Oh, all right! (Lays down money.)
(Roto takes up the money, and hands the green
stone to Varlie who looks at it [so that
audience can see its shape] then slips it into
his pocket.)
Varlie.
(Laughing reassuringly and sitting a
little nearer Loveday.) These queer old
curios get me every time. I’ll test a drop
of his precious poison on a mangy old dog
I have, and if it is as he says, I’ll wash it
out and keep eau de cologne in it. The
jade is a pretty shape.
Loveday.
Yes, it is. And it is quite a good bit of
jade, too. It is worth money. But do be
careful with the stuff. I more than half
believe what he says.
Varlie.
An old hand like I am at life, don’t run no
risks with a bit of jade. I’ve seen too
much of the world.
Loveday.
You have travelled much?
Varlie.
I should say! I have run around a bit,
and got into many a good scrape in my
time. Why, any day you are lonesome,
Miss Loveday, ask me for the story of my
wounds!
Loveday.
I’ve been rather lonesome this afternoon.
How did you get that red triangle on your
right cheek bone? I have often wondered.
It is so regular.
Varlie.
(Turns his right cheek so that she can
see it, points it out and turns again so
that audience can see the bright red,
definite small triangle on his cheek.) Ah,
now that’s one of my best stories. I was
a spry young fellow then. (Looks at her.)
Now, if you were a smart girl you’d say,
“That’s not long ago then, Mr. Varlie!”
Loveday.
(Smiling.) I’ll say it if it is a regulation
part of the story. Is it?
Varlie.
Waal, as you are a high and mighty young
English girl, we’ll take it as said.
(Sounds of footsteps and panting along road—1st
Shepherd hurries on carrying a
telegram held out before him.)
1st Shep.
Where’s Mr. Gordon? Oh, where is he?
This telegram’s for him.
Loveday.
He went round the back of the house not
long ago.
1st Shep.
Oh, terrible, terrible. That I’ve to take
him this telegram.
Loveday.
What is it?
1st Shep.
Bad news, terrible bad news. The postman,
he told me.
Loveday.
(Anxiously.) But tell us.
1st Shep.
Oh, Missy, how’ll ever Mister Gordon take
it? Mr. Robert has been killed.
Loveday.
(Sinking back in chair.) Robert killed,
oh! poor Gordon!
Varlie.
Sakes alive, that’s a knock out.
1st Shep.
That’s what I say. It had better been the
other way about.
Loveday.
(Swiftly, in anger.) How can you say
that?
Nora.
(Running out of house.) What is the
fuss?
1st Shep.
(A little important as being the bearer of
sad news.) Ah, Missy, it’s sad tidings
there is in this telegram. Mr. Robert’s
killed.
Nora.
(Screams and staggers. Loveday springs
up and goes to her.) Robert, Robert!
Killed. How do you know? It must be
lies. How do you know?
1st Shep.
Postman told me. This is a Government
telegram, telling it to ye, official.
Gordon.
(Hurries round the house and comes centre
forward.) Whatever is the matter?
(Roto comes in and learning news from Varlie,
shows signs of real grief.
All hesitate to tell Gordon. 1st Shepherd
holds out telegram.)
1st Shep.
It’s, it’s bad news, Mister Gordon.
Gordon.
The telegram is official—it’s—is Robert
wounded? (Tears open the telegram.)
Gordon.
Killed! (Lets telegram fall, and staggers
forward to chair, all are silent.)
Nora.
(Crying softly.) Oh Robert, Robert,
Robert!
(Loveday tries to soothe her and is sad also.
Roto sniffs. The collie dog comes up to
the group, looking from one to the other,
then goes to Gordon and rubs against him
licking his hand. Gordon pats him.)
Gordon.
Good old chap. Yes, he’ll never come
back. Your master is dead—died a hero’s
death.
Varlie.
(Comes up and shakes Gordon’s hand.)
Accept my condolences.
Gordon.
Thanks—thanks, you’re kind. (Pays little
attention to him, goes over to Nora, who
is still weeping.) Nora, dear. (He kneels
beside her.) How sweet of you to care so
much—he, he’d be proud if he knew.
Nora.
(Fiercely.) He wouldn’t! He never
cared for me. And I loved him—and I
hate you. Go away!
(She pushes him roughly from her so that, on
his knees, still, he scarcely keeps his balance.
She turns and weeps fiercely in Loveday’s
arms. Loveday, soothing her, really
watches and feels for Gordon. As he
staggers blindly to his feet, she looks with
infinite tenderness and pity towards him
and stretches out a hand to steady him.
He takes it, and clasps it for a moment.)
Roto.
(Wailing.) What’ll happen? What’ll happen
now Mister Robert won’t come back?
1st Shep.
Eh, eh, dear, dear.
Gordon.
He won’t come back! (He looks up
suddenly, and seems to gather strength.)
He won’t come back! He has done his
job for the Empire! That frees me!
Now I’ll do mine! I’ve nothing to keep
me here.
1st Shep.
Why! the sheep do, Boss.
Gordon.
Robert charged me to keep the station
going for him till he came back. Now
he’ll never come back; I’m done with the
station! Other men must raise the sheep.
Loveday.
(Her eyes sparkling.) You’ll go to
London?
Gordon.
Yes. We have often said I’d have to go
to London some day to get my job put
through.
Varlie.
(Half aside.) The man’s mad! He
doesn’t propose seriously to bring forward
that devilish scheme of his. (Aloud.)
What will you do? Have you the dollars?
It’ll take a good deal of money!
Gordon.
No. All I have is the homestead, and the
sheep. But I’ll sell them.
Varlie.
It’s the worst time to sell just now.
Gordon.
I’ll lose something of course, but the
homestead and all is really worth quite ten
thousand pounds altogether.
Varlie.
Snakes! It’s not worth nearly half that.
1st Shep.
Yes it is, Mister. It’s a good station.
None better hereabouts.
Varlie.
Is it freehold?
Gordon.
Yes. And unencumbered.
Varlie.
Is it all yours?
Gordon.
Yes—now it is. Robert and I shared it.
He left his will with me—he said his share
was all for me, as he hadn’t got a girl.
(Nora is seen to shudder as though hurt.)
Varlie.
Then you can sell at once.
Gordon.
I shall.
1st Shep.
Don’t ’e, Mister Gordon, don’t ’e. You’ll
best wait. Land’s not sellin’ just now.
Wait a bit.
Gordon.
But my work won’t wait! I shan’t.
Loveday.
Splendid! Go.
Gordon.
You say so? You back me?
Loveday.
Yes. Yes.
Gordon.
Well, I have one on my side.
Varlie.
It’s a fool business.
Gordon.
I must sell at once. Perhaps neighbour
Lee might like to join this station on to his.
Nora.
(Looking up fiercely.) My dad? I won’t
let him. I won’t!
Varlie.
You’ll not get a purchaser at present.
Roto.
That’s true, Boss. No one is buying land
just now.
Gordon.
(Turning away.) Well, I must sell for
else I have no money to go to Europe
with and I will go. It will be a very
expensive job. Propaganda costs. I must
put my scheme before the Prime Minister
of England, and it’s no good to write to
him. I must see him, I must talk to him.
Varlie.
Has he a good opinion of you?
Gordon.
He doesn’t know me yet.
Nora.
(Scolding.) How do you think that you,
an absolutely unknown Colonial with a
hair-brained scheme, are going to get at
him?
Gordon.
I’ll manage it somehow.
Varlie.
London is not like Dunedin, I opine. Do
you know anyone in London who knows
the Prime Minister?
Gordon.
No. But I’ll get to.
Nora.
Do you know a single living soul in
London?
Gordon.
No. But I will when I get there.
Loveday.
He will. I’ll see to that!
Nora.
(Spitefully.) Oh! Do you know people
who know the Prime Minister of England?
Loveday.
(Quietly.) I do.
Nora.
(Taken aback.) Oh! Who?
Loveday.
The Duchess of Rainshire.
Varlie.
(Very alert, evidently taking note of the
name.) Does she know the Prime Minister
intimately?
Loveday.
Yes. He often comes to see her.
Gordon.
(Triumphfully.) Splendid! You never
told me that, Loveday, when you said I
should have to go and see him somehow.
Loveday.
(Smiling.) I had it up my sleeve though.
There was no need to speak of it so long
as you were not going. Now (sadly) you
can think only of this work. I’ll be proud
to help in it. It is worth doing.
Gordon.
With Robert’s example before me—I’ll do
it, or die.
Loveday.
You’ll do it.
Gordon.
But it may take a long time, and I must
have money, plenty of money too. I must
sell the station at once.
Varlie.
(Drawling.) I’ve put my thinking cap on.
A business connection of my firm is looking
out for freehold in this country. If this is
freehold, I reckon I’d be safe to get my
money back from him if I bought it myself.
Gordon.
You!
Varlie.
Yaas. I’ve got plenty of free cash when
it’s wanted, you know. Business hasn’t
been bad lately, and—waal. I’ll lay down
for this freehold of yours.
Gordon.
Good. That’ll save ever so much time I
might waste in looking for a buyer.
Varlie.
Let’s strike then.
Gordon.
It is worth ten thousand pounds.
Varlie.
Shucks!
Gordon.
But I’ll take less.
Varlie.
Waal?
Gordon.
Say seven thousand—for money down.
Varlie.
(Laughing derisively.) What do you
take me for?
Gordon.
It is really worth that, why the sheep
alone—
Varlie.
Sell your sheep separately then. I ain’t
buying sheep, I’m buying land.
1st Shep.
But you can’t do nothin’ with this land
without sheep, Boss.
Roto.
It’s worth more than seven thousand
pounds, that’s a bargain price, Boss.
Varlie.
Sell elsewhere then.
Roto.
Do, Mister Gordon. Next month a Pakeha
I know is coming to the city. He thinkin’
of a station like this. I fetch him along,
Mister Gordon.
Gordon.
Next month! I want to be half way to
England next month.
Varlie.
(Lighting a cigar.) I’ll give you four
thousand five hundred for it—
Gordon.
That’s too little to discuss.
1st Shep.
That’s robbery, Boss, don’t take it. After
the war it’ll fetch three times that. After
the war—
Gordon.
After the war will be too late for me.
The international super-parliament must
be considered in the terms of peace.
1st Shep.
(Groans.) Them ideas! You’d let the
sheep rot for ideas!
Varlie.
I’ll give you four thousand five hundred
for it, down to-day.
Gordon.
To-day!
Varlie.
Right now. We’ll ride into the city and
get a notary to fix it up all square.
Gordon.
That’s better than waiting for an uncertain
buyer—but it’s very little—
Varlie.
But it’s here, to-day.
Gordon.
To-day. Well, I’ll take it!
Varlie.
Done. A deal. Shake.
(Roto and the Shepherd mutter, and shake
their heads.)
Nora.
You’re a perfect fool, Gordon! You throw
away more than half your fortune so as to
be able to rush off to England with a crack-brained
scheme! Why not write to the
papers instead?
Gordon.
(Looks helpless, says appealingly.) Oh,
Nora!
Varlie.
A lot of energy is let off safely in gas to
the papers. Hyde is bottlin’ his energy up
it seems. That makes him dangerous, eh?
Gordon.
(To Loveday.) You’ll give me a letter
of introduction?
Loveday.
(Smiling sweetly.) No. I won’t.
Varlie.
Gee. Even she thinks you are going off
the rails.
Gordon.
Loveday, you said you would give me
a letter of introduction!
Loveday.
How many introductory letters do you
suppose the Duchess of Rainshire gets?
A letter would do you very little good.
Gordon.
(Crestfallen.) Oh, Loveday, what do you
mean?
Loveday.
Why! (Taking a step towards him,
radiant, in the centre of stage.) I’m not
going to trust to letters, which people can
put in the waste-paper basket!
Gordon.
But, what do you mean, Loveday?
Loveday.
I’ll come with you myself! I’ll wait on
their doorsteps (I know lots of people in
London), I’ll waylay them at parties,
and seize the very best opportunities for
getting the right people to know you.
Gordon.
You will? You are a brick! How
splendid!
Varlie.
(Somewhat disturbed, aside.) Ach! The
English are mad enough for anything.
Gott sei dank I know of this! (Aloud.)
What about Mrs. Grundy?
Nora.
Yes. A pretty pair you will look. What
will people say?
Loveday.
When the whole world’s future is at stake,
do you think I care what people say?
Varlie.
Who was it said the English are all mad?
He was right.
Gordon.
It is too much, Loveday!
Nora.
You are English. You will make me agree
with Mr. Varlie’s opinion of your country’s
sanity.
Loveday.
British women are free from the need to care
what foolish people think! (Turning to
Gordon.) We will go to London, Gordon,
and there I’ll work for you and your great
idea, for all I’m worth!
(Gordon takes a step towards her, his face
shining with enthusiasm.)
Act III.
About a Couple of months later than Act II.
The Duchess of Rainshire’s drawing-room,
London. The fore-part of the stage represents
an alcove of the big drawing-room;
the back of the stage opens out so as to
suggest a large room beyond. Heavy
curtains hang on either side of back of
alcove. Left second entrance, a door
leading direct from alcove to outer hall.
Left front, up against wall and projecting
into room, a grand piano, closed. Right
front, a large Chesterfield placed at convenient
angle. One or two small chairs,
big pictures, a palm or two, etc., as in a
first class house.
The Duchess of Rainshire, Loveday and
Gordon discovered in the foreground.
Back of stage occasional guests pass to and
fro in the big drawing-room, and faint
sounds of music in the distance are heard.
The Duchess is a middle-aged, smart woman
of the world, with a commanding manner
and quick way of speaking, but kindly.
Gordon.
(Standing, speaking earnestly declaiming
as though concluding a long argument.)
I fear I have bored you, there is so much
to say, but perhaps the chief point is that
there shall not only be international law,
but adequate force behind that law to
enforce it.
Duchess.
(Stifling a yawn.) Well, Mr. Hyde, I’m
sure I wish you the success you deserve,
and not what I fear you are likely to get.
London simply swarms with panaceas and
their parents.
Loveday.
(Appealing.) But they haven’t all got
you to help them!
Duchess.
Oh yes, most of them have! But mercifully
the schemes counteract each other on
the whole, or where should I be?
Loveday.
You must not allow anything to counteract
this.
Duchess.
(To Mr. Hyde.) Well, young man,
remember! It’s neither for yourself nor
for your ideas I’m launching you on the
defenceless man at the helm, but simply
because Loveday used to have fascinating
freckles on her nose when she was six
years old.
Gordon.
I know I owe her an awful lot. And you
too. I’m ever so grateful, I can’t say how
grateful. Posterity will—
Duchess.
(Interrupting.) You are going to say that
I’ll go down to history as the patron of
genius, of course—I’m glad to hear it. It
may help to counteract the other way I
shall go down to history. No one who has
had two successive husbands, both Dukes,
could fail to find posterity as critical as
the present generation is spiteful.
(Gordon looks bewildered.)
Loveday.
Don’t believe her, Gordon. Everybody’s
awfully fond of her.
Duchess.
Go and think that over somewhere by
yourself, young man. I haven’t seen
Loveday since her escapade into Greater
Britain and I want to hear from her how
this little island looks in true prospective.
(Gordon bows and goes toward back of stage
and mingles with other quests, strolling out
of sight. Meanwhile a guest or two stroll
partly round the alcove, but seeing the
Duchess talking, retire.)
Duchess.
(Taking Loveday’s arm and pushing her
down on to sofa, sits beside her.) Now,
Miss, your confessions.
Loveday.
He is really wonderful.
Duchess.
Though New Zealand is British my
experience of home Britons tells me it is
not peopled by geniuses. He is exceptional.
Naturally.
Loveday.
Not at all naturally.
Duchess.
Hoity-toity.—I’m not old enough to say
that properly, but it is so effective, I’m
beginning young, so as to get enough
practice before my public use of it. So—hoity-toity!
(Loveday smiles, says nothing.)
Duchess.
What’s wrong, don’t I say it properly?
It ought to elicit some retort from you
which should reveal your secret more
completely than ever.
Loveday.
I haven’t got a secret.
Duchess.
Hoity-toity!—I think I did it rather better
that time—
Loveday.
(Earnestly.) I haven’t a secret really!
Duchess.
I must have done it better: you retorted,
telling me that you have a secret.
Loveday.
(Laughing.) I haven’t, really and truly I
haven’t.
Duchess.
Hoit—no. I’ll vary it. Fiddlesticks!
Who is it?
Loveday.
Who is what?
Duchess.
Whom are you in love with?
Loveday.
Nobody.
Duchess.
Is he in love with you?
Loveday.
Who? Nobody? Yes. Nobody is in
love with me.
Duchess.
He. (Points with her fan through opening
of alcove.) Your New Zealand Genius.
Loveday.
(A shade despondently, but unconscious
of it.) No, he is not.
Duchess.
(Pouncing.) Ha! that’s it, is it?
Loveday.
Duchess.
Tush. Tell me about him!
Loveday.
(Brightening.) Oh, how nice of you. I
did so want you to take an interest in his
ideas. They are so wonderful. They
will make—
Duchess.
I don’t care one Jellicoed submarine about
his ideas. Tell me about himself.
Loveday.
He is a little lame, poor boy—
Duchess.
So I have observed.
Loveday.
But it isn’t fundamental. He got a stake
through his thigh when he was a lad and
it healed badly. It must have been
dreadful for him.
Duchess.
Are you going to marry him?
Loveday.
Oh, how can you say such things? It has
never entered his head!
Duchess.
Hoity-toity.
Loveday.
Oh, it hasn’t!
Duchess.
Well, here is a personable young man for
whom you feel pity, and you are twenty-seven
to his thirty. I only ask, are you
going to marry him?
Loveday.
(Rising indignantly.) How can you say
such things. I never thought of it! Why
he—he loves someone else!
Duchess.
Oh, that’s the trouble, is it? Where is
she?
Loveday.
In New Zealand.
Duchess.
(Patting Loveday’s hand.) Then that’s
all right, my dear. You can have him if
you want.
Loveday.
But I don’t want, that way.—Oh, I don’t
want any way! Oh, why do you have
such dreadful conversations?
Duchess.
That’s it. Quarrel with your benefactor!
Are you going to flounce out of the house
before the Prime Minister comes?
Loveday.