Characters.

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.