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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
[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.
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 Hathanæum, 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.
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.
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.
The horse in my stable—Dandy Dick!
Blore.
Dandy Dick! That old bit of ma’ogany, sir. They’re layin’ ten to one against him.
The Dean.
[With hysterical eagerness.] Are they? I’ll take it! I’ll take it!
Blore.
Lord love you, sir—fur how much?
The Dean.
Fifty! There’s the money. [Impulsively he crams the notes into Blore’s hand and then recoils in horror.] Oh!
[Sinks into a chair with a groan.
Blore.
[In a whisper.] Lor’, who’d ’ave thought the Dean was such a ardent sportsman at ’art? He dursn’t give me my notice after this. [To The Dean.] Of course it’s understood, sir, that we keep our little weaknesses dark. Houtwardly, sir, we remain respectable, and, I ’ope, respected. [Putting the notes into his pocket.] I wish you good-night, sir. [He walks to the door. The Dean makes an effort to recall him but fails.] And that old man ’as been my pattern and example for years and years! Oh, Edward Blore, your hidol is shattered! [Turning to The Dean.] Good-night, sir. May your dreams be calm and ’appy, and may you have a good run for your money!
[Blore goes out—The Dean gradually recovers his self-possession.
The Dean.
I—I am upset to-night, Blore. Of course you leave this day month. I—I [looking round.] Blore! He’s gone! If I don’t call him back the Spire may be richer to-morrow by five hundred pounds. I won’t dwell on it. I’ll read—I’ll read. [Snatches a book at haphazard from the bookshelf. There is the sound of falling rain and distant thunder.] Rain, thunder. How it assimilates with the tempest of my mind! I’ll read. Bless me! This is very strange. [Reading.] “The Horse and its Ailments, by John Cox, M. R. C. V. S.” It was with the aid of this volume that I used to doctor my old mare at Oxford. A leaf turned down. [Reading.] “Simple remedies for chills—the Bolus.” The helpless beast in my stable is suffering from a chill. Good gracious! If I allow Blore to risk my fifty pounds on Dandy Dick, surely it would be advisable to administer this Bolus to the poor animal without delay. [Referring to the book hastily.] I have these drugs in my chest. There’s not a moment to be lost! [Going to the bell and ringing.] I shall want help. I’ll fetch my medicine chest.
[He lays the book upon the table and goes into the Library.
Blore enters.
Blore.
[Looking round.] Where is he? The bell rang. The Dean’s puzzling me with his uncommon behavior, that he is.
[The Dean comes from the Library, carrying a large medicine chest. On encountering Blore he starts and turns away his head, the picture of guilt.
The Dean.
Blore, I feel it would be a humane act to administer to the poor ignorant animal in my stable a simple Bolus as a precaution against chill. I rely upon your aid and discretion in ministering to any guest in the Deanery.
Blore.
[In a whisper.] I see, sir—you ain’t going to lose half a chance for to-morrow, sir—you’re a knowin’ one, sir, as the sayin’ goes!
The Dean.
[Shrinking from Blore with a groan.] Oh! [He places the medicine chest on the table and takes up the book. Handing the book to Blore with his finger on a page.] Fetch these humble but necessary articles from the kitchen—quick. I’ll mix the Bolus here. [Blore goes out quickly.] It is exactly seven and twenty years since I last approached a horse medically. [He takes off his coat and lays it on a chair, then rolls his shirt-sleeves up above his elbows and puts on his glasses.] I trust that this Bolus will not give the animal an unfair advantage over his competitors. I don’t desire that! I don’t desire that! [Blore re-enters carrying a tray, on which are a small flour-barrel and rolling-pin, a white china basin, a carafe of water, a napkin, and the book. The Dean recoils, then guiltily takes the tray from Blore and puts it on the table.] Thank you.
Blore.
[Holding on to the window curtain and watching The Dean.] His eyes is awful; I don’t seem to know the ’appy Deanery when I see such proceedings a’goin’ on at the dead of night.
[There is a heavy roll of thunder—The Dean mixes a pudding and stirs it with the rolling-pin.
The Dean.
The old half-forgotten time returns to me. I am once again a promising youth at college.
Blore.
[To himself.] One would think by his looks that he was goin’ to poison his family instead of—Poison! Poison! Oh, if hanything serious ’appened to the hanimal in our stable there would be nothing in the way of Bonny-Betsy, the deservin’ ’orse I’ve trusted with my ’ard-earned savings!
The Dean.
I am walking once again in the old streets at Oxford, avoiding the shops where I owe my youthful bills. Bills!
[He pounds away vigorously with the rolling-pin.
Blore.
[To himself.] Where’s the stuff I got a month ago to destroy the hold black retriever that fell hill?
The Dean.
Bills!
Blore.
The dog died—the poison’s in my pantry—it couldn’t have got used for cooking purposes.
The Dean.
I see the broad meadows and the tall Spire of the college—the Spire! Oh, my whole life seems made up of Bills and Spires!
Blore.
[To himself.] I’ll do it! I’ll do it!
[Unseen by The Dean he quickly and quietly steals out by the door.
The Dean.
Where are the drugs—the drugs? [Opening the medicine chest and bending down over the bottles he pours some drops from a bottle into the basin.] [Counting.] Three—four—five—six. [He replaces the bottle and takes another.] How fortunate some animals are! [Counting.] One—two—three, four. It’s done!
[Taking up the medicine chest he goes with it into the Library.
As he disappears Blore re-enters stealthily fingering a small paper packet.
Blore.
[In a whisper.] Strychnine! [There is a heavy roll of thunder—Blore darts to the table, empties the contents of the packet into the basin, and stirs vigorously with the rolling-pin.] I’ve cooked Dandy Dick! I’ve cooked Dandy Dick! [He moves from the table in horror.] Oh! I’m only a hamatoor sportsman and I can’t afford a uncertainty. [As The Dean returns, Blore starts up guiltily.] Can I help you any more, Sir?
The Dean.
No, remove these dreadful things, and don’t let me see you again to-night!
[Sits with the basin on his knees, and proceeds to roll the paste.
Blore.
[Removing the tray.] It’s only an ’orse—it’s only an ’orse! But after to-morrow I’ll retire from the Turf, if only to reclaim ’im.
[He goes out.
The Dean.
[Putting on his coat.] I don’t contemplate my humane task with resignation. The stable is small, and if the animal is restive we shall be cramped for room. [The rain is heard.] I shall get a chill too. [Seeing Sir Tristram’s coat and cap lying upon the settee.] I am sure Mardon will lend me this gladly. [Putting on the coat, which completely envelops him.] The animal may recognize the garment, and receive me with kindly feeling. [Putting on the sealskin cap, which almost conceals his face.] Ugh! why do I feel this dreadful sinking at the heart? [Taking the basin and turning out the lamp.] Oh! if all followers of the veterinary science are as truly wretched as I am, what a noble band they must be!
[The thunder rolls as he goes through the window curtains. Sir Tristram then enters quietly, smoking, and carrying a lighted candle.
Sir Tristram.
All right; fire still burning. [Blowing out the candle.] I shall doze here till daybreak. What a night! I never thought there was so much thunder in these small country places.
[Georgiana, looking pale and agitated, and wearing a dressing-gown, enters quickly, carrying an umbrella and a lighted candle.
Georgiana.
Which is the nearer way to the stable? I must satisfy myself—I must—I must! [Going to the door.]
Sir Tristram.
Georgiana.
[Shrieks with fright.] Ah!
Sir Tristram.
Hush!
Georgiana.
[Holding out her umbrella.] Stand where you are or I’ll fire! [Recognizing Sir Tristram.] Tris!
Sir Tristram.
Why, George!
Georgiana.
Oh, Tris, I’ve been dreaming! [Falling helplessly against Sir Tristram, who deposits her in a chair.] Oh! oh! oh! Don’t look at me! I’m overtrained. I shall be on my legs again in a minute.
[She opens her umbrella and hides herself behind it, sobbing violently.
Sir Tristram.
[Standing over the umbrella in great concern.] My goodness! George, whatever shall I do? Shall I trot you up and down outside?
Georgiana.
Be quiet! [Sobbing.] What are you fooling about here for? Why can’t you lie quietly in your cot?
Sir Tristram.
Confound that cot! Why, it wouldn’t hold my photograph. Where are you going?
Georgiana.
Into the stable to sit with Dandy. The thunder’s awful in my room; when it gets tired it seems to sit down on my particular bit of roof. I did doze once, and then I had a frightful dream. I dreamt that Dandy had sold himself to a circus, and that they were hooting him because he had lost his tail. There’s an omen!
Sir Tristram.
Don’t, don’t—be a man, George, be a man!
Georgiana.
[Shutting her umbrella.] I know I’m dreadfully effeminate. There—Tidd’s himself again!
Sir Tristram.
Bravo!
Georgiana.
Ah, Tris—don’t think me soft, old man. I’m a lonely, unlucky woman, and the tail end of this horse is all that’s left me in the world to love and to cling to!
Sir Tristram.
No, by Jove! I’m not such a mean cur as that! Swop halves and take his head, George, my boy.
Georgiana.
Not I! I’m like a doating mother to my share of Dandy, and it’s all the dearer because it’s an invalid. I’m off.
Sir Tristram.
Come along! [Turning towards the window, she following him, he suddenly stops and looks at her, and seizes her hand.] George, I never guessed that you were so tender-hearted.
Georgiana.
Sir Tristram.
And you’ve robbed me to-night of an old friend—a pal.
Georgiana.
I—what d’ye mean?
Sir Tristram.
I mean that I seem to have dropped the acquaintance of George Tidd, Esquire, forever.
Georgiana.
Tris—no.
Sir Tristram.
I have—but I’ve got an introduction to his twin-sister, Georgiana!
Georgiana.
[Snatching her hand away angrily.] Stay where you are; I’ll nurse my half alone. [She goes towards the window, then starts back.] Hush!
Sir Tristram.
What’s the matter?
Georgiana.
Didn’t you hear something?
Sir Tristram.
Where?
Georgiana.
[Pointing to the window.] There.
Sir Tristram.
[Peeping through the curtains.] You’re right. Some people moving about the garden.
Georgiana.
Tris! The horse!
Sir Tristram.
They’re not near the stables. They’re coming in here. Hush! We’ll clear out and watch!
[Sir Tristram takes the candlestick and they go out leaving the room in darkness. The curtains at the window are pushed aside, and Salome and Sheba enter; both in their fancy dresses.
Salome.
[In a rage, lighting the candles on the mantelpiece.] Oh! oh! oh!
Sheba.
Oh! oh! No ball after all!
Salome.
If we only had a brother to avenge us!
Sheba.
I shall try and borrow a brother to-morrow!
Salome.
Cold, wretched, splashed, in debt—for nothing!
Sheba.
To think that we’ve had all the inconvenience of being wicked and rebellious and have only half done it!
Salome.
This comes of stooping to the Military!
Sheba.
It serves us right—we’ve been trained for clergymen’s wives. I hate Nugent Darbey. I hope he may grow bald early!
Salome.
Gerald Tarver’s nose is inclined to pink—may it deepen and deepen till it frightens cows!
[Voices are heard from the curtained window recess.
Darbey.
[Outside.] Miss Jedd—Sheba!
Tarver.
[Outside.] Pray hear two wretched men! Miss Jedd!
Salome.
[In a whisper.] There they are.
Sheba.
Shall we grant them a dignified interview?
Salome.
Yes. Curl your lip, Sheba.
Sheba.
You curl your lip better than I—I’ll dilate my nostrils.
[Salome draws aside the curtain. Tarver and Darbey enter. They are both very badly and shabbily dressed as Cavaliers.
Tarver.
[A most miserable object, carrying a carriage umbrella.] Oh, don’t reproach us, Miss Jedd. It isn’t our fault that the Military were summoned to St. Marvells.
Darbey.
You don’t blame officers and gentlemen for responding to the sacred call of duty?
Sheba.
We blame officers for subjecting two motherless girls to the shock of alighting at the Durnstone Athenæum to find a notice on the front door: “Ball knocked on the head—Vivat Regina.”
Salome.
We blame gentlemen for inflicting upon us the unspeakable agony of being jeered at by boys.
Tarver.
I took the address of the boy who suggested that we should call again on the fifth of November. It is on the back of your admission card.
Darbey.
Everything will be done. We shall both wait on the boy’s mother for an explanation.
Tarver.
Oh, smile on us once again, Miss Jedd—a forced, hollow smile, if you will—only smile. Salome!
Georgiana enters.
Georgiana.
Salome! Sheba!
Salome and Sheba.
Aunt!
Georgiana.
You bad girls!
Salome.
[Weeping.] No, Aunt, no!
Sheba.
Not bad. Aunt—trustful and confiding.
Georgiana.
[Advancing to Tarver.] How dare you encourage these two simple children to enjoy themselves! How dare you take them out—without their Aunt! Do you think I can’t keep a thing quiet?
Sheba.
They didn’t even ask Papa’s permission!
Salome.
Poor Papa!
Sheba.
Poor, dear Papa!
Georgiana.
[Shaking Tarver.] I’m speaking to you—Field-Marshal.
Tarver.
Madam, you are addressing an invalid.
Darbey.
We shall be happy to receive your representative in the morning. At present we are on duty.
Tarver.
On heavy duty.
Darbey.
Guarding the ruins of the “Swan” Inn. You mustn’t distract our attention.
Georgiana.
Guarding the ruins of the “Swan,” are you? [Calling.] Tris! Sir Tristram! [Sir Tristram appears.] Tris, I’m a feeble woman, but I hope I’ve a keen sense of right and wrong. Run these outsiders into the road, and let them guard their own ruins.
[Salome and Sheba shriek, and throw themselves at the feet of Tarver and Darbey, clinging to their legs.
Salome.
No, no. Spare him!
Sheba.
You shall not harm a hair of their heads.
[Sir Tristram twists Tarver’s wig round so that it covers his face. The gate bell is heard ringing violently.
Georgiana, Salome, and Sheba.
What’s that?
Salome.
It will wake Papa!
Sheba.
Stop the bell!
[Georgiana runs to the door and opens it.
Salome.
[To Tarver and Darbey.] Fly!
[Tarver and Darbey disappear through the curtains at the window.
Sheba.
[Falling into Salome’s arms.] We have saved them!
Georgiana.
Oh, Tris, your man from the stable!
Sir Tristram.
Hatcham!
Georgiana.
[Calling.] Hatcham!
[Hatcham, carrying the basin with the bolus, runs in breathlessly—followed by Blore.
Hatcham.
Oh, Sir Tristram!
Georgiana and Sir Tristram.
What is it?
Hatcham.
The villain that set fire to the “Swan,” sir—in the hact of administering a dose to the ’orse!
Georgiana.
Nobbling our Dandy?
Sir Tristram.
Where is the scoundrel?
Hatcham.
Topping the constable’s collared him, Sir—he’s taken him in a cart to the lock-up!
Georgiana and Sir Tristram.
Oh!
Blore.
[In agony.] They’ve got the Dean!
END OF THE SECOND ACT.