Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  In his hands he carries an island-made concertina, and such is the exuberance of his spirits that, as he lights on the floor, he bursts into music and song, something about his being a chickety chickety chick chick, and will Tweeny please to tell him whose chickety chick is she. Retribution follows sharp. We hear a whir, as if from insufficiently oiled machinery, and over the passage door appears a placard showing the one word ‘Silence.’ His lordship stops, and steals to Tweeny on his tiptoes.

  LORD LOAM. I thought the Gov. was out.

  TWEENY. Well, you see he ain’t. And if he were to catch you here idling —

  (LORD LOAM pales. He lays aside his musical instrument and hurriedly dons an apron. TWEENY gives him the bird to pluck, and busies herself laying the table for dinner.)

  LORD LOAM (softly). What is he doing now?

  TWEENY. I think he’s working out that plan for laying on hot and cold.

  LORD LOAM (proud of his master). And he’ll manage it too. The man who could build a blacksmith’s forge without tools —

  TWEENY (not less proud). He made the tools.

  LORD LOAM. Out of half a dozen rusty nails. The sawmill, Tweeny; the speaking-tube; the electric lighting; and look at the use he has made of the bits of the yacht that were washed ashore. And all in two years. He’s a master I’m proud to pluck for.

  (He chirps happily at his work, and she regards him curiously.)

  TWEENY. Daddy, you’re of little use, but you’re a bright, cheerful creature to have about the house. (He beams at this commendation.) Do you ever think of old times now? We was a bit different.

  LORD LOAM (pausing). Circumstances alter cases. (He resumes his plucking contentedly.)

  TWEENY. But, Daddy, if the chance was to come of getting back?

  LORD LOAM. I have given up bothering about it.

  TWEENY. You bothered that day long ago when we saw a ship passing the island. How we all ran like crazy folk into the water, Daddy, and screamed and held out our arms. (They are both a little agitated.) But it sailed away, and we’ve never seen another.

  LORD LOAM. If we had had the electrical contrivance we have now we could have attracted that ship’s notice. (Their eyes rest on a mysterious apparatus that fills a corner of the hall.) A touch on that lever, Tweeny, and in a few moments bonfires would be blazing all round the shore.

  TWEENY (backing from the lever as if it might spring at her). It’s the most wonderful thing he has done.

  LORD LOAM (in a reverie). And then — England — home!

  TWEENY (also seeing visions). London of a Saturday night!

  LORD LOAM. My lords, in rising once more to address this historic chamber —

  TWEENY. There was a little ham and beef shop off the Edgware Road — (The visions fade; they return to the practical.)

  LORD LOAM. Tweeny, do you think I could have an egg to my tea? (At this moment a wiry, athletic figure in skins darkens the window. He is carrying two pails, which are suspended from a pole on his shoulder, and he is ERNEST. We should say that he is ERNEST completely changed if we were of those who hold that people change. As he enters by the window he has heard LORD LOAM’s appeal, and is perhaps justifiably indignant.)

  ERNEST. What is that about an egg? Why should you have an egg?

  LORD LOAM (with hauteur). That is my affair, sir. (With a Parthian shot as he withdraws stiffly from the room.) The Gov. has never put my head in a bucket.

  ERNEST (coming to rest on one of his buckets, and speaking with excusable pride. To TWEENY). Nor mine for nearly three months. It was only last week, Tweeny, that he said to me, ‘Ernest, the water cure has worked marvels in you, and I question whether I shall require to dip you any more.’ (Complacently.) Of course that sort of thing encourages a fellow.

  TWEENY (who has now arranged the dinner table to her satisfaction). I will say, Erny, I never seen a young chap more improved.

  ERNEST (gratified). Thank you, Tweeny, that’s very precious to me.

  (She retires to the fire to work the great bellows with her foot, and ERNEST turns to TREHERNE, who has come in looking more like a cow-boy than a clergyman. He has a small box in his hand which he tries to conceal.) What have you got there, John?

  TREHERNE. Don’t tell anybody. It is a little present for the Gov.; a set of razors. One for each day in the week.

  ERNEST (opening the box and examining its contents.) Shells! He’ll like that. He likes sets of things.

  TREHERNE (in a guarded voice). Have you noticed that?

  ERNEST. Rather.

  TREHERNE. He’s becoming a bit magnificent in his ideas.

  ERNEST (huskily). John, it sometimes gives me the creeps.

  TREHERNE (making sure that TWEENY is out of hearing). What do you think of that brilliant robe he got the girls to make for him.

  ERNEST (uncomfortably). I think he looks too regal in it.

  TREHERNE. Regal! I sometimes fancy that that’s why he’s so fond of wearing it. (Practically.) Well, I must take these down to the grindstone and put an edge on them.

  ERNEST (buttonholing him). I say, John, I want a word with you.

  TREHERNE. Well?

  ERNEST (become suddenly diffident). Dash it all, you know, you’re a clergyman.

  TREHERNE. One of the best things the Gov. has done is to insist that none of you forget it.

  ERNEST (taking his courage in his hands). Then — would you, John?

  TREHERNE. What?

  ERNEST (wistfully). Officiate at a marriage ceremony, John?

  TREHERNE (slowly). Now, that’s really odd.

  ERNEST. Odd? Seems to me it’s natural. And whatever is natural, John, is right.

  TREHERNE. I mean that same question has been put to me today already.

  ERNEST (eagerly). By one of the women?

  TREHERNE. Oh no; they all put it to me long ago. This was by the Gov. himself.

  ERNEST. By Jove! (Admiringly.) I say, John, what an observant beggar he is.

  TREHERNE. Ah! You fancy he was thinking of you?

  ERNEST. I do not hesitate to affirm, John, that he has seen the love-light in my eyes. You answered —

  TREHERNE. I said Yes, I thought it would be my duty to officiate if called upon.

  ERNEST. You’re a brick.

  TREHERNE (still pondering). But I wonder whether he was thinking of you?

  ERNEST. Make your mind easy about that.

  TREHERNE. Well, my best wishes. Agatha is a very fine girl.

  ERNEST. Agatha? What made you think it was Agatha?

  TREHERNE. Man alive, you told me all about it soon after we were wrecked.

  ERNEST. Pooh! Agatha’s all very well in her way, John, but I’m flying at bigger game.

  TREHERNE. Ernest, which is it?

  ERNEST. Tweeny, of course.

  TREHERNE. Tweeny? (Reprovingly.) Ernest, I hope her cooking has nothing to do with this.

  ERNEST (with dignity). Her cooking has very little to do with it.

  TREHERNE. But does she return your affection.

  ERNEST (simply). Yes, John, I believe I may say so. I am unworthy of her, but I think I have touched her heart.

  TREHERNE (with a sigh). Some people seem to have all the luck. As you know, Catherine won’t look at me.

  ERNEST. I’m sorry, John.

  TREHERNE. It’s my deserts; I’m a second eleven sort of chap. Well, my heartiest good wishes, Ernest.

  ERNEST. Thank you, John. How’s the little black pig to-day?

  TREHERNE (departing). He has begun to eat again.

  (After a moment’s reflection ERNEST calls to TWEENY.)

  ERNEST. Are you very busy, Tweeny?

  TWEENY (coming to him good-naturedly). There’s always work to do; but if you want me, Ernest —

  ERNEST. There’s something I should like to say to you if you could spare me a moment.

  TWEENY. Willingly. What is it?

  ERNEST. What an ass I used to be, Tweeny.

  TWEENY (tolerantly). Oh, let bygones be bygones.
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  ERNEST (sincerely, and at his very best). I’m no great shakes even now. But listen to this, Tweeny; I have known many women, but until I knew you I never knew any woman.

  TWEENY (to whose uneducated ears this sounds dangerously like an epigram). Take care — the bucket.

  ERNEST (hurriedly). I didn’t mean it in that way. (He goes chivalrously on his knees.) Ah, Tweeny, I don’t undervalue the bucket, but what I want to say now is that the sweet refinement of a dear girl has done more for me than any bucket could do.

  TWEENY (with large eyes). Are you offering to walk out with me, Erny?

  ERNEST (passionately). More than that. I want to build a little house for you — in the sunny glade down by Porcupine Creek. I want to make chairs for you and tables; and knives and forks, and a sideboard for you.

  TWEENY (who is fond of language). I like to hear you. (Eyeing him.) Would there be any one in the house except myself, Ernest?

  ERNEST (humbly). Not often; but just occasionally there would be your adoring husband.

  TWEENY (decisively). It won’t do, Ernest.

  ERNEST (pleading). It isn’t as if I should be much there.

  TWEENY. I know, I know; but I don’t love you, Ernest. I’m that sorry.

  ERNEST (putting his case cleverly). Twice a week I should be away altogether — at the dam. On the other days you would never see me from breakfast time to supper. (With the self-abnegation of the true lover.) If you like I’ll even go fishing on Sundays.

  TWEENY. It’s no use, Erny.

  ERNEST (rising manfully). Thank you, Tweeny; it can’t be helped. (Then he remembers.) Tweeny, we shall be disappointing the Gov.

  TWEENY (with a sinking). What’s that?

  ERNEST. He wanted us to marry.

  TWEENY (blankly). You and me? the Gov.! (Her head droops woefully. From without is heard the whistling of a happier spirit, and TWEENY draws herself up fiercely.) That’s her; that’s the thing what has stole his heart from me. (A stalwart youth appears at the window, so handsome and tingling with vitality that, glad to depose CRICHTON, we cry thankfully, ‘The Hero at last.’ But it is not the hero; it is the heroine. This splendid boy, clad in skins, is what nature has done for LADY MARY. She carries bow and arrows and a blow-pipe, and over her shoulder is a fat buck, which she drops with a cry of triumph. Forgetting to enter demurely, she leaps through the window.) (Sourly.) Drat you, Polly, why don’t you wipe your feet?

  LADY MARY (good-naturedly). Come, Tweeny, be nice to me. It’s a splendid buck. (But TWEENY shakes her off, and retires to the kitchen fire.)

  ERNEST. Where did you get it?

  LADY MARY (gaily). I sighted a herd near Penguin’s Creek, but had to creep round Silver Lake to get to windward of them. However, they spotted me and then the fun began. There was nothing for it but to try and run them down, so I singled out a fat buck and away we went down the shore of the lake, up the valley of rolling stones; he doubled into Brawling River and took to the water, but I swam after him; the river is only half a mile broad there, but it runs strong. He went spinning down the rapids, down I went in pursuit; he clambered ashore, I clambered ashore; away we tore helter-skelter up the hill and down again. I lost him in the marshes, got on his track again near Bread Fruit Wood, and brought him down with an arrow in Firefly Grove.

  TWEENY (staring at her). Aren’t you tired?

  LADY MARY. Tired! It was gorgeous. (She runs up a ladder and deposits her weapons on the joists. She is whistling again.)

  TWEENY (snapping). I can’t abide a woman whistling.

  LADY MARY (indifferently). I like it.

  TWEENY (stamping her foot). Drop it, Polly, I tell you.

  LADY MARY (stung). I won’t. I’m as good as you are. (They are facing each other defiantly.)

  ERNEST (shocked). Is this necessary? Think how it would pain him. (LADY MARY’s eyes take a new expression. We see them soft for the first time.)

  LADY MARY (contritely). Tweeny, I beg your pardon. If my whistling annoys you, I shall try to cure myself of it. (Instead of calming TWEENY, this floods her face in tears.) Why, how can that hurt you, Tweeny dear?

  TWEENY. Because I can’t make you lose your temper.

  LADY MARY (divinely). Indeed, I often do. Would that I were nicer to everybody.

  TWEENY. There you are again. (Wistfully.) What makes you want to be so nice, Polly?

  LADY MARY (with fervour). Only thankfulness, Tweeny. (She exults.) It is such fun to be alive. (So also seem to think CATHERINE and AGATHA, who bounce in with fishingrods and creel. They, too, are in manly attire.)

  CATHERINE. We’ve got some ripping fish for the Gov.’s dinner. Are we in time? We ran all the way.

  TWEENY (tartly). You’ll please to cook them yourself, Kitty, and look sharp about it. (She retires to her hearth, where AGATHA follows her.)

  AGATHA (yearning). Has the Gov. decided who is to wait upon him to-day?

  CATHERINE (who is cleaning her fish). It’s my turn.

  AGATHA (hotly). I don’t see that.

  TWEENY (with bitterness). It’s to be neither of you, Aggy; he wants Polly again.

  (LADY MARY is unable to resist a joyous whistle.)

  AGATHA (jealously). Polly, you toad. (But they cannot make LADY MARY angry.)

  TWEENY (storming). How dare you look so happy?

  LADY MARY (willing to embrace her). I wish, Tweeny, there was anything I could do to make you happy also.

  TWEENY. Me! Oh, I’m happy. (She remembers ERNEST, whom it is easy to forget on an island.) I’ve just had a proposal, I tell you.

  (LADY MARY is shaken at last, and her sisters with her.)

  AGATHA. A proposal?

  CATHERINE (going white). Not — not — (She dare not say his name.)

  ERNEST (with singular modesty). You needn’t be alarmed; it’s only me.

  LADY MARY (relieved). Oh, you!

  AGATHA (happy again). Ernest, you dear, I got such a shock.

  CATHERINE. It was only Ernest. (Showing him her fish in thankfulness.) They are beautifully fresh; come and help me to cook them.

  ERNEST (with simple dignity). Do you mind if I don’t cook fish tonight? (She does not mind in the least. They have all forgotten him. A lark is singing in three hearts.) I think you might all be a little sorry for a chap. (But they are not even sorry, and he addresses AGATHA in these winged words:) I’m particularly disappointed in you, Aggy; seeing that I was half engaged to you, I think you might have had the good feeling to be a little more hurt.

  AGATHA. Oh, bother.

  ERNEST (summing up the situation in so far as it affects himself). I shall now go and lie down for a bit. (He retires coldly but unregretted. LADY MARY approaches TWEENY with her most insinuating smile.)

  LADY MARY. Tweeny, as the Gov. has chosen me to wait on him, please may I have the loan of it again? (The reference made with such charming delicacy is evidently to TWEENY’s skirt.)

  TWEENY (doggedly). No, you mayn’t.

  AGATHA (supporting TWEENY). Don’t you give it to her.

  LADY MARY (still trying sweet persuasion). You know quite well that he prefers to be waited on in a skirt.

  TWEENY. I don’t care. Get one for yourself.

  LADY MARY. It is the only one on the island.

  TWEENY. And it’s mine.

  LADY MARY (an aristocrat after all). Tweeny, give me that skirt directly.

  CATHERINE. Don’t.

  TWEENY. I won’t.

  LADY MARY (clearing for action). I shall make you.

  TWEENY. I should like to see you try.

  (An unseemly fracas appears to be inevitable, but something happens. The whir is again heard, and the notice is displayed ‘Dogs delight to bark and bite.’ Its effect is instantaneous and cheering. The ladies look at each other guiltily and immediately proceed on tiptoe to their duties. These are all concerned with the master’s dinner. CATHERINE attends to his fish. AGATHA fills a quaint toast-rack and brings the menu, which is written on a shell. LADY MARY twists a wre
ath of green leaves around her head, and places a flower beside the master’s plate. TWEENY signs that all is ready, and she and the younger sisters retire into the kitchen, drawing the screen that separates it from the rest of the room. LADY MARY beats a tom-tom, which is the dinner bell. She then gently works a punkah, which we have not hitherto observed, and stands at attention. No doubt she is in hopes that the Gov. will enter into conversation with her, but she is too good a parlour-maid to let her hopes appear in her face. We may watch her manner with complete approval. There is not one of us who would not give her £26 a year.