_Something else is happening; the call has come to MARY ROSE. It is at first as soft and furtive as whisperings from holes in the ground, Mary Rose, Mary Rose. Then in a fury as of storm and whistling winds that might be an unholy organ it rushes upon the island, raking every bush for her. These sounds increase rapidly in volume till the mere loudness of them is horrible. They are not without an opponent. Struggling through them, and also calling her name, is to be heard music of an unearthly sweetness that is seeking perhaps to beat them back and put a girdle of safety round her. Once MARY ROSE’S arms go out to her husband for help, but thereafter she is oblivious of his existence. Her face is rapt, but there is neither fear nor joy in it. Thus she passes from view. The island immediately resumes its stillness. The sun has gone down. SIMON by the fire and CAMERON in the boat have heard nothing._) SIMON (_on his knees_). I think the fire is done for at last, and that we can go now. How cold and grey it has become. (_Smiling, but without looking up._) You needn’t grip your tongue any longer, you know. (_He rises._) Mary Rose, where have you got to? Please don’t hide. Dearest, don’t. Cameron, where is my wife? (_CAMERON rises in the boat, and he is afraid to land. His face alarms SIMON, who runs this way and that and is lost to sight calling her by name again and again. He returns livid._) Cameron, I can’t find her. Mary Rose! Mary Rose! Mary Rose! ACT III ACT III _Twenty-five years have passed, and the scene is again that cosy room in the Morlands’ house, not much changed since we last saw it. If chintzes have faded, others as smiling have taken their place. The time is a crisp autumn afternoon just before twilight comes. The apple-tree, not so easy to renew as the chintzes, has become smaller, but there are a few gallant apples on it. The fire is burning, and round it sit Mr. and Mrs. Morland and Mr. Amy, the Morlands gone smaller like the apple-tree and Mr. Amy bulky, but all three on the whole still bearing their apples. Inwardly they have changed still less; hear them at it as of yore._ MR. MORLAND. What are you laughing over, Fanny? MRS. MORLAND. It is this week’s _Punch_, so very amusing. MR. AMY. Ah, _Punch_, it isn’t what it used to be. MR. MORLAND. No, indeed. MRS. MORLAND. I disagree. You two try if you can look at this picture without laughing. (_They are unable to stand the test._) MR. MORLAND. I think I can say that I enjoy a joke as much as ever. MRS. MORLAND. You light-hearted old man! MR. MORLAND (_humorously_). Not so old, Fanny. Please to remember that I am two months younger than you. MRS. MORLAND. How can I forget it when you have been casting it up against me all our married life? MR. MORLAND (_not without curiosity_). Fanny and I are seventy-three; you are a bit younger, George, I think? MR. AMY. Oh yes, oh dear, yes.