  Most people, in their day, have wept tears of relief at the ending of T. W. Robertson’s comedy “Caste,” when the Hon. George D’Alroy—not dead, poor chap!—falls into t THE VENGEANCE OF CASTE.Scene.—The dining-room of the D’Alroys’ house in the suburbs. Dinner is just over, and George D’Alroy, in a seedy coat and carpet slippers, is sitting by the fire smoking a pipe. On the other side of the fire sits Esther, his wife, darning a sock. Esther. Tired, George? George. Yes. Esther. Had a bad day in the City? George. Beastly! I believe I’m the unluckiest beggar in the world. Every stock I touch goes down. Esther. Why don’t you give up speculating if you’re so unlucky? George. [Hurt.] I don’t speculate, dear. I invest. Esther. Why don’t you give up investing then? It makes a dreadful hole in our income. George. One must do something for one’s living. Esther. [Sighing.] What a pity it is you left the Army! George. I had to. The regiment wouldn’t stand your father. He was always coming to the mess-room when he was drunk, and asking for me. So the Colonel said I’d better send in my papers. Esther. [Gently.] Not drunk, George. George. The Colonel said so. And he was rather a judge. Esther. [Unable to improve upon her old phrase.] Father is a very eccentric man, but a very good man, when you know him. George. [Grimly.] If you mean by “eccentric” a man who is always drunk and won’t die, he is—most eccentric! Esther. Hush, dear! After all, he’s my father. George. That’s my objection to him. Esther. I’m afraid you must have lost a great deal of money to-day! George. Pretty well. But I’ve noticed that retired military men who go into the City invariably do lose money. Esther. Why do they go into the City, then? George. [Gloomily.] Why, indeed? [There is a short pause. George stares moodily at the fire. Esther. I had a visit from your mother to-day. George. How was she? Esther. Not very well. She has aged sadly in the last few years. Her hair is quite white now. George. [Half to himself.] Poor mother, poor mother! Esther. She was very kind. She asked particularly after you, and she saw little George. [Gently.] I think she is getting more reconciled to our marriage. George. Do you really, dear? [Looks at her curiously.] Esther. Yes; and I think it’s su George. Forgive me, dear, but if you think it strange that the Marquise de St. Maur does not consider Mr. Eccles and Esther. Of course, Papa is a very eccentric man—— George. My dear Esther, Mr. Eccles made his hundred and fifty-sixth appearance in the police-court last week. The fact was made the subject of jocular comment in the cheaper evening papers. The sentence was five shillings or seven days. Esther. Poor Papa felt his position acutely. George. Not half so acutely as I did. I paid the five shillings. If he had only consented to remain in Jersey! Esther. But you know Jersey didn’t suit him. He was never well there. George. He was never sober there. That was the only thing that was the matter with him. No, my love, let us look facts in the face. You are a dear little woman, but your father is detestable, and there is not the smallest ground for hope that my mother will ever be “reconciled” to our marriage as long as she retains her reason. Esther. I suppose father is rather a difficulty. George. Yes. He and the Gerridges, between them, have made us impossible socially. Esther. What’s the matter with the Gerridges? George. Nothing, except that you always ask them to all our dinner parties. And as gentlepeople have a curious prejudice against sitting down to dinner with a plumber and glazier, it somewhat narrows our circle of acquaintance. Esther. But Sam isn’t a working plumber now. He has a shop of his own—quite a large shop. And their house is just as good as ours. The furniture i George. I’m glad they’re getting on so well. [With a flicker of hope.] Do you think there’s any chance, as they grow more prosperous, of their “dropping” us? Esther. [Indignantly.] How can you think of such a thing! George. [Sighing.] I was afraid not. Esther. [Enthusiastically.] Why, Sam is as kind as can be, and so is Polly. And you know how fond they are of little George. George. Poor child, yes. He has played with their children ever since he could toddle. And what is the result? A Cockney accent that is indescribable. Esther. What does it matter about his accent so long as he is a good boy, and grows up to be a good man? George. Ethically, my dear, not at all. But practically, it matters a great deal. It causes me intense physical discomfort. And I think it is killing my mother. Esther. George! George. Moreover, when the time comes for him to go to a Public school he will probably be very unhappy in consequence. Esther. Why? George. Merely irrational prejudice. Public school boys dislike all deviations from the normal. And to them—happily—a pronounced Cockney accent represents the height of abnormality. Esther. [Sadly.] In spite of our marriage, I’m afraid you’re still a worshipper of caste. I thought you turned your back on all that when you married me. George. So I did, dear, so I did. But I don’t want to commit my son to the same hazardous experiment. Esther. Ah, George, you don’t really love me, or you wouldn’t talk like that. George. My dear, I love you to distraction. That’s exactly the difficulty. I am torn between my devotion to you and my abhorrence of your relations. When your father returned from Jersey, and took a lodging close by us, nothing but the warmth of my affection prevented me from leaving you for ever. He is still here, and so am I. What greater proof could you have of the strength of my attachment? Esther. Poor father! he could not bear to be away from us. And he has grown so fond of little George! [George shudders.] Father has a good heart. George. I wish he had a stronger head. [This remark is prompted by the sound of Mr. Eccles entering the front door, and having a tipsy altercation with the maid. Maid. [Announcing.] Eccles. [Joyously.] Evening—hic—me children. Bless you, bless you! Esther. Good evening, father. Eccles. Won’t you—hic—speak to yer old father-in-law, Georgie? [George says nothing.] Ah, pride, pride, cruel pride! You come before a fall, you do! [Lurches heavily against the table, and subsides into a chair.] Funny, that! Almost—hic—seemed as if the proverb was a-coming true that time! George. [Sternly.] How often have I told you, Mr. Eccles, not to come to this house except when you’re sober! Eccles. [Raising his voice in indignant protest.] Shober—hic—perfectly shober! shober as a—hic—judge! George. I’m afraid I can’t argue with you as to the precise stage of intoxication in which you find yourself. You had better go home at once. Eccles. Do you hear that Esh—ter? Do you hear that—hic—me child? Esther. Yes, father. I think you had better go home. You’re not very well to-night. Eccles. [Rising unsteadily from his chair.] Allri—Esh—ter. I’m goin’. Good ni—Georgie. George. [With the greatest politeness.] Good night, Mr. Eccles. If you could possibly manage to fall down and damage yourself seriously on the way home, I should be infinitely obliged. Eccles. [Beginning to weep.] There’s words to address to a loving—hic—farrer-in-law. There’s words——[lurches out]. Esther. I think, George, you had better see him home. It’s not safe for him to be alone in that state. George. [Savagely.] Safe! I don’t want him to be safe. Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to hear he had broken hi Esther. [Gently.] But he might meet a policeman, George. George. Ah! that’s another matter. Perhaps I’d better see the beast into a cab. Esther. [Sighing.] Ah, you never understood poor father! [A crash is heard from the hall as Eccles lurches heavily and upsets the hat-stand. George throws up his hands in despair at the wreck of the hall furniture—or, perhaps, at the obtuseness of his wife’s last remark—and goes out to call a cab. Curtain. |
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