MR. PUNCH'S MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS.
No. 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? Sing, child, if you will.
Elfie. How glad I am that I brought my banjo! [Sings.
Dar is a lubly yaller gal that 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' "possum dip," cries, "Woa, Lucindy Ann!" (Chorus, dear Granny!)
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 de 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, dat I nebber more shall see!
He was let off by de Jury, Way down in ole 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 possum-dip 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 lack, gasping, into chair. Little Elfie awakes behind screen, and rubs her eyes.
[N.B.—The reformation of a Grandmother being necessarily a process of some length, the conclusion of this touching little Drama is unavoidably deferred to a future number.]