No, my lady; oh no, my lady. (This makes an unfavourable impression.)
MRS. COADE. And yet, you know, he is rather lovable.
MATEY (carried away). He is, ma'am, He is the most lovable old devil--I beg pardon, ma'am.
JOANNA. You scarcely need to, for in a way it is true. I have seen him out there among his flowers, petting them, talking to them, coaxing them till they simply had to grow.
ALICE (making use perhaps of the wrong adjective). It is certainly a divine garden.
(They all look at the unblinking enemy.)
MRS. COADE (not more deceived than the others). How lovely it is in the moonlight. Roses, roses, all the way. (Dreamily.) It is like a hat I once had when I was young.
ALICE. Lob is such an amazing gardener that I believe he could even grow hats.
LADY CAROLINE (who will catch it for this). He is a wonderful gardener; but is that quite nice at his age? What is his age, man?
MATEY (shuffling). He won't tell, my lady. I think he is frightened that the police would step in if they knew how old he is. They do say in the village that they remember him seventy years ago, looking just as he does to-day.
ALICE. Absurd.
MATEY. Yes, ma'am; but there are his razors.
LADY CAROLINE. Razors?
MATEY. You won't know about razors, my lady, not being married--as yet--excuse me. But a married lady can tell a man's age by the number of his razors. (A little scared.) If you saw his razors--there is a little world of them, from patents of the present day back to implements so horrible, you can picture him with them in his hand scraping his way through the ages.
LADY CAROLINE. You amuse one to an extent. Was he ever married?
MATEY (too lightly). He has quite forgotten, my lady. (Reflecting.) How long ago is it since Merry England?
LADY CAROLINE. Why do you ask?
MABEL. In Queen Elizabeth's time, wasn't it?
MATEY. He says he is all that is left of Merry England: that little man.
MABEL (who has brothers). Lob? I think there is a famous cricketer called Lob.
MRS. COADE. Wasn't there a Lob in Shakespeare? No, of course I am thinking of Robin Goodfellow.
LADY CAROLINE. The names are so alike.
JOANNA. Robin Goodfellow was Puck.
MRS. COADE (with natural elation). That is what was in my head. Lob was another name for Puck.
JOANNA. Well, he is certainly rather like what Puck might have grown into if he had forgotten to die. And, by the way, I remember now he does call his flowers by the old Elizabethan names.
MATEY. He always calls the Nightingale Philomel, miss--if that is any help.
ALICE (who is not omniscient). None whatever. Tell me this, did he specially ask you all for Midsummer week?
(They assent.)
MATEY (who might more judiciously have remained silent). He would!
MRS. COADE. Now what do you mean?
MATEY. He always likes them to be here on Midsummer night, ma'am.
ALICE. Them? Whom?
MATEY. Them who have that in common.
MABEL. What can it be?
MATEY. I don't know.
LADY CAROLINE (suddenly introspective). I hope we are all nice women? We don't know each other very well. (Certain suspicions are reborn in various breasts.) Does anything startling happen at those times?
MATEY. I don't know.
JOANNA. Why, I believe this is Midsummer Eve!
MATEY. Yes, miss, it is. The villagers know it. They are all inside their houses, to-night--with the doors barred.
LADY CAROLINE. Because of--of him?
MATEY. He frightens them. There are stories.
ALICE. What alarms them? Tell us--or--(She brandishes the telegram.)
MATEY. I know nothing for certain, ma'am. I have never done it myself. He has wanted me to, but I wouldn't.
MABEL. Done what?
MATEY (with fine appeal). Oh. ma'am, don't ask me. Be merciful to me, ma'am. I am not bad naturally. It was just going into domestic service that did for me; the accident of being flung among bad companions. It's touch and go how the poor turn out in this world; all depends on your taking the right or the wrong turning.
MRS. COADE (the lenient). I daresay that is true.
MATEY (under this touch of sun).