THE SILVER SHIELD.
AN ORIGINAL COMEDY
_IN THREE ACTS._
BY
SYDNEY GRUNDY.
_Copyright,_ 1898, _by Thomas Henry French._
London: | New York:
SAMUEL FRENCH, | SAMUEL FRENCH & SON,
PUBLISHER, | PUBLISHERS,
89, STRAND. | 38, EAST 14TH STREET.
_Strand Theatre, _Comedy,
London, London,
May 19, 1885._ June 20, 1885._
SIR HUMPHREY CHETWYND MR. JOHN BEAUCHAMP. MR. JOHN BEAUCHAMP.
REV. DR. DOZEY MR. RUTLAND MR. PERCY COMPTON.
BARRINGTON.
TOM POTTER MR. ARTHUR DACRE. MR. ARTHUR DACRE.
NED CHETWYND MR. W. HERBERT. MR. PERCY LYNDAL.
MR. DODSON DICK MR. CHAS. GROVES. MR. ARTHUR ROBERTS.
ALMA BLAKE MISS AMY ROSELLE. MISS AMY ROSELLE.
MRS. DOZEY MRS. LEIGH MURRAY. MISS MARIA DAVIS.
SUSAN MISS JULIA ROSELLE. MISS JULIA ROSELLE.
WILSON MISS F. LAVENDER. MISS F. LAVENDER.
LUCY PRESTON MISS KATE RORKE. MISS KATE RORKE.
THE SILVER SHIELD.
ACT I.
SCENE.--_A hall; passages, R. and L.; a double window of stained
glass, on swivel hinges, opens upon a lawn, with view of grounds;
large portrait on the wall; landscape, and mirror; a staircase, L. TOM
POTTER discovered working at an easel placed near the open window; NED
CHETWYND seated at a table, opening and destroying letters leisurely.
LUCY PRESTON watching him; MRS. DOZEY asleep in an armchair, with a
book of sermons lying open in her lap; footstool; fireplace, R.; large
armchair side of fireplace._
LUCY. You've a great many letters?
NED. A few friends inquiring after me.
LUCY. More creditors?
NED. A regular assortment. I have 'em of all sizes--big and little; of
all styles--polite to peremptory; of all nations--Jew and Gentile.
(_opens another letter_) Another lawyer's letter! (_LUCY goes up to
TOM_) "Unless the amount, together with our charges, five and
sixpence, be at once remitted----" Just so--common form. (_opens
another letter_)
LUCY. Getting on, Mr. Potter?
TOM. Famously.
LUCY. I can begin to make out what it's going to be.
TOM. Don't say that, please.
LUCY. Why not?
TOM. I shall be told I am a servile copyist without a soul.
LUCY. Soul? What is "soul"?
TOM. The gift of representing things as they don't exist.
LUCY. Surely that isn't a gift. Isn't it art to show things as they
are?
TOM. Not in the least. That's realism.
LUCY. Then what's art?
TOM. That's art. (_points to portrait, L._)
LUCY. Sir Humphrey's portrait.
TOM. (_crosses to portrait, L._) I beg your pardon--whose?
LUCY. Sir Humphrey's. Can't you see the likeness?
TOM. Has anybody seen it?
LUCY. Of course! a score of people.
TOM. It'd take a score. (_crosses to easel_)
LUCY. (_turns to TOM_) It is by Sir Clarence Gibbs, the Royal
Academician, and it cost five hundred guineas.
TOM. Ah! If I could only paint like that. (_looks at portrait_)
LUCY. (_looking at picture_) Perhaps you will in time.
TOM. Never. I may deteriorate, but I shall never be as bad as that.
(_looking at picture_) Now, look at this aggravating thing. After all
my trouble you can positively tell what it's meant for. (_NED rises
and joins them_)
LUCY. Yes, two knights, on horseback, fighting.
NED. What are you going to call it?
TOM. The Silver Shield.
LUCY. Silver Shield? (_crosses to back of easel; NED leans on back of
chair_)
TOM. Haven't you heard the fable? Two knights, riding in opposite
directions, passed a shield, hung on a tree to mark a boundary, and
meeting some time afterwards, one of them happened to make some remark
about the Silver Shield they had both ridden past. "Silver," exclaimed
the other, "it was gold." Then they disputed, and words came to blows.
They fought, and killed each other. When they were both dead, it
occurred to somebody to examine the shield, when it turned out that it
was gold on one side, and silver on the other.
NED. What jackasses those two knights must have been.
TOM. So remarked everybody.
LUCY. Well, they _were_ rather silly. (_crosses to MRS. DOZEY, R._)
TOM. No sillier than we are, who see a fool in the looking-glass, and
don't recognise him.
MRS. D. (_waking with a start_) Bless me! I've been asleep.
LUCY. For two hours, Mrs. Dozey.
MRS. D. I beg everybody's pardon. The fact is, I thought I was in
church, and Dionysius was preaching.
NED. That sent you off to sleep. (_sitting on edge of chair_)
MRS. D. Oh, no, that woke me up. I wouldn't miss one of his discourses
for the world. This is a splendid one I'm reading now--the 22nd, in
the 17th volume.
LUCY. You have got so far?
MRS. D. Yes, my dear; I've read sixteen volumes of the twenty. The set
were given to me by my husband on our honeymoon. Imagine my delight.
I've been reading at them steadily for five and twenty years, and my
only fear is that I shan't live to finish them.
NED. Take warning, Lucy, and begin them young.
MRS. D. Shall I lend you the first volume?
LUCY. Thanks; I can get it from the library.
MRS. D. I'm sure you'd like it, Mr. Potter.
TOM. Unfortunately, I am going home to-day, and shouldn't have time to
do it justice. (_meanwhile DR. DOZEY has entered absently, his eyes
cast down, his hands behind his back_)
DR. (_raising his eyes_) Going home?
MRS. D. Ah, here's the doctor! (_dozes off again_)
DR. Home! sweet home! The very phrase is fraught with poetry. One
seems to stand before the glowing fire, to hear the purring cat, the
hissing urn, whilst from without a quaint but welcome cry heralds the
advent of the evening milk on its accustomed round. If you are wishful
to pursue the subject----
LUCY. (_crosses in front to staircase_) Excuse me, I must look after
Sir Humphrey. (_Exit, L._)
DR. (_turning to NED_) I would refer you to----
NED. Thank you very much, but I've some letters to answer. (_Exit,
R._)
DR. (_turning to TOM_) To the tenth discourse----
TOM. The light's so bad here, I must go outside. (_Exit through
window, C._)
DR. (_turning to MRS. DOZEY_) In my fifth volume.
SIR H. (_top of stairs, L._) See to it at once.
DR. Home I divide into three sections. First---- (_MRS. DOZEY snores,
DR. DOZEY stops and wakes her._)
LUCY. (_with SIR HUMPHREY, top of stairs, L._) Will you take my arm?
SIR H. Thanks, I need no assistance. (_stumbles and is obliged to take
LUCY'S arm_) Dear me, how bad my rheumatism is to-day.
DR. (_turns to MRS. DOZEY, smiling grimly_) Poor Humphrey!
MRS. D. (_rises_) He gets very feeble.
SIR H. (_to LUCY_) Mrs. Blake's train is very nearly due. See if the
brougham has been sent to meet her.
MRS. D. Mrs. Blake? (_Exit LUCY, through window, C. and L._)
SIR H. A visitor whom we expect today. (_puts cap on table_)
DR. A lady visitor?
SIR H. Yes, a young widow, from Australia, whom we met on the
Continent this summer, and whose society proved so agreeable (_DR. and
MRS. DOZEY exchange glances_) to my ward, Miss Preston, that I invited
her to visit us, when she returned to England.
MRS. D. A widow. (_crosses in front to L._)
DR. An Australian widow. (_gets R._)
MRS. D. It's a long way off.
SIR H. Don't you like widows, doctor?
DR. Far be it from me, whose tenement is glass, to cut a stone; but of
all types of widow, the most perilous is the Colonial.
MRS. D. However, it's our duty to be charitable.
DR. Until we know the worst we will think the best.
SIR H. Wait till you've met Mrs. Blake; you'll be charmed with her.
(_meanwhile TOM has re-entered through window and down R. of easel_)
You mustn't go till you have seen her, Mr. Potter. (_turns_)
TOM. Till I've seen whom?
MRS. D. A widow. (_moves towards door, L._)
DR. A Colonial widow. (_moves towards door, R._)
MRS. D. Sir Humphrey picked up on the Continent.
DR. And found charming. (_both sigh and exeunt, wagging their heads;
DR. DOZEY, R.; MRS. DOZEY, L._)
TOM. Queer couple--a duet personified.
SIR H. The doctor will have his joke.
TOM. That's fortunate, for no one else would take it.
SIR H. Very old friends of mine, and one must make allowances for age
and infirmity. (_sitting with difficulty, R. of table_)
TOM. Can I assist you? (_crosses to SIR HUMPHREY_)
SIR H. Not at all. It's only a little stiffness in the joints. I never
felt it till the last few years.
TOM. Ah, we're all older than we used to be. (_goes to easel_)
SIR H. Not at all, Mr. Potter, not at all. I'm younger than I look. I
have had trouble.
TOM. You, Sir Humphrey!
SIR H. My son gives me a great deal of anxiety. His heart's in the
right place, I know, but he's young, reckless, and extravagant. He's
taken to writing lately. A bad sign, Mr. Potter, a bad sign. I never
knew a young man who took to writing come to any good. I've paid his
debts more than once, and he won't settle down. I found a charming
wife for him, and he wouldn't look at her. He has views of his
own--very bad things to have. Why can't men be content with the views
of their forefathers? The opinions which are good enough for me ought
to be good enough for a stripling like him.
TOM. Our forefathers believed the sun went round the earth.
SIR H. And what better are we for believing the earth goes round the
sun? I've no patience with these revolutionary ideas. They unsettle
men's minds. Of course you don't agree with me. You are another man
with views, and that's the reason why you don't get on.
TOM. (_comes down C._) You don't like me, Sir Humphrey. You are very
kind and hospitable; but I know it's only as a distant relative that
you put up with me. I don't wonder at it. You represent society; I
represent Bohemia. This makes it difficult to say what I must say
before I go.
SIR H. What is that, Mr. Potter?
TOM. I want to ask your ward, Miss Preston, if she'll be my wife.
You're astonished at my presumption--naturally.
SIR H. Not quite that. What are Miss Preston's feelings in the matter?
TOM. I don't know. I didn't feel justified in speaking to her first.
SIR H. She is of full age, and can please herself.
TOM. Yes, but there's something else. You know, I took my present name
when I went in for art, to your disgust, on my return from abroad
about five years ago; but of my previous history you know very little,
and I must tell you part of it. I suppose you think I'm a bachelor?
SIR H. Of course.
TOM. I am a widower.
SIR H. You astound me.
TOM. Yes, I once had a wife; but we weren't happy--in fact, we
separated.
SIR H. How long has she been dead?
TOM. A few months after my return to England I saw her death announced
in the newspapers.
SIR H. The newspapers!
TOM. There is no irony like that of destiny, no cynic half as cynical
as life. Two beings live together in one home, are bound together in
one interest, are animated by one hope. Fate separates them. They go
different ways, and after many days (_crosses to R._) they read about
each other in the newspaper.
SIR H. She died abroad? Then you were never reconciled?
TOM. Reconciliation was impossible. I should prefer to say no more
about it, (_crosses to SIR HUMPHREY, L._) but I am bound to satisfy
you I was not to blame. Those were the last words my wife wrote to me.
(_gives a letter to SIR HUMPHREY_)
SIR H. (_reads_) "Tom,--I love another more than I love you. Isn't it
best that we should say good-bye? I have no right to tell you I will
never see you, for the fault is mine; but if I do, it will be only
painful, and I leave it to your magnanimity to go away from me for
ever." (_returns letter to TOM_) Enough, Mr. Potter. (_rises_) There
was a time when I disapproved of second marriages. They struck me as a
species of inconstancy. But as one grows in years, these sentimental
notions lose their force. One begins to realise the loneliness of
life. You understand me?
TOM. Perfectly. The need of a companion.
SIR H. More than a companion--the need of a--of a--I want a word.
TOM. Nurse is the word you want.
SIR H. No, sir! It is the very word I do _not_ want.
TOM. I beg your pardon, I misunderstood you.
SIR H. Strange as it may sound, what you've just told me makes my task
a little easier. Miss Preston also has a history. Her mother died when
she was quite a child. Her father was my very oldest friend, whom I
respected beyond everything, and it was only on his death, when I felt
I could not repudiate the guardianship I'd undertaken, that I made a
discovery which shocked me inexpressibly. I tell it you in confidence;
I have told no one but my son, whom it was my duty to put upon his
guard. Of course it puts an end to the proposal you have made, but, as
a man of honour, I am bound to tell you.
TOM. Well, sir?
SIR H. The girl is illegitimate. (_turning, L._)
TOM. What's that?
SIR H. (_turns and stares at him_) Mr. Potter, you call yourself a
Bohemian, but you are a distant--very distant--relative of my own, and
you must have at least the instincts of a gentleman.
TOM. I hope so.
SIR H. Having those instincts, you will think no more of her.
TOM. Having those instincts, I think all the more of her.
SIR H. You'd marry her, after what I've told you? Then you have no
respect for marriage.
TOM. If I had no respect for marriage I shouldn't marry her.
SIR H. We will not argue, sir. Go your own way.
TOM. I've your permission?
SIR H. But don't hold me responsible, whatever happens.
_Re-enter DR. DOZEY, through window, and down, C._
DR. The widow has arrived.
SIR H. Mrs. Blake?
DR. I was sedately pacing up and down the drive, reflecting on the
vanity of life, when I was nearly upset by her equipage.
SIR H. I must go and welcome her. Excuse me, Mr. Potter; the doctor
will entertain you. (_Exit through window_)
TOM. Thanks, but I'll find Miss Preston. (_Exit, R._)
_Re-enter MRS. DOZEY, down the stairs, in a flutter of excitement._
MRS. D. Dionysius?
DR. Diana?
MRS. D. I've seen Mrs. Blake. I happened to be looking out as she
drove up. There's no doubt about her respectability. You should see
her lace. Oh, Dionysius, real Valenciennes! (_crosses, R._)
DR. I am afraid, my love, that notwithstanding five and twenty years
of my companionship, you have still a yearning after the pomps and
vanities. And yet it is not the plaiting of hair or the putting on of
real Valenciennes that constitutes respectability.
_Re-enter SIR HUMPHREY with ALMA BLAKE._
ALMA. Oh, what a charming place.
SIR H. My own taste, plain but comfortable. Permit me to present to
you my old friends, Dr. and Mrs. Dozey.
ALMA. I am delighted to meet Dr. Dozey.
MRS. D. (_crosses to ALMA_) With whose sermons no doubt you are
acquainted.
ALMA. I don't read sermons, as a rule.
MRS. D. You don't read sermons?
ALMA. It may be very wicked, but I don't. (_crosses, L._)
DR. (_aside to MRS. DOZEY_) A worldly-minded woman.
MRS. D. I'm afraid so.
ALMA. What a delightful, quaint, old-fashioned place this is! I must
congratulate you on your taste, Sir Humphrey.
SIR H. Plain, but comfortable.
ALMA. Whose portrait's this? Isn't he a dear old dignified soul? Quite
one of the last century.
SIR H. It is considered much too old for me.
ALMA. For _you!_ Oh, fifty years! I thought it was your grandfather.
DR. Makes herself quite at home. (_aside to MRS. DOZEY_)
MRS. D. Ignores me altogether. (_sits, R._)
ALMA. What's this? A mirror, I declare! (_arranges herself before the
glass_)
SIR H. My taste again.
ALMA. The looking-glass?
SIR H. The image it enshrines. (_bowing_)
ALMA. I understand you. Plain, but comfortable. (_laughs and passes
on; gradually gets round, and down, R._)
DR. (_aside to MRS. DOZEY_) Frivolous creature. (_goes up, R., and
down, R.C._)
MRS. D. Lovely diamonds!
ALMA. (_at easel_) That's a good picture. Who's the artist?
SIR H. (_following ALMA_) Nobody particular. A sort of second or third
cousin of mine.
ALMA. Whoever he is, he's clever.
SIR H. Started life under the best auspices, but he has made no way.
ALMA. How's that, Sir Humphrey? (_both come down, C._)
SIR H. It's the old story. First he got amongst a set of loose
companions,--Bohemians, they called themselves--and then he took
to----
ALMA. Drink?
SIR H. Not drink exactly--art. (_sits R. of table_)
ALMA. Oh dear! how very sad!
SIR H. The doctor knows the circumstances.
DR. (_down, R.C._) They were most distressing.
ALMA. But after all, some artists are successful, and a man must begin
at the beginning. There's nothing wicked about art, is there, doctor?
DR. A perilous pursuit, and it is not the part of a wise man to play
with fire. (_ALMA pulls a long face, and is caught by MRS. DOZEY_)
SIR H. I've no objection to a real artist, an Academician, such as Sir
Clarence Gibbs, who painted my own portrait. A very gentlemanly man,
indeed--received in the best families.
ALMA. But _he_ must have learnt his business before he became an
Academician. (_looking at portrait_)
SIR H. I doubt it.
ALMA. So do I. (_turning to easel_) Now there is talent in that
picture. The man who did that shouldn't have gone wrong.
MRS. D. But he became a scene painter!
DR. He got connected with a theatre. (_both groan_)
SIR H. (_uncomfortable_) Hem! Hem! (_tries to attract DR. DOZEY'S
attention_)
ALMA. You don't approve of theatres?
DR. My views on the subject of the drama you will find fully expounded
in the 13th sermon of my 20th volume. For the present I will content
myself with saying that those views are damnatory. (_crosses, L._)
SIR H. Pardon me, doctor, but I should have told you, Mrs. Blake is
herself connected with the stage.
DR. (_dropping glasses_) An actress! (_MRS. DOZEY rises and drops
book_)
ALMA. You've dropped the sermons. (_stoops to pick up book_) Heavy, I
dare say.
MRS. D. (_stopping her with a gesture, picks it up herself_) Thank
you. (_goes up to armchair at back_)
DR. And so this is an actress. Bless my soul! (_Exit, L._)
MRS. D. Somehow or other one can always tell them. (_sits, opens,
book, and dozes off_)
SIR H. (_rises_) You must excuse my friends.
ALMA. With pleasure. It's rather a relief than otherwise. They seem to
have a nice opinion of actresses.
SIR H. The truth is, they have had no opportunity of forming one.
ALMA. But have formed a very strong one, for all that.
SIR H. Now that they have the opportunity----
ALMA. Let's hope it'll alter the opinion.
_Enter SUSAN, R._
SUSAN. If you please, miss----
ALMA. Susan, don't call me miss. This is my maid, Sir Humphrey. I'm
always called "miss" at the theatre, when I'm called anything at all.
What is it, Susan?
SUSAN. Mr. Dick is here--wants to see you particularly.
ALMA. Tell him I'm engaged. What business has he bothering me here?
SUSAN. But he's come down from town express.
ALMA. Well, he can go back express.
SIR H. One moment, Mrs. Blake. Who is this gentleman?
ALMA. My manager. I don't know what he wants.
SIR H. See him, by all means. Perhaps he'll stay to dinner if I ask
him.
ALMA. Ah, you don't know Dick. He'll probably stay to dinner whether
you ask him or not. He's one of the old school of managers; they're
almost extinct now. Dick's the sole survivor.
SIR H. I'm one of the old school myself, and shall be glad to meet
him.
SUSAN. Here he is, with Mr. Chetwynd.
_Re-enter NED, with MR. DODSON DICK, R._
NED. This way, Mr. Dick. (_goes up to easel_)
DICK. (_crosses to ALMA_) Ah, there she is. (_Exit SUSAN, R._) Didn't
expect to see _me,_ did you? Here's a nice how d'you-do. Within four
weeks of opening, and Sparkle not delivered his first act. Thought I'd
run down and tell you. What are we to do?
ALMA. This is Sir Humphrey Chetwynd--Mr. Dick.
DICK. (_crosses to SIR HUMPHREY_) Pleased to make your acquaintance.
Nice sort of place you have down here. (_looking round_)
SIR H. Quiet, Mr. Dick, and yet accessible.
DICK. Out of the way, I call it--out of my way, at any rate. Make a
good set, eh, wouldn't it? That window's fine, opens out the scene,
and shows that landscape backing. Daren't use that sky. Scrubbs is the
man for skies.
SIR H. Is he indeed?
DICK. There's an originality about his skies--you never saw such
skies. The critics go in for originality. Scrubbs gives it 'em.
ALMA. And don't they give it Scrubbs?
DICK. Ha! ha! I'll make a note of that. Give it to Sparkle--do for his
next comedy. Poor Sparkle! Clever man, but sadly overworked. No wonder
he's behindhand with our piece.
ALMA. It's your own fault. Give someone else a chance.
DICK. No! no! Sparkle's recognised.
NED. (_coming down, R._) His jokes are.
DICK. That doesn't matter. It's his name I want. The public judges
only by the brand. One play's just as good as another.
SIR H. That's your experience?
DICK. Yes. On the whole, I think a bad play's better than a good one,
but we none of us know anything about it.
ALMA. If you would only try him, here is an author to your hand.
DICK. (_alarmed_) You--an author? (_puts hat on_)
NED. Only last week I wrote to you about a play I'd sent you.
DICK. (_crosses to SIR HUMPHREY; pulls out watch_) How are your
trains, Sir Humphrey? I've an appointment at four sharp, in town.
SIR H. I see you are a man of business.
DICK. Yes, I'm a cheesemonger.
SIR H. A cheesemonger. I thought you were a theatrical manager?
DICK. Same thing. A theatre's only a shop, and ought to be worked on
the same principles.
NED. Or want of principles?
DICK. Same thing. If my customers want a bad article, I give it 'em.
It's not my fault, it's theirs.
SIR H. A philosopher as well as a cheesemonger!
DICK. My dear sir, all cheesemongers are philosophers.
SIR H. And all philosophers are fond of a good dinner. I hope you will
join our party, Mr. Dick. (_crosses, R._)
DICK. With pleasure. (_puts hat down on table_)
ALMA. But your appointment at four sharp.
DICK. I'll keep that to-morrow.
SIR H. Meanwhile, a biscuit.
DICK. (_aside_) A biscuit.
SIR H. And a glass of Heidseck.
DICK. (_following SIR HUMPHREY off, R._) Heidseck, certainly. (_takes
hat_)
SIR H. Come with me, Mrs. Blake?
ALMA. Thank you, I'll stop with Ned.
DICK. (_turns_) Capital set. First-rate. Can't say I like that sky.
Scrubbs is the man for skies. (_Exit with SIR HUMPHREY, R._)
ALMA. (_crosses to L._) Now, Mr. Chetwynd. (_sits L. of table_) You
never told me about this comedy. What's it all about? What's my part
like?
NED. Why it's _all_ you! I thought of no one else, and called the
heroine "Alma" after you. (_sits R. of table_)
ALMA. You dear old goose! If I were a manager, I should accept your
pieces without reading them.
NED. Excuse me. If you were a manager, you would reject them without
reading them.
ALMA. Not yours. You are my oldest admirer.
NED. What nonsense! I never met you till last year.
ALMA. Well, what of that? I've had a score since then, but they've all
disappeared, and there you are still.
NED. Faithful to the last.
ALMA. The last's a long way off yet, Mr. Chetwynd. He's trundling a
hoop somewhere at this moment. But he'll turn up. Each season brings
its crop. They're mostly annuals, my loves.
NED. I am an amaranth.
ALMA. That locket on your chain? Isn't it the one you put my portrait
in? (_rises to examine it_)
NED. Yes.
ALMA. And he wears it still! You are an amaranth, indeed. (_about to
open locket_)
NED. You'd better not.
ALMA. Do let me see. I've quite forgotten what I looked like then.
(_opens it; kneels_)
NED. Just as you like.
ALMA. How I have altered!
NED. You look younger there.
ALMA. And my hair's different.
NED. The fashion's changed.
ALMA. Yes, and the colour too. There! Shut it up. (_rises_)
NED. Twelve months make a difference.
ALMA. Don't they? My amaranth has faded like the rest! (_pause_) And
pray, why do you wear Miss Preston's photograph?
NED. (_after making sure that MRS. DOZEY is asleep; rises_) Can you
keep a secret?
ALMA. I've kept one for six years.
NED. Miss Preston is my wife.
ALMA. Your wife!
NED. You are so quick, I knew you'd find it out, or I should have said
nothing. We don't want anyone to know--at least, _I_ don't--just yet.
ALMA. Doesn't Sir Humphrey?
NED. No.
ALMA. I thought he was her guardian.
NED. She's twenty-one. He's not her guardian now.
ALMA. But he's your father, and you've done a thing like this. She,
too!
NED. It wasn't her fault. It was mine, if it was anyone's. But it was
no use speaking to my father. Lucy wanted to, but I knew more than she
did. The governor's the best old fellow in the world, but upon certain
points he is as obstinate as--as----
ALMA. His son.
NED. As I am, if you like.
ALMA. Why was it no use speaking to him?
NED. Because he would never have given his consent. The fact is,
Lucy's mother was separated from her husband. She married very young,
and he left her before she was twenty. Not being able to get a
divorce, of course she couldn't marry again, and consequently Lucy's
father couldn't marry her. That's the whole mystery. Lucy doesn't know
it, but I did, and I knew it was useless talking. So we were married
secretly, this year.
ALMA. And when do you propose to acknowledge your wife?
NED. I don't know yet, (_crosses, L._) but when the right time comes.
ALMA. The right time was the day you married her.
NED. Ah, it's all very well to talk, but you have no idea how much it
would hurt the governor. (_crosses to ALMA_) It would have cut him to
the heart.
ALMA. A very good reason for not marrying, but a very bad reason for
concealing your marriage.
NED. It was to spare his feelings.
ALMA. Don't flatter yourself. It was to spare your own.
NED. Well, it's done now, and I can't help it.
ALMA. But you can. You can tell him to-day.
NED. (_sits R. of table_) That would be worse than telling him
earlier.
ALMA. (_crosses to NED_) And better than telling him later. You've
done wrong, and you're doing wrong now. The only point in your favour
is that you're thoroughly ashamed of yourself. (_crosses to R.C._)
NED. Ashamed! nay----
ALMA. I can see it in your face. No hoarding like a human countenance,
and no bill-sticker like a guilty conscience.
NED. Alma, I _am_ ashamed.
ALMA. (_crosses to NED_) Be as much ashamed of yourself as you like,
but don't be ashamed of your wife.
NED. I'll tell Sir Humphrey--to-morrow.
ALMA. To-day. (_holding her hands out_)
NED. If I can screw my courage up.
BOTH. (_shaking hands_) To-day.
ALMA. I'll screw it up for you. You won't want much. Fathers are not
such dreadful animals after all. There was a time when children were
afraid of their parents, but now-a-days they're lucky parents who're
not afraid of their children. (_Re-enter DR. DOZEY, C., and down,
R.C._) Aren't they, doctor?
DR. I crave forgiveness. Your observation escaped me.
ALMA. Ah, you were lost in thought.
DR. I was meditating, it is true.
ALMA. Lost in meditation. Thank you, for the correction.
_NED rises; goes aside thoughtfully._
DR. Lost in amazement.
ALMA. Amazement. Beg your pardon. Got it at last.
DR. That our paths, which are so diverse, should have crossed.
ALMA. It's a queer meeting, certainly, but, you know, accidents will
happen.
DR. (_raising his hand_) Pardon me, there is no such thing as
accident. It is true that fortune, like misfortune, makes us
acquainted with strange----
ALMA. Hem!
DR. I will amend my illustration.
ALMA. Thank you.
DR. Rough-hew them how we may, our ends are shaped for us. Doubtless
we have been brought together for some wise purpose. I propose,
therefore, to improve your acquaintance.
ALMA. Hadn't you better improve _me?_ Never mind my acquaintance.
DR. That is the object which I have in view. Even the rose needs
careful nurturing, ere it will bloom like--like--what shall I say?
ALMA. Say what you like. I won't be offended.
DR. Like those I see before me.
ALMA. These? (_taking one from her dress_) Would you like one?
DR. I am unused to meretricious ornament.
ALMA. Doctor! Don't call my poor rose such hard names. Stand still.
I'll put it in your buttonhole.
DR. (_whilst she arranges it_) There can be no objection to a simple
flower. (_crosses to table_)
ALMA. There! You look quite a masher!
DR. Eh! (_turning_)
ALMA. Picture, I meant! Picture, picture.
DR. Do I, indeed? (_goes to mirror, turns, and smiles_) A flower _is_
an adornment. (_stands admiring himself; ALMA goes up to NED, and taps
him on the shoulder, points to DR. DOZEY, and can scarcely restrain
her laughter; DR. DOZEY comes down, L., soliloquising_) A comely
woman. Not unprepossessing. Whatever the contents may be, the exterior
of the platter is attractive. (_the book drops from MRS. DOZEY'S lap;
turns_) What was that?
NED. (_at easel_) It's only Mrs. Dozey. (_crosses with ALMA to R.C._)
DR. My wife there! (_crosses to MRS. DOZEY, R._)
ALMA. You needn't be alarmed. She's fast asleep.
DR. (_picking up book_) And with my sermons on her lap again. (_wakes
her_) Diana!
MRS. D. (_waking_) It's very strange, I can't get to sleep. (_rises_)
You must know, Mrs. Blake, I am a victim to insomnia.
ALMA. I see. You take sermons medicinally.
MRS. D. Good gracious, Dionysius! What have you there? (_points to
buttonhole_)
DR. A rose, my love--a simple rose. There is no evil in a simple rose.
NED. Don't you admire it?
MRS. D. I don't like the look of it at all. Where did you get it from?
DR. Hem! hem! (_fidgetting with the book; down, R.C._) A tendency to
be too interrogative is the besetting weakness of the age we live in.
MRS. D. Come, Dionysius, the truth!
DR. It is to this undue yearning after truth that I attribute the
prevailing scepticism.
MRS. D. That isn't answering my question.
ALMA. (_conquering her laughter, comes to his rescue_) I'm sorry you
don't like it, Mrs. Dozey. Your husband thought you'd be so pleased
with it. (_gives DR. DOZEY a slight nudge_)
MRS. D. He gathered it for _me!_
DR. (_presenting it_) Diana, you are always on my mind.
MRS. D. How can I thank you, Dionysius? (_embraces DR. DOZEY, while
ALMA shakes hands with him behind his back, where he is holding the
book_)
DR. (_turning aside, and down, R._) That is a very clever woman.
(_opens book and reads; business with ALMA, as below_)
_Re-enter SIR HUMPHREY and DICK, R._
DICK. (_wiping his mouth_) Capital Heidseck.
SIR H. Glad you enjoyed it, Mr. Dick.
DICK. Capital wine.
MRS. D. Sir Humphrey, see what Dionysius has given me. (_showing
rose_)
SIR H. Charming--exquisite!
DICK. Call that a rose?
SIR H. Mr. Dick--Mrs. Dozey.
DICK. My man, Groggins, would turn you out a better article.
Groggins's the man for flowers.
MRS. D. (_to DICK_) Your gardener, sir?
DICK. Gardener? No. My property master. Marvellous florist! Nature's
not in it with Groggins.
NED. (_to DICK_) You don't seem to have a very high opinion of nature?
DICK. No, sir. Nature was only a beginner. Don't like amateurs, except
for _matinees._
_Meanwhile ALMA has been making signs to DR. DOZEY, pointing to
buttonhole and MRS. DOZEY; DR. DOZEY, behind the open book, responds
in pantomime; MRS. DOZEY observing this comes down between them; DR.
DOZEY drops his eyes on book and turns off; she pursues him; ALMA
turns off to SIR HUMPHREY, who leaves NED with DICK._
ALMA. (_getting round back_) Sir Humphrey, you must take me round the
park. I haven't seen half the beauties of the place.
SIR H. Nothing would please me better. Ned, we're going out into the
grounds. Perhaps Mr. Dick would like to see them.
DICK. Certainly. Give me an appetite for dinner. (_to NED_) What time
do you dine?
ALMA. (_going out with SIR HUMPHREY_) Doctor, won't you come with us?
(_making eyes at him_)
DR. (_with alacrity_) Surely!
MRS. D. (_crosses, R., checking him_) Dionysius!
SIR H. (_to ALMA_) Take my arm, Mrs. Blake.
ALMA. I like the doctor. (_taking SIR HUMPHREY'S arm_)
SIR H. An old schoolfellow.
ALMA. He's going to "nurture" me. Isn't it kind of him? (_Exit with
SIR HUMPHREY, through window, off R._)
DICK. (_following with NED_) Sorry I lost your comedy. If a romantic
drama would be any compensation, or a tragedy in seven acts, or a
historical pageant in thirteen tableaux, come to the theatre and take
your choice. (_Exit with NED through window, C., off L._)
DR. (_crosses, C._) My love, you are in error.
MRS. D. Nonsense! You've been philandering for the last ten minutes.
_You,_ Dionysius, who have always professed such horror of stage
players.
DR. Mrs. Blake may be regarded in two aspects.
MRS. D. You've been regarding her in half-a-dozen!
DR. It is our duty to hate sin, but to love sinners. One may, at one
and the same time, abhor the acting----
MRS. D. And adore the actress!
DR. I should prefer to say, regard the actress with that measure of
fraternal sympathy to which all our erring sisters are entitled.
MRS. D. But which only the good-looking ones get. (_re-enter LUCY,
down staircase, L._) No, Dionysius, it won't do! A little less of that
fraternal sympathy, if you please.
LUCY. What's the matter, Mrs. Dozey? (_DR. DOZEY gets up, R._)
MRS. D. Matter! Why that stage-player----
LUCY. Mrs. Blake?
MRS. D. Has been at her stage tricks!
DR. (_crosses to R.C._) Diana, you are excited.
MRS. D. Well, I may be. (_crosses, R._) You never looked at _me_ as
long as I caught you looking at _her._ (_going off, R._)
DR. My angel, I have been gazing at you steadfastly for a quarter of a
century. (_Exit after her, R._)
_Re-enter TOM, through window, C.R._
TOM. Good gracious, Mrs. Dozey's wide-awake!
LUCY. She's caught the doctor napping this time. She seems quite
jealous of Mrs. Blake already.
TOM. The widow? Has she come?
LUCY. I met her at the door.
TOM. Well, is she as charming as Sir Humphrey says?
LUCY. I suppose she must be. At the hotel when we first met her she
turned everybody's head. Sir Humphrey was smitten on the spot, and as
for Ned, well, he behaved disgracefully. I wish you weren't going,
Tom!
TOM. Do you?
LUCY. I should like to see what impression she'd make upon _you._ I
don't believe you could admire anybody.
TOM. Am I so hard to please?
LUCY. A regular old cynic!
TOM. And what's a cynic? A poor devil, who's fool enough to put into
words the harshness wise men put into their deeds, and fool enough to
put into deeds the kindness wise men put into their words. Your cynic
is the softest of mankind, and as a rule he's been in love before he
was a cynic. (_crosses to L._)
LUCY. (_crosses to R._) Surely you haven't?
TOM. I've been most things, Lucy.
LUCY. Except a husband. (_laughing_)
TOM. I've been that.
LUCY. (_crosses to TOM_) A husband! No! Surely you're joking? Oh, I
can't believe it.
TOM. What's much more singular, I want to be married again.
LUCY. Were you so happy?
TOM. No, I wasn't happy.
LUCY. Didn't you like your wife?
TOM. Yes, I adored her. So did someone else.
LUCY. Well?
TOM. I suppose she adored him. (_sits R. of table_)
LUCY. She left you! (_getting back_)
TOM. No, I left _her!_ Six years ago! On a bright summer day--just
such a day as this. As I passed down the walk I caught my last glimpse
of her through a window, as it might be there. (_pointing to window_)
I can almost see her now, framed like a picture in the window frame,
with the sun streaming down on her, for all the world like----
(_rises_)
_ALMA suddenly appears on the lawn outside, standing an instant in the
sunshine, with her head turned to SIR HUMPHREY, who passes the window
a moment afterwards._
ALMA. Oh, what a lovely lawn! We must have tennis there, Sir Humphrey.
SIR H. If I could play the game----
ALMA. I'll teach you. (_they pass on, R., out of sight_)
LUCY. Tom, what's the matter?
TOM. Who was that--passed the window?
LUCY. That was Mrs. Blake. What do you think of her?
TOM. Blake?
LUCY. I believe _you're_ smitten. Men are all alike.
TOM. Just in time--only just.
LUCY. What are you talking about? Just in time for what?
TOM. (_recovering himself_) My train, of course. I'd quite forgotten
it. I must make haste, or I shall miss it.
LUCY. Don't run away like that.
TOM. Say good-bye to Sir Humphrey, will you, Lucy? Tell him to think
no more about what I said just now. He'll understand you.
LUCY. Tom, you're not going in this way?
TOM. (_crosses to R._) I must go. (_turns to LUCY_) Make my apologies.
LUCY. Without even your picture.
TOM. I can send for that. (_Exit, R._)
_Re-enter DICK and NED through window._
DICK. I don't think much of it. I can't say I think much of it. Not a
patch on one in my last comedy. Potts' masterpiece! Potts is the man
for exteriors.
_Re-enter ALMA and SIR HUMPHREY through window, L._
ALMA. Clever! It's more than clever.
SIR H. I must introduce you to the painter.
ALMA. I should like to know him. In these days, it's quite refreshing
to meet an artist whose art is intelligible without a catalogue and
half a column of criticism.
_Re-enter MRS. DOZEY, R._
SIR H. Lucy, where's Mr. Potter? Mrs. Blake has been admiring his
sketch, and wants to congratulate him.
LUCY. He has just gone.
SIR H. Gone?
MRS. D. Mr. Potter gone?
LUCY. He said he'd barely time to catch his train, and asked me to
apologise to you for going so abruptly.
_Re-enter DR. DOZEY, R._
ALMA. Then I shan't see him. What a disappointment!
DR. (_crosses to SIR HUMPHREY_) Life is made up of disappointments. As
we near its goal---- (_SIR HUMPHREY turns him round; he faces ALMA_)
SIR H. Gone, after what he said to me this morning!
LUCY. Oh, and he left some message! You were to forget what he had
said or something--he was in too great a hurry to explain himself.
SIR H. I think I understand. (_to LUCY_) You have refused him?
LUCY. I?
MRS. D. Mr. Potter has proposed!
NED. For Lucy?
DR. (_approaching DICK_) I was remarking---- (_buttonholes DICK, who
gradually retreats up stage, followed step by step by DR. DOZEY,
preaching in dumb show_)
SIR H. Not an hour ago he asked to be allowed to speak to you. Hasn't
he done so?
LUCY. No, he said nothing.
ALMA. (_aside to NED_) Now's your opportunity. Redeem your promise.
SIR H. This is an insult--a gross insult.
MRS. D. A mere painter!
NED. (_crosses to LUCY_) If he _had_ spoken it would have been
useless. Miss Preston has accepted someone else.
SIR H. Without my knowledge?
NED. Yes. But it wasn't Lucy's fault. (_takes LUCY'S hand_) She would
have told you, but I wouldn't let her.
SIR H. You!
MRS. D. Oh, Dionysius! Miss Preston is engaged to Mr. Chetwynd.
(_brings DR. DOZEY down, to the great relief of DICK, who gasps for
air and mops his forehead at back_)
SIR H. Not to you, Ned! Say, there is some mistake! You couldn't do so
wrong. Say, you are not engaged.
NED. No, not engaged.
SIR H. Thank heaven!
NED. This is my wife. (_takes LUCY'S hand_)
MRS. D. Oh!
DR. Bless my soul!
SIR H. (_incredulous_) Your wife!
DICK. (_coming forward_) Sir, I congrat---- (_ALMA stops DICK and
takes him up; DR. and MRS. DOZEY turn deprecatingly_)
SIR H. She, your wife? (_DR. DOZEY puts up glasses and surveys LUCY_)
NED. Your daughter.
SIR H. I disown her! I refuse to recognise this marriage. I disown you
both! You have brought shame upon a line that was untarnished. You--my
son--my only child--the bearer of an honoured name--the heir of a
proud history--and she--(_breaks down_) Oh, Ned! Why did you marry
her? (_sits L. of table_)
NED. I married her (_turns to LUCY_) for love. (_puts arm round LUCY_)
END OF ACT I.