  Debt The scene is a conservatory built and decorated in Moorish style, in the house of the Rt. Hon. Sir Julian Twombley, M.P., Chesterfield Gardens, London. A fountain is playing, and tall palms lend their simple elegance to the elaborate Algerian magnificence of the place. The drawing-rooms are just beyond the curtained entrances. It is a May afternoon. Brooke Twombley, a good-looking but insipid young man of about two-and-twenty, faultlessly dressed for the afternoon, enters, and sits dejectedly, turning over some papers. Brooke Twombley. I’ve done it. Such an afternoon’s work—what! [Reading.] “Schedule of the Debts of Mr. Brooke Twombley. [Turning over sheet after sheet.] Tradesmen. Betting Transactions. Baccarat. Miscellaneous Amusements. Sundries. Extras.” [Probyn, a servant in powder and livery, is crossing the conservatory, when he sees Brooke.] Probyn. Oh, Mr. Brooke. Brooke Twombley. [Slipping the schedule into his pocket.] Eh! Probyn. I didn’t know you were in, sir. Her ladyship told me to give you this, Mr. Brooke—quietly. [He hands Brooke a letter which he has taken from his pocket.] Brooke Twombley. [Glancing at the envelope.] The Mater. Thank you. [A little cough is heard. He looks toward the drawing-room.] Is anyone there? Probyn. Mrs. Gaylustre, sir. Brooke Twombley. The dressmaker! What does she want? Probyn. She told Phipps, Miss Imogen’s maid, sir, that she was anxious to see the effect of her ladyship’s and Miss Imogen’s gowns when they get back from the Drawing-Room. Brooke Twombley. You should take her upstairs. Probyn. Beg your pardon, Mr. Brooke, but we’ve always understood that when Mrs. Gaylustre calls in the morning she’s a dressmaker, and when she calls in the afternoon she’s a lady. Brooke Twombley. Oh, very well; it’s awfully confusing. [Probyn goes out. Brooke reads the letter.] “My sweet child. For heaven’s sake let me have your skeddle, or whatever you call your list of debts, directly. I’ll do my best to get you out of your scrape, though how I can’t think. I’m desperately short of money, and altogether—as my poor dear father used to say—things are as blue as old Stilton. If your pa finds out what a muddle I’m in, I fear he’ll throw up public life and bury us in the country, and then good-by to my dear boy’s and girl’s prospects. So if I contrive to clear you once more, don’t do it again, my poppet, or you’ll break the heart of your loving mother, Kitty Twombley.” The Mater’s a brick—what! But I wonder if she has any notion how much it tots up to. [He places the letter upon the back of a large saddle-bag arm-chair while he takes out the schedule.] Brooke Twombley. Three thousand seven hundred and fifty-six, nought, two. What! [Probyn enters.] Probyn. A young man wants to see you, Mr. Brooke. Brooke Twombley. Who is it? Probyn. No card, sir—and rather queerly dressed. Says he has a wish to shake hands with you on the door-step. Brooke Twombley. Oh, I say! He mustn’t, you know—what! Probyn. I don’t quite like the look of him, sir; gives the name of White—Mr. Valentine White. Brooke Twombley. Why, that’s my cousin! Probyn. Cousin, sir! I beg pardon. Brooke Twombley. Where is he? [Brooke goes out quickly, followed by Probyn. The Hon. Mrs. Gaylustre, an attractive, self-possessed, mischievous-looking woman, of not more than thirty, very fashionably dressed, enters from the drawing-room.] Mrs. Gaylustre. How very charming! Lady Twombley’s latest fad, the Algerian conservatory. And there was a Brooke Twombley. [Heard speaking outside.] My dear Valentine, why shouldn’t you come in—what? [Mrs. Gaylustre creeps round in front of the table and disappears with the letter in her hand as Brooke enters, dragging in Valentine White, a roughly-dressed, handsome young fellow of about six-and-twenty, bronzed and bearded.] Valentine White. Now, Brooke, you know I cut away from England years ago because I couldn’t endure ceremony of any kind. Brooke Twombley. I’m not treating you with ceremony—what! Valentine White. [Looking about him.] Phew! the atmosphere’s charged with it. That fellow with his hair powdered nearly sent me running down the street like a mad dog. Brooke Twombley. Where the deuce have you been for the last six or eight years? Valentine White. Where? Oh, buy a geography; call it, “Explorations of Valentine White in Search of Freedom,” and there you have it. Brooke Twombley. Freedom! Valentine White. Blessed freedom from forms, shams, and ceremonies of all sorts and descriptions. Brooke Twombley. Why, you left us for South Africa. Didn’t South Africa satisfy you? Valentine White. Satisfy me! I joined the expedition to Bangwaketsi. What were the consequences? Brooke Twombley. Fever? Valentine White. Worse. There’s no ceremony about fever. No, Brooke, I was snubbed by a major in the Kalahari Desert, because I didn’t dress for dinner. Brooke Twombley. Then we heard of you herding filthy cattle in Mexico. Valentine White. Yes, at Durango. I enjoyed that, till some younger sons of the nobility came out and left cards at my hut. I afterwards drove a railway engine in Bolivia. Brooke Twombley. By Jove, how awful—what! Wasn’t that sufficiently beastly rough? Valentine White. My dear fellow, would you believe it—I got hold of a stoker who was a decayed British baronet! The affected way in which that man shovelled on coals was unendurable. So I’ve come back, hopelessly wise. Brooke Twombley. Serve you right for kicking at refinement and good form and all that sort of thing. What! Valentine White. [Mimicking Brooke.] Varnish, and veneer, and all that sort of thing—what! Brooke Twombley. Oh, confound you! Well, you’ll dine here at a quarter to eight, Val, won’t you? Valentine White. Dine in Chesterfield Gardens! Thirteen courses and eight wines! Heaven forgive you, Brooke. Brooke Twombley. Look here, you shall eat on the floor with a wooden spoon. Valentine White. Thank you—even your floors are too highly polished. Tell Aunt Kitty and little Imogen that I shall walk in Kensington Gardens to-morrow morning at ten. Brooke Twombley. Little Imogen! Haw, haw! Valentine White. Well? Brooke Twombley. I think it will pretty considerably wound your susceptibilities to hear that my sister Imogen is being presented by the Mater this afternoon. Valentine White. [In horror.] Presented! Brooke Twombley. Presented at Court—Drawing-Room, you know. Valentine White. How dare they! poor little child! Brooke Twombley. Haw, haw! If you’ll wait a few minutes you’ll see an imposing display of trains and feathers. Some of them are coming on here after the ceremony to drink tea, I believe. Valentine White. Trains and feathers! Good gracious, Brooke, Imogen must have grown up! Brooke Twombley. Here’s her portrait—what? Valentine White. [Staring at the portrait.] I am right, Brooke—she has grown up! Brooke Twombley. Haw! Valentine White. Eight years ago she was a romp, with a frock that always had a tear in it, and a head like a cornfield in the wind. Just look at this! While I’ve been away they’ve given her a new frock and brushed her hair. What an awful change! [Probyn appears at the conservatory entrance.] Probyn. Lady Euphemia Vibart. [Lady Euphemia Vibart, a handsome, distinguished-looking, and elegantly dressed girl of about twenty, enters. She scarcely notices Valentine, who bows formally.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. No one has returned yet, Brooke? Brooke Twombley. Effie, don’t you recollect Mr. White? Lady Euphemia Vibart. Oh! how do you do? [She shakes hands with him in an affected manner.] We are distantly related, I remember. Valentine White. Lady Euphemia, I join you in remembering the relationship—and the distance. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Oh, I don’t mean that, Mr. White. At any rate, we were excellent friends many years ago when our cousin Imogen used to give us tea in her school-room. She will be too rejoiced at your return. Brooke Twombley. [At the window.] Hullo, I think pa has come home. Valentine White. Good-by, Lady Euphemia. Brooke Twombley. I say, Effie, Mr. White won’t stay. Lady Euphemia Vibart. [Indifferently.] What a pity! Brooke Twombley. He has turned against civilization, you know, and has become a sort of pleasant cannibal. Lady Euphemia Vibart. A cannibal! That is too interesting. Pray remain, Mr. White. My brother, Lord Drumdurris, is on duty at the Palace to-day and is coming on here. We all knew each other as children. He will be too delighted. Valentine White. I recollect Lord Vibart, as he then was, very well. He once burnt me with a red-hot poker. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Good-humouredly, I am sure. Perhaps you have not heard that he married Lady Egidia Cardelloe, Lord Struddock’s second daughter, about two years ago. If you stay you will meet her also. Valentine White. Ah, I am afraid I—I—— Lady Euphemia Vibart. You will find her too enchanting. Brooke Twombley. No, he won’t. She’s not tattooed or anything. Lady Euphemia Vibart. They have a little son, just five months old, who is too divine. Brooke Twombley. Ah, now, if you boiled the baby it might be to Val’s taste. Lady Euphemia Vibart. As they have been constantly travelling, Egidia is Valentine White. Perfectly. Brooke Twombley. [Poking Valentine in the side.] Old Lady Drum! Lady Euphemia Vibart. My mother will be too charmed to meet you again. [Probyn enters.] Probyn. [To Brooke.] Sir Julian is coming into the conservatory, sir. Brooke Twombley. Pa! [Probyn goes out.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. Oh, dear Sir Julian! [She runs out.] Valentine White. Look sharp, Brooke. Let me out. Brooke Twombley. Val, I’ll tell you what. Come upstairs and smoke a cigarette in my room, and I’ll bring the Mater and Imogen to you on the quiet when the people are gone. Valentine White. Why, Brooke, do you think that Aunt Kitty and Imogen want a roving relative on the premises who isn’t worth tuppence! Brooke Twombley. Bosh! Look out, here’s pa! He seems awfully mumpish. Come on. [He takes Valentine out. Directly they are gone Lady Euphemia re-enters with Sir Julian Twombley, an aristocratic but rather weak-looking man of about fifty-five, wearing his Ministerial uniform.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. Are you pleased to get back, uncle? Sir Julian Twombley. [Emphatically.] Yes. [She places him in the arm-chair. He sinks into it with a sigh.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. How is your neuralgia? Sir Julian Twombley. Intense. It has been so ever since—— Lady Euphemia Vibart. [Putting her smelling-bottle to his nose.] Ever since? Sir Julian Twombley. Ever since I took Office. Thank you. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Was it a very brilliant Drawing-Room? Sir Julian Twombley. I think it must have been. I have been more than usually trodden upon. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Did you catch a glimpse of Aunt Kitty or of any of our people? Sir Julian Twombley. I heard Lady Twombley. What inexhaustible spirit she has! Euphemia, my dear, I confide in you. But for Lady Twombley I could never endure the badgering, the browbeating, the hackling, for which I seem especially selected. Lady Euphemia Vibart. It’s too unjust. Sir Julian Twombley. Oh, I know I am going to have a bad time in the House to-night! Lady Euphemia Vibart. Don’t dwell upon it, uncle. Sir Julian Twombley. Euphemia! [He jumps up almost fiercely.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. Uncle Julian! Sir Julian Twombley. Certain members of the Opposition are going too far. They regard me as a bull in the arena. They goad me, they pierce me with questions. And then, the lack of journalistic sympathy! Look here! [He stealthily produces a newspaper from his pocket.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. [Reproachfully.] Uncle Julian, you’ve bought a newspaper. You promised aunt you never would. Sir Julian Twombley. H’m! I would have you know, Euphemia, that I have not absolutely broken my pledge to Lady Twombley. I made Harris, the coachman, purchase this. As you drive home drop it out of your carriage window. [As Lady Euphemia takes the paper from him her eyes fall upon a paragraph.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. Oh! do they mean you, uncle? Sir Julian Twombley. Without doubt. Lady Euphemia Vibart. [Reading.] “The Square Peg!” Sir Julian Twombley. Hush! the servant! [Lady Euphemia crams the paper into her pocket. Probyn enters, carrying a small music-easel with some music on it and a flute in a case.] Probyn. Here, Sir Julian? Lady Euphemia Vibart. Oh, do play, uncle! Sir Julian Twombley. [To Probyn.] Thank you. Lady Euphemia Vibart. It will soothe you. Sir Julian Twombley. [Taking the flute from Probyn.] My only vice, Euphemia. [Probyn goes out. Sir Julian sounds a mournful note.] This little friend has inspired some of my most conspicuous oratorical triumphs. It has furnished me with many a cutting rejoinder for question time. [He sounds another note.] Ah, I know I am going to have such a bad night in the House. [He plays. Mrs. Gaylustre enters with Brooke.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. [To herself.] That woman! Mrs. Gaylustre. [To Lady Euphemia.] How do you do? [Lady Euphemia stares, inclines her head slightly, and goes to Brooke.] Mrs. Gaylustre. [To herself.] Haughty wretch! Sir Julian Twombley. Mrs. Gaylustre! Mrs. Gaylustre. Oh, Sir Julian, don’t, don’t stop! Sir Julian Twombley. I thought I was alone with Lady Euphemia. Mrs. Gaylustre. I am waiting to see dear Lady Twombley. Oh, do permit me to hear that sweet instrument! Sir Julian Twombley. Pray sit down! [Sir Julian resumes his seat and plays a plaintive melody. Mrs. Gaylustre listens in a rapt attitude.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. [To Brooke.] That person is too odious to me. Brooke Twombley. Several people have taken her up. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Somehow, being taken up is what she suggests. Brooke Twombley. She seems a sort of society mermaid—half a lady and half a milliner—what? Only it bothers you to know where the one leaves off and the other begins. Who is she? Lady Euphemia Vibart. In prehistoric days she was a Miss Lebanon. Lord Bulpitt’s son, Percy Gaylustre, met her at Nice—or somewhere. Brooke Twombley. Oh, yes, and he married her—or something. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Yes, and now she’s a widow—or something. Brooke Twombley. Why does the Mater encourage her? Lady Euphemia Vibart. Because Aunt Kate is too good-hearted and impressionable. But, as a rule, I think Mrs. Gaylustre makes a considerable reduction to those who ask her to their parties. [Mrs. Gaylustre is bending over Sir Julian and turning his music.] Look! [Probyn appears at the entrance.] Probyn. Here’s Sir Julian, my lady. Brooke Twombley. Hullo, Mater! [Lady Twombley, a handsome, bright, good-humoured woman, dressed magnificently in Court dress, enters. Probyn retires, and Sir Julian stops playing.] Lady Twombley. [Kissing Brooke.] Well, Brooke, darling, have you wanted your mother? [Kissing Lady Euphemia.] Effie, how sweet you look! what a dream of a bonnet! [Nods to Mrs. Gaylustre.] How d’ye do, Mrs. Gaylustre? Why, pa! [She bends over him and Sir Julian Twombley. Flute, Katherine. Lady Twombley. I mean flute. It was my brother Bob who always played a whistle when the crops were poor or the lambs fell sickly. Sir Julian Twombley. I had not the advantage of your brother Robert’s acquaintance. Lady Twombley. Where’s Imogen? Imogen! Imogen. [Outside.] Mamma! Lady Twombley. Come and show yourself to pa. [Imogen enters in her Court dress, a pretty girl of about eighteen.] Imogen. Effie, dear! Well, Brooke! Lady Twombley. [To Sir Julian.] Look at her! Sir Julian Twombley. Quite charming! Imogen. Well, papa, have you nothing to say to me? Sir Julian Twombley. My dear, I hesitate to address such a magnificent creature. Imogen. [Bowing to Sir Julian.] Mamma, I think that gentleman wishes to be presented to me. I have no objection, if you consider him a person I ought to know. Lady Twombley. [Kissing Imogen.] Ah, Julian, our sweet child! Sir Julian Twombley. [Taking Imogen’s hand.] My dear. Imogen. [With dignity.] I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard you mentioned very kindly by my little friend, Imogen Twombley. Pray sit down, and I’ll sit on your lap. [Imogen sits on Sir Julian’s knee and puts her arm round his neck.] Oh, papa, I have been so nervous! Mrs. Gaylustre. I quite sympathize. I was shockingly nervous when I was presented. Imogen. [Rising hastily.] Mrs. Gaylustre—I didn’t see you. Lady Twombley. [To Brooke and Lady Euphemia.] Dear old Lady Leeke, whose wheels we locked in the Park, said Sir Julian Twombley. I trust not, Katherine. Lady Twombley. When I did get through they gave me my train, as much as to say: “If this belongs to you, take it home as soon as possible.” But there I stuck in the doorway, not budging an inch. I didn’t care how the officials whispered, and waved, and beckoned; I stood my ground. And then, Julian, then my breath nearly went from me, for I saw her coming! Effie, it was lovely! Brooke, you would have been proud of your sister! Her cheeks were like the outside leaf of a Duchesse de Vallombrosa rose, and her eyes like two dewdrops on the top of it; and she had just enough fright in her little heart to make her feathers tremble. Then she courtesied. Ah, if she had stumbled I should have been by her side in an instant—who would have blamed me? I’m her mother!—but she didn’t. No, she floated towards me—dipping, and dipping, and dipping, again and again, as smoothly and gracefully as a swan swimming backward! [Lady Twombley embraces Imogen.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. I am too glad, Aunt Kitty. Brooke Twombley. Awfully satisfactory—what? Sir Julian Twombley. I remember Lady Liphook’s daughter Miriam falling and rolling over in the season of ’85. Lady Twombley. Lor’ how sorry I feel for anybody who isn’t a mother! But, I say, there’s a bit that wants taking in there. [Pinching up the shoulder of Imogen’s dress.] Gaylustre, you must tell your woman Antoinette this won’t do. Mrs. Gaylustre. Oh, Lady Twombley—please! [Mrs. Gaylustre puts her handkerchief to her eyes.] Lady Twombley. My dear, pray forgive me! I really forgot where we were. Mrs. Gaylustre. [To Lady Twombley, with a little sob.] You wouldn’t hurt my feelings wilfully, I know. Lady Twombley. Not for the world. But it’s a little confusing, mixing up business with pleasure. Imogen, let Lady Effie and Mrs. Gaylustre hear you play your [Lady Euphemia and Imogen stroll out, followed by Mrs. Gaylustre.] Sir Julian Twombley. [Mournfully.] I’ll dress now, Katherine, and go down. Lady Twombley. Lor’, pa, don’t speak as if you were thinking of our tomb at Kensal Green. Sir Julian Twombley. Competent authorities assure me there is quiet to be found in the tomb; I anticipate nothing of that kind where I am going to-night. [He goes out. Lady Twombley watches his going, then turns to Brooke sharply.] Lady Twombley. Well, have you got it? Brooke Twombley. My—er—— Lady Twombley. Your skeddle. [Brooke hands his schedule to Lady Twombley.] Lady Twombley. There’s a dear boy. [She turns over the leaves, gradually her face assumes a look of horror.] “Total, three thousand——!” [She folds the schedule, puts it in her pocket, and faces Brooke fiercely with her hands clenched.] Lady Twombley. You imp! [She boxes his right ear soundly.] Brooke Twombley. Mater! Lady Twombley. You villain! [She boxes his left ear.] Brooke Twombley. Don’t, Mater! Lady Twombley. Three thousand pounds! Three thousand times I wish you had never been born! I—I—— [She breaks down, puts her arms round Brooke’s neck, and cries.] Oh, Brooke, my dear, forgive your poor mother’s vile temper. I’ve made my Brooke’s head ache. Oh, my gracious! Brooke Twombley. Don’t fret, Mater. If you’re run rather low at Scott’s—— Lady Twombley. Scott’s, Brooke! When I creep into that bank now and ask for my pass-book I have to hold on to the edge of the counter, I feel so sick and giddy. Brooke Twombley. Oh, very well then, Mater, I can wait. Mr. Nazareth, of Burlington Street, will accommodate me for a time; a couple of bills, you know, at three and six months—what? Lady Twombley. [Speaking in a whisper.] Brooky, Brooky, I’ve thought of those dreadful things for myself. Brooke Twombley. For yourself, Mater! Why, you can always get the right side of pa. Lady Twombley. Brooke! Brooky, I must tell you. Just now poor pa has no right side. Brooke Twombley. Mater! Lady Twombley. It’s as much as the dear man can do to get a rattle out of his keys. For a long time, Brooke, we’ve all been outrunning the constable. Brooke Twombley. Really, Mater, I ought to have been consulted before. Lady Twombley. I know, Brooke, but I couldn’t face my boy’s reproaches. Brooke Twombley. Pa must have been inexcusably reckless—what? Lady Twombley. No, it’s all my fault, every bit of it. [A pretty melody on the harp is heard.] Brooke, never marry a country-bred girl as your pa did. When he fell in love with me I was content with three frocks a year—think of that!—and had to twist up my own hats. And I could have done it for ever Brooke Twombley. All this is very painful, Mater—what? Lady Twombley. [Crying.] What a silly woman I’ve been, Brooke! Brooke Twombley. We’re all thoughtless at times. Lady Twombley. If I had but pulled in when pa’s Irish rents began to dwindle! Brooke Twombley. Why didn’t you, Mater? Lady Twombley. I don’t know, but I didn’t, I only prayed for Brooke Twombley. Oh! [She twists him round, pointing to the walls of the conservatory.] Lady Twombley. And look! Look at this sixpenny Algerian grotto I’ve stuck in the middle of the house. Seven thousand four hundred and fifty this cost, not counting the hot-water pipes. Brooke Twombley. Is it paid for? Lady Twombley. Your dear pa transferred the money for it to my account at Scott’s, but I’ve gone and spent it on other things. Brooke Twombley. Mater! Lady Twombley. Oh, my poor heart! Brooke Twombley. Well, Mater, any assistance I can render you in this emergency—— Lady Twombley. Ah, I know. [Seizing his hand and kissing it.] My Brooke! my comfort! Probyn. [Outside.] Lady Drumdurris—Dowager Lady Drumdurris. Brooke Twombley. Egidia and Aunt Dora. Lady Twombley. [Wiping her eyes.] Your aunt mustn’t see me upset. Brooke, don’t think anything more of what I’ve told you. I’ve tumbled into the mud before now, but mud dries to dust and I’ve always managed to shake it off. Dora! [The Dowager Countess of Drumdurris enters—a portly, rather formidable-looking lady of forty-five or fifty, in Court dress and diamonds.] Lady Twombley. Well, Dora, are you tired? Dowager. I hope I am never fatigued in doing my duty to my family, Kate. Here is poor Egidia. [Egidia, Countess of Drumdurris enters—a small, serious girl, with a great deal of presence and dignity, also in Court dress.] Egidia. How do you do, Lady Twombley? Lady Twombley. Why, poor Egidia! Aren’t you well, dear? Dowager. Egidia received a telegram from Scotland this morning; her son has cut his first tooth, during her absence, painfully. Lady Twombley. Oh, dear! Egidia. You also are a mother, Lady Twombley. You can sympathize with such cares as those I am now endeavouring to sustain. [Lady Euphemia and Imogen stroll in.] Lady Twombley. Your boy is five months old, isn’t he? Egidia. Fergus is precisely five months. Lady Twombley. Well, there are two-and-twenty more teeth to come yet, you know. Egidia. Yes, I am schooling myself into that conviction. I am naturally, I hope, a woman of more than ordinary courage. [Probyn appears at the entrance.] Probyn. Lord Drumdurris. [The Earl of Drumdurris, a boyish-looking officer of the Guards, in uniform, with much dignity and reserve, enters.] Earl of Drumdurris. How do you do, Lady Twombley? Egidia. Dowager. Keith, you have further news from Scotland? Earl of Drumdurris. Another telegram. Egidia. Ah! [She puts her hand calmly in that of the Dowager.] Dowager. Tell us, my son. Earl of Drumdurris. Another tooth. [Egidia closes her eyes. The Dowager kisses her upon the brow.] I offered Lady Macphail and Sir Colin the use of my brougham, but they preferred coming on here in their chariot. Lady Twombley. Lady Macphail and Sir Colin! Coming here! Dowager. [To Lady Twombley.] I haven’t told you what I’ve done. Keith! Earl of Drumdurris. [Bowing.] Certainly. [He joins the others, who are talking together.] Dowager. [To Lady Twombley.] I have a motive. My whole life has been one vast comprehensive motive. Lady Macphail is the little woman to whom I introduced you on the stairs at the Palace. Lady Twombley. Well, but—— Dowager. I encountered her again, and delivered a message from you begging her to come on here with Sir Colin to drink tea. Lady Twombley. I never—— Dowager. I know you didn’t. My motive is this. She has just brought her boy to London. Lady Twombley. Is he the great man in the kilt I saw holding on to her lappets? Dowager. Yes. Lady Twombley. He’s thirty, if he’s an hour. Dowager. He’s more. But he is a fine example of the grand simplicity that exists in many Scottish families. Proprietor of eighty thousand acres, head of a great clan, Colin Macphail of Ballocheevin remains a child attached to his mother. Lady Twombley. Oh, I shall be very happy to—— Dowager. Ah, you grasp my motive! Lady Twombley. No, I don’t. Dowager. [In Lady Twombley’s ear.] Imogen. Lady Twombley. Imogen? Dowager. Imogen must make a match this season and marry before the year is out. Lady Twombley. Why? Dowager. Don’t deceive yourself, Kate Twombley. You are aware that Julian’s position in the Ministry is precarious? Lady Twombley. You think so? Dowager. Everybody thinks so. It’s my opinion they’ll make a Jonah of him and cast him from them before many months are over. You know what that means? Lady Twombley. Horrible! Julian giving up public life and set Dowager. Very well then; you must assure your children’s future before the blow falls. What could you do for Imogen in the country? Lady Twombley. A vicar or a small squire. Dowager. More likely a curate or a farmer. Will you resign yourself to that? Lady Twombley. Never, Dora! I never will! I’ve had to swallow the husks of London and my chicks shall have the barley. Julian shall hold on till they have made brilliant marriages! Dowager. Ah! Lady Twombley. He shall! Afterwards I’ll go back to darning stockings with a light heart. Dowager. Well spoken, Kate Twombley! [Probyn appears at the entrance.] Probyn. Sir Colin and Lady Macphail. Dowager. [To Lady Twombley.] You see my motive? Lady Twombley. Yes, Dora. [Lady Macphail and Sir Colin enter—she a simple little old woman in Court dress, ecstatically sentimental; he a formidable-looking bearded man about six feet high, in full Highland costume, bashful and awkward in manner, and keeping close to his mother.] Lady Twombley. [To Lady Macphail.] I am delighted to see you here. Lady Macphail. [Presenting Macphail.] My boy. [He shelters himself behind her and bows uneasily.] I have determined to give the lad a season in this mighty city, Lady Twombley. Lady Twombley. Ah, he’ll enjoy himself, I’m sure. Lady Macphail. Nay, the Macphails never enjoy themselves in the South. Lady Twombley. I’m very sorry; perhaps they don’t go the right way about it. Lady Macphail. Already Colin’s feet ache— Lady Twombley. Do they? Lady Macphail. Ache to press the heather again, searching for a sight of the red-deer in the misty chasms of Ben Muchty, or the wild birds fluttering on the gray shore of Loch-na-Doich. Lady Twombley. Ah, very pretty country, I dare say. Lady Macphail. Where would you be, Colin, at this hour at Castle Ballocheevin? Watching the sun sink behind the black peak of Ben-na-Vrachie? Speak, lad! Macphail. [Sadly.] That is so, mother. Lady Twombley. Do you do that every evening at home? Macphail. Aye. Lady Macphail. Ah, a Macphail always feels like a seagull with a broken wing in the South. Lady Twombley. You must take care you don’t get him run over. Probyn. [Appearing at the entrance.] Tea is in the yellow room, my lady. [Drumdurris, Brooke, Egidia, and Lady Euphemia go out.] Dowager. [Introducing Imogen.] Lady Macphail, Sir Colin—my niece, Imogen. Imogen, take Sir Colin to tea. Imogen. This way, Sir Colin. Dowager. [To Lady Twombley.] You see my motive? Imogen. [Waiting for Macphail.] Tea is in this room, Sir Colin. Macphail. [Looking at Imogen, and then, appealingly, at Lady Macphail.] Come, mother. [Imogen, Macphail, and Lady Macphail go out.] Dowager. [To Lady Twombley, following the others.] He is impressed! [Sir Julian, in evening dress, enters with a letter in his hand.] Sir Julian Twombley. Katherine! Katherine! Lady Twombley. Pa? Sir Julian Twombley. I must speak to you. Lady Twombley. But Dora has just brought a Highland youth here. Sir Julian Twombley. I can’t help it. Lady Twombley. What’s wrong, pa? How pale and waxy you look! Sir Julian Twombley. [Handing her the letter.] An urgent letter from old Mr. Mason, my solicitor, about my affairs. Lady Twombley. Oh, Lor’, pa—another! Sir Julian Twombley. You have it upside down. Lady Twombley. Everything connected with our affairs will get that way. Sir Julian Twombley. Mason is imperative. Lady Twombley. He insists upon your considering your pecuniary position. Sir Julian Twombley. What shall I do? Lady Twombley. Accede to his request—consider it. Sir Julian Twombley. But I am constantly considering it! Lady Twombley. Hush, pa! Sir Julian Twombley. No man’s pecuniary position has ever demanded or received more consideration than my own. Day and night my pecuniary position lashes my brain into the consistency of a whipped egg. Lady Twombley. Pa, be calm! Sir Julian Twombley. Kate, my pecuniary position interposes between me and grave public questions. My very spectacles are toned by it. It is in every blue-book, in every page of Hansard, in the preamble of every Bill. Lady Twombley. Oh, dear pa! Sir Julian Twombley. It sits with me in committees, accompanies me into the lobbies; it receives deputations, replies to questions in the House; it forms part of the deliberations of the Cabinet. It warps my political sympathies; it distorts my judgment; it obscures my eloquence, and it lames my logic! [Taking the letter [Leans his head on his hands. She sits on the arm of his chair.] Lady Twombley. [Tearfully.] Julian, you—mustn’t—give way. Suppose the members of the Opposition saw you like this. Sir Julian Twombley. [With a groan.] Oh! Lady Twombley. Think of those persons who sit—where is it?—on the hatchway—or below the gangway, or some uncomfortable place. How rejoiced they’d be! [Shaking him gently.] Have courage, Julian—perk up, pa dear. Sir Julian Twombley. I cannot go on, Kitty. Lady Twombley. Oh, don’t say that! Sir Julian Twombley. Mason’s letter decides me. Lady Twombley. To do what! Sir Julian Twombley. Yield to a sentiment which I have reason to believe exists on both sides of the House— Lady Twombley. Resign? Sir Julian Twombley. Resign my place in the Ministry—ask for the Chiltern Hundreds—— Lady Twombley. Oh! Sir Julian Twombley. Wind up my affairs in town—— Lady Twombley. Oh, no! Sir Julian Twombley. And seek peace in rural retirement. Lady Twombley. You shan’t, pa! Oh, my gracious, you wouldn’t be so heartless! Sir Julian Twombley. Heartless! Lady Twombley. [Kneeling beside him.] Think of my blessed chicks—my babies. Don’t go under, Julian, till we’ve given them the benefit of our magnificent position—— Sir Julian Twombley. Our mag—— Lady Twombley. Wait till my Brooky—our Brooky—has won some handsome, wealthy girl who is worthy of him. Hold on till Imogen has made a marriage that will make [She throws her arms round his neck. Imogen’s harp is heard again. Mrs. Gaylustre enters.] Mrs. Gaylustre. The wretches! how they ignore me! [Seeing Sir Julian and Lady Twombley.] Ah! [Hiding herself behind a pillar she listens.] Sir Julian Twombley. But—but—but if I desperately cling to public life a little longer I must have money. Lady Twombley. Of course—of course you must have money. But, Julian, you must look to me for that. Sir Julian Twombley. You, Katherine! Lady Twombley. You must think only of your value to the country, and—leave the rest to your wife. Sir Julian Twombley. Kitty, you have made some little private hoard out of your allowance! Lady Twombley. [Sinking faintly onto the settee.] Well, pa. Sir Julian Twombley. How prudent! How thoughtful! Lady Twombley. Go—go to Dora. Make my excuses. I’ll follow you when I’ve pulled myself together. Sir Julian Twombley. Yes, yes. [Turning.] By the way, Kitty, Hopwoods have just sent in their bill for erecting this conservatory. Lady Twombley. [Clinging to the back of the chair.] Oh! Sir Julian Twombley. You remember I transferred, at your request, seven thousand some odd pounds to your account at Scott’s when we projected the—h’m!—pardonable little extravagance? Lady Twombley. Y—yes. Sir Julian Twombley. Hopwoods can wait till midsummer. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind letting me have the use of the money in the meantime? Lady Twombley. No, certainly not. Sir Julian Twombley. A cheque any day this week— Lady Twombley. All days are equally convenient. Sir Julian Twombley. Kitty, I will hold on till Christmas! Lady Twombley. Thank you, pa—I—— [She turns to him suddenly.] Oh, pa, I haven’t got—I haven’t—I—— Sir Julian Twombley. Haven’t what, Kitty? Lady Twombley. N—nothing. Go—go to Dora. [He goes out.] Oh! where shall I turn for money? Where shall I turn? Where shall I turn—for money? [Mrs. Gaylustre advances and faces Lady Twombley.] Ah! Mrs. Gaylustre! Mrs. Gaylustre. Oh, Lady Twombley, I am in such distress! Lady Twombley. Distress! Mrs. Gaylustre. [Producing Lady Twombley’s letter to Brooke.] I picked up a letter in the next room. I thought it was the note you wrote me about the plum-coloured peignoir and that it had fallen from my pocket. I Lady Twombley. Gracious! Mrs. Gaylustre. But that is not the worst. It tells me that you are in trouble—you, the best friend I have in the world, my benefactress. Oh, what shall I do? Lady Twombley. Hold your tongue about it. Mrs. Gaylustre. Ah! why did I read it through? Lady Twombley. Because you were a little curious, I’m afraid. Mrs. Gaylustre. I shan’t sleep for it. Lady Twombley. Thank you, I can do all my own lying awake. Mind your own concerns for the future, Gaylustre. Mrs. Gaylustre. It is my concern when I can help you. Lady Twombley. You help me? Mrs. Gaylustre. Ah, yes. Oh, let me, Lady Twombley! I don’t ask to be confided in, I only ask to be allowed to bring my brother to see you—to-night—to-morrow. Lady Twombley. Your brother? Mrs. Gaylustre. Mr. Lebanon—my Joseph. I would trust him as I’d trust myself. I have known him do such things in the way of raising money upon what he calls personal and other security—— Lady Twombley. A money-lender? Mrs. Gaylustre. Lady Twombley! Oh! Lady Twombley. Does Mr. Lebanon help—people—in difficulties? Mrs. Gaylustre. Oh, doesn’t he! Lady Twombley. Oh! Mrs. Gaylustre. Will you see him, Lady Twombley? Lady Twombley. Don’t ask me. Perhaps. Mrs. Gaylustre. To-night? Lady Twombley. Perhaps, I tell you. Mrs. Gaylustre. At what time? Lady Twombley. Half-past nine—sharp. Mrs. Gaylustre. [To herself.] Done! [Sir Julian enters with Lady Macphail, Macphail, and the Dowager. Brooke follows with Drumdurris, then after an interval Lady Euphemia, Egidia, and Imogen appear.] Sir Julian Twombley. [To Lady Twombley, reprovingly.] My dear, Lady Macphail and Sir Colin are going. Dowager. [To Lady Twombley.] You are neglecting them. What can be your motive? Lady Twombley. [To Lady Macphail.] I hope Sir Julian has explained—— Lady Macphail. Certainly. But I must take my boy away. He dines at six to avoid late hours. [Imogen talks to Macphail.] Dowager. [Quietly to Lady Twombley.] Look! they are talking. Lady Macphail. Colin rises at five every morning. Lady Twombley. Dear me, how awful! Lady Macphail. He loves to watch the sunrise from the jagged summit of Ben-na-fechan. Lady Twombley. But there’s no Ben-na-what-you-may-call-it here. Lady Macphail. No. But he sits upon the roof of our lodgings in Clarges Street. Good-bye, Lady Twombley. [They shake hands.] Lady Twombley. [To Macphail.] Good-bye. You must come and see me on one of my Tuesdays. Macphail. Aye, with my mother. [He turns to Imogen; they shake hands.] Imogen. Good-bye, Sir Colin. Dowager. [To Lady Twombley.] There again! look! Brooke Twombley. Why, here’s Valentine! Valentine! Lady Twombley. [Inquiringly.] Valentine? [Brooke brings on Valentine.] Valentine White. [To Brooke.] Let me go! I was trying to find my way out. Brooke Twombley. [To Lady Twombley.] Here’s Valentine, come back. Imogen. Valentine! Valentine White. Imogen! Imogen. Oh, my dear Val! My dear old Val! [She rushes to him impulsively and flings her arms round his neck, at which the Dowager gives a cry of horror, and there is a general movement of astonishment.] END OF THE FIRST ACT. |
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