Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  LUCY. You want me to read it?

  HENDERS. Ay.

  (lucy sits down at gate and reads letter, puzzled.)

  LUCY. I don’t understand. Whose letter is this?

  HENDERS. That’s the query. I found it.

  LUCY. In this envelope?

  HENDERS. No! That’s a clean envelope I put it in; the real envelope was all tattered.

  LUCY. But there was an address on it?

  HENDERS. No, the writing was faded off it.

  LUCY. I can’t guess who it is for. Have you read it?

  HENDERS. Just the little words.

  LUCY. It begins: ‘My beloved one,’ and ends ‘Yours till death, Bob.’ HENDERS. Ay, ay — that sounds like swearing.

  LUCY. Listen! (Reads) ‘My Beloved One! At last, at last I am able to ask you the question I had no right to ask while I was a penniless man. But you always knew that you were all the world to me, and that I came out here to try to make a home that you could share. It has been a long struggle, but I have conquered, and so I can ask you: will you be my wife?’ HENDERS. Can it be somebody after Effie?

  LUCY. There is a good deal more, and then it ends: ‘It may be that I am too late. If so, dear Agnes, do not answer this and I will understand. But God grant that I am in time. Yours till death, Bob.’ HENDERS. Agnes — Bob! (Heavily) It sounds to me as if it was some man, name of Bob, writing to a woman, name of Agnes.

  LUCY. ‘P.S. — Address me to 41 Fourth Street, Melbourne.’ henders. That’s Australia.

  LUCY. I can’t make out the date.

  HENDERS. But it maun be many years old, for the letterbox hasna been used for ages.

  LUCY. What letterbox?

  HENDERS. The Professor’s old letterbox, whaur I found it.

  LUCY. You found it in — Ah, it must be her letter!

  HENDERS. You ken wha it’s to?

  LUCY. I believe I do. But how could it have lain unseen in the letterbox all these years?

  HENDERS. The letterbox was lined wi’ zinc, and the letter had slipped between the zinc and the wood. It never would have been found but for my cleverness in breaking the box. Wha is she, Miss?

  LUCY. I have no right to tell you.

  HENDERS. But I give you the right.

  LUCY. No, no, Henders!

  HENDERS. What are you to do with it?

  LUCY. I am to hand it on to its rightful owner. There shall be one woman happy tonight, at any rate. She has waited a very long time for it. No, that seems a harsh way of doing it. I’ll give it to the Professor and then he can break the dear news to her.

  HENDERS. TO her? Is it someone he kens?

  LUCY. Henders, you’ll need all your time to take my box to the station.

  (Exit henders lucy writes something on letter. At same time miss goodwillie appears in the room, lighting lamp, lucy goes to side and calls ‘effie’ two or three times, miss goodwillie hears and comes to window suspiciously, effie comes out.)

  EFFIE. It’s you, Miss White?

  LUCY. Give this letter to the Professor.

  EFFIE (eagerly). A secret letter.

  LUCY. It is very important.

  EFFIE. Oh, Miss White, I’ve been guessing that you and him is fond o’ one another. Is it a loveletter?

  LUCY. Yes — it is — a loveletter.

  (miss goodwillie nods significantly, retires from window.)

  EFFIE. Then I’ll no let her see it, for she would just tear it up.

  LUCY. Tear it up! If she did that she would deprive herself of the dearest pleasure life now holds for her.

  EFFIE. How could that be?

  LUCY. It isn’t our affair, Effie.

  EFFIE (taking letter). A loveletter. I’ve often heard o’ them, but this is the first I’ve ever seen. Love’s a fine thing,.Miss White.

  LUCY. Yes, Effie, and I hope you will have abundance of it.

  EFFIE (sadly). I’m doubtin’ it’s not for common folk like me, Miss. We have our wistful hopes, but in the end we maun just tak’ what we can get.

  LUCY. You mustn’t talk of Henders in that way, you know.

  EFFIE. I would never talk of Henders in that way, Miss White. He was the wistful hope, I was speaking of Pete. I’ll give the Professor your letter.

  LUCY. Thank you, Effie.

  (lucy goes and effie stands gazing at letter.)

  MISS GOODWILLIE (appearing at window). Effie, give me that letter.

  EFFIE (concealing it). What letter, ma’am?

  MISS GOODWILLIE. Miss White’s letter to the Professor.

  EFFIE. But it’s a — it’s a —

  MISS GOODWILLIE. A loveletter. Yes, I heard her. Give it me at once.

  (effie hands up letter and re-enters house, miss goodwillie is tempted to read letter, then tears it in two and is about to do so again when professor enters room. He is now in his old coat, etc.)

  PROFESSOR. What are you doing, Agnes? Miss goodwillie (slipping letter into her pocket). Nothing.

  (He sits at window sighing. She watches him.)

  Is it as bad as that, Tom? (Goes to him, hand on shoulder.)

  PROFESSOR. Pretty bad, Agnes.

  MISS GOODWILLIE. Tom, you and I used to be all in all to each other.

  PROFESSOR. We must be so again, Agnes.

  MISS GOODWILLIE. I have always tried to make you happy.

  PROFESSOR. You have been my guardian angel all my life.

  MISS GOODWILLIE. I am so proud of you, Tom.

  PROFESSOR. In the dark days, Agnes, I should have lost heart but for you. Three times I made an advance — and three times I had to begin the world over again. But at last, I triumphed by the grace of God and the faith of one woman!

  MISS GOODWILLIE. Ah, Tom!

  PROFESSOR. Help me to be brave again, Agnes.

  MISS GOODWILLIE. There is your book to finish. (Gets his MSS.)

  PROFESSOR. Ah, work, work, there is nothing like it. Work is the only woman for me! The sparkling face of her, Agnes, when she opens your eyes of a morning and cries, ‘Up, up, we have a glorious day’s toil before us.’ I have run back to her from dinners and marriages and funerals. How often she and I have sat up through the night on tiptoe, so as not to wake the dawn!

  MISS GOODWILLIE (getting his papers). And I will be your amanuensis again, Tom.

  PROFESSOR. For tonight. We must not ask Miss Lucy to come tonight. (Sweetly) Don’t you think it is a very pretty name — Miss Lucy?

  (miss goodwillie goes to tobacco jar and fills his pipe.)

  Look for page 141 B, Agnes.

  MISS GOODWILLIE. There, Tom. (Handing him pipe and lighting it.) Just as I used to do.

  PROFESSOR. Ah, Agnes!

  MISS GOODWILLIE. I shall sit here.

  PROFESSOR. Just as you used to do. Miss goodwillie. Did you say 141 B?

  PROFESSOR. Yes, read out, and I’ll correct as we go along.

  MISS GOODWILLIE. ‘The machine consists of two glass discs, A and D, carefully covered with a fine varnish — a fine varnish. The plate D is somewhat larger than the plate A.’ Are you listening, Tom?

  PROFESSOR. I forgot for a moment. This is in — in Miss Lucy’s handwriting. Her writing is very like herself, don’t you think?

  MISS GOODWILLIE. ‘The plate D is stationary and is kept in its place by four circular grooved rings of vulcanite placed in horizontal—’ Tom, do you feel as if you couldn’t live without her?

  PROFESSOR. Who am I, Agnes, that I should ask so much of God? I must not be a selfish man. Agnes, do you remember James Spens who used to be my great friend when we were boys?

  MISS GOODWILLIE. Of course. He is a smith now. His smithy is only a few miles from here.

  PROFESSOR. I passed it to-day. I had a talk with him about auld lang syne.

  MISS GOODWILLIE. He is tremendously proud of your success, Tom.

  PROFESSOR (simply). Is he? Yes, I think he said that. I saw his wife, also, and a pair of such splendid children. I knew which of us two had been a success, Agnes.

  MISS GOOD
WILLIE (moved, but going on). ‘Horizontal glass rods which — which—’ (PROFESSOR’S head sinks on table. She is affected but tries to go on.)

  ‘are connected by—’ (She gives way, rises, produces letter, looks sadly at it, hands it to him.) Tom! I haven’t been fair to you.

  PROFESSOR. What is this? (Eagerly) From Lucy?

  MISS GOODWILLIE. Yes.

  (Her back is now towards him. He reads letter to himself, and you see from his face how it affects him.)

  MISS GOODWILLIE (still with back to him). Is it — a dear letter, Tom?

  PROFESSOR. It is, indeed.

  MISS GOODWILLIE. I’ll try to be glad.

  PROFESSOR. Agnes, do you know what is in this letter?

  MISS GOODWILLIE. I can guess.

  PROFESSOR. You could never guess, dear sister. Look, do you see what Miss Lucy has written on it: ‘Found in the old letterbox between the lining and the woodwork.’ (He hands it to her and she reads.)

  MISS GOODWILLIE. Tom, do you think — it can be — ?

  PROFESSOR. It is Bob Sandeman’s letter at last!

  MISS GOODWILLIE. Henders must have found it. (She reads.)

  Tom, he was true to me!

  PROFESSOR. To think of it lying in that box all these years, and now Bob is dead.

  MISS GOODWILLIE. But he was true to me!

  PROFESSOR. And does that make such a difference, Agnes?

  MISS GOODWILLIE. Difference! Oh, Tom!

  PROFESSOR. Dear sister!

  (They embrace.)

  If only Bob’s letter hadn’t come too late.

  MISS GOODWILLIE. Too late for me, Tom, but not too late for you.

  PROFESSOR. How can it affect me? (Softly) Agnes, you thought it was from Miss Lucy to me.

  MISS GOODWILLIE. She knew it was my letter and she let me have it. How good of her.

  PROFESSOR. Of course she did, Agnes. She is as fond of you as you are of her.

  MISS GOODWILLIE. Courage, Tom, I am going to see her now.

  PROFESSOR. But what difference can it make to me, Agnes?

  MISS GOODWILLIE. You shall see, you shall see. Oh, Tom, I nearly tore it up. (Exit into house.)

  PROFESSOR. But why?

  (PROFESSOR shakes head hopelessly, HENDERS comes, wheeling barrow containing luggage. He whistles cautiously for EFFIE. PROFESSOR looks out of window and sees him.)

  Whose luggage is that, Henders?

  HENDERS. Miss White’s.

  PROFESSOR. What! Where are you taking it?

  HENDERS. To the station.

  PROFESSOR. Miss White is going away?

  HENDERS. Did you no ken?

  PROFESSOR. Wait a moment. I am coming out.

  (As he goes EFFIE comes out.)

  HENDERS. Effie, the Professor didna ken Miss Lucy was going away.

  EFFIE. Going away? I didna ken myself.

  HENDERS. What can be her meaning? Dagont! Men are reasonable beings, but women —

  EFFIE. What are women?

  HENDERS. Well, the most I can say for them is that they are beings capable of reason.

  (PROFESSOR comes out.)

  PROFESSOR. Where is Miss White going?

  HENDERS. To London, she said.

  PROFESSOR. Impossible!

  HENDERS. You can ask hersel’, for she’s coming ahint me.

  PROFESSOR. Ha! (Exit.)

  EFFIE. I’ll tell you a pretty thing. He’s in love wi’ her.

  HENDERS. As I am wi’ you.

  EFFIE. Away wi’ you. I’m Pete’s property.

  HENDERS. But you would rather be mine.

  EFFIE. That may be.

  HENDERS. It must be! It’s human natur’. There are some men born wi’ a power over women that no lassie can resist. They are what may be called dead shots. Now, Effie, I am far frae vain, but you canna deny that I am one o’ these men!

  EFFIE. I canna deny it.

  HENDERS. Exactly! But when the like o’ me wants a thing, he has to get it. Now you are the thing I want.

  EFFIE. I like the sound of you fine, but I’m promised to Pete.

  HENDERS. I have been working on Pete, and, as you ken, he wants to cry off.

  EFFIE. YOU’ve been slow in coming to me.

  HENDERS. Just because I want to make Pete pay for his impudence. And pay in cash — I’m a practical man.

  EFFIE. Henders, if you and me — it would be fine!

  HENDERS. And it’s to be. You’re my darlin’, Effie, what am I to you?

  EFFIE. Nothing so long as I’m promised to Pete. Here’s the Professor coming with Miss Lucy.

  HENDERS. Quick, give me a kiss.

  EFFIE. Na, I’m Pete’s as yet. You have no rights.

  HENDERS. I’ll have the rights before the nine o’clock bell rings, but I would like to kiss you once without the rights.

  EFFIE. Ay, weel, I’ll be true to Pete till nine o’clock.

  (Softly) But I’ll keep what you ‘re wanting ready for you, Henders.

  (effie goes into house. As henders goes, professor and lucy enter.)

  PROFESSOR. Of course, if you are determined to leave us — we must let you go, Miss Lucy.

  LUCY. It is better so.

  PROFESSOR. I have driven you away.

  LUCY. No — I — I want to go.

  PROFESSOR. If I had only kept my presumption to myself.

  LUCY. You are everything that is good and noble.

  PROFESSOR. Good and noble! If you only knew what I think of myself.

  LUCY. I know so well. You think you are quite old, don’t you? and entirely without personal attraction?

  PROFESSOR. Of course I know I am getting old — and I was always very plain. It doesn’t matter now, but it used to depress me when I suddenly saw my face in a lookingglass. I would have had quite a different youth if there had been no lookingglasses.

  LUCY. And you are very dull, aren’t you?

  PROFESSOR. I have been a dull man all my life. My students laugh at my absent-mindedness. Children in the street mimic my ungainly ways. Pity when children don’t like you. Pity! Can’t be helped!

  LUCY. You are quite sure that in the eyes of my discerning sex you could never compete with pretty young gentlemen in tall, stiff collars?

  PROFESSOR (sadly). I can’t wear tall collars, Miss Lucy, can’t wear them. (Anxiously) If you think you could like me better in a tall collar —

  LUCY. No, indeed, I wouldn’t.

  PROFESSOR. Missed his chance, missed his chance. I never knew what to say to any woman but you, Lucy. I liked to see them if they were pretty and they didn’t know that I knew whether they were pretty or not, but I always knew. Miss Lucy, you won’t believe it, but I once had a smile — quite a nice smile.

  LUCY. A smile!

  PROFESSOR. It was when I was at school. It was a mixed school, girls as well as boys, you know. And the girls had a plebiscite about which boy had the sweetest smile — and I won! Queer! Made me selfconscious, and I have never smiled since.

  LUCY. You would win for the sweetest smile to-day.

  PROFESSOR. Kind, Miss Lucy, but no good. Curmudgeon now.

  LUCY. Don’t.

  PROFESSOR. I had nothing to offer you worth having. Only this bent form for your youthful one, only this crabbed face for yours so beautiful; such a face without guile you have, Miss Lucy.

  (She quivers.)

  It was no bargain for an honourable man.

  LUCY. Without guile. Ah, if only — (She turns away.)

  PROFESSOR. I see everything clearly now, why I was so light-hearted in the field to-day, why I jumped those corn-stooks. It was my youth come to me at last. I had no youth at the age when I should have had it. I passed it by in my eagerness for science; I was engrossed in science when I should have been jumping the stooks. The things we have missed come not back to man nor woman. Very sad. Now I see that every man must love once, for it is his birthright, but if we do not seize it at the right age, we can only love, we cannot make others love us — we have forgotten the way. />