by Dear Brutus
DEARTH. Shut up, Margaret.
MARGARET. Now I must be more distant to you; more like a boy who could not sit on your knee any more.
DEARTH. See here, I want to go on painting. Shall I look now?
MARGARET. I am not quite sure whether I want you to. It makes such a difference. Perhaps you won't know me. Even the pool is looking a little scared. (The change in her voice makes him open his eyes quickly. She confronts him shyly.) What do you think? Will I do?
DEARTH. Stand still, dear, and let me look my fill. The Margaret that is to be.
MARGARET (the change in his voice falling clammy on her). You'll see me often enough, Daddy, like this, so you don't need to look your fill. You are looking as long as if this were to be the only time.
DEARTH. (with an odd tremor). Was I? Surely it isn't to be that.
MARGARET. Be gay, Dad. (Bumping into him and round him and over him.) You will be sick of Margaret with her hair up before you are done with her.
DEARTH. I expect so.
MARGARET. Shut up, Daddy. (She waggles her head, and down comes her hair.) Daddy, I know what you are thinking of. You are thinking what a handful she is going to be.
DEARTH. Well, I guess she is.
MARGARET (surveying him from another angle). Now you are thinking about--about my being in love some day.
DEARTH (with unnecessary warmth). Rot!
MARGARET (reassuringly). I won't, you know; no, never. Oh, I have quite decided, so don't be afraid, (Disordering his hair.) Will you hate him at first, Daddy? Daddy, will you hate him? Will you hate him, Daddy?
DEARTH (at work). Whom?
MARGARET. Well, if there was?
DEARTH. If there was what, darling?
MARGARET. You know the kind of thing I mean, quite well. Would you hate him at first?
DEARTH. I hope not. I should want to strangle him, but I wouldn't hate him.
MARGARET. _I_ would. That is to say, if I liked him.
DEARTH. If you liked him how could you hate him?
MARGARET. For daring!
DEARTH. Daring what?
MARTARET. You know. (Sighing.) But of course I shall have no say in the matter. You will do it all. You do everything for me.
DEARTH (with a groan). I can't help it.
MARGARET. You will even write my love-letters, if I ever have any to write, which I won't.
DEARTH (ashamed). Surely to goodness, Margaret, I will leave you alone to do that!
MARGARET. Not you; you will try to, but you won't be able.
DEARTH (in a hopeless attempt at self-defence). I want you, you see, to do everything exquisitely. I do wish I could leave you to do things a little more for yourself. I suppose it's owing to my having had to be father and mother both. I knew nothing practically about the bringing up of children, and of course I couldn't trust you to a nurse.
MARGARET (severely). Not you; so sure you could do it better yourself. That's you all over. Daddy, do you remember how you taught me to balance a biscuit on my nose, like a puppy?
DEARTH (sadly). Did I?
MARGARET. You called me Rover.
DEARTH. I deny that.
MARGARET. And when you said 'snap' I caught the biscuit in my mouth.
DEARTH. Horrible.
MARGARET (gleaming). Daddy, I can do it still! (Putting a biscuit on her nose.) Here is the last of my supper. Say 'snap,' Daddy.
DEARTH. Not I.
MARGARET. Say 'snap,' please.
DEARTH. I refuse.
MARGARET. Daddy!
DEARTH. Snap. (She catches the biscuit in her mouth.) Let that be the last time, Margaret.
MARGARET. Except just once more. I don't mean now, but when my hair is really up. If I should ever have a--a Margaret of my own, come in and see me, Daddy, in my white bed, and say 'snap'--and I'll have the biscuit ready.
DEARTH (turning away his head). Right O.
MARGARET. Dad, if I ever should marry, not that I will but if I should--at the marriage ceremony will you let me be the one who says 'I do'?
DEARTH. I suppose I deserve this.
MARGARET (coaxingly). You think I 'm pretty, don't you, Dad, whatever other people say?
DEARTH. Not so bad.
MARGARET. I _know_ I have nice ears.
DEARTH. They are all right now, but I had to work on them for months.
MARGARET. You don't mean to say that you did my ears?
DEARTH. Rather!
MARGARET (grown humble). My dimple is my own.
DEARTH. I am glad you think so. I wore out the point of my little finger over that dimple.
MARGARET. Even my dimple! Have I anything that is really mine? A bit of my nose or anything?
DEARTH. When you were a babe you had a laugh that was all your own.
MARGARET. Haven't I it now?
DEARTH. It's gone. (He looks ruefully at her.) I'll tell you how it went. We were fishing in a stream--that is to say, I was wading and you were sitting on my shoulders holding the rod. We didn't catch anything. Somehow or another--I can't think how I did it--you irritated me, and I answered you sharply.
MARGARET (gasping). I can't believe that.
DEARTH. Yes, it sounds extraordinary, but I did. It gave you a shock, and, for the moment, the world no longer seemed a safe place to you; your faith in me had always made it safe till then. You were suddenly not even sure of your bread and butter, and a frightened tear came to your eyes. I was in a nice state about it, I can tell you. (He is in a nice state about it still.)
MARGARET. Silly! (Bewildered) But what has that to do with my laugh, Daddy?
DEARTH. The laugh that children are born with lasts just so long as they have perfect faith. To think that it was I who robbed you of yours!
MARGARET. Don't, dear. I am sure the laugh just went off with the tear to comfort it, and they have been playing about that stream ever since. They have quite forgotten us, so why should we remember them. Cheeky little beasts! Shall I tell you my farthest back recollection? (In some awe.) I remember the first time I saw the stars. I had never seen night, and then I saw it and the stars together. Crack-in-my-eye Tommy, it isn't every one who can boast of such a lovely, lovely, recollection for their earliest, is it?
DEARTH. I was determined your earliest should be a good one.
MARGARET (blankly). Do you mean to say you planned it?
DEARTH. Rather! Most people's earliest recollection is of some trivial thing; how they cut their finger, or lost a piece of string. I was resolved my Margaret's should be something bigger. I was poor, but I could give her the stars.
MARGARET (clutching him round the legs). Oh, how you love me, Daddikins.
DEARTH. Yes, I do, rather.
(A vagrant woman has wandered in their direction, one whom the shrill winds of life have lashed and bled; here and there ragged graces still cling to her, and unruly passion smoulders, but she, once a dear, fierce rebel, with eyes of storm, is now first of all a whimperer. She and they meet as strangers.)
MARGARET (nicely, as becomes an artist's daughter.) Good evening.
ALICE. Good evening, Missy; e vening, Mister.
DEARTH (seeing that her eyes search the ground). Lost anything?
ALICE. Sometimes when the tourists have had their sandwiches there are bits left over, and they squeeze them between the roots to keep the place tidy. I am looking for bits.
DEARTH. You don't tell me you are as hungry as that?
ALICE (with spirit). Try me. (Strange that he should not know that once loved husky voice.)
MARGARET (rushing at her father and feeling all his pockets.) Daddy, that was my last biscuit!
DEARTH. We must think of something else.
MARGARET (taking her hand). Yes, wait a bit, we are sure to think of something. Daddy, think of something.
ALICE (sharply). Your father doesn't like you to touch the likes of me.
MARGARET. Oh yes, he does. (Defiantly) And if he didn't, I'd do it all the same. This is a bit of _myself_, dadd
y.
DEARTH. That is all you know.
ALICE (whining). You needn't be angry with her. Mister; I'm all right.
DEARTH. I am not angry with her; I am very sorry for you.
ALICE (flaring). if I had my rights, I would be as good as you--and better.
DEARTH. I daresay.
ALICE. I have had men-servants and a motor-car. DEARTH. Margaret and I never rose to that.
MARGARET (stung). I have been in a taxi several times, and Dad often gets telegrams.
DEARTH. Margaret!
MARGARET. I'm sorry I boasted.
ALICE. That's nothing. I have a town house--at least I had . . . At any rate he said there was a town house.
MARGARET (interested). Fancy his not knowing for certain.
ALICE. The Honourable Mrs. Finch-Fallowe--that's who I am.
MARGARET (cordially). It's a lovely name.
ALICE. Curse him.
MARGARET. Don't you like him?
DEARTH. We won't go into that. I have nothing to do with your past, but I wish we had some food to offer you.
ALICE. You haven't a flask?
DEARTH. No, I don't take anything myself. But let me see. . . .
MARGARET (sparkling). I know! You said we had five pounds. (To the needy one.) Would you like five pounds?
DEARTH. Darling, don't be stupid; we haven't paid our bill at the inn.
ALICE (with bravado). All right; I never asked you for anything.
DEARTH. Don't take me up in that way: I have had my ups and downs myself. Here is ten bob and welcome.
(He surreptitiously slips a coin into MARGARET'S hand.)
MARGARET. And I have half a crown. It is quite easy for us. Dad will be getting another fiver any day. You can't think how exciting it is when the fiver comes in; we dance and then we run out and buy chops.
DEARTH. Margaret!
ALICE. It's kind of you. I'm richer this minute than I have been for many a day.
DEARTH. It's nothing; I am sure you would do the same for us.
ALICE. I wish I was as sure.
DEARTH. Of course you would. Glad to be of any help. Get some victuals as quickly as you can. Best of wishes, ma'am, and may your luck change.
ALICE. Same to you, and may yours go on.
MARGARET. Good-night.
ALICE. What is her name, Mister?
DEARTH (who has returned to his easel). Margaret.
ALICE. Margaret. You drew something good out of the lucky bag when you got her, Mister.
DEARTH. Yes.
ALICE. Take care of her; they are easily lost.
(She shuffles away.)
DEARTH. Poor soul. I expect she has had a rough time, and that some man is to blame for it--partly, at any rate. (Restless) That woman rather affects me, Margaret; I don't know why. Didn't you like her husky voice? (He goes on painting.) I say, Margaret, we lucky ones, let's swear always to be kind to people who are down on their luck, and then when we are kind let's be a little kinder.
MARGARET (gleefully). Yes, let's.
DEARTH. Margaret, always feel sorry for the failures, the ones who are always failures--especially in my sort of calling. Wouldn't it be lovely, to turn them on the thirty-ninth year of failure into glittering successes?
MARGARET. Topping.
DEARTH. Topping.
MARGARET. Oh, topping. How could we do it, Dad?
DEARTH. By letter. 'To poor old Tom Broken Heart, Top Attic, Garret Chambers, S.E.--'DEAR SIR,--His Majesty has been graciously pleased to purchase your superb picture of Marlow Ferry.'
MARGARET. 'P.S.--I am sending the money in a sack so as you can hear it chink.'
DEARTH. What could we do for our friend who passed just now? I can't get her out of my head.
MARGARET. You have made me forget her. (Plaintively) Dad, I didn't like it.
DEARTH. Didn't like what, dear?
MARGARET (shuddering). I didn't like her saying that about your losing me.
DEARTH (the one thing of which he is sure). I shan't lose you.
MARGARET (hugging his arm). It would be hard for me if you lost me, but it would be worse for you. I don't know how I know that, but I do know it. What would you do without me?
DEARTH (almost sharply). Don't talk like that, dear. It is wicked and stupid, and naughty. Somehow that poor woman--I won't paint any more to-night.
MARGARET. Let's get out of the wood; it frightens me.
DEARTH. And you loved it a moment ago. Hullo! (He has seen a distant blurred light in the wood, apparently from a window.) I hadn't noticed there was a house there.
MARGARET (tingling). Daddy, I feel sure there wasn't a house there!
DEARTH. Goose. It is just that we didn't look: our old way of letting the world go hang; so interested in ourselves. Nice behaviour for people who have been boasting about what they would do for other people. Now I see what I ought to do.
MARGARET. Let's get out of the wood.
DEARTH. Yes, but my idea first. It is to rouse these people and get food from them for the husky one.
MARGARET (clinging to him). She is too far away now.
DEARTH. I can overtake her.
MARGARET (in a frenzy). Don't go into that house, Daddy! I don't know why it is, but I am afraid of that house!
(He waggles a reproving finger at her.)
DEARTH. There is a kiss for each moment until I come back. (She wipes them from her face.) Oh, naughty, go and stand in the corner. (She stands against a tree but she stamps her foot.) Who has got a nasty temper!
(She tries hard not to smile, but she smiles and he smiles, and they make comic faces at each other, as they have done in similar circumstances since she first opened her eyes.)
I shall be back before you can count a hundred.
(He goes off humming his song so that she may still hear him when he is lost to sight; all just as so often before. She tries dutifully to count her hundred, but the wood grows dark and soon she is afraid again. She runs from tree to tree calling to her Daddy. We begin to lose her among the shadows.)
MARGARET (Out of the impalpable that is carrying her away). Daddy, come back; I don't want to be a might-have-been.
ACT III
Lob's room has gone very dark as it sits up awaiting the possible return of the adventurers. The curtains are drawn, so that no light comes from outside. There is a tapping on the window, and anon two intruders are stealing about the floor, with muffled cries when they meet unexpectedly. They find the switch and are revealed as Purdie and his Mabel. Something has happened to them as they emerged from the wood, but it is so superficial that neither notices it: they are again in the evening dress in which they had left the house. But they are still being led by that strange humour of the blood.
MABEL (looking around her curiously). A pretty little room; I wonder who is the owner?
PURDIE. It doesn't matter; the great thing is that we have escaped Joanna.
MABEL. Jack, look, a man!
(The term may not be happily chosen, but the person indicated is Lob curled up on his chair by a dead fire. The last look on his face before he fell asleep having been a leery one it is still there.)
PURDIE. He is asleep.
MABEL. Do you know him?
PURDIE. Not I. Excuse me, sir, Hi! (No shaking, however, wakens the sleeper.)
MABEL. Darling, how extraordinary.
PURDIE (always considerate). After all, precious, have we any right to wake up a stranger, just to tell him that we are runaways hiding in his house?
MABEL (who comes of a good family). I think he would expect it of us.
PURDIE (after trying again). There is no budging him.
MABEL (appeased). At any rate, we have done the civil thing.
(She has now time to regard the room more attentively, including the tray of coffee cups which MATEY had left on the table in a not unimportant moment of his history.) There have evidently been people here, but they haven't drunk their coffee. Ugh! cold as a deserted egg in a bir
d's nest. Jack, if you were a clever detective you could construct those people out of their neglected coffee cups. I wonder who they are and what has spirited them away?
PURDIE. Perhaps they have only gone to bed. Ought we to knock them up?
MABEL (after considering what her mother would have done). I think not, dear. I suppose we have run away, Jack--meaning to?
PURDIE (with the sturdiness that weaker vessels adore). Irrevocably. Mabel, if the dog-like devotion of a lifetime . . . (He becomes conscious that something has happened to LOB'S leer. It has not left his face but it has shifted.) He is not shamming, do you think?
MABEL. Shake him again.
PURDIE (after shaking him). It's all right. Mabel, if the dog-like devotion of a lifetime . . .
MABEL. Poor little Joanna! Still, if a woman insists on being a pendulum round a man's neck . . .
PURDIE. Do give me a chance, Mabel. If the dog-like devotion of a lifetime . . .
(JOANNA comes through the curtains so inopportunely that for the moment he is almost pettish.)
May I say, this is just a little too much, Joanna!
JOANNA (unconscious as they of her return to her dinner gown). So, sweet husband, your soul is still walking alone, is it?
MABEL (who hates coarseness of any kind). How can you sneak about in this way, Joanna? Have you no pride?
JOANNA (dashin g away a tear). Please to address me as Mrs. Purdie, madam. (She sees LOB.) Who is this man?
PURDIE. We don't know; and there is no waking him. You can try, if you like.
(Failing to rouse him JOANNA makes a third at table. They are all a little inconsequential, as if there were still some moon-shine in their hair.)
JOANNA. You were saying something about the devotion of a lifetime; please go on.
PURDIE (diffidently). I don't like to before you, Joanna.
JOANNA (becoming coarse again). Oh, don't mind me.
PURDIE (looking like a note of interrogation). I should certainly like to say it.
MABEL (loftily). And I shall be proud to hear it.
PURDIE. I should have liked to spare you this, Joanna; you wouldn't put your hands over your ears?
JOANNA (alas). No, sir.
MABEL. Fie, Joanna. Surely a wife's natural delicacy . . .
PURDIE (severely). As you take it in that spirit, Joanna, I can proceed with a clear conscience. If the dog-like devotion of a lifetime--(He reels a little, staring at LOB, over whose face the leer has been wandering like an insect.)