ROYCE. Ah, yes. I say nothing of that. (Going to the desk and picking up his statement) I shall have to rewrite this.... Well, the first part can stand.... I’m glad we aren’t going to be bothered about money. It would have been an impossible business to settle.
WILLIAM (triumphantly). I’ve got it!
MARION. What, dear?
WILLIAM. Now I understand everything.
ROYCE. What?
WILLIAM. The 1863 volume. That always puzzled me. Always! Now, at last, we have the true explanation. (Dramatically) The 1863 volume was written by Jenkins!
(ISOBEL and ROYCE look at him in amazement; MARION in admiration.)
ROYCE (to himself). Poor old Jenkins.
MARION. Of course I liked all Grandfather’s poetry. There was some of it I didn’t understand, but I felt that he knew——
WILLIAM. No, we can be frank now. The 1863 volume was bad. And now we see why. He wished to give this dear dead friend of his a chance. I can see these two friends—Oliver—and—er—— (Going to ROYCE) What was Mr.—er—Jenkins’ other name? (He reads it over ROYCE’S shoulder) Ah, yes, Willoughby—I can see that last scene when Willoughby lay dying, and his friend Oliver stood by his side. I can hear Willoughby lamenting that none of his poetry will ever be heard now in the mouths of others—and Oliver’s silent resolve that in some way, at some time, Willoughby’s work shall be given to the world. And so in 1863, when his own position was firmly established, he issues [255]this little collection of his dead friend’s poetry, these few choicest sheaves from poor Willoughby’s indiscriminate harvest, sheltering them, as he hoped, from the storm of criticism with the mantle of his own great name. A noble resolve, a chivalrous undertaking, but alas! of no avail.