Chapter II: Act I

SCENE:--CARDEN TYRREL’S library. On the right a door leads to the dining-room and rest of house. On the left is a large empty fire-place. At back through open glass folding-doors a small garden is visible, below which the Atlantic Ocean, flanked by a mountain at left, stretches out to the horizon. Between fire-place and folding-doors stands a writing-table with chairs on either side. At the opposite part of the room near folding-doors is a large sofa. Books in shelves line all walls. In front at the right is another table covered with papers, magazines, &c., which are likewise thrown negligently over other chairs in the room. It is a bright forenoon in the Autumn.

MILES TYRRELL, a young light-haired man of about nineteen, dressed in a blue serge suit, is seated at the writing-table in deep study with several books around him. After a pause he looks up wearily, then again bends over his books.

BARRY USSHER, a lean man of about two and thirty, of medium height, with dark hair, a short pointed beard, and dressed in a riding-costume of sombre grey, enters from garden at back.

MILES (_starting_). Ah, Barry.

USSHER (_throwing his hat and hunting-whip on the sofa_). Hallo, Miles, good morning. I see you are determined to win that gold medal at Trinity--and become one day Lord Chancellor of Ireland too, I’ll be bound.

MIL. (_with a faint smile_). Lord Chancellor, indeed! I shall be lucky if I can pass my examination and then find just so many briefs as will afford me a living.

USS. Why are you so despondent? You have ability.

MIL. Perhaps--if there was an opportunity of displaying it. Oh, this is no place for work.

USS. I know what you mean. But why not study in your room upstairs?

MIL. I might do that. Still it is not so much the interruptions. It is the knowledge of what goes on, perpetually.

USS. Are things as bad as ever?

MIL. Yes--my brother and his wife cannot agree.

USS. How sad it is.

MIL. Oh, if only I had a quiet house to study in like yours. You live there like a sage absorbed in your books and ideas.

USS. I fear I also find difficulties in cultivating the tastes that are congenial to me.

MIL. Why?

USS. You see, Miles, an unfortunate landowner must devote all his attention to keeping a little of his belongings together in these bad times.

MIL. As if you were affected by bad times--you, with that fine place here joining us, and with your unencumbered estate, and no one depending upon you. You’re a lucky fellow. No wonder the luck of Barry Ussher is a by-word with the country people.

USS. They know nothing about it.

MIL. Well, in any case you seem able to live as you please. You have always means to travel, and never want for anything.

USS. So that is your idea of luck, Miles?

MIL. Well, somewhat I fancy. Isn’t it yours?

USS. I don’t think these things make much difference either way.

MIL. Oh, come, Barry, you can’t expect me to believe that.

USS. Yes, I mean that what we have on one side is taken away from the other; so the world’s lots are more fairly divided than you imagine. Our natures remain much the same at their root. There is always the original pain.

MIL. I suppose you cynical philosophers must invent some grievance from lack of real troubles.

USS. No, Miles.

MIL. Well, if you only knew how my brother envies your good fortune.

USS. There are others Carden Tyrrell might envy, but he need not envy me. By the way, where is he?

MIL. He is out--I suppose in the heather field.

USS. Oh--(_After a short pause_) He has finished all his work there, hasn’t he?

MIL. Yes, the young grass is coming up beautifully now. Do you want to see him at once? I can send for him. In any case he is sure to be back soon.

USS. That will do. I am in no great hurry.

MIL. You have some business with him?

USS. Well, yes. It is about this very subject of land reclamation. I hear he is about to raise another large loan from Government, in order to extend these operations of his.

MIL. Really?

USS. So they told me yesterday in Dublin at the Board of Works.

MIL. When Grace hears this, there will be more troubles and disputes.

USS. Most likely. What a pity your sister-in-law defeats all her objects by her manner towards Carden.

MIL. Oh indeed, she is very impatient with him. Yet she is good enough in her way too.

USS. Precisely; and would probably have made an excellent wife for almost any other man; but for your brother--well, it might have been better if he had never thought of marriage at all.

MIL. What? Surely he might have found some one to suit him. Why should you say such a thing?

USS. (_with a frightened look_). Why?

MIL. Yes, Barry. But what is the matter with you?

USS. (_quickly recovering himself_). Oh, nothing, Miles--nothing. I merely meant to say that it would be very difficult for anyone to suit Carden. He is a person so much of himself, you know.

MIL. Ah, it is certainly a great misfortune he ever met Grace. And their estrangement is so extraordinary for he once used to be so fond of her.

USS. Yes, they generally begin that way. I remember just before he became engaged he told me that he thought till then he should never marry, but that at last he had found real happiness. They all say that, you know.

MIL. You may very well philosophise over what is past, Barry. But why did you not then try to dissuade him?

USS. Of course I tried to dissuade him then. I did my best.

MIL. Oh, you did, did you?

USS. Yes, of course. I warned him against the danger of marrying a girl with whom he was only acquainted so short a time. I entreated him to wait a while at all events, as he was then only twenty-one and she something younger. But all to no purpose. Ah, if he had waited, he could not have failed to discover that she was only marrying him for his means and position, and that she did not in the least care for him. Besides I was certain from the first that he had no real affection or respect for her.

MIL. Indeed? What made you so certain of that, Barry?

USS. Well, you see, Carden and I had been intimate so long. We had been brought up together in fact, so that I fancy I understand him better than anyone. The sudden overturning of all his ideas at that time seemed to me strange and unnatural. He was like one bewitched. A man’s whole nature somehow does not change in a moment. You were too young, Miles, to know him in those days; but he was so ideal, so imaginative, as engaging as some beautiful child who saw nothing real in the world outside his own fairy dreams.

MIL. (_with a baffled look_). I have memories of those days!

USS. They are vivid with me. Oh, he always did so fascinate and interest me. What poetry he put into those days of my youth--the days that are dead. (_Pause._) Then to see him suddenly changed, grown even prosy under the power of her influence, it made it impossible for me to consider this attachment of his genuine or likely to endure. And has not the result proved that I was right?

MIL. I fear I must admit, Barry, that you were, alas, a reliable prophet.

USS. Oh, I foresaw all. I knew this change could not last. The old, wild nature had to break out again when the novelty was over. It was a misfortune since he was married, but it was inevitable. There are some dispositions too eerie, too ethereal, too untamable for good, steady, domestic cultivation, and if so domesticated they avenge themselves in after time. Ah, foolishly his wife and her friends thought they were going to change Carden to their model of a young man, but the latent, untamable nature was not to be subdued. Its first sign of revolt against suppression was when he began this vast work in the heather field.

MIL. (_with a puzzled look_). Barry, I--I do not understand.

USS. Miles, you must admit it was rather an extravagant work. He has sunk a fortune of borrowed capital in the reclamation of that mountain. Look at all the men he employed to root up rocks, and the steam ploughs, too, that have been working during these last years.

MIL. But surely he will obtain a large rent for the rich grass he has made to grow there. That ought to more than compensate for his outlay.

USS. Meanwhile interest is accruing. The grass has not grown sufficiently for letting as yet. Then payment of rent cannot follow till long after, always supposing that it ever produces much rent.

MIL. (_surprised_). Why do you say that? Is not the land good now.

USS. Ah, Miles, do you not know that the soil in such places is very wild and untamable? If heather lands are brought into cultivation for domestic use, they must be watched, they must have generous and loving treatment, else their old wild nature may avenge itself.

[_He averts his look._

MIL. (_with mingled wonder and uneasiness_). Avenge itself? How, Barry?

USS. Why, the wild heather may break out upon them soon again.

MIL. Oh--(_Then eagerly_) But don’t you think Carden has given the best of treatment to the heather field?

USS. (_slowly and gently_). I do not know whether his treatment was sufficiently kind, as farmers say here in West Ireland. Somehow he seemed too impatient for the change. He was hardly considerate enough, perhaps, in the accomplishment of his will.

MIL. (_with dejection_). You evidently think there is something unsatisfactory in the business.

USS. Let us hope for the best, Miles. In any case we ought to try and prevent him from embarking in further schemes.

MIL. Do, Barry. If there is one person in the world he will listen to, it is you. Besides you will remove a fresh cause of quarrels with Grace: and who knows but you may be able to do more afterwards. Stop--I see him coming now through the garden.

[_CARDEN TYRRELL, a rather powerfully built man of one and
thirty, with light hair, spare growth of beard, unsteady
eyes, very large forehead, and lower part of face small,
dressed negligently in a dark suit, enters from the
back._

TYR. (_smiling_). Oh, how goes it with you, Barry? You have not favoured us with visits much of late. What have you been doing?

USS. Well, I have been to Dublin for one thing.

TYR. So I heard. But is it true you are reducing all your rents?

USS. Yes, I _have_ been reducing them somewhat.

TYR. My goodness. I suppose you will end by making the tenants a present of your property. You call me a dreamer, but it seems that I am the practical man.

USS. (_laughing_). Oh, that does not follow at all. I consider it wiser to give a little in time, than later on to have perhaps more wrung from me by the Land Commission.

TYR. But one should never depreciate the value of one’s property. I am afraid, Barry, you are mismanaging your affairs. Have you begun yet to reclaim that bog outside your demesne, as I advised?

USS. No, Carden.

TYR. There, you see. Well, a fortune is to be made by such work. You would be much better employed at it than at reducing your rents. But, my dear old Barry, there is no use in arguing with you, when you are once set upon a thing. I suppose it is because you knew I would not approve of what you are doing that you have not been to see me for so long.

USS. Always suspicious, Carden. But, may I ask why you never come to see me?

TYR. You forget all I have undertaken--all my responsibilities. I have little time.

USS. And one would think my time was of no value. Perhaps, Carden, the real reason is that I might possibly not appreciate some of your undertakings and responsibilities.

TYR. (_with a swift shy glance_). Why should you think so?

USS. (_smiling_). Oh, I don’t know. I was only wondering.

TYR. But why should that prevent me from going to you?

USS. Precisely, why indeed? I should never have thought of it, if you had not first suggested the thought.

TYR. Well, you have no reason to think anything of the kind. Just as if I could be occupied in the way you imagine.

USS. It seems odd that you should, Carden.

TYR. Yet you have an idea all the same, that I could.

USS. Well, to tell you the truth, I heard yesterday that you were contemplating what seems to me certainly most rash.

TYR. Oh, you did, did you? Let us hear what seems to you most rash.

USS. It is true, is it not, that you are about to borrow another large sum of money for new land improvements?

TYR. (_somewhat confused_). Yes--it is true--well?

USS. Well--don’t you think you had better not?

TYR. Why not?

USS. Don’t you think you have done enough work--for the present, at all events? Would it not be better to wait for a time and see whether what you have already accomplished is going to be successful?

MIL. Yes, Carden, don’t you think you ought to wait for a while longer?

TYR. Wait? Why wait, when I know the work must be successful--nay, is already successful?

USS. You can scarcely yet be sure of that, Carden.

TYR. Why not?

USS. (_rather confused_). Oh, the nature----

[_He hesitates._

MIL. You can scarcely yet be sure of what the land is capable, you know.

TYR. Can I not see what grass it has produced.

USS. Yes, but will that continue?

TYR. (_scornfully_). Will that continue? Who ever heard so absurd a question. As well ask will the air continue to bear up the birds? Will its myriad life continue to pant underneath the sea? Come--my old friend, my brother--I will not have you talk in this discouraging way and make such insinuations, as if you were indeed nothing more than mere country neighbours, who cannot understand my ideas. No, you must believe in me, and inspire me with heart.

MIL. We do believe in you, Carden--but----

USS. We only suggest prudence.

MIL. Be prudent, Carden.

TYR. Oh, but when you understand the matter, you will see how prudent I have been. For it was absolutely necessary to obtain this further loan unless the value of the previous one was to be destroyed.

USS. I do not follow you. Will you explain?

TYR. Well, you see, the drainage of the heather field has practically swamped the lands below it; so I now must necessarily drain the water off from them right down to the sea. When I have finished all that grand ramification of drains, I shall have created a whole vast tract of fertile pasture which will double the value of my property. What do you think of that? Why, I believe all you people imagine that I am working in the dark, that I do not know what I am about. But I tell you I have excellent reasons for everything I undertake.

USS. Yes, Carden, of course--but you have borrowed a vast sum of money. Take care that the interest you will have to pay the Board of Works does not exceed your income.

TYR. There is no danger, Barry. Have I not told you that my income must be greatly increased?

USS. You have indeed. I can only hope most sincerely that it will be so.

TYR. But you still seem to doubt it all the same. (_USSHER is silent_). Oh, come, Barry, this is unfriendly of you. Barry, you are a prophet of evil. Heaven grant that your doubts may be vain, else--Oh, I should be the most miserable of men. But they are vain--they are, they are--even despite your other memorable prophecy that, alas, has come too true. Ah, do you remember your warning to me ten years ago?

USS. You mean just before your marriage? Yes.

TYR. (_gloomily_). I wonder had that anything to do with its unhappiness. I wonder if these doubts now will bring misfortune on my present undertakings.

USS. (_in a frightened voice_). Carden, for pity’s sake stop. Don’t speak like that. Forget any doubts I may have now expressed. Forget them--forget them. I was wrong ever to have interfered with my advice. Never will I do so again. No--I have not the right. See, Carden, for all I know you may succeed now. I heartily hope you will. You are determined to, and discouragement might only cause you to fail. No--you must not have a second misfortune to cast at me. Good-bye.

[_He prepares to go._

MIL. Oh, Barry, do not leave us in this way. Think--

TYR. Oh, I am sorry you should take anything I said in that light. I did not mean, Barry, really to----

USS. No, Carden, forgive me, but I was for the moment unnerved by the thought that you should attribute to me any of your ill luck. No--I hope you will always find me a help to you instead, whenever you may require me.

TYR. Ah, now you are like yourself again--the Barry of other days. I knew you would understand me when I explained everything to you.

USS. I hope, Carden, at least I may never be to you the cause of ill luck.

[_Exit at back._

TYR. Dear old Barry, it makes him positively angry to see me improving my property, because he has not the enterprise to improve his own. But I think I have convinced him that he was mistaken in his estimate of my work.

MIL. You certainly frightened him, Carden. I have never seen him as he was just now.

TYR. Oh, I really did not mean what I said. He only annoyed me by his stupid doubting.

MIL. Still--as a matter of fact long ago he tried to dissuade you from marrying Grace--isn’t that so?

TYR. Yes. He was full of doubts and objections then as now--only then he was right. But now--ha, ha--well, I know he is altogether wrong.

MIL. Why do you say you know, Carden? Why are you so certain now?

TYR. Because I see so clearly before me.

MIL. That at least is a comfort. But perhaps he might be wrong in the other matter too. Don’t you think it would be well also if you would determine to belie his doubts of long ago as well as of to-day?

TYR. What do you mean?

MIL. Why, Carden, to try and prove that after all he was wrong when he advised you not to marry Grace.

TYR. (_with a sigh_). Ah--impossible.

MIL. Don’t say that, Carden.

TYR. Oh, Miles, you do not understand.

MIL. But have you never tried?

TYR. Tried--?

MIL. Yes, tried. You know there is nothing really wrong about her.

TYR. Nothing, nothing--and everything. The same thing that is wrong about me. That is how it is between us.

MIL. But might you not try to fall in just a little with her ways? She is good after all.

TYR. My dear Miles you don’t know what you are talking about. Of course she is good enough. I know that perfectly well. But she has no sense of compromise--no consideration for me at all. She always despised me.

MIL. Oh, Carden, no----

TYR. Oh, but yes. That is why she is so indignant I should take an interest in anything except herself. She would shape my life altogether after her own standard and that of Lady Shrule. I have often given in before, but the result was she became more and more exacting, until at last I found matters quite intolerable. Oh, it is useless to deny that here at least Barry’s warnings have come true.

MIL. How extraordinary that you should have changed so towards her--you who once were so devoted.

TYR. Ah, Miles, I have simply found her to be absolutely different from what I once imagined her. I was very young then, very inexperienced. I longed for sympathy, and thought it was easy to find. I idealised women in those days. I believed that they were idealists. Ah, that was my fatal error.

MIL. But surely you don’t mean to deny that some are?

TYR. I don’t believe any are, really. They may be on an average more fanciful than man, but your true idealist can only be a man. Alas! had I known that then, my fate would have been very different. I thought others were easy to find, in whom I could confide as in Barry.

MIL. Do you consider him an idealist?

TYR. I should think so indeed--a true idealist--only he is in a way so drilled and careful, that he will never let himself go. But he is such a friend, and understands everything. No, I never knew isolation when we were together in our youth. Isolation only began with my marriage which led me out into a lonely world. Oh, it was a great misfortune. And I have no one to blame but myself.

MIL. And yet--and yet were you really so much to blame? She was so beautiful----

TYR. Ah, you have said it. There you have found the cause of all the trouble. But Barry would never have wavered.

MIL. Oh, he is a hardened philosopher whom no beauty could soften.

TYR. That is because, unlike most people, he can see the truly beautiful, and so is heedless of shams.

MIL. Shams? And you can speak like that of her beauty. How I remember her on your wedding-day, when as her little page I held her train? I was only nine years old then, and thought she was some tall white fairy that had come to live with us. Oh, Carden, think of that time. Its memory might banish much bitterness.

TYR. Too late, too late. You are still very young, Miles. I have outgrown the capability of such sentiment.

MIL. But you have not outgrown the great kindness of your nature. No, that I could never believe. Ought it not in these difficulties to help you? Why, see how good you are always to me.

TYR. Ah, yes, that is different, Miles.

MIL. And Kit, too--are you not most affectionate and kind to him?

TYR. My poor little son, of course--how could I be otherwise to him? He is really so loveable and such a companion to me. For just now he is wonderfully like what you were, Miles, when you acted as that pretty page. His age besides is the same as yours was then; so that the very sight of him calls back to me the days of my youth. Oh, that happy time before my fatal mistake! Miles, _do_ you remember that time?

MIL. Remember? How well I remember!

TYR. I suppose I had troubles then, as now; but memory has idealised those past scenes, till only their beauty remains, wafted back to me like an aroma from some lost paradise. I feel I shall never know the joy of those days again.

MIL. You must not think such things, Carden. Days as good as these will, I am sure, return.

TYR. Ah no, Miles--their poetry, never--the hope that shines like a spring-day sun upon our youth! It warms us with such life. It inspires us to attempt so many deeds. With what expectations we travel. What materials we are to make out of it all. Do you remember when we went abroad together?

MIL. (_joyfully_). Oh, yes, of course I do, Carden.

TYR. Well, it seems funny that I should have taken you with me then on travels you were too young to appreciate: but I could not bear to leave you who had no protector save me after our father died.

MIL. You kind brother.

TYR. Yes, I carried you off, my little Miles, as you were then.

MIL. And how I enjoyed myself.

TYR. What fairie towns we came to--Boppart on the Rhine with its quaint old houses. Then we sailed our boat through the hills to Lorlei, and watched where the river nymphs used long ago to glide, laughing, through the gold-lit depths of the stream.

MIL. Yes, and you told me the legend of their gold--how it was robbed and restored and still guarded by them.

TYR. I did; and you, little practical man that you were, you bent down to the water expecting to see the glitter of the Rhine Gold!

MIL. (_laughing_). The marvellous seemed real in those days.

TYR. Ah, those bright happy days! And do you remember that Sunday morning in Cologne Cathedral when all the boys sang Palestrina so divinely?

MIL. I remember we stood by great iron gates. I looked up in your face and wondered why it shone through its tears.

TYR. How pure the silver voice chords soared to the vaults of stone! Pure as our joy in those days. Fit music for those bright young days.

MIL. Yes, everything seemed joyful then.

TYR. Oh, what brave times we used to have together. You know we were always such friends.

MIL. (_with emotion_). Indeed we always were, Carden. There is no one in the whole world I love as well as you. You have ever been the best of brothers to me.

TYR. (_goes over mysteriously to MILES_). Then you think, Miles, you will always help me?

MIL. (_surprised_). Why, Carden, of course----

TYR. (_with anxious intensity_). You will not leave me, if--if ever I should stand helpless and alone, will you Miles?

MIL. Good gracious, no. But what makes you imagine such a thing?

TYR. Well, somehow I feel that persons and objects are receding from me and becoming more unreal in these later times. (_Crosses over to sofa at right and kneeling on it with one knee, gazes out at the mountain._) Do you know, Miles, I often think that my life of pain and unrest here is only a dream after all.

MIL. And like a dream this suffering will pass away, Carden, let us hope never to return.

TYR. (_sadly_). No, oh no. It would be too much to expect that. A dream--a bad dream (_as if suddenly illumined_), yet with intervals too of wakefulness now and then.

MIL. (_approaching him_). Of wakefulness? What do you mean? When are those intervals?

TYR. When I am out in the heather field.

MIL. The heather field?

TYR. (_with enthusiasm_). Yes--the great mountain field out there (_points out at back_), that it was my ideal to bring to fruitfulness. There I awaken to true life indeed, as I stand looking over the Atlantic; and sea winds sweep against my feet the young grass in its matchless Irish green that gleams a golden green in the Autumn sun to-day. There I am haunted by those departed joys of my youth--again and again.

MIL. (_with a puzzled look_). There? But why there, Carden. Why there more than anywhere else?

TYR. Oh you matter-of-fact Miles--still the same as the little wise Miles of long ago, who used to ask such quaint questions. How different we are? Yet how delightful I always find you. “Why there?” you ask. Ha, ha!

MIL. (_a little disconcerted_). Evidently you consider it a superfluous question. But I think I may very reasonably ask it all the same.

TYR. Well, then, because there after years of joyless stagnation I find myself again in an ideal domain--away from fretful surroundings--alone! except for little Kit who loves the mountain and its wild flowers. You know, Miles, how like I have said he now looks to what you were in the old days? At moments, indeed, I can hardly believe it is he and not you. So his presence there is no hindrance to that evocation of the past. No; he serves rather to quicken the magic of the heather field.

MIL. (_with sudden emotion_). Oh, to think I could ever have been so much to you. How good you always were to me, Carden.

TYR. I could not help it. You belonged to the beauty of that time.

MIL. All this sounds like the marvellous tales you used to tell me when I was a child. I see your imagination is the same as ever.

TYR. And you call what I tell you only imagination.

MIL. Well, Carden--but what else.

TYR. (_resignedly_). Ah, I suppose I cannot help you. You too are like Barry who said the same thing when I once told him of the voices----

MIL. (_with vague alarm_). Voices, Carden? Why--what now are these?

TYR. Out there--over the mountain. Oh, the vivid brightness of those voices, as they float back from the past on each changing breeze!

MIL. (_anxiously_). You only heard the wind whistle along the coast. Don’t heed it any more, Carden.

TYR. Why should I not heed such celestial song?

MIL. A dream phantom of the desolate mountain.

TYR. No; it is only your words I hear as in a troubled dream.

MIL. (_gently_). Carden, it is deceiving you--this wonderful imagination.

TYR. What?--imagination again?

MIL. Of course.

TYR. (_patiently_). Ah well, I cannot convince you, Miles. But what does it matter? You are delightfully sympathetic to me all the same. I feel this opening of my soul to you has even done me good. Yes, it does me good to be listened to occasionally. It leaves a great peace after it; and I have not felt so peaceful as now for many a day. Indeed, if this could last, it would be almost like the old time again.

[_MRS GRACE TYRRELL, a rather tall, thin woman of about
thirty but looking younger, with a pale face, brown hair
and an undefinable attractiveness in her outward manner
and movements enters by door at R. She is dressed
plainly, but with exceeding neatness. TYRRELL takes a
large book from the shelves at back of sofa on which he
then sits and turns over the leaves, suppressing a look
of annoyance._

MIL. (_going towards her politely_). I suppose you have been out on your rounds this morning as usual, Grace?

GR. Yes, as usual. Have you been here since breakfast?

MIL. Yes.

GR. Studying, I suppose.

MIL. Not much.

GR. Why?

MIL. Oh, Barry Ussher was here, and then Carden and I have been talking.

GR. And so your morning was wasted, Miles?

MIL. Oh, not wasted, Grace.

GR. I think it would have been more profitably employed in working for your examinations than in talking to your brother.

MIL. I am not at all so certain you are right.

GR. You must admit you have plenty of time for talking without allowing it to interfere with your studies.

TYR. (_looking up from his book_). It is so hard for us, Miles, is it not, when we are together, to refrain?

GR. What you two can have to say perpetually to each other puzzles me. You never visit anywhere nor seem to know what is going on in the neighbourhood.

TYR. If we did, I am certain we shouldn’t trouble to speak about it.

GR. Oh, indeed.

TYR. No; the subjects that mutually interest us are far different. Among other things, we were talking before you came in over our journey long ago on the Continent. (_Then as if carried away by the subject of the moment_) Look, in this architectural book there are plates representing some buildings we saw then. Here is a Romanesque house at Boppart on the Rhine. It is a unique specimen of domestic architecture in that period. And here--this is the bishop’s house at Würzburg. How beautifully the oriel is poised there at the angle, like a hooded falcon on its perch; what a genius these medieval architects had for soothing with picturesque ideality the restless suffering spirit of their time. To gaze on their work makes one forget oneself and everything else----

GR. (_who the while has been looking about her with an impatient and wearied expression_). Goodness me, what a litter the room is in with all these books and papers.

TYR. (_with a momentary look of humiliation_). Oh!

GR. What brought me here, by the way, was to tell you that I must have it thoroughly dusted and tidied at once, as the Shrules come to lunch to-morrow.

TYR. Yes, but what have they got to do with my room?

GR. We shall want it to sit in. I could not think of letting anyone see it in its present state.

TYR. (_fretfully_). Can’t you leave my room alone?

GR. There! as usual, you are disagreeable when your wife wants anything.

TYR. No; but I have a quantity of important papers that it would give me endless trouble at present to sort, and put away.

MIL. Oh, why cause him all this inconvenience, Grace? Will not the drawing-room suit you just as well?

GR. Lord Shrule has had an attack of gout and does not like going upstairs----

MIL. Then bring them here. But you need not upset the room. Everyone knows it’s a work-room.

GR. I could not think of allowing any strangers to see it in this state.

MIL. I wonder how you can attach so much importance----

GR. (_coldly_). That will do, Miles. As usual you don’t know what you are talking about.

MIL. Hei-ho.

[_He begins to gather his books together on the
writing-table._

TYR. You are not going, Miles, are you?

MIL. I think I shall try if I can read in the summer-house outside.

[_Exit at back, carrying with him his books._

GR. (_quietly_). Well, I suppose you had better put away all these old papers at once, and let the housemaid come in.

TYR. Impossible.--I am too busy.

GR. That’s what you always say. You imagine yourself the busiest man in the world; and as a matter of fact you have nothing to do.

TYR. Nothing to do?

GR. (_calmly_). What have you to do?

TYR. (_checking his irritation_). Very well, we won’t discuss that old subject. Anyhow I require my papers, as a man comes to see me to-morrow on business connected with them.

GR. Who is this man?

TYR. The drainage inspector of the Board of Works.

GR. Indeed! Why, I thought he had finished everything here long ago.

TYR. Oh, so he has.

GR. Well, what is he coming for now?

TYR. (_vaguely_). Oh--you see--it would take too long to explain just at present. Besides you might not understand.

GR. (_with a penetrating look_). You know I would understand well enough. But you never were a person to be relied upon! You are now trying to hide something from me. Come, it is as good to tell it to me at once.

TYR. (_bridling up_). I am not trying to hide anything from you. I don’t care whether you know it or not.

GR. Well, then, why is this man coming?

TYR. He is to lay out some drains in the valley beneath the heather field.

GR. (_astounded_). What?--You don’t mean to say you are going to drain all that immense tract of land too?

TYR. Yes. It is necessary now after the other work. So I am going to obtain a new loan from Government to carry it out.

GR. A new loan! We shall certainly be ruined this time.

TYR. No--no--Why, can you not see the enormous improvement this work must be to the estate?

GR. Oh, that is what you are always saying; and the estate for some years past has been steadily growing worse and worse, until now we are almost reduced to difficulties.

TYR. You are quite mistaken. I tell you we are on the eve of seeing our income doubled. Just consider the rent that must soon be produced by the heather field.

GR. (_with a gesture of impatience_). The heather field. Up to this, indeed, it has been nothing but a gigantic loss. And who knows but it may never be anything else? My goodness, can you not wait to see if it will be a success before you swamp the estate with this new debt?

TYR. No--no--every delay is a loss of profit. You do not understand.

GR. Oh, I am tired of your always telling me that I do not understand. I understand perfectly that you are bringing us to beggary.

TYR. Well--it is certainly amazing that you should think so. But then, you know, you are never open to reason--never in sympathy with my ideas.

GR. How on earth can I be, when like everyone else I believe you to be utterly mistaken in what you are doing?

TYR. I do not mean what I am doing at present--but the whole tenor of my life and ideas. You have never understood them.

GR. (_sharply_). Look here, it’s beginning to irritate me this talk about my not understanding. So I see--you think yourself the great incomprehensible, ha, ha. Well, you are quite mistaken. Everyone understands you. So do I, absolutely. For in spite of all your efforts to be singular, you are a very ordinary person, in whom there is nothing particular to understand.

TYR. (_helplessly_). What on earth do you mean by always harping on my efforts to be singular? Heaven knows I cannot see how I try to be so.

GR. (_with a little laugh, as she taps her foot on the floor_). I suppose you are now habituated to the effort.

TYR. (_looking at her with a sort of wonder_). Oh, how impossible it is for you ever to know how I have suffered--how I have aspired!

GR. (_impatiently_). Really, it becomes too provoking when you begin talking about these imaginary sufferings and aspirations of yours. What on earth have you to suffer? You are in good health are you not? Were you not more than fortunate to have married as you did? Have you not independent means? What then can a man like you aspire more to? It is true, of course, that you have crippled your resources by mismanagement and extravagance. But, if you will now be led by me, and put this new scheme of drainage out of your head, and if we are economical for a while, the property must recover. Then you can have absolutely nothing to trouble you.

TYR. Oh, this matter-of-fact way you have of looking at things! This simple barren prose of your mind! It is that, that is driving me mad.

GR. Driving you mad----

[_Pause, during which they look at each other._

TYR. Well, I suppose you think I am so. (_He waits for her answer._) What an absurd idea. This is another means of annoying me.

GR. I must defend myself.

TYR. What do you mean?

GR. Seeing you are so bent on ruining our child and me, I can only think one thing.

TYR. That I am mad?

GR. (_without answering him walks to back_).

TYR. Grace.

GR. (_turning_). Well--what is it?

TYR. Do you mean this?

GR. (_still walking to back_). What did I say?

TYR. You said--I mean you insinuated that--I am mad.

GR. (_Does not answer._)

TYR. You do not mean this. Take back what you have said.

GR. (_turning suddenly_). I cannot.

[_She still walks to back._

TYR. Before you go take back your words. You don’t know how they frighten me. Again I beseech you to take back those words. You do not believe what you say.

GR. I do believe them. I believe you to be mad.

[_Exit at back._

TYR. (_laughing nervously_). Oh--ha--mad. How can she say such a thing? Mad--who is saner than I am? Ha--ha--I suppose people of her type think everyone who differs from them, mad. How curious! Ah, we have not a single sympathy. That is what it is. (_With a look of terror_) Merciful heaven, is it possible, though, she may be right? Can there possibly be a doubt as to which is the reality and which is the dream? Oh, horror--horror!

[_He sinks upon the sofa and covers his face with his
hands._

_MILES TYRRELL, carrying his books as before, enters at back._

MIL. It is rather chilly reading out of doors. As I saw Grace just go through the garden, I may perhaps again have this place to myself. (_Perceiving TYRRELL._) Oh, you here still. Why, Carden, what is the matter with you?

TYR. (_rising, approaches in a dazed manner, and seems involuntarily to feel his way with his hands_). Nothing--only that persons and things now more than ever seem strangely to recede from me and become more unreal. But you--_you_, Miles, said you would never leave me (_glances around with a shudder_) if ever I should stand helpless and alone. Oh, Miles, my brother--

[_He hides his face on MILES’ shoulder._

MIL. Carden--

[_The books fall from his arms on the floor._

(_End of Act I._)