Plays : Second Series. Galsworthy John

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      Plays : Second Series

      THE ELDEST SON

BY JOHN GALSWORTHY

      PERSONS OF THE PLAY

      SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, a baronet

      LADY CHESHIRE, his wife

      BILL, their eldest son

      HAROLD, their second son

      RONALD KEITH(in the Lancers), their son-in-law

      CHRISTINE (his wife), their eldest daughter

      DOT, their second daughter

      JOAN, their third daughter

      MABEL LANFARNE, their guest

      THE REVEREND JOHN LATTER, engaged to Joan

      OLD STUDDENHAM, the head-keeper

      FREDA STUDDENHAM, the lady's-maid

      YOUNG DUNNING, the under-keeper

      ROSE TAYLOR, a village girl

      JACKSON, the butler

      CHARLES, a footman

      TIME: The present. The action passes on December 7 and 8 at the

      Cheshires' country house, in one of the shires.

      ACT I SCENE I. The hall; before dinner. SCENE II. The hall; after dinner.

      ACT II. Lady Cheshire's morning room; after breakfast.

      ACT III. The smoking-room; tea-time.

      A night elapses between Acts I. and II.

      ACT I

      SCENE I

      The scene is a well-lighted, and large, oak-panelled hall, with an air of being lived in, and a broad, oak staircase. The dining-room, drawing-room, billiard-room, all open into it; and under the staircase a door leads to the servants' quarters. In a huge fireplace a log fire is burning. There are tiger-skins on the floor, horns on the walls; and a writing-table against the wall opposite the fireplace. FREDA STUDDENHAM, a pretty, pale girl with dark eyes, in the black dress of a lady's-maid, is standing at the foot of the staircase with a bunch of white roses in one hand, and a bunch of yellow roses in the other. A door closes above, and SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, in evening dress, comes downstairs. He is perhaps fifty-eight, of strong build, rather bull-necked, with grey eyes, and a well-coloured face, whose choleric autocracy is veiled by a thin urbanity. He speaks before he reaches the bottom.

      SIR WILLIAM. Well, Freda! Nice roses. Who are they for?

      FREDA. My lady told me to give the yellow to Mrs. Keith, Sir William, and the white to Miss Lanfarne, for their first evening.

      SIR WILLIAM. Capital. [Passing on towards the drawing-room] Your father coming up to-night?

      FREDA. Yes.

      SIR WILLIAM. Be good enough to tell him I specially want to see him here after dinner, will you?

      FREDA. Yes, Sir William.

      SIR WILLIAM. By the way, just ask him to bring the game-book in, if he's got it.

      He goes out into the drawing-room; and FREDA stands restlessly tapping her foot against the bottom stair. With a flutter of skirts CHRISTINE KEITH comes rapidly down. She is a nice-looking, fresh-coloured young woman in a low-necked dress.

      CHRISTINE. Hullo, Freda! How are YOU?

      FREDA. Quite well, thank you, Miss Christine—Mrs. Keith, I mean. My lady told me to give you these.

      CHRISTINE. [Taking the roses] Oh! Thanks! How sweet of mother!

      FREDA. [In a quick, toneless voice] The others are for Miss Lanfarne. My lady thought white would suit her better.

      CHRISTINE. They suit you in that black dress.

      [FREDA lowers the roses quickly.]

      What do you think of Joan's engagement?

      FREDA. It's very nice for her.

      CHRISTINE. I say, Freda, have they been going hard at rehearsals?

      FREDA. Every day. Miss Dot gets very cross, stage-managing.

      CHRISTINE. I do hate learning a part. Thanks awfully for unpacking. Any news?

      FREDA. [In the same quick, dull voice] The under-keeper, Dunning, won't marry Rose Taylor, after all.

      CHRISTINE. What a shame! But I say that's serious. I thought there was—she was—I mean–

      FREDA. He's taken up with another girl, they say.

      CHRISTINE. Too bad! [Pinning the roses] D'you know if Mr. Bill's come?

      FREDA. [With a swift upward look] Yes, by the six-forty.

      RONALD KEITH comes slowly down, a weathered firm-lipped man, in evening dress, with eyelids half drawn over his keen eyes, and the air of a horseman.

      KEITH. Hallo! Roses in December. I say, Freda, your father missed a wigging this morning when they drew blank at Warnham's spinney. Where's that litter of little foxes?

      FREDA. [Smiling faintly] I expect father knows, Captain Keith.

      KEITH. You bet he does. Emigration? Or thin air? What?

      CHRISTINE. Studdenham'd never shoot a fox, Ronny. He's been here since the flood.

      KEITH. There's more ways of killing a cat—eh, Freda?

      CHRISTINE. [Moving with her husband towards the drawing-room] Young Dunning won't marry that girl, Ronny.

      KEITH. Phew! Wouldn't be in his shoes, then! Sir William'll never keep a servant who's made a scandal in the village, old girl. Bill come?

      As they disappear from the hall, JOHN LATTER in a clergyman's evening dress, comes sedately downstairs, a tall, rather pale young man, with something in him, as it were, both of heaven, and a drawing-room. He passes FREDA with a formal little nod. HAROLD, a fresh-cheeked, cheery-looking youth, comes down, three steps at a time.

      HAROLD. Hallo, Freda! Patience on the monument. Let's have a sniff! For Miss Lanfarne? Bill come down yet?

      FREDA. No, Mr. Harold.

      HAROLD crosses the hall, whistling, and follows LATTER into the drawing-room. There is the sound of a scuffle above, and a voice crying: "Shut up, Dot!" And JOAN comes down screwing her head back. She is pretty and small, with large clinging eyes.

      JOAN. Am I all right behind, Freda? That beast, Dot!

      FREDA. Quite, Miss Joan.

      DOT's face, like a full moon, appears over the upper banisters. She too comes running down, a frank figure, with the face of a rebel.

      DOT. You little being!

      JOAN. [Flying towards the drawing-roam, is overtaken at the door]

      Oh! Dot! You're pinching!

      As they disappear into the drawing-room, MABEL LANFARNE, a tall girl with a rather charming Irish face, comes slowly down. And at sight of her FREDA's whole figure becomes set and meaningfull.

      FREDA. For you, Miss Lanfarne, from my lady.

      MABEL. [In whose speech is a touch of wilful Irishry] How sweet! [Fastening the roses] And how are you, Freda?

      FREDA. Very well, thank you.

      MABEL. And your father? Hope he's going to let me come out with the guns again.

      FREDA. [Stolidly] He'll be delighted, I'm sure.

      MABEL. Ye-es! I haven't forgotten his face-last time.

      FREDA. You stood with Mr. Bill. He's better to stand with than Mr. Harold, or Captain Keith?

      MABEL. He didn't touch a feather, that day.

      FREDA. People don't when they're anxious to do their best.

      A gong sounds. And MABEL LANFARNE, giving FREDA a