Second Plays by A. A. Milne

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MELISANDE. Are they? Oh, if I could believe they were!

GERVASE. You thought of me as your lover and true knight this morning.
Ah, but what an easy thing to be! You were my Princess. Look at
yourself in the glass--how can you help being a princess? But if we
could be companions, Melisande! That's difficult; that's worth trying.

MELISANDE (gently). What do you want me to do?

GERVASE. Get used to me. See me in a top-hat--see me in a bowler-hat.
Help me with my work; play games with me--I'll teach you if you don't
know how. I want to share the world with you for all our lives. That's
a long time, you know; we can't do it on one twenty-minutes' practice
before breakfast. We can be lovers so easily--can we be friends?

MELISANDE (looking at him gravely). You are very wise.

GERVASE. I talked with a wise man in the wood this morning; I've been
thinking over what he said. (Suddenly) But when you look at me like
that, how I long to be a fool and say, "Come away with me now, now,
now," you wonderful, beautiful, maddening woman, you adorable child,
you funny foolish little girl. (Holding up a finger) Smile, Melisande.
Smile! (Slowly, reluctantly, she gives him a smile.) I suppose the
fairies taught you that. Keep it for _me_, will you--but give it to me
often. Do you ever laugh, Melisande? We must laugh together
sometimes--that makes life so easy.

MELISANDE (with a happy little laugh). Oh, what can I say to you?

GERVASE. Say, "I think I should like you for a companion, Gervase."

MELISANDE (shyly). I think I should like you for a companion, Gervase.

GERVASE. Say, "Please come and see me again, Gervase."

MELISANDE. Please come and see me again, Gervase.

GERVASE (Jumping up and waving his hand) Say, "Hooray for things!"

MELISANDE (standing up, but shyly still). Hooray for things!

GERVASE. Thank you, Melisande . . . I must go. (He presses her hand and
goes; or seems to be going. But suddenly he comes back, bends on one
knee, raises her hand on his, and kisses it) My Princess!

[Then GERVASE goes out.

(MELISANDE stays there, looking after him, her hand to her cheek. . . .
But one cannot stand thus for ever. The new life must begin. With a
little smile at herself, at GERVASE, at things, she fetches out the
Great Book from its hiding-place, where she had buried it many weeks
ago in disgust. Now it comes into its own. She settles down with it in
her favourite chair. . . .)

MELISANDE (reading). To make Bread-Sauce. . . . Take an onion, peel and
quarter it, and simmer it in milk. . . .

(But you know how the romantic passage goes. We have her with it,
curled up in the chair, this adorable child, this funny foolish little
girl.)

THE STEPMOTHER

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

CHARACTERS

SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P.
LADY PEMBURY.
PERKINS.
THE STRANGER.

* * * * *

The first performance of this play was given at the Alhambra Theatre
on November 16, 1920, with the following cast:

Sir John Pembury--GILBERT HARE.
Lady Pembury--WINIFRED EMERY.
Perkins--C.M. LOWNE.
The Stranger--GERALD DU MAURIER.

THE STEPMOTHER

(A summer morning. The sunniest and perhaps the pleasantest room in
the London house of SIR JOHN PEMBURY, M.P. For this reason LADY
PEMBURY uses it a good deal, although it is not officially hers. It is
plainly furnished, and probably set out to be a sort of waiting-room
for SIR JOHN'S many callers, but LADY PEMBURY has left her mark upon
it.)

(PERKINS, the butler, inclining to stoutness, but not yet past his
prime, leads the may in, followed by THE STRANGER, PERKINS has already
placed him as "one of the lower classes," but the intelligent person
in the pit perceives that he is something better than that, though
whether he is in the process of falling from a higher estate, or of
rising to it, is not so clear. He is thirty odd, shabbily dressed (but
then, so are most of us nowadays), and ill at ease; not because he is
shabby, but because he is ashamed of himself. To make up for this, he
adopts a blustering manner, as if to persuade himself that he is a
fine fellow after all. There is a touch of commonness about his voice,
but he is not uneducated.)

PERKINS. I'll tell Sir John you're here, but I don't say he'll see
you, mind.

STRANGER. Don't you worry about that. He'll see me right enough.

PERKINS. He's busy just now. Well---- (He looks at THE STRANGER
doubtfully.)

STRANGER (bitterly). I suppose you think I've got no business in a
gentleman's house. Is that it?

PERKINS. Well, I didn't say so, did I? Maybe you're a constituent?
Being in the 'Ouse of Commons, we get some pretty queer ones at times.
All sorts, as you might say. . . . P'raps you're a deputation?

STRANGER (violently). What the hell's it got to do with you who I am.
You go and tell your master I'm here--that's all you've got to do.
See?

PERKINS (unruffled). Easy, now, easy. You 'aven't even told me your
name yet. Is it the Shah of Persia or Mr. Bottomley?

STRANGER. The less said about names the better. You say, "Somebody
from Lambeth"--_he'll_ know what I mean.

PERKINS (humorously). Ah, I beg your pardon--the Archbishop of
Canterbury. I didn't recognise your Grace.

STRANGER (angrily). It's people like you who make one sick of the
world. Parasites--servile flunkeys, bolstering up an effete
aristocracy. Why don't you get some proper work to do?

PERKINS (good-naturedly). Now, look here, young man, this isn't the
time for that sort of talk. If you've got anything you want to get off
your chest about flunkeys or monkeys, or whatever it may be, keep it
till Sunday afternoon--when I'm off duty. (He comes a little closer to
THE STRANGER) Four o'clock Sunday afternoon--(jerking his thumb over
his shoulder)--just round the corner--in the Bolton Mews. See? Nobody
there to interrupt us. See? All quite gentlemanly and secluded, and a
friend of mine to hold the watch. See? (He edges closer as he talks.)

STRANGER (retreating nervously). No offence meant, mate. We're in the
same boat--you and me; we don't want to get fighting. My quarrel isn't
with you. You go and tell Sir John that there's a gentleman come to
see him--wants a few minutes of his valuable time--from Lambeth way.
_He'll_ know. That's all right.

PERKINS (drawing back, disappointedly). Then I shan't be seeing you
Sunday afternoon?

STRANGER (laughing awkwardly). There, that's all right. No offence
meant. Somebody from Lambeth--that's what _you've_ got to say. And
tell 'im I'm in a hurry. _He'll_ know what I mean.

PERKINS (going slowly to the door). Well, it's a queer game, but being
in the 'Ouse of Commons, one can't never be surprised. All sorts, as
you might say, _all_ sorts.

[Exit PERKINS.

(THE STRANGER, left alone, walks up and down the room, nervously
impatient.)

(LADY PEMBURY comes in. In twenty-eight years of happy married life,
she has mothered one husband and five daughters, but she has never had
a son--her only sorrow. Her motto might be, "It is just as easy to be
kind"; and whether you go to her for comfort or congratulation, you
will come away feeling that she is the only person who really
understands.)

LADY PEMBURY. Oh! (She stops and then comes towards THE STRANGER) How
do you do? Are you waiting to see my husband?

STRANGER (taken aback at seeing her). Yes.

(He is not sure for the moment if this upsets his plans or forwards
them.)

LADY PEMBURY. I think he's engaged just now. But he won't be long.
Perkins will tell him as soon as he is free.

STRANGER (contemptuously). His name is Perkins, is it?

LADY PEMBURY (surprised). The butler? Yes.

STRANGER (contemptuously). Mister Perkins, the Butler.

LADY PEMBURY (with a friendly smile). You don't _mind_ our having a
butler? (She picks up some work from the table and takes it to the
sofa)

STRANGER (shrugging his shoulders). One more parasite.

LADY PEMBURY (interested). I always thought parasites were much
smaller than Perkins. (Sitting down) Do sit down, won't you? (He sits
down reluctantly.) You mustn't mind my being here. This is really my
work-room. I expect my husband will take you into his own room when
he's ready.

STRANGER. Your work-room?

LADY PEMBURY (looking up at him with a smile). You don't seem to like
our domestic arrangements.

STRANGER (waving his hand at her embroidery). You call that work?

LADY PEMBURY (pleasantly). Other people's work always seems so
contemptible, doesn't it? Now I expect if you tried to do this, you
would find it very difficult indeed, and if I tried to do yours--what
_is_ your work, Mr.--er--Dear me, I don't even know your name.

STRANGER (bitterly). Never mind my name. Take it that I haven't got a
name.

LADY PEMBURY. But your friends must call you something.

STRANGER. Take it that I haven't got any friends.

LADY PEMBURY. Oh, _don't_ say that! How _can_ you?

STRANGER (surly). What's it matter to you whether anybody cares about
me?

LADY PEMBURY. Oh, never mind whether anybody cares about _you_; don't
_you_ care about anybody?

STRANGER. Nobody.

LADY PEMBURY. Poor, poor man! (Going on with her work) If you can't
tell me your name, I wish you would tell me what work you do.
(Winningly) You don't mind my asking, do you?

STRANGER. I can tell you what work I'm going to do after to-day.

LADY PEMBURY. Oh, do!

STRANGER (violently). None!

LADY PEMBURY (surprised). None?

STRANGER. No more work after to-day.

LADY PEMBURY. Won't that be rather dull?

STRANGER. Well, _you_ ought to know. I'm going to be one of the idle
rich--like you and Sir John--and let other people work for me.

LADY PEMBURY (thoughtfully). I shouldn't have said my husband was
idle. But there it is. No two people ever agree as to what is work and
what isn't.

STRANGER. What do you know about work--you aristocrats?

LADY PEMBURY (mildly). My husband is only a K.B.E., you know. Quite a
recent creation.

STRANGER (not heeding her). You, who've been brought up in the lap of
luxury--never known a day's discomfort in your life----

LADY PEMBURY. My dear young man, you really mustn't tell a woman who
has had five children that she has never known a day's discomfort in
her life. . . . Ask any woman.

STRANGER (upset). What's that? . . . I didn't come here to argue with
you. You began it. Why can't you let me alone?

LADY PEMBURY (going to a side-table and taking up a photograph). Five
children--all girls--and now I'm a grandmother. (Showing him the
photograph) There! That's my eldest daughter with her eldest son and
my eldest grandchild. Isn't he a duck? He's supposed to be like me. . . .
I never had a son of my own. (THE STRANGER has taken the photograph in
his hand and is holding it awkwardly.) Oh, let me take it away from
you. Other's people's relations are so uninteresting, aren't they?
(She takes it away and puts it back in its place. Then she returns to
her seat and goes on with her work.) So you've made a lot of money?
How exciting for you!

STRANGER (grimly). I haven't got it yet, but it's coming.

LADY PEMBURY. Soon?

STRANGER. To-day.

LADY PEMBURY. You're not married, are you?

STRANGER. You want to know a lot, don't you? Well, I'm not married.

LADY PEMBURY. I was thinking how much nicer it is when you can share
that sort of news with somebody else, somebody you love. It makes good
news so much better, and bad news so much more bearable.

STRANGER. That's what you and your husband do, is it?

LADY PEMBURY (nodding). Always. For eight-and-twenty years.

STRANGER. He tells you everything, eh?

LADY PEMBURY. Well, not his official secrets, of course. Everything
else.

STRANGER. Ha! I wonder.

LADY PEMBURY. But you have nobody, you say. Well, you must share your
good news with _me_. Will you?

STRANGER. Oh yes, you shall hear about it all right.

LADY PEMBURY. That's nice of you. Well then, first question. How much
money is it going to be?

STRANGER (thoughtfully). Well, I don't quite know yet. What do you say
to a thousand a year?

LADY PEMBURY. Oh, but what a lot!

STRANGER. You think a thousand a year would be all right. Enough to
live on?

LADY PEMBURY. For a bachelor, ample.

STRANGER. For a bachelor.

LADY PEMBURY. There's no one dependent on you?

STRANGER. Not a soul. Only got one relation living.

LADY PEMBURY. Oh?

STRANGER (enjoying a joke of his own). A father. But I shall not be
supporting _him_. Oh no. Far from it.

LADY PEMBURY (a little puzzled by this, though the is not going to
show it) Then I think you will be very rich with a thousand a year.

STRANGER. Yes, that's what _I_ thought. I should think it would stand
a thousand.

LADY PEMBURY. What is it? An invention of some sort?

STRANGER. Oh no, not an invention. . . . A discovery.

LADY PEMBURY. How proud she would have been!

STRANGER. Who?

LADY PEMBURY. Your wife if you had had one; your mother if she had
been alive.

STRANGER (violently). Look here, you leave my mother out of it. My
business is with Sir John---- (sneeringly) Sir John Pembury, K.B.E. If
I want to talk about my mother, he and I will have a nice little talk
together about her. Yes, and about my father, too.

(LADY PEMBURY understands at last. She stands up slowly, and looks at
him, horrified.)

LADY PEMBURY. What do you mean?

STRANGER. A thousand a year. You said so yourself. Yes, I think it's
worth a thousand a year.

LADY PEMBURY. Who is your father? What's your name?

STRANGER. Didn't I tell you I hadn't got a name? (Bitterly) And if you
want to know why, ask Sir John Pembury, K.B.E.

LADY PEMBURY (in a whisper). He's your father.

STRANGER. Yes. And I'm his loving son--come to see him at last, after
all these years.

LADY PEMBURY (hardly able to ask it). How--how old are you?

STRANGER. Thirty.

LADY PEMBURY (sitting down on the sofa). Oh, thank God! Thank God!

STRANGER (upset by her emotion). Look here, I didn't want all this. I
ask you--did I begin it? It was you who kept asking questions. I just
came for a quiet talk with Sir John--Father and Son talking together
quietly--talking about Son's allowance. A thousand a year. What did
you want to come into it for?

(LADY PEMBURY is quiet again now. She wipes away a tear or two, and
sits up, looking at him thoughtfully.)

LADY PEMBURY. So _you_ are the son that I never had.

STRANGER. What d'you mean?

LADY PEMBURY (almost to herself). The son whom I wanted so. Five
girls--never a boy. Let me look at you. (She goes up to him.)

STRANGER (edging away). Here, none of that.

LADY PEMBURY (looking at him earnestly to see if she can see a
likeness). No--and yet--(shaking her head sadly) Poor boy! What an
unhappy life you must have had!

STRANGER. I didn't come here to be pitied. I came to get my rightful
allowance--same as any other son.

LADY PEMBURY (to herself). Poor boy! (She goes back to her seat and
then says) You don't mind my asking you questions _now_, do you?

STRANGER. Go on. There's no mistake about it. I can promise you that.

LADY PEMBURY. How did you find out? Did your Mother tell you?

STRANGER. Never a word. "Don't ask questions, sonny----" "Father's
dead"--all that sort of thing.

LADY PEMBURY. Does Sir John know? Did he ever know?

STRANGER (feeling in his pocket). _He_ knew right enough. (Bringing
out letters) Look here--here you are. This was how I found out.
(Selecting one) There--read that one.

LADY PEMBURY (taking it). Yes--that's John's writing. (She holds it
out to him.)

STRANGER. Aren't you going to read it?

LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head pathetically). He didn't write it to
_me_.

STRANGER. He didn't write it to _me_, if it comes to that.

LADY PEMBURY. You're her son--you have a right. I'm--nobody.

STRANGER (putting it back in his pocket). Oh well, please yourself.

LADY PEMBURY. Did Sir John provide for your mother?

STRANGER. Well, why shouldn't he? He was a rich man.

LADY PEMBURY. Not in those days. . . . But indeed--why shouldn't he? What
else could he do? I'm glad he did.

STRANGER. And now he's going to provide for his loving son. He's rich
enough for that in these days.

LADY PEMBURY. He's never seen you?

STRANGER. Never. The historic meeting of Father and Son will take
place this afternoon. (With a feeble attempt at what he thinks is the
aristocratic manner) Afraid the Governor will be in the deuce of a
rage. Been exceedin' my allowance--what? Make it a thousand, dear old
Gov.

LADY PEMBURY. Don't they call that blackmail?

STRANGER (violently). Now look here, I'd better tell you straight that
there's no blackmail about this at all. He's my father, isn't he?
Well, can't a son come to his father if he's hard up? Where are your
threatening letters? Where's the blackmail? Anyway, what's he going to
do about it? Put his son in prison?

LADY PEMBURY (following her own thoughts). You're thirty. Thank God
for that. We hadn't met then. . . . Ah, but he ought to have told me. He
ought to have told me.

STRANGER. P'raps he thought you wouldn't marry him, if he did.

LADY PEMBURY. Do you think that was it? (Earnestly to him, as if he
were an old friend) You know men--young men. I never had a son; I
never had any brothers. Do they tell? They ought to, oughtn't they?

STRANGER. Well--well, if you ask _me_--I say, look here, this isn't
the sort of thing one discusses with a lady.

LADY PEMBURY. Isn't it? But one can talk to a friend.

STRANGER (scornfully). You and me look like friends, don't we?

LADY PEMBURY (smiling). Well, we do, rather.

(He gets up hastily and moves further away from her.)

STRANGER. I know what _your_ game is. Don't think I don't see it.

LADY PEMBURY. What is it?

STRANGER. Falling on your knees, and saying with tears in your eyes:
"Oh, kind friend, spare me poor husband!" _I_ know the sort of thing.
And trying to work me up friendly before you begin.

LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head). No, if I went on my knees to you, I
shouldn't say that. How can you hurt my husband now?

STRANGER. Well, I don't suppose the scandal will do him much good. Not
an important Member of Parliament like _him_.

LADY PEMBURY. Ah, but it isn't the outside things that really hurt
you, the things which are done to you, but the things which you do to
yourself. And so if I went on my knees to you, it would not be for my
husband's sake. For I should go on my knees, and I should say: "Oh, my
son that might have been, think before you give up everything that a
man should have. Ambition, hope, pride, self-respect--are not these
worth keeping? Is your life to end now? Have you done all that you
came into the world to do, so that now you can look back and say, 'It
is finished; I have given all that I had to give; henceforward I will
spend'?" (Very gently) Oh, my son that might have been!

STRANGER (very uncomfortable). Here, I say, that isn't fair.

LADY PEMBURY (gently). When did your mother die?

STRANGER. Look here, I wish you wouldn't keep on about mothers.

LADY PEMBURY. When did she die, proud mother?

STRANGER (sulkily). Well, why shouldn't she be proud? (After a pause)
Two years ago, if you want to know.

LADY PEMBURY. It was then that you found out who your father was?

STRANGER. That's right. I found these old letters. She'd kept them
locked up all those years. Bit of luck for me.

LADY PEMBURY (almost to herself). And that was two years ago. And for
two years you had your hopes, your ambitions, for two years you were
proud and independent. . . . Why did you not come to us then?

STRANGER (with a touch of vanity). Well, I was getting on all right,
you know--and----

LADY PEMBURY. And then suddenly, after two years, you lost hope.

STRANGER. I lost my job.

LADY PEMBURY. Poor boy! And couldn't get another.

STRANGER (bitterly). It's a beast of a world if you're down. He's in
the gutter--kick him down--trample on him. Nobody wants him. That's
the way to treat them when they're down. Trample on 'em.

LADY PEMBURY. And so you came to your father to help you up again. To
help you out of the gutter.

STRANGER. That's right.

LADY PEMBURY (pleadingly). Ah, but give him a chance!

STRANGER. Now, look here, I've told you already that I'm not going to
have any of _that_ game.

LADY PEMBURY (shaking her head sadly). Foolish boy! You don't
understand. Give him a chance to help you out of the gutter.

STRANGER. Well, I'm----! Isn't that what I am doing?

LADY PEMBURY. No, no. You're asking him to trample you right down into
it, deeper and deeper into the mud and slime. I want you to let him
help you back to where you were two years ago--when you were proud and
hopeful.

STRANGER (looking at her in a puzzled way). I can't make out what your
game is. It's no good pretending you don't hate the sight of me--it
stands to reason you must.

LADY PEMBURY (smiling). But then women _are_ unreasonable, aren't
they? And I think it is only in fairy-stories that stepmothers are
always so unkind.

STRANGER (surprised). Stepmother!

LADY PEMBURY. Well, that's practically what I am, isn't it?
(Whimsically) I've never been a stepmother before. (Persuasively)
Couldn't you let me be proud of my stepson?

STRANGER. Well, you _are_ a one! . . . Do you mean to say that you and
your husband aren't going to have a row about this?

LADY PEMBURY. It's rather late to begin a row, isn't it, thirty years
after it's happened? . . . Besides, perhaps you aren't going to tell him
anything about it.

STRANGER. But what else have I come for except to tell him?

LADY PEMBURY. To tell _me_. . . . I asked you to give him a chance of
helping you out of your troubles, but I'd rather you gave _me_ the
chance. . . . You see, John would be very unhappy if he knew that I knew
this; and he would have to tell me, because when a man has been
happily married to anybody for twenty-eight years, he can't really
keep a secret from the other one. He pretends to himself that he can,
but he knows all the time what a miserable pretence it is. And so John
would tell me, and say he was sorry, and I would say: "It's all right,
darling, I knew," but it would make him ashamed, and he would be
afraid that perhaps I wasn't thinking him such a wonderful man as I
did before. And it's very bad for a public man like John when he
begins to lose faith in what his wife is thinking about him. . . . So let
_me_ be your friend, will you? (There is a silence between them for a
little. He looks at her wonderingly. Suddenly she stands up, her
finger to her lips) H'sh! It's John. (She moves away from him)

(SIR JOHN PEMBURY comes in quickly; big, good-looking, decisive,
friendly; a man who wears very naturally, and without any
self-consciousness, an air of being somebody.)

PEMBURY (walking hastily past his wife to her writing-desk). Hallo,
darling! Did I leave a cheque-book in here? I was writing a cheque for
you this morning. Ah, here we are. (As he comes back, he sees THE
STRANGER) I beg your pardon, Kate. I didn't see---- (He is making for
the door with the cheque-book in his hand, and then stops and says
with a pleasant smile to THE STRANGER) But, perhaps you are waiting to
see _me_? Perkins said something----

STRANGER (coming forward). Yes, I came to see you, Sir John.

(He stands close in front of SIR JOHN, looking at him. LADY PEMBURY
watches them steadfastly.)

PEMBURY (tapping his cheque-book against his hand). Important?

STRANGER. I came to ask your help.

PEMBURY (looking at his cheque-book and then back with a smile at THE
STRANGER). A good many people do that. Have you any special claim on
me?

STRANGER (after a long pause). No.

(PEMBURY looks at him, undecided, LADY PEMBURY comes forward.)

LADY PEMBURY. All right, dear. (Meaning that she will look after THE
STRANGER till he comes back.)

PEMBURY. I'll be back in a moment. (He nods and hurries out)

(There is silence for a little, and then LADY PEMBURY claps her hands
gently.)

LADY PEMBURY (with shining eyes). Oh, brave, brave! Ah, but I am a
proud stepmother to-day. (She holds out her hand to him) Thank you,
son.

STRANGER (not seeing it, and speaking in a hard voice). I'd better go.

LADY PEMBURY. Mayn't I help you?

STRANGER. I'd better go.

LADY PEMBURY (distressed). You can't go like this. I don't even know
your name, nor where you live.

STRANGER. Don't be afraid--you shan't hear from _me_ again.

LADY PEMBURY (gently). Not even when you've got back to where you were
two years ago? Mayn't I then?

STRANGER (looking at her, and then nodding slowly). Yes, you shall
then.

LADY PEMBURY. Thank you. I shall wait. I shall hope. I shall pray.
(She holds out her hand again) Good-bye!

STRANGER (shaking his head). Wait till you hear from me. (He goes to
the door, and then stops and comes slowly back. He says awkwardly)
Wish you'd do one thing for me?

LADY PEMBURY. Yes?

STRANGER. That fellow--what did you say his name was--Perkins?

LADY PEMBURY (surprised). The butler? Perkins--yes?

STRANGER. Would you give him a message from me?

LADY PEMBURY. Of course.

STRANGER (still awkwardly). Just to say--I'll _be_ there--at the
Mews--on Sunday afternoon. _He'll_ know. Tell him I'll be there. (He
squares his shoulders and walks out defiantly--ready to take the world
on again--beginning with PERKINS on Sunday afternoon)

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