  Disaster. The scene is the inner hall at Drumdurris Castle, Perthshire, leading on one side to the outer hall, and on the other to the picture gallery. It is solidly and comfortably furnished, and a fire is burning in the grate of the large oaken fireplace. It is an afternoon in August. Imogen is sitting at the table reading over a letter she has written. Imogen. “Dear Mr. White.” I shall never call him Valentine again, except in my thoughts. [Reading.] “Dear Mr. White, I am sorry to hear that you are discontented with your recent appointment to the Deputy-Assistant-Head-Gamekeepership on the Drumdurris estate, and that you consider it a sinecure fit only for a debilitated peer.” Now for it. [Resuming.] “Permit me to take this opportunity of informing you that I have at length consented to an engagement between myself and Sir Colin Macphail of Ballocheevin.” Oh, how awful it looks in ink! [Resuming.] “As it is becoming that I should support such a position with dignity I would prefer not encountering your dislike to ‘stuck-up people’ by ever seeing you again.” Oh, Val. [She sits on a footstool looking into the fire. Brooke, in shooting dress, strolls in with Lady Euphemia. They do not see Imogen.] Brooke Twombley. [Coolly.] Well, then, Effie, I suppose I may regard our engagement as a fixture—what? I needn’t say you’ll find me an excellent husband. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Thanks, awfully. But perhaps you had better mention the subject to me again at some other time. Brooke Twombley. Well, I shall be rather busy for the next week or two. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Oh, quite as you please. [Giving him her hand.] But you are really too impetuous. Brooke Twombley. Not at all. [About to kiss her.] You’ll permit me, naturally? Lady Euphemia Vibart. [Languidly turning her cheek toward him.] Of [He kisses her cheek cautiously. Imogen rises without seeing them.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. [To Brooke.] Somebody. [They stroll away in opposite directions.] Imogen. After all, as he has never been a lover, why shouldn’t I see him and mention my engagement in a calm, cool, ladylike way? [Tearing up the letter passionately.] I must see him once more—in a calm, cool, ladylike way. I’ll write just a line asking him to come to me this morning. [As she sits to write Lady Euphemia and Brooke stroll in again and meet each other.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. [To Brooke.] Good-morning. Brooke Twombley. [To Lady Euphemia.] Good-morning. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Why, it’s Imogen! Oh, let me congratulate you. [Kissing her.] The news is too delightful. Imogen. Thank you. Brooke Twombley. Accept my congratulations also. Splendid fellow, Macphail; not one of those men who talk the top of your head off. Imogen. [Writing.] No, not quite. Brooke, dear, will you give Mr. White a little note from me? Brooke Twombley. Certainly. By the bye, while I think of it, you’ll be glad to hear that Effie has honored me by consenting to—er—marry me—what! Imogen. Effie! Lady Euphemia Vibart. How your mind does run on that subject, Brooke! Imogen. [Throwing her arms round Lady Euphemia’s neck.] What happy people, both of you! Lady Euphemia Vibart. My hair! Imogen. [Kissing Brooke.] A thousand congratulations, my dear, clever, old brother! Lady Euphemia Vibart. The bother with mamma will be too wearying. Imogen. Why a bother? Brooke Twombley. About my pecuniary position, don’t you know. You’ll hardly credit it, but I haven’t the least idea what pa intends to do for me. Imogen. But it doesn’t matter about that, so that you are deeply attached to each other. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Oh, Imogen, that’s too ridiculous! Brooke Twombley. Quite absurd—what! Imogen. Besides, if you want money you can work. Brooke Twombley. Oh, it’s no good everybody working. It’s this stupid all-round desire to work that throws so many men out of employment. I’ll look for Valentine. [Imogen gives him her note.] He’s sure to be about. We’re going to shoot over Claigrossie Moor this morning. [He goes out.] Lady Euphemia Vibart. So you’ve made up your mind at last? Imogen. No; other people have made it up for me. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Mamma? Imogen. Yes, Aunt Dora is the principal person who has rendered my life a burden to me. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Oh, Imogen! Imogen. It’s true. Every hour of the livelong day Aunt Dora has goaded me on to this desirable, detestable match; even at night she has stalked into my room with a lighted candle, startling me out of my beauty sleep, to tell me she will never rest till I am Lady Macphail. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Imogen, it’s too kind of mamma to take this interest in you. Imogen. Interest! It’s torture. And at last she threatened that if I married anybody else she would expire in great pain and appear to me constantly, a ghost, in her night-gown. Well, you’ve seen Aunt Dora in her night-gown—you can guess my feelings. Lady Euphemia Vibart. And that decided you. Imogen. I went to mamma and asked her advice. Lady Euphemia Vibart. I guess what that was. Imogen. Mamma’s expression was that she’d give the heels off her best shoes to see me provided for. And so, late last night, while my maid Phipps was washing my head, I gasped out a soapy sort of yes. [The Dowager enters.] Dowager. Where is Imogen? Lady Euphemia Vibart. Here, mamma. Dowager. [Embracing Imogen.] My favorite niece! I have just learned your decision over the breakfast-table. I was eating cold grouse at the moment; I thought I should have choked. Imogen. I hope you are satisfied, aunt. Dowager. Thoroughly. I feel now that I shall die, a great many years hence, a contented woman. Effie. Lady Euphemia Vibart. Yes, mamma? Dowager. Don’t think you’re neglected, child. I cannot provide for everybody at once. Lady Euphemia Vibart. No, mamma. Dowager. But having completely settled Imogen, I shall commence the adjustment of your future after lunch. [Lady Macphail enters.] Lady Macphail. Ah! Dowager. Dear Lady Macphail! What glorious news! Lady Macphail. [Rapturously, with her hand upraised.] Now let the worn banner of the Macphail be run up on the crumbling tower of Castle Ballocheevin! Dowager. Certainly—by all means. Lady Macphail. Now let the roar of the pipes startle the eaglets on the summit of black Ben-Muchty! Dowager. I hope such arrangements will be made. Lady Macphail. Let the shriek of the wild birds resound on the shores of Loch-na-Doich! Dowager. [Bringing Imogen forward.] But you haven’t seen Imogen yet. Lady Macphail. [Embracing her.] Child! Ah, when Colin learns your answer to his suit you shall listen to such words as none but a Macphail can utter to his betrothed. Dowager. Doesn’t he know? Lady Macphail. Not yet. He went out early to watch the sun gild the gray peak of Ben-Auchter. [Lady Twombley enters, looking very troubled.] Imogen. Mamma. [Lady Macphail, the Dowager, and Lady Euphemia talk together.] Mamma, everybody has congratulated me. Have you nothing to say? [Lady Twombley places her hand fondly on Imogen’s head.] Lady Twombley. [In a sepulchral voice.] Did Phipps dry your head thoroughly last night? Imogen. Yes, mamma. Lady Twombley. Then all’s well, I suppose. [Sir Julian’s flute is heard. To herself.] The first Bill—the first Bill due next week. [She sits staring at the fire as Sir Julian enters, playing the flute.] Imogen. Papa. Sir Julian Twombley. Imogen, my dear, amidst severe official worries Imogen. Thank you, papa. Sir Julian Twombley. Sir Colin may lack that inexhaustible flow of anecdote with which I have often been credited. Imogen. He may, papa. Sir Julian Twombley. But I confess I respect a man who will sit for hours without saying anything. I wish there were more like him in the House. Dowager. Julian, let the newspapers have the details of Imogen’s engagement without delay. Imogen. Oh, no, aunt! Not yet. Dowager. Imogen, if I may use such an expression—fall-lall! Suffice it, I have a motive. Imogen. But why the papers? Dowager. It is our duty to our friends. Do you think if anything serious happened to me, my friends wouldn’t like to hear of it without delay? Julian! [Sir Julian writes.] Besides, it will be current talk at the dance to-morrow night. Lady Macphail. The dance! Aye! To-morrow night they shall see a Macphail lead the Strathspey with the girl who is to be his bride! Imogen. No, indeed they won’t! Lady Macphail. What! Imogen. I can’t make myself so supremely ridiculous. Lady Macphail. Ridiculous! Lady Euphemia Vibart. Oh, Imogen! Dowager. Imogen! Lady Twombley. Imogen! Sir Julian Twombley. My dear! [Lady Macphail closes her eyes. Sir Julian and the Dowager take her hands.] Sir Julian Twombley and Dowager. My dear Lady Macphail! Lady Euphemia Vibart. Here is Sir Colin! Dowager and Sir Julian Twombley. Ah! Lady Macphail. My boy! Lady Euphemia Vibart. Why, he is with Mrs. Gaylustre! Sir Julian Twombley. That woman! Dowager. That woman! Lady Twombley. That woman! Imogen. That woman! [Macphail enters with Mrs. Gaylustre, he in Highland dress, she wearing a showy costume of tweed tartan with a Scotch bonnet.] Lady Macphail. Colin, lad! Macphail. Eh, mother? Mrs. Gaylustre. Dear Sir Colin gave me his arm to the top of Ben-Auchter. Dowager and Lady Macphail. To the top of Ben-Auchter! Macphail. [With an anxious glance at Mrs. Gaylustre.] Just to see the sun rise. Dowager. [Quietly to Sir Julian.] Julian, that’s scandalous! Lady Macphail. I thought you always witnessed the sun rise alone, Colin. Macphail. As a rule, mother. Dowager. [To herself.] That woman has a motive. Lady Macphail. [Pointing to Imogen.] My son, look—here is Imogen. Macphail. [To Imogen.] Good-morning. Lady Macphail. Colin, lad, don’t you guess? Macphail. No, mother. Lady Macphail. [Rapturously.] Now let the worn banner of the Macphail be run up on the crumbling tower of Castle Ballocheevin! Macphail. [Vacantly.] For what reason, mother? Lady Macphail. Now let the shriek of the wild birds sound on the shores of Loch-na-Doich! Macphail. Why? Lady Macphail. [Embracing Macphail.] Imogen is to be your bride. Macphail. [Blankly.] Oh! [Sir Julian, the Dowager, and Lady Euphemia congratulate him.] Sir Julian Twombley. Most gratified! Dowager. I have a mother’s yearnings toward you. Lady Euphemia Vibart. We are too rejoiced! Mrs. Gaylustre. [To herself.] They’ve hooked him! Lady Macphail. [Bringing Macphail down.] Hush! Speak to her, Colin, lad. Let her hear how a Macphail greets the woman of his choice. [Lady Macphail joins Sir Julian, the Dowager, and Lady Euphemia, while they all watch Macphail as he approaches Imogen.] Lady Macphail. Listen! Macphail. [To Imogen.] Er—I’m very much obliged to ye. Lady Macphail. Bravely spoken! Dowager. A grand nature! Imogen. Thank you, Sir Colin. [She joins the others.] Mrs. Gaylustre. [To Macphail, seizing his hand.] May your life be very, very blissful! Macphail. [Uneasily, withdrawing his hand.] Mother’s looking. [He joins the rest.] Mrs. Gaylustre. [To herself.] They’ve hooked my Scotch salmon; but they haven’t landed him yet! [Intercepting Lady Twombley as she advances towards the group.] Kate! Lady Twombley. Reptile! Mrs. Gaylustre. I’m not at all satisfied with the way things are going on here. Lady Twombley. Aren’t you? I think things are beautifully smooth. Mrs. Gaylustre. I’m pretty comfortable at Drumdurris myself, thank you; but I’m getting extremely anxious about Joseph. Lady Twombley. So am I. Mrs. Gaylustre. I’m afraid Joseph isn’t enjoying his little holiday at all. Did you observe him at dinner last night? Lady Twombley. Who could help it? The man eats enough for six. Mrs. Gaylustre. He’s obliged to, his holiday being so brief. But these fine folks treat him as contemptuously as if he were a snail in a cabbage. Lady Twombley. Then why does he talk with the leg of a grouse sticking out of the side of his mouth? Why does he drink people’s health across the table and call the men-servants “old chaps?” Mrs. Gaylustre. Dear Jo! There’s nothing classy about him. [Drumdurris, in shooting dress, enters, carrying a light wooden box.] Lady Twombley. Why does he swallow his knife and build pyramids with his bread; and tell long stories with no meaning at all or else with two? Mrs. Gaylustre. Well, you must take Jo as Heaven made him. So you’d better make things smooth for him with Lord Drumdurris. If not— Lady Twombley. If not? Mrs. Gaylustre. If not, Jo might, after all, decline to renew. Lady Twombley. Oh! Mrs. Gaylustre. And then there would be the devil to pay, wouldn’t there? Lady Twombley. As far as I can see there are two devils to pay already. Mrs. Gaylustre. Ha, ha! Here’s Drumdurris. Remember. [After talking to the others, Drumdurris approaches Lady Twombley, bowing stiffly to Mrs. Gaylustre, who shakes her fist behind his back, Lady Twombley gives a small nervous shriek.] Earl of Drumdurris. Aunt? Lady Twombley. [With her hand to her heart.] Spasms. Mrs. Gaylustre. [Smiling sweetly at Drumdurris.] Delightful morning. [She takes up a newspaper. Sir Julian and Lady Euphemia stroll out.] Lady Twombley. [To Drumdurris.] Keith, dear, I want to say a word to you about—dear Mr. Lebanon. Earl of Drumdurris. Ah! Aunt! Lady Twombley. Have patience, Keith! Earl of Drumdurris. Patience! Lady Twombley. When I begged you to entertain him at Drumdurris I didn’t deceive you. I distinctly told you he was one of nature’s noblemen. Earl of Drumdurris. I would do much to please you, Aunt Kate, but this individual and his sister—— Lady Twombley. You must follow the democratic tendencies of the age, Keith. The peer must go hand in hand with the pig. Earl of Drumdurris. Yes, but let it be the companionable, clubable pig. Oh, I have just left him at the breakfast-table. Lady Twombley. Is he making a tolerable breakfast this morning? Earl of Drumdurris. He seems to be making every breakfast in Great Britain. Lady Twombley. I see him at it. Earl of Drumdurris. He consumes enough coffee to put a fire out. Lady Twombley. Yes; and he swoops down on a cold bird like a vulture. Earl of Drumdurris. It’s hideous to see him hurl himself at an omelette. Lady Twombley. I know; and with eggs he’s a conjurer. What’s he engaged on now? Earl of Drumdurris. When I left him he was an unrecognizable mass of marmalade. He must go! Lady Twombley. Don’t disregard the sacred laws of hospitality! Earl of Drumdurris. I must. At another time I might endure him, but now when I am utterly crushed by my own agonizing trouble—— Hark! Lady Twombley. What’s the matter? Earl of Drumdurris. My son. [AngÈle appears with the infant.] AngÈle. [Mysteriously.] Is it alright, milord? Earl of Drumdurris. Hush! [To Lady Twombley.] Is Egidia there? [Sir Julian and Lady Euphemia re-enter.] Lady Twombley. No. [Lady Twombley joins Sir Julian and Lady Euphemia.] Earl of Drumdurris. [To AngÈle.] All right. [Fondly to the infant.] My soldier boy! [AngÈle advances to Drumdurris. He produces a small toy gun and a little drum from a box he carries and hands them to AngÈle.] Don’t let Lady Drumdurris discover these. AngÈle. No. Earl of Drumdurris. Above all, let the drum be muffled. AngÈle. Yees, milord. [Egidia enters.] Earl of Drumdurris. I expect some small cannon by the evening post. Go. [Egidia comes between AngÈle and Drumdurris, the Dowager following.] Earl of Drumdurris. Ah! AngÈle. Oh, miladi! Egidia. I am right, then. [She takes the toys from AngÈle and points to the door. AngÈle withdraws with the infant.] Dowager. Keith—Egidia! Don’t disagree here! Egidia. [To Drumdurris.] I was loth to credit you with such treachery. Dowager. Name some convenient hour to disagree this afternoon. I will willingly be present. Egidia. I have long suspected this conspiracy to anticipate my son’s mature judgment. Keith, there is a gulf between us which can never be bridged over. [Egidia joins the others.] Earl of Drumdurris. Mother, my life is wasted. [Valentine, roughly dressed in cords and gaiters, enters, followed by Brooke.] Valentine White. Are you ready, Lord Drumdurris? Earl of Drumdurris. We are waiting, I presume, for Mr. Lebanon. Brooke Twombley. I’ll go and stir him up. Ugh! What! [Brooke goes out.] Earl of Drumdurris. You’ll not join us, Sir Julian? Sir Julian Twombley. I daren’t. Melton has arrived from town with a mass of papers for my signature. [Quietly to Drumdurris.] The Rajputana Canal Question is wearing me out. Valentine White. [Whispering to Imogen.] I have your note. I’ll return in a few minutes. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Outside.] Shootin’, my dear sir! When I was in the South ’Ampstead Artillery I could have shown you what shootin’ was. Mrs. Gaylustre. There’s Jo. [She goes out to meet Lebanon.] All. [With various expressions of disgust.] Ugh! that man! [All gather into groups, as Lebanon, looking very ridiculous in Highland costume, enters, followed by Brooke.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Slapping Macphail on the back.] Mac, dear old boy, ’aven’t seen you this morning. [Macphail turns away distrustfully.] Lady Mac, I ’ear delightful whispers. Lady Macphail. Sir? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. An approachin’ ’appy event. We’re like the doves—we’re pairin’ off, hey; we’re pairin’ off? [Lady Macphail stares at him and turns away. He wipes his forehead anxiously.] It’s a little difficult to keep up a long conversation with ’em. They’re not what I should term Rattlers. [Eyeing Egidia.] The fair ’ostess. Ahem! We missed you at the breakfast-table, Lady Drum. Can’t congratulate you on your peck—excuse my humour. [Egidia stares at him and joins Lady Macphail.] [To himself.] They’re a chatty lot; I must say they’re a chatty lot. I wish Fanny would stick by me and cut in occasionally. There’s Lady T. She can’t ride the ’igh ’orse, at any rate. Lady T. Lady Twombley. Mr. Lebanon? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. You didn’t honour me with my game of crib last night. Lady Twombley. I—I had a headache. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Never ’ad a ’eadache in my life—don’t know ’ow it’s spelt. Lady Twombley. It’s spelt with an H. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [To Lady Euphemia, offering her flowers from his coat.] Lady Effie, my floral offering. [Lady Euphemia catches up her skirts and sweeps past him.] [To himself.] Chatty, hey? Chatty? [He comes face to face with the Dowager, who glares at him.] Hah! H’m! [Offering her the flowers.] I—ah—had these picked for you, by Jove, I did. A present from Joseph. Dowager. What, sir! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Replacing the flowers in his coat.] Excuse my humour. [Wiping his brow again.] Chatty! I do wish Fan would cut in and help me. [Slaps Sir Julian on the shoulder.] Twombley, old fellow. Sir Julian Twombley. Sir! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Not comin’ out with us to-day, hey? Sir Julian Twombley. No. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Gettin’ past it, I suppose? Sir Julian Twombley. I am kept indoors by pressure of work, Mr. Lebanon. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Oh, of course, the Rajputana Canal Question, hey? I’m a big shareholder in the Rajputana Railway, yer know. I say, tell me—— Sir Julian Twombley. I cannot discuss official matters with you. [Sir Julian turns from him.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [To himself as he sits down.] Chatty! Chatty! I know what this’ll end in. It’ll end in my standin’ on my dignity. Where’s Fanny? [Addressing the others.] Talkin’ about shootin’, I’ll tell you an amusin’ little story. Sir Julian Twombley. [To Lady Twombley and others sotto voce.] No, no! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. It’s all about myself. Brooke Twombley. [Whispering to the others.] Good-bye. We’re off. [There is a general movement, the ladies and Sir Julian saying good-bye to the shooters, unnoticed by Lebanon, who has his back to them.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I was spendin’ a day or two down in Essex with my old friend, Captain Bolter, South ’Ampstead Artillery. Dear old Tom—great favourite with the gals. Excuse my humour. Lady Twombley, Imogen, Lady Euphemia Vibart, Sir Julian Twombley, Lady Macphail, and Dowager. [Quietly to the shooters.] Good-bye. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. It was wild-fowl Tom and I were after. We were lyin’ in a ditch waitin’ for the ducks to drift in with the tide. [As Lebanon continues his story all the others gradually and quietly disperse.] I counted fifty-seven birds through my glass. So said I to Tom, “Tom, I’m in dooced good form, my boy.” “Devil you are!” said Tom. “And I lay you a pony to a penny that fifteen of those birds fall to my gun.” “Done!” said Tom. [He is now alone in the room.] Well, to make a short story a long one—excuse my humour—Tom sneezed. Up I got. So did the ducks. And then what the dooce d’ye think ’appened? I say, what the dooce d’ye think—— [Discovering that he is alone.] Well, I’m—— Chatty, ain’t they? Chatty! [Mrs. Gaylustre enters.] Mrs. Gaylustre. Jo! why aren’t you with the shooters? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Why! They hooked it while I was tellin ’em the tale of Tom Bolter and the ducks. Mrs. Gaylustre. Never mind, my pet. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. It’s rude—that’s what it is—it’s dooced rude. Mrs. Gaylustre. Come along, we’ll walk on to the moor. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. What, are you going too, Fan? Mrs. Gaylustre. Yes, dear. Your poor Fanny has a little bit of fun on. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Oh, Fan, if I only ’ad your confidence, your push. But the rudeness of these people is gettin’ on my nerves. Mrs. Gaylustre. Why, Joseph! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I feel a little ’urt, Fan—a little ’urt. [Valentine enters.] Valentine White. Mr. Lebanon! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Hi! Where are they? Valentine White. Just starting in the drag. Be quick. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [To Mrs. Gaylustre.] Come on! They shall hear about Tom Bolter and the ducks before I’ve done with ’em. Come on! [Mrs. Gaylustre and Lebanon hurry out.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Outside.] Hi! Hi! Valentine White. That fellow was born to hail an omnibus. [Imogen appears.] Imogen. [Not seeing Valentine.] Will he be long? [She encounters him.] Oh! You are not neglecting your duties, I hope, Valentine? Valentine White. I shall follow the others in the cart. Your note was marked “urgent.” Imogen. Was it? Valentine White. [Showing her letter.] “Urgent.” Imogen. What a thoughtless habit it is to mark all one’s Valentine White. No, no—I understand that. Imogen. I merely had a foolish desire to be the first to acquaint you of my—undeserved happiness. Valentine White. What happiness don’t you deserve? Imogen. The happiness of becoming Lady Colin Macphail, Valentine. Valentine White. Oh. Is that—all? Imogen. That’s all—just at present. Valentine White. Hah! You’ll be a fine lady now, past recovery. Imogen. I shall endeavour to adequately fill the station of life to which fate has called me. Valentine White. All that sweet simplicity of yours in London was purely an assumption, I suppose? Imogen. Things are—what they appear. Valentine White. But you have your heart’s desire at last, I presume? Imogen. I—I presume I have. Valentine White. [Burying his head in his hands.] Oh! Imogen. What are you going to do next? Valentine White. Japan. Imogen. Nice part of Japan? Valentine White. The murderous districts. Imogen. Oh! Then you don’t propose to—return alive? Valentine White. Not according to my present arrangements. Imogen. You—you had better follow the shooters to Claigrossie now. Valentine White. Certainly. Imogen. I am glad to have had this gossip over our pros [She offers her hand, which he takes ungraciously.] Valentine White. Good-morning. Imogen. You haven’t congratulated me yet—in the usual way. Valentine White. Will you be happy with—him? Imogen. I think—partially. Valentine White. But you’re not going to partially marry Sir Colin. How dare you do this? Imogen. He was the first to ask me, Val. Valentine White. The first to ask you! You don’t mean to suggest that any other man would have done! Imogen. No—not any other. Valentine White. Some other? Imogen. It’s too late now—but yes. Valentine White. A poor man? Imogen. Val! Valentine White. Would I have stood the remotest chance? Imogen. It’s too late now. Valentine White. Would I? Would I? Imogen. No. Nor any other nineteenth century savage. Valentine White. Savage! Imogen. Mr. White, it is very much too late now; but why, when you returned to England, didn’t you wear uncomfortable clothes like other gentlemen, and a very high collar, and varnished boots, like other gentlemen? Valentine White. Why? Because I cannot be false to my principles. Imogen. People say that principles which deal too much with the outside of things are nothing but affectations. Valentine White. Imogen! Imogen. If a man has a good heart he should have a good hat. Valentine White. Imogen—Jenny! If I had ever come to you—in a good hat—— Imogen. If you had, then when mamma urged me to marry perhaps she would not have blamed me for—— Valentine White. For what? Imogen. For liking some pleasant-looking gentleman who laughed at harmless follies instead of scolding them. Valentine White. And now? Imogen. Now! Now—it is too late. [She falls into his arms; he embraces her.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Outside.] Hi, hi! Come here! hi! Imogen. Ah! [She breaks from Valentine and runs out, as Lebanon enters, very pale and upset.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Clinging to Valentine.] Old fellow! Valentine White. What’s the matter with you? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Gurrrh! You—you’re wanted! [Lady Twombley enters.] Lady Twombley. Good gracious! Valentine White. Something has happened, I’m afraid. [Valentine goes out.] Lady Twombley. [To Lebanon.] You’re ill! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I’m upset. Lady Twombley. Too much breakfast! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. No. I—I’ve peppered Macphail. Lady Twombley. Peppered him! Can’t you take your mind off eating? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. You don’t understand. I was in the wagonette, tellin’ ’em the story of Tom Bolter and those beastly ducks. I got ’old of a beastly gun and just as I Lady Twombley. It went off! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Well! Don’t make such a fuss about it! Lady Twombley. Ah! and it was pointed at Sir Colin! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Pointed at him! No! His legs were stuck right in the way. Lady Twombley. Heavens! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Be quiet! Make light of it—make light of it, like I do! Lady Twombley. Now, now I hope you’re content! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. No, I’m not. I wouldn’t have had this ’appen for ’alf a sovereign. This ’Ighland ’oliday of mine is gettin’ on my nerves. Lady Twombley. Your nerves! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Yes, Lady T. Imagine what it must mean to a shy man to spend a rollickin’ August with a lot Lady Twombley. [Hysterically.] Ha, ha, ha! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Imagine what it must be to a shy man to find himself always leading the conversation, instead of following it with a sparkling comment or two, as I’m in the ’abit of doin’ in my own circle. Think of me starting every topic and arguing on it till my throat’s sore; making every joke and roaring at it till I get blood to the head. Sometimes when I’m in the middle of a long story and not a soul listening I feel so lonely I—I could almost cry. Lady Twombley. Then out of your own sufferings why can’t you find some compassion for mine? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. It’s pathetic—that’s what my position is—it’s dooced pathetic. Lady Twombley. In mercy’s name why don’t you retire quietly to your room and pack? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. What! Throw up the sponge? Lady Twombley. You needn’t throw up your sponge—pack your sponge. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I understand, Lady T—hook it! Lady Twombley. “Hook it” is a harsh way of putting it. Bring your visit to a close. Think of what you are losing here! Think of Margate, where I feel you must have many dear friends! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I—I’ve half a mind to. Lady Twombley. Ha! Bless you, Mr. Lebanon, bless you! I’ll fetch you a Bradshaw. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Stop! I forgot the hop. Lady Twombley. The hop? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. There’s a ball here to-morrow night. Lady Twombley. For heaven’s sake, don’t wait for the hop. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I had half-a-dozen lessons in the Scotch Reel before I left town. Lady Twombley. And you would risk the Reel on half-a-dozen lessons! Madman! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Half-a-dozen lessons at store prices. Dash it all, you wouldn’t ’ave me waste ’em! Lady Twombley. Hopeless! [Sir Julian enters unobserved by Lebanon or Lady Twombley.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Look ’ere, Lady T! I’m sorry to disappoint a lady, but it ain’t Mr. Joseph Lebanon’s principle to do something for nothing. Lady Twombley. No. If you lent a lady your arm you’d do it at interest. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I’m not alludin’ to our pleasant financial relationship, Lady T. What I infer is that if after the forthcoming hop I drag myself away from my sorrowin’ friends at Drumdurris I expect a—ah—a solatium. [Sir Julian remains watching and listening.] Lady Twombley. A what? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Lady T, my pride has been wounded in this ’ouse—my self-respect has been ’urt. Lady Twombley. Ha, ha, ha! Pardon me, I’m hysterical. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. If you could ’eal my feelings by rendering me a service—— Lady Twombley. To be rid of you? Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Oh, Lady T, ’ow plainly you put it! Well, yes. Lady Twombley. Try me. [Sir Julian disappears suddenly.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. ’Ush! Thought I ’eard somebody. Lady T, you are aware that Mr. Joseph Lebanon’s position in the financial world is an eminent one. Lady Twombley. I wasn’t aware of it. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Take it from me, Lady T, take it from me. But that distinguished position might be advanced by the success of some delicate little financial operations which I’m on the brink of, Lady Twombley, on the brink of. Lady T, if I could know twenty-four hours in advance of the prying newspapers the decision of the Government on the Rajputana Canal Question it would go far to ’eal the wound my self-respect has received in this recherchÉ ’Ighland ’ome. You follow me, Lady T? Lady Twombley. I suppose you mean that when the decision of Mr. Joseph Lebanon. That’s it, Lady T, that’s it! And some fellers will make fortunes! Oh, Lady T! Lady Twombley. But why do you bother a poor woman with a headache—— Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Because without the gentle guidance of tender-hearted woman I can’t find out whether the Government is going to grant the concession for the cutting of the Rajputana Canal. Oh, Lady Twombley, let me ’ave five minutes alone with Sir Julian’s papers in Sir Julian’s room. Lady Twombley. Mr. Lebanon! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Two minutes! A stroll round. I’ll go in with a duster and tidy up. Lady Twombley. Oh! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Or give me a glimpse of some of the documents Mr. Melton brought with him in that box yesterday. Lady Twombley. I want some fresh air! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Wait! If you’ll do this for me I’ll clear out of Drumdurris with Fanny on Thursday morning. Lady Twombley. Ah, no! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. And I’ll hand you back your acceptances—every-one of ’em—I will—on my word of honour as a gentleman! [She seizes him by the throat and shakes him violently.] Lady Twombley. How dare you! How dare you tempt me! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Arranging his hair and moustache with his pocket comb and mirror.] Oh, ladies are trying in business—they are dooced trying. Lady Twombley. You—you wretch! Do you think I haven’t endured enough for the past three months without this? Oh, pa, what will you say to your Kitty when you know the disgrace she’s brought on you! Oh, my chicks, my chicks, my blessed chicks! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Lady Twombley, my pride has been wounded, my self-respect has been ’urt in this recherchÉ ’Ighland ’ome for, I ’ope, the last time. I shall retire from the hop early to-morrow night and hook it—bring my visit to a close—on Thursday morning. Lady Twombley. Thank you. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Next week the first bit of paper bearin’ the honoured name of woman falls doo. Lady Twombley. Oh! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I repeat the word, d-u-e, doo. Lady Twombley. Mr. Lebanon! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Our interview has been a distressin’ one, Lady Twombley. It is over. Lady Twombley. Mr. Lebanon! Mr. Lebanon! [He turns his chair from her. To herself.] It’s all up with me. I—I’ll go and find pa, and tell him. There’s no help for it—I’ll tell him. Mr. Lebanon! For the last time—have compassion on a poor fool of a woman! [He turns away.] Oh! I’ll go to pa’s room and—tell him. [She goes out.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. That’s one way to the old gentleman’s room. [He opens the door and listens.] Ah! what’s the latest quotation for lovely woman’s weakness? [Valentine enters with Mrs. Gaylustre and Macphail, who looks very scared, has a handkerchief bound round his knee, and leans on Mrs. Gaylustre’s arm. She supports him to a chair.] Mrs. Gaylustre. [To Sir Colin.] Lean on your poor broken-hearted friend. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [To himself.] Oh, the dooce! Valentine White. I’ll find Lady Macphail. [He goes out.] Mrs. Gaylustre. [Whispering to Lebanon.] Get out of sight! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Quietly to her.] Can’t. I must wait here—I’ve got an important little affair on. Mrs. Gaylustre. So have I. Leave us! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Oh, my goodness, how selfish you are, Fanny! Mrs. Gaylustre. Selfish! you’ll ruin my prospects in life! Brute! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Vixen! Mrs. Gaylustre. Bah! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Bah! [Lebanon goes out. Mrs. Gaylustre throws herself on her knees beside Macphail.] Mrs. Gaylustre. How do you feel now? Macphail. Well, its tingling. Mrs. Gaylustre. Tingling! You bear it like a hero. Macphail. I appreciate the compliment, but I’m thinking I’m only a bit singed. Mrs. Gaylustre. Ah, but why, why do you indulge in these reckless sports? Macphail. I was merely sitting in the drag looking at the sky. Mrs. Gaylustre. Sitting in the drag looking at the sky! How foolhardy! Macphail. Whereupon your brother, without a word of warning, blazed away at my knee. Mrs. Gaylustre. Ah, don’t describe it! Suppose you had had your head on your knee! Lady Macphail. [Outside.] Take me to Colin! Macphail. My mother! Mrs. Gaylustre. [To herself.] Drat your mother. [She stands with her handkerchief to her eyes. Lady Macphail enters with Egidia, the Dowager, Lady Euphemia, and Valentine.] Egidia. Sir Colin! Dowager. [Sitting at writing-table.] I’ll telegraph to Sir George McHarness, the surgeon. Lady Macphail. Now let the wail of the lament waken the echoes of black Ben-Muchty! Macphail. [Rising from the chair.] It’s not at all necessary, mother. Egidia. He can stand! Dowager. [Writing.] “Bring—chloroform—and knives.” Lady Macphail. Ah, Colin, lad, why did we ever quit the gray shores of Loch-na-Doich? Macphail. I’ll go upstairs and bathe my knee, mother. [Lady Macphail leads him.] Egidia. He can walk! Lady Macphail. Madam, a Macphail can always walk under any circumstances. Dowager. [Reading the telegram she has written.] “If—in—doubt—amputate.” [Lady Macphail, Macphail, Valentine, Lady Euphemia, Egidia, and the Dowager go out.] Mrs. Gaylustre. [Weeping till the others are out of sight.] Joseph will die of remorse! [Calling.] The coast is clear, Joseph. Jo! [As she goes out Lady Twombley enters in great agitation, clutching an important-looking document.] Lady Twombley. Kitty, what have you done! Kitty, what have you done! [Lebanon enters.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Lady T! Thought so! [Seeing the paper.] Oh my goodness, what has she got there? Lady Twombley. I must—I must find Julian! Oh! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Snatching the paper from her.] Excuse me! Lady Twombley. Ah! give me back that paper! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Lady T, oh, Lady T! Lady Twombley. [Following him round the table.] Give me back that paper! Dear, sweet Mr. Lebanon! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Reading the paper.] Ha! Lady Twombley. Ah! don’t read it! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. My friend Sir Julian’s own writing! The Rajputana Canal is a blessed fact! Lady Twombley, I forget my wounded pride, I forgive the blow to my self-respect. You have won a place in Jo Lebanon’s heart. Lady Twombley. Give me back that paper and forget it! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. [Returning the paper.] Give it you back? Delighted. Forget it? Oh, Lady T, Lady T. Lady Twombley. Devil! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Lady Twombley, Joseph Lebanon is, above all things, a man of honour. [Handing Bills to Lady Twombley.] Lovely woman’s Acceptances. Lady Twombley. I won’t take them. I won’t buy them back at such a price. Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Natural delicacy. [Laying the Bills on the table.] You can pick ’em up when I’m gone. Lady Twombley. Oh, what a wicked woman I am! Mr. Joseph Lebanon. I can get out of these beastly clothes, drive to Strachlachan Junction, and wire to town before feedin’ time. The city is on the eve of a financial earthquake! Joseph’s name will be a ’ouse’old word from Mile End to Kensington! Lady Twombley, we meet at the hop to-morrow night for the last time—in Society. [Boisterously.] Whoop! Dash Society! [He performs a few steps of a Highland dance.] Excuse my humour. [He goes out.] Lady Twombley. The Bills! The Bills! They mustn’t lie there. [As she goes to the table Sir Julian, looking very white and dishevelled, enters, and, standing opposite to her, takes up the Bills and presents them to her.] Lady Twombley. Pa! Sir Julian Twombley. Lady Twombley! Lady Twombley. Oh, my gracious! [She drops on her hands and knees at Sir Julian’s feet.] Lady Twombley. You’ve found me out, pa! You’ve found me out! Sir Julian Twombley. I have found you out. Lady Twombley. How did you manage it? Sir Julian Twombley. By degrading myself to the position of an eavesdropper. Lady Twombley. That’s pretty mean, pa—ain’t it? [Seeing that he is examining the Bills she puts up her hands and seizes them.] Lady Twombley. Ah! Don’t tot ’em up! Don’t tot ’em up! Sir Julian Twombley. Katherine, when I first saw you, three-and-twenty years ago, you were standing over a tub in the tiled Lady Twombley. [Weeping.] Oh-h-h! Sir Julian Twombley. Could I have looked forward I should have known that you would one day wring my feelings as you do now. Lady Twombley. Pa, I’ve fallen into the hands of the unscrupulous. Sir Julian Twombley. Woman! Lady Twombley. Oh, don’t call me that, pa! Sir Julian Twombley. The unscrupulous! You have lost the right to ever again use that serviceable word. Lady Twombley. What do you mean? Sir Julian Twombley. How do you come by those Bills? Lady Twombley. Julian, you know! [Going toward him on her knees frantically.] Ah, don’t stare like that! [Putting her arms round him.] Husband! Dear husband, you are glaring like an idiot! Listen! [She shakes him violently.] Listen! When that reptile tempted me I ran upstairs intending to tell you all. Sir Julian Twombley. A memorandum in my writing that the concession for the Rajputana Canal is to be granted. Lady Twombley. Yes, yes. I tried to forget it was there. But the chairs and tables seemed to dance before me and every object in the room had a voice crying out, “Kitty, you silly woman, get back your Bills from that demon who is plaguing you!” I put my fingers in my ears and then the voices were shut up in my brain, and still they shrieked, “Kitty, get back your Bills! Get back your Bills!” I snatched up this paper and ran from the room. Even then if I had met you, Julian, I should have been safe; but whenever Old Nick wants to play the deuce with a married lady he begins by taking her husband for a stroll, and so I fell into Lebanon’s clutches—and I—I—I’m done for! [She sinks into a chair.] Sir Julian Twombley. Katherine, those Bills must be returned to the creature, Lebanon. Lady Twombley. Yes. And—and—pa, dear, you’ll never speak kindly to me after this, will you? Sir Julian Twombley. I trust I shall be invariably polite to you, Katherine. Lady Twombley. Oh-h-h! We shall be whitewashed in the Bankruptcy Court eventually, I suppose? Sir Julian Twombley. All in good time, Katherine. Lady Twombley. And then—what then? Sir Julian Twombley. Then we must hope for a cottage, and a small garden where we can grow our own vegetables and learn wisdom. Lady Twombley. Our—own—vegetables. And years hence, pa, sometimes when I am sitting over my knitting, you’ll forget the past, and play your flute again, and be happy? Sir Julian Twombley. Katherine! [He takes his flute from his pocket and breaks it into pieces across his knee.] Never, never again, Katherine. [As he is leaving her.] One pang of remorse I can spare you, Katherine. Lady Twombley. Don’t! Sir Julian Twombley. You believe you have betrayed a solemn secret of the Government to that unprincipled money-lender. Lady Twombley. Of course. Sir Julian Twombley. That you have not done. Lady Twombley. Pa! Sir Julian Twombley. No, Katherine. Overhearing his shameful proposition, and fearing your weakness, I had time to hasten to my room, conceal all important papers, and scribble the memorandum you abstracted. Lady Twombley. Why, then—— Sir Julian Twombley. That writing records the exact reverse of the truth. Lady Twombley. And—and Joseph? Sir Julian Twombley. In the language of the vulgar—Mr. Lebanon is sold. [He goes out.] Lady Twombley. Julian! Ah! [Staring at the paper.] The exact reverse of the truth! Then the Rajputana Canal—— Julian, why should you be first blackened and then whitewashed because of your vagabond wife? A cottage—our our own vegetables! Never! Why shouldn’t I have my delicate little financial operations in the City? Oh, my gracious! [Drumdurris and Brooke enter.] Brooke Twombley. Hullo, Mater—what! Lady Twombley. Brooke! Keith! You boys must drive me over to Strachlachan Junction. I must telegraph to London backwards and forwards all day. Keith, put me into communication with your Stockbroker in town! Earl of Drumdurris. Aunt! Lady Twombley. Silence! I’m on the brink of some delicate little financial operations! [To Brooke.] Get out the cart! Brooke Twombley. The drag’s outside. Lady Twombley. Come on! [Lebanon enters hastily.] Mr. Joseph Lebanon. Hi, Drumdurris! Let me ’ave a carriage to go to Strachlachan Junction. I want to wire to town. Lady Twombley. Do you? So do we. We’ll give you a lift. Come on! [They all hurry out.] END OF THE THIRD ACT. |
|
