Scene 2.--The Deanery again._
The curtain will be lowered for a few minutes between the two scenes.
New Scenery by Mr. T. W. Hall.
Preceded, at Eight o'clock, by
"THE NETTLE."
An Original Comedietta by ERNEST WARREN.
"Dandy Dick" was performed 171 times between the first night and the
22d of July, when, the old theatre being demolished, Mr. Clayton took
a temporary lease of Toole's Theatre, and transferred the play
thither, where it ran 75 nights more.
A company had already been sent out, under the auspices of the Court
management, to perform "Dandy Dick" in the provinces; but, when the
play was withdrawn from the London boards, Mr. Clayton set out himself
with a company, and it was during this tour that he died at Liverpool.
In America Mr. Daly produced "Dandy Dick" with Miss Ada Rehan in Mrs.
John Wood's part, but no very great success was achieved; whereas in
Australia its reception was so enthusiastic that it ran for quite an
unusual time both in Melbourne and Sydney. In the character of the
Dean, Mr. G. W. Anson achieved perhaps the greatest of his Australian
successes, and Mr. Robert Brough made his mark as the policeman.
MALCOLM C. SALAMAK.
_December_, 1892.
DANDY DICK.
THE FIRST ACT.
_The morning-room in the Deanery of St. Marvells, with a large arched
opening leading to the library on the right, and a deeply-recessed
window opening out to the garden on the left. It is a bright spring
morning, and an air of comfort and serenity pervades the place._
_SALOME, a tall, handsome, dark girl, of about three-and-twenty, is
sitting with her elbows resting on her knees, staring wildly into
vacancy. SHEBA, a fair little girl of about seventeen, wearing short
petticoats, shares her despondency, and lies prostrate upon the
settee._
SALOME.
Oh! oh my! oh my! oh my!
SHEBA.
[_Sitting upright._] Oh, my gracious goodness, goodness gracious me!
[_They both walk about excitedly._
SALOME.
There's only one terrible word for it--it's a fix!
SHEBA.
It's worse than that! It's a scrape! How did you ever get led into it?
SALOME.
How did _we_ get led into it? Halves, Sheba, please.
SHEBA.
It was Major Tarver's proposal, and I believe, Salome, that it is to
_you_ Major Tarver is paying attention.
SALOME.
The Fancy Dress Masked Ball at Durnstone is promoted by the Officers
of the Hussars. I believe that the young gentleman you have impressed
calls himself an officer, though he is merely a lieutenant.
SHEBA.
[_Indignantly._] Mr. Darbey is _certainly_ an officer--a small
officer. How dare you gird at me, Salome?
SALOME.
Very well, then. When to-night we appear at the Durnstone Athenaeum,
unknown to dear Papa, on the arms of Major Tarver and Mr. Darbey, I
consider that we shall be equally wicked. Oh, how can we be so wrong?
SHEBA.
Well, we're not wrong yet. We're only _going_ to be wrong; that's a
very different matter.
SALOME.
That's true. Besides, there's this to remember--we're inexperienced
girls and have only dear Papa. But oh, now that the Ball is to-night,
I repent, Sheba, I repent!
SHEBA.
I sha'n't do that till to-morrow. But oh, how I _shall_ repent
to-morrow!
SALOME.
[_Taking an envelope from her pocket, and almost crying._] You'd
repent now if you had seen the account for the fancy dresses.
SHEBA.
Has it come in?
SALOME.
Yes, the Major enclosed it to me this morning. You know, Sheba, Major
Tarver promised to get the dresses made in London, so I gave him our
brown paper patterns to send to the _costumier._
SHEBA.
[_Shocked._] Oh, Salome, do you think he quizzed them?
SALOME.
No; I sealed them up and marked outside "To be opened only by a lady."
SHEBA.
That's all right. I hate the plan of myself in brown paper.
SALOME.
Well, of course Major Tarver begged to be allowed to pay for the
dresses, and I said I couldn't dream of permitting it, and then he
said he should be most unhappy if he didn't, and, just as I thought he
was going to have his own way, [_bursting into tears_] he cheered up
and said he'd yield to a lady. [_Taking a large account from the
envelope._] And oh! he's yielded.
SHEBA.
Read it! Don't spare me!
SALOME.
[_Reading._] "Debtor to Lewis Isaacs, _Costumier_ to the Queen, Bow
Street. One gown--period French Revolution, 1798--Fifteen guineas!"
SHEBA.
[_Sinking on her knees, clutching the table._] Oh!
SALOME.
"Trimmings, linings, buttons, frillings--Seven guineas!"
SHEBA.
[_Hysterically._] Yah!
SALOME.
That's mine!
SHEBA.
[_Putting her fingers into her ears._] Now for mine, oooh!
SALOME.
[_Reading._] "One skirt and bodice--flower girl--period uncertain--Ten
guineas."
SHEBA.
Less than yours! What a shame!
SALOME.
"Trimmings, linings, buttons, frillings--Five guineas! Extras, Two
guineas. Total, Forty pounds, nineteen. Ladies' own brown paper
patterns mislaid. Terms, Cash!"
[_They throw themselves into each other's arms._
SALOME.
Oh, Sheba!
SHEBA.
Salome! Are there forty pounds in the wide world?
SALOME.
My heart weighs twenty. What shall we do?
SHEBA.
If we were only a few years older I should suggest that we wrote nice
notes to Papa and committed suicide.
SALOME.
Brought up as we have been, that's out of the question!
SHEBA.
Then let us be brave women and wear the dresses!
SALOME.
Of course we'll do that, but--the bill!
SHEBA.
We must get dear Papa in a good humor and coax him to make us a
present of money. He knows we haven't been charitable in the town for
ever so long.
SALOME.
Poor dear Papa! He hasn't paid our proper dressmaker's bill yet, and
I'm sure he's pressed for money.
SHEBA.
But we can't help that when _we're_ pressed for money--poor dear Papa!
SALOME.
Suppose poor Papa refuses to give us a present?
SHEBA.
Then we must play the piano when he's at work on his Concordance--poor
dear Papa!
SALOME.
However, don't let us wrong poor Papa in advance. Let us try to think
how nice we shall look.
SHEBA.
Oh yes--sha'n't I!
SALOME.
Oh, I shall! And as for stealing out of the house with Major Tarver
when poor dear Papa has gone to bed, why, Gerald Tarver would die for
me!
SHEBA.
So would Nugent Darbey for me; besides I'm not old enough to know
better.
SALOME.
You're not so very much younger than I, Sheba!
SHEBA.
Indeed, Salome! Then why do you keep me in short skirts?
SALOME.
Why! you cruel girl! You know I can't lengthen you till I'm married!
[_BLORE, the butler, a venerable-looking person, with rather a
clerical suggestion about his dress, enters by the window._
BLORE.
[_Benignly._] The two soldier gentlemen have just rode hup, Miss
Salome.
[_The girls clutch each other's hands._
SALOME.
You mean Major Tarver?
SHEBA.
And Mr. Darbey. They have called to inquire after poor Papa.
SALOME.
Poor Papa!
BLORE.
Shall I show them hin, Miss Sheba?
SHEBA.
Yes, Blore, dear, and hang your h's on the hat-stand.
[BLORE _laughs sweetly at SHEBA and shakes his fingers at her
playfully._
BLORE.
[_Vindictively, behind their backs._] 'Ussies!
[_He goes out._
SALOME.
Am I all right, Sheba?
SHEBA.
Yes. Am I?
SALOME.
Yes. [_Looking out at window._] Here they are! How well Gerald Tarver
dismounts! Oh!
SHEBA.
He left his liver in India, didn't he?
SALOME.
No--only part of it.
SHEBA.
Well--part of it.
SALOME.
And that he gave to his Queen, brave fellow!
SHEBA.
[_Seating herself in an artificial attitude._] Where shall we
be--here?
SALOME.
[_Running to the piano._] All right; you be admiring my voice!
SHEBA.
Oh, I dare say!
SALOME.
Here they are, and we're doing nothing!
SHEBA.
Let's run away and then come in unconsciously.
SALOME.
Yes--unconsciously.
[_They run off through the Library. BLORE shows in MAJOR TARVER and
MR. DARBEY, who are both in regimentals. MAJOR TARVER is a
middle-aged, tall, angular officer, with a thin face, yellow
complexion, and red eyes. He is alternately in a state of great
excitement and depression. MR. DARBEY is a mere boy, but with a
pompous, patronizing manner._
DARBEY.
The Dean's out of the way, eh!
BLORE.
Yes, sir, he his.
TARVER.
Eh? How is the Dean? Never mind--perhaps Miss Jedd is at home?
BLORE.
Yes, sir, she his.
TARVER.
It would be discourteous to run away without asking Miss Jedd after
her father.
DARBEY.
[_Throwing himself on the settee._] Deuced bad form!
BLORE.
The ladies were 'ere a minute ago.
[_SALOME and SHEBA walk in together. SALOME has her arm round her
sister's waist and looks up to her with a sweet, trusting smile. They
start in confusion on seeing TARVER and DARBEY._
SALOME.
Major Tarver.
SHEBA.
Mr. Darbey.
TARVER.
[_Taking SALOME'S hand eagerly._] My dear Miss Jedd!
DARBEY.
[_Rising and putting a glass to his eye._] Hah yah! Hah yah!
SALOME.
[_With her hand on her heart._] You quite startled us.
TARVER.
[_In an agony of contrition._] Oh, did we?
DARBEY.
Awfully cut up to hear it.
SHEBA.
We never dreamt of finding two visitors for Papa.
BLORE.
Why, you told me to show the gentlemen hin, Miss Sheba!
[_The two girls start guiltily and glare at BLORE._
SALOME.
[_With suppressed rage_.] You needn't wait, Blore!
BLORE.
[_To himself._] Let 'em 'ang that on the 'atstand!
[_BLORE goes out. DARBEY and SHEBA stroll together into the Library._
TARVER.
[_To SALOME._] We thought we'd ride over directly after parade to make
the final arrangements for tonight. Have the costumes arrived?
SALOME.
Yes, they came yesterday in a hamper labeled "Miss Jedd, Secretary,
Cast-off Clothing Distribution League."
TARVER.
That was my idea--came to me in the middle of the night.
SALOME.
Dear Major Tarver, surely this terrible strain on your nerves is very,
very bad for you with your--your----
TARVER.
My liver--say the word, Miss Jedd.
SALOME.
[_Drooping her head._] Oh, Major Tarver!
TARVER.
It is frightfully injurious. Of course I'm excited now, and you see me
at my best, but the alternating fits of hopeless despondency are
shocking to witness and to endure!
SALOME.
Oh!
TARVER.
It's all that damned India! Oh! what have I said! You will never
forgive me.
SALOME.
Indeed, indeed I will!
TARVER.
Never. Oh, Miss Jedd, my forgetfulness has brought me--one of
my--terrible attacks--of depression!
SALOME.
Major Tarver!
[_She leads him to a chair into which he sinks in a ghastly state.
DARBEY strolls in from the Library with SHEBA._
DARBEY.
[_To SHEBA._] Your remarks about the army are extremely complimentary.
On behalf of the army I thank you. We fellows are not a bad sort, take
us all round.
SHEBA.
There's a grand future before you, isn't there?
DARBEY.
Well, I suppose there is if I go on as I'm going now.
TARVER.
[_To SALOME._] Thanks, the attack has passed. Now about to-night; at
what time is the house entirely quiet?
SALOME.
Poor dear Papa goes round with Blore at half-past nine--after that all
is rest and peacefulness.
TARVER.
Then if we're here with the closed carriage at ten--!
[_They go together into the library._
DARBEY.
[_To SHEBA._] Some of us army men can slave too. Tarver's queer livah
has thrown all the arrangements for the Fancy Ball on my shoulders.
[_SALOME and TARVER re-enter._] Look at him--that's when he's enjoying
life!
TARVER.
[_Laughing convulsively._] Ha! ha! ha! ho! he! he! Good, eh, Miss
Jedd?
SALOME.
But suppose dear Papa should hear us crunching down the gravel path!
TARVER.
Oh!
[_He sinks on to the settee with a vacant stare, his arms hanging
helplessly._
DARBEY.
[_To SHEBA._] There--now his career is a burden to him!
SHEBA.
Oh!
SALOME.
Would you like a glass of water, Major Tarver?
TARVER.
[_Taking SALOME'S hand._] Thank you, dear Miss Jedd, with the least
suggestion of cayenne pepper in it.
SHEBA.
[_Looking out at window._] Oh, Salome! Papa! Papa!
TARVER.
The Dean?
DARBEY.
The Dean!
[_They all collect themselves in a fluster. The two girls go to meet
their father, who enters at the window with his head bowed and his
hands behind his back, in deep thought. THE DEAN is a portly man of
about fifty, with a dignified demeanor, a suave voice and persuasive
manner, and a noble brow surmounted by silver-gray hair. BLORE follows
THE DEAN, carrying some books, a small bunch of flowers, and an
umbrella._
SALOME.
[_Tenderly._] Papa!
SHEBA.
Papsey!
[_THE DEAN rouses himself, discovers his children and removes his
hat._
THE DEAN.
[_To SALOME._] Salome! [_To SHEBA._] My toy-child! [_He draws the
girls to him and embraces them, then sees TARVER and DARBEY._] Dear
me! Strangers!
TARVER _and_ Darbey.
[_Coughing uncomfortably._] H'm!
SALOME.
[_Reproachfully, taking his hat from him._] Papa! Major Tarver and Mr.
Darbey have ridden over from Durnstone to ask how your cold is.
[_SHEBA takes the gold-rimmed pince-nez which hangs upon THE DEAN'S
waistcoat and places it before his eyes._
THE DEAN.
Dear me! Major! Mr. Garvey.
SHEBA.
Mr. Darbey!
THE DEAN.
Darbey! How good of you! [_With his girls still embracing him he
extends a hand to each of the men._] My cold is better. [_BLORE goes
out through the Library._] Major--Mr. Garvey--these inquiries strike
me as being so kind that I insist--no, no, I _beg_ that you will share
our simple dinner with us to-night at six o'clock!
TARVER.
[_Disconcerted._] Oh!
DARBEY.
H'm!
THE DEAN.
Let me see--Tuesday night is----
SALOME.
Leg of mutton, Papa!
THE DEAN.
Thank you. Mutton, hot.
SHEBA.
And custards, Papsey.
THE DEAN.
Thank you, toy-child--custards, cold. And a welcome--warm.
TARVER.
[_Looking to SALOME._] Well, I--ah--[_SALOME nods her head to him
violently._] That is, certainly, Dean, certainly.
DARBEY.
Delighted, my dear Dean--delighted!
[_THE DEAN gives DARBEY a severe look, and with an important cough
walks into the Library. The men and the girls speak in undertones._
TARVER.
[_Depressed._] Now, what will happen to-night?
SALOME.
Why, don't you see, as you will have to drive over to dine, you will
both be here, on the spot, ready to take us back to Durnstone?
[_THE DEAN sits at his desk in the Library._
DARBEY.
Of course; when we're turned out we can hang about in the lane till
you're ready.
TARVER.
Yes, but when are _we_ to make our preparations? It'll take me a long
time to look like Charles the First!
SHEBA.
We can drive about Durnstone while you dress.
SALOME.
[_To TARVER, admiringly._] Charles the First! Oh, Major!
DARBEY.
That was my idea--Charles the Martyr, you know. Tarver's a martyr to
his liver--see?
SHEBA.
Oh! sha'n't we all look magnificent?
SALOME.
Oh!
TARVER.
Grand idea--the whole thing!
DARBEY.
Regular army notion!
[_They are all in a state of great excitement when THE DEAN re-enters,
with an anxious look, carrying a bundle of papers._
SALOME.
Here is Papa!
[_They rush to various seats, all in constrained attitudes._
TARVER.
[_To THE DEAN._] We waited to say--good-morning.
THE DEAN.
[_Taking his hand, abstractedly._] How kind! Good-morning!
DARBEY.
Six o'clock sharp, Dean?
THE DEAN.
At six, punctually. Salome, represent me by escorting these gentlemen
to the gate. [_SALOME, TARVER, and DARBEY go out. SHEBA is following
slyly when THE DEAN looks up from his papers._] Sheba!
SHEBA.
Papsey!
THE DEAN.
Check me in a growing tendency to dislike Mr. Garvey. At dinner,
Sheba, watch that I carve for him fairly.
SHEBA.
Yes, Papsey!
[_THE DEAN turns away and sits on the settee. SHEBA, with her head
down and her hands folded, walks towards the door, and then bounds
out._
THE DEAN.
[_Turning the papers over in his hand, solemnly._] Bills! [_He rises,
walks thoughtfully to a chair, sits and examines papers again._]
Bills! [_He rises again, walks to another chair, and sinks into it
with a groan._] Bills!
_SALOME and SHEBA re-enter._
SALOME.
[_To SHEBA, in a whisper._] Papa's alone!
SHEBA.
A beautiful opportunity to ask for that little present of money. Poor
dear Papa!
SALOME _and_ Sheba.
Poor dear Papa!
[_They link their hands together and walk as if going out through the
Library._
THE DEAN.
[_Looking up._] Don't go, children!
[_He rises, the girls rush to him, and laughing with joy they turn him
like a top, dancing round him._
[_Panting._] Stop, children!
SHEBA.
Papsey's in a good humor!
SALOME.
[_Pinching his chin._] He always is!
SHEBA.
Papsey will listen to our little wants!
[_They force him into a chair. SALOME sits on the ground embracing his
legs, SHEBA lies on the top of the table._
THE DEAN.
Oh dear, oh dear! Your wants are very little ones. What are they,
Salome? What are they, toy-child?
SALOME.
Papa! Have you any spare cash?
THE DEAN.
Spare cash! Playful Salome!
SHEBA.
_L--s--d,_ Papsey, or _L--s,_ Papsey, and never mind the--_d._
THE DEAN.
Ha! ha! I am glad, really glad, children, that you have broken through
a reserve which has existed on this point for at least a
fortnight--and babbled for money.
SHEBA _and_ SALOME.
[_Laughing with delight._] Ha! ha!
THE DEAN.
It gives me the opportunity of meeting your demands with candor.
Children, I have love for you, solicitude for you, but--I have no
spare cash for anybody.
[_He rises and walks gloomily across to the piano, on the top of which
he commences to arrange his bills. In horror SALOME scrambles up from
the floor, and SHEBA wriggles off the table. Simultaneously they drop
on to the same chair and huddle together._
SALOME.
[_To herself._] Lost!
SHEBA.
[_To herself._] Done for!
THE DEAN.
And now you have so cheerily opened the subject, let me tell you with
equal good humor [_emphatically flourishing the bills_] that this sort
of thing must be put a stop to. Your dressmaker's bill is shocking;
your milliner gives an analytical record of the feverish beatings of
the hot pulse of fashion; your general draper blows a rancorous blast
which would bring dismay to the stoutest heart. Let me for once peal
out a deep paternal bass to your childish treble and say
emphatically--I've had enough of it!
[_He paces up and down. The two girls utter a loud yell of grief._
SHEBA.
[_Through her tears._] We've been brought up as young ladies--that
can't be done for nothing!
SALOME.
Sheba's small, but she cuts into a lot of material.
THE DEAN.
My girls, it is such unbosomings as this which preserve the domestic
unison of a family. Weep, howl, but listen. The total of these weeds
which spring up in the beautiful garden of paternity is a hundred and
fifty-six, eighteen, three. Now, all the money I can immediately
command is considerably under five hundred pounds.
SALOME.
Oh, Papa!
SHEBA.
Oh! what a lot!
THE DEAN.
Hush! But read, Salome, read aloud this paragraph in "The Times" of
yesterday. There, my child.
[_He hands a copy of "The Times" to SALOME with his finger upon a
paragraph._
SALOME.
[_Reading._] "A Munificent Offer. Dr. Jedd, the Dean of St. Marvells,
whose anxiety for the preservation of the Minister Spire threatens to
undermine his health, has subscribed the munificent sum of one
thousand pounds to the Restoration Fund." [_Indignantly._] Oh!
SHEBA.
Oh! and we gasping for clothing!
THE DEAN.
Read on, my child.
SALOME.
[_Reading._] "On condition that seven other donors come forward, each
with the like sum."
SALOME.
And will they?
THE DEAN.
[_Anxiously._] My darling, times are bad, but one never knows.
SHEBA.
If they don't!
THE DEAN.
Then you will have your new summer dresses as usual.
SALOME.
[_Hoarsely._] But if they do! Speak, Father!
THE DEAN.
[_Gloomily._] Then we will all rejoice!
SHEBA _and_ SALOME.
Rejoice!
THE DEAN.
And retrench. Two R's, little ones. Retrench and Rejoice.
[_The two girls cling to each other as BLORE comes from the Library
with two letters on a salver._
BLORE.
The second post, sir--just hin.
THE DEAN.
[_Blandly._] Thank you.
BLORE.
[_Hearing SALOME and SHEBA crying._] They've 'ad a scolding, 'ussies.
Let 'em 'ang that on the 'atstand!
[_He is going out._
THE DEAN.
[_Opening letters._] Oh, Blore! This note from Mr. Hodder, the
Secretary of "The Sport and Relaxation Repression Guild," reminds me
that to-morrow is the first day of the Races--the St. Marvells Spring
Meeting, as it is called.
BLORE.
Hindeed, sir--fancy that! And I not know it!
THE DEAN.
All our servants may not resemble you, Blore. Pray remind them in the
kitchen and the stable of the rule of the house----
BLORE.
No servant allowed to leave the Deanery, on hany pretence, while the
Races is on.
THE DEAN.
[_Kindly._] While the races _are_ on--thank you, Blore.
[_Opens his second letter._
BLORE.
Thank _you,_ sir. [_To himself._] Oh, if the Dean only knew the good
thing I could put him on to for the Durnstone Handicap!
[_He goes out._
THE DEAN.
Children! Salome! Sheba! Here is good news!
SALOME.
[_Running to him._] Good news!
SHEBA.
What is it?
THE DEAN.
Your Aunt!
SHEBA.
Left us some money?
THE DEAN.
Your Aunt is coming to live with us.
SHEBA.
To what?
SALOME.
To live with us! What Aunt?
THE DEAN.
My dear widowed sister, Georgiana Tidman.
SALOME.
What's she like?
SHEBA.
We don't want her.
THE DEAN.
Good gracious! Georgiana and I reconciled after all these years! She
will help us to keep the expenses down.
SALOME.
Keep the expenses down!
THE DEAN.
[_Embracing his daughters._] A second mother to my girls. She will
implant the precepts of retrenchment if their father cannot!
SALOME.
But, Papa, who is Aunt what's-her-name?
SHEBA.
Who is she?
THE DEAN.
My dears--a mournful, miserable history! [_With his head bent he walks
to a chair, and holds out his hands to the girls, who go to him and
kneel at his feet._] When you were infants your Aunt Georgiana married
an individual whose existence I felt it my sad duty never to
recognize.
SALOME.
A bad man?
THE DEAN.
He died ten years ago, and, therefore, we will say a misguided man. He
was a person who bred horses to run in races for amusement combined
with profit. He was also what is called a Gentleman Jockey, and it was
your aunt's wifely boast that if ever he vexed her she could take a
stone off his weight in half an hour. In due course his neck was
dislocated.
SHEBA.
By Aunt?
THE DEAN.
Hush, child, no! You will be little wiser when I tell you he came a
cropper!
SALOME.
How awful it all sounds!
THE DEAN.
Left a widow, you would think it natural that Georgiana Tidman would
have flown to her brother, himself a widower. Not at all. Maddened, I
hope, by grief, she continued the career of her misguided husband, and
for years, to use her own terrible words, she was "the Daisy of the
Turf."
SHEBA.
What's that?
THE DEAN.
I don't know, toy-child. But at length retribution came. Ill luck fell
upon her--her horses, stock, everything, came to the hammer. That was
my hour. "Come to me," I wrote, "my children yearn for you."
SHEBA _and_ SALOME.
[_With wry faces._] Oh!
THE DEAN.
"At the Deanery of St. Marvells, with the cares of a household, and a
stable which contains only a thirteen-year-old pony, you may obtain
rest and forgetfulness." And she is coming!
SHEBA _and_ SALOME.
When? Oh! when?
THE DEAN.
She merely says, "Soon."
SHEBA _and_ SALOME.
[_Stamping with vexation._] Ugh!
THE DEAN.
Salome, Sheba, you will, I fear, find her a sad broken creature, a
weary fragment, a wave-tossed derelict. Let it be your patient
endeavor to win back a flickering smile to the wan features of this
chastened widow.
_BLORE enters with a telegram._
BLORE.
A telegram, sir!
[_THE DEAN opens telegram._
SHEBA.
No Aunt Tidman flickers a smile at me!
SALOME.
I wouldn't be in her shoes for something!
SHEBA.
Salt in her bed, Salome!
SALOME.
Yes, and the peg out of the rattling window!
[_They grip hands earnestly._
THE DEAN.
Good gracious! Bless me! Girls, your Aunt Georgiana slept at the
"Wheatsheaf," at Durnstone, last night, and is coming on this morning!
SALOME _and_ SHEBA.
To-day!
THE DEAN.
Blore, tell Willis to get the chaise out.
[_BLORE hurries out._
THE DEAN.
Salome, child, you and I will drive into Durnstone--we may be in time
to bring your Aunt over. My hat, Sheba! Quick! [_The clang of the gate
bell is heard in the distance._] The bell! [_Looking out of window._]
No--yes--it can't be! [_Speaking in an altered voice._] Children! I
wonder if this is your Aunt Georgiana?
[_BLORE appears with a half-frightened, surprised look._
BLORE.
Mrs. Tidman.
_GEORGIANA TIDMAN enters. She is a jovial, noisy woman, very "horsey"
in manners and appearance, and dressed in pronounced masculine style,
with billy cock hat and coaching coat. The girls cling to each other;
THE DEAN recoils._
GEORGIANA.
Well, Gus, my boy, how are you?
THE DEAN.
[_Shocked._] Georgiana!
GEORGIANA.
[_Patting THE DEAN'S cheeks._] You're putting on too much flesh,
Augustin; they should give you a ten-miler daily in a blanket.
THE DEAN.
[_With dignity._] My dear sister!
GEORGIANA.
Are these your two-year-olds? [_To SALOME._] Kiss your Aunt! [_She
kisses SALOME with a good hearty smack._] [_To SHEBA._] Kiss your
Aunt! [_She embraces SHEBA, then stands between the two girls and
surveys them critically, touching them alternately with the end of her
cane._] Lord bless you both! What names do you run under?
SALOME.
I--I am Salome.
SHEBA.
I am Sheba.
GEORGIANA.
[_Looking at SHEBA._] Why, little 'un, your stable companion could
give you a stone and then get her nose in front!
THE DEAN.
[_Who has been impatiently fuming._] Georgiana, I fear these poor
innocents don't follow your well-intentioned but inappropriate
illustrations.
GEORGIANA.
Oh, we'll soon wake 'em up. Well, Augustin, my boy, it's nearly twenty
years since you and I munched our corn together.
THE DEAN.
Our estrangement has been painfully prolonged.
GEORGIANA.
Since then we've both run many races, though we've never met in the
same events. The world has ridden us both pretty hard at times, Gus,
hasn't it? We've been punished and pulled and led down pretty often,
but here we are [_tapping him sharply in the chest with her cane_]
sound in the wind yet. You're doing well, Gus, and they say you're
going up the hill neck-and-neck with your Bishop. I've dropped out of
it--the mares don't last, Gus--and it's good and kind of you to give
me a dry stable and a clean litter, and to keep me out of the shafts
of a "Shrewsbury and Talbot."
SHEBA.
[_In a whisper to SALOME._] Salome, I don't quite understand her--but
I like Aunt.
SALOME.
So do I. But she's not my idea of a weary fragment or a chastened
widow.
THE DEAN.
My dear Georgiana, I rejoice that you meet me in this affectionate
spirit, and when--pardon me--when you have a little caught the _tone_
of the Deanery----
GEORGIANA.
Oh, I'll catch it; if I don't the Deanery will a little catch _my_
tone--the same thing.
[_SHEBA laughs._
THE DEAN.
[_Reprovingly._] Toy-child!
GEORGIANA.
Trust George Tidd for setting things quite square in a palace or a
puddle.
THE DEAN.
George Tidd! Who is George Tidd?
GEORGIANA.
I am George Tidd--that was my racing name. Ask after George Tidd at
Newmarket--they'll tell you all about me. My colors were crimson and
black diamonds. There you are.
[_Producing her pocket-handkerchief, which is crimson and black._
THE DEAN.
Dear me! Very interesting! Georgiana, my dear. One moment, children.
[_The girls go into the Library._
THE DEAN.
[_Tapping the handkerchief._] I understand distinctly from your letter
that all this is finally abandoned?
GEORGIANA.
Worse luck! They'll never see my colors at the post again!
THE DEAN.
And the contemplation of sport generally as a mental distraction----?
GEORGIANA.
Oh, yes--I dare say you'll manage to wean me from that, too, in time.
THE DEAN.
In time! Well, but--Georgiana!
[_The gate bell is heard again, the girls re-enter._
GEORGIANA.
There's a visitor. I'll tootle upstairs and have a groom down. [_To
SALOME and SHEBA._] Make the running, girls. At what time do we feed,
Augustin?
THE DEAN.
There is luncheon at one o'clock.
GEORGIANA.
Right. The air here is so fresh I sha'n't be sorry to get my nose-bag
on.
[_She stalks out, accompanied by the girls._
THE DEAN.
My sister, Georgiana--my widowed sister, Georgiana. Dear me, I am
quite disturbed. Surely, surely the serene atmosphere of the Deanery
will work a change. It must! It must! If not, what a grave mistake I
have made. Good gracious! No, no, I won't think of it! Still, it is a
little unfortunate that poor Georgiana should arrive here on the very
eve of these terrible races at St. Marvells.
_BLORE enters with a card._
THE DEAN.
Who is it, Blore? [_Reading the card._] "Sir Tristram Mardon." Dear,
dear! Certainly, Blore, certainly. [_BLORE goes out._] Mardon--why,
Mardon and I haven't met since Oxford.
[_BLORE re-enters, showing in SIR TRISTRAM MARDON, a well-preserved
man of about fifty, with a ruddy face and jovial manner, the type of
the thorough English sporting gentleman. BLORE goes out._
SIR TRISTRAM.
Hullo, Jedd, how are you?
THE DEAN.
My dear Mardon--are we boys again?
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Boisterously._] Of course we are! Boys again!
[_He hits THE DEAN violently in the chest._
THE DEAN.
[_Breathing heavily--to himself._] I quite forgot how rough Mardon
used to be. How it all comes back to me!
SIR TRISTRAM.
Think I'm changed?
THE DEAN.
Only in appearance!
SIR TRISTRAM.
I'm still a bachelor--got terribly jilted by a woman years ago and
have run in blinkers ever since. Can't be helped, can it? You're
married, aren't you?
THE DEAN.
[_With dignity._] I have been a widower for fifteen years.
SIR TRISTRAM.
Oh lor'! awfully sorry--can't be helped though, can it? [_Seizing THE
DEAN'S hand and squeezing it._] Forgive me, old chap.
THE DEAN.
[_Withdrawing his hand with pain._] O-o-oh!
SIR TRISTRAM.
I've re-opened an old wound--damned stupid of me!
THE DEAN.
Hush, Mardon! Please!
SIR TRISTRAM.
All right. What do you think I'm down here for?
THE DEAN.
For the benefit of your health, Mardon?
SIR TRISTRAM.
Ha! ha! Never had an ache in my life; sha'n't come and hear you preach
next Sunday, Gus.
THE DEAN.
I do not preach next Sunday!
SIR TRISTRAM.
You'd better not! No, I'm here for the races.
THE DEAN.
The races! Hush, my dear Mardon, my girls----
SIR TRISTRAM.
Girls! May I trot 'em into the paddock to-morrow?
THE DEAN.
Thank you, no.
SIR TRISTRAM.
Think it over. You've seen the list of Starters for the Durnstone
Handicap----?
THE DEAN.
No, I haven't.
SIR TRISTRAM.
Not! Look here! Sir Tristram Mardon's Dandy Dick, nine stone two, Tom
Gallawood up! What do you think of that?
THE DEAN.
I don't think of anything like that!
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Digging THE DEAN in the ribs._] Look out for my colors--black and
white, and a pink cap--first past the post to-morrow.
THE DEAN.
Really, my dear Mardon----
SIR TRISTRAM.
Good heavens! Jedd, they talk about Bonny Betsy.
THE DEAN.
I grieve to hear it. The tongue of scandal----
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Taking THE DEAN'S arm and walking him about._] Do you imagine, sir,
for one moment, that Bonny Betsy, with a boy on her back, can get down
that bill with those legs of hers?
THE DEAN.
Another _horse_, I presume?
SIR TRISTRAM.
No, a bay mare. George Tidd knew what she was about when she stuck to
Dandy Dick to the very last.
THE DEAN.
[_Aghast._] George--Tidd?
SIR TRISTRAM.
Georgiana Tidman. Dandy came out of her stable after she smashed.
THE DEAN.
Bless me!
SIR TRISTRAM.
Poor old George! I wonder what's become of her.
THE DEAN.
My dear Mardon, I am of course heartily pleased to revive in this way
our old acquaintance. I wish it were in my power to offer you the
hospitality of the Deanery--but----
SIR TRISTRAM.
Don't name it. My horse and I are over the way at "The Swan." Come and
look at Dandy Dick!
THE DEAN.
Mardon, you don't understand. My position in St. Marvells----
SIR TRISTRAM.
Oh, I see, Jedd. I beg your pardon. You mean that the colors you ride
in don't show up well on the hill yonder or in the stable of the
"Swan" Inn.
THE DEAN.
You must remember----
SIR TRISTRAM.
I remember that in your young days you made the heaviest book on the
Derby of any of our fellows.
THE DEAN.
I always lost, Mardon; indeed, I always lost!
SIR TRISTRAM.
I remember that you once matched a mare of your own against another of
Lord Beckslade's for fifty pounds!
THE DEAN.
Yes, but she wasn't in it, Mardon--I mean she was dreadfully beaten.
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Shaking his head sorrowfully._] Oh Jedd, Jedd--other times, other
manners. Good-bye, old boy.
THE DEAN.
You're not--you're not offended, Mardon?
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Taking THE DEAN'S hand._] Offended! No--only sorry, Dean, damned
sorry, to see a promising lad come to an end like this. [_GEORGIANA
enters with SALOME on one side of her and SHEBA on the other--all
three laughing and chatting, apparently the best of friends._] By
Jove! No! what--Tidd?
GEORGIANA.
Hullo, Mardon!
[_They shake hands warmly._
SIR TRISTRAM.
Of all places in the world, to find "Mr. Tidd!" [_Roaring with
laughter._] Ho! ho! ho!
GEORGIANA.
[_Laughing._] Ha! ha!
SIR TRISTRAM.
Why, Dean, you've been chaffing me, have you?
THE DEAN.
No!
SIR TRISTRAM.
Yes, you have--you've been roasting your old friend!
THE DEAN.
[_With dignity._] Mardon!
SIR TRISTRAM.
Tidd is a pal of yours, eh? Ho! ho!
GEORGIANA.
Ha! ha!
THE DEAN.
Sir Tristram Mardon, Mrs. Tidman is my sister.
SIR TRISTRAM.
Your sister?
GEORGIANA.
Yes, I've been running a bit dark, Mardon, but that stout,
well-seasoned animal over there and this skittish creature come of the
same stock and were foaled in the same stable. [_Pointing to SALOME
and SHEBA._] There are a couple of yearlings here, you don't know. My
nieces--Salome and Sheba.
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Bowing._] How do you do? [_Heartily taking GEORGIANA'S hand again._]
Well, I don't care whose sister you are, but I'm jolly glad to see
you, George, my boy.
GEORGIANA.
Gracious, Tris, don't squeeze my hand so!
THE DEAN.
[_In horror._] Salome, Sheba, children! I must speak to you. Excuse
me, Mardon. [_To himself._] Oh, what shall I do with my widowed
sister?
[_He goes into the garden._
SHEBA.
[_To SALOME._] That's like pa, just as we were getting interested.
SALOME.
We'll come back in a minute.
[_They go out by the window._
SIR TRISTRAM.
Lord! How odd! You know your brother and I were at Oxford together,
George?
GEORGIANA.
Were you, Tris! Then are you putting up here?
SIR TRISTRAM.
He won't have me.
GEORGIANA.
Won't have you!
SIR TRISTRAM.
Because I'm down here racing. You see, he's a Dean.
GEORGIANA.
Is he? Well, then, you just lay a thousand sovereigns to a gooseberry
that in this house I'm a Dean, too!
SIR TRISTRAM.
I suppose he's thinking of the Canons--and the Bishop--and those
chaps.
GEORGIANA.
Lord bless your heart, they're all right when you cheer them up a bit!
If I'm here till the autumn meeting you'll find me lunching on the
hill, with the Canons marking my card and the dear old Bishop mixing
the salad. So say the word, Tris--I'll make it all right with
Augustin.
SIR TRISTRAM.
No, thanks, old fellow. The fact is I'm fixed at the "Swan" with--what
do you think, George?--with Dandy Dick.
GEORGIANA.
Oh! my old Dandy!
SIR TRISTRAM.
I brought him down with me in lavender. You know he runs for the
Durnstone Handicap to-morrow.
GEORGIANA.
Know! There's precious little that horse does that I don't know, and
what I don't know I dream. Is he fit?
SIR TRISTRAM.
As a fiddle--shines like a mirror--not an ounce too much or too
little. He'll romp in!
GEORGIANA.
He'll dance in! Tris Mardon!
SIR TRISTRAM.
Eh?
GEORGIANA.
[_Mysteriously._] Tris, Dandy Dick doesn't belong to you--not _all_ of
him.
SIR TRISTRAM.
No--I've only a half share. At your sale he was knocked down to John
Fielder the trainer. The other half belongs to John.
GEORGIANA.
No, it doesn't, it belongs to _me!_
SIR TRISTRAM.
George!
GEORGIANA.
Yes, directly I saw Dandy Dick marched out before the auctioneer I
asked John Fielder to help me, and he did, like a Briton. For I can't
live without horseflesh, if it's only a piece of cat's meat on a
skewer. But when I condescended to keep company with the Canons and
the Bishop here I promised Augustin that I wouldn't own anything on
four legs, so John sold you half of Dick, and I can swear I don't own
a horse--and I don't--not a whole one. But half a horse is better than
no bread, Tris--and we're partners.
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Roaring with laughter._] Ho! ho! ha! ha! ha!
GEORGIANA.
What are you laughing at, man?
SIR TRISTRAM.
Oh, the Dean! the Dean!
_SALOME and SHEBA enter unperceived._
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Still laughing._] I--ho! ho!--I beg your pardon, George--ha! ha!
Well, now you know he's fit, of course, you're going to back Dandy
Dick for the Durnstone Handicap.
GEORGIANA.
Back him! For every penny I've got in the world. That isn't much, but
if I'm not a richer woman by a thousand pounds to-morrow night I shall
have had a bad day.
SALOME.
Oh, Sheba!
[_The girls come towards the Library._
GEORGIANA.
[_Discovering them._] Hush! [_To the girls._] Hallo!
SHEBA.
It's only us, Aunt.
[_The girls go into the Library._
SIR TRISTRAM.
I'll be off.
GEORGIANA.
Keep your eye on the old horse, Tristram.
SIR TRISTRAM.
Don't fear. Good-morning, George!
GEORGIANA.
Good-morning, partner! [_SIR TRISTRAM bursts out laughing again, she
joining in the laughter._] Oh, do be quiet!
SIR TRISTRAM.
Ho! ho! ho! Ha! ha! Oh, say good-bye for me to the Dean! [_She gives
him a push and he goes out._
_SHEBA and SALOME immediately re-enter from the Library._
SHEBA.
Aunt--dear Aunt----
GEORGIANA.
Well, girls?
SHEBA.
Aunt--Salome has something to say to you.
SALOME.
No, it's Sheba.
GEORGIANA.
Why, you're shivering all over. [_Catching hold of SHEBA._] Hallo,
little 'un!
SHEBA.
Aunt--dear Aunt Georgiana--we heard you say something about a thousand
pounds.
GEORGIANA.
You've been listening?
SHEBA.
No--we only merely heard. And, oh, Aunt, a thousand pounds is such a
lot, and we poor girls want such a little.
GEORGIANA.
Money?
SHEBA.
Yes. Salome has rather got into debt.
GEORGIANA.
My gracious!
SALOME.
I haven't, any more than you have, Sheba.
SHEBA.
Well, I'm in debt too, but I only meant to beg for Salome; but now I
ask for both of us. Oh, Aunt Tidman, papa has told us that you have
known troubles.
GEORGIANA.
So I have--heaps of them.
SHEBA.
Oh, I'm so glad. Because Salome and I are weary fragments too--we're
everything awful but chastened widows. We owe forty pounds unknown to
Pa!
SALOME.
Forty pounds, nineteen.
GEORGIANA.
Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you girls!
SHEBA.
We are!
SALOME.
We are!
GEORGIANA.
To cry and go on like this about forty pounds!
SHEBA.
But we've only got fifteen and threepence of our own in the world!
And, oh, Aunt, you know something about the Races, don't you?
GEORGIANA.
Eh?
SHEBA.
If you do, help two poor creatures to win forty pounds, nineteen. Aunt
Georgiana, what's "Dandy Dick" you were talking to that gentleman
about?
GEORGIANA.
Child! Dandy Dick's a horse.
SHEBA.
We thought so. Then let Dandy Dick win _us_ some money.
GEORGIANA.
No, no! I won't hear of it!
SHEBA.
Oh, do, do!
SALOME.
Oh, do, do, do!
GEORGIANA.
Go away--I won't. I say decidedly, I will not!
SHEBA.
Oh, do, do!
SALOME.
Do! Do, and we'll love you for ever and ever, Aunt Georgiana.
GEORGIANA.
You will! [_She embraces them heartily._] Bless your little innocent
faces! Do you want to win forty pounds?
SALOME _and_ SHEBA.
Yes, yes!
GEORGIANA.
Do you want to win _fifty_ pounds?
SHEBA and SALOME.
Oh, yes, yes!
GEORGIANA.
[_Taking her betting book from her pocket._] Very well, then, put your
very petticoats on Dandy Dick!
[_The girls stand clutching their skirts, frightened._
SALOME.
Oh!
SHEBA.
Oh!
END OF THE FIRST ACT.
THE SECOND ACT.
The morning-room at the Deanery, with the fire and the lamps lighted.
It is after dinner.
SHEBA is playing the piano, SALOME lolling upon the settee, and
GEORGIANA pouring out tea. They are in evening dress.
GEORGIANA.
Sugar, Sally? I call you Sally, Salome--the evening's too short for
your name.
SALOME.
All right, Aunt George--two lumps, please.
GEORGIANA.
[_To SHEBA._] Little 'un?
SHEBA.
Two lumps and one in the saucer, to eat.
GEORGIANA.
Quite a relief to shake off the gentlemen, isn't it?
SALOME.
Do you think so, Aunt?
SHEBA.
Oh, _I_ don't think so.
GEORGIANA.
H'm! Now I understand why my foot was always in the way under the
dinner-table.
[_She holds out two cups, which the girls take from her._
SALOME.
I thought the dinner was an overwhelming success.
SHEBA.
All our dinners are at the Deanery.
GEORGIANA.
Awfully jolly. Mutton was overdone.
SALOME.
That's our new cook's one failing.
GEORGIANA.
But the potatoes weren't--they rattled.
SHEBA.
Cook never can manage potatoes.
GEORGIANA.
What was wrong with the custards?
SALOME.
Well, it was Cook's first attempt at custards.
GEORGIANA.
However, they served one useful end. Now we _know_ the chimney wants
sweeping.
SALOME.
But it was a frightfully jolly dinner--take it all round.
SHEBA.
Yes, take it all round. One has to take things all round.
GEORGIANA.
What made us all so sad and silent--taking us all round?
SHEBA.
Dear Papa was as lively as an owl with neuralgia.
GEORGIANA.
Major Tarver isn't a conversational cracker.
SALOME.
Gerald Tarver has no liver--to speak of.
GEORGIANA.
He might have spoken about his lungs or something, to cheer us up.
SHEBA.
I fancy Mr. Darbey was about to make a witty remark once.
GEORGIANA.
Yes, and then the servant handed him a dish and he shied at it. So we
lost that.
SALOME.
Still, we ought to congratulate ourselves upon--upon a----
SHEBA.
Upon a--upon a----
GEORGIANA.
Upon a frightfully jolly dinner. [_Taking her betting book from her
pocket._] Excuse me, girls. I've some figures to work out. If Dandy
Dick hasn't fed better at the "Swan" than we have at the Deanery, he
won't be in the first three. [_Reckoning._] Let me see.
SALOME.
[_To SHEBA._] All's settled, Sheba, isn't it?
SHEBA.
[_To SALOME._] Yes--everything. Directly the house is silent we let
ourselves out at the front door.
SALOME.
How do we get in again?
SHEBA.
By this window. It has a patent safety fastening, so it can be opened
with a hairpin.
SALOME.
We're courageous girls, aren't we?
SHEBA.
Yes, I don't consider we're ordinary young ladies, at all.
SALOME.
If we had known Aunt a little longer we might have confided in her and
taken her with us.
SHEBA.
Poor Aunt--we mustn't spoil her.
DARBEY.
[_Speaking outside._] I venture to differ with you, my dear Dean.
GEORGIANA.
Here come the wax-works!
[_She joins the girls as DARBEY enters through the Library,
patronizing THE DEAN, who accompanies him._
DARBEY.
Haw! I've just been putting the Dean right about a little army
question, Mrs.--Mrs.---- I can't catch your name.
GEORGIANA.
Don't try--you'd come out in spots, like measles.
[DARBEY _stands by her, blankly, then attempts a conversation._
THE DEAN.
[_To SALOME and SHEBA._] Children, it is useless to battle against it
much longer.
SALOME.
Against what, Papa?
THE DEAN.
A feeling of positive distaste for Mr. Darbey.
SHEBA.
Oh, Papsey--think what Wellington was at his age.
_MAJOR TARVER enters, pale and haggard._
_SALOME meets him._
SALOME.
Major!
TARVER.
[_With a gasp._] Oh!
SALOME.
Not well again?
TARVER.
Indigestion. I'm always like this after dinner.
SALOME.
But what would you do if the trumpet summoned you to battle?
TARVER.
Oh, I suppose I should pack up a few charcoal biscuits and toddle out,
you know.
GEORGIANA.
[_To DARBEY._] I've never studied the Army Guide.
DARBEY.
You're thinking of----
GEORGIANA.
The Turf Guide--beg pardon. I mean, the Army keeps a string of trained
nurses, doesn't it?
DARBEY.
There _are_ Army nurses.
GEORGIANA.
Certainly. I was wondering whether your Colonel will send one with a
perambulator to fetch you at about half-past eight.
[_She leaves DARBEY and goes to THE DEAN. SHEBA joins DARBEY at the
piano._
GEORGIANA.
Well, Gus, my boy, you seem out of condition.
THE DEAN.
I'm rather anxious for the post to bring to-day's "Times." You know
I've offered a thousand pounds to our Restoration Fund.
GEORGIANA.
What!
THE DEAN.
Hush--I'll tell you.
[_They talk in undertones. BLORE enters to remove the tea-tray._
TARVER.
[_Jumping up excitedly--to SALOME._] Eh? Oh, certainly--delighted!
[_Singing to himself._] "Come into the garden, Maud, for the black
bat----"
SALOME.
Now you're yourself again.
TARVER.
I'm always dreadfully excited when I'm asked to sing. It's as good as
a carbonate of soda lozenge to me to be asked to sing. [_To BLORE._]
My music is in my overcoat pocket.
[_BLORE crosses to the door._
SHEBA.
And Mr. Darbey has brought his violin.
TARVER.
[_In a rage, glaring at DARBEY._] Hah! There now!
DARBEY.
[_To BLORE._] You'll find it in the hall.
[_BLORE goes out. THE DEAN dozes in a chair. SALOME and SHEBA talk to
GEORGIANA at the table._
TARVER.
[_To himself._] He always presumes with his confounded fiddle when I'm
going to entertain. He knows that his fiddle's never hoarse and that I
am, sometimes.
DARBEY.
[_To himself._] Tarver always tries to cut me out with his elderly
Chest C. He ought to put it on the Retired List.
TARVER.
I'll sing him off his legs to-night--I'm in lovely voice.
[_He walks into the Library and is heard trying his voice, singing
"Come into the garden, Maud."_
DARBEY.
[_To himself._] He needn't bother himself. While he was dozing in the
carriage I threw his music out of the window.
_TARVER re-enters triumphantly._
_BLORE re-enters, carrying a violin-case and a leather music roll.
DARBEY takes the violin-case, opens it, and produces his violin and
music. BLORE hands the music roll to TARVER and goes out._
TARVER.
[_To SALOME, trembling with excitement._] My tones are like a
beautiful bell this evening. I'm so glad, for all our sakes. [_As he
takes the leather music roll from BLORE._] Thank you, that's it.
SALOME.
What will you begin with?
TARVER.
"Come into the garden, Maud." I've begun with "Corne into the garden,
Maud" for years and years. [_He opens the music roll--it is empty._]
Oh! Miss Jedd, I've forgotten my music!
SALOME _and_ SHEBA.
Oh! Major Tarver!
[_TARVER with a groan of despair sinks on to the settee._
SHEBA.
Never mind--Mr. Darbey will play.
DARBEY.
[_Tuning his violin._] Will you accompany me?
SHEBA.
[_Raising her eyes._] To the end of the world.
[_She sits at the piano._
DARBEY.
My mother says that my bowing is something like Joachim's, and she
ought to know.
SHEBA.
Why?
DARBEY.
Oh, because she's heard Joachim.
[_DARBEY plays and SHEBA accompanies him. SALOME sits beside TARVER._
GEORGIANA.
[_To herself._] Well, after all, George, my boy, you're not stabled in
such a bad box! Here is a regular pure, simple, English Evening at
Home!
THE DEAN.
[_Mumbling to himself._] A thousand pounds to the Restoration Fund and
all those bills to settle--oh dear! oh dear! What shall I do?
SALOME.
[_To herself._] I hope my ball-dress will drive all the other women
mad!
TARVER.
[_To himself--glaring at DARBEY._] I feel I should like to garrote him
with his bass string.
GEORGIANA.
[_Frowning at her betting book._] I think I shall hedge a bit over the
Crumbleigh Stakes.
DARBEY.
[_As he plays, glancing at TARVER._] I wonder how old Tarver's Chest C
likes a holiday.
SHEBA.
[_As she plays._] We must get Pa to bed early. Dear Papa's always so
dreadfully in the way.
GEORGIANA.
[_Looking around._] No--there's nothing like it in any other country.
A regular, pure, simple, English Evening at Home!
_BLORE enters quickly, cutting "The Times" with a paper-knife as he
enters._
BLORE.
The paper's just arrived.
[_The music stops abruptly--all the ladies glare at BLORE and hush him
down._
GEORGIANA, SALOME, _and_ SHEBA.
Sssssh!
THE DEAN.
[_Taking the paper from BLORE._] This is my fault--there may be
something in "The Times" of special interest to me. Thank you, Blore.
[_BLORE goes out._
TARVER.
Ha, ha, ha! spoilt his pianissimo!
THE DEAN.
[_Scanning the paper._] Oh, I can't believe it!
GEORGIANA.
What's the matter?
SALOME _and_ SHEBA.
Papa!
TARVER _and_ DARBEY.
The Dean!
THE DEAN.
Children! Georgiana! Friends! My munificent offer has produced the
desired result.
SALOME _and_ SHEBA.
Oh!
THE DEAN.
Seven wealthy people, including three brewers, have come forward with
a thousand pounds apiece in aid of the restoration of the Minster
Spire!
SALOME _and_ SHEBA.
[_Horrified._] Ah!
GEORGIANA.
That means a cool thousand out of your pocket, Gus.
THE DEAN.
Yes. [_Reading._] "The anxiety to which The Dean of St. Marvells has
so long been a victim will now doubtless be relieved." [_With his hand
to his head._] I suppose I shall feel the relief to-morrow.
GEORGIANA.
What's wrong with the Spire? Nobody sleeps in it?
THE DEAN.
It _is_ a little out of repair--but hardly sufficiently so to warrant
the presumptuous interference of three brewers. Excuse me, I think
I'll enjoy the fresh air for a moment. [_He goes to the window and
draws back the curtains--a bright red glare is seen in the sky._]
Bless me! Look there!
GEORGIANA, SALOME, _and_ SHEBA.
Oh! what's that?
THE DEAN.
It's a conflagration!
SALOME.
[_Clinging to TARVER._] Where is it? Are we safe?
SHEBA.
[_Clinging to DARBEY._] Where is it? Are we safe?
GEORGIANA.
Where is it?
_BLORE enters with a scared look._
THE DEAN.
[_To BLORE._] Where is it?
ALL.
Where is it?
BLORE.
The old Swan Inn's a-fire!
[_The gate-bell is heard ringing violently in the distance. BLORE goes
out._
GEORGIANA.
[_Uttering a loud screech._] The Swan Inn! [_Madly._] You girls, get
me a hat and coat. Somebody fetch me a pair of boots!
[_SALOME, SHEBA, and TARVER go to the window._
THE DEAN.
Georgiana!
GEORGIANA.
Don't talk to me! [_To TARVER._] Lend me your boots!
TARVER.
I daren't. If I once get cold extremities----
GEORGIANA.
Ah!
[_She is going, THE DEAN stops her._
THE DEAN.
Respect yourself, Georgiana--where are you going?
GEORGIANA.
Going! I'm going to help clear the stables at The Swan!
THE DEAN.
Remember what you are--my sister--a lady!
GEORGIANA.
I'm not. George Tidd's a man, every inch of her! [_SIR TRISTRAM rushes
in breathlessly. GEORGIANA rushes at him and clutches his coat._] Tris
Mardon, speak!
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Exhausted._] Oh!
GEORGIANA.
The horse? The horse! You've got him out?
SIR TRISTRAM.
Yes, safe and sound.
GEORGIANA.
Safe and sound! That old horse has backed himself to win the handicap.
[_She sinks into a chair. TARVER and DARBEY with SALOME and SHEBA
stand looking out of the window._
SIR TRISTRAM.
George, his tail is singed a bit.
GEORGIANA.
The less weight for him to carry to-morrow. [_Beginning to cry._] Dear
old Dandy, he never was much to look at.
SIR TRISTRAM.
The worst of it is, the fools threw two pails of cold water over him
to put it out.
GEORGIANA.
Oh! that's done him!
THE DEAN.
Now, my dear Georgiana! what is a horse?
GEORGIANA.
A living example to a Dean. [_THE DEAN goes distractedly into the
Library._] Where is the animal?
SIR TRISTRAM.
My man Hatcham is running him up and down the lane here to try to get
him warm again.
GEORGIANA.
Where are you going to put the homeless beast up now?
SIR TRISTRAM.
I don't know.
GEORGIANA.
[_Starting up._] I do though!
THE DEAN.
Madwoman! What are you going to do?
GEORGIANA.
Bring Dandy Dick into our stables!
THE DEAN.
No, no!
SIR TRISTRAM.
The very place!
THE DEAN.
Georgiana, pray consider _me!_
GEORGIANA.
So I will, when you've had two pails of water thrown over you.
[_THE DEAN walks about in despair._
THE DEAN.
Mardon, I appeal to _you!_
SIR TRISTRAM.
Oh, Dean, Dean, I'm ashamed of you!
GEORGIANA.
[_To SIR TRISTRAM._] Are you ready?
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Takes off his coat and throws it over GEORGIANA'S shoulders._]
George, you're a brick!
GEORGIANA.
A brick, am I? [_Quietly to him._] One partner pulls Dandy out of the
Swan--t'other one leads Dandy into the Deanery. Quits, my lad!
[_They go out together._
THE DEAN.
What is happening to me! It will be in all the sporting papers. "Sir
Tristram Mardon's Dandy Dick reflected great credit upon the Deanery
Stables!" "The Sporting Dean!"
[_He walks into the Library, where he sinks into a chair, as SALOME,
TARVER, DARBEY and SHEBA come from the window._
TARVER.
They're getting the flames under. If I had had my goloshes with me I
should have been here, there, and everywhere.
DARBEY.
Where there's a crowd of Civilians the Military exercise a wise
discretion in restraining themselves.
SHEBA.
[_To TARVER and DARBEY._] You had better go now; then we'll get the
house quiet as soon as possible. Poor Papa looks worried.
SHEBA _and_ SALOME.
Poor Papa!
TARVER.
We will wait with the carriage in the lane.
SALOME.
Yes, yes. [_Calling._] Papa, Major Tarver and Mr. Darbey must go.
[_She rings the bell. THE DEAN comes from the Library._
THE DEAN.
Dear me, I'm very remiss!
TARVER.
[_Shaking hands._] Most fascinating evening!
DARBEY.
[_Shaking hands._] Charming, my dear Dean.
_BLORE enters._
SALOME.
Major Tarver's carriage.
BLORE.
Hat the gate, Miss Salome.
SALOME.
Don't risk the cold, Papa.
[_BLORE goes out, followed by SHEBA, SALOME, and TARVER. DARBEY is
going, when he returns to THE DEAN._
DARBEY.
By-the-bye, my dear Dean--come over and see me. We ought to know more
of each other. Say Monday.
THE DEAN.
[_Restraining his anger._] I will _not_ say Monday!
DARBEY.
Any time you like. Oh--and I say--let me know when you preach, and
I'll get some of our fellows to give their patronage!
[_He goes out._
THE DEAN.
[_Closing the door after him with a bang._] Another moment--another
moment--and I fear I should have been violently rude to him, a guest
under my roof! [_He walks up to the fireplace and stands looking into
the fire, as DARBEY. having forgotten his violin, returns to the
room._] Oh, Blore, now understand me, if that Mr. Darbey ever again
presumes to present himself at the Deanery I will not see him!
DARBEY.
[_With his violin in his hand, haughtily._] I've come back for my
violin.
[_Goes out with dignity._
THE DEAN.
[_Horrified._] Oh, Mr. Darbey! Hear an explanation, Mr. Darbey!
[_He runs out after DARBEY. GEORGIANA and SIR TRISTRAM enter by the
window._
GEORGIANA.
Don't be down, Tris, my boy; cheer up, lad, he'll be fit yet, bar a
chill! Aha! he knew me, he knew me when I kissed his dear old nose!
SIR TRISTRAM.
He'd be a fool of a horse if he hadn't felt deuced flattered at that.
GEORGIANA.
He's no fool. He knows he's in the Deanery too. Did you see him cast
up his eyes and lay his ears back when I led him in?
SIR TRISTRAM.
Oh, George, George, it's such a pity about his tail!
GEORGIANA.
[_Cheerily._] Not it. You watch his head to-morrow--that'll come in
first.
[_HATCHAM, a groom, looks in at the window._
HATCHAM.
Are you there, Sir?
SIR TRISTRAM.
What is it?
HATCHAM.
I jest run round to tell you that Dandy is a feedin' as steady as a
baby with a bottle.
GEORGIANA.
Don't you close your eyes all night.
HATCHAM.
Not me, mum. And I've got hold of the constable 'ere, Mr.
Topping--he's going to sit up with me, for company's sake.
SIR TRISTRAM.
The constable?
HATCHAM.
Yes, Sir Tristram. [_Coming forward mysteriously._] Why, bless you and
the lady, sir--supposin' the fire at the "Swan" warn't no accident!
GEORGIANA.
Eh?
HATCHAM.
Supposin' it were inciderism--and supposin' our 'orse was the hobject.
SIR TRISTRAM.
Good gracious!
HATCHAM.
That's why I ain't goin' to watch single-handed.
SIR TRISTRAM.
Get back then--get back!
[_SIR TRISTRAM and GEORGIANA pace up and down excitedly._
HATCHAM.
Right, Sir. There's only one mortal fear I've got about our Dandy.
GEORGIANA _and_ SIR TRISTRAM.
What's that?
HATCHAM.
He 'asn't found out about 'is tail yet, sir, and when he does it'll
fret him, as sure as my name's Bob Hatcham.
SIR TRISTRAM.
Keep the stable pitch dark--he mayn't notice it.
HATCHAM.
Not to-night, sir, but he's a proud 'orse and what'll he think of
'isself on the 'ill to-morrow? You and me and the lady, sir--it 'ud be
different with us, but how's our Dandy to hide his bereavement?
[_HATCHAM goes out of the window with SIR TRISTRAM as THE DEAN enters,
followed by BLORE, who carries a lighted lantern._
THE DEAN.
[_Looking reproachfully at GEORGIANA._] You have returned, Georgiana?
GEORGIANA.
Yes, thank ye.
THE DEAN.
And that animal?
GEORGIANA.
In our stables, safe and snug.
THE DEAN.
[_With a groan._] Oh!
GEORGIANA.
You can sleep to-night with the happy consciousness of having
sheltered the outcast.
THE DEAN.
We're locking up now. The poor children, exhausted with the alarm, beg
me to say good-night for them. The fire is quite extinguished.
BLORE.
Yes, sir; but I hear they've just sent into Durnstone hasking for the
Military to watch the ruins in case of another houtbreak. It'll stop
the wicked Ball at the Hathanaeum, it will!
[_Drawing the window curtains._
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Having re-entered._] I suppose you want to see the last of me, Jedd.
THE DEAN.
Mardon!
GEORGIANA.
Don't be unkind, Tris. Where shall we stow the dear old chap, Gus, my
boy?
THE DEAN.
Where shall we stow the dear old chap! I really don't know.
GEORGIANA.
Let me see. We don't want to pitch you out of your loft if we can help
it, Gus.
SIR TRISTRAM.
No, no--we won't do that.
THE DEAN.
Don't consider me in this manner. But there's Sheba's little cot still
standing in the old nursery.
SIR TRISTRAM.
Just the thing for me--the old nursery.
GEORGIANA.
The old nursery. Toys to play with if you wake early.
THE DEAN.
[_Looking round._] Is there anyone else before we lock up?
[_BLORE has fastened the window and drawn the curtain._
GEORGIANA.
Put Sir Tristram to bed carefully in the nursery, Blore.
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Grasping THE DEAN'S hand._] Good-night, old boy. I'm too done for a
hand of Piquet to-night.
THE DEAN.
I never play cards.
SIR TRISTRAM.
[_Slapping him on the back._] I'll teach you during my stay at the
Deanery.
THE DEAN.
[_Helplessly to himself._] Then he's staying with me!
SIR TRISTRAM.
Good-night, George.
GEORGIANA.
Good-night, partner. Heaven bless the little innocent in his cot.
[_SIR TRISTRAM goes out with BLORE._
GEORGIANA.
[_Calling after him._] Tris! You may take your pipe up with you. We
smoke all over the Deanery.
THE DEAN.
[_To himself._] I never smoke! Does _she?_
GEORGIANA.
[_Closes the door, humming a tune merrily._] Tra la, tra la! Now, Mr.
Tidd, we'll toddle. Tra la! tra la! [_She stops, looking at THE DEAN,
who is muttering to himself._] Gus, I don't like your looks, I shall
let the Vet see you in the morning. What's wrong with you?
[_THE DEAN shakes his head mournfully, and sinks on the settee._
GEORGIANA.
Money?
THE DEAN.
There _are_ bills, which, at a more convenient time, it will be my
grateful duty to discharge.
GEORGIANA.
And you're short?
THE DEAN.
Short?
GEORGIANA.
Stumped--out of coin--run low. What'll square the bills?
THE DEAN.
Very little would settle the bills--but--but----
GEORGIANA.
I know--the Spire. Why, Gus, you haven't got that thousand.
THE DEAN.
There is a very large number of estimable worthy men who do not
possess a thousand pounds. With that number I have the mournful
pleasure of enrolling myself.
GEORGIANA.
When's the settling day?
THE DEAN.
Eh?
GEORGIANA.
When will you have to fork out?
THE DEAN.
Unless the restoration is immediately commenced the spire will
certainly crumble.
GEORGIANA.
Then it's a match between you and the spire which parts first. Gus,
will you let your little sister lend you a hand?
THE DEAN.
My dear Georgiana, impossible!
GEORGIANA.
No, no--not out of my own pocket. Come here. [_She takes his arm and
whispers in his ear._] Can you squeeze a pair of ponies?
THE DEAN.
Can I what?
GEORGIANA.
Can you raise fifty pounds?
THE DEAN.
Certainly. More than fifty pounds.
GEORGIANA.
No--no, don't be rash! That's the worst of you beginners. Only fifty
by to-morrow morning.
THE DEAN.
Most assuredly.
GEORGIANA.
Very well then--clap it on to Dandy Dick!
THE DEAN.
[_With horror._] What!
GEORGIANA.
He's a certainty--if those two buckets of water haven't put him off
it! He's a moral--if he doesn't think of his tail coming down the
hill. There's nothing like him at the weight. Keep it dark, Gus--don't
breathe a word to any of your Canons or Archdeacons, or they'll rush
at it and shorten the price for us. Go in, Gus, my boy--take your poor
widowed sister's tip and sleep as peacefully as a blessed baby!
[_She presses him warmly to her and kisses him._
THE DEAN.
[_Extricating himself._] Oh! Mrs. Tidman! Go to your room!
GEORGIANA.
Augustin!
THE DEAN.
In the morning I will endeavor to frame some verbal expression of the
horror with which I regard your proposal. For the present, you are my
parents' child and I trust your bed is well aired.
GEORGIANA.
Oh, very well, Augustin. I've done all I can for the Spire. _Bon
soir,_ old boy!
THE DEAN.
Good-night.
GEORGIANA.
If you're wiser in the morning just send Blore on to the course and
he'll put the money on for you.
THE DEAN.
Blore! My poor devoted old servant would be lost on a race-course.
GEORGIANA.
Would he! He was quite at home in Tattersall's Ring when I was at St.
Marvells last summer.
THE DEAN.
Blore!
GEORGIANA.
Blore. I recognized the veteran sportsman the moment I came into the
Deanery.
THE DEAN.
What was my butler doing at St. Marvells Races?
_BLORE enters with his lantern._
GEORGIANA.
Investing the savings of your cook and housemaid, of course. You don't
think your servants are as narrow as you are!
THE DEAN.
Oh!
BLORE.
I beg your pardon, sir, shall I go the rounds, sir?
[_THE DEAN gives Blore a fierce look, but BLORE beams sweetly._
GEORGIANA.
Blore!
BLORE.
Mum?
GEORGIANA.
Breakfast at nine, sharp. And pack a hamper with a cold chicken, some
French rolls, and two bottles of Heidsieck--label it "George Tidd,"
and send it on to the Hill. I'll stand the racket. Goodnight.
[_She goes out. THE DEAN sinks into a chair and clasps his forehead._
BLORE.
A dear, 'igh-sperited lady. [_Leaning over THE DEAN._] Aren't you
well, sir?
THE DEAN.
Serpent!
BLORE.
Meanin' _me,_ sir?
THE DEAN
Lock up; I'll speak to you in the morning. Lock up.
[_BLORE goes into the Library, turns out the lamp there, and
disappears._
What dreadful wave threatens to engulf the Deanery? What has come to
us in a few fatal hours? A horse of sporting tendencies contaminating
my stables, his equally vicious owner nestling in the nursery, and my
own widowed sister, in all probability, smoking a cigarette at her
bedroom window with her feet on the window-ledge! [_Listening._]
What's that? [_He peers through the window curtains._] I thought I
heard footsteps in the garden. I can see nothing--only the old spire
standing out against the threatening sky. [_Leaving the window
shudderingly._] The Spire! My principal creditor! My principal
creditor, the most conspicuous object in the city!
_BLORE re-enters with his lantern, carrying some bank-notes in his
hand._
BLORE.
[_Laying the notes on the table._] I found these, sir, on your
dressing-table--they're bank-notes, sir.
THE DEAN.
[_Taking the notes._] Thank you. I placed them there to be sent to the
Bank to-morrow. [_Counting the notes._] Ten--ten--twenty--five--five,
fifty. Fifty pounds! The very sum Georgiana urged me to--oh! [_To
BLORE, waving him away._] Leave me--go to bed--go to bed--go to bed!
[_BLORE is going._] Blore!
BLORE.
Sir?
THE DEAN.
What made you tempt me with these at such a moment?
BLORE.
Temp' you, sir! The window was hopen, and I feared they might blow
away.
THE DEAN.
[_Catching him by the coat collar._] Man, what were you doing at St.
Marvells Races last summer?
BLORE.
[_With a cry, falling on his knees._] Oh, sir! Oh, sir! I knew that
'igh-sperited lady would bring grief and sorrow to the peaceful, 'appy
Deanery! Oh, sir, I _'ave_ done a little on my hown account from time
to time on the 'ill, halso hon commission for the kitchen!
THE DEAN.
I knew it--I knew it!
BLORE.
Oh, sir, you are a old gentleman--turn a charitable 'art to the Races!
It's a wicious institution what spends more ready money in St.
Marvells than us good people do in a year.
THE DEAN.
Get up, Blore--get up. Oh, Edward Blore, Edward Blore, what weak
creatures we are!
BLORE.
We are, sir--we are--'specially when we've got a tip, sir. Think of
the temptation of a tip, sir.
THE DEAN.
I do, Blore--I do.
BLORE.
I confess heverything, sir. Bonny Betsy's bound for to win the
'andicap.
THE DEAN.
No, no--she isn't.
BLORE.
She is, sir.
THE DEAN.
I know better; she can never get down the hill with those legs of
hers.
BLORE.
She can, sir--what's to beat her?
THE DEAN.