End of Scene XVIII.

THE TYRANNY OF THE UNSUITABLE.

(A Fragmentary Christmas Tragedy.)

The atmosphere of the chamber is heavy with a portentous sense of paralysing dread; the fire cowers in the grate, cold at its very heart; the gas-flame shudders with a shuddering not caused by water in the pipes. Mr. Dredferley Cornerd, seated in his arm-chair, glares at his newspaper with preoccupied and unreceptive eye; while ever and again his hand passes nervously over his care-lined brow. Mrs. Dredferley Cornerd glances furtively at him through the perforations of her fancy-work, held between tremulous fingers; her eye is dilated, while her pale brow is puckered by the lines that whisper of prescience of impending calamity. Mr. Dredferley Cornerd feels that his wife's eye is upon him; he strives to avoid her gaze; but, fascinated, yields; and their eyes meet.

[(enlarge)]

Mrs. Dredferley Cornerd (huskily). James——

[Thrice he raised his outspread hands in wild, unvoiced deprecation; he clutches at his throat, as if suffocating; then buries his face in his trembling hands, and, in a hollow, far-off gurgle, says "Go on!" She goes to him, and smoothes his throbbing brow.

Mrs. D. C. James, let us nerve ourselves to it once more! Let us remember Duty! Come; we will plunge at once into the thick of it. What is Jane to have?

Mr. Dredferley Cornerd (hurling himself from his chair, his eye ablaze with unspeakable hate). Nothing—a bottle of poison—a dynamite bomb—the cat-o'-nine tails! Hear me, Mary-Ann. One year ago, at this very season that brings this haunting, maddening torture of the selection of Christmas presents, my sister Jane sent us that ormolu clock which at this very moment glares upon us from that mantel-piece! I loathe ormolu. Had we not laboured and struggled, you and I, to furnish this, our dining-room, in perfect taste, all in old oak and Flemish pottery. Then, in the very moment of our triumph, arrived that loathsome clock of ormolu, and crushed our whole design! It had to go there, lest we gave offence. I hate my sister Jane!

Mrs. D. C. Well, let us, for the moment, then, dismiss your sister Jane. Now what are we to give to Joseph?

Mr. D. C. Mary-Ann, I loathe that man! Well knowing how I hated summer-houses—abominations filled with creeping horrors—he gave me one just seven years ago. It makes our garden hideous to this day; I will not speak of him——

Mrs. D. C. Well, then, the Joneses. They gave us——

Mr. D. C. Mary-Ann, I know they did. We have to eat them still whenever they drop in to meals. A lamprey makes me—(shudders) ugh! They give us seven barrels twice a year! No, Mary-Ann; I will not threaten you, but breathe their name no more.

Mrs. D. C. Well, put them off. But now there's Mrs. Blenkinsop.

Mr. D. C. The cat! She gave us six outrageous oleographs, all green and yellow, framed in blazing gold, and said we ought to hang them in the hall. Our hall is Japanese; we'd left six spaces for kakemonos of subdued design, and there we had to hang those oleographs. I loathe our hall—I never enter it—I come round always by the garden door! Woman, you madden me! You'll mention next the hated name of Cousin Ichabod——!

Mrs. D. C. I was about to.

Mr. D. C. Cousin Ichabod presented to me, fifteen years ago, a pair of silver brushes. At the time I had but little hair; that very year I lost the rest. Still those accursed brushes mockingly gibber on my dressing-table. They must be there, for Cousin Ichabod drops in at unexpected moments! Once I hurled them from the window. One of them caught Ichabod, approaching up the path, over the eye, and raised a livid bump. I writhe with detestation of his name. Would that that brush—— Unhand me, Mary-Ann; see, I am calm. For years have thoughtless friends encumbered us with Christmas presents quite unsuited to our tastes and our requirements. What do we want with seven berceaunettes (our children being two), with fifteen inkstands, with twenty biscuit boxes, and thirty-five illuminated hanging almanacks? For years we've played the shameless hypocrite, pretending to adore these gruesome gifts; and now I bid you mark me, Mary-Ann; I mean Revenge. Yes, let us to the council, and plan what gifts to such and such; the most unsuitable that we can hit on. Here's Parker's list, and Porringe's, and Spriteley's. Come, here are wedding dresses; sister Jane is sixty and a spinster; I will send her a wedding gown—(hysterically) a dozen wedding gowns! Write, Mary-Ann, to Parker for a dozen. Then Joseph. Joseph, ha! I have it; Joseph goes mad with fright on passing near a dog. To-morrow I will seek the Lost Dogs' Home, and pick out fifty of the savagest—all bloodhounds, mark you! I will drag the pack to Joseph's door, and leave them with the maid. And now the Joneses. Silence, Mary-Ann! I do not need cold water on my temples! You shall not stroke my head, and murmur "Shish!" You shall not scream for cook, and Blenkinsop, and George, and Jane. I'm calm. The Joneses—hurr! Let me get at them! Back—unhand me! Ha!——

[He swoons. Curtain.