Part 15

RICHARD. It's all right for _you_. You know you'll change your name one day, and then it won't matter what you've been called before.

VIOLA [_secretly_]. H'sh! [_She smiles lovingly at him, and then says aloud._] Oh, won't it? It's got to appear in the papers, "A marriage has been arranged between Miss Viola Wurzel-Flummery ..." and everybody will say, "And about time too, poor girl."

MARGARET [_to CRAWSHAW_]. Have you found it, dear?

CRAWSHAW [_resentfully_]. This is the 1912 edition.

MARGARET. Still, dear, if it's a very old family, it ought to be in by then.

VIOLA. I don't mind how old it is; I think it's lovely. Oh, Dick, what fun it will be being announced! Just think of the footman throwing open the door and saying--

MAID [_announcing_]. Mr. Denis Clifton. [_There is a little natural confusion as CLIFTON enters jauntily in his summer suiting with a bundle of papers under his arm. CRAWSHAW goes towards him and shakes hands._]

CRAWSHAW. How do you do, Mr. Clifton? Very good of you to come. [_Looking doubtfully at his clothes._] Er--it is Mr. Denis Clifton, the solicitor?

CLIFTON [_cheerfully_]. It is. I must apologize for not looking the part more, but my clothes did not arrive from Clarkson's in time. Very careless of them when they had promised. And my clerk dissuaded me from the side-whiskers which I keep by me for these occasions.

CRAWSHAW [_bewildered_]. Ah yes, quite so. But you have--ah--full legal authority to act in this matter?

CLIFTON. Oh, decidedly. Oh, there's no question of that.

CRAWSHAW [_introducing_]. My wife--and daughter. [_CLIFTON bows gracefully._] My friend, Mr. Richard Meriton.

CLIFTON [_happily_]. Dear me! Mr. Meriton too! This is quite a situation, as we say in the profession.

RICHARD [_amused by him_]. In the legal profession?

CLIFTON. In the theatrical profession. [_Turning to MARGARET._] I am a writer of plays, Mrs. Crawshaw. I am not giving away a professional secret when I tell you that most of the managers in London have thanked me for submitting my work to them.

CRAWSHAW [_firmly_]. I understood, Mr. Clifton, that you were the solicitor employed to wind up the affairs of the late Mr. Antony Clifton.

CLIFTON. Oh, certainly. Oh, there's no doubt about my being a solicitor. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity, not to say probity, would give me a reference. I am in the books; I belong to the Law Society. But my heart turns elsewhere. Officially I have embraced the profession of a solicitor--[_Frankly, to MRS. CRAWSHAW._] But you know what these official embraces are.

MARGARET. I'm afraid--[_She turns to her husband for assistance._]

CLIFTON [_to RICHARD_]. Unofficially, Mr. Meriton, I am wedded to the Muses.

VIOLA. Dick, isn't he lovely?

CRAWSHAW. Quite so. But just for the moment, Mr. Clifton, I take it that we are concerned with legal business. Should I ever wish to produce a play, the case would be different.

CLIFTON. Admirably put. Pray regard me entirely as the solicitor for as long as you wish. [_He puts his hat down on a chair with the papers in it, and taking off his gloves, goes on dreamily._] Mr. Denis Clifton was superb as a solicitor. In spite of an indifferent make-up, his manner of taking off his gloves and dropping them into his hat--[_He does so._]

MARGARET [_to CRAWSHAW_]. I think, perhaps, Viola and I--

RICHARD [_making a move too_]. We'll leave you to your business, Robert.

CLIFTON [_holding up his hand_]. Just one moment if I may. I have a letter for you, Mr. Meriton.

RICHARD [_surprised_]. For me?

CLIFTON. Yes. My clerk, a man of the utmost integrity--oh, but I said that before--he took it round to your rooms this morning, but found only painters and decorators there. [_He is feeling in his pockets and now brings the letter out._] I brought it along, hoping that Mr. Crawshaw--but of course I never expected anything so delightful as this. [_He hands over the letter with a bow._]

RICHARD. Thanks. [_He puts it in his pocket._]

CLIFTON. Oh, but do read it now, won't you? [_To MRS. CRAWSHAW._] One so rarely has an opportunity of being present when one's own letters are read. I think the habit they have on the stage of reading letters aloud to each other is such a very delightful one. [_RICHARD, with a smile and a shrug, has opened his letter while CLIFTON is talking._]

RICHARD. Good Lord!

VIOLA. Dick, what is it?

RICHARD [_reading_]. "199, Lincoln's Inn Fields. Dear Sir, I have the pleasure to inform you that under the will of the late Mr. Antony Clifton you are a beneficiary to the extent of L50,000."

VIOLA. Dick!

RICHARD. "A trifling condition is attached--namely, that you should take the name of--Wurzel-Flummery." [_CLIFTON, with his hand on his heart, bows gracefully from one to the other of them._]

CRAWSHAW [_annoyed_]. Impossible! Why should he leave any money to you?

VIOLA. Dick! How wonderful!

MARGARET [_mildly_]. I don't remember ever having had a morning quite like this.

RICHARD [_angrily_]. Is this a joke, Mr. Clifton?

CLIFTON. Oh, the money is there all right. My clerk, a man of the utmost--

RICHARD. Then I refuse it. I'll have nothing to do with it. I won't even argue about it. [_Tearing the letter into bits._] That's what I think of your money. [_He stalks indignantly from the room._]

VIOLA. Dick! Oh, but, mother, he mustn't. Oh, I must tell him--[_She hurries after him._]

MARGARET [_with dignity_]. Really, Mr. Clifton, I'm surprised at you. [_She goes out too._]

CLIFTON [_looking round the room_]. And now, Mr. Crawshaw, we are alone.

CRAWSHAW. Yes. Well, I think, Mr. Clifton, you have a good deal to explain--

CLIFTON. My dear sir, I'm longing to begin. I have been looking forward to this day for weeks. I spent over an hour this morning dressing for it. [_He takes papers from his hat and moves to the sofa._] Perhaps I had better begin from the beginning.

CRAWSHAW [_interested, indicating the papers_]. The documents in the case?

CLIFTON. Oh dear, no--just something to carry in the hand. It makes one look more like a solicitor. [_Reading the title._] "Watherston v. Towser--_in re_ Great Missenden Canal Company." My clerk invents the titles; it keeps him busy. He is very fond of Towser; Towser is always coming in. [_Frankly._] You see, Mr. Crawshaw, this is my first real case, and I only got it because Antony Clifton is my uncle. My efforts to introduce a little picturesqueness into the dull formalities of the law do not meet with that response that one would have expected.

CRAWSHAW [_looking at his watch_]. Yes. Well, I'm a busy man, and if you could tell me as shortly as possible why your uncle left this money to me, and apparently to Mr. Meriton too, under these extraordinary conditions, I shall be obliged to you.

CLIFTON. Say no more, Mr. Crawshaw; I look forward to being entirely frank with you. It will be a pleasure.

CRAWSHAW. You understand, of course, my position. I think I may say that I am not without reputation in the country; and proud as I am to accept this sacred trust, this money which the late Mr. Antony Clifton has seen fit--[_modestly_] one cannot say why--to bequeath to me, yet the use of the name Wurzel-Flummery would be excessively awkward.

CLIFTON [_cheerfully_]. Excessively.

CRAWSHAW. My object in seeing you was to inquire if it was absolutely essential that the name should go with the money.

CLIFTON. Well [_thoughtfully_], you may have the name _without_ the money if you like. But you must have the name.

CRAWSHAW [_disappointed_]. Ah! [_Bravely._] Of course, I have nothing against the name, a good old Hampshire name--

CLIFTON [_shocked_]. My dear Mr. Crawshaw, you didn't think--you didn't really think that anybody had been called Wurzel-Flummery before? Oh no, no. You and Mr. Meriton were to be the first, the founders of the clan, the designers of the Wurzel-Flummery sporran--

CRAWSHAW. What do you mean, sir? Are you telling me that it is not a real name at all?

CLIFTON. Oh, it's a name all right. I know it is because--er--_I_ made it up.

CRAWSHAW [_outraged_]. And you have the impudence to propose, sir, that I should take a made-up name?

CLIFTON [_soothingly_]. Well, all names are made up some time or other. Somebody had to think of--Adam.

CRAWSHAW. I warn you, Mr. Clifton, that I do not allow this trifling with serious subjects.

CLIFTON. It's all so simple, really.... You see, my Uncle Antony was a rather unusual man. He despised money. He was not afraid to put it in its proper place. The place he put it in was--er--a little below golf and a little above classical concerts. If a man said to him, "Would you like to make fifty thousand this afternoon?" he would say--well, it would depend what he was doing. If he were going to have a round at Walton Heath--

CRAWSHAW. It's perfectly scandalous to talk of money in this way.

CLIFTON. Well, that's how he talked about it. But he didn't find many to agree with him. In fact, he used to say that there was nothing, however contemptible, that a man would not do for money. One day I suggested that if he left a legacy with a sufficiently foolish name attached to it, somebody might be found to refuse it. He laughed at the idea. That put me on my mettle. "Two people," I said; "leave the same silly name to two people, two well-known people, rival politicians, say, men whose own names are already public property. Surely they wouldn't both take it." That touched him. "Denis, my boy, you've got it," he said. "Upon what vile bodies shall we experiment?" We decided on you and Mr. Meriton. The next thing was to choose the name. I started on the wrong lines. I began by suggesting names like Porker, Tosh, Bugge, Spiffkins--the obvious sort. My uncle--

CRAWSHAW [_boiling with indignation_]. How _dare_ you discuss me with your uncle, sir! How dare you decide in this cold-blooded way whether I am to be called--ah--Tosh--or-ah--Porker!

CLIFTON. My uncle wouldn't hear of Tosh or Porker. He wanted a humorous name--a name he could roll lovingly round his tongue--a name expressing a sort of humorous contempt--Wurzel-Flummery! I can see now the happy ruminating smile which came so often on my Uncle Antony's face in those latter months. He was thinking of his two Wurzel-Flummeries. I remember him saying once--it was at the Zoo--what a pity it was he hadn't enough to divide among the whole Cabinet. A whole bunch of Wurzel-Flummeries; it would have been rather jolly.

CRAWSHAW. You force me to say, sir, that if _that_ was the way you and your uncle used to talk together at the Zoo, his death can only be described as a merciful intervention of Providence.

CLIFTON. Oh, but I think he must be enjoying all this somewhere, you know. I hope he is. He would have loved this morning. It was his one regret that from the necessities of the case he could not live to enjoy his own joke; but he had hopes that echoes of it would reach him wherever he might be. It was with some such idea, I fancy, that toward the end he became interested in spiritualism.

CRAWSHAW [_rising solemnly_]. Mr. Clifton, I have no interest in the present whereabouts of your uncle, nor in what means he has of overhearing a private conversation between you and myself. But if, as you irreverently suggest, he is listening to us, I should like him to hear this. That, in my opinion, you are not a qualified solicitor at all, that you never had an uncle, and that the whole story of the will and the ridiculous condition attached to it is just the tomfool joke of a man who, by his own admission, wastes most of his time writing unsuccessful farces. And I propose--

CLIFTON. Pardon my interrupting. But you said farces. Not farces, comedies--of a whimsical nature.

CRAWSHAW. Whatever they were, sir, I propose to report the whole matter to the Law Society. And you know your way out, sir.

CLIFTON. Then I am to understand that you refuse the legacy, Mr. Crawshaw?

CRAWSHAW [_startled_]. What's that?

CLIFTON. I am to understand that you refuse the fifty thousand pounds?

CRAWSHAW. If the money is really there, I most certainly do not refuse it.

CLIFTON. Oh, the money is most certainly there--and the name. Both waiting for you.

CRAWSHAW [_thumping the table_]. Then, sir, I accept them. I feel it my duty to accept them, as a public expression of confidence in the late Mr. Clifton's motives. I repudiate entirely the motives that you have suggested to him, and I consider it a sacred duty to show what I think of your story by accepting the trust which he has bequeathed to me. You will arrange further matters with my solicitor. Good-morning, sir.

CLIFTON [_to himself as he rises_]. Mr. Crawshaw here drank a glass of water. [_To CRAWSHAW._] Mr. Wurzel-Flummery, farewell. May I express the parting wish that your future career will add fresh luster to--my name. [_To himself as he goes out._] Exit Mr. Denis Clifton with dignity. [_But he has left his papers behind him. CRAWSHAW, walking indignantly back to the sofa, sees the papers and picks them up._]

CRAWSHAW [_contemptuously_]. "Watherston v. Towser--_in re_ Great Missenden Canal Company." Bah! [_He tears them up and throws them into the fire. He goes back to his writing-table and is seated there as VIOLA, followed by MERITON, comes in._]

VIOLA. Father, Dick doesn't want to take the money, but I have told him that of course he must. He must, mustn't he?

RICHARD. We needn't drag Robert into it, Viola.

CRAWSHAW. If Richard has the very natural feeling that it would be awkward for me if there were two Wurzel-Flummeries in the House of Commons, I should be the last to interfere with his decision. In any case, I don't see what concern it is of yours, Viola.

VIOLA [_surprised_]. But how can we get married if he doesn't take the money?

CRAWSHAW [_hardly understanding_]. Married? What does this mean, Richard?

RICHARD. I'm sorry it has come out like this. We ought to have told you before, but anyhow we were going to have told you in a day or two. Viola and I want to get married.

CRAWSHAW. And what did you want to get married on?

RICHARD [_with a smile_]. Not very much, I'm afraid.

VIOLA. We're all right now, father, because we shall have fifty thousand pounds.

RICHARD [_sadly_]. Oh, Viola, Viola!

CRAWSHAW. But naturally this puts a very different complexion on matters.

VIOLA. So of course he must take it, mustn't he, father?

CRAWSHAW. I can hardly suppose, Richard, that you expect me to entrust my daughter to a man who is so little provident for himself that he throws away fifty thousand pounds because of some fanciful objection to the name which goes with it.

RICHARD [_in despair_]. You don't understand, Robert.

CRAWSHAW. I understand this, Richard. That if the name is good enough for me, it should be good enough for you. You don't mind asking Viola to take _your_ name, but you consider it an insult if you are asked to take _my_ name.

RICHARD [_miserably to VIOLA_]. Do you want to be Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery?

VIOLA. Well, I'm going to be Miss Wurzel-Flummery anyhow, darling.

RICHARD [_beaten_]. Heaven help me! you'll make me take it. But you'll never understand.

CRAWSHAW [_stopping to administer comfort to him on his way out_]. Come, come, Richard. [_Patting him on the shoulder._] I understand perfectly. All that you were saying about money a little while ago--it's all perfectly true, it's all just what I feel myself. But in practice we have to make allowances sometimes. We have to sacrifice our ideals for--ah--others. I shall be very proud to have you for a son-in-law, and to feel that there will be the two of us in Parliament together upholding the honor of the--ah--name. And perhaps now that we are to be so closely related, you may come to feel some day that your views could be--ah--more adequately put forward from _my_ side of the House.

RICHARD. Go on, Robert; I deserve it.

CRAWSHAW. Well, well! Margaret will be interested in our news. And you must send that solicitor a line--or perhaps a telephone message would be better. [_He goes to the door and turns round just as he is going out._] Yes, I think the telephone, Richard; it would be safer. [_Exit._]

RICHARD [_holding out his hands to VIOLA_]. Come here, Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery.

VIOLA. Not Mrs. Wurzel-Flummery; Mrs. Dick. And soon, please, darling. [_She comes to him._]

RICHARD [_shaking his head sadly at her_]. I don't know what I've done, Viola. [_Suddenly._] But you're worth it. [_He kisses her, and then says in a low voice._] And God help me if I ever stop thinking so!

_Enter MR. DENIS CLIFTON. He sees them, and walks about very tactfully with his back towards them, humming to himself._

RICHARD. Hullo!

CLIFTON [_to himself_]. Now where did I put those papers? [_He hums to himself again._] Now where--oh, I beg your pardon! I left some papers behind.

VIOLA. Dick, you'll tell him. [_As she goes out, she says to CLIFTON._] Good-by, Mr. Clifton, and thank you for writing such nice letters.

CLIFTON. Good-by, Miss Crawshaw.

VIOLA. Just say it to see how it sounds.

CLIFTON. Good-by, Miss Wurzel-Flummery.

VIOLA [_smiling happily_]. No, not Miss, Mrs. [_She goes out._]

CLIFTON [_looking in surprise from her to him_]. You don't mean--

RICHARD. Yes; and I'm taking the money after all, Mr. Clifton.

CLIFTON. Dear me, what a situation! [_Thoughtfully to himself._] I wonder how a rough scenario would strike the managers.

RICHARD. Poor Mr. Clifton!

CLIFTON. Why poor?

RICHARD. You missed all the best part. You didn't hear what I said to Crawshaw about money before you came.

CLIFTON [_thoughtfully_]. Oh! was it very--[_Brightening up._] But I expect Uncle Antony heard. [_After a pause._] Well, I must be getting on. I wonder if you've noticed any important papers lying about, in connection with the Great Missenden Canal Company--a most intricate case, in which my clerk and I--[_He has murmured himself across to the fireplace, and the fragments of his important case suddenly catch his eye. He picks up one of the fragments._] Ah, yes. Well, I shall tell my clerk that we lost the case. He will be sorry. He had got quite fond of that canal. [_He turns to go, but first says to MERITON._] So you're taking the money, Mr. Meriton?

RICHARD. Yes.

CLIFTON. And Mr. Crawshaw too?

RICHARD. Yes.

CLIFTON [_to himself as he goes out_]. They are both taking it. [_He stops and looks up to UNCLE ANTONY with a smile._] Good old Uncle Antony--_he_ knew--_he_ knew! [_MERITON stands watching him as he goes._]

[THE CURTAIN.]

MAID OF FRANCE[35]

By HAROLD BRIGHOUSE

[Footnote 35: Copyright, 1918, by Gowans and Gray. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of and by special arrangement with Harold Brighouse. Also printed in the United States by Leroy Phillips, Boston. _Maid of France_ is fully protected by copyright. It must not be performed by either amateurs or professionals, without written permission. For such permission apply to Samuel French, 28-30 West 38 Street, New York City.]

Miss Horniman could hardly have foreseen the development of a Manchester school of dramatists as the outcome of her experiment with repertory at the Gaiety Theatre in Manchester, because her purpose was to produce good plays irrespective of geographical limitations. But the fact is that the project was a source of real inspiration to a group of young Lancashire writers among whom may be mentioned Allan Broome, Stanley Houghton, and Harold Brighouse. There is no plainer illustration of the relations between the audience and the play, or between the theatre and the play, or between the actor and the play than the dramatic activity that followed the establishment of the Abbey Theatre in Dublin and the setting up of Miss Horniman's experiment in Manchester.

Although in this collection, Brighouse is represented by _Maid of France_, a play with no local Lancashire coloring, first given on July 16, 1917, in London, not Manchester (it was later produced at the Greenwich Village Theatre in New York, beginning April 18, 1918), he has up to the present time written seven plays about Lancashire. He has been particularly successful in one-act drama; _Lonesome Like_, _The Price of Coal_, and _Spring in Bloomsbury_ have been popular here and in England. B. Iden Payne, who directed productions at the Gaiety Theatre for some time, says: "In all Harold Brighouse's plays there is in the acting more laughter than one would expect from the reading." A number of Brighouse's plays have been published; in the introduction to the latest volume,[36] he writes: "In another age than ours play-books were a favorite, if not the only form of light reading.... The reader mentally producing a play from the book in his hand looks through a magic casement at what he gloriously will instead of through a proscenium arch at the handiwork of a mere human producer." This playwright's attitude toward the reading of plays, with its appeal to the imagination, is one justification for a collection like the present one.

[Footnote 36: Harold Brighouse, _Three Lancashire Plays_, London and New York, 1920. There is a bibliographical note at the end.]

Brighouse is himself a Manchester man, having been born in Eccles, a suburb, on July 26, 1882. He was educated at the Manchester Grammar School. Until 1913 he was engaged in business, carrying on his literary work at the same time, but in that year he gave himself up exclusively to writing. Besides plays, he has written fiction and criticism. During the Great War, he was attached to the Intelligence Staff of the Air Ministry.

MAID OF FRANCE

CHARACTERS

JEANNE D'ARC. BLANCHE, _a flower-girl._ PAUL, _a French Poilu._ FRED, _an English Tommy._ GERALD SOAMES, _an English lieutenant._

_THE SCENE represents one side of a square in a French town on Christmas Eve, 1916. The buildings shown have suffered from German shells, except the church in the center which stands immune, protected, as it were, by the statue of Jeanne d'Arc which stands on a pedestal, surrounded by steps in front of it. The church is lighted up within for the midnight mass, but it is its side which presents itself to one's view, so that the ingoing worshipers are not seen. The statue is of the Maid in her armor. It is nearly midnight on Christmas Eve and the lighting, which should not be too realistically obscure, suggests faint moonlight._

_PAUL, a French private in war-worn uniform, stands by the steps, gazing adoringly at the statue. He is a charmingly simple, credulous man, in peace a peasant. To him there enters from the right, BLANCHE, a flower-girl, in a cloak, with a basket of flowers. In face and figure, BLANCHE must resemble the statue. She is a pert, impudent, extremely self-possessed saleswoman, burning, however, with the fierce light of French patriotism which, almost in spite of herself, is apt to get the better of her. Ready as she is to trade upon PAUL's mystic reverence for the Maid, familiarity with the statue has not bred contempt in her. She stops by PAUL, offering her flowers with a cajoling smile._

BLANCHE. Will you buy a flower, monsieur?

PAUL. Flower, mademoiselle? You can sell flowers at this hour when it is nearly midnight?

BLANCHE. There is moonlight, and I have a smile, monsieur. It is my smile which sells the flowers. Does not monsieur agree that it is irresistible?

PAUL [_uneasily_]. Mademoiselle has charm.

BLANCHE. And I have charms for you. My flowers. Will you not buy a flower, monsieur, and I will pin it to your uniform where it will draw all the ladies' eyes to you when you promenade on the boulevard?

PAUL. I do not promenade. I stay here.

BLANCHE. Here in the Square where it is dull and lonely? But on the boulevards are lights, monsieur, and gaiety, and people promenade because to-night is Christmas Eve.

PAUL. Mademoiselle, you're kind. Will you be kind to me and tell me something?

BLANCHE. What can I tell?