LANDED GENTRY

PLAYS BY W. S. MAUGHAM

Uniform with this volume

CHICAGO: THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY

Landed Gentry

A COMEDY
In Four Acts
By W. S. MAUGHAM

CHICAGO:
THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY

Printed by
Ballantyne & Company ltd
London, England

This play was produced under the title “Grace,” at the Duke of York’s Theatre, London, October 15, 1910, with the following cast:

LANDED GENTRY

CHARACTERS

The Action takes place at Kenyon-Fulton, Claude Insoley’s place in Somersetshire.

The Performing Rights of this play are fully protected, and permission to perform it, whether by Amateurs or Professionals, must be obtained in advance from the author’s Sole Agent, R. Golding Bright, 20 Green Street, Leicester Square, London, W.C., from whom all particulars can be obtained.

LANDED GENTRY

THE FIRST ACT

Scene: The drawing-room at Kenyon-Fulton. It is a handsome apartment with large windows, reaching to the ground. On the walls are old masters whose darkness conceals their artistic insignificance. The furniture is fine and solid. Nothing is very new or smart. The chintzes have a rather pallid Victorian air. The room with its substantial magnificence represents the character of a family rather than the taste of an individual.

It is night and one or two electric lamps are burning.

Moore, an elderly impressive butler, comes in, followed by Gann. This is Claude Insoley’s gamekeeper, a short, sturdy man, grizzled, with wild stubborn hair and a fringe of beard round his chin. He wears his Sunday clothes of sombre broadcloth.

Moore.

You’re to wait here.

[Gann, hat in hand, advances to the middle of the room.

Moore.

They’ve not got up from dinner yet, but he’ll come and see you at once.

Gann.

I’ll wait.

Moore.

He said I was to tell him the moment you come. What can he be wanting of you at this time of night?

Gann.

Maybe if he wished you to know he’d have told you.

Moore.

I don’t want to know what don’t concern me.

Gann.

Pity there ain’t more like you.

Moore.

It’s the missus’ birthday to-day.

Gann.

Didn’t he say you was to tell him the moment I come?

Moore.

I’ve only just took in the dessert. Give ’em a minute to sample the peaches.

Gann.

I thought them was your orders.

Moore.

You’re a nice civil-spoken one, you are.

[With an effort Gann prevents himself from replying. It is as much as he can do to keep his hands off the sleek, obsequious butler. Moore after a glance at him goes out. The gamekeeper begins to walk up and down the room like a caged beast. In a moment he hears a sound and stops still. He turns his hat round and round in his hands.

[Claude Insoley comes in. He is a man of thirty-five, rather dried-up, rather precise, neither good-looking nor plain, with a slightly dogmatic, authoritative manner.

Claude.

Good evening, Gann.

Gann.

Good evening, sir.

[Claude hesitates for a moment; to conceal a slight embarrassment he lights a cigarette. Gann watches him steadily.

Claude.

I suppose you know what I’ve sent for you about.

Gann.

No, sir.

Claude.

I should have thought you might guess without hurting yourself. The Rector tells me that your daughter Peggy came back last night.

Gann.

Yes, sir.

Claude.

Bit thick, isn’t it?

Gann.

I don’t know what you mean, sir.

Claude.

Oh, that’s all rot, Gann. You know perfectly well what I mean. It’s a beastly matter for both of us, but it’s no good funking it.... You’ve been on the estate pretty well all your life, haven’t you?

Gann.

It’s fifty-four years come next Michaelmas that my father was took on, and I was earning wages here before you was born.

Claude.

My governor always said you were the best keeper he ever struck, and hang it all, I haven’t had anything to complain about either.

Gann.

Thank you, sir.

Claude.

Anyhow, we shan’t make it any better by beating about the bush. It appears that Peggy has got into trouble in London.... I’m awfully sorry for you, and all that sort of thing.

Gann.

Poor child. She’s not to blame.

[Claude gives a slight shrug of the shoulders.

Gann.

I want ’er to forget all she’s gone through. It was a mistake she ever went to London, but she would go. Now I’ll keep ’er beside me. She’ll never leave me again till I’m put underground.

Claude.

That’s all very fine and large, but I’m afraid Peggy can’t stay on here, Gann.

Gann.

Why not?

Claude.

You know the rule of the estate as well as I do. When a girl gets into a mess she has to go.

Gann.

It’s a wicked rule!

Claude.

You never thought so before, and this isn’t the first time you’ve seen it applied, by a long chalk.

Gann.

The girl went away once and come to grief. She wellnigh killed herself with the shame of it. I’m not going to let ’er out of my sight again.

Claude.

I’m afraid I can’t make an exception in your favour, Gann.

Gann.

[Desperately.] Where’s she to go to?

Claude.

Oh, I expect she’ll be able to get a job somewhere. Mrs. Insoley’ll do all she can.

Gann.

It’s no good, Squire. I can’t let ’er go. I want ’er.

Claude.

I don’t want to be unreasonable. I’ll give you a certain amount of time to make arrangements.

Gann.

Time’s no good to me. I haven’t the ’eart to send her away.

Claude.

I’m afraid it’s not a question of whether you like it or not. You must do as you’re told.

Gann.

I can’t part with her, and there’s an end of it.

Claude.

You’d better go and talk it over with your wife.

Gann.

I don’t want to talk it over with anyone. I’ve made up my mind.

[Claude is silent for a moment. He looks at Gann thoughtfully.

Claude.

[Deliberately.] I’ll give you twenty-four hours to think about it.

Gann.

[Startled.] What d’you mean by that, sir?

Claude.

If Peggy isn’t gone by that time, I am afraid I shall have to send you away.

Gann.

You wouldn’t do that, sir? You couldn’t do it, Squire, not after all these years.

Claude.

We’ll soon see about that, my friend.

Gann.

You can’t dismiss me for that. I’ll have the law of you. I’ll sue you for wrongful dismissal.

Claude.

You can do what you damned well like; but if Peggy hasn’t gone by to-morrow night I shall turn you off the estate on Tuesday.

Gann.

[Hoarsely.] You wouldn’t do it! You couldn’t do it.

[There is a sound of talking and laughter, and of a general movement as the dining-room door is opened.

Claude.

They’re just coming in. You’d better hook it.

[Miss Vernon and Edith Lewis come in, followed by Grace. For a moment Gann stands awkwardly, and then leaves the room. Miss Vernon is a slight, faded, rather gaunt woman of thirty-five. Her deliberate manner, her composure, suggest a woman of means and a woman who knows her own mind. Edith Lewis is a pretty girl of twenty. Grace is thirty. She is a beautiful creature with an eager, earnest face and fine eyes. She has a restless manner, and her frequent laughter strikes you as forced. She is always falling from one emotion to another. She uses a slightly satirical note when she speaks to her husband.

Edith.

[Going to the window.] Oh, what a lovely night! Do let’s go out. [To Grace.] May we?

Grace.

Of course, if you want to.

Edith.

I’m perfectly sick with envy every time I look out of the window. Those lovely old trees!

Grace.

I wonder if you’d be sick with envy if you looked at nothing else for forty-six weeks in the year?

Edith.

I adore the country.

Grace.

People who habitually live in London generally do.

Miss Vernon.

Aren’t you fond of the country?

Grace.

[Vehemently.] I hate it! I hate it with all my heart and soul.

Claude.

My dear Grace, what are you saying?

Grace.

It bores me. It bores me stiff. Those endless trees, and those dreary meadows, and those ploughed fields. Oh!

Edith.

I don’t think I could ever get tired of the view from your dining-room.

Grace.

Not if you saw it for three meals a day for ten years? Oh, my dear, you don’t know what that view is like at an early breakfast on a winter’s morning. You sit there looking at it, with icy fingers, wondering if your nose is red, while your husband reads morning prayers, because his father read morning prayers before him; and the sky looks as if it were going to sink down and crush you.

Claude.

You can’t expect sunshine all the year round, can you?

Grace.

[Smiling.] True, O King!

Edith.

Well, I’m a Cockney, and I feel inclined to fall down on my very knees and worship those big trees in your park. Oh, what a night!

Miss Vernon.

In such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
And they did make no noise....

[Miss Vernon and Edith Lewis go out. Grace is left alone with her husband.

Grace.

What on earth was Gann doing here?

Claude.

I had something to say to him.

Grace.

May I know what?

Claude.

It would only bore you.

Grace.

That wouldn’t be a new experience.

Claude.

I say, you’re looking jolly to-night, darling.

Grace.

It’s kind of you to say so.

Claude.

Were you pleased with the necklace I gave you this morning?

Grace.

[Smiling.] Surely I said so at the time.

Claude.

I was rather hoping you’d wear it to-night.

Grace.

It wouldn’t have gone with my frock.

Claude.

You might have put it on all the same.

Grace.

You see, your example hasn’t been lost on me. I’ve learnt to put propriety before sentiment.

Claude.

[Rather shyly.] I should have thought, if you cared for me, you wouldn’t have minded.

Grace.

Are you reproaching me?

Claude.

No!

Grace.

Only?

Claude.

Hang it all, I can’t help wishing sometimes you’d seem as if—you were fond of me, don’t you know.

Grace.

If you’ll point out anything you particularly object to in my behaviour, I’ll try to change it.

Claude.

My dear, I don’t want much, do I?

Grace.

I don’t know why you should choose this particular time to make a scene.

Claude.

Hang it all, I’m not making a scene!

Grace.

I beg your pardon, I forgot that only women make scenes.

Claude.

I only wanted to tell you that I’m just about as fond of you as I can stick.

Grace.

[Suddenly touched.] After ten years of holy matrimony?

Claude.

It seems about ten days to me.

Grace.

Good God, to me it seems a lifetime.

Claude.

I say, Grace, what d’you mean by that?

Grace.

[Recovering herself.] Oughtn’t you to go back to the dining-room? Your brother and Mr. Cobbett will be boring one another.

[Claude looks at her for a moment, then rises and goes out. Grace clenches her hands, and an expression of utter wretchedness crosses her face. She passes her hand across her eyes with an impatient gesture, as if she were trying to shake herself free from some torturing thought. Moore comes in with coffee on a salver.

Grace.

Put it down on the table.

Moore.

Yes, madam.

Grace.

Miss Vernon’s in the garden with Miss Lewis. Will you tell them that coffee is here?

Moore.

Very good, ma’am.

[He goes out of one of the French windows into the garden. In a moment Miss Vernon comes in.

Grace.

Isn’t Edith coming?

Miss Vernon.

I sent her to get a wrap. We want to go down to the lake.

Grace.

Will you have some coffee?

Miss Vernon.

Thank you.... I was trying to remember how long it is since I was here last.

Grace.

[Pouring out the coffee.] It was before I was married.

Miss Vernon.

I’m devoted to Kenyon, I’m so glad you asked me to come and spend Whitsun here.

Grace.

My mother-in-law wrote and told us that you weren’t engaged.

Miss Vernon.

[With a smile.] That sounds rather chilly.

Grace.

Does it?

Miss Vernon.

[Abruptly.] May I call you Grace?

Grace.

[Looking up, faintly surprised.] Certainly. If you wish it.

Miss Vernon.

My name is Helen.

Grace.

Is it?

[Miss Vernon gives a slight smile of amusement, then gets up and stands before the fire-place with her hands behind her back.

Miss Vernon.

I wonder why you dislike me so much?

Grace.

I don’t know why you should think I do.

Miss Vernon.

You don’t take much trouble to hide it, do you?

Grace.

I’m sorry. In future I’ll be more careful.

Miss Vernon.

[Rather wistfully.] I wanted to be great friends with you.

Grace.

I’m afraid I don’t make friends very easily.

Miss Vernon.

We live so near one another. It seems rather silly that we should only just be on speaking terms.

[A very short pause.

Grace.

They wanted Claude to marry you, didn’t they? And he married me instead.

Miss Vernon.

When I saw you at your wedding, I couldn’t help feeling I’d have done just the same in his place.

Grace.

[With a twinkle in her eye.] And now they want you to marry his brother Archibald.

Miss Vernon.

[Smiling.] So I understand.

Grace.

Are you going to?

Miss Vernon.

He hasn’t asked me yet.

Grace.

Five thousand acres in a ring fence. It seems a pity to let it go out of the family.

Miss Vernon.

It’s such a nuisance that a plainish woman of six-and-thirty has to be taken along with it.

Grace.

Did you ever care for Claude?

Miss Vernon.

If I did or not, I’m very anxious to care for his wife.

Grace.

Why?

Miss Vernon.

Well, partly because I’m afraid you’re not very happy.

Grace.

[Startled.] I? [Almost defiantly.] I should have thought I had everything that a woman can want to make her happy. I’ve got a husband who adores me. We’re rich. We’re—[with a sudden break in her voice]—happy! I wish to God he had married you! It’s clear enough now that he made a mistake.

Miss Vernon.

[With a chuckle.] I don’t think it’s occurred to him, you know.

Grace.

How many times d’you suppose his mother has said to Claude: Things would be very different now if you’d had the sense to marry Helen Vernon.

Miss Vernon.

Yes, in that case I must say it’s not to be wondered at if you don’t like me very much.

Grace.

Like you! I hate you with all my heart and soul!

Miss Vernon.

Good gracious me, you don’t say so?

Grace.

[With a sudden flash of humour.] You don’t mind my telling you, do you?

Miss Vernon.

Not a bit, but I should very much like to know why?

Grace.

Because I’ve got an envious disposition and I envy you.

Miss Vernon.

A solitary old maid like me?

Grace.

You’ve got everything that I haven’t got. D’you suppose I’ve lived ten years in my husband’s family without realising the gulf that separates Miss Vernon of Foley from the very middle-class young woman that Claude Insoley was such a damned fool as to marry? You’ve got money and I haven’t a farthing.

Miss Vernon.

Money isn’t everything.

Grace.

Oh, don’t talk such nonsense! How would you like to be dependent on somebody else for every penny you had? If I want to get Claude a Christmas present I have to buy it out of his money.... It wouldn’t be so maddening if I only had forty pounds a year of my own, but I haven’t a penny, not a penny! And I have to keep accounts. After all, it’s his money. If he wants accounts why shouldn’t he have them? I have to write down the cost of every packet of hair-pins. [With a sudden chuckle.] And the worst of it is, I never could add.

Miss Vernon.

That, of course, must increase the difficulty of keeping accounts.

Grace.

I’ve been an utter failure from the beginning. They despised me because I was a nobody and not even a rich nobody; but I was a strapping, healthy sort of young woman and they consoled themselves by thinking I’d have children—a milch cow was what they wanted—and I haven’t even had children....

[Miss Vernon, not knowing what to say, makes a little gesture of perplexity and helplessness. There is a brief pause.

Grace.

Oh! I’m about fed up with all the humiliations I’ve had to endure.

[Edith Lewis comes in with a wrap which she gives to Miss Vernon.

Edith.

Will this do?

Miss Vernon.

Thanks so much. You’re a perfect angel.

Grace.

You mustn’t stay out more than a few minutes. The men will be here in a moment, and I want to play poker. When my mother-in-law comes we shall have to mind our p’s and q’s.

Edith.

You don’t like Mrs. Insoley?

Grace.

Mrs. Insoley doesn’t like me.

Miss Vernon.

Nonsense! She’s very fond of you indeed.

Grace.

I could wish she had some pleasanter way of showing it than finding fault with everything I do, everything I say, and everything I wear.

Edith.

She’s coming to-morrow, isn’t she?

Grace.

Yes. [With a quizzical smile.] She’ll thoroughly disapprove of you. When I introduce you to her: This is Miss Lewis—she’ll look at you for a moment as if you were a kitchen-maid applying for a situation and say: Lewis.

Edith.

Why?

Grace.

Because, like myself, you’re not county.

Edith.

Oh!

Grace.

It’s all very fine to say: Oh! but you don’t know what that means. In London, if you’re pretty and amusing and don’t give yourself airs, people are quite ready to be nice to you; but in a place like this, you can have every virtue under the sun, and if you’re not county you’re of no importance in this world, and you’ll certainly be very uncomfortable in the next.

Miss Vernon.

[Smiling.] I think you’re extremely hard on us. If you have the advantage of....

Grace.

[Seizing the opportunity which Miss Vernon’s hesitation gives her.] Middle-class origins?

Miss Vernon.

You needn’t grudge us the perfectly harmless delusion that there is a difference between a family that has lived in the same place for three or four centuries, with traditions of good breeding and service to the country—and one that has no roots in the soil.

Grace.

I seem to hear Claude’s very words.

Miss Vernon.

[Good-humouredly.] Of course we have our faults.

Grace.

You’re the first member of your class that I’ve ever heard acknowledge it.

Miss Vernon.

[Meditatively.] I wonder if you’d despise us so much if you had a string of drunken, fox-hunting squires behind you.

Grace.

Oh, my dear, when I was first married I used to lie awake at night wishing for them with all my heart. When the neighbours came to call on me I could see them obviously lying in wait for the aitches they were expecting me to drop. A Miss Robinson, wasn’t she? Robinson! Are there people called Robinson? Oh, how I wanted to scratch their ugly old faces!

Miss Vernon.

How lucky I was abroad for so long! You might have disfigured me for life.

Grace.

I’ve often thought that if the Archangel Gabriel came down in Somersetshire, they’d look him out in the “Landed Gentry” before they asked him to a shooting-party.

Miss Vernon.

I don’t think you ought to judge us all on Mrs. Insoley. She’s a type that’s dying out.

Edith.

I don’t want to seem inquisitive, but if you don’t like Mrs. Insoley why on earth d’you have her to stay here?

Grace.

Simple-minded child! Because even in a county family money’s the only thing in the world that really matters, and we’re penniless, while Mrs. Insoley—[with a quick, defiant look at Miss Vernon]—Mrs. Insoley stinks of it.... Do I shock you?

Miss Vernon.

[With a smile.] No, because I see you’re trying to.

Grace.

Claude has nothing but the house and land and his principles. And if we’re able to have the hounds and the shooting and a couple of cars, it’s because Mrs. Insoley pays for it.

Miss Vernon.

[Explaining to Edith Lewis.] Mrs. Insoley was an heiress.

Grace.

She was a Bainbridge, and you’ll hear her thank God for it frequently.

[Archibald Insoley and Henry Cobbett come in. Archibald is a pleasant, good-looking man of thirty-four, with a humorous way about him, and a kindly expression. He holds the family living of Kenyon-Fulton, but there is nothing in him of the sanctimoniousness of the cloth. Cobbett is an agreeable youth of four-and-twenty. They are followed by Claude Insoley.

Cobbett.

[Seeing Edith Lewis at the window.] Are you going out?

Edith.

We were—but we won’t.

Grace.

I’ve been preparing Miss Lewis for your mother’s arrival.

Edith.

I’m beginning to tremble in my shoes.

Archibald.

Our mother is what is usually described as a woman of character. With the best intentions in the world and the highest principles she succeeds in making life almost intolerable to every one connected with her.

Claude.

You won’t forget to send the carriage for her to-morrow, Grace?

Grace.

I won’t.... Last time we sent the car by mistake, and she sent it back again.

Miss Vernon.

Good heavens, why did she do that?

Grace.

Mrs. Insoley never has driven in a motor-car, and Mrs. Insoley never will drive in a motor-car.

Claude.

[Not unamiably.] I don’t think you ought to make fun of my mother, Grace.

Grace.

I wouldn’t if I could make anything else of her.

[As she says this she sits down at the piano and rattles her fingers over the keys.

Grace.

Will you sing us a song, Mr. Cobbett?

Cobbett.

No, thank you.

Grace.

I want to be amused.

Archibald.

How desperately you say that!

Grace.

[To Cobbett.] What will you sing?

Cobbett.

I’m afraid I don’t know anything that will fit the occasion.

Grace.

I seem to have heard you warble a graceful little ditty about a top note.

Cobbett.

Thank you very much, but I’m not fond of making a fool of myself.

Grace.

Part of a gentleman’s education should be how to make himself ridiculous with dignity.

Claude.

[To Cobbett.] You make more fuss about singing than a young lady at a tea-party.

Grace.

[Looking at him with smiling lips but with hard eyes.] Let us have no more maidenly coyness.

[She begins to play, and Cobbett, shrugging his shoulders, begins with rather bad grace to sing the song, “I can’t reach that top note.” While they are in the middle of it the door opens, and the Butler announces Mrs. Insoley and her companion. Mrs. Insoley is a little old lady of some corpulence, shabbily dressed in rusty black. She looks rather like a charwoman in her Sunday best. Miss Hall, her companion, is a self-effacing silent person of uncertain age. She is always very anxious to make herself useful.

Moore.

Mrs. Insoley, Miss Hall.

Claude.

Mother!

[The singing abruptly ceases. There is general consternation. Mrs. Insoley stops still for one moment, and surveys the party with indignation. Then she sweeps into the room with such majesty as is compatible with her small size and considerable obesity.

Mrs. Insoley.

Is this a lunatic asylum that I have come into?

Grace.

We didn’t expect you till to-morrow.

Mrs. Insoley.

So I imagined by the fact that I found no conveyance at the station. I had to take a fly, and it cost me four-and-sixpence.

Claude.

But why didn’t you let us know you’d changed your plans, mother?

Mrs. Insoley.

I did let you know. I wrote to Grace yesterday. She must have got my letter this morning.

Grace.

Oh, how stupid of me! I recognised your writing, and as it was my birthday I thought I wouldn’t open it till to-morrow.

Claude.

Grace!

Grace.

I’m dreadfully sorry.

Mrs. Insoley.

It was only by the mercy of Providence that I didn’t have to walk.

Grace.

There are always flies at the station.

Mrs. Insoley.

Providence might very well have caused them to be all engaged.

Grace.

I don’t know why you should think Providence has nothing better to do than to play practical jokes on us.

Mrs. Insoley.

[Looking round.] And may I inquire why you have turned the house in which your father died into a bear garden?

Claude.

It’s Grace’s birthday, and we thought there would be no harm in our having a little fun.

Mrs. Insoley.

[Putting up her face-à-main and staring at the company.] I’m old-fashioned enough and well-bred enough to like people to be introduced to me.

Grace.

Nowadays every one’s so disreputable that we think it safer not to make introductions.... This is Miss Lewis.

Edith.

How d’you do?

Mrs. Insoley.

Lewis!

Grace.

[With a little smile of amusement.] I think you know Miss Vernon of Foley.

Mrs. Insoley.

[Very affably.] Of course I know Miss Vernon of Foley. My dear Helen, you’re looking very handsome. It wants a woman of birth to wear the outrageous costumes of the present day.

Miss Vernon.

[Shaking hands with her.] It’s so nice of you to say so.

Grace.

I forget if you know Mr. Cobbett.

Cobbett.

How do you do?

[He bows slightly as Mrs. Insoley looks at him through her glasses.

Mrs. Insoley.

Cobbett!

Cobbett.

[With some asperity.] Cobbett!

Mrs. Insoley.

[Turning to Miss Hall.] We used to have a milkman called Cobbett, Louisa.

Miss Hall.

Our milkman is called Wilkinson now.

Mrs. Insoley.

[Very graciously.] You were singing a song when I came in. What was it called?

Cobbett.

[Rather sulkily.] “I can’t reach that top note.”

Mrs. Insoley.

I wondered why you were trying.... Why are you hiding behind that sofa, Archibald? Do you not intend to kiss your mother?

Archibald.

I’m delighted to see you, my dear mother.

[He kisses her on the forehead.

Mrs. Insoley.

I’m rather surprised to see a clergyman at a dinner-party on a Sunday night.

Archibald.

I find two sermons a day excellent for the appetite. And the Bible tells us that corn makes the young men cheerful.

Grace.

[Smiling.] Aren’t you dreadfully hungry? Wouldn’t you like something to eat?

Mrs. Insoley.

No, I shall go straight to my room. It always upsets me to drive in a hired carriage.

Grace.

I’ll just go and see that everything’s nice and comfortable.

Mrs. Insoley.

Pray don’t put yourself to any trouble on my account. It would distress me.

[Grace goes out.

Edith.

[Aside to Miss Vernon.] Don’t you think we might go down to the lake?

Miss Vernon.

By all means.... There’s nothing I can get you, Mrs. Insoley?

Mrs. Insoley.

[Graciously.] Nothing, my dear Helen.

[Miss Vernon and Edith Lewis go out, and a moment later Cobbett slips out also.

Mrs. Insoley.

Claude, will you take Miss Hall into the dining-room and give her a sandwich and a glass of port?

Claude.

Certainly.

Miss Hall.

I don’t think I want anything, thank you, Mrs. Insoley.

Mrs. Insoley.

Nonsense, Louisa! Allow me to know what is good for you. You’ll see that she drinks the port, Claude. [As they go out.] I want to talk to Archibald.

Archibald.

My dear mother, I throw myself at your feet.

Mrs. Insoley.

[With a chuckle.] I very much doubt if you could. You’re growing much too fat. It’s quite time they made you something.

Archibald.

[Smiling.] The landed gentry hasn’t its old power. Promotion in the Church nowadays is given with new-fangled ideas about merit and scholarship and heaven knows what.

Mrs. Insoley.

I hope you never eat potatoes or bread?

Archibald.

I fly from them as I would from temptation.

Mrs. Insoley.

Nor soup?

Archibald.

It is as the scarlet woman to me.

Mrs. Insoley.

And I trust you never touch green peas.

Archibald.

Ah, there you have me. Even the saints had their weaknesses. I confess that when green peas are in season I always put on flesh.

Mrs. Insoley.

You want some one to keep a firm hand on you. You must marry.

Archibald.

I saw you approaching that topic by leaps and bounds, mother.

Mrs. Insoley.

It’s a clergyman’s duty to marry.

Archibald.

[Chaffing her.] St. Paul says....

Mrs. Insoley.

[Interrupting.] I know what St. Paul’s views were, Archibald, and I disagree with them.

Archibald.

[Dryly.] I have every reason to believe he was of excellent family, mother.

Mrs. Insoley.

[Giving him a quick look.] We all know that it was a great disappointment to Helen Vernon when—you know what I mean.

Archibald.

I can’t help thinking she showed bad taste in surviving the blow.

Mrs. Insoley.

It was a great disappointment to me. I had set my heart on joining Foley to Kenyon-Fulton.... It wouldn’t be too late even now if you had the sense to appreciate Helen Vernon’s affection for you.

Archibald.

My dear mother, I can’t persuade myself for a moment that Helen Vernon has any affection for me.

Mrs. Insoley.

A woman of her age is prepared to have affection for any one who asks her to marry him.

Archibald.

Even if he’s a poor country parson?

Mrs. Insoley.

You’re a great deal more than a country parson, Archibald. It is unlikely that Grace will have any children, so unless—something happens to allow Claude to marry again....

Archibald.

What d’you mean by that, mother?

Mrs. Insoley.

Grace is not immortal.

Archibald.

On the other hand, she has excellent health.

Mrs. Insoley.

There may be other ways of disposing of her.

Archibald.

What ways?

Mrs. Insoley.

[Looking at him calmly.] Since when have you laboured under the delusion that I am the sort of woman to submit to cross-examination, Archibald?

[The entrance of Grace interrupts the conversation.

Grace.

I hope I haven’t kept you waiting. I think you’ll find everything all right.

Mrs. Insoley.

In that case I shall go to my room. Archibald, tell Louisa that I am ready to go to my room.

Archibald.

Certainly.

[He goes out, leaving Grace alone with Mrs. Insoley.

Mrs. Insoley.

Who is the young lady you have staying with you, Grace?

Grace.

Edith Lewis. She’s a friend of mine.

Mrs. Insoley.

Ah! And who is this Mr. Cobbett?

Grace.

He’s a friend of mine too.

Mrs. Insoley.

I didn’t imagine that you would invite total strangers to stay with you.

Grace.

I don’t know that there’s any other way of describing them.

Mrs. Insoley.

I dare say that is a sufficient description in itself.

[Miss Hall comes back with Claude and Archibald.

Mrs. Insoley.

I’m going to my room, Louisa. I shall be ready for you to read to me in a quarter of an hour.

Miss Hall.

Very good, Mrs. Insoley. [To Grace.] I suppose you don’t have prayers on Sunday night?

Grace.

No, we read our pedigree instead. You’ll find the “Landed Gentry” in your bedroom.

Mrs. Insoley.

[Icily.] In my young days it was thought more important for a young lady to be well-born than to be clever.

Grace.

[Chuckling.] The result has been disastrous for the present generation.

Mrs. Insoley.

Good night.

Grace.

[Shaking hands cordially with Miss Hall.] Be sure and let me know if you’re not quite comfortable. I hope you’ll find everything you want in your room.

Mrs. Insoley.

Of course Louisa will find everything she wants. She wants nothing. Come, Louisa.

[Mrs. Insoley and Miss Hall go out.

Archibald.

I think I’ll be toddling back to my rectory.

Claude.

Oh, all right.

Archibald.

Good night, Grace.

Grace.

Good night.

Claude.

[To Archibald.] I talked to Gann about that matter.

Archibald.

I’m afraid he’s going to make rather a nuisance of himself.

Claude.

I took a good firm line, you know.

Archibald.

That’s right. It’s the only way with those sort of fellows. Good night, old man.

Claude.

Good night.

[Archibald goes out.

Claude.

You were asking about Gann just now, Grace?

Grace.

I was.

Claude.

At first I thought I’d better not tell you anything about it, but I’ve been thinking it over....

Grace.

[Interrupting.] It was quite unnecessary. I’m not at all curious.

Claude.

I think perhaps it would be better if I told you what I’d done.

Grace.

I’m sure that whatever you’ve done is right, Claude. [Smiling.] That’s why you’re so detestable.

Claude.

That’s all very fine and large, but I think I’d like to have your approval.

Grace.

We agreed very early in our married life that your acts were such as must necessarily meet with my approval.

Claude.

What’s the matter with you, Grace?

Grace.

With me? Nothing.

Claude.

You’ve been so funny lately. I haven’t been able to make you out at all.

Grace.

I should have thought you had more important things to do than to bother about me.

Claude.

I’ve got nothing in the world to do more important than to bother about you, Grace.

[She looks at him for an instant, with a catch in her breath.

Grace.

Don’t worry me to-night, Claude; my head’s aching so that I feel I could scream.

Claude.

[With the tenderest concern.] My poor child, why didn’t you tell me? I’m so sorry I’ve been bothering you. Is it very bad?

Grace.

What a beast I am! How can you like me when I’m so absolutely horrid to you?

Claude.

My darling, I don’t blame you for having a headache.

Grace.

I’m sorry I was beastly to you just now.

Claude.

What nonsense!

[He tries to take her in his arms, but she draws herself away.

Grace.

Please don’t, Claude.

Claude.

Why don’t you go to bed, darling?

Grace.

[With a cry of something like fright.] Oh, no!

Claude.

Bed’s the best place for everybody at this hour.

Grace.

I want to amuse myself. Go and fetch the others, they’re down by the lake. And we’ll all play poker.

[He is just going to make an observation, but she bursts in vehemently.

Grace.

For God’s sake do as I ask you.

[He looks at her. With a shrug of the shoulders he goes out into the garden. Grace gives a deep sigh. In a moment Henry Cobbett enters. Grace looks at him silently as he advances into the room.

Cobbett.

I’ve been waiting for the chance of speaking to you by yourself.

Grace.

Have you?

Cobbett.

Why did you make me sing that idiotic song just now?

Grace.

[Her eyes cold and hostile.] Because I chose.

Cobbett.

You made me look a perfect fool.

Grace.

That’s what I wanted to make you look.

Cobbett.

[Surprised.] Did you? Why?

Grace.

I have no explanation to offer.

Cobbett.

You know, I’m hanged if I can make you out. You’re never the same for two minutes together.

Grace.

[Frigidly.] I suppose it is disconcerting. Claude complains of it too.

Cobbett.

Oh, hang Claude.

Grace.

You’re growing more and more like him every day, Harry.

Cobbett.

I don’t quite know what you mean by that.

Grace.

It seems hardly worth while to have—made a long journey to find oneself exactly where one started.

Cobbett.

I never know what people are driving at when they talk metaphorically.

Grace.

[Looking at him deliberately.] I thought I loved you, Harry.

Cobbett.

You’ve said it often enough.

Grace.

[Slowly.] I wonder if I just said it to persuade myself. My heart’s empty! Empty! I know now that it wasn’t love I felt for you.

Cobbett.

It’s rather late in the day to have found that out, isn’t it?

Grace.

[Bitterly.] Yes, that’s just it. It’s late in the day for everything.... Here they are.

[A sound of talking is heard as Edith Lewis approaches with Helen Vernon and Claude.

Claude.

[At the window.] I found them on their way back.

Grace.

[To Cobbett, with a little bitter laugh.] We’re going to play poker.

END OF THE FIRST ACT

THE SECOND ACT

The Scene is the same as in the preceding Act. It is evening, towards seven o’clock, but it is still perfectly light. Grace and Peggy Gann are in the room, both standing. Peggy is a pretty girl, quite young, but very pale, with black rings round her eyes. She is dressed like a housemaid in her going-out things. Grace is evidently much distressed.

Peggy.

You will try, mum, won’t you?

[Peggy’s voice seems to call Grace back with a start from her own thoughts.

Grace.

I ought to have been told before. It was wicked to keep it from me.

Peggy.

I thought you knew, mum. I wasn’t to know that you ’adn’t been told anything.

Grace.

[With a friendly smile.] I’m not blaming you, Peggy.... Mr. Insoley’s out now, but I’ll talk to him as soon as she come in. You’d better go home and fetch your father.

Peggy.

You know what father is, mum. I’m afraid he won’t come.

Grace.

Oh, but I think it’s very important. Tell him that....

[Henry Cobbett comes in, and she stops when she sees him.

Cobbett.

Hulloa, am I in the way? Shall I go?

Grace.

[Passing her hand wearily across her forehead.] No. I’ve just finished.... Try and get your father to come, Peggy.

Peggy.

Well, I’ll do what I can, mum.

[She goes out. Grace gives a little exclamation, partly of distress, partly of indignation.

Cobbett.

What’s the matter? You seem rather put out.

Grace.

That’s the daughter of one of the keepers. She came to me just now and asked me to beg Claude to give them a little more time. I hadn’t an idea what she meant. Then she said Claude had told her father he must send her away within twenty-four hours or lose his place.

Cobbett.

[Flippantly.] Oh, yes, I know. She seems to be rather a flighty young person. Claude and your brother-in-law were talking about it after lunch in the smoking-room.

Grace.

Why didn’t you tell me?

Cobbett.

Well, it never struck me you didn’t know. Besides—you haven’t shown any great desire for my society the last day or two.

Grace.

[With a quick look at him.] I’ve had other guests to attend to.

Cobbett.

[Shrugging his shoulders.] And it seemed rather a sordid little story. I don’t think I can interest myself very much at this time of day in the gamekeeper’s daughter who kicks over the traces.

Grace.

[Sarcastically.] It’s so devilish mid-Victorian, isn’t it?

Cobbett.

[Surprised at her tone.] It’s not really bothering you, is it?

Grace.

[With a sudden vehement outburst.] Don’t you see that wretched girl has done no more than I have?

Cobbett.

[With a chuckle.] Great Scott, you haven’t produced an unexpected baby, have you?

Grace.

Oh, don’t, don’t.

Cobbett.

[Coolly.] In point of fact she’s done a great deal more than you have. She’s been found out.

Grace.

How can you be so odiously cynical?

Cobbett.

I notice people always call you odiously cynical when you talk plain horse-sense to them.

Grace.

Can’t you realise what I’m feeling? She had excuses. She was alone, and little more than a child; she had no education. How could she be expected to resist temptation?

Cobbett.

It’s an absolute delusion that the lower classes are less able to resist temptation than their betters. In the first place, they have a much more systematic moral education, and then they’re taught from early youth to look upon virtue as a valuable asset.

Grace.

[Going up to him suddenly.] Harry, would you mind very much if I stopped the whole thing?

Cobbett.

Of course I should mind.

Grace.

Oh, no, don’t say that because it’s the conventional thing to say. I want you to be frank with me.

Cobbett.

[Uneasily.] Why do you ask me now?

Grace.

[After a look at him, a little unwillingly.] I feel so horribly mean.

Cobbett.

Claude?

Grace.

[With a sort of appeal, as if she were excusing herself.] He’s so awfully good to me, Harry. Every present he gives me, every kind word is like a stab in my heart. I’m beastly to him sometimes, I can’t help it, but nothing seems to make any difference to him.... Whatever I do, he loves me.

Cobbett.

Are you beginning to care for Claude—differently?

Grace.

Oh, it’s no use pretending. I never loved him as he loved me. I couldn’t. I was bored by his love. Yes, all the time we’ve been married.... It’s only lately....

[She pauses abruptly. Cobbett gives her a sidelong glance.

Cobbett.

Oh!

Grace.

I don’t know what I feel or what to do. I’m so bewildered and wretched.... He bores me still—oh, horribly sometimes. And yet at moments I feel as though I were a good deal more than half in love with him. It’s too absurd. With Claude—after all these years. Something has changed me.... It’s the last thing that ought to have changed me towards him.

[She flushes hotly, and again Cobbett looks at her, and a rather sulky expression comes into his face.

Cobbett.

It’s not a very pleasant position for me, is it?

Grace.

I shouldn’t have thought it ever had been a very pleasant position considering what a good friend Claude has been to you.

Cobbett.

If you look at it in that way, I dare say it would be better to put an end to the whole thing.

Grace.

You have been rather a blackguard, haven’t you?

Cobbett.

No. I don’t pretend to be better than anybody else, but I’m quite certain I’m no worse. I’m a perfectly normal man in good health. It’s idiotic to abuse me because I’ve done what any other fellow would have done in my place.

Grace.

[Suddenly understanding.] Is that all it was to you?

Cobbett.

What d’you mean?

Grace.

Wasn’t I anything to you at all? Only a more or less attractive woman who happened to cross your path? If I was only that, why couldn’t you leave me alone? What harm did I ever do you? Oh, it was cruel of you. Cruel!

Cobbett.

[Quietly.] No man’s able to have an affair all by himself, you know.

Grace.

What d’you mean by that?

Cobbett.

Well, most fellows are very shy, and they’re dreadfully frightened of a rebuff. A man doesn’t take much risk until—well, until he finds there’s not much risk to take.

Grace.

D’you mean to say I gave you to understand.... Oh, how can you humiliate me like that?

Cobbett.

Isn’t there a certain amount of truth in it?

Grace.

[Looking as it were into her own soul.] Yes.... Oh, I’m so ashamed.

Cobbett.

The world would be a jolly sight easier place to live in if people weren’t such humbugs.

Grace.

[Hardly able to believe the truth that presents itself to her, yet eager to probe it.] D’you think it was only curiosity on my side and nothing more than opportunity on yours?

Cobbett.

That’s the foundation of nine love affairs out of ten, you know.

Grace.

[Trying to justify herself in her own eyes.] I was so bored—so lonely. I never felt at home with the people I had to live with. They humiliated me. And you seemed the same sort of person as I was. I felt at my ease with you. At first I thought you cared for the things I cared for—music and books and pictures: it took me quite a time to discover that you didn’t know the difference between a fiddle and a jews’ harp.... I wonder why you troubled to take me in.

Cobbett.

I naturally talked about what I thought would please you.

Grace.

I remember at first I felt as if I were just stepping out of a prison into the fresh air. It seemed to me as if—oh, I don’t know how to put it—as if spring flowers were suddenly blossoming in my heart.

Cobbett.

I’m afraid you were asking more from me than I was able to give you.

Grace.

Oh, I don’t blame you. You’re quite right: it’s I who am to blame. [With sudden vehemence.] Oh, how I envy that wretched girl! If she fell it was because she loved. I asked her who the man was, and she wouldn’t tell me. She said she didn’t want to get him into trouble. She must love him still.

Cobbett.

[Moved by the pain which he sees she is suffering.] I hope you don’t think me an awful skunk, Grace. I’m sorry we’ve made such a hash of things.

Grace.

[Going on with her own thoughts.] It would be horrible if that wretched girl were punished while I go scot-free. I can’t let her be turned away like a leper. I should never rest in peace again.

Cobbett.

Claude’s not very fond of going back on his word. He seems to have delivered an ultimatum, and I expect he’ll stick to it.

Grace.

It means so much to me. I feel somehow that if I can only save that poor child it’ll make up in a way—oh, very little—for all the harm I’ve done.... D’you think I’m perfectly absurd?

Cobbett.

Life seems devilish complicated sometimes, doesn’t it?

Grace.

[With a smile.] Devilish.

[The sound is heard of a carriage stopping outside.

Cobbett.

Hulloa, what’s that?

Grace.

It’s my mother-in-law. She’s been out for her drive. [With a glance at her watch.] Claude ought to be in soon.

Cobbett.

What are you going to do?

Grace.

I’m going to use every means in my power to persuade him to change his mind.

Cobbett.

You’re not going to do anything foolish, Grace?

Grace.

How d’you mean? [His meaning suddenly strikes her.] You don’t think I might have to.... Oh, that would be too much to ask me.... D’you think I might have to tell him?

Cobbett.

Whatever you do, Grace, I want you to know that if anything happens I’m willing to do the straight thing.

Grace.

[Shaking her head.] No, I should never ask you to marry me. Now we both know how things are between us—how they’ve always been....

Cobbett.

I’m awfully sorry, Grace.

Grace.

There’s no need to be. I’m glad to know the truth. There was nothing that held us together before but my cowardice. I was so afraid of going back to that dreary loneliness. But you’ve given me courage.

Cobbett.

Is there nothing left of it at all?

Grace.

So far as I’m concerned nothing at all—but shame.

[Edith Lewis comes in. Grace, recovering herself quickly, throws off her seriousness and greets the girl with a pleasant smile.

Edith.

We’ve had such a lovely drive.

Grace.

And d’you think the country’s as beautiful as ever?

Edith.

[Gaily.] Oh, I didn’t look at the country. I was much too excited. Mrs. Insoley has been telling me the dreadful pasts of all the families in the neighbourhood. It appears the further they go back the more shocking their behaviour has been.

Cobbett.

I notice that even the grossest immorality becomes respectable when it’s a hundred years old.

Grace.

[Ironically.] It’s very hard, isn’t it? Mrs. Grundy has no mercy. She’ll take even you to her bosom before you know where you are.

[Enter Mrs. Insoley, followed by Miss Vernon and Miss Hall. Miss Hall is carrying Mrs. Insoley’s lap-dog.

Grace.

I hope you enjoyed your drive.

Mrs. Insoley.

I didn’t go for my enjoyment, Grace; I went to exercise the horses.

Grace.

[Smiling.] Meanwhile, I hear you took the opportunity of enlarging Edith’s young mind.

Miss Vernon.

[To Edith.] When you come to Foley you must remind me to show you the portraits of my great-grandmother, Mary Vernon. She had a tremendous affair with the Regent, you know.

Mrs. Insoley.

[Pleasantly.] My dear Helen, I have the greatest affection for you, but I cannot allow a statement like that to go unchallenged. There is no evidence whatever of the truth of it.

Miss Vernon.

I don’t know how you can say that, Mrs. Insoley, considering that I have all my great-grandmother’s letters to the Regent.

Mrs. Insoley.

[With a chuckle.] Where are his letters to your great-grandmother?

Miss Vernon.

She gave them back at the time he returned hers, naturally.

Mrs. Insoley.

I can see her. If she had any letters she would have kept them. Any woman would.

Miss Vernon.

[Bridling a little.] I can’t imagine why you should suddenly throw doubts on a story that the whole county has believed for a hundred years. Every one knew all about Mary Vernon.

Mrs. Insoley.

[Chaffing her.] I am aware that your great-grandmother was an abandoned hussy, but that in itself is no proof that she ever had anything to do with the Regent.

Miss Vernon.

You can’t deny that he slept at Foley, Mrs. Insoley.

Mrs. Insoley.

Only one night.

Miss Vernon.

Well?

Mrs. Insoley.

It’s notorious that at that very time he was on terms of the greatest intimacy with Pamela Bainbridge. [To Edith Lewis.] I am not an Insoley, thank God; I am a Bainbridge. And whenever he came to this part of the country he stayed with us.

Miss Vernon.

I know you’ve always flattered yourself that there was something between them.

Mrs. Insoley.

[With complete self-assurance.] And well I may, considering that I still have a lock of hair which he gave my grandmother.

Miss Vernon.

Half the families in the country have a greasy lock of hair which they tell you was the Regent’s. Personally, I think it’s rather snobbish to make a claim of that sort unless one’s perfectly sure.

Mrs. Insoley.

[Bridling in her turn.] I think you’re extremely rude, Helen. In the presence of a man I can’t go into details, but I have proof of every word I say. You know what I mean, Louisa?

Miss Hall.

I believed the worst from the beginning, Mrs. Insoley.

Miss Vernon.

I have no doubt you firmly believe what you say, Mrs. Insoley; but if you don’t mind my saying so, one has only to look at the portrait of Pamela Bainbridge to know the whole thing’s absurd.

Mrs. Insoley.

[Frigidly.] We won’t argue the point, Helen; I know I’m right, and there’s an end of it.... Put the dog on that chair, Louisa.

Miss Hall.

That’s Mr. Cobbett’s chair, Mrs. Insoley.

Mrs. Insoley.

[Still a little out of temper.] Has Mr. Cobbett bought it?

Cobbett.

No, but Mr. Cobbett’s been sitting in it.

Mrs. Insoley.

And may no one use a chair that Mr. Cobbett has been sitting in?

Cobbett.

Certainly. But it so happens that Mr. Cobbett is just going to sit in it again.

Mrs. Insoley.

[With a grim smile.] Mr. Cobbett has legs.

Cobbett.

Only two, and if a merciful Providence had intended him to stand on them it would undoubtedly have provided him with four.

Mrs. Insoley.

Mr. Cobbett seems to be better acquainted with the designs of Providence than I should have expected.... Louisa, give me the dog. He shall sit on my lap.

Cobbett.

[Chaffing her.] Ah, if you’d only told me that was the alternative, of course I wouldn’t have hesitated for a moment.

Mrs. Insoley.