. itiiit irr EUfe <\UEUN «B«^ ASK ^OFCALIF(%, ^VJrlALII-UK^V <^IE-UNIVCKty i\¥.IIBDAD\ THE SOCIAL PLAYS OF ARTHUR WING PINERO Authorized Library Edition. Four Volwnes. EDITED BY CLAYTON HAMILTON Volume I. The Second Mrs. Tanqueray: The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith. Volume II. The Gay Lord Quex: Iris. Volume III. Letty: His House in Order. Volume IV. The Thunderbolt: Mid-Channel. E. P. DUTTON & CO. 681 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK sif"? : J«*7 7 7'7' THE SOCIAL PLAYS OF ARTHUR WING PINERO EDITED WITH A GENERAL INTRODUCTION AND* A CRITICAL PREFACE TO EACH PLAY BY CLAYTON HAMILTON MEMBER OF THE NATIONAL INSTITUTE OF ARTS AND LETTERS THE THUNDERBOLT MID-CHANNEL NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & GO. 681 Fifth Avenue 1922 oorww EDITORIAL CONTRIBUTIONS BY CLAYTON HAMILTON Copyright, 1932, by E. P. Dutton & Co. THE THUNDERBOLT Copyright, iqoq, by Arthur W. Pinero MID-CHANNEL Copyright, 1910, by Arthur Wing Pinero n/i^l '??"* under ' h ' l" 1 ""* 1 '™ J ' Copyright A ct. Performance forbidden and right '/"Preset Malum reserved Application for the right to perform either of these play, mult be t^llt TZtZM' B ? kt 'f, C ,°i 5 H , amiU< " t Place ' Bo5 "">- Massachusetts ■ AtTen on lows Penalties provided by law for any infringement of the author's rights, as fol- "Sec 4966:— Any person publicly performing or representing any dramatic or musical compos.t.on for wh.ch copyright has been obtained, without the consent of the pro™ Heto oL= Vk T* C °l mUS1Cal co . m P"?«t>on, or his heirs and assigns, shall be liable for darn- el MlT S T h ,l am fi ageS '", & Ca f e , S , t0 ^ assessed at ^ch sum, not less than one hundred dollars f, )r the first and fifty dollars for every subsequent performance as to the court shall appear to be just. If the unlawful performance and represenTat"on' be wilful ?£n hi Y ^ SUCh < P f er3 ° n ° r P e f SOnS Sha " be « ui,t y of a misdemeanor, and uponconv - TUU60 Chap°] * pe " Jd DOt exceediQ 3 one year."-U. S. Revised Statutes. • • • PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA PREFACE The present Library Edition* of the weightiest and most important plays of Sir Arthur Pinero has been edited with the kind co-operation of the author himself; his secretary, Miss Eveleen Mills; his London publisher, Mr. William Heinemann ; and his American publishers, Messrs. Walter H. Baker & Co., of Boston. The editor is especially in- debted to Mr. F. E. Chase, of Walter H. Baker & Co., for generously loaning the American copyrights of the plays that have been selected to appear in this Library Edition. Clayton Hamilton. New York City: 1922. c 7 ^rrS y (o 5 H CONTENTS PAGE Preface v Introduction i The Thunderbolt: — critical preface 21 TEXT 35 Mid-Channel : — critical preface 279 TEXT 295 j \ Appendix 5°5 ! ) INTRODUCTION INTRODUCTION * A word should be said in explanation of the reasons which prompted the editor to apply the caption, "Social Plays," to the particular group of compositions by Sir Arthur Pinero selected for presentation to the reading public in this Library Edition. In the first place, it was necessary to choose a label which should indicate a clear distinction between the eight or ten serious and weighty dramas of Pinero and his more than thirty essays in lighter types of entertainment. The range of Pinero, in subject-matter and in mood, has been unusually versatile and wide. In the eighteen-eighties, he established a new standard for English farce with the Court Theatre series, which included The Magistrate, The Schoolmistress, Dandy Dick, and The Cabinet Minister, and was equally successful as an author of sentimental comedies of the type inherited from T. W. Robertson, such as Sweet Lavender and Lady Bountiful. Obviously, the series of more mo- mentous dramas which was initiated in 1893 with The Sec- ond Mrs. Tanqueray differs from these earlier undertakings not only in magnitude but also in purpose; and this same difference in intention may be noted, in later seasons, between such weighty dramas, on the one hand, as Iris and Mid- Channel, and, on the other hand, such charming minor comedies as The Princess and the Butterfly and such witty pieces of hilarity as Preserving Mr. Panmure. * Copyright, 1922, by E. P. Dutton & Co. 3 4 PINERO'S SO CI A L PLAYS A French critic would classify the serious plays of Pinero under the generic term of drames, and would let the matter go at that; but to choose a more specific label for them is not an easy task. They cannot be classed as "tragedies," since only three of them — The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, Iris, and Mid-Channel — have a tragic ending. Furthermore, though each of these three plays is irrefragably logical within its limits, their disastrous terminations seem to be predestined mainly by the antecedent pattern, and lack, a little, that in- timation of the universal which we demand of tragedy. But neither can these serious dramas of Pinero be classed as "comedies," — not even in those cases when their subject- matter is most clearly estranged from the tragic. For such a term, The Gay Lord Qnex is too sardonic in content, His House in Order is too harrowing, and The Thunder- bolt is too terrible. These pieces fulfill the purpose that is usually sought in satiric comedy ; but this purpose is pursued with a theatrical intensity that is more nearly tragic than comic in its mood. In seeking a definitive caption for these dramas which are neither comedies nor tragedies, the editor was reminded of Henrik Ibsen's statement in regard to Hedda Gabler, — "What I principally wanted to do was to depict human beings, human emotions, and human destinies, upon a ground- work of certain of the social conditions and principles of the present day." I have previously called attention to this statement in my critical preface to The Gay Lord Quex; but it seems to me to describe very aptly the abiding purpose of Pinero in all of his most weighty and important plays. In a chapter on the modern social drama, in The Theory of the Theatre, I have stated that only three distinct types of serious, or tragic, drama have thus far been developed in the theatre of the world. The ancient, or Greek, type exhibits the individual in conflict with destiny ; the mediaeval, or Elizabethan type, exhibits the individual in conflict with the inhibitions and defects of his own character; and the INTRODUCTION 5 modern type exhibits the hero in conflict with his social en- vironment. To repeat once more the words of Ibsen, the modern drama endeavours "to depict human beings, human emotions, and human destinies, upon a groundwork of cer- tain of the social conditions and principles of the present day." Society has latterly been substituted for an external destiny, or an internal predestination, as the arch-antagonist of the individual in the conflict of the drama. It is in this particular sense that the serious dramas of Pinero may appropriately be described as "Social Plays." Certain commentators have objected to this application of the term, on the ground that Sir Arthur is not primarily concerned, like some of his contemporaries, with an extra- theatrical endeavour to solve the current problems of society. It is true, of course, that Pinero's plays are not "social" in the narrow and restricted sense which this adjective assumes when one applies it to such pieces as Die Weber, by Ger- hardt Hauptmann, Les Avaries, by Eugene Brieux, Justice, by John Galsworthy, or even Getting Married, by George Bernard Shaw. In Hauptmann's justly celebrated drama, the customary interest in the individual is almost entirely submerged beneath a newly-awakened interest in the group as a dramatic factor in the conflict of society. Brieux employs the theatre mainly as a medium for calling the attention of the public to certain errors and iniquities of the prevailing social system which demand immediate correction. Mr. Galsworthy, also, is much more deeply interested in the problems of society than he is interested in the problems of the individual. In Justice, for example, he deliberately di- verts attention from his inconspicuous and unimportant hero to that heartless machinery of the law which pitilessly grinds this weak protagonist to pieces. The witty Mr. Shaw is ever ready with some novel panacea for the reformation of society, and, in recent years, has used the theatre mainly as a lecture-platform. These extra-theatrical purposes — laudable as they are — 6 PINERO'S SOCIAL PLAYS stand utterly apart from the intention of Pinero. He applies the ancient and honourable maxim of "art for art's sake," and continues to make plays for the sake of making plays, and for no other and extraneous purpose. In imagining a struggle between human beings and social conditions, his interest remains always on the side of the human beings and is never diverted to the side of the social conditions. He conceives a play primarily as an exhibition of character in action, — upon a groundwork, as Ibsen said, of present-day society. Society affords the setting and the background for his serious dramas; but the forefront of the stage is always occupied by individual actors who are interesting in and for themselves. In the terminology of dramatic criticism, the adjective "social" had long been applied to the plays of such artistic ancestors of Pinero as Henrik Ibsen, Alexandre Dumas fils, and Emile Augier, — before the advent of the thesis-plays of Brieux, the propaganda-plays of Mr. Galsworthy, or the pamphlet-plays of Mr. Shaw. The word "social" should not be reduced to too narrow a connotation, lest an interest in socialism should be mistaken for an interest in society. Any drama which depicts a conflict between individual char- acter and social environment may appropriately be described as a "social drama," whether it casts its emphasis on the side of society or on the side of the individual; and it was this principle which prompted the editor to choose the caption, "Social Plays," as a convenient label for distinguishing the weightier compositions of Sir Arthur Pinero from his numer- ous delightful essays in lighter types of entertainment. II At the date when this Introduction is written [January, 1922], Sir Arthur Pinero is sixty-six years old and has already contributed forty-eight plays to five successive decades of the English theatre. For this reason, a regrettable habit INTRODUCTION 7 has grown up, among several of our younger commentators, of writing about Pinero in the past tense and pigeon-holing his plays as products of the nineteenth century. For a man of sixty-six, Sir Arthur is exceptionally vigorous, both in body and in mind, and there is therefore ample reason to expect him to compose several important plays in the years that are to come; but, even if his career might already be regarded as completed, a glance at the curve of its ascension would show that it did not reach its grand climacteric until the close of the first decade of the twentieth century. Pinero 's compositions in the eighteen-seventies were merely essays in apprenticeship ; but in the middle of the eighteen- eighties he established himself, with The Magistrate, as a master of farce. Before the end of the same decade, the great success of his sentimental comedy, Siveet Lavender, caused him to be regarded at that early date as the leading English playwright of his generation. At the outset of the eighteen- nineties, he deliberately chose to attempt the long step upward from the level of the popular playwright to the level of the serious dramatist ; and with The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, in 1893, he initiated the modern English drama. It may be questioned if Pinero has surpassed in any of his subsequent endeavours the technical efficiency of that epoch-making composition; but there can be no question that three or four of his later plays have been more important in their content and more monumental in their execution. Several of Sir Arthur's most interesting and successful compositions were written in the eighteen-nineties ; but if any commentator were confronted with the hypothetic task of rescuing from the iniquity of oblivion a single ten-year period of this author's long-continued activity, he would choose without question the first decade of the twentieth century. Pinero began this decade with Iris [1901] and concluded it with The Thunderbolt [1908] and Mid-Channel [1909]. To controvert the frequently repeated statements of care- less commentators that Pinero should be dated as a dram- 8 PINERO'S SOCIAL PLAYS atist of the nineteenth century, it may be noted — as an historic fact — that the two great plays which are presented to the reading public in the present volume were written more recently than the masterpieces of any of Sir Arthur's nearest rivals in the contemporary British theatre. The monumental merit of Mid-Channel as a work of art is not, of course, increased by the accidental circumstance that it was written so recently as 1909; but commentators who are tempted to employ the past tense in considering the theatre of Pinero may be convinced of error by examining the dates which follow. Mr. Henry Arthur Jones, the only con- temporary British dramatist who was born before Pinero, produced his masterpiece, Michael and His Lost Angel, in 1896. Candida, the masterpiece of Mr. George Bernard Shaw, was produced in 1895. Nineteen hundred and five is the date of Sir James Barrie's greatest play, Alice Sit-by-the Fire, and also of Mr. Granville Barker's greatest play, The Voysey Inheritance; and Mr. John Galsworthy produced his masterpiece, entitled Strife, in 1 909, — the same year in which Mid-Channel was set forth. It is apparent, therefore, that Pinero, though older than any of his rivals, with the single exception of Mr. Henry Arthur Jones, has surpassed them not only at the outset but also toward the latter end of his career. The two plays presented in the present volume — The Thunderbolt and Mid- Channel — may already be regarded as the two greatest plays of British authorship that have been given to the world in the first two decades of the twentieth century; for neither of these impressive compositions have been surpassed by any English playwright, old or young, in the decade that has elapsed since 1909. Ill To complete the record of Sir Arthur Pinero's career to the time of the writing of this Introduction, a few words INTRODUCTION 9 must be appended in appreciation of the plays that he has written since 1909, the date of the production of Mid- Channel. I have previously stated that Preserving Mr. Panmure, — a farce which was first presented in London, at the Comedy Theatre, on January 19th, 191 1, — was undertaken frankly as a vacationary task, in order that the author might rest his mind from a momentary weariness imposed by the com- position of The Thunderbolt and Mid-Channel in two suc- cessive* years. The merits of Preserving Mr. Panmure are mainly technical. The material of this comic play is trivial and slight; but the development displays an ingenuity of which no other craftsman than Pinero could be capable. The third act, which is fabricated out of next to nothing, is a triumph of deft manipulation. The pattern as a whole, however, is imperfect, because the fourth act, though enter- taining in itself, does not work out the antecedent project to a logical completion. It is, in effect, an independent one- act play, in which three characters inherited from the pre- ceding incompleted comedy happen, by a lucky providence, to reappear. Of this fourth act — as in the instance of the last act of The Profligate — two versions are extant: — the one originally shown in London, and an alternative text, prepared at the request of the late Charles Frohman, for the first production of the play in New York, which took place at the Lyceum Theatre on February 27th, 191 2. Preserving Mr. Panmure is designed as a satire of that sanctimonious hypocrisy which may be observed in many a British household. The stage-set, which represents the inner hall of a house in the country, is built almost entirely of glass, — as a sort of warning to the witty spectator that it is sometimes dangerous to throw stones. The smug and unctuous Mr. Panmure, at the behest of his religious-minded wife, is accustomed to preach a weekly sermon to his as- sembled servants, and expects an absolute respectability of behaviour from his guests. At a loss for a subject for his IO PINERO'S SOCIAL PLAYS "sermonette," he is aided by the pretty governess of his little daughter, and, in an outburst of approbation, kisses her. A kiss, in the Panmure household, is a crime. Panmure is immediately remorseful; and the governess is so perturbed that she unwittingly reveals the scandal to Mrs. Panmure's aunt. The latter soon communicates the dire intelligence to all the other women in the house, — each of whom, since the governess refuses to betray the name of her assailant (al- though she expressly exonerates Mr. Panmure), at once suspects her own husband, or fiance, as the case may be, of being the guilty man. Panmure himself is required by his wife to cross-question all the other men and to reprove them each and all for the offence that they have not committed. Two of the guests, an M. P. named Stulkely and his sec- retary named Woodhouse, discover that Panmure is the culprit before he comes to lecture them. They are thereby primed to call him down ; and after they have beaten him into deserved abjection, Woodhouse chivalrously takes the guilt upon himself and makes a false confession to the as- sembled women. Thereupon, the governess destroys the manuscript of Panmure's prospective sermon, and sends him forth to preach impromptu to the servants. The mood of this farce is one of irresponsible vivacity, and several of the incidents are playfully preposterous. Yet the people in the play are rendered not as caricatures but as characters: they are much more true to life than the figures usually shown in farce. The dialogue, throughout, is bril- liantly witty. The work as a whole affords an interesting instance of fine craftsmanship applied to trivial material. IV Pinero's next effort was a comedy of much more serious import. This was The "Mind the Paint" Girl, which was first produced in London, at the Duke of York's Theatre, on February 17th, 1912. INTRODUCTION n There is a type of play whose purpose is not so much to exhibit character through action as to exhibit environment through character. The plot is comparatively unimportant, and the people of the play are less interesting on their own account than on account of the social atmosphere in which they breathe their daily breath. This social atmosphere is what the author is aiming to depict; and, in pursuance of this purpose, he may even dare to sacrifice the all-but-indispen- sable element of a tense and vital struggle between human wills. In order to appreciate The "Mind the Paint" Girl, we should understand at the outset that the aim of the author was to exhibit a genre study, and not to build a drama, in the ordinary sense of the term. So many young peers had recently married show-girls that it became important that some serious British writer should discuss the advantages and disadvantages of these marital experiments; and Sir Arthur Pinero, who had already painted a sympathetic pic- ture of the stage-life of other days in Trelawny of the "Wells," was obviously the man to undertake a study of the glittering and artificial life that was lived so shallowly and so alluringly in and about Mr. George Edwardes's Gaiety Theatre, at a period when the chorus of the Gaiety was furnishing more than one of the mothers of the future mem- bers of the House of Lords. Of the four acts of The "Mind the Paint" Girl, only one — the third — is designed to be dramatic. The entire struggle of the play is compressed into a single vital scene; and all that precedes this sudden climax should be classed and judged as genre painting. The heroine, Lily Parradell, is the reigning beauty of the Pandora Theatre, and has won her nickname by singing a popular topical song called "Mind the Paint." In the first act we meet her in her home, and in the second act we see her in the theatre. The author's purpose in these first two acts is to make us inti- mately acquainted with the daily environment of such a girl, 12 PINERO'S SOCIAL PLAYS both in and out of the playhouse. Over thirty typical char- acters are set before us, and all of them are sketched with masterly and rapid strokes. After two acts we know them intimately, and we begin to realize that the heroine must be at heart a girl of quite extraordinary worth to have kept herself unspotted from this world of the Pandora Theatre. She is, indeed, a charming person. Her character is re- vealed, bit by bit, in little sudden deeds and unexpected speeches, until she stands before us every inch alive. In the entire gallery of his invention, Sir Arthur has never exhibited a more perfect portrait; and Lily is one of the most lovable of all his women. It is a higher achievement to create a human being than to build a plot; and the figure of Lily Parradell alone would be sufficient to justify the composition of this comedy of atmosphere. In the dramatic third act, two lovers battle for her favour. One, the Viscount Farncombe, is a young nobleman who has known her only a week: the other, Captain Jeyes, has been playing the faithful dog to her for many months and has given up his career in the army so that he may haunt the theatre every night. When Lord Farncombe asks Lily to marry him, she replies by telling him the entire story of her life, in order to prove to him that her humble origin and defective bringing-up would unfit her to become a peeress. Jeyes then breaks in, and upbraids her violently for having wrecked his life; and, partly as a reparation to the Captain, but mainly from a desire to defend the Viscount from ruin- ing his life in turn for her sake, Lily refuses the offer of Lord Farncombe and agrees to marry Captain Jeyes. In the next act, which may be regarded as a sort of epilogue, the Captain has decided to retire to South Africa, and generously hands the "Mind the Paint" girl over to the Viscount. This act is psychologically true; but the impres- sion cannot be avoided that the author has been pulling wires to bring about a happy ending. The piece is notable mainly for the veracity of the genre INTRODUCTION 13 painting of its first two acts, and for the literary tact of its dialogue. Lily's recital of her career — as Mr. William Archer has enthusiastically said — is one of the finest single passages of writing that Sir Arthur Pinero has ever penned ; and though The "Mind the Paint" Girl cannot be ranked with such moving and soul-searching dramas as Iris and Mid-Channel, it is, in its own way, an achievement fully worthy of its author's fame. After turning out a couple of one-act plays of merely minor interest, Pinero set himself for the undertaking of another major comedy. The Widow of Wasdale Head [1912] was a ghost-story in one act, composed to order for the late Charles Frohman, who desired to exhibit at the Duke of York's Theatre a programme made up of three new one-act plays, — one by Pinero, one by Barrie, and one by Shaw. Playgoers [191 3] was a much more sprightly com- position in the one-act form. In this little piece, the mistress of a household conceived the happy thought of giving her servants a good time, and also contributing to their much- desired education, by sending them systematically to the theatre; but the servants soon astounded her by rebelling violently against this cruel and inhuman punishment. The Big Drum, a comedy in four acts, was conceived before the sudden launching of the German hordes against the quiet camps of civilization; and the success of this worthy and interesting drama was disturbed by that chaos in theatrical conditions which resulted from the unexpected outbreak of the war of the nations. The Big Drum was first produced in London, at the St. James's Theatre, on September 1st, 1 91 5, with the late Sir George Alexander in the leading part. The time looked dark for England; and, in a moment of apparent national calamity, the theatre- going public resented the "unhappy" ending of the piece. i 4 PINERO'S SOCIAL PLAYS This ending was "unhappy" only in the sense that the lovers were logically parted in the final moments of the drama; but — as the author has explained in print — "pressure was forthwith put upon me to reconcile Philip and Ottoline at the finish, and at the third performance of the play the curtain fell upon the picture, violently and crudely brought about, of Ottoline in Philip's arms." This was the third time in his career that Pinero had been persuaded to reconsider the logical termination of a play in response to an appeal from the public, — the other two instances having occurred in the case of The Profligate and in the case of Preserving Mr. Panmurc. In all three instances, however, Sir Arthur has insisted that the pub- lished texts should perpetuate a record of his original in- tention. The printed text of The Big Drum concludes with the primary ending which, in the actual perform- ance, was discarded after the second night. In explaining this diversity, Sir Arthur has stated: — "I made the altera- tion against my principles and against my conscience, and yet not altogether unwillingly. For we live in depressing times; and perhaps in such times it is the first duty of a writer for the stage to make concessions to his audiences and, above everything, to try to afford them a complete, if brief, distraction from the gloom which awaits them outside the theatre." The altered version of The Big Drutn ran at the St. James's Theatre for a good part of the season ; but the piece was not so easily successful as it might have been in days less dark. Considered solely in respect to its inherent merits, this four-act comedy is the best play that has been written by Pinero since Mid-Channel. Though conceived primarily as a satiric composition, it is seriously and almost strenuously dramatic. Not only does it titillate a critical and antithetic sense of laughter, but it also evokes the more impressive tribute of sympathetic tears. In The Big Drum, Pinero satirises once again the vulgarity INTRODUCTION 15 of a family of social climbers. The family of which Sir Randle Filson is the head is very rich in new-made money, and is attempting to buy its way into the conservative circles of good society. The spectacle of this endeavour affords a theme for satire to Philip Mackworth, a promising young novelist, who is the hero of the comedy. Mackworth con- ceives a new novel — entitled "The Big Drum" — which he describes as follows: — "It's an attempt to portray the struggle for notoriety — for self-advertisement — we see going on around us to-day. It shows a vast crowd of men and women forcing themselves upon public attention without a shred of modesty, fighting to obtain it as if they are fighting for bread and meat. It shows how dignity and reserve have been cast aside as virtues that are antiquated and outworn, until half the world — the world that should be orderly, harmonious, beautiful — has become an arena for the exhibi- tion of vulgar ostentation or almost superhuman egoism — a cockpit resounding with raucous voices bellowing one against the other!" This tilting satirist, Philip Mackworth, has long been in love with the widowed Ottoline, Comtesse de Chaumie, who is the only daughter of the moneyed and drum-beating Sir Randle Filson. She promises to marry him; and, when her climbing parents object that Mackworth is penniless and unsuccessful, this daring hero agrees to stake the outcome of his suit upon the popular success of his next novel, "The Big Drum." This novel, shortly after the date of its initial publication, becomes surprisingly commercial. Thousands of copies are sold within a month. All goes well until the snooping brother of the Comtesse Ottoline discovers, with the aid of hired detectives, that most of the sold copies have been stored in bulk in a cellar in the suburbs. It transpires, ultimately, that Ottoline has bought up several thousand copies of "The Big Drum" in order to make it seem suc- cessful. But this deed of intended generosity, instead of winning Mackworth's heart, is the one thing that finally 16 PINERO'S SOCIAL PLAYS convinces him that Ottoline is irremediably vulgar. He still longs so ardently to marry her that he is willing to renounce his principles, and even to renounce his art, in order to reconcile his standards with those of this unprincipled and fascinating woman ; but, in the end of all, she says farewell to him forever, because she sees more clearly than the novelist himself the underlying falsity of their relation. VI In the midst of the Great War, Pinero projected a fan- tastic comedy, in three acts, entitled The Freaks. This "idyll of Suburbia" was first produced in London, at the New Theatre, on February 14th, 1918. It was not successful, and was withdrawn from the boards on March 30th. In imagining this piece, Sir Arthur went far afield in the endeavour to entertain a war-worn public. He even went so far as to trespass upon provinces held hitherto, by right of eminent domain, by his friend and colleague, Sir James Barrie. The Freaks was a play that ought to have been written by Barrie if it were to be written at all. The mild and gentle Mrs. Herrick, who dwells in Mole Park, a peace- ful suburb of London, inherits from her brother, who had run a circus in America, the duty of being kind to several members of his "world-renowned mammoth international hippodrome and museum of living marvels." To fulfill the stipulations of her brother's will, Mrs. Herrick invites to visit her, upon a quiet week-end, a group of "living marvels," composed of a human skeleton, a giant, two dwarfs, and an acrobatic lady who is able to tie herself into intricate knots. These freaks arrive in Mole Park, and scandalise the neigh- bours; and when the giant suddenly falls ill and becomes house-ridden, the suburban villa of Mrs. Herrick is made a focus for inquisitorial eyes. The purpose of the play is to emphasise the arch-satiric point that the physical "freaks" of the circus are, in reality, less freakish than those suburban INTRODUCTION 17 citizens who gape and glare at them in their moments of basical humanity. But the author, not content with estab- lishing this primary thesis of his satire, has made the play unplausible by attempting to carry even further the dramatic appeal of his group of circus "freaks" for public sympathy. Mrs. Herrick has a daughter and a son who are depicted as absolutely normal; but the author asks us to believe that Sheila Herrick falls in love with the human skeleton and that Ronald Herrick falls in love with the illiterate lady of the circus who is able to tie herself into knots. If these assumptions might be granted, the patterned outcome of the comedy would be more effective than it actually is. The "freaks" decide, as a matter of duty, to tear themselves away from the temptation to revert to the human privileges of ordinary life, by accepting a peremptory engagement to appear in public with a circus that is performing half the world away. This heroical decision brings about a parting that is undeniably pathetic. But, when the rupture comes, the critical spectator is still inclined to wonder whether the antecedent complication was not, after all, fortuitous. VII During the early months of 1 9 19, Pinero composed a new comedy, entitled Quick Work: A Story of a War Marriage. The title is explained in a summary line that is spoken by the heroine in the second act, — "Met in January, married in February, and now — only June." The sprightly heroine, Dordine, has married in haste a "hero" of the war, Captain Neil Whitway. Three months later, when her most inti- mate friends embrace the quickest opportunity to congratu- late her on her marriage, she informs them that it has al- ready turned out badly and that she is seeking separate quarters for her husband in order to establish legal grounds for suing him for divorce on the basis of desertion. Captain Whitway and Dordine, though "incompatible in temper," 18 PINERO'S SOCIAL PLAYS are evidently destined to be friends; for they collaborate without apparent friction in the necessary task of setting up a separate establishment for the disappointed "hero" who has failed to qualify as a husband. The basic facts of the story are assumed in retrospect; and the author devotes the entire time afforded by the three acts of the comedy to a detailed outline of the psychologic steps which ultimately lead to a reconciliation of the married lovers whose romance has been disturbed by the unprecedented tempo at which their love- song has necessarily been chanted. In no preceding composition has Pinero dispensed so utterly with the interest of plot and confined his attention so absolutely to the interest of character. The narrative material of Quick Work is perilously thin ; for nothing hap- pens on the stage, except at a single strong moment in the final act which is a little reminiscent of the famous climax of Antony, by Alexandre Dumas pere. Only four people — barring supernumeraries — are exhibited in the course of the comedy; but these four characters are studied with meticu- lous exactitude. The dialogue is happily conceived and writ- ten very naturally. Sir Arthur, in sending me a prompt- copy of Quick Work, explained that he "did not attach much importance to the piece, since it was very light," and hinted toward the composition of a "more substantial play" in the near future. Clayton Hamilton. THE THUNDERBOLT CRITICAL PREFACE * The Thunderbolt was written immediately after His House in Order, and was first presented, at the St. James's Theatre, in London, on May gth, 1908. The sub-title of this play describes it as "An Episode in the History of a Provincial Family." Here again, as in His House in Order, the author has devoted his attention not so much to the depiction of individual characters as to the study of a family regarded in the aspect of a collective social entity ; and his arraignment of the Mortimores is even more drastic and bitter than his previous arraignment of the Ridgeleys. In retrospect, the antecedent effort may be regarded as a sort of "try-out" for this later masterpiece of the sardonic mood. The trouble with the family as a social unit is that its members are selected helter-skelter by a capricious and un- reasonable providence. It is logical for men to choose their friends; in fact, they spend a lifetime in a conscious effort to find a few congenial fellow-mortals with whom they may be easily companionable and naturally intimate; and any person is lucky who can discover half a dozen veritable friends in three score years and ten. But the family most frequently imposes a false assumption of friendship upon people who are not at all allied in character or temperament. A man is expected, without choice, to love his parents, or his brothers, or his sisters, because of the mere accident of consanguinity; and often, by convention, he is set into a strange relation with several people whom he would never have chosen freely for his friends, — under circumstances which, in their imposition of an artificial intimacy, trangress * Copyright, 1922, by E. P. Dutton & Co. 21 22 THE THUNDERBOLT the imaginable borders of the delicate. To a reasonable mind, there is something almost indecent in an artificial intimacy with an utter stranger, — even though this utter stranger may be a man's own brother or his father. Thus the family, by imposing the usages of intimacy upon people who are not by nature intimate, often undermines the basic duty of the individual to sustain the integrity of his own soul, by suggesting the minor obligation of maintaining a false series of affectionate pretences. The family, considered as a social entity, has long been lauded in England as a bulwark of "respectability"; but Pinero evidently hates the British family as an artificial in- stitution which leads dangerously to the acceptance of many well-intended lies which result in a twisting of natural in- centives and a thwarting of the free and orderly develop- ment of individual character. In all fairness, there is no ap- parent reason for detesting any of the various members of the Mortimore family; and Thaddeus, the youngest brother in the group, is positively likable; yet the spectacle of this assembled family awakens an emotion that is closely akin to hatred. This play was not popular in London; and, though ac- cepted with respect on the two occasions when it was shown in the United States — first, by the New Theatre, of New York, and, second, by the Drama Players, of Chicago — it has never achieved a notable commercial success in America. In discussing with the author the comparative failure of The Thunderbolt at the box-office, I suggested that the people of the audience were made to hate so bitterly the people of the play that the public experienced an uncomfort- able evening and went away with an impression of antag- onism against a drama whose participants were so emphat- ically undeserving of the wished response of human sym- pathy. Thereupon, Sir Arthur surprised me by declaring that he personally "loved" every one of the characters as- sembled in The Thunderbolt. He repeated, in different CRITICAL PREFACE 23 words, the remark assigned to Trlst, in the second act, to the effect that "their faults of manner and breeding are pre- cisely the faults a reasonable, dispassionate person would have no difficulty in excusing." He told me that — regard- less of the predilections of the theatre-going public — he had grown to be more deeply interested in the destinies of mature people who had "somehow gone awry" than in the roseate hopes of young people, like his erstwhile Little Lavender, whose actual experience of life still swam ahead of them. The Mortimores, he said, resembled very closely the majority of ordinary people in their forties or their fifties, and it would be uncharitable not to love them. In attempt- ing to account for the comparative unpopularity of The Thunderbolt in the commercial theatre, I then suggested to the author that the people in the audience might be inclined subconsciously to resent the exhibition on the stage of veri- tably living characters that were too similar to themselves. The average attendant at the theatre judges a piece entirely upon the basis of its subject-matter. If he likes the char- acters, and likes the story, he goes away with the impression that he likes the play. It is much more difficult for the casual patron of the box-office to appreciate the mastery that may have been bestowed by a veritable artist upon the task of depicting life as it is actually lived in countless ordinary families by countless ordinary people. Yet, for a critical student of the theatre, there can be no finer pleasure than to watch with understanding the doing of a worthy work that is done supremely well. This fine pleasure, which may be derived only rarely from an observa- tion of the contemporary drama, is afforded by a study of The Thunderbolt. In order to receive the fullest satisfac- tion of a masterpiece, it is necessary — in the memorable words of Edgar Allan Poe — to "contemplate it with a kin- dred art." Sir Arthur Pinero, in the composition of this play, has paid his auditors the compliment of asking from them an alertness of intelligence that is answerable to his 24 THE THUNDERBOLT own. To dismiss The Thunderbolt as "unpleasant" is to confess an incapacity for those finer pleasures that are based upon experience and education, — the pleasure of recognising truth in a wise delineation of life, and the pleasure of fol- lowing point by point the unfaltering development of a fault- less pattern. There can be no safer formula for making a great play than to start out with a conventional plot and, while retain- ing most of its familiar incidents, to make the old fabric look strange and new by telling the truth about it. To populate such a plot with living characters so real that they assume dominion over it, and thus to shift the emphasis from the element of incident to the element of character, to reject at crucial moments the expected in favour of the true — in other words, to pluck out the heart of the mystery that has hitherto lain latent in the story — this is the surest way to achieve in the drama a work of original imagination. The Thunderbolt tells anew the old story of the lost and stolen will, and two of its four acts come to a climax in scenes of confession and cross-examination; but in Sir Arthur's drama this familiar plot is set forth no longer for its own sake, but rather for the sake of laying bare the inmost nature of the various members of a provincial British family. The Mortimores — James, Stephen, Thaddeus, and their wives, Rose, and her husband, Colonel Ponting — are all (excepting Mrs. Thaddeus) well along in their forties and fifties. They are middle-class people, devoid of breeding and of education ; but they are respectable and sturdy, and are generally esteemed in the small town of Singlehampton, where they live. They have been, in the worldly sense, only moderately successful — James, as a contractor and builder, Stephen as a local editor, Rose as a climber in London society, and Thaddeus (the most likable of the lot) as a professor of music. Their comparative eminence in their little town has given them a habit of assumption which they have found it difficult to maintain upon their slender means. The men have become brawling and embittered, the women incisive CRITICAL PREFACE 25 and acidulous. They had an elder brother, Edward, who ran away from Singlehampton at an early age and subse- quently amassed a large fortune as a brewer. They have always chosen to look upon Edward as the black sheep of the family; but when, in his last illness, he is persuaded by his solicitor to send for them to say a final farewell, they all rush pell-mell to his house in the city of Linchpool in the hope of inheriting some of the wealth that he has earned by the (to them) disreputable business of brewing beer. In the first act, they are exhibited at a conference with their lawyers in a room immediately below that in which the dead body of their brother is lying. They have learned, with surprise and trepidation, that Edward has left an illegitimate daughter, named Helen Thornhill, a girl of twenty-four, now an art student in Paris, of whom their dead brother was always very fond. They have been instructed also that unless Edward has made a will in Helen's favour, all of his vast estate will fall in equal shares to them, the next of kin. A diligent search has not revealed the existence of a will. The situation calls forth all of the cupidity that is latent in their various temperaments. They argue, quarrel, agree, dissent, and reconcile themselves as they severally grasp at the money that an unexpected chance has dropped among them. The scene is redolent of Moliere in his satiric vein ; but it is much more bitter and sardonic. When Helen arrives, they grudgingly offer her a curtailed allowance; and this she proudly and somewhat bitterly refuses. She, the only one among them all who knew and lovec 1 the dead man, will not accept any of his money as a charity from the vultures who are preying upon his corpse. A month passes, during which the solicitors advertise without result for information concerning a possible will. Helen is visiting Thaddeus and his wife, whom she dislikes much less than the other members of the family. She has grown very fond of their children. Mrs. Thaddeus is by far the best wife and mother among the Mortimores ; but she has always been despised and insulted by her sisters-in- 26 THE THUNDERBOLT law, because her father kept a grocery shop. This attitude on the part of her relatives by marriage has won Helen's sympathy for Mrs. Thaddeus. Furthermore, Mrs. Thad- deus has been very nervous for some time and has not been sleeping well. On the eve of a family conference to settle the estate, Mrs. Thaddeus breaks down and confesses to her husband that, just before Edward's death, she discovered in his safe a will in which he left all his wealth to a young woman in Paris — who was at that time unknown to her, but who was in fact his daughter, Helen Thornhill — and that she destroyed this will and cast the pieces into the river Linch. Her husband goes to the family conference, and, substituting himself for his wife in the story that he has to tell, flings this thunderbolt into the midst of the clawing, cackling harpies. They are completely stunned, until some- body discovers a slight inconsistency in the story that has been told to them. They then ply Thaddeus with questions, which become more and more embarrassing, until at last he is broken down and forced to confess that his wife and not himself destroyed the will. Then everybody rushes to the house of Thaddeus to see if anything may yet be saved from the ruin of their hopes. Helen, facing the alternative of sending Mrs. Thaddeus to prison, chooses to compromise and to divide the estate with the relatives of her father. Thaddeus and his wife renounce their share, but Helen insists that it shall be settled on their children. Much to the general disgust, she insists also that a share shall be given to a hospital in Linchpool in memory of her father. Her attitude, in this last act, is neither mag- nanimous nor sentimental ; it is merely generous and right. The play closes with a suggestion that she may ultimately find a life companion in a young curate, named Trist, who has been lodging with Mr. and Mrs. Thaddeus. This framework is decorated with a scathing satire of that sordidness which seethes to the surface of ordinary natures when they are suddenly stirred by the prospect of a great wealth which they have never done anything to deserve. All CRITICAL PREFACE 27 that is mean and nasty in the natures of the Mortimores is called forth by the situation into which they are cast. As- suredly — to use the language of Macbeth — they make a sorry sight. Helen depicts them truly in the second act when she says, "But I'm sure it isn't good, morally, for me to be here. ... If I remained here, all that's bad in my nature would come out on top." Yet, on the other hand, it is likely that most of the people in the audience who dare to call these charactefs "unpleasant" would behave in much the same way if they were flung suddenly into a similar situation. As Trist says, in the play, "Their faults of manner and breed- ing are precisely the faults a reasonable, dispassionate person would have no difficulty in excusing." And, as Thaddeus says, even more justly, in his final defence of his wife, "You've seen her at a disadvantage — a terrible disadvantage. Few — few pass through life without being seen — once — or oftener — at a disadvantage." The Mortimores are sordid and despicable people, if you will; but few people would show themselves otherwise than sordid and despicable if they saw two hundred thousand dollars hovering unexpectedly within their grasp. Technically, this play is notable in so many points that only a small proportion of them can be called up for atten- tion. In the first act, no fewer than twelve people are introduced upon the stage, and scarcely for a moment are less than eight people gathered upon the scene. Yet not only is an intricate story completely expounded in this in- itial act, but also the characters of all these dozen people are intimately drawn, in a dialogue that flutters all around the stage in crisp sentences and phrases that reveal entirely the individual natures of the speakers. Only a playwright can fully realise the difficulty of this technical task and the grace of its accomplishment. An interesting innovation in technique was introduced in the time-scheme of The Thunderbolt. The second and third acts overlap each other. At the end of the second act, a servant appears at the house of Thaddeus and informs him 28 THE THUNDERBOLT that the assembled members of the family are waiting for him at the house of his brother James. At the outset of the third act, we find ourselves in the midst of this family con- ference ; but three minutes of actual acting time elapse before the servant is summoned and despatched upon the errand whose completion we have already witnessed at the conclu- sion of the antecedent act. This device has subsequently been adopted by several other playwrights; but Pinero was the first technician to employ it on the stage. Whereas a lesser dramatist would have rung down his third curtain on the collapse of Thaddeus at the conclusion of his tragic confession, Pinero appends a scene which is terribly comic, in order to work out to the last hateful and laughable detail the effect of the confession on the other members of the family. Whereas almost any other author would have succumbed to the temptation to sentimentalise over Helen's generosity in the last act, Pinero carries off the situation in a mood that is serenely stern. When Mrs. Thaddeus sinks weeping at the feet of Helen, the latter, in the very moment of for- giving her, walks away from her instead of helping her to rise. And, at the end, Helen suggests that no word should pass between the woman who has wronged her and herself for the next six months; after which — and here is the human point — she hopes that Mrs. Thaddeus will again invite her for a visit. Humanly, The Thunderbolt is unique in many ways. It is one of the few great plays of history in which there is no love story. It is merely suggested that, at some time subsequent to the play, Helen may possibly fall in love with Trist. Not for a single moment is attention called to the fact that any of the other characters is, in the sexual sense, a man or a woman. This is, in modern art, and especially in the art of Pinero, a remarkable departure from the usual. Pinero's later plays have dealt nearly always with some in- tricacy of relation between the sexes; and all contemporary art is drenched with what — to use a German-sounding word CRITICAL PREFACE 29 — we may call sex-consciousness. In this, our modern art belies the modesty of nature; for in actual life it is only now and then that we are conscious of our sex. Most of the time we are not males or females, but merely human beings. And it is gratifying to observe a play in which all the people are exhibited upon the common ground of human nature, without awareness of diversity of sex. It is especially notable, in The Thunderbolt, that the crime of, destroying the will and the consequent crime of lying about the circumstances of its destruction, are com- mitted impulsively by the two people in the Mortimore family who are, from first to last, the most likable of the lot. This is a very subtle point in the psychology of per- sonal obliquity. Mrs. Thaddeus, who destroys the will, is a better person than the other women who merely profit by her crime; and Thaddeus, who tells an elaborate lie, has a truer nature than the brothers who detect him in his falsification. This great ethical principle, that people must be judged not by their unpremeditated deeds but by their abiding and essential personality, was clearly expounded, many centuries ago, by the wisest of all men, Dante Alighieri ; but it is often lost sight of in modern art by authors whose vision is less clear than that of Sir Arthur Pinero. Considered from the narrow outlook of sheer technical accomplishment, The Thunderbolt may reasonably be re- garded as the ultimate monument of intensive artistry in the modern drama. I know no other play, of any period, that has ever been more finely made. When the piece was new, a good and faithful friend of the author and the editor — Mr. Henry Arthur Jones — complained against it in a private conversation with the present writer which may now be re- ported without embarrassment, by reason of the passage of the years. Mr. Jones said to me, a decade ago, that he regarded The Thunderbolt as faulty in construction, by reason of the fact that the third act did not advance the story but merely repeated a passage of narrative with which the audience had already been made completely acquainted at 3 o THE THUNDERBOLT the conclusion of the second act. While appreciating the reasonable fundament of this objection, I replied that this apparent repetition was, in my opinion, the most admirable feature of the structure of The Thunderbolt. In the second act, the secret of the plot was delivered to the audience ; and, in the third act, the audience — acquainted already with the underlying facts — was prepared to devote an undisrupted attention to the effect of the delivery of these facts upon the assembled members of the Mortimore family. By this unusual device, a play of plot was suddenly transmuted and transfigured to a play of character. I still believe that my initial opinion of this matter was correct ; and I dare say that so generous a commentator as Mr. Henry Arthur Jones has latterly withdrawn his previous objection. The dialogue of The Thunderbolt shows the writing of Pinero at his best. In no other of his compositions has he succeeded so unquestionably in distinguishing the natural key of unpremeditated conversation from the more formal key of studied and premeditated prose. A passage toward the end of the second act, in which the dazed and inartic- ulate Thaddeus vaguely repeats, in speech after speech, the last words that have been uttered by his wife in the course of her delivery of an unexpected thunderbolt, should be studied by all sedulous apprentices to the craft of composi- tion for the current stage; and the exit-speech of Thaddeus in the final act should be studied meticulously, also, for its exhibition of the dramatic virtue of repeating, over and over again, a few fundamental words. Any student of the drama is entitled to form his own opinion of the ultimate importance of the subject-matter of The Thunderbolt; but the present commentator may be permitted to venture the assertion that no other modern play, with the possible ex- ception of Mid-Channel, is more nearly perfect in construc- tion, nor more nearly impeccable — in respect to recent standards — in the composition of its dialogue. C. H. THE THUNDERBOLT AN EPISODE IN THE HISTORY OF A PROVINCIAL FAMILY, IN FOUR ACTS THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY James Mortimore Ann, his wife Stephen Mortimore Louisa, his wife Thaddeus Mortimore Phyllis, his wife Toyce I The Thaddeus Mortimores' children Cyril J Colonel Ponting Rose, his wife, nee Mortimore Helen Thornhill The Rev. George Trist Mr. Vallance, solicitor, of Singlehampton Mr. Elkin, solicitor, of Linchpool Mr. Denyer, a house-agent Heath, a man-servant A servant girl at Nelson Villas Two others at "Ivanhoe" The scene of the First Act is laid at Linchpool, a city in the Midlands. The rest of the action takes place, a month later, in the town of Singlehampton. THE THUNDERBOLT Original cast, as first disclosed at the St. James's Theatre, May 9th, 1908. James Mortimore . Ann (his Wife) . . . Stephen Mortimore . Louisa (his Wife) . Thaddeus Mortimore Phyllis (his Wife) .] The Thaddeus *L ' I Mortimores' CYRIL J Children Colonel Ponting . Rose (his Wife, nee Morti- more) Helen Thornhill The Rev. George Trist . Mr. Vallance (Solicitor, of Singlehampton) Mr. Elkin (Solicitor, of Linchpool) . Mr. Denyer (a House- agent) Heath (a Manservant) A Servant Girl at Nelson Villas Two Others at "Ivan- hoe Mr. Louis Calvert Miss Kate Bishop Mr. Norman Forbes Miss Alice Beet Mr. George Alexander Miss Mabel Hackney Miss Miff no n Clifford Master Cyril Bruce Mr. Wilfrid Draycott Miss May Palfrey Miss Stella Campbell Mr. Reginald Owen Mr. Julian Royce Mr. J. D. Beveridge Mr. F. J. Arlton Mr. Richard Haigh Miss Gladys Dale J Miss Sybil Maurisse I Miss Vere Sinclair THE THUNDERBOLT THE FIRST ACT The scene represents a large, oblong room, situated on the ground floor and furnished as a library. At the back, facing the spectator, are three sash windows, slightly re- cessed, with Venetian blinds. There is a chair in each recess. At the further end of the right-hand wall a door opens from the hall, the remaining part of the ivall — that nearer to the audience — being occupied by a long dwarf-bookcase. This bookcase finishes at each end with a cupboard, and on the top of each cupboard stands a lamp. The keys of the cupboards are in their locks. On the left-hand side of the room, in the middle of the wall, is a fireplace with a fender-stool before it, and on either side of the fireplace there is a tall bookcase with glazed doors. A high-backed armchair faces the fire- place at the further end. A smoking-table with the usual accessories, a chair, and a settee stand at the nearer end of the fireplace, a few feet from the wall. Almost in the centre of the room, facing the spectator, there is a big knee-hole writing-table with a lamp upon it. On the further side of the table is a writing-chair. Another chair stands beside the table. On the right, near the dwarf-bookcase, there is a circular library-table on which are strewn books, newspapers, and magazines. Round this table a settee and three chairs are arranged. 35 36 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i The furniture and decorations, without exhibiting any special refinement of taste, are rich and massive. The Venetian blinds are down and the room is in semi- darkness. What light there is proceeds from the bright sunshine visible through the slats. Seated about the room, as if waiting for somebody to arrive, are James and Ann Mortimore, Stephen and Louisa, Thaddeus and Phyllis, and Colonel Ponting and Rose. The ladies are wearing their hats and gloves. Everybody is in the sort of black u huh people hurriedly muster while regular mourning is in the making — in the case of the Mortimores, the black being added to apparel of a less sombre kind. All speak in subdued voices. [Note: — Throughout, "right" and "left" are the specta- tors' right and left, not the actor's.] Rose. [A lady of forty-four, fashionably dressed and coiffured and with a suspiciously blooming complexion — on the set- tee on the left, fanning herself.] Oh, the heat! I'm stifled. Louisa. [On the right — forty-six, a spare, thin-voiced woman.] Mayn't we have a window open ? Ann. [Beside the writing-table — a stolid, corpulent woman of fifty.] I don't think we ought to have a window open. James. [At the writing-table — a burly, thick-set man, a little older than his wife, with iron-gray hair and beard and a crape band round his sleeve.] Phew! Why not, mother? act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 37 Ann. It isn't usual in a house of mourning — except in the room where the PONTING. [In the armchair before the fireplace — fifty-five, short, stout, apoplectic] Rubbish! [Dabbing his brow.] I beg your pardon — it's like the Black Hole of Calcutta. * Thaddeus. [Rising from the settee on the right, ivhere he is sitting ivith Phyllis — a meek, care-worn man of two-and- forty.] Shall I open one a little way? Stephen. [On the further side of the library-table — forty-nine, bald, stooping, with red rims to his eyes, wearing spectacles.] Do, Tad. [Thaddeus goes to the window on the right and opens it. Thaddeus. [From behind the Venetian blind.] Here's a fly. James. [Taking out his watch as he rises.] That'll be Crake. Half-past eleven. He's in good time. Thaddeus. [Looking into the street.] It isn't Crake. It's a young fellow. James. Young fellow? Thaddeus. [Emerging.] It's Crake's partner. James. His partner? 3 8 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Stephen. Crake has sent Vallance. James. What's he done that for? Why hasn't he come himself? This young man doesn't know anything about our family. Ann. He'll know the law, James. James. Oh, the law's clear enough, mother. [After a short silence Heath, a middle-aged man- servant, appears, followed by Vallance. Vallance is a young man of about five-and-thirty. Heath. Mr. Vallance. James. [Advancing to Vallance as Heath retires.} Good- morning. Vallance. Good-morning. [Inquiringly.] Mr. Mortimore? James. James Mortimore. • Vallance. Mr. Crake had your telegram yesterday evening. James. Yes, he answered it, telling us to expect him. Vallance. He's obliged to go to London on business. He's very sorry. He thought I'd better run through. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 39 James. Oh, well — glad to see you. [Introducing the others.] My wife. My sister Rose — Mrs. Ponting. My sister-in- law, Mrs. Stephen Mortimore. My sister-in-law, Mrs. Thaddeus. My brother Stephen. Stephen. [Rising.'] Mr. Vallance was pointed out to me at the Institute the other night. [Shaking hands with Vallance.] You left by the eight forty-seven ? Vallance. Yes. I changed at Mirtlesfield. James. Colonel Ponting — my brother-in-law. [Ponting, who has risen, nods to Vallance and joins Rose.] My younger brother, Thaddeus. Thaddeus. [Who has moved away to the left.] How d'ye do? James. [Putting Vallance into the chair before the writing-table and switching on the light of the lamp.] You sit yourself down there. [To everybody.] Who's to be spokesman? Stephen. [Joining Louisa.] Oh, you explain matters, Jim. [Louisa makes way for Stephen, transferring herself to another chair so that her husband may be nearer Vallance. James. [To Ponting.] Colonel? Ponting. [Sitting by Rose.] Certainly; you do the talking, Morti- more. 4 o THE THUNDERBOLT [act i James. [Sitting, in the middle of the room, astride a chair, which he fetches from the window on the right.] Well, Mr. Val- lance, the reason we wired you yesterday — wired Mr. Crake, rather — asking him to meet us here this morning, is this. Something has happened here in Linchpool which makes it necessary for us to obtain a little legal assistance. Vallance. Yes? James. Not that we anticipate legal difficulties, whichever way the affair shapes. At the same time, we consider it advis- able that we should be represented by our own solicitor — a solicitor who has our interests at heart, and nobody's interests but ours. [Looking round.] Isn't that it? Stephen. We want our interests watched — our interests exclusively. Ponting. Watched — that's it. I'm speaking for my wife, of course. Rose. [With a languid drawl.] Yes, watched. We should like our interests watched. James. [To Vallance.] These are the facts. I'll start with a bit of history. We Mortimores are one of the oldest, and, I'm bold enough to say, one of the most respected, families in Singlehampton. You're a newcomer to the town ; so I'm obliged to tell you things I shouldn't have to tell Crake, who's been the family's solicitor for years. Four generations of Mortimores — I'm not counting our youngsters, who make a fifth — four generations of Mortimores have been born in Singlehampton, and the majority of 'em have earned their daily bread there. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 41 Vallance. Indeed ? James. Yes, sir, indeed. Now, then. [Pointing to the writing- table.] Writing-paper's in the middle drawer. [Vallance takes a sheet of paper from the drawer and arranges it before him.} My dear father and mother — both passed away — had five children, four sons and a daughter. I'm the second son; then comes Stephen; then Rose — Mrs. Colonel Pont- ing; then Thaddeus. You see us all round you. Vallance. [Selecting a pen.] Five children, you said? James. Five. The eldest of us was Ned — Edward Stephen. Edward Thomas Mortimore. James. Edward cut himself adrift from Singlehampton six-and- \ twenty years ago. He died at a quarter-past three yester- day morning. Stephen. Up-stairs. James. We're in his house. Stephen. We lay him to rest in the cemetery here on Monday. Vallance. [Sympathetically.] I was reading in the train, in one of the Linchpool papers James. Oh, they've got it in all their papers. 42 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Vallance. Mr. Mortimore, the brewer? James. The same. Aye, he was a big man in Linchpool. Stephen. A very big man. James. And, what's more, a very wealthy one; there's no doubt about that. Well, we can't find a will, Mr. Vallance. Vallance. Really? James. To all appearances, my brother's left no will — died in- testate. Vallance. Unmarried? James. Unmarried; a bachelor. Now, then, sir — just to satisfy my good lady — in the event of no will cropping up, what becomes of my poor brother's property? Vallance. It depends upon what the estate consists of. As much of it as is real estate would go to the heir-at-law — in this in- stance, the eldest surviving brother. Ponting. [Impatiently.] Yes, yes; but it's all personal estate — personal estate, every bit of it. James. [To Vallance.] The Colonel's right. It's personal estate entirely, so we gather. The Colonel and I were pumping Elkin's managing-clerk about it this morning. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 43 Vallance. Elkin? James. Elkin, Son and Tullis. Stephen. Mr. Elkin has acted as my poor brother's solicitor for the last fifteen years. « James. And he's never made a will for Ned. Stephen. Nor heard my brother mention the existence of one. James. [To Vallance.] Well? In the case of personal estate ? Vallance. In that case, equal division between next-of-kin. James. That's us — me, and my brothers, and my sister? Vallance. Yes. James. [To Ann.] What did I tell you, Ann? [To the rest.] What did I tell everybody? [Stephen polishes his spectacles, and Ponting pulls at his moustache, vigorously. Rose, Ann, and Louisa resettle themselves in their seats with great contentment. Vallance. [Writing.] "Edward" — [looking up] Thomas? [James nods.] "Thomas — Mortimore " James. Of 3 Cannon Row and Horton Lane 44 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Stephen. Horton Lane is where the brewery is. James. Linchpool, brewer. Stephen. "Gentleman" is the more correct description. The busi- ness was converted into a company in nineteen-hundred-and- four. Louisa. Gentleman, ah! What a gentlemanly man he was! Ann. A perfect gentleman in every respect. Rose. Most gentlemanlike, poor dear thing. PONTING. Must have been. I never saw him — but must have been. James. [To Vallance.] Gentleman, deceased Stephen. Died, June the twentieth James. Aged fifty-three. Two years my senior. Vallance. [With due mournfulness.] No older? [Writing.] You are James- James. James Henry. "Ivanhoe," Claybrook Road, and Vic- toria Yard Singlehampton, builder and contractor. Ann. My husband is a parish guardian and a rural-district councilman. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 45 James. Never mind that, mother. Ann. Eight years treasurer of the Institute, and one of the founders of the Singlehampton and Claybrook Temperance League. « Louisa. Stephen was one of the founders of the League too — weren't you, Stephen? \ James. [To Vallance.] Stephen Philip Mortimore, 11 The Crescent, and 32 King Street, Singlehampton, printer and publisher; editor and proprietor of our Singlehampton Times and Mirror. Louisa. Author of the History of Singlehampton and its Sur- roundings Stephen. All right, Lou. Louisa. With Ordnance Map. James. Rose Emily Rackstraw Ponting Rose. My mother was a Rackstraw. James. Wife of Arthur Everard Ponting, West Sussex Regiment, Colonel, retired, 17a Coningsby Place, South Belgravia, London. That's the lot. Ann. No James. Oh, there's Tad. [To Vallance.] Thaddeus John Mortimore 46 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Thaddeus. [Who is standing, looking on, with his elbows resting upon the back of the chair before the fireplace — smiling dif- fidently.] Don't forget me, Jim. James. 6 Nelson Villas, Singlehampton, professor of music. Any further Darticulars, Mr. Vallance? Vallance. [Finishing writing and leaning back in his chair.] May I ask, Mr. Mortimore, what terms you and your sister and brothers were on with the late Mr. Mortimore? James. Terms ? Vallance. What I mean is, your late brother was a man of more than ordinary intelligence; he must have known who his estate would benefit, in the event of his dying intestate. James. [With a nod.] Aye. Vallance. My point is, was he on such terms with you as to make it reasonably probable that he should have desired his estate to pass to those who are here? James. [Rubbing his beard.] Reasonably probable? Stephen. Certainly. Ponting. In my opinion, certainly. James. [Looking at the others.] He sent for us when he was near his end act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 47 Stephen. Showing that old sores were healed — thoroughly healed — as far as he was concerned. Vallance. Old sores? James. He wouldn't have done that if he hadn't had a fondness for his *family — eh? Ann. Of course not. Louisa. Of course he wouldn't Ponting. Quite so. Vallance. Then, I take it, there had been — er ? Stephen. An estrangement. Yes, there had. James. Oh, I'm not one for keeping anything in the background. Up to a day or two before his death, we hadn't been on what you'd call terms with my brother for many years, Mr. Vallance. Stephen. Unhappily. James. De mortuis — how's it go ? Stephen. De mortuis nil nisi bonurn. James. Well, plain English is good enough for me. [To Val- lance.] But I don't attempt to deny it — at one time of his life my poor brother Edward was a bit of a scamp, sir. 48 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Stephen. A little rackety — a little wild. Young men will be young men. Ann. [Shaking her head.] I've a grown-up son myself. Louisa. [Inconsequently.] And there are two sides to every ques- tion. I always say — don't I, Stephen ? Stephen. Yes, yes, yes. Louisa. There are two sides to every question. James. [To Vallance.] No, sir, after Edward cleared out of Singlehampton, we didn't see him again, any of us, till about fifteen years back. Then he came to settle here, in this city, and bought Cordingly's brewery. Louisa. Only forty miles away from his birthplace. Stephen. Forty-two miles. Louisa. That was fate. Stephen. Chance. Louisa. / don't know the difference between chance and fate. Stephen. [Irritably.] No, you don't, Lou. James. Then some of us used to knock up against him occasionally — generally on the line, at Mirtlesfield junction. But it was act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 49 only a nod, or a how-d'ye-do, we got from him; and it never struck us till last Tuesday morning that he kept a soft corner in his heart for us all. Vallance. Tuesday ? Ann. First post. * James. We had a letter from Elkin, telling us that poor Ned was seriously ill ; and saying that he was willing to shake hands with the principal members of the family, if they chose to come through to Linchpool. Stephen. Thank God we came. James. Aye, thank God. Ann and Louisa. Thank God. Rose. [Affectedly.] It will always be a sorrow to me that I didn't get down till it was too late. I shall never cease to reproach myself. James. [Indulgently.] Oh, well, you're a woman o' fashion, Rose. Rose. [With a simper.] Still, if I had guessed the end was as near as it was, I'd have given up my social engagements without a murmur. [Appealing to Ponting.] Toby ! Ponting. Without a murmur — without a murmur; both of us would. 50 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Vallance. [Rising, putting his notes into his pocketbook as he speaks.] I think it would perhaps be as well that I should meet Mr. Elkin. Stephen. That's the plan. James. [Rising.] Just what I was going to propose. Stephen. Elkin knows we have communicated with our solicitor. James. [Looking at his watch.] He's gone round to the Safe Deposit Company in Lemon Street. Stephen. His latest idea is that my brother may have rented a safe there. Ponting. [Who has risen with James.] Preposterous. Never heard anything more grotesque. James. The old gentleman will want to drag the river Linch next. Ponting. As if a man of wealth and position, with safes and strong- rooms of his own, would deposit his will in a place of that sort. 'Pon my word, it's outrageous of Elkin. Stephen. It does seem rather extravagant. Rose. Absurd. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 51 Vallance. [Coming forward.] We must remember that it's the duty of all concerned to use every possible means of discovery. [To James.] Your brother had an office at the brewery? James. Elkin and I turned that inside-out yesterday. Stephen. In the presence of Mr. Holt and Mr. Friswell, two of the directors. Vallance. And his bank ? James. London City and Midland. Four tin boxes. We've been through 'em. Stephen. The most likely place of deposit, I should have thought, was the safe in this room. Ponting. Exactly. The will would have been there if there had been a will at all. [James switches on the light of the lamp which stands above the cupboard at the further end of the dwarf- bookcase. James. [Opening the cupboard and revealing a safe.] Yes, this is where my brother's private papers are. Stephen. This was his library and sanctum. James. [Listening as he shuts the cupboard door.] Hallo! [Opening the room door a few inches and peering into the hall.] Here is Elkin. [There is a slight general movement 5 o THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Vallance. [Rising, putting his notes into his pocketbook as he speaks.] I think it would perhaps be as well that I should meet Mr. Elkin. Stephen. That's the plan. James. [Rising.] Just what I was going to propose. Stephen. Elkin knows we have communicated with our solicitor. James. [Looking at his watch.] He's gone round to the Safe Deposit Company in Lemon Street. Stephen. His latest idea is that my brother may have rented a safe there. Ponting. [Who has risen with James.] Preposterous. Never heard anything more grotesque. James. The old gentleman will want to drag the river Linch next. Ponting. As if a man of wealth and position, with safes and strong- rooms of his own, would deposit his will in a place of that sort. 'Pon my word, it's outrageous of Elkin. Stephen. It does seem rather extravagant. Rose. Absurd. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 51 Vallance. [Coming forward.} We must remember that it's the duty of all concerned to use every possible means of discovery. [To James.] Your brother had an office at the brewery? James. Elkin and I turned that inside-out yesterday. Stephen. In the presence of Mr. Holt and Mr. Friswell, two of the directors. Vallance. And his bank ? James. London City and Midland. Four tin boxes. We've been through 'em. Stephen. The most likely place of deposit, I should have thought, was the safe in this room. Ponting. Exactly. The will would have been there if there had been a will at all. [James switches on the light of the lamp which stands above the cupboard at the further end of the dwarf- bookcase. James. [Opening the cupboard and revealing a safe.] Yes, this is where my brother's private papers are. Stephen. This was his library and sanctum. James. [Listening as he shuts the cupboard door.] Hallo! [Opening the room door a few inches and peering into the hall.] Here is Elkin. [There is a slight general movement 52 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i denoting intense interest and suspense. Ann gets to her feet. James closes the door and comes foward a little — grimly.] Well! Hey! I wonder whether he's found any- thing in Lemon Street? PONTING. [Clutching Rose's shoulder and dropping lack into his chair — under his breath.] Good God! Ann. [Staring at her husband.] James ! James. [Sternly.] Go and sit down, mother. [Ann retreats and seats herself beside Rose.] If he has, we ought to feel glad; that's how we ought to feel. Stephen. [Resentfully.] Of course we ought. That's how we shall feel. James. Poor old Ned ! It's his wishes we've got to consider — [returning to the door] his wishes. [Opening the door again.] Come in, Mr. Elkin. Waiting for you, sir. [He admits Elkin, a gray-haired, elderly man of sixty. Presents Vallance.] Mr. Vallance — Crake and Vallance, Single- hampton, our solicitors. [Elkin advances and shakes hands with Vallance.] Mr. Vallance has just run over to see how we're getting on. Elkin. [To Vallance, genially.] I don't go often to Single- hampton nowadays. I recollect the time, Mr. Vallance, when the whole of the south side of the town was meadow- land. Would you believe it — meadow-land! And where they've built the new hospital, old Dicky Dunn, the farmer, used to graze his cattle. [To James, who is touching his sleeve.] Eh? act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 53 James. [Rather huskily.] Excuse me. Any luck? Elkin. Luck? James. In Lemon Street. Find anything? Elkin. [Shaking his head.] No. There is nothing there in your brother's name. [Again there is a general movement, but this time of relief.] It was worth trying. James. Oh, it was worth trying. Stephen. [Heartily.] Everything's worth trying. Ponting. [Jumping up.] Everything. Mustn't leave a stone un- turned. [The strain being over, Rose and Ann rise and go to the fireplace, where Ponting joins them. Thaddeus moves away and seats himself at the centre window. Elkin. [Sitting beside the writing-table.] This is a puzzling state of affairs, Mr. Vallance. Vallance. Oh, come, Mr. Elkin! Elkin. I don't want to appear uncivil to these ladies and gentle- men — very puzzling. 54 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Vallance. Scarcely what one would have expected, perhaps; but what is there that's puzzling about it? James. [Standing by Elkin.] People have died intestate before to-day, Mr. Elkin. Stephen. It's a common enough occurrence. Vallance. [To Elkin.] I understand you acted for the late Mr. Mortimore for a great many years? Elkin. Ever since he came to Linchpool. Vallance. His most prosperous years. [Elkin assents silently. James. When he was making money to leave. Vallance. f To Elkin.] And the subject of a will was never broached between you? Elkin. I won't say that. I've thrown out a hint or two at dif- ferent times. Vallance. Without any response on his part? act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 55 Elkin. Without any practical response, I admit. [James and Stephen shrug their shoulders.] But he must have em- ployed other solicitors previous to my connection with him. I can't trace his having done so; but no commercial man gets to eight-and-thirty without having something to do with us chaps. Vallance. {Sitting on the settee on the left.] Assuming a will of long standing, he may have destroyed it, may he not, re- cently? Elkin. Recently ? Vallance. Quite recently. Here we have a man at variance with his family and dangerously ill. What do we find him doing? We find him summoning his relatives to his bedside and be- coming reconciled to them James. Completely reconciled. Stephen. Completely. Elkin. [To Vallance.] At my persuasion. I put pressure on him to send for his belongings. Vallance. Indeed? Granting that, isn't it reasonable to suppose that subsequent to this reconciliation ? Elkin. Oh, no: he destroyed no document of any description after he took to his bed. That I've ascertained. 56 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Vallance. Well, theorizing is of no use, is it? We have to deal with the simple fact, Mr. Elkin. James. Yes, that's all we have to deal with. Stephen. The simple fact. Elkin. No will. PONTING. [Who, with the rest, has been following the conversation between Elkin and Vallance.] No will. Elkin. {After a pause.] Do you know, Mr. Vallance, there is one thing I shouldn't have been unprepared for? Vallance. What? Elkin. A will drawn by another solicitor, behind my back, during my association with Mr. Mortimore. Vallance. Behind your back? Elkin. He was a most attractive creature — one of the most en- gaging and one of the ablest, I've ever come across; but he was remarkably secretive with me in matters relating to his private affairs — remarkably secretive. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 57 Vallance. Secretive ? Elkin. Reserved, if you like. Why, it wasn't till a few days before his death — last Saturday — it wasn't till last Saturday that he first spoke to me about this child of his. Vallance. Child? Elkin. This young lady we are going to see presently. Vallance. [Looking at James and Stephen.] Oh, I — I haven't heard anything of her. Elkin. Bless me, haven't you been told? James. [Uncomfortably.'] We hadn't got as far as that with Mr. Vallance. Stephen. [Clearing his throat.] Mr. Elkin did not think fit to in- form us of her existence till yesterday. James. [Looking at his watch.] Twelve o'clock she's due, isn't she? Elkin. [To James.] You fixed the hour. [To Vallance.] I wrote to her at the same time that I communicated with his brothers. Unfortunately she was away, visiting. 58 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Stephen. She's studying painting at one of these art-schools in Paris. Elkin. She arrived late last night. Mrs. Elkin and I received her. Only four-and-twenty. A nice girl. Vallance. Is the mother living? Elkin. No. James. The mother was a person of the name of Thornhill. Stephen. Calling herself Thornhill — some woman in London. She died when the child was quite small. James. [With a jerk of the head towards the safe.] There's a bundle of the mother's letters in the safe. Elkin. This meeting with the family is my arranging. As mat- ters stand, Miss Thornhill is absolutely unprovided for, Mr. Vallance. And there was the utmost affection between Mr. Mortimore and his daughter — as he acknowledged her to be — undoubtedly. Now you won't grumble at me for my use of the word "puzzling"? act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 59 Vallance. [Looking round.] I am sure my clients, should the re- sponsibility ultimately rest with them, will do what is just and fitting with regard to the young lady. James. More than just — more than just, if it's left to me. Stephen. We should be only too anxious to behave in a liberal manner, Mr. Vallance. Louisa. We're parents ourselves — all except Colonel and Mrs. Ponting. Ann. My own girl — my Cissy — is nearly four-and-twenty. Rose. {Seated upon the fender-stool.] I suppose we should have to make her an allowance of sorts, shouldn't we? James. A monthly allowance. Stephen. Monthly or quarterly. Ponting. Yes, but this art-school in Paris — you've no conception what that kind of fun runs into. 6o THE THUNDERBOLT [act i James. Schooling doesn't go on forever, Colonel. PONTING. But it'll lead to an atelier — a studio — if you're not care- ful. Rose. The art-school could be dropped, surely? Stephen. Perhaps the art-school isn't strictly necessary. Rose. And she has an address in a most expensive quarter of Paris — didn't you say, Jim? James. The Colonel says it's a swell locality. PONTING. Most expensive. The father — if he was her father — seems to have squandered money on her. Stephen. Well, well, we shall see what's to be done. PONTING. Squandered money on her recklessly. James. Yes, yes, we'll see, Colonel ; we'll see. [Phyllis, who has taken no part in what has been going on, suddenly rises. She is a woman of thirty- act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 61 five, white-faced and faded, but with decided traces of beauty. Everybody looks at her in surprise. Phyllis. [Falteringly.] I — I beg your pardon- Louisa. [Startled.] Good gracious me, Phyllis! « Phyllis. [Gaining firmness as she proceeds.] I beg your pardon. With every respect for Rose and Colonel Ponting, if we come into Edward Mortimore's money, we mustn't let it make an atom of difference to the child. Louisa. Really, Phyllis! Stephen. [Stiffly.] My dear Phyllis James. [Half amused, half contemptuously.] Oh, we mustn't, mustn't we, Phyllis? Phyllis. He was awfully devoted to her in his lifetime, it turns out. Colonel Ponting and Rose ought to remember that. Ponting. [Walking away in umbrage to the window on the left, followed by Rose.] Thank you, Mrs. Thaddeus. 62 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Thaddeus. [Who has risen and come to the writing-table.} Phyl — Phyl Phyllis. [To James and Stephen.] Jim — Stephen — you couldn't stint the girl after pocketing your brother's money; you couldn't do it! Ann. James- James. Eh, mother? Ann. I don't think we need to be taught our duty by Phyllis. Stephen. [Rising and going over to the fireplace.} Frankly, I don't think we need. Louisa. [Following him.} Before Mr. Elkin and Mr. Vallance! Thaddeus. Stephen — Lou — you don't understand Phyl. James. It isn't for want of plain speaking, Tad. Thaddeus. [Sitting at the zvriting-table.] No, but listen — Jim act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 63 James. [Joining those at the fireplace.} Blessed if I've ever been spoken to in this style in my life! Thaddeus. Jim, listen. If we come into Ned's money, we come into his debts into the bargain. There are no assets without liabilities. The girl's a debt — a big debt, as it were. Well, what does she cost? Five hundred a year? Six — seven — eight hundred a year? What's it matter? What would a thousand a year matter? Whatever Ned could afford, we could, amongst us. Why he should have neglected to make Miss Thornhill independent is a mystery — I'm with you there, Mr. Elkin. Perhaps his sending for us, and shaking hands with us as he did, was his way of giving her into our charge. Heaven knows what was in his mind. But this is certain — if it falls to our lot to administer to Ned's estate, we administer, not only to the money, but to the girl, and the art-school, and her comfortable lodgings, and any- thing else in reason. There's nothing offensive in our saying this. Elkin. Not in the least. Thaddeus. [With a deprecating little laugh.} Ha! We don't often put our oar into family discussions, Phyl and I. Stephen — [turning in his chair} Rosie James. [Looking down on Thaddeus — grinning.] Hallo, Tad! Why, I've always had the credit of being the speaker 0' the family. You're developing all of a sudden. [Heath enters. 64 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Heath. [Looking round the room.] Mrs. Thaddeus Morti- more ? Thaddeus. [Pointing to Phyllis who is now seated in a chair on the right.] Here she is. Heath. [In a hushed voice.] Two young ladies from Roper's to fit Mrs. Thaddeus Mortimore with her mourning. Thaddeus. [Rising.] They weren't ready for Phyllis at ten o'clock. [Over his shoulder, as he joins Phyllis at the door.] Hope you don't object to their waiting on her here. Heath. [To Thaddeus.] On the first floor, sir. [Phyllis and Thaddeus go out. Heath is follow- ing them. Vallance. [To Heath, rising.] Er [To Elkin.] What's his name? Elkin. [Calling to Heath, who returns.] Heath Vallance. [Going to Heath.] Have you a room where Mr. Elkin and I can be alone for a few minutes? Heath. There's the dining-room, sir. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 65 Vallance. [Turning to Elkin.] Shall we have a little talk to- gether ? Elkin. [Rising.] By all means. Vallance. [To the others.] Will you excuse us? Elkin. [Taking ValLance's arm.] Come along. [Passing out with Vallance — regretfully.] Ah, Heath, the dining- room ! Heath. [As he disappears, closing the door.] Yes, Mr. Elkin; that's over, sir. James. [Who has crossed over to the right, to watch the with- drawal of Elkin and Vallance.] What have those two got to say to each other on the quiet in such a deuce of a hurry? PONTING. [Coming forward.] My dear good friends, I beg you won't think me too presuming James. [Sourly.] What is it, Colonel? PONTING. But you mustn't, you really mustn't, allow yourselves to be dictated to — bullied 66 THE THUNDERBOLT [act 1 James. Bullied? PONTING. Into doing anything that isn't perfectly agreeable to you. Stephen. You consider we're being bullied, Colonel? James. If it comes to bullying PONTING. It has come to bullying, if I'm any judge of bullying. First, you have Mr. Elkin, a meddlesome, obstructive Stephen. {Sitting at the writing-table.} Oh, he's obviously antago- nistic to us — obviously. PONTING. Of course he is. He sniffs a little job of work over this Miss Thornhill. It's his policy to cram Miss Thornhill down our throats. That's his game. James. [Between his teeth.] By George ! Ponting. And then you get Mr. Vallance, your own lawyer James. [Sitting in a chair on the right.] Aye, I'm a bit disap- pointed with Vallance. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 67 PONTING. Dogmatizing about what is just and what is fitting Stephen. Hear, hear, Colonel! You don't pay a solicitor to take sides against you. James. As if we couldn't be trusted to do the fair thing of our own accord ! * PONTING. The upshot being that Miss Thornhill, supported openly by the one, and tacitly by the other, will be marching in here and — and James. Kicking up a rumpus. PONTING. I shouldn't be surprised. Louisa. A rumpus! [Sitting upon the settee on the left.] She wouldn't dare. Ann. [Rising.] That would be terrible — a rumpus Rose. [In the middle of the room.] I shouldn't be surprised either. You mustn't expect too much, you know, from a girl who's Stephen. [Interpreting Rose's shrug.] Illegitimate. 68 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Ann. No, I suppose we oughtn't to expect her to be the same as our children. PONTING. And finally, to cap it all, you have your brother Thaddeus — your brother James. Ha, yes ! Tad obliged us with a pretty stiff lecture, didn't he? Louisa. So did Phyllis. Ann. [Seating herself beside Louisa.] It was Phyllis who be- gan it. Rose. [Swaying herself to and fro upon the back of the chair next to the writing-table.] Tad's wife! She's a suitable person to be lectured by, I must say. Stephen. Poor old Tad! He was only trying to excuse her rude- ness. Rose. Just fancy! The two Tads sharing equally with our- selves ! Stephen. It is curious, at first sight. Rose. Extraordinary. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 69 Stephen. But, naturally, the law makes no distinctions. Rose. No. It was the lady's method of announcing that she's as good as we are. James. Tad and his wife with forty or fifty thousand pound, p'r'aps, to play with! So the world wags. Rose. Positively maddening. Louisa. We shall see Phyllis aping us now more than ever. Ann. And making that boy and girl of hers still more conceited. Louisa. They needn't let apartments anv longer; that's a mercy. Ann. We shall be spared that disgrace. James. Strong language, mother! Stephen. Hardly disgrace. You can't call the curate of their parish church a lodger in the ordinary sense of the term. 70 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Louisa. Phyllis's girl might make a match of it with Mr. Trist in a couple of years' time. She's fifteen. Ann. A forward fifteen. Rose. It's a fairy story. A woman who's brought nothing but the worst of luck to Tad from the day he married her ! James. The devil's luck. Stephen. Been his ruin — his ruin professionally — without the shadow of a doubt. Louisa. Such a good-looking fellow he used to be, too. Ann. Handsome. Louisa. [Archly.] It was Tad I fell in love with, Stephen — not with you. Stephen. And popular. He'd have had the conductorship of the choral societies but for his mistake; Rawlinson would never have had it. Councillor Pritchard admitted as much at a committee-meeting. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 71 PONTING. [Seated upon the settee on the right.] Butcher — the wife's father — wasn't he? Rose. Just as bad. Old Burdock kept a grocer's shop at the corner of East Street. Stephen. West Street. * Rose. West Street, was it? She's the common or garden over- educated petty-tradesman's daughter. James. [Oratorically.] No, no; you can't overeducate, Rose. You can wrongly educate Rose. Oh, don't start that, Jim. [To Ponting.] She was a pupil of Tad's. Stephen. [Holding up his hands.] Marriage — marriage ! Louisa. Stephen ! James. If it isn't the right sort o' marriage ! Stephen. Poor old Tad! 72 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i James. Rich old Tad to-day, though! [Chuckling.] Ha, ha! Rose. [Glancing at the door.] Sssh ! [Thaddeus returns. The others look down their noses or at distant objects. Thaddeus. [Closing the door and advancing.] I — I hope you're not angry with Phyllis. Stephen. [Resignedly.] Angry? Thaddeus. Or with me. Ann. Anger would be out of place in a house of mourning. James. Women's tongues, Tad! Stephen. Yes; the ladies — they will make mischief. Louisa. Not every woman, Stephen. Thaddeus. Phyllis hasn't the slightest desire to make mischief. Why on earth should Phyl want to make mischief? [Sitting in act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 73 the chair in the middle of the room.] She's a little nervy — a little unstrung; that's what's the matter with Phyllis. Louisa. There's no cause for her to be specially upset that I can think of. Ann. She didn't know Edward in the old days as we did. Thaddeus. No, but being with him on Wednesday night, when the change came — that's affected her very deeply, poor girl ; bowled her over. [To Rose.] She helped to nurse him. Rose. [Indifferently.] One of the nurses cracked up, didn't she? James. The night-nurse. Thaddeus. [Nodding.] Sent word late on Wednesday afternoon that she couldn't attend to her duties. Stephen. The day-nurse knocking off at eight o'clock! Dreadful! Thaddeus. There we were, rushing about all over the place — all over the place — to find a substitute. James. And no success. 74 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Thaddeus. [Rubbing his knees.] There's where Phyllis came in handy ; there's where Phyl came in handy. Louisa. Phyllis hadn't more than two or three hours of it, while Ann and I were resting, when all's said and done. Ann. Not more than two or three hours alone, at the outside. Thaddeus. No; but, as I say, it was during those two or three hours that the change set in. It's been a shock to her. Louisa. The truth is, Phyllis delights in making a fuss, Tad. Thaddeus. Phyl! Ann. She loves to make a martyr of herself. Thaddeus. Phyl does! Louisa. You delight to make a martyr of her, then ; perhaps that's it. Ann. I suppose you do it to hide her faults. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 75 Louisa. It would be far more sensible of you, Tad, to strive to correct them Ann. If it's not too late — far more sensible. Louisa. And teach her a different system of managing her home- Ann. And how to bring up her children more in keeping with their position Louisa. With less pride and display. Ann. They treat their cousins precisely like dirt. Louisa. Dirt under the foot. Ann. Why Phyllis can't be satisfied with a cook-general passes my comprehension Rose. [Wearily.'] Oh, shut up! James. Steady, mother! 76 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Thaddeus. [Looking at them all.] Ah, you've never liked Phyllis from the beginning, any of you. Louisa. Never liked her! Thaddeus. Never cottoned to her, never appreciated her. Oh, I know — old Mr. Burdock's shop! [Simply.] Well, Ann; well, Lou ; shop or no shop, there's no better wife — no better woman — breathing than Phyl. Louisa. One may like a person without being blind to shortcom- ings. Ann. Nobody's flawless — nobody. Louisa. There are two sides to every person as well as to every question, I always maintain. Thaddeus. However, maybe it won't matter so much in the future. It hasn't made things easier for us in the past. [Snapping his fingers softly.] But now Stephen. [Caustically.] Henceforth you and your wife will be above the critical opinion of others, eh, Tad ? act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 77 James. Aye, Tad's come into money now. Mind what you're at, mother ! Be careful, Lou ! Tad's come into money. Thaddeus. [In a quiet voice, but clenching his hands tightly.] My God, I hope I have! I'm not a hypocrite, Jim. My God, I hope I have! [ The door opens and Elkin appears. -■* Elkin. Miss Thornhill is here. [There is a general movement. Thaddeus walks away to the fireplace. James, Stephen, and Ponting also rise and Rose joins Ponting at the library-table. Ann and Louisa shake out their skirts for- midably, their husbands taking up a position near them. Helen Thornhill enters, followed by Vallance, who closes the door. Elkin presents Helen.] Miss Thornhill. [To Helen, pointing to the group on the left.] These gentlemen are the late Mr. Mortimore's brothers. [Point- ing to Rose.] His sister. Helen. [A graceful, brilliant-looking girl zuith perfectly refined manners, wearing an elegant traveling- dress — almost in- audibly.] Oh, yes. Elkin. [With a wave of the hand toivards the others.] Mem- bers of the family by marriage. [She sits, at Elkin's invitation, in the chair beside the writing-table. The attitude of the James and Stephen Mortimores, and of the Pontings, under- goes a marked change. 78 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i James. [After a pause, advancing a step or two.] I'm the eldest brother. [Awkwardly.] James, I am. Stephen. [Drawing attention to himself by an uneasy cough.] Stephen. Ann. [Humbly.] I'm Mrs. James. Louisa. [In the same tone.] Mrs. Stephen Rose. [Seating herself on the left of the library-table.] Rose — Mrs. Ponting. [Glancing at Ponting.] My husband. Thaddeus. [Now standing behind the writing-table.] Thaddeus. My wife is up-stairs, trying on her [He checks himself and retreats, again sitting at the centre window. James. [Seating himself at the writing-table.] Tired, I dessay? Helen. [Who has received the various announcements with a dignified inclination of the head.] A little. Stephen. [Bringing forward the armchair from the fireplace.] You weren't in Paris, Mr. Elkin tells us, when his letter ? act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 79 Helen. No; I was nearly a nine hours' journey from Paris, stay- ing with friends at St. Etienne. Rose. A pity. Louisa. Great pity. ,, Helen. Mr. Elkin's letter was re-posted and reached me on Wednesday. I got back to Paris that night. Elkin. [Seating himself beside her.] And had a hard day's traveling again yesterday. Stephen. [Sitting in the armchair.] She must be worn out. Ann. Indeed she must. Ponting. [Sitting by Rose.] Hot weather, too. Most exhausting. Elkin. [To Helen.] And you were out and about this morn- ing with Mrs. Elkin before eight, I heard? Helen. She brought me round here. 80 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Elkin. [Sympathetically.] Ah, yes. James. Round here? [Elkin motions significantly tavards the ceiling.} Oh — aye. [After another pause, to Helen.] When did you see him last — alive? Helen. In April. He spent Easter with me. [Unobtrusively opening a little bag which she carries and taking out a jandkerchief.] We always spent our holidays together. [Drying her eyes.] I was to have met him at Rouen on the fifteenth of next month; we were going to Etretat. Elkin. [After a further silence.} Er — h'm! — the principal busi- ness we are here to discuss is, I presume, the question of Miss ThornhilPs future. Helen. [Quickly.] Oh, no, please. Elkin. No? Helen. If you don't mind, I would rather my future were taken for granted, Mr. Elkin, without any discussion. Elkin. Taken for granted? act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 81 Helen. I am no worse off than thousands of other young women who are suddenly thrown upon their own resources. I'm a great deal better off than many, for there's a calling al- ready open to me — art. My prospects don't daunt me in the least. Elkin. No, no; nobody wants to discourage you- Helen. [Interrupting Elkin.] I confess — I confess I am dis- appointed — hurt — that father hasn't made even a slight pro- vision for me — not for the money's sake, but because — be- cause I meant so much to him, I've always believed. He would have made me secure if he had lived longer, I am convinced. Elkin. [Soothingly.] Not improbable; not improbable. Helen. But I don't intend to let my mind dwell on that. What I do intend to think is that, in leaving me with merely my education and the capacity for earning my living, he has done more for my happiness — my real happiness — than if he had left me every penny he possessed. With no incen- tive to work, I might have drifted by and by into an idle, aimless life. I should have done so. Stephen. A very rational view to take of it. 82 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i PONTING. Admirable ! [There is a nodding of heads and a murmur of approval from the ladies. Elkin. Very admirable and praiseworthy. [To the others, diplo- matically,} But we are not to conclude that Miss Thorn- hill declines to entertain the idea of some — some arrangement which would enable her to embark upon her artistic career Helen. Yes, you are. I don't need assistance, and I couldn't accept it. [Flaring up.] I will accept nothing that hasn't come to me direct from my father — nothing. [Softening.] But I am none the less grateful to you, dear Mr. Elkin — [looking round] to everybody — for this kindness. Stephen. [With a sigh.] So be it; so be it, if it must be so. Ponting. We don't wish to force assistance upon Miss Thornhill. Stephen. On the contrary; we respect her independence of char- acter. [Elkin shrugs his shoulders at Vallance, who is now seated upon the settee on the right. James. [Stroking his beard.] Art — art. You've been studying painting, haven't you? act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 83 Helen. At Julian's, in the Rue de Berri, for three years — tor pleasure, I imagined. James. [Glancing furtively at Ann.] D'ye do oil portraits — family groups and so on ? Helen. I'm not very successful as a colorist. Black and white is what* I am best at. James. [Dubiously.] Black and white Stephen. Is there much demand for that form of art in Paris? Helen. Paris? Oh, I shall come to London. James. London, eh? Helen. My drawing isn't quite good enough for over there. It's only good enough for England. I shall sell my jewellery and furniture — I'm sharing a flat in the Avenue de Messine with an American girl — and that will carry me along ex- cellently till I'm fairly started. Oh, I shall do very well. Rose. I live in London. My house will be somewhere for you to drop into, whenever you feel inclined. 84 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Helen. Thank you. Ponting. [Pulling at his moustache.] Often as you like — often as you like Rose. [Loftily.] As I am in "society," as they call it, that will be nice for you. James. [To Ann.] Now, then, mother, don't you be behind- hand Ann. I'm sure I shall be very pleased if Miss Thornton A Murmur. Thornhill Ann. If she'll pay us a visit. We're homely people, but she and Cissy could play tennis all day long. Louisa. If she does come to Singlehampton, she mustn't go away without staying a day or two in the Crescent. [To Helen.] Do you play chess, dear? [Helen shakes her head.] My husband will teach you — won't you, Stephen? Stephen. Honored. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 85 Thaddeus. [Who has risen and come forward.] I'm sorry my wife isn't here. We should be grieved if Miss Thornhill left us out in the cold. Helen. [Looking at him with interest.] You are father's musical brother, aren't you? « Thaddeus. Yes — Tad. Helen. [With a faint smile.] I promise not to leave you out in the cold. [To everybody.] I can only repeat, I am most grateful. [To Elkin, about to rise.] Mrs. Elkin is wait- ing for me, to take me to the dressmaker Elkin. [Detaining her.] One moment — one moment. [To the others.] Gentlemen, Mr. Vallance and I have had our little talk and we agree that the proper course to pursue in the matter of the late Mr. Mortimore's estate is to proceed at once to insert an advertisement in the public journals. James. An advertisement? Elkin. With the object of obtaining information respecting any will which he may have made at any time. James. [After a pause.] Oh — very good. 86 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Stephen. [Coldly.] Does Mr. Vallance really advise that this is the proper course? [Vallance rises and Thaddeus again retires. Vallance. [Assentingly.] In the peculiar circumstances of the case. Elkin. We propose also to go a step further. We propose to circularize. James. Circularize ? PONTING. [Disturbed.] What the dev — what's that? Elkin. We propose to address a circular to every solicitor in the law-list asking for such information. Helen. [To Elkin.] Is this necessary? Elkin. Mr. Vallance will tell us Vallance. It comes under the head of taking all reasonable measures to find a will. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 87 Helen. [Looking round.] I — I sincerely hope that no one will think that it is on my behalf that Mr. Elkin Elkin. [Checking her.] My dear, these are formal, and ami- cable, proceedings, to which everybody, we suggest, should be a party. « Vallance. Everybody. Elkin. [Invitingly.] Everybody. James. [Breaking a chilly silence.] All right. Go ahead, Mr. Elkin. [To Stephen.] We're willing? Stephen. Why not; why not? Rose ? Rose. [Hastily.] Oh, certainly. Vallance. [To James.] I have your authority, Mr. Mortimore, for acting with Mr. Elkin in this matter? James. You have, sir. 88 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Elkin. [To Vallance, rising.} Will you come round to my office with me? [Helen rises with Elkin, whereupon the other men get to their feet. Ann and Louisa also rise as Helen comes to them and offers her hand. Ann. [Shaking hands.] We're at the Grand Hotel Louisa. [Shaking hands.] So am I and my husband. Helen. I'll call, if I may. [She shakes hands with Stephen and James and goes to Rose. Rose. [Rising to shake hands with her.] We're at the Grand too. Colonel Ponting and I would be delighted PONTING. Delighted. [Helen merely bows to Ponting; then she shakes hands with Thaddeus and passes out into the hall. Elkin. [Who has opened the door for HELEN — to everybody, genially.] Good-day; good-day. James and Stephen. Good-day, Mr. Elkin. Good-day. [Elkin follows Helen. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 89 Vallance. [At the door — to James and Stephen.] Where can I see you later? James. The Grand. Food at half-past one. Vallance. Thank you very much. [He bows to the ladies and withdraws, closing the door after him. PONTING. [Pacing the room indignantly.] I wouldn't give the fel- low so much as a dry biscuit! [There is a general break up, Ann and LOUISA join- ing Rose on the right. James. [Pacifically.] Oh, there's no occasion to upset yourself, Colonel. PONTING. [On the left.] I wouldn't! I wouldn't! He's against us on every point. James. Let 'em advertise, if it amuses 'em. [In an outburst.] Let 'em advertise and circularize till they're blue in the face. Rose. [With a shrill laugh.] Jim! Ha! ha! ha! 92 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i James. [In the doorway — to Thaddeus, who is now seated at the writing-table.] Tad, I'll stand you and your wife a good lunch. One-thirty. [Thaddeus nods acceptance and James goes after the others. Thaddeus rises, and, looking through the blind of the middle window, watches them depart. Presently Phyllis appears, putting on her gloves. Phyllis. [At the door, drawing a breath of relief.] They've gone. Thaddeus. [Turning.] Is that you, Phyl? Phyllis. [Corning further into the room.] I've been waiting on the landing. Thaddeus. Why didn't you come back, dear? You've missed Miss Thornhill. Phyllis. [Walking away to the left, working at the fingers of a glove.] Yes, I — I know. Thaddeus. The very person we were all here to meet. Phyllis. I — I came over nervous. [Eagerly.] What is she like? act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 93 Thaddeus. Such an aristocratic-looking girl. Phyllis. Is she — is she? Thaddeus. I'll tell you all about her by and by. [Pushing the door to and coming to Phyllis, anxiously.] What do you think they're going to do now, Phyl? Phyllis. Who? Thaddeus. The lawyers. They're going to advertise. Phyllis. Advertise? Thaddeus. In the papers — to try to discover a will. Phyllis. I — I suppose that's a mere matter of form? Thaddeus. Elkin and Vallance say so. According to Stephen, it's simply a lawyer's dodge to run up costs. [Brightening.] Anyhow, we mustn't complain, where a big estate is in- volved Phyllis. Is it — such a — big estate? 94 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Thaddeus. Guess. Phyllis. I can't. Thaddeus. [Coming closer to her.] I heard Elkin's managing-clerk tell Jim and the Colonel this morning that poor Ned may have died worth anything between a hundred and fifty and two hundred thousand pounds. Phyllis. [Faintly.] Two hundred thousand- .1 Yes. Thaddeus. Phyllis. Oh, Tad ! [She sits, on the settee on the left, leaning her head upon her hands. Thaddeus. Splitting the difference, and allowing for death duties, our share would be close upon forty thousand. To be on the safe side, put it at thirty-nine thousand. Thirty-nine thousand pounds! [Moving about the room excitedly.] I've been reckoning. Invest that at four per cent. — one is justi- fied in calculating upon a four per cent, basis — invest thirty- nine thousand at four per cent., and there you have an income of over fifteen hundred a year. Fifteen hundred a year! [Returning to her.] When we die, seven hundred and fifty a year for Joyce, seven hundred and fifty for Cyril! [She rises quickly and clings to him, burying her head upon his act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 95 shoulder and clutching at the lapel of his coat.] Poor old lady! [Putting his arms round her.] Poor old lady! You've gone through such a lot, haven't you? Phyllis. [Sobbing.] We both have. Thaddeus. Sixteen years of it. „ Phyllis. Sixteen years. Thaddeus. Of struggle — struggle and failure. Phyllis. Failure brought upon you by your wife — by me. Thaddeus. Nonsense — nonsense Phyllis. You always call it nonsense; you know it's true. If you hadn't married me — if you'd married a girl of better family — you wouldn't have lost caste in the town Thaddeus. Hush, hush! Don't cry, Phyl; don't cry, old lady. Phyllis. You'd have had the choral societies, and the High School, and the organ at All Saints; you'd have been at the top of the tree long ago. You know you would ! 96 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Thaddeus. [Rallying her.} And if you hadn't married me, you might have captivated a gay young officer at Claybrook and got to London eventually. Rose did it, and you might have done it. So that makes us quits. Don't cry. Phyllis. [Gradually regaining her composure.} There was a young fellow at the barracks who was after me. Thaddeus. [Nodding.] You were prettier than Rose, a smarter girl altogether. Phyllis. [Drying her eyes.] I'll be smart again now, dear. I'm only thirty-five. What's thirty-five ! Thaddeus. The children won't swallow up everything now, will they? Phyllis. No; but Joyce shall look sweeter and daintier than ever, though. Thaddeus. Cyril shall have a first-class, public-school education ; that I'm determined upon. There's Rugby — Rugby's the nearest — or Malvern Phyllis. [With a catch in her breath.] Oh, but — Tad — we'll leave Singlehampton, won't we? act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 97 Thaddeus. Permanently? Yes — yes Phyllis. Thaddeus. Won't that be rather a mistake? Phyllis. A mistake! Thaddeus. Just as we're able to hold up our heads in the town. Phyllis. We should never be able to hold up our heads in Single- hampton. If we were clothed in gold, we should still be lepers underneath ; the curse would still rest on us. Thaddeus. [Bewildered.] But where — where shall we ? Phyllis. I don't care — anywhere. [Passionately.] Anywhere where I'm not sneered at for bringing up my children de- cently, and for making my home more tasteful than my neighbors' ; anywhere where it isn't known that I'm the daughter of a small shopkeeper — the daughter of "old Bur- dock of West Street"! [Imploringly.] Oh, Tad ! Thaddeus. You're right. Nothing is ever forgiven you in the place you're born in. We'll clear out. 98 THE THUNDERBOLT [act i Phyllis. [Slipping her arm through his.] When — when will you get me away? Thaddeus. Directly, directly; as soon as the lawyers [He pauses, looking at her blankly. Phyllis. [Frightened.] What's the matter? Thaddeus. We — we're talking as if — as if Ned's money is already ours! Phyllis. [Withdrawing her arm — steadily.] It will be. Thaddeus. Will it, do you think ? Phyllis. [With an expressionless face.] I prophesy — it will be. [Heath enters and, seeing Thaddeus and Phyllis, draws back. Heath. I'm sorry, sir. I thought the room was empty. Thaddeus. We're going. [As he and Phyllis pass out into the hall.] Don't come to the door. act i] THE THUNDERBOLT 99 Heath. Thank you, sir. [HEATH quietly and methodically replaces the chair at the window on the right. Then, after a last look round, he switches off the lights and leaves the room again in gloom. END OF THE FIRST ACT THE SECOND ACT The scene represents the drawing-room of a modern, cheaply- built villa. In the wall at the back are two windows. One is a bay-window provided with a window-seat; the other, the window on the right, opens to the ground into a small garden. At the bottom of the garden a paling runs from left to right, and in the paling there is a gate which gives access to a narrow lane. Beyond are the gardens and backs of other houses. The fireplace is on the right of the room, the door on the left. A grand pianoforte, with its head towards the windows, and a music-stool occupy the middle of the room. On the right of the music-stool there is an arm- chair, and against the piano, facing the fireplace, there is a settee. Another settee faces the audience at the further end of the fireplace, and on the nearer side, opposite this settee, is an armchair. Also on the right hand, but nearer to the spectator, there is a round table. An ottoman, opposing the settee by the piano, stands close to the table. At the end of the piano there is a small table with an arm- chair on its right and left, and on the extreme left of the room stands another armchair with a still smaller table beside it. On the left of the bay-window there is a writing-table, and in front of the writing-table, but turned to the window, a chair. Other articles of fur- niture fill spaces against the walls. There is a mirror over the fireplace and a clock on the mantel-shelf, and lying upon the round table are a hat and a pair of gloves belonging to Helen. Some flowers in pots hide the empty grate. ioo act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 101 The room and everything in the room are eloquent of nar- row means, if not of actual poverty. But the way in ivhich the cheap furniture is dressed up, and the manner of its arrangement about the room, give evidence of taste and refinement. The garden is full of the bright sunshine of a fine July afternoon. Thaddeus is at the piano accompanying a sentimental ballad which Trist, standing beside him, is singing. Phyllis, looking more haggard than ivhen last seen, is on the settee by the fireplace. Her hands lie idly upon some needlework in her lap and she is in deep thought. Helen, engaged in making a sketch of Joyce and Cyril, who are facing her, is sitting in the chair on the right of the table at the end of the piano. A drawing-block is on her knees and a box of crayons on the table at her elbow. Helen and the Thaddeus Mortimores are dressed in mourning, but not oppress- ively so. Thaddeus. [Taking his hands from the key-board — to TRIST.] No, no. Fill your lungs, man, fill your lungs. [Phyllis, roused by the break in the music, picks up her work. Trist. [A big, healthy-looking, curly-headed young fellow in somewhat shabby clerical clothes.] I'm afraid it's no good, my dear chap. The fact is, air will not keep in my lungs. Thaddeus. [Starting afresh with the symphony.] Once more- 102 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Helen. [To the children, softly.] Do you want a rest? Cyril. [A handsome boy of fourteen, standing close to his sister.] No, thanks. Joyce. [In the chair on the extreme left — a slim, serious child, a year older than Cyril.] Oh, no; don't give us a rest. [As the symphony ends, the door opens a little way and James pops his head in. James. Hallo! Thaddeus. Hallo, Jim! [James enters, followed by Stephen ; both with an air of bustle and self-importance. They also are in mourning, are gloved, and are wearing their hats which they remove on entering. Stephen. May we come in? James. Good-afternoon, Mr. Trist. Stephen. How do you do, Mr. Trist? Trist. [To James and Stephen.] How are you; how are you? act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 103 James. [To the children, kissing Joyce.] Well, kids! [Shak- ing hands with Helen.] Well, my dear! [Crossing to Phyllis, who rises.] Don't get up, Phyllis. What's this? You're not very bobbish, I hear. Phyllis. [Nervously.] It's nothing. « Thaddeus. [Tidying his music] She's sleeping badly just now, poor old lady. Stephen. [Who has greeted Helen and the children — to Phyllis.] Oh, Phyllis, Louisa has discovered a wonderful cure for sleeplessness at the herbalist's in Crown Street. A few dried leaves merely. You strew them under the bed and the effect is magical. James. Glass of warm milk's my remedy Stephen. Eighteen-pence an ounce, it costs. James. Not that sleeplessness bothers me. Phyllis. [Sitting on the ottoman and resuming her work — to Stephen.] Thank you for telling me about it. 104 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii James. [To Helen.] Making quite a long stay here. Helen. [Smiling.] Am I not? Stephen. You and Phyllis, Tad, are more honored than we were in the Crescent. James. Or we were at "Ivanhoe." She was only a couple o' nights with us. Stephen. Less with us. She arrived one morning and left the next. James. [To Helen.] Been in Nelson Villas over a week, haven't you? Helen. [Touching her drawing.] Is it more than a week? James. [Looking at Helen's drawing.] Taking the youngsters' portraits, too. Stephen. [Also looking at the drawing.] H'm! I suppose children are difficult subjects. act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 105 Trist. [Moving towards the door — to Helen.] Miss Thorn- hill, don't forget your engagement. Helen. [To Joyce and Cyril.] Mr. Trist is going to treat us to the flower-show by and by. Good man! Cyril. Oh, Mr. Trist! Joyce. Stephen. [To Trist.] Not driving you Trist. away, I hope? [At the door.] No, no; I've some work to do. [He withdraws. Stephen puts his hat on the top of the piano. James. [After watching the door close.] Decent sort o' young man, that; nothing of the lodger about him. Stephen. I've always said so. [To Thaddeus, lowering his voice.] Mr. Trist knows how — er — h'm — poor Edward left his affairs ? Thaddeus. Everybody does; it's all over the town. io6 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Stephen. [Resignedly.] Yes; impossible to keep it to ourselves. James. Thanks to their precious advertisement. {To Joyce and Cyril, loudly.] Now, then, children; be off with you! I want to talk to your father and mother. Joyce. [To Helen.] Will you excuse us? Cyril. Awfully sorry, Helen. [ The children pass through the open window into the garden and disappear. Helen rises and, having laid her drawing-block aside, is following them. James. [To Helen.] Not you, my dear. You're welcome to hear our business. Helen. Oh, no; you mustn't let me intrude. Stephen. I think Helen ought to hear it. [Helen pauses, standing by the table on the right.] I think she ought to be made aware of what's going on. James. Tad act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 107 Thaddeus. [Coming forward.] Eh? James. The meeting's to take place this afternoon. [Phyllis looks up from her work suddenly, with parted lips. Thaddeus. This afternoon? Stephen. At four o'clock. Thaddeus. [Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece.] It's past three now. James. [Placing his hat on the table at the end of the piano and sitting at the left of the table.] It's been fixed up at last rather in a hurry. Stephen. [Sitting in the chair on the extreme left.] We didn't get Elkin's letter, telling us he was coming through, till this morning. Thaddeus. You might have notified us earlier, though, one of you. Just like you fellows! Stephen. [Waving his arms.] On the day I go to press I've quite enough to remember. io8 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii James. [To Thaddeus, roughly.] It's your holiday-time; what have you got to do? An hour's notice is as good as a week's. Stephen. [To Helen.] This is a meeting of the family, Helen, to be held at my brother's house, for the purpose of — er Helen. [Advancing a little.] Winding matters up? James. For the purpose of receiving Elkin and Vallance's report. Helen. [Keenly.] And to ? James. And to decide upon the administration of the estate on behalf of the next-of-kin. Helen. In my words — wind matters up. [With an appearance of cheerfulness.] Which means an end to a month's sus- pense, doesn't it? Thaddeus. [Apologetically.] A not very satisfactory end to yours. Helen. To mine? [With an effort.] Oh, I — I've suffered no suspense, Mr. Tad. Mr. Elkin has kept me informed of the result of the advertising and the circularizing from the beginning. act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 109 Thaddeus. But there has been no result. Helen. No result is the result. Stephen. Exactly. [During the following talk, Helen moves away and seats herself in the chair by the head of the piano. Phyllis has resumed her work again, bending over it so that her face is almost hidden. Thaddeus. [To James and Stephen.] Will Rose and the Colonel be down? James. We're on our way to the station to meet 'em. Stephen. [Bitterly.] Ha! Will they be down? Thaddeus. You didn't overlook them, evidently. James. [With a growl.] No; the gallant Colonel doesn't give us much chance of overlooking him. Stephen. Colonel Ponting might be the only person interested, judging by the tone he adopts. no THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii James. A nice life he's been leading us lately. Stephen. Elkin and Vallance are sick of him James. Hasn't two penny pieces to clink together; that's the size of it. Stephen. A man may be hard up and yet behave with dignity. James. I expect the decorators are asking for a bit on the nail. Thaddeus. [Sitting on the right of the table at the end of the piano.] Decorators ? Stephen. [To Thaddeus.] Haven't you heard ? Thaddeus. No. Stephen. The magnificent house they've taken in Carlos Place ? James. Close to Berkeley Square. act n] THE THUNDERBOLT in Stephen. [Correcting James's pronunciation.] Barkeley Square. James. Stables and motor-garridge at the back. Stephen. Oh, yes; they're decorating and furnishing most elabo- rately. Lou had a note from Rose a day or two since. James. He'll strip my sister of every penny she's come into, if she doesn't look out. Stephen. The gross indelicacy of the thing is what offends me. We have been content to remain passive. James. And I fancy our plans and projects are as important as the Colonel's. _-^ Stephen. i should assume so. James. [To Stephen, with a jerk of the thumb towards Thad- deus.] Shall I ? Stephen. No harm in it now. James. [To Thaddeus, leaning foivard — impressively.] Tad jia THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Thaddeus. What? James. That land at the bottom of Gordon Street, where the allotment grounds are Yes? It's mine. Yours, Jim? Thaddeus. James. Thaddeus. James. It belongs to me. I've signed the contract and paid a deposit. Thaddeus. What do you intend to do with it? James. What should I intend to do with it — eat it? I intend to build there — build the finest avenue of houses in Single- hampton. [Rising and going to the piano, where he traces a plan on the lid with his finger .] Look here! [Thad- deus joins him and watches the tracing of the plan.] Here's Gordon Street. Here's the pub at the corner. I come along here — straight along here — to Albert Terrace. Opposite Albert Terrace I take in Clark's piano factory; and where Clark's factory stands I lay out an ornamental garden with a fountain in the middle of it. On I go at a curve, to avoid the playground of Fothergill's school, till I reach Bolton's store. He stops me, but I'll squeeze him out some day, as sure as my name's James Henry! [To Thaddeus.] D'ye see? act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 113 Thaddeus. [Uncomfortably, eyeing Helen.] Splendid; splendid. James. [Moving round the head of the piano to the right.] Poor old Ned! Ha! my brother won't have done so badly by his native town after all. Thaddeus. ■« [Under his breath, trying to remind JAMES of Helen's presence.] Jim — Jim James. [Obliviously, coming upon Helen.] D'ye know the spot we're talking about, my dear? Helen. No. James. You must get 'em to walk you down there. [To Phyl- lis.] You trot her down there, Phyllis. Phyllis. [Without raising her eyes from her work.] I will. Stephen. [To James.] You haven't told them everything, Jim. James. [Sitting upon the settee by the piano.] Haven't I? [Mopping his brow.] Oh, your offices ii 4 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Stephen. [To everybody.] It isn't of the greatest importance, per- haps, but it's part of James's scheme to erect an exception- ably noble building in the new road to provide adequate printing and publishing offices for the Times and Mirror. Thaddeus. What, you're not deserting King Street, Stephen? Stephen. [Rising and walking to the fireplace.] Yes, I've had enough of those cramped, poky premises. Thaddeus. They are inconvenient. Stephen. [On the hearthrug, facing the others.] And, to be per- fectly frank, I've had enough of Mr. Hammond and the Courier. Thaddeus. I don't blame you there. The Courier is atrociously personal occasionally. Stephen. [Pompously.] I don't say it because Hammond is, in a manner, my rival — I'm not so small-minded as that — but I do say that he is a vulgar man and that the Courier is a vulgar and mischievous journal. James. He's up to date, though, is Mister Freddy Hammond. act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 115 Stephen. His plant is slightly more modern than mine, I admit. James. [Chuckling.] Aye, you'll be able to present those ante- diluvian printing-presses of yours to the museum as curi- osities. Stephen. [With a wave of the hand.] Anyhow, the construction of Jim's new road marks a new era in the life of the Times and Mirror. [Leaving the fireplace.] I'm putting no less than twelve thousand pounds into the dear old paper, Tad. Thaddeus. [Standing by the table on the left.] Twelve thou- sand ! Stephen. How will that agree with Mr. Hammond's digestion, eh? Twelve thousand pounds! [Coming to Thaddeus.] And what are your plans for the future, if one may ask? You'll leave these wretched villas, of course? Thaddeus. [Evasively.] Oh, I — I'm waiting till this law business is absolutely settled. Stephen. [Hastily.] Quite right; quite right. So am I; so am I, actually. But we may talk, I suppose, among ourselves n6 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii James. [Looking at his watch and rising.] By George! We shall miss Rose and the Colonel. Stephen. [Fetching his hat.] Pish! the Colonel. James. [Shaking hands hurriedly with Helen who rises.] Ta-ta, my dear. [As he passes Phyllis.] See you at the meeting, Phyllis. Stephen. [To Helen, across the piano.] Good-bye, Helen. James. [Who has picked up his hat, at the door.] Don't be late, Tad. Stephen. [At the door.] No, no; don't be late. Thaddeus. Four o'clock. Stephen. Sharp. [Thaddeus follows James and Stephen into the hall and returns immediately. Thaddeus. [Closing the door.] My dear Helen, I apologize to you most humbly. act n] THE THUNDERBOLT 117 Helen. [Coming forward.] For what? Thaddeus. For Jim's bad taste, and Stephen's, in talking before you as they've been doing. Helen. Oh. it's of no consequence. Thaddeus. I could have kicked Jim. Helen. [Impulsively.] Mr. Tad — [giving him her hand] I congratulate you. [Going to Phyllis and kissing her lightly upon the cheek.] I congratulate you both heartily. No two people in the world deserve good fortune more than you do. Thaddeus. It's extremely kind and gracious of you to take it in this way. Helen. Why, in what other way could I take it? Thaddeus. At your age, you mayn't esteem money very highly. But — there are other considerations Helen. [Turning away and seating herself upon the settee by the piano.] Yes, we won't speak of those. n8 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Thaddeus. [Walking to the bay-window.} And there was just a chance that the inquiries might have brought a will to light — a will benefiting you. Though you were anxious not to appear unfriendly to the family, you must have realized that. Helen. Whether I did or not, it's all done with now finally — finally. [Blowing the subject from her.] Phew! Thaddeus. [His elbows on the piano, speaking across it to Helen.] Phyl and I are not altogether selfish and grasping. She has been worrying herself to death these last few days — haven't you, Phyl? — ever since we heard the meeting was near at hand. Phyllis. [In a low voice.] Yes. Thaddeus. Ever since you came to us, in fact. Helen. [Jumping up.] Ah, what a nuisance I've been to you! [Sitting beside Phyllis.] How relieved you'll be to pack me off to-morrow! Thaddeus. To-morrow ? [Uttering a little sound, Phyllis stops working and stares straight before her. Helen. [Slipping an arm round Phyllis's waist.] That letter I had while we were at lunch — it was from a girl who used act 11] THE THUNDERBOLT 119 to sit next to me at Julian's. She's found me some capital rooms, she says, close to Regent's Park, and I'm going up to look at them. [Thaddeus comes to her.] In any event, the sooner I get out of Singlehampton the better. Thaddeus. Why? Helen. Everybody in the town eyes me so queerly; I'm certain they suspect. Thaddeus. It's your imagination. Helen. It isn't. [Hesitatingly.] I — I've confided in Mr. Trist. Thaddeus. [Surprised.] Confided in Trist? Helen. [Nodding.] I hated the idea of his thinking me — de- ceitful. Thaddeus. [Sitting on the settee by the piano.] Trist would never have guessed. Helen. Oh, Mr. Tad, who, in heaven's name, that wasn't born yesterday could believe the story of my being simply a pro- tegee of father's, the daughter of an old business friend of his? Your brother Stephen may be an excellent editor, but his powers of invention are beneath contempt. Thaddeus. [Laughing.] Ha, ha, ha! [Rubbing his knees.] That's one for Stephen ; that's a rap for Stephen. 120 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Helen. And then, again, the other members of the family are be- coming so horribly jealous. Thaddeus. [Seriously.] Ah, yes. Helen. You noticed your brother's remarks? And Mrs. James and Mrs. Stephen almost cut me in East Street this morning. Thaddeus. [Clenching his fists.] Thank God, we shall have done with that sort of thing directly we shake the dust of Single- hampton from our feet! Helen. Directly you ! Thaddeus. [Gaily.] There! Now I've let the cat out of the bag. Phyllis will tell you. You tell her, Phyl. [Rising.] I promised Rawlinson I'd help him index his madrigals this afternoon; I'll run round to him and explain. [Pausing on his way to the door.] Helen, you must be our first visitor in our new home, wherever we pitch our tent. Make that a bargain with her, Phyl. [At the door, to Phyllis.] We'll start at ten minutes to, old lady. Be ready. [He disappears, closing the door after him. Helen. [Rising and walking away to the left.] Well! I do think it shabby of you, Phyllis. You and Mr. Tad might have trusted me with your secret. [Facing her.] Phyllis, wouldn't it be glorious if you came to London to live — or near London? Wouldn't it? Phyllis. [In a strange, quiet voice, her hands lying quite still upon her lap.] Helen — Helen dear act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 121 Helen. Yes? Phyllis. That morning, a month ago, in Linchpoo] — while we were all sitting in your poor father's library waiting for you Helen. [Returning to her.] On the Friday morning Phyllis. There was a discussion as to making you an allowance, and — [her eyes avoiding Helen's] and everybody was most anxious — most anxious — that you should be placed upon a proper footing. Helen. Mr. Elkin broached the subject when I arrived. You were out of the room. Phyllis. Yes. And you declined Helen. Certainly. I gave them my reasons. Why do you bring this up? [Phyllis rises, laying her work upon the table behind her. Phyllis. [Drawing a deep breath.] Helen — I want you to recon- sider your decision. Helen. Reconsider it? Phyllis. I want you to reconsider your determination not to ac- cept an allowance from the family. Helen. Impossible. 122 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Phyllis. Oh, don't be so hasty. Listen first. This good fortune of ours — of Tad's and mine — that you've congratulated us upon — I shall never enjoy it Helen. [Increduously.] Oh, Phyllis! Phyllis. I shall not. It will never bring me a moment's happiness unless you consent to receive an allowance from the family — [Helen seats herself in the chair on the extreme left with her back to Phyllis] sufficient to give you a sense of independence Helen. I couldn't. Phyllis. And to make your future perfectly safe. Helen. I couldn't. Phyllis. [Entreatinffly.] Do — do Helen. It's out of the question. Phyllis. Please — for my sake ! Helen. [Turning to her.] I'm sorry to distress you, Phyllis; in- deed I'm sorry. But when you see me gaining some little position in London, through my work, you'll cease to feel miserable about me. Phyllis. Never — never act n] THE THUNDERBOLT 123 Helen. [Starting up and ivalking to the fireplace impetuously.] Oh, you don't understand me — my pride. A pensioner of the Mortimore family! I! How can you suggest it? I refused their help before I was fully acquainted with these, to me, uncongenial relations of father's — I don't include Mr. Tad in that expression, of course; and now I am acquainted with them I would refuse it a thousand times. If I were starving, I wouldn't put myself under the smallest obligation to the, Mortimores. Phyllis. [ Unsteadily.} Obligation — to — the — Mortimores — obliga- tion ! [As if about to make some communication to Helen, supporting herself by leaning upon the table on the right, her body bent forward — almost inaudibly.] Helen — Helen Helen. What ? [There is a short silence, and then Phyllis drops back upon the settee by the piano. Phyllis. [Rocking herself to and fro.] Oh — oh, dear — oh ! Helen. [Coming to her and standing over her.] You're quite ill, Phyllis; your bad nights are taking it out of you dread- fully. You ought to have the advice of a doctor. Phyllis. [Weakly.] No — don't send for the doctor Helen. Go up to your room, then, and keep quiet till Mr. Tad calls you. [Glancing at the clock.] You've a quarter of an hour 124 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Phyllis. [Clutching Helen's skirt.] Helen — you're fond of me and Tad — you said yesterday how attached you'd grown to us Helen. [Soothingly.] I am — I am — very fond of you. Phyllis. And the children ? Helen. Yes, yes. Phyllis. My poor children! Helen. Hush! Why poor children? Pull yourself together. Go up to your room. Phyllis. [Taking Helen's hand and caressing it.] Helen — if you won't accept an allowance from the entire family, accept it from Tad and me. Helen. No, no, no. Phyllis. Four — three hundred a year. Helen. Phyllis. Helen. No. Two hundred. No. Phyllis. We could spare it. We shouldn't miss it; we should never miss it. Act n] THE THUNDERBOLT 125 Helen. Not a penny. Phyllis. [Rising and gripping Helen's shoulders.] You shall — ■ you shall accept it, Helen. Helen. Phyllis! [Releasing herself and drawing back.] Phyllis, you're very odd to-day. You've got this allowance idea on the brain. Look here; don't let's mention the subject again, or I — I shall be offended. Phyllis. [Dully, hanging her head.] All right. Very well. Helen. Forgive me. . It happens to be just the one point I'm sensitive upon. [Listening, then going to the open window.] Here are the children. Do go up-stairs. [Calling into the garden.] Hallo! [Phyllis leaves the room as Cyril and Joyce appear outside the ivindow. The boy is carrying a few freshly-cut roses.] Now, then, children! Isn't it time we routed Mr. Trist out of his study? Cyril. [Entering and going towards the door.] I'll stir the old chap up. [Remembering the nosegay.] Oh [Present- ing it to Helen, who comes forward with Joyce.] Allow me Helen. For me? How sweet of you! [Placing the flowers against her belt and then at her breast.] Where shall I wear them — here, or here? Cyril. Anywhere you like. [Awkwardly.] We sha'n't see any- thing nicer at the flower-show, I'm certain. 126 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Helen. No; they're beautiful. Cyril. [His eyes on the carpet.] I don't mean the flowers — Helen. [Inclining her head.] Thank you. [To Cyril, who again makes for the door.] Don't disturb mother. [Mov- ing away to the fireplace where, at the mirror over the mantel-shelf, she fixes the roses in her belt.] She has to go to Claybrook Road with your father in a little while and I want her to rest. Cyril. [Pausing.] She is seedy, isn't she? [Puckering his brows.] Going to Uncle Jim's, are they? Helen. Yes. Cyril. That's to do with our money, I expect. Helen. [Busy at the mirror.] With your money? Cyril. Father's come into a heap of money, you know. Joyce. [Reproachfully.] Cyril ! Cyril. [Not heeding her.] So have Uncle Jim and Uncle Stephen and Aunt Rose. Helen. I'm delighted. act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 127 Cyril. [ To Joyce, who is signing to him to desist.] Oh, what's the use of our keeping it dark any longer? Joyce. We promised mother Cyril. Ages ago. But you heard what father said to Uncle Stephtn — it's all over the town. Young Pither says there's something about it in the paper. Helen. The paper? Cyril. The Courier — that fellow Hammond's paper. Hammond was beastly sarcastic about it last week, Pither says. [Going to the door.] I don't read the Courier myself. [At the door he beckons to Joyce. She joins him and his voice drops to a whisper.] Besides — [glancing significantly at Helen, whose back is turned to them] it'll make it easier for us. [Nudging her.] Now's your chance; do it now. [Aloud.] Give me five minutes, you two. I can't be seen at the flower- show in these togs. [He withdraws. Having assured herself that the door is closed, Joyce advances to Helen. Joyce. Helen Helen. Hallo! Joyce. [Gravely.] Have you a minute to spare? Helen. [Coming to the round table.] Yes, dear. 128 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Joyce. Helen, it's quite true we've come into a great deal of money. Uncle Edward, who lived at Linchpool — oh, you knew him, didn't you? — he was a friend of yours Helen. [Nodding.] He was a friend of mine. Joyce. Uncle Edward has left his fortune to the family — [break- ln 9 °ff] you've been told already! Helen. Well — yes. Joyce. We haven't received our share yet; but we shall, as soon as it's all divided up. [Timidly.] Helen — [Helen seats herself upon the ottoman in an attitude of attention] I needn't tell you this will very much improve father and mother's position. Helen. Naturally. Joyce. And mine and Cyril's, too. I'm to finish abroad, I believe. Helen. Lucky brat. Joyce. But it's Cyril I want to talk to you about — my brother Cyril Helen. Cyril? Joyce. Cyril is to be entered for one of the principal public schools. act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 129 Helen. Is he? Joyce. One of those schools which stamp a boy a gentleman for the rest of his life. Helen. He is a gentleman, as it is. I've a high opinion of Cyril. Joyce. OH, I am glad to hear you say so, because — because Helen. Because what? [Joyce turns away in silence to the settee by the piano.] What are you driving at, Joicey? Joyce. [Lounging on the settee uneasily and inelegantly.] Of course, Cyril's only fourteen at present; there's no denying that. Helen. suppose there isn't. Joyce. But in three years' time he'll be seventeen, and in another three he'll be twenty. Helen. [Puzzled.] Well? Joyce. And at twenty you're a man, aren't you? Helen. A young man. Joyce. [Seating herself, her elbows on her knees, examining her fingers.] And even then he'd be content to wait. Helen. To wait? What for? 130 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Joyce. [In a low voice.] Cyril wishes to marry you some day, Helen. Helen. [After a pause, gently .] Does he? Joyce. He consulted me about it soon after you came to us, and I advised him to be quite sure of himself before he spoke to you. And he is, quite sure of himself. Helen. And he's asked you to speak for him ? Joyce. He prefers my doing it. [Looking, under her lashes, at Helen.] Are you furious? Helen. Not a scrap. Joyce. [Transferring herself from the settee to the floor at Hel- en's feet — embracing her.] Oh, that's lovely of you! I was afraid you might be. Helen. Furious? Joyce. [Gazing at her admiringly.] At our aiming so high. 1 was afraid you might consider that marrying Cyril would be marrying beneath you. Helen. [Tenderly.] The girl who marries Cyril will have to be a far grander person than I am, Joyce, to be marrying be- neath her. act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 131 Joyce. Oh, Cyril's all right in himself, and so is father. Father's very retiring, but he's as clever a musician as any in the mid- lands. And mother is all right in herself. [Backing away from Helen.] It's not mother's fault; it's her mis- fortune Helen. Her misfortune- Joyce. {Bitterly. ,] Oh, I'll be bound they mentioned it at "Ivan- hoe" or at the Crescent. Helen. Mentioned ? Joyce. [Between her teeth.] The shop — grandfather's shop Helen. Ah, yes. Joyce. [Clenching her hands.] Ah! [Squatting upon her heels, her shoulders hunched.] Grandfather was a grocer, Helen — a grocer. Oh, mother has suffered terribly through it — > agonies. Helen. Poor mother! Joyce. We've all suffered. Sometimes it's been as much as Cyril and I could do to keep our heads up; [proudly, with flash- ing eyes] but we've done it. The Singlehampton people are beasts. Helen. Joyce ! i 3 2 THE THUNDERBOLT [act n Joyce. If it's the last word I ever utter — beasts. [Swallowing a tear.] And only half of it was grocery — only half. Helen. Only half ? Joyce. It was a double shop. There were two windows; the other half was bottles of wine. They forget that; they forget that! Helen. A shame. Joyce. [Embracing Helen again.] What shall I say to him, then? Helen. Say to him? Joyce. Cyril — what answer shall I give him? Helen. Oh, tell Cyril that I am highly complimented by his offer Joyce. [Eagerly.] Complimented — yes ? Helen. And that, if he's of the same mind when he's a man, and I am still single, he may propose to me again. Joyce. [In alarm.] If you're — still single ? Helen. Yes — [shaking her head] and if he's of the same mind. [There is a sharp, prolonged rapping on the door. Joyce and Helen rise. act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 133 Joyce. [Going to the door.] It's that frightful tease. [She opens the door and Trist enters, carrying his hat, gloves, and walking-stick. Trist. Ladies, I have reason to believe that several choice speci- mens of the Dianthus Caryophyllus refuse to raise their heads until you grace the flower-show with your presence. (Joyce slaps his hand playfully and disappears. Helen takes her hat from the round table and standing be- fore the mirror at the mantelpiece, pins it on her head. Trist watches her. Helen. [After a silence, her back to Trist.] The glass reflects more than one face, Mr. Trist. Trist. [Moving.] I beg your pardon. Helen. You were thinking ? Trist. Philosophizing — observing your way of putting on your hat. Helen. I put it on carelessly? Trist. Quickly. A convincing sign of youth. After you are five-and-twenty the process will take at least ten minutes. Helen. And at thirty? Trist. Half an hour. Add another half-hour for each succeeding decade 134 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Helen. [Turning to him.] I'm afraid you're a knowing, worldly parson. Trist. [Laughing.] No, no; a tolerant, human parson. Helen. We shall see. [Picking up her gloves.] If ever you get a living in London, Mr. Trist, I shall make a point of sitting under you. Trist. I bind you to that. Helen. [Pulling on a glove.] By-the-bye, I set out to seek my London living to-morrow. Trist. [With a change of manner.] To-morrow? Helen. To-morrow. Trist. [Blankly.] I — I'm sorry. Helen. Very polite of you. I'm glad. Trist. Glad? Helen. It sounds rather unkind, doesn't it? Oh, I'm extremely i'ond of everybody in this house — Mr. and Mrs. Tad and the children, I mean. But I'm sure it isn't good, morally, for me to be here, even if there were no other reasons for my departure. Trist. Morally? act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 135 Helen. Yes; if I remained here, all that's bad in my nature would come out on top. Do you know that I've the makings in me of a most accomplished liar and hypocrite? Trist. I shouldn't have suspected it. Helen. I Rave. [Coming nearer to him.] What do you think takes place this afternoon? Trist. What? Helen. [With gradually increasing excitement.] There's to be a meeting of the Mortimore family at James Mortimore's house at four o'clock. He and his brother Stephen have just informed me, with the delicacy which is characteristic of them, that they are going to arrange with the lawyers to administer my father's estate without any more delay. And I was double-faced enough to receive the news smilingly and agreeably, and all the time I could have struck them — I could have seen them drop dead in this room without a pang of regret Trist. No, no Helen. I could. [Walking away and pacing the room on the left.] Oh, it isn't father's money I covet. I said so to the family in Linchpool and I say it again. But I deceived myself. Trist. Deceived yourself? 136 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Helen. Deceived myself. I can't bear that father should have forgotten me. I can't bear it; I can't resign myself to it; I shall never resign myself to it. I thought I should be able to, but I was mistaken. I told Mr. Thaddeus that I've been suffering no suspense this last month. It's a falsehood; I've been suffering intense suspense. I've been watching the posts, for letters from Elkin; I've been praying, daily, hourly, that something — anything — might be found to prove that father had remembered me. And I loathe these people, who step over me and stand between me and the being I loved best on earth ; I loathe them. I detest the whole posse of them, except the Thaddeuses; and I wish this money may bring them, and those belonging to them, every ill that's conceiv- able. [Confronting Trist, her bosom heaving. ] Don't you lecture me. Trist. [Good-humor edly.~\ I haven't the faintest intention of doing so. Helen. Ha! [At the piano, mimicking James.] Here's Gordon Street Trist. Eh? Helen. You come along here, to Albert Terrace — taking in Clark's piano factory Trist. Who does? Helen. [Fiercely.] Here — here's the pub at the corner! Trist. [Bewildered. .] I — I don't act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 137 Helen. [Speaking to him across the piano.] James Mortimore is buying land and building a new street in the town. Trist. Really? Helen. And Stephen is putting twelve thousand pounds into his old-fashioned paper, to freshen it up; and the Pontings are moving into a big house in London — near Berkeley Square, as James calls it; and they must needs discuss their affairs in my hearing, brutes that they are! [Coming to the chair on the left of the table at the end of the piano. ,] Oh, thank God, I'm leaving the town to-morrow! It was only a sort of curiosity that brought me here. [Sitting and producing her handkerchief.] Thank God, I'm leaving to-morrow! [He walks to the window on the right to allow her to recover herself, and then returns to her. Trist. My dear child, may I speak quite plainly to you? Helen. [Wiping her eyes.] If you don't lecture me. Trist. I won't lecture you. I merely venture to suggest that you are a trifle illogical. Helen. I dare say. Trist. After all, recollect, our friends James and Stephen are not to be blamed for the position they find themselves in. Helen. Their manners are insufferable. 138 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Trist. Hardly insufferable. Nothing is insufferable. Helen. There you go! Trist. Their faults of manner and breeding are precisely the faults a reasonable, dispassionate person would have no dif- ficulty in excusing. And I shall be much astonished, when the bitterness of your mortification has worn off Helen. You are lecturing! Trist. I'm not; I give you my word I'm not. Helen. It sounds uncommonly like it. What did I tell you the other day — that you were different from the clergymen I'd met hitherto, because you were ? Trist. Jolly. Helen. [With a shrug.] Jolly! [Wearily.] Oh, please go and hurry the children up, and let's be off to the flowers. Trist. [Not stirring.] My dear Miss Thornhill Helen. [Impatiently.] I'll fetch them- act n] THE THUNDERBOLT 139 Trist. Don't. [Deliberately.] My dear Miss Thornhill, to show you how little I regard myself as worthy of the priv- ilege of lecturing you; [smiling] to show you how the seeds of selfishness may germinate and flourish even in the breast of a cleric — may I make a confession to you? Helen. Confession ? Trist. I — I want to confess to you that the circumstance of your having been left as you are — cast adrift on the world, un- protected, without means apart from your own talent and exertions — is one that fills me with — hope. Helen. Hope? Trist. Fills me with hope, though it may scarcely justify my presumption. [Sitting opposite to her.] You were assuming a minute ago, in joke perhaps, the possibility of my obtaining a living some day. Helen. [Graciously, but with growing uneasiness.] Not alto- gether in joke. Trist. Anyhow, there is a decided possibility of a living coming my way — and practically in London, as it chances. Helen. I — I'm pleased. 140 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Trist. Yes, in the natural order of events a living will be vacant within the next few years which is in the gift of the father of an old college chum of mine. It's a suburban parish — close to Twickenham — and I'm promised it. Helen. That would be — nice for you. Trist. [Gazing at her fixedly.] Jolly. Helen. [Her eyes drooping.] Very — jolly. Trist. I should still be a poor man — that I shall always be; but poverty is relative. It would be riches compared with my curacy here. [After a pause.] The vicarage has a garden with some grand old trees. Helen. Many of the old gardens — in the suburbs — are charming. Trist. I — I could let the vicarage during the summer, to increase my income. Helen. May a vicar — let — his vicarage? act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 141 Trist. It's done. Some Bishops object to it; [innocently] but you can dodge the old boy. Helen. Dodge the — old boy! Trist. There are all sorts of legal fictions to help you. I know of a Bishop's son-in-law who let his vicarage for a term under the pretence of letting only the furniture. Helen. Wicked. Trist. [Leaning forward.] But I shouldn't dream of letting my vicarage if my income — proved sufficient Helen. It would be wealth — you say — in comparison Trist. Yes, but I — I might — marry. Helen. [Hastily.] Oh — oh, of course. [The door opens and Joyce and Cyril enter, dressed for going out. Cyril is in his best suit, is gloved, and swings a cane which is too long for him. At the same moment Thaddeus lets himself into the garden at the gate. He is accompanied by Denyer, an ordinary-looking person ivith whiskers and moustache. Helen and Trist rise, and she goes to the mirror in some confusion and gives a last touch to her hat. 1 42 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Joyce. Have we kept you waiting? Cyril. Sorry. Couldn't get my tie to go right. Thaddeus. [In the garden.] Come in, Denyer. [At the window, to those in the room.] What, haven't you folks gone yet? Trist. [With the children, following Helen into the garden.] Just off. Thaddeus. [To Helen, as she passes him.] Hope you'll enjoy your- self. Trist. [To Denyer.] Ah, Mr. Denyer, how are you? Denyer. How are you, Mr. Trist? Joyce and Cyril. [To Thaddeus.] Good-bye, father. Thaddeus. [Kissing them.] Good-bye, my dears. [Trist opens the gate and Helen and the children pass out into the lane. Trist follows them, closing the gate. Thaddeus and Denyer enter the room. Denyer is carrying a newspaper. act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 143 Cyril. [Out of sight, shrilly.] Which way? Trist. Through Parker Street. Joyce. Who walks with who? Helen. I walk with Cyril. [The sound of the chatter dies in the distance. Denyer. [To Thaddeus.] Then I can put up the bill at once, Mr. Mortimore? Thaddeus. [Laying his hat upon the table on the left.] Do, Denyer. To-morrow — to-day Denyer. I'll send a man round in the morning. [Producing a note- book and writing in it.] Let's see — your lease is seven, fourteen, twenty-one? Thaddeus. That's it. Denyer. How much of the first seven is there to run — I ought to remember ? 144 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Thaddeus. Two years and a half from Michaelmas. Denyer. Rent? Thaddeus. Forty. [The door opens a little way and Phyllis peeps in. Her features are drawn, her lips white and set. Denyer. Fixtures at a valuation, I s'pose? Thaddeus. Ha, ha! The costly fixtures at a valuation. Denyer. You may as well sell 'em, if they only fetch tuppence. [Seeing Phyllis, who has entered softly.] Good-afternoon, ma'am Phyllis. [In a low voice.] Good-afternoon. Thaddeus. [Turning to her.] Phyl, dear! I met Mr. Denyer in the lane. [Gleefully.] The bill goes up to-morrow — "house to let" — to-morrow morning — [to Denyer] first thing [Phyllis moves to the bay-window without speaking. act n] THE THUNDERBOLT 145 Denyer. First thing. [Putting his pocketbook azvay.~\ Excuse mc — you're on the lookout for a new residence? Thaddeus. Oh — er — one must live somewhere, Denyer. Denyer. And a much superior house to this, Mr. Mortimore, I lay a guinea. Thaddeus. [Walking about zvith his hands in his pockets.] The children are springing up — getting to be tremendous people. Denyer. [Genially.] Oh, come, sir! We know. Thaddeus. [Pausing in his walk.] Eh? Denyer. Everybody in the town knows of your luck, and the family's. [Picking up his hat and newspaper, which he has laid upon the ottoman.] Here's another allusion to it in this week's Courier. Thaddeus. The Courier? Denyer. [Handing him the paper.] Just out. You keep it; I've got another at 'ome. [Thaddeus is searching the paper.] Middle page — "Town Topics." 146 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Thaddeus. Thanks. Denyer. Mr. Hammond — he will poke his fun. [Going to the window.} P'r'aps you'll give us a call, sir? Thaddeus. \Following him absently, reading.] Yes, I'll call in. Denyer. [To Phyllis, who is sitting in the chair by the bay- window.] Good-day, ma'am. [In the garden, to Thad- deus, persuasively.] Now, you won't forget Gibson and Denyer, Mr. Mortimore? Thaddeus. [At the zuindow.] I won't; I won't. Denyer. The old firm. [Opening the gate.] What we haven't got on our books isn't worth considering, you take it from me. [He disappears, closing the gate. Thaddeus comes back into the room. Thaddeus. Upon my soul, this is too bad of Hammond. This'll annoy Jim and Stephen frightfully — drive 'em mad. [Flinging the paper on to the settee by the piano.] Oh, well ! [Put- ting his necktie in order at the mirror.] By Jove, we've done it at last, old lady! "House to let," hey? I believe I'm act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 147 keener about it than you are, now it's come to it. What a sensation it'll cause at "Ivanhoe," and at the Crescent! I tell you what, you and I must have a solemn talk to-night — a parliament — when the children have gone to bed; a regular, serious talk. [Turning.] You know, I'm still for Cheltenham. Cheltenham seems to me to offer so many advantages. [Phyllis rises slowly.] There's the town it- self — bright and healthy; then the College, for Cyril. As for its musical tastes [Breaking off and looking at the clock.] I say, do get your things on, Phyl. [Comparing his watch with the clock and then timing and winding it.] We shall catch it if we're not punctual. Phyllis. I — I'm not going, Tad. Thaddeus. Not going, dear? Phyllis. No — I [He advances to the right of the piano solic- itously.] I can't go. Thaddeus. Aren't you up to it? [She moves to the open window and looks into the garden. Phyllis. They won't — be back — for a long while? Thaddeus. The children, and Trist and Helen? Not for an hour or two. i 4 8 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Phyllis. [Turning.] Tad — that girl — that girl Thaddeus. Helen? Phyllis. [Coming forivard a little.] We're robbing her; we're robbing her. [Shaking.] We're all robbing her. Thaddeus. [At her side.] You've got another bad attack of nerves this afternoon — an extra bad one Phyllis. [Suddenly, grasping his coat.] Tad — I — I've broken down Thaddeus. Broken down? Phyllis. I've broken down under it. I — I can't endure it. Thaddeus. [Soothingly.] What — what ? Phyllis. Your brother — Edward — your brother — Edward- Thaddeus. Yes? act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 149 Phyllis. Everything — everything — belongs to her — Helen Thaddeus. My dear, the family were prepared to offer Helen Phyllis. No, no! He left every penny to her — left it to her. [Staring into his face.] There was a will. Thaddeus. A will? Phyllis. I saw it. Thaddeus. You saw it? Phyllis. I read it — I had it in my hand Thaddeus. [Incredulously.] You did! Phyllis. Yes, I — I did away with it Thaddeus. Did away with it? Phyllis. Destroyed it. 150 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Thaddeus. A will — Ned's will ! [She turns from him and sinks helplessly on to the settee by the fireplace. He stands looking down upon her in a half-frightened, half-puzzled way; then his face clears and he looks at the clock again. Calmly.] Phyl, I wish you'd let me have Chapman in. Phyllis. [In a faint voice.] No — no Thaddeus. My dear, we can afford a doctor now, if we require one. That bromide stuff he prescribed for you once — that did you no end of good. [Going towards the door.] I'll send Kate. Phyllis. [Raising herself.] Tad Thaddeus. [Reassuringly.] I'll stay with you till he comes. Phyllis. Tad — [getting to her feet] you — you think I'm not right in my head. Tad, I — I know what I'm saying. I'm telling the truth. I'm telling you the truth. Thaddeus. A will ? Phyllis. [At the round table.] Yes — yes act 11] THE THUNDERBOLT 151 Thaddeus. No, no, you're talking nonsense. [He goes to the door and there pauses, his hand on the door-knob.] When — when ? Phyllis. When ? Thaddeus. When did you see it? Phyllis. On the — on the Wednesday night. Thaddeus. The Wednesday night? Phyllis. You remember — the night there was no night nurse ? Thaddeus. I remember, of course. Phyllis. Ann and Louisa had gone to the hotel to lie down, and — and I was alone with him. Thaddeus. I remember it all perfectly. Phyllis. \Moving towards the ottoman, supporting herself by the table.] I was with him from eight o'clock till nearly eleven. 152 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Thaddeus. Till the others came back. That was the night he — the night he sank. Phyllis. Yes; it was just before then that he — that he Thaddeus. [Leaving the door.] Just before then ? Phyllis. It was just before the change set in that he — that he sent me down-stairs. Thaddeus. Down-stairs? Phyllis. To the library. Thaddeus. The library? Phyllis. With the keys. Thaddeus. Keys? Phyllis. His bunch of keys. Thaddeus. Sent you down-stairs — to the library — with his keys? Phyllis. Yes. Act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 153 Thaddeus. What for? Phyllis. To fetch something. Thaddeus. Fetch something? Phyllis. From the safe. Thaddeus. The safe? Phyllis. The safe in the library — [sitting on the ottoman] the safe in the bookcase in the library. Thaddeus. [Coming to her.] What — what did he send you to fetch, dear? Phyllis. Some — some jewelry. Thaddeus. Jewelry? Phyllis. Some pieces of jewelry. He had some pieces of jewelry in his safe in the library, that he'd picked up, he said, at odd times, and he wanted to make me a present of one of them — Thaddeus.. Make you a present ? 154 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Phyllis. As a keepsake. [Her elbozus on her knees, digging her fingers into her hair.] It was about half-past nine. I was sitting beside his bed, thinking he was asleep, and I found him looking at me. He recollected seeing me when I was a child, he said, skating on the ponds at Claybrook ; and he said he was sure I — I was a good wife to you — and a good mother to my children. And then he spoke of the jewelry — and opened the drawer of the table by the bed — and took out his keys — and explained to me how to open the safe. Thaddeus. [His manner gradually changing as he listens to her recital.] You — you went down ? Phyllis. Thaddeus. _? Phyllis. And unlocked the safe. And in the lower drawer I — I came across it. Yes. And — and- Thaddeus. Came across- Phyllis. He told me I should find four small boxes — and I could find only three — and that made me look into the drawer — and — and under a lot of other papers — I — I saw it. Thaddeus. It? act n] THE THUNDERBOLT 155 Phyllis. A big envelope, with "My Will" written upon it. [There is a short silence; then he seats himself upon the settee by the piano. Thaddeus. [In a whisper.] Well? Phyllis. [Raising her head.] I put it back into the drawer, and locked the safe, and went up-stairs with the jewelry. Out- side the bedroom door I found Heath. I'd given him per- mission to run out for an hour, to get some air, with Pearce and Sadler, the housemaids. He asked me if they could do anything for me before they started. I told him no, and that Mr. Mortimore seemed brighter and stronger. I heard him going down the servant's staircase ; and then I went into the room — up to the bed — and — and he was altered. Thaddeus. [Moistening his lips zvith his tongue.] Ned- Phyllis. His cheeks were more shrunken, and his jaw had dropped slightly, and his lips were quite blue; and his breathing was short and quick. I measured the medicine which he was to have if there was any sign of collapse, and lifted him up and gave it to him. Then I rang the bell, and by and by the woman from the kitchen answered it. He was easier then — dozing, but I told her to put on her hat and jacket and go for Dr. Oswald. And then I stood watching him, and — and the idea — came to me. 156 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Thaddeus. The — the idea? Phyllis. My head suddenly became very clear. Every word of the argument in the train came back to me Thaddeus. Argument? Phyllis. Between James and the others — in the train, going to Linchpool, on the Tuesday Thaddeus. Oh — oh, yes. Phyllis. If Edward died, how much would he die worth? Who would come in for all his money? Would he remember the family, to the extent of a mourning ring or so, in his will? If he should die leaving no will ! Of course Ned would leave a will, but — where did a man's money go to when he didn't leave a will ? Thaddeus. [Under his breath.] To his — next-of-kin ! Phyllis. [Rising painfully.] After a time, I — I went downstairs again. At first I persuaded myself that I only wanted to replace the jewelry — that I didn't want to have to explain about the jewelry to Ann and Lou; [moving about the room on the left] but when I got down-stairs I knew what I was going to do. And I did it as if it was the most ordinary act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 157 thing in the world. I put back the little boxes — and took out the big envelope — and locked up the safe again, and — read the will. [Pausing at the piano.] Everything — every- thing — to some person — some woman living in Paris. {Lean- ing upon the piano, a clenched hand against her brow.] "Everything I die possessed of to Helen Thornhill, now or late of " such-and-such an address, "spinster, abso- lutely"; and she was to be his executrix — "sole executrix." That was all, except that he begged her to reward his old servants — his old servants at his house and at the brewery. Just a few lines — on one side of a sheet of paper Thaddeus. Written — in his own — hand? Phyllis. I think so. Thaddeus. You — you've seen his writing — since- Phyllis. [Leaving the piano.] Yes — I'm sure — in his own hand. Thaddeus. [Heartily.] That clears it up, then. Phyllis. Yes. Thaddeus. He'd made his will — himself — himself i 5 8 THE THUNDERBOLT [act ii Phyllis. [Her strength failing a little.] Three years ago. I — noticed the date — [dropping into the chair on the extreme left] it was three years ago [Again there is a silence; then he rises and walks about aimlessly. Thaddeus. [Trying to collect his thoughts.] Yes — yes; this clears it up. This clears it all up. There was a will. There was a will. He didn't forget his child; he didn't forget her. What fools — what fools we were to suppose he could have forgotten his daughter! Phyllis. [Writhing in her chair.] Oh, I didn't know — I didn't guess ! His daughter! [Moaning.] Oh! oh! Thaddeus. Don't; don't, old lady. [She continues her moaning.] Oh, don't, don't! Let's think; let's think, now; let's think. [He seats himself opposite to her.] Now, let's think. Helen — this'll put Helen in a different position entirely; a differ- ent position entirely — won't it? I — I wonder — I wonder what's the proper course for the family to take. [Stretching out a trembling hand to her.] You'll have to write down — to write down carefully — very carefully — [breaking off, with a change of tone] Phyl Phyllis. Oh! oh! Thaddeus. Don't, dear, don't! Phyllis, perhaps you — didn't — destroy the will; not — actually — destroy it? [Imploringly.] You didn't destroy it, dear! act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 159 Phyllis. I did— I did Thaddeus. [Leaning back in his chair, dazed.] I — I'm afraid — it — it's rather — a serious matter — to — to destroy Phyllis. [Starting up.] I did destroy it; I did destroy it. [Pac- ing the room on the right.] I kept it — I'd have burnt it then and there if there'd been a fire — but I kept it — I grew terrified at what I'd done — oh, I kept it tijl you left me at Roper's on the Thursday morning; and then I — I went on to the Ford Street bridge — and tore it into pieces — and threw them into the water. [Wringing her hands.] Oh! oh! Thaddeus. [His chin on his breast.] Well — well — we've got to go through with it. We've got— to go — through [Rising and walking about unsteadily on the left.] Yes, yes, yes; what a difference it'll make to everybody — not only to Helen! What a difference it'll make at "Ivanhoe," and at the Crescent — and to Rose ! Phyllis. They'll curse me! They'll curse me more than ever! Thaddeus. And to — to us! Phyllis. To us — the children ! 160 THE THUNDERBOLT [act h Thaddeus. [Shaking a finger at her across the piano, cunningly.] Ah — ah — ah, but when the affair's really settled, we'll still carry out our intention. We — we'll still Phyllis. [Facing him.] Our intention? Our ? Thaddeus. Our intention — of leaving the town Phyllis. [Wildly.] Leaving the town! Oh, my God, we shall have to leave the town! Thaddeus. [Recoiling.] Oh ! Phyllis. Leave it as beggars and outcasts ! Thaddeus. [Qui'tly.] Oh, yes, we shall — have — to leave the town — now [The door opens and a little maidservant enters. Thaddeus looks at her with dull eyes. The Servant. Please, sir Thaddeus. Eh? act ii] THE THUNDERBOLT 161 The Servant. Maud's just come down from "Ivanhoe." They're wait- ing for you. Thaddeus. W — waiting ? The Servant. That's the message, sir. Mr. James and the family's waiting for Mr. Thaddeus. Thaddeus. Oh, I {Taking out his watch and fingering it.] Yes, of course — [to the servant] I — I'm coming up. [The serv- ant withdraws. Thaddeus picks up his hat from the table on the left and turns to Phyllis.] Good-bye, dear. [Tak- ing her in his arms, and kissing her, simply.] I — I'll go up. [He puts his hat on, finds his way to the door with un- certain steps, and disappears. END OF THE SECOND ACT THE THIRD ACT The scene is the dining-room in James MoRTlMORE's house. In the wall facing the spectator there is an arched re- cess with a fireplace at the back of it, and on either side of the fireplace, within the recess, there is a chimney- seat. On the right of the recess a door opens into the room from a hall or passage. Standing out in the middle of the room is a large, oblong dining-table, uncovered. On the table are a couple of inkstands, some pens, paper, and blotting-paper. Ten chairs are placed at regular intervals at the table — three at each side and two at the ends. Against the wall on the right, near the door, stands a heavy side-board. On it are several pieces of ugly-looking, showy plate, a carafe of water and a tumbler, and, upon a tray, a decanter of red ivine and some ivine- glasses. Against the same zvall, but nearer to the spectator, there is a cabinet. In front of the cabinet there is a round table, covered with a ivhite cloth, on which tea-cups and saucers are laid for ten persons. Also on the table are a tea-caddy and teapot, a plated kettle-stand, a plum- cake, and other accompaniments of afternoon tea. On each side of the tea-table there is an armchair belonging to the same set of chairs that surround the dining-table. Against the left-hand wall is another heavy piece of furni- ture. Except for this, and the sideboard and the cabinet, the walls, beloiv the dado rail, are bare. The architecture, decorations, and furniture are pseudo- artistic and vulgar. The ivhole suggests the home of a common person of moderate means who has built himself a "fine house." 162 act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 163 James and Stephen are seated at the farther side of the dining-table with a neivspaper spread out before them. Standing by them, reading the paper over their hus- bands' shoulders, are Ann and Louisa. Rose is sitting, looking bored, at the right-hand end of the table, and Ponting, smoking a cigar, is pacing the room on the left. Louisa and Rose, the latter dressed in rich half- mourning, are wearing their hats. James. [Scowling at the paper.] It's infamous. Louisa. Abominable ! Ann. It oughtn't to be allowed, James. Stephen. Ah, now James is stabbed at as well as myself. James. The man's a blackguard ; that's what he is. Louisa. His wife's a most unpleasant woman Stephen. [Leaning back and wiping his spectacles.] Hitherto / have been the chief object of Mr. Hammond's malice. Louisa. You'll soon have your revenge now, Stephen. [To the others.] Stephen will soon have his revenge now. 164 THE THUNDERBOLT [act m James. By George, I've half a mind to ask Vallance to give me his opinion on this! Stephen. We might consult Vallance, certainly. Louisa. And tell him what Mrs. Hammond was. Ann. When she was plain Nelly Robson. Stephen. Sssh, sssh! Do, pray, keep the wife out of it. PONTING. [Looking at his watch as he walks across to the right.] I say, my friends, it's four o'clock, you know. [The Mor- timores stiffen themselves and regard him coldly.] Where are these lawyer chaps? James. [Folding the newspaper.] They're not in my pocket, Colonel. Stephen. No, we're not in the habit of carrying them about with us. Louisa. [Laughing sillily.] Oh, Stephen! act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 165 Rose. We mustn't lose the — what's the train back, Toby? Ponting. [Behind her chair, annoyed.] Five fifty-seven. Rose. I shall be dead with fatigue; I've two parties to-night. James. Parties ? Rose. [To Ponting.] Destinn is singing at the Trench's, Toby. Stephen. [Rising.] H'm! Indeed? Ann. [In an undertone, withdrawing with LOUISA to the fire- place.] Singing! James. [Rising.] So you're going to parties, are you, Rose? Pretty sharp work, with Ned only a month in his grave. Ponting. We're not conventional people. Rose. [Rising and walking away to the left.] No, we don't mourn openly. 1 66 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi PONTING. We don't carry our hearts on our what-d'ye-call-it — sleeve. Rose. And Edward wasn't in the least known in London society. James. [Walking about on the right.] You knew him. PONTING. [Seating himself on the nearer side of the dining-table in the middle chair.] In London, my friends, reg'lar mournin' is confined to the suburbs nowadays. May I have an ash- tray? Rose. [Walking about on the left.] And we go to Harrogate on the twenty-ninth. PONTING. Good Lord, yes; I'm kept devilish quiet there. [Ann takes a metal ash-tray from the mantelpiece and gives it to Stephen, who almost flings it on to the table. The door opens and a maid-servant enters fol- lowed by Elkin and Vallance. The lawyers carry small leather bags. The servant retires. James. [Shaking hands heartily with Elkin and Vallance.] Here you are! act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 167 Elkin. A minute or two behind time — my fault. Stephen. How d'ye do, Mr. Elkin? [Shaking hands with Val- lance.] Good-afternoon. Elkin. [To Ponting.] How d'ye do? PONTING. [Shortly, not rising.] H'ah you? Vallance. [Shaking hands with Ann and LOUISA and bowing to Rose.] How do you do? Elkin. [To Rose.] Hope you're very well, Mrs. Ponting. Rose. Thanks. Vallance. [To Ponting, who nods in return.] Good-afternoon. Ponting. [Bringing the palm of his hand down upon the table.] Now, then! James. [To Elkin and Vallance, inviting them by a gesture to be seated.] Excuse the dining-room, gentlemen; looks more like business than the drawing-room. 1 68 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Stephen. [On the left.] Where's Tad? Ann. [Seating herself at the further side of the dining-table in the middle chair.] Yes, where's Tad? Louisa. [Sitting beside her.] Where are Tad and Phyllis? James. [Looking at his watch.] Five past, by my watch. Rose. [Sitting at the left-hand end of the table.] Oh, never mind them. James. [To Stephen.] P'r'aps you told 'em four-thirty? Stephen. [Nettled.] Perhaps I told them! James. All right, all right; don't flare up! P'r'aps / did; there was a talk of making it half-past. Stephen. [Raising his arms.] On the day I go to press act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 169 James. Ring the bell. [Opening the door and calling.] Maud! Maud ! [Stephen rings the bell. Elkin and Vallance are now seated, Elkin in the further chair at the right- hand end of the dining-table, Vallance in the chair between Elkin and Ann. They open their bags and sort and arrange their papers. PONTING. We shall be here till midnight. James. Maud ! Rose. [Pushing her chair away from the table.] How vexing! PONTING. [With a sneer.] I suppose one can buy a soot of pyjamas in the town, eh, Mrs. James? Elkin. / sha'n't detain you long. [The servant appears at the door. James. Maud, run down to Nelson Villas — just as you are Rose. [Satirically.] Don't hurry them, Jim. Phyllis is smart- ening herself up. 170 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Stephen. {Seating himself in the further chair at the left-hand end of the dining-table, loudly.] Say we are waiting for Mr. Thaddeus. James. [To the girl.] Mr. James and the family are waiting for Mr. Thaddeus. [As he closes the door.] Go along Collier Street; you may meet him. PONTING. [Fussily.] We can deal with preliminaries, at any rate. Kindly push that ash-tray a little nearer. [To Vallance.] Mr. Vallance James. [Leaving the door, resenting Ponting's assumption of authority.] I beg your pardon, Colonel; we'll give my brother another five minutes' grace, with your permission. PONTING. [Shrugging his shoulders.] By all means — ten — twenty James. [Finding that he has the neivspaper in his hand.] Oh — here ! [Opening the paper.] While we're waiting for Tad Stephen. Ah, yes. Read it aloud, Jim. PONTING. [Rising and moving aivay impatiently.] Tsch! act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 171 James. Mr. Vallance — Mr. Elkin — oblige us by listening to this. It's from the Courier. Stephen. This week's Courier — published to-day- Vallance. [To Elkin.] One of our local papers. James. Owned by a feller 0' the name of Hammond. [Read- ing.] "Town Topics." Ann. He married a Miss Robson. Louisa. A dreadful woman. Stephen. Sssh, sssh ! Mr. Hammond's offensive remarks are usually directed against myself, but in this instance James. [Walking about as he reads.] "A curious complication arises in connection with the estate of the late Mr. Edward Mortimore of Linchpool." Stephen. He doesn't cloak his attack, you see. i 7 2 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi James. "As many of our readers are aware — [running his hands over his pockets] as many of our readers are aware " Stephen. He has made them aware of it. James. [To Ann.] Where did I put them, mother? Ann. [Producing her spectacles.] Try mine, James [Ann gives her spectacles to Stephen, Stephen gn them to Rose, and Rose presents them to James. phen gives James. I'm getting as blear-eyed as Stephen. [Resuming.] "As many of our readers are aware, the whole of that gentleman's wealth passes, in consequence of his having died intestate, to a well-known Singlehampton family " Louisa. That points to us. Stephen. [Irritably.] Of course it does; of course it does. Louisa. There's no better-known family in Singlehampton than ours. Stephen. Sssh, sssh! act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 173 James. " two members of which " Ann. The Mockfords were an older family — but where are the Mockfords? James. [To Ann.] Give me a chance, Ann. [Continuing.] -two members of which have been for many years prom- inently associated with the temperance movement in this town." Stephen. [Rising.] My brother James and myself. James. [Standing at the table, facing ELKIN and VALLANCE, in his oratorical manner.] Twelve years ago, gentlemen, I was instrumental in founding the Singlehampton and Claybrook Temperance League Louisa. Stephen was another of the founders. Stephen. [Joining James.] I was another. James. And day in and day out I have devoted my best energies to furthering the objects of the League in Singlehampton and in Claybrook. 174 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Stephen. Very materially aided by the Times and Mirror, a tem- perance organ. James. And I submit that it's holding us up to ridicule and con- tempt — holding us up to public obloquy and derision Vallance. [To James.] What is your objection to the paragraph, Mr. Mortimore? James. Objection! Elkin. There's more to come, I expect. James. [Grimly.] Aye, a bit more. [Sitting at the table.] What d'ye think of this? [Reading.] "When it is remem- bered that the late Mr. Mortimore's fortune was derived from the brewing and the sale of beer " Stephen. [Sitting beside James.] The word "beer" is in italics. Vallance. Oh, I see. James. " it will be understood that our two distinguished fellow-townsmen are placed in an extremely difficult posi- • >5 non. act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 175 Stephen. This is the most spiteful part of it. James. ""yVe have no doubt, however, that, as conscientious men, they will prove fully equal to the occasion by either renounc- ing their share of their late brother's property or by dedi- cating it entirely to the advancement of the cause they have at heart." [Throiving the newspaper to Elkin and Val- Lance.] There it is, gentlemen. [In wandering round the room, Ponting has come upon the decanter of wine and the wine-glasses standing on the sideboard. He is now filling a glass. Ponting. Every man has a right to his convictions. {Taking the glass in his hand.] A little alcohol hurts nobody James. You won't find any in my house. Ponting. What's this, then? Currant. James. Ponting. [Replacing the glass, with a wry face.] My dear Morti- more ! [He sits at the right-hand end of the table, beside Elkin, and pries at the documents which Elkin has taken from his bag. Vallance and Elkin are read- ing the paragraph together, VALLANCE draining his chair closer to Elkin's for that purpose. 176 THE THUNDERBOLT [act in James. [To Vallance.] Well, what's your opinion, Mr. Val- Iance? Is that libellous, or isn't it? Stephen. Does it, or does it not, go beyond the bounds of fair com- ment — eh, Mr. Elkin? Vallance. [Pacifically.] Oh, but aren't you attaching a great deal too much importance to this? James. Too much ! Elkin. Why not ignore it? Stephen. Ignore it ! Vallance. Treat it as a piece of pure chaff — badinage Elkin. In more or less bad taste. Vallance. Take no notice of it whatever. James. [Rising and walking away to the fireplace.] Take no notice of it! The townspeople will take notice of it pretty quickly. act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 177 Stephen. [Rising.] In my opinion, that paragraph renders our position in the League absolutely untenable. James. [Standing over Vallance.] Unless that paragraph is apologized for, withdrawn Stephen. [Standing over Elkin.] Explained away James. Aye, explained away Vallance. I don't see how it can be explained away. Elkin. [Dryly.] The proposition is a perfectly accurate one, whatever you may think of the corollary. Vallance. You are ardent advocates of temperance. Elkin. Your late brother's property was amassed mainly by beer. Vallance. It can hardly be explained away. Stephen. [Walking to the left.} Good heavens above, I've ex- plained things away often enough in my paper ! 178 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi James. {Coming forward on the right.] This does us at the League, then — does us; knocks our Influence into a cocked hat. Elkin. [To James and Stephen, while Vallance folds the paper.] After alL gentlemen, when you come to reflect upon it, the laugh is with you. James. Is it? Elkin. [Genially.] The Courier has its little joke, but you've got the money, remember. James. Oh, that's true. Stephen. [Walking about on the left.] That's true; that's true. James. [Walking about on the right, rattling his loose cash.] Aye, we've got the mopuses. Rose. [Tilting her chair on its hind legs.] I say, Jim — Stephen — why don't you two boys, between you, present the League with a handsome hall ? James. [Pausing in his ivalk.] Hall? act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 179 Rose. Build the temperance folk a meeting-place of their ewn — a headquarters Ponting. [Mischievously.] He, he, he! That 'ud smooth 'em down. Capital idea, Rosie! James and Stephen. We! James. I'd see 'em damned first. [To the ladies.] I beg par- don Ann. [With unusual animation.] No, no; you're quite right, James. Stephen. [At the fireplace.] That would be playing into Mr. Hammond's hands with a vengeance. James. [Walking across to the left, derisively.] Ha! Wouldn't Hammond crow, hey! Ha, ha, ha! Stephen. No, if the situation becomes too acute — painful as it would be to me — I shall resign. James. [Determinedly.] Resign. 180 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Stephen. Sever my connection with the League. James. Leave '/em to swill themselves with their lemonade and boiled tea ! Stephen. [Coming forward on the right.] And to find out how they get on without us. James. Serve 'em up in their own juice! Stephen. [Meeting James in the middle of the room on the nearer side of the dining -table.] You know, Jim, we've never gone quite so far — you and I — with the principles of temperance as some. James. [Eyeing him curiously.] Never gone so far ? Stephen. As old Bob Amphlett, for example — never. James. Oh, yes, we have, and a deuced sight further. Stephen. Excuse me — I've always been for moderation rather than for total abstinence. act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 181 James. Have yer? [Walking away to the left.] First I've heard of it. Stephen. Anyhow, a man may broaden his views with years and experience. [Argumentatively.~\ Take the hygienic aspect of the case. Only the other day, Sir Vincent West, prob- ably the ablest physician in England Louisa. [Abruptly.] Stephen ! Stephen. [Angrily.] Don't interrupt me. Louisa. [With energy, rising.] I've maintained it throughout my life — it's nothing new from my lips Stephen. What ? Louisa. There are two sides to every question. Stephen. [Hurrying round the table to join LOUISA.] Exactly — exactly — as Lou says Louisa. It's been almost a second religion with me. I've preached it in season and out of season 1 82 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Stephen. {With conviction.] There are two sides Louisa. Two sides to every question. James. [To Ann, pointing to the door.] Mother [The door has been opened by another maid-servant, who carries a tray on which are a plated kettle, a dish of toast, and a plentiful supply of bread-and-butter. The girl remains in the door- zuay. Ann rises and goes to her and takes the kettle from the tray. James comes forward and seats himself on the nearer side of the dining-table in the middle chair.] Look here; I don't wait another minute for the Tads — not a second. PONTING. Ah! [Louisa follows Ann and takes the toast and the bread- and-butter from the servant, who then disappears, closing the door. Stephen. [Again sitting in the further chair at the left-hand end of the dining-table.] Inexcusable of them — inexcusable. [Ann and Louisa come to the tea-table and, drawing the two armchairs up to it, seat themselves and pre- pare the tea. The kettle is set upon the stand, the spirit-lamp is lighted, Ann measures the tea from the caddy into the pot, and Louisa cuts the plum-cake. James. Mr. Elkin — Mr. Vallance act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 183 PONTING. Now, Mr. Vallance; now, Mr. Elkin! Elkin. [ 7V Vallance. ] Will you ? Vallance. No, no — you Elkin. Well, gentlemen — [to Rose] Mrs. Ponting — Mr. Val- lance and I have to report to you that we've received no communication of any kind in answer to our circulars and advertisements James. [To Ann, who is making a clatter with the kettle. ~\ Steady, mother! Ponting. [To the ladies at the tea-table.] Sssh, sssh, sssh! Elkin. No communication from any solicitor who has prepared a will for your late brother, nor from anybody who has knowingly witnessed a will executed by him. Stephen. Mr. Vallance has apprised us of this already. James. [Raising a hand.] Order! There's a formal way of doing things and a lax way. 1 84 THE THUNDERBOLT [act in Stephen. I merely mentioned [Ponting raps the table sharply with his knuckles. Elkin. 1 may say that, in addition to the issuing of the circulars and advertisements, I have made search in every place 1 could think of, and have inquired of every person likely to be of help in the matter. In fact, I've taken every possible step to find, or trace, a will. Vallance. Without success. Elkin. Without success. James. [Magnanimously.] And / say that the family bears no grudge to Mr. Elkin for doing his duty. Stephen. [In the same spirit.] Hear, hear! Ponting. [Testily.] Of course not; of course not. Rose. It's all the more satisfactory, it seems to me, that he has worried round. James. The family thanks Mr. Elkin. act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 185 Stephen. We thank Mr. Elkin. Elkin. [After a stiff inclination of the head.] The only other observation I wish to make is that several gentlemen em- ployed in the office of the brewery in Linchpool have at dif- ferent times witnessed the late Mr. Mortimore's signature to documents which have apparently required the attestation of two witnesses. PONTING. \Curtly.] That amounts to nothing. James. There are a good many documents, aren't there, where two witnesses are required to a signature? Elkin. Deeds under seal, certainly. Stephen. I remember having to sign, some years ago- [Ponting again raps the table. Vallance. But none of these gentlemen at the brewery can recall that any particular document appeared to him to be a will, which is not a document under seal. James. Besides, a man signing a will always tells the witnesses that it is his will they're witnessing, doesn't he, Mr. Val- lance ? 1 86 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Vallance. A solicitor would, in the ordinary course of practice, in- form the witnesses to a will of the nature of the document they were attesting, undoubtedly. Elkin. Granted; but a testator, supposing he were executing his will in his own house or office, and not in the presence of a solicitor, is under no legal necessity to do so, and may omit to do so. James. [Rolling about in his chair.] Oh, well, we needn't PONTING. [Looking at his watch.] In heaven's name ! Stephen. We needn't go into all this. Elkin. No, no; I simply draw attention to the point. [Unfold- ing a document.] Well, gentlemen — Mrs. Ponting — this is a statement — [handing another document to Vallance J here is a copy of it, Mr. Vallance — this is a statement of particulars of stocks, shares, and other items of estate, with their values at the death of the late Mr. Mortimore, and a schedule of the debts so far as they are known to me. [There is a general movement. James rises and goes to Vallance. Stephen also rises, stretching out an eager hand towards Vallance. Rose draws nearer to the table, Ponting still closer to Elkin. Ann and Louisa, too, show a disposition to desert the tea-table. act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 187 James. [To Ann, as he passes her.] You get on with the tea, mother. [To Vallance.] Allow me, Mr. Vallance [Vallance gives him the duplicate of the statement. PONTING. What's it come out at; what's it come out at? Stephen. What's it come out at? Rose. Yes, what does it come out at? Jim Stephen. Jim [James joins Stephen and they examine the duplicate together. Rose rises and endeavors to read it with them. Elkin. I estimate the gross value of the estate, which, as you will see, consists entirely of personal property, at one hundred and ninety-two thousand pounds. PONTING. The gross value. Stephen. Yes, but what do ive get? Ponting and Rose. What do we get? 188 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iii James. After all deductions. Elkin. Roughly speaking, after payment of debts, death duties, and expenses, there will be about a hundred and seventy thousand pounds to divide. [Those who are standing sit again. James seats himself next to Stephen and, with pen and ink , they make calculations on paper. Ponting does the same. Rose, closing her eyes, fans herself happily, and the two ladies at the tea-table resume their preparations with beaming countenances. Elkin leans back in his chair.] Mr. Vallance Vallance. [To Rose, James, and Stephen.] Mrs. Ponting and gentlemen — [Ponting raps the table and James and Stephen look up] I advise you that, as next-of-kin of the late Mr. Mortimore, if you are satisfied — and in my opinion you may reasonably be satisfied — that he died intestate — I advise you that any one or more of you, not exceeding three, [the door opens quietly and Thaddeus appears. He is very pale, but is outwardly calm. After a look in the direction of the table, he closes the door] may apply for Letters of Administration of your late brother's estate. It isn't neces- sary or usual, however, I may tell you, to have more than one administrator, and I suggest [Hearing the click of the lock as Thaddeus shuts the door, everybody turns and glances at him. Rose. [Opening her eyes.] Here's Tad. Stephen. [Grumpily.] Oh act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 189 Rose. [Tossing THADDEUS a greeting.} Hallo! James. [To THADDEUS, with a growl.] Oh, you've arrived. Stephen. [To Thaddeus.] Did I say four or half-past ? Louisa. Where's Phyllis? Ann. Where's Phyllis? Thaddeus. [In a low voice, advancing.] She — she didn't feel well enough [PONTING raps the inkstand with his penholder. James. [Pointing to the chair beside him, imperatively.] Sit down; sit down. [Thaddeus sits, his elbows on the table, his eyes cast down.] Mr. Vallance Vallance. [To Thaddeus.] Good-afternoon, Mr. Mortimore. Elkin. [Nodding to Thaddeus.] How d'ye do? Thaddeus. [Almost inaudibly.] Good-afternoon. igo THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Vallance. [To the others.] I suppose we needn't go back ? A Murmur. No, no; no, no. James. [Pushing the duplicate of the statement under Thaddeus's eyes.] A hundred and seventy thousand pounds to divide. Stephen. A hundred and seventy thousand. PONTING. [Finishing his sum.] Forty-two thousand five hundred apiece. Vallance. [Resuming.] I was saying that it isn't usual to have more than one administrator, and I was about to suggest that the best course will be for you, Mr. James, to act in that capacity, and for you, Mr. Stephen, and you, Mr. Thaddeus, or one of you, and Colonel Ponting, to be the sureties to the bond for the due administration of the estate. James. [Cheerfully.] I'm in your hands, Mr. Vallance. Stephen. I'm agreeable. Ponting. And I. act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 191 Vallance. The procedure is this — perhaps I'd better explain it. [Producing a form of "Oath for Administrators" which is among his papers.} The intended administrator will make an affidavit stating when and where the deceased died, that he died intestate, [Thaddeus looks up] a bachelor without a parent, and that the deponent is a natural and lawful brother and one of the next-of-kin of the deceased Thaddeus. [Touching Vallance's arm.} Mr. Vallance Vallance. Eh? Thaddeus. We — we mustn't go on with this. Vallance. I beg pardon? Thaddeus. The family mustn't go on with this. Vallance. Mustn't go on ? James. [To Thaddeus.] What a'yer talking about? Thaddeus. [After a hurried look round.] There — there was a will. Vallance. A will ? 192 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Thaddeus. He — he made a will. James. Who did? Thaddeus. Edward. He — he left a will. James. [Roughly.] What the ! Elkin. [To James, interrupting him.] One moment. Your brother has something to say to us, Mr. Mortimore. Stephen. What — what's he mean by ? Elkin. [To Stephen.] Please — [To Thaddeus.] Yes, sir? [Thaddeus is silent.] What about a will? [Thaddeus is still silent.] Eh? Thaddeus. I — I saw it. Elkin. Saw a will? Thaddeus. I — I opened it — I — I read it Elkin. Read it? act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 193 Thaddeus. I — tore it up — got rid of it. [Again there is silence, the MORTIMORES and the Pon- TINGS sitting open-mouthed and motionless. Elkin. [After a while.] Mr. Vallance, I think we ought to tell Mr. Mortimore that he appears to be making a confession of the gravest kind Vallance. Yes. Elkin. One that puts him in a very serious position. Vallance. [To Thaddeus, after a further pause.] Mr. Morti- more ? [Thaddeus makes no response. Elkin. If, understanding that, he chooses to continue, there is nothing to prevent our hearing him. Thaddeus. [Looking straight before him, his arms still upon the table, locking and unlocking his hands as he speaks.] It — it happened on the Wednesday night — in Cannon Row — in Ned's house — the night before he died — the night we were left without a nurse. [Another pause. Vallance takes a sheet of paper and selects a pen. Elkin pushes the inkstand nearer to him.] Mrs. James — and — and Mrs. Stephen — my — my sisters-in-law [Ann and Louisa get to their feet and advance a step or two. 194 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iii Elkin. [Hearing the rustle of their skirts and turning to them.] Keep your seats, ladies, please. [They sit again, drawing their chairs close together. Thaddeus. My sisters-in-law had gone home — that is, to their hotel — to get a few hours' sleep in case of their having to sit up through the night. Jim and Stephen and I were out and about, trying to find a night-nurse who'd take Nurse Ral- ston's place temporarily. At about nine o'clock, I looked in at Cannon Row, to see how things were getting on. Vallance. [Who is writing.] The Wednesday? Mr. Edward Mortimore dying on Thursday, the twentieth of June Elkin. On the morning of Thursday, the twentieth. Vallance. That makes the Wednesday we are speaking of, Wednes- day, June the nineteenth. Elkin. [To Thaddeus.] You looked in at Cannon Row ? Vallance. At about nine o'clock on the night of Wednesday, June the nineteenth. act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 195 Thaddeus. I — I went up-stairs and sat by Ned's bed, and by and by he began talking to me about — about Phyllis. He — he'd taken rather a fancy to her, he said, and he wanted to give her a memento — a keepsake. Elkin. Phyllis ? Vallance. [To Elkin.] His wife. [To Thaddeus.] Your wife? [Thaddeus nods. Elkin. [Recollecting.] Of course. Thaddeus. [Moistening his lips ivith his tongue.] He — he had some little bits of jewelry in his safe, and he — he asked me to go down-stairs and — and to bring them up to him. Elkin. [Keenly.] In his safe? Vallance. The safe in the library? [Thaddeus nods again. Elkin. Quite so. Vallance. And — er ? l 9 6 THE THUNDERBOLT [act in Thaddeus. He — he gave me his keys, and I — I went down — I [He stops suddenly and Vallance glances at him. Noticing his extreme pallor, VALLANCE looks round the room. Seeing the water-bottle upon the side- board, Vallance rises and fills the tumbler. Re- turning to the table, he places the glass before Th.ad- deus and resumes his seat. Thaddeus. [After a gulp of water.] It was — it was in the drawer of the safe — the drawer Elkin. What was? Thaddeus. [Wiping his mouth with his handkerchief.] A large envelope — a large envelope — the envelope containing the will. Vallance. How did you know ? Thaddeus. "My Will" was written on it. Vallance. [Writing.] "My Will" Elkin. On the envelope? [Thaddeus nods.] You say you opened it? [Thaddeus nods. act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 197 Vallance. Opened the envelope Elkin. And* inside — you found ? Vallance. What did you find? Thaddeus. Ned's will. Vallance. [Writing.] What appeared to be your brother Edward's will. Elkin. You read it? [Thaddeus nods.] You recollect who was interested under it? [Thaddeus nods.] Will you tell us ? [The Mortimores and the Pontings crane their necks forward, listening breathlessly. Thaddeus. He left everything — [taking another gulp of water] every- thing — to Miss Thornhill. [There is a slight, undecided movement on the part of the Mortimores and the Pontings. Elkin. [Calmly but firmly.] Keep your seats; keep your seats, please. [To Thaddeus.] Can you recall the general form of the will ? ig8 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Thaddeus. [Straining his memory.] Everything he had — died pos- sessed of — to Helen Thornhill — spinster — of some address in Paris — absolutely. And — and he appointed her his sole executrix. Elkin. Do you recollect the date? Thaddeus. Date ? Elkin. Did you observe the date of the will? Thaddeus. [Quickly J] Oh, yes; it was made three years ago. Elkin. [To Vallance.] When she came of age. Thaddeus. Oh, and he asked her to remember his servants — old ser- vants at the brewery and in Cannon Row. [Leaning back, exhausted.] There was nothing else. It was very short — written by Ned Elkin. The whole of it? [Thaddeus nods, with half-closed eyes.] The whole of it was in his handwriting? [Thad- deus nods again.] Ah ! [To Vallance, with a note of tri- umph in his voice.] A holograph will, Mr. Vallance, pre- pared by the man himself. act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 199 Vallance. [Now taking up the questioning of Thaddeus.] Tell me, Mr. Mortimore — have you any exact recollection as to whether this document, which you describe as a will, was duly signed and witnessed? Thaddeus. [Rousing himself.] It was — it was — signed by Ned. Vallance. Was it signed, not only by your brother, but by two wit- nesses under an attestation clause stating that the testator signed in the joint presence of those witnesses and that each of them signed in his presence? Thaddeus. I — I don't recollect that. Vallance. [Writing.] You've no recollection of that. [James, Stephen, and Ponting stir themselves. James. [Hoarsely.] He doesn't recollect that, Mr. Vallance. Stephen. [In quavering tones.] No, he — he doesn't recollect that. Ponting. [Pulling at his moustache ivith trembling fingers.] That's most important, Mr. Vallance, isn't it — isn't it? 200 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Vallance. [To Thaddeus, not heeding the interruption.] You say you destroyed this document Elkin. Tore it up. Vallance. When — and where ? In the room — in the library ? Thaddeus. [Thinking.] N-no — out of doors. Vallance. Out of doors. When? Thaddeus. [At a loss.] When ? Vallance. When. [Looking at him in surprise.] You can't remem- ber ? Thaddeus. [Recollecting.] Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes. Some time be- tween ten and eleven on the Thursday morning, after I left Phyllis — after I left my wife at Roper's to be measured for her black. Vallance. [Writing.] What did you do then? Thaddeus. [Readily.] I went to Ford Street bridge, and tore up the paper, and dropped the pieces into the Linch. act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 201 Vallance. [Writing. ,] Into the river Elkin. * One more question, Mr. Mortimore — to make your motive perfectly clear to us. May we assume that, on the night of June the nineteenth, you were sufficiently acquainted with the law of intestacy to know that, if this dying man left no will, you would be likely to benefit considerably ? Thaddeus. Well, I — I had — the idea Elkin. The idea? Thaddeus. I — I [Recollecting.] Oh, yes; there'd been a dis- cussion in the train, you see, on the Tuesday, going to Linch- pool Elkin. Discussion ? Thaddeus. Among us all, as to how a man's money is disposed of, if he dies intestate. Elkin. [Nodding.] Precisely. [To James and Stephen.] You remember that conversation taking place, gentlemen? James. Oh, I — I dessay. 202 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Elkin. [To Thaddeus.] So that, when you came upon the en- velope with the endorsement upon it — "My Will" ? Thaddeus. [Leaning his head upon his hands.] Yes — yes Vallance. [Running his eyes over his notes, to Thaddeus.] Have you anything to add, Mr. Mortimore? Thaddeus. [In a muffled voice.] No. [Quickly.] Oh, there is one thing I should like to add. [Brokenly.] With regard to Miss Thornhill — I — I hope you'll bear in mind that I — that none of us — heard from Mr. Elkin of the existence of a child — a daughter — till the Thursday — middleday That is so. Elkin. Thaddeus. It doesn't make it much better; only — a girl — alone in the world — one wouldn't — [breaking off] no, I've nothing more to say. Elkin. [To Thaddeus.] And we may take it that your present act, Mr. Mortimore, is an act of conscience, purely? [Thaddeus inclines his head. There is silence again, the Mortimores and the Pontings presenting a pic- ture of utter wretchedness. The ladies' tears begin to floiv. act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 203 James. [After a time, speaking with some difficulty.] Well Stephen. [Piteously.] Mr. Vallance ? James. What — what's to be done, Mr. Vallance? PONTING. [To the ladies.] For God's sake, be quiet! James. [A clenched fist on the table.] What we want to know is — what we want to know is — who does my brother Ed- ward's money belong to now — her or us? Stephen. [In agony.] Her! Ponting. Don't be a damn fool, Mortimore! Vallance. Well, gentlemen, I confess I am hardly prepared to express an opinion off-hand on the legal aspect of the case Ponting. The will's torn up — it's destroyed ! Stephen. It's destroyed — gone — gone ! Ponting. Gone. 204 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Vallance. But I need not remind you, there is another aspect PONTING. I don't care a rap for any other aspect- Stephen. We want the law explained to us — the law PONTING. The law ! James. [To Elkin.] Mr. Elkin ? Elkin. You appeal to me, gentlemen? Stephen and Ponting. Yes — yes Elkin. Then I feel bound to tell you that / shall advise Miss Thornhill, as the executrix named in the will, to apply to the Court for probate of its substance and effect Vallance. [To Elkin.] Ask the Court to presume the will to have been made in due form ? Elkin. Decidedly. [Stephen and Ponting fall back in their seats in a stupor, and once more there is silence, broken only by the sound of the women sniveling. Elkin and VALLANCE slowly proceed to collect their papers. act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 205 James. [Turning upon Thaddeus, brutally.] Have you — have you told Phyllis — have you told your wife what you've been up to? [Mt the mention of Phyllis, there is a movement of indignation on the part of the ladies. Rose. Ha! James. [To Thaddeus.] Have yer? Thaddeus. Y-yes — just before I came out. [Weakly.] That — that's what made me so late. James. [Between his teeth.] What does she think of yer? Thaddeus. Oh, she — she's dreadfully — cut up — of course. Rose. [Hysterically.] The jewelry! Ha, ha, ha! [Rising.] She's managed to get hold of some of the jewelry, at any rate. Ann. [With a sob.] Yes, she — she managed that. Louisa. [Mopping her face.] She's kept that from us artfully enough. 206 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Rose. [Going over to Ann and Louisa, zvho rise to receive her.] Ha, ha! Edward's "little bits" of jewelry! Ann. Little bits! Rose. They're little bits that are left. Louisa. How many did she have of them, I wonder! Rose. She shall be made to restore them Louisa. Every one of them. Thaddeus. No, no, no [Stretching out a hand toiuards the ladies.] Rosie — Ann — Lou — Phyllis hadn't any of the jewelry — not a scrap. I put it all back into the safe. I — I swear she hadn't any of it. Elkin. Why did you do that ? Thaddeus. [Agitatedly.] Why, you see, Mr. Elkin, when I carried it up-stairs, I found my brother Edward in a state of col- lapse — a sort of faint Elkin. [With a nod.] Ah act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 207 Thaddeus. And Phyllis — my wife — she sent me off at once for the doctor. It was on the Wednesday evening, you know Vallance. {Pricking up his ears.] Your wife, Mr. Mortimore ? Thaddeus. It was on the Wednesday evening that the change set in. Vallance. [To Thaddeus.] Your wife sent you off at once ? Thaddeus. [To Vallance.] To fetch the doctor. Vallance. [Raising his eyebrows.] Oh, Mrs. Mortimore was in the house while all this was going on? Thaddeus. Y-yes; she was left in charge of him — in charge of Ned Elkin. [To Vallance, in explanation.] To allow these other ladies to rest, preparatory to their taking charge later. Thaddeus. Yes. Vallance. I hadn't gathered 208 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi James. [Who had been sitting glaring i ito space, thoughtfully.] Hold hard. [To Thaddeus.] You didn't go for the doc- tor. Thaddeus. Yes, I — I went Stephen. [Awakening from his trance.] Phyllis sent the cook for the doctor. Thaddeus. Yes, yes; you're quite right. The cook was the first to go Elkin. [To Thaddeus.] You followed? Thaddeus. I followed. James. [Knitting his brows.] It must have been a good time afterwards. Thaddeus. Y-yes, perhaps it was. James. I was at Dr. Oswald's when the woman arrived. The doctor was out, and Vallance. [To Thaddeus.] You said your wife sent you at once. act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 209 Thaddeus. Told me to go at once. There — there was the jewelry to put back into the safe Vallance. [Eyeing Thaddeus.] What time was it when you got to the doctor's? Thaddeus. Oh — ten, I should say — or a quarter-past. James. [Shaking his head.] No. I sat there, waiting for Dr. Oswald to come in Stephen. [To Thaddeus.] Besides, that couldn't have been; you were with me then. James. [To Stephen.] Was he? Stephen. Why, yes ; he and I were at the Nurses' Home in Wharton Street from half-past nine till ten. James. Half-past nine ? Stephen. [Becoming more confident as he proceeds.] And we never left each other till we went back to Cannon Row. Vallance. Let us understand this 210 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi PONTING. [Who has gradually revived, eagerly.] Yes — yes — [to the ladies.] Sssh! Stephen. And, what's more, we allowed ourselves a quarter of an hour to walk to Wharton Street. James. [Quietly, looking round.] Hallo ! Thaddeus. It — it's evident that I — that I'm mistaken in thinking that I — that I went to Dr. Oswald's Vallance. Mistaken ? Thaddeus. I — I suppose that, as the woman had already gone, I — I considered it — wasn't necessary [To Elkin and Vallance, passing his hand before his eyes.] You must excuse my stupidity, gentlemen. Vallance. [To Thaddeus, distrustfully.] Then, according to your brother Stephen, Mr. Mortimore, you were in Cannon Row, on the occasion of this particular visit, no longer than from nine o'clock till a quarter-past? Stephen. Not so long, because we met, by arrangement, at a quarter-past nine, in the hall of the Grand Hotel act in] THE THVNDERB6LT 211 James. The hotel's six or seven minutes' walk from Cannon Row Ponting. Quite, quite. Thaddeus. [A little ivildly.] I said I called in at Cannon Row at about nine o'clock. It may have been half-past eight; it may have been eight James. Ann and Lou didn't leave Cannon Row till past eight Louisa. [Standing, with Ann and Rose, by the tea-table.] It had gone eight James. I walked 'em round to the Grand Stephen. The three of us walked with them to the Grand ! Louisa. All three James. So we did. Stephen. [Excitedly.] And then Thaddeus went off to the Clar- ence Hospital with a note from Dr. Oswald James. By George, yes! ai2 THE THUNDERBOLT [act m Stephen. I left him opposite the Exchange — it must have been nearly half-past eight then ! [James rises. The ladies draw nearer to the dining- table. Thaddeus. Ah, but I didn't go to the hospital — I didn't go to the hospital Stephen. [Rising.] Yes, you did. You brought a note back from the hospital, for us to take to Wharton Street Vallance. [To Elkin.] How far is the Clarence Hospital from the Exchange ? Elkin. A ten minutes' drive. It's on the other side of the water. Thaddeus. I — I — I'd forgotten the hospital James. [Scowling at Thaddeus.] Forgotten ? Thaddeus. I — I — I mean I — I thought the hospital came later — after I'd been to Wharton Street James. [Going to VALLANCE and tapping him on the shoulder.] Mr. Vallance act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 213 Thaddeus. I — I must have gone to Cannon Row between my return from the hospital and my meeting Stephen at the Grand James. [To Elkin and Vallance.] Why, he couldn't have done it, gentlemen PONTING. Impossible ! Stephen. It's obvious; he couldn't have done it. Thaddeus. I — I was only a few minutes at the hospital Elkin. [Scribbling on the back of a document.] Oh, yes, he could have done it — barely Vallance. [Making a mental calculation.] Assuming that he left his brother at the Exchange at eight-twenty Elkin. Ten minutes to the hospital. Vallance. If he drove there Thaddeus. I did drive — I did drive PONTING. [Who is also figuring it out on paper.] Ten minutes back 214 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Elkin. Ten minutes at the hospital PONTING. Eight-fifty Thaddeus. Eight-fifty in Cannon Row! That was it — that was it, Mr. Elkin James. Give him twenty minutes in Cannon Row — give it him! He couldn't have done all he says he did in the time, gentle- men Stephen. He couldn't have done it Ponting. Impossible ! Elkin. [To Ponting.] No, no, please — not impossible. Vallance. [To Stephen.] When you met Mr. Thaddeus Morti- more — you — when you met him in the hall of the Grand Hotel, before starting for Wharton Street, did he say any- thing to you as to his having just called at the house ? Stephen. No. Vallance. Nothing as to an alarming change in your brother's con- dition ? Stephen. Not a syllable. act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 215 James. [To Elkin and Vallance.] Oh, there's a screw loose here, gentlemen, surely? Stephen. [Joining James.] That is most extraordinary, Mr. Vallance — isn't it? Not a syllable! [Ann and Louisa join their husbands and the jour gather round Elkin and Vallance. Rose stands behind Ponting's chair. Thaddeus. You see — Edward — Edward had rallied before I left Cannon Row. He — he'd fallen into a nice, quiet sleep James. All in twenty minutes, gentlemen — twenty minutes at the outside! Vallance. [To Thaddeus.] Mr. Mortimore Ann. I remember Ponting. [To Ann.] Hold your tongue! Vallance. Mr. Mortimore, who let you into the house in Cannon Row on the night of June the nineteenth ? Ponting. Ah, yes Vallance. At any time between the hours of eight o'clock ? 2i6 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Stephen. And eleven. Elkin. [To Thaddeus.] Who gave you admittance — which of the servants? Thaddeus. I — I can't — I don't — [blankly, addressing Vallance] was it the — the butler ? Vallance. No, no; I ask you. [To Elkin, who nods in reply.] Have you the servants' addresses? Thaddeus. But you wouldn't — you wouldn't trust to the servants' memories as to — as to which of them opened the front door to me a month ago! [With an atternpt at a laugh.] It's ridiculous ! Elkin. [Reprovingly.] Ah, now, now, Mr. Mortimore ! Thaddeus. [Starting up from the table.] Oh, it isn't fair — it isn't fair of you to badger me like this ; it isn't fair ! Vallance. Nobody desires to "badger" you Thaddeus. Trip me up, then — confuse me. [At the left-hand end of the table, clutching the back of a chair.] The will — the will's the main point — Ned's will. What does it matter — what can it matter, to a quarter of an hour or so — when I was in Cannon Row, or how long I was there? One act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 217 would think, by the way I'm being treated, gentlemen, that I'd something to gain by this, instead of everything to lose — everything to lose! James. [Coming forward, on the further side of the table.] Don't you whine about what you've got to lose ! Stephen. [Joining him.] What about us! The Ladies. Us! PONTING. [Hitting the table.] Yes, confound you! Vallance. Colonel Ponting ! Elkin. [To James and Stephen.] It seems to me — if my friend Mr. Vallance will allow me to say so — that you are really bearing a little hardly on your brother Thaddeus. Thaddeus. [Gratefully.] Thank you, Mr. Elkin. Elkin. What reason — what possible reason can there be for doubt- ing his good faith? Thaddeus. Thank you. Elkin. Here is a man who forfeits a considerable sum of money, and deliberately places himself in peril, in order to right a wrong which nobody on earth would have suspected him of 2i8 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi committing. Mr. Mortimore is accusing himself of a serious offense, not defending himself from it. Vallance. [Obstinately.] What we beg of Mr. Mortimore to do, for the sake of all parties, is to clear up certain inconsistencies in his story with his brothers' account of his movements and conduct on this Wednesday evening. We are entitled to ask that. James. Aye — entitled. Stephen and Ponting. Entitled. Elkin. [To James and Stephen.] Yes, and Mr. Mortimore is equally entitled to refuse it. James, Stephen and Ponting. [Indignantly.] Oh ! Thaddeus. But I — I haven't refused. I — I've done my best Elkin. On the other hand, if he has no objection to her doing so, the person to assist you, I suggest — distressing as it may be to her — is the wife. Vallance. [dssentingly.] The wife [Thaddeus pushes aside the chair which he is holding and comes to the table. Elkin. She ought to be able to satisfy you as to what time he was with her act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 219 Vallance. [To everybody. 1 By-the-bye, has she ever mentioned this visit of her husband's to Cannon Row ? Ann and Louisa. Never — never Elkin. Attaching no importance to it. But now Thaddeus. [Stretching out a quivering hand to them all.] No. No, no. Don't you — don't you drag my wife into this. I — I won't have my wife dragged into this James. [In a blaze.] Why not? Stephen. Why not? The Ladies. [Indignantly.] Ah ! Thaddeus. You — you leave my wife out of it James. [To Thaddeus, furiously.] Who the hell's your wife ! Elkin and Vallance. Gentlemen — gentlemen Louisa. Who's Phyllis ! Ann. Who's she ! 220 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Rose. Ha! James and Stephen. [Derisively.] Ha, ha, ha! Thaddeus. Anyhow, I do object — I do object to your dragging her into it — [his show of courage flickering away] I — I do object — [coming to the nearer side of the table, rather un- steadily] Mr. Elkin — Mr. Vallance — I — I don't think I can be of any further assistance to you to-day [Vallance shrugs his shoulders at Elkin. Elkin. [To Thaddeus, kindly.] One minute — one minute more. Mr. Vallance has taken down your statement roughly. [To Vallance.] If you'll read us your notes, Mr. Vallance, Mr. Mortimore will tell us whether they are substantially correct — [to Thaddeus] perhaps he will even be willing to attach his name to them [With a nod of patient acquiescence, Thaddeus sinks into the middle chair. Vallance prepares to read his notes, first making some additions to them. James. [To Thaddeus, from the other side of the table.] Look here ! Thaddeus. [Feebly.] No — no more questions. I — I'm advised I — I may refuse James. Mr. Vallance asked you just now about your con- science act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 221 Thaddeus. I — I'm not going to answer any more questions Stephen. [To James.] It was Mr. Elkin James. I don't care a curse which it was ■ Thaddeus. No more questions James. [Leaning across the table towards Thaddeus, fiercely.] When the devil did your conscience begin to prick you over this? Hey? Stephen. [To Thaddeus.] Yes, you've been in excellent spirits apparently this last month — excellent spirits. James. [Hammering on the table.] Hey? Stephen. [To Elkin and Vallance.] There was no sign of any- thing amiss when we were with him this afternoon, gentle- men — none whatever, I give you my word. James. Less than two hours ago — not a symptom ! Stephen. [To James.] He was gay enough at the club dinner on Tuesday night. It was remarked — commented on. 222 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Louisa. [At Stephen's elbow, unconsciously.] It's Phyllis who's been ill all the month, not Thaddeus. James. [In the same way, with a hoarse laugh.] Ha! If it had been his precioM wife who'd come to us and told us this tale Stephen. Yes, if it had been the lady James. If it had been [Struck by the idea which occurs to him, James breaks off. Thaddeus doesn't stir. James, after a pause, thoughtfully.] If it had been Stephen. [Holding his breath, to James.] Eh? James. [Slowly stroking his beard.] One might have — under- stood it Elkin. [Who has been listening attentively, in a tone of polite interest.] How long has Mrs. Mortimore been indisposed? James. [Disturbed.] Oh — er — a few weeks Vallance. [Quietly.] Ever since ? James. [With a nod.] Aye. [Elkin and Vallance look at each other inquiringly. act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 223 Stephen. [Staring into space.] Ever since — Edward — as a matter of fact Rose. [Going to Ann and Louisa.] What's wrong with her? What's wrong with his wife? Ann. [Obtusely.] She's not sleeping. Louisa. [Looking from one to the other.~\ No — she isn't [ There is a further pause, and then Thaddeus, slowly turning from the table, rises. Thaddeus. [In a strange voice, his hands fumbling at the buttons of his jacket.] Well, gentlemen — whatever my sins are — I — I decline to sit still and hear my wife insulted in this style. If it's all the same to you, I'll call round on Mr. Vallance in the morning and — and sign the paper [While Thaddeus is speaking, James and Stephen come forward on the left, Elkin and Vallance on the right. The three women get together at the back and look on with wide-open eyes. The move- ment is made gradually and noiselessly, so that when Thaddeus turns to go he is startled at finding his way obstructed. After a time PoNTlNG also leaves the table, watching the proceedings, with a falling jaw, from a little distance on the right. Elkin. [Rubbing his chin meditatively, to THADDEUS.] Mr. Mortimore, your wife traveled with you and the other mem- bers of the family to Linchpool on the Tuesday ? 224 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi James. Aye, she was with us Elkin. [To Thaddeus.] She was in the railway carriage when the — when the discussion arose ? Stephen. Yes, yes Elkin. The discussion as to where a man's money goes, in the absence of a will? Ann. [From the other side of the table.] Yes Louisa. [Close to Ann.] Of course she was. Elkin. [Nodding.] H'm. [To Thaddeus.] I — I am most anxious not to pain you unnecessarily. Er — the conversa- tion you had with your brother Edward at the bedside, in reference to Mrs. Thaddeus Mortimore — when he said that he — that he James. [Breathing heavily.] He'd taken a fancy to her Elkin. That he wished to make her a present of jewelry — she was within hearing during that talk? Thaddeus. [Avoiding everybody's gaze, his hands twitching invol- untarily at his side.] She — she may have been. act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 225 Elkin. [Piercingly.] He was left in her charge, you know. Thaddeus. She — she was moving about the room Elkin. She would scarcely have been far away from him. Thaddeus. [Moistening his lips with his tongue.] N-no. Elkin. And when he handed you his keys and asked you to go down-stairs and open the safe — did she hear and witness that also? Thaddeus. She — she — very likely. Elkin. [Raising his voice.] There was nothing at all confiden- tial in this transaction between you and your brother? Thaddeus. Why — why should there have been? Elkin. Why should there have been? [Coming a step nearer to him.] So that, feeling towards her as he did, there was no reason why, if you hadn't chanced to be on the spot — there was no reason why he shouldn't have held that conversation with her, and intrusted her with the keys. Thaddeus. She — she was almost a stranger to him. He — he hadn't seen her since she was a child 226 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Elkin. [Interrupting him.] Tell us — this illness of Mrs. Morti- more's ? Thaddeus. My — my wife's a nervous, delicate woman — always has been Elkin. [Nodding.] Quite so. Thaddeus. She — she was upset at being alone with Edward when he — when he swooned James. That was the tale Elkin. [To Thaddeus.] Although you happened to be in the library, a floor or two below, at the time? Thaddeus. He — he might have died suddenly, in her arms. She's a nervous, sensitive woman Elkin. [Nodding.] And she's been unwell ever since. [With an abrupt change of manner.] Mr. Mortimore, how is the lock of the safe opened? Thaddeus. Opened ? Elkin. [Sharply.] The safe in the library in Cannon Row — how do you open it? [Thaddeus is silent.] Is it a simple lock, or is there anything unusual about it? act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 227 Thaddeus. He — he gave me directions how to open it. Elkin. Tell* us Thaddeus. I — I forget Elkin. Forget? Thaddeus. It — it's gone from me James. [In a low voice.] Gentlemen, you couldn't forget that Stephen. [In the same way.] You couldn't forget it. Elkin. [To Thaddeus, solemnly.] Mr. Mortimore, are you sure that the conversation at the bedside didn't take place between your brother and your wife solely, and that it wasn't she who was sent down-stairs to fetch the jewelry? Thaddeus. [Drawing himself up, with a last effort.] Sure ! Elkin. Are you positive that she didn't open the safe? Thaddeus. It — it's ridiculous Elkin. [Quickly.] When you took her to Roper's, the draper's, on the Thursday — you left her there ? 228 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Thaddeus. Yes, I — I left her Elkin. Are you sure that she didn't then go on to the bridge, and tear up the will, and throw the pieces into the river? Thaddeus. I — I decline to answer any more questions Elkin. [Raising his voice again.] Were you in Cannon Row, sir, on the night of June the nineteenth, for a single moment between eight o'clock and eleven ? Thaddeus. [Losing his head completely.] Ah! Ah! I know — I know! You mean to drag my wife into this ! Elkin. [To Thaddeus.] You were late in coming here this afternoon, Mr. Mortimore Thaddeus. [To Elkin, threateningly.] Don't you — don't you dare to do it ! Elkin. Owing, you say, to your having made a communication to Mrs. Mortimore about this affair Thaddeus. [Clinging to the chair which is behind him.] You — you leave my wife out of it ! act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 229 Elkin. Are you sure that you were not delayed through having to receive a communication from her ? Thaddeus. [Dropping into the chair.] Don't you — drag her — into it ! Elkin. Are you sure that the story you have told us, substituting yourself for the principal person of that story, is not exactly the story which she has just told you? [There is a pause. Ponting goes to Rose.] Mr. Vallance Vallance. Yes? Elkin. I propose to see Mrs. Mortimore in this matter, without delay. Vallance. Very good. Elkin. Will you ? Vallance. Certainly. [Quietly, Vallance returns to the table and, seating himself, again collects his papers. Elkin is following him. James. Mr. Elkin Elkin. [Stopping.] Eh? James. Stealing a will — destroying a will — what is it? 250 THE THUNDERBOLT [act in Elkin. What is it? James. The law — what's the law ? Elkin. [To James.] I — I'm sorry to have to say, sir — it's a felony. Thaddeus. [With a look of horror.] Oh ! [Ann and Louisa come to James and Stephen hur- riedly. Elkin sits beside Vallance, and, picking up their bags from the floor, they put away their papers. James. [Standing over Thaddeus.] Well! Are yer proud of her now? Stephen. This is what his marriage has ended in! Louisa. I'm not in the least surprised. Ann. Old Burdock's daughter! Rose. [From the other side of the table.] Thank heaven, my name isn't Mortimore! Thaddeus. [Leaping to his feet in a frenzy.] Don't you touch her! Don't any of you touch her! Don't you harm a hair of her head! [To the group on the left.] You've helped to bring this on her! You've helped to make her life unendurable! act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 231 You've helped to bring her to this! She's been a good wife to me. Oh, my God, let me get her away! [Turning towards the door.] Mr. Elkin — Mr. Vallance — do let me get her away! Don't you harm a hair of her head! Don't you touch her! [At the door.] She's been a good wife to me! [Opening the door and disappearing.] She's been a good wife to me ! James. [Moving over to the right, shouting after Thaddeus.] Been a good wife to you, has she! Stephen. [Also moving to the right.] A disgrace — a disgrace to the family. Louisa. [Following Stephen.] I always said so — I said so till I was tired James. We've helped to bring her to this! Ann. [Sitting in a chair on the nearer side of the dining-table .~\ A vile creature! Ponting. [Coming forward on the left with Rose.] Damn the woman! Damn the woman! My position is a cruel one Stephen. [Raising his arms as he paces the room on the right.] Here's a triumph for Hammond! 232 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi James. [To Ponting, contemptuously.] Your position ! Louisa. Nellie Robson's got the better of me now. Ponting. [To James.] I'm landed with an enormous house in Carlos Place — my builders are in it Rose. [Pacing the room on the left.] Oh, we're in a shocking scrape! We're up to our necks ! James. [Approaching Ponting.] D'ye think you're the only sufferer ! Stephen. [Wildly.] A triumph for Hammond! A triumph for Hammond! James. [To Ponting.] I've bought all that dirt at the bottom of Gordon Street — acres of it ! Ponting. [Passing him and walking aivay to the right.] That's your business. Stephen. [Now, with LOUISA, at the further side of the dining- table.] Hammond and his filthy rag! act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 233 James. [Going after Ponting, in a fury.] Aye, it is my busi- ness Ponting. [Turning upon him viciously.] I wish to God, sir, I'd never seen or heard of you, or your family. Rose. [Coming forward.] Oh, Toby, don't ! James. [To Ponting.] You wish that, do yer ! Ann. [Rising and putting herself between James and PoNT- ing.] James ! Stephen. [Shaking his fists in the air.] Blast Hammond and his filthy rag. James. [To Ponting.] You patronizing little pauper ! Rose. [To James.] Don't you speak to my husband like that ! Ponting. You're a pack of low, common people ! Rose. [Going to Ponting.] He's the only gentleman among you. 234 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi James. The only gentleman among us ! Stephen. [Coming forward, with Louisa, on the left.] The only gentleman ! James. We could have done without such a gentleman in our family — [to Ann, who is forcing him, coaxingly, towards the left] hey, mother? Stephen. [Advancing to Ponting, still followed by Louisa.] Ex- ceedingly well — exceedingly well Louisa. [Taking Stephen's arm.] Don't lower yourself ! James. [Over Ann's shoulder.] The Colonel never came near us the other day till he saw a chance o' picking up the pieces ! Stephen. Nor Rose either — neither of them did! James. It's six o' one and half a dozen o' the other! Rose. [To James and Stephen.] Oh, you cads, you boys ! • act m] THE THUNDERBOLT 235 James. [Mockingly.] Didn't they bustle down to Linchpool in a hurry then! Ha, ha, ha! Stephen. [Waving his hand in Ponting's face.] This serves you right, Colonel; this serves you right. Rose.. [Leading Ponting towards the door.] Don't notice them — don't notice them— — James. [Walking about on the left, to Ann.] I'm in a mess, mother; I'm in a dreadful mess! Stephen. [Sinking into a chair by the tea-table.] On I go at the broken-down rat-hole in King Street ; on I go with my worn- out old plant ! [On getting to the door, Ponting discovers that Elkin and Vallance have taken their departure. He re- turns, with Rose, to the further side of the dining- table. Ann. [To James.] You must get rid of your contract, James. James. Who'll take it — who'll take it ! Stephen. I've always been behind the times- 236 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi Louisa. Nelly will laugh her teeth out of her head PONTING. [To James and Stephen, trying to attract their atten- tion.] Mortimore — Mortimore Ann. [To James.] It's splendid land, isn't it? James. Nobody's been ass enough to touch it but me ! Stephen. [Rocking himself to and fro.] Always behind the times — no need to tell me that Ponting. [To James.] Mortimore James. [To Ponting.] What? Ponting. [Pointing to the empty chairs.] They've gone James. [Sobering down.] Hooked it Stephen. [Looking round.] Gone ? act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 237 Tames. Elkin Stephen. [Weakly.] And Vallance James. They might have had the common civility PONTING. [Coming forward slowly and dejectedly.] They've gone to that woman Rose. [At the further side of the table.] I hope they send her to jail — the trull — the baggage ! [Ann and Louisa join Rose. PONTING. The whole business will be settled between 'em in ten minutes — the whole business James. [Coming to Pontinc] Aye, the whole concern. Stephen. [Who has risen, holding his head.] Oh, it's awful! PONTING. [Laying a hand on James and Stephen zvho are on either side of him.] My friends, don't let us disagree — we're all in the same boat 238 THE THUNDERBOLT [act hi James. [Grimly, looking into space.] Aye, they'll be talking it over nicely PONTING. Let us stick to each other. Aren't we throwing up the sponge prematurely ? James. [Not heeding him.] Tad and his wife and the lawyers — ha, ha ! Stephen. And that girl James. [Nodding.] The young lady. PONTING. What girl ? Stephen. Miss Thornhill. PONTING. Thornhill ? James. She's staying with 'em. PONTING. She is! Rose. [Coming forward on the left.] Staying with the Tads ? PONTING. In their house ! Elkin and Vallance will find her there ! James. [Nodding.] Aye. act in] THE THUNDERBOLT 239 PONTING. [Violently. ] It's a conspiracy ? James. Conspiracy ? Ponting. I see it! The Thornhill girl's in it! She's at the bot- tom of it! [Going to Rose as Ann and Louisa come for- ward on the left. ) They're cheating us — they're cheating us. I tell you we ought to be present. They're robbing us behind our backs Stephen. [Looking at James.] Jim ? James. [Shaking his head.] No, it's no conspiracy Ponting. It is! They're robbing us ! Stephen. [To James.] Still, I — I really think Ponting. Behind our backs! The Ladies. Yes — yes — yes James. [After a pause, quietly, stroking his beard.] By George, we'll go down ! [Instantly they all make for the door. Stephen. We'll be there as soon as Elkin 240 THE THUNDERBOLT [act in PONTING. A foul conspiracy ! Ann. [In the rear.] Wait till I put on my hat Rose. Jim, you follow with Ann. PONTING. [To Stephen.] We'll go on ahead. Stephen. Yes, we'll go first. Louisa. I'm ready. James. No, no; we'll all go together. PONTING. Robbing us behind our backs ! James. Look sharp, mother! The Others. Be quick — be quick — be quick ! [Seizing Ann and pushing her before them, they struggle through the door-way. END OF THE THIRD ACT THE FOURTH ACT The scene is the same, in every respect, as that of the Second Act. Vallance is seated at the writing-table by the bay-window , reading aloud from a written paper. Phyllis, in deep abasement, is upon the settee by the piano, and Thad- DEUS is standing by her, holding her left hand in both of his. On the left of the table at the end of the piano sits Helen, pale, calm, and erect, and opposite to her, in the chair on the other side of the table, is Elkin. Ponting is sitting in the bay-windoiu, Stephen is standing upon the hearth-rug, and the rest of the "family" are seated about the room — all looking very humble and downcast. Ann and Louisa are upon the settee on the right, Rose is in the armchair on the nearer side of the fireplace, James 072 the ottoman. Rose, Ann, and Louisa are in their outdoor things. Vallance. {Reading. ~\ "It was broad daylight before my husband and I got back to our lodgings. The document was then in a pocket I was wearing under my dress. Before going to bed I hid the pocket in a drawer. At about eleven o'clock on the same morning my husband took me to Roper's, the draper's, in Ford Street, and left me there. After my meas- urements were taken I went up Ford Street and on to the bridge. I then tore up both the paper and the envelope and dropped the pieces into the water." 241 242 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv Elkin. [Half turning to Phyllis.] You declare that that is correct in every particular, Mrs. Mortimore? [Phyllis bursts into a paroxysm of tears. Thaddeus. [To Phyllis, as if comforting a child. ] All right, dear; all right. I'm with you — I'm with you. [She sobs help- lessly.] Tell Mr. Elkin — tell him — is that correct? Phyllis. [Through her sobs.] Yes. Elkin. [To Phyllis.] You've nothing further to say? [Her sobbing continues. Thaddeus. [To Phyllis.] Have you anything more to say, dear? [Encouragingly, as she tries to speak.] I'm here, dear — I'm with you. Is there anything — anything more ? Phyllis. Only — only that I beg Miss Thornhill's pardon. I beg her pardon. Oh, I beg her pardon. [Elkin looks at Helen, who, however, makes no re- sponse. Thaddeus. [To Phyllis, glancing at the others.] And — and Phyllis. And — and Ann and Jim — and Stephen — and Lou — and Rose and Colonel Ponting — I beg their pardon — I beg their pardon. [She sinks back upon the settee, and her fit of weeping gradually exhausts itself. act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 243 Thaddeus. And I — and I, Mr. Elkin — I wish to offer my apologies — my humble apologies — to you and Mr. Vallance — and to everybody — for what took place this afternoon in my brother's dining-room. Elkin. [Kindly.] Perhaps it isn't necessary Thaddeus. Perhaps not — but it's on my mind. [ To Elkin and Val- lance.] I assure you and Mr. Vallance — [to the others] and I assure every member of my family — that when I went away from here I had no intention of inventing the story I attempted to tell you at "Ivanhoe." It came into my head suddenly — quite suddenly — on my way to Claybrook Road — almost at the gate of the house. I must have been mad to think I could succeed in imposing on you all. I believe I was mad, gentlemen; and that's my excuse, and I — I hope you'll accept it. Elkin. Speaking for myself, I accept it freely. Vallance And I. Thaddeus. Thank you — thank you. [He looks at the others wistfully, but they are all star- ing at the carpet, and they, too, make no response. Then he seats himself beside Phyllis and again takes her hand. Elkin. [After a pause.] Well, Mr. Vallance [Vallance rises, the written paper in his hand, and comes forward on the left.] I think — [glancing over his shoulder at Phyllis] 244 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv I think that this lady makes it perfectly clear to any reason- able person that the document which she abstracted from the safe in Cannon Row, and subsequently destroyed, was the late Mr. Edward Mortimore's will, and that Miss Thornhill was the universal legatee under it, and was named as the sole executrix. [Vallance scats himself in the chair on the ex- treme left.] As I said in Mr. James Mortimore's house, the ndvice I shall give to Miss Thornhill is that she applies to the Court for probate of the substance and effect of this will. Vallance. Upon an affidavit by Mrs. Thaddeus Mortimore ? Elkin. An affidavit disclosing what she has done and verifying a statement of the contents of the will. Vallance. And how, may I ask, are you going to get over your great difficulty? Elkin. My great difficulty ? Vallance. The fact that Mrs. Thaddeus Mortimore is unable to swear that the will was duly witnessed. PONTING. Ah! {Rising and coming forward, but discreetly keeping behind Helen.] That seems to me to be insuperable — in- superable. [Anxiously.] Eh, Mr. Vallance? Stephen. [Advancing a step or two.] An obstacle which cannot be got over. act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 245 PONTING. [Eyeing Helen furtively.} It — ah — may appear rather ungracious to Miss Thornhill — a young lady we hold in the highest esteem — and to whom I express regret for any hasty- word I may have used on arriving here — unreserved regret — [Helen's eyes flash, and her shoulders contract; otherwise she makes no acknowledgment] it may appear ungracious to Miss Thornhill to discuss this point in her presence; [pulling at his moustache'] but she will be the first to recognize that there are many — ah — interests at stake. Stephen. Many interests — many interests PONTING. And where so many interests are involved, one mustn't — ah — allow oneself to be swayed by anything like sentiment. Stephen. [At the round table.] In justice, one oughtn't to be senti- mental. PONTING. One daren't be sentimental. Louisa. [Meekly, raising her head.] I always maintain Stephen. [To Louisa.] Yes, yes, yes. Louisa. There are two sides Stephen. Yes, yes. 246 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv Elkin. [Ignoring the interruption. ,] Mrs. Thaddeus Mortimore is prepared to swear, Mr. Vallance, that she believes there were other signatures besides the signature of the late Mr. Mortimore. Vallance. But she has no recollection of the names of witnesses None whatever. Not the faintest. PONTING. Stephen. Vallance. Nor as to whether there was an attestation clause at all. PONTING. Her memory is an utter blank as to that. Stephen. An utter blank. [As Ponting and Stephen perk up, there is a rise in the spirits of the ladies at the fireplace. Rose twists her chair round to face the men. James doesn't stir. Elkin. Notwithstanding that, I can't help considering it reason- ably probable that, in the circumstances, the Court would presume the will to have been made in due form. Ponting. [Walking about agitatedly.] I differ. Stephen. [Walking about.) So do I. act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 247 PONTING. I don't pretend to a profound knowledge of the law Stephen. As a mere layman, / consider it extremely improbable — — extremely improbable. Vallance. [To Stephen and Ponting.] Well, gentlemen, there I am inclined to agree with you Ponting. [Pulling himself up.] Ah! Stephen. [Returning to the round table.] Ah! Vallance. / think it doubtful whether, on the evidence of Mrs. Thaddeus Mortimore, the will could be upheld. Ponting. Exactly. [To everybody.] You've only to look at the thing in the light of common sense Stephen. [Argumentatively, rapping the table.] A will exists or it does not exist Ponting. If it ever existed, and has been destroyed Stephen. It must be shown that it was a complete will 248 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv PONTING. Shown beyond dispute. Stephen. Complete down to the smallest detail. Vallance. [Continuing.] At the same time, in my opinion, the facts do not warrant the making of an affidavit that the late Mr. Mortimore died intestate. PONTING. [Stiffly.] Indeed? Stephen. [Depressed.] Really? Vallance. And the question of whether or not he left a duly executed will is clearly one for the Court to decide. Elkin. Quite so — quite so. Vallance. I advise, therefore, that, to get the question determined, the next-of-kin should consent to the course of procedure suggested by Mr. Elkin. Elkin. I am assuming their consent. Ponting. [Blustering.] And supposing the next-of-kin do not con- sent, Mr. Vallance ? Stephen. Supposing we do not consent — — ? act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 249 PONTING. Supposing we are convinced — convinced — that the late Mr. Mortimore died without leaving a properly executed will? Elkin. Then the application, instead of being by motion to the judge in Court, must take the form of an action by writ. [To Vallance.] In any case, perhaps it should do so. [There is a pause. Stephen wanders disconsolately to the window on the right and stands gazing into the garden. Ponting leans his elbows on the piano and stares at vacancy. Elkin. [To Helen, looking at his watch.] Well, my dear Miss Thornhill ? [Vallance rises. Helen. Wait — wait a moment [The sound of Helen's voice turns everybody, except James, Thaddeus, and Phyllis, in her direction. Elkin. [To Helen.] Eh? Helen. Wait a moment, please. There is something I want to be told — there's something I want to be told plainly. Elkin. What? Helen. Mrs. Thaddeus Mortimore Elkin. Yes? 250 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv Helen. [Slowly.] I want to know whether it is necessary, what- ever proceedings are taken on my behalf — whether it is necessary that she should be publicly disgraced. I want to know that. Elkin. Whichever course is adopted — motion to the judge or action by writ — Mrs. Thaddeus Mortimore's act must be disclosed in open Court. Helen. There are no means of avoiding it? Elkin. None. Helen. And the offence she has committed is — felony, you say? [Elkin inclines his head. Again there is silence, dur- ing which Helen sits ivith knitted brows, and then James rouses himself and looks up. James. [To Elkin.] What's the — what's the penalty? Elkin. [Turning to him.] The — the penalty? James. The legal punishment. Elkin. I think — another occasion [Suddenly Thaddeus and Phyllis rise together, he with an arm round her, supporting her, and they stand side by side like criminals in the dock. act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 251 Thaddeus. [Quickly.] No, no — now t Phyllis. [Faintly.] Yes — now Thaddeus. [To Elkin and Vallance.] We— we should like to know the worst, gentlemen. I — I had the idea from the first that it was a serious offence — but hardly so serious Elkin. [With a wave of the hand.] By and by Thaddeus. Oh, you needn't hesitate, Mr. Elkin. [Drawing Phyllis closer to him.] We — we shall go through with it. We shall go through with it to the end. [A pause.] Imprison- ment, sir? Elkin. [Gravely.] A person convicted of stealing or destroying a will for a fraudulent purpose is liable under the statute to varying terms of penal servitude, or to imprisonment with or without hard labor. In this instance, we should be justi- fied, I am sure, in hoping for a considerable amount of leniency. [Thaddeus and Phyllis slowly look at one another with expressionless faces. James rises and moves away to the fireplace where he stands looking down upon the flowers in the grate. Vallance goes to the writing-table and puts the ivritten paper into his bag. Elkin rises, takes up his bag from the table at the end of the piano, and is following Vallance. As he passes Helen, she lays her hand upon his arm. 252 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv Helen. Mr. Elkin Elkin. [Stopping.] Yes? Helen. Oh, but this is impossible. Elkin. Impossible ? Helen. Quite impossible. I couldn't be a party — please under- stand me — I refuse to be a party — to any steps which would bring ruin on Mrs. Mortimore. Elkin. [Politely.] You refuse ? Helen. Absolutely. At any cost — at any cost to me — we must all unite in sparing her and her husband and children. Elkin. My dear young lady, I join you heartily in your desire not to bring suffering upon innocent people. But if you decline to take proceedings Helen. There is no "if" in the matter Elkin. If you decline to take proceedings, there is a deadlock. Helen. A deadlock? Act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 253 Elkin. As Mr. Vallance tells us, it's out of the question that the next-of-Jcin should now apply for Letters of Administration in the usual way. Helen. Why? I don't see why — I can't see why. Elkin. [Pointing to James and Stephen.] You don't see why neither of these gentlemen can make an affidavit that Mr. Edward Mortimore died intestate! Helen. [With a movement of the head towards Phyllis.] She has no remembrance of a — what is it called ? PONTING. [Eagerly.] Attestation clause. Stephen. [Coming to the head of the piano.] Attestation clause. Helen. [Haughtily, without turning.] Thank you. [To Elkin.] Only the vaguest notion that there were witnesses. PONTING. The vaguest notion. Stephen. The haziest. Elkin. Her memory is uncertain there. \[To Helen.] But you know — you know, Miss Thornhill — as we all know — that it was your father's will that was found in the safe at Can- non Row and destroyed. 254 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv Helen. [Looking up at him, gripping the arms of her chair. ] Yes, of course I know it. Thank God I know it! I'm happy in knowing it. I know he didn't forget me; I know I was all to him that I imagined myself to be. And it's because I've come to know this at last — through her — that I can afford to be a little generous to her. Oh, please don't think that I want to introduce sentimentality into this affair — [with a contemptuous glance at Ponting and Stephen] any more than Colonel Ponting does — or Mr. Stephen Mortimore. Mrs. Thaddeus did a cruel thing when she de- stroyed that will. It's no excuse for her to say that she wasn't aware of my existence. She was defrauding some woman; and, as it happened — I own it now! — defrauding that woman, not only of money, but of what is more valuable than money — of peace of mind, contentment, belief in one who could never speak, never explain, never defend himself. However, she has made the best reparation it is in her power to make — and she has gone through a bad time — and I for- give her. [Phyllis releases herself from Thaddeus and drops down upon the settee. He sits upon the ottoman, bury- ing his face in his hands. Helen rises, struggling to keep back her tears, and turns to the door.] I — I'll go up-stairs — if you'll allow me Elkin. [Between her and the door.] Miss Thornhill, you put us in a position of great difficulty Helen. [Impatiently.] I say again, I don't see why. Where is the difficulty? [To Vallance and Elkin.] If there's a difficulty, it's you gentlemen who are raising it. Let the affair go on as it was going on. [Turning to James.] Mr. Mortimore! [To Elkin.] I say, let Mr. James Morti- act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 255 more and the others administer the estate as they intended to do. [To James, who has left the fireplace and slowly ad- vanced to her.] Mr. Mortimore Elkin. [To Helen.] Then you would have Mr. James Morti- more deliberately swear that he believes his late brother died without leaving a will? Helen. Certainly, if necessary. Who would be hurt by it? Elkin. [Pursing his lips.] Miss Thornhill Helen. [Hotly.] Why, which do you think would be the more acceptable to the Almighty — that I should send this poor lady to prison, or that Mr. James should take a false oath? Elkin. H'm! I won't attempt to follow you quite so far. But even then a most important point would remain to be settled. Helen. Even then ? Elkin. Assuming that Mr. James Mortimore did make this af- fidavit — that he were permitted to make such an affidavit Helen. Yes? Elkin. What about the disposition of the estate? 256 SHE THUNDERBOLT [act iv Helen. [Nodding, slowly and thoughtfully.] The — the disposi- tion of the estate [Stephen steals over to Ponting, and Rose, Ann, and Louisa quietly rise and gather together. They all listen ivith painful interest. Elkin. [To Helen.] Morally, at all events, the whole of the late Mr. Mortimore's estate belongs to you. Helen. [Simply.] It was his intention that it should do so. [Looking at James, as if inviting him to speak.] Well ? James. [Stroking his beard.] Look here, Miss Thornhill. [Point- ing to the chair on the extreme left.] Sit down a minute. [She sits. James also seats himself, facing her, at the right of the table at the end of the piano. Vallance joins Elkin and they stand near Helen, occasionally exchanging remarks with each other.] Look here. [In a deep, gruff voice.] There is no doubt that my brother Ned's money rightfully belongs to you. Ponting. [Nervously.] Mortimore James. [Turning upon him.] You leave us alone. Don't you interfere. [To Helen.] I've no more doubt about it, Miss Thornhill, than that I'm sitting here. Very good. Say I make the affidavit, and that we — the family — obtain Letters of Administration. What then? The money comes to us. Still — it's yours. We get hold of it, but it's yours. Now! act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 257 What if we offer to throw the whole lot, so to speak, into your lap ? Stephen. {Biting his nails.] Jim James. [To Stephen.] Don't you interfere. [To Helen.] I repeat, what if we offer to throw the whole lot into your lap ? [Leaning forward, very earnestly.] Miss Thornhill PONTING. May I ? James. [To Ponting.] If you can't be silent ! [To Helen.] Miss Thornhill, we're poor, we Mortimores. I won't say anything about Rose — [ivith a sneer] it wouldn't be polite to the Colonel ; nor Tad — you see what he's come to. But Stephen and me — take our case. [To Elkin and Vallance.] Mr. Vallance — Mr. Elkin — this is sacred. [To Helen.] My dear, we're prominent men in the town, both of us; we're looked up to as being fairly warm and com- fortable; but in reality we're not much better off than the others. My trade's being cut into on all sides; Stephen's business has run to seed ; we've no capital ; we've never had any capital. What we might have saved has been spent on educating our children, and keeping up appearances; and when the time comes for us to be knocked out, there'll be precious little — bar a stroke of luck — precious little for us to end our days on. So this is a terrible disappointment to us — an awful disappointment. Ave, the money's yours — it's yours — but — [opening his hands] what are you going to do for the family? [There is a pause. The Pontings, Stephen, Ann and Louisa draw a little nearer. 258 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv Helen. [To James.] Well — since you put it in this way — I'll tell you what I'll do. [Another pause.] I'll share with you all. James. [To the others.] You leave us alone; you leave us alone. [To Helen.] Share and share alike? Helen. [Thinking.] Share and share alike — after discharging my obligations. James. Obligations? PONTING and STEPHEN. Obligations? Helen. After carrying out my father's instructions with regard to his old servants. James. [Nodding.] Oh, aye. PONTING. [Walking about excitedly.] That's a small matter. Stephen. [Also walking about.] A trifle — a trifle PONTING. Then what it amounts to is this — the estate will be di- vided into five parts instead of four. Stephen. Five instead of four — obviously. act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 259 Helen. [Still thinking.} No- « —into six. Six? James. Six! PONTING and STEPHEN Rose and Louisa. [Who with Ann, are moving round the head of the piano, to join Ponting and Stephen.] Six! Helen. [Firmly.] Six. A share must be given, as a memorial of my father, to one of the hospitals in Linchpool. Ponting and Stephen. [Protestingly.] Oh ! Rose, Ann and Louisa. Oh ! Ponting. Entirely unnecessary. Stephen. Uncalled for. Helen. I insist. Ponting. [Coming to Helen.] My dear Miss Thornhill, believe me — believe me — these cadging hospitals are a great deal too well off as it is. Helen. I insist that a share shall be given to a Linchpool hospital. 260 THE THUNDERBOLT [act nr PONTING. I could furnish you with details of maladministration on the part of hospital-boards Rose. Shocking mismanagement Stephen. There's our own hospital Louisa. A scandal. Stephen. Our Jubilee hospital Ann. It's scarcely fit to send your servants to. Helen. [To James, rising.] Mr. Mortimore James. [Rising, to PONTING and the rest.] Miss Thornhill says that one share of the estate's to go to a Linchpool hospital. D'ye hear? [Moving towards them authoritatively.] That's enough. [Ponting and Stephen bustle to the writing-table, where they each seize a sheet of paper and proceed to reckon. Rose, Ann and Louisa surround them. James stands by, his hands in his pockets, looking on. Ponting. [Sitting at the writing-table — in an undertone.] A hun- dred and seventy thousand pounds act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 261 Stephen. {Bending over the table — in an undertone.] Six into seventeen — two and carry five PONTING. Six into fifty — eight and carry two Stephen. Six into twenty Ponting. Three [Helen seats herself in the chair on the right of the table at the end of the piano. Elkin and Vallance are now in earnest conversation on the extreme left. While the calculation is going on, Thaddeus and Phyllis raise their heads and look at each other. Stephen. Carry two Ponting. Six into twenty again — three and carry two Stephen. Again, six into twenty — three and carry two Ponting. Six into forty — six and carry four Stephen. Six into forty-eight Ponting. Eight Stephen. Twenty-eight thousand, three hundred and thirty-three' pounds, six shillings and eight pence. 262 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv PONTING. [Rising, his paper in his hand.] Twenty-eight thousand apiece. Thaddeus. [Rising. \ No Phyllis. [Rising.] No Thaddeus. [As everybody turns to him.] No, no — James. Eh? PONTING. [To Thaddeus.] What do you mean, sir? Stephen. [To Thaddeus.] What do you mean? Thaddeus. [Agitatedly.] I don't take my share — my wife and I don't take our share — we don't touch it Phyllis. [Clinging to Thaddeus.] We won't touch it — oh, no, no, no, no ! James. [To Thaddeus.] Don't be a fool — don't be a fool! Thaddeus. Fool or no fool — not a penny Phyllis. Not a penny of it Thaddeus. Not a penny. act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 263 Helen. Very well, then. [In a clear voice.] Very well; Mr. Thaddeus Mortimore will not accept his share. PONTING. [With alacrity.] He declines it. Helen. He declines it. Ponting. That alters the figures — alters the figures Stephen. Very materially. Rose. [To Ann and Louisa.] Only five to share instead of six. Ann. [Bewildered.] I don't understand Louisa. [Shaking her arm.] Five instead of six! [Laying his paper on the top of the piano, PoNTING produces his pocket-pencil and makes a fresh calcula- tion. Stephen stands at his elbow. Rose, Ann and Louisa gather round them. Stephen. [In an undertone.] A hundred and seventy thousand Ponting. [In an undertone.] Five into seventeen Stephen. Three 264 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv PONTING. Five into twenty Stephen. Thirty-four thousand exactly. PONTING. Thirty-four thousand apiece. Rose, Ann and Louisa. [To each other.] Thirty-four thousand! Helen. Wait — wait. Wait, please. [After a short pause.] Mr. Thaddeus Mortimore refuses to accept his share. I am sorry — but he appears determined. Thaddeus. Determined — determined Phyllis. Determined Helen. That being so, I ask that his share shall be settled upon his boy and girl. [To Elkin.] Mr. Elkin [Elkin advances to her.] I suppose an arrangement of that kind can easily be made ? Elkin. [With a shrug.] Mr. Thaddeus Mortimore can assent to his share being handed over to the trustees of a Deed of Settlement for the benefit of his children, giving a release to the administrator from all claims in respect of his share. act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 265 Helen. [Turning to Thaddeus.] You've no objection to this? [Thaddeus and Phyllis stare at Helen dumbly, with parted lips.] They are great friends of mine — Cyril and Joyce — and I hope they'll remain so. [A pause.] Well? You've no right to stand in their light. [A pause.] You won't, surely, stand in their light? [A pause.] Don't. [Again there is silence, and then Phyllis, leaving Thaddeus, totters forward, and drops on her knees before Helen, bowing her head in Helen's lap. Phyllis. [Weeping.] Oh-oh-oh ! [Calmly, Helen disengages herself from PHYLLIS, rises, and walks away to the fireplace. THADDEUS lifts Phyllis from the ground and leads her to the open window. They stand there, facing the garden, she crying upon his shoulder. Elkin. [Advancing to the middle of the room, with the air of a man who is about to perform an unpleasant task.] Miss Thornhill — [Helen turns to him] Mr. Vallance and I — [to Vallance] Mr. Vallance — [Vallance advances] Mr. Vallance and I have come to the conclusion that, as all per- sons interested in this business are sui juris and agreeable to the compromise which has been proposed, nobody would be injured by the next-of-kin applying for Letters of Administra- tion. Vallance. [To Elkin.] Except the Revenue. Elkin. [Indifferently, with a nod.'] The Revenue. 266 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv Vallance. The legacy duty being at three per cent, instead of ten. Elkin. [Nodding.} H'm, h'm! [To Helen.] But, my dear young lady, we have also to say that, with the information we possess, we do not see our way clear to act in the matter any further. Vallance. [To James, who has come forward on the left.} We cer- tainly could not be parties to the making of an affidavit that the deceased died intestate. Elkin. We couldn't reconcile ourselves to that. Vallance. We leave it, therefore, to the next-of-kin to take their own course for obtaining Letters of Administration. Elkin. In fact, we beg to be allowed to withdraw from the affair altogether. I speak for myself, at any rate. Vallance. [Emphatically.} Altogether. James. [After a pause.} Oh — all right, Mr. Elkin; all right, Mr. Vallance. Helen. [To Elkin.] Then — do I lose you ? act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 267 Elkin. I an> afraid — for the present Helen. [With dignity.] As you please. I am very grateful to you for what you have done for me. Elkin. [Looking round.] If I may offer a last word of advice, it is that you should avoid putting the terms of this com- promise into writing. Vallance. [Assentingly.] Each party must rely upon the other to fulfil the terms honorably. Elkin. [To Helen.] You have no legal right to enforce those terms; but pray remember that, in the event of any breach of faith, there would be nothing to prevent you propounding the will even after Letters of Administration have been granted. James. Breach of faith, sir ! PONTING and STEPHEN. [Indignantly.] Oh ! James. There's no need, Mr. Elkin * Elkin. [To James.] No, no, no — not the slightest, I'm con- vinced. [To Helen, taking her hand.] The little hotel in London — Norfolk Street 5 268 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv Helen. Till I'm suited with lodgings. Elkin. Mrs. Elkin will write. Helen. My love to her. [He smiles at her and leaves her, as VALLANCE comes to her and shakes her hand. Vallance. [To Helen.] Good-bye. Helen. [To Vallance.] Good-bye. Elkin. [To those on the left.] Good-afternoon. A Murmur. Good-afternoon. Vallance. [To those on the left.] Good-afternoon. A Murmur. Good-afternoon. [James has opened the door. Elkin and Vallance, carrying their bags, go out. James follows them, closing the door. PONTING. [Coming forward.] Ha! We can replace those gentle- men without much difficulty. act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 269 Stephen. [Coming forward.] Old Crake has gone to pieces and this fellow Vallance is playing ducks and drakes with the practice — ducks and drakes. PONTING. [Offering his hand to Helen, who takes it perfunctorily.] Greatly indebted to you — greatly indebted to you for meet- ing us half-way and saving unpleasantness. Stephen. Pratt is the best lawyer in the town — the best by far. Ponting. [To Helen.] Nothing like a compromise, provided it can be arrived at — ah Stephen. Without loss of self-respect on both sides. [James returns. Ponting. [To James.] Mortimore, we'll go back to your house. There are two or three things to talk over [Rose comes to Helen as Ponting goes to Stephen and James. Rose. [Shaking hands with Helen.] We sha'n't be settled in Carlos Place till the autumn, but directly we are settled Helen. [Distantly.] Thank you. 270 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv Rose. Everybody flocks to my Tuesdays. Let me have your address and I'll send you a card. [Rose leaves Helen, making way for Louisa and Stephen. Louisa. [To Helen.] Don't forget the Crescent. Whenever you want to visit your dear father's birthplace Stephen. [Benevolently.'] And if there should be any little cere- mony over laying the foundation-stone of the new Times and Mirror building Louisa. There's the spare bedroom. [They shake hands with her and, making way for Ann and James, follow the Pontings, ivho have gone out. Ann. [Shaking hands with Helen, gloomily.] The next time you stay at "Ivanhoe," I hope you'll unpack more than one small trunk. But, there — [kissing her] I bear no malice. [She follows the others, leaving James ivith Helen. James. [To HELEN, gruffly, wringing her hand.] Much obliged to you, my dear; much obliged to you. Helen. [After glancing over her shoulder, in a whisper.] Mr. Mortimore James. Eh? act ivl THE THUNDERBOLT 271 Helen. [Willi a motion of her head in the direction of Thaddeus and Phyllis.] These two — these two James. [Lowering his voice.} What about 'em? Helen. She's done a wrong thing, but recollect — you all profit by it. You don't disdain, any of you, to profit by it. [He looks at her queerly, but straight in the eyes.] Try to make their lives a little easier for them. James. Easier ? Helen. Happier. You can influence the others, if you will. [A pause.] Will you? [He reflects, shakes her hand again, and goes to the door. James. [At the door, sharply.} Tad ! [Thaddeus turns.} See you in the morning. Phyllis ! [She also turns to him, half scared at his tone.] See you both in the morning. [Nodding to her.] Good-bye, old girl. [He disappears. Helen is now standing upon the hearth-rug, her hands behind her, looking down into the grate. Thaddeus and Phyllis glance at her; then, guiltily, they too move to the door, passing round the head of the piano. Phyllis. [At the door in a low, hard voice.] Helen [Helen partly turns.] You're leaving to-morrow. I'll keep out of 272 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv your way — I'll keep up-stairs in my room — till you've gone. [She goes out. Thaddeus is following her, when Helen calls to him. Helen. Mr. Thaddeus [He closes the door and advances to her humbly. She comes forward.] There's no reason why I should put your wife to that trouble. It's equally con- venient to me to return to London this evening. [He bows.] Will you kindly ask Kate to pack. me? Thaddeus. Certainly. Helen. Er — [thinking] Mr. Trist had some calls to make after we left the flower-show. If I've gone before he comes back, tell him I'll write Thaddeus. [Bowing again.] You'll write. Helen. And explain. Thaddeus. [Under his breath, looking up % quickly .] Explain ! Helen. Explain, among other things, that I've yielded to the desire of the family Thaddeus. Desire ? Helen. That I should accept a share of my father's property. Thaddeus. [Falteringly.] Thank you — thank you act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 273 Helen. [Aftjer a while.} That's all, I think. Thaddeus. [Offering his hand to her.] I — I wish you every happi- ness, Miss Thornhill. [She places her hand in his.] I — I wish you every happiness. [She inclines her head, in acknowledgment and again he goes to the door; and again, tunning away to the round table* where she trifles with a book, she calls him. Helen. Oh, Mr. Tad [He halts.] Mr. Tad, I.propose that we allow six months to pass in complete silence — six months from, to-day Thaddeus. [Dully, not understanding.] Six months — silence ? Helen. I mean, without my hearing from your wife. Then, per- haps, she — she will send me another invitation Thaddeus. [Leaving the door, staring at her.] Invitation ? Helen. By that time, we shall, all of us, have forgotten a great deal — sha'n'twe? [Facing him.] You'll say that to her for me? [He hesitates, then he takes her hands and, bending over them, kisses them repeatedly. Thaddeus. God bless you. God bless you. God bless you. 274 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iv Helen. [Withdrawing her hands.] Find — Kate [Once more he makes for the door. Thaddeus. [Stopping half-way and pulling himself together.] Miss Thornhill — my wife — my wife — you've seen her at a disad- vantage — a terrible disadvantage. Few — few pass through life without being seen — once — or oftener — at a disadvantage. She — she's a splendid woman — a splendid woman — a splendid wife and mother. [Moving to the door.] They haven't appreciated her — the family haven't appreciated her. They've treated her abominably; for sixteen years she's been treated abominably. [At the door.] But I've never regretted my marriage — [defiantly] I've never regretted it — never, for a single moment — never regretted it — never — never regretted it [He disappears. She goes to the table at the end of the piano and takes up her drawing-block and box of crayons. As she does so, Trist lets himself into the garden. She pauses, listening, and presently he enters the room at the open window. Trist. [Throwing his hat on the round table.] Ah ! Helen. [Animatedly.] Mr. Trist Trist. Yes? Helen. Run out to the post-office for me — send a telegram in my name act iv] THE THUNDERBOLT 275 Trist. With pleasure. Helen. Gregory's Hotel, Norfolk Street, Strand, London — the manager. Miss Thornhill will arrive to-night — prepare her room Trist. [His face falling.] To-night! Helen. I've altered my plans. Gregory's Hotel — Gregory's- Trist. [Picking up his hat.] Norfolk Street, Strand Helen. [At the door.] Mr. Trist — I want you to know — I — I've come into a small fortune. Trist. A fortune ? Helen. Nearly thirty thousand pounds. Trist. Thirty thousand ! Helen. They've persuaded me — persuaded me to take a share of my poor father's money. Trist. I— I'm glad. Helen. You — you think I'm doing rightly? 276 THE THUNDERBOLT [act iy Trist. [Depressed.] Why — of course. [She opens the door and he goes to the window. Helen. Mr. Trist ! [She comes back into the room.] Mr. Trist ! [He approaches her.] Mr. Trist — don't — don't Trist. What?, Helen. [Her head drooping.] Don't let this make any difference between us — will you ? [She raises her eyes to his and they stand looking at each other in silence. Then she turns away abruptly and leaves the room as he hurries through the garden. THE END. MID-CHANNEL CRITICAL PREFACE* Mid-Channel was more popular in the theatre than The Thunderbolt; but it did not attract so large a patronage to the box-office as many of Pinero's earlier plays. When the piece was first produced in London, at the St. James's Thea- tre, on September 2nd, 1909, with that flawless actress, Irene Vanbrugh, in the part of Zoe Blundell, it achieved a notable succes d'estime and enjoyed a considerable run; but, from the merely commercial point of view, the record of the piece was comparatively disappointing. Later, when Mid- Channel was reproduced in the United States, with the popular Ethel Barrymore in the leading role, it attracted a larger public, and drew an excellent attendance for more than a year. Commenting on this circumstance — and in- cluding Mr. Bernard Shaw and Mr. Henry Arthur Jones within the scope of his reflection — Sir Arthur said to the present commentator, with a witty smile, "If it were not for America, we couldn't keep alive." . . . He was naturally interested in Miss Barrymore's performance of Zoe Blundell, which he had never witnessed. I had seen it half a dozen times, and was prepared to answer his eager questions con- cerning what she did at one point and another in the progress of the play. I admired Miss Barrymore's portrayal ; and the only thing I had to say against it was that she did not suggest that underlying note of innate vulgarity which seemed to me a necessary trait of Zoe Blundell's character. "I see!", said the author, "Miss Barrymore made Zoe more ladylike and lovable than she actually is. . . . Well, maybe that's another reason why the play did so well in America." * Copyright, 1922, by E. P. Dutton & Co. 279 28o MID-CHANNEL I feel inclined to emphasise the fact that neither The Thunderbolt nor Mid-Channel made much money in the theatre, because this detail is important, not only from the commercial, but also from the critical, point of view. These two plays were written at the culmination of Pinero's career [he was fifty-four years old when Mid-Channel was pro- duced] ; and they represent his mind at its most completely characteristic moment. In 1910 he told me very frankly that he had written these two plays primarily to please him- self, and that, in doing so, he had paid* no attention to the calculable task of pleasing the public, which he had grown to regard, after many years of service, as a secondary duty. No commentator should be tempted to deny that it is a duty for the dramatist to succeed at the box-office. Unless a play makes money, it will be withdrawn. If it is with- drawn, it will cease to exist, as a living entity behind the footlights; and, in that event, the loss to humanity will be all the greater in proportion to the importance of the content of the play and the sincerity of its intention. Sir Arthur Pinero, of course, is fully aware of this principle, although it has not yet impressed itself, apparently, upon the mind of so promising a dramatist as Mr. John Galsworthy — the worthy author of many estimable dramas which the theatre- going public persistently refuses to attend. In composing Mid-Channel and The Thunderbolt "to please himself," Pinero did not presume to exalt himself above his public; but he was willing to sacrifice the extensive popularity which had been eagerly accorded to several of his lighter and more "entertaining" pieces. Sir Arthur told me that he had come to a point in his development where the only characters who acutely interested him were mature people whose lives had "somehow gone awry." He liked to speculate upon the difference between what they were and what they might have been. He was no longer interested by inexperienced characters whose lives lay all before them, — although he was fully aware that the CRITICAL PREFACE 281 theatre was patronised mainly by young people, and that young, unspotted characters were more popular than any others on the stage. By this conversation, I was reminded of the case of Rembrandt. Rembrandt, in painting portraits, preferred to show a face, not merely as a record of what the sitter looked like at the moment, but also as a reminiscent summing-up of all that the sitter had previously been. He was not especially successful in painting young girls, whose experience of life was still before them. He was most suc- cessful in depicting mature people, whose experience of life was already written in their faces; and his greatest portraits were pictures of old people with a memorable past. Disregarding, now, the immediate response of the ticket- buying public, I feel inclined to consider Mid-Channel as perhaps the greatest of Pinero's many plays, and I am able to report that the author — despite his lifelong habit of closing his mind to a discussion of the comparative merits of his several endeavours — has confessed a special fondness for this composition, — a fondness which is shared, in his own memory, by Iris and The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith. Time alone can pick out with finality the best play of Pinero; but if I were suddenly required to adduce evidence in support of the un- expected statement that Pinero, at his highest, is an abler dramatist than Ibsen, I should toss Mid-Channel on the carpet and appeal to futurity for a verdict without prejudice. Inviting the more leisurely decision of commentators yet to come, I am willing now to risk the statement that Mid- Channel is a greater play than Hedda Gabler or A Doll's House. Mid-Channel, in the first place, discusses a "theme" which is eternally important to every member of the theatre-going public; and this is the primary point which leads the present editor to set this drama, in his own opinion, higher than The Second Mrs. Tanqueray or The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith. The characters, though sharply individualised, are more usual, and less eccentric, than those that we are ordinarily 282 MID-CHANNEL invited to meet in a drama by Pinero. We can put our- selves, without appreciable effort, in their places, and can easily imagine that what is actually shown upon the stage is really happening to us. And, if we feel inclined to hate the characters exhibited upon the stage, it is only because these characters are too closely related to ourselves, — with an intimacy that may seem a little inconsiderate. Mid-Channel, moreover, is not only important in its sub- ject-matter, but also monumental in its execution. It appeals to the literary student by virtue of its "theme"; it appeals to the casual public by virtue of its pathos and its sheer theatric strength; and it appeals to all playwrights by virtue of its meticulous manipulation of many of the technical devices that the world has learned throughout the long and gradual development of the craft of making plays. Consider, for example, the handling of the troublous element of setting. In presenting the text of Mid-Channel to the reading public, the editor has decided to reproduce the stage-maps designed originally by the author. The first and second acts are set in the same room; but the lapse of time, between winter and summer, is indicated immediately to the eye by a re-arrangement of the furniture. In both acts, a vivid sense of the adjoining room is indicated by the practical employment of two doors which are set up at the right hand of the spectator. The setting of the fourth and final act is exceedingly im- portant; for this setting finally determines the suicide of Zoe Blundell. Sophocles (the greatest dramatist of ancient days) and Shakespeare (the greatest dramatist of mediaeval days) tried always to imagine suicides as motivated by con- siderations that swam immune from any question of concor- dant place and time. But the bulk of modern evidence shows clearly that people do not actually kill themselves unless they happen to be in an appropriate place at an appropriate time, when the mood for suicide is on them. Zoe Blundell is impelled to kill herself because, at a desperate moment, she CRITICAL PREFACE 283 is driven forth upon a balcony which dizzily invites a down- ward dive to quick oblivion. This tragic outcome is con- ditioned by the setting; and, conversely — to revert to the realm of critical conjecture — this determinative setting must have been suggested to the author's mind by several inherent factors in the antecedent series of events. In the gradual unfolding of the fourth act, the various devices by which the final suicide of Zoe Blundell is made to seem inevitable should be admired by all students of the technique of the modern drama. When the curtain rises, the back-drop, by revealing the top of a building so generally known as the Albert Hall, suggests at once the height, above the street, of Lenny Ferris's apartment. Ethel Pierpoint strolls forth upon the balcony, and describes the "tots" of people that she sees below ; and her stodgy mother soon grows dizzy at the prospect. This emphasis upon the disconcerting height of Lenny's balcony is fortified by a subtle exposition of the fact that Lenny's bedroom (to the right of the specta- tor) can yield no other exit except upon this dangerous balcony. The first act of Mid-Channel opens with a conventional series of questions and answers between Ethel Pierpoint and her mother. In 1910 I accused the author of having adopted a labour-saving device in this respect. Sir Arthur answered with his customary frankness. "After the elaborate expo- sition of The Thunderbolt," he said to me, "it no longer seemed worth while to begin Mid-Channel with a clever passage. It is difficult to be clever, but it is not impossible. There are certain things that must be told to the audience, as quickly and conveniently as possible, at the outset of any play. Why not tell these things quite frankly and get them over with?" . . . The subject of Mid-Channel is the hopeless marital mis- understanding which afflicts in middle life a rugged, rather brutal business man, named Theodore Blundell, and his wife, Zoe, an idle, pleasure-loving woman, who drifts aimlessly 284 MID-CHANNEL along the line of least resistance. At the outset of their married life, they made the mistake of resolving not to en- cumber themselves with children. Now, after a dozen years, they have no common interests; and though they are rather fond of each other, they continually bore themselves into nervous tiffs and annoyed recriminations. The first act ex- pounds this basic situation distinctly and completely; and at the curtain fall, there is a flare-up and the husband leaves the house. The rest of the play happens five months later. The second act and the third act are admirably balanced — the one exhibiting the effect upon the wife, the other the effect upon the husband, of the period of separation. Each has become — to use a phrase of their own — "rather a rotter." Zoe has dallied in Italy with a young and caddish cub to whom she has succumbed in a moment of weakness; and Theodore has taken up with a mercenary lady notorious for a succession of divorces. At the close of the second act, Zoe sends her lover away and insists that he shall marry a young girl who is in love with him ; and during the third act, Theodore dis- misses the merry lady of many men. At the climax of the third act, Zoe and Theodore are brought together by a mutual friend and left to patch up the fragments of their lives. The husband admits frankly that he has sinned, and the wife forgives him ; but when she adds that they are both sinners, he looks upon her in an appalling quietude of abso- lute estrangement, and then sends her back to her lover. She arrives at the latter's rooms to find that he has already obeyed her behest and engaged himself to marry the young girl who is fond of him. There is, beyond the windows, a balcony very high above a public square; and from this Zoe casts herself to the pavement below. The ultimate suicide of Zoe Blundell is technically "planted" by her very first speech in the very first act. Chat- ting about the weather [and what topic could seem more natural for an unpremeditated chat?] Zoe says, "Why is it CRITICAL PREFACE 285 that more people commit suicide in summer than in winter?" And three acts later — at the very conclusion of the drama — Peter Mottram states, "She told me once it would be in the winter time !" This repetition recurs as an echo of the earlier statement; and a consideration of this single point calls up for admira- tion the "echo-system" which Pinero has established through- out the composition of this play. Every detail of the piece is nicely related to every other; and many passages produce a three-fold effect: — first, by and for themselves; second, by reminiscence of something that has preceded them ; and third, by anticipation of something that is yet to come. Consider- ing the text from the standpoint of this three-fold technical formula, there is scarcely a wasted line in the entire compo- sition. Everything that is said or done upon the stage counts harmoniously toward a common purpose. The underlying thesis of Mid-Channel is indicated very early in a charming off-hand passage in which Sir Arthur pays a delicate tribute to his friend and colleague, Sir James Barrie. Barrie is, obviously, the man who has "the power of imagining children — bringing them to life! Just by shut- ting the door, and sitting down at his writing-table, and saying to his brain, 'Now, then! I'm ready for them !" The fact that the one thing that is most the matter with the thwarted Zoe Blundell is that she had agreed with her hus- band, at the outset of their married life, not to encumber herself with any "brats of children," is not emphasised, in all its poignancy, until the climax of the third act of the drama; but it is subtly indicated in this early passage of com- ment on an hypothetic current play that may be easily iden- tified with Peter Pan. Students of technique will appreciate particularly the cal- culated timeliness accorded to Lenny Ferris and to Theo Blundell for their first entrances upon the stage before the gathered public. The actors chosen to depict each of these contrasted characters enjoy the opportunity of entering upon 286 MID-CHANNEL a cue that has been cleverly planned to stimulate the in- terest of the audience. The title of Mid-Channel is contributed by a raisonneur during the course of a carefully expository passage in the initial act. The Honorable Peter Mottram is the most in- gratiating of Pinero's long series of predicateurs, with the possible exception of Cayley Drummle, in The Second Mrs. Tanqueray. Peter Mottram is emphatically human, and is clearly distinguished in character from the author of the play, although he expresses, in the main, the author's senti- ments in regard to the progress of the action. In Mid-Channel, Sir Arthur indicates, once more, his persistent sense of the tragedy inherent in the process of what is commonly called "social climbing." The Blundells, in- spired with an overmastering desire to "get on," have amassed a lot of money; but their original vulgarity has merely been accentuated by the apparent improvement of their social station. As a satirist of contemporary society, Pinero has chosen, as his most recurrent thesis, the theme that vul- garity is innately vulgar and that nothing can be done to cure it. In recent years, as well, the mind of Pinero has been pre- occupied with the abiding tragedy of middle age, which results from the fact that the virtuous efforts of the present cannot possibly eradicate the errors of the past. What we are, at any moment, is merely the sum-total of all that we have ever been; and people who are caught, like the Blun- dells, in mid-channel, cannot escape the lingering effects of false decisions made a decade, or a couple of decades, in the past. This is the reason why those passages which wistfully refer to the vanished days "up north," when the characters were merely "getting on," appeal so poignantly to the aver- age auditor. The fairness of characterisation in this play remains re- markable to the disinterested commentator. Lenny Ferris, for example, is undeniably a cad; yet his case is stated by CRITICAL PREFACE 287 the author without prejudice against him. His speeches in the seccfnd act are irresistibly appealing, upon purely human grounds; and, throughout the troublous progress of the last act, this "unsympathetic" person shows himself to be a veri- table gentleman. Pinero, in composing Mid-Channel, admitted no surrender to the predilections of the theatre-going public. He imagined certain people doing certain things, and told the truth about them. The resultant fabric is an absolute and faultless masterpiece of structure. It is solidly, compactly built. No material is wasted: every line and every gesture seems to count. Every detail of the piece is nicely related to every other; and many passages produce a three-fold effect, — first by immediate interest, second, by reminiscence, and, third, by prophecy. The characters are analysed with a thoroughness that is almost terrible. There is comparatively little object- ive action in the piece; there is, instead, a steady gathering of intense internal conflict. The dialogue is masterly in easy fluency, — crisp and pointed, and nervously concise. It is not at all excessive to assert that no finer dramatic composition has been written in the English language within the first two decades of the twentieth century. C. H. MID-CHANNEL A PLAY, IN FOUR ACTS THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY Theodore Blundell The Honourable Peter Mottram Leonard Ferris Warren, Servant at Lancaster Gate Cole, Servant at the Flat in Cavendish Square Rideout, Mr. Ferris's Servant Upholsterers Zoe Blundell Mrs. Pierpoint Ethel Pierpoint Mrs. Annerly Lena The scene is laid in London. The events of the First Act take place on an afternoon in January. The rest of the action occurs on a day in the following June. MID-CHANNEL Original cast, as first disclosed at the St. James's Theatre, September 2nd, 1 909. Theodore Blundell . The Hon. Peter Mottram Leonard Ferris Warren (Servant at Lan- caster Gate) .... Cole (Servant at the Flat in Cavendish Square) . Rideout (Mr. Ferris's serv- ant) Upholsterers Zoe Blundell Mrs. Pierpoint Ethel Pierpoint Mrs. Annerly Lena A Maidservant Mr. Lyn Harding Mr. C. M. Lowne Mr. Eric Maturin Mr. A. E. Drinkwater Mr. Stuart Dennison Mr. Sydney Hamilton Mr. Oiven Nares Mr. T. Weguelin Miss Irene Vanbrugh Miss Kate Serjeantson Miss Rosalie Toller Miss Nina Sevening Miss Ruth Maitland Miss Faith Celli MID-CHANNEL THE FIRST ACT The scene is a drawing-room, decorated and furnished in the French style. In the wall opposite the spectator there is a door, the upper part of which is glazed. A silk curtain hangs across the glazed panels, but above the curtain there is a view of the corridor beyond. The fireplace, where a bright fire is burning, is in the wall on the right. There is a door on the further side of the fireplace, an- other on the nearer side. Both these doors are supposed to lead to a second drawing-room. On either side of the fireplace there is an arm-chair, and on the further side, standing out in the room, is a j ^.settee. Some illustrated papers of the popular sort are lying upon the arm-chair next to the settee. Behind the settee are an oblong tablfdnd a chair". In the middle of the room, on the left of the settee and facing the fire, is another arm-chair j' and on the left of the arm-chair on the nearer side of the fireplace there is a f autcuil- stool. - A writing-table, with a chair before it, stands on the left- -v hand side of the room, and among the objects on the zvriting-table are a hand mirror and some photographs in frames. Other pieces of furniture, of a more formal kind than those already specified, fill spaces against the ivalls. One of these, on the left of the glazed door, is a second settee.-^ 295 296 MID-CHANNEL [act I The roofy is lighted only by\the blaze of\the/jir\. and the corridor\il$o is in semi-dar^rtess. \/ [NOTE: — Throughout, "right" and Left" are the^pectators' right and If ft, not the actor's.] [The corridor is suddenly lighted up. Then Warren enters at_the glazed door and_switches on the light in the room. He is Jollowed by Mrs. Pierpoint, a pleasant-looking, middle-aged lady, and by Ethel, fa pretty girl of five-and-twenty\ Mrs. Pierpoint. [To the servant.] You are sure Mrs. Blundell will be in soon? Warren. She said half-past four, ma'am. Mrs. Pierpoint. It's that now, isn't it? Warren. Just upon, ma'am. [Warren withdraws, closing door. Ethel. What beautiful rooms these are! Mrs. Pierpoint. Money ! Ethel. I always feel I'm in Paris when I'm here, in some smart house in the Champs-Elysees — not at Lancaster Gate. What is Mr. Blundell, mother? foe Ho Co C S £h1< X w tTh* A stockbroker. Stockbroker? Mrs. Pierpoint. Ethel. act i] MID-CHANNEL 297 Mrs. Pierpoint. Blundell — something-or-other — and Mottram. He goc! to the City every morning. Ethel. I know that. But I've never heard him, or Zoe, mentior the Stock Exchange. . „;\ Mrs. Pierpoint. \Sitting_ on the sette e by the fireplace. } Prosperous stock brokers and their wives^— those who move in a decent set — don't mention the Stock Exchange. Ethel. Then that nice person, Mr. Mottram, is a stockbrokei too? Mrs. Pierpoint. Of course, dear. He's the "Mottram" of the firm. Ethel. And he's the son of a peer. A Mrs. Pierpoint. Peers' sons are common enough in the City now-a-days- and peers, for that matter. / . Ethel. [Moving to t1i£_ fireplace and wanning her hantls.] Zoe is a doctor's daughter. Mrs. Pierpoint. Has she given you leave to call her Zoe? Ethel. Yes, last week — asked me to. I'm so glad ; I've taken such a liking to her. Mrs. Pierpoint. She was a Miss Tucker. Her father practised in New Cavendish Street. He was a great gout man. 298 MID-CHANNEL [act i Ethel. You are full of information, mother. Mrs. Pierpoint. Emma Lawton was giving me the whole history of the Blundells at lunch to-day. She has money, of her own. Ethel. Zoe? Mrs. Pierpoint. Dr. Tucker left sixty or seventy thousand pounds, and she came in for it all. But they'd got on before then. Ethel. H'm! There are stockbrokers and stockbrokers, I suppose. Mrs. Pierpoint. Straight and crooked, as in every other business or pro- fession. Ethel. I do think, though, that a girl in Zoe's position might have chosen somebody slightly more refined than Mr. Blundell. Mrs. Pierpoint. What's wrong with him? He's extremely amiable and inoffensive. Ethel. Amiable! Mrs. Pierpoint. He strikes me as being so. Ethel. I don't call it particularly amiable or inoffensive in a husband to be as snappy with his wife as he is with Zoe. Mrs. Pierpoint. Snappy ? act i] MID-CHANNEL 299 Ethel. Irritable — impatient. Mrs. Pierpoint. Oh, I dare say there's an excellent understanding between them. They've been married a good many years. Ethel. Thirteen, she's told me. Mrs. Pierpoint. Married people are allowed to be out of humor with each other occasionally. Ethel. A considerable allowance must be made for Mr. Blundell, I'm afraid. Mrs. Pierpoint. You're prejudiced, Ethel. I've seen her just as snappy, as you term it, with him. Ethel. You can't blame her, if she's provoked. Mrs. Pierpoint. Nor him, if he's provoked. The argument cuts both ways Ethel. [Listening.] Sssh! [Zoe, a charming, animated, bright-eyed woman, wear- ing her hat and some costly furs, enters quickly at the glazed door. Zoe. Delightful! Mrs. Pierpoint. [Rising.] Your servant insisted on our coming up. 300 MID-CHANNEL [act i ZOE. [Shaking hands with Mrs. Pierpoint.] If he hadn't I'd have wrung his neck. [Kissing Ethel.] How are you, dear? [Stripping off her gloves.] The weather! Isn't it filthy! Do you remember what the sun's like? I had the blinds drawn all over the house at eleven o'clock this morn- ing. What's the good of trying to make-believe it's day? [Taking off her coat.} Do sit down. Ugh! Why is it that more people commit suicide in summer than in winter? Mrs. Pierpoint. [Resuming her seat on the settee by the fire.} Do they? Ethel. [Sitting upon the fauteuil-stool.] Why, yes, mother; what-do-you-call-them ? — statistics — prove it. Zoe. [Throwing her coat and gloves upon the settee at the back and unpinning her hat.} You'll see, when I put an end to myself, it will be in the winter time. Mrs. Pierpoint. My dear ! Ethel. Zoe! Mrs. Pierpoint. If you are in this frame of mind, why don't you pack your trunks and fly? Zoe. Fly? Ethel. Mother means cut it. Mrs. Pierpoint. Ethel! act i] MID-CHANNEL 301 ZOE. [Tbssing her hat on to the settee and taking up the hand' mirror from the writing-table and adjusting her hair.] Don't scold her; she picks up her slang from me. Ethel. Evil communications ! Mrs. Pierpoint. I mean, go abroad for a couple of months — Egypt Ethel. Mother, how horrid of you! I should miss her terribly. Mrs. Pierpoint. Cairo — Assouan Zoe. [Looking into the hand-glass steadily.] That's funny. I have been thinking lately of "cutting it." Mrs. Pierpoint. But I suppose it would have to be without your busy hus- band. Zoe. [Replacing the mirror.] Yes, it would be without Theo. [Turning to Mrs. Pierpoint and Ethel and rattling on again.] Well! How have you been amusing yourselves? You wretches, you haven't been near me since Monday, either of you. Done anything — seen anything? Ethel. Nothing. Mrs. Pierpoint. [To Zoe.] If you re under the weather, there's some excuse for me. 3 o2 MID-CHANNEL [act i ZOE. [Walking about restlessly.} Oh, but I will keep moving, though the heavens fall. I've been to the theatre every night this week, and supped out afterwards. They've opened such a ripping restaurant in Jermyn Street. [Pausing.] You haven't seen the new play at the St. Martin's, then? Mrs. Pierpoint. No. Ethel. I want to, badly. Zoe. I'll take you. We'll make up a party. [Scribbling a memorandum at the writing-table.} I'll tell Lenny Ferris to get seats. Ethel. Good business! Mrs. Pierpoint. Ethel! Zoe. It's all about children — kiddies. There are the sweetest little tots in it. Two especially — a tiny, round-eyed boy and a mite of a girl with straw-coloured hair — you feel you must clamber on to the stage and hug them. You feel you must! Mrs. Pierpoint. Aren't there any grown-ups? Zoe. [Dropping into the arm-chair facing the fire.] Oh, yes; they bore me. Ethel. I was reading the story to you, mother Zoe. The story's no account — it's the kiddies. The man who wrote the thing must be awfully fond of children. I wonder act i] MID-CHANNEL 303 whether he has any little 'uns. If he hasn't, it's of no con- sequence to him; he can imagine them. What a jolly gift! Fancy! To have the power of imagining children — bringing them .to life! Just by shutting the door, and sitting down at your writing-table, and saying to your brain, "Now, then! I'm ready for them !" [Breaking off.] Ring the bell, Ethel. [Ethel rises, and, going to the fireplace, rings the bell.] Let's have tea. Mrs. Pierpoint. I'm afraid we can't stay for tea. I've promised to be at old Miss Fremantle's at five o'clock. Ethel Ethel. Yes, mother? Mrs. Pierpoint. Go down-stairs for a few minutes. I want a little private conversation with Mrs. Blundell. Ethel. [Surprised.] Private conversation! Mrs. Pierpoint. If she won't think me too troublesome. Zoe. [Rising and opening the nearer door on the right — to Ethel.] Come in here. There's a lovely fire. [Disappear- ing]. I'll switch the light on. Ethel. [Following Zoe — at the door.] What is it about, mother? Mrs. Pierpoint. [Rising.] Now, don't be inquisitive, Ethel. 3 o4 MID-CHANNEL [act i Zoe. [From the adjoining room.] Come along! [Ethel goes into the next room. Warren enters at the glazed door. Mrs. Pierpoint. [To Warren.] Mrs. Blundell rang for tea. Warren. Very good, ma'am. [Warren withdraws as Zoe returns. Mrs. Pierpoint. We sha'n't be heard? Zoe. [Closing the door.] No. Mrs. Pierpoint. It's really most improper of me to bother you in this way. Zoe. [Advancing to Mrs. Pierpoint.] Can I be of any use to you? Mrs. Pierpoint. Well, yes, you can. You can give me — what shall I call it? — a hint Zoe. [Sitting on the fauteuil-stool.] A hint? Mrs. Pierpoint. On a subject that concerns Ethel. [Sitting in the chair facing the fire.] We're quite new friends of yours, dear Mrs. Blundell — is it six weeks since we dined at the Dar- rells' ? Zoe. There or thereabouts. act i] MID-CHANNEL 305 Mrs. Pierpoint. A fortnight or so before Christmas, wasn't it? But my girl has formed a great attachment to you, and I fancy you are inclined to be interested in her. Zoe. Rather! She and I are going to be tremendous pals. Mrs. Pierpoint. That's splendid. Now, don't laugh at me for my extreme cautiousness, if you can help it. Zoe. Cautiousness ? Mrs. Pierpoint. Tell me — as one woman to another — do you consider it advisable for Ethel to see much of Mr. Ferris? Zoe. Advisable? Mrs. Pierpoint. Oh, I've no doubt he's a highly respectable young man, as young men go — I'm not implying anything to the con- trary Zoe. Is she seeing much of Mr. Ferris? Mrs. Pierpoint. She meets him here. Zoe. Ah, yes. Mrs. Pierpoint. And he has suddenly taken to dropping in to tea with us pretty regularly; and twice this week — twice — he has sent her some magnificent flowers — magnificent. Zoe. Dear old Lenny! 3 o6 MID-CHANNEL [act i Mrs. Pierpoint. There's something in his manner, too — one can't describe it ZOE. [A little ruefully.] Ha! Ha, ha, ha! Mrs. Pierpoint. I am amusing you. Zoe. No, no. I beg your pardon. [Rising and going to the fire.] Somehow I've never pictured Lenny with a wife. Mrs. Pierpoint. It may be only an excess of politeness on his part; there mayn't be the least foundation for my suspicions. Zoe. I suppose every married woman believes that her bachelor chums will remain bachelors. Mrs. Pierpoint. And pray, dear Mrs. Blundell, don't take me for a match- making mother. I've no desire to lose my girl yet awhile, I assure you. But I want to know, naturally — it's my duty to know — exactly who and what are the men who come into my drawing-room. Zoe. Why, naturally. Mrs. Pierpoint. And it occurred to me that, as we made Mr. Ferris's ac- quaintance in your house, you wouldn't object to giving me, as I put it, the merest hint Zoe. Ethel — what about her? Does she like him? act i] MID-CHANNEL 307 Mrs. Pierpoint. It's evident she doesn't dislike him. But she's not a girl who would be in a hurry to confide in anybody over a love affair, riot even in her mother. True, there may be nothing to confide, in the present case. I repeat, I may be altogether mistaken. At the same time Zoe. You wish me to advise you as to whether Lenny Ferris should be encouraged. Mrs. Pierpoint. Whether he should be cold-shouldered — I prefer that ex- pression. Zoe. Very well; I'll furnish you with his character, dear Mrs. Pierpoint, with pleasure. [Leonard Ferris, a fresh, boyish young man, enters at the glazed door, with the air of one who is at home. Leonard. Hallo! Zoe. [Just as carelessly.] Hallo, Len! Leonard. [Shaking hands with Mrs. Pierpoint.] How d'ye do? How's Miss Ethel? Mrs. Pierpoint. [Inclining her head.} Thank you Leonard. [Rubbing his hands together.] Here's a day! Zoe. [Taking his hand.] Your hands are frozen. 308 MID-CHANNEL [act i Leonard. [Going to the fire.] I drove my car up here. Zoe. You're crazy. [Sitting on the settee by the fire.] You never rang me up this morning, to ask if I was tired. Leonard. Wire was engaged. First-rate night, last night. Zoe. [Languidly.] The summit. Lenny Leonard. Eh? Zoe. Mrs. Pierpoint and I are talking secrets. Go into the next room for a second. Leonard. [Genially.] Sha'n't if there isn't a fire. Zoe. Of course there's a fire. Things ain't so bad in the City as all that. Leonard. [At the nearer door on the right.] Any tea? Zoe. By-and-by. You'll find somebody in there you know. Leonard. [Going into the room.] Who? Zoe. [Calling out.] Shut the door. [The door is closed.] Talk of the ! act i] MID-CHANNEL 309 Mrs. Pierpoint. Bless me, I hope not! Zoe. No, I shouldn't turn him in there at this moment if he wasn't what he is — the dearest boy in the world — should I ? Mrs. Pierpoint. Boy ? Zoe. He's thirty-two. A man of two-and-thirty is a boy to a woman of — to an old married woman. He's the simplest, wholesomest, best-natured fellow living. If you had him for a son-in-law, you'd be lucky. Mrs. Pierpoint. It's a relief to me, at any rate Zoe. And I should lose one of my tame robins. Mrs. Pierpoint. Tame robins? Zoe. [Rising and going over to the writing-table and taking up two of the photographs.] I always have his photo on my table — his and Peter Mottram's. Peter Mottram is my husband's partner — you've met him here. I call them my tame robins. They come and eat crumbs off my window-sill. I've no end of tame robins — men chums — but these two are my specials. [Replacing the photographs.] Well ! If Lenny ever goes, I shall have to promote Harry Estridge or Jim Mallandain or Cossy Rawlings. Mrs. Pierpoint. [Who has risen and followed Zoe to the writing-table.] But why should Mr. Ferris ever "go" completely? 3 io MID-CHANNEL [act i ZOE. [Smiling.] Oh, when a robin marries, Jenny doesn't share him with another wren. Not much! [Warren enters at the glazed door with a female serv- ant. They carry in the tea and lay it upon the table behind the settee by the fire. Zoe. [After glancing at the servants — dropping her voice.] I'd better finish drawing up the prospectus, while I'm at it. Mrs. Pierpoint. Prospectus? Zoe. He's got two thousand a year. Both his people are dead. There's an aunt in the country who may leave him a bit extra; but she's a cantankerous old cat and, in my opinion, charity'll have every sou. Still, two thousand a year Mrs. Pierpoint. I oughtn't to hear any more. But you understand, don't you ? Zoe. Perfectly. And he lives in a comfy little flat behind the Albert Hall and is mad on motor-cars. He's invented a wonderful wheel which is to give the knock to pneumatics. If anything will bring him to ruin, that will. [Walking away towards the tea-table laughingly.] There! Warren. Tea is served, ma'am. Mrs. Pierpoint. [To Zoe, who returns to her.] I'm exceedingly obliged to you. You won't breathe a word to Ethel? act i] MID-CHANNEL 3" ZOE. Not a syllable. It would break my heart, but I hope it'll come off, for her sake. * Mrs. Pierpoint. She's a sweet, sensible child. Zoe. And as for him, I'll tell you this for your comfort — I'm honestly certain that Lenny Ferris would be the sort of hus- band that lasts. Mrs. Pierpoint. That lasts? What do you mean? Zoe. Oh — never mind. [Gaily.] Tea! [The servants have withdrawn. She runs across to the further door on the right, opens it, and calls.~\ Tea! [Seating herself at the tea-table.] Are you firm about going on? Mrs. Pierpoint. It's Lizzie Fremantle's birthday. She's Ethel's godmother. [To Ethel, who enters with Leonard.] Are you ready, Ethel? Ethel. [To Mrs. Pierpoint.] Must we? Mrs. Pierpoint. Now, my dear ! Zoe. [To Leonard.] Lenny, you've got to get tickets for the St. Martin's and take the whole crowd of us. Leonard. [With a wry face.] That kids' play again! 312 MID-CHANNEL [act i ZOE. Very well ; Peter will do it. Leonard. No, no ; right you are. Zoe. I stand. Leonard. Rot! Zoe. Then Peter has the job. [To the ladies.] We'll ask Peter Mottram to be one of us anyhow. Leonard. The supper's mine, then. Zoe. Anything for peace. [Shaking hands with Mrs. PlER- POINT, who comes to her.] Monday night? Mrs. Pierpoint. You're a great deal too good. [Leonard has opened the glazed door and is now in the corridor. Mrs. Pierpoint joins him. Leonard. [To Mrs. Pierpoint, as they disappear.] Got a vehicle? Mrs. Pierpoint. My venerable four-wheeler — the oldest friend I have in London Ethel. [To Zoe, who rises.] What did mother have to say to you so mysteriously? Zoe. Er — she wants me to consult Theo about something. act i] MID-CHANNEL 313 Ethel. Her railway shares? Zoe. [Nodding.] H'm. Ethel. [Satisfied.] Oh? Good-bye. Zoe. When are we to have a nice long jaw together — just you and 1? Ethel. Mother won't let me out alone in these fogs. Zoe. Fog or no fog, try and shunt her to-morrow. Ethel. I'll do my best. Zoe. I'll be in all the morning. [ They turn their heads towards the door j listening.] Lenny's whistling for you. Ethel. Mother ! [They kiss affectionately and Ethel hurries away. Zoe resumes her seat at the tea-table and pours out tea. Presently Leonard returns and, after closing the door, comes to her. Leonard. [Cheerfully.] It's beginning to sleet now. Ton my soul ! [She hands him a cup of tea in silence. He looks at her inquiringly.] Anything wrong, Zoe? Zoe. [With an air of indifference.] No. 3H MID-CHANNEL [act i Leonard. Positive ? Zoe. [In the same tone, offering him a plate of bread-and- butter.] Quite. Leonard. [Taking a slice.] Thought there'd been another row, perhaps. Zoe. [Putting the plate of bread-and-butter aside and taking up her cup and saucer.] Hell of a row last night. Leonard. Last night? Zoe. This morning, rather. Leonard. When you came home? Zoe. [Sipping her tea.] After you and Peter brought me home. Leonard. What over? Zoe. Nothing. Leonard. [Drinking.] Must have been over something. Zoe. Oh, some trifle — as usual. Leonard. Too bad of Theo — damned sight too bad. Zoe. I dare say it was as much my fault as his. act i] MID-CHANNEL 315 Leonard. [Hotly.] It's a cursed shame! ZOE. Drop it, Len. [Handing him a dish of cakes.] Cake? Leonard. [Putting his empty cup down before her and taking a cake.] Ta. ZOE. [Pouring out another cup of tea for him.] First time you've drunk tea with me this week. Honoured! Leonard. Sorry. Zoe. M'yes — [giving him his tea] sorry that Mrs. Pierpoint and Ethel can't receive you this afternoon. Leonard. [After a pause, uncomfortably.] Mrs. Pierpoint been telling you anything about me? Zoe. Mentioned that you frequently turn up in Sloane Street at tea-time. Leonard. There's a man down that way who's frightfully gone on my wheel. Zoe. [Drinking.] Indeed? Leonard. My great difficulty, you know, is to get it on to the market. Zoe. India-rubber people opposing you, I expect. ^ 316 MID-CHANNEL [act i Leonard. Tooth and nail. Zoe. [Nibbling a cake.] And the man who lives Sloane Street way ? Leonard. Very influential chap. Zoe. Capitalist ? Leonard. Millionaire. Zoe. H'm! And when you're down Sloane Street way, do you take your flowers to Miss Pierpoint, or does your florist send them? [Again there is silence. He lays his cup down, leaves her side, and produces his cigarette-case. Sticking a cigarette between his lips, he is about to close the case when she rises and takes a cigarette from it. She moves to the fireplace, lighting her cigarette with a match from a box attached to a gold chatelaine hang- ing from her waist. He seats himself in the chair facing the fire and lights his own cigarette. Leonard. [Moodily.] I don't want to marry, Zoe. Zoe. There's no reason why you shouldn't, if you feel disposed to; but you needn't be a sneak about it. Leonard. The aunt's pitching into me again like billy-oh. High time I settled down — high time I became a reputable mem- ber of society! I ask you, what the deuce have I ever done that's particularly disreputable? Then come two verses of Scripture act i] MID-CHANNEL 317 ZOE. [Advancing to him.] She hasn't ordered you to be under- handed with your best friends, I assume? * Leonard. I'm not underhanded. Zoe. Why this concealment, then ? Leonard. There's no concealment ; there's nothing to conceal ; I give you my word there isn't. I — I haven't made up my mind one way or the other. Zoe. [Witheringly.] You're weighing the question! Leonard. Very well; I'm weighing it, if you like. [Flinging the end of his match into the fireplace and jumping up.] Con- found it all! Mayn't a man send a basket or two of rotten flowers to a girl without having his special license bought for him by meddling people? Zoe. Thank you. Leonard. I don't mean you, Zoe. You know I don't mean you. [Pacing the room.] Ethel — Miss Pierpoint — is a charming girl, but I'm no more in love with her than I am with my old hat. Zoe. Then you oughtn't to pay her marked attention. Leonard. I'm not paying her marked attention. [Zoe shrugs her shoulders.] If Mrs. Pierpoint says I've been making love to her daughter 318 MID-CHANNEL [act i ZOE. She has said nothing of the kind. Leonard. {Sitting in the chair before the writing-table, in a huff.} That's all right. Pity she can't hold her tongue over trifles. [There is another pause. Then, partly kneeling upon the chair in the middle of the room, and resting her elbow on the back of it, Zoe softens. ZOE. [Making rings with her cigarette smoke.] Don't be wild, Len. I was only vexed with you for not consulting me. It would hurt my feelings dreadfully if you got engaged to any- body on the sly. Len — [He turns to her, but with his head down.] She is a charming girl. I'm not surprised at your being spoons on her. If I were a man, she's just the sort of girl I'd marry, if I were on the look-out for a wife. Leonard. [In a low voice.] Perhaps I have made myself a bit of an ass over her, Zoe. [She laughs lightly. He raises his eyes.] Zoe Zoe. Well? Leonard. [Gazing at Zoe.] Do you know that she reminds me very often of you? Zoe. She ! I'm old enough to be her grandmother. Leonard. Oh, hang that! She's got hold of a lot of your odd little tricks — a lot of 'em. Zoe. She's been with me a goodish deal lately. act i] MID-CHANNEL 319 Leonard. That's it; and she has the most enormous admiration for you — enormous. Zoe. She's a dear. Leonard. {Gently hitting his knee with his fist.] I've thought of all that when I've been worrying it out in my mind. Zoe. Thought of all what? Leonard. • That you'd always be pals, you two — close pals. Zoe. If she became Mrs. Lenny? Leonard. [Nodding.] And so, if I did screw myself up to — to speaking to her, it wouldn't make the least difference to our friendship — yours and mine. Zoe. No difference! Leonard. I should still be your tame robin. Zoe. Ah, no; don't make that mistake, Len. Leonard. Mistake? Zoe. [Shaking her head.] It never works. I've seen similar cases over and over again. There's any amount of gush at the start, between the young wife and the husband's women- pals; but the end is always the same. 320 MID-CHANNEL [act i Leonard. The end ? Zoe. Gradually the wife draws the husband away. She manages it somehow. We have a gift for it. I did it myself when I married Theo. Leonard. [Rising and walking about.] If I believed what you say, Zoe, I'd never size-up a girl with a view to marrying as long as I live. Zoe. [Teasingly.] You're a vain creature. I've plenty of other boys, Len, to fill your place. Leonard. [Not heeding her.] If things were smoother with you and Theo, one mightn't hesitate half as much. Zoe. There's Peter Mottram, Gus Hedmont, Harry Estridge, Claud Lowenstein Leonard. As it is — Great Scot! — I'm a brute even to think of tak- ing the risk. Zoe. Cossy Rawlings, Jim Mallandain, Robby Relf Leonard. [Stopping in his walk.] Yes, but my friendship's more to you than the friendship of most of those other fellows, I should hope. Zoe. [Making a grimace at him.] Not a scrap. act i] MID-CHANNEL 32» Leonard. [His brow darkening, ,] You told me once I was your favourite. Zoe. My chaff; I've no favourite. Leonard. [Laying the remains of his cigarette upon a little bronze tray on the writing-table.] Peter's a trump, and Harry Est- ridge and Rawlings are sound enough; but I often feel I'd like to knock young Lowenstein's teeth down his fat throat. Zoe. [Blowing her smoke in his direction as he comes to her and stands before her.] You get married and mind your own concerns. Leonard. Zoe, I hate to see men of that class buzzing round you. Zoe. [Mockingly.] Do you! Leonard. Look here! Whatever happens between you and Theo in the future, you'll never let anything or anybody drive you off the rails, will you? Zoe. [Frowning.] Len! Leonard. I couldn't stand it; [putting his hands upon her shoulders.] I tell you straight, it 'ud break me. [Passionately, his grip tightening.] Zoe ! [She shakes herself free and backs atvay from him, con- fronting him with a flushed face. 322 MID-CHANNEL [act i ZOE. [Quietly. .] Don't be silly. [Brushing her hair from her forehead.] If ever you do that again, Len, I'll box your ears. [The Honble. Peter Mottram, a spruce, well-pre- served man of fifty, enters at the glazed door. Peter. [Cheerily.] Good mornin' — or whatever it is. Zoe. [Dropping the end of her cigarette into the grate.] That you, Peter? Leonard. [Surlily.] I'm just off. Peter. Don't apologize. Leonard. [At the glazed door, to Peter.] See you later. [He goes out. Peter. [To Zoe.] What's the matter with the youth? Zoe. [With a shrug.] Got the hump over something. [Facing him.] Tea? Peter. No, thanks. [Sitting in the chair in the middle of the room.] And how are you to-day, my dear lady? [She makes a wry mouth, sighs, and throws herself disconsolately upon the settee by the fire. He nods intelligently.] Yes, sorry to hear you and old Theo have had another bad fall- out. Zoe. [Arranging a pillow for her head.] I guessed he'd carry it all to you. act i] MID-CHANNEL 323 Peter. Shockin'ly grieved, I am. Zoe. He began this one. Peter. By blowin' you up for goin' on the frisk every night. Zoe. And I answered him back. I was dogweary. It was nearly one o'clock. He needn't have jumped upon me almost before I'd taken the key out of the lock. Peter. [Demurely.'] I also have been reproved, for aidin' and abettin'. Zoe. Serves you jolly well right. Why didn't you and Lenny come in with me, you cowards? That might have saved a squabble. I begged you to have a whiskey. Peter. [After a brief pause.] Zoe Zoe. [In a muffled voice, her head in the pillow.] Oh, be kind to me, Peter. Peter. Why do you sally forth night after night? Zoe. Because I must. Peter. Must? Zoe. I've got the fidgets. 324 MID-CHANNEL [act i Peter. I get the fidgets at times, in bed. D'ye know how I cure 'em? ZOE. Of course I don't. Peter. I lie perfectly stiff and still; I make myself lie perfectly still. I ivon't stir. I say to myself, "Peter, you shan't twist or turn." And I win. Zoe. How easy it is to talk! I defy you to control yourself if you're shut up with a person who goads you to despera- tion. Peter. Theo? Zoe. [Beating her pillow.] How can I stay at home and eat a long dinner, and spend an entire evening, alone with Theo? We're not entertaining just now; he says he's fed up with having people here. Peter. Take him out with you. Zoe. Then we quarrel before others. That's too degrading. Oh, it's tiff, tiff, wrangle, jangle, outdoors and indoors with us! Peter. You say things to Theo when you're angry, Zoe, that wound him to the quick. Zoe. [Satirically.] Really! act i] MID-CHANNEL 325 Peter. Really. You mayn't be aware of it; you scratch the poor old chap till he bleeds. Zoe. Do you imagine he never says things to me that wound me to the quick? Peter. He doesn't mean half of 'em. Zoe. Neither do I. Peter. [Rising and going to the fire.] No; there's the crass foolishness of it all. [In a tone of expostulation.] My dear lady Zoe. [Suddenly sitting upright.] We're on each other's nerves, Peter. That's the plain truth, we're on each other's nerves. Peter. Worryin' each other. Zoe. Sick to death of each other! We shall have been married fourteen years on the thirtieth of next June. Isn't it ap- palling! He's getting so stodgy and pompous and flat-footed. He drives me mad with his elderly ways. Peter. [Soothingly.] Oh ! Zoe He's sick and tired of me, at any rate. My little jokes and pranks, that used to amuse him so — they annoy him now, scandalize him. He's continually finding fault with me — bullying me. That's all the notice he takes of me. As for my gowns or my hats — anything I put on — I might dress 326 MID-CHANNEL [act i in sackcloth; he'd never observe it. [Tearfully.] Ah ! [She searches for her handkerchief and fails to find it. Peter ^. produces a folded handkerchief from his breast-pocket, shakes it out, and gives it to her. She wipes her eyes as she pro- ceeds.] Sometimes, I own, I'm aggravating; but he forgets how useful I was to him in the old days, when we were climbing. Yes, those were the days — the first six or seven years of our marriage, when we were up north, in Fitzjohn's Avenue ! [ Tossing Peter's handkerchief to him and getting to her feet.] Oh! Oh, we were happy then, Peter! You didn't know us then, when we were up north! Peter. [Wagging his head.] My dear lady, we were all happier when we were up north. Zoe. [Giving him a look of surprise as she paces the room on the left.] You! Peter. I mean, in a previous stage of our careers. Zoe. Ah, yes, yes. Peter. That's the lesson of life, Mrs. Zoe. We've all had our Fitzjohn's Avenue, in a sense. In other words, we've all been young and keen as mustard; with everythin' before us, instead of havin' most things behind us. Zoe. [Leaning on the back of the chair before the writing- table.] Oh, don't! Peter. [Thoughtfully.] D'ye know, I o*ten wonder whether there's anythin' more depressin' than to see the row of trophies standin' on the sideboard ? act i] MID-CHANNEL 327 ZOE. [Sitting at the writing-table and digging her fingers into her hair.] Be quiet, Peter! Peter. That silver-gilt vase there! The old horse that gained it for you is lyin' in the paddock with a stone a'top of him, and you're usin' his hoof as an ink-pot. Those goblets you won on the river, and the cup you helped yourself to on the links at Biarritz or St. Moritz — there's a little pile of ashes at the bottom of every one of 'em! So it is with life gen- erally. You scoop in the prizes — and there are the pots on the sideboard to remind you that it ain't the prizes that count, but the pushin' and the strugglin' and the cheerin'. Ah, they preach to us on Sundays about cherubim and sera- phim! It's my firm hope and conviction that when we die and go to Heaven we shall all find ourselves up north again — in Fitzjohn's Avenue! {Coming to the chair in the middle of the room.] Meanwhile, it's no good repinin'. [Turning the chair towards her and sitting.] The trophies are on the sideboard, dear lady, and they've got to be kep' clean and shiny. [Gravely.] Now, Zoe — [She whimpers.] Zoe, Zoe — [she turns to him.] Zoe, one ugly word passed be- tween you and Theo last night Zoe. One ? Peter. One ugly word that must never be repeated. Zoe What word? [The glazed door opens and Warren appears carrying a teapot on a tray. He comes to the table and ex- changes the teapot he is carrying for the one that is already there. 328 MID-CHANNEL [act i ZOE. [To the man.] Mr. Mottram won't have any tea, Warren. Warren. [Removing the cups and saucers which have been used and putting them on te his tray.] No, ma'am; but Mr. Blun- dell's just come in, ma'am. [Warren withdraws, closing the door. Zoe rises stiffly, and gathers up her hat, coat, and gloves. Then she returns to Peter, who remains seated. Zoe. What word was it? Peter. Separation. [Theodore Blundell, a big, burly, but good-looking man, enters at the glazed door. He halts on entering and glances furtively at Zoe, as if expecting her to speak; but, without meeting his eyes, she passes him and leaves the room. Theodore. [With a shrug.] Ha! [Peter, looking over his shoulder, sees that he and Theodore are alone. Theodore seats him- self at the tea-table and pours out his tea grimly.] Lots o' good you seem to have done, Peter. Peter. Haven't done much, I admit. Pity you came home quite so soon. Theodore. You left the office at half -past two. Peter. She wasn't in when I first got here. act i] MID-CHANNEL 329 Theodore. [Taking a slice of bread-and-butter.] Anyhow, kind of you tO'offer to have a talk to her. [Munching.] Plenty of abuse of me, h'm? Peter. She says you're on each other's nerves, Theo. Theodore. I'm afraid there's something in that. Peter. And that you are growin' a bit heavy in hand, old man. Theodore. [Drily.] Exceedingly sorry. Peter. [After a pause.] Theo Theodore. Hallo? Peter. Shall I tell you what's at the bottom of it all? Theodore. Well? Peter. She's got a feelin' that you're tired of her. Theodore. [Gulping his tea.] If you knew how constantly I have that served up to me ! Peter. Will you allow me to speak out? Theodore. Don't be so polite. 330 MID-CHANNEL [act i Peter. My belief is that, if you could avoid conveyin' that im- pression to Zoe, matters would improve considerably in this establishment. Theodore. Oh? Peter. It's as easy as brushin' your hat. A little pettin' — little sweetheartin' Theodore. Yes? Peter. [Discouraged.] Well, those are my views, for what they're worth. Theodore. [Pouring out another cup of tea.] My dear fellow, if you'd get married, and have thirteen or fourteen years of it, as I've had, your views would be worth more than they are. Peter. Oh, that won't wash. [Rising.] When a man's sufferin' from gout in the toe, he doesn't stipulate that his M.D. shall be writhin' from the same ailment. No, very frequently, the outsider — Theodore. Good gracious, you're not going to remark that lookers-on see most of the game! Peter. Words to that effect. Theodore. Ho! Why is it that, the moment a man's matrimonial affairs are in a tangle, every platitude in the language is chewed-out at him? [Leaning his head on his hands.] If you've nothing fresher to say on the subject ! act i] MID-CHANNEL 331 Peter. [Oracularly.] My dear chap, it's tryin' to say somethin' fresh on the subject of marriage that's responsible for a large share of the domestic unhappiness and discontent existin' at the present day. There's too much of this tryin' to say somethin' fresh on every subject, in my opinion. Theodore. Nobody can accuse you, Peter Peter. You take it from me, there are two institootions in this world that are never goin' to alter — men and women and the shape of chickens' eggs. Chickens' eggs are never goin' to be laid square ; and men and women will continue to be mere men and women till the last contango. 1 [Theodore finishes his tea, rises, and comes to the fire.] I'm referrin', of course, to real men and women. I don't inclood persons in petticoats with flat chests and no hips; nor individuals wearin' beards and trousers who dine on a basin of farina- ceous food and a drink o' water out o' the filter. They belong to a distinct species. No ; I mean the genuine article, like you and me and your missus — men and women with blood in their veins, and one-and-a-half per cent, of good, human- izin' alcohol in that. Theodore. [Throwing a log on the fire.] What's the moral of your eloquent, but rather vague, discourse? Peter. [At the chair in the middle of the room.] The moral? Oh, the moral is that men and women of the ordinary, retal- iation pattern must put up with the defects of each other's 1 "Contango-tidy 1 ' — a Stock Exchange expression: the day on -which a buyer or seller "carries over" to the next settling-day. 332 MID-CHANNEL [act i qualities. [Turning the chair so that it faces Theodore and again sitting in it.] She complains that you don't admire her frocks and frills, Theo. Theodore. [Groaning.] Oh! Peter. Now, come! Where's the trouble? There's my old mother — seventy-five in April! Whenever I'm at Stillwood, I make a reg'lar practice of complimentin' her on her rig-out. "By Jove, mater," I say, "you are a buck this mornin'!" Or evenin', as the case may be. I couldn't tell you what she's wearin', to save my life; but there's no harm done. Theodore. Yes, you do it; but your father doesn't do it, I'll be bound. [Peter looks glum and is silent.] It's too trivial! [Pro- ^ ducing his cigar case.] A husband can't be everlastingly praising his wife's clothes. [Offering a cigar to Peter which he declines.] The absence of comment on my part is a sign that I'm satisfied with Zoe's appearance, surely. Peter. She's one of the smartest women in London. 1 Theodore. [Irritably.] I know she is. I've told her so till I'm sick. [Cutting and lighting a cigar.] I've always been intensely proud of Zoe, as a matter of fact — intensely proud of her. Peter. No more than her due. Theodore. [With increasing indignation.] Good God, how often, at a dinner-party, have I caught myself looking along the table and thinking she's the handsomest woman in the room ! Tsch! It's a ridiculous thing to say act i] MID-CHANNEL 333 Peter. What? Theodore. I suppose no man has ever been "in love" with his wife for longer than I've been with mine. Peter. [Significantly.] Been. Theodore. And I have a very great affection for her still — or should have, if her behaviour didn't check it. Peter. If you showed your affection more plainly, wouldn't that check her behaviour? Theodore. [Leaving the fireplace and moving about the room.] Oh, my dear fellow, haven't you brains enough to see! We're middle-aged people, Zoe and I. I am middle-aged, and she's not far off it, poor girl. There must come a time on a journey when your pair of horses stop prancing and settle down to a trot. Peter. How's that for a platitude! Theodore. I thought that worm-eaten illustration might appeal to you. Peter. She keeps wonderfully young, Theo. Theodore. Isn't that a little to my credit? But Zoe's within three years of forty. You can't put the clock back. 334 MID-CHANNEL [act i Peter. A woman's as old as she looks Theodore. And a man's as old as he feels! Another ancient wheeze! Peter. And a married woman's as old as her husband makes her feel. Theodore. My dear Peter, I don't want Zoe to feel older than her years by a single hour. But I confess I do ask her occasion- ally to feel as old as her years, and not to make herself damnably absurd. Peter. Absurd ? Theodore. This infernal fooling about with the boys, for instance — the cause of last night's flare-up — her "tame robins" — you're one ! [Peter rises hastily and goes to the fire.] Yes, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, for encouraging her. Peter. Who's in fault? Because a man's wife has ceased to be attractive to him, it doesn't follow that she ain't attractive to others. Theodore. [Contetnptuously.] Attractive? The vanity of "attract- ing" a parcel of empty-headed young men ! You're the patriarch of the group ! [ Throwing himself into the chair just vacated by Peter.] The whole thing's undignified — raffish. Peter. [Extending a forefinger.] You contrive to be a trifle more sprightly at home, Theo act i] MID-CHANNEL 335 Theodore. [Moving his head from side to side.] Oh, you will hammer away at that! I'm forty-six. My sprightly days are over. Peter. [Emphatically.] Humbug, old chap. Theodore. What's humbug? Peter. Men are the biggest humbugs goin' — especially to them- selves. And a man of your age or mine — and I'm four years your senior — is never a bigger humbug than when he's deloodin' himself with the notion that he's scrap-iron. Theodore. You're a gay old spark Peter. No, it's when the sun's working round to the west — it's when men are where we are now,, that they're most liable to get into mischief. Theodore. Mischief? What are you driving at? Peter. Nothin'. I'm simply layin' down a general principle. Theodore. [Angrily.] Confound your general principles! Don't be an ass. Peter. [Coming to Theodore.] That stoopid nonsense talked last night — early this mornin' — about livin' apart — who started it? 336 MID-CHANNEL [act i Theodore. Zoe. I fancy it was Zoe — last night. Peter. Oh, it wasn't the first time ? Theodore. [Smoking with fierce puffs.} We had an awful scene — ■ disgraceful. I felt inclined to rush out of the house then and there. Peter. Why didn't you? You could have let yourself in again when she'd gone to by-by. Theodore. [Sullenly.] No, that's not my style. If ever I do bang the front-door, it'll be once and for all, my friend. Peter. [Shaking him.} Oh! Oh! Theodore. She's independent; she has her own income — you know — and I've told her I'd supplement it, if necessary. I've settled this house on her as it is; she'd be welcome to it, and every stick in it, worst come to the worst. Peter. Theo Theodore. And I'd go and live in a garret, in peace. Peter. You're not considerin' such a step seriously? act i] MID-CHANNEL 337 Theodore. {Turning upon him roughly.] No, I'm not — not when I'm sitting here chatting quietly with you. Nor when she's rational and — and — and amenable, as she can be when she chooses. [Clenching his hands.] But when she's irritating me till I'm half beside myself, I — I Peter. You ? Theodore. [Looking up at Peter.] My God, Peter, you're a wise man, never to have taken it on ! Peter. Marriage ? Theodore. [Throwing his head hack.] Oh, my dear fellow! [The glazed door opens and Zoe enters meekly. Her ** eyes are red, and a handkerchief is crumpled up in her hand. She glances at the tea-table and comes to ~ Theodore. Peter retreats to the fireplace. Zoe. [To Theodore, in a piteous voice.] Have you — had your tea? Theodore. [Frigidly.] I poured it out myself. [After a moment's hesitation, she bends over him and gives him a kiss. Then she turns away and, seating herself at the writing-table, proceeds to write a note. There is an awkward silence. Theodore. [Breaking the silence, gruffly.] Er — Zo 338 MID-CHANNEL [act i ZOE. [JVith a sniff, writing.] Yes? Theodore. What are you doing to-night? Zoe. Jim Mallandain was going to take me to the Palace. I'm putting him off. Theodore. I'll dine you out and take you somewhere. Zoe. No, I'd rather have a quiet evening at home, Theo — just you and me. [Blozving her nose.] I've ordered Mrs. Killick to send up an extra-nice dinner. Theodore. Perhaps Peter Zoe. [Stamping her foot.] No, I won't have him. Peter. Besides, I'm booked. Zoe. [Petulantly.] I don't care whether you are or not. I want to dine alone with my husband. [There is another pause, during which Zoe scratches away with her pen. Peter. [Clearing his throat.] Well, I'll be gettin' along. [Theodore rises.] I say Theodore. H'm? act i] MID-CHANNEL 339 Peter. Why don't you and Zoe have a week or a fortnight in Paris?" It 'ud do you both a heap of good. Theodore. Impossible. How can I? Peter. Cert'nly you can. If anythin' important crops up, Tom Slade or I will run over to you ; or you could come back. {Again there is a pause. Zoe stops writing.] Do, old chap. [Another pause.] Won't you? Theodore. [Without enthusiasm.] All right. Peter. A fortnight? Nothin'll happen. Theodore. [Nodding.] A fortnight. [Uttering a little chirp of delight, Zoe resumes writing. Peter goes to her as Theodore moves away to the fireplace. Peter. [To Zoe.] Good-bye, ma'am. [She gives him her left hand over her shoulder. He squeezes it and makes for the glazed door. There he appears to be struck by an idea. 340 MID-CHANNEL [act i After a silence he turns slowly, contemplates the pair for a moment with a puckered brow, and advances a step or two.] Theo Theodore. [IV ho has picked up one of the illustrated papers and has seated himself upon the settee J] H'm? Peter. [His hands in his pockets, rattling his keys.] About half- way between Dover and Calais — no, it's between Folkestone and Boulogne, ain't it? Theodore. [Examining the pictures.] What? Peter. Of course! About half-way between Folkestone and Boulogne — mid-Channel — there's a shoal. Theodore. [Turning a page of his paper.] What of it? Peter. Le Colbart, the French sailor-men call it — Le Colbart. We call it the Ridge. [Coming forward.] If you go by Folkestone and Boulogne, you'll pass over it. Theodore. [Glancing at him suspiciously.] Thanks for the valuable information. act i] MID-CHANNEL 341 Peter. D'ye know, I've never encountered that blessed shoal with- out experiencin' a most unpleasant time? Zoe. [Addressing an envelope.] Oh, my dear Peter! Peter. I've crossed on some of the finest days o' the year. The sun's been shinin', and outside the harbour the water's been as smooth as it's been mside. Everythin's looked as enticin' as could be; but as we've neared the Ridge — mid-Channel — ■ I've begun to feel fidgety, restless, out o' sorts — hatin' myself and hatin' the man who's been sharin' my cabin with me. But the sensation hasn't lasted long. Zoe. [Sealing her letter.] Glad to hear it. Peter. No; gradually the beastly motion has died down, and in a quarter-of-an-hour or so I've found myself pacin' the deck again, arm-in-arm with the travellin'-companion I've been positively loathin' a few minutes earlier. Theodore. [Gaping demonstratively.] Very interesting. Peter. My dear pals, I remember the idea once occurrin' to me — I mentioned it to Charlie Westbrook at the time — there's a resemblance between that and marriage. 342 MID-CHANNEL [act i Theodore. [Shortly.] Ha! Thought that was coming. [Zoe turns in her chair, to listen to Peter. Peter. Yes, and marriage, mark you, at its best and brightest. The happiest and luckiest of married couples have got to cross that wretched Ridge. However successful the first half of their journey may be, there's the rough-and-tumble of mid-Channel to negotiate. Some arrive there quicker than others, some later; it depends on wind and tide. But they get there; and a bad time it is, and must be — a time when travellin'-companions see nothin' but the spots on each others' yellow faces, and when innoomerable kind words and in- noomerable kind acts are clean forgotten. [Zoe, her letter in her hand, rises impulsively and comes to Peter.] But, as I tell you, it's soon over — well over, if only Mr. Jack and Mrs. Jill will understand the situation; if only they'll say to themselves, "We're on the Ridge ; we're in mid-Channel ; in another quarter-of-an-hour the boat'll be steady again — as steady as when we stepped on to the gangway." [To Theodore.] Not offended, old man? Theodore. [Uncomfortably.] Ha, ha, ha! Zoe. [Gently, giving her letter to Peter.] Tell Warren to give that to a messenger-boy. | To Theodore.] Theo ! [She puts her hands upon Peter's shoulders and kisses him. act i] MID-CHANNEL 343 ' Peter. [Chuckling.] Ha, ha! [To Theodore.] Division of profits.* [At the glazed door.] When '11 you be off ? Theodore. Oh — one day next week. Peter. [Nodding.] To-morrow mornin', then. [He goes out, closing the door. Zoe. Dear old Peter ! Theodore. [Deep in his paper.] Peter's gettin' a bit of a bore, though. Zoe. [Mimicking Peter, as she wipes her eyes.] He's amusin'. [Going to THEODORE and seating herself beside him.] Theo Theodore. H'm? ZOE. [Edging up to him.] Let's go by Folkestone and Boulogne — shall we? Theodore. / don't mind. 344 MID-CHANNEL [act i ZOE. [Wistfully.] Let's go by Folkestone and Boulogne — and have done with it. [Slipping her arm through his.] Theo — last night — sorry. [He nods and looks at another picture.] I take it all back — the things I said. I didn't mean them. Theodore. That's all right. ZOE. And you didn't mean ? Theodore. [Impatiently.] Of course I didn't. Zoe. [Giving herself a shake.] Ah! [After a brief pause.] Theo Theodore. H'm? Zoe. [Taking the paper from him playfully.] Don't look at those improper young ladies. [Coaxingly.] Couldn't you manage to get away on Sunday? Theodore. Oh— I might. Zoe. It's your treat to me, isn't it — and the beginning of better times? The sooner we begin act i] MID-CHANNEL 345 Theodore. [Nodding.] You shall have it all your own way. « ZOE. [ Gleefully. ] Sunday ! Theodore. H'm. ZOE. I'm dreadfully shabby. I've no new clothes. You don't object? Theodore. [Distinctly.] Now, my dear Zo — my darling — under- stand this from me clearly. You are never shabby; you couldn't be shabby. As far as I am a judge, you are always dressed beautifully and — and — and in perfect taste. ZOE. Beautifully ! Theodore. If you were not well-dressed, I should venture to call your attention to it. Zoe. Silence is approval? Theodore. Absolutely. So don't expect me — a busy man — to be eternally praising your gowns and what not; because I can- not and will not do it. 346 MID-CHANNEL [act i ZOE. I won't — I won't. I know I'm inconsiderate — [stamping her foot] beastly inconsiderate. [Excitedly.] Write out a telegram now Theodore. Telegram ? Zoe. To the hotel. Theodore. Yes, that 'd be wise. [He rises and goes over to the writing-table where, taking a sheet of note-paper, he sits and writes.] We couldn't get an answer to a letter. Zoe. [Jumping up and walking about.] Jolly nice rooms, Theo! Theodore. [Assentingly.] H'm, h'm. Zoe. [Humming.] Tra, la! ra, la! la, ra, la ! Theodore. [In the throes of composition.] Sssh, sssh! Zoe. [Opening the illustrated paper.] Beg pardon. act i] MID-CHANNEL 347 Theodore. [Writing.] " deux bonnes chambres a coucher — salle de bain — et salon " ZOE. There's Lena. Don't forget the maid. Theodore. Oh, they shove her anywhere. Zoe. [Imperatively.] No, no; I must have her handy. [He writes.] What hotel are we going to, Theo? Theodore. [Writing.] " aussi chambre pour servante meme etage " Zoe. The Ritz? Theodore. Oh, blow the Ritz! Zoe. We've always been comfortable at the Ritz. Theodore. [Putting the finishing touches to his telegram.] Twenty francs a minute. 348 MID-CHANNEL [act i Zoe. [Disappointed.] Where then? The Elysee Palace is too far out this weather. The Regina? Theodore. {Reading.] "Pouvez-vous reserver pour Monsieur et Madame Blundell pour dimanche et nuits suivantes aparte- ment compose deux bonnes chambres a coucher, salle de bain, et salon, aussi chambre pour servante meme etage? Reponse telegraphique. Theodorus, London." Zoe. [Advancing.] Oh, Theo! Shall we try the new Meu- rice? The Langdales had a suite there that made them feel like Royalties. Theodore. [Half-turning to her.] Gerald Duckfleld was telling me of a capital little hotel where he and Bessie stayed — the Vendome Zoe. Where's that? Theodore. In the Place Vendome. Zoe. The Ritz — the Bristol — the Rhin — they're the only hotels in the Place. act i] MID-CHANNEL 349 Theodore. Oh, but this is in the part of the Place that runs down to the top 'of the Rue Castiglione. Zoe. The narrow part? Theodore. Well, it isn't the broad part, certainly. Zoe. The traffic of the Rue St. Honore to help to send you to sleep ! Theodore. No, no; there are double windows, Gerald says, to the best bedrooms. [Turning to the writing-table.'] It 'ud be an experiment. Zoe. [Sitting in the chair in the middle of the room, with her back to him.] Yes, it would be an experiment. Theodore. Shall we risk it? Zoe. [Coldly.] By all means. Theodore. [Writing.] "Directeur — Hotel Vendome " 350 MID-CHANNEL [act i ZOE. [Tapping her feet upon the floor.] Ha! Theodore. H'm? " Place Vendome " ZOE. [Holding up the illustrated paper so that he may see, over her head, a risque picture.] If you were taking this sort of woman with you, nothing 'ud be good enough for her. Theodore. [Glancing at the picture, angrily.] Oh, don't be so coarse! f There is a pause. He leans back in his chair, biting his pen. Suddenly she flings the illustrated paper away from her into the air. Throwing down his pen, he rises and paces the room.] This promises well for an enjoyable fortnight in Paris! ZOE. [Rising and moving to the left.] Look here, old man! This trip was going to be your treat. Very well, that's off! I'll take you to Paris; I'll pay the expenses; and I won't stuff you up in a frowsy rabbit-hutch. Theodore. [Coming fonuard on the right.] Don't insult me! Zoe. [Facing him.] Anyway, your treat or mine, I stay at no hotel in Paris that isn't top-hole. act i] MID-CHANNEL 35 1 Theodore. [Furjously.] Oh, stop your damned slang, for God's sake! ZOE. [Her eyes blazing.] What! Theodore. [Sitting on the fauteuil-stool and rocking himself to and fro.] Oh! Oh! Zoe. Stop my damned slang! Theodore. [His head in his hands.] Hold your tongue! Zoe. [Coming to him.] And how did I learn my damned slang, pray? [He waves her from him.] I learnt it from the crew you surrounded me with when I condescended to marry you and went out of my world into yours. Theodore. [Starting up.] Oh- [He goes to the bell and rings it continuously. Zoe. [Following him.] Yes, you were hugely tickled by it then ! And so were they — the men you thought might be serviceable to you; and who were serviceable to you, often through me\ 352 MID-CHANNEL [act i Theodore. Oh! ZOE. Ha! And now that my tongue's furred with it, and ft isn't necessary to attract the vulgar brutes any more, you round on me and rag me! [Pacing the room on the left.] Oh! Oh! If only my dear old dad were alive! He'd fuss over me and protect me. My father was a gentleman. He warned me I was chucking myself away! Theodore. Oh! ZOE. [Wildly.] Why do you keep on ringing that bell? Theodore. [In a loud vice.] I suppose I can ring the bell if I like! Zoe. You — you can go to the devil if you like ! [She goes out at the glazed door. As she disappears, Warren passes her and enters. Theodore. [Crossing to the writing-table.] Warren Warren. Yessir? Theodore. [Picking up the sheet of paper on which he has written the message to the hotel.] Pack me a bag. ACT i] MID-CHANNEL Warren. Bag, sir? 353 Theodore. \T earing the paper into small pieces.} Yes; I'm not sleep- ing at home to-night. Warren. [Coming to the table and preparing to remove the tea- things.] Very good, sir. END OF THE FIRST ACT THE SECOND ACT The scene is the same, but the disposition of some of the furniture is changed. The settee on the right is now placed with its bach to the fireplace. At the further end of the settee are the oblong table and chair, and on the left of the table, facing the settee, is the chair which in the preceding act stood in the middle of the room. An arm-chair is at the nearer end of the settee, and another arm-chair and the fauteuil-stool stand together not far from the glazed door. On the oblong table are a box of cigarettes, matches, and an ash-tray. The fireplace is banked with flowers, there are flowers in vases upon the tables, and the room is full of sunlight. [Two men — an upholsterer and his assistant — are en- gaged in putting covers of gay chintz upon the chairs and settees. The upholsterer is on his knees at the settee on the right, the assistant is at the chair by the writing-table. Lena, Zoe's maid — a bright, buxom woman — is arranging the furniture in the middle of the room. Presently the assistant proceeds to collect the brown paper and cord which litter the floor. Upholsterer. [Rising from his knees — to Lena.] That's all right. Lena. [Coming to him.] And when are we to have the pleasure of seeing you again? 355 356 MID-CHANNEL [act ii Upholsterer. Tomorrow. Lena. What about next year, or the year after! [Producing her purse and giving him a tip.] In case I shouldn't live so long. Upholsterer. Thank you very much. [Moving away — quietly.] William [The assistant, laden with brown paper, advances, and Lena tips him. Assistant. Thank you, miss. Good morning, miss. Lena. Good morning. Upholsterer. [At the glazed door.] Good morning. Lena. [Tidying the furniture on the right.] Good morning. [The men depart. Almost immediately, the glazed door is reopened and Warren appears, showing in Leonard. Leonard is gloved and is carrying a straw hat and a walking-cane. He has lost his fresh, boyish appearance and is sallow and lined. Leonard. [To Lena.] Good morning. Lena. [Familiarly.] Oh, good morning. [To Warren.] I'll let Mrs. Blundell know. [To Leonard, as Warren with- draws.] She'll be down soon. Will you have a paper? act ii] MID-CHANNEL 357 Leonard. Thanks; seen 'em. How is she, Lena? Lena. Middling. She's a little feverish, the doctor says. She must have caught a chill coming over. [Leonard nods.] She would sit on deck, talking to Mr. Mallandain. We met him by accident on the platform as we were leaving Paris. Leonard. [Nodding again.] She's told me. Lena./ She's to remain indoors again today and keep out of draughts. [Looking at a watch which she wears on her wrist and at the clock on the mantelpiece.] What do you say the right time is? Leonard. [Looking at his watch.] Quarter to twelve. Lena. [Going to the mantelpiece.] I'm to give her her med'cine an hour before meals. [Moving the hands of the clock.] Ha! They've all been playing tricks here while we've been away, clock-winder included. Leonard. [Absently.] Indeed? Lena. Servants, tradespeople, everybody! [Unbuckling her bracelet.] Because Mrs. Blundell is now on her own, I s'pose they fancy they can take advantage of her. [Return- ing to Leonard.] I'll teach 'em! ["Timing" her watch.] Think we're getting fairly straight? 358 MID-CHANNEL [act ii Leonard. [Glancing idly at the room as he sits in the arm-chair near the glazed door.] Wonderfully. Lena. Not bad, is it, considering we've been home only two days? Leonard. [Placing his hat and cane upon the fauteuil-stool.] Capital. Lena. [Refastening her bracelet.] Ouf! The relief, after some of those foreign hotels! Leonard. [Drawing off his gloves.] Tired of travelling, eh? Lena. Don't ask me! I was saying to Mrs. Killick at breakfast — I've had enough of Italy to last me my life. Over four months of it, and without a courier! [Going towards the glazed door.] That's a bit too stiff. Leonard. It is rather. Lena. [Halting by him and dropping her voice slightly.] Not that we wanted a courier when you came out to us. A splen- did courier you were ; I couldn't wish for a better. Leonard. [Uncomfortably.] Ha, ha! Lena. [Lavihing.] Do you remember our losing her hat-box at that v.rexhed old Siena? act n] MID-CHANNEL 359 Leonard. Yes — yes. Lena. You woke 'm up there in grand style. Ha, ha! Your friend, the Italian policeman — the image in the feathers ! Leonard. Ha, ha! Lena. You did give him a dressing! {Sobering herself.] Yes, those three or four weeks you were with us were the pleas- antest o' the lot, to my idea. [Going.] Well, good-day. [Stopping again.] Oh, but I must show you this. [Taking a ring from her finger.] A present from her — last Saturday — one of the best shops in the Roo Royarl. [Handing it to him.] She went out and bought it herself. Turquoise- Leonard. Lena. And diamonds. Leonard. [Returning the ring.] Beautiful. Lena. Wasn't it kind of her! I'm as vain as a peacock. [Re- placing the ring on her finger.] But there, you've both been extremely good to me. Leonard. Not at all. Lena. You have; you've spoilt me completely. [At the door, speaking louder.] Treacherous weather for June, isn't it? 3 6o MID-CHANNEL [act h Leonard. Very. Lena. [In the corridor.] Oh, here you are! Her&'s Mr. Ferris i — I was just coming up to tell you [Leonard rises as Zoe appears in the corridor. She is dressed in an elegant robe of rich, soft material and carries a little bag in which are a few opened letters, her handkerchief, etc. She also is changed. Her face is wan and there are dark circles round her eyes. Zoe. Ah? [To Leonard, formally, as she enters the room.] Good morning. Leonard. Good morning. Zoe. Lena, how charming the old chintz looks! Lena. [Who is lingering.] It's English! Zoe. [Laying her bag upon the oblong table.] If we could all be freshened up by the same process! Lena. [Her hand on the door-handle.] Don't forget you're to take your med'eine in three-quarters-of-an-hour. Zoe. Oh, bring me the filthy stuff when you like. act n] MID-CHANNEL 361 Lena. [In the corridor, closing the door.] Now, don't be naughty. [As the woman disappears, Leonard walks over to Zoe. She puts out her hand to check him, and they stand for a moment or two watching the door and listening. Then she drops her hand and turns her face to him perfunctorily, and he kisses her as a matter of course. Zoe. Your motor isn't outside? Leonard. No; I walked across the Park. Zoe. That yellow car of yours is so conspicuous. [Arranging a pillow on the settee.] Sorry I wasn't visible yesterday. Leonard. You're better ? Zoe. [Evasively.] Oh, more or less decrepit. [Sitting.] What have you been doing with yourself ? Leonard. Nothing much. [Sitting in the arm-chair opposite to her.] Except Zoe. [Taking her bag from the table.] By-the-bye, I've had a note this morning from an old friend of yours. Leonard. Who? 362 MID-CHANNEL [act ii ZOE. [Producing a letter from the bag.] Ethel Pierpoint. Leonard. [Inexpressively.] Oh? [She extracts the letter from its envelope and tosses it across to him. He reads it silently, with a frown. She takes a cigarette from the box on the table.] I thought you'd dropped her. ZoE. I did, in a fashion. I stopped her letters by ceasing to answer them. [Striking a match.] I hated calling myself hers affectionately, knowing I'd been the cause of your slack- ing away from her. Leonard. [Under his breath.] Pish! Zoe. [Lighting her cigarette.] What does she say? Leonard. [Reading aloud.~\ "Dearest Zoe. Quite by chance I hear you are back at Lancaster Gate. Why do you still make no sign? I never wanted your friendship more than now — or the friendship of somebody who will give me good advice, or a sound shaking for being a fool. Please take pity on your troubled but ever devoted, Ethel Drayson Pierpoint." [To Zoe.] What does she mean by never wanting your friend- ship more than now? [Zoe shakes her head. He continues to ponder»over the letter.] " — or the friendship of somebody who will give me good advice, or a sound shaking for being a fool." Zoe. [Smoking, thoughtfully.] When did you see the Pier- points last? act n] MID-CHANNEL 363 Leonard. About a month after you left London — just before I fol- lowed you. {Returning the letter to her.] I cooled off them gradually. Zoe. [After a pause.] She's a nice girl — Ethel. Leonard. Ye — es, she was nice enough. [There is a further pause. Then Zoe jumps up, as if to dismiss disagreeable reflections, and crosses to the writing-table. There she empties her bag of the let- ters it. contains. Leonard. [Gloomily.] Am I in the way? Zoe. [Fretfully.] Of course not. [She sits at the zvriting- table and busies herself with re-reading her letters and de- stroying some of them. Leonard rises and takes a cigarette from the box.] Poor Robby Relf has got neuritis. Leonard. [Lighting his cigarette.] Zo Zoe. Eh? Leonard. I was going to tell you — I dined at the Carlton last night. Zoe. [Indifferently.] Oh? 364 MID-CHANNEL [act ii Leonard. With Cossy Rawlings. Guess who was there. Zoe. [Becoming attentive.'] Dun'no. Leonard. He didn't see me — he was at a table the other side of the room Zoe. [Holding her breath.] Theodore? Leonard. Yes. [She throws the pieces of a letter into the waste-paper basket and leans back in her chair. Zoe. How — how did he look? Leonard. [Curling his lip.] I didn't study his appearance. Zoe. He — he wasn't — by himself? Leonard. Hardly! Zoe. That — that woman? Leonard. [Nodding.] Same lady. act n] MID-CHANNEL 365 Zob. Simply the two? Leonard. [Sitting upon the settee on the right.] The two turtle doves. [After a brief silence, she pushes her letters from her, rises, and moves about the room quietly but agitatedly. Zoe. Who is this creature? Leonard. [Impatiently.] I've told you — and Jim told you on Sun- day. Zoe. Hatherly — Annerly ? Leonard. Her husband was a Major Annerly — Frank Annerly. He divorced her over a man of the name of Bettison. Zoe. Where's he? Leonard. He's dead. She's been through a good many hands since. Zoe. Ho! Leonard. Fred Wishart was one — and Tod Arnold Zoe. She's quite young, isn't she? Leonard. Looks a baby. 366 MID-CHANNEL [act 11 ZOE. Ha! Leonard. I should put her at thirty. Zoe. Pretty? They all are! Leonard. Passable. Zoe. [Behind the chair on the left of the oblong table.] Do you think she's — with him? Leonard. Not regularly. She's still living in Egerton Crescent, ac- cording to Cossy. Zoe. [Gripping the back of the chair.] She'll ruin him; she'll ruin him, Len. Leonard. Oh, I dare say there'll be a bit left, when she's done with him. Zoe. There are other ways of dragging a man down besides through his pocket. Jim Mallandain says she's a vampire. Leonard. Why should you worry yourself ? Zoe. I don't want him to come to grief. Why should I ? Leonard. If he does, you've nothing to reproach yourself with. act n] MID-CHANNEL 367 ZOE. [Giving him a swift look!} What! Leonard. [Sullenly.] Oh, you know what I mean — nothing that occurred before he took himself off. Zoe. [Moving to the oblong table, with a long-drawn sigh.] Ah-h-h! [Sitting, her elbows on the* table, leaning her head on her hand.] It will always be on my conscience that I drove him away. Leonard. You didn't drive him away. Zoe. I did. Leonard. You were quite justified in doing it, anyhow. He made your life a burden to you. Zoe. I might have been more patient with him; I might have waited. Leonard. Waited ? Zoe. Waited till we'd got through the middle period of our lives. [Raising her head.] Peter warned us, the very day we parted Leonard. [Sneeringly.] Peter! Zoe. Mid-Channel! We should soon have reached the other side. 3 68 MID-CHANNEL [act ii Leonard. There's a limit to human endurance ; you'd passed it. Zoe. {Staring before her.] It seems to me now, there wasn't so very much for me to put up with — not so very much. [Rising and walking to the back of the settee on which Leonard is sitting.] There was a lot of good in him, really. After all, he only needed managing, humouring Leonard. [Starting up and turning to her.] Upon my soul, Zoe! Ha! You're discovering no end of fine qualities in him sud- denly ! Zoe. [Bitterly.] Am I! Leonard. You hadn't a decent word for him when we were in Italy ! Now he's perfect! Zoe. [Facing him.] No, he's not. Leonard. [Satirically.] Sounds like it. Zoe. [Flaring up.] Neither he nor you! You can be just as unkind to me as he ever was. Leonard. [Angrily.] I! Zoe. Yes! And, with all his faults, he did try to take care of me — to keep me from harm ! [Her eyes ablaze.] My God, what have you done! act ii] MID-CHANNEL 369 {They remain confronting one another for a moment without speaking. Then he turns away abruptly and picks up his hat and cane. She runs after him and clings to him. Zoe. No, no; don't be hasty. I didn't mean it — I didn't mean it Leonard. [Endeavouring to free himself.] Let me go Zoe. Ah, no! I'm not well to-day Leonard. I'll come back when you're better tempered. Zoe. I am better tempered. Look! it's all over. [Coaxing him to give up his hat and cane.] Lenny — Lenny dear — Lenny — [Placing the hat and cane upon the writing-table, she takes her handkerchief from her bag and dries her eyes. He sits in the arm-chair near the glazed door sulkily.] Ha, ha! Now you're beginning to see what sort of a time poor Theo had with me. Leonard. Oh, can't you leave off talking about him for a single second ! . Zoe. [Coming to him meekly.] I beg your pardon, dear. Leonard. You've got that fellow on the brain. Zoe. [Standing behind him.] You started it, by telling me of last night. 370 MID-CHANNEL [act ii Leonard. Why the deuce shouldn't I tell you of last night! Do sit down. [She sits near him, upon the fauteuil-stool.] I can't make you out, Zo. This woman's only what we've been waiting for. I've said all along he'd soon give you an oppor- tunity of divorcing him. She completes your case for you. Zoe. [Dully.] Yes. Leonard. [Grumbling.] You ought to be tremendously obliged to Jim for being the first to open your eyes — my eyes too — to what's going on. Instead of which, you're upset by it. And now, because I've seen Blundell and the lady together, I'm favoured by hearing Mr. B. described as a model hus- band Zoe. [To silence him.] Ah — ! Leonard. [Changing his tone.] When do you interview your lawyers? Zoe. I — I haven't written to them yet. Leonard. You were to do it after I left you on Monday. Zoe. I — I've been feeling so cheap, Len. Leonard. [With a short laugh.] We shall be grey-haired before we're married, at this rate. [She lays her hand on his ap- peasingly. He retains her hand.] I believe you'll have to go through the form of trying to compel Blundell to return act n] MID-CHANNEL 371 to you. Of course, he'll refuse. Meanwhile we must have the lady's house watched — or Blundell's flat. I shouldn't be surprised if he'd arrange that part of the business with you, to save trouble and expense. Drop a line to Maxwells to-day, will you? Zoe. [Obediently.] Yes. Leonard. Or ring them up. You'll be able to get out to-morrow — or one of them would wait on you. Zoe. Yes. Leonard. That's right, old girlie. Kiss me. [They kiss quickly and cautiously, without ardour.] Sorry. Zoe. [Turning to him and lowering her voice almost to a whisper.] Lenny Leonard. What? Zoe. Don't forget — Perugia. Leonard. [In an outburst.] Oh, yes — curse the place! — let's for- get Perugia. I was off my head there. I behaved like a blackguard. You needn't be continually throwing it in my teeth. Zoe. No, no; I'm not scolding you again. [Gently.] What I mean is — your breaking your word to me at Perugia — stay- ing in the same hotel 372 MID-CHANNEL [act ii Leonard. Well? ZOE. If Theodore's solicitors got hold of that Leonard. [Rising and walking away.] Yes, but they won't get hold of it. Zoe. [Tiuisting herself round tozuards him.] You remember our meeting Claud Lowenstein at the railway station at Arezzo ? Leonard. I explained to him that my being in the train with you was pure chance. I made that square. Zoe. He was going to Perugia — to the Brufani. [Rising.] He may have been suspicious — he may have inquired Leonard. Even that little swine wouldn't tell tales. Zoe. [Coming to him.] Then there's Lena — they might pump Lena Leonard. My dear girl, all this would be very terrible if Blundell wasn't as anxious to get rid of you as we are to get rid of him. No, you take my word for it — he won't defend. His game is to be free at any price. Zoe. To marry again perhaps! act n] MID-CHANNEL 373 Leonard. Probably. Zoe. [Clenching her hands. ,] Ah, no! Leonard. [His brow darkening again.] Doesn't that please you? There's no satisfying you, Zoe. [She leaves him and paces the room distractedly.] A minute ago you were frightened lest he should be ruined by Mrs. Annerly ! Zoe. [On the left.] I — I couldn't bear the idea of another woman being a better wife to him than I was! I couldn't bear it, Lenny! Leonard. Why, what concern would it be of yours ! [With a gesture, as the glazed door opens.] Sssh! [Warren appears. Warren. [To Zoe.] I beg your pardon, ma'am — Mr. Mottram. Zoe. [Uttering a little, eager cry.] Ah! Warren. He'll call again, ma'am, if you're engaged. Zoe. Did you say I — I'd anybody with me? Warren. No, ma'am. Zoe. [After a slight pause — indicating the adjoining room.] Is that room still covered up? 374 MID-CHANNEL [act n Warren. Yes, ma'am. Zoe. Well — show him in there for the moment. Warren. Yes, ma'am. [He withdraivs, closing the door. Zoe. [To Leonard, in a low voice.] He'd better not find you here so early. Leonard. [Also dropping his voice, testily.] Why need you bother yourself with old Peter this morning? Zoe. [Bringing Leonard his hat and cane.] I haven't seen him since January. Don't look so cross. [Caressing his cheek.] Are you engaged to lunch anywhere? Leonard. No. Zoe. Will you eat your lunch with me? [He nods. She takes a poivder-puff from her bag and, looking into the hand-mirror, hurriedly removes the traces of her tears. While she is thus occupied, Leonard listens at the nearer door on the right. Leonard. [Leaving the door — in a ivhisper.] He's there. [Warren reappears. Warren. [To Zoe.] Mr. Mottram is in the next room, ma'am. act 11] MID-CHANNEL 375 ZOE. Thank you. [Warren withdraws. Zoe. [To Leonard, in a whisper, accompanying him to the glazed door.] Go into the Park and sit under the trees. Blow a kiss for me to all the kiddies. [She watches him dis- appear down the corridor. Then, having closed the glazed door, she opens the further door on the right.] Peter! Peter. [Out of sight.] My dear lady! Zoe. [Going into the next room.] Why on earth have they put you into this dismal room! Come into the light. [Re- turning with him, her arm tucked through his.] Oh, my dear Peter — my dear Peter ! Peter. Ah, yes, yes, yes! A nice way to serve a pal! Zoe. [Closing the door.] How did you ? Peter. Jim Mallandain dropped in at the office this morning. [They leave the door.] He travelled with you from Paris on Sunday. Zoe. I collided with him at the Gare du Nord. Peter. And this is Wednesday! Zoe. [Withdrawing her arm.] I funked sending for you; that's a fact. 376 MID-CHANNEL [act ii Peter. Funked it? Zoe. [With the air of a child in disgrace.] Your letters to me have been awfully sweet, but I know you despise me for making a muck of things. Peter. [Protestingly.] Ah, Mrs. Zoe! Zoe. And I'm rather a sick rabbit, Peter. [Turning away.] A sick rabbit has only one desire — to hide in its burrow. [Facing him.] My heart bounded when you were an- nounced, though. Peter. [Following her.] You don't look very fit. Seen a doctor ? Zoe. I've let Lena call in Rashleigh, to humour her; [sitting on the settee on the right] and I've promised to swallow his pig-wash. Peter. What's he say? Zoe. Chill; but — [raising her eyes to his] between our- selves ? Peter. Honour. Zoe. [With quivering lips.] Life, dear old chum! Peter. [Tenderly.] Ain't much in it? act n] MID-CHANNEL 377 ZOE. Dam little. [Putting her hair back from her brow.] Phew! Can't sleep, Peter. Peter. Oh, lor! ZOE. I tumble into bed at twelve — one — two. I get an hour's stupor, from sheer fatigue, and then I'm wide-awake — think- ing! Then, dressing-gown and slippers and the cigarettes; and then it's to and fro, up and down — smoke — smoke — smoke — often till the servants start brushing the stairs. No game, eh? Peter. How long has this ? Zoe. It began at — [checking herself] oh, a devil of a while. [With a shiver.] But I'm worse now I've set foot again in this house. Peter. [Eyeing her keenly.] Ghosts? [Avoiding his gaze, she stretches out her hand towards the cigarette box. He pushes the box beyond her reach. She makes a grimace. There is a pause.] Zoe Zoe. Well? Peter. [Deliberately.] Why shouldn't you pick up the pieces? Zoe. Pick up — the pieces? Peter. You and Theodore. Zoe. Oh — don't be — funny, Peter. 378 MID-CHANNEL [act ii Peter. I'm not funny; I'm as serious as the clown at the circus. [Another pause.] Write to him — or give me a message to take to him. See him. [She gets to her feet and attempts to pass Peter. He detains her and she sinks back among her pillows. Zoe. Ha, ha! You ridiculous man! [Faintly.] Pick up the pieces! As if that were possible! Peter. Oh, the valuable family china is in a good many frag- ments, I admit. But there are the fragments, lyin' on the carpet. They can be collected, fitted together. Zoe. [With a sudden gesture of entreaty.] Ah, for God's sake, Peter ! Peter. Why, I'm suggestin' nothin' unusual. Zoe. [Repeating her gesture.] Sssh ! Peter. Go into the homes of three-fifths of the married people you know — / know — and you'll find some imposin' specimens of porcelain that won't bear inspectin' very narrowly. Zoe. [Waving the subject away.] Sssh, sssh! Peter. Only yesterday afternoon I was callin' at a house in — never mind the district. I was wanderin' round the drawin'- room, lookin' at the bric-a-brac, and there, on a Louis act n] MID-CHANNEL 379 Quatorze console-table, were as handsome a pair of old Chinesejars — genuine Mings — as ever I've met with. Such a sooperb glaze they've got, such depth o' colour! They appear to be priceless, perfect, till you examine 'em closely; and then — ! My dear Zoe, they're cracked ; they've both had a nasty knock at some time or another; they're scarred shockin'ly with rivets and cement. And while I was sheddin' tears over 'em, in sailed madam, smilin' and holdin' out her hand to me — she'd been upstairs, rubbin' carmine on her lips Zoe. [In a murmur.] You horror! Peter. How kind of me to call — and how wild Tom 'ud be at missin' me! To the casual observer, she's the happiest woman goin'; and Tom, who strolled in just as I was leavin', might be the most domesticated of husbands. You follow me? You grasp the poetic allegory? Those faulty old Mings are emblematic of the establishment they adorn. Mr. and Mrs. Tom fell out years ago; they turned against each other one fine day — in mid-Channel — and hadn't the sense to kiss and be friends on landin' ; their lives are as damaged as those wounded crocks of theirs on the console-table. [Persua- sively.] Well, but ain't it wiser to repair the broken china, rather than chuck the bits into the dust-bin? It's still showy and effective at a distance; and there are cases — rare, but they exist — where the mendin's been done so neatly that the flaws are almost imperceptible. [Seating himself opposite Zoe.] Zoe Zoe. [Almost inaudibly.] Yes, Peter? Peter. [Leaning forivard.] I believe yours is one of the cases — yours and Theodore's — where the mendin' would be excep- tionally successful. 380 MID-CHANNEL [act ii ZOE. What do you — what do you mean? Peter. My dear, old Theo is as miserable over this affair as you are. Zoe. [Attempting a disdainful smile.} N-nonsense! Peter. Oh, no, it ain't nonsense. Zoe. W-what makes you think that ? Peter. Between ourselves? Zoe. [A note of eagerness in her voice.] Honour. Peter. He shows it in all manner o' ways. Neglects his business — ain't much good at it when he doesn't — is losin' his grip — looks confoundedly ill — is ill. Altogether he's a different man from the man he was, even when matters were at boilin' point here. Zoe. [Locking and unlocking her fingers.] Does he ever — speak of me? Peter. Oh, lor', yes. Zoe. N-not kindly? Peter. Very. Very kindly. act n] MID-CHANNEL 381 ZOE. [After a silence, as if in pain.] Oh ! [She rises, passes him, and goer to the other side of the room where she moves from one piece of furniture to another aimlessly.) W-what's he say about me? Peter. [Not turning.] Frets about you — wonders how you're gettin' along — wonders as to the state of your finances — can't bear the idea of your bein' in the least pinched — wants to help you. Zoe. He's extremely generous! Peter. Theo? Never was anythin' else. Zoe. [Her eyes flashing.] His own expenses must be pretty considerable just now, too! Peter. [Pricking up his ears.] Must they? [With great art- lessness.] Why? Zoe. Oh, do you imagine I live with wool in my ears? Peter. [Over his shoulder.] Wool ? Zoe. This woman he's continually with ! [ Peter's face is still averted from Zoe. At this juncture his eyes open widely and his mouth shapes to a whistle.] This — Mrs. — Mrs. — what's her name — Annerly! [Pacing the room.] A notorious woman — a woman without a shred of character — an any- man's-woman ! 382 MID-CHANNEL [act ii Peter. {Settling his features and turning his chair towards Zoe — in a tone of expostulation.] Oh! Zoe. A baby-faced thing — seven years younger than I am ! Pre- cisely the class of goods a man of Theo's age flies at! Peter. Oh— oh ! Zoe. They're rather costly articles, aren't they ! Peter. My dear Mrs. Zoe Zoe. Oh, don't you pretend to be so innocent, Peter! You know jolly well he's all over the place with her. They were at Hurlingham together Saturday week. Peter. [Coolly.] I dessay. Zoe. And they dine tete-a-tete at the Savoy, Ritz's, the Carl- ton Peter. Who supplies the information? Zoe. They were at the Carlton last night. Peter. Who's told you that ? Zoe. L [She pulls herself up. act n] MID-CHANNEL 383 Peter. [Curiously.] Who? Zoe. [Moistening her lips.] Oh, I — I first heard of it all from Jim Mallandain. He was full of it on board the boat on Sunday. Peter. Was he! [Rising lazily.] A busy gentleman — Jim. Zoe. It was Jim who met them at Hurlingham — had tea with 'em. Peter. [Curiously again.] But it can't be Jim who's blabbed about last night. Zoe. Why? Peter. [Shrugging his shoulders.] He happened to mention this mornin' that he was with a party at Jules'. Zoe. [Confused.] N-no, it isn't from Jim I've got that. I — [throwing herself into the arm-chair near the glazed door.] Oh, but really it's a matter of supreme indifference to me, Peter, my dear boy, whom Theodore entertains at the Carl- ton, or whom he entertains at his flat Peter. [Coming to her.] My dear Zoe • Zoe. [Laughing heartily.] Ha, ha, ha! His flat! I hear it's quite sumptuous. After his pathetic yearnings for peace and quiet in a garret, he sets up, within a month of our separat- 384 MID-CHANNEL [act ii ing, in an enormous flat in Cavendish Square! I received that bit of news when I was in Florence. I — I was intensely amused. Oh, let him wallow in his precious flat ! Peter. [Argumentatively .] My dear lady Zoe. [Her hand to her brow, exhausted.] Ah, drop it, Peter; drop it! Peter. I ask you — a liberal-minded person — what 'ud become of friendship as an institootion if men and women couldn't he pals without havin' the — the — what-d'ye-call-it — the tongue of scandal wagged at 'em? The world 'ud be intolerable. It ain't all marmalade as it is; but if a fellow can't take the fresh air in the company of a female at Hurlingham, or give her a bite o' food at a restaurant Zoe. [Her head against the back of her chair, her eyes closed.] Ah, la, la, la! Peter. As for this — er — this Mrs. Annerly [He again purses his mouth and is evidently in a dif- ficulty. Zoe. [Her eyes still shut.] Well? Peter. It's true she chucked Annerly for another chap. I don't condone an act of that description — except that I knew Annerly, and if ever there was a dull dog Zoe. Was he duller than Theo? act n] MID-CHANNEL 385 Peter. Ob, go on with yer! And since then she's been a trifle — flighty — perhaps, now and again; [with a gulp] but to-day she might be your maiden aunt. Zoe. [Dreamily.] You humbug, Peter! Peter. [Sitting beside her, upon the fauteuil stool.] Oh, I'm not maintainin' that we men always select our women pals from the right basket. I'm not sayin' that we don't make asses of ourselves occasionally, sometimes from sentiment, some- times from vanity, sometimes from — various causes. But the same remark applies to you women over your men-pals. [Laying a hand on her arm.] For instance — [she opens her eyes] for instance, here you are, fhrowin' stones at old Theo with regard to Alice Annerly. [Significantly.] My dear, there are a few panes o' glass in the house you live in, bear in mind. [She sits upright, looking at him. Zoe. In the house — I- Peter. [Gravely.] Mrs. Zoe, what you did when you were under your husband's protection is one thing; what you do now is another bag o' nuts entirely. And a woman situated as you are ought to be careful of retainih' a cub among her intimates. Zoe. A cub? Peter. Cub. 386 MID-CHANNEL [act ii Zoe. [Apprehensively.] To whom — are you alluding? Peter. Lenny Ferris. Zoe. L — enny? Peter. It ain't an agreeable job, pitchin' into a fellow you've been on good terms with; but the fact remains — to put it mildly — that Master Lenny's a stoopid, blunderin' cub. Zoe. [Haughtily but palpitatingly.] He's nothing of the kind. What has he done that you should abuse him? Peter. It's he who's told you that Theodore was at the Carlton last night, ain't it? [She drops her eyes.] Been here this mornin'? Zoe. [Raising her eyes, boldly.] Yes. Peter. H'm! The sick rabbit doesn't hide in her burrow from everybody. Zoe. H— how ? Peter. I saw your lips make an L just now, before you could put the stopper on. Zoe. Ha, ha! You ought to have been a professional detective. act ii] MID-CIIANNEL 387 Peter. [Sctoivling.] Ferris has kept out of my wav lately, or I ZOE. If he has run in here for a moment — to ask whether I'm back — is there anything particularly cubbish in that? Peter. It wasn't that I was referrin' to. Zoe. N— no? Peter. I was referrin' to his havin' the damned presumption to dance attendance on you in Italy. Zoe. [Aghast.] I — Italy? Peter. He was at Perugia while you were there. Zoe. Oh — Perugia Peter. [With a shrug.] And other places, I assoom. Zoe. [After a pause, pulling herself together.] H — ho! [mim- icking P eter.] And who supplies the information? [Peter waves the question from him.] Lowenstein, by any chance — Claud Lowenstein? [Peter, looking down his nose, is silent. She rises and walks aivay from him.] The hound — the little hound ! Peter. Lowenstein came across you both at some railway station. He arrived at Perugia the day you left. 388 MID-CHANNEL [act ii ZoE. [Pacing the room on the right.} The contemptible little hound ! Peter. He put up at the Brufani too. ZOE. [Stopping in her walk — under her breath.] Ah! Peter. Master Lenny might at least have had the common decency to quarter himself at another hotel. Zoe. The — the Brufani is the most comfortable — the — [A pause.] I — I suppose it was thoughtless of Lenny. Peter. [Quietly.] Cub! Zoe. [Approaching Peter.] Does — Theodore — know? Peter. [Nodding.] Lowenstein went to him with it. Zoe. Ha, ha! A busy gentleman — Claudy Lowenstein! [Fal- teringly.] It — it was all my fault, Peter. If — if anybody's to blame, I am. I — I wrote to the boy from Florence — com- plaining of feeling lonely Peter. That doesn't excuse him. Zoe. [Touching Peter's shoulder with the tips of her fingers.] What — what does Theodore ? act ii] MID-CHANNEL 389 Peter. He's savage. Zoe. Savage ? Peter. [Rising.] He'd like to punch Ferris's head — as I should. Zoe. [In a loiv voice.] Savage — ! [Slowly.] He — he's jeal- ous then? [A shrug from Peter. Her eyes light up.] Jeal- ous! [A pause.] Peter — no man's jealous over a woman — unless he — unless he cares for her! [Plucking at his sleeve.] Peter ! Peter. You've heard me say old Theo's miserable — desperately wretched. Zoe. He — he's grown fond of me again — fond of me ! Peter. My dear, you and he have never left off bein' fond o' one another, actually. As I warned you, you've only been tossin' about, both of you, on a bit o' troubled water. [She stares at him for a moment with an expressionless face and then, as if stupefied, seats herself in the chair on the left of the oblong table. Peter. [Standing before her.] Well, at any rate, you'll let this Italian business be a lesson to you not to rush at conclusions respectin' other people. So, come now; won't you try to patch it up? I'll bet my noo hat, Theodore'll meet you half- way. [Urgently.] Zoe! Zoe. [Locking and unlocking her fingers again.] Peter 390 MID-CHANNEL [act ii Peter. Eh? ZOE. Your Mr. and Mrs. Tom — the world perhaps never heard of their fall-out. Peter. What o' that? Zoe. Everybody is aware of the split between me and Theo. Peter. Everybody! A handful! Besides, nothin' is even a nine days' wonder in these times. [A pause.] Will you do it? Zoe. [Suddenly, starting up and walking away to the left.] Oh, no, no, no ! I — can't — I can't ! Peter. [Following her.] Can't? Zoe. [Helplessly.] I can't, Peter! Peter. [Taking her by the arms.] Oh — ! Zoe. I — I mean I — I'm sure it wouldn't answer — I'm sure Peter. My dear girl Zoe. [Piteously.] Ah, don't — don't! [Escaping from him and crossing to the right.] Oh, leave me alone! [Warren enters at the glazed door. act ii] MID-CHANNEL 391 Warren. [To Zoe.] Miss Pierpoint is downstairs, ma'am. Zoe. [Seizing upon the interruption.] Ah, yes! Warren. I'm to give you her love, ma'am, and if it isn't convenient for you to see her Zoe. It is — it is — quite convenient — quite. [Warren with- draws, closing the door.] I'm awfully sorry, my dear Peter, but this child wants to consult me about something — some- thing important. [Giving him her hands.] I must kick you out. You don't feel hurt, do you? Peter. [Ruefully.] Confound Miss Pierpoint! Zoe Zoe. What? Peter. You'll think it over? Zoe. [Putting her hand to his lips.] Ah ! Peter. [Holding her hand.] No, no. Think it over. Ask me to dine with you one night next week. Zoe. Monday — Tuesday ? Peter. Monday. 392 MID-CHANNEL [act ii ZOE. [Artfully.] Ah, but I shall lay in a chaperon for the occasion. Peter. Rats ! How can I talk to you before a chaperon ? Zoe. Ha, ha, ha, ha! [She runs to the glazed door, opens it, and, going into the corridor, calls loudly and excitedly.] Ethel — Ethel — Ethel ! [Ethel appears in the corridor and Zoe embraces her with an excess of warmth.] My dear Ethel! My dear child! [They kiss.] What ages since we've seen each other! [Bringing Ethel into the room.] You know Mr. Mottram? Ethel. [Going to Peter.] Oh, yes. Peter. [Shaking hands ivith her.] How-d'ye-do, Miss Pierpoint — and au revoir. Ethel. [As he moves towards the glazed door.] I'm not driving you away? Peter. I forgive you. [He rejoins Zoe who is near the door. Ethel lays her sunshade upon the writing-table. Zoe. [To Peter.] Monday night? Peter. Monday night. act ii] MID-CHANNEL 393 ZOE. Half-past eight. Peter. [At the door, dropping his voice.] A chaperon? ZOE. {Mockingly.] The proprieties! Peter. You cat ! [He goes. Zoe. [Closing the door.] Ha, ha! [She leans wearily against the door for a moment and again puts back her hair from her brow. Her manner now becomes strained, artificial, distrait. She advances to Ethel.] Now, then! [Ethel turns to her.] Let me have a good squint at you. How's your dear mother ? Ethel. [Who is pale and sad-looking.] Mother's flourishing. [Leaving the writing-table.] You're not angry with me for rushing you at this hour? Zoe. Isn't this our old hour for a chat? Ethel. We were at Madame Levine's yesterday — mother and I — ordering frocks, and Camille, the skirtmaker, told us you were back. Zoe, how unkind you've been! Zoe. Am I in your bad books? Ethel. Why have you treated us so horridly? 394 MID-CHANNEL [act ii ZOE. Well, my dear child, the fact is — the fact is it suddenly dawned on me that perhaps your mother mightn't consider me any longer a suitable pal for her daughter. Ethel. [Protestingly.] Oh! ZOE. Heaps of folks, you know, haven't much use for single married-women. Ethel. But we both showed you that our sympathies were on your side! Zoe. Yes, we often sympathise with people we wouldn't touch with the end of a wet umbrella. Ethel. [Coming close to Zoe.] So that's the reason you left off answering my letters! Zoe. C-certainly. Ethel. And why we hear of your return through fat old Camille ! {Fingering a jewel at Zoe's neck.] You've had a pleasant time abroad? Zoe. [Taking Ethel's face between her hands, abruptly.] How thin your face is, Ethel ! Ethel. [Gazing at Zoe.] Your cheeks are not as round as they were. act 11] MID-CHANNEL 395 ZOE. [Leading Ethel to the settee on the right.] I caught a rotten chill on board the boat and have been beastly seedy. [Putting Ethel on the settee.} What's wrong with you? That's a dreary note I've had from you this morning. Ethel. [Tracing a pattern on the floor zvith the point of her shoe.} Now I'm with you, I — I can't Zoe. [Looking down upon her.] You want advice, you say. Ethel. [Tremulously.] Yes. Zoe. Or a good shaking. Ethel. I — I suppose I ought to be ashamed of myself for being so, but I — I'm very unhappy, Zoe. Zoe. Unhappy ? Ethel. It's no use my attempting to talk to mother. Mother's a person who prides herself on her level-headedness. Any- body with a fixed income and a poor circulation can be level- headed ! It only means you're fish-like. But you — you're warm-blooded and human Zoe. Well? Ethel. Z-Zoe Zoe. Yes? 396 MID-CHANNEL [act ii Ethel. [Her eyes on the ground.] Did you ever suspect that there was anything between Mr. Ferris and me ? Zoe. [Calmly, steadying herself.] Mr. Ferris — and you? Ethel. An attachment. Zoe. [With affected astonishment.] My dear child! Ethel. [Looking up.] Oh, don't keep on calling me "child" ! I'm nearly six-and-twenty. [Taking Zoe's hands.] Didn't you ever guess? Zoe. He — he always seemed delighted to meet you here. Ethel. He's one of your "boys" — hasn't he ever talked to you about me? Zoe. Of course, frequently. Ethel. Never as if he were — in love with me? Zoe. [Withdrawing her hands.] I— I can't say that it— struck me Ethel. [Dejectedly.] You didn't know, perhaps, that at the be- ginning of the year — before you went away — he was a great deal in Sloane Street? act n] MID-CHANNEL 397 ZOE. Why, yes, he used to have tea with you and your mother sometimes, didn't he? [Turning from Ethel.] How did I hear that? Ethel. [Hanging her head.] Very often he came early in the afternoon — by arrangement with me — while mother was resting. Zoe. [With a hard laugh.] Ha, ha! Ethel! Ethel. Yes, worthy of a vulgar shop-girl, wasn't it? Zoe. [Sitting in the chair opposite Ethel.] He — he came early in the afternoon ? Ethel. And we sat together, in the fire-light. I'm sure he loved me, Zoe — then. Zoe. [Breathing heavily.] And — and you ? Ethel. [Her elbows on her knees, hiding her face in her hands.] Oh, I'm a fool — an awful fool! Zoe. [After a silence.] Did he ever — hint — at marriage? [Ethel nods, without uncovering her face.] He did! Ethel. [Raising her head.] Well, we got as far as agreeing that a small house in the country, near his aunt, would be an ideal state of existence. [Mirthlessly.] Ha, ha, ha! And there matters broke off. 398 MID-CHANNEL [act ii ZOE. What — what ? Ethel. All of a sudden there was a change — a change in his manner towards me. He still called on us, but not so regu- larly; and by degrees his visits — ceased altogether. [She passes her hand across her eyes angrily and, stamping her foot, rises and moves to the other side of the room.] The last time I spoke to him was one morning in the Row. Mother and I were walking and came face-to-face with him. That was at the end of February. He was out of sorts, he said, and was going into Devonshire. I presume he went. [ Turn- ing to Zoe who, ivith parted lips, is staring guiltily at the carpet.] He's in London now, though. I saw him about a fortnight ago, at the Opera. I was with the Ormerods, in their box; he was in the stalls. [Touching Zoe's shoulder.] Zoe Yes? He's so altered. Altered ? Zoe. Ethel. Zoe. Ethel. In his appearance. You recollect how boyish and fresh- looking he was? Zoe. Y-yes. Ethel. All that's gone. He's become — oh, but I dare say you've seen him since you've been home? Zoe. J-just for a minute or two. act ii ] MID-CHANNEL 399 # Ethel. You must have noticed ? Zoe. N-now you mention it Ethel. I watched him through the opera-glass several times during the evening. [Simply.] He looks like a lost soul. Zoe. I — I've never — ha, ha! — I've never made tke acquaintance of a lost — ha, ha! Ethel. [After a pause.] Zoe, do you think anything has happened to Lenny Ferris? Zoe. H-happened ? Anything bad. Bad? Ethel. Zoe. Ethel. Men's lives are constantly being wrecked by racing, or cards, or [Half turning from Zoe.] Oh, I oughtn't to know about such things, but one doesn't live in the dark — he may have got mixed up with some woman of the wrong sort, mayn't he? Zoe. [Rising quickly and walking away to the left.] I — I really can't discuss topics of that kind with you, Ethel. Ethel. [Wistfully.] No; but if he is in any scrape — any en- tanglement — and one could help him 400 MID-CHANNEL [act ii ZOE. [At the writing-table, taking up a bottle of salts — faintly.] Help him? Ethel. Save him ! Zoe. [Sniffing the salts.] How — how romantic you are! Ethel. Am I! [Her elboivs on the back of the arm-chair by the oblong table, timidly.] Zoe, would it be possible — in your opinion — would it be possible for me to — to see him? Zoe. [Sitting in the chair at the writing-table.] See Mr. Ferris ? Ethel. [Plucking at the cover of the chair on which she is lean- ing.] Here — in your house — or elsewhere — see him and offer him my friendship — a sister's friendship? You could manage it. Zoe. My — my dear! Ethel. Oh, yes, I'm lacking in dignity, aren't I — and self-respect! [Coming forward.] I've told myself that a thousand times. [Warmly.] But there are quite enough dignified people in the world without me; and if I could influence Lenny, any- one might have my dignity for twopence. Zoe. Influence him ? Ethel. For his good. Oh, I don't want to boast, but I'm a straight, clean girl; and it may be that, at this particular act ii] MID-CHANNEL 401 moment of his life, the more he sees of women like you and me the better. However, if you tell me the idea's improper, I'll accept it from you. [Approaching Zoe.] I'll take any- thing from you. [Appealingly.] But don't tell me that, if you can avoid it. Give me the opportunity, if you can, of showing him that I'm different from most girls — that I'm above petty, resentful feelings. [Bending over Zoe.] Zoe [Lena enters at the further door on the right, carrying a silver salver on which are a dose of medicine in a medicine-glass and a dish of sweetmeats. Lena. Your med'cine! [Closing the door.] Good morning, Miss Pierpoint. Ethel. Ah, Lena! Zoe. [To Ethel, rising hastily.] Excuse me [Lena advances and Zoe goes to her and, with a shak- ing hand, drinks the medicine. Lena. [To Zoe.] Good gracious, how queer you look! [To Ethel.] She's doing too much to-day, Miss Pierpoint. [Going to Ethel.] Dr. Rashleigh says she's frightfully below par. Ethel. [Picking up her sunshade.] What a shame of me! [Running to Zoe.] I won't stay another minute. Zoe. [Sitting on the settee on the right.] I am a. little fatigued. Ethel. I ought to have seen it. 4 o2 MID-CHANNEL [act ii ZOE. I — I'll write to you. [They kiss.] My love to your mother. Ethel. And when you are well enough ? Zoe. I'll call upon her. Ethel. [To Lena, who precedes her into the corridor.] No, no; stop with Mrs. Blundell. I'm so sorry, Lena [Lena and Ethel talk together for a little while in undertones; then the girl disappears. Lena returns. Lena. [Shutting the door.] Silly chatterbox! [Finding Zoe lying at full length upon the settee, her head buried in a pillow.] Why do you tire yourself like this? Shall I fetch you some brandy? Zoe. No. Lena. [Lowering her voice.] He's in the house again. Zoe. Who? Lena. Mr. Ferris. Zoe. [Raising herself.] Mr. Ferris! Lena. [With a jerk of her head in the direction of the next room.] In there. [Zoe sits upright.] Warren's making himself beautiful and Clara answered the door. She thought act ii] MID-CHANNEL 403 you wefe by yourself and let him come up. [Zoe gets to her feet.] I was just bringing you your med'cine and met him. [Zoe goes to the writing-table, takes up the hand-mirror, and puts her hair in order.] Lucky I'd heard that Miss Pierpoint was here; he didn't want to see her! Another second ! Zoe. That'll do. [Calmly.] Take care I'm not interrupted again. Lena. Ah, now! Mayn't I get rid of him? Zoe. No. [Turning.] Run away, please. Lena. Oh, very good. [Picking up the salver which she has placed upon a piece of furniture near the glazed door.] You'll do exactly as you choose. [In the corridor.] I de- clare I'd rather look after a pack of unruly children any day in the week [She closes the door. Zoe glances over her shoulder, to assure herself that the woman has left the room, and then, with a fierce light in her eyes, goes to the nearer door on the right and throws it open. Zoe. [In a hard voice, speaking into the adjoining room.] I'm alone. [She moves from the door as LEONARD, still carrying his hat and cane, enters. Leonard. By George, that was a narrow squeak! [Closing the door.] Whatever possessed you to be at home to the Pier- point girl this morning? 4 04 MID-CHANNEL [act ii ZOE. [Coldly.] I didn't expect you back before lunch. Leonard. [Putting his hat and cane on the chair at the nearer end of the settee on the right.] I was talking to a man at Vic- toria Gate and I saw Peter driving away in a Taxi. [Facing her.] I got sick of the Park. [Seeing that something is amiss.] Hallo! [A pause.] Anyone been running me down ? [She advances to him and, drawing herself to her full height, regards him scornfully. ZOE. [Making a motion with her hands as if she would strike him.] You — you — ! [Dropping her hands to her side.] Oh, cruel — cruel — [ivalking away from him] cruel! Leonard. What's cruel? Who's cruel! Zoe. [At the further end of the room, on the right.] Ah — ah ! Leonard. [Moving to the left.] Oh, come! Let's have it out; let's have it out. Zoe. Sssh! Don't raise your voice here. Leonard. Somebody's been talking against me. Ethel Pierpoint? Zoe. [Coming to the oblong table.] You've behaved abomin- ably to this girl. act n] MID-CHANNEL 405 Leonard. Ho, it is Miss Pierpoint ! Zoe. No, she hasn't spoken a word against you. But she's opened her heart to me. Leonard. [Going to Zoe.] You've known all about me and Ethel. Zoe. It's a lie. How much have I known? I knew that you were sizing her up, as you expressed it ; but I never surmised that you'd as good as proposed marriage to her. Leonard. I told you months ago — admitted it — that I'd make myself a bit of an idiot over Ethel. I fancied you tumbled to the state o' things. Zoe. Did you ! Why, do you think — maniac as I was when you came through to me to Florence! — do you think I'd have allowed you to remain near me for five minutes if I'd known as much as I do now ! Leonard. Look here, Zoe Zoe. Oh, you're a cruel fellow! You've been cruel to her and cruel to me. I believe you're capable of being cruel to any woman who comes your way. Still, she's the fortunate one. Her scratches'll heal; but I — [sitting at the oblong table and hitting it with her fist] I loathe myself more than ever — more than ever! Leonard. [After a pause.] Zoe, I wish you'd try to be a little fair to me. 4 o6 MID-CHANNEL [act ii ZOE. {Ironically.} Fair! Leonard. Perhaps I did go rather further with Ethel Pierpoint than I led you to understand. Zoe. Oh ! Leonard. I own up. Yes, but what prospect was there, when I was thick with her, of your being free of Blundell? None. And what was I to you? Merely a pal of yours — one of your "tame robins" — one of a dozen; and I'd come to a loose end in my life. It was simply the fact that there was no prospect for me with you that drove me to consider whether I hadn't better settle down to a humdrum with a decent girl of the Ethel breed. Otherwise, do you imagine I'd have crossed the street to speak to another woman? [Leaving Zoe.] Oh, you might do me common justice! [Hotly.] If circumstances have made a cad of me, am I all black? Can't you find any good in me? [Turning to her.] What did I tell you at Perugia? Zoe. [Rising.] Ah, don't ! Leonard. That I'd been in love Avith you from the day I first met you — from the very moment Mrs. Hope-Cornish introduced me to you at Sandown ! Well ! Isn't there anything to my credit on that score? Didn't I keep my secret? For four years I kept it ; though, with matters as they often were be- tween you and Blundell, many a man might have thought you ripe grapes. [Walking across to the right.] Only once I was off my guard with you — when I laid hold of you and begged you, whatever happened, never to — never to act n] MID-CHANNEL 407 ZOE. {Leaning against the table, her back to him.] Ha, ha, ha! Leonard. Yes, and I meant it; as God hears me, I meant it. If anybody had told me that afternoon that it was I who — oh, hang! [Sitting upon the settee.] But what I want to im- press upon you is that, if I were quite the low scoundrel you make me out to be, I shouldn't have gone through what I have gone through these past four years and more. Great Scot, it's been nothing but hell — hot hell — all the time! Four whole years of pretending I was just an ordinary friend of yours — hell ! Four years of reasoning with myself — preaching to myself — hell ! That awful month after Blun- dell left you — when you'd gone to Italy and I was in London — worse than hell! My chase after you — our little tour to- gether — my struggle even then to play the correct game — and I did struggle — hell! And since then — hell! [His elbows on his knees, digging his knuckles into his forehead.] Hell all the time! Hell all the time! [There is a silence, and then, with a look of settled determination, she comes to him slowly and lays her hands upon his head. ZOE. Poor boy! I'm sorry I blackguarded you. [Sitting in the chair opposite to him and speaking in a steady, level voice.] Len Leonard. Eh? ZOE. Let's part. Leonard. [Raising his head.] Part? 4 o8 MID-CHANNEL [act ii ZOE. Say good-bye to each other. [Meeting his eyes.] Go back to that girl. Leonard. To Ethel! ZOE. Take up with her again. Leonard. Oh, stop it, Zo. Zoe. She's devoted to } t ou; and she's sound right through, if ever a girl was. She's one of the best, Len. Leonard. Suppose she is Zoe. Be careful that she doesn't guess I've given her away. [He rises impatiently. She rises with him and holds him by the lapels of his jacket.] Tell her — she's sure to ask you — tell her that you haven't seen me since last Monday, nor had a line from me. Fake up some tale to account for your break- ing off with her — you were in doubt whether you'd coin enough to marry on Leonard. [Who has become thoughtful.] Zoe Zoe. Yes? Leonard. [Looking her full in the face.] Are you giving me the boot? Zoe. [Releasing him and returning his gaze firmly.] Yes; I am. act n] MID-CHANNEL 409 Leonard. [After a pause.] Oh? [Another pause.] What's youv motive ? ZOE. Motive? Leonard. What's behind all this? Zoe. [Simply.] I want you to be happy, Len — really and truly happy. I believe you'd stand a jolly good chance of being so with Ethel Pierpoint; never with me. Leonard. And you? Zoe. I? Leonard. What's to become of you ? What are your plans for your- self? Zoe. [Avoiding his eyes.] Oh, don't you — don't you worry about me. Leonard. Rot! Zoe. [Nervously.] Perhaps some day — when Theodore's tired of Mrs. Annerly — ha, ha! — stranger things have hap- pened Leonard. Rot, I say. [She retreats a little.] Do you think you can drum me out like this! [Following her.] Have you got some other ? [He checks himself. 4 io MID-CHANNEL [act ii ZOE. [Confronting him.] Some other ? Leonard. Oh, never mind. Zoe. Out with it! Leonard. Some other fancy-man in tow? Zoe. Ah! You brute! [Hitting him in the chest.] You brute! [Throwing herself into the arm-chair near the glazed door.] You coward! You coward! [There is a pause and then he slouches up to her. Leonard. I — I beg your pardon. I beg your pardon. [He sits be- side her, upon the fauteuil-stool.] Knock my damned head off. Go on. Knock my damned head off. Zoe. [Panting.] Well — we won't part — on top of a row. [Dashing a tear away.] After all, why should you think better of me than that? Leonard. [Penitently.] Zoe Zoe. Sssh! Listen. Putting Ethel Pierpoint out of the ques- tion, do you ever picture to yourself what our married life would be? Leonard. What it 'ud be? act n] MID-CHANNEL 4" ZOE. The marriage of a woman of seven — nearly eight — and- thirty to a man of thirty-two ! / do. I walk my bedroom half the night and act it all over to myself. And you've had the best of me, too; I'm not even a novelty to you. Why, of course you've realized what you've let yourself in for. Leonard. I take my oath Zoe. Sssh ! When you're in front of your glass in the morning, what do you see there? Leonard. See? Zoe. This girl has noticed the alteration in your looks. She took stock of you at the opera the other night. Leonard. [Passing his hands over his face consciously.] Men can't go to hell, Zo, without getting a bit scorched. Zoe. [Imitating his action.] No, nor women either. [Turn- ing to him.] But it's only quite lately that you've lost your bloom, Len. Leonard. Oh, naturally I've been horribly bothered about you — about both of us — since Zoe. Since your trip to Italy? [He nods.] Yes, and natur- ally you've told yourself, over and over again, the truth — since your trip to Italy. Leonard. Truth? 4 i2 MID-CHANNEL [act ii ZOE. The simple truth — that you've got into a mess with a married woman Leonard. I— I ZOE. And that you must go through with it, at all costs. Leonard. I swear to you, Zoe Zoe. [Touching his hand.] Oh, my dear boy, you haven't perhaps said these things to yourself, in so many words, but they're at the back of your brain just the same. [She rises and crosses to the fireplace and rings three times. Leonard. [Rising.] What — what are you doing? Zoe. Ringing for Lena, to tell her I'm not lunching downstairs. Leonard. By God, Zoe ! Zoe. [Imperiously.] Be quiet! Leonard. [Shaking his fist at her.] You dare treat me in this way! You dare! Zoe. [Advancing.] Ah, I'm only hurting your pride a little; I'm only mortifying your vanity. You'll get over that in twenty-four hours. act 11] MID-CHANNEL 41 3 Leonard. Do you know what you are; do you know what you make yourself by this! Zoe. Yes, what you made of me at Perugia, and at Siena, and at ! [Suddenly, clinging to him.] Lenny — Lenny — kiss me ! Leonard. [Pushing her from him.] Not I. Zoe. Ah, yes. Don't let's part enemies. It's good-bye. Lenny! Leonard. No. Zoe. [Struggling with him entreatingly.] Quick! It's for the last time. You'll never be alone with me again. [Her arms tightly round him.] It's for the last time. [Kissing him passionately.] Good luck to you! Good luck to you! Good luck to you ! [She leaves him and sits at the writing-table where she makes a pretence of busying herself ivith her papers. Leonard. [Glancing expectantly at the glazed door — between his teeth.] You — you ! [Presently he goes to the chair on the right and snatches up his hat and cane. Lena enters at the glazed door. Lena. [To Zoe.] Is it me you've rung for? Zoe. Yes. [Sharply.] Wait. 4 i 4 MID-CHANNEL [act ii [There is a pause. Struck by Zoe's tone, and the attitude of the pair, Lena looks inquisitively at Leonard and Zoe out of the corners of her eyes, as if she guesses there has been a quarrel. Leonard moves towards the door. Leonard. [To Zoe.] Good morning. Zoe. Good morning. Leonard. [To Lena, as he passes her.] Good morning. Lena. Good morning. [He departs and Lena quietly closes the door. ZOE. [Rising.] Lena Lena. Yes? Zoe. [Walking across to the settee on the right.] I'm not coming down to the dining-room. [Sitting, feebly.] Let me have a snack upstairs. Lena. Very well. Zoe. That's all. [Lena withdraws, almost on tip-toe, and Zoe instantly produces her handkerchief and cries into it softly. Then she gets to her feet and searches for the cigarette box. Still shaken by little sobs, she puts a cigarette between her lips and, as she does so, the expression of her face changes and her body stiffens. act n] MID-CHANNEL 415 ZOE. [Under her breath.] Oh ! [After a moment's irreso- lution, she hurriedly dries her eyes and, going to the glazed door, opens it, and calls.] Lena — Lena ! Lena. [In the distance.] Yes? [Zoe returns to the oblong table and is lighting her cigarette when Lena reappears. Zoe. Lena Lena. Well? Zoe. I'll dress directly after lunch. Lena. [Coming to her, surprised.] Dress? Zoe. Yes; I'm goinj cut this afternoon. Lena. Going out! Why, you must be crazy ! end of the second act i D O ^ A.f-*-— «*>■■«• \_i O O j o o >-i «»#*▼**£* THE THIRD ACT « The scene is a fine, spacious room, richly furnished and decor- ated. In the centre of the wall at the back is the fire- place, and on the left of the fireplace is a door which when open reveals part of a dining-room. In the right- hand wall there is a bay-window hung with lace and other curtains. Facing the window, in the wall on the left, is a double-door opening into the room from a cor- ridor. On either side of the fireplace there is an arm-chair, and betiveen the fireplace and the dining-room door stands a small table on which are a decanter of whiskey, a syphon of soda-water, and two or three tumblers. A grand piano and a music-stool are in the right-hand corner of the room, and on the left of the piano is a settee. Some photographs are on the top of the piano. On the other side of the room there is a second settee with a table at the nearer end of it. An arm-chair stands by this table, another at the further end of the settee. In the bay-window there is a writing-table with a writing-chair before it, and on the writing-table is a telephone-instrument. Other articles of furniture, some pieces of sculpture, and some handsome lamps on ped- estals, fill spaces not provided for in this description. A scarf of mousseline de soie and a pair of white gloves lie on the chair on the right of the fireplace. The fireless grate is hidden by a screen and, through the lace curtains, which are drawn over the window, a fierce sunlight is seen. The door at the back is slightly ajar. 417 4i 3 MID-CHANNEL [act hi [The telephone bell rings and presently Theodore Blundell enters at the door at the back, and goes to the writing-table. His step has become heavier, his shoulders are somewhat bent, and he looks a "bad colour." Theodore. [At the telephone.} Hallo! . . . Yes? ... I am Mr. Blundell. . . . Oh, is that you, Peter? . . . What? . . . Want to see me? . . . Anything wrong? . . . Where are you? . . . Where? . . . Cafe Royal? . . . Come along to me now, then. . . . Oh, I say! . . . Are you there? . . . [Dropping his voice.] I say! Mrs. A. is lunching with me. . . . Mrs. A. — Alice. ... No, but I thought I'd tell you. . . . Good-bye. [He is about to return to the dining-room when Mrs. Annerly appears in the doorway at the back. She is a pretty, charmingly-dressed creature with classical, immobile features and a simple, virginal air. Mrs. Annerly. [Advancing.] I've told Cole we'll have coffee in this room. [He nods and sits moodily upon the settee on the right. Resting her elbows on the back of the arm-chair at the further end of the settee on the left, she surveys her face in a tiny mirror which she carries, with some other trinkets, at- tached to a chain.] Who's that you were talking to on the 'phone, boy dear? Theodore. [Who is smoking a big cigar.] Mottram. Mrs. Annerly. What's he want? Theodore. Wants to see me about something. act in] MID-CHANNEL 4*9 Mrs. Annerly. Business? Theodore. Dun'no. Mrs. Annerly. [Sweetly.] He doesn't like poor little me. Theodore. [Indifferently.] Doesn't he? Mrs. Annerly. You know he doesn't. [Arranging a curl.] That's why you gave him the tip that I'm lunching here. Theodore. Ho! Listeners — et catera. Mrs. Annerly. I couldn't help hearing you ; positively I couldn't. [Ex- amining her teeth in the mirror.] He's one of your wife's tame cats, isn't he? Theodore. He's a friend of hers — yes. Mrs. Annerly. Just a friend, and nothing else. Theodore. [Angrily.] Now, look here, Alice ! [Cole, a manservant, enters from the dining-room with the coffee and liqueurs. Mrs. Annerly takes a cup of coffee. Cole. [To Mrs. Annerly.] Brandy — Kummel, ma'am? Mrs. Annerly. No, thanks. 4 20 MID-CHANNEL [act hi Theodore. [To Cole, tt'ho comes to him ivith the tray — irritably.] Leave it. [Cole places the tray on the top of the piano and is returning to the dining-room.] Cole Cole. Yessir? Theodore. I'm expecting Mr. Mottram. Cole. Very good, sir. [ The man withdraws, closing the door. Theodore rises and pours some brandy into a large liqueur- glass. Mrs. Annerly. [Who has seated herself upon the settee on the left.] What's the matter with you to-day, boy dear? You're as cross as two sticks. Theodore. Liver. Mrs. Annerly. [Sipping her coffee.] I don't wonder. Theodore. Why? Mrs. Annerly. You're getting rather too fond of — [pointing to the brandy] h'm, h'm. Theodore. [Bluntly.] It's false. Mrs. Annerly. [With undisturbed complacency.] I've seen so much of that sort o' thing in my time. [He makes a movement, as if to put down his glass without drinking.] Still, I must say you've every excuse. act m] MID-CHANNEL 421 Theodore. Alice Mrs. Annerly. What? [He gulps his brandy, puts the empty glass on the tray, and comes to her. Theodore. [Standing before her.] Alice, will you oblige me by re- fraining from making any allusion to my wife, direct or in- direct, in the future? It annoys me. Mrs. Annerly. Everything annoys you this afternoon. Theodore. You were at it last night, at the Carlton. And to-day, during lunch Mrs. Annerly. [In an injured tone.] It was you who told me that that little Jew chap had met her careering about Italy with young what's-his-name. [He sits in the arm-chair at the further end of the settee and leans his head on his hand.] Ah, but that was in your loving days — when you used to confide in me. Theodore. I was in a rage and said a great deal more than I thought. Mrs. Annerly. If you did, you needn't jump on me for trying to feel interested in you and your affairs. Theodore. [Facing her.] At any rate, understand me clearly, Alice — and then drop the subject. [Shortly.] Mrs. Blundell and 422 MID-CHANNEL [act hi I are separated ; she's gone one way, I another. There were faults on both sides, as usual, but I was mainly to blame. There's the thing in a nut-shell. Mrs. Annerly. This isn't in the least your old story. Theodore. Never mind my old story. [Extending a forefinger.] You forget the old story, my girl, if you wish our acquaint- ance to continue — d'ye hear? Mrs. Annerly. [Shaking herself.] You're a nasty savage. Theodore. As for that interfering cad Lowenstein, it unfortunately happens that one of Mrs. Blundell's characteristics is a habit of disregarding les convenances — a habit which I didn't go the right way to check. It's probable that, before she's done, she won't leave herself with as much reputation as 'ud cover a sixpence. She's impulsive, reckless, a fool — but she's no worse. [Eyeing the stump of his cigar fiercely.] My wife's no worse. So, hands off, if you please, in my presence. Whatever reports are circulated to her discredit, the man who speaks against her in my hearing is kicked for his pains ; and the woimn who does so, if she's under my roof, gets taken by the shoulders and shown the mat. [Looking at her.] Co?nprenez? Mrs. Annerly. [Pouting.] I should be a juggins if I didn't. Parfaite- ment — in my very best French. Theodore. [Rising and walking about.] That's settled, then. act in] MID-CHANNEL 423 Mrs. Annerly. [After a pause, rising and depositing her cup upon the table on the left — thoughtfully.} Boy dear * Theodore. [At the back.} Hey? Mrs. Annerly. It was regular cat-and-dog between you two at the end, wasn't it? Theodore. [Breaking out again.] It's no concern of yours whether it was or was not. I've asked you Mrs. Annerly. [Crossing to the right, ivith a shrug.} Oh ! Theodore. Yes, it was. [Half-sitting upon the back of the settee on the left.] I — I tired of her. Mrs. Annerly. [Philosophically.] Ah, men do tire. Theodore. And she of me. We'd been married close upon fourteen years. Mrs. Annerly. Oh, well, come; that's a long while. Theodore. [As much to himself as to her.] Our wedding-day's on the thirtieth of this month. [Hitting the back of the settee softly with his fist.] We'd reached a time in our lives when — when we were in mid-Channel 424 MID-CHANNEL [act hi Mrs. Annerly. Mid-Channel ? Theodore. [Rising.] Oh, you don't know anything about that. [There is a further silence. She sits upon the settee on the right, watching him as he moves about the room again. Mrs. Annerly. Here! [Beckoning him with a motion of her head.] Here! [He goes to her. She looks up into his face.] Why don't you marry me, Theo? Theodore. [Staring at her.] Marry — you? Mrs. Annerly. You'd find me awfully easy to get on with. Theodore. [Turning from her, quietly.] Oh ! Mrs. Annerly. Wait; you might listen, anyhow. [He turns to her.] I am — awfully easy to get on with. And I'd be as strict as — as strict as a nun. Honest injun ! I treated Annerly pretty badly, but that's ancient history. I was only seventeen when I married Frank — too inexperienced for words. I've learnt a lot since. Theodore. [Bitterly.] Ha! Mrs. Annerly. Now, don't be satirical. [Inviting him to sit by her side.] Theo [He sits beside her.] I say — bar chaff — I wish you would. act in] MID-CHANNEL 425 Theodore. [Absently.] What? Mrs. Annerly. Marry me. Really I do. [A note of wistfulness in her voice.] I really do want to re-establish myself. My life, these past few years, has been frightfully unsatisfactory. Theodore. [Touching her dress, sympathetically.] Ah! Mrs. Annerly. And I'm a lady, remember — giddy as I may have been. Put me in any society and I'm presentable, as far as manners go. I'd soon right myself, with your assistance. [Slipping her arm through his.] I suppose, under the circumstances, you couldn't divorce her, could you? Theodore. What d'ye mean? Mrs. Annerly. Your wife — over that Italian business. Theodore. [Jumping up.] Damn! Mrs. Annerly. Oh, I beg your pardon; it slipped out. [He ivalks away to the table at the back and begins to mix himself a whiskey- and-soda.] I'm dreadfully grieved; gospel, I am. [Rising.] Don't — don't, boy dear. Do leave that stuff alone. [He puts down the decanter and comes to the settee on the left.] I can't do more than apologize. Theodore. [Sitting.] Tsch! Hold your tongue. 426 MID-CHANNEL [act in Mrs. Annerly. [Sitting beside him.] No, but you could let her go for you, though; that could be fixed up. I'd even consent to be dragged into the case myself, if it would help matters for- ward; and goodness knows I've no ambition to appear in the Divorce Court again — I hate the hole. [Coaxingly.] You will consider it, won't you? Theodore. Consider what? Mrs. Annerly. Marrying me. Just say you'll consider it and I won't tease you any more to-day. You do owe me something, you know. Theodore. Owe you ? Mrs. Annerly. Well, you have compromised me by being seen about with me at different places lately; now, haven't you? [Theodore throws his head back and laughs boisterously.] There's nothing to laugh at. Perhaps I haven't a shred of character left, in your estimation! Theodore. Ho, ho! Mrs. Annerly. [Rising, piqued.] I presume you think I'm a person who'll accept a dinner at a restaurant from any man who holds up a finger to me! Theodore. Why, my dear girl, you were always bothering me to take you to the cook-shops. act in] MID-CHANNEL 427 Mrs. Annerly. Bothering! [Going to the chair on the right of the fire- place and gathering up her scarf. ] Oh, you're too rude! , Theodore. / was perfectly content with our quiet little meals here or in Egerton Crescent. Mrs. Annerly. Yes, and to bore me to tears! Theodore. Bore ? Mrs. Annerly. [Winding her scarf round her shoulders.] Bore, bore, bore! Theodore. [Scowling.] Oh, I — I bored you, did I? Mrs. Annerly. Talking to me, as you used to, like a sentimental young fellow of five-and-twenty ! Ridiculous! [Picking up her gloves.] I want a taxi-cab. Theodore. [Rising.] Stop — stop Mrs. Annerly. I've had quite sufficient of you for to-day. Theodore. [With a set jaw.] I've glad you've brought matters to a head, Ally. I've something to propose to you. Mrs. Annerly. [Pulling on a glove.] I've no desire to hear it. 428 MID-CHANNEL [act hi Theodore. Something that's been on my mind for — oh, a month or more. Mrs. Annerly. You can keep it to yourself. I'm not accustomed to being jeered at. Theodore. [Slowly walking over to the right.} I'm sorry if I've hurt your feelings Mrs. Annerly. It's the first time I've ever made advances to a man, and I assure you it'll be the last. Theodore. Ally Mrs. Annerly. [Moving towards the double-door.] Cole will get me a Taxi. Theodore. [Authoritatively.] Come here; come here; come here. Mrs. Annerly. [Halting behind the settee on the left, with a twist of her body.] I shall not. Theodore. [Snapping his finger and thumb.] Ally — [She approaches him with assumed reluctance.] Ally — [deliberately] what '11 you take? Mrs. Annerly. [Elevating her brows.] Take? Theodore. To put an end to this. Mrs. Annerly. An end! act m] MID-CHANNEL 429 Theodore. To end your boredom — and mine; terminate our — friend- ship. Mrs. Annerly. [Uncomfortably.] Oh, you — you needn't cut up as rough as all this. Theodore. Ah, no, no, no; I'm not angry. I'm in earnest, though. Come! What'll satisfy you? [She curls her lip fretfully.] A man of my years deserves to pay heavily at this game. What'll make you easy and comfortable for a bit? .I'll be liberal with you, my dear, and — [offering his hand] shake hands — [she turns her shoulder to him] shake hands — [she gives him her hand sulkily] and I — I'll ask you to forgive me Mrs. Annerly. [Withdrawing her hand.] Oh, for goodness' sake, don't let's have any more of that. [Contemptuously.] You elder- lies always wind up in the same way. [He seats himself at the writing-table and, unlocking a drawer, produces his cheque-book. Theodore. Would a couple of thousand be of any service to you? Mrs. Annerly. [Opening her eyes widely.] A couple of ! Theodore. [Preparing to write.] I mean it. Mrs. Annerly. [Breathlessly.] You don't! [He writes.] Why, of course it would. [Melting completely.] Oh, but it's too much; it is positively. I couldn't. And I've had such a lot 43 o MID-CHANNEL [act hi out of you already. You arc generous. [Behind his chair.] Fancy my being huffy with you just now! [Bending over him and arresting his pen.~\ Boy dear Theodore. Hey? Mrs. Annerly. [In a whisper.] Make it — three — will you? [He looks at her over his shoulder with a cynical smile. She retreats.] Oh, well! One isn't young and attractive for ever, you know. [He finishes writing the cheque and, having locked up his cheque-book methodically, rises and comes to her. Theodore. [Giving her the cheque.] There you are. Mrs. Annerly. [Examining it.] You — you've split the difference! You are kind. I didn't expect it in the least. [Folding the cheque neatly and finding a place for it in her bosom.] I am ashamed of myself for hinting so broadly. Thanks, a hundred times. [Blinking at him.] Sha'n't I miss you! [Cole enters at the double-door followed by Peter. Cole. Mr. Mottram. Theodore. [Greeting Peter at the fireplace as Cole retires.] Hallo! Peter. Hallo! [Bowing to Mrs. Annerly.] How d'ye do? Mrs. Annerly. [Who has moved over to the right — distantly.] How do you do? act m] MID-CHANNEL 43 1 Theodore. [To Mrs. Annerly.] By-the-bye, did you say you want a taxi-cab? Mrs. Annerly. If I*m not troubling you. [Theodore goes out at the double-door, closing it upon Peter and Mrs. Annerly. There is a pause. Mrs. Annerly, pulling on her second glove, looks out of the window; Peter whistles silently. Peter. [After a while.] Fine afternoon. Mrs. Annerly. Delightful. [After another pause, turning to him.] Er — h'm — how do you think he's looking? Peter. Blundell ? Seen him looking better. Mrs. Annerly. [With a sigh.] Ah! [In a mincing voice, approaching Peter.] Mr. Mottram, will you excuse me for offering a suggestion ? Peter. [Politely.] Fire away. Mrs. Annerly. [Sweetly.] Why don't you use your endeavours to bring Blundell and his wife together again? Peter. [Staring at her.] Eh? Mrs. Annerly. It would be such a good thing, wouldn't it? 432 MID-CHANNEL [act hi Peter. I agree with you ; it would indeed. Mrs. Annerly. I've done all / can to persuade him. [Peter's eyes open ivider and wider. She busies herself daintily with her glove.] And now, as he and I are breaking off with one another Peter. [Quickly. 1 I beg pardon? Mrs. Annerly. Perhaps you'll take on the job — see what you can do. Peter. Breaking-orr ? & Mrs. Annerly. [Loftily. ,] Yes; I can't stand the annoyance any longer. Peter. Annoyance? Mrs. Annerly. People are so spiteful. It's shocking — the ill-natured con- struction they put upon the most harmless little friendly acts! I admit I'm rather a careless woman — haven't I suffered from it! Peter. [Delicately.] Then, do I happen — may I ask — to be assistin' at the grand finale ? Mrs. Annerly. Certainly — [ivith sudden mistrust.] Don't you try to pull my leg, Mr. Mottram, please. [She draws her skirt aside and passes him haughtily as Theodore returns. Then she goes out, followed by act m] MID-CHANNEL 433 Theodore, who closes the door; whereupon Peter skips to the piano, seats himself at it, and strikes up a lively air. Presently Theodore reappears, shuts the door again, and resumes mixing his whiskey-and-soda. Theodore. Ouf ! [Peter takes his hands from the keyboard.] That's over. Peter. [Innocently.] Over? Theodore. You've seen the last of that lady, as far as I'm concerned. [He comes forward, carrying his tumbler, as Peter rises.] What d'ye think? [Grinning.] She's been at me to marry her. Peter. [Startled.] Not really! Theodore. To get rid of — present ties, and marry her. Peter. When — when did she ? Theodore. Just now — five minutes ago. [Struck by an odd expression in Peter's face.] Why, has she been saying anything ? Peter. [Soberly.] No, no; not a word. Theodore. Poor little devil! [He sits upon the settee on the left and drinks.] Poor — silly — little devil! 434 MID-CHANNEL [act hi Peter. [Coming to him.] And so you took the opportunity of — er — ? [Theodore nods.] Just so. Theodore. Ha! I expect I shall hear from her from time to time. Peter. Till the end o' your life. [Another nod from Theo- dore.] Or hers. And the nearer the end the oftener you'll hear. Theodore. Well, she shall have a trifle whenever she wants it. [Looking at Peter.] That's the least we can do, ol' man. Peter. Decidedly. That's the least we can do. Theodore. [Emptying his tumbler and jumping up.] Ugh! [Plac- ing the glass upon the table at the end of the settee.] I'll burn some pastilles here later on. [Confronting Peter.] Yes, you can have your crow ; you're entitled to it. Peter. Crow? Theodore. Your crow over me. Everything's turned out as you pre- dicted. Peter. [Demurely.] Did I ? Theodore. You know you did. "It's when the sun's working round to the west — " I often recall your damned words act m] MID-CHANNEL 435 Peter. Ah, that day Theodore. The day I left Lancaster Gate. "It's when men are where we are "now — " you remember? — "it's when men are where we are now that they're most liable to fall into mischief." [Walking away.] God! the idiot I've made of myself! [He goes to the fireplace and leans upon the mantelpiece. Peter. [Quietly.] Theo— — Theodore. H'm? Peter. [Moving to the settee on the left.] Talkin' of Lancaster Gate — I've got a bit o' noos for you. [Sitting upon the settee.] She's home. [There is no response from Theo- dore.] Zoe I'm speakin' of. She's home. Theodore. [Leaving the fireplace.] Thank'ee; I know. Peter. You know? Theodore. I was there on Monday. Peter. [Surprised.] There? Theodore. Passing the house. Peter. Signs o' life in the winders? 436 MID-CHANNEL [act hi Theodore. [Nodding.] H'm. [Coming forward.] You've seen her? Peter. This mornin'. Theodore. [Simply.] I was there again this morning. Peter. Passin' the house? Theodore. [Nodding.] H'm. Peter. You seem to take a great deal of exercise in that locality. Theodore. [Forcing a laugh.] Ha, ha! [Drearily.] Well, one had good times there as well as bad; and when one views it all from a distance Peter. The good times stand out? [Without replying, Theodore turns from Peter and sits upon the settee on the right. Theodore. [After a pause.] How — how did you find her? Peter. She ain't up to much. Theodore. What's; ? Peter. Chill. Theodore. Doctor? [Peter nods.] Rashleigh? act in] MID-CHANNEL 437 Peter. That's the feller. Oh, it's nothin' serious. Theodore. Chill*? Ha! I'll be bound she caught it through doing something foolish. [Fidgeting with his hands.} She has nobody to look after her — nobody to look after her. Peter. Her maid Theodore. Lena? Is Lena still with her? [A nod from Peter.] I'm glad Lena's still with her. Lena's fond of her. [Start- ing up and pacing the room.} Not that Lena can control her; a maid hasn't any authority. [Stopping before Peter.] She isn't very poorly? Peter. No, no. A little pulled down; that's all. And as charmin' as ever. [Theodore walks away and, with his hands in his pockets, gazes out of the window.} She ain't sleepin'; that's the real bother. Theodore. Not sleeping? Peter. Walks her room half the night and consooms too many cigarettes. Theodore. Why? Peter. I can only give you my impression Theodore. [Impatiently.} Well? 43 8 MID-CHANNEL [act irt Peter. My dear chap, d'ye think that she don't recollect the happy times as well as the bad 'uns? Ain't she viewin' it all from a distance, as you are; [rising] and don't the good times stand out in her mind as they do in yours? [Approaching Theodore.] Theo Theodore. H'm? Peter. I had a long confab with her this mornin'. Theodore. What about? Peter. The possibility of a — a reconciliation. [There is a pause and then Theodore turns to Peter. Theodore. [In a husky voice.} Ho! So that's what you're after, is it? Peter. Yes; and I'm bent on carryin' it through. Theodore. You — you meddlesome old buffer! Peter. [Chuckling.] Ha, ha! Theodore. How — how did she take it? Peter. In a way that convinced me you've only to assure her that your old feelin's for her have returned, and in spite of everythin' act m] MID-CHANNEL Theodore. Everything! Wait till she hears of sweet Alice. Peter. Wait! Theodore. [Looking at Peter.] Why, d'ye mean ? 439 Peter. Oh, yes; it's got to her. Theodore. [Dully.] Already? Peter. Jim Mallandain travelled with her from Paris on Sunday. Theodore. Did he ? Peter. I suppose he thought it 'ud amuse her. Theodore. The skunk! Peter. If it hadn't been Jim, it 'ud have been somebody else. Theodore. [Thickly.] You're right; somebody had to be first. Peter. However, I did my best for yer. Theodore. Denied it? Peter. Warmly. I defended you and the young lady with all the eloquence I could command. 440 MID-CHANNEL [act hi Theodore. Zoe didn't believe you? [A pause.] She didn't believe you? [Peter shrugs his shoulders.] Of course she didn't. [Passing Peter and walking about the room.] What did she say? Hey? Oh, I can guess; you needn't tell me. What's everybody saying? Peter, I'd give half as much as I'm worth to wipe the Annerly incident off my slate. I would, on the nail. Just fancy! To reach my age — and to be of decent repute — and then to have your name linked with a brainless, mercenary little trull like Alice Annerly! Ha, ha! Glorious fun for 'em in the City, and at the club! You hear it all. Confound you, can't you open your mouth! Ho! Of course Zoe sums it all up; she's cute enough when she chooses. [Sitting upon the settee on the left and mop- ping his face and throat with his handkerchief.] How did it end? Peter. End? Theodore. Your chat with my missus. Peter. It ended in my urgin' her to consider the matter — think it over. [Coming to him.] I'm dinin' with her next week. [Sitting in the chair at the further end of the settee.] If you'll authorize me to open negotiations with her on your 'behalf Theodore. I — I approach her! Peter. Cert'nly. Theodore. [Twisting his handkerchief into a rope.] No — no Peter. Why not? act m] MID-CHANNEL 441 Theodore. A couple o' months back I could have done it. Even as late as a fortnight ago — before I'd given myself away by showing myself in public with Alice — it might have been feasible.* [Between his teeth.] But now — when I — when I've lost any remnant of claim I may have had — on her respect ! Peter. [In his judicial manner.] My dear chap, here is a case Theodore. Hell with you and your case! [Jumping up and walking away to the right.] I couldn't screw myself up to it; I — I couldn't humble myself to that extent. [Moving about.] Ho! How she'd grin! She's got a cruel sense o' humour, Peter — or had once. You see, I always posed to her as being a strong, rather cold-blooded man Peter. A favourite pose, that, of husbands. Theodore. It was more than a pose — I thought I was a strong man. And then — to crawl back to her — all over mud ! [He halts in the middle of the room and, with a shaky hand, produces his cigar-case from his pocket and takes out a cigar. Peter. I was about to remark, when you chipped in with your usual politeness — I was about to remark that this is a case where two persons have behaved more or less stoopidly. Theodore. Two ? Peter. You more, she less. 442 MID-CHANNEL [act hi Theodore. [His brow darkening.] You — you're referring to ? Peter. Er — Mrs. Zoe Theodore. [Cutting his cigar viciously.] With — Ferris. Peter. Yes; and I think that the friend of both parties — the in- dividual on whose shoulders the task of adjustin' matters would fall — [rising] I think that that friend might manage to impose a condition which 'ud be greatly to your ad- vantage. Theodore. Condition? Peter. No imputations to be made on either side. Theodore. [Broodingly.] No — imputations ? Peter. Each party acceptin' the statement of the other party, and promisin' not to rake up anythin' that's occurred durin' the past four months. Theodore. I — I understand. Peter. It 'ud help to save your face for the moment, and the healin' hand of time might be trusted to do the rest. Theodore. [Quietly.] Peter Peter. Hallo! act m] MID-CHANNEL 443 Theodore. When I was at the house on Monday — my wife's house — half-past eleven in the morning Peter. Well? Theodore. There was a yellow car at the door. Peter. Yaller car? Theodore. I couldn't get near, but — that fellow has a yellow car. Peter. Has he? Theodore. [Grimly.] Why, he's driven you in it. Peter. [Carelessly.] I'd forgotten. Theodore. [Looking at Peter.] He's still hanging on to her skirts, hey? Peter. He's an ill-bred, tactless cub. But he's got a nice 'ead of 'air and smells o' soap; and that's the sort women love to have danglin' about after 'em. Theodore. [With an effort.] There — there's nothing in it, Peter, beyond that? Peter. [Waving his hand disdainfully.] Good God! 444 MID-CHANNEL [act hi Theodore. Oh, I know there isn't; I know there isn't. With all her faults, I know she's as straight as a die. [Looking at Peter again.] Did you touch on the subject with her? Peter. [Nodding.] I rubbed it in. I told her her conduct had been indiscreet to a degree. I thought it policy to rub it in. Theodore. Did she — offer any explanation? Peter. [Nodding.] Pure thoughtlessness. Theodore. And you felt that she was — speaking the truth? Peter. [Testily.] My dear Theodore Theodore. You swear that? [Suddenly, grasping the lapel of Peter's coat.] Damn it, man, you began talking about the thing ! [Cole enters at the double-door carrying a note in the shape of a cocked-hat. Theodore. [Angrily.] What d'ye want? Cole. I beg your pardon, sir. Theodore. [Going to him.] Hey? [He snatches the note from the man and, as he glances at the writing on it, his jaw drops. act m] MID-CHANNEL 445 Cole. [In a low voice.] An answer, sir. Theodore. [Trying to unfold the note.] Messenger? Cole. The lady herself, I think, sir. [There is a pause, and then Theodore slowly gets the note open and reads it. Theodore. [To Cole.] Where ? Cole. In the smoking-room, sir. Theodore. Er — wait. Cole. Yessir. [Cole withdraws. Theodore. [To Peter, who has wandered away.] Peter [Peter comes to him and Theodore hands him the note. Peter's eyes bolt as he recognizes the hand- writing. Peter. [Reading the note.] "Will you see me?" Short — [ex- amining both sides of the paper and then returning the note to Theodore] sweet. Theodore. [Chewing his unlighted cigar.] This is your doing. 446 MID-CHANNEL [act hi Peter. [Beaming.] I flatter myself it must be. [Laying a hand on Theodore's shoulder.} My dear Theo, this puts a noo aspect on the affair — clears the air. Theodore. New aspect ? Peter. She makes the first advances, dear kind soul as she is. [A pause.] Shall I — fetch her in? Theodore. Hold hard, hold hard ; don't be in such a devil of a hurry. [He leaves Peter and seats himself in a heap in the chair on the right of the fireplace. Peter moves softly to the double-door. Peter. [His hand on the door-handle — to Theodore.] May I? [Theodore raises his head and nods. Peter goes out. As the door closes, Theodore gets to his feet and flings his cigar into the grate. Then, hastily, he pro- ceeds to put the room in order, closing the piano and beating out and rearranging the pilloivs on the settees. Finally, he comes upon Mrs. Annerly's empty coffee-cup, picks it up, and vanishes with it into the dining-room. After a little while, the double-door opens and Peter returns. He glances round the room, looks surprised at not finding Theodore and, with a motion of the head, invites Zoe to enter. Pres- ently she appears, beautifully dressed. She also looks round; and, passing Peter, she moves trembling to the fireplace. He closes the door and joins her. Peter. [To Zoe.] You're a brick to do this. act m] MID-CHANNEL 447 Zoe. [Almost inaudibly.] Am I? Peter. You-'ll never regret it. Zoe. [Clutching Peter's arm.] He will be — kind to me? Peter. As kind as you are to him. Zoe. [Drawing a deep breath.] Ah! [She sits upon the settee on the right and her eyes roam about the room.] What a ripping flat! Peter. [Disparagingly.] Oh, I dun'no. Zoe. [With a wry mouth, plaintively.] He has been doing himself jolly well, in all conscience. [The dining-room door opens and Theodore appears. He shuts the door and edges towards Peter who leads him to Zoe. Peter. My dear old pals [Zoe gets to her feet and Theodore aivkwardly holds out his hand to her. Theodore. How are you, Zoe? Zoe. Fairly — thanks [She hurriedly produces her handkerchief from a gold bag hanging from her wrist and moves away to the left. There she sits upon the settee, struggling to 448 MID-CHANNEL [act hi command herself. Peter gives Theodore's arm a friendly grip and makes for the double-door. As he passes behind the settee on which Zoe is seated, he stops to pat her shoulder. Zoe. [In a whisper, seizing his hand.] Don't go, Peter; don't go. [He releases his hand, gives hers a reassuring squeeze, and goes to the door. Peter. [At the door, to Theodore.] I shall be in the City till six. [He departs. After a silence, Theodore approaches Zoe. They carefully avoid meeting each other's eyes. Theodore. It — it's very good of you, Zo, to — to hunt me up. Zoe. I — I went first to Copthall Court. [Wiping a tear from her cheek. ] I — I thought I should find you there. Theodore. I — I haven't been at all regular at the office lately. [A pause. They look about the room in opposite directions.] Er — Peter tells me he had a little talk with you this morning. Zoe. Y-yes. Theodore. About our — being reconciled. Zoe. Yes. act m] MID-CHANNEL 449 Theodore. W-well? [She puts her handkerchief away and takes from her bag a torn envelope ivith some inclosures. She gives it to him timidly and he extracts from the envelope a letter and a key.] The — the damned cruel letter I left be- hind me — that evening — with my latch-key. [She inclines her head.] May I — destroy it? [She nods assent, and he tears up the envelope and letter and crams the pieces into his trouser-pocket. Theodore. [Looking at the key.] The — the key ? Zoe. It — it's yours again — if you like. Theodore. You — you're willing ? [J gain she inclines her head, and he puts the key into a pocket in his waistcoat and seats himself humbly in the chair at the further end of the settee.] Thank'ee. [After a pause.] Zo Zoe. Yes? Theodore. [Turning to her but not lifting his eyes.] Look here. I'm not going to — try to deceive you. I — I want you to understand exactly what you're offering to take back. Zoe. Exactly ? Theodore. I gather from* Peter that you came over from Paris on Sunday in the company of Mr. Jim Mallandain. 450 MID-CHANNEL [act hi ZOE. I picked him up by chance at the Gare du Nord. Theodore. And Mr. Jim whiled away the journey by — by gossiping to you about me and — a woman of the name of Annerly? Zoe. On the boat. Theodore. Quite so. [A pause.] When you mentioned the matter to Peter, he produced the white-wash bucket, didn't he? Zoe. Slapped it on thick. Theodore. [Looking at her from under his brows.] But you didn't ? [She shakes her head.] You're right; Peter's a liar. It's a true bill. I wish it wasn't ; but it is. Zoe. [After a pause, steadily.] Well? Theodore. [Looking at her again.] Are you prepared to forgive me that too, then? [She nods, but with compressed lips. He bows his head.] Anyhow, I'm easier for making a clean breast of it. Zoe. How — how did you — come to ? Theodore. Lower myself with this hussy? [Looking up.] Isn't it all of a piece? Isn't it the natural finish of the mistakes of the last year or so — the errors we've committed since we began kicking each other's shins? [Quickly.] Oh, I'm not act m] MID-CHANNEL 45 1 reproaching you now for your share o' the transaction. It was my job — the husband's job — to be patient with you; to smooth you down gently, and to wait. But instead of doing that, I let my mind dwell on my own grievances ; with the result that latterly the one being in the world I envied was the fellow who'd kept his liberty, or who'd had the pluck to knock off the shackles. {Rising and walking about, gath- ering his thoughts as he proceeds.] Well, I got my freedom at last, didn't I ! And a nice mess I made of it. I started by taking a furnished lodging in St. James's Street — sky- high, quiet, peaceful! Ha! Hardly a fortnight was out before I had blue-devils and was groaning to myself at the very state of things I'd been longing for. Why should I be condemned, I said to myself — why should I be condemned to an infernal dull life while others round me were enjoying themselves like fighting-cocks! And just then this flat was offered to me as it stands; and in less than a month after I'd slammed the front-door at Lancaster Gate I was giving a dinner-party here — a house-warming [halting at the window, his back to Zoe] a dinner-party to four-and-twenty people, and not all of 'em men. Zoe. [In a low voice.] I heard of your setting up here while I W as — in Florence — [clenching her hands] in Florence. Theodore. [Resuming his walk.] However, so far it was nothing but folly on my part — egregious folly. And so it continued till I — till I had the honour of being introduced to Mrs. Annerly at a supper at Jack Ponccrot's. [Eyeing Zoe askance.] I won't give you the details of the pretty story; your imagination '11 supply those — the heading o' the chap- ters, at any rate. Chapter One, Conceit — I had the besotted vanity to fancy she — she liked me and was genuinely sympa- thetic towards me ; [at the mantelpiece, looking down into the 452 MID-CHANNEL [act hi grate] and so on to Chapter the Last — the chapter with the inevitable title — Disgust — Loathing — ! Zoe. [Thoughtfully.] You — you're sure you've reached the — *he final chapter? Theodore. [Turning to her.] Heavens, yes! [Shaking himself.] It's all over. I've paid her off — to-day, as it happens. I've been itching to do it; and I've done it. [Sitting upon the settee on the right.] Another month of her society, and I believe I'd have gone to the dogs completely. [His elbows on his knees, holding his head.] Zo Zoe. Eh? Theodore. Peter says you're walking your room half the night and smoking your nerves raw. Zoe. Does he? He needn't have repeated Theodore. Zo, I've been walking this horrible flat in the same way. / can't get to bed till I hear the rattle of the milk-carts. And I'm smoking too much — and — not only that Zoe. [Looking at him for the first time.] Not only what? Theodore. Well, a man doesn't smoke till four or five o'clock in the morning on cocoa, does he? [There is a moment's silence, and then she rises and goes to him. act m] MID-CHANNEL 453 Zoe. Oh— Theo ! Theodore. [Looking up at her.] So your liberty hasn't made you over happy, either, has it, old girl? Zoe. [Faintly.] No. Theodore. You've been thinking, too, of the good times we've had together, hey? Zoe. Y-yes. [He rises and places his hands upon her shoulders yearningly as if about to draw her to him. She shrinks from him with a startled look.] Theo Theodore. [Dropping his hands.] What? Zoe. [Nervously.] There — there's one thing I — I want to say to you — before we — before we go further Theodore. [Feeling the rebuff.] H'm? Zoe. As I've told you, I'm willing that you should return to Lancaster Gate. You may return as soon as you please; but Theodore. But? Zoe. It must be — simply as a companion, Theo; a friend. Theodore. [Stiffly.] A friend? 454 MID-CHANNEL [act hi ZOE. [With a slight shrug.} Not that we've been much else to each other these last few years — except enemies. Still Theodore. [Frowning. ,] You wish to make it perfectly clear. ZOE. Yes. Theodore. [After a pause, icily.] I beg your pardon. I was for- getting myself just now. Thanks for the reminder. [Walk- ing away from her.] Oh, I know you can feel only the most utter contempt for me — wholesale contempt. Zoe. [Entreatingly.] Ah, no; don't take that tone. Theodore. Stand the naughty boy in the corner; he's earned any amount of humiliation you choose to inflict. Zoe. You shall never be humiliated by me, Theo. Theodore. [Throwing himself upon the settee on the left.] Evi- dently ! Zoe. [Turning away.] Oh, for God's sake, don't let's begin fighting again ; [sitting on the settee on the right] don't let's do that. Theodore. Ha, ha! No, no; we won't squabble. Right you are; I accept the terms — any terms. [Lying at full length upon his back on the settee] As you say, we've been little more than act m] MID-CHANNEL 455 friends of late years — good friends or bad. [Throiuing one leg over the other.] It's your laying down the law so em- phatically that riled me. Sorry I growled. [ There is silence between them. She watches him guiltily. Suddenly he changes the position of his legs.] Zo Zoe. Yes? Theodore. [Gazing at the ceiling.] At the same time, I'm blessed if I wouldn't rather you wanted to tear my eyes out than that you should treat me in this lofty, condescending style — scratch my face and tear my eyes out. Zoe. Well, I — I don't, you see. Theodore. [Smiling unpleasantly.] Alice Annerly's an extremely handsome creature, my dear, whatever else she may be. Zoe. I'm — I'm sure of it. Theodore. Her photo's on the top of the piano. Zoe. [Restraining an impulse to glance over her shoulder.] I — I'm not curious. Theodore. Ho! You mayn't be aware of the fact, but I've paid you the compliment of resenting the deep devotion your pet poodle — Master Lenny Ferris — has been paying you recently. You might do me a similar honour. [Meditatively.] Master — blooming — Lenny! [Again there is a pause; and then, slowly, he turns upon his side so that he may face her.] I 45 6 MID-CHANNEL [act hi say, that was a pretty disgraceful business — your trapesing about Italy with that fellow. [Another pause.] Hey? Zoe. [Holding her breath.] It was — unwise of me, I own. Theodore. Unwise! Peter and I were discussing it when your note was brought in. Zoe. [Moistening her lips.] Were you? Theodore. [Harshly.] Yes, we were. [Another pause.] My God, I think it's / who ought to dictate what our domestic ar- rangements are to be in the future — not you! [A pause. With a motion of the head, he invites her to come to him.] Zoe — . [A pause.] Don't you hear me! [She hesitates; then she nerves herself and rises and, with a light step, crosses the room. Zoe. [Resting her arms on the back of the chair at the further end of the settee on which he is lying.] Still the same dear old bully, I notice. Theodore. Sit down. Zoe. Your gentle voice is quite audible where I am. Theodore. [Putting his feet to the ground.] You sit down a minute. Zoe. Puh! [She sits haughtily. act m] MID-CHANNEL 457 Theodore. Now, you look here, my lady; I should like an account of that Italian affair from the word go. ZOE. I'm not in the mood to furnish it. Theodore. Perhaps not ; but I'm in the mood to receive it. [A pause.] When did he join you? Zoe. He — he didn't join me; that's not the way to put it. Theodore. Put it any way you like. When was it? Zoe. At the — end of February, I think. Theodore. You think! [A pause.} What made him go out to you? Zoe. He knew I was awfully in the dumps Theodore. Did he? How did he know that? Zoe. He — guessed I must be. Theodore. Guessed ! Zoe. Well, I'd seen him before I went away. I was dreadfully depressed, Theo — dreadfully desolee. I never thought you'd bang out of the house as you did. I never meant, for a single moment 458 MID-CHANNEL [act hi Theodore. Where were you when he turned up? Zoe. I — I'd got to Florence. I'd been to Genoa and Pisa — I was drifting about Theodore. Did he dream you were in Florence? Zoe. Dream ? Theodore. He must have dreamt it. Zoe. Oh, I see what you're driving at. He — he'd had a post- card from me Theodore. A post-card! Zoe. [Feebly. ,] I — I don't mean one — you — you silly! I — I sent him a picture from each town — so I did to Peter Theodore. Why don't you admit that you and Ferris were corre- sponding? Zoe. I — I am admitting it. It's nothing to admit. Theodore. Isn't it? [A pause. ] Well, he arrives in Florence ? Zoe. Don't worry me this afternoon, Theo— <- Theodore. How Ions; was he with you in Florence? act m] MID-CHANNEL 459 ZOE. I'm seedy; I had quite a temperature yesterday. Lena called in Rashleigh t Theodore. How long was he with you in Florence? Zoe. He wasn't "with" me. Theodore. How long? Zoe. A week — eight days Theodore. Same hotel? Zoe. No, no, no! Theodore. And afterwards ? Zoe. I wanted to do a little tour of the quiet old places — Perugia — Siena Theodore. So did he, hey? Zoe. He tacked on. I saw no harm in it at the time. At the Nor do time! I now. Theodore. Zoe. Theodore. It was coming from Perugia you fell up against Lowen- stein. 460 MID-CHANNEL [act in ZOE. If you were a man you'd thrash that beast. Theodore. Lowenstein had the room at the hotel there — the Brufani — that Ferris had had. Zoe. [Protestingly.] Ah ! Theodore. In the same corridor as yours was. Zoe. It was stupid — stupid — stupid of Lenny to let them carry his bag up to the Brufani. It was all done before — before it dawned on him Theodore. Where were you moving on to when Lowenstein met you at Arezzo? [A pause.] Hey? Zoe. [Passing her hand across her brow, weakly.] Let me off to-day, Theo; my head's going like a clock. [Getting to her feet.] Take it up again another time. [She goes to the settee on the right and picks up her bag which she has left there. He rises and follows her, so that when she turns they come face to face. She steadies herself.] Well, you turn it over in your mind about coming back to me. I don't want to put pressure on you; only I — I understood from Peter you were feeling kindly towards me again. Theodore. [Quietly.] When did you see Ferris last? Zoe. Oh, drop Ferris. act m] MID-CHANNEL 461 Theodore. When? ZOE. Oh — over two months ago — at the end of the little jaunt. Theodore. Not since? [She looks at him vacantly and shakes her head.] That's a lie. He was with you on Monday morning at half-past eleven. D'ye deny it? Zoe. You — you're so jealous, one — one's afraid Theodore. [With sudden, fierce earnestness.] Zoe Zoe. [Helplessly.] I'm not going to remain here to be- Theodore. Give me your word nothing wrong's occurred between you and Ferris. [A pause.] I don't ask for your oath; I'll be satisfied with your word. [A pause.] Give me jour word. [She sits upon the settee, her hands lying in her lap. Zoe. [Staring at him.] Theo — I've forgiven you; forgive me. [There is a silence and then, dumhfoundered, he moves to the chair at the further end of the settee on the left and sits there. Theodore. [After a while.] Florence? Zoe. No. Perugia — Siena — [Brokenly.] It was in Florence I first lost my senses. I'd been pitying you, hating myself 462 MID-CHANNEL [act iii for the way I'd served you, and had been trying to concoct a letter to you. And then one arrived from him, telling me you'd taken this big flat and were having a splendid time. It made me furious ; and when he came through to me, I was half beside myself. And then he planned out the little tour, and I said Yes to it. [Wringing her hands.] Why! Why did I fall in with it! I shall never know why — except that I was mad — blind mad ! [Leaning back, her eyes closed.] Get me a drop o' water. [He rouses himself and goes to the table on the left of the fireplace and half-fills a tumbler with soda-water. Then he brings her the tumbler and holds it out to her. Theodore. Here Zoe. [Opening her eyes and looking up at him beseechingly.] Be — merciful to me. Theodore. [Peremptorily.] Take it. Zoe. [Barely touching the glass.] Don't — don't be hard on me, old man. [He thrusts the tumbler into her hand and she drinks. Theodore. [Heavily.] I — I must have some advice about this — some advice. Zoe. Advice? [He goes to the writing-table, sits there, and places the telephone-receiver to his ear.] You — you won't do anything to disgrace me publicly, will you, Theo? [He taps the arm of the instrument impatiently.] You won't do any- thing spiteful? [He rings again.] You and I are both sinners, Theo; we've both gone a mucker. act m] MID-CHANNEL 463 Theodore. {Speaking into the telephone] London Wall, one, throe, double five, eight. Zoe. That's Peter. He won't advise you to do anything spite- ful. [She rises painfully, puts the tumbler on the top of the piano, and ivalks about the room.] What can you do? You can do nothing to hurt me ; nor I you. We're both sinners. Theodore. [Into the telephone.] Hallo! . . . Arc you Blundell, Slade and Mottram? ... Is that Mr. Ewart? . . . Mr. Blundell. . . . Mr. Mottram not back yet, I suppose? . . . Zoe. [In a murmur.] Both — both gone a mucker. Theodore. [Into the telephone.] . . . When he comes in, tell him I want to see him at once. . . . Cavendish Square ... at once. . . . [Replacing the receiver.] Good-bye. Zoe. [On the left.] Peter — Peter won't let you — be too rough on me. Theodore. [Leaning his head on his hands.] Ho, ho! An eye-opener for Peter! But he's been a first-rate prophet all the same. [In a muffled voice.] Yes, Peter's been right all along the line, with his precious mid-Channel! Zoe. [Looking at him and speaking in lore, measured tones.] Theo [He makes no response.] 'Hieo [Coming to him slowly.] I — I was thinking it over — beating it all 464 MID-CHANNEL [act hi out — driving into the City and back again. Our marriage was doomed long, long before we reached mid-Channel. Theodore. [Absently, not stirring.] Oh? Zoe. It was doomed nearly fourteen years ago. Theodore. [As before.] Oh? Zoe. From the very beginning. Theodore. [Raising his head.] What d'ye ? Zoe. It was doomed from the moment we agreed that we'd never be encumbered in our career with any — brats of chil- dren. [He partly turns in his chair, to listen to her.] I want you to remember that bargain, in judging me; and I want you to tell Peter of it. Theodore. Yes, it suits you to rake that up now Zoe. [Pressing her fingers to her temples.] If there had been "brats of children" at home, it would have made a different woman of me, Theo; such a different woman of me — and a different man of you. But, no; everything in the earlier years of our marriage was sacrificed to coining money — to shoving our way through the crowd — to "getting on"; every- thing was sacrificed to that. Theodore. [Angrily.] Oh ! act m] MID-CHANNEL 465 Zoe. And then, when we had succeeded — when we had got on — we had commenced to draw apart from each other ; and there was the great, showy, empty house at Lancaster Gate for me to fret and pine in. [He waves his arms scornfully.] Oh, yes, we were happy in those climbing days — greedily, feverishly happy; but we didn't look to the time when we should need another interest in life to bind us together — the time when we'd got on in years as well as in position. [Theodore starts up.] Ah, Theo, I believe we should have crossed that Ridge safely enough [laying her hands upon his breast] but for our cursed, cursed selfishness ! Theodore. [Shaking himself free.] Well, there's not the slightest use in talking about what might, or might not, have been. [Passing her and pacing the room.] One thing is absolutely certain — it's impossible for us ever to live under the same roof again under any conditions. That's out o' the question; I couldn't stoop to that. Zoe. [Leaning against the chair at the writing-table.] No, you draw the line at stooping to Mrs. Annerly. Theodore. Oh, don't keep on harping on that string. The cases are as far apart as the poles. Zoe. [Faintly.] Ha, ha! Theodore. [Halting in the middle of the room and drumming upon his brow with his fingers.] Of course, we can make our separation a legal one; but that wouldn't give us release. And as long as we're tied to one another — [abruptly, looking at her.] Zoe 466 MID-CHANNEL [act hi ZOE. [Meekly.] Eh? Theodore. If I allowed you to divorce me — made it easy for you — would Ferris — would that scoundrel marry you ? Zoe. [Turning to him, blankly. \ M-marry me? Theodore. Because — if it 'ud save you from going utterly to the bad Zoe. [Advancing a step or two.] No, no; I wouldn't — I wouldn't marry Lenny. Theodore. [After a moment's pause, sharply.] You wouldn't? Zoe. No — no Theodore. [Coming close to her.] Why not? [She shrugs her shoulders confusedly.] Why not? [She wavers, then grasps his arm. Again he shakes her off. Zoe. [Appealingly.] Oh, Theo, stick to me. Don't throw me over. Wait — wait for Peter. Theo, I've never ceased to be fond of you Theodore. Faugh ! Zoe. Not at the bottom of my heart. No, nor you of me ; there's the tragedy of it. Peter says the same. [Seizing his hand.] Take time ; don't decide to-day act m] MID-CHANNEL 467 Theodore. [Freeing his hand and looking at her piercingly.] When did you see him last? Zoe. H-him? Theodore. Ferris. Zoe. This — this morning. Theodore. This morning! Zoe. I — I confess — this morning. I — I sent him away. Theodore. » Sent him — away? Zoe. [Nodding.] Yes — yes Theodore. [Slowly.] And so you rush off to me — straight from the young gentleman Zoe. W-well? Theodore. [Suddenly.] Why, damn you, you've quarrelled! Zoe. No Theodore. He's chucked you ! Zoe. No Theodore. Had enough of you! 468 MID-CHANNEL [act hi Zoe. [Her eyes blazing.] That's not true! Theodore. Ho, ho! You bring me his cast-off trash, do you ! Zoe. It's a lie! Theodore. Mr. Lenny Ferris's leavings! Zoe. It's a lie ! He'd give his soul to make me his wife. Theodore. Will he tell me that? Zoe. Tell you ! Theodore. {Between his teeth.] If he doesn't, I'll break every bone in his carcase. Zoe. [Throwing her head up defiantly.] Of course he'd tell you. Theodore. {Walking away to the fireplace.] He shall have a chance of doing it. Zoe. [Making for the door, wildly.] The sooner the better! Theodore. [Looking at his ivatch.] If Pete:' were here act m] MID-CHANNET 469 ZOE. [Behind the settee on the left, turning to THEODORE.] Mind! I've your bond! If Lenny promises to marry me, you'll let me free myself from you? Theodore. I've said so. Zoe. [Missing her bag, which is again lying upon the settee on the left, and pointing to it.] Please [He picks up the bag, and is about to take it to her, when he remembers that he has the latch-key in his pocket. He produces the key and drops it into the bag. Theodore. [As he does so.] You'll want this for your new husband. Zoe. Thank God, I've done with the old one! [He tosses the bag to her in a fury and she catches it.] Ha, ha! [At the door.] Ta, ta! [She disappears. Theodore. [Flourishing his hands.] Oh ! [Going to the piano, he takes the decanter of brandy and a glass, from the tray and fills the glass to the brim. END OF THE THIRD ACT ^^ THE FOURTH ACT i The scene is a pretty, irregularly-shaped room, simply but tastefully furnished. At the back, facing the spectator, are two double-windows opening to the floor. These zuindows give on to a balcony which appears to continue its course outside the adjoining rooms both on the right and left. Beyond the balcony there is an open space and, in the distance, a view of the upper part of the Albert Hall and of other lofty buildings. On the left is the fireplace — its grate empty, save for a few pots of flowers — and, nearer the spectator, there is a door opening from a corridor. Opposite this door is a door of like dimen- sions, admitting to a bedroom. One either side of the fireplace and of the left-hand window there is an arm-chair; facing the fireplace there is a settee; and at the back of the settee are a small writing-table and writing-chair. A leathern tub for waste-paper stands beside the writing-table. On the right of the room is a round table upon which tea is laid for three persons. Two chairs — one on the left, another at the further side — and a settee on the right are drawn up close to this table. Elsewhere are a book-case, a smoking-cabinet, and some odds and ends of furniture — the whole being characteristic of a room in a STnall flat occupied by a well-to-do, but not wealthy, young man. Both the windows are open, and the glare of the after- noon sun is on the balcony and the opposite buildings. [Mrs. Pierpoint, Ethel, and Leonard — the ladies in their hats and gaily dressed — are seated at the round table. 47 1 472 MID-CHANNEL [act iv Leonard. [In the chair on the left of the table — handing a dish of cakes to Mrs. Pierpoint.] Do try one of these little cakes. Mrs. Pierpoint. [In the chair at the further side of the table.] I couldn't. Leonard. I bought them and carried 'em home myself. Mrs. Pierpoint. You really must excuse me. Leonard. [Pushing the dish towards Ethel, who is on the settee facing him.] Buck up, Ethel. Ethel. Good-bye to my dinner, then. [Taking a cake and biting it as she speaks.] May I, mother? Mrs. Pierpoint. [Cheerfully.] Now, isn't that the modern young lady exactly! May I, mother! And the cake is half eaten before the poor mother can even nod her head. Ethel. [Laughing.] Ha, ha! Mrs. Pierpoint. May I go out for a walk, mother; and the front door bangs on the very words! May I do this; may I do that! And a nice life the mother leads if she dares to say No. act iv] MID-CHANNEL 473 Ethel. This sounds suspiciously like a sermon. [To Leonard.] Lenny, git up straight and be preached to. [Pushing her cup to Mrs. Pierpoint who has the tea-tray before her.] Another cup of tea, your reverence. Mrs. Pierpoint. Ethel! How — how irreligious! [Pouring out tea.] Ah, but it's true, every syllable of it. And in nothing is this spirit of — what shall I describe it as? Ethel. Go-as-you-pleasedness. Mrs. Pierpoint. [Giving Ethel her tea.] In nothing is this wilful, thoughtless spirit more plainly shown than in the way love- affairs are conducted at the present day. Ethel. [Whistling slyly.] Phew! Mrs. Pierpoint. [To Leonard.] More tea, Leonard? Leonard. No, thanks. Mrs. Pierpoint. [Resignedly.] I suppose I must call you Leonard now? Ethel. [Into her tea-cup.] What's the matter with "Lenny"? Mrs. Pierpoint. I may be wrong, but I don't think that it was the fashion in my youth for a young lady suddenly to appear before her 474 MID-CHANNEL [act iv mother and to say, without a note of warning, "Mr. So- and-so is in the drawing-room and we wish to be engaged." Take the case of Ethel's papa — there's a case in point Leonard. I certainly intended to speak to you first, Mrs. Pierpoint. Ethel. [To Leonard.] You fibber! Mrs. Pierpoint. Ethel! Leonard. Well, I — what I mean is Ethel. If you had done so, I'd never have looked at you again. Surely, if there is one thing which is a girl's own particula* business, it is settling preliminaries with her best young man, Mrs. Pierpoint. My dear! Ethel. [Jumping up.] Anyhow, mother, if you wanted to play the dragon, you shouldn't have been upstairs, sleeping off the effects of an exceedingly heavy lunch, when Lenny arrived this afternoon. Mrs. Pierpoint. Fiddle, heavy lunch ! A morsel of minced chicken ! Ethel. Ha, ha! [Bending over Mrs. Pierpoint.] And you don't mind, do you — not actually [kissing Mrs. Pier- point] as long as ? Mrs. Pierpoint. As long as what? act iv] MID-CHANNEL 475 Ethel. As long as — Lenny's contented? • Mrs. Pierpoint. [Shaking herself. ,] Oh, go away. [Laughing, Ethel wanders about inspecting the various objects in the room. Leonard. [To Mrs. Pierpoint, producing his cigarette-case.] Do you object? Mrs. Pierpoint. Not in the least. Ethel's papa used to indulge, in modera- tion. Leonard. [To Ethel, over his shoulder.] Cigarette, Ethel? Mrs. Pierpoint. Ethel, I forbid it. Ethel. [Putting on her gloves.] I would, but it makes me swimmy. Mrs. Pierpoint. [To Ethel.] How do you know? Ethel. I've smoked with Zoe Blundell. Mrs. Pierpoint. This is news to me. Ethel. Zoe smokes like a chimney. Mrs. Pierpoint. [To Leonard.] By-the-bye, she's in London again. 476 MID-CHANNEL [act iv Leonard. [Uncomfortably.] Yes — yes. Mrs. Pierpoint. Ethel called on her this morning at Lancaster Gate. Leonard. Did she? Ethel. [To Leonard.] I told you, Len. Leonard. Ah, yes. Mrs. Pierpoint. [To Leonard.] Have you seen her? I presume not. Leonard. Er — for a few minutes. I was in the neighbourhood on — on Monday, and I noticed the blinds were up, and I — I just rang the bell to — to inquire. Mrs. Pierpoint. [Elevating her eyebrows.] She received you? Leonard. She — she happened to be in the hall. Mrs. Pierpoint. I was going to say — a woman in her peculiar position ought hardly Leonard. No, of course. Mrs. Pierpoint. Looks ill, I understand? Ethel. Frightfully. act iv] MID-CHANNEL 477 Leonard. Does she? Mrs. Pierpoint. I am . afraid — I am very much afraid — that dear Mrs. Blundell was not entirely free from blame in her treatment of that big rough husband of hers. Ethel. [At the left-hand window.] Rubbish, mother! Mrs. Pierpoint. Ethel, you are too disrespectful. Ethel. Sorry. Mrs. Pierpoint. At the same time, she is an exceedingly attractive person — a trifle vulgar, poor soul, occasionally Ethel. [Hotly.] Mother! Mrs. Pierpoint. [To Leonard.] But good-natured people frequently are vulgar — aren't they? Ethel. [Going on to the balcony.] Oh ! Mrs. Pierpoint. [To Leonard.] You were quite a friend of hers before the sad split, weren't you — quite a friend ? Leonard. Yes, I — I always found her a very decent sort. Ethel. [Her hands upon the rail of the balustrade, calling.] Mother, do come and look at the tiny men and women. 478 MID-CHANNEL [act iv Mrs. Pierpoint. Men and women ? [Mrs. Pierpoint rises and goes to the window, whereupon Leonard jumps up as if relieved by the interruption.] You're soiling your gloves, Ethel. Ethel. Look down there. What tots! Mrs. Pierpoint. [Drawing back from the window.] Oh, my dear, I can't Ethel. Do, mother. Mrs. Pierpoint. You know I don't care for heights. Ethel. I'll steady you. [Mrs. Pierpoint timidly ventures on to the balcony. Ethel takes her arm.] There's been a con- cert — or a meeting. [Calling.] Lenny [Leonard has walked away to the writing-table gloomily. He is about to join the ladies on the balcony when the door on the left opens and RlDEOUT, his servant, appears. Leonard. [To Rideout.] Eh? [After glancing discreetly in the direction of the ladies on the balcony, RlDEOUT produces a visiting-card from behind his back. Leonard goes to him and takes the card, and looks at it in astonishment. RlDEOUT. [Quietly.] There's some writing on it, sir. Leonard. I see. [In a low voice.] Where is she? act iv] MID-CHANNEL 479 RlDEOUT. In my room, sir. I said you were engaged. Leonard. [Uneasily.] You didn't tell her who's here. RlDEOUT. No, sir; merely some friends to tea. Leonard. All right. I sha'n't be very long. [RlDEOUT is going.] Tss— ! RlDEOUT. [Stopping.] Yessir? Leonard. Keep your door shut. RlDEOUT. Yessir. [Rideout withdraws. Leonard crams the card into his waistcoat-pocket and is again about to join the ladies when Mrs. Pierpoint comes back into the room. Mrs. Pierpoint. [To Leonard.] Thank you for showing us your charm- ing little nest. Quite — quite delightful! Leonard. {Standing by the round table.] Oh, for bachelor quarters Mrs. Pierpoint. [In the middle of the room.] There! I declare I often wonder what there is to tempt a bachelor to marry in these days. Leonard. You're not a bachelor, Mrs. Pierpoint. 480 MID-CHANNEL [act iv Mrs. Pierpoint. No; that's true. That's perfectly true. But I've a dis- tinct remembrance of the rooms Ethel's papa lived in when he was a bachelor. [Ethel returns and goes to the fire- place.] They were in Keppel Street, and vastly different from these. [Turning to Ethel.] Have I ever told you that poor papa lived in Keppel Street? Ethel. [Demurely.] Yes, mother. Mrs. Pierpoint. [To Ethel.] And now, my dear, as we have to dine at half-past seven — [to Leonard] what time does Louise begin ? ■ Leonard. Oh, if we get there at nine Mrs. Pierpoint. So kind of you to take us — and as Ethel must lie down on her bed for an hour if we want her to look her best — [pointing to the tea-table] may I trouble you — my fan? " [Leonard searches for Mrs. Pierpoint's fan among the tea-things. Ethel. [Kneeling upon the settee on the left, her elbows on the back of it, gazing into space.] Mother Mrs. Pierpoint. Eh? [Receiving her fan from Leonard.] Thank you. Ethel. [Sloivly.] Mother — this is going to be an awfully happy night. act iv] MID-CHANNEL 481 Mrs. Pierpoint. I'm sure I hope so, my darling. It won't be my fault If it isn't — [tapping Leonard's shoulder with her fan] nor Leonard's. Ethel. Ah, no; I mean the night of one's life perhaps. Mrs. Pierpoint. Oh, I trust we shall have many, many Leonard. Rather ! Ethel. [Raising herself and gripping the back of the settee.] No, no; you don't understand, you gabies. In everybody's life there's one especial moment Mrs. Pierpoint. Moment ? Ethel. Hour — day — night; when all the world seems yours — as if it had been made for you, and when you can't help pitying other people — they seem so ordinary and insignificant. Well, I believe this is to be my evening. Mrs. Pierpoint. One would imagine / had never given you any pleasure, to hear you talk. Ethel. [Rising.] I say, mother, don't make me lie down, and lose consciousness, when I get home. [Going to Mrs. Pier- point with extended arms.] Ah, ha! You duck — ! [In advancing to Mrs. Pierpoint, Ethel knocks over the waste-paper tub with her skirt and its contents are scattered on the floor* 482 MID-CHANNEL [act iv Ethel. [Going down on her knees and replacing the litter.} Sorry. Mrs. Pierpoint. [To Ethel.] You'll crease your skirt, Ethel. Leonard. [Going to Ethel.] Never mind that. Ethel. Oh, but if I do anything clumsy at home — ! [coming upon some fragments of a photograph.] Oh — ! [trying to fit the pieces together J] Zoe! Leonard. Yes, I— I Mrs. Pierpoint. [Who has moved to the fireplace.} Pray get off the floor, child. Ethel. [Finding more pieces.] Why, you've been tearing up Zoe's photos. Leonard. They're old things. Ethel. That they're not. This one isn't, at all events. [Examin- ing one of the scraps closely.] " — Firenze." Mrs. Pierpoint. Ethel, we must be going. Leonard. [Almost roughly.] Leave them alone, Ethel. [A little startled by his tone, she drops the pieces into the basket and he assists her to rise. act iv] MID-CHANNEL 483 Mrs. Pierpoint. [Opening the door on the left.] Come along at once, I insist. [Mrs. Pierpoint goes out. Ethel is following her mother when she turns to Leonard who is behind her. Ethel. [To Leonard, with a smile.] Sorry I contradicted you. [They kiss hurriedly and Ethel runs after her mother. Leonard follows and closes the door. After a Utile while, the door is reopened, and Rideout enters with Zoe. Zoe is dressed as when last seen. Rideout. [To Zoe, as she passes him.] Mr. Ferris has gone to the lift, ma'am. He won't be a minute. Zoe. [Going to the left-hand window, languidly.] All right. Rideout. [At the round table, putting the tea-things together upon the tray.] Shall I make you some tea, ma'am? Zoe. [Looking out of the window, speaking in a dull voice.] No; I've had tea, in a tea-shop. [Turning.] Rideout Rideout. Yes, ma'am? Zoe. I should like to tidy myself, if I may; I've been walking about. Rideout. [Going to the door on the right and opening it.] Cert'nly, ma'am. [As Zoe approaches.] The hot water flows cold for a few seconds, ma'am. 484 MID-CHANNEL [act iv ZOE. Is there any scent? Rideout. There's some eau-de-cologne on the dressing-table, ma'am. [She disappears and Rideout closes the door and con- tinues his preparations for removing the tea-things. Leonard returns. Rideout. [Answering a look of inquiry from LEONARD.] Mrs. Blundell's tidying herself, sir. Leonard. Oh, yes. [Moving about the room, irritably.] Won't she have some tea? Rideout. I did ask her, sir. She's had it. Leonard. [Halting.] Did Mrs. Blundell — say anything, Rideout? Rideout. [Folding the table-cloth.] Only that she wanted to see you just for ten minutes, sir, and that she thought she'd wait. And then she wrote on her card and told me to slip it into your hand if I got the opportunity. Leonard. [Resuming his walk.] Yes, yes. Rideout. [After a pause.~\ What time'll you dress, sir ? Leonard. Quarter to seven. I have to dine at half-past. Rideout. Which suit '11 you wear, sir? act iv] MID-CHANNEL 485 Leonard. [Considering.'] Er — pink lining. * RlDEOUT. Theatre, sir? Leonard. Opera. Two pairs o' gloves. [Rideout goes towards the door on the left, carrying the tea-tray.] Tss ! Rideout. Yessir ? Leonard. There's no necessity to put out my clothes yet awhile. Rideout. [Placing the tray upon a piece of furniture so that he can open the door.] No, sir. Leonard. I'll ring when you can come through. Rideout. [Opening the door.] Yessir. Leonard. And I'm not at home to anybody else. Rideout. [Taking up the tray.] No, sir. [As the man is leaving the room, Leonard comes to the door to close it.] Thank you very much, sir. [Rideout goes out and Leonard shuts the door. As he turns from the door, his eyes fall upon the waste-paper tub. He snatches it up angrily. Leonard. [Reopening the door and calling.] Rideout 486 MID-CHANNEL [act iv RlDEOUT. [Out of sight.] Yessir? [Rideout presents himself at the door without the tray. Leonard. [Shaking up the contents of the tub and then giving it to Rideout.] Burn this waste-paper. Rideout. Yessir. [Rideout closes the door and Leonard is again walk- ing about the room when Zoe, carrying her hat, gloves, and bag, appears on the balcony outside the right-hand window. She enters and they look at one another for a moment without speaking. Leonard. Hallo, Zo ! Zoe. Hallo, Len! Leonard. This is a surprise. Zoe. [Putting her hat, gloves, and bag upon the round table — nervously.] Is it? Leonard. I thought you'd dropped my acquaintance for good and all. Zoe. N — no, Len. Why should you think that? Leonard. Ha! Well, I bear the marks of the point of your shoe somewhere about me. act iv] MID-CHANNEL 487 ZOE. Oh, you — you mustn't take me too seriously when I'm in one of my vile tempers. [A pause.] I — I'm not — keeping you ?* Leonard. No, no. Zoe. [ Turning the chair on the left of the round table so that it faces the writing-table.] May I sit down? Leonard. Do. Zoe. I was here three-quarters-of-an-hour ago, but the porter said you were out; so I went and got some tea. [Sitting.] You've been entertaining, according to Rideout. Leonard. [Turning the chair at the writing-table and sitting facing her.] A couple o' people turned up — old friends Zoe. You are a gay dog. [Suddenly, staring at the writing- table.] Why — where — where am /? Leonard. You? Zoe. You always have a photograph of me, standing on your writing-table. Leonard. O— oh, it's Zoe. [Remembering.] And there isn't one now — [glancing at the door on the right] in your ! 488 MID-CHANNEL [act iv Leonard. The frames had got beastly shabby. Rideout's taken 'em to be done up. Zoe. [Flatteringly.] Honour? [A pause.} Honour? Leonard. If — if I say so Zoe. I beg your pardon. No, you wouldn't out my photos be- cause of a — because of a little tiff, would you ? Leonard. L— likely! Zoe. [Rising and going to him.] I'm sure you wouldn't, dear boy; I'm sure you wouldn't. [Again there is a pause, during which she passes her hand over his shoulder caressingly, .] Len Leonard. Eh? Zoe. [Standing behind him.] After that — stupid fall-out of ours this morning — what d'ye think I did? Leonard. Did? Zoe. Ha, ha! I — I took it into my head to — to pay Theodore a visit. Leonard. Pay him a visit! Zoe. It — it was one of my silly impulses — I was so upset at having offended you act iv] MID-CHANNEL 489 Leonard. Did you see him ? Zoe. Y — yes. Leonard. And what had he to say for himself? Zoe. Oh, I — I made such a mash of it, Len. Leonard. Mash ? Zoe. Yes, I — I let him worm it out of me. Leonard. Worm it out of you? Zoe. Worm it — all out Leonard. Worm what out of you? Zoe. [Faintly.] P- Perugia [There is a silence, and then Leonard rises with an angry look. Zoe. [Holding the lapels of his coat.] Don't be savage with me, Len. It wasn't altogether my fault. He had heard of it from Claud Lowenstein. And it's of no consequence; none whatever. It's just as you said this morning — he is ready to make matters smooth for us. Leonard. [Blankly.] Smooth — for us! 490 MID-CHANNEL [act iv ZoE. Yes, to let me divorce him. He's promised — he's promised to do so, if you'll — only Leonard. [His jaw dropping.] If / ? Zoe. If you'll give him your word that you'll do the right thing by me. Leonard. The right thing ! Zoe. Marry me. [A pause.] I — I suppose he — I suppose he'll demand to see you. Or perhaps he'll make Peter Mottram a go-between. \Again there is a silence, and then he walks away from her. She follows him with her eyes. Leonard. [Thickly.] But you — you wished me good-bye this morn- ing — finished with me. Zoe. [Clenching her hands.~] I know — I know! [Coming to him.] But he — he insulted me, Len — stung me. He flung it in my face that you — that you'd chucked me; that I was your cast-off, your leavings. I couldn't bear it from him; and I — I told him that you were all eagerness to make me your wife. [A pause.] Well! And so you were — this morning! [He sits in the chair on the left of the round table, his elbows on his knees, holding his head. Leonard. Zoe act iv] MID-CHANNEL 49 1 ZoE. W-wliat? Leonard. These people I've had to tea this afternoon — ladies — two ladies ZOE. Yes? Leonard. Mrs. Pierpoint was one of them — and — and Zoe. Mrs. Pierpoint ? Leonard. [Raising his head and looking at her.] The other was — Ethel. Zoe. Eth-el ! Leonard. [In a low voice.] You — you made me do it. Zoe. [Dazed.] I — I made you ! [Drawing a deep breath.] Oh-h-h! [She turns from him slowly, and seats herself in the chair at the writing-table.] I — I'd forgotten Ethel. Leonard. Yes, you persuaded me to do it. [A pause.] Zo, you egged me on to do it. Zoe. [Quietly.] You — you didn't lose much time, did you? Leonard. I — I was furious when I left you — furious. 492 MID-CHANNEL [act iv Zoe. [With an attempt at a smile.] Why, you — you must have bolted straight off to her. Leonard. I — I went to the club and had some food ; and then I came back here and changed — and Zoe. Got rid of those photos! Leonard. I was furious — furious. Zoe. And then you — you bustled off to Sloane Street! [He rises and paces the room. After a while she pulls herself to- gether.] Oh, well, it — it can't be helped, old boy. Leonard. [Agitatedly.] It must be helped; it must be helped. I must get out of it ; I must get out of it. Somehow or other, I must get out of it. Zoe. Get out of it? Leonard. The — the Pierpoints ! Zoe. Oh, don't talk such utter rubbish; I'd kill myself sooner. [He throws himself into the chair on the right of the left- hand window.] No, I'm a rotter, Len, but I'm not as low as that. Oh, no, I'm not as low as all that. [She rises and goes sloivly to the round table and, in a listless way, pulls the pins out of her hat.] I — I'll be toddling home now. [Trac- ing a pattern on the crown of her hat with the hat-pins.] Home ! [Knitting her brows.] I shall clear out of that act iv] MID-CHANNEL 493 — big — flashy— empty ! [Putting on her hat.] Ha, ha! I have made a mash of it, haven't I ! My father always said I was a heedless, irresponsible little puss. [With a puzzled look, her arms hanging at her side.] There was a lot o' good in me, too — any amount o' good ! [She is drawing on a glove when she turns her head in the direction of the door on the left. At the same moment, Leonard, also looking at the door, gets to his feet. Zoe. [Listening.] What's that, dear? [ 4 He tiptoes to the door, opens it an inch or two, anR puts his ear to the opening. Leonard. [Carefully closing the door and turning to her.] Blundell. Zoe. [Under her breath.] Oh ! Leonard. [In a whisper.] Don't worry. I've told Rideout [There is a pause. They stand looking at each other in silence, waiting. Suddenly Leonard returns to the door and, without opening it, listens again. Curse the brute, he won't go! [He faces her irresolutely and, in a panic, she picks up her bag and her other glove and runs out at the door on the right. Leonard is in the middle of the room when the door on the left is thrown open and Theo- dore and Peter enter followed by Rideout. Theo- dore and Peter have their hats on. Rideout. [To Leonard.] I — I beg your pardon, sir 494 MID-CHANNEL [act iv Leonard. [To Rideout.] All right. Theodore. [To Peter, with a hoarse laugh.] You give the man half-a-sovereign, Peter; that'll soothe his feelings. Peter. [To Theodore, sharply.] Sssh, sssh! Theo ! [Rideout withdraws. Theodore. [Advancing to Leonard.] Ho! Not at home, hey? Leonard. [Facing him.] No, I'm not; not to you. Peter. You be quiet, Ferris. Leonard. [To Theodore.] What the devil do you mean by forcing your way into my place? Theodore. [Raising a walking-cane ivhich he carries.] You ! [Peter quickly puts himself between the two men as Leonard seizes the chair on the left of the round- table. Peter. [To Theodore, endeavouring to get the walking-cane from him.] Give me that. [To Leonard.] You keep a civil tongue in your head. [To Theodore.] Give it me. [Holding the cane.] You know what you promised. Give it up. [Theodore resigns the cane to Peter and walks away to the fireplace where he stands with his back to the others. Peter lays the cane upon the zuriting-table and then turns to Leonard.] You ought to be ashamed o' yourself. act iv] MID-CHANNEL 495 [Lowering his voice.] You see the man's labourin' under great excitement. Leonard. [Sullenly.] I dare say a good many people in London are labouring under excitement. That's no reason why they should have the run of my flat. Peter. [Coolly.] Will you oblige me by sittin' down and list- enin' to me for a moment? Leonard. Any man who treats me courteously '11 be treated cour- teously in return. [Sitting in the chair on the left of the round table.] I can do with you, Peter. Peter. Can you? Then you'll be so kind as to drop addressin' me by my christian-name. [Sitting in the chair at the writ- ing-table.] Ferris Leonard. [Curling his lip.] Yes, Mister Mottram? Peter. Mrs. Blundell called upon her husband to-day — this after- noon, about three o'clock Leonard. [With an assumption of ease.] Oh? Did she? Peter. And made a communication to him — a communication of a very painful, very shockin' character. [A pause.] I pre- soom you don't require me — or Blundell — to enter into par- ticklers? Leonard. [In a low voice.] Oh, for heaven's sake, no. 49 6 MID-CHANNEL [act iv Peter. We may take it, without goin' further, that what Mrs. Blundell has stated is absolutely the truth ? Leonard. Absolutely. [A pause. Theodore moves from the fire- place to the left-hand window and stands there staring at the prospect.] One thing, though, she mayn't have stated as clearly as she might Peter. What's that? Leonard. That she — that she's an injured woman — badly dealt with by her husband, and worse by your humble servant ; and Peter. And ? Leonard. And that both Blundell and I damn well deserve to be hanged. [Theodore turns to Leonard fiercely. Peter. [To Theodore.] Well! Have you any objection to that? [Theodore draws himself up, as if to retort; then his body relaxes and he drops into the chair on the left of the window. Peter. [To Leonard.] Now, then! Attend to me. Leonard. Yes? Peter. Obviously it's impossible, after what's transpired, that Mr. and Mrs. Blundell should ever live together again. act iv] MID-CHANNEL 497 Leonard. [SligMy surprised.] She didn't ? Peter. I believe there was an idea that her husband should go back to Lancaster Gate. [With a wave of the hand.} But we needn't discuss that. We'd better come at once to the object of this meetin'. Leonard. Object ? Peter. The best method of providin' for the safety — and happi- ness, we hope — of the unfortunate lady who's gone and made a bit of a munge of her affairs. Leonard. [Steadily.] Yes? Peter. [Deliberately.] Ferris, Mrs. Blundell has given her husband to understand that, if existin' obstacles were removed — if she were a free woman, in point o' fact you'd be willin' to marry her. Leonard. She's correct. Peter. That you're keen on it. Leonard. [With a nod.] Keen on it. Peter. Good. [Dropping his voice.} We're all tiled here. Are you prepared to give Blundell your word of — of ? Leonard. Honour? Can't you say it? [Hotly.] D'ye think that because a fellow's done a scoundrelly act once in his life ! 498 MID-CHANNEL [act iv Peter. That'll do — your word of honour. That bein' so, Blun- dell undertakes, on his part, not to oppose Mrs. Blundell's action for divorce. On the contrary [turning to Theo- dore.] Theo ? Theodore. H'm? Peter. Your word of honour? Theodore. [In a muffled voice.] My — word of honour. Peter. [To Theodore and Leonard, shortly.] Thank'ee. And both of you empower me to — to go to Mrs. Zoe ? [A pause. Peter turns to Theodore.] Eh? Theodore. Yes. Peter. [To Leonard.] And you? [Leonard is silent.] What's the matter? Leonard. [After a further pause, slowly.] Look here. I don't want either of you two men to suspect me of — of playing double Peter. Playing double! Leonard. I tell you honestly — Mrs. Blundell — Mrs. Blundell de- clines Peter. Declines ? act iv] MID-CHANNEL 499 Leonard. Yes ; she — she refuses [Theodore rises. Peter. [Also rising — to Theodore.] Sssh! You keep out of it. [To Leonard.] Ah, but you haven't seen Mrs. Blundell since ? Theodore. [To Peter, prompting him.] Since she left me to- day Peter. [To Leonard.] Since she left her husband this after- noon — [a pause] have you? Leonard. Y-yes; I have. Theodore. [To Peter.] Where? Peter. [To Leonard.] Where? [There is a further silence. Theodore. [Under his breath.] What's this game, Peter? [Loudly.] What's this game? Peter. [Restraining him.] Don't you interfere. [To Leonard.] Ferris Leonard. [Rising.] Mottram — Mrs. Blundell called on me — about a quarter-of-an-hour ago. We — we were talking the matter over in this room when we heard Blundell kicking up a riot in the passage. [Glancing at the door on the right.] She — 500 MID-CHANNEL [act iv she's here. [There is a movement from Theodore.] Mot- tram, I depend on you [Peter looks at Theodore ivho, in obedience to the look, goes back to the fireplace. Leonard moves to the door on the right and then turns. Leonard. {Speaking across the room to Theodore.] Blundell, I — I've given you my word of honour — and — and I abide by Mrs. Blundell's decision. [To Peter, pointing to Theo- dore.] Mottram, I — I depend on you — [He opens the door and calls softly.] Mrs. Blundell — [There is no response.] Mrs. Blundell Theodore [Looking down into the grate.] Call her Zoe. [Laughing again hoarsely.] Why the devil don't you call her Zoe? Leonard. [ Calling. ] Zoe [Still obtaining no reply, he goes into the next room. Theodore comes to Peter. Theodore. [To Peter.] Some game up, hey? Peter. Sssh, sssh! Theodore. What is it? What trick is she up to now, hey? [Leonard reappears. Leonard. [Standing in the doorway, bewildered.] I — I can't make it out. Peter. What? act iv] MID-CHANNEL 501 Leonard. She — she's not there. Theodore. Ha! Hooked it? Leonard. [Looking towards the balcony.] She must have gone along the balcony without our noticing her, and through the kitchen. [Looking at Peter.] She must have done so. Peter. Why? Leonard. You know there's no other door [He crosses to the door on the left. As he gets to it, it opens and RlDEOUT presents himself. Rideout. [In an odd voice.] Sir Leonard. [To Rideout.] Has anybody passed through your kitchen ? N-no, sir. Rideout. Leonard. [After a pause, sharply.} What d'ye want? Rideout. There — there's been an accident, sir. Leonard. Accident ? [At this moment Theodore and Peter turn their heads towards the balcony as if they are listening to some sounds reaching them from a distance. Giving Leon- 502 MID-CHANNEL [act iv ARD a frightened look, Rideout withdraws quickly. Leonard turns to Theodore and Peter in time to see them hurrying on to the balcony through the left- hand window. He follows them as far as the window and recoils before them as they come back into the room after looking over the balustrade, Theodore. [Staggering to the door on the left.] Oh, my God; oh, my God; oh, my God ! [He disappears. Leonard. [To Peter, shaking a trembling hand at him.] An ac- cident! It's an accident! [Coming to Peter, appealingly.] An accident! Peter. Yes — an accident [Gripping Leonard's arm.] She told me once it would be in the winter time ! [They go out together. the end LIST OF PLAYS BY ARTHUR WING PINERO PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA LIST OF PUBLISHED PLAYS The following plays by Sir Arthur Pinero are published by Walter H. Baker & Company, 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts. These plays are issued in paper covers and sold at fifty cents each. The arrangement of the list is alphabetical. The Amazons (1893) The Big Drum (1915) The Cabinet Minister (1890) Dandy Dick (1887) The Gay Lord Quex (1899) His House in Order (1906) The Hobby Horse (1886) Iris (1901) Lady Bountiful (1891) Letty (1903) The Magistrate (1885) Mid-Channel ( 1 909 ) The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith (1895) The Profligate (1889) The Schoolmistress (1886) The Second Mrs. Tanqueray (1893) Sweet Lavender (1888) The Thunderbolt (1908) The Times (1891) The Weaker Sex (1889) A Wife Without a Smile (1904) The following plays by Sir Arthur Pinero are published by Samuel French, 28 West 38th Street, New York. These 505 5 o6 LIST OF PUBLISHED PLAYS plays are issued in paper covers and sold at fifty cents each, — with the exception of The Money Spinner and Playgoers, which are sold at twenty-five cents each. — In Chancery (1884) The Money Spinner (1880) Playgoers (1912) The Princess and the Butterfly (1897) The Rocket (1883) The Squire (1881) The following plays by Sir Arthur Pinero are published by the Dramatic Publishing Company, Chicago, Illinois. These plays are issued in paper covers and sold at fifty cents each. — The Benefit of the Doubt (1895) Preserving Air. Panmurc (1911) Trclawny of the "Wells" (1898) Certain other plays by Sir Arthur Pinero, which are pub- lished in London by William Heinemann — such as The "Mind the Paint" Girl (1912), for example — are difficult to obtain in the United States. It is hoped that the publication of the present Library Edition may stimulate a more extensive and intensive study of the hitherto available editions of the plays of Pinero. oM ^UIBRARY^ wHIBRAOTfe. ,\WEUNIVER% ^UK-AMElfiu imv N IABY0A J =o AfclOS«t&* aOFCAIIF(%, ^0F-CALIF(% ^ S> ffiaw*** \=> #^' «<§? MO*. A\\EUNIVER%. ^IOSANCEIFj^ VER% ^ctOS-ANGElflV W/A. AvlOSANfflO^. ^JEUBBABVQ^ ^vHIBRARYO/. hirl lw University ol CaMocnia, Los Angeles L 005 484 670 4 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 374 042 o FQi?i>, /EBSfc.