SCENE I.: _Outside_ THWAITE'S _sheep farm in Australia. A

double wooden railing at back runs the whole length of stage, supposed to be continued behind house_--L. _part of the house is seen--wooden house with veranda_. THWAITE _leaning against railing smoking a pipe_ C. MERTON R.C. _on wooden seat, wooden table beside him_ C. _He is arranging, strapping, etc., a wallet or satchel._

MERTON. There now, I think everything's ready. There's one strap more somewhere [_looking round_]. I must have left it in the house. And then I shall have to say good-bye. How can I thank you, Mr Thwaite, for all you have done for me! [THWAITE, _unsmiling, smokes on in silence_]. The way you took me in when you found me dying and let me stay under your roof all these weeks--

THWAITE [_gruffly_]. That's all right.

MERTON. You have been endlessly good to me. I shall never forget it, never.

THWAITE. Never's a long time.

MERTON. But I mean it, I assure you.

THWAITE. Oh, yes, I daresay, you mean it--yes.

MERTON. Good Lord! What an escape! I can't think how it was I didn't die, when my horse pitched me off on to my head and left me senseless. I should have died if you hadn't found me, and no one would have been the wiser.

THWAITE. There's plenty dies over here and no one the wiser.

MERTON. I daresay.

THWAITE. There's plenty of others that's alive.

MERTON. I wonder you troubled to keep another in the world then, Mr Thwaite.

THWAITE. It was the gal. She would have it we ought to pick you up, but I was in a hurry with some sheep in the cart going to Banooga.

MERTON. And they mattered more, of course.

THWAITE. Well, they was alive, you see.

MERTON. To be sure--yes.

THWAITE. And you didn't seem to be. But the gal, she thought you were. So I said, 'Well, if there's room for him and the sheep too, I'll take him along--But what'll we do with him next?' 'Well,' she says, 'I'll look after him.' And I says, 'You've your work to do, remember.' You can understand, Mr Merton, that if a man has a sheep farm in this country, that's his job. His sheep must come first. You don't want no dead men along.

MERTON. Oh, I quite see that. And no live ones either if they are in the way.

THWAITE. That's about it.

MERTON. I must have been most awfully inconvenient.

THWAITE. Well, it was just the lambing time, and Kirstin had to look after the ewes. Lucky it were a healthy season.

MERTON [_smiling_]. And she managed to look after me as well as the ewes.

THWAITE. She knows she's got to get her work done.

MERTON. She seems able to do it.

THWAITE. She knows her job. I've kept her at it since she was a little wench.

MERTON. It's wonderful, all she can do.

THWAITE [_scornfully_]. Wonderful? What's there wonderful in it, a strong, healthy gal like that? I'd be ashamed if she didn't know what a farmer's daughter's got to know--about dipping the sheep, washing 'em, and shearing, and breaking a horse, and riding him bareback round the boundary. She'd need to be ashamed if she couldn't. And she can use her eyes and her ears. There's nothing she can't see or hear, that gal. Oh, any woman can learn to work if you just make her.

MERTON. Any woman?... that kind of work? [_smiling and shaking his head._]

THWAITE. I daresay women isn't much use where you come from.

MERTON. I come from London.

THWAITE [_with a pitying smile_]. London ... ah!

MERTON. I shall think of your life out here, Mr Thwaite, when I'm back in London.

THWAITE. No, no, you won't, young man. Nothing of the kind. You won't be thinking of us, no more than we shall be thinking of you. I shall be thinking of my sheep, and you--well, whatever folks do think of in London.

MERTON. A good many things.

THWAITE [_indifferently and rather incredulously_]. Do they?

MERTON. I shall have to think a great deal about my job. I'm going to be a doctor, and it's uphill work at first. But my uncle is a successful doctor, and that will be a help.

THWAITE. Ah, you mean he's done the work for you.

MERTON [_smiling_]. Some of it perhaps.

THWAITE. I've not much use for doctors. Never had one inside my door.

MERTON. They seem to be needed in London, luckily for me.

THWAITE. Never been there.

MERTON. But you are an Englishman, aren't you?

THWAITE [_sombrely_]. Yes, I'm an Englishman. My father was a Yorkshire farmer; my mother was a Scotch woman. I quarrelled with him and ran away from home and I went to Liverpool. And the captain of a steamer going to Sydney took me on as cabin boy, and on board there was an Australian sheep farmer. And he brought me to his sheep run--and afterwards I married his daughter, and he died, and I went on with the sheep farming. That's my tale.

MERTON. And you never saw your parents again?

THWAITE. I never went back. I never knew my mother. She died when I was born. Kirstin, she never knew her mother neither.

MERTON. That's a bad loss.

THWAITE [_smokes reflectively_]. Mebbe, mebbe. But she's no need of a mother. I've learned her what she'd need to know, and though I says it, she's been brought up by an honest man to earn an honest living in honest ways. And that's enough for anyone.

MERTON. It's a great deal. But is it enough for her? Doesn't she want any more?

THWAITE. I don't know--but if she did, want 'd be her master. [_Passes his hand along the railing_]. There's that fence going again. I believe the wood's rotting. Kirstin! [KIRSTIN _comes out of the house with a strap in her hand_]. Look at this place in the fence--it's rotting. That's bad.

KIRSTIN [_looking at it_]. Yes, I know. There's some more going the same way, further up.

THWAITE. Well, you'd better go round and see where the places are; it'll have to be looked to.

KIRSTIN. Yes, father; I'll see to it.

[THWAITE _goes on looking at the fence and passing his hand along it_. KIRSTIN _gives the strap to_ MERTON.]

KIRSTIN. Here's a strap you left in the house, Mr Merton.

MERTON. Oh, thank you so much. [_Tries to put strap round bag_]. I'm afraid it's about time for me to be off.

KIRSTIN. Yes, I suppose it is. I've saddled your mare for you; she's ready.

MERTON. Have you done that besides everything else? I'm not going to try to thank you for it all--

THWAITE. No, I wouldn't. If the mare is saddled, you'd best be mounting, you've got a long way to go.

KIRSTIN [_looking at him struggling with the strap_]. You want another hole there. Here, let me. [_Taking the strap and pulling out a knife_].

THWAITE [_looking impatiently at_ KIRSTIN]. Well, I'll be stepping, Mr Merton. I'm rather busy to-day.

MERTON [_smiling_]. I'm so sorry, Mr Thwaite--this is the last time I shall interrupt the farm work.

KIRSTIN [_repeats half to herself_]. The last time--yes.

THWAITE. I'll be going on. Kirstin, you follow me down there away--when you're ready [_rather sarcastically_].

KIRSTIN. Yes, father. [_Still doing strap_].

MERTON [_shaking hands with_ THWAITE]. Good-bye, then, Mr Thwaite. And----

THWAITE [_interrupting him_]. Now don't start thanking me again! Good-bye, and don't break your neck this time.

[THWAITE _goes out_]. [KIRSTIN _finishes the strap and hands it to_ MERTON].

MERTON. You must let me thank you, Kirstin.

KIRSTIN [_looking up at him and smiling_]. Must I?

MERTON. And then I shall have to say good-bye to you, too.

KIRSTIN [_forcing herself to be calm_]. Yes, it's good-byes, to-day.

MERTON. It's no use saying it over and over again, but I do want you to believe how grateful I am to you for saving my life.

KIRSTIN. You needn't to thank me. I was glad I did.

MERTON [_half to himself, looking round_]. It's so queer when you're leaving a place. It looks different, somehow.

KIRSTIN. Does it?

MERTON. Don't you know what I mean?

KIRSTIN. No, I've never left a place. I've always been here.

MERTON. Isn't it extraordinary!

KIRSTIN. What?

MERTON. Why, to find you and your father here miles away from anyone, leading this life.

KIRSTIN. Why is it extraordinary? We've always done it.

MERTON. That's just it. You've never done anything else.

KIRSTIN. Of course not.

MERTON. And you do the same thing day after day.

KIRSTIN. The same thing? No. There's the feeding to look after in the winter, and the lambing in the spring, and the shearing in the summer--

MERTON. Yes, the summer in January.

KIRSTIN. January--when else should it be?

MERTON. Our summer's in July.

KIRSTIN [_interested_]. Is it? I didn't know that.

MERTON. Didn't you, Kirstin? And our spring is in March and April.

KIRSTIN. March and April? Those are our beautiful autumn months. Oh, how odd. When do your lambs come, then?

MERTON. In February and March.

KIRSTIN. Oh, how strange!

MERTON. Kirstin, did you never go to school?

KIRSTIN. To school? No, how could I? Father couldn't have spared me.

MERTON. Not even when you were little?

KIRSTIN. I don't believe anyhow there was a school near enough. Father learned me to read, and I write a bit too, but not very well. [_Smiling_]. I've always worked with the sheep ever since I can remember. When I was little I used to drive them in and see if any were missing.

MERTON. Could you count them?

KIRSTIN [_surprised_]. Oh, no; but I knew them all one from another and could tell which was gone.

MERTON. Could you? Can you do that now?

KIRSTIN. Well, of course. Anyone could.

MERTON. Anyone? Do you really believe that?

KIRSTIN. Yes, anyone living out here, like us.

MERTON. Ah, you know things we don't know in London.

KIRSTIN. Do I? But then [_quite simply as though asking the question_] perhaps you know things in London that we don't know out here?

MERTON [_smiling_]. Perhaps we do.... I shall think of you when I'm back in my London home.

[_All through this scene_ MERTON _is not in the least sentimental--he is obviously not sorry to be turning his face homewards_].

KIRSTIN. Shall you? I'm glad of that.

MERTON. And wonder what you're doing.

KIRSTIN. You needn't to wonder that--I've told you what we'll be doing all the year round.

MERTON. And is it enough for you, Kirstin?

KIRSTIN. Enough! It fills up all the time, I can tell you.

MERTON. Are you content?

KIRSTIN. Content? I've never thought about it. Oh, yes, I suppose I am. I've always been content up to now.

MERTON [_cheerfully_]. Then there's no reason why you should leave off.

KIRSTIN. Daresay not.

MERTON. But when you read stories about other kinds of lives, doesn't it make you want to see something else?

KIRSTIN. I'm not much of a reader. Father has some books put away but I don't care about it.

MERTON. Doesn't he ever read a newspaper even?

KIRSTIN. There's none comes here.

MERTON [_laughing_]. Well, I didn't think such people existed. This place will seem a dream to me when I get back.

KIRSTIN. A dream, will it?

MERTON. Yes, you and your life here, and looking out and seeing wide pastures, and the palm trees, and the eucalyptus instead of seeing plane trees dropping their leaves on the London pavements. Oh! to see a wet plane leaf shining in the lights of London! There's no place like it after all. And now I'm going back to it.

KIRSTIN. You like London best then?

MERTON. Well, all Londoners do. I'm a Londoner, you see--I was born and bred there, just as you were born and bred here.

KIRSTIN. Of course, yes. Mr Merton, you said you'd think of us when you was away. I'd like to think of you too, and what you was doing in London, if you could tell me what it's like.

MERTON [_smiling_]. Well, it's rather difficult to tell you--it's all so very different. For one thing, when I look out of my window in London, I see the wall of somebody else's house, instead of a wide expanse like this.

KIRSTIN. Oh, is there a house as near as that?

MERTON. A house? Dozens.

KIRSTIN. Dozens of houses close to yours?

MERTON. Scores! Hundreds! Thousands! of houses wherever you go, wherever you look.

KIRSTIN. Oh, is that really true?

MERTON. Of course it is.

KIRSTIN. But how do you know them apart?

MERTON. They have numbers on them--a number painted on every house.

KIRSTIN. Oh! painted on every house--like a brand! It must be very difficult to count up to so many thousands.

MERTON. Oh, no; they begin at _one_ again in each street.

KIRSTIN. How many houses are there in a street?

MERTON. That depends. Sometimes there are fifty, sometimes two hundred and more. My house is 147.

KIRSTIN. 147. I shall remember that.

MERTON. But the number won't be enough. You must remember the street too. The street I live in is called Devonshire Street--so that if you want to know where to find me, it's 147 Devonshire Street.

KIRSTIN. 147 Devonshire Street--I shall remember that.

MERTON. I'll write it down for you [_takes out his pocket-book, tears out a sheet and writes on it_].

KIRSTIN. Write it very clear, won't you, so as I can read it.

MERTON. Yes, I'll write it very clear. There now, you can't mistake it--Henry Merton, 147 Devonshire Street, London. So when you come to London, Kirstin, don't forget. Look, I shall write that down too--to remind you! [_writing_] _Come to London, Kirstin, don't forget._

KIRSTIN [_looking at it_]. Yes, that's very clear. I can read that. [_Reads_] 'Henry Merton, 147 Devonshire Street. Come to London, Kirstin, don't forget.' I shan't forget, but I shan't come to London.

MERTON. Who knows? Perhaps by the time you come, I shall have got on in the world.

KIRSTIN. What does that mean?

MERTON. Oh, Kirstin, you are too delightful! It means ... well ... it means--it's rather difficult to explain.

KIRSTIN. Does it mean being better than other people?

MERTON. Um--not altogether! Something of the kind perhaps. It means getting on in the thing you're doing. I'm going to try to be a successful doctor.

KIRSTIN. Does a successful doctor cure everybody?

MERTON. Not always. But a great many people come to him to be cured and give him money whether he cures them or not.

KIRSTIN. Do they? Then you'll have a great deal of money.

MERTON. I hope so--I want it most dreadfully.

KIRSTIN [_surprised_]. Do you?

MERTON. I have hardly any--that's one of my difficulties.

KIRSTIN. What a pity.

MERTON. Oh, well, it'll come all right, I daresay, when I'm back in London and can start work.

KIRSTIN [_looking at paper_]. When you're back at 147 Devonshire Street--

[_Enter_ THWAITE. KIRSTIN _puts the paper back in her pocket_].

THWAITE. Kirstin, the black ewe's missing.

KIRSTIN [_quietly_]. What, again? I'll go and seek her.

THWAITE. You had better. Well, Mr Merton, I suppose you'll just be about starting? [_Evidently waiting for_ MERTON _to leave_].

MERTON [_laughing_]. So sorry I'm still here, Mr Thwaite. I'm really going now. I've been telling Kirstin what London is like.

THWAITE. She won't find that very useful, I expect. The boy's got your mare at the door. I'll come and see you off.

MERTON. Thank you very much.

THWAITE [_exasperated_]. Ah!

MERTON [_turning back to_ KIRSTIN]. Good-bye, Kirstin. Once more, thank you. [KIRSTIN _looks up at him with a little smile_].

KIRSTIN [_in a low voice_]. Oh, that's all right.

MERTON _goes out, followed by_ THWAITE. KIRSTIN _remains alone_. _She stands quite still for a moment, her left hand on the fence, looking in the direction they have gone in. She leans forward and gives a little wave of her hand, then turns round facing the audience, and leaning with her back to the railing, her two hands on it behind her._ THWAITE _comes back_.

THWAITE. Well, now we shall get some work done. What are you standing gaping there for? Where's that ewe?

KIRSTIN. I'll go and find her.

CURTAIN _comes down slowly as she goes out_ R.

THWAITE _looking at railing and feeling it to see where it is giving_.