ACT III

_Twenty-five years have passed, and the scene is again that cosy room in the Morlands’ house, not much changed since we last saw it. If chintzes have faded, others as smiling have taken their place. The time is a crisp autumn afternoon just before twilight comes. The apple-tree, not so easy to renew as the chintzes, has become smaller, but there are a few gallant apples on it. The fire is burning, and round it sit Mr. and Mrs. Morland and Mr. Amy, the Morlands gone smaller like the apple-tree and Mr. Amy bulky, but all three on the whole still bearing their apples. Inwardly they have changed still less; hear them at it as of yore._

MR. MORLAND. What are you laughing over, Fanny?

MRS. MORLAND. It is this week’s _Punch_, so very amusing.

MR. AMY. Ah, _Punch_, it isn’t what it used to be.

MR. MORLAND. No, indeed.

MRS. MORLAND. I disagree. You two try if you can look at this picture without laughing.

(_They are unable to stand the test._)

MR. MORLAND. I think I can say that I enjoy a joke as much as ever.

MRS. MORLAND. You light-hearted old man!

MR. MORLAND (_humorously_). Not so old, Fanny. Please to remember that I am two months younger than you.

MRS. MORLAND. How can I forget it when you have been casting it up against me all our married life?

MR. MORLAND (_not without curiosity_). Fanny and I are seventy-three; you are a bit younger, George, I think?

MR. AMY. Oh yes, oh dear, yes.

MR. MORLAND. You never say precisely what your age is.

MR. AMY. I am in the late sixties. I am sure I have told you that before.

MR. MORLAND. It seems to me you have been in the sixties longer than it is usual to be in them.

MRS. MORLAND (_with her needles_). James!

MR. MORLAND. No offence, George, I was only going to say that at seventy-three I certainly don’t feel my age. How do you feel, George, at--at sixty-six? (_More loudly, as if MR. AMY were a little deaf._) Do you feel your sixty-six years?

MR. AMY (_testily_). I am more than sixty-six. But I certainly don’t feel my age. It was only last winter that I learned to skate.

MR. MORLAND. I still go out with the hounds. You forgot to come last time, George.

MR. AMY. If you are implying anything against my memory, James.

MR. MORLAND (_peering through his glasses_). What do you say?

MR. AMY. I was saying that I have never used glasses in my life.

MR. MORLAND. If I wear glasses occasionally it certainly isn’t because there is anything defective in my eyesight. But the type used by newspapers nowadays is so vile----

MR. AMY. There I agree with you. Especially Bradshaw.

MR. MORLAND (_not hearing him_). I say the type used by newspapers of to-day is vile. Don’t you think so?

MR. AMY. I have just said so. (_Pleasantly._) You are getting rather dull of hearing, James.

MR. MORLAND. I am? I like that, George! Why, I have constantly to shout to you nowadays.

MR. AMY. What annoys me is not that you are a little deaf, you can’t help that. But from the nature of your replies I often see that you are pretending to have heard what I said when you did not. That is rather vain, James.

MR. MORLAND. Vain! Now you brought this on yourself, George. I have got something here I might well be vain of, and I meant not to show it to you because it will make you squirm.

(_MRS. MORLAND taps warningly._)

MR. MORLAND. I didn’t mean that, George. I am sure that you will be delighted. What do you think of this?

(_He produces a water-colour which his friend examines at arm’s length._)

Let me hold it out for you as your arms are so short.

(_The offer is declined._)

MR. AMY (_with a sinking_). Very nice. What do you call it?

MR. MORLAND. Have you any doubt? I haven’t the slightest. I am sure that it is an early Turner.

MR. AMY (_paling_). Turner!

MR. MORLAND. What else can it be? Holman suggested a Gurton or even a Dayes. Absurd! Why, Dayes was only a glorified drawing-master. I flatter myself I can’t make a mistake about a Turner. There is something about a Turner difficult to define, but unmistakable, an absolute something. It is a charming view, too; Kirkstall Abbey obviously.

MR. AMY. Rivaulx, I am convinced.

MR. MORLAND. I say Kirkstall.

MRS. MORLAND (_with her needles_). James!

MR. MORLAND. Well, you may be right, the place doesn’t matter.

MR. AMY. There is an engraving of Rivaulx in that Copperplate Magazine we were looking at. (_He turns up the page._) I have got it, Rivaulx. (_He brightens._) Why, this is funny. It is an engraving of that very picture. Hello, hello, hello. (_Examining it through his private glass._) And it is signed E. Dayes.

(_MR. MORLAND holds the sketch so close to him that it brushes his eyelashes._)

I wouldn’t eat it, James. So it is by Dayes, the drawing-master, after all. I am sorry you have had this disappointment.

(_MRS. MORLAND taps warningly, but her husband is now possessed._)

MR. MORLAND. You sixty-six, Mr. Amy, you sixty-six!

MR. AMY. James, this is very painful. Your chagrin I can well understand, but surely your sense of manhood--I regret that I have out-stayed my welcome. I bid you good afternoon. Thank you, Mrs. Morland, for your unvarying hospitality.

MRS. MORLAND. I shall see you into your coat, George.

MR. AMY. It is very kind of you, but I need no one to see me into my coat.

MR. MORLAND. You will never see your way into it by yourself.

(_This unworthy remark is perhaps not heard, for MRS. MORLAND succeeds once more in bringing the guest back._)

MR. AMY. James, I cannot leave this friendly house in wrath.

MR. MORLAND. I am an irascible old beggar, George. What I should do without you----

MR. AMY. Or I without you. Or either of us without that little old dear, to whom we are a never-failing source of mirth.

(_The little old dear curtseys, looking very frail as she does so._)

Tell Simon when he comes that I shall be in to see him to-morrow. Good-bye, Fanny; I suppose you think of the pair of us as in our second childhood?

MRS. MORLAND. Not your second, George. I have never known any men who have quite passed their first.

(_He goes smiling._)

MR. MORLAND (_ruminating by the fire_). He is a good fellow, George, but how touchy he is about his age. And he has a way of tottering off to sleep while one is talking to him.

MRS. MORLAND. He is not the only one of us who does that.

(_She is standing by the window._)

MR. MORLAND. What are you thinking about, Fanny?

MRS. MORLAND. I was thinking about the apple-tree, and that you have given the order for its destruction.

MR. MORLAND. It must come down. It is becoming a danger, might fall on some one down there any day.

MRS. MORLAND. I quite see that it has to go. (_She can speak of MARY ROSE without a tremor now._) But her tree! How often she made it a ladder from this room to the ground.

(_MR. MORLAND does not ask who, but he very nearly does so._)

MR. MORLAND. Oh yes, of course. Did she use to climb the apple-tree? Yes, I think she did.

(_He goes to his wife, as it were for protection._)

MRS. MORLAND (_not failing him_). Had you forgotten that also, James?

MR. MORLAND. I am afraid I forget a lot of things.

MRS. MORLAND. Just as well.

MR. MORLAND. It is so long since she--how long is it, Fanny?

MRS. MORLAND. Twenty-five years, a third of our lifetime. It will soon be dark; I can see the twilight running across the fields. Draw the curtains, dear.

(_He does so and turns on the lights; they are electric lights now._)

Simon’s train must be nearly due, is it not?

MR. MORLAND. In ten minutes or so. Did you forward his telegram?

MRS. MORLAND. No, I thought he would probably get it sooner if I kept it here.

MR. MORLAND. I dare say. (_He joins her on the sofa, and she sees that he is troubled._)

MRS. MORLAND. What is it, dear?

MR. MORLAND. I am afraid I was rather thoughtless about the apple-tree, Fanny. I hurt you.

MRS. MORLAND (_brightly_). Such nonsense. Have another pipe, James.

MR. MORLAND (_doggedly_). I will not have another pipe. I hereby undertake to give up smoking for a week as a punishment to myself. (_His breast swells a little._)

MRS. MORLAND. You will regret this, you know.

MR. MORLAND (_his breast ceasing to swell_). Why is my heart not broken? If I had been a man of real feeling it would have broken twenty-five years ago, just as yours did.

MRS. MORLAND. Mine didn’t, dear.

MR. MORLAND. In a way it did. As for me, at the time I thought I could never raise my head again, but there is a deal of the old Adam in me still. I ride and shoot and laugh and give pompous decisions on the bench and wrangle with old George as if nothing much had happened to me. I never think of the island now; I dare say I could go back there and fish. (_He finds that despite his outburst his hand has strayed towards his tobacco-pouch._) See what I am doing! (_He casts his pouch aside as if it were the culprit._) I am a man enamoured of myself. Why, I have actually been considering, Fanny, whether I should have another dress suit.

MRS. MORLAND (_picking up the pouch_). And why shouldn’t you?

MR. MORLAND. At my age! Fanny, this should be put on my tombstone: ‘In spite of some adversity he remained a lively old blade to the end.’

MRS. MORLAND. Perhaps that would be a rather creditable epitaph for any man, James, who has gone through as much as you have. What better encouragement to the young than to be able to tell them that happiness keeps breaking through? (_She puts the pipe, which she has been filling, in his mouth._)

MR. MORLAND. If I smoke, Fanny, I shall despise myself more than ever.

MRS. MORLAND. To please me.

MR. MORLAND (_as she holds the light_). I don’t feel easy about it, not at all easy. (_With a happy thought._) At any rate, I won’t get the dress suit.

MRS. MORLAND. Your dress suit is shining like a mirror.

MR. MORLAND. Isn’t it! I thought of a jacket suit only. The V-shaped waistcoat seems to be what they are all wearing now.

MRS. MORLAND. Would you have braid on the trousers?

MR. MORLAND. I was wondering. You see-- Oh, Fanny, you are just humouring me.

MRS. MORLAND. Not at all. And as for the old Adam in you, dear Adam, there is still something of the old Eve in me. Our trip to Switzerland two years ago with Simon, I enjoyed every hour of it. The little card parties here, am I not called the noisy one; think of the girls I have chaperoned and teased and laughed with, just as if I had never had a girl myself.

MR. MORLAND. Your brightness hasn’t been all pretence?

MRS. MORLAND. No, indeed; I have passed through the valley of the shadow, dear, but I can say thankfully that I have come out again into the sunlight. (_A little tremulously._) I suppose it is all to the good that as the years go by the dead should recede farther from us.

MR. MORLAND. Some say they don’t.

MRS. MORLAND. You and I know better, James.

MR. MORLAND. Up there in the misty Hebrides I dare say they think of her as on the island still. Fanny, how long is it since--since you half thought _that_ yourself?

MRS. MORLAND. Ever so many years. Perhaps not the first year. I did cling for a time----

MR. MORLAND. The neighbours here didn’t like it.

MRS. MORLAND. She wasn’t their Mary Rose, you see.

MR. MORLAND. And yet her first disappearance----

MRS. MORLAND. It is all unfathomable. It is as if Mary Rose was just something beautiful that you and I and Simon had dreamt together. You have forgotten much, but so have I. Even that room--(_she looks towards the little door_)--that was hers and her child’s during all her short married life--I often go into it now without remembering that it was theirs.

MR. MORLAND. It is strange. It is rather terrible. You are pretty nigh forgotten, Mary Rose.

MRS. MORLAND. That isn’t true, dear. Mary Rose belongs to the past, and we have to live in the present, for a very little longer. Just a little longer, and then we shall understand all. Even if we could drag her back to tell us now what these things mean I think it would be a shame.

MR. MORLAND. Yes, I suppose so. Do you think Simon is a philosopher about it also?

MRS. MORLAND. Don’t be bitter, James, to your old wife. Simon was very fond of her. He was a true lover.

MR. MORLAND. Was, was! Is it all ‘was’ about Mary Rose?

MRS. MORLAND. It just has to be. He had all the clever ones of the day advising, suggesting, probing. He went back to the island every year for a long time.

MR. MORLAND. Yes, and then he missed a year, and that somehow ended it.

MRS. MORLAND. He never married again. Most men would.

MR. MORLAND. His work took her place. What a jolly, hearty fellow he is.

MRS. MORLAND. If you mean he isn’t heart-broken, he isn’t. Mercifully the wound has healed.

MR. MORLAND. I am not criticising, Fanny. I suppose any one who came back after twenty-five years--however much they had been loved--it might--we--should we know what to say to them, Fanny?

MRS. MORLAND. Don’t, James. (_She rises._) Simon is late, isn’t he?

MR. MORLAND. Very little. I heard the train a short time ago, and he might be here--just--if he had the luck to find a cab. But not if he is walking across the fields.

MRS. MORLAND. Listen!

MR. MORLAND. Yes, wheels. That is probably Simon. He had got a cab.

MRS. MORLAND. I do hope he won’t laugh at me for having lit a fire in his room.

MR. MORLAND (_with masculine humour_). I hope you put him out some bed-socks.

MRS. MORLAND (_eagerly_). Do you think he would let me? You wretch!

(_She hurries out and returns in SIMON’S arms._

_He is in a greatcoat and mufti. He looks his years, grizzled with grey hair and not very much of it, and the tuft is gone. He is heavier and more commanding, full of vigour, a rollicking sea-dog for the moment, but it is a face that could be stern to harshness._)

SIMON (_saluting_). Come aboard, sir.

MRS. MORLAND. Let me down, you great bear. You know how I hate to be rumpled.

MR. MORLAND. Not she, loves it. Always did. Get off your greatcoat, Simon. Down with it anywhere.

MRS. MORLAND (_fussing delightedly_). How cold your hands are. Come nearer to the fire.

MR. MORLAND. He is looking fit, though.

SIMON. We need to be fit--these days.

MRS. MORLAND. So nice to have you again. You do like duck, don’t you? The train was late, wasn’t it?

SIMON. A few minutes only. I made a selfish bolt for the one cab, and got it.

MR. MORLAND. We thought you might be walking across the fields.

SIMON. No, I left the fields to the two other people who got out of the train. One of them was a lady; I thought something about her walk was familiar to me, but it was darkish, and I didn’t make her out.

MRS. MORLAND. Bertha Colinton, I expect. She was in London to-day.

SIMON. If I had thought it was Mrs. Colinton I would have offered her a lift. (_For a moment he gleams boyishly like the young husband of other days._) Mother, I have news; I have got the _Bellerophon_, honest Injun!

MRS. MORLAND. The very ship you wanted.

SIMON. Rather.

MR. MORLAND. Bravo, Simon.

SIMON. It is like realising the ambition of one’s life. I’m one of the lucky folk, I admit.

(_He says this, and neither of them notices it as a strange remark._)

MR. MORLAND (_twinkling_). Beastly life, a sailor’s.

SIMON (_cordially_). Beastly. I have loathed it ever since I slept in the old _Britannia_, with my feet out at the port-hole to give them air. We all slept that way; must have been a pretty sight from the water. Oh, a beast of a life, but I wouldn’t exchange it for any other in the world. (_Lowering._) And if this war does come----

MR. MORLAND (_characteristically_). It won’t, I’m sure.

SIMON. I dare say not. But they say--however.

MRS. MORLAND. Simon, I had forgotten. There is a telegram for you.

SIMON. Avaunt! I do trust it is not recalling me. I had hoped for at least five clear days.

MRS. MORLAND (_giving it to him_). We didn’t open it.

SIMON. Two to one it is recalling me.

MRS. MORLAND. It came two days ago. I don’t like them, Simon, never did; they have broken so many hearts.

SIMON. They have made many a heart glad too. It may be from my Harry--at last. Mother, do you think I was sometimes a bit harsh to him?

MRS. MORLAND. I think you sometimes were, my son.

MR. MORLAND. Open it, Simon.

(_SIMON opens the telegram and many unseen devils steal into the room_.)

MRS. MORLAND (_shrinking from his face_). It can’t be so bad as that. We are all here, Simon.

(_For a moment he has not been here himself, he has been on an island. He is a good son to MRS. MORLAND now, thinking of her only, placing her on the sofa, going on his knees beside her and stroking her kind face. Her arms go out to her husband, who has been reading the telegram._)

MR. MORLAND (_dazed_). Can’t be, can’t be!

SIMON (_like some better father than he perhaps has been_). It is all right, Mother. Don’t you be afraid. It is good news. You are a brave one, you have come through much, you will be brave for another minute, won’t you?

(_She nods, with a frightened smile._)

Mother dear, it is Mary Rose.

MR. MORLAND. It can’t be true. It is too--too glorious to be true.

MRS. MORLAND. Glorious? Is my Mary Rose alive?

SIMON. It is all right, all right. I wouldn’t say it, surely, if it wasn’t true. Mary Rose has come back. The telegram is from Cameron. You remember who he was. He is minister there now. Hold my hand, and I’ll read it. ‘Your wife has come back. She was found to-day on the island. I am bringing her to you. She is quite well, but you will all have to be very careful.’

MRS. MORLAND. Simon, can it be?

SIMON. I believe it absolutely. Cameron would not deceive me.

MR. MORLAND. He might be deceived himself; he was a mere acquaintance.

SIMON. I am sure it is true. He knew her by sight as well as any of us.

MR. MORLAND. But after twenty-five years!

SIMON. Do you think I wouldn’t know her after twenty-five years?

MRS. MORLAND. My--my--she will be--very changed.

SIMON. However changed, Mother, wouldn’t I know my Mary Rose at once! Her hair may be as grey as mine--her face--her little figure--her pretty ways--though they were all gone, don’t you think I would know Mary Rose at once? (_He is suddenly stricken with a painful thought._) Oh, my God, I saw her, and I didn’t know her!

MRS. MORLAND. Simon!

SIMON. It had been Cameron with her. They must have come in my train. Mother, it was she I saw going across the fields--her little walk when she was excited, half a run, I recognised it, but I didn’t remember it was hers.

(_Those unseen devils chuckle._)

MR. MORLAND. It was getting dark.

SIMON (_slowly_). Mary Rose is coming across the fields.

(_He goes out. MORLAND peers weakly through the window curtains. MRS. MORLAND goes on her knees to pray._)

MR. MORLAND. It is rather dark. I--I shouldn’t wonder though there was a touch of frost to-night. I wish I was more use.

(_CAMERON enters, a bearded clergyman now._)

MRS. MORLAND. Mr. Cameron? Tell us quickly, Mr. Cameron, is it true?

CAMERON. It iss true, ma’am. Mr. Blake met us at the gate and he iss with her now. I hurried on to tell you the things necessary. It iss good for her you should know them at once.

MRS. MORLAND. Please, quick.

CAMERON. You must be prepared to find her--different.

MRS. MORLAND. We are all different. Her age----

CAMERON. I mean, Mrs. Morland, different from what you expect. She iss not different as we are different. They will be saying she iss just as she was on the day she went away.

(_MRS. MORLAND shrinks._)

These five-and-twenty years, she will be thinking they were just an hour in which Mr. Blake and I had left her in some incomprehensible jest.

MRS. MORLAND. James, just as it was before!

MR. MORLAND. But when you told her the truth?

CAMERON. She will not have it.

MRS. MORLAND. She must have seen how much older you are.

CAMERON. She does not know me, ma’am, as the boy who was with her that day. When she did not recognize me I thought it best--she was so troubled already--not to tell her.

MR. MORLAND (_appealing_). But now that she has seen Simon. His appearance, his grey hair--when she saw him she would know.

CAMERON (_unhappy_). I am not sure; it iss dark out there.

MR. MORLAND. She must have known that he would never have left her and come home.

CAMERON. That secretly troubles her, but she will not speak of it. There iss some terrible dread lying on her heart.

MR. MORLAND. A dread?

MRS. MORLAND. Harry. James, if she should think that Harry is still a child!

CAMERON. I never heard what became of the boy.

MRS. MORLAND. He ran away to sea when he was twelve years old. We had a few letters from Australia, very few; we don’t know where he is now.

MR. MORLAND. How was she found, Mr. Cameron?

CAMERON. Two men fishing from a boat saw her. She was asleep by the shore at the very spot where Mr. Blake made a fire so long ago. There was a rowan-tree beside it. At first they were afraid to land, but they