THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH CAROLINA ENDOWED BY THE DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC SOCIETIES PR5039 ,M6 AI9 1893 i s * Ail ORIGINAL J** Plays & Duologues CHIEFLY HUMOROUS FRANCIS W. MOORE AUTHOR OF "HUMOROUS PIECES," "WHEN GEORGE THE FOURTH WAS KING," ETC. SECOND IMPRESSION lonfcon DEAN AND SON, LIMITED i6oa, Fleet Street 1898 First Printed, Reprinted, 1898 PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION This collection of Short Plays, Duologues, and Proverbs in Action is intended as an addition to the scanty assort- ment of pieces suitable for private representation. Having been originally written for this purpose, they involve only a very limited number of characters, and no exceptional amount of dramatic experience. Each is com- prised within a single act, and the requirements as to scenery, costumes, and stage appliances are of a simple kind. All are available for performance, whether in public or •private, without payment. FRANCIS W. MOORE. Maythorne, Addiscombe. August, 1893. Note. — The plays may be had separately, at sixpence each. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2014 https://archive.org/details/originalplaysduoOOmoor CONTENTS PAGE A FAMILY AFFAIR 7 TWO OF eve's DAUGHTERS 35 may we ne'er want a friend .... 49 a southerly wind and a cloudy sky . . 6 1 asking papa 83 where there's a will, there's a way . . 97 once upon a time 1 09 the course of true love . . . . 131 any port in a storm 147 a quiet evening 1 59 first catch your hare 1 77 a legal intrusion . . . . . . 191 after the rain 203 speech may be silver, but silence is gold . 225 st. valentine's day . . . . . .239 A Family Affair. A COMEDIETTA. CHARACTERS. HORATIO NELSON MA IN WARING. RICHARD MAIN WARING (his SOtl). INTRUSIVE STRANGER. MRS. RICHARD MAIN WARING. Josephine {a maid of all work). Scene. The apartments occupied by Mr. Richard Main- waring^ at Shrimpton-super-Mare. COSTUMES. Mr. M. — Semi-military morning dress, R. M. — Light ttueed suit. Str. — Yachting suit ; straw hat Mrs. R. M. — Pretty morning costume. Sailor hat Jos. — Print gown, dirty and untidy. Smart cap. A Family Affair. Scene. A sitting-room. Open French windows, c, leading on to verandah; a small front lawn beyond, with palings and gate. Sea view. Doors r., and l. Table laid for breakfast. Enter Josephine, r., with coffee-pot, &c. v Jos. Nine o'clock ! and 'im not back from 'is bath, and 'er not down. And who's to wonder at it ? settin' out in the verandey 'arf the night, starin' at the moon ! I can't abide yer newly-married folks ; the ladies is so wery conde- scending and as for the gents, they dussen't look another woman in the face ; and you may knock, and knock, and then they looks like a couple o' babies caught stealin' the sugar. Ugh ! I 'ates to see 'em take the lodgin's, I does. Not as it's much but sich as them as troubles a sleepy little dust'ole of a place, without no pier, nor sands, nor niggers, nor no gentility ; and never a fresh face to be seen from Enter Stranger, c. Str. Good -morning. Jos. {dropping a plate) Lawks-a-mussy ! What's that ? 9 10 A FAMILY AFFAIR. Str. An accident. Division of fractions, illustrated with plates. Jos. {aside) 'Ere's a fresh face, anyhow. Any one'd think the place belonged to 'im ! [Aloud) I beg your parding, sir Str. Not at all. The crockery is none of mine. Jos. Was you lookin' after ? Str. (taking up a teaspoon) No. And they're Britannia metal. Jos. If you're come about the lodgin's, we're let, at present. Str. Then, at present, we'll let well alone. Jos. But next Toosday fortnight Str. Is a long time to look forward to. Jos. (aside) I never come anigh sech a cowcumber for coolness. (Aloud) These is our apartments, sir, Str. And do you credit. Neat, and attractive, — like your cap. Jos. R'ally, sir, I don't Str. Don't you ? Now, I do. Permit me to regard it in profile. Becoming; not a doubt of it, Mary, — You said " Mary," I think ? Jos. Bless yer 'art, no ! Joser-fine. Str. Josephine ? I see. And you chose a fine cap, to correspond. Jos. Perhaps you're a friend of Mr. Mainwarink's, sir? Str. I hope so. (Aside) Never heard of him ; I can't be his enemy. Jos. Very sorry, sir, but o' course, as I never see you afore . If you'll set down a minute 'e'll be in from 'is bath. A FAMILY AFFAIR. 1 1 Str. I saw him splash out of his machine, as I came along. What did you say his name was ? Jos. {aside) Well, I never ! Dunno 'is friend's name ! Str. Whoever he is, his breakfast smells delicious. {Looks at his watch) Past nine ! Nothing so punctual as a good appetite. {Seats himself at breakfast table.) Jos. But, sir, you can't begin without Str. Don't be uneasy on my account. I shall do ad- mirably with what is here. Coffee ? Thanks. Sugar ? Three lumps. Did I see a sausage ? Capital ! A knife, — the accompanying fork, — the local parody of a French roll, — and the mustard. Jos. But Mrs. Mainwarink ain't down yet, sir, and Str. Not down ? You amaze me ! " Tis the voice ot the sluggard, I hear him complain—." The early bird, ma'am ! the early bird — I'll trouble you for another worm — I mean, another lump. Jos. You'll excuse me, sir, Str. Certainly. Wouldn't detain you on any account. Jos. {aside) I never see sech goin's on ! I'll slip upstairs to Mrs. Mainwarink. {Exit, l.) Str. (rising, and going to door, l.) Oh, and would you have the kindness to bring the pepper in your hand when you're coming up ? {Resumes his seat) Very cheery and considerate person. Pleasing cast of features, too ; not exactly classic, not exactly clean; but eminently satisfac- tory. Really my neighbour's breakfast is most appetizing ; I feel I shall do myself justice. Enter Mrs. Richard Mainwaring, l. Mrs. R. M. {aside) So, this is the gentleman ? A stranger ! {Coughs.) Ahem ! 12 A FAMILY AFFAIR. Str. It's the pepper. Much obliged. And if you've got such a thing as a Mrs. R. M. Sir ? Str. [looking round) Eh? Oh, how d'ye do. {Rising, a?id placing her chair.) Rather late for such a charming morning; but I am delighted to see you. Won't you take a ? Mrs. R. M. Really, sir, I Str. You can't object to take a chair ? (Mrs. jR. M. sits at tabled) Good. Let me suggest one of these whiting ? deliciously brown, and Ton my life ! now you put it that way, I'll take one myself, and defer the sausage. Mrs. R. M. May I ask, sir ? Str. Thanks. I have not quite finished this. Mrs. R. M. (aside) Where have I seen ? To be sure ! That sweet little yacht that came in on Tuesday. Dick must have made his acquaintance, and asked him to break- fast. (Aloud) You have seen my husband this morning, sir ? Str. I have seen the greater part of him. Mrs.R.M. Sir? Str. Is that fish to your liking ? or would you prefer an egg ? new laid, no doubt — or some marmalade ? or bloater paste? or (Enter Richard Main waring, c.) Ah, here he is ! Come along, my dear sir ! It's all getting cold. R. M. (to Mrs. R. M.) Who is this, Annie? Mrs. R. M. (to R. M.) I don't know, Dick. He was here when I came down. He told Josephine he was a friend of yours ; and I thought A FAMILY AFFAIR. R. M. A friend of mine ? I've never seen che fellow. Mrs. R. M. I thought you had invited him. Str. No desire to check connubial compliments, but the coffee-pot is getting chilled. R. M. You will excuse me, sir, but you are labouring under some strange mistake. Str. You prefer tea? We'll have some up in a mo- ment. R. M. Who are you, sir? What is your business ? Str. None. The cares of commerce are a myth to me. Grey shirtings may be dull, but my appetite is unaffected ; freights may be firm, with a slight advance on previous prices, but my pulse remains the same. R. M. But, sir, I must demand an explanation of this intrusion. I find a stranger in my apartments, breakfasting with my wife Str. And you join us at once ? Quite right ; these whiting are not to be despised. Sit down, and I'll make it all as plain as a panorama at the Polytechnic. {They sit.) R. M. You are ? Str. Owner of the " Firefly," lying in your wretched little harbour, with a damaged tiller. Mrs. R. M. {aside) I was sure of it. Str. For three whole days I haven't spoken to an intel- ligible creature in this barbarous village, and am bored to death. R. M. Shrimpton is not a fashionable watering-place. Str. The African Desert is a Bond Street compared to it. Thanks to your open window, my loneliness has been aggravated by the contemplation of a particularly happy- looking couple in these apartments. T 4 A FAMILY AFFAIR. R. M. Your observation is felicitous. We are happy. Str. With me society is a necessity. I have thrown myself upon your hospitality. Return the visit at one o'clock, and I'll offer you the best apology for a luncheon this wretched little mis-called fishing-place affords. R. M. I must say Str. Yes? I knew you would. And now we'll finish our breakfast, and go for a sail. Mrs. R. M. (aside) Delightful ! R. M. We are much indebted Str. On the contrary : between you, and me, and the By the way, I've got your letters in my pocket. R. M. Got what ? Str. Met the postman at the gate. [Gives letters?) No ceremony ; plunge into your correspondence, and leave me to the local paper, (lakes up newspaper?) R. M. (sorting letters) Yours, Annie; one — two — three; mine; one — two — Merciful powers ! Mrs. R. M. Richard ! R. M. My father's hand ! We are discovered ! Mrs. R. M. Oh, Richard ! Impossible ! R. M. All our precautions useless ! (Ol)ens letter?) As I feared ! (Reads) " Misguided Boy, — With unspeakable humilia- tion I learn that you have bestowed our name upon some obscure person whose very existence was unknown to me. I have made it my imme- diate business to ascertain your whereabouts, and shall present myself at an early hour in the morning. — Your indignant, Father." A FAMILY AFFAIR. 15 Mrs. R. M. My poor husband ! We may yet escape ? R. M. Dated from the Dolphin. He is here already, and may descend upon us at any moment ! Mrs. R. M. Fly, Richard! Save yourself! Let his anger fall on me ! {Throws herself on his neck, in tears.) Sir. (looking up) Ahem ! Nothing wrong, I hope ? Mrs. R. M. We have had some terrible news. Sir. Could I be of any assistance ? R. M. A family matter, sir ; a stranger cannot interfere. Sir. The very man. In family differences always inter- pose a non-conducting medium. R. M. Impossible. Mrs. R. M. What will become of us ! [^hursts into tears) Str. Come, come ! No pain's past mending, but a pane of glass. You are agitated, like the ocean. I am collected, like the water-rate. Confide in me. R. M. You cannot know Str. Until I'm told ? Exactly. Fire away. R. M. Well, sir, a week since I was married Str. And now repent ? R. M. Without my father's sanction. Str. Well ? He married without yours. There you're quits. R. M. He would have had me marry an heiress. Str. And bury your heart in a money bag ? Pooh ! R. M. My own position was dependent upon him ; the girl I loved was penniless. We fled together; were married secretly ; I sent my father word of the step I had taken Str. And started hide-and-seek until the storm blew over ? I see. i6 A FAMILY AFFAIR. R. M. By some mischance, he has discovered our retreat ; he is here — now — in the village ; and may appear at any moment Str. To cut you off with the proverbial shilling ? Well, there's no time to be lost. Mrs. R. M. Oh, sir ! If you can aid us ! Str. Leave it to me, and long before luncheon we'll have the old gentleman as quiet as a lamb. R. M. Ah, sir, you do not know my father ! . Str. I soon shall. Come ! Finish your breakfast, and R. M. Breakfast ! Mrs. R. M. It would choke me ! Str. You won't ? {Rings.) Then we'll clear the decks for action. {Enter Josephine, r., polishing a boot.) Now, Polly, away with the tray in a jiffey. Jos. Jiffeys, indeed ! 'Ow about the fust floor's boots ! Str. Damn the first floor's boots ! Jos. But he've bin a-shoutin' for 'em ever so long. Str. Do him good. Vocal exercise. Expands the chest. {Gives her money) Half-a-crown. I'll give you half a minute. Jos. Thankee, sir. {Clatters boot a?id brush into the tray ; clears table, and exit, R., with breakfast things) R. M. But, sir, I am at a loss to understand Str. Simplest thing in the world. Your father arrives ; you vanish. He finds me, with a lady. He hasn't seen your wife ? Mrs. R. M. Oh, no ! A FAMILY AFFAIR. T 7 Str. And will assume her to be mine. He inquires for you. We "are expecting you every moment." Chairs. General conversation. Introducing my accomplished part- ner, I naturally descant upon her manifold attractions Mrs. R. M. But they are unknown to you. Str. So much the better. Nothing to hinder the imagi- nation. He will be interested, fascinated ; in a word, he will warmly approve of my wife ; we substitute you for me, and Enter Josephine, r. Jos. (to R. M.) 'Ere's a gent ar^tin' for you, sir. R. M. My father ! Mrs. R. M. I sink with dread ! Str. Make sure of your man. What is he like ! Jos. A milingtary gent, with grey mustarchers, and a curly-brimmed ? at, cocked over one eye. Str. Do you admit the cocked hat and the curly brimmed eye ? R. M. Tis he ! Str. Trot him in, cocked hat and all. (Exit Josephine, r.) And now, sir, the sooner you retire, the better. Mrs. R. M. Richard ! R. M. My darling ! (They embrace) Str. With the enemy at hand ! And another man's wife ! My good sir, will you go ! R. M. But where ? Str. Scullery — coal cellar — anywhere. (Pushes R. M. oat, l.) Quick ! Your needlework ! (Mrs. R. M. seats herself hurriedly on sofa, with work.) Ha ! The paternal boot? (Seats himself by Mrs. R. M. on sofa.) Tableau — connubial bliss ! (Puts his arm round her waist.) 2 tS A FAMILY AFFAIR. Mrs. R. M But I- Str. Hush ! keep up the character. {Snatches up a book.) Here he is ! {Enter Josephine, r., ushering in Mr. Main waring. Str. reads, without looking ufi \ "Oh, stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head " Jos. 'Ere's a gent, mum. [Exit Josephine, r.) M. Ahem ! I beg ten thousand pardons ! Str. [rising) Not in the least. Very kind of you to call. Take a chair. M. You are vastly obliging. But I fear Str. Reliable, I assure you. That chair would sustain a ton. M. You misapprehend me. I find — to my regret — that I am intruding in your apartments, mistaking them for those of my son — Mr. Richard Mainwaring. Str. Your son? Then you are his father? What a remarkable circumstance ! I'd no idea he had a My darling, Tom's father ! Such an unexpected pleasure, to be sure ! [Shakes hands vigorously with Mr. M.) M. Really, sir, I am overpowered by this cordial recep- tion. Str. Don't mention it, I beg. Looking a little stouter, I think, than when I M. I was not aware of having Str. You haven't noticed it? Your tailor has. Now, make yourself at home. {Mr. M. sits.) Let me take your hat. Jack will be back in a moment. M. Jack ? Str. I said Jack. By the way, you'll take some break- fast? A FAMILY AFFAIR, M. Not a morsel, I am obliged to you, Sir. A chop, now ? a nice," juicy chop ? or a rasher? M. I assure you I have breakfasted already. Sir. So sorry. Let me see. Did I present you to my ? No. Julia, my love, this is Mr. (Aside, lo Mr. M.) I didn't quite catch your name. M. Mainwaring. Horatio Nelson Mainwaring, of Main- waring Hall. Sir. To be sure. Tom's father. You mentioned it. M. My son's name is Richard, sir, Sir. Richardson. Of course. We always call him "Tom" because Now I think of it, I don't know why we do call him " Tom." M. I was informed that he was to be found in these apartments. Sir. In and out. Just at present he's out. M. [rising) Then if you will kindly direct me to his sitting-room, I will relieve you of any further intrusion. Sir. Intrusion ! My good sir ! I beg you will remain till he returns. (Mr. M. sils.) M. I gather that your fair lady and yourself are on terms of intimacy with my misguided son ? Sir. We were boys together— he and I, I mean. M. You are doubtless, then, aware that he has recently become the dupe of a designing adventuress. Mrs. R. M. Oh, sir, indeed Sir. What has he done ? M. Married, sir. Sir. They will do it. M. Married a woman. Str. They generally do. You know the lady? 20 A FAMILY AFFAIR. M. I ne : ther know, nor desire to know, any such shame- less creature. Mrs. R. M. Oh, sir ! Str. Don't say that. You'll find her the most enchant- ing, fascinating little body imaginable. Mrs. R. M. (aside, to Str.) Sir ! You forget your- self ! Str. Eh? Oh, of course. Except my wife. M. Then you do know her ? Str. Ever since Molly and I were married ; and a more delightful girl doesn't exist. M. The partiality of a friend Str. Not at all. Ask my wife. Women are censorious towards their own sex. Let Jane give you her candid opinion. (To Mrs. R. M.) My love. Jack's wife Mrs. R. M. (aside, to Str.) Dick. Str. Where ? How stupid, to be sure ! Dick, of course. How many years have you known Dick's wife ? Mrs. R. M. More than twenty. Str. And isn't she charming ? Mrs. R. M. Dick says so. Str. Sings like a seraph, dances like a columbine, rides like a whole circus, whistles like a blackbird, Mrs. R. M. She does sing, and dance, and ride, Str. And well ? As well as you can ? Mrs. R. M. Oh, yes. Str. Her manners are distinguished; her conversation original ; her temper is as steady as the Funds ; her laugh would tickle the toughest of the Ptolemies ; and as for purity of blood ! hers might be sarsaparilla. M. It would appear A FAM1L Y AFFAIR. 21 Str. But you were asking what young Mrs. — Thin- gummy — was like? M. I never expressed the slightest interest Str. Exactly. Milly, stand up a moment ! Mrs. R. M. Indeed I (R. M. is seen, peeping in very cautiously from the verandah.) Str. My darling ! Just a moment ! (R. M. shakes his fist at Str. Mrs. R. M. rises) There, sir ! Match that, if you can ! Grace ! Elegance ! Deportment ! M. Eminently so. Str. Complexion? (Rubs her cheek.) No deception. Hair? — all her own — try it ! Look at her eyes, her cheeks, her lips ! made on purpose, aren't they ? (Kisses her. R. M. furious!) Mrs. R. M. (aside ; indignant) How dare you, sir ! M. But, sir, the patent perfections of your accomplished lady cannot affect Str. The very point. Most extraordinary resemblance between them. M. You don't say so ! How very remarkable. Str. Remarkable ? Identical. The same eyes, nose — what there is of it, — mouth, chin ; the precise carriage ; even the seductive smile. Shut your eyes, and you would take them for the same person. M. Marvellous ! And no relation ? Str. By the bye, would you mind escorting my wife as far as the harbour ? M. With the utmost delight. (Rises eagerly, a?id reaches his hat. R M. withdraws hastily!) Str. You are very good. I want one of my fellows to send me up word when they're ready for sea. (Mrs. R. Af. 22 A FAM1L Y AFFAIR. puts on her hat.) That reminds me. We're going for a sail ; you join us, of course ? Smart breeze, lively sea ; couple of hours' blow on the water ; and you won't know your own appetite at luncheon. M. I should enjoy it of all things, but — from a boy — the oscillation of the ocean invariably produces Str. Sea sick ? M. Not at all ! Merely a kind of Str. Just so. First half-hour, afraid you'll die ; second half-hour, afraid you won't. All ready, my love ? Then off you go. Imagine your son's wife on your arm instead of mine, and there you are ! Eh, Kitty ? M. No, really ! I protest against any such comparison. But, excuse me, {leading Str. aside.) Str. Certainly. Want to borrow a clothes-brush ? M. A trifling matter — but I notice you call your wife Str. By any name that comes first? It avoids monotony. The only wife I've got — she knows I mean her. " A rose by any other name," you know. M. Exactly. And most appropriate. Str. Ducky, you've nothing round your throat! (To Mr. M.) Such a susceptible larynx ! M. You don't say so. My dear madam, pray be careful ! Let me offer you a {Produces /arge silk handkerchief. Exeunt Mr. M. and Mrs. R. M., ami in arm, c.) Str. Ha ! Ha ! The old buck is cocking his hat like a cavalry corporal. {Mr. M. and Mrs. R. M. pass outside, talki?ig gaily ; she linking handkerchief about her throat?) My wife's made an impression. {Rings.) And now for my fellow-conspirator. A FA MIL V AFFAIR. {Enter Josephine, r.) Oh, Jessamine — Josephine — tell my friend he can come up. Jos. Come up ! Where has he got to ? Str. He's in the coal cellar. Jos. The coal cellar ! Str. Oh, it's all right. His object is secretory, but not felonious. (R. M. appears on the verandah, looking doivn the road.) Stop ! Here he is. {Exit Jos., r.) Well, my dear sir, I trust you're satisfied ? (R. M. enters from verandah.) R. M. My father has gone ? Str. Only as far as the harbour, with my wife. R. M. Sir ! Str. Eh ? Ah, I mean your wife. I'm getting un- certain on the point, myself. R. M. So it appears. Str. Urn ? R. M. Your scandalous proceedings have not been unobserved. Str. Oh, we took care the old gentleman was looking on. R. M. Not he alone. Str. What, you were peeping, too ? And how did it strike you ? Easy ? natural ? domesticated ? turtle-dovey ? R. M. " Turtle-dovey," indeed ! Str. Hey day ! What's in the wind ? You never mean to say you're R. M. Such impudent familiarity ! Str. Green as a gooseberry ! Ha ! Ha ! It's an immense idea ! You think your pretty wife has 2 4 A FA MIL Y A FFA IR. R. AL You are pleased to be facetious. Str. No. Flattered. R. M. An insolent fellow ! Sir. Come, come ! This is not the House of Commons ! R. M. You shall answer for this ! I request that you refer me to a friend. Str. Only man I know in the place is the postmaster ; respectable man — obese, but obliging — keeps a butter shop in the High Street. R. M. I mean what I say, sir ! Str. So do I. He does keep a butter shop, and he is obliging. R. M. I will not permit Str. Why not ? Can't object to a man flourishing in the provision trade. R. M. I demand the satisfaction due to a gentleman. Str. Very natural. Pay him the best price, and insist on the best article. R. M. (furious) Will you listen to me, sir? Str. With pleasure. R. M. You have embraced my wife. Str. I have. R. M. And can imagine my feelings. Str. Lucky dog ! R. M. No levity, sir ! or I shall inflict the personal chastisement you richly deserve. Str. Ha ! Ha ! Your father and I R. M. My father and I will settle our affairs without any interfering busybodies ! Str. (glancing out of window) You will ? Then now is A FAMILY AFFAIR. 25 your time. (Mr. M. and Mrs. R. M. pass outside, returning. ) R. M. Heavens ! He has returned ! Enter Mr. Mainwaring, and Mrs. Richard Mainwaring, c. M. (to Str.) My very dear sir, I congratulate you upon your engaging and — ah — entrancing consort. I only de- plore that we so speedily encountered one of your sailors, and — (Sees R. M.) So, sir ! At last you stand before your outraged parent ! Mrs. R. M. (aside) My poor Richard ! I tremble in every limb ! R, M. Father, I assure you M. You assure me ! You have the audacity — the un- blushing effrontery Mrs. R. M. Oh, sir ! spare him ! ( Wringing her hands*) Str. Our presence, dearest, is embarrassing our friends. Let us leave them here alone. R. M. (aside) Not if I know it ! M. On no account, I beg ! Drive you from your apart- ments ! never ! Str. Well — when you say my apartments R. M. His apartments ! M. Silence, boy ! You greet unstinted hospitality with boorish insult ! R. M. This lady, sir, is my Str. Particular friend. Your particular friend. And between friends there is no place for ceremony. We'll take our work out on the balcony. R. M. (aside to Str.) Leave the house at once, sir. 26 A FAMILY AFFAIR. Str. K to R. M.) We're just going. R. M. (to Str.) My wife Str. Is my wife, yet awhile. Fair play's a jewel. You've undertaken to carry on the campaign ; bring up your guns. The old boy's charged to the muzzle, and must either ex- plode, or burst. (To Mr. M.) Now, sir ! Have it out with him ! Both be better when it's over. Come, Nelly ! (Exeunt Str., and Mrs. R. M., c. ; she reluctantly, and kissing her hand secretly to R. M.) M. And now, sirrah ! since you have actually driven your friends from the room, what have you to say for yourself? Speak ! I am curious to learn what excuse you offer for such unfilial infamy. R. M. Father, I M. Silence ! Do not presume to check the flow of righteous reprobation ! That I should live to see this day ! To find the serpent I have nourished in my bosom is but a — a wolf in sheep's clothing ! Have I not pampered you ? petted you ? humoured your every whim ? And for what ? Answer me that ! For what ? R. M. Indeed, father, M. Peace ! My offspring — my only son — to thus bring shame upon my grey hairs — Ahem ! I don't altogether mean that ! R. M. (aside, trying to look on to the verandah) If 1 could only see what that fellow is doing ! M. The heir to the oldest estate in the county might have aspired to the most distinguished alliance. R. M. (aside) Chattering like a brazen magpie ! M. I have myself indicated ladies of unimpeachable lineage, and undoubted attractions A FAMILY AFFAIR. 27 R. M. Father, the thing was impossible ! (Aside) I'd give a guinea to be behind hinrat this moment ! M. Impossible, forsooth ! Impossible ! Let me tell you, boy, 1 am by no means certain that you are favour- ing me with your attention ? R. M. Yes — no — so very warm in here — a turn on the balcony, now, — (Going.) M. (restraining him) Hold, young man ! That balcony is a temple of domestic bliss. Would you disturb, by your profaning presence, the tender confidence your friend is pouring into his consort's loving ear ? R. M. (aside) Would I ? Wouldn't I ! M. For shame, marplot ! For shame, busybody ! R. M. But, sir, — so prominent a position — in view of every one M. And what of that, sir ? What is more simple, more seemly, than a frank avowal of affection, — even in the public eye? R. M. But she is my M. Hold ! That lovely and accomplished lady is above your carping criticism. I am not blind to your device. Do not essay to draw an odoriferous herring of irrelevancy across the track of my displeasure. Once for all, sir — who is the woman whom you have dared to wed ? R. M. One I will not submit to hear disparaged, sir, even by yourself. M. Jackanapes ! R. M. No, sir ; not even by you. She is the sweetest, dearest, most devoted of her sex. M. Too perfect, too faultless, in short, to be presented to your poor father? ,8 A FAMILY AFFAIR. R. M. It was my ardent wish. Only our dread of your displeasure M. My displeasure ! With perfection ! A pretty story ! I am an obstinate old nincompoop who would quarrel with a conglomerate of all the cardinal virtues ? Proceed in this preposterous strain, and I foresee I may become annoyed; I can conceive of my temper proving unequal to the demands made upon it. You are resolved to travel your own road ? So be it. Go ! R. M. But, father, M. Enough ! To your distraught and dullard intellect this interview may be diverting ; to my less callous sensi- bility its every word is odious, its every syllable imparts a pang. Henceforth we are but strangers. R. M. Oh, sir! Hear me whilst I swear M. Pardon me. I desire to be spared any such inde- cent exhibition. I wish you a — good morning. {Going.) Enter Str. and Mrs. R. M., c. Str. What, going already ? Mrs. R. M. Oh, sir ! you are not leaving him in anger ? M. Leaving him —yes : in anger — no. I have briefly expressed my detestation of his degrading alliance ; and I shake the dust off my feet in quitting him for ever. Str. Why drag in the door mat ? Boys will be boys, or what would become of the bicycles ? Let bygones be by- gones, and he'll never do it again. M. No, sir ! no ! He has made his bed himself Str. Perhaps Josephine was busy ? M. I say, he has made his bed A FAMILY AFFAIR. 29 Str. And must lie on it ? M. And must lie on it. [Turns azvay, stervfy.) Str. (aside) A market gardener's maxim ! Deuce take it ! He's a bit of a stick, but he's not a stick of celery ! (To Mrs. E. M.) It's your turn. Do as I told you. I'll leave the coast clear. (Exit, c.) Mrs. E. M. But, sir, — if I may venture to plead for the poor girl — knowing her so. well M. Surely. Surely. I trust I am not so bigoted as to be inaccessible to reason and argument — though my deci- sion is unchangeable. Mrs. E. M. You would not have had Richard — your son — remain unwedded ? M. I have more than once suggested a suitable quarter in which I would desire him to offer attentions. Mrs. E. M. And he refused ? M. Invariably. Mrs. E. M (aside) Dear old Dick ! (To Mr. M.) But, in his own choice, he has found true happiness ? M. I have not inquired. It is beside the question. Mrs. E. M. If you saw the lady M. Heaven forbid ! Mrs. E t M. Might she not prove a daughter after your own heart ? M. You have deprived me, madam, of that cherished hope. (Bon's.) Mrs. E. M. Oh, sir ! (Curtseys.) You are pleased to flatter me. M. No flattery, believe me ! The contemplation of your domestic felicity has confirmed me in my resentment at my son's unpardonable folly. Could he have found a 5? A FAMILY AFFAiR. like good fortune I should have rejoiced, indeed. Had it been possible — it is not, alas ! — but, had it been possible for my lout of a boy to secure the treasure whose hand I here presume to press | kissing her hand), I could have descended to my lowly tomb, — in due course — with never a remaining care. R. 31. {rushing forward) You mean that, father? You really mean what you say ? 31. Mean what I say ! Am I a prating fool? (Jfr. and Mrs. R. 31. kneel before him A What is this ? R. 31. Father. — my wife. M. Your what, sir ? R. 31. My wife. My darling wife. 31. Is this some idle masquerade ? some ill-advised buffoonery ? 3frs. R. 31. Oh. sir ! forgive us both ! We were so *.•:•_;.-._ —s : inexperience 1 ! I ~as cs renin :: b'.nrne as he. M. Rise from your ridiculous knees, sir, and explain. Who is — he is not in the room — who is the gentleman who was here just now ? R. 31. I — I dont know. 31. You don't know ! 3Irs. R. 31. We do not know the gentleman's name. 31. But he is your — Ah, here is the gentleman ! Enter Str., c. Str. Well ? All blown over, eh ? 31. A moment, sir. Are you this lady's husband ? Str. I was. Mrs. R. 31. Richard is my husband, sir. {They em- brace.) A FAMILY AFFAIR. 3i M. I find myself in a condition I should describe as confused ; distinctly confused. Who is this person ? Str. Chip of the old block — family head speaks for itself; — in a word, your son. Slight misunderstanding be- tween you, which is now removed. M. But it is not ! Str. Of the slightest consequence? Exactly. You embrace — [R. M. embraces Mr. M., who thrusts him away, angrily.) — you are reconciled — and Richard is him- self again ! M. Stop, sir, stop ! Now, who is this lady ? Str. " Also Ethelinda, wife of the above." As to features, figure, form, and fascinations we are agreed. Let me formally congratulate you upon your very delightful daughter-in-law. M. And thirdly — and lastly — who the devil are you, sir ? Str. Who am I ? That's a poser. Shall we say, a friend of the family ? R. M. No ! M. No friend of mine, sir ! Mrs. R. M. Nor mine ! Str. Grateful souls ! M. You have deliberately plotted and planned for my deception. Str. It really strikes you in that light ? Well, we were all in it ; regular three-cornered jam tart ; though I admit I made the pastry. Mrs. R. M. (throwing her arms round Mr. M.) Father ! forgive us ! I am your son's wife — Let me be your daughter too? 32 A FAMILY AFFAIR, M. You are a deceitful girl ! a sly, deceitful, saucy girl ! And I was an old fool. There ! {Kisses her.) R. M. (seizing his hand) My venerated father ! Mrs. R. M. And mine ! Sir. Affecting spectacle ! Excuse a furtive tear ! Enter Josephine, r., with dustpan and broom, Jos. (to Str.) Oh, if you please, mister, 'ere's a party Sir. A what? Jos. A party — come to see yer. Str. A party ? — come to — Any one would think it was Madame Tussaud's ! Jos. Well, 'e says 'is name's " Bill," but 'is shirt says " Bluebottle." Str. No, no ! "Firefly." One of my men. Well? Jos. Which 'e says as "the wind's fair, and the tide serves ; and if so be as you're a mind for fishin', why pass the word for'ard, and 'e'll stand ofif'n on for the bait." Str. We'll be down directly. Jos. Yes, sir. (Aside) I'll arst 'im down the airey. 'E 'ave a rollin' eye and a meller 'uskiness about 'im, as might lead to keepin' company. (Fxit, r.) M. It would appear, sir, that we are in some sort in- debted to you for this reconciliation. Well, sir, I thank you. But, believe me, I do so with profound reluctance. Str. You overpower me. (Shakes hands: Mr. M. unwillingly)) Mrs. R. M. Much as I rejoice in this unhoped-for happiness, I would it had been won by worthier means. Str. More compliments ! R. M. I have profited by your effrontery, and can A FAMILY AFFAIR. 33 afford to overlook it. But let me tell you that you were never nearer having your nose pulled in your life. Str. Now, have we run through the catalogue ? Then let's go for a sail. M. I am obliged to you, but the oscillation of the ocean invariably produces a Sir. Sea sick? M. No, sir. Quite the contrary. Str. Then come along. M. I prefer to remain on shore. R. M. And I. Mrs. R. M. And I. Str. Hm! Then, all things considered, I'll go. Come! No black looks. You're all very much obliged to me. M. Sir, I am not Str. Aware of it ? Take the young people for a walk on the cliff, and long before one o'clock you will be. Re member, you're pledged to me for luncheon. Al. Sir, I will not Str. Be late ? That's right. And you shall give us "The Bride and Bridegroom" with three times three! Come and see me off. AIL With pleasure. Curtain. 3 f Two of Eve's Daughters. A DUOLOGUE. CHARACTERS. CONSTANCE. BEATRICE. Scene. The drawing-room of a country mansion. COSTUMES. Light summer dresses. Straw hats. Two of Eve's Daughters. Scene. A handsomely appointed drawing-room. Grand piano. French window at back, with balcony overlooking the garden. Windows. Door r. Beatrice discovered on the balcony, talking to some one below. Beat. Now don't be tiresome, Dicky, there's a good boy. I want to stay quietly indoors. Oh yes ! I know I'm a " jolly brick," but I'm not coming out, all the same. "Got some Tennis on?" Then I'm a Tennis off 'un. Of course, sir ! all my puns are " ripping good 'uns." Dicky ! (Stamps.) I tell you I won't come out ! "No need to get waxy?" You vulgar little torment, go away! (Comes down, laying her hat aside)} Wretched girl that I am ! No rest by night — no peace by day ! and forced to smile and jest for very shame. (Pacing up and down.) Was ever woman so betrayed ? If any other hand had struck the blow 'twould be less bitter; but Constance ! she, my bosom friend, to seek to steal my lover's love away ! she, who has shared my every thought, since we both dressed our dolls alike, and wept over one storybook at school. Shame on such perfidy ! I never had a secret from her, never ! I have told her all my heart, — except, perhaps, — but that 37 38 TWO OF EVE'S DAUGHTERS. was plain enough to need no telling. {Still pacing to and fro, half crying.) My conquest was the talk of haif the town ; he sought me out through all the London season ; park, ball, or opera, he hardly left my side ; and, now we meet in the same country house, she crawls between, and sets her cunning cap at him ! (Stamps.) I wish the hussy wore a cap ! I'd tear it off her head, and stamp on it ! Where are they now? (Hurries to the balcony.) Not on the lawn ? Oh no ! Meandering in the shadiest walks, away from all observant eyes— away from me ! The shame- less, flaunting flirt! (Comes down.) Think of last night! She at his side in all the cosiest corners of the drawing- room ; and I — poor wretch ! — fast on the centre ottoman, full in the blaze of both the chandeliers ; an album on my knee I know by heart, and every bore the house contains for company I I could have cried my eyes out ! I nearly did. ( Glances out of the window, l.) Why, here she comes ! Alone, and radiant with smiles ! Coming, of course, to cozen me with artless tales of how he pleaded, sighed, im- plored, till she was forced to yield for pity's sake. A brazen hypocrite ! Let her beware, or truth for once shall set her ears a-tingling ! Enter Constance. Con. Why, Beatrice ! Beat. Why not ? Con. Indoors ? Beat. One must be either in or out. (Goes to piano ) Con. But such a glorious afternoon. Too sunny, almost, Beat. For your complexion. Why not for mine ? TWO OF EVE'S DAUGHTERS. 39 Con. I came in, dear, to seek for you. Beat, {touching piano) Where I was least expected. Con. I have been searching for my darling everywhere. Beat, {playing "Charlie is my darling") For me? {Aside) Perhaps. Con. I thought to find you out with all the others on the lawn. Beat, {aside) All the others ! and he away. {Aloud) One can't for everlasting frisk and gambol : even the lambs seek shady rest at times. Con. Beaty, what is amiss ? Are you not well ? Beat. I ? What should ail me ? Con. Nothing, dearest, if I had my way. {Lays aside her hat.) Beat. I have a headache, that is all. Con. Poor child ! {Crosses to Beat. : pours scent on handkerchiefs and damps B.'s forehead) How hot your forehead is ! Beat. It is only a headache. I have had it a long while. Con. What would you give to have it charmed away ? Beat. My heart, I think. Con. I take you at your word. And mind ! you fixed the fee. Beat. I'm Scotch. A jest is wasted upon me. Con. Jesting ? and you in pain ! For headaches such as yours I have a sovereign cure. Beat, j {playing " Begone. Dull Care ") Your fortune's made, then. What is your remedy ? {Rises) Con. Why, just — good news. Beat. Good news? {Aside) He has proposed to her ! 4« TWO OF EVE'S DAUGHTERS. Con. And mine, I hope, you'll think the very best. Beat, {aside) Has she no pity for her wretched rival ! Con. A single moment, whilst I close the door. {Shuts door. ) Beat. It seems the family skeleton is to make a third. Con. You tragedy queen ! There are some things one might not wish quite all the house to hear. Beat. Why not? Or have you something to confess, and are ashamed ! Con. Beatrice! {Aside) Can she be jealous of me? of me, her true, devoted friend ? Oh no ! she could not wrong me so ! Yet she has seemed so changed of late ! so cold and strange. And then her frowns last night — Oh Beaty, if it is so, how will you hate yourself when you know all ! Beat. Well? May one hear this mighty secret? Or has your courage failed you, after all ? Con. {aside) I would not have believed it of any woman — least of all, of her ! W T hat have I ever done that she should think me base, mean, treacherous? She shall be free to think her worst. No ! I must be wronging her ! I'll put her to the test. {To Beat) Come, darling, you are out of heart. Sit down beside me, {Beat, sits on low stool beside her) and hear a tale of love; — so sweet, so simple, it might spring straight from the sighing bosom of a milkmaid. Beat. Milkmaids ! Preserve us ! Trolloping Awdreys, with coarse red hands and hair, whose paradise is straddling on a gate with clodhoppers, smacking off kisses to be heard a mile away ! Con. You Philistine ! respect tradition. Robbed of his licence, where would be your poet ? TWO OF EVE'S DAUGHTERS. 4 1 Beat, Or your publican ? Con. My love ! Beat. And milkmaids, nowadays, are men, and half their labour's at the pump. Con. We jangle, dear, to little purpose. So, to my secret. Beat, (aside) A pretty secret, truly! A child might spell it out. Con. From earliest girlhood we have shared our hearts. Beat, (aside) But sharing hearts cannot go on for ever. One into two — wont go. Con. So far our plans and forecasts of our future have always pictured just us two together, with none to share our lives. Beat, (aside) Who could have pictured — him ? Con. A girl's love is her maiden friend. But woman's fancy takes a bolder range. Beat. Thousands of novels testify the fact, in three un- necessary volumes each. For me, I never could endure a man upon his knees, — except in church. Con. No dream of a sweet wedded life ? Beat, (aside) It was but a dream. Con. Girl — woman — helpmate ; 'tis our common lot. Beat. Lot ! What of Lot's wife ? How many wedded women turn to warning pillars ? pickled in briny tears of disenchantment. Con. Man sues, and woman yields ; he calls, she comes ; he leads, she follows. Beat, (starting up) Not I, for one ! What ! Bow the head to a man ! Lay down my soul's devotion as a right ! Bury my being, and my very name ! Swagger my days out TWO OF EVE'S DAUGHTERS. under borrowed plumes ! Shine by reflected light from some male planet ! Love, honour, and obey a man ! Obey my grandmother ! Con. Ah, Beatrice ! There was a time / made a jest of wooers ! We'll leave our tale, and talk of other things. Beat. No. You have gone too far for that. We'll hear the ending of your pretty story. You came to tell me something? Tell it. Con. Indeed, I Beat. No excuses. Tell me your secret, or I may tell it for you. Con. It means so much, yet you may think it nothing. Who can impart the spell that hangs around a whispered word? What is a soft nothing in the ear? Beat. Why, cotton-wool. Constance, look me in the face ! Con. Oh, spare my blushes ! Beat, They are wasted on a woman. Tell me — I will know — What has he said to you ? Con. I do not understand Beat. What has he said to you ? Con. W 7 hat I scarce dare repeat. Beat. Befitting shame ! But self-reproach shall not protect you. You shall own the worst. Con. Well — in a word — he hinted Beat. I hate your hinting owl ! Cannot the fellow speak out, like a man ? Con. The fellow — has. Beat. It's false ! Con. (rising) Beatrice ! Why are you so unlike your- self? Have I offended you ? TWO OF EVE'S DAUGHTERS. 43 Beat. You have wronged, tricked, cheated me ! I hate you! There! Con. Hate me ? your Constance ? But for what ? What have I done ? Beat. All that is mean, false, cowardly. You, who have mocked at marriage, to snare a husband ! You, who were deaf to wooing, to yield at half a sigh ! Basest of all ! you, who have played the friend, to steal between, and filch his love from me ! Con. From you? Beat. From me — and stare your roundest ! Con. But, dearest Beatrice ! Beat. Dearest fiddlestick ! You hateful toad I Con. "Toad," love, is hardly ladylike. Beat. Frog, then. Con. Be reasonable. Beat. I'm worse. I'm miserable. Con. Believe me, I am innocent. Beat. Tender innocent ! A lurking snake ! A flatter- ing, fawning spy ! Begone ! I'll bandy words with you no longer. Con. Beatrice ! My dearest friend ! Beat. No friends for Beatrice but true friends, though she stand alone ! Go ! I will never, never speak to you again ! Con. We part? In strife? {Pause?) Ah me! He will be grieved, indeed. Beat. You dare to speak of him to me ! Con. {imitating her) III never, never speak of him again. Ha ! Ha ! There, Beatrice ; I call a truce. You silly child ! Answer me, frankly. You think he doesn't really care for me ? 44 TWO OF EVE'S DAUGHTERS. Beat. I'll swear it ! Con. But you've a fancy that he does—or did — for you ? Beat. He loved me dearly, truly, till you came between. Con. How can you know ? He never told you so. Beat. To ask a woman that ! Con. As you will. What if you guessed aright ? Suppose he loved you, and had told you so ? What would have been your answer? Beat. If he had ever — cared to — speak to me, there would have been no need for any answer. Con. What would such silence be but shy consent ? You love him, then ? Beat. And he engaged to you ! Oh, hush ! {Buries her face in her hands.) What have you done ! What have you made me say ? Oh cruel, cruel ! Rivals we may be, but we have been friends. Was it fair — worthy — womanly — to snare a passionate tongue ? My heart ! my heart ! What have I said ? Oh, let me take it back ! Forget my words. I yield. We are no longer rivals — you have gained the prize. I give you joy — indeed I do ! I am defeated — humbled. Pity me ! Honour my shame for our weak sex's sake ! Oh my poor heart ! my heart will break ! [Sinks into armchair, hiding her face, and bursts into tears.) Con. {hurrying to her, kneeling beside her chair, and caressing her tenderly) My poor, poor darling ! Hush, dearest, hush ! Don't sob so bitterly — it wrings my heart ! Beatrice, my darling 1 Oh, my dear ! Pardon me ! I was only jesting with you ! You are wrong — mistaken — I am so grieved — so sorry ! Quick ! Let me whisper what I really came to tell ! ( Whispers ) TWO OF EVE'S DAUGHTERS. 45 Beat. Constance ! Can it be true ? He spoke to you for me ? Con. He did, indeed ; and 'twas our only confidence, upon my honour ! He longed so for the sweetest maiden in the world, that he must come to me — her closest friend — to ask if he might ever hope to win her gentle fa vour. Oh, Beatrice ! you happy, happy girl ! the tears were in his eyes, he loves you so ! Beat. Dearest, you give me back my life ! Con. Your happiness is mine, and ever was and will be. I could not play the traitor. Beat. My noble Constance ! How can I ask your pardon ? Forgive my wicked jealousy ? How could I wrong you so — unheard. Con. It stung me to the quick. And so — I would not set you right. And that was cruel. And I ask your pardon, too. [They embrace ; then rise, together, and embrace again!) And we are friends once more ? Beat. For all our lives. Con. No shadow of a cloud between us ? Beat. No ! no ! no ! Con. Then I am happy. Beat. And I. Con. And some one — soon will be ? Beat. Hush ! ( Whispers, hiding her face on Constance's shoulder) What did you say to him? [Starting away) You did not tell him Con. How could I, what I only partly guessed my- self? Beat. But if you let him see Con. Betray a woman's heart, and I a woman ? Fie j 4 6 TWO OF EVE'S DAUGHTERS, Your lips must make him happy, if it is to be. I only told him Beat What ? Con. To try his fortune. {Taking Beat, in her arms.) I was right ? Beat. Sweet Constance ! {Tunis away her head.) Will he Con. I think — I know he will. Hark ! His step beneath the balcony ! Beat. Oh,, Constance ! let us fly ! Con. To what end? Beat. To the end of the world ! Con. Not with such cheeks, you silly goose ! Stay there. I'll play the spy in earnest. [Moving towards balcony.) Beat. No ! no ! He'll see that we are here ! Con. Love is blind. And there are curtains. (Peeping cautiously over balcony?) Dicky ! Beat. How you frightened me ! Con. (on balcony, speaking over) Dicky ! Dicky ! why so woe-begone ? Run and do something, lad, to raise your spirits ! Yonder's a cat ! A stone, boy ! quick ! You'll break a window if you've any luck. " Can't get a game of tennis ? " Poor Dicky ! Suppose I help you. Hunt up your tall friend. I'll bring Beaty down. Beat. Connie ! I couldn't ! Con. She's what ? " A regular chouse ? v What's that? it's Greek to me. "Said 1 she'd be blowed if she'd play'?" {To Beat.) My dear ! Beat Little wretch ! Con. {to Dicky) She'll come. Leave her to me. " You and I ? " Right you are, Dicky. I'm your man. " Play TWO OF EVE'S DAUGHTERS. 'em for a tanner ? " Certainly not ! we play for love. All right! We'll " hurry up." (Comes down. Puts on her hat '.) He little dreams what pie he's popped his fingers in ! Beat, (at window) Why, Connie ! He has really gone ! Con, (imitating her) Has he? And we're really going too. Beat, Connie ! you're worse than awful ! How can I go? Con. You can't — without your hat. (Hands it to her,) Beat, (hesitating ; then putting on her hat) But what will — everybody — think ? Con. He'll think we're coming. Beat, I mean — what will he think of me ? Con, He'll tell you, by and by. Beat, I never meant to play. Con, I never meant you should. Dicky and I will pla> a single game. Beat, And I Con. Oh you'll be asked to make a match of it. Curtain We ne'er Want a Friend. A DUOLOGUE. CHARACTERS. MR. ALGERNON HOPEWELL. MR. HUMPHREY BAZZARD. Scene. Mr. Hopewell's sitting-room. 4 COSTUMES. Mr. H. — Morning dress; tall hat; gloves; umbrella, and folded newspaper. Mr. B. — Dark Inverness cape, rather shabby ; red and black comforter; soft clerical hat; thick knitted gloves; goloshes ; respirator. Large cotton umbrella. May We ne'er Want a Friend. Scene. A gentleman V sitting-room, comfortably furnished. Doors r. and l. ; window c. Enter Mr. Hopewell, hurriedly, L. 77, I can not — will not — nine o'clock or no ! Let all things mercantile go hang ! (Lays aside his hat, umbrella, and paper, and removes his gloves.) What is the City to a soul that scorns the slavery of official bonds, and wings aloft into the empyrean of ecstatic bliss ! What is a ledger to a man in love ! What is the morning's post to one who waits a missive from his mistress ! Oh, for a kindred soul — a friend — a fond twin entity, to share my passionate longing ! (At the ivindoiv.) Can I believe my eyes? My Bazzard ? Oh happy fortune! (Throws up window, and calls into the street.) Bazzard ! Bazzard, I say ! B. (without) Well? H. Hither, my Bazzard! hasten, I implore! (Closes window, and hurries towards door, r.) Mine own especially cherished friend, come in ! (Enter Bazzard, r., muffled up; very wet, with dripping umbrella.) Oh, Bazzard, I am overjoyed at your arrival. So providential a foregathering ! This solitary heart was all athrob for sympathy, and I wa.s yearning — pining — panting for a friendly voice ! 51 MAY WE NE'ER WANT A FRIEND. B. (sneezes) Atishoo ! H. I glance from yonder casement, and lo ! my Bazzard, my beloved Bazzard, bending his steps to me ! B. {removing his respirator) No. H. No ? In what direction was my Bazzard journeying then, on this tempestuous morn ? — for it does rain, does it not ? B. (shaking himself) Rain ! H. Say, Bazzard, whither bound ? B. Doctor's. H. The doctor's ? Is my own Bazzard then a sufferer ? B. Cold. H. A cold ? Oh doleful day ! Is it a bad cold, Bazzard ? B. {using his handkerchief) Beast ! H. Oh bitter blow ! Give me your wet umbrella. {B< declines, and places it beside him. He removes his gloves, comforter, and goloshes ; unbuttons his overcoat, and takes off large broivn-paper chest protector fastened round his neck by tapes, which he motio?is H. to untie. As each article is re- moved H. takes it, to lay it aside ; B. resents the interference, and snatches it back : eventually disposing them in his pockets, and about his own chair.) 'Tis well. And now, my Bazzard, be seated ; be seated, I entreat ; {both sit) and tune your ear to hearken to a tale of joy — of joy, Bazzard, — of ecstasy, — of rapture ! B. Well ? {Produces skull-cap from his pocket, and puts it on, scowling round in search of imaginary draught ; links his comforter round his neck, ears, and mouth ; and sits lean- ing his chin on the handle of his umbrella.) II. It is a secret — the profoundest secret — you would MA Y WE NE 'ER WAN! A FRIEND. 53 never guess it. (Draws his chair up to B. y mysteriously.) Bazzard, I am — in love. B. Again ! H. (hurt) Again ? No, Bazzard ; not again. I never loved before. No man ever loved before. I may have ha* I a passing fancy for a laughing eye — a flashing ankle B. Young man ! H. 'Twas but the flutter from a sha r t of Cupid, speeding its flight towards another's breast ; but now his dart has pierced me through and through ! I am transfixed — trans- formed — transported ! B. You ought to be. H. Nor is this all. B. Not all ? H. No, Bazzard, no! The best is yet to tell. (Taps B. on the knee.) I am behoved in turn. B. (astonished) Some woman ! II. (drawing himself up) She is not a woman ! B. Eh? H. She is a fairy ! B. (disgusted) Another ballet girl ? H. In form, a sylph ; in feature, goddess-like ; her voice, a silver flute ; her smile, a sunbeam ; her hair B. Oh, cut it short ! H. But how shall words delineate perfection ! To love such charms is bliss ; to be beloved by them, Elysium. 'Twas but last night I saw her first : but seven swift nours ago I left her side ! a lifetime to a lover, wasting the weary hours on a sleepless bed B. Beds never sleep ! H. But, to the vulgar held, a snoring time of brute 54 MAY WE NE'ER WANT A FRIEND. oblivion. I met her in the giddy thronging of a Fancy Ball. By happy chance I went most suitably attired B. As Balaam's beast ? H. Romeo. When I chose out the garb in counterfeit of love-sick Montague, and paid my paltry pelf — some three pounds three B. Fools and their money ! H. I little dreamed of meeting, 'midst the glittering throng, a young, divine, delicious Juliet ! Ah me ! B. Amen ! H. We danced, and danced, and yet we danced again. The world forgetting, by the world forgot, we whirled in Fancy's maze; — we trod on air. Few words sufficed to own our mutual passion : I loved ; was loved again. Too soon, alas ! Old Time, with cruel scythe, severed our bliss. She fled the dazzling scene. I too, disconsolate, hied to my lonely couch, to toss and toss, unresting, until Aurora beamed in on me as I lay. Then I arose ; penned her a passionate proffer of my hand ; despatched the missive by a trusty messenger ; and now await — Why, Bazzard, you're asleep ! B. {opening his eyes) I wish to heaven I were ! Well ? H. " Well " ? That's all. B. (rising promptly) Good morning ! H. (restraining hint) Nay, Bazzard, desert me not ! Leave me not to pine alone. Stay with me — bear me cheerful company, whilst I await my messenger's return from bliss — I mean, from Bays water. B, My doctor H. (starting up) He's here ! B. My doctor ? MAY WE NE'ER WANT A FRIEND. 55 H. Hush ! Not a word ! {Rushes out, r. Buzzard watches him out, astonished ; shrugs his shoulders ; produces bottle of medicine and glass ; tucks his umbrella under his arm ; and proceeds deliberately to measure out a dose.) Hopewell rushes in r., waving a letter. II. Rejoice ! rejoice ! Tis here ! News from my soul's sweet idol ! I burn with joy ! {Rims violently against Projecting umbrella, spmning B. ?-ound, and spilling part of medicine)) B. Lout ! H. {aside; rapturously) Pledging her in my absence? Thus I drain the toast ! {Spins B. back again by his u?nbrella, snatches glass as B. is about to drink, and tosses off the contents^) B. My cough mixture ! H. How quaint a cordial ! Drink to her, Bazzard ; quaff it to the dregs; and I will read you how, with coy and maidenly reserve, she yields her heart. ( Tears open letter) B. {holding medicine bottle up to the light) There's only one dose left. H. {starting, and clasping forehead wildly) Am I awake? No ! no ! It cannot be — I dream — a wild — a g> astly dream ! B. Lobster last night. H. Am I myself ? Are these my rooms ? {Seizing B. by the collar, and shaking him violently) Is this my Bazzard ? B. {disengaging hiynself, testily) It is. H. Impossible — incredible — I'll not believe it! My senses reel — I cannot trace the characters - they dance before my eyes 56 MAY WE NE'ER WANT A FRIEND, B. This is not the Alhambra ! H. (thrusting letter in Bis face, to his annoyance) Read it! Ha! ha! Read it! "All a mistake." You see? " All a mistake." Ten thousand million furies ! 8< She took me, in my mask, for Cousin Bob." B. (immensely tickled) What ? II For Cousin Bob ! Some bumpkin lout ! Some clay- stuck clodhopper ! B. Ha ! ha ! ha ! (Stamps about, laughing immode- rately.) H. Satan, and all his imps ! " Fcr Cousin Bob !" I'll Bob him — and his hob-nailed brogues ! Bob ! (Dashes B. y s hat on the table.) B. (sobered at once) My hat ! (Snatches it away)) H. And she — the basilisk ! the base gill-flirt ! There is no faith in woman ! (B. takes up medicine bottle.) Bazzard, this blow will break my heart ! (Falls, weeping, on B's neck.) B. (pushing his off) You'll break my bottle. H. Every hope in ashes ! Every life pulse dead ! (A* the window)) At such a cataclysm even Nature weeps ! (B. pours out medicine)) How can I face again a mocking world? Where shall I seek — where find forgetfulness ? (Sees B. about to drink.) 'Tis well ! Oblivion's chalice — Give me the fatal cup ! (Snatches glass, and drinks off contents.) B. The last dose ! H. (melodramatically) Bazzard, your friend's last hour has come ! B. It's only aniseed. H. Welcome the tomb, when life has lost its charm ! MAY WE NE'ER WANT A FRIEND. 75 We'll turn our backs upon our boyhood's haunts, never to see them more. You told me you were going to your stockbroker's ? B. (graduaUy resuming his out-door dress) My doctor's. H. Your doctor's. True. You have a corn. B. A cold. H. A cold. I mind it well. Go to him, Bazzard ; he'll give you medicines for that. B. (showing empty bottle) He did, before. H. Where are his potions for a wounded heart ? Can he repair a shattered soul ? Not he, nor any man ! Come, Bazzard, come ! We'll put a bound to all our sufferings. You to your doctor's, and I — I'll find B. (searching about) My goloshes ? H. I'll find a watery grave. I'll to the river; it's slimy flood shall close for ever o'er this wasted form. (Takes 7tp his hat.) Who is your doctor, Bazzard ? B. Pilkington. H. Pilkington ? Pilk — [Aside, putting down his hat) Methinks he has a daughter ? He has ; a fair young daughter ; dances rather well. (Dances steps.) There was a time — (Aloud) Bazzard, I'll pine no more. B. Please yourself. H. I'll stand on my own feet. (Stamps on B's toes.) B. Brute ! H. Bruce, — and the spider. " Try again." Historic — friendly — sound J (B. bloivs his nose sonoroi/sly.) Bazzard, yon rouse me like a trumpet call ! I'll be a man ! B. Hm ! H. I was a boy. B. Ah ! 58 MAY W E NE'ER WANT A FRIEND. H. A puking, love-sick boy. Bazzard, I'll never be a boy again. B, True. H. All that is over — over ! I'll never be a — {Slaps B. violently on the back) B. Fool ! H. I won't. Cousins, forsooth ! What's Cousin Bob to me ? B. Or me. H. What is his cock no^ed cousin, sir, to me? She s not the only woman in the world ? B. Worse luck ! H. There are others still unwedded ? B. I've met one or two about. IT. Let her go ! B. To Jericho. H. Jericho be it ; and we'll away, each to find comfort to his several taste. Medicine for you ; for me, a maiden's smile. B. Pills before petticoats. If. Pearls before paste. No longer linger. Bazzard, spread your wings ! B. My what ? H. Your wings. [Clapping him on the shoulder!) Soar ! Bazzard, soar ! B. [rubbing his shoulder) I shall be. H. Hence, let us hence, on Hope's extended pinions ! (B. partly opens his umbrella, to try the spring ; and lays it aside. H. seizes it, and strikes heroic attitude!) " Charge, Humphrey, charge ! On, Bazzard, on ! " were the last words of Algernon. {B. misses his umbrella ; snatches it MA Y WE NE'ER WANT A FRIEND. angrily from H., and tucks it tinder his arm.) We'll straight to Pilkington's together. [Puts on hat ; takes up gloves j &c.) B. (removing his skull-cap) Together ? H. Why not ? B. (putting on his hat) What's wrong with you ? H. (tragically) The heart. B. ( putting on one glove) He'll cure it. H. She'll cure it. B. She ? Who ? H. His daughter. B. Whose daughter? H. Whose daughter ? Bazzard, you are dull. His daughter. Pilkington's daughter. The daughter of Pilk ington. B. He has only one. H. No man can marry more. B. But she is engaged. H. N — no, Bazzard. Your partial friendship o'erlenps the event. Not yet engaged, Bazzard. Say, hopes to be. B. (putting on his other glove) Is. H. (starts) Is what ? B. Affianced. H. (incredulous) To whom ? B. To me. (Stalks out, r., unmoved. IE sinks, over powered, into a chair.) CURTATN. A Southerly Wind and Cloudy Sky. A PLAY, IN ONE ACT. " A southerly wind and a cloudy sky Proclaim a hunting morning.'' Old Song. CHARACTERS. SQUIRE THORNICROFT. JARED MOLYNEUX. DICK. CYNTHIA MOLYNEUX. MARTHA. Scene. Breakfast-room at Scarfield Manor, COSTUMES. Squire. — Morning jacket ; white vest and scarf ; buckskin breeches ; stockings and slippers. Afterwards, hunting coal and cap ; top-boots. Molyneux. — Friends" walking dress. Dick. — Old striped waistcoat \ with calico sleeves ; corduroy breeches ; drab gaiters ; stable cap. Cyn. — Flam riding habit, with frilled collar, tucker and cuffs. Dove-coloured neck ribbon. Soft felt hat. Flower in front of dress. Martha, — Figured gown ; large frilled cap, with flowers ; apron ; spectacles. Afterwards, old-fashioned beaver bonnet ; thick shawl. A Southerly Wind and a Cloudy Sky. Scene. A good-sized room, wainscoted in old oak. Dark wall-paper, and curtains. Heavy family portraits. Old-fashioned oak furniture. Carved sideboard, with silver, &>c. Fire burning. Room very untidy ; guns, whips, fishing rods, boxing gloves, top coats, dog collars, saddle, hunting caps, post horn, spurs, &c, scattered about. Mantelpiece littered ivith pipes, cigar cases, tobacco jars, &c. Hunting coat hung over chair ; top- boots standing in front of the fire. Side table, with dilapidated writing materials. Centre table laid for bachelor breakfast ; joint, cold pie, beer, brandy, soda water, &>c. Doors r. audi,. Squire heard without; " Down, you brute ! Down ! Martha ! Turn out these dogs ! " Enter r, singing, Sq. {sings) " A southerly wind and a cloudy sky Proclaim a hunting morning ; " Fire and fury ! Half-past nine ! Who's seen my boots ? Martha ! where are my Oh, here they are ! (Sits, putting on his boots.) Quarter Sessions, and a Magistrate? 63 64 A SOUTHERLY WIND AND A CLOUDY SKY. dinner afterwards — plays Old Harry with hunting next morning. (Sings) " The wife around her husband throws Her arms to make him stay, ' My dear, it rains, it hails, it snows ! ' — " Good sort of wife, that? Serves the fool right. What do hunting men want with family cares? Poor old Tom Blake — hardest rider this side of trouble ! He got a wife — or a wife got him ; now all his exercise is to lead a knock-kneed pony round and round the paddock with a couple of squalling brats on its back — strapped on its back, by George ! — in baskets— like cabbages ! Well, I thank my stars I was born a bachelor ! I'll never be wed of my own free will. {Flings slippers different ways, and goes to window.) A glorious day ! — always a quick find at the Spinney — we shall have the meet of the season. Three miles, though, if it's a step. I must be off. Breakfast ready ? That's a comfort ! Can't stop for more than a mouthful. (Sits at table.) Tea be hanged ! Hate slops for breakfast ! Give me a glass of good home-brewed ! (Drinks ; goes on with breakfast l .) Where's Dick got .to, with Lancelot? Dick ! What's the use? he's as deaf as a post. Martha ! Where the deuce is the Bother the women ! Can't even leave a bell alone Stop, though ! I flung it out of window at a rat — killed him, too ! Martha ! Enter Martha, r. Mar. Bless us and zave us, Maister Jahn, whativer be 'bout? tairin' an' yaalin' 'bout az if the plaace was a-vire ! Bain't 'ee 'shamed ov yerzel? Sq. I want you to see if Dick's got Lancelot ready. A SOUTHERLY WIND AND A CLOUDY SKY. 65 Mar. If zo be az Dick dunnaw his work by this time, 'taint no odds o' mine to larn 'un. Now what make o' time be yew a-comin' trapesin' home to-night ? Sq. How can I tell ? Ask the fox. Mar. Ask yer granmawther ! Luke yer, Maister ! I rackon I've a-bin bothered 'nough, kapein' dinner waitin' dawzlin' 'bout, till nine or tain ov a night, ees fey ! and then scraalin' hoam, dead beat, wi' a tew-dree good-vor nothen young hosebirds, smothered wi' mud, spoilin' the ca'apets, an' laafin' an' zwarein', an' goin' on, like all that, Sq. You fond old woman ! How could I help it ? Mar. Help or hinder, 'tis dun an' awver \ but I'll have no moor ov ut. Your dinnur'll be zet on the taable at zix o'clock to-night ; zo yew'm best be back by thain, or yew'll ate 'un cawld ! (Exit, r.) Sq. What an old termagant ! Believe I'm half afraid of her. How she used to trim my youthful jacket ! Let a man stand up and say John Thornicroft's afraid of him ! — but a woman ! you can't give a woman a hiding ; and if you scold, she cries. Ugh ! I wish Dick and I could live over the stables, out of range of a petticoat altogether. (Enter Dick, l.) New, Dick ! Lancelot ready ? Dick. Aye, he's ready eneaf. Sq. Bring him up ! I must be off. Dick. Isn't t' comin' t' look at t' bull pup? Sq. Can't stop now. Give the little beggar another dose, and I'll see about him when I get back. (Dick grunts.) That coat been brushed this morning ? Dick* I hevn't brushed it. Doant knaw whether some 5 66 A SOUTHERLY WIND AND A CLOUDY SKY. o' t' women hez. They hevn't no wt else to dew. Ah saay, Squire, Sur. 74 A SOUTHERLY WIND AND A CLOUDY SKY. Cyn. Let me pass, or I will inform Friend Thornicroft of thy behaviour ! Mar. He's no vriend ov yours. Now, how com 5 'ee yur ? Cyn. I was thrown from my horse, and Mar. Than 'twaas trew? Dick told me ov ut, but he's a most mortal tarr'ble liar, vor zarten, zo I didn' belave 'un. Mare 'ad 'urned away? Cyn. I sought with all my strength to turn her from that fearful hill — but I was powerless ! We flew with maddest speed towards the dreaded stones — Death waited there ! — I saw a horseman galloping at hand — I sought to cry to him — we fell — I know no more ! Mar. 'Twas Maister Jahn ! Cyn. He ? (Aside) I am glad ! Afar. Dick zays he zeed en vrom the winder, view tu 'is hoss, dashed 'cross the vields, leept six fute hadge intu th' road, an' catched 'ee as yew vailed. He wadn' hurt, was he ? Cyn. By God's grace, no ! though he nobly risked his life for mine. Mar. An' than he claapped 'ee on 'is hoss bevore 'un, an' brought 'ee yur. Cyn. (aside) He bore me in his arms ! Cynthia ! He ! Afar. Wadn' 'ee hurt yerzel ? Cyn. But very little. The fall stunned me, and Mar. Pore sawl ! pore sawl ! Blass yer purty vace ! I be naglin' sometimes, my dear, but doan't 'ee take no notiss o' my grummels. On'y tu think ov her vallin' off a hoss, a purty de-ar ! her mus' be 'most mazed wi' vright ! — an' now yur zlavin' an' zlavin' tu putt the maister's rume A SOUTHERLY WIND AND A CLOUDY SKY. 75 vitty ! But 'tidn' naw use, I tell 'ee. He kapes un 'is awn vashion. Do 'ee zit down an' rast, my dear ! Cyn. But, truly, I am rested. Mar. Zit down, my purty little vlower, while I scraals up zomethin' vor 'ee tu ate. Cyn. Truly, I need nothing. I am returning at once to my home Mar. But yew mus', my dear. Do 'ee, now ! Cyn. Indeed, I Enter Squire, r. Mar. Yur he be, my brave boy ! I've a-yerd awl about it, Maister Jahn ! — blass 'er 'art ! — I've a-yerd how brave my boy's bin ! An' little did I think I'd iver be proud tu zee wan uv her naame onder our rufe ! but I be ! I declare I be ! proud an' happy ! An' now I'll goo an' zit in the zettle, and have a gude cry, that I wull ! {Embraces Sq. hurriedly. Exit, r.) Sq. (laughing) Miss Molyneux, you deal in witchcraft ! To charm my crabbed old housekeeper ! But you look distressed, — agitated Cyn, I have but just heard from the aged sister that it is to thy generous aid I owe my safety. Sq. (aside) Confound the chattering old woman i (To Cyn.) Indeed I did nothing Cyn. Nothing? To risk thy very life to succour a stranger ? Sq. It was no more than every man would have done, and gladly, in my place. Cyn. Every man would not have had the skill, friend, and few indeed the courage. (Sq. turns away.) But 76 A SOUTHERLY WIND AND A CLOUDY SKY. thanks are irksome to thee. Let me but say that I am grateful. (Sq. bows.) Sq. Your father is absent, Miss Molyneux, doubtless in search of you. I have sent my man to wait for him, that he may have the earliest word of your safety. Cyn. Thou art most kind and thoughtful. {Pause.) And I fear that, in thy absence, I have given thee offence. Sq, Impossible. Cyn. I sought to make the room more orderly ; but thou desirest otherwise, the aged sister says ; and I would ask thy pardon, having done amiss. Sq. I am only sorry you should see the need for womanly skill. The fact is — won't you sit down? — since my dear mother died I have fallen into habits of my own. Even in my tidier days, if I ever had any, I would have one room where I did exactly as I chose, and now I do so here. Cyn. An undue precision may be irksome — and truly Aunt Patience carries it to extremity— but a dwelling should be orderly. Sq. And mine is ten times brighter for your kindly handiwork. (Pause.) Cyn. Friend Thornicroft, I — I am moved to say a word to thee in season. Wilt thou give me leave ? Sq. With you for minister, I'd listen to a book of sermons. Cyn. Nay, do not jest. Wilt thou suffer me to repeat what my father says of thee ? Sq. Nothing complimentary, I fear? Cyn. He speaks of thee as a thoughtless youth, wasting the life and means entrusted to him in idle pastimes and cruel sports. A SOUTHERLY WIND AND A CLOUDY SKY. 77 Sq. {laughing) Not half so bad as I expected. And it isn't true. Cyn, Friend Thornicroft ! Not true ? Sq. Certainly not. In what idle pastimes or cruel sports do I engage ? Cyn. Dost thou not frequent those places where horses strive for money ? Sq. I beg your pardon ? Oh ! — I go to the races ? Certainly. So does every nobleman in the county. Cyn. The pastime is none the worthier of respect. Does the sport ennoble them ? or thee ? And for cruelty, this morning, had not the spirit moved thee to a nobler deed, thou with many another would have goaded and spurred thy horse well nigh unto death, striving to o'ertake a creature no bigger than thy hound. Sq. Why, Miss Molyneux, you ride yourself, and I have seen your father on horseback, times out of mind ! Cyn. For healthful exercise, truly. But when hast thou seen either of us urging our dumb friends to chase and harass one of God's creatures which hath done us no harm ? Sq. Done no harm ! Ha ! ha ! You are used to a town life, Miss Molyneux. Did you ever see a fox in a poultry yard ? Cyn. If the animal doth hurt to thy goods, a trap will rid thee of it. Sq. Trap a fox ! Miss Molyneux, you make me shiver! Cyn. Thou hadst rather the poor brute lived, that thou and thy dogs might put it to torture. Sq. I don't know about 1 torture.' Torture's a hard word. Cyn. Is it less ? to be chased from woodland haunts, hunted by howling dogs and men, driven without stay from 78 A SOUTHERLY WIND AND A CLOUDY SKY. every resting place, breathless, terror-stricken, hurried on — on — on ! till strength itself is gone, and brutal riders press around to see a panting beast torn limb from limb ! {Covers her face with her hands ', sobbing,) Sq. You put it very strongly : you do, indeed. Hunt- ing is second nature to a country man; he is bred to it from his cradle. And is it worse for me than others ? Cyn. Far worse, if thou hast a heart to feel and a mind to care for better things. And if all the world were cruel, would it make thy cruelty the less ? Sq. Besides, what is a man to do ? Cyn. Oh, Mr. Thornicroft ! for shame ! for shame ! What is a man to do ? Are there no books ? no poor ? no charities? no good works lying to thy hand in the village — even in thine own neglected home ? But I crave, thy pardon, friend ! my zeal outruns my discretion ; my tongue speaketh harsh words. Sq. I beg you will not say so. It is good and womanly to point a careless fellow's thoughts to better things But think how hard it is to do one's best, alone; with no companion to assist one's plans, no friend to give a helpful word, no woman's smile to grace the lonely fireside Enter Dick, l. Dick. Pleeaze, Squire, t' bull pup Sq. (dashing round furiously) Damn the bull pup ! Cyn. Oh shame ! shame ! Sq. Forgive me ! {Aside to Dick) What is it now, you blundering brute ? Dick. Nowt. Ah nobbut wanted to tell yer V bull pup A SOUTHERLY WIND AND A CLOUDY SKY. 79 Sq. Get out of the room ! Dick. Weel, ah'm bawn ! {Aside) Blest if ah doan't beleeave t 1 maister is a-makin' up to t' Quaaker lass ! He : s as short as a carrit ! Sq. Be off, you fool ! What are you waiting for ? Dick. Ah'm nut, 'ceptin to tell yer ahVe been up to T' Fuzzes Sq. Well ? Dick. WelPn Owd Broadbrim sez Sq. Fool ! Mr. Molyneux ! Dick (aside) Ah towd yer which waay t' wind laay! (Aloud) 'E sez 'e's " comin' ovver, straightwaay." Sq. Very well. You can go. Dick. Knaw? Ah knaws Owd Broadbrim raight eneaf ! Sq. You dolt ! begone ! (Exit Dick, l.) (Aside) Coming ! — and quickly ! Coming to carry her off, with all her sweet, quaint, winning words and ways, and leave me here again, — a country clod ! If some should hear my altered tune ! — Pshaw ! What do I care for what I used to preach ! Women ai'e angels — one is, a pretty dear ! (Aloud) Miss Molyneux, my servant tells me your father will arrive at once. Cyn. Truly I feared he might have heard of my distress. Sq. Yes, he is hastening here already to hurry you away, and warn you from me still more bitterly. I shall never see you, or hear your voice again. Cyn. And thou hast stood in peril of thy life for me ? Maidens are not so false and fickle, friend. Sq. I was a brute ; forgive me ! But you have brought such gladness to my hearth — such grace — such happiness — 8o A SOUTHERLY WIND AND A CLOUDY SKY. it did seem hard at first to have you vanish, like the fairy of a children's tale, to be seen no more. Cyn. Friend Thornicroft, we dwell but on the hill. Sq. A bare half-mile between ? So much the worse to bear ; you might be leagues away. A troop of soldiers would have warmer welcome to your father's house than I, his nearest neighbour. We are at enmity. Cyn. Because neither has yet been minded neighbourly. But when thou comest to know and honour my dear father, — as thou must — and he thee, will thou not then find a greeting at his threshold ? Sq. (aside) I'd hold a rushlight to Beelzebub to see her bonny face again ! {Aloud) How are we ever to be brought together ? Cyn. I will essay the task, most willingly, and doubt not of success. Sq. And you and I ? May we be friends in time ? Cyn. Now — if thou wilt. (Pause.) Sq. Will you give me a keepsake to show that we are friends. Cyn. Friendship hath need of no such outward token. Sq. I know how bold a thing it is to ask, but let me have something I may treasure ; any trifle you have worn — a glove — a scrap of ribbon — the flower from your dress Cyn. (taking flower from her fiosom, and playing with the leaves : softly) But that in time will droop away, and die. Enter Martha, r. Mar. My purty little deary, yur be yer vather com' vur 'ee. A SOUTHERLY WIND AND A CLOUDY SKY. 81 Cyn. My father ? already ? Mar. Maister Jahn, be I to zhow 'un up. Sq. Yes, Martha. {Exit Martha, r.) Miss Molyneux, your father will be here in a moment, and you will be gone, and it will be too late. Will you not be gracious ? Will you not spare me a flower in remembrance of this happiest of happy days ? Cyn. {softly) Friend — it is thine. {Gives him flozver ; he presses her hand.) Enter Martha, r., ushering in Mr. Molyneux. MoL My own beloved child ! My cherished Cynthia ! What joy is mine to fold thee in these arms again ! Hast thou indeed escaped unhurt ? Cyn. Indeed, dear father. MoL Let us give thanks. {All bow their heads. Pause. To Sq.) Friend, my very heart of hearts is full of gratitude. I thank the gracious Spirit that moved thee to hazard life itself for one in grievous peril. Sq. Indeed, sir, you make too much of what I had the happiness to do. MoL Nay, not too much. Of all my little ones, she only lives to gladden my old age ; dear to me as the very light of day. May Heaven deal bountifully with thee — as it will— for thy most generous deed. Friend Thornicroft, give me thy hand. We have been wilful, hitherto, that we would journey separate ways. Let us not henceforth walk apart, but be in concord and goodwill. Sq. With all my heart, sir. MoL Let us so meet without delay. Wilt thou share our middav meal to-morrow ? " 6 82 A SOUTHERLY WIND AND A CLOUDY SKY. Sq. Most willingly. MoL I shall gladly welcome thee beneath my roof. And now, my daughter, let us pass upon our way. Friend Thornicroft, in all sincerity, I wish thee well. Sq. Good-bye, sir. I fear I have offered you a sorry welcome, but I rejoice to see you here — your daughter, too. MoL I thank thee heartily for both. For the time, farewell. {Exit, r., Martha showing him out.) Cyn. (curtseying) Farewell. [Gives him her hand, shyly.) Sq. (bending over her hand) Until to-morrow. (Puts her flower to his lips.) Cyn. {pausing at the door, and looking back) Until to- morrow. (Exit, r.) Curtain Asking Papa. A DUOLOGUE. CHARACTERS, MR. ZACHARIAH RUMBELOW. MR. BOB TOUCHITT. Scene. Mr. Rumbelow's Study, Epicurus Lodge, Tu/se Hill. COSTUMES. Mr. R. — Floivered dressing-gown ; loose grey trousers ; ill- fitting white vest; high collars ; white cravat; black silk skull-cap ; gold eyeglasses. Mr. T. — New tweed suit; new tall hat ; light gloves and tie ; white flower in buttonhole. Asking Papa. Scene. A small apartment, furnished with bookshelves, writing table, &c. Old engravings on the walls. Enter Mr. Rumbelow, examining a visiting-card through his glasses. R. Really a most inconvenient time for a person to call. My daughter, by my desire, furnishes me daily, half an hour before luncheon, with a list of the dishes that will be served. She has just informed me that to-day I am to have the leg of a pheasant, prepared in Soyer's own manner ; one of my favourite gastronomic pleasures ; but how am I to adequately prepare my mind for its enjoyment, when this — ha ! — person And what does his card say ? Ha, hm ! " Bob Touchitt." Extremely coarse and vulgar, to be sure. Bob! An epithet; a contraction; a mere nickname, suggestive of the most plebeian society. Touchitt? Am I already acquainted with that cognomen? Surely the appellation of the family in the adjoining domicile ? Possibly this is the young man from next door? 85 86 ASKING PAPA, {Enter Mr. Touch itt, hat in hand.) It is the young man from next door. ' Ha, hm ! Will you walk in, sir ? T. You are very good, sir. {Aside) I'm in an awful fright ! {Drops his hat.) R. Oblige me by taking a seat. {Sits.) T. You are very good, sir, I'm sure. (Aside) I'd give a guinea for a glass of wine ! {Sits, placing his hat on the table?) R. Mr. — ha — Crushitt, I perceive. T. Touchitt, sir. R. Touchitt. I beg your pardon. Touchitt, of course. May I inquire, Mr. Touchitt ? But, excuse me,- T. Certainly, sir. {Aside) What on earth is the matter ? R. {pointing with his glass) Your — ha, hm ! — hat. T. Ah, I'm very sorry. You don't like it on the table ? {Places hat beside his chair, where it gets upset at intervals during the scene.) R. Thank you. I am inclined to be somewhat particular about these minor matters. I was about to inquire, Mr. Smudgitt, T. I beg pardon again, sir ; Touchitt. R. Quite so. Touchitt, of course. You mentioned it before. Touchitt, by all means. I was about to inquire, Mr. Touchitt, — as to the object of my being favoured with the present visit. T. Well, the fact is, sir, I have taken the liberty of venturing to call — that is, I mean I — I have presumed to solicit an interview this morning, to — to see you — in short, on a matter of business. {Fidgeting with his coat.) ASKING PAPA. < Q 7 R. No one would imagine, I presume, that a visit at such an hour could have any but a business object. T. Certainly, — I mean, of course not. R. And therefore, — I say, and therefore — Excuse me T. Not at all, sir. R. Is the communication you desire to make to me in any way furthered by the — ah ! — buttoning and — hm ! — un- buttoning of your apparel ? T. Oh no, sir ! quite the reverse. R. Then if you would kindly suffer your habiliment to remain in either a flowing or a coherent condition, as may suit your convenience T. I'll unbutton it, with pleasure. R. I am obliged to you. These constant rearrange- ments of costume are not conducive to an undistracted attention. You were about to mention, Mr. T. Touchitt, sir. R. Mr. Touchisser — you were about to mention the business which had necessitated the present interview. T. I was, sir. (Aside) If I could only get a start ! (Aloud) Of course, when you — call upon a gentleman, you — I mean, he — naturally expects you — I mean, you naturally expect me to — to explain R. One moment, sir. T. Oh, certainly. R. Would you object to removing your hands from your pockets during the ? T. Of course ; — on the contrary ; — I mean, not at all. R. Thank you. It is one of my— ha! — small weak- nesses to be totally unable to converse with an individual cS8 ASKING PAPA. with his hands in his pockets. You were about to explain, Mr. Crutchitt, T. Yes, sir ; — Touchitt, if you don't mind ; — I was about to explain my object in waiting upon you this morning. R. Very proper. Very proper, indeed. Nothing more so. And what is the nature of ? T. Well, sir, it's — it's of a matrimonial nature. R. I do not understand you. I assure you I do not in the least understand you. If this is some foolish jest T. Oh no, sir ! I was never more serious in my life ! {Aside) Serious ? I'm shaking all over ! R. Then possibly you will have the politeness to explain what it is you do mean ? T. Nothing I am more anxious to do, sir ; nothing, I'm sure ; but being naturally a little nervous, and coming on such an errand into the presence of a gentleman like yourself, R. 1 Presence ' is a characteristic word. T. I've no doubt if you'll give me a little time, sir, I could commence in a clear and straightforward style. Ahem ! My name, sir, is Touchitt R. Touchitt ? Much obliged, I am sure. I had not quite caught that previously, I think. Touchitt, of course. T. Yes, sir ; Bob Touchitt. R. Robert, surely? T. I believe I was christened Robert ; but as I wasn't present R. Bless my soul ! Not present ? T. I mean, I don't remember. But being always called ' Bob,' ASKING PAPA. 89 R. Oh dear no ! I couldn't think of such a thing Pray let it be 'Robert' on the present occasion, Mr. Crushitt. T. Certainly, sir ; Touchitt, too. R. And if you would not mind, Mr. Touchitoo, re- moving your hands from the pockets of your pantaloons — ? T, I beg pardon, sir, I'm sure. I'm always like that when I'm nervous ; I never know what to do with my hands. R. So I should be disposed to imagine. You were saying ? T. That my name was Touchitt ; Bob — I mean, — Robert Touchitt, R. Touchitt ? Much obliged, I am sure. I think I had hardly Touchitt, by all means. It was on the card. Continue, I beg. T. I reside, sir, in the house next door. R. So I was led to infer. I trust Mr. (examining card carefully through his glasses) — Touchitt — that you have no complaint to make of us as neighbours ? T. {tying knots rapidly in his handkerchief ) Oh dear no, sir ! quite the reverse, I assure you. I am only too proud of having the pleasure of the honour of R. You are very obliging. Always gratifying to preserve amicable relations with the — ah ! — residents in the — hm ! — adjoining tenements. You were saying that — your memory is defective ? T. No, sir ; not that I am aware of. R. The variety of knots you were tying in your hand- kerchief led me to imagine T. I didn't know what I was doing, sir ; that's all. R. {aside) Half my time for meditation gone already ! 9 o ASKING PAPA. I wonder what this person's object can possibly be ! {Aloud) Have you any further communication to make, sir? T. Oh yes, sir ! I hadn't begun. R. Then, if you will proceed at once, I shall be obliged ; and, if you will condense your observations, you will confer a further favour. T. I'll do my best, sir. (Aside) Now for it ! I'll shut my eyes. (Recites rapidly.) My name is Robert Touchitt ; I reside next door ; present salary two hundred a year, with a prospect of a rise R. Really, Mr. (refers to card) — Touchitt; very absurd of me ; no head for names ; — I am not prepared to hear you say your catechism. T. But I thought, sir, you would be anxious to know something about me ? R. Not in the least, I assure you. T. But, under the circumstances R. By no means. No necessity for any explanation whatever. Youthful neighbour favours me with a call ; not at the most convenient season, but possibly he lunches at an early hour ; mentions who he is, and what he has, and, in short, a variety of information. Very gratifying thing. (Rises.) Any other time you are passing, Mr. T. But I am afraid, sir, you don't quite understand. R. Not understand ? (Sits.) This is most extra- ordinary ! What do I not understand? T. The object of my call, sir. R. Merely to call, I presume? T. (rubbing the table with his coat sleeve) Oh, much more than that, sir. ASKING PAPA. 91 R. Then will you kindly refrain from further polishing the surface of my library table, — thank you — and state, in so many words, what your object is ? T. To ask for your daughter's hand, sir. (Aside) Now the murder's out. R. (starting up) You miscreant ! You vagabond ! Leave the room instantly ! T. (rising) But, sir R. Not a word ! Not a syllable ! Begone ! T. If you will only allow me to R. A more scandalous and — ha! — wanton proceeding I never heard of. For a perfect stranger, a young man— hm ! — of whom nobody knows anything T. But indeed, sir, I had endeavoured to explain R. I say, for a nameless individual to thrust himself into a gentleman's study at a most inconvenient time, when he was specially engaged 71 I'm very sorry, sir. I gave your servant half-a- crown R. Sir ! T. I did, indeed ; and he assured me you were alone, and disengaged. R. But I tell you, fellow, I was most particularly en- gaged ; on private business, — ha ! — of the utmost import- ance. 2! I am awfully sorry to have put my foot in it. If you will let me call another time R. No, sir. Let me never see your countenance again. You will take your foot — both feet — out of it, as quickly as possible. (Seats himself angrily, and turns his back?} T. (hesitating) I assure you, sir, I meant no harm. 92 ASKING PAPA. R. (facing round furiously) Meant no harm ! Confound your impudence ! You meant no harm? Have you con- sidered the consequences of this shameless conduct to my — ha ! — feelings? my — ha! — temper? my — hm ! — digestion? You intrude on my private meditations, weary me with chatter, fidget me to death with your antics, and now demand the hand of my only daughter ! Impertinent rascal, begone ! (Turns his back, as before.) T. Well, sir, if you won't listen to me R. I will not. Away ! T. (picking up his hat) Very well, sir. I only ventured to come because Amelia wished it. R. (dashing his chair round) Amelia ! How dare you ! Miss Rumbelow. T. No, sir ; Mrs. Touchitt, if you please. R. (starting up in a fury) What ! T. Mrs. Touchitt. We were married this morning. R. {stammering with rage) You were— this — How dare you insult me with such a mendacity ! (Shaking his fist.) Go, sir ! Go, I say ! and let Miss Amelia be sent downstairs to me! T. Impossible, sir. R. Impossible, sirrah ! What do you mean ? T. She is not in the house. R. Then where the devil is she, sir ? T. In my house ; that is — I mean, in my room. R. In your room ? T. Yes, sir ; we are temporarily located in one of the attics over the office. R. And have you the audacity to announce that you have carried off my daughter, — ha ! — clandestinely, and ASKING PAPA. 93 — hm ! — without even demanding my consent to your union ? T. Well, you see, sir, we were afraid if we did ask it, we shouldn't get it ; so we took the bull by the horns, and R. Took the bull How dare you, sir ! But I wash my hand of the whole affair. Henceforth I will have nothing to do with her. Present my compliments to Mrs. Rackitt, and tell her I will have nothing whatever to do with her. She is my offspring no longer. (Sits.) T. Oh, sir ! I hope you won't quite throw the poor girl over ? I left her in such a deuce of a fright — (fidgeting with the inkstand.) R. Timidity was hardly to be expected in such a trifler with her parent's heart. Be pleased to leave my penholders to themselves, and me to my sorrow. (Buries his face in his handkerchief^) T. But, Mr. Rumbelow, won't you let me take her a word of comfort ? We were very imprudent, I know ; but we were so fond of one another, and so frightened of you R. Frightened of me ! How dare you ! Am I a guy ? or a ghost ? T. Oh, no ! quite the contrary. I mean, we were so frightened of your displeasure. R. And not without cause, sir; not without cause. She has aimed a blow at this parental bosom which will recoil upon her own ungrateful head. T. (drying his eyes with a penwiper) To see her gazing, with floods of tears, upon your venerable portrait R. I can not — I really can not permit you, Mr. Rubbitt to complete your toilette with my penwiper. 94 ASKING PAPA. T. I am truly sorry, sir ; my feelings overcame me. And to hear her sobbing out the names of all the entrees she had learned to dress exactly to your taste' R. Heartless renegade ! And she deserts her father's hearth ! flies from her cares of culinary supervision ! leaves her parent's palate at the mercy of a menial ; and quits him for an individual — whose twiddling with his hat, alone, would have worried Job into an early grave ! T. Only as I sallied out, she called to me to let you know a pheasant's leg was cooking for your luncheon. R. And of what avail is her announcement of my favourite dish, when she knows I cannot even touch bread sauce which is not of her preparing ? T. But she is dying to prepare it, sir, if you will only allow her. {Pause ; Touchitt playing with a paper-knife.) R. Mr. — ha ! — Touchitt, how long have you known my daughter ? T. Six months, sir. R. And where did you — Put that paper-knife away, for heaven's sake ! Sit down on a chair, — sit straight ! and behave like a reasonable being! (T. sits hastily on the edge of a chair.) Where did you make her acquaintance ? T. On the Rink. R. The sink ? T. The Rink ; the Skating Rink. We were both learn- ing, at the same time ; and first she fell, and I helped her up ; and then I fell, and she helped me up ; and then we both fell, — in love,— and could neither of us help that at all. R. Well, Mr. By the way, what is the girl's name now ? ASKING PAPA. 95 T. Touchitt, sir. R. True. Touchitt. I think I had your card. Well, Mr. Touchitt, I am not stone ; I am not marble ; I am a father. Tell Amelia she may return. T. Thank you, sir, indeed. I — I presume I may come, too? R. Oh dear me, I suppose so ! I presume you will be an indispensable — ah ! — appendage now. But I am confi- dent your distracting deportment will- Do pray cease crossing and uncrossing your legs in that very T. I beg your pardon, si r , I'm sure. Now it's all right I hope I shall be more collected. And may I fetch Amelia to you now, sir ? R. Certainly. At once. It is past my luncheon hour already. Take a cab both ways, Mr. — — T. Touchitt. {Going; returns) Oh, and Amelia par- ticularly desired, sir, that you would impart your blessing. {Kneels.) R. My blessing ? Well, well ! She is a shameless girl, and has ruined my digestion for the day ; but there ! I suppose I must wish you both happiness. Bless you, my Will you leave my shoestrings alone, sir ! {Touchitt rises, in confusion.) Take a cab both ways ; both ways. {T.bows. Exit) Oh, and— ah!— Rushitt! Tell him to drive fast, Rushitt ; tell him to drive fast ! Curtain. Where there's a Will, there's a Way. A PROVERB IN ACTION. CHARACTERS. JUSTINIAN RYGMAROLE. SIMEON LOOBY. Scene. The offices of Messrs. Rygmarole, Pounce, and Rygmaro/e, Lincolris Inn Fields. 7 COSTUMES, Mr. R. — Light grey suit, L. — Wide-skirted brown velveteen coat ; cloth vest and trousers^ very short ; clumsy Wellington boots ; rough white beaver hat ; wide collar ; blue tie ; green gingham umbrella ; bundle^ in a coloured cotton handkerchief ; large travelling bag of figured carpet ; immense bouquet of common flowers. Where there's a Will, there's Scene. A solicitor's private room. Papers, deed boxes, &*c. Cake and wine on a side table. Mr. Rygmarole dis- covered, examining paters. R. So poor old Tidbury's will is to be disputed, after all ! Well, well ! This is a litigious world ! Not that a lawyer need lament ; when folks fall out, grist comes to our mill. {Takes up will.) I knew this infernal codicil would raise trouble. If the residuary legatee sat down under it he would be a born fool. " A forgery," says he. Well, I'm much of his opinion. Whoever drew it up was either a forger, or a lunatic ; though it is not for me to say so. Everything depends on the witnesses ; if they can swear to old Tidbury's signature, Mr. Residuary Legatee may whistle. (Reads) " Signed by — " and so forth — "Peter Firkin; Simeon Looby"; both of Tidbury's ad- dress ; two of the servants, no doubt. I have written to them to come up to-day; nothing can be done until we know what they are prepared to swear. Talking of swear- a 99 ioo WHERE THERE S A WILL, THERE'S A WA V. ing, I must write to Tape and Scrivener for their affidavit. ( Writes. A knock without?) Come in. {Knock repeated?) Come in. (Knock repeated, louder.) Oh, come in, and be hanged to you ! {The door is burst violently open, and a hat, umbrella, and bundle fly into the room?) What in the name of fate ? Looby falls in, backwards. Z, Hello, here ! R. What on earth is the matter ? Z. {rubbing his head) Open is it, at last. R. Was that you knocking ? Z. It were, sir, and I will no ways deny it. R. Then why the deuce didn't you come in, and quietly ? Z. With all due difference, I done my best endeaviours so to do, hearin' you a-hollerm', but were not able to find the latch; which, open that there door o' yourn it would not come, till I were obligated to set agin it, [imitates action) which otherways I would not 'ave took the liberty. R. (aside) Confound you ! smashing my lock. (Aloud) Now, what do you want ? Z. Well, sir, I will not deceive you, sech bein' neither my intentions nor my 'abits, bein' alius brought up in the same, and the No. 1 Tune Book R. What is your business ? Z. As I says to the inky young party in the front shop when he arst me the identical same question, which 'is mouth at the time bein' full of apple R. (aside) Bless the fellow ! (Aloud) What have you come about ? Do you wish to see me ? WHERE THERE'S A WILL, THERE'S A WA Y. 101 Z. {Holds bundle with his teeth, sticks his umbrella under his arm, hangs his hat on one end of it, and produces a letter from his pocket, after a long search?) If so be as your name is (spelling it out) Rig — gy — ma — roley ? R. It is. Justinian Rygmarole. That is my name. Z. Then you are the party, sir, and desirin' of a hinter- voo, with my humble dooty, and no two ways about it. R. You want to see me ? Very well. You do see me. Now, what can I do for you ? Sit down. Z. Thankin' you kindly, sir, though not in the 'abit of gentlefolk's company. (Puts his hat under a chair, his bundle in his tail pocket, and sits on the edge of the chair, with his umbrella between his knees. ) R. First let me inquire to whom I have the pleasure of speaking ? What is your name ? Z. Which I were christened Simeon, at the 'tismal fount, and it air no ways my wishes fur to deny it. (Drops umbrella.) R. Simeon. Yes. And the other ? Z. No, sir ; ne'er a brother ; on'y a sister ; Mina ; leastways, Williamina, I should say. R. No, no ! I want to know your surname ; not the one that was given to yon, the one you couldn't help. Z. Well, I am free to confess as I would 'ave preferred Josh'a, myself, but were not consulted ; bein', as you may say, but newly fledged at the time. {Drops umbrella.) R. (aside) Bother the fellow ! (Aloud) Tell me your family patronymic. Z. It may be so, sir ; I cannot say ; my own name bein' Simeon Looby. R. (aside) Aye, aye ! One of my country witnesses. "02 WHERE THERE'S A WILL, THERE'S A WA Y. {Aloud) Oh yes, to be sure. Mr. Looby. I wrote to ask you to come up. Z. You did, sir. And up I come, accordin'ly. R. Much obliged, I am sure. Very glad to see you. Let me relieve you of your umbrella. Z. . Thankin' you kindly, which it were no ways ill- conveniencin' me. (Drops umbrella?) R. (fetching cake and wine from side table) You will take a glass of sherry, Mr. Looby ? Z. Well, sir, 'avin' a kind of influenzy on my chest — ahem ! — I will not refuse your 'orsepitality. Your 'ealth, sir, and likeways your good lady if similarly sitiwated to myself, and no offence if lucky enough to have kep' single. (Gulps down glass of wine.) Amazin' glass o' sherry wine, to be sure ! R. Ever in London before, Mr. Looby ? Z. (eating a hunch of cake, bread-and-cheese fashion, with a clasp-knife) No, sir, I never were. R. I daresay the noise and bustle seem a little strange at first ? Z. They do, sir. And the 'mount o' jostlin' them buses gives you for tuppence is more than you could believe for the money. And the crowds o' people, scrowdgin' along ; and the rows and rows o' shops ; and the perlice ! Why there's 'undreds o 5 reg'lar perlicemen, where we on ? y 'as the parish constable ! R. Just out of curiosity, Mr. Looby, I should like to know what has struck you most? Z. Well, the public 'ouses is ar-stonishin'. There is but two in the village ; the " Arms," and the " 'Orse- shoes " ; and 'ere I totted up a matter of eight score and WHERE THERE'S A WILL, THERE'S A WAY. ic 3 sevin, comin' from the station, let alone Mr. Lincolns's Inn, near by, as I did not see, and why ' Fields ' with nothin' but chimbley pots R. Ah, we are thirsty souls in town, Mr. Looby. Help yourself. Z. Thank in' you kindly, sir. (Fills his glass.) And then the ladies' gownds ! 'Owever them sweet creeturs can smile so pleasant with their girths drawed in that tight, let alone settin' down, do beat me 'oiler ! It r'ally do. R. Ha ! ha ! Never devote your energies to reforming the ladies' toilettes, Mr. Looby ; it is beyond the powers of mortal man. Have you come up alone ? L. I 'ave, sir. {Drops umbrella.) Leastways, there were no one with me. R. You had better let me No? But didn't you bring Mr. (refers to will) — Mr. Firkin with you? Z. Fur be it from me, so to do. R. Why not ? I wrote to him as well. Z. You did, sir. But letters is agin the rules. R. Against the rules ? What is he ? Z. Which he were the late Mr. Tidbury's butler a many years. R. And now, I suppose, he has taken another place ? Z. Well, he were took straight to the 'Sizes. R. To the what ? Z. To the 'Sizes ; which the judge said as R. Preserve us ? In prison ? What for ? Z. Which there were three dozen spoons, height-and- twenty teas, and the rest gravy; and a silvier saliver, and a height-day clock, which were hormoloon. R. Dear, dear, dear ! I am very sorry. (Aside) 104 WHERE THERE'S A WILL, THERE'S A WA V. There goes one of my witnesses ! {Aloud) Most un- fortunate circumstance, as it renders his testimony entirely worthless. Now, Mr. Looby, the business about which I desired your assistance is this. Take some more wine. I have here the will of the late Mr. Tidbury ; who, I take it, was your master ? Z. He were ; all that. R. To that will is appended a codicil, dated some three years ago, materially altering the previous provisions. Z. Thankin' you kindly, sir, the cake is quite perwisions enough for me. R. The witnesses to that codicil are (reads) 4 Peter Firkin/ and 1 Simeon Looby.' Z. Ar-stonishin ! (Drops umbrella!) R. Mr. Firkin's incarceration rendering his assistance undesirable, we must trust entirely to your recollection of the matter, for I may tell you at once that the will is to be disputed on the ground of forgery. Z. What ! did old master forge his own will, now ? R. You have an excellent memory, Mr. Looby, I am sure. Now, did you ever witness a testament ? Z. A Testament, sir ? N — no, I think not. My missis 'ave a old Church Service on the kitchen dresser ; but a old 'un it air, and oncommon greasy, sure — ly ! R. You misunderstand me. Have you ever attested a similar instrument? Z. Well, I once made a start at learnin' the fiddle, in a manner o 7 speakin'. R. No, no ! I mean, were you ever a witness ? L. I were, sir ; I were ; which meetin' Firkin my own self, with the hormoloon clock under his arm by the WHERE THERE'S A WILL, THERE S A WA Y. 105 token as we was all invited to the lawyer's 'ouse, — as it might be yourn ; and treated 'andsome to sherry wine, — as it might be 'ere. R. (aside) Confound the booby ! He's as stupid as an owl. (Aloud) I can't see your glass, Mr. Looby. Don't spare the bottle. Z. Thankin' you kindly, sir, it air no ways my intentions so to do. (Fills his glass.) Your good health, sir. Amazin' sherry wine, to be sure ! R. Now, Mr. Looby, going back for a moment to this codicil L. (with his mouth full) Certainly, sir. R. The question is, did you witness it ? Z. Is that there a coddle shell, sir? Deary me! Which I 'ad took it to be something in the pickled fish line. R. Codicil. Z. Oh, indeed. R. Now, did you see Mr. Tidbury write his name here ? You see where the name is, don't you? ' Moses Tidbury.' Z. (dropping umbrella^ knife, and cake, separately) Deary me! Oh, to be sure! * Moses Tidbury.' Not a doubt of it. R. Of course not. But did he write it. Could you swear Z. I could, sir ; but if ekally agreeable to your feelin's I would rajther not. R. What do you mean ? Z. Which the parson do come down on swearin' and that like, most oncommon ; he r'ally do. R. You don't understand. Did you, with your own io6 WHERE THE RES A WILL, THERES A WAY. eye- ; see Mr. Tidbury write his name there, with his own hand ? Can you make an affidavit to that effect ? Z. (edging away) An After David ! Well, I would pre- fer not 'avin' to do with no fireworks o' that sort. R. Nonsense, man. Either you did see him sign it, or you did not. Here is his signature, or what purports to be his signature ; and here is the usual attestation clause. ;i Signed by the said Testator, as his Last Will and Testament, in the presence of us, present at the same time, who, at his request, in his presence, and in the presence ol each other, have subscribed our names as witnesses." And here follows your name. " Simeon Looby." L. So 'tis, sir. ' Simeon Looby,' as you say, bein' so named by my godfathers and godmothers as did promise and wow. That's my name, right enough. R. Of course it's your name. We know that. But is it your signature? Did you write it? Z. Well, Mr. Riggymaroley, sir, not to put too fine a p'int upon it, I don't think I did. R. You don't think you did ? Why not ? Z. You see, it were most onfortnit, and 'ave so found it my own self ; no man more so ; R. What is unfortunate ? Z. Atween ourselves, sir, a pen is a thing as 'ave alius been beyont me, it 'ave indeed, ayther steel or quill; a sheep pen bein' more in my line. R. Do you mean to say you cannot write ? Z. I can not, sir ; and I will make no pertensions so to do. R. Then who the deuce is this signature supposed to represent ? No one would be fool enough to forge the name WHERE THERE'S A WILL, THERE'S A WA Y. 107 of a fellow w ho could not write. Is there any other Simeon Looby ? Z. There were my fayther, sir, which he were promised and wowed ' Simeon,' and 4 Looby ' likewise. R. And where is your father? Z. He is in the fust grave on the left 'and side in the old buryin' ground— arter you gets by the stile, and I will not deceive you, why should I ? R. (rising) Mr. Looby, I am very much obliged to you, and I will not trespass longer on your valuable time. Good morning. Z. (rising) Thankin' you kindly, sir, and the refresh- ments likeways, which a plummier cake I never did — (Wipes clasp-knife on his trousers; pockets it; uses large pocket-handkerchief ; and shakes hands, vigorously. ) R. Don't mention it. Charmed to have made your acquaintance. Good morning. Mind how you go ; the stairs are rather dark. Good morning. You are sure you have all your little — hat, umbrella, everything? That's all right. The clerks will direct you anywhere you may wish to go. Good morning. (Calls.) Mr. Wix ! Show this party out ! (Z. drops hat, umbrella, and bundle down stairs. Exit.) Curtain Once Upon a Time. A FIRESIDE STORY. CHARACTERS. ALAN FITZROY. ROSAMOND PRINSEP. AMY. SERVANT. Scene. The drawing-room of a London mansion. COSTUMES. Fitzroy. — Walking dress. Overcoat with fur collar. Tall hat. Rosamond. Dinner dress, with train. Diamond neck- lace, earrings, and aigrette. Amy. Child's dress, with pinafore. Silk stockings : shoes. Flowing hair, tied with ribbon. Servant. Full-dress livery. Powder. Once Upon a Time. Scene. Drawing-room on the first floor of a mansion in a -fashionable London Square. Furniture elaborate, and in the latest fashion. Three tall windows, with window seats, at the back, overlooking the gloomy Square. Large folding-doors, l., opening upo?t wide staircase, descending to entrance hall. Door r. Very large, ornamental fireplace, R., with blazing fire. Table l.c, with work- basket, / chair beside it ; low armchair and foot- stool beside the fire ; writing table and chair in front of centre window. Rosamond seated at writing table, her head on her hand, gazing out vacantly ; some letters lie before her. Amy crouched on the hearthrug with a pet dog, reading a book on her lap by the firelight. Dusk ; lamps alight outside ; snoiv falling. The room lit by the red glow of the fire. Amy {reading aloud) " And the giant Blunderbore fell with a crash that shook the earth ; and Jack climbed upon his body, and lifting the giant's mighty sword with both his hands, he smote off his head." There, Topsy ! But, Auntie ! Rosa, {without moving) Yes, darling ? in 112 ONCE UPON A TIME. Amy. Supposing Jack hadn't slew the giant? Rosa. Yes ? Amy. Perhaps the giant would have slewed him ? Rosa, Very likely. Amy. And eaten him ? Rosa. I suppose so. Amy (settling back to her book) If I'd have been Jack I'd have runned away. Rosa, {reading a letter) " Miss Prinsep, — I have your letter, "heartless as its writer, bidding me never see you more. It was unneeded. You will have a richer husband, though not more loving, than in Alan Fitzroy. May God be good to you." Amy. But, Aunt Rosamond ! Supposing Jack had been a little girl, and You're not listening ! {Runs to her.) You weren't listening, Auntie. Rosa. Was I not, darling ? I was thinking of something else. {Kisses her.) How cold it is ! And snowing still. Amy {leading her towards the fire) Haven't you finished your letter, Auntie ? What a time it takes you to write a letter ! Don't you know what to say ? Rosa, {standing with her foot on the fender, holding Amy beside her) I know what I am dying to say, Amy, but I am too proud. Amy. Why, Auntie, you're crying ! Rosa. Ami, dear? {Puts her handkerchief to her eyes.) Amy. Poor Aumie ! Can't you learn your lessons ? Rosa. I have had a very hard lesson, Amy; one that will last me all my life. ONCE UPON A TIME. 113 Amy. I know. It's the pence table ! Don't you know what ninety-four pence is ? Rosa. It's not that, chatterbox. There ! {Dries her eyes, and smiles.) I am a silly auntie, Amy, am I not ? {Kneels beside Amy, and embraces her fondly?) Amy. Why, where's your pretty ring? Rosa. Hush, darling! I— I don't wear that, now. (Rises.) Run away to your fairy-book, dearest, and leave me to finish my letter, if I can. Amy. But it is so dark ! Rosa. I will ring for a lamp for you. Amy. No, don't have a lamp ! Let's sit in the window seat, and watch the peoples. Come, Topsy ! {Dances ojj to lefl-hand window, and sits there with the dog on her lap, looking out.) Rosa, (standing leaning her forehead on her arm upon the high mantelpiece, gazing into the fire) My poor, poor Alan ! My heart is sore for you, it is indeed. If you had only let me tell you all ! Ah, no ! If he thinks I ever was or could be false to him, 'tis best to part. Amy. Look, Tops ! I'd love to be a lamplighter, wouldn't you ? Up he runs — opens the little door — pokes in his lantern — Pop ! There it goes ! Rosa. What if he knew the truth ? Would our two hearts, our lives be torn asunder? (Takes a step towards the writing table ; then returns.) I cannot ! Courage fails me ; his letter is so stern, so angry ! Oh, why have women hearts, that men should wrong them ! Amy. That boy there with the bell, Tops, he sells muffinses. And muffinses ain't good for little girls, so Molly says, 'cause they're ruination to the nursery butter. 8 ii4 ONCE UPON A TIME. Rosci. Yet, if I suffer, he suffers too. If I knew how to aid — to comfort him ! If I could only see him once, once more ! Amy {starting up, overjoyed) Oh, Auntie ! Auntie ! Mr. Fitzroy ! Here's my Fritz ! Rosa. Amy ! Impossible ! He would not dare Amy (dancing, and clapping her hands) It is ! It is ! I saw him come across the Square ! He hasn't been all this week. We'll have such fun, Tops ! ' forfeits,' and 'hunt the slipper,' and 4 my little pig/ won't we, Auntie? Rosa, (aside) What can it mean? Why is he here a gai n ? ( Knock without. ) Amy. There's his knock ! You always help him take his coat off, don't you ? Rosa, (kneeling beside her, and speaking rapidly) Amy— I don't know how to tell you, dear ! — he must not come ! He must not come, indeed ! Forgive me, dearest ! (Kisses her.) I will come and play with you directly he has gone. (Exit hurriedly, r.) Amy. But he must come in ! he's my sweetheart. (Stands a little away from door, L., and calls softly.) Mr. Fritz ! Mr. Fritz ! (Servant throws open doors, l., shoiving staircase and hall, brillia?itly lit. Fitzroy stands on the threshold, peering into the dusky room.) Serv. Miss Amy is here, sir, and Fitz. I was sure I heard my little girl. (Steps quickly in, and catches Amy up in his arms.) A kiss, Pussy ! a big kiss ; I haven't had one for so long. (Kisses her.) ONCE UPON A TIME. Amy (hugging him) I knew it was you, Mr. Fritz ! I knew it was you. Serv. I will bring a lamp, sir, immediately. Fitz. It really doesn't matter. I only came for a romp with the child. [Exit Servant, l.) Why, Amy, {tossing her up) what a great girl you grow ! You'll soon be as big as I am ! (Holding her in his arms.) Now, whom do you think I saw to-day ? Amy. Topsy ? Fitz. No. Your friend Joe Weatherby. Amy (nodding gravely) I know. Gave me some toffee in church. Fitz. And Joe let out that your papa, and mama, and — and auntie were going there to-night to dinner ; so I thought I would drop in for a game. (Aside) The last, poor little soul ! Amy (hugging him again) You're a lovely good Fritz, isn't he, Topsy ? the bestest ever was ! Fitz. So you and I will fling discretion to the winds, my dear, and make a night of it. Let's be cosy in front of the fire. (Carries her to a footstool beside the fender; lays aside his hat, great-coat and gloves ; and throws himself at full length at her side, facing the fire.) There we are. Well, and how's daddy ? Amy. Papa's very well, thank you. Fitz. And mama ? Amy. Mama's very well, thank you. Oh, and Mr. Fritz Fitz. And—auntie ? Amy. Auntie's very well, thank you. No, I don't think she is, though. She's been crying. n6 ONCE UPON A TIME. Fitz. Crying ? Amy (?tods) Urn. 'Cause she didn't know her pence table. Fitz. Didn't know — what ? Amy. She didn't. Didn't know what ninety-four pence was. And she cried so she couldn't come and take your coat off. Fitz. But she is at this dinner party? Amy. No. She was going, only she had a headache. Fitz. But, do you mean she is here, now ? Amy. Well, she isn't really here, you know, 'cause she runned away, and said she shouldn't come back not till after you was gone. Fitz. {rising hastily) Good-bye, Amy. Amy {jumping up) But, Mr. Fritz ! you promised to stop and play with Topsy and me. Fitz. We cannot keep your aunt a prisoner. You'll have to say * good-bye ' to them for me, Amy ; I'm going away. Amy. But are you going far, Mr. Fritz ? Fitz. A weary, weary long way off, my dear. Amy. Longer'n Scotland, and the seaside, and the Z'logical Gardens, and Fitz. Farther than all of them put together. Amy. But you'll come back, Mr. Fritz ? 'cause we've got to be married. Fitz. I'll be back before the ceremony, little wifey. [Catches her up t and kisses her.) Good-bye, dear! Don't forget your old playfellow. Kiss the dolls for me. Good- bye, Topsy. {Going.) Amy. Oh, Mr. Fritz ! before you go, tell me a story ? ONCE UPON A TIME. 117 Fitz. My darling little one, Fm in no story-telling mood. Amy. Oh do ! Something I can tell Topsy on Sunday, when we're getting up. Fitz. But you forget we're keeping auntie from the room. Amy. Only a little one. You tell such beautiful stories. Do, Mr. Fritz ! Fitz. (aside) I cannot bear to leave the child. We'll strike a bargain. (To Amy) See here, Amy. If I tell you a story — a little wee one — only so long, (jneasuring on his finger) — you will let me go directly it is done ? Amy. Yes. Fitz. I'll stay five minutes. Come, little woman, I left some goodies in the hall : we'll fetch them, first. So, up you go ! (Szvings her up on to his shoulder?) Amy [clapping her hands) That's lovely ! Gee up, Mr. Fritz ! (He gallops offivith her, l.) Enter Rosamond, on tiptoe^ r. Rosa. Not here ? I breathe again. I have been trembling at every sound. If he had come upstairs to Amy, and found what I have tried to write to him ! [Snatches letters from writing table, and throws them hastily on the fire.) Not to set eyes on him ! not even hear his voice ! Stay ! Is he out of sight ? He must pass across the Square. (Hurries to window.) Re enter Fitzroy, carrying Amy, l. Fitz. Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five ! I tell you what, Miss Pussy ! You're not a feather weight ! I'm n8 OACE UPON A TIME. out of breath. (Throws himself into low armchair beside the fire^ with his back to Rosamond ; Amy seats herself beside hi?n on a footstool^ with her elbows on his knees , looking up in his face.) Rosa, (aside) He has returned ! What will become of me ? (Conceals herself in the recess of the window.) Enter Servant, l., with lighted lamp^ zvhich he places on table. Exit L. Fitz. Thank you. Now we're ready, Amy. And what is this story of ours to be about ? Amy (opening box of sweetmeats) Tell me a really' story, Mr. Fritz. Fitz. You would not like the only really story I could tell. Amy. Oh yes, I shall. A really, truly one, you know. Topsy, you mustn't listen, 'cause I'm going to tell it to you all my own self afterwards. And here's a lovely crinkly lump of almond rock before you begin. (Puts it in his mouth) Now, Mr. Fritz. Fitz. A really, truly story ? As you will. Here is a story which is really true. Amy. Well ? " Once upon a time ," you know, Fitz. Once upon a time there was a certain Princess, who lived in an Enchanted Palace, in a Mighty City. Amy. Why was it enchanted ? Fitz. Because she dwelt in it ; for she was such a beau- tiful Princess that her abode appeared to all mankind a Temple of Delight. Amy. She couldn't have enchanted our house, could she ? ONCE UPON A TIME. 119 Fitz. She was so wondrously beautiful, she would have enchanted even a dingy mansion, in a London Square. Rosa, (aside) What is he going to tell the child ? Amy. Was she a Fairy, then ? Filz. Surely a good Fairy, Amy, if such things are ; for, day after day, she went amongst the folk around her palace, helping the poor, teaching the little children, tending the sad and sorry, till all who heard it blessed her very name, Amy. I heard an old granny say i God bless 1 Aunt Rosa, once, when she took her some soup. Rosa, {aside) Amy ! Oh, what shall I do ! He is speak- ing of ourselves ! Amy. Is there an Ogre coming, presently ? Fitz. There is an Ogre in reserve. Amy. An Ogre ? This is a splendid story ! Well? Fitz. Now in a Cottage near the Fairy's Palace dwelt a poor young Prince, Amy. Was he a good Prince ? Fitz. And he fell in love with the Princess who was so good and beautiful, and loved her more than all the world beside ; and when he dared at last to tell her so, she said she loved him too. Rosa, {aside) Aye, Prince ! with all her woman's heart. Fitz. And each placed upon the other's hand a ring ; and the ring the Fairy gave the Prince was a magic ring. Amy. Why ? Fitz. Her bright eyes danced amidst its flashing jewels, and round its band was weaved a tress of hair; and when he looked at it, he seemed to see her smiling at his side. And they were always together, or thinking of each other ; and were as happy as the days were long. 120 ONCE UPON A TIME. Amy. Were they engaged ? Fitz. As mortals say, engaged. Now in a large and splendid Castle on a neighbouring hill there' lived an Ogre. Rosa, {aside) I am stifling ! I can hear no more ! {Moves swiftly towards door, R. ; her dress rustles.) Amy {looking rounds and clapping her hands) Aunt Rosamond ! You're just in time to hear about the Ogre! Fitz. {starting up, and facing Rosa, who stands, confused) Miss Prinsep! {Coldly) I beg your pardon. I would not have intruded had I known that you were here. Rosa. There is no intrusion, sir ; this is my sister's house, not mine. {Going.) Fitz. I need not drive you away ; I am leaving at once. Amy. But you must finish the story, Mr. Fritz. Fitz. Not to-night, Amy. Rosa. If you desire to remain with the child, sir, pray do so. I only came for some letters, and you returned before I could quit the room. Fitz. Then we have had a listener? Rosa. I — I could not help it. I could not know what you were going to tell. Fitz. Amy begged for a true story ; it shall be the truest I know. Rosa, {curtseying) As you please, sir. {Going.) Amy {running to her) Aunt Rosamond, you mustn't go. Stay and hear about the Ogre. Rosa. There are no such things as Ogres, Amy ; it is but an idle story. Amy. I'm sure it's a beautiful story, Auntie. Fitz. It may be that your aunt already knows the sequel, Amy, and may fear to hear the tale retold ? ONCE UPON A TIME. 121 Amy. Do go on, Mr. Fritz ! And Auntie, you must stop ! You're not frightened to hear about the Ogre ? {Drags Rosa, to a chair.) Rosa. No, Amy; sorry, but not afraid. (Sits at table L.c, and takes up her work.) Amy. Ah, but you will be when the Ogre comes ! Fitz. Even Ogres have their charms. Rosa, It is almost Amy's bed time, sir. Amy. But I don't go to bed before eight o'clock now ! Fitz. Come, Amy, let us finish quickly. (Sits in arm- chair by the fire, with Amy on his knee.) Now in the gorgeous Castle that I told you of hard by, there lived a certain Ogre; and this Ogre was very rich, with heaps of gold and precious stones beyond belief; and he loved the Princess, also; and followed her, go where she would, offering her extravagant attentions, and costly gifts. Rosa, (without looking up from her work) Was she gratified by these attentions, Amy ? Fitz. She permitted them. Rosa. Did she accept the presents? Fitz. To her honour — no. Rosa. You see, Amy, she was not all wickedness. Fitz. She was not wicked at all; she was blinded, dazzled, weakly lured astray. Now from his rival, spite of all his wealth, the Prince, — poor, cheated fool ! — feared nothing. Had she not sworn, with kisses on her lips, — was ever perfidy so black ! — that all her love was his, and his alone ? But, one sad night, Rosa, (shrinking back ; still without looking icp) Oh no ! no ! no ! Fitz. Why not ? 122 ONCE UPON A TIME. Rosa. Will he not spare the child ? — not me — the little, innocent child ! Amy. Was it so dreadful, Auntie ? Did the Ogre eat her ? Fitz. Ogres don't eat their friends. Amy. Was she his friend ? Fitz. Far more. And there is nothing dreadful in the story, Amy. Such things are done, dear, every day. It chanced, one night, Rosa. Amy, you will not hear what happened on that cruel night ? Fitz. Your aunt said, Amy, she was not afraid to iibten. One night Rosa, (with increasing emotion) I would go farther, Amy darling, — if I were you; I would beg of Mr. Fitzroy to forbear, if not in manliness, in honour, at least in memory of happier times gone by which harsh words now must {Drops her work, and buries Jier face in her hands.) Amy. But I don't know what you both mean? This isn't the story ! Why don't you tell about the Ogre, Mr. Fritz ? Fitz. Your aunt would have that part forgotten, Amy. Amy. But that's the bestest part of all ! You must tell about him. Fitz. I say so, too. 'Twas there those tender memories were blotted out. We'll tell our story truly to the end. Now on this night the Prince set out to ride into a far country. Amy, On the engine ? / would, if I was a Prince. Fitz. But as he journeyed on his way, he grew so sad at leaving his beloved, even for a time, that he forsook his first ONCE UPON A TIME. 12 3 intent, and sent a messenger instead, saying he could not come ; and hurried back, alone. Alas for the unhappy Prince ! As he drew near the Palace, he saw his hated rival leaving it, with happy smiles upon his face, whilst from her chamber window, there above, she waved a fond adieu. Amy. But did she love the Ogre best? Fitz. Was he not rich ? Rosa, {still sobbing ; aside) Oh cruel ! cruel ! Fife. The Prince was furious —beside himself! He forced his way into her presence ; a single glance, and she was on her knees, pleading for speech to make her treachery good. Rosa. x\nd he would not hear one word ! Fitz. Words ! Her perfidy was plain ! He tore her lying token from his finger, and cast it at her feet ; fled to his wretched home, and sent her back each treasured mockery, each scrap of writing she had ever given him. She sent him in return his ring, bidding him never see her more. Rosa. Whilst he could think her false to him. Fitz. Think ! When he found her with another ! Rosa. If she were shameless, he should have rejoiced that he was free. Fitz. And made a mock of his old love, as she had done? Not he ! But let us finish, Amy; there is little left to tell. The unfortunate Prince was broken-hearted; he wrote to wish her joy in her new love; he sold all his possessions, Rosa, (aside) What does he mean ? Fitz. Quitted his house, and wandered into unknown 124 ONCE UPON A TIME. lands, and was seen no more. (Rises.) And that is all. Not much of a story, is it, little girl? And yet a really, truly one, such as men hear men tell of, every day. Amy. And did the Ogre marry the Princess ? Fiiz. So I suppose. Amy. And didn't the Prince never come back no more? Fitz. No more. Amy. Poor Princey ! I'm sorry for him, you know. But I've got a story in my Crocodile Book, what grandpa gave me, and there the Prince goes away and stops — oh, ever so many years ! and when he comes back the Princess hasn't never married nobody at all, and so she marries him and they live happy ever afterwards. It's a beautiful story. Fitz. Too beautiful to be true. Amy. Would you like to read it? There's pictures in it. Fitz. I should like it of all things. Amy. I'll go and fetch the book. You won't turn the corners down, will you ? Come, Topsy ! (Dances out r., the dog following her.) Fitz. (taking up his hat) I will ask permission, madam, to retire at once, before the child returns. We are fond of one another, — I have brought her cakes and trifles at odd times, — and she might be grieved to see me go. Rosa, You are really going away, sir? Fitz. I am really going away. Rosa. Far ? Fitz. Very far. Rosa. For long ? Fitz. For ever. Rosa. For ever. A long day. Sir, I — I wish you health and fortune. ONCE UPON A TIME. Fitz. I thank you. May I say 'good-bye'? Rosa. Good-bye. And a gentler memory for your next story. Fitz. I am not conscious of any error of memory in the last. Rosa. A kindlier invention, then. Fitz. Nor of any invention, more than would veil the truth from one too young to dream that love and honour may be bought and sold. Rosa. Or that a child's hand may be made to stab a woman's heart. Fitz. Her heart ! She had bartered it away. Rosa. I will not answer you. Some day— when you know all — you will wish you had been merciful. Fitz. Merciful ! And I am maddened only to look into the eyes I once thought true and steadfast as the stars in Heaven ! May Heaven forgive my folly, and their faithless light ! Rosa. Surely it was the Prince's faith that failed ? Fitz. Could I be blind? deaf? dead? I deceived no one, played with no one, broke no one's heart ! Rosa, (sighs) Did I ? Fitz. Did you not? Have you not tricked my love? tossed it aside to grasp a richer prize? But, pshaw ! Why should I scold and whimper, like a pettish child? A man's heart ! What is it to a woman, but the spoil of war ! Flaunt your fair trophy ; let the victim go. Good-bye, Miss Prinsep. They say that as the years sweep on they bear away the shame and sorrow of the past ; the good alone abides. I will look then for the time when the very memory of the wrong that you have done me shall no more remain, and I 126 ONCE UPON A TIME. can look beyond it to the radiant being who once gleamed across my path \ a true Fairy Princess, and far above a sullen mortal's gaze. May we both live to see that happier day ! Good-bye! (Going.) Rosa. Have you my letter ? Fitz. It is all that I have kept. Rosa. Will you give it to me ? (He gives lie)' a letter from his breast ; she glances at it, tears it slowly \ and drops it in the fire.) So may the happier day the sooner dawn. Fitz. I thank you. And mine? Rosa, (fetching letter from desk, and handing it to him) It is here. Fitz. I thank you again. {Drops it on the fire, ?/nopened.) It is better so. We go our several ways ; but with anger softening into sorrow. Rosa. All is at an end between us now ? Fitz. Trust me. There shall be no skeleton at your feast. You will never see or hear of me again. Rosa. Pride then no longer stays my tongue. Will it be easier for you if you know I never was the heartless creature you believed ? Will you hear why Mr. We had best keep to our Fairy Tale ? Will you hear why the Ogre visited the Princess on that most unhappy night ? Fitz. (touching his breast) The wound still bleeds. Rosa. And I will touch it tenderly. He came that night — how manfully and bravely I can never forget, nor thank him for enough fitz. Princess ! Have pity ! Rosa. To tell her he had but that day heard of her betrothal ; that he knew his suit was hopeless ; and that from the bottom of his heart he wished her and her lover joy. ONCE UPON A TIME. 127 Fitz. Rosamond ! Is all this true ? Rosa. The truest of true stories, Prince. He took his leave, hiding his trouble with a generous smile, lest it might dash her happiness ; and as he passed beneath her window she waved her hand. Not much? no great reward? Then the Prince burst into the room, furious with rage, calling her base, false, wicked; flung her poor little ring at her feet, and hurried from her, deaf to every word, though she begged a hearing on her knees. All night she wept. The morning brought the Prince's packet, with all her maiden gifts and loving words ; and the poor Princess, wearied with grief, cut to the heart that he should doubt her, answered him haughtily, bidding him never speak to her again. Fitz. She did well. He was unworthy of her presence who could doubt her plighted heart. But if he could have known ! Rosa. She entreated him to listen. Fitz. And he all but struck her ! Noble, honourable Prince ! You earned your fate. Rosa. And after, when he had branded her to the world as shameless, faithless, a creature not to be named, could she have told him then ? Fitz, No. He is not worth another thought. Let him begone. (Going.) Rosa. And yet, when she had penned the words that banished him for ever Fitz. For ever. Rosa. She would have given her right hand to have those words recalled. Fitz. They have passed away in their feathery ashes, 128 ONCE UPON A TIME. and nothing remains but the fire of the old love, that can never die. Miss Prinsep, I have no longer the right to remain a moment in your presence ; you have treated me with a noble generosity ; I ask your pardon for my dis- honouring doubt of one so pure and true ; and I am grateful that you let me say ' farewell.' Rosa. You are going — for long ? Fitz. I cannot say. For many years. Rosa, Are you going far ? Fitz. To India. Rosa. Oh, Alan ! You promised me you would not go ! Fitz. And I refused the post ten days ago. But when I — when I left you that night I wrote them that my life was ended here ; that I had no longer a home ; that I would gladly go if they would have me still. Fortune was kind ; I am accepted. I leave Southampton the last night in the year. Rosa. Alan, will you take me with you ? Fitz. Rosa ! my darling ! You cannot mean — — [Rushing to embrace her.) Rosa. I mean — not yet ! — I mean I could not live and know your love was lost to me ; I could not look upon a thing that you had touched, or be where you had been, or think of you far away in danger, sickness, sorrow, without a blush of shame that in my angry pride I would not speak, but let you go, — alone. Fitz. Oh, Rosamond ! Generous, noble girl ! The blame is mine, and mine alone. My blind, mad jealousy has caused it all. {Advances tozvards her.) Rosa. Not yet, Alan ! You are leaving every friend you have, every face you know, every heart you love, to face the ONCE UPON A TIME. 129 cruel world, with none to share the burden. We dreamed of a happy life together — oh, let us face a hard one, hand in hand ! for I do love you, Alan ! indeed, indeed I do ! and if you will take me with you I will be your loving wife until T die ! (Falls, sobbing, into his arms ; he embraces her tenderly.} Enter Amy, running, r. Amy. Here it is, Mr. Fritz ! I've found the Crocodile Book! I couldn't come before, 'cause it was right down at the bottom of the box, with all my dolls, and shoes, and tea-things, and all ; and here's the story, with such a beau- tiful picture, where the Prince is coming home in a scarlet cloak to marry the Princess in a blue pelisse Oh, it's lovely ! Auntie, you read it out ! Rosa, {reads, seated in armchair by the fire, with Amy on a footstool beside her, and Fitzroy leaning over the back of the chair) " Once upon a Time there was a Young Prince, who loved a Fairy Princess ; and she loved him in return, with all her heart." Curtain. 9 The Course of True Love. A FARCICAL COMEDIETTA, BEING A BAROMETRICAL PROGRESSION, FROM " DULL,' THROUGH "STORMY," TO "SET FAIR." CHARACTERS. TOBIAS TIDDEMAN, ESQ. AURELIA GWENDOLINE TIDDEMAN. PHCEBE. Scene. Mr. Tiddemaris drawing-room. *4 COSTUMES. Mr. T. — Closely-buttoned frock-coat ; dark trousers ; patent leather boots ; white gaiters ; high collar, and elaborate stock, secured by a diamond pi?i. Gold rimmed folding eyeglasses, attached to broad black ribbon. Aur. — Awkwardly-fitting young lady's evening dress, with sleeves just showing the elbows ; skirl above the ankles. Ill- tied sash. Mittens. Necklace of coral beads. Clumsy shoes, with large rosettes. Hair frizzed untidily. Phcebe. — Upper servant's afternoon dress. At her first entry, coquettish hat and jacket ; kid gloves ; sunshade. The Course of True Love. Scene. A spacious drawing-room, over- elaborately decorated. Doors R. and L. Large pictures ; majolica jars and pedestals ; marble bust and full-length portrait of Mr. Tiddeman. Furnitwe gilt, and gaudily upholstered. Mr. Tiddeman discovered, in high-backed chair, reading " The Times ,} aloud, by the light of a tall reading-lamp with brilliant coloured shade. Aurelia, in a hopeless co?idition of boredom, huddled on a rocking chair, rubbing o?ie ankle over the other, and enticing a kitten to play with the fringe of her sash. Mr. T. Very true. Nothing can be more sound. [Reads) " Should this subversive measure unhappily be- come the law of the land, a gigantic turpitude will have been perpetrated against the citizens of this august me- tropolis; another of the landmarks of the Constitution will have been swept away ; and our country will be launched upon the rapids of riot and revolution, swooping downwards to the inevitable Niagara of destruction and dismay.'' (Aur. has tired of the kitten, and is playing at " cup and ball" with her ball of wool and a knitting needle, yawning 133 134 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. the while.) Are you favouring me with your attention y Aurelia ? Aur. (starting, and stuffing kitten and wool together under her chair) Yes. Pa. Air. T. Such an indictment of the spirit of the age is a solace to every intelligent member of the community. Aur. Yes, Pa. (Aside) Where is that foolish Phoebe all this while? Loitering before some bonnet-shop, I'll be bound ! Mr. T. I mentioned his lordship's oration to you before dinner, Aurelia. Aur. Yes, Pa. Mr. T. You have perused it ? Aur. N-nOj Pa. Mr. T. I regret it. An elevated tone of thought must assuredly result from a general acquaintance w r ith the poli- tical problems of the day, as they present themselves to the more enlightened and wealthy of our public men. Aur. Yes, Pa. {Aside, sunnging ball of wool round and 7'ound her finger by a knotted end) Hateful old things ! I wish Phoebe would come ! Mr. T. His lordship proceeds to observe "The tradi- tions of our forefathers are a hallowed sanctuary ; and woe to the foot that traverses the Rubicon to invade its venerable precincts." Enter Phcebe, breathless. R. Aur. Yes, Pa. (To Phcebe) Well ? Ph. (to Aur.) Lawk ha' mussy, Miss, I didn't know your pa was 'ere ! Aur. Where have you been dawdling all this time? Ph. I couldn't ha' been no quickerer, Miss, for I run THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 135 every step of the way there till I got a stetch in my side, and then I couldn't get into the Square, 'cause them precious old Tompkinses 'ad been and gone and locked the gate, and took away the key. Aur. But didn't you see him ? Ph. He see me, and come a-runnin' ever so, and jumped right over the railin's. Aur. He didn't hurt himself? Ph. Bless yer 'art, Miss, no ! Not 'im Aur. Well, and what did he say ? Ph. Oh, as " his love, and he was a-pinin' hisself away to a melancholy shadder." Aur. Poor boy ! Ph. Not as there's much the matter with 9 im 9 Miss, with his white 'at, and shiny boots, and ever sich a big cigar ! Aur. Bless him ! And didn't he give you anything ? Ph. Oh yes, he give me 'alf-a-crown, and a kiss, and Aur. Phoebe ! How dare you ! Kiss my Adolphus ? Ph. No, Miss. He kissed me. Aur. The wretch ! (Pouts, and scolds Ph. in dumb show.) Mr. T. Most apt ! Incontrovertible ! (Reads) " The Imperial Standard of the British nation floats over a loyal and devoted people '' Aur. Well, where is his letter ? Ph. ( producing letter and parcel froni her pocket) That's the letter, Miss, and I was to give you this 'ere, and Mr. T. (7vho has been watching them, unobserved) What are you doing in this apartment, young woman ? Ph. N-othing, sir. 136 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. Mr. T. Then, if the operation is concluded, leave the room. Ph. A parcel, sir, for Miss Aurelia. Mr. T. Hand the parcel to Miss Aurelia, Ph. {doing so) Yes, sir. Mr. T. And begone. Ph. (impudently) Yes, sir. (Curtseys, and flounces out, L., tossing her head.) Mr. T. (resuming his paper) The demeanour of that young person is singularly obtrusive and unbecoming. Aur. Yes, Pa. (Aside ; turning her back to Mr. T., and shaking packet) Goodies ! I can hear them rattle ! (Skips on alternate feet with delight.) Mr. T. Where did I ? Ah! (Reads)— "and devoted people, — whose inalienable attachment to the institutions of their country is not to be prevented by the violence and venom of irresponsible demagogues." Aur. (aside ; opening a tin box contained in the packet) Jujubes ! How jolly ! (Pops two or three rapidly in her mouth, and tucks packet under her arm.) And here's his letter. (Opens it.) Such a long one ! Mr. T. (reads) "The weighty considerations of inter- national policy are not to be obscured by " What are you eating, Aurelia? Aur. (swallowing hastily, and facing round, holding the letter behind her) Nothing, Pa. Mr. T. If you will oblige me by attending for a moment Aur. (standing awkivardly, with her hands crossed behind her back) Yes, Pa. Mr. T. (reads) " The weighty considerations " and THE COURSE OE TRUE LOVE. 137 so forth — ah ! — " are not to be obscured by reckless asseverations audaciously advanced and unblushingly re- peated " Aur. {aside; holding letter open behind her, and glancing at it over her shoulder) Four whole pages ! (Skips.) You dear, delightful boy ! Mr. T. {leaning back, to ascertain what is distracting Aurelia' s attention) What is that document, Aurelia ? Aur. (hiding letter) Nothing, Pa. Mr. T. Nothing, Aurelia? Nothing? And yet con- ducive to such a manifest impropriety as inattention to me? Favour me with an inspection of its contents. Aur. (twisting her shoulders) Oh, Pa — I — I don't want to! Mr. T. Surely, Aurelia, it contains nothing unfitted for the paternal eye ? Aur. (sullenly) It wasn't meant for the paternal you. Mr. T. Hand it to me. (Aur. thrusts letter towards him.) And let me remind you that the habit of balancing upon one foot, and rubbing one ankle over the other, is neither lady-like nor becoming. (Aur. amends her attitude, with an impatient stamp.) And what is that parcel? Aur. It's mine, Pa. Mr. T. I did not inquire whose, but what it is. What does it contain ? Aur. A present, Pa. Mr. T. Of what? Do you hear me? (Aur. flounces angrily, but remains silent, scraping one foot to and fro.) Hand it to me. (Aur. holds box out at arm's length in front of her.) Audacious girl ! [Takes packet, and proceeds to scrutinize its contents.) The wrapper — encloses a — tin THE COURSE OE TRUE LOVE. box, — containing a variety of — cubical transparent frag- ments, — of a glutinous nature. What are they ? Aur. {with her thumb in her mouth) Jujubes. Mr. 1\ - " Jujubes '* ? What are — "Jujubes"? Are they eatable ? Aur. They're lovely. Mr. T. (tasting one) Hm! And may I inquire who presents you with — ah — nutriment of this description? Aur. It isn't always jujubes. It's butter-scotch some- times, and chocolates, and Bonaparte's Ribs. Mr. T. " Bonaparte's Ribs n ! I never heard of such a revolutionary sweetmeat ! And what is this communica- tion ? [Opens letter, and reads, with difficulty, through his glasses. ) " My darling little wee-wee Rosebud, — I have hunted half over London for these jujubes to suit the sweet tooth of my Tiddy-fol-lol n What is the meaning of this insane rigmarole ? Who is this person ? Aur. Dolly, Pa. Mr. T. Dollipcr? Aur. Adolphus. Mr. T. And pray, who is "Adolphus " ? Aur. (standing on one leg) My sweetheart. Mr. T. Your ! Stand upon both feet, you impu- dent tomboy, and explain yourself ! Is it possible that this epistle is of an amatory character? Aur. {swinging her handkerchief spoonify) He says I'm the jolliest infant out, and he's going to run away with me. Mr. T. Aurelia, you appal me ! I state distinctly that THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 139 I am appalled at such an exhibition of depravity ! That this fellow should have the audacity Aur. I'm sure he isn't a fellow, Pa ! Mr. T. But I say he is ! A low, vulgar, impertinent fellow ! Aur. Why you don't even know him, Pa ! Mr. T. Nor do I desire to know a person so destitute of every vestige of propriety. (Rings furiously?) I will take immediate steps to [Enter Phcebe, l.) So, mis- tress ! This was the packet you were conveying to Miss Aurelia ? Ph. (aside) Oh Jiminy ! Here's a kettle o' fish ! (To Mr. T.) I'm sure there wasn't no harm in it, sir. Mr. T. No harm in it ! Ph. No, sir. The young gentleman said hisself as they was genuine, and wouldn't hurt her. Mr. T. Such levity to me ! You baggage, peace ! A letter accompanied the parcel. Were you aware of its contents ? Ph. No, sir. But them sort is mostly pretty much alike. Mr. T. As I suspected ! You have been conniving at a base intrigue between some low adventurer and my daughter ! Ph. I'm sure it wasn't none of my doing, sir. They was " nuts " on one another long afore I come into it. Mr. T. Do not bandy words with me, woman ! My indulgence is not to be imposed upon with impunity. Ph. But what have / done, sir ? Mr. T. Done ? Blackened my domestic Hearth. Ph. Oh no, sir ! I haven't touched a black-lead brush since here I've been. 140 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. Mr. T. Silence, impertinent menial, and begone ! You quit my service to-morrow morning. Aur. Oh, Pa ! Mr. T. (to Ph.) Go! (Exit Phcebe, l.) And as for you, abandoned girl, I know not how to adequately repro- bate such wanton, shameless, scandalous behaviour. I blush — I positively blush that any child of mine should thus have set at nought her social status — her standing in society. Aur. (sulkily) There isn't much standing room in society for a leather-seller's daughter. Mr. T. (furious) How dare you allude to such a topic in my presence ! The — ah — bu^ness was a strictly whole- sale one ; I have retired from it ; and any reference to the subject is unwomanly, and indelicate. An individual of sufficient eminence to aspire to a seat in the Commons House of Parliament Aur. But you weren't elected. Mr. T. Not actually returned, I admit. Aur. (muttering) Only got fifteen votes ! Mr. T. But the prestige accruing from my candidature is not to be gainsaid. Now, you are well aware of my anxiety to found a family. Had you been born a boy Aur. Wish I had ! Mr. T. As Nature would seem to have intended, all would have been well. As it is, a handsome dowry must secure you a brilliant alliance with the aristocracy. Aur. Bother the aristocracy ! Mr. T. Miss Tiddeman ! Aur. I mean it. I'll have Dolly for a husband, or none at all. There ! THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 141 Mr. T. Aurelia, you forget yourself. Cease to hug your elbows, like a milkmaid, and attend to me. I will have no indecorous sentiment beneath my roof. You will marry whom I please, when I please ; and until I please you will dismiss such topics from your thoughts entirely. Aur. What, not think of Dolly ? I couldn't help it. Mr. T. Once for all, let us have done with this foolery ! Aur. Foolery? It's earnest; real, downright earnest. We've been engaged more than six weeks. Mr. T. I will not listen to such childish nonsense. Not another word. You will reply to that letter Aur. Of course I shall, Pa ! Mr. T. At my dictation. Aur. Oh, Pa ! I Mr. T. {sternly) Do as I bid you, girl ! Be seated. {Aur. flounces into chair at writing table.) Take pen and paper. {Aur. snatches them impatiently!) Now begin. Aur. {writes \ sprawling over the table, in an ungainly attitude) " My own, dear, darling, Dolly-poppet " Mr. T. Saucy minx ! {Seizes paper, and tears it in pieces!) Aur. That's how I begin, — and so does Dolly. Mr. T. {placing a fresh sheet of paper before her, and dictating angrily) " Sir— — ' ; Aur. Lor, Pa ! He'll think I'm angry with him ! Mr. T. Think you are angry ! [Furiously) Will you write as I bid you, Miss? neither more nor less. "Sir " Aur. {writing) " Sir." {Aside) Fancy! "Sir!" What jolly fun to see him open it ! Mr. T. {dictating, and looking over her shoulder as she 142 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. writes) " Your favour of this date, accompanying an assort- ment of confectionery " Bless the girl ! — " n^ry " Aur. Dolly spells it so. Mr. T. " Has fortuitously reached my father's hand — " ah — "my fathers hand. He has gently pointed out the folly of my conduct " there's no 'k' in ' conduct ' ! — " and affectionately convinced me of my wrong doing." — And there are two ' f's ' in * affectionately ' ! Aur. Dolly only uses one. Mr. T. Dolly ! Dolly ! You would aggravate an angel ! Aur, Dolly's an angel, and I don't aggravate him. Mr. T. Peace, babbler ! and conclude. (Dictates) " I therefore return the packet — unopened " Aur. Why, Pa ! You ate some yourself! Mr. T. Prattler ! — "return the packet, and request that all communication between us may cease." Aur. But I don't ! Mr. T. Peace, I say ! Now sign and direct it. (Turns away.) Aur. (scribbling hastily ; aside) "Your own particular, Totsy-wee. P.S. I'll write again to-morrow, when Pa isn't by." Mr. T. Direct the envelope. Aur. (taking envelope, and reading as she writes) "x\dol- phus Startop, Esquire " Mr. T. Adolphus— <- who ? Aur. Startop. Mr. T. Of Staffordshire ? Aur. Yes. Mr. T. One of our oldest families. Possibly some distant connection of the Baronet, Sir Stanbury Startop. THE COURSE OB TRUE LOVE. H3 Aur. He's his grandson. Air. T. (amazed) His what ? Aur. His grandson — his only one. Mr* T. But Bless my soul ! An ultimate heir to the title ? Aur. Oh yes ; I shall be Lady Startop one of these days. Isn't it grand ! Mr. T. This entirely alters the aspect of the question. Why did you not explain the circumstance before ? Aur. You wouldn't let me. Mr. T. And pray how long On the whole, you might destroy that communication, my dear. (Aur. tears up letter.) Since when have you young people been attached to one another? Aur. Oh, for years and years ! Mr. T. For Dear me ! What age is Mr. Startop ? Aur. He's nearly twenty. Mr. T. Nearly twenty ! Aur. We don't mean getting married quite just yet, you know. Air. T. So I should imagine ! Aur. And, as Dolly says, he's getting older every day. Mr. T. The circumstance is not unusual. And in matters political he is of course Aur. Oh, he's a Radical — an out-and-outer ! Mr. T. A Radical ! How inconceivably distressing ! But years will soon mature the crudities of inexperience. And as to his connection, there is, of course, no possible misunderstanding ? Aur. Oh no, Pa ! He's got a family tree right up to the roof — I mean, to Rufus. 144 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. Mr. T. And he has given you assurance of his affection ? Aur. Says he could eat me — without pickles. Mr. T. Ahem ! My dear child, amongst the ordinances of Nature none are more inscrutable than the mysterious dictates of a maiden's heart. Aur. No, Pa. Mr, T. It may one day chance, unhappily, that some ardent youth, — of unimpeachable lineage — may claim you for his own. Aur. I'm sure he will. Mr. T. I say, it may be so. Well ! I must summon strength to bear the blow, and face with fortitude our sepa- ration. Bless ye, my child ! bless ye ! {Embraces her.) Ahem ! It would not be an unbecoming attention if, at some convenient season, our friend Startop were to call — say, on Sunday, for instance? Aur. Oh, I daresay he's outside now, Pa, if you would like to see him? Mr. T. Outside? Aur. [demurely) He is sometimes of an evening. Mr. T. (at the window) No. I see no one, Aurelia — except a boy — a young miscreant ! Actually swinging on my railings and whistling down the area ! (Taps on the window, and calls) Hi, there ! Be off ! Be off, I say ! Aur. {peeping over his shoulder ; and pulling his sleeve) But, Pa Mr. T. Eh ? Aur. Yes, Pa. Mr. T. You don't mean to say that ? (Aurelia nods.) Bless my soul ! What on earth is he doing in such an insecure position ? THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 145 Aur. He's waiting till you have gone out to your club, Pa? Mr. T. Dear me ! Well Do you think he would care to be invited in? Aur. (saucily) What do you think, Pa ? Mr. T. (shaking his forefinger) Trifler ! (Rings. Enter Phcebe, l.) Oh — ah — Phoebe, there is a gentleman — a young gentleman — disporting himself upon the front rail- ings. Ph. (innocently) Is there, sir ? (Aside) I knowed he'd ketch my lord some night, swinging out there by the hour together ! Mr. T. The weather is inclement, and he must find the situation draughty. Ph. Ye — yes, sir. Mr. T. Present him my compliments, Phoebe — Mr. Tiddeman's compliments — and suggest that, if he has no pressing engagement, I shall be gratified if he will step upstairs. Ph. Yes, sir. (Aside) If this don't beat everything ! (Going.) Mr. T. Oh And, Phoebe ! Ph. (returning) Yes, sir? Mr. T. There would be no objection to your men- tioning — casually — on your own account — that Miss Aurelia is within. Ph. Certainly, sir. (Aside) Well, I never did ! (Going) Mr. T. Oh And, Phcebe ! Ph. (returning) Yes, sir? Mr. T. The previous little misunderstanding has been removed. The facts were not fully before me. Where 10 i 4 6 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. youthful affections are involved, a certain latitude is allow- able, needing a lenient rather than a censorious eye. (Gives Phoebe money.) Ph. {curtseying) Thank you, sir. (Aside) Well, it's Greek to me! But there ain't no doubt about the half- sovereign ! (Exit, r.) Aur. (dancing up and down) You dear, darling Pa ! Dolly will be so delighted ! Mr. T. Impulsive child ! But now, Aurelia, under these altered circumstances, let me impress upon you — earnestly impress upon you — to regulate your deportment, and especially not to stand Aur. No, Pa, I wont. Ha ! There's my Dolly ! I can hear his voice. (Dances out, r., swinging her arms) Enter Phcebe, r. Mr. T. Ah, Phoebe, — is the gentleman there? Ph. Yes, sir \ he's in the hall. Mr. T. Good. He shall be welcomed with (Going.) Ph. (interposing) Don't you think, sir ? Mr. T. Eh? Ph. (slily) Wouldn't you count five first, sir? Air. T. Aye, aye ! Saucy chit ! You know the duties of a young lady's maid, I see. (Aside) An observant lass, — and not ill-looking. (To Ph.) Ha ! Set the door open, and do you go first. (Exit Phcebe, r.) Ahem ! Is all prepared? (At the door.) Ha, Mr. Startop, my dear sir ! how do you do, my dear sir? How do you do? (Exit, r.) Curtain. \ Any Port in a Storm, A PROVERB IN ACTION. CHARACTERS. DR. ABRAHAM WADDILOVE. MR. JONADAB O. CHINKABERRY. Scene. Dr. Waddilovis Consulting Room, Finsbury Square. COSTUMES. Dr. W. — Glossy suit of black; white cravat ; watch ribbon and seals. Mr. C. — Long dark blue surtout coat ; buff waistcoat ; light trousers, rather short ; lozv shoes ; tall black hat; high collars, loose tie. Any Port in a Storm. Scene. A physician's consulting room. Doors r. and l. Writing table and chair ; armchair near them. Book- case^ filled with imposing volumes. Various anatomical Preparations ; drawings, and casts displayed, with sur- gical instruments, &c. Dr. Waddilove discovered, bowing out a patient, r. IV. Be pleased to see me again on Friday, sir, at eleven. (Pocketing fee.) I thank you, sir. Good-day. Joseph ! Door ! (Comes down, and seats himself at writing table.) It occurs to me to wonder, as a matter of specula- tion, what may be the particular ailment with which that estimable Colonial Broker considers himself to be affected. His visits have recurred so frequently that I fail to recall the symptoms he mentioned at our first interview ; a ten- dency to gout, if my memory serves me. He invariably announces himself as ' better,' an assertion I am unable to controvert, as I find nothing amiss with him \ he comes again on Tuesday or Friday, as the case may be, and — Ha ! ha !— and twenty-one shillings are the result. Ahem ! Joseph ! Next ! 149 ANY PORT IN A STORM. {Enter Mr. Chinkaberry l.) Good-morning, sir. C. Good enough, for them as likes the pattern, Mister ; but I guess the rain's a-splashin' around outside, like forty fire-engines, full blast ; and, not bein' in the waterproofin' line myself, I reckon moisture ain't my strong suit. TV. Be pleased to sit. C. {taking a chair) I jedge you're feelin' kinder lone- some settin' in here by yourself, like a Siamese Twin on strike? Wa'al, bein' nateraily of a sociable turn, I don't mind takin' a hand. And I ain't exactly goin' into sack- cloth and cinders at strikin' my tent from the next room. TV. Possibly you have been waiting some time? I regret that, owing to my extensive practice, and the crowded condition of my ante-rooms, C. I pass. It's the weather. " Any port in a storm," as the parson said, when he skipped out o' winder 'cause the fire smoked. TV. The average of acute disease is naturally augmented during unusual pei turbation of the atmospheric phenomena. C. You bet. As to waitin', I come in o' purpose. And I was fixed up slick onto a fust-chop settee, right agin the stove ; fit for a duke ; suited yours truly down to the ground. But of all the gay set o' neighbours for company ! I reckon they couldn't be beat, 'cept onto a mournin' hearse ; it was 'bout as lively as a picnic in a graveyard : I swow they 'most made me feel bad myself. To say nothin' of a cheerful old porpoise with the asthma, and a black suit containin' a skeleton with the fantoddles, I was squatted on the fence between a couple o' rattlin' coughs as ANY PORT IN A STORM. kept the game a-goin' like all-possessed \ a squadron o 7 skirmishers warn't a circumstance ; I 'most thought they'd ha' bust ! W. The condition of these unhappy sufferers C. But I guess they didn't have fair play, Mister ; they warn't a match, nohow. The old potwalloper agin the hat- stand, he rattles out a good old-fashioned catarrh ; real dyed in the wool ; goes it strong ; he fills the bill, you bet yer boots. But that nimshi in the winder-curtains is a one- horse affair ; raises a jamboree over nothin' at all ; I believe he coughs out o' pure cussedness. Nothing '11 never fix him, 'cept firin' in the leg ; and that's the truth, with the bark on it. W. Excuse me, sir, if I C. So, as I was sayin', I warn't altogether sorry when your help in the brazen buttons skirmished around, and snaked me in here ; though why he done it, he didn't say. W. It is customary, sir, for ladies and gentlemen to enter this apartment in rotation, for the purpose of seeing me. C. You don't say ? Waal, live and learn. And I'm for the regular thing, whatever 'tis ; when I'm in Rome, I come the J. Caesar. Only, if you was startin' the show in my country, I guess you wouldn't require a check-taker; I reckon our folks 'd say you warn't worth the money. What ? W. You are pleased to be facetious, sir. Your linea- ments are not within my recollection ; I presume I have not had the pleasure of seeing you before ? C. Fact ? It's likely. I on'y crossed the Pond yesterday. W. The Pond? ANY PORT IN A STORM. C. The Herring Pond ; the Atlantic Puddle, sir. I on'y arrove in your village of London last night ; and the moist old mother country has a family wash, right away. But it's nat'ral in a monarchical country; the Queen reigns, and the weather follows suit. W. {opening his note book) Will you favour me with your name ? C. Jonadab O. Chinkaberry. What's yourn? W. Really, sir, I fail to grasp the necessity ■ C. Can't talk without knowin' the other man's name; might be addressin' an Egyptian mummy ; a kind o' carkiss which in my country we reckon as small pertaters. W. {angrily) There is my card, sir ! C. {examining card coolly) Ha. So 'tis. 'Abraham Waddilove, M.D.' W. Now, sir, let us proceed to business. C I'm there, all the while. You never knowed a missionary from my country refuse business, though mebbe you've a queer idee of introducin' the subject. " Business afore pleasure, any time," as the feller said when he drowned the kittens afore goin' to his mother-in-law's funeral. W. {holdi?ig out his hand) Allow me to C. {shaking it heartily) Quite a custom in my own country ; on'y we mostly do it after a trade. W. I was about to test your pulse, sir. C. Feel my pulse ? Blame my cats ! Well, play your cards, if them's trumps. W. {feeling C.'s pulse) Somewhat rapid. My experience would lead me to pronounce it a trifle rapid. ' C. You don't say ? And is yourn pretty lively ? W. Really, sir, really! The tongue? Well, perhaps ANY PORT IN A STORM. 153 we may leave the tongue; it speaks for itself. Any bellows to mend ? {Tries lungs with stethoscope.) Say ' Ah.' a Ah ! W. Again. Once more. Thank you. The heart? {Puts his ear to C.'s ribs.) C. Eh? Want to find out what I had for breakfast? Ah, I see. Sound enough, there. Some o' your fair Britishers is slick pieces o' calicker, I'llow ; but I'm tough, siree ; tough as a rubber boot. IV. And how is the appetite ? C. Wa'al, now, I do approbate one thing in this country ! You air hospitable ; that's so. But I can't ; I reely can't. I had a tightener as I come along, and I'm considerable crowded, now. W. I have not made myself clear. I am inquiring whether your appetite is satisfactory ? C. I guess the boardin'-house ma'am is more afraid o' me than Hamlet was of the old man's shadder. I h'isted in three helps o' chicken fixin's, this morning, and TV. The details, sir, are unimportant. C. You ain't off yer corn, jedgin' by your waist- coat ? W. This levity, sir, is very Do you sleep well ? C. Not arter cowcumber; alius feel kinder streaked arter cowcumber. W. Ha! Indigestion. Any other symptoms? a How? W. Are you sensible of any other inconvenience? C. Wa'al, I was considerable moist when I come in, jest now, but your flambustious help in the buttons, not havin' a wringin' machine handy, had the gumption to 154 ANY PORT IN A STORM. anchor me alongside the stove, and I'm as dry now as ah Irish bricklayer. JV. Ha! ha! Very good. Very good. (Writes.) I would recommend this and you will see me again on Friday. C. But, next Friday ? See here ! I reckon you're crowdin me 'most too much. I dunno as I — Wa'al, mebbe I'll be passin' through, too ; reckon I'll be shovin' for home by then. I'm on it. I'll show. When do you slay the fatted veal ? JV. Sir ? C. What hour? JV. From eleven to three, sir; after that time, at my private residence, as on the card. C. So 'tis ! ready printed and all ! 'Pears to me, when you are on the bust, you go the whole animal, sage'n onions and all ! I'll come, safe as coffins. JV. (rising) That will do, Mr. — ah !— Chinkaberry. {/lands him the prescription?) C. As your hackmen say, ' What's this ? ' JV. That, sir, is the medical compound peculiarly be- fitting your present condition of health. C. Wa'al now, that's downright hearty ! Tell ye what ! I'll give it a trial. And I can tell you o' Friday how it works ! Jerusha ! JV. That is the course I would recommend. I wish you a good morning, Mr. — ah ! — Chinkaberry. C. (rising) Busy? I'll slope. Till Friday, Doctor, adoo ! IV. Ahem ! Excuse me. As a stranger you are doubt- less not aware C. Not a what ? ANY PORT IN A STORM. J 55 W. Not aware of our custom in similar cases. We take our — our professional honorarium at the first visit, not the second. C. I take. Good day. (Going.) W The fee, sir ; the fee. C. Right you are. Score it up on a lump of ice, and stand it in the sun. W. This is trifling, sir. C. So 'tis, Johnny. And you're busy. Scoot's the word, and toddle is the action. Good day. W. I repeat, sir, you now hand me the usual pro- fessional fee. C. What for? W. For this consultation. C. Bully for you, old man. When I do consult you, I'll part. W. You have consulted me. C. Where 'bouts ? W. My prescription in your hand proves it. C. Go slow, old pard. No goin' back on the facts. You give me this yourself. I'll tell you all about the flavour over dinner o' Friday. I'll take it ; you plank yer dollars on that. There's no backin' out 'bout this sub- scriber. When I say I'm in, I go in, bald-headed. W. Sir, I demand my fee for this protracted consultation. C. Shoo ! I never consult nobody. The neighbours is alius ready enough settin' up nights tellin' folks what they ought to do; but they'll see you essentially cussed afore they'll gin ye a boost when you come to a tight place. I sail my own boat ; there's no bossin' this infant, you hear me! 156 ANY PORT IN A STORM. IV. Do you suggest, sir, that you had no intention of consulting me professionally ? C. Go slow, Johnnykin, you've struck ile. W. Then, why are you here ? C. I dunno. W. You don't know ! C. Nary one. Ask that galoot in the buttons ; he passed me in from the next room. W. And what were you doing there, sir ? C. Dryin' myself. IV. I repeat, sir, what was your object in entering my rooms ? C. Is it still squirtin' ? W. I fail to understand you. C. Does it rain ? W. [glancing out of windozv) No, sir; it no longer rains. C. Then I'll scattoo. I'm off. You see, when I made tracks from the hotel, this mornin', I forgot my umbrelP ; and when the rain come on I jest scooted for the fust open door ; yourn. Your help in the hall showed me into the next room, and very acceptable I found your fire. Yes, sir. W. {furious) Is it possible that you have thrust yourself in here, talking an uncouth jargon, wasting my valuable time, and keeping all my patients waiting, merely to — — C. No, no ! I never interrupt a man when he's busy. W. I wish you a good morning ! C. No doubt he done it for the best, but it was your chowder-headed help in the buttons showed me in here. IV. The door, sir ! the door ! C. I was cheerful enough on the settee in there, timin' them two coughin' cherubims. ANY PORT IN A STORM, 157 W. Good day, sir ! good day ! C. Perhaps you won't mind my not stoppin' jest now ? I'm rayther pressed for time. IV. Joseph ! Door ! C. You've kep' me here, you see, chattin' 'bout things — — W. Merciful powers ! Joseph ! C. And I can't abide henderin' folks when they're busy. W, Door ! C. And besides, I shall see you again o' Friday. Don't save me no soup, if I should be five minutes late ; I don't take none. Good day ! good day ! (Exit.) W. Thank Heaven, I am rid at last of that Transatlantic apparition. (Sinks, exhausted, in his chair.) Joseph ! Next ! Curtain. A Quiet Evening ! A FARCE. CHARACTERS, MR. OLIVER TWITTERBY WATTS. MR. SHAMUS O'CORCORAN. MR. SEPTIMUS TOOTILL. MRS. WATTS. CAROLINE WATTS. Scene. The parlour in Mr, Watts' suburban residence. COSTUMES. Mr. W. — Long coal, loose trousers, slippers ; smoking cap. Mr. O'C. — Evening dress, with light overcoat ; opera hat. Eyeglass. Cigar. Mr. T. — Light suit ; white hat ; low shoes ; lavender gloves ; light blue shirt ; high collar ; spectacles. Fair hair parted in centre, and turning up at the ends. Mrs. W. — Coloured silk dress ; cap with flowers ; mittens. Car. — Lndoor dress. A Quiet Evening ! 1 Scene. A comfortable sitting-room, lighted with two pairs of candles. Doors r. and L. Window, shuttered and barred, and fitted with a bell, and spy-hole. Fireplace, with fire burning. Mr. and Mrs. Watts and Caro- line discovered, playing dummy whist. W. A most intrepid lead, my love. Fortune favours the brave. Ours again ! Double — treble — and the rub ! Car. Dummy had nothing above a nine, pa. W. Ha ! ha ! Now this is what I call real enjoyment. Just our own circle Car. Triangle, pa. W. And a social rubber, to help us spend a quiet evening. (Starting up.) What's that ? Car. Lor, pa ! Mrs. W. Oliver Twitterby, whence this agitating alarm ? W. I may have been mistaken, — doubtless I was mis- taken, but there seemed to me to be a There it is again ! 1 One incident in this piece is adapted from an old Farce. 1 1 161 A QUIET EVENING/ Car. There what is again, pa ? Mrs. W. You make my back open and shut ! W. You heard it ? A kind of grating sound ; such as a man might make sawing through a shutter, or a Did you hear it, Anastasia? Mrs. W. Oliver Twitterby, I did not. W. Did you, Caroline ! Car. Gracious, pa ! no ! W. Do not flounce at me, child ! As your paternal parent I will not be flounced at. Silence, a moment ! {Pause.) Does any one hear anything, now ? No? Then my ears deceived me. Let us draw up to the fire for a cosy chat before retiring for the night. ( They draw chairs round the fire.) Some slight apprehension is, perhaps, excusable. Have you observed a suspicious-looking person prowling around the neighbourhood, Anastasia, of late ! Mrs. W. In the gloaming, I have. Haunting the confines of our modest domain like an uneasy spirit from the tomb. Car. Ma ! (Aside, consciously) I have recognized him, foolish fellow! The young gentleman living at the corner. W. It was a brilliant stroke of domestic policy to insist upon our servants sleeping out of the house. No chance of their plotting with external ruffians bent upon nocturnal plunder. Once see them safely off the premises ; fit every door and window with Anti-Burglar Bells ; arrange your Explosive Detonators — the large size, three to the pound — and all is easy and secure. Look at us ! Not a door in the place can be forced without exploding a Detonator which can be heard at a distance of a mile and a quarter ; A QUIET EVENING/ 163 and the raising of a window sounds an Electric Fog Horn in the bath-room. What is the result ? Here we are, free from all anxiety, spending a merry evening together, without a trouble or a care! (Crash, without.) Merciful Heavens ! What is that ? Car. Gracious, pa ! Mrs. W. (screams) Fire ! Police ! IV. What is to be done? I put it distinctly to the company. What is to be done? Has no one a suggestion? What do you imagine that disturbance to portend, Anas- tasia ? Mrs. W. Thieves — marauders — murderers ! Car. What, all at once, ma ? W. Will nobody stir ? Are we to sit here, motionless, with villains bursting in upon us, panting after treasure, and greedy for our gore ? Mrs. W. All is lost ! A scene of horror steals before my view ! Car. Scene of fiddlesticks, ma ! I'm sure it's nothing. I shall go and see. (Exit, l.) W. Bold, adventurous girl ! her father's child ! See what comes of your aversion to firearms, Anastasia ! But for that, we could now face any fate with intrepidity, — and a revolver in our breeches pocket. Mrs. W. Heavens ! W. Peace would attend our nightly slumbers, did pistol lie beneath each pillow, and a barrow-load of ball cartridge under the bed. Mrs. TV. A spark ? — an explosion ! W. And every cut-throat in the neighbourhood would have warning that we were armed to the teeth. 164 A QUIET EVENING/ Mrs. W. And we ! two mangled forms amidst the ruins of a four -post bedstead ! Re-enter Caroline, l., laughing. W. This levity ! Mrs. W. This wanton giddiness ! IV. Exactly. What is Mrs. W. The matter ? W. As I was about to say. Car. {still laughing) Why, nothing at all, ma. Mrs. W. Nothing at all ? W. Of course not. So like you, Anastasia ! Car. Pussy was locked in the kitchen, and had sprung at " Dicky," and knocked his cage off the nail. W. I recognized the noise at once. Ha ! ha ! An amusing incident ! Very entertaining indeed ! [Aside) I drown that tortoiseshell torment to-morrow morning. Car. {aside) I looked out of the staircase window. He is still there. Such devotion ! Every evening, since we first met at the Jacksons' ball. I am sure it must be he who throws such charming bouquets over the wall, and tender sonnets, signed * Albert de Montmorency.' W. And now, my dears, it is time our festivities drew to a close, and that we sought a drowsier sphere. Let us extinguish the lights, lock all the doors, and Mrs. W. {mysteriously) Hush ! Car. Gracious, ma, what's the matter now ? Mrs. W. The dog ! Car. What of him ? Mrs. W. He is barking. A QUIET EVENING J Car. (aside) Ranger will betray all! (To Mrs. W.) Oh, it's only the moon, ma, or a stray cat. W. That prowling reprobate ! Should he be scaling the wall — — Mrs. W. With an accomplice W. Or a ladder ! Mrs. W. And a dark lanthorn ? W. And a blunderbuss ! Car. Lor, ma, if we are to shake in our shoes whenever Ranger barks, the sooner he's poisoned the better ! I am sure it is nothing. (Bell rings.) The front door bell ! W. The burglar ! Mrs. W. Or the police ! Car. A burglar would not ring the bell. W. On the contrary. A common subterfuge. The door once open Mrs. W. They burst in, and gag you in the passage with an old stocking. W. Or knock out your brains on the mat with a life preserver. (Ringing repeated.) Distraction ! What is to be done? Car. Open the door. Mrs. W. Madness ! Car, We can put the chain up, first. W. True. Now, who will accomplish that? For my- self my bronchial tubes — ahem ! — naturally sensitive — ahem ! — a sudden influx of cold night air Now you, Anastasia ? Mrs. W. Oliver Twitterby, to court a renewal of my rheumatic affection were a madness to which Car. Oh, I'm not afraid ! I'll go. A QUIET EVENING/ Mrs. W. Rash child ! pause ! reflect ! refrain ! Car. Oh, bother ! {Exit, r.) Mrs. W. Foolhardy girl ! Should anything untoward happen W. My dear, you are absurdly timorous. Should any- thing occur she will cry out, and we shall at once know — that something is the matter. Ahem ! We will keep up a conversation, Anastasia ; a lively conversation, to appear unconcerned and Did you hear anything ? Mrs. W. I heard W. Yes ? Airs. W. Nothing. W. No ! Mrs. W. Hush ! A man's voice ! W. Our poor girl is a sacrifice ! Mrs. W. Ruined ! W. Victimized ! Mrs. W. Slaughtered ! W. Undone ! And you, her mother, to hound her on ! Mrs. W. I! W. Hush ! Re-enter Caroline, r. Mrs. W. My child ! And unhurt ! W. A runaway ring? I said so, Anastasia. Your poor mother is so absurdly apprehensive. Car. No, pa. It's a — a gentleman. W. A what? Car. A gentleman who has called to W. Good Heavens, child ! Have you actually admitted a stranger to the house at this hour ? A QUIET EVENING! 167 Enter Mr. Tootill, r. T. Your thervant, madam. Good evening, thir. W. {aside to Mrs. W.) The prowling desperado ! Anas- tasia, we are dead men ! T. Pardon my intwuthion at thith untimely hour ; but ath a neighbour — wethiding in the vithinity — at the corner of the woad, in fact W. (aside) Aye, aye! To be sure! A most respectable family. {Aloud) I fancied I heard the bell. My love, you remember I mentioned it? Very obliging of you to call, Mr. T. Tootill. Theptimuth Tootill, at your thervithe. Happening to be pathing, and hearing your dog barking, I took the liberty of inquiring if all wath well. {Aside) A happy chanthe ! I have been outthide for hourth, twying to thcwew my couwage up to pulling the bell. W. Was he barking ? You astonish me ! We were so absorbed in the fascinations of the Goddess Fortune T. I fear I have dithturbed you, thir ? W. By no means. Not at all. We were spending a jovial, rollicking evening. We always do. {Sings) Tol lol de rol ! "Begone, dull care — and so on. Sit down, I beg. T. You are vewy obliging, I am thure. {Sits.) W. A quiet rubber, and a cozy chat. No impropriety in that, I think, Mr. Tootill? " Honi soit " T. {shocked) You thurpwithe me ! W. No harm in a social game, surely? We play for love. T. {glancing at Car.) Ah ! i68 A QUIET EVENING! JJ\ As we were saying when you arrived, what is life without merriment and sociability ? A mere waste. T. Well obtherved, thir, indeed. And motht twue. W* Quite so. T. I twutht, madam, that you — and your fair daughter — were not fatigued after the wethent Terpthicowean wevelth at Mr. Jackthon'th wethidenth ? Car. [aside) He is ( Albert de Montmorency 1 ! I was sure of it ! Mrs. IF. I am obliged to you. Not in the least. A delightful entertainment ? T. A glimpthe of Pawadithe ! (To Car.) I twutht, altho, you expewienthed no ill effecth fwom the inclementhy of the elementh on Thunday evening? Car. Oh no, thank you. This gentleman, mama, was kind enough to lend me his umbrella, coming out of church. Mrs. W. We are much obliged to you, sir, for T. Thay not tho ! I wath overjoyed to be of thlight athithtanthe. A motht impwoving dithcourthe, upon a thtirring text. {Bell rings.) IF. {aside) The bell, again ! Mrs. fV, (aside) Merciful powers ! (Ringing loudly repeated. No one moves.) T. I thought I heard a wing ? IV. Xo, Mr. Tootill, no. I think not. (Ringing repeated?) T. Your domethticth do not wethide within the domi- thile. May I pwethume to act ath janitor ? (Rises.) W. I cannot permit ! Anastasia, my love ? Caroline? Mrs. JV. Hush ! Footsteps passing round the house ! A QUIET EVENING/ 169 W. {aside) Surprised ! Betrayed ! All our precautions fruitless ! T. Midnight mawauderth ! Let uth dwive them henth ! (Seizes the poker.) W. Ahem ! Exactly ! The intrepidity of youth ! My fiery temperament urges me to share your quest ; but two weak women ! my place is by their side ! (Aside) Ha ! Should the wretches find an entrance ! (Aloud) But this is weakness ! I will lead the attack ! (Snatches T?s hat, which T. takes from him, and the fire shovel. Both seize candles, ana rush out, r., Mr. IV., with a show of politeness, letting T. go first.) Mrs. W. Oliver Twitterby ! To leave your wife a prey to the assassin's blade ! (Seizes candle, and hurries out, r.) Car. Gracious, ma ! you'll catch your death of cold j (Seizes candle, and shawls, and runs out. R. Stage dark.) Enter Mr. O'Corcoran, r. CPC. Phew? 'Tis out of breath I am, intoirely ! (Throws himself into a chair.) No one here? It bates cock-fightin' ! Seein' lights in the house, I jump over the wall ; pull the bell ; pull again ; pull the handle off, and nobody comes ; run round the house in search of a hiding place ; back to the front door ; find it wide open, and not a sowl to be seen ! And here I am, in a sthrange house, wid a bailiff outside waitin' to sarve a writ on me, and divil a word to say for mysilf, if anybody should come. A footstep ? Some- body has come ! Shamus, me jewel, ye're in for 't at last ! Enter Caroline, r., with candle, and a shawl over her head. (Stage light.) 170 A QUIET EVENING / Car. They are searching the chicken-house, and ma won't leave them. A man ! O'C. Divil a doubt of that same. (Aside) A purty girl ! Faix, this is gettin' intherestin'. Car. What are you doing here, sir? O C. You niver mane it, now ! To ask me such a question, and a swate face of your own ! Car. I shall call for help. O'C. And what'd we want wid company, and jist our two selves to the fore ? Car. What do you mean ? C? C. 1 Mane ' is it ? And nobody by ? Car. {aside) Was I mistaken ? Is this ' Albert de Mont- morency ' ? His last note said he longed to speak to me, alone. (To O'C.) Who are you, sir? O'C. See there, now ! Is it tasin' ye are ? Car. But I don't know you. O'C. Not know me ! Car. No — unless — Is your name Albert de Mont- morency ? O'C. The same as my father's before me. (Aside) It's a long one. Bedad, I hope I'll remember it ! Car. But you were not there ? O'C. Not there ? All the toime. Car. At the Jacksons' ball ? O'C. To be sure. And grand divarshin we had at that same. Car. But I thought my mysterious correspondent was the fair gentleman who took me down to supper? I did not observe you there. O'C. And mysilf caperin' t'atthract your attention! A QUIET EVENING ! 171 Sure, I never took my eyes off ye th' intoire evenin'. Ah, me jewel ! Since that mimorable Tuesday Car. Thursday. O'C. Thorsday — your image has been sthamped upon me heart Car. Oh, sir? — a stranger — I must not listen further. Fly, I beseech you, ere my father returns ! GC. {aside) Fly, is it ? Bedad, if I only had the chance ! And the bailiff waitin' outside. {Aloud) Lave ye? Not for worrlds ! Here I stop, until — {aside) — the milk arrives in the mornin'. Car. But, should he find you here, or Mr. Tootill 0"C Tootle? What's that? Car. {casting down her eyes) Surely you have not forgotten the gentleman in glasses, whose attentions at the ball & C. (aside) A rival ! Hurroo ! {Aloud) That ruffian? What is he doin' here ? at this toime of noight ? Car. He has called — I mean, I think he came — to — to O C. To make hay while the sun shone? Bedad, there's another haymaker before urn ! {Puis his arm round her.) Those sparklin' eyes ! those rosy lips ! {Kisses her.) Enter Mr. Tootill, r., with candle. Car. {screams) Ah ! We are discovered ! {Runs off^ l.) T. What thpectacle ith thith ! (JC. Spectacles ! 'Tis a pair of that same ye're afther needin', to see when you're welcome. Y' inthrudin' vaga- bond, what d'ye want ? 172 A Q UlE T E VEXING / T. It ith I, thir, who thould demand an explanation ! A thwanger — here — at thith hour — embwathing a lady who ith — to whom I O'C. Oh, get out wid your stammerin' ! When two heads are close together, do they want a thirrd in betwane ? T. Thir, ath a fwiend of the family GC. Friend, is it? Bedad, they're in nade of acquaint- ance! T. I inthitht upon knowing the weathon of thith extwa- ordinawy intwuthion. Who are you, thir ? O'C Me father's son, and divil a less. T. I wequetht you will hand me your card. GC. Wid all the pleasure in loife. {Aside) A man was givin' them away at a shop door this afthernoon. [Hands card to Mr. T.) T. (reads) " Gwibbleth, Gweengwother. Jobbing work done with Horth and Cart " Thir, thith ith a thub- terfuge ! O'C. A what? T. A thubterfuge ; a twumpewy thubterfuge. O'C. Ye addhress that language to me, ye ondersized jellyfish ? Bedad, FU serve your nose as I did the bell handle ! (Advancing towards Mr. T.) T. What do you mean, fellow ? G C. Give me your nose ! (Pursues him round the room^ knocking over fiirniture, &c.) T. Help ! Help ! Enter Caroline, l. Car. Albert ! Risking his noble iife ! A hero ! A QUIET EVENING/ i73 Enter Mr. and Mrs. Watts, r., with candles : he with his head covered with a handkerchief, she muffled in a shawl W. What have we here ? Mrs. W. Murder ! Fire ! Police ! W. Burglars, at last ! And this gallant youth in peril ! T. {panting) Mr. — Watth — I find thith — perthon — em- bwathing your daughter. I naturally demand an explana- tion W. A burglar embracing Caroline ? Mrs. W. Impossible ! GC. Of course. Absurd. But he's a young man, and it's his birthday. IV Who are you ? What is your business ? Mrs. W. Caroline, who is this ? Why is he here ? Car. Oh, mama, he is— I— {To O'C.) Oh, Albert, explain all ! T. Albert ! O'C. (to Car.) Lave it to me. (Aside) I daren't quit the house ! Here goes ! (To Mr. TV) Your wife, sor ? TV. My wife. O'C. (shaking hands warmly with Mrs. W.) Madam, I congratulate you. W. Sir ? O'C. Oh, not on that. On her good fortune. Mrs. W. Good fortune ? 0>C. Bedad, if you don't call ten thousand a year good fortune W. Ten thousand a year ! O'C. Sorra a stiver less. *74 A Q UIE T E VEN1NG / W, But, how? when? why? Mrs. W. (aside) I always felt that I was fitted for exalted station. 0 C. Your uncle is dead at last, and y' inherit all the owld man's property. Mrs. IV. But I never had an uncle ! O'C. Ye niver knew him. And now ye niver will. Ye have me sympathy. W. But I don't understand ? Are you a solicitor ? CPC. D'ye take me for a chimney-swape ? W. Xo, no, my dear sir. But if you will kindly explain O'C. I've come on purpose, I wouldn't wait a moment, but took a cab, and dhrove all the way. IV. Really, we are much indebted O'C. A palthry foive shillings ! T. But, excuth me, Mr. Watth, I have thith perthonth card. u Gwibbleth, Gweengwother." O'C. Exactly. But it's a long story, and it's late. Suppose we all go to bed, and talk it over quietly in the mornin'. Mrs. W. Go to bed ? O'C. Oh, don't throuble about me. Put me up on the sofy. W. Really, sir, I must decline to retire until your pre- sence here is fully explained. I begin to think that my original suspicions were correct. O'C. Suspicions! W. A stranger — alone — at this hour — ( Clock strikes) — at midnight GC. {aside) Midnoight ! I'm safe ! It's Sunday, now ! A QUIET EVENING/ 175 Car. Oh, Albert, pray explain all ! O'C. Make a clane breast of it ? I will. (To T.) Will ye take a pape out of the window, now? (T. goes to the windoiV) and peeps through a hole in the shutter?) D'ye obsarve an individual recloining against the lamp-post opposite ? T. Yeth, there ith a man there. W. (aside) An accomplice ! OC. Of an Israelitish appearance ? T. Appawently tho. O'C. That bla'gyard is a bailiff \ in his coat pocket is a writ against your humble servant at the suit — and for the suits — of the worthy person, tailor by profession, who is decorating the area railin's opposite your front gate. T. There ith a man there, too. W. {aside) Two of them ! (To O'C.) But what has this to do with your presence here ? Mrs. W. Or with my uncle ? Car. Or with me ? O'C. The simplest thing in loife. This evening, in bolting from these two worthies to escape arrest I fled in at your open door as the only place of refuge ; they, not knowing which house I was in, blockaded the intoire sthreet; and here I was obliged to stop. Fearing that, if I towld the truth, ye'd give me up, I W. Told lies, instead ? O'C. You have hit it, exactly. Mrs. W. Then you are not a solicitor ? T. Nor a gweengwother ? W. Nor a burglar ? Car. Nor Albert de Montmorency ? 176 A QUIET EVENING/ O'C. Sorra a one of them. j Mrs. W. And I am not an heiress, after all ! T. (to Car.) Oh, Mith Cawoline ! That athumed name, thothe bouqueth, the vertheth, were all fwom me ! Car. Oh, Mr. Tootill, and I thought O'C. AlFs well that ends well. (To Mr. T.) Give me your (Mr. T covers his nose with his hand.) — No, no ! your hand. Ye'll forgive me? Ye'll all forgive me? And now I'll go. Mrs. W. But you will be incarcerated? O'C. Madam, it is one of the swate privileges of our counthry that no writ can be sarved on a Sunday. W. (sinking into a chair, with his head on his hand) What a night this has been ! Mrs. W. (the same) Oliver Twitterby, I shall never sleep again. T. (kneeling to Car.) Adorable Cawoline ! Car. (dropping into a chair beside him) Septimus ! O'C. Good night ! (Exit, R., slamming door.) All (starting up) Merciful Heavens ! What's that ? Curtain. First Catch Your Hare. A PROVERB IN ACTION. CHARACTERS. LORD ALBERIC DE COURTENAY. MR. BENJAMIN STALLIBRASS. Scene. The chambers of Lord Alberic^ in The Albany, Piccadilly. 12 COSTUMES. Lord A. — Neglige morning dress ; smoking jacket. Mr. S. — Morning suit, of large check ; light overcoat j white hat ; ostentations jewellery ; large bandana pocket- handkerchief. First Catch Your Hare. Scene. A bachelor 's sitting-room, very luxuriously fur- nished. Pictures of race-horses, dancers, pugilists, and bull-dogs on the walls. Fencing foils, singlesticks, boxing- gloves, fishing rods, and gun cases over mantelpiece, &c. Breakfast things still on the table. Lord Alberic, in low armchair, with his leg thrown over the arm, reading a sporting paper, and smoking a cigar. Lord A. Mr. Stallibrass ? At this hour? Show him in. {Enter Mr. S.) It is Mr. Stallibrass ! I could hardly realise the pleasure the Fates had in store for me when your name was announced. Do me the honour to take a chair. Mr. S. Thankee, my lord. The honour's neither 'ere nor there Lord A. Pardon me. Here. Mr. S. But the cheer's acceptable. (Sits heavily.) Phew ! It's 'ot ! ( Wipes his face, and throws handkerchief into his hat, which he places under his chair}} Lord A. Happiest of omens ! A money-lender in a melting mood. But why this early visit ? Mr. S. An 'abit o' mine, my lord ; an 'abit o' mine. I mostly makes my business calls in the forenoon. You see 179 i8o FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE. my customers ain't, as a rule, over and above anxious to see me ; and as they ain't what you'd call a nearly risin' lot, — why, the 'andiest time to take and drop on 'em, is afore they're hout o' bed. " The hearly bird," my lord ; " the hearly bird " You knows the hold hadage? Lord A. And the modern rejoinder. "A judgment on the worm for stealing a march on his fellows." But I caught the word " business." As a lazy man I abominate the expression j and in your mouth it augurs ill. If your object this morning is to lend money, you are as welcome — to use an absurd simile in this variable climate — as the flowers in May ; but if your object is to get your money back, let me cordially adjure you to go to the devil. Mr. S. Bad place to get any think back from, my lord. But I ain't arter no games o' that sort. Lord A. None of my little bills unduly overdue ? Mr. S. Not pertickler so, my lord ; not pertickler. Nothink but what can wait, if we're both on us so disposed. This 'ere ain't a perfessional look-up. Lord A. Mildest of money-lenders ! I breathe again. Business failing us, pleasure follows on. I must really compliment you upon the brilliant fete given at your man sion last evening. Mr. S. Ha ! You was pleased ? Lord A. Enchanted. Everything was upon the most gorgeous scale. And I do assure you, Stallibrass, you acted the part of the gentleman of the house in a devilish creditable manner, all things considered. Pledge you my life I only saw three men shake hands with the butler. Mr. S. Now, my lord ! None o' your chaff ! Lord A. Wheat. Pure grain. And the appointments FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE. 181 of the fete were on a par — to use a professional expression — with your baronial bearing. Nothing was wanting that opulence could procure. Mr. S. I 'ope not, my lord ; I 'ope not. But hall the guestes wasn't there. I spotted two or three on 'em as 'adn't ought to be away : two or three o' these 'ere swells as is lovin' enough when they wants to borrer yer money, and stares over yer 'ead when they meets ye in Piccadilly. I've marked 'em, mind ye ! I was on the kee wee o' pur- pose. I says to 'em, I says, "You show up, my lord " — or what not — " at my Fetey-Cham -peter," I says ; " and when the next note of 'and " — or what not — " comes due, it'll be considered." They passes me their word, and they don't show up ; and when the next note of 'and — or what not — comes due, it will be considered — the hother side o' the 'edge ! Lord A. You see, Stallibrass, there are some things money won't buy. And perhaps they are not in so deep as I am ? Mr. S. Pretty fair, my lord. Lord A. Promising birds, with some plucking left on them ? Well, I suppose it is none of my business to keep other stumblers out of the mire ? I wasn't born a finger- post. " Long life to the fools, or the knowing ones would starve," eh, Stalley ? Mr. S. Yer lordship's let yer cigar out. Try one o' mine. ( Offering cigar-case. ) Lord A. {relighting his cigar) No, thanks ; I know the brand ; they won't draw, and when they do, you wish they hadn't. Come, now ! What is in the wind ? What is your little game ? J 182 FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE. Mr. S. Well, my lord, I'm a plain man % Lord A. Don't say that, Mr. Stallibrass ! A matter of taste. Mr. S. I don't want no beatin' about the bush. " Short and sweet " is my motter. Lord A. Like a sugar-stick. Mr. S. Similarly, I don't want no third parties. I goes straight to the founting 'ead; 'im and me says " Done ! " over the job, whatever it is, and " Done ! " is enough atween gen'lemen. Lord A. Ha! That is an expression which is used in such society, is it ? Mr. S. Now, my lord, goin' back for the nounce to last night Lord A. Delightful point of departure. Mr. S. You was there ? Lord A. I was present. Mr. S. And see 'ow things was managed ? Lord A. Admirably. Mr. S. The guestes was well looked arter ? Lord A. On account of the spoons ? Mr. S. On account o' their gettin' enough victuals ! Lord A. Pardon me. I appreciate your solicitude. No attention was wanting. Mr. S. The heatables and drinkables was what they should be ? Lord A. The menu could not have been improved, and your cellar is proverbially unsurpassable. Mr. S. Good. All accordin' to horder. And the band, and the Dancin' Paviloon, and the Lord A. Really, Mr. Stallibrass, I did not take an in- FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE. 183 ventory of the attractions ; but the arrangements appeared to me to be perfect. Mr. S. Good again. And accordin' to horder again. I meant it should be a nobby entertainment, which in my opinion it were. My daughter see arter the arrangements. Lord A. Indeed ? Mr. S. You see my daughter ? Lord A. I had the honour of being presented. Mr. S. And what did you think of her ? Lord A. An extraordinary question. If you want my candid opinion, I was agreeably surprised. But perhaps her mother was pretty ? Mr. S. The 'andsomest gal in 'Ertford. Lord A. That accounts for it. Any money ? Mr. S. Honly foolish thing I ever done in my life, my lord : 'adn't a penny. Lord A. There can be no doubt, then, about the good looks. Mr. S. (producing pocket-book and papers, and a cedar pencil, which he puts — bit fashion — in his 7nouth) Now, my lord, what with bills, notes of 'and, and one thing and another, I've got yer lordship's name on my books to the tune of a good round sum. Lord A. Tune ? A monotonous air, with no variations. Wanting in originality, too, for it is all borrowed. But I thought you said this was not a professional visit ? Mr. S. Not altogether ; nor yet it ain't a pasteboard leavin' job, neither ; perhaps what you might call, a little o' both. As I was a-sayin', you'll allow as, one way and another, I've let yer lordship 'ave a goodish bit o' money ? Lord A. With interest in — or out of — proportion. FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE. Mr. S. Never mind about that. Lord A. With all my heart. Mr. S. 'Ave you 'ad the money ? Lord A. I have. And all I've had, I've spent. And I suppose this rigmarole means that you won't let me have any more ? Mr. S. Wrong, for once, my lord. Lord A. Wrong ? (Holding out his hand,) Hand over. Mr. S. 'Old on a bit. That's Number One. Lord A. Safe in your hands, Stalley. Mr. S. Number Two. You'll guess, may be, as I've laid by somethink for a rainy day ? Lord A. I should imagine you were prepared for a second Deluge. Mr. S. Well, I admit I 'aven't done bad. Lord A. Who would, by lending at Heaven-knows- what per cent ? Mr. S. So much for Number Two. Lord A. Number Two proving to be merely a repeti- tion of Number One ; — an arithmetical truism, by the way. Mr. S. D'ye see what I'm a-drivin' at ? Lord A. My good man, I haven't the faintest idea. Mr. S. Then we go on to Number Three. And Number Three is — my daughter. Lord A. So that Number Three is also, but to a less extent, a repetition of Number One. Say, Number One, with improvements. Mr. S. Now my gal is unmarried. Lord A. " A modest violet, born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air." FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE. 185 Mr. S. Never mind 'er waist, nor 'er 'air neither ; she'll be my heir, bein' my honly chick, and that's enough. Lord A. Quaint, clear, forcible ! Mr. S. Now in my opinion, my lord, gals was born to get married jest as much as ducks was born to swim. Lord A. Rural illustration ! In Goldsmith's happiest manner. " Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain — " Mr. S. Don't I tell ye never mind the gal's 'air ! Plain she hain't, an' hauburn '11 be taken into account. Lord A. You misapprehend my quotation. But no matter. Mr. S. I say my gal's unmarried. Lord A. Heaven help the man ! I can quite believe it — with such a father. Mr. S* Nor you ain't married, neither. Lord A. True. In which respect I do not resemble our late lamented monarch, Queen Anne, who is now — alas !— no more. Mr. S. D'ye ketch the hidea now ? Lord A. No. Mr. S. Then 'ere you 'ave it, straight. You wants a wife with money ; I wants a son-in-law with a 'andle to 'is name. Lord A. Would a pump meet the case ? Mr. S. That there fash'nable blow-out last night were give to bring you an' my gal together. I put 'er hup to the move afore'and ; "That's 'im," I says; says she, "'E'll do." Lord A. Flattered, I'm sure. Mr. S. Ask 'er, and she'll 'ave yer. Now 'ere's what I'll do to set ye on yer legs. The fust fire as is lit in the drorin'-room o' Lady De Courtenay will be lit with hevery FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE. bill, note of 'and, and Hi, Ho, U, o' yourn as is a-floatin' about London. Lord A. What a jolly bonfire ! I'd have that chimney swept. Mr. S. My gal 'as fifty thousand pound on 'er weddin' day, and five thousand a year harterwards ; and I guarantee as she shall run into six figures when 'er pore hold father's stowed away in our new marble family mausole'm. There, my lord! I've played my card; di'monds is trumps. Ha ! Ha ! Let's 'ave a look at yer 'and. What d'ye play ? {Throws himself back hi his chair, with his legs stretched wide apar^ and his hands in his pockets.} Lord A. Hm ! Let me see. You play the Knave of Diamonds? Being impecunious I cannot follow suit. I play the Queen of Hearts. Mr. S. Oh, I daresay it's very clever and all that ! but I don't understand riddles ; — don't see no good in 'em, neither. I've put a plain question, my lord, and I wants a plain hanswer. Lord A. You shall have it. The case stands thus. You have made me an offer ; it includes your daughter — let us call it a handsome offer. Mr. S. Of course it is ! I knowed we'd come to terms. {Holding oat his hand.) Lord A. One moment. Premature congratulations are painful — which sounds like a moral copybook. I say, I appreciate the munificence of the proposal I am unfor- tunately compelled to decline. Mr. S. (starting up violently) Decline ! Lord A. Pray be seated. I can stand up for myself, you know. FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE., 187 Mr. S. What have ye got to say agin the gal ? Lord A. Nothing. I have not spoken ten words to the lady. Mr. S. Ain't she good enough for yer? Lord A. I trust, far too good. Mr. S. Ain't my horfer an 'andsome one for sech an 'ard-up, stuck-up Lord A. Oh come, come, Stalley ! Don't let us lose our tempers. Mr. S. Oh, cuss our tempers ! Lord A. Yours, by all means, if you wish; it seems a bad one. Now, sit down Mr, S. I shan't ! This 'ere ain't a settin' down job. D'you know I can sell ye up to-morrer ? Ah, and I will, too! Lord A. Oh no, you won't. Mr. S. But I say I will ! {Banging papers with his fist.) Lord A. And I say, as certainly, but in a lower tone, that you will do nothing of the kind. Mr. S. Why won't I ? Lord A. Because professional instincts override parental wrath; and you must pocket your spite, or miss pocketing your money. Mr. S. I dunno what you're drivin' at, no more than the man in the moon. Lord A. And it is broad day. Just so. Be seated, and all shall be made clear. {Mr. S. flings himself angrily i?ito a chair.) A thousand thanks. You see the native worth and sterling independence of your character are so much less— pardon me — aggressive, in a sitting posture. i88 FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE. You have been good enough to remind me — not that it was necessary — that I am in pecuniary straits. Mr. S. If you mean as you han't got a feather to fly with Lord A. Exactly. Now to the ordinary impecunious individual three courses are open to raise money. He may beg, borrow, or steal. My position in society debars me from the first expedient ; the second, as you warn me, is well nigh exhausted ; and the third is associated with moral drawbacks which operate powerfully upon the fas- tidious mind. Mr. S. But 'ow about marryin' money? Lord A. For my own part, I have always looked upon matrimony as a hazardous speculation ; rather like buying toffee by the ton. But needs must, when hard pressed ; a solitary avenue is left me for escape ; I must bow my neck to be free of my bonds ; and my sole resource is to link my fate to fortune with a wedding ring. Mr. S. There ye are ! A wife, and a fortun'. Ain't that what I say ? Lord A. Precisely. But here our reasonings diverge. You would condemn me to dry bread for the rest of my life, whereas I yearn for the addition of a little jam. You would have me marry for money alone Mr. S. Heverythink helse '11 come in time. Lord A. But I desire a little love thrown in. Listen. The Lady Aurifera de Mont-Orgeuil is young, handsome, accomplished; she is wealthy ; will be more so, being the sole relative of her Croesus uncle, Lord Goldbury ; she and I are old — friends ; perhaps something more \ she knows my pecuniary position accurately. FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE, 189 Mr. S. Well ? Lord A. Yesterday, on my way to your reception, I called upon the Lady Aurifera ; I placed the situation clearly before her : proposed ; was accepted. We are to be married next year. Mr. S. Then I'm too late ? Lord A. You are too late. {Pause. Lord A. smokes serenely, gazing at the ceiling ; Mr. S. sits with his hands buried in his pockets, and his legs extended, staring blankly at his boots.) Mr, S. (pocketing his papers and pencil) Well, my lord, it ain't my way to cry over spilt milk. Lord A. Wise man. Does little good to you, and none to the milk. Mr. S. I alius makes the best of a bad bargain. Lord A. Naturally. Being so rare. Mr. S. You'll shake 'ands, my lord ? Lord A. Why not ? (They shake hands.) Mr. S. Thankee, my lord. That's over, and done with, and there's a hend of it. Now for business. (Produce pocket-book.) Lord Goldbury is a millionaire. Lord A. Poor devil ! Mr, S. Meanest man alive. Lord A. Or he would not be a millionaire. Mr. S. Nothink to be got out of Hm on account. Lord A. On account ! What an expression ! Mr. S. Now young ladies what's engaged wants fal-lals, and presents, and gammon o' that sort, to show their per- tickler friends what ain't engaged,and make 'em bust with envy. Lord A. " Fe ! fi ! fo ! fum ! I smell n a rat. Go on, Stalley. 190 FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE. Mr. S. Presents means money, my lord. Lord A. And time is money, too. Twenty per cent less interest, on account of my improved prospects? Mr. S. Done, sir. (Makes 'note rapidly in pocket-book.} I shall honour your lordship's draft up to five figures. [Rises.) I've the honour to wish yer lordship a very good day. Lord A. [rising) Good day. Mr. Stallibrass. Let me see you out. {Exeunt.) Curtain. A Legal Intrusion. A DUOLOGUE. CHARACTERS, mr. cholmondley wigram, of the Inner Temple, HON. MRS. BRUDENELL BEAUCHAMP-FIENNES. Scene. The drawing-room of the flat occupied by Mrs. FienneS) at Talbot Mansions, Albert Gate. COSTUMES. Mr. W. — Evening dress ; light overcoat ; opera hat Mrs. F. — Ball dress ; opera cloak. A Legal Intrusion. Scene. A very elegantly furnished drawing-room. Doors r. and L. Fire lit, and gas burning. Stage empty. Knocki?ig without. The knocking is repeated, and eventually the door, l., is cautiously opened, and Mr. Wigram is seen peeping into the room. W. Not a solitary soul ! {Enters on tiptoe) What's that? I tremble like a burglar's apprentice. How I sympathize with some of my clients ! The heart of the housebreaker beats in the barrister's bosom ; — (showing one hand, the glove wanting a button) — the barrister bereft of a button. A footstep ? No. I am on pins and needles — I wish I were ! Now, what is to be done ? Having stolen up hither in search of assistance, shall I — steal back again ? Never ! Shall I summon some one to — Stay ! Have we any precedent for ringing a stranger's drawing-room bell, and asking to have a button sewn on ? Could the fascina- ting widow I meet, and long to bow to, on the stairs, look coldly on a fellow man — I mean, a fellow creature — in this extremity? No, — {showing defective glove) — this extremity. If so, it might end in the police. A third course is open to the buttonless being. He may help himself. He may un- 13 103 i 9 4 A LEGAL INTRUSION. earth the necessary needle, the indispensable thread, even the superfluous thimble ; and then, — alone, — unaided, — sew the miserable thing on himself. He may ! He can ! He shall ! (Searches on the tables, &>c.) Enter Mrs. Fiennes, r., with her cloak over her arm, fitting on her gloves, Mrs, F. (laying her cloak aside) Only fifteen minutes late ? I am a pattern to my sex. And now, when Hopkins condescends to bring the brougham round, I am free for what Lord Reginald calls my "ah — glittahwing and — ah — iwethithtable caweer of conquetht." Mercy on us ! A robber ! W. Could I but catch the eye of a needle, I would do deeds of daring. (Overturns inkstand.) Shade of Apollo ! I've upset the ink ! (Tries to repair the damage with blotting paper.) Mrs. F (aside) No. My neighbour in the rooms beneath. What is he doing here? He looks and longs when we encounter on the stairs, but never dares to bow ; nor will the proprieties permit of any encouragement; I came upon him last Christmas lurking on my landing, with a surreptitious sprig of mistletoe, whistling for my maid ; and I don't know which looked the most foolish ; he, or I, or the mistletoe. I should just like to see what he is (Tries to peer over his shoulder}) W. Not a vestige of a housewife ! Not a trace of a workbasket ! O heedless man ! heedless and needle-less in the hour of necessity ? I'd give a guinea to lay my hand upon a — (Sinks despairingly into armchair, on which is A LEGAL INTRUSION. *95 Mrs. F's embroidery.) — Dam — age the furniture ! (Starting up, and rubbing himself violently.) I've found one at last ! Mrs. F. You appear, sir, to be in pain ? W. (aside, snatching off his hat) The widow herself, by all that's felicitous ! Romantic introduction ! Claude Duval outdone! (To Mrs. F.) I trust, madam, that this apparent intrusion Mrs. F. Apparent? W. I admit that, at first sight, my presence here might appear intrusive. Permit me to explain. I am the gentle- man from below. Mrs. F. I beg your pardon ? W. Do not misapprehend me. My surroundings are not sulphureous. I am the flat beneath. Mrs. F. So I perceive. W. This evening, in arraying the human form divine, I — distressing circumstance to have to mention to a lady — a sartorial misadventure — in a word, a button Mrs. F. Sir ! W. My glove, madam; my glove; nothing further, I assure you. Ahem ! To resume. In me you behold a lonely waif upon the ocean of society ; a sad and solitary bachelor ! Mrs. F. (with indifference) Indeed? W. (aside) Interested, at once! (To Mrs. F.) Mine is no faithful consort, sworn at the altar to love, honour, and obey, to whom my buttons would have been a sacred care. Even the domestics had departed in a body to the play. I was alone. Shorn of my beloved button ; lacking the very wherewithal to replace it ! — the flower of the British bar ig6 A LEGAL INTRUSION. was drooping on its stalk, deserted and desolate, unbuttoned and undone 1 Mrs. F. How affecting ! (Aside) Where can Hopkins be all this while ? W. This very afternoon as I meandered homeward from the Temple — the musty Temple of the Law — did I lavish lucre on these lavenders ! Three shillings and six- pence, lawful coin of the realm, chinked in the coffers of a sordid haberdasher to secure them for my own : and, as I took them from his myrmidon, I solemnly demanded " If the buttons were reliable ? w She was a myrmidon of an engaging presence ; and she breathed a soft assurance that her buttons would be true I Mrs. F. Alas,, for the perfidy of womankind ! W. And what is the result ? Behold me arrayed in the war paint of civilization ! my soul — both soles — in arms, and eager for the fray ! my Arab steed in waiting at the castle gate! (I allude to 17227 — with a hansom — and a black eye,) — and, at the last moment, Bang ! goes this infernal button ! Airs. F. Poor young man ! I feel for you. W. Madam, your embroidery has already enabled me to do so for myself. And thus it came about that, in desperation, with the minutes flying, and 17227, black eye and all, chuckling a song of sixpence for every fifteen, I was tempted to intrude upon these hallowed precincts in search of the mariner's encompassed counsellor, — at once the weapon and the wand of woman, — in a word, a needle ! Mrs. F. And in your search ? W. (holding up embroidery, with a large needie protruding) I have not been disappointed. A LEGAL INTRUSION. 197 Mrs. F. Be assured of my tenderest sympathy. Possibly, as regards the glove, the difficulty may be overcome ? W. If you would permit your maid Mrs. F. (aside ; shaking her head) Oh that mistletoe ! {Aloud) I shall be very willing to do my best, if you will allow me ? W. Oh lady ! If the orphan's tear Mrs. F. Have you preserved the missing button ? W. {producing it) I have. " Who giveth this button ? " Gently suggestive of the nuptial bond. Mrs. F. My thimble? {Fetches her workbasket.) Ha! Some one has been upsetting my ink ! W. The harmless, necessary cat ? Mrs. F. {threading her needle) I have no cat. Now, sir. {Commences sewing on the button?) W. [stretching out his arm awkwardly) At such a crisis does the bachelor bewail the bleak, unbroken blank of his solitary fireside ! sorrowing in his secret soul over his singular Mrs. F. May I suggest that the attitude of a sign- post IV. Is not that a sine qua non ? A thousand pardons ! As I was about to observe — What is man, miserable man, without his meek, melodious mate ? ( With declamatory action, growing more violent as he proceeds?) Who would sympathize with a Joan-less Darby ? Who would weep over the woes of the renowned Willikins, but for the demise of his devoted Dinah ? What, I say, is man without woman ? A rose without a thorn ! — I mean, of course, the other way ; a body without a soul ! a knife without a fork ! a head without a tail, like an adolescent tadpole ! A LEGAL INTRUSION. Mrs, F. (who has been vainly endeavouring to proceed in the intervals of his gesticulation) Perhaps it would, on the whole, facilitate matters if you took off your glove ? W. An idea which had not occurred to me. (Removes his glove, and hands it to Mrs. F.) But such is the wondrous intellect of woman ! sparkling with the brilliance of spon- taneous suggestion ! ever fertile in original resource ! Mrs. F. (seated and sewing) I think I gathered that you are a barrister? W. I admit the soft impeachment. I am indeed a budding branch, — a shoot, — a tiny twigling of the legal family tree ; a modestly aspiring limb of the Law. Mrs. F. Your speech would have betrayed you. And you are also a bachelor? a heart-whole exception to the susceptibilities of mankind ? W. By no means so. I must demur to the statement of my learned friend. "A bachelor," I admit; but " heart- whole," — never more ! Mrs. F " Quoth the raven, ' Never more ! ' " I fear I have chanced by inadvertence on a tender topic. Pray pardon my indiscretion. W. On the contrary. I rather like it. Mrs. F. She is pretty ? W. N — not in the conventional sense. She is cast in no vulgar mould of stereotyped perfection. Her charms are Mrs. F Peculiar. W. We will not be uncharitable. Let us say, unique. Mrs. F. Possibly she is possessed of substantial attrac- tions? W. Fortune has, wisely, assessed her dowry with an appreciative eye to the contingent disadvantages. A LEGAL INTRUSION. 199 Mrs. F. And she approves of your suit ? W. {displaying his figure) I trust you observe nothing unfitting ? Mrs. F I mean, does she encourage your addresses? W. Amongst others. Mine, amongst others. Mrs. F. The prize is, then, eagerly contended for? W. Each for himself, my dear madam; and let the hindermost go to the dev — to the Lord Chancellor's residuary legatee ! Mrs. F She has relatives ? W. She is associated with a paternal anomaly ; — it would be flattery to allude to him as the parent of such a paragon. Mrs. F. He is not sympathetic ? W. What are the mysterious promptings of the youthful heart to five feet four of unmitigated vulgarity, with a competence extorted from the tallow trade ! Mrs. F So that, for the moment the prospect is un- propitious ? W. The amorous horizon is none of the brightest, I admit. But what of that? Am I disheartened? dis- couraged? cast down, like a dejected ninepin? Absurd. I am not to be trifled with. I am no longer appreciated ? I am welcomed with decorum, not to say, frigidity ? rather kicked out than otherwise. Very well. I say, very well ! Mrs. F. I heard you say it. W. {striking table with his fist) Madam, I will be calm ! Mrs. F. I am relieved. W. You feel for me ? Mrs. F. More than you do for my table. W. {rubbing his hand) Except in a literal sense. Under these circumstances, what do I do ? Mope ? write poetry ? 200 A LEGAL INTRUSION. whet my razors ? Deuce a bit of it ! I repeat, deuce a bit of it ! Mrs. F You should not repeat it. W. Why should I limp through life in boots suggestive of the tortures of the Inquisition, and not advance a step ? Why should I array myself in meteoric splendour, with no effect? To adore even the sweetest of her sex for six whole weeks and be no forwarder, I think too much ; much too much ; five weeks and six whole days too much ! Mrs. F. What course, then, do you propose to pursue ? W. I have purchased a " Gent's Fashionable Evening Ditto. To measure. As worn. Note our prices ! Seventy- five-and-six." I have invested heavily in scent and Macassar ; I have plunged into the giddy, gaddy vortex of Society ; I disport myself at opera, park, and play ; I have sacrificed upon the altar of Terpsichore, through her High Priest, the illustrious Jacksoni, of the Hampstead Road ; I Mrs. F Interrupting you for one moment — Does this explain the frequent disturbance of the furniture in your apartments which has recently been so remarkable? W. Possibly produced by my perfecting myself, with the assistance of a particularly plump parlour- maid, in the performance of the Polka ? Mrs. F. In the intricacies of which I trust, for the sake of my peace of mind, that you are approaching proficiency. W. As regards my success in Society, it is not, perhaps, for me to offer an opinion ; but I am given to understand that in suburban circles I am regarded to some extent as being in the nature of an acquisition. Mrs. F. So I should be disposed to imagine. W. This evening, for instance, I am on my way to a A LEGAL INTRUSION. 20I brilliant assembly of the elite of the beau mo7ide at the mansion of a distant relative of an old acquaintance of a particular friend of mine. Mrs. F. (rising, and returning glove) Where you will, I hope, enjoy a pleasant evening. W. I take the hint, madam, and my leave. And if the grateful tribute of an orphan boy Mrs. F\ (putting on her cloak and gloves) Perhaps you would be good enough, in going down, to ascertain if my carriage is at the door ? W. With the utmost pleasure. Allow me. (Assisting with her cloak.) You, like myself, are adorned for capti- vation? I mean, you are also about to seek the social throng ? Mrs. F. I am driving to Harley Street. W. Not 444 ? Mrs. F. Yes. W. The Honourable Mrs. Sooper-SpifTe's ? Mrs. F. The same. W. Miraculous ! I am bound thither, too ! Mrs. F. A droll coincidence. Should we encounter there, possibly some one may introduce you to me. W. Such are the conventionalities of society, that I am driven to be obliged — I mean, I am obliged to be driven all the way to Harley Street in order that a third party may mention that my name is You go alone ? Mrs. F. Certainly. W. Permit me to proffer a respectful escort. A com- modious hansom is in attendance below Mrs. F Many thanks, but my brougham is, or should be, waiting. 202 A LEGAL INTRUSION. W. Decidedly preferable, in every way. May I ? {Offering his arm.) Mrs. F. But I fear W. Be under no punctilious alarm. We will occupy the carriage together; and 17227, who is the soul of discre- tion, — with a black eye, — shall follow us to play Old Gooseberry. Mrs. F. But suppose she should be there ? TV. She will be there. So much the better. She will gnash her teeth with jealousy. And, as her dental decora- tions are her own, — by purchase, — the effect will be calculated to attract attention. May I presume to plead for an early valse ? Mrs. F But, really, I am by no means sure W. If our steps assimilate? We can ascertain in a moment. (They dance.) Perfection! Heavenly! Jack- soni, my everlasting gratitude is thine ! Mrs. F. We should, I think, be going ? W. Precisely. Paradise and the disap — Peri. Shall {Highland Shoitische. Exeunt l.) Curtain, After the Rain. A COMEDIETTA. CHARACTERS. GENERAL SIR ARTHUR MOUNTSTEWART, K. C.S.I. ROGERS. KATHARINE PEVERIL. MRS. JEFFCOE. Scene. Morning room at Fen Hall, Lincolnshire. COSTUMES. Sir A. — Light grey frock-coat and trousers with straps. Spurs. Rog. — Servant's morning livery. Miss P . — Morning dress. Mrs. J. — Old-fashioned dress, and cap. After the Rain. 1 Scene. A morning room, of mediceval fashion, furnished fo? ladies' use. Various family portraits on the walls. Piano, books, &c. Bay window with view of flat, flooded country. Conservatory. Doors r. and l. Rogers discovered at the zvindow, watching the heavy rain. R. Of all the weather I ever see ! Three blessed weeks with not a soul to speak to but ourselves ; and nothing but rain and east wind from morning to night ! (At table.) All missis's nick-nacks gettin' covered over with blue mouldiness ! and how's the maids to 'elp it, with the house surrounded with water, and not a window that'll open for the damp ! (Sneezes.) Such a cold I've got ! Enter Mrs. Jeffcoe, r. Mrs. J. Good morning, Mr. Rogers. R. Good morning to you, ma'am, I'm sure. Mrs. J. I hope your face is better ? 1 A portion of the opening of this piece was suggested by "La Pluie et le Beau Temps? 205 206 AFTER THE RAIN. R. Fur from it. Not a wink of sleep all night ! And 'ow them owls did 'oot ! Mrs. J. Have you put anything to it ? R. Everything. Onions, tobacco, brandy, ginger, cold tea, hot flat-irons, and they only make it worse ! (Sneezes.) And who's to wonder, in such a place ! Lor, Mrs. Jeffcoe, why don't missis go comfortably back to Park Lane again ? Mrs. J. Why, Mr. Rogers, the whole house is tied up in brown holland ! R. Then untie it. Mrs. J. Go back to London, with the season over, and everybody away ? Lincolnshire is better than that. Enter Miss Peveril, l. Miss P. Rogers ! R. Yes, ma'am. Miss P. Where are the letters ? Do you hear ? R. Beg pardon, ma'am, but Miss P. But what ? R. Nothing, ma'am, but I thought Miss P. Thought what ? R. I thought I was going Miss P. Heaven help the man ! Going where ! R. No, ma'am, only going to — (sneezes violently) Such a cold I've got ! Miss P. So it seems. How did you get that ? R. The rain comes through the roof on to my bed, ma'am, and I think it's a little damp. Miss jP. Ugh ! Well, where are the letters ? R. They've not come yet, ma'am. Miss P. Who has ridden over for them ? AFTER THE RAIN. 207 R. Mark, ma'am. Miss P. What an age that man always is ! Bring me the bag the moment he returns. (Exit Rogers, r.) Mrs. JefTcoe, at what hour did I order luncheon ? Mrs. J. At two o'clock, ma'am. Miss P. I will have it at one. Mrs. J. Very good, ma'am. Miss P. Is it still raining ? Mrs. J. Harder than ever, ma'am. (Exit, R.) Miss P. I need not have inquired. It has not ceased for three whole weeks, and why to-day ? (At window.) No sign of a break anywhere ! Grey sky, grey trees, grey water, and the same eternal rain, rain, rain ! This ever- lasting, weary waste of waters ! one might be floating still in Noah's ark — without the animals. What's that ? A frog ? Rogers ! No ! he's company. Only eleven o'clock ? I cannot in conscience go to bed till — eight. Nine awful hours ! Oh, what a weary lot is mine ! In town, beset by flatterers ; here, by floods. I would change places with a beggar; the poor have but to endure their wretchedness, the rich must needs enjoy it. Enter Rogers, r., with post-bag, and salver. R. The letters, ma'am. Miss P. At last ! Stay, Rogers ; you may take those for the servants' hall. ( Unlocks bag, and shakes out letters and papers) What a delightfully heavy heap ! (Sorting letters) " Mr. Rogers." The first prize is yours, Rogers. R. (stepping forward with salver) Thank you, ma'am. Miss P. " Mrs. Jeffcoe." Mine— a bill ! " J. Saunders. — Miss Spradbury "—Who is that ? 208 AFTER THE RAIN. R. Sarah, ma'am. Miss P. I had forgotten. " Mrs. Jeffcoe," again. One — two, for the bailiff : two for Mr. Horncastle. Let David take them down with him to the dairy. A newspaper. Another. "Mr. Rogers," again. R. Thank you, ma'am. Miss P. One for what a mysterious — ! Ah, " Miss Barley." I think the young man at the shop walks out with my maid, Rogers? R. Well, ma'am, I never see nothing of it myself ; but I've been given to understand Miss P. Yes. Always a faint aroma of cheese about her on Monday mornings. Mine — another, too ! " E. Rogers, Esq." ! another for you, Rogers. R. Thank you, ma'am. Miss jP. And the other two for me. You may take the bag. {Exit Rogers, r.) An occupation at last, the post be praised ! and one that Noah never knew. {Reclines on couch, with letters beside her, on low table.) Now for a leisurely enjoyment of the one excitement of the day. Number one. {Takes up letter) Handsome crest — un- known to me: a handwriting I — have not — seen before? No ! Masculine : it promises to prove interesting. (Opens letter, and reads) " Ulleswater Arms Hotel. Sir — " some- body-something ; I cannot read it — " presents his compli- ments to the Earl of Ulleswater " — Preserve the man ! My poor, departed relative, dead four years ago ! — "and being m the neighbourhood, and learning that the pictures at Fen Hall are shown " — Oh, Lud ! some inquisitive monster seek- ing to stare the family portraits out of countenance ! — " are shown at certain hours to amateurs " — and an amateur ! — AFTER THE RAIN. 209 " will take the liberty of riding over in the morning to solicit the favour of an inspection of such a celebrated collection, should the occasion be in no way inconvenient." Well he is more civil than most. The public usually treat my private possessions like the National Gallery on Whit Monday. (Rings.) One party arrived in a two-horse van, with a hamper of provisions, and a cornopean beside the driver. Enter Rogers, r. R. Did you ring, ma'am ? Miss P. Tell Mrs. Jeffcoe a gentleman is calling this morning to see the pictures. R. Yes, ma'am. Miss P. She may show him whatever he desires to see. R. Very good, ma'am. (Exit, r.) Miss P. (taking up another letter) Number two. (Reads) " Miss Peveril, Fen Court, to Messrs. Carter and " I knew it was a bill ! such a paltry envelope. I hope the third is more interesting. (Opens letter and reads) " Sludg- ley Orphan Home — Vote and Interest — Jane Roach — " and all my votes disposed of, months ago. I pin my faith on number four. (Reads.) " Honoured Madam. Though by name unknown I take the liberty as well know- ing the open-hearted gennerosity — " two n's ! — " sick wife and ten small children, and another shortly — " I recognize the wretch's style ; he wrote last time as a woman, demand- ing nine and sevenpence to complete the purchase of a mangle. I remember thinking him clever to avoid naming half a sovereign. Only one left. A last forlorn hope. Shall I — ? No. It will be something to speculate about. And fidget myself into all sorts of nonsense. (Opens letter, and 14 210 AFTER THE RAIN. reads) "Sir Pontifex and Lady Skeffington request the pleasure A hope forlorn, indeed ! Dine with those people again ? Never ! Such conversation ! such a cook ! I will answer it at once. (Sits at writing table) " Miss Peveril regrets that — " What ? — " a slight indisposition " — No ! that odious woman will be calling to inquire — " a pre- vious engagement — " If it were only true ! (Directs envelope) "Lady Skeffington, Dullbury Hatch." And the man who takes it over can come back through the village, and pay the bill. So ends my correspondence ; and I have absolutely nothing left to do ; nothing ! No refuge but to stare out of window at the rain. (At the window.) Just as before ! Grey sky, grey trees, grey Why ! as I live, a horseman splashing up the drive ! Whom can he be ? A visitor ? and of the interesting sex ! I am posi- tively excited ! I had forgotten excitement was possible in Lincolnshire. Is he young? handsome? accomplished? Or old, shrivelled, prosy ? A distinguished nobleman — or my butcher ? Certainly not Mr. Dobbs. He rides like a soldier. And, as I live, another following ! Master and man. Can it be Pshaw ! Speculation is wasted on a streaming mackintosh astride a dripping steed. He is a man ; that delightful fact is beyond question ; and in this wilderness even a housebreaker would be a diversion. (Arra?tging her hair, &c., at the glass.) Enter Rogers, r., with card on salver. R. The gentleman to see the pictures, ma'am. Miss P. Horror ! The amateur ! All my illusion van- ished at a word ! R. Shall I AFTER THE RAIN. 211 Miss P. Hand the creature over to Mrs. JefTcoe, and bid her get rid of him as soon as she can. {Rogers lays card on table.) Is it raining, still ? R. Not so 'eavy as it did, ma'am. Miss P. Is it really ceasing ? R. It seems so, ma'am, at last. Miss P. Let Foster bring the carriage round ; I am going out. R. But, I beg pardon, ma'am, Mark says the floods is out all over the road, and it's nigh on a foot deep in places. Miss P. If the carriage cannot be used, I will go in the punt; if the punt cannot be used, I suppose I must swim. But go I will. Let me know the moment the rain has stopped. R. Very good, ma'am. [Aside) When it stops? That'll be Doomsday ! (Exit, r.) Miss P. Stay here I can not. I shall go melancholy mad. I'll call on the vicar ; he's the nearest. I detest the man, and his wife is the most insufferable creature; her sole idea, a woman's "household duties." To an orphan with ^20,000 a year ! No matter, I feel I could welcome a Hottentot with effusion. I will put on my things in readi- ness. (Exit) l.) Enter Rogers, r, ushering in Sir Arthur. R. If you will wait here a moment, sir, the housekeeper will attend on you. (Exit, R.) Sir A. Thank you, I am in no hurry. Handsome old mansion, but insufferably dull. A noble building to be stranded in such a dreary waste. Remarkable pictures these ! (Examining them through his eye-glasses.) 212 AFTER THE RAIN. Enter Mrs. Jeffcoe, r. Mrs. J. Good morning, sir. Sir A. (turning round) Oh, good morning. I learn from the Guide Book that one is permitted to inspect the pictures. I have ridden over for that purpose, if it is pos- sible. Mountstewart is my name; Sir Arthur Mount- stewart. Mrs. J. Certainly, sir. I shall be happy to open the Picture Gallery for you. Will you be pleased to step this way ? Sir A. Do we not see these first ? Mrs. J. These pictures are not shown. Sir A. How unfortunate ? They seem fine. Mrs J. This is my mistress's private room. Sir A. A thousand pardons ! (Aside) Her mistress ? It said the Earl was a bachelor. Perhaps newly married. (Exeunt^ r.) Re-enter Miss Peveril, l. Miss P. What an idiot that man is ! It is raining more steadily than ever! This day is just one dreary disap- pointment. What am I to do with myself? I cannot draw. The pleasures of Berlin wool are not eternal. I have it ! I'll practise. That will last me all the morning. (Goes to piano.) Why, the piano will not open! — Oh yes, at last — (tries it) — and all the keys stick down with the damp! What shall I play? (Takes up music.) Handel's "Water Music"! Oh dear! I'll sing. What is this? " Gentle rains descending"! Oh heavens ! (Slams down fall of piano and comes to table.) At least I can read. (Takes up a book) Poems. " The Lake " ! Ugh ! (Lets AFTER THE RAIN. 213 book fall) I am in despair ! What would I give for a friend — a companion — any one to speak to ! Enter Mrs. Jeffcoe, r. Mrs. J. I beg your pardon, madam Miss P. What is it, Mrs. Jeffcoe ? Mrs. J. The gentleman that have come to see the pictures Miss P. Has not the man gone yet ? Mrs. J. No, madam. And he asked particularly to see the portraits — the Reynoldses. Miss P. Indeed ! And I am to vacate my room to gratify his curiosity? Mrs. J. He is quite a gentleman, madam, and almost elderly. Miss P. {aside) Why should I refuse ? I am dying for something to interest me. {To Mrs. J) He may come in here. {Mrs. J. curtsies. Exit, r.) If the fellow is pre- sentable I can at least listen to his criticisms, if I choose. {Seats herself with a book.) Enter Mrs. J., r, shoiving in Sir Arthur. Mrs. J. The Reynoldses are in this room, sir. Sir A. I am exceedingly obliged for permission to {Sees Miss P.) A lady ! {Bows. Miss P. bows slightly, without looking up.) I am intruding. {Retiring.) Mrs. J. My mistress has given permission Sir A. I could not think of trespassing upon her privacy. At some more convenient opportunity Mrs. J. My mistress herself directed me to show this room. Sir A. I must not refuse such generous courtesy. 214 AFTER THE RAIN. {Miss P. continues reading. Sir A. examines pictures with Mrs. J) Miss P. (Aside, looking round) A soldier, by his bearing. His figure seems strangely familiar ! but the only soldiers I know are dandies in the Guards. Stay, I think I saw a card. {Reaches card — reads) " Sir Arthur Mount- stewart ! " Impossible ! My dear old Arthur ! It is ! My good great- grandsires, I am ever grateful ! Sir Arthur ! And grey ! Ah, that was twelve long years ago ! ( Watch- ing him, delighted.) Mrs. J. The next is the portrait of Sir A. {aside : catching sight of a picture on another wall) Am I awake ? It's Kitty Peveril ! Her very image ! Darling little Kitty ! Good Heavens ! I've not set eyes on her for ten — twelve years ! (Miss P. kisses her hands to the portrait, with delight ; then stands demurely, with her back turned to Sir A., listening.) Mrs. J. This is the portrait of Sir A. One moment. May I ask, whose portrait is that? Mrs. J. A distant ancestor of my mistress. Sir A. Really ? Excuse my inattention. I was mis- taken. But it strongly resembled an old — acquaintance. Mrs. J. This is the portrait of Sir A. (aside, still gazing on the portrait) Mistaken ? Impossible ! Kitty, I'll swear ! Miss P. (coming behind him) Not here, I beg. Sir A. (starting round) Her voice ! Herself, by all that's glorious ! (They shake hands joyously, and walk away in eager conversation.) Mrs. J. The next is the portrait of Deary me ! AFTER THE RAIN. 215 Where is the gentleman ? Talking with ' my mistress ! and quite familiar, too. I'd better go. Ahem ! Miss P. (to Sir A.) A moment. (To Mrs. J.) You need not remain, Mrs. JefTcoe ; this gentleman is an old friend. Mrs. J. Indeed, ma'am. I beg pardon. Miss P. Let them have luncheon ready when I ring. Mrs. J. I will see to it, madam. (Exit, r.) Sir A. (shelling hands again) Upon my honour, I can hardly credit it, even now. Such unexpected — marvellous — good fortune ! I am overjoyed ! Miss P. And I, indeed ! Sir A. I never was so delightfully surprised ! I had not the faintest notion who my hostess was. Miss P. And you really did not know me? Sir A. How could I? Seated, and your back turned to the light. Miss P. And we are twelve years older, now. Sir A. Twelve years ago ! My hair was darker, then. But you ! You're just the same. Miss P. A flatterer, still. Sir A. (aside) Kitty, a countess ! It wasn't Charlie, after all ! Poor devil ! (To Miss P.) Your husband ? Miss P. Good gracious ! I can't lay claim to such a thing. Sir A. Widowed, already ! Miss P. Worse and worse ! Sir A. But — Who is master here? Miss P. I am. Sir A. You leave me in a maze. At the hotel the Guide Book says the Earl 2l6 AFTER THE RAIN, Miss P. That dreadful book again ! It is ages old, and out of date. The Earl is dead, four years ago; the title with him. He was a very distant relative; and I — already an orphan — proved to be his heir. The mystery is in a nutshell. Sir A. And all this property is yours ? Miss P. It is. Sir A. And you are — Miss Peveril, still ? Miss P. Still. Sir A. Incredible ! Miss P. But you are no longer Captain Mountstewart? Sir A. No. Knocking about the world, my sword has carved a handle to my name, and little else. I have risen in rank. I am home on a year's furlough — my first. I come down here to visit an old comrade : I find him dead. Retaining my old passion for pictures, I waded over here to look at yours. Another nutshell. Miss P. A truce to explanations, since we meet again. It seems so like old times. I am so glad you came. Sir A, And I as glad to hear you say so, Miss Peveril. Miss P, Have we grown formal, Sir Arthur ? Sir A. Formal ? Miss P. It used not to be Miss — anything. Sir A. It used not to be Sir Arthur. Miss P. I cannot begin. Sir A, Nor I, in this unwonted splendour, — can I, Kitty? (Both laugh.) Miss P. You might be flattered, Arthur, if you knew how eagerly I watched you struggling through the stream that was my avenue. Sir A. But you did not recognize AFTER THE RAIN. 217 Miss P. I saw you were a man \ — I hoped, amusing. Sir A. Amusing ? Miss P. Think of the day. We've had three weeks of this. Sir A. Ah Kitty ! Gay as ever, in days gone by. Miss P. But when I heard it was a person come to see the pictures ! I little pictured who the person was. But come ! I'll be your guide. These are the Reynoldses you wished to see ; the three companion pictures, side by side. Sir A. Perfection. What charming faces ! Miss P. (curtseying) As their degenerate descendant Sir A. And who are they, Kitty ? Miss P. The Ladies Joanna, Bridget, and Nancy Peveril ; three toasts of their day. The Lady Bridget was my progenitor. She broke more hearts than any woman of her time, they say. Sir A. No doubt. A saucy beauty. Miss P. Suitors besieged her, and she chose the worst. Pretty women mostly do. There he hangs. He did hang elsewhere Was it Tyburn, then ? Sir A. How — inconvenient ! Miss P. She had that painted, after her release, from two miniatures she had — unframed : the gold rims he had stolen — to show the handsome scapegrace she had run away with. Sir A. And this ? Miss P. Hugh Aylmer, the man she should have married. He was with Raleigh. He loved her to the last as madly as when he was a boy, and died single for her sake. Sir A, A noble face. That man was fond of children. Men often are, to whom they are denied. 2l8 AFTER THE RAIN. Miss P. You are not married, Arthur? Sir A. No. I am — pity me — an old bachelor. A sorry fate. Miss P. At least you have your freedom also. {Sighs.) Sir A. What to a fair woman is a matter of choice, is to a hermit soldier mere necessity. Miss P. Another noted lady of our line ; Dame Philipa Gaunt. She donned a breastplate for her king, and stood a siege from Cromwell in this very house. The dainty little Puritan was Barbara Chetwynd ; they married brothers ; both husbands fell at Marston Moor, some say by each other's hand ; the wives lived here together lovingly, and rest within our chapel, side by side. Sir A. And this is Kitty ? Miss P. But another ; Kitty Trevannion ; flower-girl, dancer, actress, and Countess of Ulleswater. Good- hearted; bewitching; and vulgar as pretty. Painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence. And my great grandmother. Sir A. A most startling resemblance. It took my breath away. I shall ever bear her name in honour. But for her portrait, I might have gone away, and never known who sat so near. Miss P. And that is all. Sir A. A marvellous collection. How fortunate to have so many worthy ancestors thus nobly handed down ! Miss P. I fear our family were always vain enough to perpetuate their faces for posterity. Sir A. One happily has done so. [Producing locket, in case.) Miss P. Mine? Why, Arthur! have you kept it all these years. AFTER THE RAIN. Sir A, All these years. (Replacing it carefully in his breast.) Miss P. (after a pause) You used to be fond of flowers. Sir A. I am so still. Miss P. Shall we see the conservatory ? Sir A. Gladly, if I am not detaining you ? Miss P. Oh no. (±?ings.) A moment. (Exit Sir A. into conservatory.) So dull a morning ! Such a happy day. (Enter Rogers, r.) Set luncheon here, at once. For two. R. Yes, ma'am. Miss P. See that the horses are well cared for. Let the groom have what he pleases in the servants' hall. (Exit Rogers, r.) The flowers will last till luncheon. And after — we shall see ! (Exit into conservatory^) Enter Rogers, r., with luncheon tray. R. Luncheon for two ? (Laying tabled) If I was him, I'd stop. And if I was her, I'd make him. That's what she wants; a beau. She's too standoffish. Handsome enough, but too standoffish. (Looking into conservatory.) They're in the conservatory, sniffing at the flowers. They're both a-sniffing at the same flower, that's more. Now she's a-picking of it. Ah, I thought as much ! And taking a pin out of her waistband to hold it in. Well, I should say as she was making up to him quite as much as the contrairey. (Going on laying tabled) The second knife and fork's all right : he'll stop. It's no affair of mine ; but he might do worse. Good hunting, lots o' fishing, and the covers ha'n't been shot over for years. And a handsome 220 AFTER THE RAIN. wife. And a pot of money. He might do worse. Well, he's a affable gent, as fur as I see ; and for my part, he's welcome. They're coming in. All ready. And now, if chicken and madeira's to his mind, there's a bottle here as can't be beat ! Re-enter Miss Peveril from the conservatory ; Sir A. following^ with a flower in his button-hole. Sir A. Your flowers are delightful. I congratulate you on your gardener. Miss P. I am so glad they pleased you. Sir A. And now I must really be allowed to order my horse. I have made an abominably long visit, And your luncheon is waiting. Miss P. For you to share it. Sir A. Really, I {To Rogers) Then directly after luncheon, if you will tell my man ? R. Yes, sir. (Aside) I knowed he'd stop. And I'd wager a guinea as they won't want me. Miss P. Put the fruit on the table, Rogers. That will do ; you need not wait. R. Very good, ma'am. (Aside) There y'are ! If that there chicken's got a wishing bone something '11 come of this. (Exit, r.) Sir A. Bravo, Kitty! Miss P. One doesn't care for every word to go down- stairs. Take the head, Arthur. Sir A. My dear girl ! In your house Miss P. My word is law. (They sit. Luncheon pro- ceeds?) Chicken, raised pie — you see what there is. Madeira ? Or shall Rogers get you something else ? AFTER THE RAIN. 221 I never see gentlemen guests. I believe there is a cellar down below — Heaven knows where ! Sir A. I shall do admirably. Miss P. You are not eating. Sir A. I am wondering if I shall awake presently, and find it only a delightful dream. There must be fairies still in Lincolnshire. Miss P. Water sprites, maybe. Sir A. To be beside you once again — Ah, Kitty ! Old memories come thronging back. Miss P. The dear old days ! Sir A. Twelve years — apart ! (Drawing his chair beside her, and looking up in her face, resting his elbow on the tabled Kitty, was I mistaken ? Miss P. Mistaken ? Sir A. Was I a fool to go ? (Miss P. rises, and comes down : he following}) I am distressing you ? Should I not have come? Miss P. Why did you ever go ? Sir A. He was my oldest, dearest friend ; the noblest, truest friend man ever had. I thought I left him to good fortune. It was not to be ? (She shakes her head.) Poor Charlie ! Miss jP. And you went away because of — me ? Sir A. Because of you. Miss P. And all these years — ? Poor Arthur! And poor Kitty, too ! Sir A. Was I wrong? Should I have stayed, and ventured for the prize? (Pause.) It is too late ? (Pause.) Kitty ! What if I dared Miss P. Faint heart 222 AFTER THE RAIN. Sir A. {holding out his arms) Fair woman ? (She glances up : he clasps her to his heart.) My dear ! my dear ! Oh, Kitty ! is it true? Is all between us as it was ? Miss P. It was never otherwise. Sir A. My dearest one ! my own sweet Kitty. But — weeping ? Miss P. The fatal flag. The garrison has surrendered. Sir A. The spoils of war. (Kisses her.) And was it I ? Miss P. Always. Sir A. I thought Miss P. I know. Sir A. You never undeceived me. Miss P. How could I ? Sir A. No better man Miss P. Could ever steal your Kitty. A woman's love is all for one — and for ever. Sir A. And if I had never come for you ? Miss P. Life is not so long. I would have waited on. Sir A. My own, true-hearted, gallant girl ! Only a poor soldier, my dear, and you an heiress ! Miss P. Kitty is Kitty still. (They embrace fondly.) Enter Rogers, r. R. The carriage is — (aside) Crikey ! He ha'n't been long ! (Sneezes violently.) Sir A. (starting back) What's that ? R. (continuing to sneeze, and turning his back) Beg pardon, ma'am, I'm sure, but the carriage is at the door. AFTER THE RAIN. 223 Miss P. The carriage ! R. The rain has stopped, ma'am, and the sun shines beautiful. Sir A. Glorious ! Kitty, we'll go together. Miss P. With all my heart. R. {aside) They're going it, a'ready ! (To Sir A.) And the horse, sir? Sir A. Can wait. {To Miss P.) Kitty, what's that fellow's name ? Miss P. Rogers. Oh, Arthur ! Every servant in the house will hear Sir A. Leave him to me. Rogers ! R. Sir? Sir A. Come here. An old servant, I think? R. Seven-and-forty years, sir, man and boy. Sir A. You wish to keep your place ? R. I 'ope, sir, an unfort'nit accident, as shall not occur again Sir A. You can hold your tongue ? R. Like wax, sir. Sir A. Do it. (Gives him money \ and rejoins Miss P.) R. My duty to you, sir. (Aside) Here's nuts for the maids ! (Going.) I'll go and — (Returns.) Oh, I beg pardon, sir Sir A. Well ? what is it ? R. What wine would you wish with dinner ? Sir A. Leave the room ! (Exit Rogers, r., grinning.) Miss P. (at the window) See, Arthur ! The rain has ceased ! The mists have vanished ! Sir A. And the sun shines cheerily over all. Miss P. Oh happy day ! 224 AFTER THE RAIN. Sir A, Dame Nature smiles on us, my dear ! (Taking her in his arms.) Miss P. Our weary, dreary past has ended too. Sir A. And Hope beams happiness that is to be. Curtain. Speech may be Silver, Silence is Gold. A PROVERB IN ACTION. CHARACTERS. EDMUND, ) \ two wards. ANGELICA, J MR. crambo, their guardian. Scene. Mr. Crambo's private office. 15 COSTUMES. Edmund. — Fashionable morning dress. Angelica. — Walking dress. Mr. Crambo. — Ill-fitting suit, of rusty black. Closely buttoned dress coat, very high in the collar behind ; large red handkerchief showing from tail pocket. Short trousers ; clumsy shoes ; grey worsted stockings. High collars ; volu- minous black stock; frilled shirt. Old-fashioned watch in fob, with ribbon and heavy gold seals attached ; wide silver - rimmed spectacles ; quizzing glass suspended by broad black ribbon; large snuff-box. Speech may be Silver, but Silence is Gold. Scene. An office. Furniture very old-fashioned, dusty and faded. Antique bookcases, with law books. Deed boxes ; bundles of dusty papers, tied with pink tape; metal inkstand with long quill pens ; battered old japanned double candle-stand, with tallow candles and green shades. High-backed chairs. Mr. Crambo dis- covered at writing-table, facing the audience, reading a letter. As the curtain rises he lays the letter aside, shrugs his shoulders, and takes a leisurely pinch of snuff : he then refers to a second letter, shrugs his shoulders again, and consults his watch. Rising, and placing chairs at either side of his table, he comes forward, as ij to speak. Knocking without. Mr. C. pauses, and moves towards the door. Enter Edmund. Ed. {shaking hands heartily) My worthy Guardian ! Hale and hearty as ever ! One of those happy mortals — or immortals — with whom time runs backwards. {Glances round.) Only ourselves ? The old story. We arrange our 227 228 SPEECH MA Y BE SILVER, meeting for this morning at eleven ; the hour is striking, and we are here ; but as for the petticoat ! {Knocking without) — We are premature. We talk of angels; An- gelica comes ! Enter Angelica. She bows distantly to Ed. Ang. {shaking hands effusively with Mr. C.) My dear, good Guardian ! And looking so well ! {Mr. C. would return the compliment.) Flatterer ! {Looking round the room.) These charming old chambers — so musty — so mysterious ! Shall I sit here ? (They all sit at centre table, facing the audience ; Ed. and Ang. on either side of Mr. Crambo. Mr. C. is about to speak.) Ed. Well, sir, here we are once more ! — which smacks of the Pantomime, — Eh? — where smacks are not uncom- mon. We three have met before ; we meet again ; not " in thunder, lightning, and in rain " ; but with the usual dis- cordant surroundings, and with the usual end in view. Ang. Now, truly, Guardian, — was my letter a surprise? No ? I knew it. Had I but listened to your sage advice ! But better late than never, — as you say. {Mr. C. dissents.) Ed. As I wrote yesterday, our quarrelling has reached the climax you foresaw ; and any further pretence of an engagement between us has become impossible. Ang. Even my patience is at last exhausted ; and I will no longer be a party to a heartless mockery. Ed. As an acquaintance Angelica was delightful ; as an associate, entrancing ; as a bien-aimee, exasperation itself ; and as a fiancee she is simply maddening. Ang. I thought him absolute perfection — once ! Ed. Look at her temper ! a tempest ! a tornado ! BUT SILENCE IS GOLD. 229 Ang. Well may you shake your head, sir. (Mr, C. repudiates.} And from one who lives in the sulks. Ed. I have led the life of a dog ! A dog ? A stuffed poodle would have rebelled against my wrongs ! Ang. When I reflect Ed. In every looking-glass Ang. On all the slights, the wrongs, the miseries I have undergone, my bosom heaves Ed. Sing " Yo ! heave ho ! " (Mr. C. is about to speak.) I admit it. We have met — and parted — many times be- fore. (Mr. C. again attempts to speak.) Ang. I don't deny it. On the contrary, I blush Ed. We're coming out in our true colours at last ! Ang. When I reflect how fond, how foolish I have been to make our quarrels up again, times out of mind. But all is altered now. This is no tiff Ed. No make believe to pout, and pet again. Even contention has not contented us. Ang. And we have come to downright wrangling. Ed. Until we are agreed — two bodies of one mind, at last— to terminate the understanding between us, Ang. The misunderstanding between us, Ed. And bring our folly to an end. (Mr. C. about to speak) And before you offer any further observations, sir, let me say, once for all, that I am fixed in my resolve. I am not to be talked over, to-day. I am here to free myself from a worse than Egyptian bondage ; and no man, woman, or child upon earth shall alter my determination. (Mr. C. as before) Ang. Dear guardian, no ! You plead for him in vain. However I have been cajoled before, to-day, as regards my 230 SPEECH MA V BE SILVER, engagement — my late engagement — I am deaf to entreaty or argument. (Mr. C. is again about to speak.) Ed. True, sir. I have my faults. Ang. Oh, really! (Mr. C. as before.) Why, Guardian, what woman is perfect ? Ed. Ask another. Ang. People say — other women say — I long for admi- ration. Ed. And in vain. Ang. But when a cavalier keeps his lady waiting before the Albert Hall for two hours, in the pouring rain Ed. Owing to an accident on the Underground Rail- way, Ang. Not mentioned in the newspapers, and of which he bore no trace, Ed. Having been shot against a particularly portly par- son on the opposite seat, Ang. Why, such conduct is indefensible. Ed. Or again, sir, when one who has plighted her troth Ang. Poor child ! Ed. To the man of her choice, Ang. Choice ! In a wretched little country town ! Ed. I say, when a lady permits herself to be seen parading the Park, day after day, Ang. Only one day, — not that it matters, Ed. With a twopenny-halfpenny captain Ang. Major, though it is immaterial, Ed. In the Lancers, Ang. Huzzars— a most becoming uniform. BUT SILENCE IS GOLD. 231 Ed. Whose nose I would pull for sixpence, Ang. For sixpence ! Ed. Yes, madam ! or three times for a shilling ! But enough of this ! Suffice it that the present interview has been arranged, Ang. By me Ed. Firstly, to inform you, sir, as our joint guardian, that our engagement is at an end ; Ang. Which I have already done ; Ed. And, secondly, to place in your hands certain tokens of affection which have long ceased to represent anything but unseemly discord. {Produces packet of pre- sents^) Ang. {producing a similar packet) In which,— for once, — we are agreed. {Mr. C. rises.) Ed. You smile, sir? {Mr. C. dissents.) The packet is familiar ? The presents suggest the past ? Well, you have here the entire Cabinet of Curiosities, with a catalogue inside. {Hands packet to Mr. C.) I think I mentioned last time that one of the studs is defective ; but the centre brilliant was already missing when they first reached me — doubtless secondhand. Ang. Here are the presents, Mr. Crambo. {Hands packet to Mr. C.) You need no list to check them by ; you know my " gilded chains " by heart. Ed. Gilded ! Ang. {to Mr. C.) That was a slip. The bracelets are of gold ; — twelve carat. Oh, and the ring too, Guardian. (Removes her engagement ring.) I breathe again ! {Hands ring to Mr. C, who offers it to Ed.) Ed. Eh ? Oh dear no ! Give it to one of your little 232 SPEECH MA Y BE SILVER, grandchildren. It was quite a cheap affair. (Mr. C. puts ring in his pocket.) Here is its fellow. (Removes his engagement ring, and hands it to Mr. C. ; who tenders it to Ang.) Ang. Keep it, dear Guardian; a proof that what you said came true. (Mr. C. puts on ring, with ?nuch satisfac- tion, and is about to speak.) Ed. The letters? Right, sir; here they are. (Takes letters from his pockets, a?id throws them in heaps on the table.) Ang. [doing the same) And if you will also take charge of these effusions, — not as specimens of spelling, Ed. (scenting an envelope) Pah ! Musk ! There you have the lot, sir ; one for every day in the week, and two for Sundays. And I've read 'em all ! That's the fun of it! Ang. One more? (Reads postmark.) "Scarborough"? Oh yes ! where he " finds it dull — with his aunt — in Corn- wall." Ed. And so the business ends. And now I'm off to the Club to organize a jolly bachelor dinner party in honour of the event. Gad ! I'll be a Yankee henceforth once a year, and celebrate Emancipation Day ! Join us, sir. Seven, sharp. (Mr. C. smacks his lips.) Ang. We shall see you at our ball to-night, Mr. Cram- bo ? Auntie let me make out the list myself, and there will be some delightful fellows; all the best waltzers in London. If you are very good you shall have a square. (Mr. C. bows) Ed. Go in spurs, Mr. Crambo. Nothing goes down but spurs, — except his partner. BUT SILENCE IS GOLD. 233 Ang. {shaking hands with Mr. C.) Au revoir, Guardian, and a good appetite for the dinner — the Consolation Stakes Ed. The Congratulation Cup ! Ang. Oh, if the handy cap fits, wear it. But think of the other wistful bachelors ! Ed. It will not be a card party. Ang. No cards ? How appropriate ! Ed. (shaking hands with Mr. C.) Good-bye, sir, until this evening. (Mr. C. prepares to show them out. Ed. and Ang. meet at the door.) Ang. (to Ed.) Don't trouble. Ed. I won't. Ang. Not even open the door ? Ed. With much pleasure. Ang. Which is mutual. (To Mr. C.) By the bye, Guardian, which is my nearest way to Oxford Street ? Ed. One word. As to the future Ang. The past has been sufficient. Ed. Amply. But are we to speak in future ? Ang. Should I renounce a woman's privilege ? Ed. You never did. I mean, are we to meet as friends? Ang. We may as well. And if we do not feel friendly? we can make believe. Ed. Exactly. We should feel strange as strangers after our long betrothal. Ang. At first. Ed. After two years Ang. Nearly three. Ed. Really ? Well, we have seen our folly. We have found we are unsuited to each other 234 SPEECH MA Y BE SILVER, Ang. And shall get on admirably together in conse- quence. Ed. We always did. Ang. Until we were engaged. Ed. In a series of engagements. Ang. Ending in a pitched battle. Ed. Never a bitter word between us, until then ! Ang. How many since ! Ed. We were well matched in many ways. In age. Ang. Our only happy difference. Ed. In tastes. Ang. I liked spring onions, too. Ed. In means — indeed, in everything, Ang. Except Ed. Exactly. Though I could not say in what. Ang. In temper? Ed. True. I have a temper. Ang. So have I. But a man without a temper ! a milksop ! Ed. Or a woman ! A bread and butter chit ! If we had borne a little more with one another — But it is too late now. Ang. It is. Ed. You will find another Ang. Never ! Ed. The Captain — Major Ang. A silly fop ! [Pause.) I hope it won't be Julia Jenkinson — I hate that ogling girl ! But I shall hate her, whoever she is. Ed. So shall I. I mean, it won't be any one. Ang. Edmund ! BUT SILENCE IS GOLD. 235 Ed. Why, Angelica ! could I ever think of any other ? But why prolong this interview? We are both determined. Ang. Ye — yes. Ed. Resolved. Ang. We — we are. Ed. And there is nothing left but just (Holds out his hand?) Ang. (taking it) Good-bye. Ed. May joy and happiness be yours ! Ang. (drying her eyes) I — I think I must have taken cold. Ed. (sniffing) I — I fancy I have, too. Ang. But still I feel so happy to be free Ed. Ah ! Ang. So gay Ed. Yes ! Ang. So light of heart Ed. And so do I ! Ang. That I am going to sit in pur favourite window - seat on the stairs, and cry my eyes out ! Ed. Do, Angy, do ! — and Til come with you. (Exeunt.) (Mr. C, who has been methodically making up the letters and presents into two packets, ties, seals, and addresses them with the utmost deliberation ; takes a leisurely pinch of snuff ; touches his bell ; and comes forward, with a parcel in either hand, as if to address the audience. Ed. and Ang. rush in, excitedly}) Ed. (seizing one hand of Mr. C, and shaking it vigorously, parcel and all) Worthiest, wisest, best of friends and counsellors ! 236 SPEECH MA Y BE SILVER, Ang. [doing the same on the other side ; the contents of both parcels rattling violently) My own dear, darling Guar- dian ! {Mr. C. gazes fro?n one to the other, astonished.) Ed. Behold the happiest of men ! Ang. My heart is running o'er with joy ! (They weep upon Mr. C.'s bosom. He exhibits concern as to his toilette) Ed. Yes, sir, it is true, indeed ! My noble girl and I are re-united ! Ang. My beloved Edmund and I are one ! Ed. Never again to part ! Ang, Never ! Ed. Never ! Both. Never ! Ed. And all through you. (Mr. C. amazed) Your just reproof has put my jealousy to shame. Ang. No, Edmund. 'Twas his well-deserved rebuke of my mad, wayward folly. (Mr. C. is about to speak.) Oh guardian ! how can we ever show our gratitude ? You have achieved this reconciliation. Ed. Words fail me. I am dam — (Mr. C. shocked) — dumb, sir ; dumb, but not ungrateful. Ang. (to Ed) Dearest, I feel — I feel I must embrace our benefactor. You will not object ? Ed. My own, embrace him for us both ! (Ang. em- braces Mr. C. affectionately ; he approves.) Ang. And Edmund ! See ! Ed. Impossible ! Ang. Your precious gifts and letters all in readiness ! (Takes packet from Mr. C, and clasps it rapturously) Ed. And yours for me ! (Does the same) What fore- thought ! What prevision ! He knew his words of wisdom must prevail BUT SILENCE IS GOLD. 237 Ang. And now rejoices in his noble victory. {Mr. C. chuckles?) Ed. {leading Mr. C. aside) Oh, Mr. Crambo ! See ! Her letters, sir ! Her letters ! Actually written — with her own fair hand — to me ! {Mr, C. displays but a languid interest.) Ye priceless records of a maid's unchanging heart ! {Kisses packet?) What an exquisite perfume ! Ang. {kissing her packet) Proofs of my Edmund's never- waning love ! {Softly, to Mr. C.) Dear Guardian, give Edmund back my little ring. {Mr. C. returns the rings, with reluctance?) Ed. My talisman ! I am bound once more in bonds of happiness ! {Puts on ring, and kisses it eagerly.) Ang. {doing the same) Sweet circlet of affection ! Never again to leave my heedless hand ! {Mr. C. is about to speak.) Ed. No, sir, I never will ! Ang. Nor I ! Ed. Your words this day I never can forget. Ang. I shall hear their low, melodious murmur in my dreams. Ed. Until to-night, at Angelica's dance — farewell ! Ang. You will not fail us ? {Softly) Edmund will be there. Ed. Come and behold our bliss, new blossoming beneath the spell of your Promethean eloquence ! Ang. Behold it, and be happy too ! {Exeunt, kissing their hands to Mr. C.) {Mr. C. watches them depart, and closes the door after them ; replaces the chairs ; comes forward, chuckling ; takes a colossal pinch of snuff, and is about to speak.) Curtain. St. Valentine's Day* A COMEDIETTA. CHARACTERS. DORA BULLEY. atkins {her maid). jenkinson {the butler). Scene. The dining-room in the town mansion of Tancred Wragge Bulky \ Esq., M.P., Eaton Square. COSTUMES. Dora. — Pretty morning wrapper. Atkins. — Black dress. Neat apron and cap. Jenkinson. — Undress livery. St. Valentine's Day Scene. A richly furnished dining-room. Doors r. and l. Jenkinson discovered. Jenk. It's a hodd thing ; a hunaccountable hodd thing \ but I've alius noticed as the more a party's set 'is 'art on any think, the longer it is afore 'is 'opes is gratified. Look at to-day. Walentine's Day. 'Ow many susceptible bosoms is a-pantin' at the present moment for the post- man ! And what's the result. In the hordinary way seven o'clock's 'is time, as nigh as a toucher; and 'ere it's a matter o' 'arf-past eight thirty, and not a sign on 'im ! I'm a-gettin' fidgety myself ; I won't deny it. There's a docki- ment of a tender natur' in 'is bag this blessed minute, as is the first step towards a snug little public'ouse not a 'undred miles from the next turnin' but two, with a indi- widdle as shall be nameless at the beer ingine, and beauty in the bar. I popped it in the post last night myself, in case o' haccidents ; and droppin' into the " Crown and Cushion" arterwards, to set my watch, who should foller 1 6 2 4* 242 ST. VALENTINE'S DA Y. me in, but Jobley, the postman. We all on us 'as our weak p'ints, which malt lickers I knovved was 'isn; so I treats >im on the quiet to one of 'is pints ; and I says to 'im, be'irid the friendly pewter, I says " Jobley," I says, " there is now in the post a commoonication," I says, " as in the course o' your perfcshional duties you will 'and in at our airey bell to-morrer mornm'," I says, " which I need say no more," I says, "than what the ineetial is a Ha. Treat that commoonication," I says, " with hextra care," I says, " and when a glass o' hale 'd meet your views, a glass o' hale shall not be wantin'." " Mister Joseph," 'e says, (which 'is feelin's was a'most too many for 'im,) " Mister Joseph,. I'm as safe as a coffin, and as silent as a tomb ! " and I ha'n't set eyes on 'im since. And 'ere's another thing. Poets and philosophers and sichlike is perpetooally hargefyin' as women is sich ticklish customers to get along with. Why, there ye are ! If they're ticklish, tickle 'em ! You've got yer eye on a sweet creetur ; a Ha, or a B, or what not. What d'ye do ? If it's 'er birthday, you tickle 'er with a brooch, or somethink o' that ; if it's 'er Sunday out, you tickle 'er with shrimps and porter, all the way from London Bridge to Rosherville ; Christmas Day you tickle 'er with 'oily and mistletoe ; and Walentine's Day you Enter Dora, cautiously, r. Dora {whispers) Jenkinson ! [Louder) Jenkinson ! Jenk. Hey? {Sees Dora.) Oh, beg parding, Miss, — Dora. Has the postman come ? Jenk. Not yet, Miss. Dora. But he is very late, Jenkinson ? ST. VALENTINE'S DA Y. 243 Jenk. Never knowed 'im so 'Arry be'ind, before, Miss. Dora. He cannot have passed our house ? (Aside) Oh, Frederick ! There is madness in the very thought ! Jenk. Oh no, Miss ! 'E's bound to call this mornin' — leastways, I'm expectin' of a Post Hoffice Horder from a haunt in the country, myself. Dora. You could not spare time to ascertain if he has yet appeared within the Square, Jenkinson ? Jenk. Oh, certingly, Miss, certingly. I 'ave sot young James to watch out o' the pantry winder ; but, same time, boys is boys, Miss, and it bein' past 'is breakfast time I'll jest step upstairs to the hattics and take a reckonoosance over the parapidge. (ExitL.) Dora. Oh, Frederick ! You are not trifling with this maiden heart ? Ah no ! it cannot be. The tender pressure of the hand ! those ardent glances ! that impassioned air ! — all, all are eloquent, beyond mere words ! My Frederick faithless ? No ! Those waxed moustachios — that so nearly — but for a wakeful chaperone — they cannot overshadow a deceitful tongue ? That spotless linen, pure as the driven snow, cannot shelter a deceitful bosom ? Never ! For worlds I would not harbour such a base suspicion ! And yet ! to think the sweet Saint's day has dawned, and not a hint from him ! (Sits despairingly^) Enter Atkins, l. Atkins. Where's that there Jobley got to all this time ? A dawdlin' dolt ! There didn't ought to be no married postmen ! Girls to be kep' on tenter 'ooks ! — and Valen- tine's Day ! I'm certain sure Joe's been and sent me one ' 244 ST. VALENTINE'S DA Y. 'e looks so knowin' over it, and 'is middle finger's been inked up to the knuckle for days. And twice the milk- man's ketched 'im lookin' at a public'ouse 'andy, and the very thing to suit a couple jest beginning Dora. Atkins ! Atkins (screams) Ah ! (Sees Dora.) Lawk, Miss, you give me quite a turn ! (Aside) I thought it were Joe, and 'e'd heerd what I was sayin' of ! (To Dora) I beg your pardon, Miss; I didn't know as any one was 'ere. I thought you was all at breakfast. Dora. Breakfast ! Is it ready, Atkins ? Atkins. Ready, Miss ? Why yer pa's been down this quarter of a hour. 'Adn't ye better jine 'im, Miss ? 'E can't abear to be kep' waitin'. Dora (aside) My Frederick ! silent ! on this happy day, when bashful swains may sigh unchidden, and blushing maids give ear. Nought but some dread calamity can hinder his avowal. (To Atkins) The postman — he has not arrived? Atkins. No, Miss. (Aside) The wretch ! Dora. What if he be in grief — in danger — dying ! Atkins. What, the postman, Miss? Dora. No. (Coyly) Another. Atkins. Lor, Miss, you make yer mind easy. What'd ye say now, Miss, if I was to let you into a little bit of a secret ? Dora. Dear Atkins ! Dear, dear Atkins ! Atkins. Well then, last night, Miss, I 'ad occasion to run out to the post, Miss, to send a few lines to my dress- maker, Miss, Dora. Yes ! yes ! ST. VALENTINE'S DA Y. 2 45 Atkins. And jest as I come to the pillar-box, who should be postin' a great, square packet, but Dora. He ? Atkins. Tm. Dora. Are you sure, Atkins ? quite, quite sure ? Atkins. Lor, Miss ! as if I didn't know them mustarchers of 'isn by this time ! [Aside) They're the himage of my Joseph's, only more gummier ! Dora [aside) My own, devoted Frederick ! [Screams.) Ah ! But Atkins ! Atkins. Lor, Miss ! What is it now ? Dora. Do you — do you think it was a — Valentine ? Atkins. Think it was? No need to think. Why, it were as big as this 'ere, and heighteenpenn'orth o' stamps on it, if there was one ! Dora. You saw him post it ? Atkins. With my own eyes, Miss ; and then 'e come and planted hisself under our lampost, blowin' kisses up at your winder. Dora {tragically) It has not arrived ! Atkins. N-no, Miss. Dora [bursting into tears) Then he was sending it to some hateful, hideous creature, and — Oh, Atkins ! I shall die ! [Throws herself on sofa, in despair.) Atkins. Lor, Miss, it's certain sure to come — [Aside) — along o' Joseph's. Dora. I am deceived ! betrayed ! deserted ! (Sobs.) Atkins. Don't take on so, Miss ! No man as ever wore — as ever wore 'em ain't worth that. [Aside) I'd like to see one serve me so ! (Postman 's knock tuithout.) Dora (starting up rapturously). Oh joyful sound ! 246 ST. VALENTINE'S DA Y. Atkins. Didn't I say so, now ? Dora. Loyal and devoted Frederick, I crave your pardon ! Atkins (aside) And Joseph '11 'ave to 'and it to me his own self ! Enter Jenkinson, l., with letter on salver. Dora (nestling up to Atkins) Ah, Atkins, I feel Atkins (putting her arm round Dora). All of a twitter, Miss ? And so do I. (To Jenk.) Well ? Tenk. Well ! Atkins. Where is it ? [enk. Where's which ? Atkins. Where are they ? Jenk. Where's what ? Atkins. The letters, stoopid ! Jenk. There ain't nothing on'y this Dora. What ! Atkins. Is that all ! Jenk. The wery thing I says when James 'anded it to me. "Is that all?" I says. "That's hall," 'e says, a-grinnin' ; which down the scullery stairs I kicked 'im without another word ! Dora. A hideous blue envelope, directed to papa ! (Falls into Atkins' arms, in tears.) Ah, Atkins, my heart will break ! Atkins (aside, glancing angrily at Jenk.) Well, what does this mean, I should like to know ! Jenk. And your pa 'ave rung 'is bell, Miss, which 'is compliments, and breakfast is a-waitin' this ever sich a doose of a time — — ST. VALENTINE'S DA Y. 247 Dora. Food ! I loathe the very thought of sustenance ! Take me to my apartment, and the wretched missive to papa, and say I am not well enough this morning to come down. {Atkins snatches letter ; in a rage ; and leads Dora out, r., in tears.) Je?ik. Now, what's the rights o' this 'ere little game? Jobley's a hass ! a hincompetent hass ! Where is the safe- guards 0' Society when the Post Horfice is hunreliable ? Hale's hall wery well, but honesty's better. That there work o' hart would have hovercome a hintellect o' hada- mant. Seven-and-twenty Cupids, there was, and a steeple, and a grave yard, and a pair o' red 'arts, and a blue peacock, and a true lovier's knot, — And then the poetry ! Three mortial weeks 'ave I been poundin' away at them hamourous sentiments ; and if they ain't equal to the Family ' Erald, I'm a greengrocer ! And they're hall original. I kep' a copy on 'em, {produces paper) which 'ere it is. {Reads) " Oh Hann, my ever beauteous one, What things them charms o' yourn 'as done ! I'm frettin' down to skin and bone A-longin' for you for my hown. Your smile's as sweet as Nectar wine, And though the twinklin' stars is fine, Them eyes o' yourn more brighter shine, And Joseph is your Walentine." There now ! I flatter myself {Enter Atkins, l.) ; Q11o ! What, not at breakfast yet, Hann? 248 ST. VALENTINES DA Y. Atkins. I'm a goin' down now, Mr. Jenkinson. Jenk. (aside) i Mr. Jenk ' ! Can I believe my years ? Mr. Jenk It were never less than ' Joseph/ and more mostly, ' Joe ' ! (Aloud) Is hanythink contrairy, Hann ? Atkins. Oh no ! Nothing at all, Mr. Jenkinson. Only some folks doesn't seem to keep a halminack, that's all ! Jenk. Not keep a What d'ye mean ? Atkins. I don't mean nothing, Mr. Jenkinson ; nothing at all; only 'avin' been so very civil, and it bein' the fourteenth o' Febivary, why even a 'apenny post card 'd ha' been better than nothing. Jenk. But, Hann ! It was a walentine — a reg'lar spanker — with loves and doves all over it, and a page full o' poetry, all out o' my own 'ead. Atkins. And pray where is it, Mr. Jenkinson ? Jenk. Don't call me 1 Mr. Jenkinson ! ' I swear I sent it. I posted it my own self. Atkins. Oh, of course ! I ain't denyin' it for a moment ; hon'y you never sent it to me. Jenk. Ah, but I did ! I directed it with my own 'and. Atkins. Bat if you wrote it out a little different, now ? you might ha' put the wrong number in the Square, for in- stance ; 74 for 47, or anything. Jenk. Now, Hann, don't be so jealous ! 'Aven't I told yer times out o' mind as that was hall a herror ! The parlourmaid at No. 74 is a hold friend of a niece o' mine — Atkins. Must be a werry hold friend, judgin' by what I see on Christmas Eve. Jenk. To think o' your treasurin' that up, now ! What's a bit o' mistletoe at Christmas ! Why, master kisses missis at Christmas. ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. Atkins. Not as it matters to me, of course ! Don't think I care twopence about the hussy ! Jenk. Now, Hann ! Atkins No, nor you either ! Jenk. Hann ! Atkins. I don't — not twopence. Girls as have kept their- selves to theirselves, and saved a little money, can afford to pick and choose ; and there's jest as good fish left in the sea as ever come out ! Jenk. Miss Hatkins, if you think you're goin' to get me out o' temper, you'll find yourself mistook ! I'm quite aware who you're a-'intin' at ; it's that lanky, cranky, spindle-shanky grenadier I met you walkin' with. Atkins. Is it ? And pray who's jealous now? Jenk. Not me, for one. Atkins. No? Perhaps not. Still, when a lady can't walk out with 'er cousin without its being took notice of Jenk. Cousins, indeed ! Cousins is wery convenient at times, Miss Hatkins ! Atkins. Yes, they are, Mr. Jenkinson ; they takes you to the play, or what not, when hother folks is sulky. Jenk. Though it's odd, too, as cousins should be sich a wery dark complexion, ain't it ? Quite a mulotter, I should call 'im ! Atkins. Should you, r'ally ! Perhaps that's what makes 'im look so 'andsome in 'is regimentals. I must interduce you to 'im. Jenk. Much obliged, I'm sure. Atkins. I know you'll like 'im ; sich a nice, hafTable feller. S7\ VALENTINE'S DAY, Jenk. If 'e's so werry nice, and so werry haffable, why not 'im take ye out o' Sundays, 'stead o' me ? Atkins. Why not, indeed ? And then you can offer yer harm to Miss 74 parlourmaid, instead. Only if I 'ad a figger, which she ha'n't, I wouldn't be seen out in that year- before-last jacket of hern no longer. Jenk. Miss Hatkins, you may go too fur! The most tenderest feelin's of the 'art is not to be trompled on with impuniosity ! Atkins. Lor ! Jenk. Yes, mum, — lor ! There is a limit beyond which a man cannot be drove without resentin' of it ! Enter Dora, r., in great excitement. Dora. Jenkinson ! run ! Jenk. Run, Miss? me ! Dora. Haste ! haste ! do not delay a priceless moment ! Atkins. Whatever is the matter ? Dora. Another postman has come into the Square ! {Postman's knock, without. Jenk. fixes Atkins with his eye and stalks out, l., with dignity.) Peace, palpitator ! peace ! Oh, Frederick ! my fervent faith I fix on thee ! He must — he will declare himself to-day ! Atkins. I see it all ! There must ha' been so many hextras this morning, they 'ad to get a second man to help ! (Aside) Oh, Joseph ! Joseph ! What 'ave I been and done ! Enter Jenkinson, l., haughtily, with two packets, on salver. Jenk. The letters, Miss. ST. VALENTINE'S DAK 251 Dora (seizing packet, and kissing it rapturously) Is it from him ? Will he propose ? Shall I be happy ? (Reads direction?) It is ! (Tears it open, and glances at contents!) He does ! (Presses it with both hands to her bosom.) I am ! Safe in the seclusion of my chamber, where no cold, un- sympathetic glance can view my rapture, will I sip its sweet contents ! fenk. Oh, and I beg parding, Miss, but yer pa's compts, and wishes to know whether yer 'eadache is honly the usual tomfoolishness, or whether 'e is to send a memo- rander round to Doctor Jones ? Dora. On wings of filial duty will I hasten to his side — when I have drunk in Frederick's honeyed words ! (Exit, R., rapturously?) Jenk. (with severity) 'Ere is a packet addressed to Miss Ha. Hatkins. Atkins (meekly) Which is me, Mr. Jenkinson. Jenk. (producing double eyeglass) It do not appear to be a milingtary 'andwritin' ; but, same time, there ain't none from nobody helse, 'cause it's the honly one. (Hands it to her.) Atkins. 'Ow 'eavy it is ! (Opens it. Aside) Oh, 'ow beautiful ! And all this writin', too ! (Reads) " Them eyes o' yourn more brighter shine, And Joseph is ) our Walentine." And me to take and say sich things to 'im ! (Sniffs) Je:i £. (aside) Ain't she a picter ! Atkins. It — it's too lovely, Mr. J Joseph. fenk. No. Not a bit, it ain't. 252 ST. VALENTINE'S DA Y A tkins. And the poetry hover leaf ! Jenk. Ah ! The wicey-werses. Atkins (inelting) Joe ! Jenk, (with emotion) Hann ! {They rush into each other s arms.) Curtain. UNWIN BBOTHEBS, THE G BE SHAM PBESS, WOKING AND LOND02T. Cloth gilt, crown 8vo y price 2s. 6d. HUMOROUS PIECES. BY FRANCIS W. MOORE, AUTHOR OF "HUMOROUS PLAYS," &C. Preface. The difficulty of getting humorous pieces for recitation which were not already done to death first led me to write my own. As these have now accumulated, I have here collected such as I have found most effective, in the hope that they may prove of service to others. — F. W. M. London : DEAN & SON, Limited, i6oa, Fleet Street, E.C. PRESS OPINIONS ON "HUMOROUS PIECES" THE SKETCH. — " Among the 'Home Pets' humorously por- trayed in the Speaker some time ago were reciters. They are no modern innovation, be it remembered ; on the contrary, the species is very ancient. Epictetus has some words for them : ' Go not freely nor indiscriminately to recitations. But if thou go, then preserve (yet without being grievous to others) thy gravity and calmness.' Oh ! ye reciters, who so often weary and so rarely amuse us, take the advice of this sage. But if ye will recite — and I perceive from the very prohibition that ye will —then, for pity's sake, give us something new. This is anly a prelude to my strong recommendation of a new book, modestly and truthfully entitled ' Original Humorous Pieces' (Dean and Son, 160A, Fleet Street). It is by a new writer, Mr. Francis W. Moore, who has placed his own experience as an amateur reciter of great ability at the disposal of others, and supplied them with some admirable material in prose and verse. The monologues 1 1 know a Maiden Fair to See ' and 1 Man Proposes " are, in particular, delightfully funny. Mr. Moore will be regarded as a public benefactor by the great tribe of reciters and also by their hearers." MANCHESTER GUARDIAN. — " Well adapted for the pur- pose in view. Will give pleasure to a popular audience." NEWSAGENT. — " Decidedly smart and clever, and well suited for public reading." CROYDON GUARDIAN. — "This collection of drolleries is well adapted to break the monotony of ordinary recitations by their original and amusing character." GLASGOW HERALD. — " The pieces are brief enough for recita- tion, and are worth the attention of those who have the gift of platform story-telling." SCOTSMAN. — 4 ' Their simple, dramatic character will commend them to men, who seek to shine on the reciter's platform." London: DEAN & SON, Lim., i6oa, Fleet Street. DEAN'S SHILLING BOOKS FOR ELOCUTIONISTS. Crown Svo. Price is. each. Queer Fish. Character Sketches by Robert Ovp;rton. 6th Edition, with preface by Mrs. Stirling. A Round Dozen. Character and Sketches by R. Overton. 4th Edition. Speech Studies. By Edwin Drew. [Studies of Poems, with Recitations, Anecdote Sketches, and Articles con- nected with Elocution.] Sylvia's Ride for Life, and other original Ballads for Recitation and the Fireside. By Frederick G. Webb. Ryder's Last Race, and other Humorous Ballads for Recitation. By Campbell Rae-Brown, Author of ''Kissing Cup's Race," &c. Rhymes of the Times : Serious Ballads for Reci- tation. By Campbell Rae-Brown. Con O'Donnell, and other Ballads and Legends. By E. Owens Blackburne. The Embalmed Heart, and other sensational Poems. By E. J. Cooper. Elocution made Easy. By Edith Heraud, Elo- cutionist. Ten Minutes. Short Prose Tales and Recitations. Each piece lasts about ten minutes in delivery. By Robert Overton. Dean's Children's Recitations. Compiled by Maud Dean. DEAN'S 2* 6d- BOOKS FOR ELOCUTIONISTS. Humorous Pieces. By F. W. Moore. Rae-Brown's Ballads. Humorous and otherwise. By Campbell Rae-Brown. Cloth gilt, gilt edges. London : DEAN & SON, Limited, 1 60 a, Fleet Street, E.C. Handsomely bound, cloth gilt, gilt edges, de?ny &vo, price \ os. 6d., or Library Edition, two volumes, 6s. each. Players of the Period. By Arthur Goddard. Being a series of Anecdotal, Biographical, and Critical Monographs of some leading living Actors, including studies of S. B. Bancroft, Wilson Barrett, Rutland Barrington, Lionel Brough, Arthur Cecil, George Gros sraith, John Hare, Henry Irving, W. H. Kendal, Henry G. Neville, William Terriss, Edward Terry, Thomas Thorne, J. L. Toole, H. Beerbohm Tree, Charles Warner, E. S. Willard, and Charles Wyndham, with Portraits of the actors, autographs, and numerous character-sketches by "Alma," Fred. Barnard, Alfred Bryan, Phil May, Georges Pilotelle, J. Bernard Partridge, F. H. Townsend, and other well-known artists. " While avoiding the set form of biography, Mr. Goddard discourses vivaciously, criticises judiciously, and altogether furnishes much enter- tainment in combination with information which is of interest to those who concern themselves with the modern stage." — Daily Neivs. u His statements are accurate ; his comments are genial and moderate ; the anecdotes he relates have the merit of being unhackneyed." — Globe. "The books are capitally got up, and are well illustrated ; the facts are accurate, and the criticism as just as it is kindly." — Daily Telegraph. "Almost the last of this class of book was the collection 1 Lives of the Most Celebrated Actors and Actresses, by Thomas Marshall, Esquire,' which w T as published in 1847, and has had no really important successor till now. It is scarcely necessary to say that the objectionable features of the older theatrical biographies are entirely absent from Mr. Goddard's work. His taste is generally unimpeachable." — Anti-Jacobin. " The author has shown a keen appreciation of each actor's qualities in recognising with critical acumen the peculiar characteristics of his subjects, and assigning to each with exceptional skill a fitting place in the temple of dramatic art." — Court Journal. " Chatty, charming, and instructive ; there are many shrewd hits, and the criticism is as penetrating as it is kindly." — Lady's Pictorial. London : DEAN & SON, Lim., i6oa, Fleet Street.