Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  (She takes his hands, which have gone cold.)

  LADY MARY. Father. Don’t you see, they have all rushed down to the beach? Come.

  LORD LOAM. Rushed down to the beach; yes, always that — I often dream it.

  LADY MARY. Come, father, come.

  LORD LOAM. Only a dream, my poor girl.

  (CRICHTON returns. He is pale but firm.)

  CRICHTON. We can see lights within a mile of the shore — a great ship.

  LORD LOAM. A ship — always a ship.

  LADY MARY. Father, this is no dream.

  LORD LOAM (looking timidly at CRICHTON). It’s a dream, isn’t it? There’s no ship?

  CRICHTON (soothing him with a touch). You are awake, Daddy, and there is a ship.

  LORD LOAM (clutching him). You are not deceiving me?

  CRICHTON. It is the truth.

  LORD LOAM (reeling). True? — a ship — at last!

  (He goes after the others pitifully.)

  CRICHTON (quietly). There is a small boat between it and the island; they must have sent it ashore for water.

  LADY MART. Coming in?

  CRICHTON. No. That gun must have been a signal to recall it. It is going back. They can’t hear our cries.

  LADY MARY (pressing her temples). Going away. So near — so near. (Almost to herself.) I think I’m glad.

  CRICHTON (cheerily). Have no fear. I shall bring them back.

  (He goes towards the table on which is the electrical apparatus.)

  LADY MARY (standing on guard as it were between him and the table). What are you going to do?

  CRICHTON. To fire the beacons.

  LADY MARY. Stop! (She faces him.) Don’t you see what it means?

  CRICHTON (firmly). It means that our life on the island has come to a natural end.

  LADY MARY (husky). Gov., let the ship go —

  CRICHTON. The old man — you saw what it means to him.

  LADY MARY. But I am afraid.

  CRICHTON (adoringly). Dear Polly.

  LADY MARY. Gov., let the ship go.

  CRICHTON (she clings to him, but though it is his death sentence he loosens her hold). Bill Crichton has got to play the game. (He pulls the levers. Soon through the window one of the beacons is seen flaring red. There is a long pause. Shouting is heard. ERNEST is the first to arrive.)

  ERNEST. Polly, Gov., the boat has turned back. They are English sailors; they have landed! We are rescued, I tell you, rescued!

  LADY MARY (wanly). Is it anything to make so great a to-do about?

  ERNEST (staring). Eh?

  LADY MARY. Have we not been happy here?

  ERNEST. Happy? Lord, yes.

  LADY MARY (catching hold of his sleeve). Ernest, we must never forget all that the Gov. has done for us.

  ERNEST (stoutly). Forget it? The man who could forget it would be a selfish wretch and a — But I say, this makes a difference!

  LADY MARY (quickly). No, it doesn’t.

  ERNEST (his mind tottering). A mighty difference!

  (The others come running in, some weeping with joy, others boisterous. We see bluejackets gazing through the window at the curious scene. LORD LOAM comes accompanied by a naval officer, whom he is continually shaking by the hand.)

  LORD LOAM. And here, sir, is our little home. Let me thank you in the name of us all, again and again and again.

  OFFICER. Very proud, my lord. It is indeed an honour to have been able to assist so distinguished a gentleman as Lord Loam.

  LORD LOAM. A glorious, glorious day. I shall show you our other room. Come, my pets. Come, Crichton.

  (He has not meant to be cruel. He does not know he has said it. It is the old life that has come back to him. They all go. All leave CRICHTON except LADY MARY.)

  LADY MARY (stretching out her arms to him). Dear Gov., I will never give you up.

  (There is a salt smile on his face as he shakes his head to her. He lets the cloak slip to the ground. She will not take this for an answer; again her arms go out to him. Then comes the great renunciation. By an effort of will he ceases to be an erect figure; he has the humble bearing of a servant. His hands come together as if he were washing them.)

  CRICHTON (it is the speech of his life). My lady.

  (She goes away. There is none to salute him now, unless we do it.)

  End of Act III.

  ACT IV.

  THE OTHER ISLAND

  Some months have elapsed, and we have again the honour of waiting upon Lord Loam in his London home. It is the room of the first act, but with a new scheme of decoration, for on the walls are exhibited many interesting trophies from the island, such as skins, stuffed birds, and weapons of the chase, labelled ‘Shot by Lord Loam,’ ‘Hon. Ernest Woolley’s Blowpipe’ etc. There are also two large glass cases containing other odds and ends, including, curiously enough, the bucket in which Ernest was first dipped, but there is no label calling attention to the incident. It is not yet time to dress for dinner, and his lordship is on a couch, hastily yet furtively cutting the pages of a new book. With him are his two younger daughters and his nephew, and they also are engaged in literary pursuits; that is to say, the ladies are eagerly but furtively reading the evening papers, of which Ernest is sitting complacently but furtively on an endless number, and doling them out as called for. Note the frequent use of the word ‘furtive.’ It implies that they do not wish to be discovered by their butler, say, at their otherwise delightful task.

  AGATHA (reading aloud, with emphasis on the wrong words’). ‘In conclusion, we most heartily congratulate the Hon. Ernest Woolley. This book of his, regarding the adventures of himself and his brave companions on a desert isle, stirs the heart like a trumpet.’

  (Evidently the book referred to is the one in LORD LOAM’S hands.)

  ERNEST (handing her a pink paper). Here is another.

  CATHERINE (reading). ‘From the first to the last of Mr. Woolley’s engrossing pages it is evident that he was an ideal man to be wrecked with, and a true hero.’ (Large-eyed.) Ernest!

  ERNEST (calmly). That’s how it strikes them, you know. Here’s another one.

  AGATHA (reading). ‘There are many kindly references to the two servants who were wrecked with the family, and Mr. Woolley pays the butler a glowing tribute in a footnote.’

  (Some one coughs uncomfortably.)

  LORD LOAM (who has been searching the index for the letter L). Excellent, excellent. At the same time I must say, Ernest, that the whole book is about yourself.

  ERNEST (genially). As the author —

  LORD LOAM. Certainly, certainly. Still, you know, as a peer of the realm — (with dignity) — I think, Ernest, you might have given me one of your adventures.

  ERNEST. I say it was you who taught us how to obtain a fire by rubbing two pieces of stick together.

  LORD LOAM (beaming). Do you, do you? I call that very handsome. What page?

  (Here the door opens, and the wellbred CRICHTON enters with the evening papers as subscribed for by the house. Those we have already seen have perhaps been introduced by ERNEST up his waistcoat. Every one except the intruder is immediately selfconscious, and when he withdraws there is a general sigh of relief. They pounce on the new papers. ERNEST evidently gets a shock from one, which he casts contemptuously on the floor.)

  AGATHA (more fortunate). Father, see page 81. ‘It was a tiger-cat,’ says Mr. Woolley, ‘of the largest size. Death stared Lord Loam in the face, but he never flinched.’

  LORD LOAM (searching his book eagerly). Page 81.

  AGATHA. ‘With presence of mind only equalled by his courage, he fixed an arrow in his bow.’

  LORD LOAM. Thank you, Ernest; thank you, my boy.

  AGATHA. ‘Unfortunately he missed.’

  LORD LOAM. Eh?

  AGATHA. ‘But by great good luck I heard his cries’ —

  LORD LOAM. My cries?

  AGATHA.—’and rushing forward with drawn knife, I stabbed the monster to the heart.’

  (LORD LOAM shuts his
book with a pettish slam. There might be a scene here were it not that CRICHTON reappears and goes to one of the glass cases. All are at once on the alert and his lordship is particularly sly.)

  LORD LOAM. Anything in the papers, Catherine?

  CATHERINE. No, father, nothing — nothing at all.

  ERNEST (it pops out as of yore). The papers! The papers are guides that tell us what we ought to do, and then we don’t do it.

  (CRICHTON having opened the glass case has taken out the bucket, and ERNEST, looking round for applause, sees him carrying it off and is undone. For a moment of time he forgets that he is no longer on the island, and with a sigh he is about to follow CRICHTON and the bucket to a retired spot. The door closes, and ERNEST comes to himself.)

  LORD LOAM (uncomfortably). I told him to take it away.

  ERNEST. I thought — (he wipes his brow) — I shall go and dress. (He goes.)

  CATHERINE. Father, it’s awful having Crichton here. It’s like living on tiptoe.

  LORD LOAM (gloomily). While he is here we are sitting on a volcano.

  AGATHA. How mean of you! I am sure he has only stayed on with us to — to help us through. It would have looked so suspicious if he had gone at once.

  CATHERINE (revelling in the worst) But suppose Lady Brocklehurst were to get at him and pump him. She’s the most terrifying, suspicious old creature in England; and Crichton simply can’t tell a lie.

  LORD LOAM. My dear, that is the volcano to which I was referring. (He has evidently something to communicate.) It’s all Mary’s fault. She said to me yesterday that she would break her engagement with Brocklehurst unless I told him about — you know what.

  (All conjure up the vision of CRICHTON.)

  AGATHA. Is she mad?

  LORD LOAM. She calls it common honesty.

  CATHERINE. Father, have you told him?

  LORD LOAM (heavily). She thinks I have, but I couldn’t. She’s sure to find out tonight.

  (Unconsciously he leans on the island concertina, which he has perhaps been lately showing to an interviewer as something he made for TWEENY. It squeaks, and they all jump.)

  CATHERINE. It’s like a bird of ill-omen.

  LORD LOAM (vindictively). I must have it taken away; it has done that twice.

  (LADY MARY comes in. She is in evening dress. Undoubtedly she meant to sail in, but she forgets, and despite her garments it is a manly entrance. She is properly ashamed of herself. She tries again, and has an encouraging success. She indicates to her sisters that she wishes to be alone with papa.)

  AGATHA. All right, but we know what it’s about. Come along, Kit.

  (They go. LADY MARY thoughtlessly sits like a boy, and again corrects herself. She addresses her father, but he is in a brown study, and she seeks to draw his attention by whistling. This troubles them both.)

  LADY MARY. How horrid of me!

  LORD LOAM (depressed). If you would try to remember —

  LADY MARY (sighing). I do; but there are so many things to remember.

  LORD LOAM (sympathetically). There are — (in a whisper). Do you know, Mary, I constantly find myself secreting hairpins.

  LADY MARY. I find it so difficult to go up steps one at a time.

  LORD LOAM. I was dining with half a dozen members of our party last Thursday, Mary, and they were so eloquent that I couldn’t help wondering all the time how many of their heads he would have put in the bucket.

  LADY MARY. I use so many of his phrases. And my appetite is so scandalous. Father, I usually have a chop before we sit down to dinner.

  LORD LOAM. As for my clothes — (wriggling). My dear, you can’t think how irksome collars are to me nowadays.

  LADY MARY. They can’t be half such an annoyance, father, as — (She looks dolefully at her skirt.)

  LORD LOAM (hurriedly). Quite so — quite so. You have dressed early tonight, Mary.

  LADY MARY. That reminds me; I had a note from Brocklehurst saying that he would come a few minutes before his mother as — as he wanted to have a talk with me. He didn’t say what about, but of course we know. (His lordship fidgets.) (With feeling.) It was good of you to tell him, father. Oh, it is horrible to me — (covering her face). It seemed so natural at the time.

  LORD LOAM (petulantly). Never again make use of that word in this house, Mary.

  LADY MARY (with an effort). Father, Brocklehurst has been so loyal to me for these two years that I should despise myself were I to keep my — my extraordinary lapse from him. Had Brocklehurst been a little less good, then you need not have told him my strange little secret.

  LORD LOAM (weakly). Polly — I mean Mary — it was all Crichton’s fault, he —

  LADY MARY (with decision). No, father, no; not a word against him though. I haven’t the pluck to go on with it; I can’t even understand how it ever was. Father, do you not still hear the surf? Do you see the curve of the beach?

  LORD LOAM. I have begun to forget — (in a low voice). But they were happy days; there was something magical about them.

  LADY MARY. It was glamour. Father, I have lived Arabian nights. I have sat out a dance with the evening star. But it was all in a past existence, in the days of Babylon, and I am myself again. But he has been chivalrous always. If the slothful, indolent creature I used to be has improved in any way, I owe it all to him. I am slipping back in many ways, but I am determined not to slip back altogether — in memory of him and his island. That is why I insisted on your telling Brocklehurst. He can break our engagement if he chooses. (Proudly.) Mary Lasenby is going to play the game.

  LORD LOAM. But my dear —

  (LORD BROCKLEHURST is announced.)

  LADY MARY (meaningly). Father, dear, oughtn’t you to be dressing?

  LORD LOAM (very unhappy). The fact is — before I go — I want to say —

  LORD BROCKLEHURST. Loam, if you don’t mind, I wish very specially to have a word with Mary before dinner.

  LORD LOAM. But —

  LADY MARY. Yes, father. (She induces him to go, and thus courageously faces LORD BROCKLEHURST to hear her fate.) I am ready, George.

  LORD BROCKLEHURST (who is so agitated that she ought to see he is thinking not of her but of himself). It is a painful matter — I wish I could have spared you this, Mary.

  LADY MARY. Please go on.

  LORD BROCKLEHURST. In common fairness, of course, this should be remembered, that two years had elapsed. You and I had no reason to believe that we should ever meet again.

  (This is more considerate than she had expected.)

  LADY MARY (softening). I was so lost to the world, George.

  LORD BROCKLEHURST (with a groan). At the same time, the thing is utterly and absolutely inexcusable —

  LADY MARY (recovering her hauteur). Oh!

  LORD BROCKLEHURST. And so I have already said to mother.

  LADY MARY (disdaining him). You have told her?

  LORD BROCKLEHURST. Certainly, Mary, certainly; I tell mother everything.

  LADY MARY (curling her lip). And what did she say?

  LORD BROCKLEHURST. To tell the truth, mother rather pooh-poohed the whole affair.

  LADY MARY (incredulous). Lady Brocklehurst pooh-poohed the whole affair!

  LORD BROCKLEHURST. She said, ‘Mary and I will have a good laugh over this.’

  LADY MARY (outraged). George, your mother is a hateful, depraved old woman.

  LORD BROCKLEHURST. Mary!

  LADY MARY (turning away). Laugh indeed, when it will always be such a pain to me.

  LORD BROCKLEHURST (with strange humility). If only you would let me bear all the pain, Mary.

  LADY MARY (who is taken aback). George, I think you are the noblest man —

  (She is touched, and gives him both her hands. Unfortunately he simpers.)

  LORD BROCKLEHURST. She was a pretty little thing. (She stares, but he marches to his doom.) Ah, not beautiful like you. I assure you it was the merest flirtation; there were a few letters, but we have got them back. It was all owing to the boat
being so late at Calais. You see she had such large, helpless eyes.

  LADY MARY (fixing him). George, when you lunched with father to-day at the club —