The scene represents a sitting room on the first floor of a respectable lodging house. On the right are two sash-windows, having Venetian blinds and giving a view of houses on the other side of the street. The grate of the fireplace is hidden by an ornament composed of shavings and paper roses. Over the fireplace is a mirror: on each side there is a sideboard cupboard. On the left is a door, and a landing is seen outside. Between the windows stand a cottage piano and a piano stool. Above the sofa, on the left, stands a large black trunk, the lid bulging with its contents and displaying some soiled theatrical finery. On the front of the trunk, in faded lettering, appear the words "Miss Violet Sylvester, Theatre Royal, Drury Lane." Under the sofa there are two or three pairs of ladies' satin shoes, much the worse for wear, and on the sofa a white-satin bodice, yellow with age, a heap of dog-eared playbooks, and some other litter of a like character. On the top of the piano there is a wig-block, with a man's wig upon it, and in the corners of the room there stand some walking sticks and a few theatrical swords. In the center of the stage is a large circular table. There is a clean cover upon it, and on the top of the sideboard cupboards are knives and forks, plate, glass, cruet-stands, and some gaudy flowers in vases—all suggesting preparations for festivity. The woodwork of the room is grained, the ceiling plainly whitewashed, and the wall paper is of a neutral tint and much faded. The pictures are engravings in maple frames, and a portrait or two, in oil, framed in gilt. The furniture, curtains, and carpet are worn, but everything is clean and well-kept.
The light is that of afternoon in early summer.
Mrs. Mossop—a portly, middle-aged Jewish lady, elaborately attired—is laying the tablecloth. Ablett enters hastily, divesting himself of his coat as he does so. He is dressed in rusty black for "waiting."
Mrs. Mossop.
[In a fluster.] Oh, here you are, Mr. Ablett——!
Ablett.
Good-day, Mrs. Mossop.
Mrs. Mossop.
[Bringing the cruet-stands.] I declare I thought you'd forgotten me.
Ablett.
[Hanging his coat upon a curtain-knob, and turning up his shirt sleeves.] I'd begun to fear I should never escape from the shop, ma'am. Jest as I was preparin' to clean myself, the 'ole universe seemed to cry aloud for pertaters. [Relieving Mrs. Mossop of the cruet-stands, and satisfying himself as to the contents of the various bottles.] Now you take a seat, Mrs. Mossop. You 'ave but to say "Mr. Ablett, lay for so many," and the exact number shall be laid for.
Mrs. Mossop.
[Sinking into the armchair.] I hope the affliction of short breath may be spared you, Ablett. Ten is the number.
Ablett.
[Whipping up the mustard energetically.] Short-breathed you may be, ma'am, but not short-sighted. That gal of yours is no ordinary gal, but to 'ave set 'er to wait on ten persons would 'ave been to 'ave caught disaster. [Bringing knives and forks, glass, etc., and glancing round the room as he does so.] I am in Mr. and Mrs. Telfer's setting-room, I believe, ma'am?
Mrs. Mossop.
[Surveying the apartment complacently.] And what a handsomely proportioned room it is, to be sure!
Ablett.
May I h'ask if I am to 'ave the honor of includin' my triflin' fee for this job in their weekly book?
Mrs. Mossop.
No, Ablett—a separate bill, please. The Telfers kindly give the use of their apartment, to save the cost of holding the ceremony at the "Clown" Tavern; but share and share alike over the expenses is to be the order of the day.
Ablett.
I thank you, ma'am. [Rubbing up the knives with a napkin.] You let fall the word "ceremony," ma'am——-
Mrs. Mossop.
Ah, Ablett, and a sad one—a farewell cold collation to Miss Trelawny.
Ablett.
Lor' bless me! I 'eard a rumor——
Mrs. Mossop.
A true rumor. She's taking her leave of us, the dear.
Ablett.
This will be a blow to the "Wells," ma'am.
Mrs. Mossop.
The best juvenile lady the "Wells" has known since Mr. Phillips's management.
Ablett.
Report 'as it, a love affair, ma'am.
Mrs. Mossop.
A love affair, indeed. And a poem into the bargain, Ablett, if poet was at hand to write it.
Ablett.
Reelly, Mrs. Mossop! [Polishing a tumbler.] Is the beer to be bottled or draught, ma'am, on this occasion?
Mrs. Mossop.
Draught for Miss Trelawny, invariably.
Ablett.
Then draught it must be all round, out of compliment. Jest fancy! nevermore to 'ear customers speak of Trelawny of the "Wells," except as a pleasin' memory! A non-professional gentleman they give out, ma'am.
Mrs. Mossop.
Yes.
Ablett.
Name of Glover.
Mrs. Mossop.
Gower. Grandson of Vice Chancellor Sir William Gower, Mr. Ablett.
Ablett.
You don't say, ma'am!
Mrs. Mossop.
No father nor mother, and lives in Cavendish Square with the old judge and a great aunt.
Ablett.
Then Miss Trelawny quits the Profession, ma'am, for good and all, I presoom?
Mrs. Mossop.
Yes, Ablett, she's at the theaytre at this moment, distributing some of her little ornaments and fallals among the ballet. She played last night for the last time—the last time on any stage. [Rising and going to the sideboard-cupboard.] And without so much as a line in the bill to announce it. What a benefit she might have taken!
Ablett.
I know one who was good for two box tickets, Mrs. Mossop.
Mrs. Mossop.
[Bringing the flowers to the table and arranging them, while Ablett sets out the knives and forks.] But no. "No fuss," said the Gower family, "no publicity. Withdraw quietly—" that was the Gower family's injunctions—"withdraw quietly, and have done with it."
Ablett.
And when is the weddin' to be, ma'am?
Mrs. Mossop.
It's not yet decided, Mr. Ablett. In point of fact, before the Gower family positively say Yes to the union, Miss Trelawny is to make her home in Cavendish Square for a short term—"short term" is the Gower family's own expression—in order to habituate herself to the West End. They're sending their carriage for her at two o'clock this afternoon, Mr. Ablett—their carriage and pair of bay horses.
Ablett.
Well, I dessay a West End life has sooperior advantages over the Profession in some respecks, Mrs. Mossop.
Mrs. Mossop.
When accompanied by wealth, Mr. Ablett. Here's Miss Trelawny but nineteen, and in a month-or-two's time she'll be ordering about her own powdered footman, and playing on her grand piano. How many actresses do that, I should like to know!
[Tom Wrench's voice is heard.]
Tom.
[Outside the door.] Rebecca! Rebecca, my loved one!
Mrs. Mossop.
Oh, go along with you, Mr. Wrench!
[Tom enters, with a pair of scissors in his hand. He is a shabbily-dressed ungraceful man of about thirty, with a clean-shaven face, curly hair, and eyes full of good-humor.]
Tom.
My own, especial Rebecca!
Mrs. Mossop.
Don't be a fool, Mr. Wrench! Now, I've no time to waste. I know you want something—
Tom.
Everything, adorable. But most desperately do I stand in need of a little skillful trimming at your fair hands.
Mrs. Mossop.
[Taking the scissors from him and clipping the frayed edges of his shirt-cuffs and collar.] First it's patching a coat, and then it's binding an Inverness! Sometimes I wish that top room of mine was empty.
Tom.
And sometimes I wish my heart was empty, cruel Rebecca.
Mrs. Mossop.
[Giving him a thump.] Now, I really will tell Mossop of you, when he comes home! I've often threatened it—-
Tom.
[To Ablett.] Whom do I see! No—it can't be—but yes—I believe I have the privilege of addressing Mr. Ablett, the eminent greengrocer, of Rosoman Street?
Ablett.
[Sulkily.] Well, Mr. Wrench, and wot of it?
Tom.
You possess a cart, good Ablett, which may be hired by persons of character and responsibility. "By the hour or job"—so runs the legend. I will charter it, one of these Sundays, for a drive to Epping.
Ablett.
I dunno so much about that, Mr. Wrench.
Tom.
Look to the springs, good Ablett, for this comely lady will be my companion.
Mrs. Mossop.
Dooce take your impudence! Give me your other hand. Haven't you been to rehearsal this morning with the rest of 'em?
Tom.
I have, and have left my companions still toiling. My share in the interpretation of Sheridan Knowles's immortal work did not necessitate my remaining after the first act.
Mrs. Mossop.
Another poor part, I suppose, Mr. Wrench?
Tom.
Another, and to-morrow yet another, and on Saturday two others—all equally, damnably rotten.
Mrs. Mossop.
Ah, well, well! somebody must play the bad parts in this world, on and off the stage. There [returning the scissors], there's no more edge left to fray; we've come to the soft. [He points the scissors at his breast.] Ah! don't do that!
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Tom.
You are right, sweet Mossop, I won't perish on an empty stomach. [Taking her aside.] But tell me, shall I disgrace the feast, eh? Is my appearance too scandalously seedy?
Mrs. Mossop.
Not it, my dear.
Tom.
Miss Trelawny—do you think she'll regard me as a blot on the banquet? [wistfully] do you, Beccy?
Mrs. Mossop.
She! la! don't distress yourself. She'll be too excited to notice you.
Tom.
H'm, yes! now I recollect, she has always been that. Thanks, Beccy.
[A knock, at the front-door, is heard. Mrs. Mossop hurries to the window down the stage.]
Mrs. Mossop.
Who's that? [Opening the window and looking out.] It's Miss Parrott! Miss Parrott's arrived!
Tom.
Jenny Parrott? Has Jenny condescended———?
Mrs. Mossop.
Jenny! Where are your manners, Mr. Wrench? Tom.
[Grandiloquently.] Miss Imogen Parrott, of the Olympic Theatre.
Mrs. Mossop.
[At the door, to Ablett.] Put your coat on, Ablett. We are not selling cabbages. [She disappears and is heard speaking in the distance.] Step up, Miss Parrott! Tell Miss Parrott to mind that mat, Sarah—!
Be quick, Ablett, be quick! The Élite is below! More dispatch, good Ablett!
Ablett.
[To Tom, spitefully, while struggling into his coat.] Miss Trelawny's leavin' will make all the difference to the old "Wells." The season'll terminate abrupt, and then the comp'ny 'll be h'out, Mr. Wrench—h'out, sir!
Tom.
[Adjusting his necktie, at the mirror over the piano.] Which will lighten the demand for the spongy turnip and the watery marrow, my poor Ablett.
Ablett.
[Under his breath. ] Presumpshus! [He produces a pair of white cotton gloves, and having put one on makes a horrifying discovery.] Two lefts! That's Mrs. Ablett all over!
[During the rest of the act, he is continually in difficulties, through his efforts to wear one of the gloves upon his right hand. Mrs. Mossop now re-enters, with Imogen Parrott. Imogen is a pretty, lighthearted young woman, of about seven-and-twenty, daintily dressed.]
Mrs. Mossop.
[To Imogen.] There, it might be only yesterday you lodged in my house, to see you gliding up those stairs! And this the very room you shared with poor Miss Brooker!
Imogen.
[Advancing to Tom. ] Well, Wrench, and how are you?
Tom.
[Bringing her a chair, demonstratively dusting the seat of it with his pocket-handkerchief]. Thank you, much the same as when you used to call me Tom.
Imogen.
Oh, but I have turned over a new leaf, you know, since I have been at the Olympic.
Mrs. Mossop.
I am sure my chairs don't require dusting, Mr. Wrench.
Tom.
[Placing the chair below the table, and blowing his nose with his handkerchief, with a flourish.] My way of showing homage, Mossop.
Mrs. Mossop.
Miss Parrott has sat on them often enough, when she was an honored member of the "Wells"—haven't you, Miss Parrott.
Imogen.
[Sitting, with playful dignity. ] I suppose I must have done so. Don't remind me of it. I sit on nothing nowadays but down pillows covered with cloth of gold.
[Mrs. Mossop and Ablett prepare to withdraw.]
Mrs. Mossop.
[At the door, to Imogen.] Ha, ha! ha! I could fancy I'm looking at Undine again—Undine, the Spirit of the Waters. She's not the least changed since she appeared as Undine—is she, Mr. Ablett?
Ablett.
[Joining Mrs. Mossop.] No—or as Prince Cammyralzyman in the pantomine. I never 'ope to see a pair o' prettier limbs——
Mrs. Mossop.
[Sharply.] Now then!
[She pushes him out; they disappear.]
Imogen.
[After a shiver at Ablett's remark.] In my present exalted station I don't hear much of what goes on at the "Wells," Wrench. Are your abilities still—still——
Tom.
Still unrecognized, still confined within the almost boundless and yet repressive limits of Utility—General Utility? [Nodding.] H'm, still.
Imogen.
Dear me! a thousand pities! I positively mean it. Tom.
Thanks.
Imogen.
What do you think! You were mixed up in a funny dream I dreamt one night lately.
Tom.
[Bowing.] Highly complimented.
Imogen.
It was after a supper which rather—well, I'd had some strawberries sent me from Hertfordshire.
Tom.
Indigestion levels all ranks.
Imogen.
It was a nightmare. I found myself on the stage of the Olympic in that wig you—oh, gracious! You used to play your very serious little parts in it——
Tom.
The wig with the ringlets?
Imogen.
Ugh I yes.
Tom.
I wear it to-night, for the second time this week, in a part which is very serious—and very little.
Imogen.
Heavens! it is in existence then!
Tom.
And long will be, I hope. I've only three wigs, and this one accommodates itself to so many periods.
Imogen.
Oh, how it used to amuse the gallery-boys!
Tom.
They still enjoy it. If you looked in this evening at half-past-seven—I'm done at a quarter-to-eight—if you looked in at half-past seven, you would hear the same glad, rapturous murmur in the gallery when the presence of that wig is discovered. Not that they fail to laugh at my other wigs, at every article of adornment I possess, in fact! Good God, Jennny—!
Imogen.
[Wincing.] Ssssh!
Tom.
Miss Parrott—if they gave up laughing at me now, I believe I—I believe I should—miss it. I believe I couldn't spout my few lines now in silence; my unaccompanied voice would sound so strange to me. Besides, I often think those gallery-boys are really fond of me, at heart. You can't laugh as they do—rock with laughter sometimes!—at what you dislike.
Imogen.
Of course not. Of course they like you, Wrench. You cheer them, make their lives happier——
Tom.
And to-night, by the bye, I also assume that beast of a felt hat—the gray hat with the broad brim, and the imitation wool feathers. You remember it?
Imogen.
Y-y-yes.
Tom.
I see you do. Well, that hat still persists in falling off, when I most wish it to stick on. It will tilt and tumble to-night—during one of Telfer's pet speeches; I feel it will.
Imogen.
Ha, ha, ha!
Tom.
And those yellow boots; I wear them to-night——
Imogen.
No!
Tom.
Yes!
Imogen.
Ho, ho, ho, ho!
Tom.
[With forced hilarity.] Ho, ho! ha, ha! And the spurs—the spurs that once tore your satin petticoat! You recollect———?
Imogen.
[Her mirth suddenly checked.] Recollect!
Tom.
You would see those spurs to-night, too, if you patronized us—and the red worsted tights. The worsted tights are a little thinner, a little more faded and discolored, a little more darned—Oh, yes, thank you, I am still, as you put it, still—still—still——
[He walks away, going to the mantelpiece and turning his back upon her.]
Imogen.
[After a brief pause.] I'm sure I didn't intend to hurt your feelings, Wrench.
Tom.
[Turning, with some violence.] You! you hurt my feelings! Nobody can hurt my feelings! I have no feelings—-!
[Ablett re-enters, carrying three chairs of odd patterns. Tom seizes the chairs and places them about the table, noisily.]
Ablett.
Look here, Mr. Wrench! If I'm to be 'ampered in performin' my dooties—-
Tom.
More chairs, Ablett! In my apartment, the chamber nearest heaven, you will find one with a loose leg. We will seat Mrs. Telfer upon that. She dislikes me, and she is, in every sense, a heavy woman.
Ablett.
[Moving toward the door—dropping his glove.] My opinion, you are meanin' to 'arrass me, Mr. Wrench——-
Tom.
[Picking up the glove and throwing it to Ablett—singing.] "Take back thy glove, thou faithless fair!" Your glove, Ablett.
Ablett.
Thank you, sir; it is my glove, and you are no gentleman. [He withdraws.]
Tom.
True, Ablett—not even a Walking Gentleman.
Imogen.
Don't go on so, Wrench. What about your plays? Aren't you trying to write any plays just now?
Tom.
Trying! I am doing more than trying to write plays. I am writing plays. I have written plays.
Imogen.
Well?
Tom.
My cupboard upstairs is choked with 'em.
Imogen.
Won't anyone take a fancy——?
Tom.
Not a sufficiently violent fancy.
Imogen.
You know, the speeches were so short and had such ordinary words in them, in the plays you used to read to me—no big opportunity for the leading lady, Wrench.
Tom.
M' yes. I strive to make my people talk and behave like live people, don't I-?
Imogen.
I suppose you do.
Tom.
To fashion heroes out of actual, dull, every-day men—the sort of men you see smoking cheroots in the club windows in St. James's Street; and heroines from simple maidens in muslin frocks. Naturally, the managers won't stand that.
Imogen.
Why, of course not.
Tom.
If they did, the public wouldn't.
Imogen.
Is it likely? Is it likely?
Tom.
I wonder!
Imogen.
Wonder—what?
Tom.
Whether they would.
Imogen.
The public!
Tom.
The public. Jenny, I wonder about it sometimes so hard that that little bedroom of mine becomes a banqueting hall, and this lodging house a castle.
[There is a loud and prolonged knocking at the front door.]
Imogen.
Here they are, I suppose.
Tom.
[Pulling himself together.] Good Lord! Have I become disheveled?
Imogen.
Why, are you anxious to make an impression, even down to the last, Wrench?
Tom.
[Angrily.] Stop that!
Imogen.
It's no good your being sweet on her any longer, surely?
Tom.
[Glaring at her.] What cats you all are, you girls!
Imogen.
[Holding up her hands.] Oh! oh, dear! How vulgar—after the Olympic!
[Ablett returns, carrying three more chairs.]
Ablett.
[Arranging these chairs on the left of the table.] They're all 'ome! they're all 'ome! [Tom places the four chairs belonging to the room at the table. To Imogen.] She looks 'eavenly, Miss Trelawny does. I was jest takin' in the ale when she floated down the Crescent on her lover's arm. [ Wagging his head at Imogen admiringly.] There, I don't know which of you two is the——
Imogen.
[Haughtily.] Man, keep your place!
Ablett.
[Hurt.] H'as you please, miss—but you apperently forget I used to serve you with vegetables.
[He takes up a position at the door as Telfer and Gadd enter. Telfer is a thick-set, elderly man, with a worn, clean-shaven face and iron-gray hair "clubbed" in the theatrical fashion of the time. Sonorous, if somewhat husky, in speech, and elaborately dignified in bearing, he is at the same time a little uncertain about his H's. Gadd is a flashily-dressed young man of seven-and-twenty, with brown hair arranged À la Byron and mustache of a deeper tone.]
Telfer.
[Advancing to Imogen, and kissing her paternally.] Ha, my dear child! I heard you were 'ere. Kind of you to visit us. Welcome! I'll just put my 'at down——
[He places his hat on the top of the piano, and proceeds to inspect the table.]
Gadd.
[Coming to Imogen, in an elegant, languishing way.] Imogen, my darling. [Kissing her.] Kiss Ferdy!
Imogen.
Well, Gadd, how goes it—I mean how are you?
Gadd.
[Earnestly.] I'm hitting them hard this season, my darling. To-night, Sir Thomas Clifford. They're simply waiting for my Clifford.
Imogen.
But who on earth is your Julia?
Gadd.
Ha! Mrs. Telfer goes on for it—a venerable stopgap. Absurd, of course; but we daren't keep my Clifford from them any longer.
Imogen.
You'll miss Rose Trelawny in business pretty badly, I expect, Gadd?
Gadd.
[With a shrug of the shoulders.] She was to have done Rosalind for my benefit. Miss Fitzhugh joins on Monday; I must pull her through it somehow.
I would reconsider my bill, but they're waiting for my Orlando, waiting for it—
[Colpoys enters—an insignificant, wizen little fellow who is unable to forget that he is a low-comedian. He stands L., squinting hideously at Imogen and indulging in extravagant gestures of endearment, while she continues her conversation with Gadd.]
Colpoys.
[Failing to attract her attention.] My love! my life!
Imogen.
[Nodding to him indifferently.] Good-afternoon, Augustus.
Colpoys.
[Ridiculously.] She speaks! she hears me!
Ablett.
[Holding his glove before his mouth, convulsed with laughter.] Ho, ho! oh, Mr. Colpoys! oh, reelly, sir! ho, dear!
Gadd.
[To Imogen, darkly.] Colpoys is not nearly as funny as he was last year. Everybody's saying so. We want a low-comedian badly.
[He retires, deposits his hat on the wig-block, and joins Telfer and Tom.]
Colpoys.
[Staggering to Imogen and throwing his arms about her neck.] Ah—h—h! after all these years!
Imogen.
[Pushing him away.] Do be careful of my things, Colpoys!
Ablett.
[Going out, blind with mirth.] Ha, ha, ha! ho, ho!
[He collides with Mrs. Telfer, who is entering at this moment. Mrs. Telfer is a tall, massive lady of middle age—a faded queen of tragedy.]
Ablett.
[As he disappears.] I'm sure I beg your pardon, Mrs. Telfer, ma'am.
Mrs. Telfer.
Violent fellow! [Advancing to Imogen and kissing her solemnly.] How is it with you, Jenny Parrott?
Imogen.
Thank you, Mrs. Telfer, as well as can be. And you?
Mrs. Telfer.
[Waving away the inquiry.] I am obliged to you for this response to my invitation, It struck me as fitting that at such a time you should return for a brief hour or two to the company of your old associates—— [Becoming conscious of Colpoys, behind her, making grimaces at Imogen.] Eh—h—h?
[Turning to Colpoys and surprising him.] Oh—h—h! Yes, Augustus Colpoys, you are extremely humorous off.
Colpoys.
[Stung.] Miss Sylvester—Mrs. Telfer!
Mrs. Telfer.
On the stage, sir, you are enough to make a cat weep.
Colpoys.
Madam! from one artist to another! well, I—! 'pon my soul! [Retreating and talking under his breath. ] Popular favorite! draw more money than all the—old guys——
Mrs. Telfer.
[Following him.] What do you say, sir! Do you mutter!
[They explain mutually. Avonia Bunn enters—an untidy, tawdrily-dressed young woman of about three-and-twenty, with the airs of a suburban soubrette.]
Avonia.
[Embracing Imogen.] Dear old girl!
Imogen.
Well, Avonia?
Avonia.
This is jolly, seeing you again. My eye, what a rig-out! She'll be up directly. [With a gulp.]She's taking a last look-round at our room.
Imogen.
You've been crying, 'Vonia.
Avonia.
No, I haven't. [Breaking down.] If I have I can't help it. Rose and I have chummed together—all this season—and part of last—and—it's a hateful profession! The moment you make a friend—————!
[Looking toward the door.] There! isn't she a dream? I dressed her——
[She moves away, as Rose Trelawny and Arthur Gower enter. Rose is nineteen, wears washed muslin, and looks divine. She has much of the extravagance of gesture, over-emphasis in speech, and freedom of manner engendered by the theatre, but is graceful and charming nevertheless. Arthur is a handsome, boyish young man—"all eyes" for Rose.]
Rose.
[Meeting Imogen.] Dear Imogen!
Imogen.
[Kissing her.] Rose, dear!
Rose.
To think of your journeying from the West to see me make my exit from Brydon Crescent! But you're a good sort; you always were. Do sit down and tell me—oh—! let me introduce Mr. Gower. Mr. Arthur Gower—Miss Imogen Parrott. The Miss Parrott of the Olympic.
Arthur.
[Reverentially.] I know. I've seen Miss Parrott as Jupiter, and as—I forget the name—in the new comedy——-[Imogen and Rose sit below the table.]
Rose.
He forgets everything but the parts I play, and the pieces I play in—poor child! don't you, Arthur?
Arthur.
[Standing by Rose, looking down upon her.] Yes—no. Well, of course I do! How can I help it, Miss Parrott? Miss Parrott won't think the worse of me for that—will you, Miss Parrott?
Mrs. Telfer.
I am going to remove my bonnet. Imogen Parrott—!
Imogen.
Thank you, I'll keep my hat on, Mrs. Telfer—take care!
[Mrs. Telfer, in turning to go, encounters Ablett, who is entering with two jugs of beer. Some of the beer is spilt.]
Ablett.
I beg your pardon, ma'am.
Mrs. Telfer.
[Examining her skirts.] Ruffian! [She departs.]
Rose.
[To Arthur.] Go and talk to the boys. I haven't seen Miss Parrott for ages.
[In backing away from them, Arthur comes against Ablett.]
Ablett.
I beg your pardon, sir.
Arthur.
I beg yours.
Ablett.
[Grasping Arthur's hand.] Excuse the freedom, sir, if freedom you regard it as——
Arthur.
Eh——-?
-,
Ablett.
You 'ave plucked the flower, sir; you 'ave stole our ch'icest blossom.
Arthur.
[Trying to get away.] Yes, yes, I know——
Ablett.
Cherish it, Mr. Glover——!
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Arthur.
I will, I will. Thank you——
[Mrs. Mossop's voice is heard calling "Ablett!" Ablett releases Arthur and goes out. Arthur joins Colpoys and Tom.]
Rose.
[To Imogen.] The carriage will be here in half an hour. I've so much to say to you. Imogen, the brilliant hits you've made! how lucky you have been!
Imogen.
My luck! what about yours?
Rose.
Yes, isn't this a wonderful stroke of fortune for me! Fate, Jenny! that's what it is—Fate! Fate ordains that I shall be a well-to-do fashionable lady, instead of a popular but toiling actress. Mother often used to stare into my face, when I was little, and whisper, "Rosie, I wonder what is to be your—fate." Poor mother! I hope she sees.
Imogen.
Your Arthur seems nice.
Rose.
Oh, he's a dear. Very young, of course—not much more than a year older than me—than I. But he'll grow manly in time, and have mustaches, and whiskers out to here, he says.
Imogen.
How did you——?
Rose.
He saw me act Blanche in the The Peddler of Marseilles, and fell in love.
Imogen.
Do you prefer Blanche——?
Rose.
To Celestine? Oh, yes. You see, I got leave to introduce a song—where Blanche is waiting for Raphael on the bridge. [Singing, dramatically but in low tones.] "Ever of thee I'm fondly dreaming——"
Imogen.
I know—
[They sing together.]
Rose. and Imogen.
"Thy gentle voice my spirit can cheer."
Rose.
It was singing that song that sealed my destiny, Arthur declares. At any rate, the next thing was he began sending bouquets and coming to the stage-door. Of course, I never spoke to him, never glanced at him. Poor mother brought me up in that way, not to speak to anybody, nor look.
Imogen.
Quite right.
Rose.
I do hope she sees.
Imogen.
And then?
Rose.
Then Arthur managed to get acquainted with the Telfers, and Mrs. Telfer presented him to me. Mrs. Telfer has kept an eye on me all through. Not that it was necessary, brought up as I was—but she's a kind old soul.
Imogen.
And now you're going to live with his people for a time, aren't you?
Rose.
Yes—on approval.
Imogen.
Ha, ha, ha I you don't mean that!
Rose.
Well, in a way—just to reassure them, as they put it. The Gowers have such odd ideas about theatres, and actors and actresses.
Imogen.
Do you think you'll like the arrangement?
Rose.
It 'll only be for a little while. I fancy they're prepared to take to me, especially Miss Trafalgar Gower——
Imogen.
Trafalgar!
Rose.
Sir William's sister; she was born Trafalgar year, and christened after it—
[Mrs. Mossop and Ablett enter, carrying trays on which are a pile of plates and various dishes of Cold food—a joint, a chicken and a tongue, a ham, a pigeon pie, etc. They proceed to set out the dishes upon the table.]
Imogen.
[Cheerfully.] Well, God bless you, my dear. I'm afraid I couldn't give up the stage though, not for all the Arthurs——
Rose.
Ah, your mother wasn't an actress.
Imogen.
No.
Rose.
Mine was, and I remember her saying to me once, "Rose, if ever you have the chance, get out of it."
Imogen.
The Profession?
Rose.
Yes. "Get out of it," mother said; "if ever a good man comes along, and offers to marry you and to take you off the stage, seize the chance—get out of it."
Imogen.
Your mother was never popular, was she?
Rose.
Yes, indeed she was, most popular—till she grew oldish and lost her looks.
Imogen.
Oh, that's what she meant, then?
Rose.
Yes, that's what she meant.
Imogen.
[Shivering.] Oh, lor', doesn't it make one feel depressed.
Poor mother!
Rose.
Well, I hope she sees.
Mrs. Mossop.
Now, ladies and gentlemen, everything is prepared, and I do trust to your pleasure and satisfaction.
Telfer.
Ladies and gentlemen, I beg you to be seated, [There is a general movement.] Miss Trelawny will sit 'ere, on my right. On my left, my friend Mr. Glower will sit. Next to Miss Trelawny—who will sit beside Miss Trelawny?
Gadd. and Colpoys.
I will.
Avonia.
No, do let me!
[Gadd, Colpoys, and Avonia gather round Rose and wrangle for the vacant place.]
Rose.
[Standing by her chair.] It must be a gentleman, 'Vonia. Now, if you two boys quarrel—-!
Gadd.
Please don't push me, Colpoys!
Colpoys.
'Pon my soul, Gadd——!
Rose.
I know how to settle it. Tom Wrench———!
Tom.
[Coming to her.] Yes?
[Colpoys and Gadd move away, arguing.]
Imogen.
[Seating herself.] Mr. Gadd and Mr. Colpoys shall sit by me, one on each side.
[Colpoys sits on Imogen's right, Gadd on her left, Avonia sits between Tom and Gadd; Mrs. Mossop on the right of Colpoys. Amid much chatter, the viands are carved by Mrs. Mossop, Telfer, and Tom. Some plates of chicken, etc., are handed round by Ablett, while others are passed about by those at the table.]
Gadd.
[Quietly to Imogen, during a pause in the hubbub.] Telfer takes the chair, you observe. Why he—more than myself, for instance?
Imogen.
[To Gadd.] The Telfers have lent their room——
Gadd.
Their stuffy room I that's no excuse. I repeat, Telfer has thrust himself into this position.
Imogen.
He's the oldest man present.
Gadd.
True. And he begins to age in his acting too. His H's! scarce as pearls!
Imogen.
Yes, that's shocking. Now, at the Olympic, slip an H and you're damned for ever.
Gadd.
And he's losing all his teeth. To act with him, it makes the house seem half empty.
[Ablett is now going about pouring out the ale. Occasionally he drops his glove, misses it, and recovers it.]
Telfer.
[To Imogen.] Miss Parrott, my dear, follow the counsel of one who has sat at many a "good man's feast"—have a little 'am.
Imogen.
Thanks, Mr. Telfer. [Mrs. Telfer returns.]
Mrs. Telfer.
Sitting down to table in my absence! [To Telfer.] How is this, James?
Telfer.
We are pressed for time, Violet, my love.
Rose.
Very sorry, Mrs. Telfer.
Mrs. Telfer.
[Taking her place, between Arthur and Mrs. Mossop—gloomily.] A strange proceeding.
Rose.
Rehearsal was over so late. [To Telfer.] You didn't get to the last act till a quarter to one, did you?
Avonia.
[Taking off her hat and flinging it across the table to Colpoys.] Gus! catch! Put it on the sofa, there's a dear boy. [Colpoys perches the hat upon his head, and behaves in a ridiculous, mincing way. Ablett is again convulsed with laughter. Some of the others are amused also, but more moderately.] Take that off, Gus! Mr. Colpoys, you just take my hat off! [Colpoys rises, imitating the manners of a woman, and deposits the hat on the sofa.]
Ablett.
Ho, ho, ho! oh, don't Mr. Colpoys! oh, don't, sir!
[Colpoys returns to the table.]
Gadd.
[Quietly to Imogen.] It makes me sick to watch Colpoys in private life. He'd stand on his head in the street, if he could get a ragged infant to laugh at him. [Picking the leg of a fowl furiously.] What I say is this. Why can't an actor, in private life, be simply a gentleman? [Loudly and haughtily.] More tongue here!
Ablett.
[Hurrying to him.] Yessir, certainly, sir. [Again discomposed by some antic on the part of Colpoys.] Oh, don't, Mr. Colpoys! [Going to Telfer with Gadd's plate—speaking while Telfer carves a slice of tongue.] I shan't easily forget this afternoon, Mr. Telfer. [Exhausted.] This 'll be something to tell Mrs. Ablett. Ho, ho! oh, dear, oh, dear!
[Ablett, averting his face from Colpoys, brings back Gadd's plate. By an unfortunate chance, Ablett's glove has found its way to the plate and is handed to Gadd by Ablett.]
Gadd.
[Picking up the glove in disgust.] Merciful powers! what's this!
Ablett.
[Taking the glove.] I beg your pardon, sir—my error, entirely.
[A firm rat-tat-tat at the front door is heard. There is a general exclamation. At the same moment Sarah, a diminutive servant in a crinoline, appears in the doorway.]
Sarah.
[Breathlessly.] The kerridge has just drove up! [Imogen, Gadd, Colpoys, and Avonia go to the windows, open them, and look out. Mrs. Mossop hurries away, pushing Sarah before her.]
Telfer.
Dear me, dear me! before a single speech has been made.
Avonia.
[At the window.] Rose, do look!
Imogen.
[At the other window.] Come here, Rose!
Rose.
[Shaking her head.] Ha, ha! I'm in no hurry; I shall see it often enough. [Turning to Tom.] Well, the time has arrived. [Laying down her knife and fork.] Oh, I'm so sorry, now.
Tom.
[Brusquely.] Are you? I'm glad.
Rose.
Glad! that is hateful of you, Tom Wrench!
Arthur.
[Looking at his watch.] The carriage is certainly two or three minutes before its time, Mr. Telfer.
Telfer.
Two or three——-! The speeches, my dear sir, the speeches! [Mrs. Mossop returns, panting.]
Mrs. Mossop.
The footman, a nice-looking young man with hazel eyes, says the carriage and pair can wait for a little bit. They must be back by three, to take their lady into the Park——
Telfer.
[Rising.] Ahem! Resume your seats, I beg. Ladies and gentlemen——-
Avonia.
Wait, waitl we're not ready!
[Imogen, Gadd, Colpoys, and Avonia return to their places. Mrs. Mossop also sits again. Ablett stands by the door.]
Telfer.
[Producing a paper from his breast-pocket.] Ladies and gentlemen, I devoted some time this morning to the preparation of a list of toasts. I now 'old that list in my hand. The first toast——
[He pauses, to assume a pair of spectacles.]
Gadd.
[To Imogen.] He arranges the toast-list! he!
Imogen.
[To Gadd.] Hush!
Telfer.
The first toast that figures 'ere is, naturally, that of The Queen. [Laying his hand on Arthur's shoulder.] With my young friend's chariot at the door, his horses pawing restlessly and fretfully upon the stones, I am prevented from enlarging, from expatiating, upon the merits of this toast. Suffice it, both Mrs. Telfer and I have had the honor of acting before Her Majesty upon no less than two occasions.
Gadd.
[To Imogen.] Tsch, tsch, tsch! an old story!
Telfer.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you—[to Colpoys]—the malt is with you, Mr. Colpoys.
Colpoys.
[Handing the ale to Telfer.] Here you are, Telfer.
Telfer.
[Filling his glass. ] I give you The Queen, coupling with that toast the name of Miss Violet Sylvester—Mrs. Telfer—formerly, as you are aware, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Miss Sylvester has so frequently and, if I may say so, so nobly impersonated the various queens of tragedy that I cannot but feel she is a fitting person to acknowledge our expression of loyalty. [Raising his glass.] The Queen I And Miss Violet Sylvester!
[All rise, except Mrs. Telfer, and drink the toast. After drinking Mrs. Mossop passes her tumbler to Ablett.]
Ablett.
The Queen! Miss Vi'lent Sylvester!
[He drinks and returns the glass to Mrs. Mossop. The company being reseated, Mrs. Telfer rises. Her reception is a polite one.]
Mrs. Telfer.
[Heavily.] Ladies and gentlemen, I have played fourteen or fifteen queens in my time—-
Telfer.
Thirteen, my love, to be exact; I was calculating this morning.
Mrs. Telfer.
Very well, I have played thirteen of 'em. And, as parts, they are not worth a tinker's oath. I thank you for the favor with which you have received me.
[She sits; the applause is heartier. During the demonstration Sarah appears in the doorway, with a kitchen chair.]
Ablett.
[To Sarah.] Wot's all this?
Sarah.
[To Ablett.] Is the speeches on?
Ablett.
H'on! yes, and you be h'off!
[She places the chair against the open door and sits, full of determination. At intervals Ablett vainly represents to her the impropriety of her proceeding.]
Telfer.
[Again rising.] Ladies and gentlemen. Bumpers, I charge ye! The toast I 'ad next intended to propose was Our Immortal Bard, Shakspere, and I had meant, myself, to 'ave offered a few remarks in response——
Gadd.
[To Imogen, bitterly.] Ha!
Telfer.
But with our friend's horses champing their bits, I am compelled—nay, forced—to postpone this toast to a later period of the day, and to give you now what we may justly designate the toast of the afternoon. Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to lose, to part with, one of our companions, a young comrade who came amongst us many months ago, who in fact joined the company of the "Wells" last February twelvemonth, after a considerable experience in the provinces of this great country.
Colpoys.
Hear, hear!
Avonia.
[Tearfully.] Hear, hear! [With a sob.] I detested her at first.
Colpoys.
Order!
Imogen.
Be quiet, 'Vonia!
Telfer.
Her late mother an actress, herself made familiar with the stage from childhood if not from infancy, Miss Rose Trelawny—for I will no longer conceal from you that it is to Miss Trelawny I refer——
[Loud applause.] Miss Trelawny is the stuff of which great actresses are made.
All.
Hear, hear!
Ablett.
[Softly.] 'Ear, 'ear!
Telfer.
So much for the actress. Now for the young lady—nay, the woman, the gyirl. Rose is a good girl——
[Loud applause, to which Ablett and Sarah contribute largely. Avonia rises and impulsively embraces Rose. She is recalled to her seat by a general remonstrance.] A good girl——
Mrs. Telfer.
[Clutching a knife.] Yes, and I should like to hear anybody, man or woman——!
Telfer.
She is a good girl, and will be long remembered by us as much for her private virtues as for the commanding authority of her genius. [More applause, during which there is a sharp altercation between Ablett and Sarah.] And now, what has happened to "the expectancy and Rose of the fair state"?
Imogen.
Good, Telfer! good!'
Gadd.
[To Imogen.] Tsch, tsch! forced! forced!
Telfer.
I will tell you—[impressively]—a man has crossed her path.
Ablett.
[In a low voice.] Shame!
Mrs. Mossop.
[Turning to him.] Mr. Ablett!
Telfer.
A man—ah, but also a gentle-man. [Applause.] A gentleman of probity, a gentleman of honor, and a gentleman of wealth and station. That gentleman, with the modesty of youth,—for I may tell you at once that 'e is not an old man,—comes to us and asks us to give him this gyirl to wife. And, friends, we have done so. A few preliminaries 'ave, I believe, still to be concluded between Mr. Gower and his family, and then the bond will be signed, the compact entered upon, the mutual trust accepted. Riches this youthful pair will possess—but what is gold? May they be rich in each other's society, in each other's love! May they—I can wish them no greater joy—be as happy in their married life as my—my—as Miss Sylvester and I 'ave been in ours! [Raising his glass.] Miss Rose Trelawny—Mr. Arthur Gower! [The toast is drunk by the company, upstanding. Three cheers are called for by Colpoys, and given. Those who have risen then sit.] Miss Trelawny.
Rose.
[Weeping.] No, no, Mr. Telfer.
Mrs. Telfer.
[To Telfer, softly.] Let her be for a minute, James.
Telfer.
Mr. Gower.
[Arthur rises and is well received.]
Arthur.
Ladies and gentlemen, I—I would I were endowed with Mr. Telfer's flow of—of—of splendid eloquence. But I am no orator, no speaker, and therefore cannot tell you how highly—how deeply I appreciate the—the compliment——
Ablett.
You deserve it, Mr. Glover!
Mrs. Mossop.
Hush!
Arthur.
All I can say is that I regard Miss Trelawny in the light of a—a solemn charge, and I—I trust that, if ever I have the pleasure of—of meeting—any of you again, I shall be able to render a good—a—a—satisfactory—satisfactory—-
Tom.
[In an audible whisper.] Account.
Arthur.
Account of the way—of the way—in which I—in which——- [Loud applause.] Before I bring these observations to a conclusion, let me assure you that it has been a great privilege to me to meet—to have been thrown with—a band of artists—whose talents—whose striking talents—whose talents——
Tom.
[Kindly, behind his hand.] Sit down.
Arthur.
[Helplessly.] Whose talents not only interest and instruct the—the more refined residents of this district, but whose talents-
Imogen.
[Quietly to Colpoys.] Get him to sit down.
Arthur.
The fame of whose talents, I should say——
Colpoys.
[Quietly to Mrs. Mossop.] He's to sit down. Tell Mother Telfer.
Arthur.
The fame of whose talents has spread to—to regions—-
Mrs. Mossop.
[Quietly to Mrs. Telfer.] They say he's to sit down.
Arthur.
To—to quarters of the town—to quarters——
Mrs. Telfer.
[To Arthur.] Sit down!
Arthur.
Eh?
Mrs. Telfer.
You finished long ago. Sit down.
Arthur.
Thank you. I'm exceedingly sorry. Great Heavens, how wretchedly I've done it!
[He sits, burying his head in his hands. More applause.]
Telfer.
Rose. my child.
[Rose starts to her feet. The rest rise with her, and cheer again, and wave handkerchiefs. She goes from one to the other, round the table, embracing and kissing and crying over them all excitedly. Sarah is kissed, but upon Ablett is bestowed only a handshake, to his evident dissatisfaction. Imogen runs to the piano and strikes up the air of "Ever of Thee." When Rose gets back to the place she mounts her chair, with the aid of Tom and Telfer, and faces them with flashing eyes. They pull the flowers out of the vases and throw them at her.]
Rose.
Mr. Telfer, Mrs. Telfer! My friends! Boys! Ladies and gentlemen! No, don't stop, Jenny! go on! [Singing, her arms stretched out to them.] "Ever of thee I'm fondly dreaming, Thy gentle voice." You remember! the song I sang in The Peddler of Marseilles—which made Arthur fall in love with me! Well, I know I shall dream of you, of all of you, very often, as the song says. Don't believe [wiping away her tears], oh, don't believe that, because I shall have married a swell, you and the old "Wells"—the dear old "Wells"!——
[Cheers.]
Rose.
You and the old "Wells" will have become nothing to me! No, many and many a night you will see me in the house, looking down at you from the Circle—me and my husband——
Arthur.
Yes, yes, certainly!
Rose.
And if you send for me I'll come behind the curtain to you, and sit with you and talk of bygone times, these times that end to-day. And shall I tell you the moments which will be the happiest to me in my life, however happy I may be with Arthur? Why, whenever I find that I am recognized by people, and pointed out—people in the pit of a theatre, in the street, no matter where; and when I can fancy they're saying to each other, "Look! that was Miss Trelawny! you remember—Trelawny! Trelawny of the 'Wells!'"——
[They cry "Trelawny!" and "Trelawny of the 'Wells!'" and again "Trelawny!" wildly. Then there is the sound of a sharp rat-tat at the front door. Imogen leaves the piano and looks out of the window.]
Imogen.
[To somebody below.] What is it?
A Voice.
Miss Trelawny, ma'am. We can't wait.
Rose.
[Weakly.] Oh, help me down——
[They assist her, and gather round her.]
END OF THE FIRST ACT.
