by Unknown
SIMON. I don’t know; not unless they are pretty ones.
MARY ROSE. Please, Mr. Cameron! I love to have my blood curdled.
CAMERON. There iss many stories. There iss that one of the boy who was brought to this island. He was no older than your baby.
SIMON. What happened to him?
CAMERON. No one knows, Mr. Blake. His father and mother and their friends, they were gathering rowans on the island, and when they looked round he was gone.
SIMON. Lost?
CAMERON. He could not be found. He was never found mary rose. Never! He had fallen into the water?
CAMERON. That iss a good thing to say, that he had fallen into the water. That iss what I say.
SIMON. But you don’t believe it?
CAMERON. I do not.
MARY ROSE. What do the people in the village say?
CAMERON. Some say he iss on the island still.
SIMON. Mr. Cameron! Oh, Mr. Cameron! What does your father say?
CAMERON. He will be saying that they are not here always, but that they come and go.
SIMON. They? Who are they?
CAMERON (uncomfortably). I do not know.
SIMON. Perhaps he heard what the birds come to listen to!
CAMERON. That iss what they say. He had heard the island calling.
SIMON (hesitating). How does the island call?
CAMERON. I do not know.
SIMON. Do you know any one who has heard the call?
CAMERON. I do not. No one can hear it but those for whom it iss meant.
MARY ROSE. But if that child heard it, the others must have heard it also, as they were with him.
CAMERON. They heard nothing. This iss how it will be. I might be standing close to you, Mistress Blake, as it were here, and I might hear it, ferry loud, terrible, or in soft whispers — no one knows — but I would haf to go, and you will not haf heard a sound.
MARY ROSE. Simon, isn’t it creepy!
SIMON. But full of holes, I have no doubt. How long ago is this supposed to have happened, credulous one?
CAMERON. It was before I was born.
SIMON. I thought so.
MARY ROSE. Simon, don’t make fun of my island. Do you know any more ducky stories about it, Mr. Cameron?
CAMERON. I cannot tell them if Mr. Blake will be saying things the island might not like to hear.
SIMON. Not ‘chancey,’ I suppose.
MARY ROSE. Simon, promise to be good.
SIMON. All right, Cameron.
CAMERON. This one iss about a young English miss, and they say she was about ten years of age.
MARY ROSE. Not so much younger than I was when I came here. How long ago was it?
CAMERON. I think it iss ten years ago this summer.
MARY ROSE. Simon, it must have been the year after I was here!
(simon thinks she has heard enough.)
SIMON. Very likely. But, I say, we mustn’t stay on gossiping. We must be getting back. Did you bail out the boat?
CAMERON. I did not, but I will do it now if such iss your wish.
MARY ROSE. The story first; I won’t go without the story.
CAMERON. Well, then, the father of this miss he will be fond of the fishing, and he sometimes landed the little one on the island while he fished round it from the boat.
MARY ROSE. Just as father used to do with me!
SIMON. I dare say lots of bold tourists come over here.
CAMERON. That iss so, if ignorance be boldness, and sometimes —
SIMON. Quite so. But I really think we must be starting.
MARY ROSE. No, dear. Please go on, Mr. Cameron.
CAMERON. One day the father pulled over for his little one as usual. He saw her from the boat, and it iss said she kissed her hand to him. Then in a moment more he reached the island, but she was gone.
MARY ROSE. Gone?
CAMERON. She had heard the call of the island, though no sound came to him.
MARY ROSE. Doesn’t it make one shiver!
CAMERON. My father was one of the searchers; for many days they searched.
MARY ROSE. But it would not take many minutes to search this darling little island.
CAMERON. They searched, ma’am, long after there was no sense in searching.
MARY ROSE. What a curdling story! Simon dear, it might have been Mary Rose. Is there any more?
CAMERON. There iss more. It was about a month afterwards. Her father was walking on the shore, over there, and he saw something moving on the island. All in a tremble, ma’am, he came across in the boat, and it was his little miss.
MARY ROSE. Alive?
CAMERON. Yes, ma’am.
MARY ROSE. I am glad: but it rather spoils the mystery.
SIMON. How, Mary Rose?
MARY ROSE. Because she could tell them what happened, stupid. Whatever was it?
CAMERON. It iss not so easy as that. She did not know that anything had happened. She thought she had been parted from her father for but an hour (MARY ROSE shivers and takes her husband’s hand.)
SIMON (speaking more lightly than he is feeling). You and your bogies and wraiths, you man of the mists.
MARY ROSE (smiling). Don’t be alarmed, Simon; I was only pretending.
CAMERON. It iss not good to disbelieve the stories when you are in these parts. I believe them all when I am here, though I turn the cold light of remorseless Reason on them when I am in Aberdeen.
SIMON. Is that ‘chancey,’ my friend? An island that has such extraordinary powers could surely send its call to Aberdeen or farther.
CAMERON (troubled). I had not thought of that. That may be ferry true.
SIMON. Beware, Mr. Cameron, lest some day when you are preaching far from here the call plucks you out of the very pulpit and brings you back to the island like a trout on a long cast.
CAMERON. I do not like Mr. Blake’s way of talking. I will go and bail the boat.
(He goes back to the boat, which soon drifts out of sight.)
MARY ROSE (pleasantly thrilled). Suppose it were true, Simon!
SIMON (stoutly). But it isn’t.
MARY ROSE. No, of course not; but if it had been, how awful for the girl when her father told her that she had been away for weeks.
SIMON. Perhaps she was never told. He may have thought it wiser not to disturb her.
MARY ROSE. Poor girl! Yes, I suppose that would have been best. And yet — it was taking a risk.
SIMON. How?
MARY ROSE. Well, not knowing what had happened before, she might come back and — and be caught again. (She draws closer to him.) Little island, I don’t think I like you today.
SIMON. If she ever comes back, let us hope it is with an able-bodied husband to protect her.
MARY ROSE (comfortably). Nice people, husbands. You won’t let them catch me, will you, Simon?
SIMON. Let ‘em try. (Gaily) And now to pack up the remnants of the feast and escape from the scene of the crime. We will never come back again, Mary Rose, I’m too frightened!
(She helps him to pack.)
MARY ROSE. It is a shame to be funny about my island. You poor, lonely isle. I never knew about your liking to be visited, and I dare say I shall never visit you any more. The last time of anything is always sad, don’t you think, Simon?
SIMON (briskly). There must always be a last time, dearest dear.
MARY ROSE. Yes — I suppose — for everything. There must be a last time I shall see you, Simon. (Playing with his hair) Some day I shall flatten this tuft for the thousandth time, and then never do it again.
SIMON. Some day I shall look for it and it won’t be there. That day I shall say ‘Good riddance.’ MARY ROSE. I shall CRY. (She is whimsical rather than merry and merry rather than sad.)
(SIMON touches her hair with his Ups.)
Some day, Simon, you will kiss me for the last time.
SIMON. That wasn’t the last time, at any rate. (To prove it he kisses her again, sportively, little thinking that this may be th
e last time. She quivers.) What is it?
MARY ROSE. I don’t know; something seemed to pass over me.
SIMON. You and your last times. Let me tell you, Mistress Blake, there will be a last time of seeing your baby. (Hurriedly) I mean only that he can’t always be infantile; but the day after you have seen him for the last time as a baby you will see him for the first time as a little gentleman. Think of that.
MARY ROSE (clapping her hands). The loveliest time of all will be when he is a man and takes me on his knee instead of my putting him on mine. Oh, gorgeous! (With one of her sudden changes) Don’t you think the sad thing is that we seldom know when the last time has come? We could make so much more of it.
SIMON. Don’t you believe that. To know would spoil it all.
(The packing is nearly completed.) I suppose I ought to stamp out the fire?
MARY ROSE. Let Cameron do that. I want you to come and sit beside me, Simon, and make love to me.
SIMON. What a life. Let me see now, how does one begin? Which arm is it? I believe I have forgotten the way.
MARY ROSE. Then I shall make love to you. (Playing with his hair) Have I been a nice wife to you, Simon? I don’t mean always and always. There was that awful day when I threw the butter-dish at you. I am so sorry. But have I been a tolerably good wife on the whole, not a wonderful one, but a wife that would pass in a crowd?
SIMON. Look here, if you are going to butt me with your head in that way, you must take that pin out of your hair.
MARY ROSE. Have I been all right as a mother, Simon? Have I been the sort of mother a child could both love and respect?
SIMON. That is a very awkward question. You must ask that of Harry Morland Blake.
MARY ROSE. Have I — ?
SIMON. Shut up, Mary Rose. I know you; you will be crying in a moment, and you don’t have a handkerchief, for I wrapped it round the trout whose head came off.
MARY ROSE. At any rate, Simon Blake, say you forgive me about the butter-dish.
SIMON. I am not so sure of that.
MARY ROSE. And there were some other things — almost worse than the butter-dish.
SIMON. I should just say there were.
MARY ROSE. Simon, how can you? There was nothing so bad as that.
SIMON (shaking his head). I can smile at it now, but at the time I was a miserable man. I wonder I didn’t take to drink.
MARY ROSE. Poor old Simon. But how stupid you were, dear, not to understand.
SIMON. How could an ignorant young husband understand that it was a good sign when his wife threw the butter-dish at him?
MARY ROSE. You should have guessed.
SIMON. No doubt I was a ninny. But I had always understood that when a young wife — that then she took the husband aside and went red, or white, and hid her head on his bosom, and whispered the rest. I admit I was hoping for that; but all I got was the butter-dish.
MARY ROSE. I suppose different women have different ways.
SIMON. I hope so. (Severely) And that was a dastard trick you played me afterwards.
MARY ROSE. Which? Oh, that! I just wanted you to be out of the way till all was over.
SIMON. I don’t mean your getting me out of the house, sending me to Plymouth. The dastardliness was in not letting them tell me, when I got back, that — that he had arrived.
MARY ROSE. It was very naughty of me. You remember, Simon, when you came in to my room you tried to comfort me by saying it wouldn’t be long now — and I let you maunder on, you darling.
SIMON. Gazing at me with solemn, innocent eyes. You unutterable brat, Mary Rose!
MARY ROSE. You should have been able tc read in my face how clever I had been. Oh, Simon, when I said at last, ‘Dearest, what is that funny thing in the bassinette?’ and you went and looked, never shall I forget your face.
SIMON. I thought at first it was some baby you had borrowed.
MARY ROSE. I sometimes think so still. I didn’t, did I?
SIMON. You are a droll one. Always just when I think I know you at last I have to begin at the beginning again.
MARY ROSE (suddenly). Simon, if one of us had to — to go — and we could choose which one —
SIMON (sighing). She’s off again.
MARY ROSE. Well, but if — I wonder which would be best? I mean for Harry, of course.
SIMON. Oh, I should have to hop it.
MARY ROSE. Dear!
SIMON. Oh, I haven’t popped off yet. Steady, you nearly knocked over the pickles. (He regards her curiously.) If I did go, I know your first thought would be ‘The happiness of Harry must not be interfered with for a moment.’ You would blot me out for ever, Mary Rose, rather than he should lose one of his hundred laughs a day.
(She hides her face.)
It’s true, isn’t it?
MARY ROSE. It is true, at any rate, that if I was the one to go, that is what I should like you to do.
SIMON. Get off the tablecloth.
(Her mouth opens.)
Don’t step on the marmalade.
MARY ROSE (gloriously). Simon, isn’t life lovely! I am so happy, happy, happy. Aren’t you?
SIMON. Rather.
MARY ROSE. But you can tie up marmalade. Why don’t you scream with happiness? One of us has got to scream.
SIMON. Then I know which one it will be. Scream away, it will give Cameron the jumps.
(CAMERON draws in.)
There you are, Cameron. We are still safe, you see. You can count us — two.
CAMERON. I am ferry glad.
SIMON. Here you are (handing him the luncheon basket). You needn’t tie the boat up. Stay there and I’ll stamp out the fire myself.
CAMERON. As Mr. Blake pleases.
SIMON. Ready, Mary Rose?
MARY ROSE. I must say goodbye to my island first. Goodbye, old mossy seat, nice rowan. Goodbye, little island that likes too much to be visited. Perhaps I shall come back when I am an old lady with wrinkles, and you won’t know your Mary Rose.
SIMON. I say, dear, do dry up. I can’t help listening to you when I ought to be getting this fire out.
MARY ROSE. I won’t say another word.
SIMON. Just as it seems to be out, sparks come again. Do you think if I were to get some stones — ?
(He looks up and she signs that she has promised not to talk. They laugh to each other. He is then occupied for a little time in dumping wet stones from the loch upon the fire.
CAMERON is in the boat with his Euripides, MARY ROSE is sitting demure but gay, holding her tongue with her fingers like a child. Something else is happening; the call has come to MARY ROSE. It is at first as soft and furtive as whisperings from holes in the ground, ‘Mary Rose, Mary Rose’ Then in a fury as of storm and whistling winds that might be an unholy organ it rushes upon the island, raking every bush for her. These sounds increase rapidly in volume till the mere loudness of them is horrible. They are not without an opponent. Struggling through them, and also calling her name, is to be heard music of an unearthly sweetness that is seeking perhaps to beat them back and put a girdle of safety round her. Once MARY ROSE’S arms go out to her husband for help, but thereafter she is oblivious of his existence. Her face is rapt, but there is neither fear nor joy in it. Thus she passes from view. The island immediately resumes its stillness. The sun has gone down. SIMON by the fire and CAMERON in the boat have heard nothing.)
SIMON (on his knees). I think the fire is done for at last, and that we can go now. How cold and grey it has become.
(Smiling, but without looking up) You needn’t grip your tongue any longer, you know. (He rises.) Mary Rose, where have you got to? Please don’t hide. Dearest, don’t. Cameron, where is my wife?
(CAMERON rises in the boat, and he is afraid to land. His face alarms SIMON, who runs this way and that and is lost to sight calling her by name again and again. He returns livid.)
Cameron, I can’t find her. Mary Rose! Mary Rose! Mary Rose!
ACT III
TWENTYFIVE YEARS HAVE PASSED, AND T
HE 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.
