Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  LORD LOAM (genially). Take them, my boy. (With a rapidity we had not thought him capable of, ERNEST becomes the wearer of the boots.) And now I dare say you want to know why I give them to you, Ernest?

  ERNEST (moving up and down in them deliciously). Not at all. The great thing is, ‘I’ve got ‘em, I’ve got ‘em.’

  LORD LOAM (majestically, but with a knowing look at his daughters). My reason is that, as head of our little party, you, Ernest, shall be our hunter, you shall clear the forests of those savage beasts that make them so dangerous. (Pleasantly.) And now you know, my dear nephew, why I have given you my boots.

  ERNEST. This is my answer.

  (He kicks off the boots.)

  LADY MARY (still anxious). Father, assert yourself.

  LORD LOAM. I shall now assert myself. (But how to do it? He has a happy thought.) Call Crichton.

  LADY MARY. Oh father.

  (CRICHTON comes in answer to a summons, and is followed by TREHERNE.)

  ERNEST (wondering a little at LADY MARY’S grave face). Crichton, look here.

  LORD LOAM (sturdily). Silence! Crichton, I want your advice as to what I ought to do with Mr. Ernest. He has defied me.

  ERNEST. Pooh!

  CRICHTON (after considering). May I speak openly, my lord?

  LADY MARY (keeping her eyes fixed on him). That is what we desire.

  CRICHTON (quite humbly). Then I may say, your lordship, that I have been considering Mr. Ernest’s case at odd moments ever since we were wrecked.

  ERNEST. My case?

  LORD LOAM (sternly). Hush.

  CRICHTON. Since we landed on the island, my lord, it seems to me that Mr. Ernest’s epigrams have been particularly brilliant.

  ERNEST (gratified). Thank you, Crichton.

  CRICHTON. But I find — I seem to find it growing wild, my lord, in the woods, that sayings which would be justly admired in England are not much use on an island. I would therefore most respectfully propose that henceforth every time Mr. Ernest favours us with an epigram his head should be immersed in a bucket of cold spring water.

  (There is a terrible silence.)

  LORD LOAM (uneasily). Serve him right.

  ERNEST. I should like to see you try to do it, uncle.

  CRICHTON (ever ready to come to the succour of his lordship). My feeling, my lord, is that at the next offence I should convey him to a retired spot, where I shall carry out the undertaking in as respectful a manner as is consistent with a thorough immersion.

  (Though his manner is most respectful, he is firm; he evidently means what he says.)

  LADY MARY (a ramrod). Father, you must not permit this; Ernest is your nephew.

  LORD LOAM (with his hand to his brow). After all, he is my nephew, Crichton; and, as I am sure, he now sees that I am a strong man —

  ERNEST (foolishly in the circumstances). A strong man. You mean a stout man. You are one of mind to two of matter. (He looks round in the old way for approval. No one has smiled, and to his consternation he sees that CRICHTON is quietly turning up his sleeves. ERNEST makes an appealing gesture to his uncle; then he turns defiantly to CRICHTON.)

  CRICHTON. Is it to be before the ladies, Mr. Ernest, or in the privacy of the wood? (He fixes ERNEST with his eye. ERNEST is cowed.) Come.

  ERNEST (affecting bravado). Oh, all right.

  CRICHTON (succinctly). Bring the bucket.

  (ERNEST hesitates. He then lifts the bucket and follows CRICHTON to the nearest spring.)

  LORD LOAM (rather white). I’m sorry for him, but I had to be firm.

  LADY MARY. Oh father, it wasn’t you who was firm. Crichton did it himself.

  LORD LOAM. Bless me, so he did.

  LADY MARY. Father, be strong.

  LORD LOAM (bewildered). You can’t mean that my faithful Crichton —

  LADY MARY. Yes, I do.

  TREHERNE. Lady Mary, I stake my word that Crichton is incapable of acting dishonourably.

  LADY MARY. I know that; I know it as well as you. Don’t you see that that is what makes him so dangerous?

  TREHERNE. By Jove, I — I believe I catch your meaning.

  CATHERINE. He is coming back.

  LORD LOAM (who has always known himself to be a man of ideas). Let us all go into the hut, just to show him at once that it is our hut.

  LADY MARY (as they go). Father, I implore you, assert yourself now and for ever.

  LORD LOAM. I will.

  LADY MARY. And, please, don’t ask him how you are to do it.

  (CRICHTON returns with sticks to mend the fire.)

  LORD LOAM (loftily, from the door of the hut). Have you carried out my instructions, Crichton?

  CRICHTON (deferentially). Yes, my lord.

  (ERNEST appears, mopping his hair, which has become very wet since we last saw him. He is not bearing malice, he is too busy drying, but AGATHA is specially his champion.)

  AGATHA. It’s infamous, infamous.

  LORD LOAM: (strongly). My orders, Agatha.

  LADY MARY. Now, father, please.

  LORD LOAM (striking an attitude). Before I give you any further orders, Crichton —

  CRICHTON. Yes, my lord.

  LORD LOAM. (delighted) Pooh! It’s all right.

  LADY MARY. No. Please go on.

  LORD LOAM. Well, well. This question of the leadership; what do you think now, Crichton?

  CRICHTON. My lord, I feel it is a matter with which I have nothing to do.

  LORD LOAM. Excellent. Ha, Mary? That settles it, I think.

  LADY MARY. It seems to, but — I’m not sure.

  CRICHTON. It will settle itself naturally, my lord, without any interference from us.

  (The reference to nature gives general dissatisfaction.)

  LADY MARY. Father.

  LORD LOAM (a little severely). It settled itself long ago, Crichton, when I was born a peer, and you, for instance, were born a servant.

  CRICHTON (acquiescing). Yes, my lord, that was how it all came about quite naturally in England. We had nothing to do with it there, and we shall have as little to do with it here.

  TREHERNE (relieved). That’s all right.

  LADY MARY (determined to clinch the matter). One moment. In short, Crichton, his lordship will continue to be our natural head.

  CRICHTON. I dare say, my lady, I dare say.

  CATHERINE. But you must know.

  CRICHTON. Asking your pardon, my lady, one can’t be sure — on an island.

  (They look at each other uneasily.)

  LORD LOAM (warningly). Crichton, I don’t like this.

  CRICHTON (harassed). The more I think of it, your lordship, the more uneasy I become myself. When I heard, my lord, that you had left that hairpin behind — (He is pained.)

  LORD LOAM (feebly). One hairpin among so many would only have caused dissension.

  CRICHTON (very sorry to have to contradict him). Not so, my lord. From that hairpin we could have made a needle; with that needle we could, out of skins, have sewn trousers of which your lordship is in need; indeed, we are all in need of them.

  LADY MARY (suddenly selfconscious). All?

  CRICHTON. On an island, my lady.

  LADY MARY. Father.

  CRICHTON (really more distressed by the prospect than she). My lady, if nature does not think them necessary, you may be sure she will not ask you to wear them. (Shaking his head.) But among all this undergrowth —

  LADY MARY. Now you see this man in his true colours.

  LORD LOAM (violently). Crichton, you will either this moment say, ‘Down with nature,’.

  CRICHTON (scandalised). My Lord!

  LORD LOAM (loftily). Then this is my last word to you; take a month’s notice.

  (If the hut had a door he would now shut it to indicate that the interview is closed.)

  CRICHTON (in great distress). Your lordship, the disgrace —

  LORD LOAM (swelling). Not another word: you may go.

  LADY MARY (adamant). And don’t come to me, Crichton, for a char
acter.

  ERNEST (whose immersion has cleared his brain). Aren’t you all forgetting that this is an island?

  (This brings them to earth with a bump. LORD LOAM looks to his eldest daughter for the fitting response.)

  LADY MARY (equal to the occasion). It makes only this difference — that you may go at once, Crichton, to some other part of the island.

  (The faithful servant has been true to his superiors ever since he was created, and never more true than at this moment; but his fidelity is founded on trust in nature, and to be untrue to it would be to be untrue to them. He lets the wood he has been gathering slip to the ground, and bows his sorrowful head. He turns to obey. Then affection for these great ones wells up in him.)

  CRICHTON. My lady, let me work for you.

  LADY MARY. Go.

  CRICHTON. You need me so sorely; I can’t desert you; I won’t.

  LADY MARY (in alarm, lest the others may yield). Then, father, there is but one alternative, we must leave him.

  (LORD LOAM is looking yearningly at CRICHTON.)

  TREHERNE. It seems a pity.

  CATHERINE (forlornly). You will work for us?

  TREHERNE. Most willingly. But I must warn you all that, so far, Crichton has done nine-tenths of the scoring.

  LADY MARY. The question is, are we to leave this man?

  LORD LOAM (wrapping himself in his dignity). Come, my dears.

  CRICHTON. My lord!

  LORD LOAM. Treherne — Ernest — get our things.

  ERNEST. We don’t have any, uncle. They all belong to Crichton.

  TREHERNE. Everything we have he brought from the wreck — he went back to it before it sank. He risked his life.

  CRICHTON. My lord, anything you would care to take is yours.

  LADY MARY (quickly). Nothing.

  ERNEST. Rot! If I could have your socks, Crichton —

  LADY MARY. Come, father; we are ready.

  (Followed by the others, she and LORD LOAM pick their way up the rocks. In their indignation they scarcely notice that daylight is coming to a sudden end.)

  CRICHTON. My lord, I implore you — I am not desirous of being head. Do you have a try at it, my lord.

  LORD LOAM (outraged). A try at it!

  CRICHTON (eagerly). It may be that you will prove to be the best man.

  LORD LOAM. May be! My children, come.

  (They disappear proudly in single file.)

  TREHERNE. Crichton, I’m sorry; but of course I must go with them.

  CRICHTON. Certainly, sir.

  (He calls to TWEENY, and she comes from behind the hut, where she has been watching breathlessly.)

  Will you be so kind, sir, as to take her to the others?

  TREHERNE. Assuredly.

  TWEENY. But what do it all mean?

  CRICHTON. Does, Tweeny, does. (He passes her up the rocks to TREHERNE.) We shall meet again soon, Tweeny. Good night, sir.

  TREHERNE. Good night. I dare say they are not far away.

  CRICHTON (thoughtfully). They went westward, sir, and the wind is blowing in that direction. That may mean, sir, that nature is already taking the matter into her own hands. They are all hungry, sir, and the pot has come a-boil. (He takes off the lid.) The smell will be borne westward. That pot is full of nature, Mr. Treherne. Good night, sir.

  TREHERNE. Good night.

  (He mounts the rocks with TWEENY, and they are heard for a little time after their figures are swallowed up in the fast growing darkness. CRICHTON stands motionless, the lid in his hand, though he has forgotten it, and his reason for taking it off the pot. He is deeply stirred, but presently is ashamed of his dejection, for it is as if he doubted his principles. Bravely true to his faith that nature will decide now as ever before, he proceeds manfully with his preparations for the night. He lights a ship’s lantern, one of several treasures he has brought ashore, and is filling his pipe with crumbs of tobacco from various pockets, when the stealthy movements of some animal in the grass startles him. With the lantern in one hand and his cutlass in the other, he searches the ground around the hut. He returns, lights his pipe, and sits down by the fire, which casts weird moving shadows. There is a red gleam on his face; in the darkness he is a strong and perhaps rather sinister figure. In the great stillness that has fallen over the land, the wash of the surf seems to have increased in volume. The sound is indescribably mournful. Except where the fire is, desolation has fallen on the island like a pall.

  Once or twice, as nature dictates, CRICHTON leans forward to stir the pot, and the smell is borne westward. He then resumes his silent vigil.

  Shadows other than those cast by the fire begin to descend the rocks. They are the adventurers returning. One by one they steal nearer to the pot until they are squatted round it, with their hands out to the blaze. LADY MARY only is absent. Presently she comes within sight of the others, then stands against a tree with her teeth clenched. One wonders, perhaps, what nature is to make of her.)

  End of Act II.

  ACT III.

  THE HAPPY HOME

  The scene is the hall of their island home two years later. This sturdy log-house is no mere extension of the hut we have seen in process of erection, but has been built a mile or less to the west of it, on higher ground and near a stream. When the master chose this site, the others thought that all he expected from the stream was a sufficiency of drinking water. They know better now every time they go down to the mill or turn on the electric light.

  This hall is the living-room of the house, and walls and roof are of stout logs. Across the joists supporting the roof are laid many homemade implements, such as spades, saws, fishingrods, and from hooks in the joists are suspended cured foods, of which hams are specially in evidence. Deep recesses half way up the walls contain various provender in barrels and sacks. There are some skins, trophies of the chase, on the floor, which is otherwise bare. The chairs and tables are in some cases hewn out of the solid wood, and in others the result of rough but efficient carpentering. Various pieces of wreckage from the yacht have been turned to novel uses: thus the steering-wheel now hangs from the centre of the roof, with electric lights attached to it encased in bladders. A lifebuoy has become the back of a chair. Two barrels have been halved and turn coyly from each other as a settee.

  The farther end of the room is more strictly the kitchen, and is a great recess, which can be shut off from the hall by folding doors. There is a large open fire in it. The chimney is half of one of the boats of the yacht. On the walls of the kitchen proper are many plate-racks, containing shells; there are rows of these of one size and shape, which mark them off as dinner plates or bowls; others are as obviously tureens. They are arranged primly as in a well-conducted kitchen; indeed, neatness and cleanliness are the note struck everywhere, yet the effect of the whole is romantic and barbaric.

  The outer door into this hall is a little peculiar on an island. It is covered with skins and is in four leaves, like the swing doors of fashionable restaurants, which allow you to enter without allowing the hot air to escape. During the winter season our castaways have found the contrivance useful, but Crichton’s brain was perhaps a little lordly when he conceived it. Another door leads by a passage to the sleeping-rooms of the house, which are all on the ground-floor, and to Crichton’s work-room, where he is at this moment, and whither we should like to follow him, but in a play we may not, as it is out of sight. There is a large window space without a window, which, however, can be shuttered, and through this we have a view of cattle-sheds, fowl-pens, and a field of grain. It is a fine summer evening.

  Tweeny is sitting there, very busy plucking the feathers off a bird and dropping them on a sheet placed for that purpose on the floor. She is trilling to herself in the lightness of her heart. We may remember that Tweeny, alone among the women, had dressed wisely for an island when they fled the yacht, and her going-away gown still adheres to her, though in fragments. A score of pieces have been added here and there as necessity compelled, and these have been
patched and repatched in incongruous colours; but, when all is said and done, it can still be maintained that Tweeny wears a skirt. She is deservedly proud of her skirt, and sometimes lends it on important occasions when approached in the proper spirit.

  Some one outside has been whistling to Tweeny; the guarded whistle which, on a less savage island, is sometimes assumed to be an indication to cook that the constable is willing, if the coast be clear. Tweeny, however, is engrossed, or perhaps she is not in the mood for a follower, so he climbs in at the window undaunted, to take her willy nilly. He is a jolly-looking labouring man, who answers to the name of Daddy, and — But though that may be his island name, we recognise him at once. He is Lord Loam, settled down to the new conditions, and enjoying life heartily as handy-man about the happy home. He is comfortably attired in skins. He is still stout, but all the flabbiness has dropped from him; gone too is his pomposity; his eye is clear, brown his skin; he could leap a gate.