ACT III

_Afternoon, three days later. ROYCE is at the desk, at work on a statement for publication. He has various documents at hand, to which he refers from time to time. OLIVER comes in._

* * * * *

OLIVER. Hallo!

ROYCE (_without looking up_). Hallo!

OLIVER (_after waiting hopefully_). Very busy! (_He sits down._)

ROYCE. Yes.

OLIVER. Where is everybody?

ROYCE. About somewhere.

OLIVER. Oh!... I’ve been away for a couple of days. My chief made a speech at Bradford. My God! Just for my benefit he dragged in a reference to Oliver Blayds. Also “My God.”

ROYCE (_realising suddenly that somebody is talking_). Oh! (_He goes on with his work._)

OLIVER. Yes, you seem quite excited about it.

ROYCE. Sorry, but I’ve really got rather a lot to do, and not too much time to do it in.

OLIVER. Oh!... You won’t mind my asking, but are you living in the house?

ROYCE. Practically. For the last three days.

OLIVER. Oh, I say, are you really? I was being sarcastic—as practised by the best politicians.

ROYCE. Don’t mention it.

OLIVER. What’s happened?

ROYCE. Miss Blayds asked me to help her. As you know, she is executor to Blayds. Of course your father is helping too, but there’s a good deal to be done.

OLIVER. I see. (_Awkwardly_) I say, I suppose you—I mean has she—I mean, what about——

ROYCE. Miss Blayds has told me.

OLIVER. Oh! Nobody else yet?

ROYCE. No.

OLIVER. I’ve been rushing for the papers every morning expecting to see something about it.

ROYCE. We want to get everything in order first—the financial side of it as well as the other—and then make a plain straightforward statement of what has happened and what we propose to do.

OLIVER. Yes, of course you can’t just write to _The Times_ and say: “Dear Sir, Blayds’ poetry was written by Jenkins, Yours faithfully.”... When will it be, do you think?

ROYCE. We ought to have it ready by to-morrow.

OLIVER. H’m.... Then I had better start looking for a job at once.

ROYCE. Nonsense!

OLIVER. It isn’t nonsense. What do you think my chief will want me for, if I’m not Blayds the poet’s grandson?

ROYCE. Your intrinsic qualities.

OLIVER. I’m afraid they are not intrinsic enough in the present state of the market.

ROYCE. Well, you said you wanted to be a motor engineer—now’s your chance.

OLIVER. Helpful fellow, Royce. Now, as he says, is my chance. (_There is a pause and then he says suddenly_) I say, what do _you_ think about it all?

ROYCE. What do you mean, think about it all? What is there to think? One tries not to think. It’s—shattering.

OLIVER. No, I don’t mean that. I mean—do you really think he did it?

ROYCE. Did what?

OLIVER. Did _it_. Did Jenkins.

ROYCE. I don’t understand. Is there any doubt about it?

OLIVER. Well, that’s just it.... The fact is, I had a brain-wave at Bradford.

ROYCE. Oh?

OLIVER. Yes. Quite suddenly it flashed across me, and I said, “By Jove! Of course! That’s it!”

ROYCE. What’s what?

OLIVER. He never did it! He just imagined it! It was all—what was the word I used?

ROYCE. Hallucination?

OLIVER. Hallucination. (_He nods_) That’s the word. I wrote to Father last night. I said, “Hallucination.” You can back it both ways, Royce, and you won’t be far out.

ROYCE. Yes, I can see how attractive the word must have looked—up at Bradford.

OLIVER. You don’t think it looks so well down here?

ROYCE. I’m afraid not.

OLIVER. Well, why not? Which is more probable, that Oliver Blayds carried out this colossal fraud for more than sixty years, or that when he was an old man of ninety his brain wobbled a bit, and he started imagining things?

ROYCE (_shaking his head regretfully_). No.

OLIVER. It’s all very well to say “No.” Anybody can say “No.” As the Old Man said yesterday, you refuse to face the facts, Royce. Look at all the Will cases you see in the papers. Whenever an old gentleman over seventy leaves his money to anybody but his loving nephews and nieces, they always bring an action to prove that he can’t have been quite right in the head when he died; and nine times out of ten they win. Well, Blayds was ninety.

ROYCE. Yes, but I thought he left you a thousand pounds.

OLIVER. Well, I suppose that was a lucid interval.... Look here, _you_ think it over seriously. I read a book once about a fellow who stole another man’s novel. Perhaps Blayds read it too and got it mixed up. Why not at that age? Or perhaps he was thinking of using the idea himself. And turning it over and over in his mind, living with it, so to speak, day and night, he might very easily begin to think that it was something that had happened to himself. At his age. And then on his death-bed, feeling that he must confess something—thoroughly muddled, poor old fellow—well, you see how easily it might happen. Hallucination.

ROYCE (_regarding him admiringly_). You know, Oliver, I think you underrate your intrinsic qualities as a politician. You mustn’t waste yourself on engineering.

OLIVER. Thanks very much. I suppose Father hasn’t mentioned the word “hallucination” to you yet?

ROYCE. No, not yet.

OLIVER. Perhaps he hadn’t got my letter this morning. But it’s worth thinking about, it is really.

ROYCE (_hard at it again_). Yes, I am sure it is.

OLIVER. You know——

ROYCE. You know, Oliver, I’m really very busy.

OLIVER (_getting up_). Oh, all right. And I want a wash anyway. Is Father in his study?

ROYCE. Yes. Also very busy. If you really are going, I wish you’d see if Miss Blayds could spare me a moment.

OLIVER. Right. (_Turning to the door and seeing ISOBEL come in_) She can. Hallo, Aunt Isobel!

ISOBEL. I thought I heard your voice. Did you have an interesting time?

OLIVER. Rather! I was telling Royce. (_He takes her hand and pats it kindly_) And I say, it’s all right. Quite all right. (_He kisses her hand_) Believe me, it’s going to be absolutely all right. You see. (_He pats her hand soothingly and goes out._)

ISOBEL (_rather touched_). Dear boy!

ROYCE. Yes, Oliver has a great future in politics.

ISOBEL (_going to the sofa_). I’m tired.

ROYCE. You’ve been doing too much. Sit down and rest a little.

ISOBEL (_sitting_). No, go on. I shan’t disturb you?

ROYCE. Talk to me. I’ve worked quite enough too.

ISOBEL. Shall we be ready by to-morrow?

ROYCE. I think so.

ISOBEL. I want to be rid of it—to get it out of my head where it just goes round and round. It will be a relief when the whole world knows. (_With a little smile_) What a sensation for them!

ROYCE. Yes. (_Also smiling_) Isn’t it funny how that comes in?

ISOBEL. What?

ROYCE. The excitement at the back of one’s mind when anything unusual happens, however disastrous.

ISOBEL (_smiling_). Did I sound very excited?

ROYCE. You sounded alive for the first time.

ISOBEL. These last two days have helped me. It has been a great comfort to have you here. It was good of you to come.

ROYCE. But of course I came.

ISOBEL. I was looking up _Who’s Who_ for an address, and I went on to your name—you know how one does. I hadn’t realised you were so famous or so busy. It was good of you to come.... Your wife died?

ROYCE (_surprised_). Yes.

ISOBEL. I didn’t know.

ROYCE. Ten years ago. Surely——

ISOBEL. Is there a special manner of a man whose wife died ten years ago which I ought to have recognised?

ROYCE (_laughing_). Well, no. But one always feels that a fact with which one has lived for years must have impressed itself somehow on others.

ISOBEL. I didn’t know....

ROYCE (_suddenly_). I wish I could persuade you that you were quite wrong not to take any of this money.

ISOBEL. Am I “quite wrong”?

ROYCE (_shaking his head_). No. That’s why it’s so hopeless my trying to persuade you.... What are you going to do?

ISOBEL (_rather sadly_). Aren’t I a “born nurse”?

ROYCE. You tied my hand up once.

ISOBEL (_smiling_). Well, there you are.... Oh, I daresay it’s just pride, but somehow I can’t take the money. The others can; you were right about that—I was wrong; but they have not been so near to him as I have.... I thought the whole world was at an end at first. But now——

ROYCE. But now you don’t.

ISOBEL. No. I don’t know why. How hopeful we are. How—unbreakable. If I were God, I should be very proud of Man.

ROYCE. Let Him go on being proud of you.

ISOBEL. Oh, I’m tough. You can’t be a nurse without being tough. I shan’t break.

ROYCE. And just a smile occasionally?

ISOBEL (_smiling_). And even perhaps just a smile occasionally?

ROYCE. Thank you.

(_WILLIAM comes in fussily. But there is a suppressed air of excitement about him. He has OLIVER’S letter in his hand._)

WILLIAM. Isobel, there are two pass-books missing—two of the early ones. I thought you had found them all. You haven’t seen them, Mr. Royce?

ROYCE. No, I’ve had nothing to do with them.

WILLIAM. You found most of the early ones in the bottom drawer of his desk, you told me.

ISOBEL (_getting up_). I may have overlooked one; I’ll go and see. There was a great deal of rubbish there.

ROYCE. Can’t I?

ISOBEL. Would you? You know where. Thank you so much.

ROYCE (_going_). Right.

WILLIAM. Thank you very much, Mr. Royce, I’m sorry to trouble you.

(_There is a little silence after ROYCE is gone. ISOBEL is thinking her own thoughts, not quite such unhappy ones now; WILLIAM is nervous and excited. After much polishing of his glasses he begins._)

WILLIAM. Isobel, I have been thinking very deeply of late about this terrible business.

ISOBEL. Yes?

WILLIAM (_going to the desk_). Is this the statement?

ISOBEL. Is it?

WILLIAM (_glancing over it_). Yes ... yes. I’ve been wondering if we’ve been going too far.

ISOBEL. About the money?

WILLIAM. No, no. No, no, I wasn’t thinking about the money.

ISOBEL. What, then?

WILLIAM. Well.... Well.... I’m wondering.... Can we feel quite certain that if we make this announcement—can we feel quite certain that we are not—well—going too far?

ISOBEL. You mean about the money?

WILLIAM. No, no, no, no.

ISOBEL. Then what else? I don’t understand.

WILLIAM. Suppose—I only say suppose—it were not true. I mean, can we be so certain that it _is_ true? You see, once we make this announcement it is then too late. We cannot contradict it afterwards and say that we have made a mistake. It is irrevocable.

ISOBEL (_hardly able to believe it_). Are you suggesting that we should—hush it up?

WILLIAM. Now you are putting words into my mouth that I have not yet used. I say that it has occurred to me, thinking things over very earnestly, that possibly we are in too much of a hurry to believe this story of—er—this Jenkins story.

ISOBEL. You mean that I have invented it, dreamed it, imagined it——?

WILLIAM. No, no, no, no, please. It would never occur to me to suggest any such thing. What I do suggest as a possibility worth considering is that Oliver Blayds—er—imagined it.

ISOBEL. You mean he thought it was the other man’s poetry when it was really his own?

WILLIAM. You must remember that he was a very old man. I was saying to Marion in this very room, talking over what I understood then to be his last wish for a simple funeral, that the dying words of an old man were not to be taken too seriously. Indeed, I used on that occasion this actual phrase, “An old man, his faculties rapidly going.” I repeat the phrase. I say again that an old man, his faculties rapidly going, may have imagined this story. In short, it has occurred to me that the whole thing may very well be—hallucination.

ISOBEL (_looking at him fixedly_). Or self-deception.

WILLIAM (_misunderstanding her_). Exactly. Well, in short, I suggest there never was anybody called Jenkins.

ISOBEL (_brightly—after a pause_). Wouldn’t it be nice?

WILLIAM. One can understand how upon his death-bed a man feels the need of confession, of forgiveness and absolution. It may well be that Oliver Blayds, instinctively feeling this need, bared his soul to you, not of some real misdeed of his own, but of some imaginary misdeed with which, by who knows what association of ideas, his mind had become occupied.

ISOBEL. You mean he meant to confess to a murder or something, and got muddled.

WILLIAM. Heaven forbid that I should attribute any misdeed to so noble, so knightly a man as Oliver Blayds.

ISOBEL. Knightly?

WILLIAM. I am of course assuming that this man Jenkins never existed.

ISOBEL. Oh, you _are_ assuming that?

WILLIAM. The more I think of it, the more plain it becomes to me that we _must_ assume it.

ISOBEL. Yes, I quite see that the more one thinks of it, the more—— (_She indicates the rest of the sentence with her fingers._)

WILLIAM. Well, what do you think of the suggestion?

ISOBEL. It’s so obvious that I’m wondering why it didn’t occur to you before.

WILLIAM. The truth is I was stunned.

ISOBEL. Oh yes.

WILLIAM. And then, I confess, the fact of the 1863 volume seemed for the moment conclusive.

ISOBEL. But now it doesn’t?

WILLIAM. I explain it now, as one always explained it when he was alive. Every great poet has these lapses.

ISOBEL. Oh! (_She is silent, looking at WILLIAM wonderingly, almost admiringly._)

WILLIAM (_after waiting for her comment_). Well?

ISOBEL. What can I say, William, except again how nice it will be? No scandal, no poverty, no fuss, and his life in two volumes just as before. We are a little too late for the Abbey, but, apart from that, everything is as nice as it can be.

WILLIAM (_solemnly_). You have not mentioned the best thing of all, Isobel.

ISOBEL. What?

WILLIAM (_looking up reverently at the picture_). That our faith in him has not been misplaced.

(_She wonders at him, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry._)

ISOBEL. Oh!... oh!... (_But there are no words available._)

_MARION comes in._

MARION (_excitedly_). Isobel, dear, have you heard? Have you heard the wonderful news?

ISOBEL (_turning to her blankly_). News?

MARION. About the hallucination. I always felt that there must have been some mistake. And now our faith has been justified—as faith always is. It’s such a comfort to know. Really to know at last. Poor dear Grandfather! He was so very old. I think sometimes we forget how very old he was. And the excitement of that last day—his birthday—and perhaps the glass of port. No wonder.

WILLIAM (_shaking his head wisely_). Very strange, very strange, but, as you say, not unexpected. One might almost have predicated some such end.

MARION. I shall never forgive myself for having doubted. (_To ISOBEL_) I think Grandfather will forgive us, dear. I can’t help feeling that wherever he is, he will forgive us.

WILLIAM (_nodding_). Yes, yes.... I shall say nothing about it in the book, of course—this curious lapse in his faculties at the last.

MARION. Of course not, dear.

WILLIAM. I shall merely——

ISOBEL. Then you won’t want that pass-book now?

MARION. Pass-book?

ISOBEL. Yes. You were going into the accounts, weren’t you, to see how much——

WILLIAM. Oh—ah—yes, the Jenkins Fund.

MARION. But of course there is no Jenkins now! So there can’t be a Jenkins Fund. Such a comfort from every point of view.

ISOBEL (_to WILLIAM_). You’re quite happy about the money, then?

WILLIAM (_who obviously isn’t_). Er—yes—I.... That is to say, that, while absolutely satisfied that this man Jenkins never existed, I—at the same time—I—well, perhaps to be on the safe side—there are certain charities.... As I say, there _are_ certain charities for distressed writers, and so on, and perhaps one would feel—you see what I mean. (_He goes to the desk._)

ISOBEL. Yes. It’s what they call conscience-money, isn’t it?

WILLIAM. But of course all that can be settled later. (_He picks up ROYCE’S statement._) The main point is that this will not now be wanted. (_He prepares to tear it in two._)

ISOBEL (_fiercely_). No! Put that down!

(_Startled he puts it down, and she snatches it up and holds it close to her heart._)

MARION. Isobel, dear!

ISOBEL. It’s his, and you’re not to touch it! He has given his time to it, and you’re not going to throw it away as if it were nothing. It’s for _him_ to say.

WILLIAM (_upset_). Really! I was only just——

_ROYCE comes in._

ROYCE (_excitedly_). I say!

ISOBEL. Mr. Royce, we have some news for you. We have decided that the man Jenkins never existed. Isn’t it nice?

ROYCE. Never existed?

ISOBEL. He was just an hallucination. (_To WILLIAM_) Wasn’t that the word?

ROYCE (_laughing_). Oh, I see. That’s rather funny. For what do you think I’ve got here? (_He holds up a faded piece of paper._) Stuck in this old pass-book. A letter from Jenkins!

WILLIAM (_staggered_). O-o-o-o-oh!

MARION (_bewildered_). It must be another Jenkins. Because we’ve just decided that our one never lived.

ISOBEL. What is it? What does it say?

ROYCE (_reading_). “Dear Oliver, You have given me everything. I leave you everything. Little enough, but it is yours. God bless you, dear Oliver.”

ISOBEL (_moved_). Oh!

WILLIAM. Let me look. (_He takes it._)

ISOBEL (_to herself_). All those years ago!

WILLIAM. Yes, there’s no doubt of it. (_He gives the paper back to ROYCE._) Wait! Let me think. (_He sits down, head in hands._)

ROYCE. Well, that settles the money side of it, anyway. Whatever should have been the other man’s came rightly to Oliver Blayds.

ISOBEL. Except the immortality.

ROYCE. Ah, yes. I say nothing of that. (_Going to the desk and picking up his statement_) I shall have to rewrite this.... Well, the first part can stand.... I’m glad we aren’t going to be bothered about money. It would have been an impossible business to settle.

WILLIAM (_triumphantly_). I’ve got it!

MARION. What, dear?

WILLIAM. Now I understand everything.

ROYCE. What?

WILLIAM. The 1863 volume. That always puzzled me. Always! Now, at last, we have the true explanation. (_Dramatically_) The 1863 volume was written by Jenkins!

(_ISOBEL and ROYCE look at him in amazement; MARION in admiration._)

ROYCE (_to himself_). Poor old Jenkins.

MARION. Of course I liked all Grandfather’s poetry. There was some of it I didn’t understand, but I felt that _he_ knew——

WILLIAM. No, we can be frank now. The 1863 volume was bad. And now we see why. He wished to give this dear dead friend of his a chance. I can see these two friends—Oliver—and—er—— (_Going to ROYCE_) What was Mr.—er—Jenkins’ other name? (_He reads it over ROYCE’S shoulder_) Ah, yes, Willoughby—I can see that last scene when Willoughby lay dying, and his friend Oliver stood by his side. I can hear Willoughby lamenting that none of his poetry will ever be heard now in the mouths of others—and Oliver’s silent resolve that in some way, at some time, Willoughby’s work shall be given to the world. And so in 1863, when his own position was firmly established, he issues this little collection of his dead friend’s poetry, these few choicest sheaves from poor Willoughby’s indiscriminate harvest, sheltering them, as he hoped, from the storm of criticism with the mantle of his own great name. A noble resolve, a chivalrous undertaking, but alas! of no avail.

ROYCE. You will say this in your life of Oliver Blayds?

WILLIAM. I shall—er—hint at the doubtful authorship of the 1863 volume; perhaps it would be better not to go into the matter too fully.

MARION (_to ISOBEL_). It would be much nicer, dear, if we didn’t refer to any of the unhappy thoughts which we have all had about Grandfather in the last few days. We know now that we never ought to have doubted. He was—Grandfather.

ISOBEL (_after a pause, to ROYCE_). Well? (_He shrugs his shoulders._) Will you find the children? I think they ought to know this.

ROYCE. Right. Do you want me to come back?

ISOBEL. Please. (_He goes out. When he has gone she turns to WILLIAM_) I am going to publish the truth about Oliver Blayds.

MARION. But that’s what we all want to do, dear.

WILLIAM. What do you mean by the truth?

ISOBEL. What we all know to be the truth in our hearts.

WILLIAM. I deny it. I deny it utterly. I am convinced that the explanation which I have given is the true one.

ISOBEL. Then I shall publish the explanation which he gave _me_.

WILLIAM. Isobel, I should have thought that you, of all people, would have wanted to believe in Oliver Blayds.

ISOBEL. Wanted to! If only “wanting to” were the same as believing, how easy life would be!

MARION. It _is_ very nearly the same, dear. If you try very hard. I have found it a great comfort.

WILLIAM. I must beg you to reconsider your decision. I had the honour of the friendship of Oliver Blayds for many years, and I tell you frankly that I will not allow this slander of a dead man to pass unchallenged.

ISOBEL. Which dead man?

WILLIAM (_a little upset_). This slander on Oliver Blayds.

ISOBEL. It is not slander. I shall tell the truth about him.

WILLIAM. Then I shall tell the truth about him too.

(_ISOBEL turns away with a shrug, and sees SEPTIMA, ROYCE, and OLIVER coming in._)

ISOBEL. Thank you, Mr. Royce. Septima, Oliver——

(_She gives them the letter to read._)

OLIVER (_after reading_). By Jove! Sportsman! I always said—— (_Frankly_) No, I didn’t.

SEPTIMA (_after reading_). Good. Well, that’s all right then.

ISOBEL. We have been talking over what I told you the other day, and your father now has a theory that it was the 1863 volume which was written by this man, and that your grandfather in telling me the story had got it into his head somehow——

WILLIAM. A very old man, his faculties rapidly going——

ISOBEL. Had muddled the story up.

OLIVER (_brightening up_). Good for you, Father! I see! Of course! Then it was hallucination after all?

ISOBEL. You had discussed it before?

OLIVER. Oh, rather!

ISOBEL (_to SEPTIMA_). And you?

OLIVER. I told Septima the idea.

ISOBEL. And what does Septima say?

(_They all turn to her._)

SEPTIMA (_emphatically_). Rot!

MARION (_shocked_). Septima! Your father!

SEPTIMA. Well, you asked me what I said, and I’m telling you. Rot. R-O-T.

WILLIAM (_coldly_). Kindly explain yourself a little more lucidly.

OLIVER. It’s all rot saying “rot”——

WILLIAM. One at a time, please. Septima?

SEPTIMA. I think it’s rot, trying to deceive ourselves by making up a story about Grandfather, just because we don’t like the one which he told Aunt Isobel. What does it all matter anyhow? There’s the poetry, and jolly good too, most of it. What does it matter when you’ve quoted it, whether you add, “As Blayds nobly said” or “As Jenkins nobly said”? It’s the same poetry. There was Grandfather. We all knew him well, and we all had plenty of chances of making up our minds about him. How can what he did seventy years ago, when he was another person altogether, make any difference to our opinion of him? And then there’s the money. I said that it ought to be ours, and it is ours. Well, there we are.

WILLIAM. You are quite content that your Aunt should publish, as she proposes to, this story of—er—Willoughby Jenkins, which I am convinced is a base libel on the reputation of Oliver Blayds?

OLIVER. I say, Aunt Isobel, are you really going to? I mean do you _still_ believe——

ISOBEL. I am afraid I do, Oliver.

OLIVER. Good Lord!

WILLIAM. Well—Septima?

SEPTIMA. I am quite content with the truth. And if you want the truth about Septima Blayds-Conway, it is that the truth about Blayds is not really any great concern of hers.

OLIVER. Well, that’s a pretty selfish way of looking at it.

MARION. I don’t know what Grandfather would say if he could hear you.

ISOBEL. Thank you, Septima. You’re honest anyhow.

SEPTIMA. Well, of course.

OLIVER. It’s all very well for _her_ to talk like that, but it’s a jolly big concern of mine. If it comes out, I’m done. As a politician anyway.

ROYCE. What do _you_ believe, Oliver?

OLIVER. I told you. Hallucination. At least it seems just as likely as the other. And that being so, I think we ought to give it the benefit of the doubt. What _is_ the truth about Blayds—I don’t know——

ISOBEL (_calmly_). I do, Oliver.

WILLIAM (_sharply_). So do I.

OLIVER. Well, I mean, there you are. Probably the truth lies somewhere in between——

ROYCE (_with a smile, speaking almost unconsciously_). No, no, you mustn’t waste yourself on engineering. (_Recovering himself with a start_) I beg your pardon.

OLIVER. Anyway, I’m with Father. I don’t think we ought to take the risk of doing Oliver Blayds an injustice by saying anything about this—this hallucination.

WILLIAM. There is no question of risk. It’s a certainty. Come, Marion. (_He leads the way to the door._) We have much to do. (_Challengingly_) We have much work yet to do upon the life of this great poet, this great and chivalrous gentleman, Oliver Blayds!

MARION (_meekly_). Yes, dear.

[_They go out._

OLIVER. Oh, Lord, a family row! I’m not sure that that isn’t worse.... “Interviewed by our representative, Mr. Oliver Blayds-Conway said that he preferred not to express an opinion.” I think that’s my line.

SEPTIMA. Yes, it would be.

OLIVER. Well, I must go. (_Grandly_) We have much work yet to do.... Coming, Tim?

SEPTIMA (_getting up_). Yes. (_She goes slowly after him, hesitates, and then comes back to ISOBEL. Awkwardly she touches her shoulder and says_) Good luck!

[_Then she goes out._

(_ROYCE and ISOBEL stand looking at each other. First he begins to smile; then she. Suddenly they are both laughing._)

ISOBEL. How absurd!

ROYCE. I was afraid you wouldn’t appreciate it. Well, what are you going to do?

ISOBEL. What can I do but tell the world the truth?

ROYCE. H’m! I wonder if the world will be grateful.

ISOBEL. Does that matter?

ROYCE. Yes, I think it does. I think you ought to feel that you are benefiting somebody—other than yourself.

ISOBEL (_with a smile_). I am hardly benefiting myself.

ROYCE. Not materially, of course—but spiritually? Aren’t you just easing your conscience?

ISOBEL. I don’t see why the poor thing shouldn’t be eased.

ROYCE. At the other people’s expense?

ISOBEL. Oh, but no, Austin, no. I’m sure that’s wrong. Surely the truth means more than that. Surely it’s an end in itself. The only end. Call it Truth or call it Beauty, it’s all we’re here for.

ROYCE. You know, the trouble is that the Truth about Blayds won’t seem very beautiful. There’s your truth, and then there’s William’s truth, too. To the public it will seem not so much like Beauty as like an undignified family squabble. And William will win. His story can be made to sound so much more likely than yours. No, it’s no good. You can’t start another miserable Shakespeare-Bacon controversy. Because that is what it would be in a few years. There would be no established truth, but just a Jenkins’ theory. Hadn’t we better just leave him with the poetry?

ISOBEL. It seems so unfair that this poor dead boy should be robbed of the immortality which he wanted.

ROYCE. Hasn’t he got it? There are his works. Didn’t he have the wonderful happiness and pain of writing them? How can you do anything for him now? It’s just pure sentiment, isn’t it?

ISOBEL (_meekly_). If you say so, sir.

ROYCE (_laughing_). Am I lecturing? I’m sorry.

ISOBEL. No, I don’t mind. And I expect you’re right. I can’t do anything. (_After a pause_) Are one’s motives ever pure?

ROYCE. One hopes so. One never knows.

ISOBEL. I keep telling myself that I want the truth to prevail—but is it only that? Or is it that I want to punish him?... He hurt me so. All those years he was pretending that I helped him. And all the time it was just a game to him. A game—and he was laughing. Do you wonder that I was bitter? It was just a game to him.

ROYCE. As he said, he carried it off.

ISOBEL. Yes, he carried it off.... Even in those last moments he was carrying it off. Just that. He was frightened at first—he was dying; it was so lonely in the grave; there was no audience there; no one to listen, to admire. Only God. Ah, but when he had begun his story, how quickly he was the artist again! No fear now, no remorse. Just the artist glorying in his story; putting all he knew into the telling of it, making me see that dead boy whom he had betrayed so vividly that I could have stretched out my hand to him and said, “Oh, my dear, I’m sorry—I will make it all right for you.” Oh, he had his qualities, Oliver Blayds. My father, yes; but somehow he never seemed that. A great man; a little man; but never quite my father.

ROYCE. A great man, I think.

ISOBEL. Yes, he was a great man, and he did less hurt to the world than most great men do.

ROYCE (_picking up his statement_). Then I can tear up this?

ISOBEL (_after a little struggle with herself_). Yes! Let us bury the dead, and forget about them. (_He tears it up. She gives a sigh of relief_) There!

ROYCE (_coming to her_). Isobel!

ISOBEL. Ah—but she’s dead too. Let’s forget about her.

ROYCE. She is not dead. I have seen her.

ISOBEL. When did you see her?

ROYCE. To-day I have seen her. She peeped out for a moment, and was gone.

ISOBEL. She just peeped out to say good-bye to you.

ROYCE (_shaking his head_). No. To say “How do you do” to me.

ISOBEL. My dear, she died eighteen years ago, that child.

ROYCE (_smiling_). Then introduce me to her mother.

ISOBEL (_gravely, with a smile behind it_). Mr. Royce, let me introduce you to my mother—thirty-eight, poor dear. (_Bowing_) How do you do, Mr. Royce? I have heard my daughter speak of you.

ROYCE. How do you do, Mrs. Blayds? I’m glad to meet you, because I once asked your daughter to marry me.

ISOBEL. Ah, don’t, don’t!

ROYCE (_cheerfully_). Do you know what she said? She said, like all properly brought up girls, “You must ask my mother.” So now I ask her—“Isobel’s mother, will _you_ marry me?”

ISOBEL. Oh!

ROYCE. Isobel was quite right. I was too old for her. Look, I’m grey. And then I’ve got a bit of rheumatism about me somewhere—I really want a nurse. Isobel said you were a born nurse.... Isobel’s mother, will you marry me?

ISOBEL. I’m afraid to. I shall be so jealous.

ROYCE. Jealous! Of whom?

ISOBEL. Of that girl we call my daughter. You will always be looking for her. You will think that I shan’t see; you will try to hide it from me; but I shall see. Always you will be looking for her—and I shall see.

ROYCE. I shall find her.

ISOBEL. No, it’s too late now.

ROYCE (_confidently_). I shall find her. Not yet, perhaps; but some day. Perhaps it will be on a day in April, when the primroses are out between the wood-stacks, and there is a chatter of rooks in the tall elms. Then, a child again, she will laugh for joy of the clean blue morning, and I shall find her. And when I have found her, I shall say——

ISOBEL (_gently_). Yes?

ROYCE. I shall say, “Thank God, you are so like your mother—whom I love.”

ISOBEL. No, no, it can’t be true.

ROYCE. It is true. (_Holding out his hands_) I want you—not her.

ISOBEL. Oh, my dear!

(_She puts out her hands to his. As he takes them, MARION comes in hurriedly. Their hands drop, and they stand there, looking happily at each other._)

MARION. Isobel! I had to come and tell you how hurt William is. Dear, don’t you think you _could_ believe—just for William’s sake——

ISOBEL (_gently_). It’s all right, dear. I am not going to say anything.

MARION (_eagerly_). You mean you believe? (_WILLIAM comes in, and she rushes to him_) She believes! She believes!

(_ISOBEL and ROYCE exchange a smile._)

WILLIAM (_with satisfaction_). Ah! I am very glad to hear this. As regards the biography. In the circumstances, since we are all agreed as to the facts, I almost think we might record the story of Oliver Blayds’ chivalrous attempt to assist his friend, definitely assigning to Willoughby Jenkins the 1863 volume. (_He looks at them for approval. MARION nods._)

ISOBEL (_looking demurely at ROYCE and then back again_). Yes, William.

WILLIAM. I feel strongly, and I am sure you will agree with me, that it is our duty to tell the _whole_ truth about that great man. (_Again he looks to MARION for approval. She assents._)

ISOBEL (_aside to ROYCE—enjoying it with him_). Do I still say, “Yes, William”? (_He smiles and nods._) Yes, William.

(_And so that is how the story will be handed down. But, as SEPTIMA says, the poetry will still be there._)

_Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh._

Transcriber’s Note

Inconsistent hyphenation (buttonhole/button-hole, Good morning/Good-morning, half-measures/half measures, postcard/post-card, runaway/run-away, safety-razor/safety razor) and inconsistent spelling (Hallo/Hullo) have been left as printed in the original.