  The scene represents the stage of a theatre with the proscenium arch, and the dark and empty auditorium in the distance. The curtain is raised. The stage extends a few feet beyond the line of the proscenium, and is terminated by a row of old-fashioned footlights with metal reflectors. On the left, from the proscenium arch runs a wall, in which is an open doorway supposed to admit to the Green-room. Right and left of the stage are the "P." and "O. P." and the first and second entrances, with wings running in grooves, according to the old fashion. Against the wall are some "flats." Just below the footlights is a T-light, burning gas, and below this the prompt-table. On the right of the prompt-table is a chair, and on the left another. Against the edge of the proscenium arch is another chair; and nearer, on the right, stands a large throne-chair, with a gilt frame and red velvet seat, now much dilapidated. In the "second entrance" there are a "property" stool, a table, and a chair, all of a similar style to the throne-chair and in like condition, and on the center, as if placed therefor the purpose of rehearsal, are a small circular table and a chair. On this table is a work-basket containing a ball of wool and a pair of knitting-needles; and on the prompt-table there is a book. A faded and ragged green baize covers the floor of the stage. The wings, and the flats and borders, suggest by their appearance a theatre fallen somewhat into decay. The light is a dismal one, but it is relieved by a shaft of' sunlight entering through a window in the flies on the right. [Mrs. Telfer is seated upon the throne-chair, in an attitude of dejection. Telfer enters from the Green-room.] Telfer.[Coming to her.] Is that you, Violet? Mrs. Telfer.Is the reading over? Telfer.Almost. My part is confined to the latter 'alf of the second act; so being close to the Green-room door [with a sigh], I stole away. Mrs. Telfer.It affords you no opportunity, James? Telfer.[Shaking his head.] A mere fragment. Mrs. Telfer.[Rising.]Well, but a few good speeches to a man of your stamp—— Telfer.Yes, but this is so line-y, Violet; so very line-y. And what d'ye think the character is described as? Mrs. Telfer.What? Telfer."An old, stagey, out-of-date actor." [They stand looking at each other for a moment, silently.] Mrs. Telfer.[Falteringly.] Will you—be able—to get near it, James? Telfer.[Looking away from her.] I dare say——- Mrs. Telfer.[Laying a hand upon his shoulder.] That's all right, then. Telfer.And you—what have they called you for, if you're not in the play? They 'ave not dared to suggest understudy? Mrs. Telfer.[Playing with her fingers.]They don't ask me to act at all, James. Telfer.Don't ask you—-! Mrs. Telfer.Miss Parrott offers me the position of Wardrobe-mistress. Telfer.Violet! Mrs. Telfer.Hush! Telfer.Let us both go home. Mrs. Telfer.[Restraining him.] No, let us remain. We've been idle six months, and I can't bear to see you without your watch and all your comforts about you. Telfer.[Pointing toward the Green-room.] And so this new-fangled stuff, and these dandified people, are to push us, and such as us, from our stools! Mrs. Telfer.Yes, James, just as some other new fashion will, in course of time, push them from their stools. [From the Green-room comes the sound of a slight clapping of hands, followed by a murmur of voices. The Telfers move away. Imogen, elaborately dressed, enters from the Green-room and goes leisurely to the prompt-table. She is followed by Tom, manuscript in hand, smarter than usual in appearance; and he by O'Dwyer,—an excitable Irishman of about forty, with an extravagant head of hair,—who carries a small bundle of "parts" in brown-paper covers. Tom and O'Dwyer join Imogen.] O'Dwyer.[To Tom.] Mr. Wrench, I congratulate ye; I have that honor, sir. Your piece will do, sir; it will take the town, mark me. Tom.Thank you, O'Dwyer. Imogen.Look at the sunshine! there's a good omen, at any rate. O'Dwyer.Oh, sunshine's nothing. [To Tom.] But did ye observe the gloom on their faces whilst ye were read in'? Imogen.[Anxiously.] Yes, they did look glum. O'Dwyer.Glum! it might have been a funeral! There's a healthy prognostication for ye, if ye loike! it's infallible. [A keen-faced gentleman and a lady enter, from the Green-room, and stroll across the stage to the right, where they lean against the wings and talk. Then two young gentlemen enter, and Rose follows.] Note.—The actors and the actress appearing for the first time in this act, as members of the Pantheon Company, are outwardly greatly superior to the Gadds, the Telfers, and Colpoys. Rose.[Shaking hands with Telfer.] Why didn't you sit near me, Mr. Telfer? [Going to Mrs. Telfer.] Fancy our being together again, and at the West End! [To Telfer.] Do you like the play? Telfer.Like it! there's not a speech in it, my dear—not a real speech; nothing to dig your teeth into—- O'Dwyer.[Allotting the parts, under the direction of Tom and Imogen.] Mr. Mortimer! [One of the young gentlemen advances and receives his part from O'Dwyer, and retires, reading it.] Mr. Denzil! [The keen-faced gentleman takes his part, then joins Imogen on her left and talks to her. The lady now has something to say to the solitary young gentleman.] Tom.[To O'Dwyer, quietly, handing him a part.] Miss Brewster. O'Dwyer.[Beckoning to the lady, who does not observe him, her back being towards him.] Come here, my love. Tom.[To O'Dwyer.] No, no, O'Dwyer—not your "love." O'Dwyer.[Perplexed.] Not? Tom.No. O'Dwyer.No? Tom.Why, you are meeting her this morning for the first time. O'Dwyer.That's true enough. [Approaching the lady and handing her the part.] Miss Brewster. The Lady.Much obliged. O'Dwyer.[Quietly to her.] It 'll fit ye like a glove, darlin'. [The lady sits, conning her part. O'Dwyer returns to the table.] Telfer.[To Rose.] Your lover in the play? which of these young sparks plays your lover—Harold or Gerald——? Rose.Gerald. I don't know. There are some people not here to-day, I believe. O'Dwyer.Mr. Hunston! [The second young gentleman advances, receives his part, and joins the other young gentleman in the wings.] Rose.Not that young man, I hope. Isn't he a little bandy? Telfer.One of the finest Macduffs I ever fought with was bow-legged. O'Dwyer.Mr. Teller. Tom.[To O'Dwyer.] No, no—Telfer. O'Dwyer.Telfer! [Telfer draws himself erect, puts his hand in his breast, but otherwise remains stationary.] Mrs. Telfer.[Anxiously.] That's you, James. O'Dwyer.Come on, Mr. Telfer! look alive, sir! Tom.[To O'Dwyer.] Sssh, sssh, sssh! don't, don't——! [Telfer advances to the prompt-table, slowly. He receives his part from O'Dwyer. To Telfer, awkwardly.] I—I hope the little part of Poggs appeals to you, Mr. Telfer. Only a sketch, of course; but there was nothing else—quite—in your———- Telfer.Nothing? to whose share does the Earl fall? Tom.Oh; Mr. Denzil plays Lord Parracourt. Telfer.Denzil? I've never 'eard of 'im. Will you get to me to-day? Tom.We—we expect to do so. Telfer.Very well. [Stiffly.] Let me be called in the street. [He stalks away.] Mrs. Telfer.[Relieved.] Thank Heaven! I was afraid James would break out. Rose.[To Mrs. Telfer.] But you, dear Mrs. Telfer—you weren't at the reading—what are you cast for? Mrs. Telfer.I? [Wiping away a tear.] I am the Wardrobe-mistress of this theatre. Rose.You! [Embracing her.] Oh! oh! Mrs. Telfer.[Composing herself.] Miss Trelawny—Rose—my child, if we are set to scrub a floor—and we may come to that yet—let us make up our minds to scrub it legitimately—with dignity—— [She disappears and is seen no more.] O'Dwyer.Miss Trelawny! come here, my de—— Tom.[To O'Dwyer.] Hush! O'Dwyer.Miss Trelawny! [Rose receives her part from O'Dwyer and, after a word or two with Tom and Imogen, joins the two young gentlemen who are in the "second entrance, L." The lady, who has been seated, now rises and crosses to the left, where she meets the keen-faced gentleman, who has finished his conversation with Imogen.] The Lady.[To the keen-faced gentleman.] I say, Mr. Denzil! who plays Gerald? The Gentlemen.Gerald? The Lady.The man I have my scene with in the third act—the hero—- The Gentleman.Oh, yes. Oh, a young gentleman from the country, I understand. The Lady.From the country! The Gentleman.He is coming up by train this morning, Miss Parrott tells me; from Bath or somewhere—- The Lady.Well, whoever he is, if he can't play that scene with me decently, my part's not worth rags. Tom.[To Imogen, who is sitting at the prompt-table.] Er—h'm—shall we begin, Miss Parrott? Imogen.Certainly, Mr. Wrench. Tom.We'll begin, O'Dwyer. [The lady titters at some remark from the keen-faced gentleman.] O'Dwyer.[Coming down the stage, violently.] Clear the stage there! I'll not have it! Upon my honor, this is the noisiest theatre I've ever set foot in! [The icings are cleared, the characters disappearing into the Green-room.] O'Dwyer.I can't hear myself speak for all the riot and confusion! Tom.[To O'Dwyer.] My dear O'Dwyer, there is no riot, there is no confusion— Imogen.[To O'Dwyer.] Except the riot and confusion you are making. Tom.You know, you're admirably earnest, O'Dwyer, but a little excitable. O'Dwyer.[Calming himself.] Oh, I beg your pardon, I'm sure. [Emphatically.] My system is, begin as you mean to go on. Imogen.But we don't mean to go on like that. Tom.Of course not; of course not. Now, let me see—[pointing to the right center] we shall want another chair here. O'Dwyer.Another chair? Tom.A garden chair. O'Dwyer.[Excitably.] Another chair! Now, then, another chair! Properties! where are ye? do ye hear me callin'? must I raise my voice to ye-? [He rushes away.] Imogen.[To Tom.] Phew! where did you get him from? Tom. [Wiping his brow.] Known Michael for years—most capable, invaluable fellow—— Imogen.[Simply.] I wish he was dead. Tom.So do I. [O'Dwyer returns, carrying a light chair.] Tom.Well, where's the property-man? O'Dwyer.[Pleasantly.] It's all right now. He's gone to dinner. Tom.[Placing the chair in position.] Ah, then he'll be back some time during the afternoon. [Looking about him.] That will do. [Taking up his manuscript.] Call—haven't you engaged a call-boy yet, O'Dwyer? O'Dwyer.I have, sir, and the best in London. Imogen.Where is he? O'Dwyer.He has sint an apology for his non-attindance. Imogen.Oh! O'Dwyer.A sad case, ma'am; he's buryin' his wife. Tom.Wife! Imogen.The call-boy? Tom.What's his age? O'Dwyer.Ye see, he happens to be an elder brother of my own—— Imogen. and Tom.O Lord! Tom.Nevermind! let's get on! Call Miss—— [Looking toward the right.] Is that the Hall-Keeper? [A man, suggesting by his appearance that he is the Hall-Keeper, presents himself, with a card in his hand.] O'Dwyer.[Furiously.] Now then! are we to be continually interrupted in this fashion? Have I, or have I not, given strict orders that nobody whatever——? Tom.Hush, hush! see whose card it is; give me the card—— O'Dwyer.[Handing the card to Tom.] Ah, I'll make rules here. In a week's time you'll not know this for the same theatre—— [Tom has passed the card to Imogen without looking at it.] Imogen.[Staring at it blankly.] Oh——! Tom.[To her.] Eh? Imogen.Sir William. Tom.Sir William.! Imogen.What can he want? what shall we do? Tom.[After referring to his watch—to the Hall-Keeper.] Bring this gentleman on to the stage. [The Hall-Keeper withdraws. To O'Dwyer.] Make yourself scarce for a few moments, O'Dwyer. Some private business——- O'Dwyer.All right. I've plenty to occupy me. I'll begin to frame those rules—-[He disappears.] Imogen.[To Tom.] Not here——— Tom.[To Imogen.] The boy can't arrive for another twenty minutes. Besides, we must, sooner or later, accept responsibility for our act. Imogen.[Leaning upon his arm.] Heavens! I foretold this! Tom.[Grimly.] I know—"said so all along." Imogen.If he should withdraw his capital! Tom.[With clenched hands.] At least, that would enable me to write a melodrama. Imogen.Why? Tom.I should then understand the motives and the springs of Crime! [The Hall-Keeper reappears, showing the way to Sir William Gower. Sir William's hat is drawn down over his eyes, and the rest of his face is almost entirely concealed by his plaid. The Hall-Keeper withdraws.] Tom.[Receiving Sir William.] How d'ye do, Sir William? Sir William.[Giving him two fingers—with a grunt.] Ugh! Tom.These are odd surroundings for you to find yourself in—- [Imogen comes forward.] Miss Parrott—— Sir William.[Advancing to her, giving her two fingers.] Good-morning, ma'am. Imogen.This is perfectly delightful. Sir William.What is? Imogen.[Faintly.] Your visit. Sir William.Ugh! [Weakly.] Give me a cheer. [Looking about him.] Have ye no cheers here? Tom.Yes. [Tom places the throne-chair behind Sir William, who sinks into it.] Sir William.Thank ye; much obleeged. [To Imogen.] Sit. [Imogen hurriedly fetches the stool and seats herself beside the throne-chair. Sir William produces his snuff-box.] You are astonished at seeing me here, I dare say? Tom.Not at all. Sir William.[Glancing at Tom.] Addressing the lady. [To Imogen.] You are surprised to see me? Imogen.Very. Sir William.[To Tom.] Ah! [Tom retreats, getting behind Sir William's chair and looking down upon him.] The truth is, I am beginning to regret my association with ye. Imogen.[Her hand to her heart.] Oh—h—h—h! Tom.[Under his breath.] Oh! [Holding his fist over Sir William's head.] Oh—h—h—h! Imogen.[Piteously]. You—you don't propose to withdraw your capital, Sir William? Sir William.That would be a breach of faith, ma'am—— Imogen.Ah! Tom.[Walking about, jauntily.] Ha! Imogen.[Seizing Sir William's hand.] Friend! Sir William.[Withdrawing his hand sharply.] I'll thank ye not to repeat that action, ma'am. But I—I have been slightly indisposed since I made your acqueentance in Clerkenwell; I find myself unable to sleep at night. [To Tom.] That comedy of yours—it buzzes continually in my head, sir. Tom.It was written with such an intention, Sir William—to buzz in people's heads. Sir William.Ah, I'll take care ye don't read me another, Mr. Wicks; at any rate, another which contains a character resembling a member of my family—a late member of my family. I don't relish being reminded of late members of my family in this way, and being kept awake at night, thinking—turning over in my mind—— Imogen.[Soothingly.] Of course not.. Sir William.[Taking snuff.] Pa—a—a—h! pi—i—i—sh! When I saw Kean, as Richard, he reminded me of no member of my family. Shakespeare knew better than that, Mr. Wicks. [To Imogen.] And therefore, ma'am, upon receiving your letter last night, acqueenting me with your intention to commence rehearsing your comedy—[glancing at Tom] his comedy—— Imogen.[Softly.] Our comedy—— Sir William.Ugh—to-day at noon, I determined to present myself here and request to be allowed to—to—— Tom.To watch the rehearsal? Sir William.The rehearsal of those episodes in your comedy which remind me of a member of my family—a late member. Imogen.[Constrainedly]. Oh, certainly—— Tom.[Firmly.] By all means. Sir William.[Rising, assisted by Tom.] I don't wish to be steered at by any of your—what d'ye call 'em?—your gypsy crew—— Tom.Ladies and Gentlemen of the Company, we call 'em. Sir William.[Tartly.] I don't care what ye call 'em. [Tom restores the throne-chair to its former position.] Put me into a curtained box, where I can hear, and see, and not be seen; and when I have heard and seen enough, I'll return home—and—and—obtain a little sleep; and to-morrow I shall be well enough to sit in Court again. Tom.[Calling.] Mr. O'Dwyer—— [O'Dwyer appears; Tom speaks a word or two to him, and hands him the manuscript of the play.] Imogen.[To Sir William, falteringly.] And if you are pleased with what you see this morning, perhaps you will attend another——? Sir William.[Angrily.] Not I. After to-day I wash my hands of ye. What do plays and players do, coming into my head, disturbing my repose! [More composedly, to Tom, who has returned to his side.] Your comedy has merit, sir. You call it Life. There is a character in it—a young man—not unlike life, not unlike a late member of my family. Obleege me with your arm. [To Imogen.] Madam, I have arrived at the conclusion that Miss Trelawny belongs to a set of curious people who in other paths might have been useful members of society. But after to-day I've done with ye—done with ye——[To Tom.] My box, sir—my box—— [Tom leads Sir William up the stage.] Tom.[To O'Dwyer.] Begin rehearsal. Begin rehearsal! Call Miss Trelawny! [Tom and Sir William disappear.] O'Dwyer.Miss Trelawny! Miss Trelawny! [Rushing to the left.] Miss Trelawny! how long am I to stand here shoutin' myself hoarse—? [Rose appears.] Rose.[Gently.] Am I called? O'Dwyer.[Instantly calm.] You are, darlin'. [O'Dwyer takes his place at the prompt-table, book in hand. Imogen and Rose stand together in the center. The other members of the company come from the Greenroom and stand in the wings, watching the rehearsal.] Now then! [Reading from the manuscript.] "At the opening of the play Peggy and Dora are discovered——" Who's Peggy? [Excitedly.] Where's Peggy? Am I to——? Imogen.Here I am! here I am! I am Peggy. O'Dwyer.[Calm.] Of course ye are, lovey—ma'am, I should say—— Imogen.Yes, you should. O'Dwyer."Peggy is seated upon the Right, Dora on the Left—-" [Rose and Imogen seat themselves accordingly. In a difficulty.] No—Peggy on the Left, Dora on the Right. [Violently.] This is the worst written scrip I've ever held in my hand[Rose and Imogen change places.] So horribly scrawled over, and interlined, and—no—I was quite correct. Peggy is on the Right, and Dora is on the Left. [Imogen and Rose again change seats. O'Dwyer reads from the manuscript.] "Peggy is engaged in—in" I can't decipher it. A scrip like this is a disgrace to any well-conducted theatre. [ To Imogen.] I don't know what you're doin'. "Dora is—is——" [To Rose.] You are also doin' something or another. Now then! When the curtain rises, you are discovered, both of ye, employed in the way described——[Tom returns.] Ah, here ye are! [Resigning the manuscript to Tom, and pointing out a passage.] I've got it smooth as far as there. Tom.Thank you. O'Dwyer.[Seating himself.] You're welcome. Tom.[To Rose and Imogen.] Ah, you're not in your right positions. Change places, please. [Imogen and Rose change seats once more.] O'Dwyer rises and goes away. O'Dwyer.[Out of sight, violently.] A scrip like that's a scandal! If there's a livin' soul that can read bad handwriting, I am that man! But of all the——! Tom.Hush, hush! Mr. O'Dwyer! O'Dwyer.[Returning to his chair.] Here. Tom.[Taking the hook from the prompt-table and handing it to Imogen.] You are reading. O'Dwyer.[ Sotto voce.] I thought so. Tom.[To Rose.] You are working. O'Dwyer.Working. Tom.[Pointing to the basket on the table.] There are your needles and wool. [Rose takes the wool and the needles out of the basket. Tom takes the ball of wool from her and places it in the center of the stage.] You have allowed the ball of wool to roll from your lap on to the grass. You will see the reason for that presently. Rose.I remember it, Mr. Wrench. Tom.The curtain rises. [To Imogen.] Miss Parrott—— Imogen.[Referring to her part.] What do I say? Tom.Nothing—you yawn. Imogen.[Yawning, in a perfunctory way.] Oh—h! Tom.As if you meant it, of course. Imogen.Well, of course. Tom.Your yawn must tell the audience that you are a young lady who may be driven by boredom to almost any extreme. O'Dwyer.[Jumping up.] This sort of thing. [Yawning extravagantly.] He—oh! Tom.[Irritably.] Thank you, O'Dwyer; thank you. O'Dwyer.[Sitting again.] You're welcome. Tom.[To Rose.] You speak. Rose.[Reading from her part—retaining the needles and the end of the wool.] "What are you reading, Miss Chaffinch?" Imogen.[Reading from her part. ] "A novel." Rose."And what is the name of it?" Imogen."The Seasons." Rose."Why is it called that?" Imogen."Because all the people in it do seasonable things." Rose."For instance——?" Imogen."In the Spring, fall in love." Rose."In the Summer?" Imogen."Become engaged. Delightful!" Rose."Autumn?" Imogen."Marry. Heavenly!" Rose."Winter?" Imogen."Quarrel. Ha, ha, ha!" Tom. [To Imogen.] Close the book—with a bang—— O'Dwyer.[Bringing his hands together sharply by way of suggestion. ] Bang! Tom.[Irritably.] Yes, yes, O'Dwyer. [To Imogen.] Now rise—— O'Dwyer.Up ye get! Tom.And cross to Dora. Imogen.[Going to Rose.] "Miss Harrington, don't you wish occasionally that you were engaged to be married?" Rose."No." Imogen."Not on wet afternoons?" Rose."I am perfectly satisfied with this busy little life of mine, as your aunt's Companion." Tom.[To Imogen.] Walk about, discontentedly. Imogen.[Walking about.] "I've nothing to do; let's tell each other our ages." Rose."I am nineteen." Tom.[To Imogen.] In a loud whisper—— Imogen."I am twenty-two." O'Dwyer.[Rising and going to Tom.] Now, hadn't ye better make that six-and-twenty? Imogen.[Joining them, with asperity.] Why? why? Tom.No, no, certainly not. Go on. Imogen.[Angrily.] Not till Mr. O'Dwyer retires into his corner. Tom.O'Dwyer.——[O'Dwyer takes his chair, and retires to the "prompt-corner," out of sight, with the air of martyrdom. Tom addresses Rose.] You speak. Rose."I shall think, and feel, the same when I am twenty-two, I am sure. I shall never wish to marry." Tom.[To Imogen.] Sit on the stump of the tree. Imogen.Where's that? Tom.[Pointing to the stool down the stage.] Where that stool is. Imogen.[Sitting on the stool.] "Miss Harrington, who is the Mr. Gerald Leigh who is expected down to-day?" Rose."Lord Parracourt's secretary." Imogen."Old and poor!" Rose."Neither, I believe. He is the son of a college chum of Lord Parracourt's—so I heard his lordship tell Lady McArchie—and is destined for public life." Imogen."Then he's young!" Rose."Extremely, I understand." Imogen.[Jumping up, in obedience to a sign from Tom.] "Oh, how can you be so spiteful!" Rose. "I!"Imogen."You mean he's too young!" Rose."Too young for what?" Imogen."Too young for—oh, bother!" Tom.[Looking towards the keen-faced gentleman.] Mr. Denzil. O'Dwyer.[Putting his head round the corner.] Mr. Denzil! [The keen-faced gentleman comes forward, reading his part, and meets Imogen.] The Gentleman.[Speaking in the tones of an old man.] "Ah, Miss Peggy!" Tom.[To Rose.] Rise, Miss Trelawny. O'Dwyer.[His head again appearing.] Rise, darlin'! [Rose rises.] The Gentleman.[To Imogen.] "Your bravura has just arrived from London. Lady McArchie wishes you to try it over; and if I may add my entreaties——" Imogen.[Taking his arm.] "Delighted, Lord Parracourt. [To Rose.] Miss Harrington, bring your work indoors and hear me squall. [To the Gentleman.] Why, you must have telegraphed to town!" The Gentleman.[As they cross the stage.] "Yes, but even telegraphy is too sluggish in executing your smallest command." [Imogen and the keen-faced gentleman go off on the left. He remains in the wings, she returns to the prompt-table.] Rose."Why do Miss Chaffinch and her girl-friends talk of nothing, think of nothing apparently, but marriage? Ought a woman to make marriage the great object of life? can there be no other? I wonder——" [She goes off, the wool trailing after her, and disappears into the Green-room. The ball of wool remains in the center of the stage.] Tom.[Reading from his manuscript.] "The piano is heard; and Peggy's voice singing. Gerald enters——" Imogen.[Clutching Tom's arm.] There——! Tom.Ah, yes, here is Mr. Gordon. [Arthur appears, in a traveling coat. Tom and Imogen hasten to him and shake hands with him vigorously.] Tom.[On Arthur's right.]How are you? Imogen.[On his left nervously.] How are you? Arthur.[Breathlessly.] Miss Parrott! Mr. Wrench! forgive me if I am late; my cab-horse galloped from the station—- Tom.We have just reached your entrance. Have you read your part over? Arthur.Read it! [Taking it from his pocket.] I know every word of it! it has made my journey from Bristol like a flight through the air! Why, Mr. Wrench [turning over the leaves of his part], some of this is almost me! Tom. and Imogen.[Nervously.] Ha, ha, ha! Tom.Come! you enter! [pointing to the right] there! [returning to the prompt-table with Imogen] you stroll on, looking about you! Now, Mr. Gordon! Arthur.[Advancing to the center of the stage, occasionally glancing at his part.] "A pretty place. I am glad I left the carriage at the lodge and walked through the grounds." [There is an exclamation, proceeding from the auditorium, and the sound of the overturning of a chair.] Imogen.Oh! O'Dwyer.[Appearing, looking into the auditorium.] What's that? This is the noisiest theatre I've ever set foot in——! Tom.Don't heed it! [To Arthur.] Go on, Mr. Gordon. Arthur."Somebody singing. A girl's voice. Lord Parracourt made no mention of anybody but his hostess—the dry, Scotch widow. [Picking up the ball of wool.] This is Lady McArchie's, I'll be bound. The very color suggests spectacles and iron-gray curls——" Tom.Dora returns. [Calling.] Dora! O'Dwyer.Dora! where are ye? The Gentleman.[Going to the Green-room door.]Dora! Dora! [Rose appears in the wings.] Rose.[To Tom.] I'm sorry. Tom.Go on, please! [There is another sound, nearer the stage, of the overturning of some object.] O'Dwyer.What—-? Tom.Don't heed it! Rose.[Coming face to face with Arthur.] Oh——! Arthur.Rose.! Tom.Go on, Mr. Gordon! Arthur.[To Rose, holding out the ball of wool.] "I beg your pardon—are you looking for this?" Rose."Yes, I—I—I——" [Dropping her head upon his breast.] Oh, Arthur! [Sir William enters, and comes forward on Arthur's right.] Sir William.Arthur. Arthur.[Turning to him.] Grandfather! O'Dwyer.[Indignantly.] Upon my soul——-! Tom.Leave the stage, O'Dwyer! [O'Dwyer vanishes. Imogen goes to those who are in the wings and talks to them; gradually they withdraw into the Greenroom. Rose sinks on to the stool; Tom comes to her and stands beside her.] Sir William.What's this? what is it——? Arthur.[Bewildered.] Sir, I—I—you—and—and Rose—are the last persons I expected to meet here—— Sir William.Ah-h-h—h! Arthur.Perhaps you have both already learned, from Mr. Wrench or Miss Parrott, that I have—become—a gypsy, sir? Sir William.Not I; [pointing to Tom and Imogen] these—these people have thought it decent to allow me to make the discovery for myself. [He sinks into the throne-chair. Tom goes to Sir William. Arthur joins Imogen; they talk together rapidly and earnestly.] Tom.[To Sir William.] Sir William, the secret of your grandson's choice of a profession—— Sir William.[Scornfully.] Profession! Tom.Was one that I was pledged to keep as long as it was possible to do so. And pray remember that your attendance here this morning is entirely your own act. It was our intention—— Sir William.[Struggling to his feet.] Where is the door? the way to the door? Tom.And let me beg you to understand this, Sir William—that Miss Trelawny was, till a moment ago, as ignorant as yourself of Mr. Arthur Gower's doings, of his movements, of his whereabouts. She would never have thrown herself in his way, in this manner. Whatever conspiracy————— Sir William.Conspiracy! the right word—conspiracy! Tom.Whatever conspiracy there has been is my own—to bring these two young people together again, to make them happy—— [Rose holds out her hand to Tom; he takes it.] They are joined by Imogen. Sir William.[Looking about him.] The door! the door! Arthur.[Coming to Sir William.] Grandfather, may I, when rehearsal is over, venture to call in Cavendish Square——? Sir William.Call——! Arthur.Just to see Aunt Trafalgar, sir? I hope Aunt Trafalgar is well, sir. Sir William.[With a slight change of tone.] Your Great-aunt Trafalgar? Ugh, yes, I suppose she will consent to see ye—— Arthur.Ah, sir——! Sir William.But I shall be out; I shall not be within doors. Arthur.Then, if Aunt Trafalgar will receive me, sir, do you think I may be allowed to—to bring Miss Trelawny with me——? Sir William.What! ha, I perceive you have already acquired the impudence of your vagabond class, sir; the brazen effrontery of a set of——! Rose.[Rising and facing him.] Forgive him! forgive him! oh, Sir William, why may not Arthur become, some day, a splendid gypsy? Sir William.Eh? Rose.Like—— Sir William.[Peering into her face. ] Like——? Rose.Like—— Tom.Yes, sir, a gypsy, though of a different order from the old order which is departing—a gypsy of the new school! Sir William.[To Rose.] Well, Miss Gower is a weak, foolish lady; for aught I know she may allow this young man to—to—take ye—— Imogen.I would accompany Rose, of course, Sir William. Sir William.[Tartly.] Thank ye, ma'am. [Turning.] I'll go to my carriage. Arthur.Sir, if you have the carriage here, and if you would have the patience to sit out the rest of the rehearsal, we might return with you to Cavendish Square. Sir William.[Choking.] Oh—h—h—hi Arthur.Grandfather, we are not rich people, and a cab to us—— Sir William.[Exhausted.] Arthur—-! Tom.Sir William will return to his box! [Going up the stage.] O'Dwyer! Sir William.[Protesting weakly.] No, sir! no! [O'Dwyer appears.] Tom.Mr. O'Dwyer, escort Sir William Gower to his box. [Arthur goes up the stage with Sir William, Sir William still uttering protests. Rose and Imogen embrace.] O'Dwyer.[Giving an arm to Sir William.] Lean on me, sir! heavily, sir-! Tom.Shall we proceed with the rehearsal, Sir William, or wait till you are seated? Sir William.[Violently.] Wait! Confound ye, d'ye think I want to remain here all day! [Sir William and O'Dwyer disappear.] Tom.[Coming forward, with Arthur on his right—wildly.] Go on with the rehearsal! Mr. Gordon and Miss Rose Trelawny! Miss Trelawny! [Rose goes to him.] Trelawny—late of the "Wells"! Let us—let——[Gripping Arthur's hand tightly, he bows his head upon Rose's shoulder.] Oh, my dears! let us—get on with the rehearsal! THE END. |
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