Audiobook: The Last of the De Mullins: A Play Without a Preface by Hankin, St. John

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Title: The Last of The De Mullins A Play without a Preface

Author: St. John Hankin

Release Date: May 10, 2017 [EBook #54699]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST OF THE DE MULLINS ***

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THE LAST OF THE DE MULLINS

A Play without a Preface

By St. John Hankin

London: A. C. Fifield

1909

The Persons in the Play

Hugo De Mullin

Jane De Mullin.....His wife

Mrs. Clouston......His sister.

Janet De Mullin....(Mrs. Seagrave) Hugo’s eldest daughter.

Johnny Seagrave....Her son.

Hester De Mullin...Her sister.

Bertha Aldenham

Monty Bulstead

Dr. Rolt...........The local doctor.

Mr. Brown..........The curate.

Miss Deanes

Ellen..............Maid at the De Mullins’.

The action of the play takes place at Brendon Underwood in Dorset, Acts I and III at the Manor House, the De Mullins’ house in the village, Act II on the borders of Brendon Forest. Three days pass between Acts I and II, five between Acts II and III.

ACT I

Scene: The Inner Hall at the Manor House in Brendon-Underwood village. An old-fashioned white-panelled room. At the back is a big stone-mullioned Tudor window looking out on to the garden. On the left of this is a bay in which is a smaller window. A door in the bay leads out into the garden. People entering by this door pass the window before they appear. The furniture is oak, mostly Jacobean or older. The right-hand wall of the room is mainly occupied by a great Tudor fireplace, over which the De Mullin Coat of Arms is carved in stone. Above this a door leads to the outer hall and front door. A door on the opposite side of the room leads to the staircase and the rest of the house. The walls are hung with a long succession of family portraits of all periods and in all stages of dinginess as to both canvas and frame. When the curtain rises the stage is empty. Then Hester is seen to pass the window at the back, followed by Mr. Brown. A moment later they enter. Mr. Brown is a stout, rather unwholesome-looking curate, Hester a lean, angular girl of twenty-eight, very plainly and unattractively dressed in sombre tight-fitting clothes. She has a cape over her shoulders and a black hat on. Brown wears seedy clerical garments, huge boots and a squashy hat. The time is twelve o’clock in the morning of a fine day in September.

HESTER

Come in, Mr. Brown. I’ll tell mother you’re here. I expect she’s upstairs with father (going towards door).

BROWN

Don’t disturb Mrs. De Mullin, please. I didn’t mean to come in.

You’ll sit down now you are here?

Thank you (does so awkwardly). I’m so glad to hear Mr. De Mullin is better. The Vicar will be glad too.

Yes. Dr. Rolt thinks he will do all right now.

You must have been very anxious when he was first taken ill.

We were terribly anxious. [Hester takes off her hat and cape and puts them down on the window seat.

I suppose there’s no doubt it was some sort of stroke?

Dr. Rolt says no doubt.

How did it happen?

We don’t know. He had just gone out of the room when we heard a fall. Mother ran out into the hall and found him lying by the door quite unconscious. She was dreadfully frightened. So were we all.

Had he been complaining of feeling unwell?

Not specially. He complained of the heat a little. And he had a headache. But father’s not strong, you know. None of the De Mullins are, Aunt Harriet says.

Mrs. Clouston is with you now, isn’t she?

Yes. For a month. She generally stays with us for a month in the summer.

I suppose she’s very fond of Brendon?

All the De Mullins are fond of Brendon, Mr. Brown.

Naturally. You have been here so long.

Since the time of King Stephen.

Not in this house?

(smiling)

Not in this house, of course. It’s not old enough for that.

Still, it must be very old. The oldest house in the Village, isn’t it?

Only about four hundred years. The date is 1603. The mill is older, of course.

You still own the mill, don’t you?

Yes. Father would never part with it. He thinks everything of the mill. We get our name from it, you know. De Mullin. Du Moulin. “Of the Mill.”

Were the original De Mullins millers then?

(rather shocked at such a suggestion)

Oh no!

I thought they couldn’t have been. .

No De Mullin has ever been in trade of any kind! But in the old days to own a mill was a feudal privilege. Only lords of manors and the great abbeys had them. The farmers had to bring all their corn to them to be ground.

I see.

There were constant disputes about it all through the Middle Ages.

Why was that?

The farmers would rather have ground their corn for themselves, I suppose.

Why? If the De Mullins were willing to do it for them?

They had to pay for having it ground, of course.

(venturing on a small joke)

Then the De Mullins were millers, after all, in a sense.

You mustn’t let father hear you say so!

The mill is never used now, is it?

No. When, people gave up growing corn round here and all the land was turned into pasture it fell into decay, and now it’s almost ruinous.

What a pity!

Yes. Father says England has never been the same since the repeal of the Corn laws. (Enter Mrs. De Mullin and Mrs. Clouston by the door on the left, followed by Dr. Rolt.) Here is mother--and Aunt Harriet.

Mrs. De Mullin, poor lady, is a crushed, timid creature of fifty-eight or so, entirely dominated by the De Mullin fetish and quite unable to hold her own against either her husband or her sister-in-law, a hardmouthed, resolute woman of sixty. Even Hester she finds almost too much for her. For the rest a gentle, kindly lady, rather charming in her extreme helplessness. Rolt is the average country doctor, brisk, sensible, neither a fool nor a genius.

ROLT

(as they enter the room)

He’s better. Distinctly better. A little weak and depressed, of course. That’s only to be expected. Good morning.

[Shakes hands with Hester. Nods to Brown.

MRS. DE MULLIN

Mr. De Mullin is always nervous about himself.

Yes. Constitutional, no doubt. But he’ll pick up in a few days. Keep him as quiet as you can. That’s really all he needs now.

You don’t think he ought to stay in his room?

... Good morning, Mr. Brown. Are you waiting to see me?

[Brown shakes hands with both ladies.

(awkwardly)

Not specially. I walked over from the church with Miss De Mullin.

Is father coming downstairs, mother?

Yes, Hester. He insisted on getting up. You know he always hates staying in his room.

Oh, Dr. Rolt, do you think he should?

I don’t think it will do him any harm. He can rest quietly in a chair or on the sofa.... Well, I must be off. Good-bye, Mrs. De Mullin.

[Shakes hands briskly with every one.

(rising ponderously)

I must be going too (shakes hands with Mrs. De Mullin). You’ll tell Mr. De Mullin I inquired after him? Good-bye, Mrs. Clouston (shakes hands). And you’re coming to help with the Harvest Decorations on Saturday, aren’t you, Miss De Mullin?

(shaking hands)

Of course.

[Brown and Rolt go out.

MRS. CLOUSTON

(seating herself and beginning to knit resolutely)

What singularly unattractive curates the Vicar seems to get hold of, Jane!.

(meekly)

Do you think so, Harriet?

Quite remarkably. This Mr. Brown, for instance. He has the most enormous feet! And his boots! I’ve never seen such boots!

(flushing)

We needn’t sneer if Mr. Brown doesn’t wear fine clothes, Aunt Harriet.

Of course not Hester. Still, I think he goes to the opposite extreme. And he really is quite abnormally plain. Then there was that Mr. Snood, who was curate when I was down last year. The man with the very red hands. (These acid comments are too much for Hester, who flounces out angrily. Mrs. Clouston looks up for a moment, wondering what is the meaning of this sudden disappearance. Then continues unmoved.) I’m afraid the clergy aren’t what they were in our young days, Jane.

I don’t think I’ve noticed any falling off.

It is there all the same. I’m sure Hugo would agree with me. Of course, curates are paid next to nothing. Still, I think the Vicar might be more happy in his choice.

I believe the poor like him.

(to whom this seems of small importance compared with his shocking social disabilities)

Very likely.... Do please keep still, Jane, and don’t fidget with that book. What is the matter with you?

I’m a little nervous this morning. Hugo’s illness...

Hugo’s almost well now.

Still the anxiety...

Nonsense, Jane. Anxiety is not at all a thing to give way to, especially when there’s no longer anything to be anxious about. Hugo’s practically well now. Dr. Rolt seems to have frightened us all quite unnecessarily.

I suppose it’s difficult to tell.

Of course, it’s difficult. Otherwise no one would send for a doctor. What are doctors for if they can’t tell when a case is serious and when it is not?

But if he didn’t know?

Then he ought to have known. Next time Hugo is ill you’d better send to Bridport. (Mrs. De Mullin drops book on table with a clatter) Really, Jane, what are you doing? Throwing books about like that!

It slipped out of my hand.,,

[Rises and goes up to window restlessly.

Is anything wrong?

(hesitating)

Well, the truth is I’ve done something, Harriet, and now I’m not sure whether I ought to have done it. Mrs. Clouston

Done what?

(dolorously)

I’m afraid you won’t approve.

Perhaps you’d better tell me what it is. Then we shall know.

The fact is some one is coming here this morning, Harriet--to see Hugo.

To see Hugo? Who is it?

Janet.

(with horror)

Janet?

Yes.

Janet! She wouldn’t dare!

I sent for her, Harriet.

You sent for her?

Yes. When Hugo was first taken ill and Dr. Rolt seemed to think the attack was so serious....

Dr. Rolt was a fool.

Very likely, Harriet. But he said Hugo might die. And he said if there was any one Hugo would wish to see....

But would Hugo wish to see Janet?

I thought he might. After all Janet is his daughter. Mrs. Clouston

I thought he said he would never see her again?

He did say that, of course. But that was eight years ago. And, of course, he wasn’t ill then.

When did you send for her?

Three days ago.

Why didn’t she come then, if she was coming at all?

She was away from home. That was so unfortunate. If she had come when Hugo was ill in bed it might have been all right. But now that he’s almost well again....

When did you hear she was coming?

Only this morning. Here is what she says..

[Produces telegram from pocket.

(reads)

“Telegram delayed. Arrive mid-day. Seagrave.” Seagrave?

Yes. She calls herself Mrs. Seagrave now.

(nods)

On account of the child, I suppose.

I suppose so.

I never could understand how Janet came to go so wrong. (Mrs. De Mullin sighs.) None of the De Mullins have ever done such a thing before.

(plaintively)

I’m sure she doesn’t get it from my family.

Well, she must have got it from somewhere. She’s not in the least like a De Mullin.

(lamentably)

I believe it was all through bicycling.

Bicycling?

Yes. When girls usen’t to scour about the country as they do now these things didn’t happen.

(severely)

I never approved of Janet’s bicycling you remember, Jane.

Nor did I, Harriet. But it was no use. Janet only laughed. Janet never would do what she was told about things even when she was quite a child. She was so very obstinate. She was always getting some idea or other into her head. And when she did nothing would prevent her from carrying it out. At one time she wanted to teach.

I remember.

She said girls ought to go out and earn their own living like boys.

What nonsense!

So Hugo said. But Janet wouldn’t listen. Finally we had to let her go over and teach the Aldenham girls French three times a week, just to keep her amused.

(thoughtfully)

It was strange you never could find out who the father was.

(sighs)

Yes. She wouldn’t tell us.

You should have made her tell you. Hugo should have insisted on it.

Hugo did insist. He was terribly angry with her. He sent her to her room and said she was not to come down till she told us. But it was no use. Janet just stayed in her room till we had all gone to bed and then took the train to London.

You should have locked her door.

We did. She got out of the window.

Got out of the window! The girl might have been killed.

Yes. But Janet was always fond of climbing. And she was never afraid of anything.

But there’s no late train to London.

She caught the mail at Weymouth, I suppose.

Do you mean to say she walked all the way to Weymouth in the middle of the night? Why, it’s twelve miles.

She had her bicycle as I said.

Tck!... How did you know she went to London?

She wrote from there, for her things.

I wonder she wasn’t ashamed.

So Hugo said. However, he said I might send them. But he made me send a letter with the things to say that he would have nothing more to do with her and that she was not to write again. For a time she didn’t write. Nearly five months. Then, when her baby was born, she wrote to tell me. That was how I knew she had taken the name of Seagrave. She mentioned it.

Did you show the letter to Hugo?

What did he say?

Nothing. He just read it and gave it back to me without a word.

That’s the last you’ve heard of her, I suppose?

Oh no, Harriet.

Do you mean to say she goes on writing? And you allow her? When Hugo said she was not to?

Yes. Not often, Harriet. Only occasionally.

She has no business to write at all.

Her letters are quite short. Sometimes I wish they were longer. They really tell one nothing about herself, though I often ask her.

You ask her! Then you write too!

I answer her letters, of course. Otherwise she wouldn’t go on writing. ‘

Really, Jane, I’m surprised at you. So you’ve actually been corresponding with Janet all these years--and never told me! I think you’ve behaved very badly.

I didn’t like to, Harriet.

Didn’t like to!

And as you don’t think I ought to hear from her....

MRS. CLOUSTON.

I don’t think you ought to hear from her, of course. But as you do hear naturally I should like to have seen the letters.

I didn’t know that, Harriet. In fact, I thought you would rather not. When a dreadful thing like this happens in a family it seems best not to write about it or to speak of it either, doesn’t it? Hugo and I never speak of it.

Does Hugo know you hear from her?

I think not. I have never told him. Nor Hester. I’m sure Hester would disapprove.

My dear Jane, what can it matter whether Hester approves or not? Hester knows nothing about such things. At her age!

Hester is twenty-eight.

Exactly. A girl like that.

Girls have such very strong opinions nowadays. Mrs. Clouston

What does Janet live on? Teaching?

I suppose so. She had her Aunt Miriam’s legacy, of four hundred pounds of course.

Only four hundred pounds.

I never approved of that legacy, Jane. Girls oughtn’t to have money left them. It makes them too independent.

Aunt Miriam was always so fond of Janet.

Then she should have left the money to Hugo. Fathers are the proper people to leave money to.

Hugo did have the management of the money--till Janet was twenty-one.

Why only till she was twenty-one?

It was so in Aunt Miriam’s will. Of course, Hugo would have gone on managing it for her. It was very little trouble as it was all in Consols. But Janet said she would rather look after it for herself.

Ridiculous! As if girls could possibly manage money!

So Hugo said. But Janet insisted. So she got her way.

What did she do with it? Spend it?

No. Put it into a Railway, she said.

A Railway! How dangerous!

She said she would prefer it. She said Railways sometimes went up. Consols never.

She lost it all, of course?

I don’t know, Harriet.

You don’t know?

No. I never liked to ask. Hugo was rather hurt about the whole thing, so the subject was never referred to.

Let me see. The child must be eight years old by now.

Just eight. It will be nine years next March since Janet went away.

What did she call him?

Johnny.

Johnny! None of the De Mullins have ever been called Johnny.

Perhaps it was his father’s name.

Perhaps so (pause).

Do you think I ought to tell Hugo about Janet’s coming?

Certainly.

I thought perhaps....

Nonsense, Jane. Of course, he must be told. You ought to have told him from the very beginning?

Do you mean when I sent the telegram? But Hugo was unconscious.

As soon as he recovered consciousness then.

I did mean to. But he seemed so weak, and Dr. Rolt said any excitement....

Dr. Rolt!

(goaded)

Well, I couldn’t tell that Dr. Rolt knew so little about Hugo’s illness, could I? And I was afraid of the shock.

Still, he should have been told at once. It was the only chance.

Yes. I see that now. But I was afraid of the shock, as I said. So I put it off. And then, when I didn’t hear from Janet, I thought I would wait.

Why?

You see I didn’t know whether she was coming. And if she didn’t come, of course there was no necessity for telling Hugo anything about it. I’m afraid he’ll be very angry.

At any rate, you must tell him now. The sooner the better.

Very well, Harriet. If you think so.

You had better go up to him at once.

[Mrs. De Mullin goes to the door on the left, opens it, then draws back hastily.

Here is Hugo. He’s just coming across the hall. With Hester. How unlucky.

MRS. CLOUSTON I don’t see that it matters.

I’d rather not have told him before Hester.

[Mrs. Clouston shrugs her shoulders. A moment later Hugo enters. He leans on a stick and Hester’s arm. He looks weak and pale and altogether extremely sorry for himself, obviously a nervous and a very tiresome patient.

Carefully, father. That’s right. Will you lie on the sofa?

DE MULLIN

(fretfully)

No. Put me in the armchair. I’m tired of lying down.

Very well. Let me help you. There. Wait a moment. I’ll fetch you some pillows.

[Props him up on pillows in an armchair.

Thank you.

[Lies back exhausted and closes his eyes.

(going to him)

How are you feeling now, Hugo?

Very weak.

I wonder if you ought to have come down?

It won’t make any difference. Nothing will make any difference any more, Jane. I shan’t last much longer. I’m worn out.

Father!

Yes, Hester. Worn out (with a sort of melancholy pride). None of the De Mullins have been strong. I’m the last of them. The last of the De Mullins.

Come, Hugo, you mustn’t talk in that morbid way.

I’m not morbid, Harriet. But I feel tired, tired.

You’ll be better in a day or two.

No, Jane. I shall never be better. Never in this world (pause).

(nervously)

Hugo... there’s something... something I have to tell you....

What is it, Jane? (fretfully). What have you been keeping from me?

I ought to have told you before. Only I didn’t like...

Is it something about my illness?

Oh no, Hugo.

(relieved)

I thought Dr. Rolt might have said something.

It’s nothing of that kind.

(peevishly)

Well, well, what is it?

Hugo, some one is coming here to-day, to see you.

To see me? Who?

You won’t be angry, Hugo?

(testily)

How can I possibly say that, Jane, when I don’t know who it is?

Hugo, it’s... (Bell rings loudly.) Harriet, there’s the bell! I wonder if it’s she? Do you think it is?

[All look towards the door on the right, expectantly.

(querulously)

Well, Jane? Am I to hear who this visitor is or am I not?

ELLEN

(showing in a lady leading a little boy by the hand)

MRS. SEAGRAVE

[Enter Janet and Johnny!. Janet is a very handsome woman of six-and-thirty. She is admirably dressed, but her clothes are quiet and in excellent taste, dark in colour and plain in cut but expensive. Her hat is particularly tasteful, but also quiet. Her clothes are in marked contrast to those of her mother and sister which are of the homeliest description and were probably made in the village. Johnny is a well-grown youngster of eight in a sailor suit.

(shocked)

Mother!

Janet, my dear! (cry of welcome).

JANET

Father! (Drops Johnny’s hand, comes rapidly to him, falls on one knee and kisses him impulsively, patting his left hand with her right.) How are you? Better? (holding out her left hand to her mother but still kneeling). How do you do, mother dear? (Mrs. De Mullin takes it. Puts her other hand on Janet’s shoulder.) I should have come before, father, directly you sent for me. But your telegram was delayed. I was away from home.

Have you been very ill, father? And did you frighten them all dreadfully? How naughty of you!

Silly Janet! Let me look at you, my dear. (Looks at her face as she holds it up.) You’re not much changed, Janet.

Nor are you, father.

A little greyer, perhaps.

No! Not a hair!

Well, my dear, Pm glad you’ve come. We parted in anger, but that’s all over now. Forgotten and forgiven. Eh?

Yes. Forgotten and forgiven (rises). How are you, Aunt Harriet? I didn’t see you. (Eagerly) Hester!

[Goes to her impulsively, holding out her hand. Hester takes it coldly. Janet tries to draw her towards her. Hester resists. She drops her hand and Hester turns away.]

Who is that? (pointing to Johnny).

(turning to him)

That is Johnny. My son.

My grandson?

Yes. I had to bring him, father. We were away from home and there was no one to leave him with.

I’m glad you brought him. Come here, Johnny. Don’t be afraid.

JOHNNY

(in his confident treble)

I’m not afraid. Why should I be afraid?

[Goes to him.

(taking his hand)

Say “How do you do, grandfather.”

How do you do, grandfather?

Will you give me a kiss, Johnny?

If you like, grandfather.

[Kisses him.

That’s a good boy.

Kiss your grandmother too, Johnny.

[Mrs. De Mullin snatches him up and kisses him passionately. Then holds him a little way off and looks at him admiringly.

What a fine little fellow, Janet!

(proudly)

Isn’t he, mother? And so strong and healthy! He’s hardly had a day’s illness since he was born.

(who has been staring at the pictures on the walls, holding his grandmother by one hand).

Who are all these old men, grandfather?

Your ancestors, my boy.

What’s ancestors?

Your forefathers. Your mother’s forefathers,

Is that old man in the wig an ancestor?

Yes. That is Anthony De Mullin, your great-great-grandfather.

What was he?

(puzzled)

What was he? I don’t know that he was anything in particular. He was just a gentleman.

(disappointed)

Is that all?

Don’t make any mistake, my boy. It’s a great thing to be descended from gentle-people, a thing to be proud of and to be thankful for.

Mother says the great thing is for every one to be of some use in the world. Are gentle-people of more use in the world than other people, grandfather?

And were all these old men gentle-people?

All of them. And you must grow up like them.

They’re very ugly, grandfather (pause). What did they do?

They lived down here at Brendon.

Nothing else?

They looked after their land.

Had they much land?

A great deal. At one time the De Mullins owned all the land about here.

How much do they own now?

Not very much, I’m afraid.

Then they can’t have looked after it very well, can they, grandfather?

(feeling the strain of this conversation)

Now, Hugo, do you think you ought to talk any more? Why not go upstairs for a little and lie down?

Perhaps I will, Jane. I am a little tired.

Shall I go with father?

No. I will. Come, Hugo (helps him up).

Will you come, with me, Johnny?

(hastily)

No, Hugo. He will only disturb you. Stay down here, Johnny, with your mother. Now then. Carefully.

[Leads De Mullin off by the door on the left. There is a pause, during which the remaining occupants of the room obviously have nothing in particular to say to each other. At last Mrs. Clouston speaks.

Well, Janet, how have you been all these years?

(nonchalantly)

All right, Aunt Harriet. And you?

Pretty well, thanks.

Are you still living down at Bath?

Yes. You live in London, Jane tells me.

What do you do there? Teach?

Oh no. Why should I be teaching?

Jane said you wanted to teach at one time.

That was years ago. Before I left Brendon. soon gave up that idea. No. I keep a shop.

A shop!

Yes. A hat-shop

Good heavens! A De Mullin in a hat-shop!

(a little maliciously)

Not a De Mullin, Aunt Harriet. A Seagrave.

Did Mr. Seagrave keep a hat-shop?

Mr. Seagrave?... oh, I see. No. It’s not a man’s hat shop. It’s a lady’s (takes off hat). This is one of ours. What do you think of it, Hester?

(frostily)

It looks very expensive.

(looking at it critically)

Yes, I own I’m rather pleased with it.

(acidly)

You seem to be able to dress very well altogether, in spite of the shop.

(correcting her)

Because of it, Aunt Harriet. That’s the advantage of being what is called “in trade.” If I were a school teacher or a governess or something genteel of that kind I could only afford to dress like a pauper. But as I keep a shop I can dress like a lady. Clothes are a question of money, after all, aren’t they?

(contemptuously)

If one is in a shop it doesn’t matter how one dresses.

On the contrary if one is in a shop it matters a great deal. A girl in a shop must dress well. The business demands it. If you ever start a hat-shop, Aunt Harriet, you’ll have to dress very differently. Otherwise nobody will buy your hats.

Indeed? Fortunately I’ve no intention of starting a shop of any kind.

(blandly)

No! Well, I expect you’re wise. I doubt if you’d make a success of it.

[Loud ring heard off.

(rather flustered--gasps)

I hope that’s not a visitor. (Janet stares Then laughs good-humouredly. Aunt Harriet’s nervous desire to keep her out of the way of visitors strikes her as amusing.) What are you laughing at, Janet?

(shrugs)

Nothing, Aunt Harriet.

(showing in)

Miss Deanes. Mr. Brown.

[Miss Deanes is a bulky, red-faced, shortsighted woman of forty-two, very fussy and absurd in manner, who talks very fast. Brown carries a book.

MISS DEANES

How do you do, Mrs. Clouston. Such a piece of news! I felt I must tell you. I brought Mr. Brown with me. He was just leaving a book for you, Hester, so I made him come in.

[Shakes hands with Hester.

Here it is, Miss De Mullin. It’s the one you wanted to borrow. Blore on the Creeds.

(seeing Janet for first time)

Janet! Is that you?

Yes, Miss Deanes. How are you?

[Shakes hands.

Good gracious, child, when did you come? Why, you’ve not been down to Brendon for years.

It is a long time, isn’t it?

And who is this young gentleman?

[Noticing Johnny who is holding Janet’s hand and staring at Miss Deanes.

(calmly)

That is my son. Shake hands with Miss Deanes, Johnny.

(astonished)

Your son! There now! And I never knew you were even married!

(quite at her ease)

Didn’t you!

No.

I forgot. I haven’t introduced you. Mr. Brown--Mrs. Seagrave.

(bows)

How do you do.

(turning to Miss Deanes again)

And now what is your piece of news, Miss Deanes?

(volubly)

Oh yes. I must tell you. You’d never guess. Somebody else is engaged to be married, (to Janet) Who do you think?

I’ve no idea.

Bertha Aldenham--to Mr. Bulstead.

(starts)

Mr. Bulstead?

Yes. But I forgot. You wouldn’t know them. They didn’t come here till long after you went away. They bought Brendon Park from the Malcolms three years ago. You remember the Malcolms, Janet? Janet (whose attention has wandered)

Eh? Oh yes, of course.

Which Mr. Bulstead is it? The eldest?

Yes. Montague.

(under her breath)

Monty Bulstead! Engaged!

Are the Aldenhams pleased?

Very, I expect. The Bulsteads are so rich, you see.

Does he live down here; this Mr. Montagu Bulstead, I mean?

Oh no. He’s here on leave. He’s in the army. He only got back three months ago (with a little giggle). He and Bertha haven’t taken long to settle things, have they?

No, they haven’t taken long.

But I dare say he will live here when he’s married. As the Bulsteads are so rich.- The father makes frilling and lace and so on. All those things people used to make so much better by hand. And Bertha may not care about army life. I know I shouldn’t. (Janet smiles discreetly.) It’s not always very nice, is it?

(to Johnny who has been staring at him roundeyed across the room, with heavy geniality).

Well, young man. Who are you staring at, eh? Do you want to talk to me?

(quite simply, in his high piping treble)

No, thank you.

Sh! Johnny! You don’t mean that. Go to Mr. Brown when he speaks to you.

Very well, Mummie.

[Does so slowly.

(taking his hands)

Now then what shall we talk about, you and I?

I don’t know.

Don’t you? Suppose we see if you can say your catechism then? Would you like that?

What’s catechism?

Come, Johnny, I’m sure your mother has taught you your catechism.. Can you repeat your “Duty towards your Neighbour”? (Johnny shakes his head emphatically). Try “My duty towards my neighbour....

Mother says it’s every one’s duty to be healthy and to be happy! Is that what you mean?

(scandalized)

No! No!

Well, that’s what mother taught me.

(coming to the rescue)

I’m afraid he doesn’t know his catechism yet, Mr. Brown. You see he’s only eight. (Brown bows stiffly.) Run away, Johnny, and play in the garden for a little.

[Leads him to the door in the bay.

All right, Mummie.

[Johnny runs out into the garden. A certain relief is perceptible on his departure. It is felt that his interview with Mr. Brown has not been a success....

(who feels that a change of subject will be only tactful)

There now, Hester! I do believe you’ve never asked after Dicky! He’ll be so offended!

Has Dicky been ill again? I thought you said he was better yesterday.

He was. But he had a relapse, poor darling. I had to sit up all last night with him!

What has been the matter with him?

Some sort of chill, Dr. Rolt said. I was dreadfully anxious.

What a pity! ‘Colds are such troublesome things for children.

Children?

Yes. You were speaking of a child, weren’t you? Miss Deanes

Oh no. Dicky is my cockatoo. He’s the sweetest bird. Talks quite like a human being. And never a coarse expression. That’s so unusual with cockatoos.

Indeed?

Yes. The voyage, you see. They come all the way from South America and generally they pick up the most dreadful language, poor lambs--from the sailors.

But Dicky didn’t. He has such a pure mind (rising). And now I really must be going. I have all kinds of people I want to tell about Mr. Bulstead’s engagement.

[Shaking hands with Mrs. Clouston and Janet.

I must be off too. Wait one moment, Miss Deanes. Good-bye, Mrs. Clouston.

[Shakes hands with Mrs. Clouston and bows stiffly to Janet. He has not yet forgiven Johnny for not knowing his catechism.

(To Hester.)

Good-bye, Miss De Mullin. Shall I see you at Evensong?

I expect so.

Poof!

[Brown and Miss Deanes go out.

What a fool Miss Deanes is!

MRS CLOUSTON

(indifferently)

She always was, wasn’t she?

I suppose so. Going on in that way about her ridiculous cockatoo! And that hideous little curate!

I don’t see why you should sneer at all my friends.

Are they your friends, Hester? Then I won’t sneer at them. But you can’t call Mr. Brown handsome, can you?

Mr. Brown is a very good man and works very hard among the poor. That’s better than being handsome.

Yes. But less agreeable, isn’t it? However, if you like him there’s an end of it. But he needn’t have begun asking Johnny his catechism the very first time he met him. I don’t call it good manners,

How was he to know the poor child was being brought up to be a little heathen?

[Takes up her hat and cape and begins putting them on.

How, indeed!

Are you going out, Hester? Lunch will be ready in half an hour. .

Only to take Mrs. Wason her soup, Aunt Harriet.

(looking curiously at Hester)

Do you want to marry Mr. Brown, Hester?

My dear Janet!

Well, Aunt Harriet, there’s nothing to be ashamed of if she does. Do you, Hester?

Why do you ask such a question?

Never mind. Only answer it (pause). You do like him, don’t you?

I’ve a great respect for Mr. Brown.

Don’t blush, my dear. I dare say that’s much the same thing.

I won’t talk to you about it. You only sneer. Janet

I wasn’t sneering. Come, Hester, don’t be cross. Why shouldn’t we be friends? I might help you.

How could you help me?

(looking quizzically at poor Hester’s headgear)

I might make you a hat, my dear.

Mr. Brown doesn’t notice those things.

All men notice those things, Hester.

(with a sneer)

I suppose that’s why you wear such fine clothes.

(quite good-humoured)

That’s it. Fine feathers make fine birds.

Well, I call it shameless.

My dear Hester, you’re always being ashamed of things. You always were, I remember. What is there to be ashamed of in that? What on earth were women given pretty faces and pretty figures for if not to make men admire them and want to marry them?

Well, your plan hasn’t been very successful so far, anyhow!

(quietly)

Nor has yours, Hester.

[Hester makes exclamation of impatience and seems about to reply angrily. Then thinks better of it and goes out without a word. Janet follows her retreat with her eyes and smiles half cynically, half compassionately. The Curtain falls.

ACT II

Scene: On the edge of Brendon Forest.

Time: three days later. A road runs along the hack of the stage front which it is separated by a fence and high hedge. In this hut somewhat to the right is a stile and also a gate. Round the trunk of a large tree to the left is a rough wooden seat. The stage is empty when the curtain rises. Fhen enter Mrs. De Mullin, Janet and Johnny. They approach stile from the left and come through gate. There isan exit on the right of the stage through the Forest.

I don’t think I’ll come any farther, mother.

You won’t come up to the house?

No, thanks (rather grimly). I don’t want to see Mrs. Bulstead. And I’m sure Mrs. Bulstead doesn’t want to see me.

I wish Hester could have come.

Why couldn’t she?

She’s at the church putting up the decorations. It’s the Harvest Thanksgiving to-morrow.

(laughing)

Mr. Brown!

Janet, I told you you weren’t to laugh at Hester about Mr. Brown. It’s not kind.

(lightly)

It’s all right mother. Hester’s not here.

Still, I don’t like it, dear. It’s not quite...

(soothing her)

Not quite nice. I know, mother. Not the way really refined and ladylike young women talk. But I’m only quite a common person who sells hats. You can’t expect all these refinements from me!

[Mrs. De Mullin sighs.

Are you going to turn back?

Not at once. I’ll wait for you here a little with Johnny in case they’re out. Why, they’ve put a seat here. [She sits on the side farthest from the road.

Usen’t there to be one?

No. Nor a gate in my time. Only a stile.

Very likely, dear. I don’t remember. I don’t often come this way.

I often used to come along it in the old days.

I dare say. Well, I must be getting on to my call or I shall be late. You’re sure you won’t come?

Quite, mother. Good-bye.

[Mrs. De Mullin goes of through the forest.

Where’s grandmother going, Mummie?

Up to the big house.

What big house?

Brendon Park.

Mayn’t I go up to the big house too?

No, dear. You’re to stay with mother.

Who lives at the big house?

Nobody you know, dear.

That’s why I asked, Mummie.

Well, don’t ask any more, sonny. Mother’s rather tired. Run away and play, there’s a good boy.

[Johnny disappears into the wood. Janet falls into a brown study. Presently a footstep is heard coming along the roady but she seems to notice nothing. Then a young man climbs over the stile. He starts as he sees her and draws back, then advances eagerly, holding out his hand.

MONTY

Janet, is that you!

Yes, Monty.

JANET! Here!

(nodding over his shoulder)

Our stile, Janet!

Our stile.

The stile where you and I first met.

(relapsing for a moment into something like sentiment)

Yes. I thought I must see it again--for the sake of old times.

How long ago it all seems!

(matter of fact)

It is a longish time, you know.

I believe that was the happiest month of my life, Janet.

Was it, Monty?

Yes (pause). I say, when did you come down? You don’t live at home any longer, do you?

No. I only came down three days ago.

By Jove it is good to see you again. Why, it’s eight years since we used to be together, you and I.

Nearly nine.

Yes... You’re not coming to live down here again, are you?

No; why?

I thought perhaps...

(cynically)

Would you dislike it very much if I did, Monty?

Of course not.

Confess. You did feel it would be rather awkward?

Well, of course...

However you can set your mind at rest. I’m not. [His relief at this intelligence enables him to realize the pleasure he is getting from seeing her again.)

I say, Janet, how well you’re looking! I believe you’re handsomer than ever.

Am I?

You know you are.

[Pause. He looks at her admiringly. She turns away with a little smile.

(feeling that they are getting on to dangerous ground)

Well, Monty. Where have you been these eight years?

Abroad with my regiment. We’ve been ordered all over the place. I’ve been home on leave, of course. But not for the last three years. Not since father bought the Park. I’ve never been at Brendon since ... (pause).

Since we were here? Don’t blush, Monty. (He nods shamefacedly.) How did he come to buy the place?

It was just a chance. He saw it advertised, came and looked at it and bought it. He’s no idea I was ever at Brendon before (rather bitter laugh). None of them have. I have to pretend not to know my way about.

It seems safer. (Janet nods.) Sometimes I almost forget to keep it up. I’m such a duffer about things. But I’ve managed hitherto. And now, of course, it’s all right as I’ve been here three months. I may be supposed to know the beastly place by this time.

Beastly? You’re not very polite.

[Monty laughs shamefacedly.

You got my note, didn’t you?

What note?... Oh, eight years ago, you mean? Yes.

I left it with the woman at the lodgings. As you were coming over that afternoon, I thought it safer than sending a message. And of course I daren’t telegraph. (Janet nods.) I was awfully sick at having to go away like that. All in a moment. Without even saying good-bye. But I had to.

Of course. Was your mother badly hurt?

No. Only stunned. That was such rot. If people get chucked out of a carriage they must expect to get stunned. But of course they couldn’t know. The telegram just said “Mother hurt. Carriage accident. Come at once.” It got to me at the lodgings a couple of hours before you were coming. I had just time to chuck my things into a bag and catch the train. I wanted to come back after the mater was all right again. But I couldn’t very well, could I?

Why not?

Well, the regiment was to sail in less than three weeks and the mater would have thought it rather rough if I’d gone away again. I’d been away six weeks as it was.

Oh yes. Of course.

(with half a sigh)

To think if I hadn’t happened to be riding along that road and seen you at the stile and asked my way, you and I might never have met. What a chance life is!

Just a chance (pause).

Why did you go away, Janet? You weren’t going the last time I saw you.

Wasn’t I?

No. At least you said nothing about it.

I didn’t know I was going then. Not for certain.

Why did you go?

(quietly) I had to, Monty.

You had to? (Janet nods.)But why?

Mother found out.

About us?

Yes. And she told father.

(genuinely distressed) Oh, Janet! I’m so sorry.

It couldn’t be helped,

Does he know who it was?

Who you were? No.

You didn’t tell him?

MONTY! As if I should.

I don’t know. Girls generally do.

I didn’t.

No. I suppose you wouldn’t. But you’re different from most girls. Do you know there was always something rather splendid about you, Janet?

(curtseys)

I wonder he didn’t make you tell.

He did try of course. That was why I ran away.

I see. Where did you go to?

London.

To London? All alone? (Janet nods) Why did you do that? And why didn’t you let me know?

You were out of England by that time.

But why London?

I had to go somewhere. And it seemed better to go where I shouldn’t be known. Besides it’s easier to be lost sight of in a crowd.

But what did you do when you got there?

I got a place in a shop, Monty.

A shop? You!

Yes, a hat-shop, in Regent Street. My dear Monty, don’t gape like that. Hat-shops are perfectly respectable places. Almost too respectable to judge by the fuss two of them made about employing me.

What do you mean?

Well, when I applied to them for work they naturally asked if I had ever worked in a hat-shop before. And when I said “No” they naturally asked why I wanted to begin. In the innocence of my heart I told them. Whereupon they at once refused to employ me--not in the politest terms.

Poor Janet. What beastly luck! Still...

[Hesitates.

Yes, Monty?

I mean naturally they couldn’t be expected...

(flustered)

At least I don’t mean that exactly.

Only... [Stops.

My dear Monty, I quite understand what you mean. You needn’t trouble to be explicit. Naturally they couldn’t be expected to employ an abandoned person like me to trim hats. That was exactly their view.

But I thought you said you did get a place in a shop? Janet

Yes. But not at either of those shops. They were far too virtuous.

How did you do it?

Told lies, Monty. I believe that’s how most women get employment.

Told lies?

Yes. I invented a husband, recently deceased, bought several yards of crêpe and a wedding ring. This is the ring.

[Takes off glove.

Oh, Janet, how beastly for you!

[Janet shrugs.

Everything seems to be “Beastly” to you, Monty. Brendon and telling lies and lots of other things. Luckily I’m less superfine.

Didn’t they find out?

No. That was why I decided to be a widow. It made inquiries more difficult.

I should have thought it made them easier.

On the contrary. You can’t cross-question a widow about a recent bereavement. If you do she cries. I always used to look tearful directly my husband’s name was even mentioned. So they gave up mentioning it. Women are so boring when they will cry.

They might have inquired from other people.

Why should they? Besides there was no one to inquire from. I called him Seagrave--and drowned him at sea. You can’t ask questions of the sharks.

Oh, Janet, how can you joke about it?

I couldn’t--then. I wanted work-too badly. But I can now--with your kind permission, I mean.

And you’ve been at the shop ever since?

Not that shop. I was only there about six months --till baby was born, in fact...

(horrified)

Janet, there was a baby!

Of course there was a baby.

Oh, Janet! And you never wrote! Why didn’t you write?

I did think of it. But on the whole I thought I wouldn’t. It would have been no good.

No good?

You were in India.

I was in England.

Not then.

You ought to have written at once--directly your mother found out.

One week after you sailed, Monty (defiantly). Besides why should I write?

Why? I could have married you, of course.

If I’d asked you, you mean? Thank you, my dear Monty.

No, I don’t. Of course I should have married you. I must have married you.

(looking at him thoughtfully)

I wonder if you would.

Certainly I should. I should have been bound in honour.

I see. Then I’m glad I never wrote.

You’re glad? Now?

Yes. I’ve done some foolish things in my life, Monty, but none quite so foolish as that. To marry a schoolboy, not because he loves you or wants to marry you but because he thinks he’s “bound in honour.” No, thank you.

I don’t mean that. You know I don’t, Janet. I loved you, of course. That goes without saying. I’d have married you like a shot before, only the Governor would have made such a fuss. The Governor was so awfully straitlaced about this sort of thing. When I was sent away from Eton he made the most ghastly fuss.

Were you sent away from Eton for “this sort of thing”?

Yes--at least I don’t mean that either. But it was about a girl there. He was frightfully wild. He threatened to cut me off if I ever did such a thing again. Such rot! As if no one had ever been sent away from school before!

(reflectively)

I didn’t know you’d been sent away from Eton.

Didn’t you? I suppose I didn’t like to tell you-for fear of what you’d think (bitterly). I seem to have been afraid of everything in those days. .

Not everything, Monty.

Oh, you know what I mean. I was awfully afraid of the Governor, I remember. I suppose all boys are if their parents rag them too much. But I would have married you, Janet, if I’d known. I would honestly.

What is the pay of a British subaltern, Monty?

The Governor would have had to stump up, of course.

Poor Mr. Bulstead! He’d have liked that, I suppose? And what about your poor unhappy colonel? And all the other little subalterns?

(obstinately)

Still, you ought to have written.

You never wrote.

I couldn’t. You know that. You never would let me. That was why I couldn’t send that note to you to tell you I was going away. You said my letters would be noticed.

Yes, I forgot that. That’s the result of having a father who is what is called old-fashioned.

All letters to the Manor House are delivered locked in a bag. They always have been since the Flood, I believe, or at least since the invention of the postal service. And, of course, father won’t have it altered, So every morning there’s the ritual of unlocking this absurd bag. No one is allowed to do that but father--unless he is ill. Then mother has the privilege. And of course he. scrutinizes the outside of every letter and directly it’s opened asks who it’s from and what’s inside it. Your letters would have been noticed at once.

How beastly!

The penalty of having nothing to do, Monty.

I know. What a mess the whole thing is!

Just so. No. There was no way out of it except the hat-shop.

(remorsefully)

It’s awfully rough on you, Janet.

Never mind. I dare say I wasn’t cut out for the wife of a subaltern, Monty; whereas I make excellent hats.

(savagely)

You’re still making the d------d things?

Yes. Only at another shop. The Regent Street place had no room for me when I was well enough to go back to work. But the woman who kept it gave me a recommendation to a friend who was starting in Hanover Street. A most superior quarter for a hatshop, Monty. In fact the superior quarter. Claude et Cie was the name.

(Monty (rather shocked)

A French shop?

No more French than you are, Monty. It was kept by a Miss Hicks, one of the most thoroughly British people you can possibly imagine. But we called ourselves Claude et Cie in order to be able to charge people more for their hats. You can always charge fashionable women more for their clothes if you pretend to be French. It’s one of the imbecilities of commerce. So poor dear Miss Hicks became Madame Claude and none of our hats cost less than seven guineas.

Do people buy hats at such a price?

Oh yes. Everybody in Society bought them. Claude et Cie was quite the rage that Season. Nobody who was anybody went anywhere else.

She must have made a great deal of money.

On the contrary. She made nothing at all and narrowly escaped bankruptcy.

But I don’t understand. If her hats were so dear and everybody bought them?

Everybody bought them but nobody paid for them. In the highest social circles I believe people never do pay for anything--certainly not for their clothes. At least, nobody paid Miss Hicks, and at the end of six months she was owed £1,200 and hadn’t a penny to pay her rent.

Why didn’t she make them pay.

She did dun them, of course, but they only ordered more hats to keep her quiet which didn’t help Miss Hicks much. And when she went on dunning them they said they should withdraw their custom. In fact, she was in a dilemma. If she let the bills run on she couldn’t pay her rent. And if she asked her customers to pay their bills they ceased to be customers.

Not again, Monty!

What did she do?

She didn’t do anything. She was too depressed. She used to sit in the back room where the hats were trimmed and weep over the materials, regardless of expense. Finally things came to a crisis. The landlord threatened to distrain for his rent. But just as it looked as if it was all over with Claude et Cie a capitalist came to the rescue. I was the capitalist.

You?

Yes. I’d an old Aunt once who was fond of me and left me a legacy when I was seventeen. Four hundred pounds.

That wouldn’t go very far.

Four hundred pounds goes a longish way towards setting up a shop. Besides, it was nearly five hundred by that time. My shares had gone up. Well, I and my five hundred pounds came to the rescue. I paid the rent and the most clamorous of the creditors, and Miss Hicks and I became partners.

But what was the good of that if the business was worth nothing?

It was worth several hundred pounds to any one, who had the pluck to sue half the British aristocracy. I sued them. It was tremendous fun. They were simply furious. They talked as if they’d never been sued before! As for Miss Hicks she wept more than ever and said I’d ruined the business.

Hadn’t you?

That business. Yes. But with the £1,200--or as much of it as we could recover--we started a new one. A cheap hat-shop. Relatively cheap that is-for Hanover Street. We charged two guineas a hat instead of seven, 100 per cent, profit instead of... You can work it out for yourself. But then our terms were strictly cash, so we made no bad debts. That was my idea.

But you said nobody ever paid for their hats.

Not in the highest social circles. But we drew our customers from the middle classes who live in South Kensington and Bayswater, and are not too haughty to pay for a hat if they see a cheap one.

But wasn’t it a frightful risk?

(cheerfully)

It was a risk, of course. But everything in life is a risk, isn’t it? And it succeeded, as I felt sure it would. We’re quite a prosperous concern nowadays, and I go over to Paris four times a year to see the latest fashions. That, my dear Monty, is the history of Claude et Cie.

[Pause.

And you’ve never married, Janet?

MONTY {hesitates)

Is it because...?

Because?

Because you still care for me?

Monty, don’t be vain.

(repelled)

I didn’t mean it like that. Janet, don’t laugh. Of course, I’m glad if you don’t care any more. At least, I suppose I ought to be glad. It would have been dreadful if you had gone on caring all these years and I not known. But did you?

No, Monty, I didn’t. You may set your mind at rest.

You’re sure?

Quite. I had too many other things to think of.

Do you mean that beastly shop?

I meant my baby.

Our baby. Is it alive?

Of course. What do you mean, Monty?

I thought, as you didn’t say... (thoughtfully) Poor little beast! (Janet makes gesture of protest.) Well, it’s rough luck on the little beggar, isn’t it? What’s become of him, Janet?

What’s become of him! My dear Monty, what should have become of him? He’s quite alive as I said and particularly thriving.

Do you mean he’s living with you!.. But, of course, I forgot, you’re supposed to be married.

(correcting him)

A widow, Monty. An inconsolable widow!

Where is he? In London?

No. As a matter of fact he’s probably not fifty yards away. Over there.

[Points towards the wood.

(jumping up)

Janet! (nervously looking round).

(rallying him)

Frightened, Monty?

Of course not (shamefacedly)

Just a little?

(regaining courage)

Janet, let me see him.

(amused)

Would you like to?

Of course I should. He’s my baby as well as yours if it comes to that. Do call him, Janet.

All right, (calls) Johnny! (pause) John... ny! [‘To Monty) You mustn’t tell him, you know.

(off r.)

Yes, Mummie.

Come here for a minute. Mother wants to speak to you.

(off)

Very well, Mummie. (Enters r.) Oh, Mummie, I’ve found such a lot of rabbits. You must come and see them. (Seeing Monty for the first time, stares at him.) Oh!

Come here, youngster. Come and let me look at you. (Johnny goes to him slowly. Monty, grasping both hands, draws him to him, looking at him long and keenly.) He’s like you, Janet.

Is he?

Yes. He has your eyes. So your name’s Johnny, young man?

Well, Johnny, will you give me a kiss? (Monty leans forward. He does so.) That’s right.

And now, Mummie, come and look at my rabbits.

Not yet, dear. Mother’s busy just now.

May I go back to them then?

Suppose I won’t let you go?

I’ll make you--and so will Mummie.

Plucky little chap. Off with you.

[Kisses him again, then releases his hands. Johnny trots off r. again. Monty follows him with his eyes. Pause.

Well, Monty, what do you think of him?

(enthusiastic)

I think he’s splendid.

Isn’t he? And such a sturdy little boy. He weighed ten pounds before he was a month old.

I say, Janet.

(shyly)

Yes?

(hesitates)

You’ll let me kiss you once more, won’t you? For the last time?... (she hesitates). You don’t mind?

(heartily) .

Of course not, Monty. You’re not married yet, you know.

JANET! My dear, dear Janet!

[Seizes her and kisses her fiercely.

(releasing herself gently)

That’s enough, Monty.

I’m afraid I behaved like an awful brute to you, Janet.

Oh no.

Yes, I did. I ought to have married you. I ought to marry you still. On account of the boy.

(quite matter of fact)

Oh well, you can’t do that now in any case, can you --as you’re engaged to Bertha Aldenham.

You’ve heard about that? Who told you?

A worthy lady called Miss Deanes.

I know. A regular sickener.

My dear Monty!

Sorry.

She brought the good news. The very day I arrived as it happened. We’ve hardly talked of anything else at the Manor House since--except father’s illness, of course.

What else is there to talk about--in Brendon?

That’s true. Isn’t it... (stops himself, looks at watch. Whistles.) Whew! [Rises.

What is it, Monty?

I say, Janet, I wonder if you’d mind going now?

[She rises too.

Well, the fact is I’m expecting some one here directly. I...

Bertha?

Yes. I was to meet her here at the stile at six.

Our stile, Monty.

Yes,... You don’t mind, do you--about my asking you to go, I mean?

(sitting again)

Not in the least.

But you’re not going?

Why should I go?

Oh, well, I thought-----

That it wouldn’t be quite suitable for us to meet?

I didn’t mean that, of course. But I thought you mightn’t like--I mean it might be painful...

[Sits again.

For me to see her? On the contrary, I’m dying to see her.

Janet, sometimes I think you’re not quite human.

My dear boy, I’m extremely human--and therefore curious (pause). What’s she like, Monty? Now, I mean. She promised to be pretty.

She is pretty, I suppose (pause). I wonder if Bertha and I will ever have a son like Johnny!

Let’s hope so, Monty. For Bertha’s sake.

Isn’t that some one coming? (pause, listens), I expect it’s she (rising hastily and advancing towards stile). Is that you, Bertha?

BERTHA

(at stile)

Oh! There you are. Yes. Isn’t it hot? (entering by gate which he opens for her). Am I punctual? (with a cry) Janet! When did you come home?

[Goes to her eagerly.

Only three days ago.

[Bertha kisses her.

Only three days! And you’ve never been up to see us.

I know. But with father ill

Of course. I understand. I was only joking. How is Mr. De Mullin?

Much better. Not well yet, of course. But he gets stronger every day.

I’m so glad. I say, Janet, do you remember when you used to teach us French?

I was awfully troublesome, I remember.

I expect you were an awful duffer at it too, Bertha.

What cheek!

Wasn’t she, Ja--(pulls himself up) Miss De Mullin?

[Janet smiles nervously.

Oh, yes.

I didn’t know you’d met Janet, Monty? Why didn’t you tell us?

[Quite unsuspicious of anything wrong. Merely curious.

It was some time ago.

(surprised)

Not at Brendon? You’ve never been at Brendon before.

No. It was at Weymouth. I was there getting over typhoid years ago.

I remember, you told me. Eight or nine years ago, wasn’t it?

Yes (looks at watch). I say, Bertha, we must be off if we’re not to be late.

Give me two minutes to rest. The weather’s simply stifling.

Rot! It’s quite cool.

Then you must have been sitting here a long time. I’ve been walking along a dusty road and I’m not going to start yet. Besides I want to know all about you two meeting. Were you staying at Weymouth, Janet?

Oh no. I just bicycled over. Mr. Bulstead ran into me.

I like that. She ran into me.

Anyhow my front wheel buckled and he had to help me to put it right.

What gallantry!

It was. The beastly thing took about half an hour. By the time it was over we seemed to have known each other for a lifetime (looks at watch). Two minutes is up. Time to start, Bertha.

It isn’t.

It is. You’ll be late for dressing to a certainty if you don’t go.

I like that. I can dress as quickly as you if it comes to that.

Oh no. I can dress in ten minutes. I’ll give you a quarter of an hour’s start and be down in the drawing-room five minutes before you’re ready. Is it a bet?

Done. In sixpences. (To Janet) I’m staying at the Park for a few days longer, Janet. Come up and see me, won’t you?

(uncomfortably)

I’m afraid I can’t promise. On account of father.

Well, after I’ve gone home then. Mother will want to see you. And so will Helen. And now I suppose I really must go. Come along, Monty.

Not I. I needn’t go for a quarter of an hour. You have a quarter of an hour’s start.

All right. Good-bye, Janet (kisses her). You won’t forget about coming as soon as you can? I go back home on Thursday.

I won’t forget. Good-bye. [Bertha goes off through the wood. Janet watches her go and there is a pause.) Yes, she is pretty, Monty. Very pretty.

You don’t mind?

Her being pretty? Of course not. It’s a justification.

A justification?

For forgetting me

(impulsively, seizing her hands)

Janet, I’ve never done that. You know I haven’t.

(drawing back)

No, Monty. Not again. [Pause.

I say, I as nearly as possible called you Janet right out before Bertha.

So I saw. You did call me Miss De Mullin, by the way,--which wasn’t very clever of you.

Did I? What an ass I am! But I don’t suppose she noticed.

I dare say not. (A shrill cry comes from the wood on the right. Then silence. Janet starts up.) What was that?

It sounded like a child. Where did it come from? Over here, didn’t it?

I think so.

(alarmed)

I hope Johnny... I must go and see... (A moment later Johnny runs in, sobbing, followed by Mrs. De Mullin and Bertha.) Johnny! What is it, my sweetheart?

[Runs to him.

Oh, Mummie, Mummie, I was running after the rabbits and I tripped over some nettles and they stung me.

He put his foot in a hole, Janet. He fell just as I met Bertha (shakes hands with Monty). How do you do Mr. Bulstead.

There! There! my pet. Did it hurt very much? Mother shall kiss it and make it well.

JOHNNY (sobs)

Oh-h-h--- [Does so.

Is he your son?

Yes. Don’t cry any more, dear. Brave boys don’t cry, you know.

(gasps)

It h-hurts so.

I know. But crying won’t make it hurt less, will it? So you must dry your eyes. Come now.

[Stills sobs gradually.

I’d no idea you were married, Janet.

No. When was it?

Eight years ago. Nearly nine. To Mr. Seagrave.

Is he down here with you?

No. My husband died soon after our marriage.

Poor Janet. I’m so sorry (pause). And it was before your marriage that Monty met you?

How do you know?

(quite unsuspicious)

He called you Miss De Mullin.

(pricking up her ears suspiciously at this.)

I didn’t know you had met my daughter before, Mr. Bulstead.

Nor did I. They met down at Weymouth quite by chance eight or nine years ago.

(gravely)

Yes... I say, Bertha, excuse my interrupting you. but we really must be off now if we’re not to be late.

You want to win that bet!

The bet’s off. There’s no time to give you any start. I must come too or I shan’t be in time myself and the Governor will simply curse.

Is Mr. Bulstead very fierce if people are late for dinner?

Simply beastly.

How very unpleasant! I wonder if I’m wise to marry into the family?

[Shaking hands merrily with Mrs. DeMullin and Janet. Then goes off r., laughing merrily.

(sardonically)

I wonder (shakes hands with Mrs. De Mullin and Janet). Will you give me a kiss, old chap?

[To Johnny.

That’s three times.

[Monty nods.

[Monty follows Bertha off r. A long pause. Mrs. De Mullin looks fixedly at Janet. Janet looks at the ground.

(slowly)

Mr. Montague Bulstead seems unusually fond of children, Janet.

Does he, mother?

[She does not look up.

Yes. Johnny is rather old to be kissed by strangers.

I supposed he kissed him because he was brave about being stung.

He seems to have kissed him before. Twice.

I dare say. I didn’t notice.

Johnny did, apparently.

Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, does it? (Looks up defiantly. Meets her mother’s eyes full on her) Why do you look at me like that, mother?

Send Johnny away for a little, Janet. I want to speak to you.

I’d rather not, mother. He might hurt himself again.

He will be quite safe. Run away, Johnny. But don’t go too far.

All right, grandmother.

[Johnny trots off into the wood. Pause.

(defiantly)

Well, mother?

Janet, why did you never tell us you had met Mr. Bulstead before?

When?

Any time during the last three days, when we were speaking of his engagement.

I’d forgotten all about it, mother.

Indeed? And why didn’t you tell us eight years ago, when you met him at Weymouth, when you were still “Miss De Mullin”?

Mother, don’t badger me like this. If you want to ask me anything ask it.

Janet, Mr. Bulstead is Johnny’s father.

Mr. Bulstead? Absurd!

Then why did you pretend not to have met him? Why did you conceal the fact of your meeting him from us eight years ago? And why has he concealed the fact from Bertha and the Bulsteads?

(resignedly)

Very well, mother, if you’re determined to know you must know. Yes, he’s Johnny’s father.

Oh, Janet!

(irritably)

Well, mother, if you didn’t want to know you shouldn’t have asked. I told you not to worry me. (Mrs. De Mullin begins to cry. Remorsefully,)

There, there, mother! Don’t cry. I’m sorry I was cross to you. Don’t let’s talk any more about it.

(snuffling)

No, Janet, we must talk about it. There’s no use trying to hide things any longer. You must tell me the truth.

Much better not, mother. It won’t give you any pleasure to hear.

Still, I’d rather know, Janet.

As you please. What do you want me to tell you? Mrs. De Mullin

Everything. How did you come to be at Weymouth? I don’t remember your staying at Weymouth eight years ago.

I wasn’t staying there. But Monty was.

Monty!

Mr. Bulstead. Oh, what does it matter now?

He’d had typhoid and was there to recruit. I’d ridden over on my bicycle...

Bicycle! I always said it was all through bicycling.

(another shrug)

He ran into me, or I ran into him. I was rather shaken, and he asked me to come in and rest. It happened close to the house where he was lodging.

You went in! To his lodgings! A man you had never met before!

My dear mother, when you have been thrown off a bicycle, ordinary conventions cease to apply. Besides, as a matter of fact, we had met once before--the day before, in fact.

Where?

Here. By this very stile. Monty was riding past and he asked me the way to somewhere--Thoresby, I think. I was standing by the stile. Next day I happened to ride into Weymouth. We collided--and the rest you know.

(sternly)

Were those the only times you met him, Janet?

Of course not, mother. After the Weymouth collision we met constantly, nearly every day. We used to meet out riding and I had tea with him lots of times in his rooms.

How long did this go on?

More than a month--till he left Weymouth, in fact. Now, mother, is that all you want to know? Because if so we’ll drop the subject.

Oh, Janet, what will your father say!

Father? He won’t know.

Won’t know? But I must tell him.

Good heavens, why?

In order that Mr. Bulstead may marry you, of course. Your father will insist on his marrying you.

If father attempts to do that, mother, I shall deny the whole story. And Monty will back me up.

He would never be so wicked.

He would have to if I ask him. It’s the least he could do.

Johnny is there to prove it.

There’s nothing to prove that Monty is Johnny’s father. Nothing whatever.

But, Janet, why won’t you marry him?

(impatiently)

My dear mother, because I don’t want to, of course.

You don’t want to?

Great heavens, no. Why should I? Monty Bulstead isn’t at all the sort of man I should care to marry.

Frankly, mother, because he’s not interesting enough. Monty’s a very nice fellow and I like him very much, but I don’t want to pass the remainder of my life with him. If I’m to marry anybody--and I don’t think I shall--it will have to be a rather more remarkable person than Monty Bulstead.

Yet you did love him, Janet. You must have loved him... then.

Oh yes. Then. But that was ages ago, before Johnny was born. After that I didn’t care for anybody any more except Johnny.

But, Janet, you ought to marry him, for Johnny’s sake.

Too late, mother. That should have been eight years ago to be any use.

Better too late than not at all.

Better not at all than too late.

He seduced you, Janet.

Did he? I was twenty-seven. He was twenty. If either of us was to blame, wasn’t it I?

Janet, you’re trying to screen him.

Dearest mother, you talk like a sentimental novel.

(indignantly)

And he’s to be allowed to marry Bertha Aldenham, just as if this had never happened?

Why not? It’s not her fault, is it? And girls find it difficult enough to get married nowadays, goodness knows.

Still, she ought to be told, Janet. I think she must be told.

My dear mother, if she knows everybody will know, and the scandal will make all the dead and gone De Mullins turn in their graves. As for father it would simply kill him out of hand.

(sadly)

Poor father.

(briskly)

So, on the whole, I don’t think we’ll tell any one. Come, mother, it’s time we started. (More kindly) Poor mother. Don’t fret. Perhaps Hester will have some news to cheer you when we get home.

Hester?

(rallying her)

An engagement, mother. Hester’s engagement. Hester and Mr. Brown have been decorating the church for the last four hours. What an opportunity for a declaration! Or don’t people propose in church?

Janet, how can you laugh after what has happened?

Laugh? Of course I can laugh. What else is there to do? Let’s go home. Johnny! Johnny! (calls).

[By this time twilight is falling. A full moon has begun to risey lighting uf the scene.

Come along, dear. Mother’s going to start. Johnny (off r.)

All right, Mummie. (entering r.) Oh, Mummie, you’ve not seen my rabbits yet!

No. It’s too dark to-night. Mother must come and see them another time.

You won’t forget, will you, Mummie? (looking at Mrs. De Mullin) Grandmother, you’ve been crying. Is that because I stung myself with a nettle?

Little egoist! Of course it is. Give your grandmother a kiss and we’ll all walk home together.

[Mrs. De Mullin stoop and kisses Johnny passionately. They go off through the gate and the curtain falls.

ACT III

Five days have passed since Act II

Scene: As in Act I

Time: Late afternoon

[When the curtain rises Mrs. Clouston, Mrs. De Mullin, and Janet are on the stage. The nervous tension of the last few days has clearly told on Janet, who looks feverish and irritable.

(speaking off into the hall on the right) Good-bye. Good-bye.

(who is standing about c., scornfully) Good-bye! Good-bye!

Janet!

(fiercely)

How many times a week does that Bulstead woman think it necessary to call on us?

(sitting)

She doesn’t call very often.

She’s been three times this week.

(closing door r.)

Naturally she wants to hear how your father is, dear.

My dear mother, what can it matter to Mrs. Bulstead whether father lives or dies?

(exasperated)

Well, mother, do you seriously believe she cares? Or Miss Deanes? Or Miss Rolt? Or any of these people? They only call because they’ve nothing better to do. It’s sheer mental vacuity on their part. Besides, father’s perfectly well now. They know that. But they go on calling, calling! I wonder Miss Deanes doesn’t bring her cockatoo to inquire.

[Tramps to and fro impatiently.

Really, Janet, I can’t think what’s the matter with you. Do sit down and try and exercise some selfcontrol.

I’ve no self-control where these Brendon people are concerned. They get on my nerves, every one of them.... Where’s Johnny?

In the garden, I think,

Sensible boy! He’s had enough of visitors for one day, I’ll be bound. I’ll go out and join him.

[Goes out angrily.

I can’t think what’s come to Janet the last day or two. Her temper gets worse and worse.

Perhaps it’s only the hot weather. No De Mullin---

Nonsense, Jane, don’t be foolish. We can’t have Janet giving way to that sort of thing at her age.

I’m afraid she is rather irritable just now. She flew out quite savagely at Hester to-day just after luncheon.

Because of something she had been teaching Johnny. The Athanasian Creed I think it was. Yes, it must have been that because Johnny asked Janet what was meant by three Incomprehensibles. Janet asked him where he had heard all that and Johnny said Aunt Hester had taught it to him. Janet was very angry and forbade Hester ever to teach him anything again. Hester was quite hurt about it.

Naturally. Still, I do think Hester might have chosen something else to teach him.

That was what Janet said.

But that’s no reason why she shouldn’t behave herself when visitors are here. She was quite rude to Mrs. Bulstead. What they think of her in London when she goes on like this I can’t imagine.

Perhaps she isn’t like this in London.

Of course she is, Jane. Worse. Here she has the restraining influences of home life. Whereas in London, living alone as she does...

She has Johnny.

She has Johnny, of course. But that’s not enough. She ought to have a husband to look after her.

[Seats herself slowly beside her sister.

Where’s Hester?

At church, I expect.

Church! Why the girl’s always at church.

It’s a Wednesday. And it does no harm, I think.

Let us hope not, Jane.

[De Mullin enters by the door on the left. He has evidently got over his recent attack and looks comparatively hale and vigorous.

Have you had your nap, Hugo?

Yes. The sunset woke me, I suppose. It was shining full on my face.

What a pity it woke you.

It didn’t matter. I’ve slept enough... (wanders towards sofa, c.). Where’s Johnny?

In the garden, I think, with Janet.

(wanders to window, c., and looks out)

Yes. There he is. He’s playing hide and seek with Ellen.... Now she’s caught him. No, he’s got away. Bravo, Johnny! (Stands watching intently for a while. Then turns and comes down c.) What a fine little fellow it is! A true De Mullin!

Do you think so, Hugo?

Every inch of him! (pause, sits c., half to himself) If only Janet had been married!

(musing)

I wonder who the father really was. (looking up) She has never told you, Jane, I suppose?

(steadily, without looking up)

No, Hugo.

And never will. Nobody was ever so obstinate as Janet.

(nods sadly)

JANET always had plenty of will.

Far too much! [pause.

You’ll quite miss Johnny when he goes away from us, Won’t you, Hugo.

Yes. I never thought I could grow so fond of a child. The house will seem empty without him.

I shall miss him too.

We shall all miss him. (pause, thoughtfully) I wonder if Janet would leave him with us when she goes back to London?

Leave him with us? Altogether, you mean?

I’m afraid not, Hugo. In fact, I’m quite sure she would not. She’s so fond of Johnny.

I suppose she wouldn’t (pause). I was greatly shocked at what you told me about her the other day, Harriet.

About her keeping a shop, you mean?

Yes. And going into partnership with a Miss Higgs or Hicks. It all sounds most discreditable.

Deplorable.

She had to do something to keep herself, Hugo.

No doubt. Still, it can’t be considered a proper sort of position for my daughter. I think she must give it up at once.

She would only have to take to something else.

Not necessarily. She might come back here to live with us... with Johnny, of course.

Mrs. De. Mullin (astonished)

Live with us?

Why not, Jane?

Well, of course if you think so, Hugo.

Are you sure you will like to have Janet living at home again, Hugo?

I think it might be the best arrangement. And I shall like to have Johnny here. He’s our only descendant, Harriet, the last of the De Mullins. If you or Jane had had a son it would be different.

As it is I don’t see how we can do anything-better than have them both down here--as Jane doesn’t think Janet would part with Johnny. It would be better for Janet too. It would take her away from her present unsatisfactory surroundings. It would give her a position and independence--everything she now lacks.

I should have thought she was independent now,

My dear Jane, how can a woman possibly be independent whose income comes out of selling hats? The only form of independence that is possible or desirable for a woman is that she shall be dependent upon her husband or, if she is unmarried, on her nearest male relative. I am sure you agree with me, Harriet?

Quite, Hugo.

Very well. I will speak to her about it at once.

I hardly think I would say anything about it to-day, Hugo.

Well, she seems nervous and irritable to-day. I think I should put it off for a day or two.

My dear Jane, you are always procrastinating. If such an arrangement is to be made the sooner it is made the better. (Goes to window, c., calls) Janet my dear. Janet.

[Pause. Then Janet appears at window, c.

Did you call me, father?

Yes. Come to me for a moment. I want to speak to you. (De Mullin wanders undecidedly to the fireplace. A moment later Janet enters from the garden.) Is Johnny with you?

No. He’s having tea with Ellen. I said he might.

[Pause. Janet comes down.

Janet, your mother and I have been talking over your future.

Have you, father?

[With a quick glance at her mother. Mrs. De Mullin, however, makes no sign.

Yes. We have come to the conclusion that it would be better for you to come back here to live.

[Janet faces round towards her father.

But what would become of the business?

You will have to give up the business, of course. So much the better. You never ought to have gone into it. It was not at all a suitable occupation for you.

But I like it, father.

Like it! A De Mullin like keeping a shop! Impossible.

(firmly)

Yes, Aunt Harriet, I like it. And I’m proud of it.

(sharply)

Nonsense, Janet. Nobody can possibly be proud of keeping a shop.

I am. I made it, you see. It’s my child, like Johnny.

(amazed)

JANET! Do you understand what you’re doing? I offer you the chance of returning to Brendon to live as my daughter.

I quite understand, father. And I’m much obliged for the offer. Only I decline it. That’s all.

Really!

(with dignity)

The question is, are you to be allowed to decline it, in Johnny’s interests if not your own?

Johnny’s?

Yes. Johnny’s. As long as he was a child it made little difference where he was brought up. Relatively little that is. Now he is getting to an age when early associations are all-important. Living here at Brendon in the home of his ancestors he will grow up worthy of the race from which he is descended. He will be a true De Mullin.

Perhaps I don’t want him to be a true De Mullin, father.

My dear father, you’re infatuated about your De Mullins. Who are the De Mullins, after all? Mere country squires who lived on here down at Brendon generation after generation. What have they ever done that I should want Johnny to be like them? Nothing. There’s not one of them who has ever distinguished himself in the smallest degree or made his name known outside his native village. The De Mullins are, and have always been, nobodies. Look at their portraits. Is there a single one of them that is worth a second glance? Why they never even had the brains to be painted by a decent artist. With the result that they aren’t worth the canvas they’re painted on. Or is it board? I’d make a bonfire of them if they were mine.

I would. You seem to think there’s some peculiar virtue about always living in the same place. I believe in people uprooting themselves and doing something with their lives. What was the good of the De Mullins going on living down here century after century, always a little poorer and a little poorer, selling a farm here, mortgaging another there, instead of going out into the world to seek their fortunes? We’ve stayed too long in one place, we De Mullins. We shall never be worth anything sleeping away our lives down at Brendon.

Janet, you are talking foolishly. What you say only makes it clearer to me that you cannot be allowed to live by yourself in London any longer. Such a life is demoralizing to you. You must come back to Brendon.

I shall not come back to Brendon, father. On that I am quite determined.

My dear, this is not a matter that rests with you. My mind is made up. Hitherto I have only asked you to return. Do not force me to command you.

Command? By what right do you command?

By the right of a father, Janet. By that right I insist on your obedience.

(losing her temper)

Obedience! Obedience! I owe no one obedience. I am of full age and can order my life as I please. Is a woman never to be considered old enough to manage her own affairs? Is she to go down to her grave everlastingly under tutelage? Is she always to be obeying a father when she’s not obeying a husband? Well, I, for one, will not submit to such nonsense. I’m sick of this everlasting obedience.

JANET...!

[Door opens l. Ellen enters with the lamp. There is a considerable pause, during which Ellen puts down the lamp, turns it up, pulls down the blind and begins to draw the curtains. In the middle of the last process De Mullin intervenes.

You can leave the curtains, Ellen.

Very well, sir.

[Exit Ellen l. with maddening deliberation. Pause.

Father, I’m sorry if what I said vexed you. Perhaps I spoke too strongly.

(with great dignity)

Very well, Janet. You will remain with us.

No, father, that’s not possible. For Johnny’s sake, as well as my own, it would be madness for us to live down here.

For Johnny’s sake?

Yes, Johnny’s. In London we’re not known, he and I. There he’s simply Johnny Seagrave, the son of a respectable widow who keeps a hat-shop. Here he is the son of Janet De Mullin who ran away from home one night eight years ago and whose name was never mentioned again by her parents until one fine day she turned up with an eight-year-old boy and said she was married. How long would they take to see through that story down here, do you think?

(tartly)

Whose fault is that?

Never mind whose fault it is, Aunt Harriet. The question is, will they see through it or will they not? Of course, they know nothing so far, but I’ve no doubt they suspect. What else have people to do down here but suspect other people? Miss Deanes murmurs her doubts to Mrs. Bulstead and Mrs. Bulstead shakes her head to Miss Deanes. Mrs. Bulstead! What right has she to look down that huge nose of hers at me! She’s had ten children!

JANET! She’s married.

To Mr. Bulstead! That vulgar animal! You don’t ask me to consider that a merit, do you? No, Mrs. Bulstead shan’t have the chance of sneering at Johnny if I can help it. Or at me either.

Janet, listen to me. You don’t understand how your father feels about this or how much it means to him. Johnny is his only grandchild--our only descendant. He would adopt him and call him De Mullin, and then the name would not die out. You know how much your father thinks of that and how sorry he has always been that I never had a son.

(more gently)

I know, mother. But when Hester marries...

HESTER?

(turning angrily to his wife)

But whom is Hester going to marry? Is she going to marry? I have heard nothing about this. What’s this, Jane? Has something been kept from me?

No, no, Hugo. Nothing has been kept from you. It’s only some fancy of Janet’s. She thinks Mr. Brown is going to propose to Hester. There’s nothing in it, really.

Mr. Brown! Impossible!

Quite impossible!

Why impossible, father?

He would never dare to do such a thing. Mr. Brown to have the audacity to propose to my daughter!

Why not, father?

(bubbling with rage)

Because he is not of a suitable position. Because the De Mullins cannot be expected to marry people of that class. Because...

I dare say Mr. Brown won’t think of all that. Anyhow, I hope he won’t. I hope he’ll propose to Hester and she’ll accept him and then when they’ve a whole herd of little Browns you can select one of them and make a De Mullin of him, poor little wretch.

[At this moment Hester enters from the garden. An uncomfortable silence falls.

Hush, hush, Janet. Here is Hester. Is that you, Hester? Have you come from church?

Yes, mother.

[She comes down, her face looking pale and drawn, and stands by her mother.

You’re very late, dear.

A little, I stayed on after service was over.

How very eccentric of you!

I suppose saying one’s prayers does seem eccentric to you, Aunt Harriet?

My dear Hester, considering you’d only just finished one service...

(who has not noticed the look on her sister’s face)

Well, Aunt Harriet, who was right?

Hush, Janet!

(gaily)

My dear mother, what on earth is there to “hush” about? And what on earth is there to keep Hester in church half an hour after service is over, if it’s not what I told you?

Nothing, dear. Come and give me a kiss.

[Pulling her towards her.

HESTER {repulsing her roughly)

I won’t. Leave me alone, Janet. What has she been saying about me, mother? I insist on knowing.

Nothing, dear. Only some nonsense about you and Mr. Brown. Janet is always talking nonsense.

Yes, Hester. About you and Mr. Brown. Your Mr. Brown. Confess he has asked you to marry him as I said?

Mr. Brown is engaged to be married to Agatha Bulstead. He told me so this evening after service.

He told you!

Yes. He asked me to congratulate him.

The little wretch!

To Agatha Bulstead? That’s the plain one, isn’t it?

The third one. Yes.

The plain one! Good heavens, it oughtn’t to be allowed. The children will be little monsters.

So that’s why you were so long at church?

Yes. I was praying that they might be happy.

Poor Hester!

Are you disappointed, dear?

I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind, mother.

Your father would never have given his consent.

So Mr. Brown said.

The little worm.

My dear!

Well, mother, isn’t it too contemptible?

I’m bound to say Mr. Brown seems to have behaved in a very fitting manner.

You think so, father?

Certainly. He saw what my objections would be and recognized that they were reasonable. Nothing could be more proper.

Well, father. I don’t know what you do want. Ten minutes ago you were supposed to be wanting a grandson to adopt. Here’s Hester going the right way to provide one, and you don’t like that either.

What is all this about, father? What have you all been discussing while I’ve been out?

It was nothing about you, Hester.

I’m not sure of that, mother. Anyhow I should like to hear what it was.

Hester, that is not at all a proper tone to use in speaking to your mother.

Please don’t interfere, Aunt Harriet. I suppose I can be trusted to speak to my mother properly by this time.

You certainly ought to, my dear. You are quite old enough.

Very well then. Perhaps you will be good enough not to dictate to me in future. What was it you were discussing, father?

I’ll tell you, Hester. Father wanted to adopt Johnny. He wanted me to come down here to live altogether.

Indeed? Well, father, understand, please, that if Janet comes down here to live I go!

Hester!

I will not live in the same house with Janet. Nothing shall induce me. I would rather beg my bread.

That settles it then. Thanks, Hester. I’m glad you had the pluck to say that. You are right. Quite right.

I can do without your approval, Janet.

(recklessly)

Of course you can. But you can have it all the same. You never wanted me down here. You always disapproved of my being sent for. I ought never to have come. I wish I hadn’t come. My coming has only done harm to Hester, as she knew it would.

How harm?

Mr. Brown would have asked Hester to marry him if I hadn’t come. He meant to; I’m sure of it.

But he said...

I know. But that was only an excuse. Young men aren’t so considerate of their future fathers-inlaw as all that nowadays. No. Mr. Brown heard some story about me from Miss Deanes. Or perhaps the Vicar put him on his guard. Isn’t it so, Hester?

[Hester nods.

But as your father would never have consented, dear...

Still, I’d rather he had asked me, mother.

Quite right, Hester! I’m glad you’ve got some wholesome feminine vanity left in your composition. And you’d have said “yes,” like a sensible woman.

Oh, you’re always sneering!

Yes. But I’m going, Hester, going! That’s great thing! Keep your eyes fixed steadily on that and you’ll be able to bear anything else. That reminds me. (Goes to door, l., and calls loudly into the hall.) Johnny! Johnny!

Really, Janet!

Oh, I forgot. It’s not genteel to call into the passage, is it? I ought to have rung. I apologise, Aunt Harriet. (Calls again) Johnny!

Why are you calling Johnny?

To tell him to put on his hat and coat, mother dear. I’m going to the station.

You’re going to-night?

Yes, father, to-night. I’ve done harm enough down here. I’m going away.

(entering l.)

Do you want me, Mummie?

Yes. Run and put on your things and say goodbye to Cook and Ellen and tell Robert to put in the pony. Mother’s going back to London.

Are we going now, Mummie?

As fast as the train can carry us. And tell Ellen to lock my trunk for me and give you the key. Run along.

[Exit Johnny, l.

Lock your trunk! But you’ve not packed?

Oh yes, I have. Everything’s packed, down to my last shoelace. I don’t know how often I haven’t packed and unpacked during the last five days.

(astonished and hurt)

You meant to leave us then, Janet? You’ve been wanting to leave us all the time?

Yes, mother. I’ve been wanting to leave you. I can’t stay here any longer. Brendon stifles me. It has too many ghosts. I suppose it’s your ridiculous De Mullins.

I know, father. That’s blasphemy, isn’t it? But I can’t help it. I must go. I’ve been meaning to tell you every day for the last four days, but somehow I always put it off.

Understand me, Janet. If you leave this house to-night you leave it for ever.

All right, father.

(growing angrier)

Understand, too, that if you leave it you are never to hold any communication either with me or with any one in it henceforward. You are cut off from the family. I will never see you or recognize you in any way, or speak to you again as long as I live.

My dear father, why are you so angry? Is there anything so dreadful in my wanting to live in London instead of in the country?

(getting more and more excited)

Why am I angry! Why am I...!

Sh! Hugo! You mustn’t excite yourself. You know the doctor said...

Be quiet, Jane! (turning furiously to Janet) Why am I angry! You disgrace the family. You have a child, that poor fatherless boy....

Oh come, I could have got along quite well without a father if it comes to that. And so could Hester.

Well, mother, what has father ever done for Hester or me except try and prevent us from doing something we wanted to do? Hester wanted to marry Mr. Brown. Father wouldn’t have allowed her. He’s not genteel enough to marry a De Mullin. I want to go back to my shop. Father objects to that. That’s not genteel enough for a De Mullin either. Well, hang all the De Mullins, say I.

(furious)

I forbid you to speak of your family in that way-of my family! I forbid it! It is an outrage. Your ancestors were honourable men and pure women. They did their duty in the position in which they were born, and handed on their name untarnished to their children. Hitherto our honour has been unsullied. You have sullied it. You have brought shame upon your parents and shame upon your son, and that shame you can never wipe out. If you had in you a spark of human feeling, if you were not worthless and heartless you would blush to look me in the face or your child in the face. But you are utterly hardened. I ought never to have offered to receive you back into this house. I ought never to have consented to see you again. I was wrong. I regret it. You are unfit for the society of decent people. Go back to London. Take up the wretched trade you practise there. It is what you are fit for.

That’s exactly what I think, father. As we agree about it why make such a fuss?

Janet....

Father, don’t argue with her. It’s no use. (solemnly) Leave her to God.

Hester, Hester, don’t deceive yourself. In your heart you envy me my baby, and you know it.

(indignant)

I do not.

You do. Time is running on with you, my dear. You’re twenty-eight. Just the age that I was when I met my lover. Yes, my lover. In a few years you will be too old for love, too old to have children. So soon it passeth away and we are gone. Your best years are slipping by and you are growing faded and cross and peevish. Already the lines are hardening about your mouth and the hollows coming under your eyes. You will be an old woman before your time unless you marry and have children. And what will you do then? Keep a lap-dog, I suppose, or sit up at night with a sick cockatoo like Miss Deanes. Miss Deanes! Even she has a heart somewhere about her. Do you imagine she wouldn’t rather give it to her babies than snivel over poultry? No, Hester, make good use of your youth, my dear. It won’t last always. And once gone it is gone for ever. (Hester bursts into tears.) There, there, Hester! I’m sorry. I oughtn’t to have spoken like that. It wasn’t kind. Forgive me. (Hester weep more and more violently.) Hester, don’t cry like that. I can’t bear to hear you. I was angry and said more than I should. I didn’t mean to vex you. Come, dear, you mustn’t give way like that or you’ll make yourself ill. Dry your eyes and let me see you smile. (Caressing her. Hester, who has begun by resisting her feebly, gradually allows herself to be soothed.) That’s better! My dear, what a sight you’ve made of yourself! But all women are hideous when they’ve been crying. It makes their noses red and that’s dreadfully unbecoming. (Hester sobs out a laugh). No. You mustn’t begin to cry again or I shall scold you. I shall, really.

(half laughing, half crying hysterically)

You seem to think every woman ought to behave as shamefully as you did.

(grimly)

No, Hester. I don’t think that. To do as I did needs pluck and brains--and five hundred pounds. Everything most women haven’t got, poor things. So they must marry or remain childless. You must marry--the next curate. I suppose the Bulsteads will buy Mr. Brown a living as he’s marrying the plainest of the daughters. It’s the least they can do. But that’s no reason why I should marry unless I choose.

Well, I’ve never heard of anything so disgraceful. I thought Janet at least had the grace to be ashamed of what she did!

(genuinely astonished)

Ashamed? Ashamed of wanting to have a child? What on earth were women created for, Aunt Harriet, if not to have children?

MRS. CLOUSTON To marry and have children.

(with relentless logic)

My dear Aunt Harriet, women had children thousands of years before marriage was invented. I dare say they will go on doing so thousands of years after it has ceased to exist.

Well, mother, that’s how I feel. And I believe it’s how all wholesome women feel if they would only acknowledge it. I wanted to have a child. I always did from the time when I got too old to play with dolls. Not an adopted child or a child of some one else’s, but a baby of my very own. Of course I wanted to marry. That’s the ordinary way a woman wants to be a mother nowadays, I suppose. But time went on and nobody came forward, and I saw myself getting old and my chance slipping away. Then I met-never mind. And I fell in love with him. Or perhaps I only fell in love with love. I don’t know. It was so splendid to find some one at last who really cared for me as women should be cared for! Not to talk to because I was clever or to play tennis with because I was strong, but to kiss me and to make love to me! Yes! To make love to me!

(solemnly)

Listen to me, my girl. You say that now, and I dare say you believe it. But when you are older, when Johnny is grown up, you will bitterly repent having brought into the world a child who can call no man father.

(passionately)

Never! Never! That I’m sure of. Whatever happens, even if Johnny should come to hate me for what I did, I shall always be glad to have been his mother. At least I shall have lived. These poor women who go through life listless and dull, who have never felt the joys and the pains a mother feels, how they would envy me if they knew! If they knew! To know that a child is your very own, is a part of you. That you have faced sickness and pain and death itself for it. That it is yours and nothing can take it from you because no one can understand its wants as you do. To feel it’s soft breath on your cheek, to soothe it when it is fretful and still it when it cries, that is motherhood and that is glorious!

[Johnny runs in by the door on the left. He is obviously in the highest spirits at the thought of going home.

The trap is round, Mummie, and the luggage is in.

That’s right. Good-bye, father. (He does not move) Say good-bye to your grandfather, Johnny. You won’t see him again.

[De Mullin kisses Johnny.

No, mother. It’s best not. (Kisses her) It would only be painful for father. Good-bye, Aunt Harriet. Good-bye, Hester.

[Looks at Hester doubtfully. Hester rises, goes to her slowly and kisses her.

Good-bye. .

[Exeunt Johnny and Janet by the door the right.

(his grey head bowed on his chest as Mrs De Mullin timidly lays her hand on his shoulder)

The last of the De Mullins! The last of the De Mullins!

(The curtain falls)

End of Project Gutenberg's The Last of The De Mullins, by St. John Hankin

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