COMING OF AGE.
A GRAND SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGICAL COMEDY-DRAMA IN ONE ACT.
Dramatis Personæ.
| The Earl of Burntalmond. | ||
| The Countess of Burntalmond (his wife). | ||
| Robert Henry Viscount Bullsaye (their son and heir). | ||
| The Lady Rose Caramel (niece to the Earl). | ||
| Horehound Mrs. Horehound Coltsfoot Horehound | } | Travelling as "The Celebrated Combination Korffdropp Troupe," in their refined and elegant Drawing-room Entertainment. |
| Tenantry. | ||
Scene—The Great Quadrangle of Hardbake Castle; banners, mottoes, decorations, &c. On the steps, r., the Earl, supported by his wife, son, and niece, is discovered in the act of concluding a speech to six tenantry, who display all the enthusiasm that is reasonably to be expected at nine-pence a night.
The Earl (patting Lord Bullsaye's shoulder). I might say more, Gentlemen, in praise of my dear son, Lord Bullsaye, here—I might dwell on his extreme sweetness, his strongly marked character, the variety of his tastes, and the singular attraction he has for children of all ages—but I forbear. I will merely announce that on this day—the day he has selected for attaining his majority—he has gratified us all by plighting troth to his cousin, the Lady Rose Caramel, with whose dulcet and clinging disposition he has always possessed the greatest natural affinity. [Cheers.
Lord Bullsaye (aside to Lady R.). Ah, Rose, would such happiness could last! But my heart misgives me strangely—why, I know not.
Lady R. Say not so, dear Bullsaye—have you not just rendered me the happiest little Patrician in the whole peerage?
Lord B. 'Tis true—and yet, and yet—pooh, let me snatch the present hour! [Snatches it.
The Earl. And now, let the Revels commence.
Enter the Korffdropp Troupe, who give their marvellous Entertainment, entitled, "The Three Surprise Packets;" after which—
Horehound. This will conclude the first portion of our Entertainment, Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen; and, while my wife and pardner retires to change her costoom for the Second Part, I should be glad of the hoppertoonity of a short pussonal hexplanation with the noble Herl on my right.
[Exit Mrs. Horehound.
The Earl (graciously). I will hear you, fellow! (Aside.) Strange how familiar his features seem to me!
Horeh. The fact is, your Lordship's celebrating the coming of hage of the wrong heir. (Sensation—i.e., the six tenantry shift from one leg to the other, and murmur feebly.) Oh, I can prove it. Twenty-one years ago—(slow music)—I was in your Lordship's service as gamekeeper, 'ead whip, and hextry waiter. My son and yours was born the selfsame day, and my hold dutch was selected to hact as foster-mother to the youthful lord. Well—(tells a long, and not entirely original, story; marvellous resemblance between infants, only distinguishable by green and magenta bows, &c., &c.) Soon after, your Lordship discharged me at a moment's notice——
The Earl (haughtily). I did, upon discovering that you were in the habit of surreptitiously carrying off kitchen-stuff, concealed within your umbrella. But proceed with your narration.
Horeh. I swore to be avenged, and so—(common form again; the shifted bows)—consequently, as a moment's reflection will convince you, the young man on the steps, in the button-'ole and tall 'at, is my lawful son, while the real Viscount is—(presenting Coltsfoot, who advances modestly on his hands)—'ere!
[Renewed sensation.
The Earl. This is indeed a startling piece of intelligence. (To Lord B.) And so, Sir, it appears that your whole life has been one consistent imposition—a gilded lie?
Lord B. Let my youth and inexperience at the time, Sir, plead as my best excuse!
The E. Nothing can excuse the fact that you—you, a low-born son of the people, have monopolised the training, the tenderness and education, which were the due of your Patrician foster-brother. (To Coltsfoot.) Approach, my injured, long-lost boy, and tell me how I may atone for these years of injustice and neglect!
Colts. Well, Guv'nor, if you could send out for a pot o' four arf, it 'ud be a beginning, like.
The E. You shall have every luxury that befits your rank, but first remove that incongruous garb.
Colts. (to Lord B.). These 'ere togs belong to you now, young feller, and I reckon exchange ain't no robbery.
Lord B. (with emotion, to Countess). Mother, can you endure to behold your son in tights and spangles on the very day of his majority?
Countess (coldly). On the contrary, it is my wish to see him attired as soon as possible, in a more appropriate costume.
Lord B. (to Lady R.). Rose, you, at least, have not changed? Tell me you will love me still even on the precarious summit of an acrobat's pole!
Lady Rose (scornfully). Really the presumptuous familiarity of the lower orders is perfectly appalling!
The Earl (to Countess, as Lord B. and Coltsfoot retire to exchange costumes). At last, Pauline, I understand why I could never feel towards Bullsaye the affection of a parent. Often have I reproached myself for a coldness I could not overcome.
Countess. And I too! Nature was too strong for us. But, oh, the joy of recovering our son—of finding him so strong, so supple, so agile. Never yet has our line boasted an heir who can feed himself from a fork strapped on to his dexter heel!
The E. (with emotion). Our beloved, boneless boy!
[Re-enter Coltsfoot in modern dress, and Lord B. in tights.
Colts. Don't I look slap-up—O.K. and no mistake? Oh, I am 'aving a beano!
All. What easy gaiety, and unforced animation!
The E. My dear boy, let me present you to your fiancée. Rose, my love, this is your legitimate lover.
Colts. Oh, all right, I've no objections—on'y there'll be ructions with the young woman in the tight-rope line as I've been keepin' comp'ny with—that's all!
The E. Your foster-brother will act as your substitute there. (Proudly.) My son must make no mésalliance!
Rose (timidly). And, if it would give you any pleasure, I'm sure I could soon learn the tight-rope!
Colts. Not at your time o' life, Miss, and besides, 'ang it, now I'm a lord, I can't have my wife doin' nothing low!
The E. Spoken like a true Burntalmond! And now let the revels re-commence.
[Re-enter Mrs. Horehound.
Horeh. (to Lord B.). Now then, stoopid, tumble, can't you—what are you 'ere for?
Lord B. (to the Earl). Since it is your command, I obey, though it is ill tumbling with a heavy heart!
[Turns head over heels laboriously.
Colts. Call that a somersault? 'Ere, 'old my 'at (giving tall hat to Lady R.) I'll show yer 'ow to do a turn.
[Throws a triple somersault.
All. What condescension! How his aristocratic superiority is betrayed, even in competition with those to the manner born!
Mrs. Horeh. (still in ignorance of the transformation). Halt! I have kept silence till now—even from my husband, but the time has come when I must speak. Think you that if he were indeed a lord, he could turn such somersaults as those? No—no. I will reveal all. (Tells same old story—except that she herself from ambitious motives transposed the infants' bows.) Now, do with me what you will!
Horeh. Confusion, so my ill-judged action did but redress the wrong I designed to effect!
The E. (annoyed). This is a serious matter, reflecting as it does upon the legitimacy of my lately recovered son. What proof have you, woman, of your preposterous allegation?
Mrs. H. None, my lord,—but these—
[Exhibits two faded bunches of ribbon.
The E. I cannot resist such overwhelming evidence, fight against it as I may.
Lord B. (triumphantly). And so—oh, Father, Mother, Rose—dear, dear Rose—I am no acrobat, after all!
The E. (sternly). Would you were anything half so serviceable to the community, Sir! I have no superstitious reverence for rank, and am, I trust, sufficiently enlightened to discern worth and merit—even beneath the spangled vest of the humblest acrobat. Your foster-brother, brief as our acquaintance has been, has already endeared himself to all hearts, while you have borne a trifling reverse of fortune with sullen discontent and conspicuous incapacity. He has perfected himself in a lofty and distinguished profession during years spent by you, Sir, in idly cumbering the earth of Eton and Oxford. Shall I allow him to suffer by a purely accidental coincidence? Never! I owe him reparation, and it shall be paid to the uttermost penny. From this day, I adopt him as my eldest son, and the heir to my earldom, and all other real and personal effects. See, Robert Henry, that you treat your foster-brother as your senior in future!
Colts. (to Lord B.). Way-oh, ole matey, I don't bear no malice, I don't! Give us your dooks. [Offering hand.
The C. Ah, Bullsaye, try to be worthy of such generosity!
[Lord B. grasps Coltsfoot's hand in silence.
Lady Rose. And pray, understand that, whether Mr. Coltsfoot be viscount or acrobat, it can make no difference whatever to the disinterested affection with which I have lately learnt to regard him.
[Gives her hand to Coltsfoot, who squeezes it with ardour.
Colts. (pleasantly). Well, Father, Mother, your noble Herlship and Lady, foster-brother Bullsaye, and my pretty little sweetart 'ere, what do you all say to goin' inside and shunting a little garbage, and shifting a drop or so of lotion, eh?
The E. A most sensible suggestion, my boy. Let us make these ancient walls the scene of the blithest—ahem!—beano they have ever yet beheld!
[Cheers from Tenantry, as the Earl leads the way into the Castle with Mrs. Horehound, followed by Horehound with the Countess and Coltsfoot with Lady Rose, Lord Bullsaye, discomfited and abashed, entering last as Curtain falls.
vii.—RECLAIMED!
OR, HOW LITTLE ELFIE TAUGHT HER GRANDMOTHER.
Characters.
| Lady Belledame (a Dowager of the deepest dye). | |
| Monkshood (her Steward, and confidential Minion). | |
| Little Elfie (an Angel Child). | This part has been specially constructed for that celebrated Infant Actress, Banjoist, and Variety Comédienne, Miss Birdie Callowchick. |
Scene—The Panelled Room at Nightshade Hall.
Lady Belledame (discovered preparing parcels). Old and unloved!—yes the longer I live, the more plainly do I perceive that I am not a popular old woman. Have I not acquired the reputation in the County of being a witch? My neighbour, Sir Vevey Long, asked me publicly only the other day "when I would like my broom ordered," and that minx, Lady Violet Powdray, has pointedly mentioned old cats in my hearing! Pergament, my family lawyer, has declined to act for me any longer, merely because Monkshood rack-rented some of the tenants a little too energetically in the Torture Chamber—as if in these hard times one was not justified in putting the screw on! Then the villagers scowl when I pass; the very children shrink from me—[A childish Voice outside window, "Yah, 'oo sold 'erself to Old Bogie for a pound o' tea an' a set o' noo teeth?">[—that is, when they do not insult me by suggestions of bargains that are not even businesslike! No matter—I will be avenged upon them all—ay, all! 'Tis Christmas-time—the season at which sentimental fools exchange gifts and good wishes. For once I, too, will distribute a few seasonable presents.... (Inspecting parcels.) Are my arrangements complete? The bundle of choice cigars, in each of which a charge of nitro-glycerine has been dexterously inserted? The lip-salve, made up from my own prescription with corrosive sublimate by a venal chemist in the vicinity? The art flower-pot, containing a fine specimen of the Upas plant, swathed in impermeable sacking? The sweets compounded with sugar of lead? The packet of best ratsbane? Yes, nothing has been omitted. Now to summon my faithful Monkshood.... Ha! he is already at hand.
[Chord as Monkshood enters.
Monkshood. Your Ladyship, a child, whose sole luggage is a small bandbox and a large banjo, is without, and requests the favour of a personal interview.
Lady B. (reproachfully). And you, who have been with me all these years, and know my ways, omitted to let loose the bloodhounds? You grow careless, Monkshood!
Monks. (wounded). Your Ladyship is unjust—I did unloose the bloodhounds; but the ferocious animals merely sat up and begged. The child had took the precaution to provide herself with a bun!
Lady B. No matter, she must be removed—I care not how.
Monks. There may be room for one more—a little one—in the old well. The child mentioned that she was your Ladyship's granddaughter, but I presume that will make no difference?
Lady B. (disquieted). What!—then she must be the child of my only son Poldoodle, whom, for refusing to cut off the entail, I had falsely accused of adulterating milk, and transported beyond the seas! She comes hither to denounce and reproach me! Monkshood, she must not leave this place alive—you hear?
Monks. I require no second bidding—ha, the child ... she comes!
[Chord. Little Elfie trips in with touching self-confidence.
Elfie (in a charming little Cockney accent). Yes, Grandma, it's me—little Elfie, come all the way from Australia to see you, because I thought you must be sow lownly all by yourself! My Papa often told me what a long score he owed you, and how he hoped to pay you off if he lived. But he went out to business one day—Pa was a bushranger, you know, and worked—oh, so hard; and never came back to his little Elfie, so poor little Elfie has come to live with you!
Monks. Will you have the child removed now, my Lady?
Lady B. (undecidedly). Not now—not yet; I have other work for you. These Christmas gifts, to be distributed amongst my good friends and neighbours (handing parcels). First, this bundle of cigars to Sir Vevey Long with my best wishes that such a connoisseur in tobacco may find them sufficiently strong. The salve for Lady Violet Powdray, with my love, and it should be rubbed on the last thing at night. The plant you will take to the little Pergaments—'twill serve them for a Christmas tree. This packet to be diluted in a barrel of beer, which you will see broached upon the village green; these sweetmeats for distribution among the most deserving of the school-children.
Elfie (throwing her arms around Lady B.'s neck). I do like you, Grandma, you have such a kind face! And oh, what pains you must have taken to find something that will do for everybody!
Lady B. (disengaging herself peevishly). Yes, yes, child. I trust that what I have chosen will indeed do for everybody,—but I do not like to be messed about. Monkshood, you know what you have to do.
Elfie. Oh, I am sure he does, Grandma! See how benevolently he smiles. You're such a good old man, you will take care that all the poor people are fed, won't you?
Monks. (with a sinister smile). Ah! Missie, I've 'elped to settle a many people's 'ash in my time!
Elfie (innocently). What, do they all get hash? How nice! I like hash,—but what else do you give them?
Monks. (grimly). Gruel, Missie. (Aside.) I must get out of this, or this innocent child's prattle will unman me!
[Exit with parcels.
Elfie. You seem so sad and troubled, Grandma. Let me sing you one of the songs with which I drew a smile from poor dear Pa in happier days.
Lady B. No, no, some other time. (Aside.) Pshaw! why should I dread the effect of her simple melodies? (Aloud.) Sing, child, if you will.
Elfie. How glad I am that I brought my banjo! [Sings.
Dar is a lubly yaller gal dat tickles me to deff;
She'll dance de room ob darkies down, and take away deir breff.
When she sits down to supper, ebery coloured gemple-man,
As she gets her upper lip o'er a plate o' "possom dip," cries,
"Woa, Lucindy Ann!" (Chorus, dear Granny!)
Chorus.
Woa, Lucindy! Woa, Lucindy! Woa, Lucindy Ann!
At de rate dat you are stuffin, you will nebber leave us nuffin; so woa, Miss Sindy Ann!
To Lady B. (who, after joining in chorus with deep emotion, has burst into tears). Why, you are weeping, dear Grandmother!
Lady B. Nay, 'tis nothing, child—but have you no songs which are less sad?
Elfie. Oh, yes, I know plenty of plantation ditties more cheerful than that. (Sings.)
Oh, I hear a gentle whisper from de days ob long ago,
When I used to be a happy darkie slave.
[Trump-a-trump!
But now I'se got to labour wif the shovel an' de hoe—
For ole Massa lies a sleepin' in his grave!
[Trump-trump!
Chorus.
Poor ole Massa! Poor ole Massa! (Pianissimo.) Poor ole Massa, that I nebber more shall see!
He was let off by de Jury, Way down in old Missouri—But dey lynched him on a persimmon tree.
Elfie. You smile at last, dear Grandma! I would sing to you again, but I am so very, very sleepy!
Lady B. Poor child, you have had a long journey. Rest awhile on this couch, and I will arrange this screen so as to protect your slumbers. [Leads little Elfie to couch.
Elfie (sleepily). Thanks, dear Grandma, thanks.... Now I shall go to sleep, and dream of you, and the dogs, and angels. I so often dream about angels—but that is generally after supper, and to-night I have had no supper.... But never mind.... Good night, Grannie, good night ... goo'ni' ... goo ... goo! [She sinks softly to sleep.
Lady B. And I was about to set the bloodhounds upon this little sunbeam! 'Tis long since these grim walls have echoed strains so sweet as hers. (Croons.) "Woa, Lucindy" &c. "Dey tried him by a Jury, way down in ole Missouri, an' dey hung him to a possumdip tree!" (Goes to couch, and gazes on the little sleeper.) How peacefully she slumbers! What a change has come over me in one short hour!—my withered heart is sending up green shoots of tenderness, of love, and hope! Let me try henceforth to be worthy of this dear child's affection and respect. (Turns, and sees Monkshood.) Ha, Monkshood! Then there is time yet! Those parcels ... quick, quick!—the parcels!——
Monks (impassively). Have been left as you instructed, my Lady.
[Chord. Lady B. staggers back, gasping, into chair. Little Elfie awakes behind screen, and rubs her eyes.
Lady B. (in a hoarse whisper). You—you have left the parcels ... all—all? Tell me—how were they received? Speak low—I would not that yonder child should awake and hear!
Little Elfie (behind the screen, very wide awake indeed). Dear, good old Grannie—she would conceal her generosity—even from me! (Loudly.) She little thinks that I am overhearing all!
Monks. I could have sworn I heard whispering.
Lady B. Nay, you are mistaken—'twas but the wind in the old wainscot. (Aside.) He is quite capable of destroying that innocent child; but old and attached servant as he is, there are liberties I still know how to forbid. (To M.) Your story—quick!
Monks. First, I delivered the cigars to Sir Vevey Long, whom I found under his verandah. He seemed surprised and gratified by the gift, selected a weed, and was proceeding to light it, whilst he showed a desire to converse familiarly with me. 'Astily excusing myself, I drove away, when——
Lady B. When what? Do not torture a wretched old woman!
Monks. When I heard a loud report behind me, and, in the portion of a brace, two waistcoat-buttons, and half a slipper, which hurtled past my ears, I recognised all that was mortal of the late Sir Vevey. You mixed them cigars uncommon strong, m'Lady.
Elfie (aside). Can it be? But no, no. I will not believe it. I am sure that dear Granny meant no harm!
Lady B. (with a grim pride she cannot wholly repress). I have devoted some study to the subject of explosives. 'Tis another triumph to the Anti-tobacconists. And what of Lady Violet Powdray—did she apply the salve?
Monks. Judging from the 'eartrending 'owls which proceeded from Carmine Cottage, the salve was producing the desired result. Her Ladyship, 'owever, terminated her sufferings somewhat prematoor by jumping out of a top winder just as I was taking my departure——
Lady B. She should have died hereafter—but no matter ... and the Upas-tree?——
Monks.——was presented to the Pergaments, who unpacked it, and loaded its branches with toys and tapers; after which Mr. Pergament, Mrs. P., and all the little Pergaments joined 'ands, and danced round it in light'arted glee. (In a sombre tone.) They little knoo as how it was their dance of death!
Lady B. That knowledge will come! And the beer, Monkshood—you saw it broached?
Monks. Upon the village green; the mortality is still spreading, it being found impossible to undo the knots in which the victims have tied themselves. The sweetmeats were likewise distributed, and the floor of the hinfant-school now resembles one vast fly-paper.
Lady B. (with a touch of remorse). The children too! Was not my little Elfie once an infant? Ah me, ah me!
Elfie (aside). Once—but that was long, long ago. And, oh, how disappointed I am in poor dear Grandmama!
Lady B. Monkshood, you should not have done these things—you should have saved me from myself. You must have known how greatly all this would increase my unpopularity in the neighbourhood.
Monks. (sulkily). And this is my reward for obeying orders! Take care, my Lady. It suits you now to throw me aside like a—(casting about for an original simile)—like a old glove, because this innocent grandchild of yours has touched your flinty 'art. But where will you be when she learns——?
Lady B. (in agony). Ah, no, Monkshood, good, faithful Monkshood, she must never know that! Think, Monkshood, you would not tell her that the Grandmother to whom she looks up with such touching, childlike love, was a—homicide—you would not do that?
Monks. Some would say even 'omicide was not too black a name for all you've done. (Lady Belledame shudders.) I might tell Miss Elfie how you've blowed up a live Baronet, corrosive sublimated a gentle Lady, honly for 'aving, in a moment of candour, called you a hold cat, and distributed pison in a variety of forms about this smiling village; and, if that don't inspire her with distrust, I don't know the nature of children, that's all! I might tell her, I say, and, if I'm to keep my mouth shut, I shall expect it to be considered in my wages.
Lady B. I knew you had a good heart! I will pay you anything—anything, provided you shield my guilt from her ... wait, you shall have gold, gold, Monkshood, gold!
[Chord. Little Elfie suddenly comes from behind screen; limelight on her. The other two shrink back.
Elfie. Do not give that bad old man money, Grandmother, for it will only be wasted.
Lady B. Speak, child!—how much do you know?
Elfie. All! [Chord. Lady B. collapses on chair.
Lady B. (with an effort). And now, Elfie, that you know, you scorn and hate your poor old Grandmother—is it not so?
Elfie. It is wrong to hate one's Grandmother, whatever she does. At first when I heard, I was very, very sorry. I did think it was most unkind of you. But now, oh, I can't believe that you had not some good, wise motive, in acting as you did!
Lady B. (in conscience-stricken aside). Even this cannot shatter her artless faith ... Oh, wretch, wretch!
[Covers her face.
Monks. Motive—I believe you there, Missie. Why, she went and insured all their lives aforehand, she did.
Lady B. Monkshood, in pity hold your peace!
Elfie (her face beaming). I knew it—I was sure of it! Oh, Granny, my dear, kind old Granny, you insured their lives first, so that no real harm could possibly happen to them—oh, I am so happy!
Lady B. (aside). What shall I say? Merciful Powers, what shall I say to her? [Disturbed sounds without.
Monks. I don't know what you'd better say, but I can tell you what your Ladyship had better do—and that is, take your 'ook while you can. Even now the outraged populace approaches, to wreak a hawful vengeance upon your guilty 'ed! [Melodramatic music.
Lady B. (distractedly). A mob! I cannot face them—they will tear me limb from limb. At my age I could not survive such an indignity as that! Hide me, Monkshood—help me to escape!
Monks. There is a secret underground passage, known only to myself, communicating with the nearest railway station. I will point it out, and personally conduct your Ladyship—for a consideration—one thousand pounds down.
[The noise increases.
Elfie. No, Granny, don't trust him! Be calm and brave. Await the mob here. Leave it all to me. I will explain everything to them—how you meant no ill,—how, at the very time they thought you were meditating an injury, you were actually spending money in insuring all their lives. When I tell them that——
Monks. Ah, you tell 'em that, and see. It's too late now—they are here!
[Shouts without. Lady B. crouches on floor. Little Elfie goes to the window, throws open the shutters, and stands on balcony in her fluttering white robe, and the limelight.
Elfie. Yes, they are here. Why, they are carrying torches!—(Lady B. groans)—and banners, too! I think they have a band.... Who is that tall, stout gentleman, in the white hat, on horseback, and the lady in a pony-trap, with, oh, such a beautiful complexion! There is an inscription on one of the flags—I can read it quite plainly. "Thanks to the generous Donor!" (That must be you, Grandmother!) And there are children who dance, and scatter flowers. They are asking for a speech. (Speaking off.) "If you please, Ladies and Gentlemen, my Grandmama is not at all well, but she wishes me to say she wishes you a Merry Christmas, and is very glad you all like your presents so much. Good-bye, good-bye!" (Returning down Stage.) Now they have gone away, Granny.... They did look so grateful!
Lady B. (bewildered). What is this! Sir Vevey, Lady Violet,—alive, well? This deputation of gratitude? Am I mad, dreaming—or what does it all mean?
Monks. (doggedly). It means that the sight of this 'ere angel child recalled me to a sense of what I might be exposin' myself to by carrying out your Ladyship's commands; and so I took the liberty of substitootin gifts more calculated to inspire gratitude in their recipients—that's what it means.
Lady B. Wretch!—then you have disobeyed me? You leave this day month!
Elfie (pleading). Nay, Grandmother, bear with him, for has not his disobedience spared you from acts that you might some day have regretted?... There, Mr. Butler, Granny forgives you—see, she holds out her hand, and here's mine; and now——
Lady B. (smiling tenderly). Now you shall sing us "Woa, Lucinda!"
[Little Elfie fetches her banjo, and sings, "Woa, Lucinda!" her Grandmother and the aged Steward joining in the dance and chorus, and embracing the child, to form picture as Curtain falls.
viii.—JACK PARKER;
OR, THE BULL WHO KNEW HIS BUSINESS.
Characters.
| Jack Parker ("was a cruel boy, For mischief was his sole employ."—Vide) | Miss Jane Taylor. | |
| Miss Lydia Banks ("though very young, Will never do what's rude or wrong."—Ditto.) | ||
| Farmer Banks Farmer Banks's Bull | } | By the Brothers Griffiths. |
| Chorus of Farm Hands. | ||
Scene.—A Farmyard. r. a stall from which the head of the Bull is visible above the half-door. Enter Farmer Banks with a cudgel.
Farmer B. (moodily). When roots are quiet, and cereals are dull,
I vent my irritation on the Bull.
[We have Miss Taylor's own authority for this rhyme.
Come hup, you beast!
[Opens stall and flourishes cudgel—the Bull comes forward with an air of deliberate defiance.
Oh, turning narsty, is he?
[Apologetically to Bull.
Another time will do! I see you're busy!
[The Bull, after some consideration, decides to accept this retractation, and retreats with dignity to his stall, the door of which he carefully fastens after him. Exit Farmer Banks, l., as Lydia Banks enters r. accompanied by Chorus. The Bull exhibits the liveliest interest in her proceedings, as he looks on, with his forelegs folded easily upon the top of the door.
Song—Lydia Banks (in Polka time).
I'm the child by Miss Jane Taylor sung;
Unnaturally good for one so young—
A pattern for the people that I go among,
With my moral little tags on the tip of my tongue.
And I often feel afraid that I shan't live long,
For I never do a thing that's rude or wrong!
Chorus (to which the Bull beats time).
As a general rule, one doesn't live long,
If you never do a thing that's rude or wrong!
Second Verse.
My words are all with wisdom fraught,
To make polite replies I've sought;
And learned by independent thought,
That a pinafore, inked, is good for nought.
So wonderfully well have I been taught,
That I turn my toes as children ought!
Chorus (to which the Bull dances).
This moral lesson she's been taught—
She turns her toes as children ought!
Lydia (sweetly). Yes, I'm the Farmer's daughter—Lydia Banks;
No person ever caught me playing pranks!
I'm loved by all the live-stock on the farm,
[Ironical applause from the Bull.
Pigeons I've plucked will perch upon my arm,
And pigs at my approach sit up and beg.
[Business by Bull.
For me the partial peacock saves his egg,
No sheep e'er snaps if I attempt to touch her,
Lambs like it when I lead them to the butcher!
Each morn I milk my rams beneath the shed,
While rabbits flutter twittering round my head,
And, as befits a dairy-farmer's daughter,
What milk I get I supplement with water,
[A huge Shadow is thrown on the road outside; Lydia starts.
Whose shadow is it makes the highway darker?
That bullet head! those ears! it is——Jack Parker!
[Chord. The Chorus flee in dismay, as Jack enters with a reckless swagger.
Song—Jack Parker.
I'm loafing about, and I very much doubt
If my excellent Ma is aware that I'm out;
My time I employ in attempts to annoy,
And I'm not what you'd call an agreeable boy!
I shoe the cats with walnut-shells;
Tin cans to curs I tie;
Ring furious knells at front-door bells—
Then round the corner fly!
'Neath donkeys' tails I fasten furze,
Or timid horsemen scare;
If chance occurs, I stock with burrs
My little Sister's hair!
[The Bull shakes his head reprovingly.
Such tricks give me joy without any alloy,
But they do not denote an agreeable boy!
[As Jack Parker concludes, the Bull ducks cautiously below the half-door, while Lydia conceals herself behind the pump, l.c.
Jack (wandering about stage discontentedly). I thought at least there'd be some beasts to badger here!
Call this a farm—there ain't a blooming spadger here!
[Approaches stall—Bull raises head suddenly.
A bull! This is a lark I've long awaited!
He's in a stable, so he should be baited.
[The Bull shows symptoms of acute depression at this jeu de mots; Lydia comes forward indignantly.
Lydia. I can't stand by and see that poor bull suffer!
Excitement's sure to make his beef taste tougher!
[The Bull emphatically corroborates this statement.
Be warned by Miss Jane Taylor; fractured skulls
Invariably come from teasing bulls!
So let that door alone, nor lift the latchet;
For if the bull gets out—why, then you'll catch it.
Jack. A fractured skull? Yah, don't believe a word of it!
[Raises latchet: chord; Bull comes slowly out, and crouches ominously; Jack retreats, and takes refuge on top of pump: the Bull, after scratching his back with his off foreleg, makes a sudden rush at Lydia.
Lydia (as she evades it). Here, help!—it's chasing me!—it's too absurd of it!
Go away, Bull—with me you have no quarrel!
[The Bull intimates that he is acting from a deep sense of duty.
Lydia (impatiently). You stupid thing, you're ruining the moral!
[The Bull persists obstinately in his pursuit.
Jack (from top of pump). Well dodged, Miss Banks! although the Bull I'll back!
[Enter Farm-hands.
Lydia. Come quick—this Bull's mistaking me for Jack!
Jack. He knows his business best, I shouldn't wonder.
Farm-hands (philosophically). He ain't the sort of Bull to make a blunder. [They look on.
Lydia (panting.) Such violent exercise will soon exhaust me!
[The Bull comes behind her.
Oh, Bull, it is unkind of you ... you've tossed me!
[Falls on ground, while the Bull stands over her, in readiness to give the coup de grace; Lydia calls for help.
A Farm-hand (encouragingly). Nay, Miss, he seems moor sensible nor surly—
He knows as how good children perish early!
[The Bull nods in acknowledgment that he is at last understood, and slaps his chest with his forelegs.
Lydia. Bull, I'll turn naughty, if you'll but be lenient!
Goodness, I see, is sometimes inconvenient.
I promise you henceforth I'll try, at any rate,
To act like children who are unregenerate!
[The Bull, after turning this over, decides to accept a compromise.
Jack. And, Lydia, when you ready for a lark are,
Just give a chyhike to your friend—Jack Parker!
[They shake hands warmly.
Finale.
Lydia. I thought to slowly fade away so calm and beautiful.
(Though I didn't mean to go just yet);
But you get no chance for pathos when you're chivied by a bull!
(So I thought I wouldn't go just yet.)
For I did feel so upset, when I found that all you get
By the exercise of virtue, is that bulls will come and hurt you!
That I thought I wouldn't go just yet!
Chorus.
We hear, with some regret,
That she doesn't mean to go just yet.
But a Bull with horns that hurt you
Is a poor return for virtue,
So she's wiser not to go just yet!
[The Bull rises on his hindlegs, and gives a forehoof each to Lydia and Jack, who dance wildly round and round as the Curtain falls.
[N.B.—Music-hall Managers are warned that the morality of this particular Drama may possibly be called in question by some members of the L. C. C.]
ix.—UNDER THE HARROW.
A CONVENTIONAL COMEDY-MELODRAMA, IN TWO ACTS.
Characters.
Sir Poshbury Puddock (a haughty and high-minded Baronet).
Verbena Puddock (his Daughter).
Lord Bleshugh (her Lover).
Spiker (a needy and unscrupulous Adventurer).
Blethers (an ancient and attached Domestic).
ACT I.
Scene—The Morning Room at Natterjack Hall, Toadley-le-Hole; large window open at back, with heavy practicable sash.
Enter Blethers.
Blethers. Sir Poshbury's birthday to-day—his birthday!—and the gentry giving of him presents. Oh, Lor! if they only knew what I could tell 'em!... Ah, and must tell, too, before long—but not yet—not yet! [Exit.
Enter Lord Bleshugh and Verbena.
Verb. Yes, Papa is forty to-day; (innocently) fancy living to that age! The tenants have presented him with a handsome jar of mixed pickles, with an appropriate inscription. Papa is loved and respected by every one. And I—well, I have made him a little housewife, containing needles and thread ... See! [Shows it.
Lord Blesh. (tenderly). I say, I—I wish you would make me a little housewife!
[Comedy love-dialogue omitted owing to want of space.
Verb. Oh, do look!—there's Papa crossing the lawn with, oh, such a horrid man following him!
Lord B. Regular bounder. Shocking bad hat!
Verb. Not so bad as his boots, and they are not so bad as his face! Why doesn't Papa order him to go away? Oh, he is actually inviting him in!
Enter Sir Poshbury, gloomy and constrained, with Spiker, who is jaunty, and somewhat over familiar.
Spiker (sitting on the piano, and dusting his boots with his handkerchief). Cosy little shanty you've got here, Puddock—very tasty!
Sir P. (with a gulp). I am—ha—delighted that you approve of it! Ah, Verbena! [Kisses her on forehead.
Spiker. Your daughter, eh? Pooty gal. Introduce me.
[Sir Posh. introduces him—with an effort.
Verbena (coldly). How do you do? Papa, did you know that the sashline of this window was broken? If it is not mended, it will fall on somebody's head, and perhaps kill him!
Sir P. (absently). Yes—yes, it shall be attended to; but leave us, my child, go. Bleshugh, this—er—gentleman and I have business of importance to discuss.
Spiker. Don't let us drive you away, Miss; your Pa and me are only talking over old times, that's all—eh, Posh?
Sir P. (in a tortured aside). Have a care, Sir, don't drive me too far! (To Verb.) Leave us, I say. (Lord B. and Verb. go out, raising their eyebrows.) Now, Sir, what is this secret you profess to have discovered?
Spiker. Oh, a mere nothing. (Takes out a cigar.) Got a light about you? Thanks. Perhaps you don't recollect twenty-seven years ago this very day, travelling from Edgware Road to Baker Street, by the Underground Railway?
Sir P. Perfectly; it was my thirteenth birthday, and I celebrated the event by a visit to Madame Tussaud's.
Spiker. Exactly; it was your thirteenth birthday, and you travelled second-class with a half-ticket—(meaningly)—on your thirteenth birthday.
Sir P. (terribly agitated). Fiend that you are, how came you to learn this?
Spiker. Very simple. I was at that time in the temporary position of ticket-collector at Baker Street. In the exuberance of boyhood, you cheeked me. I swore to be even with you some day.
Sir P. Even if—if your accusation were well-founded, how are you going to prove it?
Sp. Oh, that's easy! I preserved the half-ticket, on the chance that I should require it as evidence hereafter.
Sir P. (aside). And so the one error of an otherwise blameless boyhood has found me out—at last! (To Spiker.) I fear you not; my crime—if crime indeed it was—is surely condoned by twenty-seven long years of unimpeachable integrity!
Sp. Bye-laws are Bye-laws, old Buck! there's no Statute of Limitations in criminal offences that ever I heard of! Nothing can alter the fact that you, being turned thirteen, obtained a half-ticket by a false representation that you were under age. A line from me, even now, denouncing you to the Traffic Superintendent, and I'm very much afraid——
Sir P. (writhing). Spiker, my—my dear friend, you won't do that—you won't expose me? Think of my age, my position, my daughter!
Sp. Ah, now you've touched the right chord! I was thinking of your daughter—a nice lady-like gal—I don't mind telling you she fetched me, Sir, at the first glance. Give me her hand, and I burn the compromising half-ticket before your eyes on our return from church after the wedding. Come, that's a fair offer!
Sir P. (indignantly). My child, the ripening apple of my failing eye, to be sacrificed to a blackmailing blackguard like you! Never while I live!
Sp. Just as you please; and, if you will kindly oblige me with writing materials, I will just drop a line to the Traffic Superintendent——
Sir P. (hoarsely). No, no; not that.... Wait, listen; I—I will speak to my daughter. I promise nothing; but if her heart is still her own to give, she may, (mind, I do not say she will,) be induced to link her lot to yours, though I shall not attempt to influence her in any way—in any way.
Sp. Well, you know your own business best, old Cockalorum. Here comes the young lady, so I'll leave you to manage this delicate affair alone. Ta-ta. I shan't be far off.
[Swaggers insolently out as Verb. enters.
Sir P. My child, I have just received an offer for your hand. I know not if you will consent?
Verb. I can guess who has made that offer, and why. I consent with all my heart, dear Papa.
Sir P. Can I trust my ears! You consent? Noble girl!
[He embraces her.
Verb. I was quite sure dear Bleshugh meant to speak, and I do love him very much.
Sir P. (starting). It is not Lord Bleshugh, my child, but Mr. Samuel Spiker, the gentleman (for he is at heart a gentleman) whom I introduced to you just now.
Verb. I have seen so little of him, Papa, I cannot love him—you must really excuse me!
Sir P. Ah, but you will, my darling, you will—I know your unselfish nature—you will, to save your poor old dad from a terrible disgrace ... yes, disgrace, listen! Twenty-seven years ago—(he tells her all). Verbena, at this very moment, there is a subscription on foot in the county to present me with my photograph, done by an itinerant photographer of the highest eminence, and framed and glazed ready for hanging. Is that photograph never to know the nail which even now awaits it? Can you not surrender a passing girlish fancy, to spare your fond old father's fame? Mr. Spiker is peculiar, perhaps, in many ways—not quite of our monde—but he loves you sincerely, my child, and that is in itself a recommendation. Ah, I see—my prayers are vain ... be happy, then. As for me, let the police come—I am ready! [Weeps.
Verb. Not so, Papa; I will marry this Mr. Spiker, since it is your wish. [Sir Posh. dries his eyes.
Sir P. Here, Spiker, my dear fellow, it is all right. Come in. She accepts you.
Enter Spiker.
Sp. Thought she would. Sensible little gal! Well, Miss, you shan't regret it. Bless you, we'll be as chummy together as a couple of little dicky-birds.
Verb. Mr. Spiker, let us understand one another. I will do my best to be a good wife to you—but chumminess is not mine to give, nor can I promise ever to be your dicky-bird.
Enter Lord Bleshugh.
Lord B. Sir Poshbury, may I have five minutes with you? Verbena, you need not go. (Looking at Spiker.) Perhaps this person will kindly relieve us of his presence.
Sp. Sorry to disoblige, old fellow, but I'm on duty where Miss Verbena is now, you see, as she's just promised to be my wife.
Lord B. Your wife!
Verb. (faintly). Yes, Lord Bleshugh, his wife!
Sir P. Yes, my poor boy, his wife!
[Verbena totters, and falls heavily in a dead faint, r.c., upsetting a flower-stand; Lord Bleshugh staggers, and swoons on sofa, c., overturning a table of knicknacks; Sir Poshbury sinks into chair, l.c., and covers his face with his hands.
Sp. (looking down on them triumphantly). Under the Harrow, by Gad! Under the Harrow!
[Curtain, and end of Act I.
ACT II.
Scene—Same as in Act I.; viz., the Morning-Room at Natterjack Hall. Evening of same day. Enter Blethers.
Blethers. Another of Sir Poshbury's birthdays almost gone—and my secret still untold! (Dodders.) I can't keep it up much longer.... Ha, here comes his Lordship—he does look mortal bad, that he do! Miss Verbena ain't treated him too well, from all I can hear, poor young feller!
Enter Lord Bleshugh.
Lord Bleshugh. Blethers, by the memory of the innumerable half-crowns that have passed between us, be my friend now—I have no others left. Persuade your young Mistress to come hither—you need not tell her I am here, you understand. Be discreet, and this florin shall be yours!
Blethers. Leave it to me, my lord. I'd tell a lie for less than that, any day, old as I am! [Exit.
Lord Bl. I cannot rest till I have heard from her own lips that the past few hours have been nothing but a horrible dream.... She is coming! Now for the truth!
Enter Verbena.
Verbena. Papa, did you want me? (Recognises Lord B.—controls herself to a cold formality.) My lord, to what do I owe this—this unexpected intrusion? [Pants violently.
Lord Bl. Verbena, tell me, you cannot really prefer that seedy snob in the burst boots to me?
Verb. (aside). How can I tell him the truth without betraying dear Papa? No, I must lie, though it kills me. (To Lord B.) Lord Bleshugh, I have been trifling with you. I—I never loved you.
Lord B. I see, and all the while your heart was given to a howling cad?
Verb. And if it was, who can account for the vagaries of a girlish fancy! We women are capricious beings, you know. (With hysterical gaiety.) But you are unjust to Mr. Spiker—he has not yet howled in my presence—(aside)—though I very nearly did in his!
Lord B. And you really love him?
Verb. I—I love him. (Aside.) My heart will break!
Lord B. Then I have no more to say. Farewell, Verbena! Be as happy as the knowledge that you have wrecked one of the brightest careers, and soured one of the sweetest natures in the county, will permit. (Goes up stage, and returns.) A few days since you presented me with a cloth pen-wiper, in the shape of a dog of unknown breed. If you will kindly wait here for half-an-hour, I shall have much pleasure in returning a memento which I have no longer the right to retain, and there are several little things I gave you which I can take back with me at the same time, if you will have them put up in readiness. [Exit.
Verbena. Oh, he is cruel, cruel! but I shall keep the little bone yard-measure, and the diamond pig—they are all I have to remind me of him!
Enter Spiker, slightly intoxicated.
Spiker. (throwing himself on sofa without seeing Verb.) I don' know how it is, but I feel precioush shleepy, somehow. P'raps I did partake lil' too freely of Sir Poshbury's gen'rous Burgundy. Wunner why they call it "gen'rous"—it didn't give me anything—'cept a bloomin' headache! However, I punished it, and old Poshbury had to look on and let me. He-he! (Examining his hand.) Who'd think, to look at thish thumb, that there was a real live Baronet squirmin' under it. But there ish! [Snores.
Verb. (bitterly). And that thing is my affianced husband Ah, no I cannot go through with it, he is too repulsive! If I could but find a way to free myself without compromising poor Papa. The sofa-cushion! Dare I? It would be quite painless.... Surely the removal of such an odious wretch cannot be Murder.... I will! (Slow music. She gets a cushion, and presses it tightly over Spiker's head.) Oh, I wish he wouldn't gurgle like that, and how he does kick! He cannot even die like a gentleman! (Spiker's kicks become more and more feeble and eventually cease.) How still he lies! I almost wish ... Mr. Spiker, Mr. Spi-ker!... no answer—oh, I really have suffocated him! (Enter Sir Posh.) You, Papa?
Sir Posh. What, Verbena, sitting with, hem—Samuel in the gloaming? (Sings with forced hilarity.) "In the gloaming, oh, my darling!" that's as it should be—quite as it should be!
Verb. (in dull strained accents). Don't sing, Papa, I cannot bear it—just yet. I have just suffocated Mr. Spiker with a sofa-cushion. See! [Shows the body.
Sir Posh. Then I am safe—he will tell no tales now! But, my child, are you aware of the very serious nature of your act? An act of which, as a Justice of the Peace, I am bound to take some official cognizance!
Verb. Do not scold me, Papa. Was it not done for your sake?
Sir P. I cannot accept such an excuse as that. I fear your motives were less disinterested than you would have me believe. And now, Verbena, what will you do? As your father, I would gladly screen you—but, as a Magistrate, I cannot promise to be more than passive.
Verb. Listen, Papa. I have thought of a plan—why should I not wheel this sofa to the head of the front-door steps, and tip it over? They will only think he fell down when intoxicated—for he had taken far too much wine, Papa!
Sir P. Always the same quick-witted little fairy! Go, my child, but be careful that none of the servants see you. (Verb. wheels the sofa and Spiker's body out, l.u.e.) My poor impulsive darling, I do hope she will not be seen—servants do make such mischief! But there's an end of Spiker, at any rate. I should not have liked him for a son-in-law, and with him, goes the only person who knows my unhappy secret!
Enter Blethers.
Blethers. Sir Poshbury, I have a secret to reveal which I can preserve no longer—it concerns something that happened many years ago—it is connected with your birthday, Sir Poshbury.
Sir P. (quailing). What, another! I must stop his tongue at all hazards. Ah, the rotten sash-line! (To Blethers.) I will hear you, but first close yonder window, the night-air is growing chill.
[Blethers goes to window at back. Slow music. As he approaches it, Lord Bleshugh enters (r 2 e), and, with a smothered cry of horror, drags him back by the coat-tails—just before the window falls with a tremendous crash.
Sir P. Bleshugh! What have you done?
Lord Blesh. (sternly). Saved him from an untimely end—and you from—crime!
Collapse of Sir P. Enter Verbena, terrified.
Verb. Papa, Papa, hide me! The night-air and the cold stone steps have restored Mr. Spiker to life and consciousness! He is coming to denounce me—you—both of us! He is awfully annoyed!
Sir P. (recklessly). It is useless to appeal to me, child. I have enough to do to look after myself—now.
[Enter Spiker, indignant.
Spiker. Pretty treatment for a gentleman, this! Look here, Poshbury, this young lady has choked me with a cushion, and then pitched me down the front steps—I might have broken my neck.
Sir P. It was an oversight which I lament, but for which I must decline to be answerable. You must settle your differences with her.
Spiker. And you too, old horse! You had a hand in this, I know, and I'll pay you out for it now. My life ain't safe if I marry a girl like that, so I've made up my mind to split and be done with it!
Sir P. (contemptuously). If you don't, Blethers will. So do your worst, you hound!
Spiker. Very well then; I will. (To the rest.) I denounce this man for travelling with a half-ticket from Edgware Road to Baker Street on his thirteenth birthday, the 31st of March twenty-seven years ago this very day! [Sensation.
Blethers. Hear me! It was not his thirteenth birthday; Sir Poshbury's birthday falls on the 1st of April—to-morrow! I was sent to register the birth, and, by a blunder, which I have repented bitterly ever since, unfortunately gave the wrong date. Till this moment I have never had the manliness or sincerity to confess my error, for fear of losing my situation.
Sir P. (to Spiker). Do you hear, you paltry knave? I was not thirteen. Consequently, I was under age, and the Bye-laws are still unbroken. Your hold over me is gone—gone for ever!
Spiker. H'm—Spiker spiked this time!
[Retires up disconcerted.
Lord Bl. And you did not really love him, after all, Verbena?
Verb. (with arch pride). Have I not proved my indifference?
Lord Bl. But I forget—you admitted that you were but trifling with my affection—take back your pin-cushion!
Verb. Keep it. All that I did was done to spare my father!
Sir Posh. Who, as a matter of fact, was innocent—but I forgive you, child, for your unworthy suspicions. Bleshugh, my boy, you have saved me from unnecessarily depriving myself of the services of an old retainer. Blethers, I condone a dissimulation for which you have done much to atone. Spiker, you vile and miserable rascal, be off, and be thankful that I have sufficient magnanimity to refrain from giving you in charge. (Spiker sneaks off crushed.) And now, my children, and my faithful old servant, congratulate me that I am no longer——
Verbena and Lord Bleshugh (together). Under the Harrow!
[Affecting Family Tableau and quick Curtain.
x.—TOMMY AND HIS SISTER JANE
Once more we draw upon our favourite source of inspiration—the poems of the Misses Taylor. The dramatist is serenely confident that the new London County Council Censor of Plays, whenever that much-desired official is appointed, will highly approve of this little piece on account of the multiplicity of its morals. It is intended to teach, amongst other useful lessons, that—as the poem on which it is founded puts it—"Fruit in lanes is seldom good"; also, that it is not always prudent to take a hint: again, that constructive murder is distinctly reprehensible, and should never be indulged in by persons who cannot control their countenances afterwards. Lastly, that suicide may often be averted by the exercise of a little savoir vivre.