THE THIRD ACT.
The first scene is the interior of a country Police Station, a quaint old room with plaster walls, oaken beams, and a gothic mullioned window looking on to the street. A massive door, with a small sliding wicket and an iron grating, opens to a prisoner’s cell. The room is partly furnished as a kitchen, partly as a police station, a copy of the Police Regulations and other official documents and implements hanging on the wall. It is the morning after the events of the previous act.
Hannah, a buxom, fresh-looking young woman, in a print gown, has been engaged in cooking while singing gayly.
Hannah.
[Opening a door and calling with a slight dialect.] Noah darling!
Noah.
[From another room—in a rough, country voice.] Yaas!
Hannah.
You’ll have your dinner before you drive your prisoner over to Durnstone, won’t ye, darling?
Noah.
Hannah.
[Closing the door.] Yaas! Noah’s in a nice temper to-day over summat. Ah well, I suppose all public characters is liable to irritation. [There is a knock at the outer door. Hannah opening it, sees Blore with a troubled look on his face.] Well I never! Mr. Blore from the Deanery! Come in! You might knock me down with a——!
Blore.
[Entering and shaking hands mournfully.] How do you do, Mrs. Topping?
Hannah.
And how is the dear Dean, bless him; the sweetest soul in the world?
Blore.
[To himself.] Good gracious! She doesn’t know of hour misfortune. [To Hannah.] I—I ’aven’t seen him this morning!
Hannah.
Well, this is real kind of you, calling on an old friend, Edward. When I think that I were cook at the Deanery seven years, and that since I left you, to get wedded, not a soul of you has been nigh me, it do seem hard.
Blore.
Well, you see, ’Annah, the kitchen took humbrage at your marryin’ a policeman at Durnstone. It was regarded as a messyliance.
Hannah.
Well, now Mr. Topping’s got the appointment of Head Constable at St. Marvells, what’s that regarded as?
Blore.
A rise on the scales, ’Annah, a decided rise—but still you’ve honly been a week in St. Marvells and you’ve got to fight your way hup.
Hannah.
I think I’m as hup as ever I’m like to be.
Blore.
’Owever, Jane and Sarah and Willis the stable boy ’ave hunbent so far as to hask me to leave their cards, knowin’ I was a callin’.
[He produces from an old leather pocket-book three very dirty pieces of paste-board, which he gives to Hannah.
Hannah.
[Taking them in her apron with pride.] Thank ’em kindly. When’s their evening?
Blore.
We receive on Toosdays, at the side gate. And ’ow are you, my dear?
[Kissing her cheek.
Hannah.
Don’t, Edward Blore!
Blore.
Don’t! When you was Miss Hevans there wasn’t these social barriers, ’Annah!
Hannah.
Shut up! Noah’s jealous of the very apron-strings what go round my waist. I’m not so free and ’andy with my kisses now, I can tell you.
Blore.
Then “what is friendship but a name!” But Mr. Topping isn’t indoors now, surely!
Hannah.
[Nodding her head.] Um—um!
Blore.
Why, he took a man up last night!
Hannah.
What of it?
Blore.
Why, I thought that when hany harrest was made in St. Marvells, the prisoner was lodged here honly for the night and that the ’ead Constable ’ad to drive ’im over to Durnstone Police Station the first thing in the morning.
Hannah.
That’s the rule, but Noah’s behindhand to-day, and ain’t going into Durnstone till after dinner.
Blore.
Then the prisoner is now hon the premises!
Hannah.
Yes, he’s in our cell.
Blore.
Ah! And where is the hapartment in question?
Hannah.
The cell? That’s it!
Blore.
[Looking round in horror.] Oh!
Hannah.
The “Strong-box” they call it in St. Marvells.
Blore.
Oh, my goodness, honly fancy! [Whimpering to himself.] And ’im accustomed to his shavin’ water at h’eight and my kindly hand to button his gaiters. Oh, here’s a warnin’!
Hannah.
Whatever is the matter with you, Edward?
Blore.
’Annah, ’Annah, my dear, it’s this very prisoner what I ’ave called on you respectin’.
Hannah.
Oh, then the honor ain’t a compliment to me, after all, Mr. Blore?
Blore.
I’m killing two birds with one stone, my dear.
Hannah.
[Throwing the cards into Blore’s hat.] You can take them back to the Deanery with Mrs. Topping’s comps.
Blore.
[Shaking the cards out of his hat and replacing them in his pocket-book.] I will leave them hon you again to-morrow, ’Annah. But, ’Annah deary, do you know that this hunfortunate man was took in our stables last night.
Hannah.
No, I never ask Noah nothing about Queen’s business. He don’t want two women over him!
Blore.
Then you ’aven’t seen the miserable culprit?
Hannah.
Lor’ no. I was in bed hours when Noah brought ’im ’ome. I take no interest in it all. They tell us it’s only a wretched poacher or a petty larcery we’ll get in St. Marvells. My poor Noah ain’t never likely to have the chance of a horrid murder in a place what returns a Conservative. My joint’s burning.
[Kneeling to look into the oven.
Blore.
But, ’Annah, suppose this case you’ve got ’old of now is a case what’ll shake old England to its basis! Suppose it means columns in the paper with Topping’s name a-figurin’! Suppose as family readin’, it ’old its own with divorce cases!
Hannah.
Hullo! You know something about this arrest, you do!
Blore.
No, no, I don’t! I merely said suppose. I merely wish to encourage you, ’Annah; to implant an ’ope that crime may brighten your wedded life.
Hannah.
[Sitting at the table and referring to an official book.] The man was found trespassing in the Deanery Stables with intent—refuses to give his name or any account of ’isself.
Blore.
[To himself.] If I could honly find hout whether Dandy Dick had any of the medicine it would so guide me at the Races. What am I to do? It doesn’t appear that the ’orse in the stables—took it, does it?
Hannah.
[Looking up sharply.] Took what?
Blore.
Er—took fright. You’re sure there’s no confession of any sort, ’Annah dear?
[As he is bending over Hannah, Noah Topping appears. Noah is a dense-looking ugly countryman, with red hair, a bristling heard, and a vindictive leer. He is dressed in ill-fitting clothes, as a rural Police Constable.
Noah.
[Fiercely.] ’Annah!
Hannah.
[Starting and replacing the book.] Oh don’t! This is Mr. Blore from the Deanery come to see us—an old friend o’ mine!
[Blore advances to Noah with a nervous smile, extending his hand.
Noah.
[Taking Blore’s hand and holding it firmly.] A friend of hern is a friend o’ mian!
Blore.
I ’ope so, Mr. Topping. I thank you.
Noah.
She’s gettin’ me a lot o’ nice noo friends this week, since we coom to St. Marvells.
Blore.
Of course, dear ’Annah was a lovin’ favorite with heverybody.
Noah.
Ay. Well then, as her friends be mian, I’m takin’ the liberty, one by one, of gradually droppin’ on ’em all.
Blore.
[Getting his hand away.] Dear me!
Noah.
And if I catch any old fly a buzzin’ round my lady I’ll venture to break his ’ead in wi’ my staff!
Hannah.
Oh, Noah!
Blore.
[Preparing to depart.] I—I merely called to know if hanything had been found hout about the ruffian took in our stables last night!
Noah.
Is that your business?
Blore.
It—it’s my master’s business.
Noah.
He’s the De-an, ain’t he?
Hannah.
Yes, Noah, of course.
Noah.
[Fiercely.] Shut oop, darlin’. Very well, then—give Mr. Topping’s respects to the Dean, and say I’ll run up to the Deanery and see him after I’ve took my man over to Durnstone.
Blore.
Thank you—I ’ope the Dean will be at ’ome. Good-day, ’Annah! Good-day, Mr. Topping!
[Offering his hand, into which Noah significantly places his truncheon. Blore goes out quickly.
Hannah.
[Whimpering.] Oh, Noah, Noah, I don’t believe as we shall ever get a large circle of friends round us!
Noah.
Now then! [Selecting a pair of handcuffs and examining them critically.] Them’ll do. [Slipping them into his pocket, and turning upon Hannah suddenly.] ’Annah!
Hannah.
Yes, Noahry——
Noah.
Brighten oop, my darlin’, the little time you ’ave me at ’ome with you.
Hannah.
Yes, Noahry.
[She bustles about and begins to lay the cloth.
Noah.
I’m just a’ goin’ round to the stable to put old Nick in the cart.
Hannah.
Oh, dont’ee trust to Nick, Noah dear—he’s such a vicious brute. Kitty’s safer in the cart.
Noah.
Shut oop, darlin’. Nick can take me on to the edge o’ the hill in half the time.
Hannah.
Noah.
Ah, what d’ye think I’ve put off taking my man to Durnstone to now for? Why, I’m a goin’ to get a glimpse of the racin’, on my way over. [Opening the wicket in the cell door and looking in.] There he is! Sulky! [To Hannah.] Hopen the hoven door, ’Annah, and let the smell of the cookin’ get into him.
Hannah.
Oh, no, Noah—it’s torture!
Noah.
Do as I tell’ee. [She opens the oven door.] Torture! Of course it’s torture! That’s my rule! Whenever I get a ’old of a darned obstinate creature wot won’t reveal his hindentity I hopens the hoven door.
[He goes out into the street, and as he departs, the woful face of The Dean appears at the wicket, his head being still enveloped in the fur cap.
Hannah.
[Shutting the oven door.] Not me! Torturing prisoners might a’ done for them Middling Ages what Noah’s always clattering about, but not for my time o’ life. I’ll shut that wicket. [Crossing close to the wicket, her face almost comes against The Dean’s. She gives a cry.] The Dean!
The Dean.
Oh!
[He disappears.
Hannah.
Oh, no! Not my old master! Never the master! [Tottering to the wicket and looking in.] Master! Look at me! It’s ’Annah, your poor faithful servant, ’Annah!
[The face of The Dean re-appears.
The Dean.
[In a deep sad voice.] Hannah Evans.
Hannah.
It’s ’Annah Topping, Knee Evans, wife o’ the Constable what’s goin’ to take you to cruel Durnstone. [Sinking weeping upon the ground at the door.] Oh, Mr. Dean, sir, what have you been up to? What have you been up to? What have you been up to?
The Dean.
Woman, I am the victim of a misfortune only partially merited.
Hannah.
[On her knees, clasping her hands.] Tell me what you’ve done, Master dear; give it a name, for the love of goodness
The Dean.
My poor Hannah, I fear I have placed myself in an equivocal position.
Hannah.
[With a shriek of despair.] Ah!
The Dean.
Be quiet, woman!
Hannah.
Is it a change o’ cooking that’s brought you to such ways? I cooked for you for seven ’appy years!
The Dean.
[Sniffing.] Alas! you seem to have lost none of your culinary skill.
Hannah.
Master, are you hungry?
The Dean.
I am sorely tried by your domestic preparations.
Hannah.
[With clenched hands and a determined look.] Oh! [Quickly locking and bolting the street door.] Noah can’t put that brute of a horse to under ten minutes. The dupplikit key o’ the Strong Box! [Producing a large key, with which she unlocks the cell door.] Master, you’ll give me your patrol not to cut, won’t you?
The Dean.
Under any other circumstances, Hannah, I should resent that insinuation.
Hannah.
Don’t resent nothing! Shove! Shove your hardest, Dean dear!
[Pulling the door which opens sufficiently to let out The Dean.
The Dean.
[As he enters the room.] Good day, Hannah; you have bettered yourself, I hope?
Hannah.
[Hysterically flinging herself upon The Dean.] Oh, Master, Master!
The Dean.
[Putting her from him sternly.] Hannah! Mrs. Topping!
Hannah.
Oh, I know, I know, but crime levels all, dear sir!
The Dean.
You appear to misapprehend the precise degree of criminality which attaches to me, Mrs. Topping. In the eyes of that majestic, but imperfect instrument, the law, I am an innocent if not an injured man.
Hannah.
Ah, stick to that, sir! Stick to it, if you think it’s likely to serve your wicked ends!
[Placing bread with other things on the table.
The Dean.
My good woman, a single word from me to those at the Deanery, would instantly restore me to home, family, and accustomed diet.
Hannah.
Ah, they all tell that tale what comes here. Why don’t you send word, Dean dear?
The Dean.
Because it would involve revelations of my temporary moral aberration!
Hannah.
[Putting her apron to her eyes with a howl.] Owh!
The Dean.
Because I should return to the Deanery with my dignity—that priceless possession of man’s middle age!—with my dignity seriously impaired!
Hannah.
Oh, don’t, sir, don’t!
The Dean.
How could I face my simple children who have hitherto, not unreasonably, regarded me as faultless? How could I again walk erect in the streets of St. Marvells with my name blazoned on the Records of a Police Station of the very humblest description?
[Sinking into a chair and snatching up a piece of breads which he begins munching.
Hannah.
[Wiping her eyes.] Oh, sir, it’s a treat to hear you, compared with the hordinary criminal class. But, master, dear, though my Noah don’t recognize you—through his being a stranger to St. Marvells—how’ll you fare when you get to Durnstone?
The Dean.
I have one great buoyant hope—that a word in the ear of the Durnstone Superintendent will send me forth an unquestioned man. You and he will be the sole keepers of my precious secret. May its possession be a lasting comfort to you both.
Hannah.
Master, is what you’ve told me your only chance of getting off unknown?
The Dean.
It is the sole remaining chance of averting a calamity of almost national importance.
Hannah.
Then you’re as done as that joint in my oven!
The Dean.
Woman!
Hannah.
The Superintendent at Durnstone—John Ruggles—also the two Inspectors, Whitaker and Parker——
The Dean.
Hannah.
Them and their wives and families are chapel folk!
The Dean.
[Aghast.] No!
Hannah.
Yes. [The Dean totters across to a chair, into which he sinks with his head upon the table.] Master! Listen!
The Dean.
It’s all over! It’s all over!
Hannah.
No, no—Listen! I was well fed and kept seven years at the Deanery—I’ve been wed to Noah Topping eight weeks—that’s six years and ten months’ lovin’ duty doo to you and yours before I owe nothing to my darling Noah. Master dear, you shan’t be took to Durnstone!
The Dean.
Silence! Hannah Topping, formerly Evans, it is my duty to inform you that your reasoning does more credit to your heart than to your head.
Hannah.
I can’t help that. The Devil’s always in a woman’s heart because it’s the warmest place to get to! [Taking a small key from the table drawer.] Here, take that! [Pushing the key into the pocket of his coat.] When you once get free from my darling Noah that key unlocks your handcuffs!
The Dean.
Hannah.
How are you to get free, that’s the question now, isn’t it? I’ll tell you. My Noah drives you over to Durnstone with old Nick in the cart.
The Dean.
Old Nick!
Hannah.
That’s the horse. Now Nick was formerly in the Durnstone Fire Brigade, and when he ’ears the familiar signal of a double whistle you can’t hold him in. There’s the whistle. [Putting it into The Dean’s pocket.] Directly you turn into Pear Tree Lane, blow once and you’ll see Noah with his nose in the air, pullin’ fit to wrench his ’ands off. Jump out—roll clear of the wheel—keep cool and ’opeful and blow again. Before you can get the mud out of your eyes Noah and the horse and cart will be well into Durnstone, and may Providence restore a young ’usband safe to his doatin’ wife!
The Dean.
Hannah! How dare you! [Recoiling horror-stricken.
Hannah.
[Crying.] Oh—ooh—ooh!
The Dean.
Is this the fruit of your seven years’ constant cookery at the Deanery?
Hannah.
Oh dear! I wouldn’t have done it, only this is your first offence!
The Dean.
Hannah.
You’re not too old; I want to give you another start in life!
The Dean.
Another start! Woman, do you think I’ve no conscience? Do you think I don’t realize the enormity of the—of the difficulties in alighting from a vehicle in rapid motion?
Hannah.
[Opening the oven and taking out a small joint in a baking tin, which she places on the table.] It’s ’unger what makes you feel conscientious!
The Dean.
[Waving her away.] I have done with you!
Hannah.
With me, sir—but not with the joint! You’ll feel wickeder when you’ve had a little nourishment. [He looks hungrily at the dish.] That’s right, Dean, dear—taste my darling Noah’s favorite dish.
The Dean.
[Advancing towards the table.] Oh, Hannah Topping—Hannah Topping! [Clutching the carving-knife despairingly.] I’ll have no more women cooks at the Deanery! This reads me a lesson.
[Sitting and carving with desperation.
Hannah.
Don’t stint yourself, sir. You can’t blow that whistle on an empty frame. [The Dean begins to eat.] Don’t my cooking carry you back, sir? Oh, say it do!
The Dean.
Ah, if every mouthful would carry me back one little hour I would finish this joint!
[Noah Topping, unperceived by Hannah and The Dean, climbs in by the window, his eyes bolting with rage—he glares round the room, taking in everything at a glance.
Noah.
[Under his breath.] My man o’ mystery—a waited on by my nooly made wife—a heating o’ my favorite meal.
[Touching Hannah on the arm, she turns and faces him, speechless with fright.
The Dean.
[Still eating.] If my mind were calmer this would be an all-sufficient repast. [Hannah tries to speak, then clasps her hands and sinks on her knees to Noah.] Hannah, a little plain cold water in a simple tumbler, please.
Noah.
[Grimly—folding his arms.] ’Annah, hintrodooce me. [Hannah gives a cry and clings to Noah’s legs.
The Dean.
[Calmly to Noah.] Am I to gather, constable, from your respective attitudes that you object to these little kindnesses extended to me by your worthy wife?
Noah.
I’m wishin’ to know the name o’ my worthy wife’s friend. A friend o’ hern is a friend o’ mian.
Hannah.
Noah.
She’s gettin’ me a lot o’ nice noo friends since we coom to St. Marvells.
Hannah.
Noahry! I made this gentleman’s acquaintance through the wicket, in a casual way.
Noah.
Ay. Cooks and railins—cooks and railins! I might a guessed my wedded life ’ud a coom to this.
Hannah.
He spoke to me just as a strange gentleman ought to speak to a lady! Didn’t you, sir—didn’t you?
The Dean.
Hannah, do not let us even under these circumstances prevaricate; such is not quite the case!
[Noah advances savagely to The Dean. There is a knocking at the door.—Noah restrains himself and faces The Dean.
Noah.
Noa, this is neither the toime nor pla-ace, wi’ people at the door and dinner on t’ table, to spill a strange man’s blood.
The Dean.
I trust that your self-respect as an officer of the law will avert anything so unseemly.
Noah.
Ay. That’s it! You’ve touched me on my point o’ pride. There ain’t another police-station in all Durnstone conducted more strict and rigid nor what mian is, and it shall so continue. You and me is a goin’ to set out for Durnstone, and when the charges now standin’ agen you is entered, it’s I, Noah Topping, what’ll hadd another!
[There is another knock at the door.
Hannah.
Noah!
Noah.
The charge of allynating the affections o’ my wife, ’Annah!
The Dean.
[Horrified.] No, no!
Noah.
Ay, and worse—the embezzlin’ o’ my mid-day meal prepared by her ’ands. [Points into the cell.] Go in; you ’ave five minutes more in the ’ome you ’ave ruined and laid waste.
The Dean.
[Going to the door and turning to Noah.] You will at least receive my earnest assurance that this worthy woman is extremely innocent?
Noah.
Hinnocent? [Points to the joint on the table.] Look theer! [The Dean, much overcome, disappears through the cell door, which Noah closes and locks. The knock at the door is repeated. To Hannah, pointing to the outer door.] Hunlock that door!
Hannah.
[Weeping.] Oh, Noahry, you’ll never be popular in St. Marvells.
Noah.
[Hannah unlocks the door, and admits Georgiana and Sir Tristram, both dressed for the race-course.
Georgiana.
Dear me! Is this the Police-Station?
Hannah.
Yes, lady. Take a chair, lady, near the fire. [To Sir Tristram.] Sit down, sir.
Georgiana.
This is my first visit to a police-station, my good woman; I hope it will be the last.
Hannah.
Oh, don’t say that, ma’am. We’re honly hauxilliary ’ere, ma’am—the Bench sets at Durnstone.
Georgiana.
I must say you try to make everybody feel at home.
[Hannah curtseys.
Sir Tristram.
It’s beautifully Arcadian.
Georgiana.
[To Hannah.] Perhaps this is only a police-station for the young?
Hannah.
No, ma’am, we take ladies and gentlemen like yourselves.
Noah.
[Who has not been noticed, surveying Georgiana and Sir Tristram, gloomily.] ’Annah, hintrodooce me.
Georgiana.
[Facing Noah.] Good gracious! What’s that! Oh, good-morning.
Noah.
’Annah’s a gettin’ me a lot o’ nice noo friends this week since we coom to St. Marvells.
Hannah.
Noah, Noah—the lady and gentlemen is strange.
Noah.
Ho!
Georgiana.
Are you the man in charge here?
Noah.
Ay; are you seeing me on business or pleasure?
Sir Tristram.
Do you imagine people come here to see you?
Noah.
Noa—they generally coom to see my wife. ’Owever, if it’s business [pointing to the other side of the room] that’s the hofficial side—this is domestic. You’ll hall kindly move over.
Sir Tristram and Georgiana.
Oh, certainly.
[Changing their seats.
Sir Tristram.
Now, look here, my man. This lady is Mrs. Tidman. Mrs. Tidman is the sister of Dr. Jedd, the Dean of St. Marvells.
Hannah.
Georgiana.
There’s something wrong with your wife.
Noah.
Ay. She’s profligate—proceedins are pendin’!
Georgiana.
[To Sir Tristram.] Strange police station! My flesh creeps.
Sir Tristram.
[To Noah.] Well, my good man, to come to the point. My poor friend and this lady’s brother, Dr. Jedd, the Dean, you know—has mysteriously and unaccountably disappeared.
Georgiana.
Vanished.
Sir Tristram.
Gone.
Noah.
Absconded.
Georgiana.
Absconded! How dare you.
Noah.
Respectable man, was ’e?
Georgiana.
What do you mean?
Sir Tristram.
This lady is his sister!
Noah.
Now, look ’ere—it’s no good a gettin’ ’asty and irritable with the law. I’ll coom over to yer, officially.
[Putting the baking tin under his arm he crosses over to Sir Tristram and Georgiana.
Sir Tristram.
[Putting his handkerchief to his face.] Don’t bring that horrible odor of cooking over here.
Georgiana.
Take it away! What is it?
Noah.
It’s evidence against my profligate wife.
[Sir Tristram and Georgiana exchange looks of impatience.
Georgiana.
Do you realize that my poor brother the Dean is missing?
Noah.
Ay. Touching this missin’ De-an.
Georgiana.
I left him last night to retire to rest.
Sir Tristram.
This morning he is not to be found!
Noah.
Ay. ’As it struck you to look in ’is bed?
Georgiana and Sir Tristram.
Of course!
Georgiana.
Noah.
One ’ud a done. It’s only confusin’—hall doin’ it! Money matters right or wrong?
[Georgiana puts her handkerchief to her eyes.
Sir Tristram.
Do put your questions more feelingly! This is his sister—I am his friend!
Noah.
You will push yourselves forrard. Had he anything on his mind?
Georgiana.
Yes!
Noah.
Then I’ve got a the’ry.
Georgiana and Sir Tristram.
What is it?
Noah.
A the’ry that will put you all out o’ suspense!
Georgiana and Sir Tristram.
Yes, yes!
Noah.
I’ve been a good bit about, I read a deal, and I’m a shrewd experienced man. I should say this is nothin’ but a hordinary case of sooicide.
[Georgiana sits faintly.
Sir Tristram.
[Savagely to Noah.] Get out of the way! Georgiana?
Georgiana.
Oh, Tris, if this were true how could we break it to the girls?
Noah.
I could run oop, durin’ the evenin’, and break it to the girls.
Sir Tristram.
[Turns upon Noah.] Look here, all you’ve got to do is to hold your tongue and take down my description of the Dean, and report his disappearance at Durnstone. [Pushing him into a chair.] Go on! [Dictating.] “Missing. The Very Reverend Augustin Jedd, Dean of St. Marvells.” Poor Gus! Poor Gus!
Hannah.
[Softly to Georgiana.] Lady, lady.
[Noah prepares to write, depositing the baking-tin on the table.
Georgiana.
[Turning.] Eh?
Hannah.
Hush! Listen to me!
[Speaks to Georgiana excitedly.
Sir Tristram.
[To Noah.] Have you got that?
Noah.
[Writing laboriously with his legs curled round the chair and his head on the table.] Ay. I’m spelling it my own way.
Sir Tristram.
Poor dear old Gus! [Dictating.] “Description!”
Noah.
Oh noa!
Sir Tristram.
“Description!”
Noah.
I suppose he was jest the hordinary sort o’ lookin’ man.
Sir Tristram.
No, no! “Description!”
Georgiana.
[Turning from Hannah, excitedly.] Description—a little, short, thin man, with black hair and a squint!
Sir Tristram.
[To Georgiana.] No, no, he isn’t.
Georgiana.
Yes, he is!
Sir Tristram.
Georgiana! What are you talking about?
Georgiana.
I’m Gus’s sister—I ought to know what he’s like!
Sir Tristram.
Good heavens, Georgiana—your mind is not going?
Georgiana.
[Clutching Sir Tristram’s arm and whispering in his ear, as she points to the cell door.] He’s in there!
Sir Tristram.
Eh!
Georgiana.
Gus is the villain found dosing Dandy Dick last night!
Sir Tristram.
[Falling back.] Oh! [Hannah seizes Sir Tristram and talks to him rapidly.] [To Noah.] What have you written?
Noah.
I’ve written “Hanswers to the name o’ Gus!”
Georgiana.
[Snatching the paper from him.] It’s not wanted. I’ve altered my mind. I’m too busy to bother about him this week.
Noah.
What! Hafter wasting my time?
Georgiana.
Look here—you’re the constable who took the man in the Deanery Stables last night?
Noah.
Ay. [Looking out of the window.] There’s my cart outside ready to take the scoundrel over to Durnstone.
Georgiana.
I should like to see him.
Noah.
You can view him passin’ out.
[He tucks the baking-tin under his arm and goes up to the cell door.
Georgiana.
Noah.
[Unlocking the door.] I warn yer. ’E’s a awful looking creature.
Georgiana.
I can stand it; I love horrors!
[Noah goes into the cell, closing the door after him.
Tris!
Sir Tristram.
Georgiana!
Georgiana.
What was my brother’s motive in bolusing Dandy last night?
Sir Tristram.
I can’t think. The first thing to do is to get him out of this hole. This good woman has arranged for his escape.
Georgiana.
But we can’t trust to Gus rolling out of a flying dogcart! Why, it’s as much as I could do!
Hannah.
Oh, yes, lady, he’ll do it. I’ve prewided for everything. Don’t betray him to Noah! There’s another—a awfuller charge hangin’ over his reverend ’ead.
Sir Tristram.
Georgiana.
Another! Oh Tris! To think my own stock should run vicious like this.
Hannah.
Hush, lady!
[Noah comes out of the cell with The Dean, who is in handcuffs.
Georgiana and Sir Tristram.
Oh!
The Dean.
[Raising his eyes, sees Sir Tristram and Georgiana, and recoils with a groan, sinking on to a chair.] Oh!
Noah.
Oop you get!
Sir Tristram.
No, no, stay! I am the owner of the horse stabled at the Deanery. I make no charge against this wretched person. [To The Dean.] Oh man, man!
The Dean.
I was discovered administering to a suffering beast a simple remedy for chills. I am an unfortunate creature. Do with me what you will.
Georgiana.
The analysis hasn’t come home from the chemist’s yet. Is this the truth?
The Dean.
Sir Tristram.
[To Noah.] Release this man.
Noah.
Release him! He was found trespassin’ in the stables of the la-ate De-an, who has committed sooicide.
The Dean.
Oh! I——
Sir Tristram, Georgiana and Hannah.
Hush!
Noah.
The Diseased De-an is the honly man wot can withdraw one charge——
The Dean.
I—listen!
Sir Tristram, Georgiana and Hannah.
Hush!
Noah.
And I’m the honly man wot can withdraw the other.
Sir Tristram.
You? Get out!
Georgiana.
Get out!
Noah.
I charge this person unknown with allynating the affections o’ my wife while I was puttin’ my ’orse to. And I’m goin’ to drive him over to Durnstone with the hevidence.
Hannah.
Oh lady, lady, it’s appearances what is against us.
Noah.
[Through the opening of the door.] Woa! Steady there! Get back!
Georgiana.
[Whispering to The Dean.] I am disappointed in you, Angustin. Have you got this wretched woman’s whistle?
The Dean.
Yes.
Sir Tristram.
[Softly to The Dean.] Oh Jedd, Jedd—and these are what you call Principles! Have you got the key of your handcuffs?
The Dean.
Yes.
Noah.
[Appearing in the doorway.] Time’s oop. Coom on!
The Dean.
May I say a few parting words in the home I have apparently wrecked?
Noah.
The Dean.
In setting out upon a journey, the termination of which is problematical, I desire to attest that this erring constable is the husband of a wife from whom it is impossible to withhold respect, if not admiration.
Noah.
You ’ear’ im!
The Dean.
As for my wretched self, the confession of my weaknesses must be reserved for another time—another place. [To Georgiana.] To you, whose privilege it is to shelter in the sanctity of the Deanery, I give this earnest admonition. Within an hour from this terrible moment, let the fire be lighted in the drawing-room—let the missing man’s warm bath be waiting for its master—a change of linen prepared. Withhold your judgments. Wait.
Noah.
This is none of your business. Coom on.
The Dean.
I am ready!
[Noah takes him by the arm and leads him out.
Georgiana.
Oh, what am I to think of my brother?
Hannah.
[Kneeling at Georgiana’s feet.] Think! That he’s the beautifullest, sweetest man in all Durnshire!
Georgiana.
Hannah.
It’s I and my whistle and Nick the fire-brigade horse what’ll bring him back to the Deanery safe and unharmed. Not a soul but we three’ll ever know of his misfortune. [Listening.] Hark! They’re off!
Noah.
[Outside.] Get up, now! Get-oop, old girl!
Hannah.
[With a cry.] Ah! [Rushing to the door and looking out.] He’s done for!
Georgiana and Sir Tristram.
Done for!
Hannah.
The Dean can whistle himself blue! Noah’s put Kitty in the cart, and left Old Nick at home!
THE END OF THE FIRST SCENE.
The second scene is the Morning Room at the Deanery again.
Salome and Sheba are sitting there gloomily.
Salome.
Poor Papa!
Sheba.
Poor dear Papa!
Salome.
He must return very soon—he must!
Sheba.
He must! In the meantime it is such a comfort to feel that we have no cause for self-reproach.
Salome.
But the anxiety is terribly wearing.
Sheba.
Nothing is so weakening, Salome.
Salome.
Sheba, dear.
Sheba.
[Clinging to Salome.] If I should pine and ultimately die of this suspense I want you to have my workbox.
Salome.
[Shaking her head and sadly turning away.] Thank you, dear, but if Papa is not home for afternoon tea you will outlive me.
[Turning towards the window as Major Tarver and Mr. Darbey appear outside.
Darbey.
[Outside.] Miss Jedd! Miss Jedd!
Salome.
Sheba! Here are Gerald Tarver and Mr. Darbey!
Sheba.
Oh, the presumption! Open the window and dare them to enter!
[Salome unfastens the window.
Darbey.
[Outside.] Thank you. Don’t be shocked when you see Tarver.
Tarver and Darbey enter, dressed for the Races, but Darbey is supporting Tarver, who looks extremely weakly.
Tarver.
Pardon this informal method of presenting ourselves.
Salome.
You do well, gentlemen, to intrude upon two feeble women at a moment of sorrow.
Sheba.
One step further, and I shall ask Major Tarver, who is nearest the bell, to ring for help.
[Tarver sinks into a chair.
Darbey.
[Standing by the side of Tarver.] There now. The fact is. Miss Jedd, that Tarver is in an exceedingly critical condition. Feeling that he has incurred your displeasure he has failed even in the struggle to gain the race-course. I have taken him to Dr. Middleton and I explained that Major Tarver loved with a passion [looking at Sheba] second only to my own.
Salome.
[Sitting comfortably on the settee.] Oh, we cannot listen to you, Mr. Darbey.
Sheba.
[The two girls exchange looks.
Darbey.
The Doctor made a searching examination of the Major’s tongue and diagnosed that, unless the Major at once proposed to the lady in question and was accepted, three weeks or a month at the seaside would be absolutely imperative. Shall I continue?
Salome.
Oh, certainly. I am helpless.
Sheba.
We are curious to see to what lengths you will go.
Darbey.
The pitiable condition of my poor friend speaks for itself.
Salome.
I beg your pardon—it does nothing of the kind.
Tarver.
[Rising with difficulty and approaching Salome.] Salome—I have loved you distractedly for upwards of eight weeks.
Salome.
[Going to him.] Oh, Major Tarver, let me pass; [holding his coat firmly] let me pass, I say.
Tarver.
Unless you push me, never!
Sheba.
Spare me this scene, Mr. Darbey.
[Darbey follows Sheba across the room.
Tarver.
To a man in my condition love is either a rapid and fatal malady, or it is an admirable digestive. Accept me, and my merry laugh once more rings through the Mess Room. Reject me, and my collection of vocal music, loose and in volumes, will be brought to the hammer, and the bird, as it were, will trill no more.
Salome.
And is it really I who would hush the little throaty songster?
Tarver.
Certainly. [Taking a sheet of paper from his pocket.] I have the Doctor’s certificate to that effect.
[Both reading the certificate they walk into Library.
Sheba.
Oh, Mr. Darbey, I have never thought of marriage seriously.
Darbey.
People never do till they are married.
Sheba.
But think, only think of my age.
Darbey.
Pardon me, Sheba—but what is your age?
Sheba.
Oh, it is so very little—it is not worth mentioning. Cannot we remain friends and occasionally correspond?
Darbey.
Well, of course—if you insist——
Sheba.
No, no, I see that is impracticable. It must be wed or part. All I ask is time—time to ponder over such a question, time to know myself better.
Darbey.
Certainly, how long?
Sheba.
Give me two or three minutes. Hush!
[They separate as Tarver and Salome re-enter the room. Tarver is glaring excitedly and biting his nails.
Tarver.
I never thought I should live to be accepted by anyone. I shall buy some gay songs. Er—when can I see the Dean?
Salome.
Oh, don’t!
Tarver.
Salome!
Salome.
Papa has been out all night.
Darbey and Tarver.
All night?
Salome.
Isn’t it terrible! Oh, what do you think of it, Mr. Darbey?
Darbey.
Shocking, but we oughtn’t to condemn him unheard.
Salome.
Condemn my Papa!
Sheba.
[At the window.] Here’s Aunt Georgiana!
Darbey.
Eh! Look out, Tarver.
[Going out quickly.
Salome.
[Pulling Tarver after her.] Come this way and let us take cuttings in the conservatory.
[They go out.
Sheba.
Mr. Darbey! Mr. Darbey, wait for me—I have decided. Yes.
[She goes out by the door as Georgiana enters excitedly at the window.
Georgiana.
[Waving her handkerchief.] Come on, Tris! The course is clear! Mind the gate-post! Hold him up! Now give him his head!
Sir Tristram and Hatcham enter by the window carrying The Dean. They all look as though they have been recently engaged in a prolonged struggle.
Sir Tristram.
Put him down!
Georgiana.
Hatcham.
That I will, ma’am, and gladly.
[They deposit The Dean in a chair and Georgiana and Sir Tristram each seize a hand, feeling The Dean’s pulse, while Hatcham puts his hand on The Dean’s heart.
The Dean.
[Opening his eyes.] Where am I now?
Georgiana.
He lives! Hurrah! Cheer man, cheer!
Sir Tristram and Hatcham.
[Quietly.] Hurrah! [To Hatcham.] We can’t shout here; go and cheer as loudly as you can in the roadway by yourself.
Hatcham.
Yes, Sir.
[Hatcham runs out at the window.
The Dean.
[Gradually recovering.] Georgiana—Mardon.
Sir Tristram.
How are you, Jedd, old boy?
Georgiana.
How do you feel now, Gus?
The Dean.
Torn to fragments.
Sir Tristram.
So you are. Thank heaven, he’s conscious.
The Dean.
I feel as if I had been walked over carefully by a large concourse of the lower orders!
Georgiana.
So you have been. Thank heaven, his memory is all right.
[Hatcham’s voice is heard in the distance cheering. They all listen.
Sir Tristram.
That’s Hatcham; I’ll raise his wages.
The Dean.
Do I understand that I have been forcibly and illegally rescued?
Sir Tristram.
That’s it, old fellow.
The Dean.
Who has committed such a reprehensible act?
Sir Tristram.
A woman who would have been a heroine in any age—Georgiana!
The Dean.
Georgiana, I am bound to overlook it, in a relative, but never let this occur again.
Sir Tristram.
Tell him.
Georgiana.
You found out that that other woman’s plan went lame, didn’t you?
The Dean.
I discovered its inefficacy, after a prolonged period of ineffectual whistling.
Georgiana.
But we ascertained the road the genial constable was going to follow. He was bound for the edge of the hill, up Pear Tree Lane, to watch the Races. Directly we knew this, Tris and I made for the Hill. Bless your soul, there were hundreds of my old friends there—welshers, pick-pockets, card-sharpers, all the lowest race-course cads in the kingdom. In a minute I was in the middle of ’em, as much at home as a Duchess in a Drawing-room.
Sir Tristram.
A Queen in a Palace!
Georgiana.
Boadicea among the Druids! “Do you know me?” I holloaed out. Instantly there was a cry of “Blessed if it ain’t George Tidd!” Tears of real joy sprang to my eyes—while I was wiping them away Tris had his pockets emptied and I lost my watch.
Sir Tristram.
Ah, Jedd, it was a glorious moment!
Georgiana.
Tris made a back, and I stood on it, supported by a correct-card merchant on either side. “Dear friends,” I said; “Brothers! I’m with you once again.” You should have heard the shouts of honest welcome. Before I could obtain silence my field glasses had gone on their long journey. “Listen to me,” I said. “A very dear relative of mine has been collared for playing the three-card trick on his way down from town.” There was a groan of sympathy. “He’ll be on the brow of the Hill with a bobby in half-an-hour,” said I, “who’s for the rescue?” A dead deep silence followed, broken only by the sweet voice of a young child, saying, “What’ll we get for it?” “A pound a-piece,” said I. There was a roar of assent, and my concluding words, “and possibly six months,” were never heard. At that moment Tris’ back could stand it no longer, and we came heavily to the ground together. [Seizing The Dean by the hand and dragging him up.] Now you know whose hands have led you back to your own manger. [Embracing him.] And oh, brother, confess—isn’t there something good and noble in true English sport after all?
The Dean.
Every abused institution has its redeeming characteristic. But whence is the money to come to reward these dreadful persons? I cannot reasonably ask my girls to organize a bazaar or concert.
Georgiana.
Concert! I’m a rich woman.
The Dean.
Rich!
Georgiana.
Well, I’ve cleared fifteen hundred over the Handicap.
The Dean.
[Recoiling.] No! Then the horse who enjoyed the shelter of the Deanery last night——
Sir Tristram.
Dandy Dick!
The Dean.
Won!
Georgiana.
In a common canter! All the rest nowhere, and Bonny Betsy walked in with the policeman.
The Dean.
[To himself.] Five hundred pounds towards the Spire! Five hundred! Oh, where is Blore with the good news!
Sir Tristram.
Look at him! Lively as a cricket!
The Dean.
Sir Tristram, I am under the impression that your horse swallowed reluctantly a small portion of that bolus last night before I was surprised and removed.
Sir Tristram.
By the bye, I am expecting the analysis of that concoction every minute.
The Dean.
Spare yourself the trouble—the secret is with me. I seek no acknowledgment from either of you, but in your moment of deplorable triumph remember with gratitude the little volume of “The Horse and its Ailments” and the prosaic name of its humane author—John Cox.
[He goes out through the Library.
Georgiana.
But oh, Tris Mardon, what can I ever say to you?
Sir Tristram.
Anything you like except “Thank you!”
Georgiana.
Don’t stop me? Why, you were the man who hauled Augustin out of the cart by his legs!
Sir Tristram.
Oh, but why mention such trifles?
Georgiana.
They’re not trifles. And when his cap fell off, it was you—brave fellow that you are—who pulled the horse’s nose-bag over my brother’s head so that he shouldn’t be recognized.
Sir Tristram.
My dear Georgiana, these are the common courtesies of every-day life.
Georgiana.
They are acts which any true woman would esteem. Gus won’t readily forget the critical moment when all the cut chaff ran down the back of his neck—nor shall I.
Sir Tristram.
Nor shall I forget the way in which you gave Dandy his whisky out of a soda water bottle just before the race.
Georgiana.
That’s nothing—any lady would do the same.
Sir Tristram.
Nothing! You looked like the Florence Nightingale of the paddock! Oh, Georgiana, why, why, why won’t you marry me?
Georgiana.
Why!
Sir Tristram.
Why?
Georgiana.
Why! Because you’ve only just asked me, Tris!
[Goes to him cordially.
Sir Tristram.
But when I touched your hand last night, you reared!
Georgiana.
Yes, Tris, old man, but love is founded on mutual esteem; last night you hadn’t put my brother’s head in that nose-bag.
[They go together to the fireplace, he with his arm round her waist.
Sheba.
[Looking in at the door.] How annoying! There’s Aunt and Sir Tristram in this room—Salome and Major Tarver are sitting on the hot pipes in the conservatory—where am I and Mr. Darbey to go? Papa! Come back!
[She withdraws quickly as The Dean enters through the Library carrying a paper in his hand; he has now resumed his normal appearance.
The Dean.
Home! What sonorous music is in the word! Home, with the secret of my sad misfortune buried in the bosoms of a faithful few. Home, with my family influence intact! Home, with the sceptre of my dignity still tight in my grasp! What is this I have picked up on the stairs?
[Reads with a horrified look, as Hatcham enters at the window.
Hatcham.
Beg pardon, Sir Tristram.
Sir Tristram.
What is it?
Hatcham.
The chemist has just brought the annalisis.
Sir Tristram.
Where is he?
[Sir Tristram and Georgiana go out at the window, following Hatcham.
The Dean.
It is too horrible! [Reading.] “Debtor to Lewis Isaacs, Costumier to the Queen, Bow Street—Total, Forty pounds, nineteen!” There was a fancy masked ball at Durnstone last night! Salome—Sheba—no, no!
Salome and Sheba.
[Bounding in and rushing at The Dean.] Papa, Papa!
Salome.
Our own Papa!
Sheba.
Papsey!
[Salome seizes his hands, Sheba his coat-tails, and turn him round violently.
Salome.
Sheba.
Papsey—come back!
The Dean.
Stop!
Salome.
Papa, why have you tortured us with anxiety?
Sheba.
Where have you been, you naughty man?
The Dean.
Before I answer a question, which, from a child to its parent, partakes of the unpardonable vice of curiosity, I demand an explanation of this disreputable document. [Reading.] “Debtor to Lewis Isaacs, Costumier to the Queen.”
Salome and Sheba.
Oh!
[Sheba sits aghast on the table—Salome distractedly falls on the floor.
The Dean.
I will not follow this legend in all its revolting intricacies. Suffice it, its moral is inculcated by the mournful total. Forty pounds, nineteen! Imps of deceit! [Looking from one to the other.] There was a ball at Durnstone last night. I know it.
Sheba.
Spare us!
Salome.
You couldn’t have been there, Papa!
The Dean.
There! I trust I was better—that is, otherwise employed. [Referring to the bill.] Which of my hitherto trusted daughters was a lady—no, I will say a person—of the period of the French Revolution?
[Sheba points to Salome.
The Dean.
And a flower-girl of an unknown epoch. [Salome points to Sheba.] To your respective rooms! [The girls cling together.] Let your blinds be drawn. At seven porridge will be brought to you.
Salome.
Papa!
The Dean.
Go!
Sheba.
Papsey!
The Dean.
Go!
Salome.
Papa, we, poor girls as we are, can pay the bill.
The Dean.
You cannot—go!
Sheba.
Through the kindness of our Aunt——
Salome.
We have won fifty pounds.
The Dean.
What!
Sheba.
The Dean.
[Recoiling.] You too! You too drawn into the vortex! Is there no conscience that is clear—is there no guilessness left in this house, with the possible exception of my own!
Sheba.
[Sobbing.] We always knew a little more than you gave us credit for, Papa.
The Dean.
[Handing Sheba the bill.] Take this horrid thing—never let it meet my eyes again. As for the scandalous costumes, they shall be raffled for in aid of local charities. Confidence, that precious pearl in the snug shell of domesticity, is at an end between us. I chastise you both by permanently withholding from you the reason of my absence from home last night. Go!
[The girls totter out as Sir Tristram enters quickly at the window, followed by Georgiana, carrying the basin containing the bolus. Sir Tristram has an opened letter in his hand.
Sir Tristram.
Good heavens, Jedd! the analysis has arrived!
The Dean.
I am absolutely indifferent!
Georgiana and Sir Tristram.
Indifferent!
The Dean.
[To Georgiana.] How dare you confront me without even the semblance of a blush—you who have enabled my innocent babies, for the first time in their lives, to discharge one of their own accounts.
Georgiana.
There isn’t a blush in our family—if there were, you’d want it.
[Sheba and Salome appear outside the window, looking in.
Sir Tristram.
Jedd, you were once my friend, and you are to be my relative.
The Dean.
[Looking at Georgiana.] My sister! [To Sir Tristram.] I offer no opposition.
Sir Tristram.
But not even our approaching family tie prevents my designating you as one of the most atrocious conspirators known in the history of the Turf.
The Dean.
Conspirator!
Sir Tristram.
As the owner of one-half of Dandy Dick, I denounce you!
Georgiana.
As the owner of the other half, I denounce you!
The Dean.
You!
Sheba and Salome enter, and remain standing in the recess, listening.
Sir Tristram.
The chief ingredient of your infernal preparation is known.
The Dean.
It contains nothing that I would not cheerfully administer to my own children.
Georgiana.
[In horror.] Oh!
Sir Tristram.
I believe you. [Pointing to the paper.] Strychnine! Sixteen grains!
Salome and Sheba.
[Clinging to each other terrified.] Oh!
The Dean.
Strychnine! Summon my devoted servant Blore, in whose presence the innocuous mixture was compounded. [Georgiana rings the bell. The girls hide behind the window curtains.] This analysis is simply the pardonable result of over-enthusiasm on the part of our local chemist.
Georgiana.
You’re a disgrace to the pretty little police station where you slept last night!
[Blore enters and stands unnoticed.
The Dean.
I will prove that in the Deanery Stables the common laws of hospitality have never been transgressed. Give me the bowl! [Georgiana hands The Dean the basin from the table.] A simple remedy for a chill.
Georgiana and Sir Tristram.
Strychnine—sixteen grains!
The Dean.
I, myself, am suffering from the exposure of last night. [Taking the remaining bolus and opening his mouth.] Observe me!
Blore.
[Rushing forward, snatching the basin from The Dean and sinking on to his knees.] No, no! Don’t, don’t! You wouldn’t ’ang the holdest servant in the Deanery.
The Dean.
Blore!
Blore.
I did it! I ’ad a honest fancy for Bonny Betsy, and I wanted this gentleman’s ’orse out of the way. And while you was mixing the dose with the best ecclesiastical intentions, I hintroduced a foreign element.
The Dean.
[Pulling Blore up by his coat collar.] Viper!
Blore.
Oh sir, it was hall for the sake of the Dean.
Sir Tristram.
The Dean?
Blore.
The dear Dean had only Fifty Pounds to spare for sporting purposes, and I thought a gentleman of ’is ’igh standing ought to have a certainty.
Sir Tristram.
Jedd!
Georgiana.
Augustin!
The Dean.
I can conceal it no longer—I—I instructed this unworthy creature to back Dandy Dick on behalf of the Restoration Fund.
Sir Tristram.
[Shaking Blore.] And didn’t you do it?
Blore.
No.
The Dean.
Why not? In the name of that tottering Spire, why not?
Blore.
Oh, sir, thinking as you’d given some of the mixture to Dandy I put your cheerful little offering on to Bonny Betsy.
[Salome and Sheba disappear.
The Dean.
Oh! [To Blore.] I could have pardoned everything but this last act of disobedience. You are unworthy of the Deanery. Leave it for some ordinary household.
Blore.
If I leave the Deanery, I shall give my reasons, and then what’ll folks think of you and me in our old age?
The Dean.
You wouldn’t spread this tale in St. Marvells?
Blore.
Not if sober, sir—but suppose grief drove me to my cups?
The Dean.
I must save you from intemperance at any cost. Remain in my service—a sad, sober and, above all, a silent man!
[Salome and Sheba appear as Blore goes out through the window.
Salome.
Papa!
The Dean.
To your rooms! I am distracted!
Salome.
Major Tarver and Mr. Darbey!——
The Dean.
If you have sufficiently merged all sense of moral rectitude as to declare that I am not at home, do so.
Sheba.
No, no. Papa; we have accidentally discovered that you, our parent, have stooped to deception, if not to crime.
The Dean.
[Staggering back.] Oh!
Sheba.
We are still young—the sooner, therefore, we are removed from any unfortunate influence the better.
Salome.
We have an opportunity of beginning life afresh.
Sheba.
These two gallant gentlemen have proposed for us.
The Dean.
Then I am at home. Where are they?
[He goes out rapidly, followed by Salome and Sheba. Directly they have disappeared, Noah Topping, looking dishevelled, rushes in at the window, with Hannah clinging to him.
Noah.
[Glaring round the room.] Is this ’ere the Deanery?
[Georgiana and Sir Tristram come to him.
Hannah.
Noahry, Noah, come back!
Noah.
Theer’s been a man rescued from my lawful custody while my face was unofficially held downwards in the mud. The villain has been traced back to the Deanery.
Sir Tristram.
Go away!
Hannah.
Come away!
Noah.
The man was a unknown lover of my nooly made wife!
Georgiana.
You mustn’t bring your domestic affairs here; this is a subject for your own fireside of an evening.
[The Dean appears outside the window with Salome, Sheba, Tarver and Darbey.
The Dean.
[Outside.] Come in, Major Tarver—come in, Mr. Darbey!
Noah.
That’s his voice!
The Dean enters, followed by Salome, Tarver, Sheba and Darbey.
Noah.
[Confronting The Dean.] My man.
Hannah.
No, no, Noahry!
Georgiana.
You’re speaking to Dr. Jedd, the Dean of St. Marvells.
Noah.
I’m speaking to the man I took last night—the culprit as ’as allynated the affections of my wife.
Sir Tristram.
Wait—one moment! [Going out at the window.
[Salome and Tarver go into the Library and sit at the writing-table. Darbey sits in an arm-chair with Sheba on the arm.
The Dean.
[Mildly.] Do not let us chide a man who is conscientious even in error. [Looking at Hannah.] I think I see Hannah Evans, once an excellent cook under this very roof.
Hannah.
I’m Mrs. Topping now, sir—bride o’ the constable. And oh, do forgive him—he’s a mass o’ ignorance.
Noah.
Coom away!
[Hannah returns to Noah, as Sir Tristram re-enters with Hatcham.
Sir Tristram.
[To Hatcham.] Hatcham—[pointing to The Dean]—Is that the man you and the Constable secured in the stable last night?
Hatcham.
That, sir! Bless your ’art, sir, that’s the Dean ’imself.
Sir Tristram.
That’ll do.
Hatcham.
[To Noah.] Why, our man was a short, thin individual!
[Hatcham goes out at the window.
The Dean.
[To Noah.] I trust you are perfectly satisfied.
Noah.
[Wiping his brow and looking puzzled.] I’m doon.
The Dean.
Don’t trouble further. I withdraw unreservedly any charge against this unknown person found on my premises last night. I attribute to him the most innocent intentions. Hannah, you and your worthy husband will stay and dine in my kitchen. Good afternoon.
Noah.
Is it a ’ot dinner?
The Dean.
Hot—with ale.
Noah.
[Turning angrily to Hannah.] Now then, you don’t know a real gentleman when you see one. Why don’t ’ee thank the Dean warmly?
Hannah.
[Kissing The Dean’s hands with a curtsey.] Thank you, sir.
The Dean.
[Benignly.] Go—go. I take a kindly interest in you both.
[They back out, bowing and curtseying.
Georgiana.
Well, Gus, you’re out of all your troubles. Are you happy?
The Dean.
Happy! My family influence gone forever—my dignity crushed out of all recognition—the genial summer of the Deanery frosted by the winter of Deceit.
Georgiana.
Ah, Gus, when once you lay the whip about the withers of the horse called Deception he takes the bit between his teeth, and only the devil can stop him—and he’d rather not. Shall I tell you who has been riding the horse hardest?
The Dean.
Who?
Georgiana.
The Dean.
The Dean.
Georgiana! I’m surprised at you.
[Sheba sits at the piano and plays a bright air softly—Darbey standing behind her—Salome and Tarver stand in the archway.
Georgiana.
[Slapping The Dean on the back.] Look here, Augustin, George Tidd will lend you that thousand for the poor, innocent old Spire.
The Dean.
[Taking her hand.] Oh, Georgiana!
Georgiana.
On one condition—that you’ll admit there’s no harm in our laughing at a Sporting Dean.
The Dean.
No, no—I cannot allow it!
Georgiana.
Tris! My brother Gus doesn’t want us to be merry at his expense.
[They both laugh.
The Dean.
[Trying to silence them.] No, no! I forbid it! Hush!
Sir Tristram.
Why, Jedd, there’s no harm in laughter, for those who laugh or those who are laughed at.
Georgiana.
Provided always—firstly, that it is Folly that is laughed at and not Virtue; secondly, that it is our friends who laugh at us, [to the audience] as we hope they all will, for our pains.
THE END
Transcriber’s Note
This transcription is based on the scan images posted by The Internet Archive at:
[archive.org/details/dandydickplayint00pinerich]
In addition, when there was a question about the printed text, another edition posted by The Internet Archive was consulted:
[archive.org/details/dandydickplayint00pineiala]
The following changes were made to the text:
- Throughout the text, dashes at the end of lines have been normalized.
- Throughout the text, “and” in the character titles preceding dialogue has been italicized consistently and names in stage directions have been consistently either capitalized (in the text version) or set in small caps (in the html version).
- In the Introductory Note, “St. Marvells” has an apostrophe, whereas in the text of the play it almost always does not. The inconsistency has been allowed to stand in the Introductory Note, but the apostrophe has been removed in the few instances in the text.
- Pg. 25: “The Dean gives Darbey a severe look...”—A bracket has been added to the beginning of this line.
- Pg. 91: “Sir Tristram, then enters quietly, smoking...”—The comma after “Sir Tristram” has been deleted.
- Pg. 97: “No, Aunt, No!”—The second “No” has been changed to lower case.
- Pg. 139: “Oh, what do you think of it. Mr. Darbey?”—The period after “it” has been changed to a comma.
- Pg. 141: “We can’t shout here, go and cheer...”—The comma has been changed to a semicolon.
- Pg. 142: “That’s Hatcham, I’ll raise his wages.”—The comma has been changed to a semicolon.
- Pg. 143: “’aint” has been changed to “ain’t”.
- Pg. 147: “...mutual esteem, last night...”—The comma has been changed to a semicolon.
- Pg. 154: “I did it?” has been changed to “I did it!”
The html version of this etext attempts to reproduce the layout of the printed text. However, some concessions have been made, particularly in the handling of stage directions enclosed by brackets on at least one side. (Entrances were usually without brackets.) In general, the stage directions were typeset in the printed text as follows:
- Before and within dialogue.
- Flush right, on the same line as the end of dialogue if there was enough space; on the next line, if there was not.
- If the stage directions were two lines, they were indented from the left margin as hanging paragraphs. How much the stage directions were indented varied.
In the etext, all stage directions not before or within dialogue are placed on the next line, indented the same amount from the left margin, and coded as hanging paragraphs.