Baxter?
DEVENISH (warningly). Steady! (TREMAYNE shakes BAXTER quite gently by the hand.) Baxter, this is Mr. Robinson. (Casually.) R-o-b-i-n- s-o-n. (He looks sideways at BAXTER to see how he takes it. BAXTER is noticeably impressed.)
BAXTER. Really? I am very glad to meet you, sir.
TREMAYNE. Very good of you to say so.
DEVENISH (to BAXTER). Robinson is a great big-game hunter.
BAXTER. Indeed? I have never done anything in that way myself, but I’m sure it must be an absorbing pursuit.
TREMAYNE. Oh, well, it’s something to do.
DEVENISH (to BAXTER). You must get him to tell you about a wrestle he had with a lion once. Extraordinary story! (Looking at his watch suddenly.) Jove! I must be off. See you again, Baxter. Good-bye, Robinson. No, don’t shake hands. I’m in a hurry. [He looks at his watch again and goes out hurriedly by the door on the left.]
(TREMAYNE sit down together on the sofa.)
TREMAYNE. Unusual man, your friend Devenish. I suppose it comes of being a poet.
BAXTER. I have no great liking for Mr. Devenish–
TREMAYNE. Oh, he’s all right.
BAXTER. But I am sure that if he is impressed by anything outside himself or his own works, it must be something rather remarkable. Pray tell me of your adventure with the lion.
TREMAYNE (laughing). Really, you mustn’t think that I go about telling everybody my adventures. It just happened to come up. I’m afraid I shook his hand rather more warmly than I meant, and he asked me if I’d ever tried strangling lions. That was all.
BAXTER. And had you?
TREMAYNE. Well, it just happened that I had.
BAXTER. Indeed! You came off scathless, I trust?
TREMAYNE (carelessly indicating his arm). Well, he got me one across there.
BAXTER (obviously excited). Really, really. One across there. Not bad, I hope?
TREMAYNE (laughing). Well, it doesn’t show unless I do that. (He pulls up his sleeve carelessly and BAXTER bends eagerly over his arm.)
BAXTER. Good heavens! I’ve found it!
TREMAYNE. Found what? (He pulls down his sleeve.)
BAXTER. I must see Mrs. Tremayne. Where’s Mrs. Tremayne?
TREMAYNE. She went out just now. What’s the matter?
BAXTER. Out! I must find her. This is a matter of life and death. [He seizes his hat and hurries out by the front door.]
(TREMAYNE stares after him in amazement. Then he pulls up his sleeve, looks at his scar again and shakes his head. While he is still puzzling over it, BELINDA comes back.)
BELINDA. Such a to-do in the kitchen! The cook’s given notice–at least she will directly–and your lamb cutlet slipped back to the shop when nobody was looking, and I’ve got to go into the village again, and oh dear, oh dear, I have such a lot of things to do! (Looking across at MR. BAXTER’S door.) Oh yes, that’s another one. Mr. Robinson, you will have to leave me. Farewell.
TREMAYNE. Belinda–
BELINDA. No, not even Belinda. Wait till this evening.
TREMAYNE. I have a thousand things to say to you; I shall say them this evening.
BELINDA (giving him her hand). Begin about eight o’clock. Good-bye till then.
[He takes her hand, looks at her for a moment, then suddenly bends and kisses it, and out.]
(BELINDA stands looking from her hand to him, gives a little wondering exclamation and then presses the back of her hand against her cheek, and goes to the swing doors. She turns back, and remembers MR. BAXTER again. With a smile she goes to the door and taps gently.)
BELINDA. Mr. Baxter, Mr. Baxter, you may come in now; he has withdrawn. I have unhanded him. (She opens the door and finds the room empty.) Oh!
[BAXTER comes in at the front door.]
BAXTER. Ah, there you are!
BELINDA (turning with a start). Oh, how you frightened me, Mr. Baxter! I couldn’t think what had happened to you. I thought perhaps you’d been eaten up by one of the umbrellas.
BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I have some wonderful news for you. I have found Miss Robinson’s father.
BELINDA (hardly understanding). Miss Robinson’s father?
BAXTER. Yes. _Mr_. Robinson.
BELINDA. Oh, you mean–Oh yes, he told me his name was Robinson– Oh, but he’s no relation.
BAXTER. Wait! I saw his arm. By a subterfuge I managed to see his arm.
BELINDA (her eyes opening more and more widely as she begins to realize). You saw–
BAXTER. I saw the mole.
BELINDA (faintly as she holds out her own arm). Show me.
BAXTER (very decorously indicating). There!
(BELINDA holds the place with her other hand, and still looking at MR. BAXTER, slowly begins to laugh–half-laughter, half-tears, wonderingly, happily, contentedly.)
BELINDA. And I didn’t know!
BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, I am delighted to have done this service for your niece–
BELINDA (to herself). Of course, _he_ knew all the time.
BAXTER (to the world). Still more am I delighted to have gained the victory over Mr. Devenish in this enterprise.
BELINDA. Eighteen years–but I _ought_ to have known.
BAXTER (at large). I shall not be accused of exaggerating when I say that the odds against such an enterprise were enormous.
BELINDA. Eighteen years–And now I’ve eight whole _hours_ to wait!
BAXTER (triumphantly). It will be announced to-night. “Mr. Devenish,” I shall say, “young fellow–” (He arranges his speech in his mind.)
BELINDA. So I was right, after all! (Slowly and triumphantly.) He _does_ look better without a beard!
BAXTER (making his speech). “Mr. Devenish, young fellow, when you matched yourself against a man of my repute, when you matched yourself against a man”–(BELINDA has slipped out, to enjoy her happiness alone)–“who has read papers at soirees of the Royal Statistical Society; when–er–“
[He looks round the room and discovers to his amazement that he is alone. He claps on his bowler-hat, gives another amazed look round, says with a shrug, “Unusual!” and goes out.]
ACT III
[It is after dinner in BELINDA’S hall. BELINDA is lying on the sofa with a coffee-cup in her hand. DELIA, in the chair on the right, has picked up “The Lute of Love” from a table and is reading it impatiently.]
DELIA. What rubbish he writes!
BELINDA (coming back from her thoughts). Who, dear?
DELIA. Claude–Mr. Devenish. Of course, he’s very young.
BELINDA. So was Keats, darling.
DELIA. I don’t think Claude has had Keats’ advantages. Keats started life as an apothecary.
BELINDA. So much nicer than a chemist.
DELIA. Now, Claude started with nothing to do.
BELINDA (mildly). Do you always call him Claude, darling? I hope you aren’t going to grow into a flirt like that horrid Mrs. Tremayne.
DELIA. Silly mother! (Seriously) I don’t think he’ll ever be any good till he really gets work. Did you notice his hair this evening?
BELINDA (dreamily). Whose, dear?
DELIA. Mummy, look me in the eye and tell me you are not being bad.
BELINDA (innocently). Bad, darling?
DELIA. You’ve made Mr. Robinson fall in love with you.
BELINDA (happily). Have I?
DELIA. Yes; it’s serious this time. He’s not like the other two.
BELINDA. However did you know that?
DELIA. Oh, I know.
BELINDA. Darling, I believe you’ve grown up. It’s quite time I settled down.
DELIA. With Mr. Robinson?
(BELINDA looks thoughtfully at DELIA for a little time and then sits up.)
BELINDA (mysteriously). Delia, are you prepared for a great secret to be revealed to you?
DELIA (childishly). Oh, I love secrets.
BELINDA (reproachfully). Darling, you mustn’t take it like that. This is a great, deep, dark secret; you’ll probably need your sal volatile.
DELIA (excitedly). Go on!
BELINDA. Well–(Looking round the room.) Shall we have the lights down a little?
DELIA. Go _on_, mummy.
BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is–(impressively)–is not quite the Robinson he appears to be.
DELIA. Yes?
BELINDA. In fact, child, he is–Hadn’t you better come and hold your mother’s hand?
DELIA (struggling with some emotion). Go _on_.
BELINDA. Well, Mr. Robinson is a–sort of relation of yours; in fact–(playing with her rings and looking down coyly)–he is your– father. (She looks up at DELIA to see how the news is being received.) Dear one, this is not a matter for mirth.
DELIA (coming over and kissing her). Darling, it is lovely, isn’t it? I am laughing because I am so happy.
BELINDA. Aren’t you surprised?
DELIA. No. You see, Claude told me this morning. He found out just before Mr. Baxter.
BELINDA. Well! Every one seems to have known except me.
DELIA. Didn’t you see how friendly father and I got at dinner? I thought I’d better start breaking the ice–because I suppose he’ll be kissing me directly.
BELINDA. Say you like him.
DELIA. I think he’s going to be awfully nice. Does he know you know? (She goes back to her seat.)
BELINDA. Not yet. Just at present I’ve rather got Mr. Baxter on my mind. I suppose, darling, you wouldn’t like him as well as Mr. Devenish! (Pathetically.) You see, they’re so used to going about together.
DELIA. Claude is quite enough.
BELINDA. I think I must see Mr. Baxter and get it over. Do you mind if I have Mr. Devenish too? I feel more at home with both of them. I’ll give you him back. Oh dear, I feel so happy to-night! (She jumps up and goes over to DELIA.) And is my little girl going to be happy too? That’s what mothers always say on the stage. I think it’s so sweet.
DELIA (smiling at her). Yes, I think so, mummy. Of course, I’m not romantic like you. I expect I’m more like father, really.
BELINDA (dreamily). Jack can be romantic now. He was telling me this morning all about the people he has proposed to. I mean, I was telling _him_. Anyhow, he wasn’t a bit like a father. Of course, he doesn’t know he is a father yet. Darling, I think you might take him into the garden; only don’t let him know who he is. You see, he ought to propose to me first, oughtn’t he? (As the men come in, she gets up.) Here you all are! I do hope you haven’t been throwing away your cigars, because smoking is allowed all over the house.
TREMAYNE. Oh, we’ve finished, thank you.
BELINDA. Isn’t it a wonderful night?–and so warm for April. Delia, you must show Mr. Robinson the garden by moonlight–it’s the only light he hasn’t seen it by.
DEVENISH (quickly). I don’t think I’ve ever seen it by moonlight, Miss Delia.
BELINDA. I thought poets were always seeing things by moonlight.
BAXTER. I was hoping, Mrs. Tremayne, that–er–perhaps–
DELIA. Come along, Mr. Robinson.
(TREMAYNE _looks at BELINDA, who gives him a nod.)
TREMAYNE. It’s very kind of you, Miss Robinson. I suppose there is no chance of a nightingale?
BELINDA. There ought to be. I ordered one specially for Mr. Devenish. (DELIA and TREMAYNE go out together. BELINDA settles herself comfortably on the sofa.) Now we’re together again. Well, Mr. Devenish?
DEVENISH. Er–I–
BELINDA. No; I think I’ll let Mr. Baxter speak first. I know he’s longing to.
BAXTER. Yes. H’r’m! Mrs. Tremayne, I beg formally to claim your hand.
BELINDA (sweetly). On what grounds, Mr. Baxter?
DEVENISH (spiritedly). Yes, sir, on what grounds?
BAXTER. On the grounds that, as I told you this morning, I had succeeded in the quest.
DEVENISH (appearing to be greatly surprised). Succeeded?
BAXTER. Yes, Mr. Devenish, young fellow, you have lost. I have discovered the missing Mr. Robinson.
DEVENISH. Who–where–
BAXTER (dramatically). Miss Robinson has at this moment gone out with her father.
DEVENISH. Good heavens! It was he!
BELINDA (sympathetically). Poor Mr. Devenish!
DEVENISH (pointing tragically to the table). And to think that I actually sat on that table–no, that seat–no, not that one, it was the sofa–that I sat on the sofa with him this morning, and never guessed! Why, ten minutes ago I was asking him for the nuts!
BAXTER. Aha, Devenish, you’re not so clever as you thought you were.
DEVENISH. Why, I must have given you the clue myself! He told me he had a scar on his arm, and I never thought any more of it. And then I went away innocently and left you two talking about it.
BELINDA (alarmed). A scar on his arm?
DEVENISH. Where a lion mauled him.
(BELINDA gives a little shudder.)
BAXTER. It’s quite healed up now, Mrs. Tremayne.
BELINDA (looking at him admiringly). A lion! What you two have adventured for my sake!
BAXTER. I suppose you will admit, Devenish, that I may fairly claim to have won?
(Looking the picture of despair, DEVENISH droops his head, raises his arms and lets them fall hopelessly to his sides.)
BELINDA. Mr. Devenish, I have never admired you so much as I do at this moment.
BAXTER (indignantly to DEVENISH). I say, you know, that’s not fair. It’s all very well to take your defeat like a man, but you mustn’t overdo it. Mrs. Tremayne, I claim the reward which I have earned.
BELINDA (after a pause). Mr. Baxter–Mr. Devenish, I have something to tell you. (Penitently.) I have not been quite frank with you. I think you both ought to know that–I–I made a mistake. Delia is not my niece; she is my daughter.
DEVENISH. Your daughter! I say, how ripping!
(BELINDA gives him an understanding look.)
BAXTER. Your daughter!
BELINDA. Yes.
BAXTER. But–but you aren’t old enough to have a daughter of that age.
BELINDA (apologetically). Well, there she is.
BAXTER. But–but she’s grown up.
BELINDA. Quite.
BAXTER. Then in that case you must be–(He hesitates, evidently working it out.)
BELINDA (hastily). I’m afraid so, Mr. Baxter.
BAXTER. But this makes a great difference. I had no idea. Why, when I’m fifty you would be–
BELINDA (sighing). Yes, I suppose I should.
BAXTER. And when I’m sixty–
BELINDA (pleadingly to DEVENISH). Can’t you stop him?
DEVENISH. Look here, Baxter, another word from you and you’ll never _get_ to sixty.
BAXTER. And then there’s Miss–er–Delia. In the event of our marrying, Mrs. Tremayne, she, I take it, would be my step-daughter.
BELINDA. I don’t think she would trouble us much, Mr. Baxter. I have an idea that she will be getting married before long. (She glances at DEVENISH, who returns her look gratefully.)
BAXTER. None the less, the fact would be disturbing. I have never yet considered myself seriously as a step-father. I don’t think I am going too far if I say that to some extent I have been deceived in this matter.
BELINDA (reproachfully). And so have I. I thought you loved me.
DEVENISH (sympathetically). Yes, yes.
BELINDA (turning to him suddenly). _And_ Mr. Devenish too.
BAXTER. Er–
DEVENISH. Er–
(They stand before her guiltily and have nothing to say.)
BELINDA (with a shrug). Well, I shall have to marry somebody else, that’s all.
BAXTER. Who?
BELINDA. I suppose Mr. Robinson. After all, if I am Delia’s mother, and Mr. Baxter says that Mr. Robinson’s her father, it’s about time we _were_ married.
DEVENISH (eagerly). Mrs. Tremayne, what fools we are! He _is_ your husband all the time!
BELINDA. Yes.
BAXTER. You’ve had a husband all the time?
BELINDA (apologetically). I lost him; it wasn’t my fault.
BAXTER. Really, this is very confusing. I don’t know where I am. I gather–I am to gather, it seems, that you are no longer eligible as a possible wife?
BELINDA. I am afraid not, Mr. Baxter.
BAXTER. But this is very confusing–this is very disturbing to a man of my age. For weeks past I have been regarding myself as a–a possible benedict. I have–ah–taken steps. Only this morning, in writing to my housekeeper, I warned her that she might hear at any moment a most startling announcement.
DEVENISH (cheerfully). Oh, that’s all right. That might only mean that you were getting a new bowler-hat.
BAXTER (suddenly). Ah, and what about you, sir? How is it that you take this so lightly? (Triumphantly.) I have it. It all becomes clear to me. You have transferred your affections to her daughter!
DEVENISH. Oh, I say, Baxter, this is very crude.
BELINDA. And why should he not, Mr. Baxter? (Softly.) He has made me very happy.
BAXTER. He has made you happy, Mrs. Tremayne!
BELINDA. Very happy.
BAXTER (thoughtfully). Ah! (He takes a turn round the room in, silence, and then comes back to her.) Mrs. Tremayne, I have taken a great resolve. (Solemnly.) I also will make you happy. (Thumping his heart.) I also will woo Miss Delia. (Suddenly seizing DEVENISH’S arm) Come, we will seek Miss Delia together. It may be that she will send us upon another quest in which I shall again be victorious. (Tempestuously) Come, I say! (He marches the resisting DEVENISH to the swing doors.)
DEVENISH (to BELINDA). Please!
BELINDA (gently). Mr. Baxter… Harold. (BAXTER stops and turns round.) You are too impetuous. I think that as Delia’s mother–
BAXTER. Your pardon, Mrs. Tremayne. In the intoxication of the moment I am forgetting. (Formally.) I have the honour to ask your permission to pay my addresses–
BELINDA. No, no, I didn’t mean that. But, as Delia’s mother, I ought to warn you that she is hardly fitted to take the place of your housekeeper. She is not very domesticated.
BAXTER (indignantly). Not domesticated? Why, did I not hear her tell her father at dinner that she had arranged all the flowers?
BELINDA. There are other things than flowers.
DEVENISH. Bed-socks, for instance, Baxter. It’s a very tricky thing airing bed-socks. I am sure your house-keeper–
BAXTER. Mrs. Tremayne, she will learn. The daughter of such a mother… I need say no more.
BELINDA. Oh, thank you. But there is something else, Mr. Baxter. You are not being quite fair to yourself. In starting out upon this simultaneous wooing, you forget that Mr. Devenish has already had his turn this morning alone. You should have yours … alone … too.
DEVENISH. Oh, I say!
BAXTER. Yes, yes, you are right. I must introduce myself first as a suitor. I see that. (to DEVENISH) _You_ stay here; _I_ will go alone into the garden, and–
BELINDA. It is perhaps a little cold out of doors for people of … of _our_ age, Mr. Baxter. Now, in the library–
BAXTER (astonished). Library?
BELINDA. Yes.
BAXTER. You have a library?
BELINDA (to DEVENISH). He doesn’t believe I have a library.
DEVENISH. You ought to see the library, Baxter.
BAXTER. But you are continually springing surprises on me this evening, Mrs. Tremayne. First a daughter, then a husband, and then– a library! I have been here three weeks, and I never knew you had a library. Dear me, I wonder how it is that I never saw it?
BELINDA (modestly). I thought you came to see _me_.
BAXTER. Yes, yes, to see you, certainly. But if I had known you had a library. …
BELINDA. Oh, I am so glad I mentioned it. Wasn’t it lucky, Mr. Devenish?
BAXTER. My work has been greatly handicapped of late by lack of certain books to which I wanted to refer. It would be a great help–
BELINDA. My dear Mr. Baxter, my whole library is at your disposal. (To DEVENISH, as she leads the way to the door, in a confidential whisper.) I’m just going to show him the “Encyclopedia Britannica.” (She smiles at him, and he opens the door for them both. Then he goes towards the garden door and looks outside.)
DELIA (from the garden). Hullo, we’re just coming in. (He goes back and waits for them.)
TREMAYNE. Where’s Mrs. Tremayne?
DEVENISH. She’s gone to the library with Baxter.
TREMAYNE (carelessly). Oh, the library. Where’s that?
DEVENISH (promptly going towards the door and opening it). The end door on the right. Right at the end. You can’t mistake it. On the right.
TREMAYNE. Ah, yes. (He looks round at DELIA.) Yes. (He looks at DEVENISH.) Yes. [He goes out.]
(DEVENISH hastily shuts the door and comes back to DELIA.)
DEVENISH. I say, your mother is a ripper.
DELIA (enthusiastically). Isn’t she! (Remembering.) At least, you mean my aunt?
DEVENISH (smiling at her). No, I mean your mother. To think that I once had the cheek to propose to her.
DELIA. Oh! Is it cheek to propose to people!
DEVENISH. To _her_.
DELIA. But not to me?
DEVENISH. Oh I say, Delia!
DELIA (with great dignity). Thank you, my name is Miss Robinson– I mean, Tremayne.
DEVENISH. Well, if you’re not quite sure which it is, it’s much safer to call you Delia.
DELIA (smiling). Well, perhaps it is.
DEVENISH. And if I did propose to you, you haven’t answered
DELIA. If you want an answer now, it’s no; but if you like to wait till next April–
DEVENISH (reproachfully). Oh, I say, and I cut my hair for you the same afternoon. You haven’t really told me how you like it yet.
DELIA. Oh, how bad of me! You look lovely.
DEVENISH. And I promised to give up poetry for your sake.
DELIA. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have asked you that.
DEVENISH. As far as I’m concerned, Delia, I’ll do it gladly, but, of course, one has to think about posterity.
DELIA. But you needn’t be a poet. You could give posterity plenty to think about if you were a statesman.
DEVENISH. I don’t quite see your objection to poetry.
DELIA. You would be about the house so much. I want you to go away every day and do great things, and then come home in the evening and tell me all about it.
DEVENISH. Then you _are_ thinking of marrying me!
DELIA. Well, I was just thinking in case I had to.
DEVENISH. It would be rather fun if you did. And look here–I _will_ be a statesman, if you like, and go up to Downing Street every day, and come back in the evening and tell you all about it.
DELIA. How nice of you!
DEVENISH (magnificently, holding up his hand to Heaven). Farewell, Parnassus!
DELIA. What does that mean?
DEVENISH. Well, it means that I’ve chucked poetry. A statesman’s life is the life for me; behold Mr. Devenish, the new M.P.–no, look here, that was quite accidental.
DELIA (smiling at him). I believe I shall really like you when I get to know you.
DEVENISH. I don’t know if it’s you, or Devonshire, or the fact that I’ve had my hair cut, but I feel quite a different being from what I was three days ago.
DELIA. You _are_ different. Perhaps it’s your sense of humour coming back.
DEVENISH. Perhaps that’s it. It’s a curious feeling.
DELIA (holding out her hand). Let’s go outside; there’s a heavenly moon.
DEVENISH (taking her hand). Moon? Moon? Now where have I heard that word before?
DELIA. What _do_ you mean?
DEVENISH. I was trying not to be a poet. Well, I’ll come with you, but I shall refuse to look at it. (Putting his left hand behind his back, he walks slowly out with her, saying to himself) The Prime Minister then left the House.
[BELINDA and TREMAYNE come from the library.]
BELINDA (as he opens the door). Thank you. I don’t think it’s unkind to leave him, do you? He seemed quite happy.
TREMAYNE. I shouldn’t have been happy if we’d stayed.
BELINDA (going to the sofa and putting her feet up). Yes, but I was really thinking of Mr. Baxter.
TREMAYNE. Not of me?
BELINDA. Well, I thought it was Mr. Baxter’s turn. Poor man, he’s had a disappointment lately.
TREMAYNE (eagerly). A disappointment?
BELINDA. Yes, he thought I was–younger than I was.
TREMAYNE (smiling to himself). How old are you, Belinda?
BELINDA (dropping her eyes). Twenty-two. (After a pause.) He thought I was eighteen. Such a disappointment!
TREMAYNE (smiling openly at her). Belinda, how old are you?
BELINDA. Just about the right age, Mr. Robinson.
TREMAYNE. The right age for what?
BELINDA. For this sort of conversation.
TREMAYNE. Shall I tell you how old you are?
BELINDA. Do you mean in figures or–poetically?
TREMAYNE. I meant–
BELINDA. Mr. Devenish said I was as old as the–now, I must get this the right way round–as old as the–
TREMAYNE. I don’t want to talk about Mr. Devenish.
BELINDA (with a sigh). Nobody ever does–except Mr. Devenish. As old as the stars, and as young as the dawn. (Settling herself cosily.) I think that’s rather a nice age to be, don’t you?
TREMAYNE. A very nice age to be.
BELINDA. It’s a pity he’s thrown me over for Delia; I shall miss that sort of thing rather. You don’t say those sort of things about your aunt-in-law–not so often.
TREMAYNE (eagerly). He really is in love with Miss Robinson!
BELINDA. Oh yes. I expect he is out in the moonlight with her now, comparing her to Diana.
TREMAYNE. Well, that accounts for _him. _Now what about Baxter?
BELINDA. I thought I told you. Deeply disappointed to find that I was four years older than he expected, Mr. Baxter hurried from the drawing-room and buried himself in a column of the “Encyclopedia Britannica.”
TREMAYNE. Well, that settles Baxter. Are there any more men in the neighbourhood?
BELINDA (shaking her head). Isn’t it awful? I’ve only had those two for the last three weeks.
(TREMAYNE sits on the back of the sofa and looks down at her.)
TREMAYNE. Belinda.
BELINDA. Yes, Henry!
TREMAYNE. My name is John.
BELINDA. Well, you never told me. I had to guess. Everybody thinks they can call me Belinda without giving me the least idea what their own names are. You were saying, John?
TREMAYNE. My friends call me Jack.
BELINDA. Jack Robinson. That’s the man who always goes away so quickly. I hope you’re making more of a stay?
TREMAYNE. Oh, you maddening, maddening woman!
BELINDA. Well, I have to keep the conversation going. You do nothing but say “Belinda.”
TREMAYNE (taking her hand). Have you ever loved anybody seriously, Belinda?
BELINDA. I don’t ever do anything very seriously. The late Mr. Tremayne, my first husband–Jack–Isn’t it funny, _his_ name was Jack–he used to complain about it too sometimes.
TREMAYNE (with conviction). Silly ass!
BELINDA. Ah, I think you are a little hard on the late Mr. Tremayne.
TREMAYNE. Has he been dead long?
BELINDA. Dead to me.
TREMAYNE. You quarrelled?
BELINDA. Yes. It was his fault entirely.
TREMAYNE. I’m sure it was.
BELINDA. How sweet of you to say that!
TREMAYNE. Belinda, I want you to marry me and forget about him.
BELINDA (happily to herself). This is the proposal that those lamb cutlets interrupted this morning.
TREMAYNE. Belinda, I love you–do you understand?
BELINDA. Suppose my first husband turns up suddenly like–like E. A.?
TREMAYNE. Like who?
BELINDA. Well, like anybody.
TREMAYNE. He won’t–I know he won’t. Don’t you love me enough to risk it, Belinda?
BELINDA. I haven’t really said I love you at all yet.
TREMAYNE. Well, say it now. (BELINDA looks at him, and then down again.) You do! Well, I’m going to have a kiss, anyway, (He comes round the sofa and kisses her quickly.) There!
BELINDA (rising). O-oh! The late Mr. Tremayne never did that.
TREMAYNE. I have already told you that he was a silly ass. (Sitting down on the sofa) Belinda–
BELINDA. Yes, Henry–I mean, Jack?
TREMAYNE. Do you know who I am! (He is thoroughly enjoying the surprise he is about to give her.)
BELINDA (nodding). Yes, Jack.
TREMAYNE. Who?
BELINDA. Jack Tremayne.
TREMAYNE (jumping up). Good heavens, you _know_!
BELINDA (gently). Yes, Jack.
TREMAYNE (angrily). You’ve known all the time that I was your husband, and you’ve been playing with me and leading me on?
BELINDA (mildly). Well, darling, you knew all the time that I was your wife, and you’ve been making love to me and leading me on.
TREMAYNE. That’s different.
BELINDA. That’s _just_ what the late Mr. Tremayne said, and then he slammed the door and went straight off to the Rocky Mountains and shot bears; and I didn’t see him again for eighteen years.
TREMAYNE (remorsefully). Darling, I was a fool then, and I’m a fool now.
BELINDA. I was a fool then, but I’m not such a fool now–I’m not going to let you go. It’s quite time I married and settled down.
TREMAYNE. You darling! How did you find out who I was?
BELINDA (awkwardly). Well, it was rather curious, darling. (After a pause.) It was April, and I felt all sort of Aprily, and–and–there was the garden all full of daffodils–and–and there was Mr. Baxter–the one we left in the library–knowing all about moles. He’s probably got the M volume down now. Well, we were talking about them one day, and I happened to say that the late Mr. Tremayne–that was you, darling–had rather a peculiar one on his arm. And then he happened to see it this morning and told me about it.
TREMAYNE. What an extraordinary story!
BELINDA. Yes, darling; it’s really much more extraordinary than that. I think perhaps I’d better tell you the rest of it another time. (Coaxingly.) Now show me where the nasty lion scratched you. (TREMAYNE pulls up his sleeve.) Oh! (She kisses his arm.) You shouldn’t have left Chelsea, darling.
TREMAYNE. I should never have found you if I hadn’t.
BELINDA (squeezing his arm). No, Jack, you wouldn’t. (After a pause.) I–I’ve got another little surprise for you if–if you’re ready for it. (Standing up) Properly speaking, I ought to be wearing white. I shall certainly stand up while I’m telling you. (Modestly.) Darling, we have a daughter–our little Delia.
TREMAYNE. Delia? You said her name was Robinson.
BELINDA. Yes, darling, but you said yours was. One always takes one’s father’s name. Unless, of course, you were Lord Robinson.
TREMAYNE. But you said her name was Robinson before you–oh, never mind about that. A daughter? Belinda, how could you let me go and not tell me?
BELINDA. You forget how you’d slammed the door. It isn’t the sort of thing you shout through the window to a man on his way to America.
TREMAYNE (taking her in his arms). Oh, Belinda, don’t let me ever go away again.
BELINDA. I’m not going to, Jack. I’m going to settle down into a staid old married woman.
TREMAYNE. Oh no, you’re not. You’re going on just as you did before. And I’m going to propose to you every April, and win you, over all the other men in love with you.
BELINDA. You darling!
[DELIA and DEVENISH come in from the garden.]
TREMAYNE (quietly to BELINDA). Our daughter.
DELIA (going up to TREMAYNE). You’re my father.
TREMAYNE. If you don’t mind very much, Delia.
DELIA. You’ve been away a long time.
TREMAYNE. I’ll do my best to make up for it.
BELINDA. Delia, darling, I think you might kiss your poor old father.
(As the does to, DEVENISH suddenly and hastily kisses BELINDA on the cheek.)
DEVENISH. Just in case you’re going to be my mother-in-law.
TREMAYNE. We seem to be rather a family party.
BELINDA (suddenly). There! We’ve forgotten Mr. Baxter again.
BAXTER (who has come in quietly with a book in his hand). Oh, don’t mind about me, Mrs. Tremayne. I’ve enjoyed myself immensely. (Referring to his book.) I have been collecting some most valuable information on (looking round at them) lunacy in the–er–county of _Devonshire_.
THE RED FEATHERS
AN OPERETTA IN ONE ACT
[In the living-room of a country-house, half farm, half manor, a MOTHER and her DAUGHTER are sitting. It is any year you please– between, let us say, the day when the fiddle first came to England and the day when Romance left it. As for the time of the year, let us call it May. Oh yes, it is certainly May, and about twelve o’clock, and the DAUGHTER is singing at the spinet, while her MOTHER is at her needlework. Through the lattice windows the murmur of a stream can be heard, on whose banks–but we shall come to that directly. Let us listen now to what the DAUGHTER is singing:]
Life passes by.
I do not know its pleasure or its pain– The Spring was here, the Spring is here again, The Spring will die.
Life passes by.
The doors of Pain and Pleasure open wide, The crowd streams in–and I am left outside. … They know; not I.
[You don’t like it? Neither did her Mother.]
MOTHER (looking up from her work). Yes, I should call that a melancholy song, dear.
DAUGHTER. It is sung by a melancholy person, Mother.
MOTHER. Why are you that, child?
DAUGHTER (getting up). I want so much that I shall never have.
MOTHER. Well, so do we all.
DAUGHTER (impatiently). Oh, why does nothing ever happen? We sit here all day, and we sing or do our embroidery, and we go to bed, and the next day we get up and do the same things over again, and so it goes on. Mother, is that all there is in the world?
MOTHER. It’s all there is in our world.
DAUGHTER. Are we so very poor?
MOTHER. We have the house–and very little else.
DAUGHTER. Oh, I wish that we were _really_ poor–
MOTHER. You needn’t wish, child.
DAUGHTER. Oh, but I mean so that it wouldn’t matter what clothes we wore; so that we could wander over the hills and down into the valleys, and sleep perhaps in a barn and bathe ourselves in the brook next morning, and–
MOTHER. I don’t think I should like that very much. Perhaps I’m peculiar.
DAUGHTER. Oh, if only I were a boy to go out and make my own way in the world. Would you let me go, Mother, if I were a boy?
MOTHER. I don’t suppose you’d ask me, dear.
DAUGHTER (sighing). Oh, well! We must make the best of it, I suppose. Perhaps one day something will happen. (She goes back to the spinet and sings again.)
_Lads and lasses, what will you sell, What will you sell?_
Four stout walls and a roof atop, Warm fires gleaming brightly,
Well-stored cellar and garnered crop, Money-bags packed tightly;
An ordered task in an ordered day, And a sure bed nightly;
Years which peacefully pass away, Until Death comes lightly.
_Lads and lasses, what will you buy? What will you buy?_
Here is a cap to cover your head, A cap with one red feather;
Here is a cloak to make your bed Warm or winter weather;
Here is a satchel to store your ware, Strongly lined with leather;
And here is a staff to take you there When you go forth together.
_Lads and lasses, what will you gain, What will you gain?_
Chatter of rooks on tall elm-trees New Spring houses taking;
Daffodils in an April breeze
Golden curtsies making;
Shadows of clouds across the weald From hill to valley breaking,
The first faint stir which the woodlands yield When the world is waking.
_Lads and lasses, this is your gain, This is your gain._
(Towards the end of the song the face and shoulders of the TALKER appear at the open lattice window on the left. He listens with a bland and happy smile until the song is finished.)
TALKER. Brava! Brava! (They turn round towards the window in astonishment.) A vastly pleasing song, vastly well sung. Mademoiselle Nightingale, permit me to felicitate you. (Turning to the Mother) The Mother of the Nightingale also. Mon Dieu, what is voice, of a richness, of a purity! To live with it always! Madame, I felicitate you again.
MOTHER. I must ask you, sir, to explain the meaning of this intrusion.
TALKER. Intrusion? Oh, fie! Madame, not intrusion. My feet stand upon the highway. The road, Madame, is common to all. I can quote