CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Joseph Whitmore Barry dramatic library THE GIFT OF TWO FRIENDS OF Cornell University 1934 Cornell University Library PR 6015.A848T5 1913 The tide; an emancipated melodrama in f ou 3 1924 013 624 188 A Cornell University y Library The original of tliis bool< is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013624188 THE TIDE The Fee for each and every amateur repre- sentation of this play is Five Guineas, payable in advance to the Secretary of the Society of Authors (39 Old Queen Street, Storey's Gate, S.W.)- No performance may take place until written permission has been obtained from the Secretary of the Society of Authors. THE TIDE: An Emancipated Melodrama in Four Acts, by BASIL MACDONALD HASTINGS LONDON : SIDGWICK & JACKSON LTD.^ 3 ADAM STREET, W.C. MCMXIII Entered at tiie Liirary of Congress, Washington, U,8,A. All rights reserved. DEDICATED TO MY MOTHER CAST This Plav was produced at the Queen's Theatre, Shaftesbury Avenue, London, on December 14th, 1912, with the following cast : — Dr. Stratton . Felicity Scarth Lieut. Carmichael Whit hair Maisie Bretherton . Mr. NouMAN Teevor Miss Ethel Wakwick Mrs. Bretherton Jerry Le Maitre Tom Denny . Mr. Strick Chambermaids : Mr. Edmdnd Bkeon Miss MuKiEL Maktin- Haevey Miss Cicely Hamilton Mr. Shiel Baeey Mr. J. T. Macmillan Mr. Heath Haviland Miss Kathleen Baerett, Miss Nancy Gieling, Miss Lydia Russell Page-boy . . . Mr. Eeic H. Albuey The Play produced by Mr. Cliffoed Brooke SCENES Act I. A BEDROOM IN A LONDON HOTEL (Eighteen months elapse) Act II. PETIT EOT BAY, GUERNSEY Act III. A COTTAGE IN GUERNSEY Act IV. AS IN ACT II PERSONS CONCERNED Dr, Stbatton Lieut, Oabmichael Whithair Tom Denny Jeert Le Maitrb Me. Steick Mes. Beetherton Maisie Brethbrton Felicity Scarth Hotel Ghaubermaids and Page THE TIDE ACT I A BEDROOM IN A LONDON HOTEL [The room has a bright wallpaper and is comfortably ca/r- peted. There are no pictv/res on the ijialls. The door is situated in the back wall slightly to the left. Just R. of it on the wall hangs afra/med list of regulations. The bed, a simple structure, with no top furniture, stands G. against wall, and at the foot of it is an ottoman couch. The window is in the centre of the R. wall, and below it is afv/med oak dressing-table. The mirror on this table is twisted round so that the bach of the glass shows. In the C. of the L. wall is a fumsd oak wa/rd/robe. On the right of the bed is a small table on which stands a telephone. There a/re cha/irs at the dressing-table and to the L. of the bed. Down L. is a small writing-tcMe with chair above it. When the curtain rises the time is about 9 a.m. on a bright winter's morning. The window blind is down, hut a sickly white Ught fills the room. The first thing the audience notices is that the bed has not been slept in. The room has a tidiness that is a little puzzling. 9 10 THE TIDE [act There is cm wmhrella amd a pretty hat on the bed, and an open dressing-case on the floor by thejiressing-table demonstrates that the room is in someone^ s hire. Then the onlooker becomes conscious of the presence of a woman in the room. She lies where she apparently fell, along the side of the bed, to the L. of it. A leg and a little of her skirt are all that most of the audience can see. The leg is silk stockinged and on the foot is a smart high-heeled shoe. What one can see of the wonrwm is very still. She is perhaps dead. After the rise of the curtain there is a moment's pause. Then knocking commences on the door. The knocker, getting no response from within, produces keys, and their rattle is heard by the audience. The door opens and admits a hotel chambermaid. She looks first at the bed and then in a puzzled way round the room. Soon her eye falls on the prone body of the woman. She drams back, putting her ha/nds to her breasts. Then timorously she approaches the body and looks down at the face. She gives a stifled cry amd runs from the room. The audience hear her rum/nimg down the hotel corridor, crying out as she goes, Another scared-looking chambermaid appears at the open door. She carries a slop-pail. She stands with open inouih gazing at the scene in the bedroom. Now she is joined by a page with a tray bearing tea, which he sup- ports ridiculously with fwe fingers. Yet amother maid runs up, barging into the others so clumsily that the page has to inquire " Where Ofre you comdn' to ? " They all three stop at the threshold, staring first at the woman and then at the room. Suddenly a guttu/ral i] THE TIDE 11 voice raised high is heard rimging through the corridor. It is the voice of me, striok, the German' Swiss numager of the hotel.l MK. STKiCK [stUl in the corridor']. Vich room is it? You absurt girl ! Vot makes you tink the lady is kilt ? Af you sent for the doctor ? [me. steick, Receded by the chambermaid who gave the original ala/rm, arrives at the door,] Out of the way, you goot-for-noding beeple ! [The little knot scatters, admitting mb. steice to the room, but reassembles at the doorway after his entrance. The first channbermmd follows him a few paces into the room. ME, STEiCK is tall, broad, fair and handsom,e, a lengthy edition of Mr. Sandow. He has a large, fair moustache cmd plenty of frizzy, fadr hair. Re is one of the men for whom frock coats are made.] Vere is the poor lady ? Ah, goot gracious ! Fetch Dr. Morris at vunoe, I tell you. MAID. He's gone away for the week-end, sir. ME. STEICK. So he 'as, tarn him ! (He bends over the fallen woman.) Dere is a doctor staying in the hotel. Number 24 on this floor. Ask 'im to come as a great favour. Mind ! 'E is a famous man and you must speak to 'im with great — ^vell, be rery 'umble. \Exit the maid hurriedly.] Here, you young fool, you 'elp me to lift 'er. [The page to whom he is speaking, rather un- wUUngly passes his tray to one of the maids (rnd comes to the mamager'a assistance. Together they lift the limp figure and carry her to the couch at the foot of the bed.] ME. STEICK [as he carries her]. She's not dead, poor lady. I can feel 'er moving. [The amliencefor the first time see the fvM-length figure of felicity scaeth. She is 12 THE TIDE [act very fashionahly dressed, but her clothes a/re cmry vmd crushed. Stramds of her hair have strayed. Scarlet lips — -padrit that has almost run — sear her white face. There are lines on a parching skin, and her eyes are rimmed darkly. While admiring the beauty of the woman's figure a/nd the glory of the masses of her hair, one feels sadhj that this bod^/s " satis est " has been spoken,] MB. STBiCE. There ! She is coming round, poor lady. Thank gootness if she doesn't die and have an inquest. Just when the book-keeper is leaving, too. [The voice of DR. STRATTON is heard outside,] DR. STRATTON. Is this the room ? MR. STRiCK. Ah! Come in, if you please, Doctor Stratton. You are ver' kind. [To the page and maids.] Now, off you go, all of you, about your pizzness. [The maMs amd page flutter out, and the door shuts behind the newcomer,] [dr. stratton has a piece of toast in his hand. A little later one notices that he has not quite finished dressing. His waistcoat and trousers belong to a well- cut morning suit, but he wears a flowery dress- ing jacket and slippers. Me is a mam, of powerful build, with a ready amd rather grim, smile. Here is a strong man mentally. He looks as if he thinks clearly and cleanly, and has very emphatic opinions. The audience is immediately struck with the contrast between the man's ebullient health amd vigour and FELICITY scarth's distracting fragility and physical decadence, . The thinking part of the a/udience — one critic and about two rows of the pit — says to itself: i] THE TIDE 13 " Ah I There wouldn't he that 'sort of womam if it weren't for that sort of mam."] DE. STRATTON [entering]. Who is ill ? Not you, Mr, Strick ? [He mvmches his toast.] MR. STRICK. Ah no, indeed. [All smiles and hand massage,] That would be very awkward just now, when I am so short 'anded. This is the poor lady. The book- keeper, you know, 'as given notice and DR. STRATTON. Yes. Have you any sal volatile ? There is probably some in that dressing-case. [dr. stratton pulls up the blind, admitting bright sunlight imto the room,, and then goes to the dressing-case, which stands on the Hoor R,, a/nd runs over it with hit hand. He fmds what he wants, and as he rises from the floor his eye lights on a hypodermic syringe, also in the dressing-case. He picks it tcp, observes it gravely, and puts it back. He then goes to FELICITY ami administers the sal volatile.] MR. STRICK. Shall I get 'er some brandy ? DR. STRATTOK. No. That's just what she doesn't want. What this young woman principally wants is a severe talking to. I was interrupted in the middle of my breakfast. Do you mind bringing it in ? MR. STRICK. Certainly, Doctor. And let me say 'ow most kind it is of you to relief my anxiety and to take charge of the poor lady. [He retreats, all becks and nods, in pursuit of the breakfast tray from dr. stratton's bedroom.] DR. STEArroN [shaking felicity's shovMer gently]. Come, now. Look about you. What have you been doing to yourself ? [The woman starts to whimper in the 14 THE TIDE [act fea/rful way of one suffering from, complete nervous breaJe- down. The doctor steadies her on the couch, fetches a pillow from the led and places it under her head. Then he pulls the pins from her hair and lets it fall loose, after- wards spraying her forehead with eau de cologne, which he fmds in the dressing-case.^ ME. STBiCK [entering with breakfast tray], I do 'ope it is not cold, Doctor, Please let me send you any- thing you require, [ffe puts the tray on the writing- table.] DB. STEATTON. I shall ring if I want anything. ME. STRiCK [with tremendous feeling]. Thank you, ver' much, Doctor. I would not 'ave troubled you, but for the book-keeper being DE. STEATTON [going impatiently to me. steick at the door]. Oh, damn the book-keeper ! [me. steick giggles loudly in a high falsetto and exit with much bowing and hand-rubbing.] felicity. Who said " damn " ? DE. STEATTON. Hcllo ! You're coming round. That's good. FELiciTT. I don't know you. DE. STEATTON. You dou't. And I don't know you. What is your name ? FELICITY. Felicity Scarth. DE. STEATTON. Married ? [The woman pushes out her left hand alm^ost covUcTnptuously. There are no rings on it.] Ah, yes. I never think of those clues. FELICITY. Who are you ? DE. STEATTON. A doctor. Name — Stratton. [He is now at the little writing-table pouring out coffee.] i] THE TIDE 15 FELICITY, What the devil are you doing? DB. STRATTON. Having breakfast. FELICITY \aft&r a pamse]. It's immoral. I'm either in your bedroom or you're in mine. DB. STBATTON. I'm iu yours. It isn't immoral. I'm a doctor. FELICITY. I never heard of a doctor bringing his breakfast with him. DB. STBATTON. Hooray ! You're getting back your mentality. [He picks up a dvi sandwich, bites it healthily and chews it with gvsto.^ FELICITY. It's very odd. DB. STBATTON. Part of the treatment, Miss Scarth. Part of the treatment. If I had sat by your side in a morning coat and asked you to put out your tongue, do you know what you would have done ? FELICITY. No. DR. STRATTOiT. You'd have said " Good God ! It's the Doctor ! " and you'd have relapsed into a state of coma. FELICITY. I believe I should. DB. STBATTON. I know it. It was by the discoveryof those little idiosyncrasies of the female composition that I made myself wealthy and was able to retire from practice at the age of forty. FELICITY. You've retired. Then I'm sure it's immoral your being here. DB. STBATTON. No. The doctor attached to the hotel is away for the week end. In the circumstances — and I was told they were very urgent — I consented to again make a farewell professional appearance. FELICITY. Then this is a hotel. 16 THE TIDE [act DR. STEATTON. Yes. Don't you live here ? FELICITY. No. Oh, I'm beginning to remember things now. DB. STBATTON. Of oourse. You'U be quite all right ■when you've eaten something. Have a club sandwich. FELICITY. I'd rather have a little brandy. BR. STRATTON. If you ask for brandy, I abandon the case. Bacon and egg and watercress, this is. Bite it. Just as intoxicating as alcohol and much better physical exercise. [She takes the sandwich listlessly and pecks at it."] FELICITY. What's the matter with me ? DR. STRATTON. Indigestion. FELICITY [almost sitting up\. Indigestion ! DR. STEATTON. Yes. Supposed to be a stomachic complaint, but really nothing of the sort. You are suffering from indigestion of the brain. Every one who suffers from indigestion belongs to the middle classes, so that I knew at once you were my social equal and I had no qualms about breakfasting with you. Coffee ? [He holds up the coffee-pot to her.] FELICITY. You're fooling me. DR. STRATTON. Not at all. Indigestion is caused by excessive thinking and mental labour. The upper classes and the lower classes never think, never labour mentally. Therefore indigestion is practically confined to the middle class, you and I. Move your feet. I'll sit beside you. [She makes way for him, almost smiling.] FELICITY. Middle class, eh? No one has ever said anything so quaint to me before. Can you guess who lam? i] THE TIDE 17 DK. STRATTON. You are either the principal of a Jermyu Street Nursing Home or a released suffragette. FELICITY. I am Felicity Scarth, aged thirty-four, alone in the tvorld, balance of a small fortune left, no occupa- tion save the pursuit of pleasure, and alive at this moment only by the grace of God and the rascaljty of — Bother them ! I'll let them have a piece of my mind now. [She rises to her feet with the intention of going to the telephone, hut she stumbles and is glad to sit down again.] DR. STRATTON. Ah ! You're in too much of a hurry. What were you going to do ? FELICITY. Telephone. Never mind. It doesn't matter. You know — ^you mustn't laugh — just for a moment I felt like a mermaid. I see it's because I couldn't walk and my hair is all down. How did that happen ? DR. STRATTON. I took it down before you came to. There is a good deal of it, and I fancy it was pressing on your head. FELICITY [after a pleasant pause]. How nice ! Although you're only a doctor, there is something quite soothing about the idea of your taking down my hair when I was unconscious. I feel quite interesting. OB. STRATTON. You Can't imagine how nasty you looked with your hair up. FELICITY. I daresay I did. When I was at the con- vent the cricket matches used always to be between girls with their hair up and girls with their hair down. I always used to keep mine down, and the uppers were furious because I was the swiftest bowler in the school. I'd love to have lived somewhere where I could always have had my hair down. B 18 THE TIDE [act DK. BTEATTON. I don't Want to hurry you, but you seem to be making quite a rapid recovery. Tell me what brought you to this state. FELICITY. Why should I ? DR. STHATTON. Probably I can cure you if you are perfectly frank. FELiciry. Prove that you're a doctor. Where's your stethoscope ? DE. STRATTON. Oh, hang it. Look here. [Ee pulls some letters from the pocket of his dressing jacket.^ There's my name on all the envelopes, followed by initials that ought to convince anybody that I'm crammed with shibboleths, at any rate. FELICITY. Right. I accept the evidence. But what if I don't want to be cured. DR. STBATTOiT. That is what I suspect. FELICITY. You are right. . . I don't. . . I'm finished. DR. STRATTON. You mean that you think your body will stand no more. FELICITY. I don't want it to stand any more. [She rises as if to get away from him, and stands leamimg on the R. end of the couch. He is still seated looking up at her.] DR. STRATTON. What has life given you ? FELICITY. Its best, I think. DR. STRATTOir. It has done its worst with you. FELICITY. Yes. I faced it with the wrong equipment. I suppose I am, as you say, a middle-class girl, but my money took me into the best Society. We probably have many mutual friends. DE. STEATTON. Yes. You surely made friends that counted. Wasn't there someone to put on the brake ? i] THE TIDE 19 FELICITY. One or two tried, but my money usually bought complaisance. Pay a Puritan's bridge debts and he'll soon find excuses for your hedonism. DR. STRATTON. Have you no guardians ? FELICITY. My parents both died when I was twenty- one. Practically up to that stage I had lived in the bosom of a religious community. I was blindfolded in the years when I should have been allowed to see. What a life ! What a life ! Driven gently without bearing- rein, from marble pillar to fumed oak post. Human beings to me were people who ate and drank to please their bodies and read about heaven and hell to please their souls. I knew that they died. I used to revel in that. There is such a tremendous tribute to religion, don't you think, in an untimely death? DE. STRATTON. H'm. It's an idea I'm afraid I can't appreciate. [There is a pause,] Do tell me more, and don't ask me questions. FELICITY. I found myself alone in the world at the age of twenty -one; alone, rich and attractive. In six months I had discovered the multiplicity of sensations that a hungry woman may experience. Spiritual culture had always soothed me. Physical understanding in its sudden, fierce inrush shattered my individuality. [She hides her face in her hamds,] I was as a sponge for water, fuel for fire, lint for blood. [A pamse. dr. stratton rises and goes dovm L. felicity seats h&rself agwm on the ottoman.] I played at coquetry; tasted sensuous idolatry. I had a power over men, and I rioted in it. The male ! The male ! Just suddenly to come ! The male ! A new sex. There was I, till then un-sexed. go THE TIDE [act Men of muscle, men of brain! How they fascinated me DB. STRATTON. When and where did this happen ? FELICITY. Monte Carlo ! Languor — flowers — the newest sins. Chamonix ! Ah, the electric massage of that air, the skate, the tingling scald of the snow. Paris, musically clattering and callous in its vice. New York, its glitter and its men who are always children, and then the caressing comfort of London and its wonderful people, strong and finely cultured. I ban- queted on the sweets of the world. Life was a warm stream. I thought I could bathe in it for ever without weariness. DE. STEATTON. And then ? FELICITY. Then the body began its protest. I ignored it. Angrily it wrote deep lines on my parching skin, brought me to my knees with blows that meant sickness. My hair showed signs of discoloration. I could feel that the pace of my blood was slackening. DE, STEATTON. And SO you went to drugs ? FELICITY. Yes. And to cunning skin doctors, to DE. STEATTON. Pah ! Ever to Nature ? FELICITY. Sometimes. DE. STEATTOiT. Saturdays to Mondays, I suppose, eh ? FELICITY [nearly smiling]. T am afraid it was no more. DE. STEATTON. It's bad hearing. The end came, of course, just recently. "The qidck fall of the outcast" — you know the line. FELICITY. H'm. I wasn't outcast. I rather imagine that I have been the most popular woman in Society. DE. STEATTON. Where do you live ? i] THE TIDE 21 FELICITY. On a 'bus route. I'm really the only fashionable woman living on a 'bus route, but it is the dearest house. DR. STRATTON. Thenhow does it come about j|that you are here ? FELICITY. What is to-day ? DR. STRATTON. . Monday morning. FELICITY. I came here last night, yes, on Sunday night. What a week it has been ! Last Monday I bought a book on poisons. DR. STRATTON [Ms professional cwriosity aroused\. Whose? Blyth? Mann? Luff? FELICITY. I forget. It was stupid reading. On Tues- day I went to two piano recitals. They soothed me a little, but there was a dreadful man at the evening show who sang " Traditional English Folk Songs." You know the sort of thing. Bach of the twenty-four verses finished up with a refrain like this — " With my dood- leum — doUicum — doodleums day." DR. STRATTON. Yes. And you are asked to join in the chorus. FELICITY. Quite right. I didn't. DR. STRATTON \eager to keep her to the topic because he sees her sense\of hwmov/r amd realises the value of reviving if]. Do you know the one in which every verse finishes up — " Oh no, John, no John, no-o, John, no ! " FELICITY. Yes, he sang that. DR. STRATTON. Poor thing ! Did anybody sing the Jewel song from FoMst i FELICITY. Yes. Were you there ? DR. STRATTON. No. But I know that sort of concert. THE TIDE [act It always makes me think of those suburban parties where sombody recites " Gunga Din." FELICITY. Yes. And he's always a gentleman who wears spectacles. DE. STBATTON. Exactly. [They laugh together. The laugh dwindles into gravity.^ What did you do on Wednesday ? FELICITY. I stayed in bed. I fell down when I tried to get up. My feet tingled as if they had been stung by nettles. My skin was cold, and creepy waves ran over it. I had nothing in my head and if I shut my eyes I visualised grinning horrors. DR. STEATTON. Yes. It was very near the end. FELICITY. On Thursday I was better and I bought a lot of sweets and this hat — [she gets it from the 6ed] — Maison Parmentier — seventeen guineas. It is the sort of hat that one would like a man to buy for one. Do you understand that ? DR. STEATTON. Yes. A light-headed phase . . . Some women would have gone for a motor scorch. FELICITY. I also bought the prettiest silver-plated pistol you ever saw. Oh, I simply must talk to them about it. [She goes to the telephone and consults the book.] DR. STEATTON. Plstol ? . . . What are you going to do? FELICITY. Wait a minute. 7004 Holborn. DR. STEATTON. I'm going to ring for another club sandwich. FELICITY. Not for me, thank you. Yes, 7004 Holbom. No, not Brixton. Holborn. ... Is that Coghill and Davis? I'm Miss Scarth. Miss Scarth. I bought a i] THE TIDE revolver at your shop on Thursday afternoon last , . . Yes ... I paid .£6 5s. for it. You remember? .... Well, it won't go off. DR. STRATTON. What ? FELICITY. I say it won't go off. I've tried it and it missed fire. . . . Very well, I'll bring it round. You will have to change it. DE. STEATTON. What does this mean ? FELICITY \coming back to the comcA], Where was I ? Oh, Thursday ! Well, Friday I spent with the Wap- shares. DB. STEATTON. Ah, you know the Wapshares ? FELICITY. Yes. They took me to a musical comedy that evening. It was like drinking eau sucr6 for the toothache. Saturday I spent in a cold and very dirty church. I tried to get back to the atmosphere of the days before I was twenty-one. But all the time it eluded me. I seemed to be remembering the thoughts and deeds of another person. I am sure I have become another person. Sunday, yesterday, was very terrible. I was very near to madness, separated from it only by the sound of the click of a watch lid. DE. STEATTON. I understand that. FELICITY. I felt that if I did not go mad I should decay. Then the end of my money would come and I would die in coarse clothing and a harsh environment instead of in silk and with every convenience. DE. STEATTON [smUing], I'm sure you laughed when you thought of that. FELICITY. I did. I began to get quite cheerful about the idea of killing myself. I felt so happy about it 24 THE TIDE [act that I thought I must hasten to die. I dreaded the return of the mood when I feared death. I packed that dressing-case on Sunday evening and came here. I could have done it at home, but it would have injured the landlord and he's been so good about the paint and the roof going wrong. When I got here I thought I would undress, but after I had loaded the pistol I lost that feeling. I just took off my hat. Then I sat down in front of the mirror and held the pistol to my mouth. But the reflection in the glass reminded me of a poster of a melodrama so I turned the mirror round. Then I sat on the bed over there [pointing to the L. of the bed] and put the pistol in my mouth. My chatelaine bag burst open and some coins fell out. They rolled and rolled and made me feel dizzy. I had to put the pistol down till they stopped rolling. One coin went under the wardrobe there and circled and circled and then it vibrated noisily. The pain it made in my head was awful. My heart was thudding against my corsets. My head was empty. The tip of my tongue was in the barrel of the pistol and it was dry and the cold steel burnt it. Then the thing clicked, oh so sharply, so fiercely, and my strength went out and I suppose I swooned. Where did they find me ? DE. STRATTON. Along the side of the bed there. I heard nothing of any revolver. \Se looks vmder the hed and under the couch. Then he takes the umbrella from the hed amd with the crook of it fishes out a silver-plated revolver. He examines it gingerly.'] You bit on the barrel. There are your teeth marks. [She looks at it interestedly, while he is careful to keep the muzzle pointed i] THE TIDE 25 to the floor. He opens the weapon.] You pulled on an empty chamber. All but one are loaded. FELICITY. Then it isn't out of order ? Good. Give it to me back, please. DB. STRATTON. Not if I know it. FELICITY. It is mine. You need not be nervous. I shan't use it in your presence or here now, in any case. {He pulls out the cartridges, puts them in one pocket, shuts the revolver and puts it in the other.] Dr. Stratton, that is my property. DE. STRATTON. I've a good mind to have you arrested for attempting suicide. FELICITY [taken aback], Bh ? DR. STRATTON. You despicable little coward! You, with your youth, with your figure, with your hair, nary a switch at the age of thirty-four, to try to sneak out of life in this way. And why, in Heaven's name ! Because for a dozen years or so you have gone the pace too fast and your body has protested. The impudence — ^the sheer brazen impudence of it. You women are getting worse and worse every day. You abandoned the ten command- ments ages ago, I know ; but since then you've invented a perverted code of morality that is a nuisance, a damned nuisance, to our sex. Shoot yourself, indeed ! Who is going to clear up the mess ? A man, A woman faints at the sight of blood. Who is going to sit on your body and give a verdict at the inquest 1 Men. Men are to be taken away from their work at busy hours to listen to evidence about your life history. Not women, mind you, not idle, loafing women. It is the men that have got to endure the unsavoury business. Who is going to 26 THE TIDE [act get the blame for your action ? Not you. No one will blame you. No. Your corpse will be put on a Clement's Inn pike and waved at us for weeks by your own sex as an example of the iniquity of man. Kill yourself if you like, you selfish, hard-hearted, malicious little cat, but don't flatter yourself that you've secured a triumph. It is women like you, women who do what you threaten to do, who will one day be the cause of a general uprising of manhood. Men will combine against your tyranny, strike out for themselves, organise to FELICITY, I'm sure I heard all that in a play long ago. DR. STHATTON, Nothing of the sort. It's a new move- ment. I made my reputation as a specialist in the nervous diseases of women, and for that reason I shall be in the forefront of the coming battle. FELICITY [wearily]. Please don't talk to me about the Independence of the Male. It's so — so Edwardian. DE, STRATTON. Well, hang the general principle. I'll stick to your individual case. Think of it. You begin with twenty-one years of comfort, culture and health. You are equipped for a good long battle with the world, the flesh and the devil. In twelve years you conquer the world, surrender to the flesh, and telephone for the devil. Why, you've got enough life and strength and go in you for another ten years' debauchery, let alone any other mode of life. You must be a weakling mentally not to see it for yourself. FELICITY. I don't like the word " debauchery." DR. STRATTON. That's what it was, even though you didn't lose your reputation. FELICITY. What do you propose I should do ? i] THE TIDE 27 DE. STRATTON. Go back to Nature. You can't go back to the state you occupied in the pre-twenty-one days. Go back to Nature. FELICITY \l(mgMng hysterically]. A country cottage and a lot of damned nightingales. DE. STRATTON. Nothing of the sort. Nature. "Work, Brown earth. Potatoes. Sand. Trees. Fresh air. Weak tea. None of your China or Eussiau muck. The roast tea of old England. Sleep. Hunger. Ooarse bread. Boiled onions. Wind and rain. Sea-wrack. Have you ever smelt sea- wrack ? Start away on it. Lie on it. Rub your nose in it. It's awful, but it would be Heaven for you. Your nostrils are steeped in the salt stink of champagne. Snort it out. Go and smell Nature. It's sometimes just as pungent. FELICITY [after a contemptuous pause\. Ugh ! You swaggerer. You typical, bouncing, bragging, boisterous Englishman. Just because you've looked after yourself, had your cold bath every morning and kept clear of the body-destroying vices, so that at the age of — say — forty- five you can shoot straight with a gun or a billiard cue, you think you are qualified to advise women. Why doesn't God petrify you into a finger-post pointing the way to salvation ? It would be so helpful. DR. STRATTON. Thank you. My advice is valuable — that is to say, it has a market value. I wish you good morning. FELICITY. Stop ! . , . Why am I going to take you into my confidence? Why? Why? Why? \She is dknost shouting angrily.] DB, STRATTON. Remember, I don't ask for it 28 THE TIDE [act FELICITY. That's the very reason I'm going to thrust it on you. You take me for granted. You imagine you have summed me up in one look. That is why I am going to take the trouble to show you what a highly qualified ignoramus you are. DR. STEATTON. Hours of Consultation 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. Saturdays 10 A.M. to 3 p.m. Fourteen years! Did I waste all that time ? [Se speaks to himself, ruminatwdyA FELICITY. Are you a married man ? DE. STEATTON. No. FELICITY. Have you any children ? DR. STEATTON. Well — really, Miss Scarth ! FELICITY. Don't blush — or wriggle. I'm not married and I have. DE. STEATTON. Indeed 1 FELICITY. " Indeed " ! Why not " Good luck ! " " How many ? " " Boy or girl ? " or " Who's the father ? " DE. STEATTON. My brain doesn't travel as quickly as that. I'm a public-school boy. FELICITY. Oh, I'm not sneering. A polytechnic socialist wouldn't have said anything less idiotic. DE. STEATTON. Thank you. FELICITY. I am a mother. I have been a mother for over sixteen years. I have a child whom I have never seen. I don't know the sex? I don't know the name of the father. I only knew him for a few summer hours when I was a girl. I was utterly ignorant then, as I have told you. My father and mother nearly died of shame when they discovered what had happened. But they lived for three years longer, spending their time almost happily, throwing Bossuet's Sermons and the i] THE TIDE 29 Bible at my head. It was an abridged edition of the Bible. Then they did die, prematurely. My fault ! Died in wretchedness and shame because I had created life. The chUd was dragged away from my bed. I never opened my eyes on it. Money was spent lavishly to hide my child. It was spent very cleverly. I have never been able to find it. DB. STRiTTON. I begin to understand. rELiciTT. I have searched. Oh, how I have searched ! My child ! Part of me. God made woman incomplete. To her he said, " You shall find the joy of completion in the world." I don't believe there is a Heaven for women. God has given it to us here in motherhood. And they took mine away. They took mine away. My fulfilment. My completion. The world said that I was to be driven mad by its pet method. Let her join the thousands of other women in the asylums that are there for the same reason. Sneak her child away and destroy her equilibrium. Drive her mad, drive her mad. The little fool hasn't got a wedding ring. DE. STEATTON. It was Very hard, but you only look at it from one angle, you know. FELICITY. I know that. There's my angle, the angle of the mother. There's the second angle, the angle of my parents, relations and friends who have to endure social unpleasantness. There's the third angle of the child itself — r— DE. STEATTON. And that is where we should all group ourselves. FELiciry. There's the fourth angle of the damned fool of a clergyman, reverently asking God in his mercy 30 THE TIDE [act to destroy the baby's life. There's the fifth angle of the blackguardly family doctor who tells of what he might have done had he known in time. Oh, there are a score of angles. DB. STBATTON, And when the matter has been looked at all ways, one is bound to the conclusion that the child must be considered first. FELICITY. That is the world's view. Oh, the vile cruelty of it ! The cruel, inhuman philosophy that instituted the foundling hospital and expanded the lunatic asylum. And you can defend it ? You can find it in your senses to declare that the child can do without the mother, and the mother can do without her child. You, and thou- sands like you, think that the act of giving birth is sufficient for the woman. I tell you that the child is necessary to the woman, that unless she has her child her life is empty, and emptiness is the primary stage of madness. The nearness, the constant companionship of that little morsel of flesh is absolutely and utterly essential to her, as indispensable as her heart or her brain. It isn't till a woman has a child that her life begins. And yet in our social system if a child is born out of wedlock every one conspires to starve the life of the mother. The child is her life. It is taken away. She is robbed of her equilibrium. That is the only word I can find for it. And she either goes mad or goes to the devil. DK. STEATTON. What you say is desperately true. But it is often the finest social economy to exploit what is false. You say that the child should have been left in your arms because it was necessary to you. But, humane as that theory may sound, it is a superficial humanity. i] THE TIDE SI Doesn't your imagiDation suggest to you the outcome of such a revolution in social custom ? FELICITY. I am right because I feel that I am right. I can't go through the world alone. I won't — I won't go on. No man has loved me. !No man can love me now. I wanted — I want maternity, to mother a husband — to mother children. I have tried to kill the instinct, but it is impossible. And all the time I am conscious of the existence of my child — somewhere unknown. I have searched the world. Every failure drove me further down. Oh, I know you're right when you say this physical decay is curable. Nature would be cruel enough to restore my health for many more years of agony. I can be strong and perhaps beautiful again. But spiritually I am dead. Oh, my child — my baby ! [She is crying. Sud- denly she rises and faces him, speaking vnth fierce appeal.^ Don't argue with me. Don't try to stop me. I'm a case for euthanasia. Let me go away and die. [He goes to her and puts his arms on her shoulders soothingly. She bends her head and almost approaehes him. The tenderness of this strong mam is almost too much for her.] DB. STEATTON. You think clearly and you see clearly. You are so sure of yourself that I shall not contradict you again. You say that you feel you are right. I believe that. No one else's views matter in that happy case. But will you listen to me for a few moments? [She sits on the ottoman.] I am a father. My child died a few days after birth. I was a youngster when it hap- pened, and I had to go to my parents. My father paid. He gave the woman a large sum of money, and I never saw her again. And now I come to think of it, in my THE TIDE [act case there was a damned fool of a clergyman, as you would say, who told my mother in my presence how grateful we should all be to God for mercifully allowing the child to die. What you have said to me this morn- ing tortures my conscience. Does that woman of mine suffer as you suffer ? ' FELICITY. She may. On the other hand, she may have married and have other children. DR. STEATTON. Yes. But the odds are that it is quite the other way. You say you have searched for your child and failed. Suppose you were to find it ! Would you be happy ? FELICITY. Life would be all happiness. DK. STEATTON. Ah! Suppose the child disappointed you ! Suppose it proved to be the kind of child that you would turn from in aversion. FELICITY. The pleasure would be greater than the pain, I would never turn away in aversion. The normal mother couldn't do that. DR. STEATTON. Do you realise that the child might turn away from you ? FELICITY [looking at him a Utile beuiildered]. I never thought of that. That would be worse than never finding the child. DE. STEATTON. Exactly, If it were possible, you would not like to meet your child as you are now. FELICITY. No. Not just as I am now. DE, STEATTON. Then take my advice. Go away to Nature. I will tell you where. In the meantime, I will try to find your child. FELICITY, -^ou will . . , do , . , that ? i] THE TIDE DR. STRATTON. Yes. I shall feel that I am making some atonement for a cruelty in my youth, a cruelty that has been left for you to bring home to me. I may fail as you have failed, but a doctor — and especially one in my position — can unlock secrets of that sort where money would be useless. FELICITY. Yes. That is true. That is true. And you will really do this for me ? DE. STKATTON [gravely]. I will do it — for my own peace of mind. [She passionately takes his hands emd kisses them, almost falling at his feet] Don't thank me unless I succeed — and even then be prepared for disappoint- ment. Go home now, and send me every particular of the birth you can remember. Then be ready in a week's time to go where I send you. I will find a corner of the earth that will give you back health and strength if you follow my directions. Good-bye. [Holding out his hand.] It has been a privilege to meet you. [iShe rises and takes his hand gravely.] FELiciTT. Oh, why — why are you doing this splendid thing? DR. STRATTON'. I also am asking myself a question something like that. The odd part of it is that neither of us has courage now to frame what is the probable answer. Good-bye. [He shakes her hand fvrmly and goes to the door, leaving the room leisurely and in a very matter of fact way. felicity stands watching him. When the door has clicked behind him, she seats herself again on the couch, and clutches her aching head in her ha/nds. Presently she rises wearily and goes to the dressing-table R. She seats h&rself in the chair before it, and, bending c THE TIDE [act i down, takes from the d/ressing case on the floor tJie hypo- dermic syringe which de. stratton h/zd handled earlier in the act. Next she ferrets out a drug vial a/nd fills her syringe. She does all this clumsily, as if weak from over- exertion and unusual emotion. She is about to inject the drug when a sudden revulsion of feeling overtakes her. She springs to her feet, gahiamised, for a moment almost stiff. Then she flings the syringe across the room amd breaks it into splinters.'] FELICITY \th/rowing hersdf, sobbing hysterically, on the ottoman]. My baby, my baby, my baby! CUETAIN. ACT II PETIT EOT BAY, GUERNSEY. \The stage is covered with a rook floor, inoss peeping through crevices. This crude^ platform is flanked hy masses of bracken-covered rock. In the mass on the right a rude stairway has been cut, and over the mass on the left is an ill-defined path. In the distance is seen the other side of the inlet, a great fern-smeared cliff, in which there is but oroe shelving platform, occupied by a Mwrtello tower. The sea is not seen, hut is heard placidly caressing the beach shingle below. Down R. are some fishermen's baskets amd downL. an upturned rowing boat, In the centre, peeping over the edge of the rock platform is the top of an iron ladder leading down to the sea. Left and right of it are iron rings fiixed in the rock to which ropes are fastened. These ropes connect with small fishing boats anchored in the water below. It is a warm and intensely quiet summer afternoon. When the curtain rises tom: DENifT is discovered applying paint to the keel of the upturned boat, tom is a short, sturdy fisherman of about fifty years of age. He is a little too old and too fat now for sea-going, and is, as a matter of fact, at the time mght-watchman at the Ghiernsey water- 35 36 THE TIDE [act works. He is am Irish/mcm, though his vagrant Ufe has deprived his accent of some of the brogue. Se has a grizzled moiistache a/nd his hair is pl&ntiful. He wears rusty hhie serge trousers and a blue jersey. His feet an-e ha/re. At the foot of the roughly-hewn steps on the right sits lieut. carmichael whithaie, a healthy-looking yowng svhaltem of twenty-four years of age. He should not have a moustache, hut he has, because it is the thing in the Army. He is dressed in dark lowfige jacket and vest, white flannel trousers and white shoes. His ma/nner in conversation indi- cates that he has a great respect and affection for tom DENNY.] CARMICHAEL. Why in thunder are you always paint- ing that wretched old boat, Tom ? It'll never float again. TOM. And don't 1 know that, sir. But I'll go on painting the boat for many a long day yet. It's the only way I have of relieving my feelings. Whenever I have a row with Mrs. Denny I come out and paint the boat. It's better than getting drunk. CAEMiCHABL. And you're always painting it when I want something to sit on. [He goes to the edge of the platform amd looks down on the water. \ Beautifully quiet, isn't it? TOM. Yes, sir. Reminds me of the days when we were runnin' from Messina to the African coast. Aye, those were days. A beautiful trip, but sometimes not a breath o' real wind for days on end. Oil we was fetchin', water for oil. Yes, sounds queer, b'David, it does, nowadays. n] THE TIDE S7 "We took fresh water from the Spaniards and the niggers gave us oil for it. But it weren't so payin' as it sounds. But it was a lovely trip — ^lovely, real sorf t time, puddin' for dinner. Lord knows what. Yes, I used to call the Queen my aunt in those days. CARMicHAEL [who hos gone to the edge of the platform and is looking out on the water]. Who's that down there. Tommy ? TOM [leaving his painting and looking over the cliff]. That's Jerry Le Maitre. He's heen clearing his pots, I reckon. He's pulling up his safe pot now. CARMICHAEL. What's his safe pot ? TOM. Well, it's a sort of big crate we each keep in the bay to store the shellfish till market day comes round. Bless me heart, he's done well to-day. Look at that. That's a big crayfish. Did you hear it plunk. That's a lobster. Were those the first^he put in ? That's another lobster. . . . That's a crab. How many's that ? Four — five — six. . . . The little devil ! He's got the luck of a priest. [tom goes back to his paintings.] CAEMiCHAEL [who remains to count the shellfish]. He put in a dozen altogether. TOM. A dozen, eh ? And,'mark you, when he comes up here he'll say he's got nothin'. He's the wickedest little liar I ever come across. CAEMICHAEL. Doesn't he live with you, Tom ? TOM. Yes, bad cess to him. CAEMICHAEL. Some people think he's your son. TOM. Well — he ain't. I'll tell you what he is, Mr. Whithair — although I don't know you're old enough to hear it — he is a love-child. 38 THE TIDE [act CABMICHAEL. A what ? TOM. A love-child. He ain't got no father nor mother. I had a bad time once, a very bad time — it was my leg that did it — and they offered us a fairish lump of money to take that boy when he was a baby. I was against it. But my missus says we must have the money. A lot of good he's been to us. He's a liar, Mr. Whithair, and that ain't natural for a man that works on the sea, and I'm not so sure that he don't steal. CABMICHAEL. You didn't give him your name. TOM. Not likely, I gave him the first name that came in my head. There was a man called Le Maitre on the coast-guard at Plymouth once what hit me over the head with an oar. So I calls this young devil's spit Le Maitre. Good enough for him I reckon, CAEMicHAEL. How does he get on with Miss Scarth ? TOM, "Well, she seems to take quite an interest in him. But she's that good-hearted, bless you, she'd have a kind word for a Belfast Protestant. CAEMICHAEL. Has she been here very long ? TOM. Lemme see. It 'ud be about eighteen months. Yes, it was one day in January she came and saw my missus and asked if she could have a couple of rooms. You ought to have seen her then, Mr^ Whithair, CAEMICHAEL. Why ? TOM. Well, I reckon she'd had foul weather for a very long voyage. She was that battered I never thought she'd sail again. CAEMICHAEL. Ill ? TOM. Ill, is it ? She looked hopeless. And look at her now. There's a real figure of a woman for you. ii] THE TIDE 39 That's the result of hard work, Mr. Whithair, hard work, fresh air and plain grub. You've seen her handle a boat, haven't you ? Yes. I taught her. Have you seen her swim ? No. It's just as well for your peace of mind you haven't, neither. You're a bit touched on her, now, aren't you, Mr. Whithair ? CABMiCHAEL. Here, I say, Tom, steady ! TOM. Oh, don't mind my chaff. I'm getting old, sir, but I've got a wholesome sort of respect for a likely young feller that picks out a handsome girl. If Miss Maisie Bretherton hadn't been as pretty as a picture, you wouldn't have got engaged to her. The Almighty didn't make no mistake when he put in your pair of eyes. CARMiCHAEL. Any ass can see how handsome Miss Scarth is. TOM. But she ain't only handsome. She's as clever as paint. Look here. [Re goes up to carmichael and almost digs him with the paint brush.] Me and my missus have taken in the " News of the World " now for — well, as long as I can remember. But Lord bless you, sir, I'd sooner hear that lady talk than read half the papers every day. The other day I says to her '' Miss Scarth, what about this votes for women. D'you want a vote ? " She says " Tommy," she says, " the first thing is not to give the women the vote, but to take it away from two-thirds of the men what has got it." What do you think of that ? You'll never find anything half as sharp as that in the "News of the World," not if — well, not if you knew what all the long words meant. [3e goes back to his painting.] CABMICHAEL. Where is she now ? 40 THE TIDE [act TOM. Where is she now ? You're a caution. You know she's out fishin', and you know she's about due back. That's why you're here. CAEMiOHAEL. Tommy, I'll punch your head. TOM. Punch away, Mr. "Whithair. It's a very good thing you're an army officer, or you wouldn't have time to dawdle about here so much. CAEMIOHAEL. Tom, have you heard that we're going to be shifted ? TOM. No. Is that so ? CAEMIOHAEL. Yes. We've got to change places with the battalion at Aden. We go next week. TOM. Well, I am sorry, Mr. Whithair. I am sorry. Can't you get an exchange ? CAEMIOHAEL. Well,il might. But it would be rather snidey. . TOM. Rather what ? CAEMIOHAEL. Rather snidey. The governor wouldn't like it for one thing. [The iron ladder is heard to creak, and soon the head of jeert le maitee appears over the edge of the platform. He is a handsome lad of about twenty, very hrown, white teeth, fine eyes. He wears shabby blue troibsers and jersey, and over his shoulder is a fishing basket. His feet are bare. In his ha/nd he has the end of the rope attached to his boat.] TOM. Any luck, jeert ? JEEEY [as he cUmbs on the platform and ties the rope on one of the rings\. Ah no, no. [jeeet speaks with a soft Irish accent picked up from his foster-parents. Fishing's very bad, very bad. [tom winks at caemiohael, and JEEEY leiswrely makes his way off R. via tlie stepa^ ii] THE TIDE 41 TOM [siKoinctlyj. Liar ! . . . And now he'll waste the rest of his day reading some trashy book. CARMicHABL. I can never get him to talk to me. TOM. He's mad, sir. All these love-children are. I've seen him sittin' on the rocks out at the point, talkin' to himself and laughing'. He's crazy about the sea. When he's out fishin' alone, he sits there with the lines in his hands smilin' and mumblin' away to himself. And yet my missus can't get " yes " or "no" out of him. He once told her that I was an old fool. That shows he's mad. CAEMiCHAEL. There was a johnny in our regiment who used to jaw to himself, so we ragged him out of it. TOM. Quite right. And do you know what has turned him mad — mostly ? I reckon he was born potty, but he's got worse through readin'. He pays for a paper they call " The New Age " and he's bought books that must have cost him five or six francs each. There's one by Wells, is it, and one with a green and gold cover. There's another by Chesterton, and oh! heaps of 'em. And not a damned picture in the lot ! I brought him up to be a holy Eoman and do you know what he calls himself now ? A Buddhist. He goes to Mass all right because I'd knock his head off if he didn't. But he's a Buddhist, and Father Delamarter thinks he ought to be in the asylum. [Enter from R. down the steps maisie BRETHEETON/oWowet^ ly MRS. BRETHERTON. MAisiE is a sKm and pretty girl of about eighteen. She is very swe of herself, realises that she has a nice figwre and is ca/refid to 42 THE TIDE [act define it when choosing her clothes. She vnll he a feminist when she has fownd out that hissing cmd canoodling do not suit her temperament. So far she has teen kissed, and then rather decorously, hy CAKMicHAEL WHiTHAiE, her fiantie, only. She comes towels and bathing costume, mes. bretheeton is one of the over-ruled mothers, sweet-natured and homMy. One of her active brain cells contains a sense of humour. She is dressed to represent the widow of a deceased Army Colonel, living in Guernsey to avoid income-tax. She also carries towels and bathing costume.^ UAisiE [in suprised tones and very coolh/]. Good afternoon, Oar. I thought you could not leave the barracks on Wednesday afternoons. . . . Good afternoon, Tom. TOM. Good afternoon, Miss Bretherton. OARMiCHAEL. Begged off to-day, Maisie. Too hot to be dutiful. MAISIE. It didn't occur to you to let me know, I suppose. CAEMiCHAEL [going to her amd taking her arm in his'i. Don't scold me, Maisie. I'll come and bore you at dinner to-night. [She is only very slightly mollified.^ Going bathing, Mrs. Bretherton ? MKS. BEETHEETON. Now, that's the sort of question that annoys me. Couldn't you tell from the fact that we are carrying these distortions [waving bathing costiime\ that we are going bathing? Such an unnecessary question on a hot day. Though, as a matter of fact, 1 Ill THE TIDE 43 am not going bathing. I have never bathed in the sea in my life. But my daughter always insists on my bringing these tiresome things. She hopes to lure me in one day. I defy her to. I hate the sea. It's so vulgar. CAEMiCHAEL. Vulgar, Mrs. Bretherton ! MRS. BRETHERTON. Yes, vulgar. There's such a lot of it. And it seems to me to be always sneering. It can do what it likes with us, and I'm bothered if I'll be patronised by it. MAisiE. In her secret thoughts, mother is always imagining that she will be attacked by a lobster or a crab. CAEMICHAEL [laughing]. Are you going out as far as the Point ? MAISIE. Yes. I can get a dive there. Will you be here when we come back ? CAEMICHAEL. I hardly think I shall, Maisie. You see I [The head cmd shoulders of felicity soarth appear at the edge of the platform.] MAISIE [noticing felicity's aa-rival']. Oh, you'U be here, I think, [maisie '^eaks away from carmichael with a meaning look into his face.] [felicity scaeth dimbs on to platform, waving aside carmichael 's proffered help. She carries a rope-end in her hand as jerry did and fastens it in sailor- like fashion to one of the rings. She is a pictva-e oj robust health and high coloured beauty. She wears a jersey and short skirt, with strong hoot and leggings. Her ha/nds, neck and face are burnt brown. She is hare headed and her hair is dressed very simply. 44 THE TIDE [act She presents a fresh and wholesome aspect. When the play is produced, in new yore the American critics should call her a pulohritudinous apparition I There is no trace of the decadence or even the exotic charm that equipped her eighteen months before. MAisiE is a healthy young woman, hut she hasn't the "atmosphere" of felicity scarth. The latter suggests sea foam and crisp winds, while maisie is a nice sort of golfing girl with — possibly — a powder puff at the top of her silk stocking. Slung over felicity's shoulder is a fishing creel.] felicity. Good afternoon, everybody. Do you want to buy any fish ? There are simply millions of mackerel off the Point this morning. MRS. bretherton. And that's where my daughter wants me to bathe ! felicity [rep-oachfully]. Tom, you've been painting the boat. TOM. True for you, ma'am. Give me the basket. I'm going off home now to make it up. FELICITY. That's right, Tom, and thank you so much. [She takes off her basket and gives it to him,.] TOM [looking at the fish], Nice looking lot. Can't understand anybody eating them, though. CARMICHAEL. Why not, Tom ? TOM [going off R. up the steps]. Too many bones. [Exit carrying creel a/nd paint-pot]. FELICITY. Tom is a funny fisherman. He's never eaten a fish in his life, so far as he can remember. [Seats hersdf at foot of steps R.] Ill THE TIDE 45 MRS. BRETHERTON. Dear me, how well you look, Miss Scarth. FELICITY. I feel it. It's a grand life. MRS. BRETHERTON. Now, tell me. When MAisiE [intei-rupting]. Mother, I want to bathe before the sun goes down. MRS. BRETHEBTON [resignedly]. Ah, yes. Well, come along. We may see you when we come back, I do so want to have a chat with you. MAisiE [coldli/]. Good afternoon, Miss Scarth. [Exit by path over rock £]. MRS. BRETHERTON [foUomng her daughter off]. Bless the girl. I suppose she would get drowned on purpose if I didn't go with her. [JSxit.] CARMICHAEL [after a pause]. Miss Scarth, you know, don't you, how frightfully curious we all are about you. I know it is very rude, but it is natural — and you're natural, so I — well, I thought I'd ask you. FELioiTT. You could have asked me before. You know my name. It is my real name. Haven't you ever guessed why I am here ? CARMICHAEL. Ah yes. We've guessed. And I think that was worse manners than asking you. You come from London, don't you ? FELICITY. Yes — and other cities. I ezpect you find life too good to understand my revolt. CARMICHAEL. You didn't just get tired of dances and theatres and all that sort of thing, did you ? FELICITY. I got tired of not being able to enjoy them. CARMICHAEL. How ? I hope I'm not worrying you. FELICITY. I wasn't trained for the life I led. That 46 THE TIDE [act was all. I flung myself into it and drained every pleasure it could provide with the natural result that I collapsed physically. Oh, not the ordinary sort of coUapse — one that October on a yacht would have cured. It was something very different. CAEMICHAEL. You can't always be satisfied with a fisher girl's life. Later in life you must come back or go mad. FELICITY [slowly]. Nevertheless, I don't think I shall go back. CABMicHAEL [timorousli/]. Miss Scarth, have you heard our battalion is being moved ? FELICITY. No, indeed. I have not. I'm sorry. "Where are you going ? CAEMICHAEL. To Aden. Are you really sorry ? FELICITY. Really, I'm sorry, very sorry. And Maisie Bretherton will be broken-hearted. CABMICHAEL. It's rather rough that you should mention her. FELICITY. I beg your pardon, but I really couldn't help it. You are engaged to be married. CAEMICHAEL. Yes. But, somehow, I doubt if it will ever come to anything. FELICITY. What a pity I I'm sure she's very much in love with you, and you seemed so suited to each other. You are an officer and she is the daughter of a dis- tinguished Army man. CAEMICHAEL. It has dawned on me that Maisie is a chUd. FELICITY. How can you say that? She's eighteen and I know she makes her mother subscribe to the English Review. ii] THE TIDE 47 CARMiCHAEL. Oh, she's pretty advanced, I daresay. And I used to think that — well, I've been thinking diflferently lately. FELICITY. Tell me all about it. CARMICHAEL [ddighted]. May I ? Oh, you're so splendid. FELICITY. Nonsense. There is no woman of thirty- six who doesn't want to hear all about it. CARMICHAEL. Well, Miss Scarth, as you get older, you know, you get fairly fed up with flappers. FELICITY. M'yes. I think I can translate that. CARMICHAEL. You Can't quite see the man's side — but you must be glad if — well, if you care. FELICITY [pueeled]. Now, like a dear boy, tell me all that over again. CARMICHAEL, I'd hate myself for telling you if you laughed. FELICITY. I won't laugh. CARMICHAEL. I love you — and I want [He breaks away excitedly and goes to the edge of the platform.] FELICITY [after a moment's flushed reflection]. Car ! [He comes to heir eagerly am,d kneels on one knee by her where she sits. She puts her left arm rovmd his neck and kisses himf/rmly.] CARMICHAEL. Oh, Felic — Felicity! Don't send me away. I'd devote my life all to you. You can't think what a slave I'd be. And I could make you happy. I could. I could. I love you so much, so — rightly. Don't send me away. FELICITY. While you talk to me like that I am not eager to send you away. It is very wonderful that I 48 THE TIDE [act should have stirred you to this, because you are just the sort of clean, manly boy that the average woman of my age will sell her soul to conquer. But, Car, my dear boy, you are asking me to do you an injury. OABMicHAEL. It's wicked of you to say that. It only means that you think I couldn't make you happy. FELICITY. No, you could make me happy. CABMicHAEL. Felicity ! FELICITY. You only know a very little of me, Car. CARMICHAEL. I know that you are beautiful, and FELICITY. When you choose a wife, you should choose her in spite of her beauty. CAKMiCHAEL. I kuow youT nature. Besides, aren't one's feelings the best guide after all ? FELICITY. Oh yes. Don't take tips from any one else. That's ruined many a gambler. But what I want to make clear to you, Car, is that you know nothing of my — antecedents. CAKMICHAEL. I don't want to know. Will you give me any hope ? I want to marry you. FELICITY. I will be quite frank with you, Oar. If other things were not as they are, I would marry you and be grateful to marry you. CAEMiCHAEL. If other things were not as they are ? I suppose I ought to ask you what you mean by thato FELICITY. One very solid thing is that you are engaged to Maisie Bretherton. But there are reasons more important even than that. I cannot tell you them, I'd die sooner than let you know — ^because, well, because you are you. ii] THE TIDE 49 OAEMiCHAEL. Felicity. . . . I'm not poor. rELiciTT. Oh, for shame ! CABUiCHAEL. No. You shouldn't reproach me. I only told you that because I suspect that you have money. FELICITY. Dear twentieth-century boy ! What a dif- ference those literary Socialists have made to youth and innocence. Youth and innocence do not know it, but — ^well, as Lord Salisbury said, we're all Shavians now. CABincHAEL. You'ro making game of me. FELICITY. Oh, Oar. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not. I don't love you because you have neither the knowledge nor the strength to win my reverence, You've only got charm, Car. But I'm proud that you love me, and I would love to marry you, and I should make you happy, glory in owning you. But that's not the right way of matrimony. And it doesn't matter what way it is, because I am compelled, with a great ache in my heart, to say no to you. CABMICHAEL. What are these reasons that you won't explain to me ? [He speaks excitedly cmd passionately.] It isn't fair. This means years of misery to me. It does. It does: I can't stand flappers. I'll only think of you — and perhaps learn to hate you for treating me as a child. Felicity [jeeey le maitee appears at the fop of the steps L.] JEEEY LE MAITEE. Yacht coming into the bay. [Re points out to sea.] FELICITY [after am mokward pause], A yacht 1 Rather unusual, Jerry, isn't it ? [She goes to the edge of the D 50 THE TIDE [act platform, followed a little sulkily by cabsiichael.] Do you know whose it is, Jerry ? JERRY. No. There used to be a gentleman who came here in a yacht years ago, but I've forgotten his name. It wasn't that yacht. She's a schooner. His was a cutter. FELICITY. How graceful she is ! And isn't it exciting, Car ? Some one bringing a yacht into Petit Bot ! "Why hasn't she gone to St. Peter Port ? CAEMiCHAEL [sulkUy]. I don't know. FELICITY. Oheer up, Car. Listen. [She leads him away from JERRY.] Come and have a dinner at my cottage to-night. CAEMICHAEL [forgetting his promise to Maisie]. You're a brick. FELICITY. As brown as one,'anyway. Now run away. CARMiCHAEL. Thank you. Felicity. I shall be down at eight o'clock. FELICITY. That's right. Au revoir. [He shakes her hand cmd makes his way off S. up the steps.^ JERRY [after a siirly pause]. You're going away. FELICITY. Going away, Jerry ? What makes you think that? JERRY. You're tired of living here, FELICITY. Jerry, how dull of you! Of course I'm not. JERRY. He has been tempting you to go back, FELICITY. Oh, yes, you are right there. He has been tempting me. JERRY. You will go ? FELICITY. No. I will not go. ii] THE TIDE 51 JERRY. You say it because you want to believe it. But you will go. FELICITY. You're wrong, Jerry. I've fought my battle alone, unaided. My only stimulants were the kiss and jeer of the sea. I won. I don't surrender, JERRY. You won, and that's why you are tempted to surrender. FELICITY. How do you mean, Jerry ? You know what I have gone through. You are the only living human being that I have confided in about my struggle since I came here. You know how often I wavered, how often I was down on those rocks at midnight, despair in my heart and madness in my brain. JERRY. I know. FELICITY. The Bea — only the sea — helped me to face another day. Then came a phase of cynical content. JERRY. I remember when you were like that, but you grew out of it. FELICITY. Nature wooed me from it. I fell in love with the spirit of land and water. I found a bridegroom in work, work in an old garden, in sweet meadows, on the crests of the waves. I hoed and reaped, shot and fished. My nerves renewed theic life, my vitality gained fresh impetus, and JERRY. And you became beautiful after peaceful nights. Now you are tempted. FELICITY. Tempted ! JERRY. Yes. You told me that once you nearly killed yourself. You had an impulse. You couldn't resist it. Why ? Because your body was in misery. Now your 52 THE TIDE L^ct body is in glory. The impulse comes again. You want to use your body. FELICITY. Jerry, tell me what you mean. JERKY. You know. Your health and strength remind you of the times you enjoyed before. They are for you again if you choose. You can again taste the sweetness of little sins. FELICITY [bendAng her head]. I know. I know. JERRY. Absolutely without fear of suflEering you can drive your body through months and months of gaiety. FELICITY. Yes, Jerry, I have felt that. JERRY. I knew it. And you have said to yourself — " If my body breaks down again, surely I can return again to Petit Bot, to the turf and the sand and the sea." FELICITY. I have whispered that to the sea. And, do you know, Jerry, the sea said " No." It grumbled, flung mighty laughs, dripping with foam, at me as I whispered. I know, Jerry. I belong to the sea. Th6 sea must assent. JERRY. Come and look at it. [She joins him and goes to the edge of the platform.] Look ! Look ! FELICITY. A great shield of bronze blue. Long braids of foam. JERRY. Does it answer you ? FELICITY. It stares. It just stares — and makes me burn with shame. Oh Jerry, Jerry, I'm so afraid of it. When the tide rolls in it's as if I were being called to account. When the tide rolls out I feel as I were released for recreation. JERRT, The sea is right. The sea is simple. Sim- plicity is the only creed. ii] THE TIDE 53 FELICITY. Oh, look, Jerry, here comes a boat from the yacht. JEEET. Yes. I wonder if that is the gentleman who used to come here years ago. It is rather like him in build. [tom DENNY comes twmhUng down the steps over the rocks TOM. It's Doctor Stratton's yacht ! It's the Doctor come back again. By all the powers, I'd clean given him up for ever. JEEEY. Usen't he to come years ago ? TOM. Aye ! It was a cutter he had then, but that's his flag on that schooner. B'David, it's a great day ! \Shouting.\ Doctor Stratton, ahoy ! DK. STEATTON \hea/rd in the distance as the dinghy approaches the foot of the rock wall]. How are you, Tommy ? [At the sound of his voice felicity timorously makes her way off L. up the path.] TOM. A good.,many years older, Doctor, And what's brought you back again after all this time ? DE. STEATTON. Ah ! Been very busy. Tommy. And how is Mrs. Denny ? TOM. She'll be just mad to see you. Doctor. And she ain't used up all your pills yet. It's just wonderful how they've lasted all these years, [To the sailor rowing the dinghy i\ Throw me up the rope, sonny. [A rope is thrown up. tom catches it, and stamds at the edge of the platform holding the boat to the foot of the ladder.] Carefully, Doctor. The rungs 'ud be a bit greasy. [de. STEATTON cUmbs the ladder and gains the platform. He wea/rs a navy blue reefer suit and ymihtmg cap.] 54 THE TIDE [act DE. STRATTOiT [speaMng as he climbs the ladder]. Let go the rope, Tom. \Speahing over his shoulder.] Take the dinghy back. I'll signal for you when I want you. "Well, Tommy, my boy, shake. It's good to see your ugly old mug again. And is this Jerry ? Bless me, how he's shot up ! And now, how's my patient ? TOM. And who would you be meanin' by that ? DK. STRATTON. Why, Miss Scarth, of course. I sent her to you. Didn't she tell you ? TOM. That she didn't. Doctor. She was here a moment ago. JERRY. She has just gone away up the path to the Point. TOM. Well, run and fetch her, you jackanapes, [jerry is going, hut the doctor stops him.] DR. stratton. No, don't trouble, Jerry. I will see her presently. Well, hang me, Tom, if you're looking any thinner. [He goes down L. and examines the boat.] Tom, you old rascal, you've been quarrelling with Mrs. Denny again. TOM. Well, Doctor, she did give me the tip of her tongue this morning, but it's the first time I've had the paint out for quite a while. DR. stratton. And Jerry ? Is he as fond of books as ever ? Or is he working hard and saving up his money to get married ? JERRY. Must one have money to get married, sir ? DR. stratton. There's a current superstition to that effect, Jerry. JERRY. It's the conventional idea, of course. But I'm sure Nature doesn't approve of being defied in ii] THE TIDE 55 that way. [He makes his way slowly to R. up the steps and off.] DR. STBATTON. Well, I'm — damned ! TOM Itapping his forehead], I've told you before, Doctor, that the boy's potty. He reads these things in books, and the young simpleton thinks they're true. I'll be off now to tell Mrs. Denny you're here. You'll be looking round to see us now, won't you. Doctor? The old woman's that anxious to tell you about those pills. [tom ascends the steps S.] DR. STRATTON. I shall Call round, Tom. [felicity appears at the top of the path L. tom notes her arrival and goes off JR.] Well? felicity [still on the path]. Well ? DE. BTRATTON. Your portrait would make a very good advertisement for the Small Holdings Act. [She comes slowly down to him. He takes her proffered hand in his.] I congratulate you. FELICITY. I'm very grateful to you. DR. STRATTON. Nonsense. I'm very proud of you. You took my advice very seriously. FELICITY. Yes. And I'm feeling very human again. DR. STRATTON. It was hard at first. FELICITY. Agonising. But I got through. . . . Oh, how good — ^how wonderfully good it is to see you. DE. STRATTON. For shame ! I was going to say that to you. Bright eyes, brown skin — ^what a difference ? By Jove, I am proud of you. FELICITY. You have made me your possession. DR. STRATTON. I know, Would you[ like me to box your ears ? 56 THE TIDE [act FELICITY [smiUng]. You could — and you would — if you liked. DK. STRATTON. But I don't like. I want to look at you — and hold your hand. That's schoolboy talk. But it's a good sign. You are — ^you really are good to look at. FELICITY. And do you know, Dr. Stratton, I know it. Now chaff me. DR. STRAiTON. I won't. You Can be as self-satisfied as you like. It's all credit and glory for me. FELICITY. Doctor. . . , Listen. . . . [He still has her hand, amd shi draws him to her amd almost whispers.] I don't wear corsets now. DR. STRATTON [laughingly]. I don't believe you. [With an easy, unaffected grace she draws his arm rownd her. It is hardly coqtmttish,. The woman is above that. But she does so glory in her physical splendowr.] H'm, quite right. [A little reserve. Se draws away very slightly i] Tell me what you have been doing. FELICITY. Studying Felicity. Waiting on her, serving her, guiding her — in the way you told Felicity. DR. STRATTON. And — what a success ! I ought to be president of the British Medical Association. FELICITY. Yes. Yes. Yes. A success ! Not the world at my feet. But good earth, good sand, good gra^. I could kiss every inch of this spot. DR. STRATTON. How did you get on with the — er — boiled onions ? FELICITY. Dear old things ! I've got so fond of the silver nut in the middle. DR. STRATTON. It's SO joUy and juicy, isn't it ? And the roast tea of old England ? ii] THE TIDE 57 FELICITY [v)ryly]. It took a little time. DE. STRATTON. And the coarse^bread — the potatoes — the sea wrack ? FELICITY. Bless them all. I didn't know life could be so simple and so enjoyable. DR. STRATTON. Life is simplicity. FELICITY. I know that now. Oh, if we could only teach the world that. DR. STRATTON. The world will learn it. Not in our time. But I can see a time when the pursuit of wealth will slacken, when fresh water and clean growths will again be the real spoils of existence. You won't get that taught in a book or a play — especially a play. Every one conspires to teach that the play has no business with education. But in spite of that the triumph of simplicity will come. The great grandsons and perhaps the grandsons of the men who at the present moment bum daily candles before Aristotle will, as sure as you and I face each other on this platform, spread their limbs, their mouths, their nostrils in supplicating adora- tion to Nature and simplicity. FELICITY. They would if they knew what I know. DR. STRATTON. In the meantime you have asked me nothing, FELICITY. It is at the tip of my tongue. I am afraid. DR. STRATTON. Do you feel as deeply as ever ? FELICITY. Yes, but a little differently. DR. STRATTON. How ? FELICITY. I feel that life is endurable, no matter what 58 THE TIDE [act you have to tell me. Physically I am so restored that I helieve I could bear a great mental agony. DB. STRATTOif. I hoped for that. God grant there is no need. FELICITY. You have found my child ? DB. STBATTON. I found your child two days after you placed the information in my hands. FELICITY [hardly whispering in her excitement]. Found. ... In two days. . . . Found ! . . . Before I came here ? Oh ! why DB. STBATTON [interrupting her"]. Now, my dear Miss Scarth, you remember that you were in no fit condi- tion FELICITY. Oh, yes, yes. Of course, you were right. But a whole eighteen months ! So long ! DB. STBATTON. You have known your child for the best part of that time. FELICITY. Known ! How do you mean ? DB. STBATTON. I discovered that your child was in Guernsey, in this corner of Guernsey. I happened to know this part and old Tom's cottage. I sent you here, deliberately, advisedly. You should know your child without knowing the relationship. It is for you now to say — with complete knowledge of your feelings towards your child — whether yon will reveal the relationship. FELICITY [brokenly]. Who — who is it ? DB. STBATTON. Haven't you guessed ? FELICITY. Who is it ? DB. STBATTON. Maisie Bretherton. FELICITY. Maisie Bretherton ! ii] THE TIDE 59 [maisib bretherton appea/rs at the top of the path over the rocks L. She is swinging her wet bathing costume wrapped up in a towel. She descends the path and crosses the platform, dr. stratton draws hack and goes to the edge of the cliff, felicity gazes yewm- ingly amd curiously into the girl's face as she passes. MAISIB notices and draws away from her, a little irritated.] FCLECiTT [as soon as maisib has passed her]. Miss Bretherton — er — let me introduce my friend, Dr. Stratton. maisib [as DOCTOR STRATTON bows]. How do you do ? [She is very cold and reserved in marmer and goes off, vid the steps R. without another look at felicity. As soon as she is off, MRS. bretherton, puffing and blowing, appears at the head of the path on the rocks L.] MRS. BRETHERTON [as she descends tke path and crostes the stage]. Of all the inconsiderate girls I ever came across Maisie is the worst. Isn't it too bad of her, Miss Scarth, making me hurry on this hot day ? felicity [nervously]. Yes. Eeally. Too bad. May I introduce my friend, Dr. Stratton — Mrs. Bretherton. MRS. BRETHERTON. Oh, how do you do ? I fancy I've heard of your coming here before. But I never [The voice 0/ maisie is heard off B. caiUng " Moth-er ! " The last syllable is raised and prolonged.] Oh, bother the girl, I can't stop now. I hope you will call on us. Doctor. I should love to talk to you. Come whenever you like. I'm hardly ever out. Good-bye. [She has ascended the steps and disappears over the rock. dr. STRATTON has gone back to the edge of the cliff and takes 60 THE TIDE [act ii out a cigarette. Again comes maisie's voice from the distance.l MATSiE [prolonging the syllables and elevating the last one']. Moth-er ! Moth-er ! [The call pierces felicity's heart. A little cry of yearning anguish escapes her. She crushes her ears with her hands, dr. stratton has struck (b match. He does not Ught his ciga/rette hut lets the match hwm while he closely watches felicity.] CURTAIN. ACT III A COTTAGE IN GUERNSEY [The room is papered in green and the ceiUng is white- washed crudely. The back wall is pierced hy a long, narrow window, on the sill of which a/re pots of flow&rs. In the centre of the right wall is a fireplace. The door is L, In the centre is a small squajre table with chairs above and to the E. and L. of it. Up B. against the wall is an antediluvian chif- fonier, on which is a large lighted lamp. Up L. against the wall is a low seat of the kind commonly known as " rout." Light overcoats and caps belonging to OAEMicHAEL WHiTHAiB and DR. STBATTON are on this seat. Down L. against the wall is a small horsehair couch. Below thefvreplaee R. is a la/rgeroching-chair. Down L. C. is an easy chcdr, its hack turned to the audience. The room is decorated with pictures, dried grasses, a few flowers, and such seafaring trophies as the full-rigged model of a schooner a/nd a couple of crossed assegais. On the mantelpiece a/re vases and a stopped china clock. Thepictures are of a crude order mostly of marine taste, but the piice de resistance is a large oolou/red ohromiograph representing a red-coated soldier, embracing a girl on a first-floor balcony, pre- 61 THE TIDE [act pwratory to leaping off to take his place in the ranks of the regiment marching through the street below. The table is covered viith a white tdbledoth, and has the dishes and implements appropriate to a dessert ser- vice for three upon it. The table equiptnent is of a humble order, felicity scaeth sits above the table, DR. STRATTON to the right, amd carmichael whithair to the left of her, felicity wears a rich evening gown of a tint of old bronze. It has an odd sheen something like that of a rwnmng snake. It is eighteen months out of date in design, and, therefore, quite beoMtifuh There a/re precious stones in her hair amd round her finebrown neck is a string of emeralds, dr. steatton and CARMiCHABL WHITHAIR o/re in evening dress (dinner jackets). The former is cracking nuts and chewing them with gusto, felicity has a healthy- looking apple on her plate, which she cuts and bites with enjoym,ent. carmichael is not eating. The rise of the curtain finds him leaning over the table gazing adoringly up at felicity.] felicity. I shall tell you to go, Car, if you persist in talking about me. DR. steatton. Don't scold him. It's your fault for bringing an evening frock into the dessert. felicity. I expect it is very old-fashioned. What are this year's sleeves like ? DE. STRATTON. As far as I can remember they are extravagantly like — sleeves. FELICITY. Oh, I'm not really curious, although there are times when I'd give anything to have my hair done properly. Will you take some more claret, Car ? in] THE TIDE CAKMiCHAEL. N"o, thank you. FELICITY. You, Doctor? DR. STRATToiT. No, I think not. " The stag at eve had drunk] his fill." FELICITY. M'm ? DR. STRATTON. Quotation. " The Lady of the Lake." Scott's finest emulsion. [He cracks a nut in his teeth.] CARMICHAEL. When I see you as you are to-night, it is impossible to believe that you will stay here for ever. FELICITY. Don't I seem happy ? CARMICHAEL. Yes, you seem so. But how you must want music and — dancing and FELICITY. I do sometimes want music. DR. sxRATTON [sarcastically]. And think of all the Turkey Trots you're missing ! FELICITY. The — Turkey — Trots ? DR. STRATTON. Ah ! Came after your time, didn't it ? It's the new dance. Irresistibly indecent, you know. The music halls set Society fashions nowadays. CARMICHAEL. You want artificial light sometimes and artificial scents. The purity of this room must often torture you. You want the excitement of being with other people of your own station — in crowds. You ^ant [-Se hesitates.] DR. STEATTON. Go on. She wants the applause of women and the homage of men. CARMICHAEL. Ycs. I hardly liked to say it. FELICITY. You are right. I want all that, but I re- member. And want to forget. Why do you persist 64 THE TIDE [act DE. STKATTON. He thiuks that there is no longer any reason for your burying your,self. FELICITY. I know. Becaiise I have a long spoon, he ■wants me to eat with the devil. CAEMiCHABL. Oh, bang it all ! DE. STRATTON. Why must one have a long spoon to eat with the devil ? FELICITY. So that one can reach to the bottom of the pot. DR. STEATTON. One should learn to be content with the scraps that float. FELICITY. No one has ever succeeded. In for a penny, in for a pound. DE. STEATTON. And out when the market's inflated, eh ? \He cracks cmother nut.] I think that one should lead the life that one most adorns. CARMiCHAEL. Surely you are not afraid of failure. FELICITY. No, no. A thousand times, no. I fear nothing, nothing but [She pcmses for a moment, rises, goes to the window and looks out. Then she shuts the window.^ There, you've talked sufficiently of me. Let me hear about you — and others. DE. STEATTON. I decline to talk scandal — except at a fashionable bedside, [felicity goes to door L, amd opens it.] FELICITY \_at door]. Let us have three cups of cafe noir, Mrs. Denny, it you please. [She closes the door.] DE. STEATTON [producing dgarette-ceise]. May we — and will you? FELICITY. Do, by all means. I have given it up for ever. Ill] THE TIDE 66 DE. STEATTON, Good news. [He and caemichael Ught cigarettes.] FELICITY [coming dovm and seating herself in chair down L.G. facing caemichael, with her hack half turned to the audience so that the left side of her face is seen in profile]. How Ibng have you known Maisie Bretherton, Car? CAEMICHAEL [ft little irritably]. About a year. FELICITY. Miss Bretherton is Mr. Whithair's fiancee, Doctor. DR. STEATTON [who has been told of it before]. Yes, yes. FELICITY. She is a very charming girl, very pretty. I'm very interested in her, Car. I wonder if yau will mind my asking some questious about her. CAEMICHAEL [rather resentfully]. Not at all. It is very good of you to be interested. FELICITY. She has lived in England, hasn't she ? CAEMICHAEL. Her home isj here, but she has spent a good many years in colleges in England. FELICITY. I thought that was the case. Colonel Bretherton is dead, isn't he ? CAEMICHAEL.^ Yes. [Se is a little puzzled by the exami- nation.] FELICITY. She is her — mother's inseparable companion, isn't she ? CAEMICHAEL. Yes. They're always together. FELICITY. She will miss her very much — when you marry. CAEMICHAEL [sulhily], I suppose she would. FELICITY. Mrs. Bretherton has no other children ? CAEMICHAEL. gNo. E 66 THE TIDE [act FELICITY. You never knew Colonel Bretherton ? CAEMICHAmi. No. FELICITY. You used to come years ago, Doctor. Did you meet him ? DR. STRATTON. No. As a matter of fact, I didn't know there were people of that name in Guernsey tiU I made en — \he coughs] — till I was introduced this morning. [tom, no longer barefooted, enters L. carrying a black tin tray with three coffee cups on it. He leaves the door open behind him,] TOM [stoppi/ng on his way to the table amd shouting over his shoulder], Jerry, ye lazy little devil, come and clear the things. [To the company in general.] He won't go to choir practice, so I give him your boots to clean, Miss Scarth. And a nice messy job he's making of 'em. He's bunged up every one of the lace holes with blacking, not that you mind, but it'sthe devilment of the boy that I can't understand. [Se is handing round the coffee cups.] And it's a new Tantum Ergo they're practising at the church to-night, as Father Delamarter gave out specially after the banns of marriage. [Enter jerry, no longer barefooted, fingers a Utile smudgy. He has no pray, ' but piles up the plates and dishes in a heap, tom mildly assisting him.] DR. STRATTON. Do you go to Church, Miss Scarth ? FELICITY. Yes. Indeed I do. It's the queerest little box I ever saw. And the service is conducted in the island patois, quite terrible if you are accustomed to roll your r's. DR. STBATTOKT. And does the minister call on you? Ill] THE TIDE 67 And do you preach to the mothers and drill godliness into the children ? FELICITY. A little of all that. DR. STRATTON. You'U become a crank, [jerrt laughs sympathetically, tom regarding him vnth profound disgust and disfavour.] FELICITY. I don't do anything that doesn't amuse me. DR. STRATTON [dropping a tabloid from a tin box into his coffee]. Well, it's the true philosophy of existence. [tom and jerry retire L. carrying the dishes.] FELICITY [immediately reverting to the topic interrupted by the entrance ofiou]. Have you ever spoken of an early marriage to Maisie Bretherton's mother, Oar ? OARAncHAEL. No, I Only spoke of our marriage the one time. She ■ [He hesitates.] FELICITY [eagerly]. Yes ? CARMiCHABL. She Seemed pleased, but I gathered that she wanted me to be older. FELICITY. Ah yes. It's hard, but it's wise, Car. Did she say why, particularise why ? CARMiCHAEL. No. She thought I ought to know more of the world and women, I think. FELICITY. Yes. DR. STRATTON. You'U never know any more of 'em, my boy. I know just as much now as I did at your age. [Enter tom L.J TOM. Mrs, Bretherton and her daughter are wantin' to see you, ma'am. FELICITY [excitedly]. Indeed, Tom. Show them in at once. [Exit tom L.] 68 THE TIDE [act [felicity excha/nges a glamce vnth dr. stratton. car- MiCHAEL rises and goes up to the L. end of the window. FELICITY rises and places her coffee cup ~ on the tahle.\ [Enter maisie bretherton. She has cha/nged from the frock she wore in the preceding act, hut does not wear evening dress. Rovmd her shotdders is a cloak of crimson material. Her face is white and stern.] FELICITY [meeting her]. Miss Bretherton [Extend- ing her ha/nds.] I am "so pleased [maisie draws back without a word, standing just helow and inside the door amd acknowledging no one.] DR. STRATTON [in reference to her doak]. Has Ked Riding Hood come to see her [He pulls up, a little amnoyed with himself] [Enter MRS. bretherton, who has changed into a dress of joyless black, looking very worried and upset,] felicity. It is very charming of you to call. "We — we have just finished dinner. Do sit down, won't you? [maisie sits in the chair down L.C. from which felicity has just risen, mrs, bretherton walks nervously across the room and seats herself on the edge of the rocking chair down E.] DR. stratton [to MRS. BRETHERTON, after a pause]. Are you a near neighbour of Miss Scarth's, or did you have to walk far ? [carmichael seats himself on " rout " seat up L. agamst wall.] Ill] THE TIDE 69 MRS. BRETHERTON [sfonily]. We are not — near neigh- bours. CARMicHAEL \weaMy]. I was going to call on you on my way home. [felicity has sat in chair above table C] MAisiE [throiogh her teeth]. Thank you. You are very charitable. You volunteered to patronise us at dinner this evening. CARMICHAEL [plainly distressed]. Good heavens, yes. I forgot. Oh, I do beg your pardon. . . . You must have been surprised to see me here. MAISIE. [meaningly], I was pleasantly surprised to see Dr. Stratton here. DR. STRATTON. Eh? MRS. BRETHERTON [emotionally]. Oh, I'm so glad that you are here. DR. STRATTON. This is very flattering popularity. What have I done to MRS. BRETHERTON. You see, Maisie thought that Car was alone with Miss Scarth. FELICITY [understanding at last]. Ah — h ! DR. STRATTON. Ho, ho ! Bless my soul ! And why not? No, I withdraw that. I won't say anything. MAISIE. But I haven't the slightest doubt that it is a very exceptional occasion that finds them so admirably divided. FELICITY. Oh, my dear, my dear. ... It hurts me terribly that you should have thought any wrong. MAISIE. Thought ! [She springs to her feet and almost flings herself at the table above which felicity sits.] How dare you address me like that ! And how dare you take 70 THE TIDE [act Car away from me ? We're engaged, and I love him, and you come and lure him away. Who are you ? Who are you, to come here and spoil our happiness? You can't, you daren't deny it. Once we were so happy, always together, good chums as well as lovers. And then you began to fascinate him. He started to lie to me as to where he had been. And he had been with you. I didn't know at first, but I soon found out. What devil's work have you come here to do ? What DR. STRATTON [rising]. Miss Bretherton, this matter can be discussed much more calmly. MAisiE. Who are you to interrupt ? Is she anything to you? Can you say who she is? Who gave her those clothes ? Why is she leading a fisher-girl's life ? Why is she here to bring misery on me ? I'll find out, I'll find out who you are. You're hiding. You've sneaked here to escape some one or something. I'll expose you. Felicity Scarth, indeed ! Where did you get that name? I don't know what your life was before you came here, but it was a bad one. I'll swear that. It was in your face when you came first. You'll not carry in on here, not at my expense. You're twice as old as I am, but you'll find I can fight. Who are you ? Who are you, that you should rob me ? \_The girl is hysterical with passion.] I can't stand it. I won't stand it. If you don't leave Car alone, I'll kill you. [She is trembling, frantic and tearless. The frenzy of her tones alarms, mes. bretherton, who rises from her chair and hastens to maisie's side.] MRS. BRETHERTON. Maisic, Maisie, my darling, control yourself. [She puts her arms rownd her ami leads her Ill] THE TIDE 71 back to her chair down L.G. maisie half resists, hut suffers herself to he gently forced on the seat. mrs. BRETHEETOiir stonds hy her for a moment and then sits on the couch against the wall Z,] DR. STEATTON [mOTg-]. I Suggest that Mr. Whithair and I leave. CARMiCHAEL \rising from the "rout" seat and coming down a few steps]. Not for one moment. This has to be settled now. It's gone too far for any further con- sideration. I'm the guilty party, I know. It was •?erong of you, Maisie, to blame Felic — Miss Scarth. There has been no luring away. I — I fell in love with Felicity. I was engaged to you, and I suppose I'm a blackguard. But I couldn't help it. It's the old excuse, but it's dead true this time, I meant to ask you to release me, although don't imagine that Felicity cares for me. I'm no better ofl than you, Maisie. But I love her and I shall always love her, though she perhaps will always laugh at me. But knowing her has taught me some wonderful things. You needn't grieve over me, Maisie. I haven't started manhood yet — and this engagement was bound to break any way. I'm sorry, and I beg your pardon with all my heart. But this must be the end. I have learnt to love — and for the first time. [Se snatches up his overcoat and cap and makes an impulsive exit L.] DR. STRATTON [halfimder his breath]. Young ass ! [ffe goes to the window, pushes it open and calls ] Whithair ! Just wait for me a moment. I have something to say to you. [-ffe gets a swrly assent from outside, dr. STRATTON puts on coat amd cap.] 72 THE TIDE [act FELICITY [rising and going to him cmxiously]. You won't tell DE. STRATTOiT. Once again I emerge from retirement. Another patient. Very bad. Cerebral. Don't inter- fere with my methods. I shall come back. [Exit dk. STEATTON L.] [maisib has been crying since the end o/caemichael's speech. Now her sobbing becomes louder and more passionate.^ MES. BEETHEETON [going to MAisiE and putting her arm^ round her]. Maisie, Maisie, don't give way, my darling. You're only your mother's little baby still, you know. It was only a little girl's love affair. Don't cry so cruelly, dear. You're not a woman yet. You mustn't take a woman's hurt. Come, darling, wipe your eyes and come home again, [maisie still sobs bitterly, felicity has risen from her seat. She watches mes. beetheeton's efforts to com,fort maisie with jealous interest. Now she comes down to the chair and almost imperiously removes MRS. bebtherton's arms from round the trembling girl, much to MRS. bretherton's astonishment, felicity smAw before the chair and puts her arms round maisie. Fofr a few m,oments she does not speak, just holding the girl, the pain and the supreme joy of the occasion being evident in her foice. mes. bretherton stands to the L, of the chair, utterly bewildered by felicity's attitude.] felicity. Maisie dear, for pity's sake don't sob like that. You are stabbing my heart. Listen, dear. You have no idea of the truth. Your boy is everything to me, yes, but only because he — Oh, my dear, I can't explain. But you shall have your boy. If you want him, you shall have him. I'll see to that. Only don't Ill] THE TIDE 73 cry, dear, and say — say something kind to me. Say — say you don't hate me. MAisiE [pushing out her hands]. Take her away. What is she doing to me? I hate her, I hate her, I hate her! FELICITY Ijiassionateli/, her arms round maisie again]. You shan't hate me, you shan't hate me. God help me. You shall love me. Oh — [wearily] you mustn't, mustn't hate. maisie [almost screaming in hysteria]. Take her away. She's stifling me. Take her away! Mother! Mother! Take her away. MES. BBETHEETON. Miss Scarth, please leave her alone. I'm sure you mean well, but you are making her worse. Leave her to me. felicity [retaining her hold on maisie]. Leave her to me. She shall not misunderstand. I won't let her go till she realises that I have done her no wrong. MRS. BEETHBETON. You shall let her go. You must be crazy. See how the child resents it. felicity. I see. I see. And, God ! How I feel it too. MES. BEETHEETON. Come away. Only her mother can soothe her now. You shall see her later. felicity [reluctantly rising and moving slightly away from the chair]. Only her mother ! [There is a certain bitterly satirical note in felicity's voice that mahes mes. BEETHEETON looh at her very sharply,] MRS. BEETHEETON [challenging]. Yes. Only her mother, [felicity turns amd looks straight into mes. beetheeton's eyes. mes. beetheeton is on the L, of the T4 THE TIDE [act chair hy maisie's side, felicity a /ew poms to the right of the chmr am,d slightly below it] MRS. BEETHEETON. Why do you look like that? [For answer felicitt goes back to the chair and puts her arms round maisie again with an air of possession. She again looks meaningly into mes. beetheeton's /ace.] MRS. bretheeton [after afearful,understanding pause, in which she carefully scrutinises felicity's face]. You have come, then ? felicity. Yes. God help me, I have come. [She leaves maisie and goes and sits in chair R. ofttahle, maisie is still very agitated and has not followed this con- versation. MES. beetherton Stands a little dazed for a moment. Then she rouses maisie.] MRS. bretheeton. Maisie 1 Maisie, come dear. [She raises her and leads her still crying to the door]. Wait for me in the road a few moments. [Exit maisie L]. MRS. BEETHEETON [comMig a Utile uMsteadUy to felicity, a/nd placing her hamds on felicity's bowed shoulders]. You poor woman ! [She sits in the chair above table 0. just by felicity.] How she must have hurt you. Poor woman ! But the little girl is so sweet and tender, really. I love her so much. felicity. Oh, why was she taken from me ? Why was she taken from me ? MRS. BEETHEETON. There are some questions, dear, that can only be answered from hell. They tore her away, did they ? They hid her. Yes, yes, I can guess. Curse , them ! That's all that is left for us to do. Ourse them. felicity. How did she come to you ? MRS. BEETHEETON [speaMng very quietly with her eyes half Ill] THE TIDE 75 shui\. We adopted her, dear. My husband and I had been married a very long time. We had no children. It was what the world calls a disappointment. A dis- appointment ! A man doesn't seem to suffer what we suffer in that case. Occasionally jealous pangs when he sees the children of his friends, that is all. "With us there is always the dull ache. Isn't it an awful ache, dear ? 1 suffered from it for years — long, long years. I had no other interests to distract me. Then, do you know — [there is a gleam of vmnatwal laughter in her voice\ — I became just a little odd. I know it. It amused my friends, but I couldn't help myself. I became quite odd and I remember so well my husband's frowns. He was very puzzled, although, God knows, he should not have been. Do you know what I would do, dear ? You mustn't — you won't smile. I had some big dolls and I used to dress them and put them to bed as if they were children. And they had their special chairs in the drawing-room, one for Marguerite, one for Gladys, another for Dorothy Dimple, and so on. And when callers came I didn't move the dolls. Their chairs were their own and they must not be disturbed. That was how I was odd. I knew it, of course. But, whenever 1 thought of it, the idea always seemed to slip away very quickly. And people said I was odd. And some- how I was content that they should think so. That meant that my mind was already unbalanced and that I was near to madness. Then Maisie came. God sent her to me to save me. He must have thought I had suffered enough. We were spending a holiday in Corn- wall, and one day we were out walking and we called at 76 THE TIDE [act a farmhouse to buy some fruit. At the door of the farmhouse some children were playing — a game they called " Mothers and Fathers." The baby was a mite of three, very dark and with delicious flashing eyes and bright red mouth. It was Maisie. I petted her, and the farmer's wife told me she was not her child, that she was illegitimate and that they had been paid to rear her. The next day my husband secured Maisifi for me. Yes — he bought her. How dreadful it is to tell that to her mother. FELICITY. God be thanked she fell into your gentle hands. MRS. BRETHERTOif. Ah, I was SO grateful for her. I loved her so much that it was sometimes painful to reflect that she was not mine. But oh, my dear, she did soothe the ache of my life. It has only hurt me very rarely since. FELECiTT. I nearly killed myself, but Dr. Stratton saved me. I have worked so hard here and so naturally and tired myself so that my brain has had little chance to torture me. Now MRS. BEETHERTON. YeS. NoW ! FELICITY. Now — it will be worse. He was quite right. He warned me about this. MRS. BEETHBRTON. She may come to you yet. FELICITY. She may. But what of you ? MRS. BRETHERTON. I should only suffer as if I had lost her on her marriage. Ten years ago I could not have parted with her. I would have fought you for her — fought like a tigress. But it is more tolerable now that she is nearly a woman. And we should not be widely separated, should we ? Ill] THE TIDE 77 FELICITY. She is legally yours, is she not, even if she wished to come to me. MRS. BRETHEETON. Yes. I'm not proud of that. We women have no reason to parade the law. It's an evil thing that I should be entitled to keep your child. FELICITY. Think of the poor women who lose their children in the Divorce Court. One false step and they lose the very essence of their existence. MRS. BRETHERTON. Yes. They had a Divorce Com- mission in London recently. The experts were much too expert to tackle that vile scandal. No woman ever deserved the torture of separation from her issue. It is lucky for the poor creatures that they can seek f orget- fulness in debauchery or lunacy. Oh, the everlasting mercy of a Providence who permits insanity. It does alleviate the torture of women, thank God ! FELICITY. How achingly bitter you are ? MRS. BRETHEETON. I have never shown it before. I think I've always had it in my head that I must speak and behave as the people of my age and appearance do in books. I've been afraid of my real thoughts. You have made me speak]out. I wonder why ? Just because you are a woman who has suffered as I have suffered ! Perhaps it is because you are Maisie's mother. FELICITY. It is because you know I understand. Oh, I do so want you to love me. [There is the terrible yearning of the unloved in her voice. She has risen. MRS. BRETHERTON rises, and the two women kiss, almost a passionate hiss of v/nderstanding and sympathy, felicity now goes up to the ivindow. The door is hea/rd opening. 78 THE TIDE [act MBS. BBETHEBTOiT goes down L. and seats herself on the ccmch. She hwries her face in her Turnds.] [Enter carmichael whithair L., wearing overcoat. He comes in hesitatingly, felicity takes a step towards him, her eyes desperately questioning. He draws away from her u little reluctantly, but with the aversion of a hoy mating something he does not understand. He crosses the room and sits in the chair immediately R. of the table, felicity's eyes follow him, her face eloquent of the crvM blow to her feelings, dr. STRATTON now enters, also wearing a light overcoat.^ FELICITY \to DR. STRATTON Wider her breath]. You have told him ? DR. STRATTON. Yes. And you ? [He looks rownd at MRS. BRETHERTON, omd notes her attitude.} H'm. It's just as well. We all know ? FELICITY. All but Maisie. DR. STRATTON. All but Maisie, eh, she being the person least concerned, I suppose, [felicity does not answer, but sits in the chair above table C, and putting her arms on the table rests her head on them. dr. stratton throws his cap on the " rout " seat up L., amd sits in the chair L. of table G. There is a heavy pause. Suddenly the voice of TOM DENNY is heard outside the door.] TOM [off]. What did you call me, you idle, loafing good-for-nothing ? JERRY [off]. I said nothing. You don't seem to think it right that I should look at you. TOM [off]. Nor is it. And it's not for the hkes of you to answer back. You've had a good home here ever since you were a baby. But I'll put you out. D'ye hear ? Ill] THE TIDE 79 I'll put you out, you lyin', thievin' God-cursed bastard ! [He pronownces this last word with furious emphasis. The word rings through the room amd produces a differe/nt effect on each person, mes. bbetheeton moans sUghtly, FELICITY sits holt upright, staring straight before her, CAEMicHAEL drops Ms head in his hands on the table, de. STEATTON, after a moments indecision, rises and goes to the door.] DR. STEATTON [opening doorj. Tom ! TOM [off]. Yes, sir. DR. STEATTON. Shut Up ! TOM [off]. I beg your pardon, sir. [de.'stratton shuts the door, returns to the table and sits again in chair L. of it.] MAisiB [from off", speaking through the window]. Are you never coming, mother ? MES. BEETHEETON. I am coming, dear. [mbs. bretheeton rises wearily and goes towwrds the door^ DR. STEATTON [rising and intercepting mes. beetheeton]. One moment, please. [Looking to both mes. beetheeton amd FELICITY.] How long is that child to remain in ignorance ? MES. bretheeton [miserably]. Oh ! I don't know. I don't know ? DR. STEATTON. She must know before she marries. That won't be long if I'm any judge of masculine taste. MES, BEETHEETON. Not yet ! Not yet ! Surely not yet ! DR. STEATTON. The girl must know. She will be told bitterly and brutally later on. Let her know now that she may learn how to carry herself. She's old enough, and I think she's strong minded-enough. 80 THE TIDE [act MES. BRETHEETON [tO FELICITY]. Oh — ^what do yOU think, my dear ? FELICITY. I think she must be told now. God help you. MRS. BRETHBRTON. I can't .... well, do as you wish. [dr. stratton goes out L. mrs. bretherton seats her- self at the upper end of the couch, dr. stratton re-appears followed hy maisie, her fam all inquiry and wonderment, dr. steatton leads her gently towards the chair down L.C. that she has just vacated. His left a/rm is round her. As they pass MRS. BRETHERTON the latter jwmps up, her hea/ri in her a/rms, and impetuously snatches maisie a/nd kisses her again and again and again, a terrible maan in h r throat.^ maisie [expostulating slightly]. Mother ! Mother ! Mother ! What is it, dear ? [mes, bretherton frees her and de. steatton leads maisie to the chair down L.G. Then he fetches his chakr from the left of the table and seats himself practically at the point of maisie's Awee,] • DE. STEATTON. Miss Bretherton, you are a little puzzled at all this mystery, aren't yon ? Well, it isn't fair that you should be puzzled. It isn't fair that you should be the only one of us who knows nothing of a matter which vitally concerns you. maisie \looking round in bewildered fashion\. Yes? DE. STRATTON. You don't know very much about life, little girl, do you ? MAISIE [bridling slightly'] I took lots of prizes at collegB. in] THE TIDE 81 DR. STRATTON. I'm sure you did. But I wonder if you ever came in contact with the sort of people whom you must occasionally have read about. You have read your Strindberg and your Sudermann, I'll be bound. MAisiE. I think a girl ought to. DR. STRATTON. Certainly. But I don't suppose it ever entered your pretty head that such things as you read of there do happen every day and such people are really quite common. MAISIE. Oh, they only write of very extreme cases. DR. STRATTON. Not at all. A dustbin is often typical landscape. You and I have been and are con- stantly on the fringe of maelstroms of human passion. ... It is odd that you should have that cloak on this evening. You know the real story of Red Riding Hood? MAISIE. There's only one, isn't there ? DR. STRATTON. No. Of course there is the story that is told to children. A wolf eats up a grandmamma, and as soon as the grandmamma is swallowed, Red Riding Hood calls. The wolf puts on grandmamma's cap and gets into her bed, so that not even a Sherlock Holmes, let alone a little girl, could tell him from a real grand- mamma. When Red Riding Hood reaches the bedside the wolf jumps on her and eats her up. MAISIE. Oh no. You're quite wrong. The wolf is just going to eat Red Riding Hood when a woodman rushes in and cuts the wolf in half with his axe, so that grandmamma gets out and everything is all right. DE. STRATTON. Ah, yes. That's the happy ending. That was added for America. The real story of Red F 82 THE TIDE [act Biding Hood is never told to children. But many of them find it out when they grow up. Bed Biding Hood was really very nearlya woman. She was a girl of your age and, if you will forgive me, of your attractions. In fact, Maisie Bretherton, she was very, very like you. One day she met a man. He was very delightful outwardly. He was very kind, very gentle, and very generous — ^just as kind and as gentle and as generous almost as a grandmamma. In fact, to Bed Biding Hood he was just as good as a fairy grandmamma. Then came a day when he changed. She went to see him, expecting to find the same courteous, protecting friend she had known before, and suddenly he became a wolf MAISIE [echoing]. Became a wolf DE. STEATTON. Yes. He became a wolf and destroyed her. She is still alive, of course, but he destroyed her. MAisiE [covering her face with her hands]. I under- stand. DE. STEATTON. Would you like to hear the after-history of Bed Biding Hood? MAISIE. Must I ? DE. STEATTON. I think you must. The wolf disappeared. He was never seen again. In all probability his identity, his real name, will never be known. Bed Biding Hood was left with a little child — whose father was the wolf. ... Do you realise, little girl, that there are many Bed Biding Hoods in the world, and many men and women whose mothers were Bed Biding Hoods ? MAISIE. Many ! Many ! Oh, why are you telling me this? in] THE TIDE DR.'STKATTON. You must guess, little girl, first. Guess in your mind. Don't hurry, now. Think. Why have I told you this ? Why, why ? Why, indeed ? [There is an agonising pause. Svddenly carmichael WHiTHAiR leaps to hisfeet.^ CARMICHAEL. My God ! I can't bear this. \He rushes impulsively from the room, DR. stratton, felicity, and MRS. BRETHERTON do not move a muscle.] MAisiB [knowing, but dreading to knoui]. Tell me. You are only warning me. DR. STRATTON. More than that. [Again a pause. The girl guesses, hut is all reluotamce, hoping against hope. FELICITY rises from her ehair and com^s snakily down to the side of dr. stratton. She leans forward^ watching the girl's face.] MAisiE [brokerdy.] I am the daughter of a Bed Biding Hood. DR. STRATTON [groveh/]. That is so. [The girl's head drops. DR. STRATTON rises and crosses R. felicity re- mains still watching maisib closely, maisie rises. Her crimson cloak slips from her shoulders cmd falls at felicity's feet.] maisie [throwing herself on the floor at mrs. brether- ton's knees]. Oh, mother, mother, mother ! What does this mean ? MRS. bretherton [in a voice that is strange to herself]. I am not your mother. MAISIE [looking up into mrs. bretherton's face in horrified astonishment]. Mother ! [She takes mrs. brethbrton's a/rm a/nd shakes it as if to bring herU) talk 84 THE TIDE [act hi reasonabli/.] Mother ! [felicity picks up the cloak from the floor.] MRS. BKETHERTON. I am not your mother, [maisie rises cmd draws away from MRS. beetherton. Then she turns and faces felicity and dr. stratton. The expres- sion on felicity's face holds her [attention. Then she notices that she has picked up the crimson cloak. She comes close to her and looks her in the face.] MAISIE. You ! . . . You ! . . . You are my mother ? [felicity, after a moment's pavse, hows her head in assent.] MAISIE [excitedly]. But — I don't know you. I don't like you. I don't DR. stratton [interrupting, though maisie does not allow him to stop the flow of her speech!] Your mother ! MAISIE. I don't want you. Why have you come ? I don't like you. I can't go near you. I'd hate DB. STRATTON. Be careful. You may regret this. MAISIE. I'd hate to know you. You've shamed me. I don't want you. I don't want you. [Impetuously she rushes to the door.] I can't bear it. [She has gone, the door swinging to behind her. felicity, clutching the crimson cloak to her breast, sinks miserably to her knees. Her head is bowed.] CURTAIN. ACT IV PETIT BOT BAT. [As in Act II.] [li is night. The moon is high cmd occasionally obscwred hy hastening clouds. It spreads hlue amd green lights over the landscape. Yellow lights twinkle from the Martello Tower on the far shore. The sound of the waves heating on the beach is decidedly louder than it was in the second Act. The wind moa/ns, and there is a storm gathering. Up L., at the foot of the rocks, is a large lighted lantern, its face turned to the rock. When the cwrtain rises, tom dennt is discovered, down L., resignedly pointing the boat. He is mjwmbling and growling to himself. After a m,ommt or two JERRY LB maitre, again ba/re-footed, enters, coming down the steps B.} TOM [when he recognises the approaching figwre\.. It's you, you young devil, is it ? Well, are you satisfied now you've got me into trouble again ? JERRY. It was your own fault. Mrs. Denny doesn't like strong language. TOM. I'll agree that she don't. And, d'ye know, I've been told to apologise to you for — for calling you what I called you. . . , Well, I do. I'm very sorry you are one. And now that's over, you young ba — devil. 85 86 THE TIDE [act JEBET. I don't want your sympathy. I have no objection to doing without relations. It saves a lot of complications. TOM. That's an evil thing to say, young man, but I'll not discuss it with you. You'd talk my head off pretty quick. But, damme, if I see why I shouldn't call you what you are, though the blood in you may be better than mine. JEKEY. It was the word you used that Mrs. Denny objected to. TOM. Well, when I was a lad you'd see it often enough in the history book and the bits of Shakespeare. JBEET. Perfectly true. But Shakespeare and the historians are privileged. It is very rude to call things by their right names nowadays. TOM Ifflaring at Mm\. I believe you're getting at me again. [Angrily. 1 Are ye? JBEET. No. TOM. I don't know. I've got to be up at the water- works now. I'll think it over when I'm with the engines. And, mark you, if the thinkin' goes against you, you'll •get your head lammed in the morning. So go to bed on that. [JEscit tom, R., up the steps, carrying away his paint pot and brush.] [jEREY shrugs his shoulders, and going to the extreme edge of the platform leans up against the rocks on the right. Then, pushing his knees out, he lets his body sink into a sitting postu/re.} JEEEY [muttering at first, his voice grad/u