Three Plays by Granville-Barker Part 48

EDWARD. I'll be off, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. [_genial as usual._] Why don't you stay? I'll come up with you in the morning.

EDWARD. No, thank you, sir.

MR. VOYSEY. Then I shall be up about noon to-morrow.

EDWARD. Good-night, Mother.

MRS. VOYSEY _places a plump kindly hand on his arm and looks up affectionately_.

MRS. VOYSEY. You look tired.

EDWARD. No, I'm not.

MRS. VOYSEY. What did you say?

EDWARD. [_too weary to repeat himself._] Nothing, Mother dear.

_He kisses her cheek, while she kisses the air._

MR. VOYSEY. Good-night, my boy.

_Then he goes._ MRS. VOYSEY _is carrying her Notes and Queries. This is a dear old lady, looking older too than probably she is. Placid describes her. She has had a life of little joys and cares, has never measured herself against the world, never even questioned the shape and size of the little corner of it in which she lives. She has loved an indulgent husband and borne eight children, six of them surviving, healthy. That is her history._

MRS. VOYSEY. George Booth went some time ago. He said he thought you'd taken a chill walking round the garden.

MR. VOYSEY. I'm all right.

MRS. VOYSEY. D'you think you have?

MR. VOYSEY. [_in her ear._] No.

MRS. VOYSEY. You should be careful, Trench. What did you put on?

MR. VOYSEY. Nothing.

MRS. VOYSEY. How very foolis.h.!.+ Let me feel your hand. You are quite feverish.

MR. VOYSEY. [_affectionately._] You're a fuss-box, old lady.

MRS. VOYSEY. [_coquetting with him._] Don't be rude, Trench.

HONOR _descends upon them. She is well into that nightly turmoil of putting everything and everybody to rights which always precedes her bed-time. She carries a shawl which she clasps round her mother's shoulders, her mind and gaze already on the next thing to be done._

HONOR. Mother, you left your shawl in the drawing-room. Can they finish clearing?

MR. VOYSEY. [_arranging the folds of the shawl with real tenderness._]

Now who's careless!

PHOEBE _comes into the room_.

HONOR. Phoebe, finish here and then you must bring in the tray for Mr.

Hugh.

MRS. VOYSEY. [_having looked at the shawl, and_ HONOR, _and connected the matter in her mind_.] Thank you Honor. You'd better look after your Father; he's been walking round the garden without his cape.

HONOR. Papa!

MR. VOYSEY. Phoebe, you get that little kettle and boil it, and brew me some hot whiskey and water. I shall be all right.

HONOR. [_fluttering more than ever._] I'll get it. Where's the whiskey?

And Hugh coming back at ten o'clock with no dinner. No wonder his work goes wrong. Here it is! Papa you do deserve to be ill.

_Clasping the whiskey decanter, she is off again._ MRS. VOYSEY _sits at the dinner table and adjusts her spectacles. She returns to Notes and Queries, one elbow firmly planted and her plump hand against her plump cheek. This is her favourite att.i.tude; and she is apt, when reading, to soliloquise in her deaf woman's voice. At least, whether she considers it soliloquy or conversation, is not easy to discover._ MR. VOYSEY _stands with his back to the fire, grumbling and pulling faces_.

MRS. VOYSEY. This is a very perplexing correspondence about the Cromwell family. One can't deny the man had good blood in him . . his grandfather Sir Henry, his uncle Sir Oliver . . and it's difficult to discover where the taint crept in.

MR. VOYSEY. There's a pain in my back. I believe I strained myself putting in all those strawberry plants.

MARY, _the house parlour maid carries in a tray of warmed-up dinner for_ HUGH _and plants it on the table_.

MRS. VOYSEY. Yes, but then how was it he came to disgrace himself so? I believe the family disappeared. Regicide is a root and branch curse. You must read this letter signed C. W. A. . . it's quite interesting.

There's a misprint in mine about the first umbrella maker . . now where was it . . [_and so the dear lady will ramble on indefinitely._]

THE THIRD ACT

_The dining room looks very different in the white light of a July noon.

Moreover on this particular day, it isn't even its normal self. There is a peculiar luncheon spread on the table. The embroidered cloth is placed cornerwise and on it are decanters of port and sherry; sandwiches, biscuits and an uncut cake; two little piles of plates and one little pile of napkins. There are no table decorations and indeed the whole room has been made as bare and as tidy as possible. Such preparations denote one of the recognised English festivities, and the appearance of_ PHOEBE, _the maid, who has just completed them, the set solemnity of her face and the added touches of black to her dress and cap, suggest that this is probably a funeral. When_ MARY _comes in the fact that she has evidently been crying and that she decorously does not raise her voice above an unpleasant whisper makes it quite certain_.

MARY. Phoebe, they're coming . . and I forgot one of the blinds in the drawing room.

PHOEBE. Well, pull it up quick and make yourself scarce. I'll open the door.

MARY _got rid of_, PHOEBE _composes her face still more rigorously into the aspect of formal grief and with a touch to her ap.r.o.n as well goes to admit the funeral party. The first to enter are_ MRS. VOYSEY _and_ MR.

BOOTH, _she on his arm; and the fact that she is in widow's weeds makes the occasion clear. The little old man leads his old friend very tenderly._

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you come in here?

MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you.

_With great solicitude he puts her in a chair; then takes her hand._

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now I'll intrude no longer.