  Dancing.
Waltz-music is heard, then a slight scream, and Lebanon, in full Highland costume, enters hastily. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I wouldn’t ’ave ’ad it ’appen for ’alf a sovereign. [The Munkittrick, a fiery old gentleman in Highland dress, enters.] The Munkittrick. Sir, I am most indignant! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I’ve explained. I felt myself goin’ and I caught at what came nearest. The Munkittrick. My daughter came nearest. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I know. Don’t make such a fuss about it! Do remember we’re at a ball! The Munkittrick. Miss Munkittrick is torn to ribbons. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. All right. Make light of it—make light of it, like I do. The Munkittrick. Ah-h-h! [Drumdurris, in Highland dress, enters with Miss Munkittrick, who is much discomposed, and Egidia, who is soothing her.] Earl of Drumdurris. [To Munkittrick.] My dear sir! Miss Munkittrick. Papa! Egidia. Oh, Flora, Flora! The Munkittrick. Lord Drumdurris! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Let it blow over. We’re all forgettin’ we’re at a ball. The Munkittrick. Miss Munkittrick has been rolled upon the floor. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. She was passin’ at the time—I didn’t select her. Don’t be so conceited! [Lebanon continues to explain. Munkittrick is indignant; Drumdurris endeavors to soothe him. Brooke enters carrying a satin shoe, which he presents to Miss Munkittrick.] Brooke Twombley. Awfully sorry—what? [Brooke hurries out.] Miss Munkittrick. Where is papa? [Imogen enters, carrying an aigrette.] Imogen. Oh, Miss Munkittrick, what a shocking mishap! [They fasten the aigrette in Miss Munkittrick’s hair.] Miss Munkittrick. Have you seen my papa? [Lady Euphemia, carrying a sash, hurries in as Imogen goes off. Miss Munkittrick rises; Lady Euphemia and Egidia adjust the sash hastily.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. [Adjusting the sash.] My dear Flora, this is too unfortunate! [Brooke re-enters with another shoe.] Brooke Twombley. The other—what! [To Lady Euphemia.] There are some more pieces—come and help. [Brooke and Lady Euphemia hurry out.] Miss Munkittrick. I want my papa! [Seeing Munkittrick.] Ah! The Munkittrick. [Giving her his arm.] Flora, we’ll go home. Miss Munkittrick. Papa, I’m not nearly all. [Her aigrette is very much on one side, her sash is trailing, and she limps away carrying one slipper.] Egidia. Pray don’t think of going! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Let it blow over! Earl of Drumdurris. My dear sir! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Oh, very well, you’re losing the best of the ball. [The Munkittrick and Miss Munkittrick go out, followed by Egidia and Drumdurris. Imogen, Lady Euphemia, and Brooke enter hastily, each carrying a fragment of Miss Munkittrick’s dress.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Taking the remnants.] Allow me—allow me—my affair. [Imogen, Lady Euphemia, and Brooke go out. Lebanon crams the pieces of Miss Munkittrick’s dress under a chair cushion.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Let it blow over. Where’s my partner? [He goes out. Macphail enters with Mrs. Gaylustre upon his arm.] Mrs. Gaylustre. Staying out is infinitely preferable to dancing, is it not, dear Sir Colin? Macphail. Aye. I hate dancing. Mrs. Gaylustre. But your dear mother says you resemble some beautiful wild thing when you dance the Strathspey. Macphail. That’s because I hate it; the Strathspey’s enough to make a lad wild. Mrs. Gaylustre. Witty boy! Macphail. Eh, do you think I’m naturally quick? Mrs. Gaylustre. Quick? Macphail. Quick in my understanding? Mrs. Gaylustre. I’m sure of it. Macphail. Eh, I’m glad you think I’m quick. Mrs. Gaylustre. Why? Macphail. Because Ballocheevin—that’s our place, you understand—Ballocheevin is enough to soften a lad’s brain. Mrs. Gaylustre. Then why hide your light at Ballocheevin? Macphail. Well, the Macphails have lived there since eleven hundred and two. Mrs. Gaylustre. How romantic! Macphail. So mother’s just got out of the way of moving. Mrs. Gaylustre. Charming attachment to an old home. Macphail. Aye, it’s old. It hasn’t been papered and done up since Robert Bruce stayed with us. Mrs. Gaylustre. Robert Bruce! Macphail. Aye—just from a Saturday till Monday, I’m thinking. Mrs. Gaylustre. There must be a legend attached to every stone of Ballocheevin. Macphail. Aye, it’s interesting—but it requires papering. I am so tired of Ballocheevin. Mrs. Gaylustre. But you love the rugged country, the vast overwhelming hills, and the placid lochs? Macphail. Mother’s been telling you that. Mrs. Gaylustre. Isn’t it true? Macphail. Eh, I am just weary of my native scenery. Mrs. Gaylustre. But what about the misty chasms of Ben-Muchty? Macphail. That’s an awfully damp place. That’s where I caught my bad cold. Mrs. Gaylustre. And the gray shore of Loch-na-Doich? Your mother says you adore it. Macphail. Eh, I am sick of Loch-na-Doich. Mrs. Gaylustre. And your feet don’t ache to press the heather? Macphail. It’s when they’re on the heather my feet ache. It’s poor walking, heather. Mrs. Gaylustre. Then you don’t watch the sun rise from the jagged summit of Ben-na-fechan? Macphail. [Cunningly.] Eh, but I do though, every day when I’m at home. Mrs. Gaylustre. But why? Macphail. To get away from mother. Mrs. Gaylustre. Poor boy! Macphail. [Reflectively.] I’ve been thinking—— Mrs. Gaylustre. Yes? Macphail. That you’d better let go my arm now. Mrs. Gaylustre. Sir Colin! Macphail. I’ve no personal objection, you understand; but mother’s always looking for me. Mrs. Gaylustre. How thoughtless I am! [He walks away.] Sir Colin! Macphail. Aye? Mrs. Gaylustre. Your mother is driving you to contract this marriage with Miss Twombley. Macphail. Well, mother’s just making the arrangements. Mrs. Gaylustre. Your great heart hasn’t gone out to her! Unhappiness must ensue! Your bright career will be dimmed! Macphail. Will be what? Mrs. Gaylustre. Dimmed. What did you think I said? Oh, Sir Colin, don’t carry this unsuitable bride to Ballocheevin! Macphail. Well, it’s a serious step; but I’ve been thinking it would be another in the house. Mrs. Gaylustre. You don’t want another in the house. You need a strong, self-reliant wife who will take you out of the house. Macphail. Eh? Mrs. Gaylustre. A woman, loving but firm, tender but enterprising, who will bear you from your dilapidated home and plunge you into the vortex of some great city. [Suddenly.] Have you ever been to Paris? Macphail. No. Mrs. Gaylustre. I know every inch of it! Macphail. Madam! Mrs. Gaylustre. Oh, what have I said! Sir Colin, you have guessed my secret! [Macphail produces his ball-programme from his stocking and refers to it.] Macphail. I’m engaged to Miss Kilbouie for this waltz, if you’ll excuse me. Mrs. Gaylustre. [Holding out her hand to him.] Colin. Macphail. I’m thinking mother will be wondering—— Mrs. Gaylustre. [To herself.] Drat your moth—— [To Macphail.] Never mind dear Lady Macphail for a moment. Colin, since you have discovered my love for you I will make no further reservation—— Macphail. But mother—— Mrs. Gaylustre. [Under her breath.] Drat your—— [To Macphail.] Colin, I will be to you the wife you have described. Macphail. I’m extremely obliged to ye—but—— Mrs. Gaylustre. Hush, bold boy! [She gives him a card.] Mrs. Gaylustre. You know my cruel brother takes me back to town to-morrow. Here is my address so that you may write to me constantly, devotedly. Macphail. [Reading the card.] “Mauricette & Cie., Court Dressmakers——” Mrs. Gaylustre. [Snatching the card from him.] That’s a wrong ’un—I mean, that’s a mistake. [Giving another.] There. Hide it away, dear one—nearest your heart. [He slips it into his stocking.] Macphail. Oh! Mrs. Gaylustre. And now, as I start in the morning at nine-forty-five, sharp, on the tick, we must say farewell. Oh, this parting is too cruel. Colin! [She falls against him.] Macphail. Here’s my mother! [He throws her off.] Mrs. Gaylustre. [Under her breath.] Drat your mother! [Lady Macphail enters.] Lady Macphail. Madam. [To Macphail.] Why do you leave the ball-room, my lad? Macphail. I’ve been just watching the moonlight on Loch Auchentoshan. Lady Macphail. I am proud to see this devotion to Loch Auchentoshan, but to-night you have other duties almost equally important. After this paltry waltz we lose ourselves in the wild pleasures of our native dance. Macphail. The Strathspey? [He takes Mrs. Gaylustre’s card from his stocking.] Oh! [Hides it and produces his ball-programme from his other stocking.] The Strathspey. Lady Macphail. Come, lad. They have yet to see the Macphail lead the Strathspey with his betrothed. [They go out together.] Mrs. Gaylustre. Yes, and they shall ultimately see the Macphail writing love-letters to Fanny—love-letters with a promise of marriage in ’em. I’ll consult a solicitor directly I reach town and be ready to marry or to sue him. Oh, Fanny, Fanny, ungrateful girl, what a lot you have to be thankful for! [She runs out and AngÈle peeps in.] AngÈle. Milord! Miladi! [She enters.] I must find miladi! Miladi! [Lady Twombley enters.] Lady Twombley. No news from Reeves & Shuckleback, the Stockbrokers. The waiting for it will finish me! AngÈle. Oh, Miladi Twombley. Lady Twombley. [Turning to her sharply.] Ah! AngÈle. Tell me, vere is milord? Lady Twombley. What! Has a messenger come from Strachlachan with a telegram for Lord Drumdurris? Speak? AngÈle. I do not know. Lady Twombley. Oh! AngÈle. But, oh, miladi, I ’ave been a vicked girl! Lady Twombley. I dare say you have—that’s your business. AngÈle. Miladi, ze leetle Lord Aberbrothock is indispose. Lady Twombley. The baby? AngÈle. Yees. To please milord, and contrary to miladi’s ordares, I put Lord Aberbrothock to bed wiz his gun. Lady Twombley. I know—I’m a mother—the child has swallowed the paint! AngÈle. Ah, yees! Lady Twombley. Send a groom to Strachlachan for Dr. M’Gubbie. AngÈle. Yees, miladi. Lady Twombley. AngÈle! AngÈle. Miladi? Lady Twombley. Tell the man to inquire at Strachlachan for telegrams for the Castle. AngÈle. Yees, miladi. [AngÈle runs out.] Lady Twombley. Oh, for a telegram from Reeves & Shuckleback! My diamonds, my double row of pearls for a telegram from Reeves & Shuckleback! [Egidia enters with AngÈle, followed by Drumdurris.] Egidia. Lady Twombley! Lady Twombley. Has Keith had a telegram? Egidia. A telegram—no. My son is ill! Lady Twombley. Oh, I know—he has nibbled his gun. Egidia. His gun! AngÈle. Yees, miladi. Egidia. Ah! The Army! [To Drumdurris.] So you have gained your own ends after all, Keith, and my boy has fallen. [Egidia goes out, followed by AngÈle. Drumdurris sinks into a chair.] Lady Twombley. Keith. Earl of Drumdurris. Don’t speak to me, please, aunt. Lady Twombley. I must. Reeves & Shuckleback are strangely silent. Earl of Drumdurris. Let them remain so—I care not. Lady Twombley. You don’t care! Surely you are anxious to know whether you have been instrumental in saving me from—from growing my own vegetables? Earl of Drumdurris. Growing your own—— Lady Twombley. Surely you want to know whether you have made me a wealthy woman or have ruined yourself in the effort? Earl of Drumdurris. Ruined myself! Lady Twombley. Keith, dear, I am afraid I haven’t done what is strictly regular, but when you put me into communication with your Stockbrokers I carried on my delicate little financial operations with them in your name. Earl of Drumdurris. Aunt Kate! Lady Twombley. Keith, you’re annoyed! Earl of Drumdurris. May I ask what delicate little financial operations? Lady Twombley. I’ve speculated on the strength of my private Earl of Drumdurris. Aunt Twombley, how dare you do such a thing? Lady Twombley. How dare I! Boy—for you are little more—boy, you wouldn’t have a Cabinet Minister’s wife take advantage of her confidential acquaintance with her husband’s official affairs to advance her own interests! Oh, Keith! Earl of Drumdurris. But you’ve done it! Lady Twombley. No, I haven’t. Don’t be so dull, you’ve done it. Earl of Drumdurris. And if your delicate little financial operations—— Lady Twombley. If they come off, you have made what you men call a pile, Keith. All through your blundering aunty you will have made a pile. Earl of Drumdurris. Which I hand over to you, Aunt Kate? Lady Twombley. I shall borrow it, Keith, dear—may I? Earl of Drumdurris. And if—pardon the question—if your delicate little financial operations—— Lady Twombley. Don’t come off? Earl of Drumdurris. Certainly; if they don’t come off, what then? Lady Twombley. Then through your reckless speculation you will have impoverished your estate for the rest of your life! Earl of Drumdurris. Aunt! [Egidia enters.] Egidia. Keith! Earl of Drumdurris. Tell me. Egidia. Fergus has taken a turn for the better. Earl of Drumdurris. Egidia, how can I look you in the face? Egidia. Cannot we read a lesson from this dreadful occurrence? Earl of Drumdurris. To reconcile our views? Egidia. Finally. You see now how unfitted our son is to a soldier’s life. Earl of Drumdurris. Yes, I have been wrong. Happily it is not too late to remould his character. We must return to the ball-room. Egidia. First come with me and peep into the nursery. Earl of Drumdurris. By all means—the nursery. Together. The nursery. [They go out as the Dowager enters.] Dowager. Katherine! Lady Twombley. Dora? Dowager. I am beside myself! Have you heard the news? Lady Twombley. News? Telegrams for Keith? Dowager. I know nothing about telegrams. I’ve just overheard Julian talking solemnly to Brooke. Do you know what your husband intends to do? Lady Twombley. Grow his own vegetables. Dowager. Bother his vegetables! He resigns his place in the Ministry. Lady Twombley. The same thing. [To herself.] Ah, why can’t he wait! [Sir Julian enters with Brooke.] Sir Julian Twombley. Katherine, I have been telling Brooke of the change in his prospects. Brooke Twombley. I say, Mater, such a blow—what! Lady Twombley. Pa, why can’t you wait? Sir Julian Twombley. Wait—for what, Katherine? Dowager. Wait till the boy can patch up his future with a wealthy wife, of course. Sir Julian Twombley. Really, Dora, I don’t think it would be absolutely fair—— Dowager. Fair! People’s actions are like their heads of hair—they can be dyed flaxen. [To Brooke.] Boy, Brooke Twombley. I haven’t let the grass grow, Aunt Dora. I—ah—I have the happiness to be engaged—what! Lady Twombley. Engaged! Sir Julian Twombley. Bless my soul! Dowager. In mercy’s name, to whom? Brooke Twombley. To Effie. Lady Twombley and Sir Julian Twombley. Euphemia! Dowager. Euphemia! Why, how dare you conspire to entrap a child of mine into a moneyless marriage? Sir Julian Twombley. My dear Dora, you yourself suggested—— Dowager. If I may be guilty of such an expression—fall-lall! Brooke Twombley. But, aunt—— Dowager. Hold your tongue, sir! Ah, I believe you all have abominable motives! Lady Twombley. [To herself.] The telegram! The telegram! Why is there no telegram? [The music of the Strathspey is heard. Imogen enters with Lady Euphemia.] Dowager. Euphemia! [Lady Euphemia joins the others. Imogen goes to Lady Twombley in agitation.] Imogen. Mamma! The Strathspey! Lady Twombley. What of it? Imogen. I’m engaged to dance it with Sir Colin. Oh, mamma, I don’t love him! Lady Twombley. Child, you loved him the other night while your head was being washed. Imogen. I didn’t see clearly then—the egg-julep was in my eyes. But now Lady Macphail is running after me, from one room to another, because she declares I must fulfil the destiny of a Macphail’s betrothed and lead the Strathspey by his side. But I won’t dance a deception before a room full of people! Lady Twombley. Imogen, there is nothing for you but this marriage or contemptible, cleanly poverty. Imogen. Poverty! Lady Twombley. Child, you are young to be told these things—but what do you think is likely to happen to pa and me? Imogen. Mamma, keep nothing from me. Lady Twombley. In all probability we shall grow our own vegetables. Imogen. Oh! What for? Lady Twombley. For dinner. And, oh, Imogen, have pity on your mother! I can face contemptible, cleanly poverty with pa alone, but if I see my innocent chicks sharing our miseries every cabbage in our garden will grow up with a broken heart! [She embraces Imogen. Lady Macphail enters with Macphail.] Lady Macphail. Miss Twombley, Lord Drumdurris’s guests are politely waiting till you are pleased to lead the Strathspey with the Macphail. Macphail. Miss Twombley. Imogen. [Quietly to Lady Twombley.] Mamma! Lady Twombley. [To herself.] No telegram from town. [To Imogen.] Imogen, you had better not lose your dance. [With a slight courtesy to Macphail, Imogen gives him her arm as Valentine enters, trimmed, shaven, and in immaculate evening dress.] Brooke Twombley. Why, Val! Lady Euphemia Vibart. Mr. White! Valentine White. Imogen! Imogen. [Leaving Macphail.] Valentine! Lady Twombley. Valentine White! Valentine White. Imogen, am I too late? Imogen. Too late? Valentine White. For the honor of dancing with you to-night? Imogen. You—you are in time, Valentine. Valentine White. For which dance? Imogen. This dance. Macphail. Mother! Dowager. The child’s mad! Lady Macphail. Stop the Strathspey! Stop the Strathspey! [She hurries out, followed by Macphail.] Sir Julian Twombley. Mr. White, really you shouldn’t, you know. [The music ceases.] Valentine White. Sir Julian, Lady Twombley, with your permission I shall go no further to avoid the shams of life. I have found one cool resting-place in this world where there is reality and sincerity. [With Imogen’s hands in his.] And I have found it in an advanced state of civilization. [The Dowager pulls Imogen away.] Sir Julian Twombley. I positively must beg—— Dowager. [To Imogen.] Child, at this moment I feel grateful that I am your aunt, with all an aunt’s privileges. [She shakes her.] Imogen. Mamma! Lady Twombley. [Seizing Imogen.] My chick, your mother has privileges also. Bless you and Valentine. [Kissing Dowager. Ah! Julian! [Drumdurris appears with a telegram.] Earl of Drumdurris. Aunt! Lady Twombley. What’s that? Earl of Drumdurris. From Reeves & Shuckleback! [She snatches the telegram from him.] Everybody. What’s the matter? Lady Twombley. Julian, look at your wife! Brooke, Imogen, come to your mother! No more worries by day and bad dreams at night! No poverty—no cottage—no—no vegetables! I—I am a rich woman! [She falls back fainting into Sir Julian’s arms as they all surround her. At the same moment Lebanon rushes in with Mrs. Gaylustre. He has a telegram in his hand; his aspect is wild, his face white.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Lady Twombley! Where is she? Lady Twombley! [As Lady Twombley is assisted to a chair Lebanon falls into another.] Imogen. Mamma! Mrs. Gaylustre. Joseph! Imogen. Ah! Mrs. Gaylustre. Ah! Sir Julian Twombley. Be quiet! Lady Twombley is ill! Mrs. Gaylustre. Ill! Look at Joseph! My only brother! Sir Julian Twombley. Keith, explain this telegram or my brain will give way. Dowager. No, no—tell me. My brain is stronger than Sir Julian’s. Earl of Drumdurris. [To Sir Julian and the Dowager apart.] Mother—Sir Julian—— Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I want a word or two with my friend, Lady T. [Mrs. Gaylustre arranges his chair so that he faces Lady Twombley. She and Lebanon stare at each other.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Oh! Lady Twombley. Ah! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Lady T. Lady Twombley. Hullo? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I’ve ’ad a wire. Lady Twombley. So have I. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. From Moss & Emanuel, my brokers. Lady Twombley. Mine is from Reeves & Shuckleback. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Oh, I see—your brokers. You’ve done me, Lady T. Lady Twombley. Don’t mention it. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. You’re a knowing one. Lady Twombley. I’m sure I’m very gratified to hear you say so. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. The Bills! Give me the Bills you swindled me out of! [He advances violently, but Mrs. Gaylustre holds him back. Lady Twombley hands the Bills to Sir Julian.] Mrs. Gaylustre. Jo! Sir Julian Twombley. Mr. Lebanon, the Bills, sir. [Giving them.] [Lebanon snaps his fingers demonstratively in Sir Julian’s face.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Drum., thank you for your recherchÉ hospitality. Carriage to the station in the morning, if you please. [Kissing his hands.] Ladies—— [Breaking down.] Oh, Fanny, take me to bed! [He goes out. Mrs. Gaylustre is about to follow, when Lady Macphail enters with Macphail.] Lady Macphail. Madam! My boy—my poor lad—has told me of your behaviour. Mrs. Gaylustre. My behaviour! He loves me! Lady Macphail. Colin! Macphail. I thought I’d just better mention the affair to mother. Mrs. Gaylustre. Of course; conceal nothing from your parent. Macphail. And mother agrees with me—— Mrs. Gaylustre. Yes? Macphail. That it would be just a risky matter to correspond with a widow lady. Mrs. Gaylustre. Oh! Macphail. [Producing Mrs. Gaylustre’s card from his stocking.] So I’m thinking I sha’n’t require this address. Mrs. Gaylustre. Ah! [She slaps his face violently and runs out.] Everybody. Oh! Macphail. Mother! [Lady Macphail embraces him. The music of the Strathspey is heard again.] [Egidia enters.] Egidia. The Strathspey. Come into the ball-room. What has happened? Lady Twombley. I can’t enter the ball-room again to-night! Earl of Drumdurris. But you must dance the Strathspey. Lady Twombley. Must I? Dance then! [They take their places for the dance.] Pa! Valentine, Imogen! Brooke, Effie! Keith, Egidia! Lady Macphail, Sir Colin! Dance! Dance with foolish, thoughtless, weak-headed Kitty [They dance the Strathspey and Reel—Sir Julian with Lady Twombley, Drumdurris with Egidia, Brooke with Lady Euphemia, Valentine with Imogen, Lady Macphail with Macphail. The Dowager sits apart gloomily.] Sir Julian Twombley. [To Lady Twombley while dancing.] You’ve been indiscreet again, Kitty. Lady Twombley. Finally, Julian, finally! Sir Julian Twombley. No more extravagance? Lady Twombley. Never! Never! Sir Julian Twombley. And you resign yourself to a peaceful, rural life? Lady Twombley. Oh! Sir Julian Twombley. Promise me—promise me! Lady Twombley. Ha, ha! Dance, pa, dance! THE END. |
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