THE THIRD ACT

ann.[Struck.] Yes, it is.

And she goes towards the house, thinking this over.THE THIRD ACTIt is near to sunset. The garden is shadier than before.abudis still working.carnaby leetecomes from the house followed bydr. remnant.He wears his right arm in a sling. His face is flushed, his speech rapid.

And she goes towards the house, thinking this over.

It is near to sunset. The garden is shadier than before.

abudis still working.carnaby leetecomes from the house followed bydr. remnant.He wears his right arm in a sling. His face is flushed, his speech rapid.

carnaby.Parson, you didn't drink enough wine . . . damme, the wine was good.

dr. remnant.I am very grateful for an excellent dinner.

carnaby.A good dinner, sir, is the crown to a good day's work.

dr. remnant.It may also be a comfort in affliction. Our philosophy does ill, Mr. Leete, when it despises the more simple means of contentment.

carnaby.And which will be the better lover of a woman, a hungry or a well-fed man?

dr. remnant.A good meal digests love with it; for what is love but a food to live by . . but a hungry love will ofttimes devour its owner.

carnaby.Admirable! Give me a man in love to deal with. Vous l'avez vu?

dr. remnant.Speak Latin, Greek or Hebrew to me, Mr. Leete.

carnaby.French is the language of little things. My poor France! Ours is a little world, Parson . . . a man may hold it here. [His open hand.] Lord John Carp's a fine fellow.

dr. remnant.Son of a Duke.

carnaby.And I commend to you the originality of his return. At twelve we fight . . . at one-thirty he proposes marriage to my daughter. D'ye see him humbly on his knees? Will there be rain, I wonder?

dr. remnant.We need rain . . Abud?

abud.Badly, sir.

carnaby.Do we want a wet journey tomorrow! Where's Sarah?

dr. remnant.Lady Cottesham's taking tea.

carnaby.[Toabudwith a sudden start.] And why the devil didn't you marry my daughter-in-law . . my own gardener?

georgeappears dressed for riding.

george.Good-bye, sir, for the present.

carnaby.Boots and breeches!

george.You shouldn't be about in the evening air with a green wound in your arm. You drank wine at dinner. Be careful, sir.

carnaby.Off to your wife and the expected?

george.Yes, sir.

carnaby.Riding to Watford?

george.From there alongside the North Coach, if I'm in time.

carnaby.Don't founder my horse. Will ye leave the glorious news with your grandfather at Wycombe?

george.I won't fail to. [Then toabud.] We've been speaking of you.

abud.It was never any secret, sir.

george.Don't apologise.

Soon after thisabudpasses out of sight.

carnaby.Nature's an encumbrance to us, Parson.

dr. remnant.One disapproves of flesh uninspired.

carnaby.She allows you no amusing hobbies . . always takes you seriously.

george.Good-bye, Parson.

dr. remnant.[As he bows.] Your most obedient.

carnaby.And you trifle with damnable democracy, with pretty theories of the respect due to womanhood and now the result . . . hark to it squalling.

dr. remnant.Being fifty miles off might not one say: The cry of the new-born?

carnaby.Ill-bred babies squall. There's no poetic glamour in the world will beautify an undesired infant . . George says so.

george.I did say so.

carnaby.I feel the whole matter deeply.

georgehalf laughs.

carnaby.George, after days of irritability, brought to bed of a smile. That's a home thrust of a metaphor.

georgelaughs again.

carnaby.Twins!

george.Yes, a boy and a girl . . . I'm the father of a boy and a girl.

carnaby.[In dignified, indignant horror.] No one of you dared tell me that much!

sarahandanncome from the house.

george.You could have asked me for news of your grandchildren.

carnaby.Twins is an insult.

sarah.But you look very cheerful, George.

george.I am content.

sarah.I'm surprised.

george.I am surprised.

sarah.Now what names for them?

carnaby.No family names, please.

george.We'll wait for a dozen years or so and let them choose their own.

dr. remnant.But, sir, christening will demand—

carnaby.Your son should have had my name, sir.

george.I know the rule . . as I have my grandfather's which I take no pride in.

sarah.George!

george.Not to say that it sounds his, not mine.

carnaby.Our hopes of you were high once.

george.Sarah, may I kiss you? [He kisses her cheek.] Let me hear what you decide to do.

carnaby.The begetting you, sir, was a waste of time.

george.[Quite pleasantly.] Don't say that.

At the top of the stepsannis waiting for him.

ann.I'll see you into the saddle.

george.Thank you, sister Ann.

ann.Why didn't you leave us weeks ago?

george.Why!

They pace away, arm-in-arm.

carnaby.[Bitterly.] Glad to go! Brighton, Sarah.

sarah.No, I shall not come, Papa.

carnaby.Coward. [Then toremnant.] Good-night.

dr. remnant.[Covering the insolent dismissal.] With your kind permission I will take my leave. [Then he bows tosarah.] Lady Cottesham.

sarah.[Curtseying.] Doctor Remnant, I am yours.

carnaby.[Sitting by the fountain, stamping his foot.] Oh, this cracked earth! Will it rain . . will it rain?

dr. remnant.I doubt now. That cloud has passed.

carnaby.Soft, pellucid rain! There's a good word and I'm not at all sure what it means.

dr. remnant.Per . . lucere . . . letting light through.

remnantleaves them.

carnaby.Soft, pellucid rain! . . thank you. Brighton, Sarah.

sarah.Ann needs new clothes.

carnaby.See to it.

sarah.I shall not be there.

She turns from him.

carnaby.Pretty climax to a quarrel!

sarah.Not a quarrel.

carnaby.A political difference.

sarah.Don't look so ferocious.

carnaby.My arm is in great pain and the wine's in my head.

sarah.Won't you go to bed?

carnaby.I'm well enough . . to travel. This marriage makes us safe, Sarah . . an anchor in each camp . . There's a mixed metaphor.

sarah.If you'll have my advice, Papa, you'll keep those plans clear from Ann's mind.

carnaby.John Carp is so much clay . . a man of forty ignorant of himself.

sarah.But if the Duke will not . .

carnaby.The Duke hates a scandal.

sarah.Does he detest scandal!

carnaby.The girl is well-bred and harmless . . why publicly quarrel with John and incense her old brute of a father? There's the Duke in a score of words. He'll take a little time to think it out so.

sarah.And I say: Do you get on the right side of the Duke once again,—that's what we've worked for—and leave these two alone.

carnaby.Am I to lose my daughter?

sarah.Papa . . your food's intrigue.

carnaby.Scold at Society . . and what's the use?

sarah.We're over-civilized.

annrejoins them now. The twilight is gathering.

carnaby.My mother's very old . . . your grandfather's younger and seventy-nine . . he swears I'll never come into the title. There's little else.

sarah.You're feverish . . why are you saying this?

carnaby.Ann . . George . . George via Wycombe . . Wycombe Court . . Sir George Leete baronet, Justiceof the Peace, Deputy Lieutenant . . the thought's tumbled. Ann, I first saw your mother in this garden . . there.

ann.Was she like me?

sarah.My age when she married.

carnaby.She was not beautiful . . then she died.

ann.Mr. Tatton thinks it a romantic garden.

carnaby.[Pause.] D'ye hear the wind sighing through that tree?

ann.The air's quite still.

carnaby.I hear myself sighing . . when I first saw your mother in this garden . . . that's how it was done.

sarah.For a woman must marry.

carnaby.[Rises.] You all take to it as ducks to water . . but apple sauce is quite correct . . I must not mix metaphors.

mrs. opiecomes from the house.

sarah.Your supper done, Mrs. Opie?

mrs. opie.I eat little in the evening.

sarah.I believe that saves digestion.

mrs. opie.Ann, do you need me more to-night?

ann.Not any more.

mrs. opie.Ann, there is gossip among the servants about a wager . . .

ann.Mrs. Opie, that was . . . yesterday.

mrs. opie.Ann, I should be glad to be able to contradict a reported . . embrace.

ann.I was kissed.

mrs. opie.I am shocked.

carnaby.Mrs. Opie, is it possible that all these years I have been nourishing a prude in my . . back drawing-room?

mrs. opie.I presume I am discharged of Ann's education; but as the salaried mistress of your household,Mr. Leete, I am grieved not to be able to deny such a rumour to your servants.

She sails back, righteously indignant.

carnaby.Call out that you're marrying the wicked man . . comfort her.

sarah.Mrs. Opie!

carnaby.Consider that existence. An old maid . . so far as we know. Brevet rank . . missis. Not pleasant.

ann.She wants nothing better . . at her age.

sarah.How forgetful!

carnaby.[The force of the phrase growing.] Brighton, Sarah.

sarah.Now you've both read the love-letter which Tetgeen brought me.

carnaby.Come to Brighton.

ann.Come to Brighton, Sally.

sarah.No. I have been thinking. I think I will accept the income, the house, coals, butter and eggs.

carnaby.I give you a fortnight to bring your husband to his knees . . to your feet.

sarah.I'm not sure that I could. My marriage has come naturally to an end.

carnaby.Sarah, don't annoy me.

sarah.Papa, you joined my bridegroom's political party . . now you see fit to leave it.

She glances atann,who gives no sign, however.

carnaby.What have you been doing in ten years?

sarah.Waiting for this to happen . . now I come to think.

carnaby.Have ye the impudence to tell me that ye've never cared for your husband?

sarah.I was caught by the first few kisses; but he . . .

carnaby.Has he ever been unkind to you?

sarah.Never. He's a gentleman through and through . . . quite charming to live with.

carnaby.I see what more you expect. And he neither drinks nor . . nor . . no one even could suppose your leaving him.

sarah.No. I'm disgraced.

carnaby.Fight for your honour.

sarah.You surprise me sometimes by breaking out into cant phrases.

carnaby.What is more useful in the world than honour?

sarah.I think we never had any . . we!

carnaby.Give me more details. Tell me, who is this man?

sarah.I'm innocent . . if that were all.

ann.Sally, what do they say you've done?

sarah.I cry out like any poor girl.

carnaby.There must be no doubt that you're innocent. Why not go for to force Charles into court?

sarah.My innocence is not of the sort which shows up well.

carnaby.Hold publicity in reserve. No fear of the two men arranging to meet, is there?

sarah.They've met . . and they chatted about me.

carnaby.[After a moment.] There's sound humour in that.

sarah.I shall feel able to laugh at them both from Yorkshire.

carnaby.God forbid! Come to Brighton . . we'll rally Charles no end.

sarah.Papa, I know there's nothing to be done.

carnaby.Coward!

sarah.Besides I don't think I want to go back to my happiness.

They are silent for a little.

carnaby.How still! Look . . leaves falling already. Can that man hear what we're saying?

sarah.[Toann.] Can Abud overhear?

ann.I've never talked secrets in the garden before to-day. [Raising her voice but a very little.] Can you hear me, Abud?

No reply comes.

carnaby.Evidently not. There's brains shown in a trifle.

sarah.Does your arm pain you so much?

ann.Sarah, this man that you're fond of and that's not your husband is not by any chance Lord John Carp?

sarah.No.

ann.Nothing would surprise me.

sarah.You are witty . . but a little young to be so hard.

carnaby.Keep to your innocent thoughts.

ann.I must study politics.

sarah.We'll stop talking of this.

ann.No . . let me listen . . quite quietly.

carnaby.Let her listen . . she's going to be married.

sarah.Good luck, Ann.

carnaby.I have great hopes of Ann.

sarah.I hope she may be heartless. To be heartless is to be quite safe.

carnaby.Now we detect a taste of sour grapes in your mouth.

sarah.Butter and eggs.

carnaby.We must all start early in the morning. Sarah will take you, Ann, round the Brighton shops . . fine shops. You shall have the money. . .

sarah.I will not come with you.

carnaby.[Vexedly.] How absurd . . how ridiculous . . to persist in your silly sentiment.

sarah.[Her voice rising.] I'm tired of that world . . which goes on and on, and there's no dying . . . one grows into a ghost . . visible . . then invisible. I'm glad paint has gone out of fashion. . . the painted ghosts were very ill to see.

carnaby.D'ye scoff at civilisation?

sarah.Look ahead for me.

carnaby.Banished to a hole in the damned provinces! But you're young yet, you're charming . . you're the wife . . and the honest wife of one of the country's best men. My head aches. D'ye despise good fortune's gifts? Keep as straight in your place in the world as you can. A monthly packet of books to Yorkshire . . no . . you never were fond of reading. Ye'd play patience . . cultivate chess problems . . kill yourself!

sarah.When one world fails take another.

carnaby.You have no more right to commit suicide than to desert the society you were born into. My head aches.

sarah.George is happy.

carnaby.D'ye dare to think so?

sarah.No. . it's a horrible marriage.

carnaby.He's losing refinement . . mark me . . he no longer polishes his nails.

sarah.But there are the children now.

carnaby.You never have wanted children.

sarah.I don't want a little child.

carnaby.She to be Lady Leete . . someday . . soon! What has he done for his family?

sarah.I'll come with you. You are clever, Papa. And I know just what to say to Charles.

carnaby.[With a curious change of tone.] If you study anatomy you'll find that the brain, as it works, pressing forward the eyes . . thought is painful. Never be defeated. Chapter the latest . . the tickling of theCarp. And my throat is dry . . shall I drink that water?

sarah.No, I wouldn't.

carnaby.Not out of my hand?

ann.[Speaking in a strange quiet voice, after her long silence.] I will not come to Brighton with you.

carnaby.Very dry!

ann.You must go back, Sally.

carnaby.[As he looks at her, standing stiffly.] Now what is Ann's height . . five feet . . ?

ann.Sally must go back, for she belongs to it . . but I'll stay here where I belong.

carnaby.You've spoken three times and the words are jumbling in at my ears meaninglessly. I certainly took too much wine at dinner . . or else. . . Yes . . Sally goes back. . and you'll go forward. Who stays here? Don't burlesque your sister. What's in the air . . what disease is this?

ann.I mean to disobey you . . to stay here . . never to be unhappy.

carnaby.So pleased!

ann.I want to be an ordinary woman . . not clever . . not fortunate.

carnaby.I can't hear.

ann.Not clever. I don't believe in you, Papa.

carnaby.I exist . . I'm very sorry.

ann.I won't be married to any man. I refuse to be tempted . . I won't see him again.

carnaby.Yes. It's raining.

sarah.Raining!

carnaby.Don't you stop it raining.

ann.[In the same level tones, to her sister now, who otherwise would turn, alarmed, to their father.] And I curse you . . because, we being sisters, I suppose I am much what you were, about to be married; and I think, Sally, you'd have cursed your present self. I couldbecome all that you are and more . . but I don't choose.

sarah.Ann, what is to become of you?

carnaby.Big drops . . big drops!

At this momentabudis passing towards the house, his work finished.

ann.John Abud . . you mean to marry. When you marry . . will you marry me?

A blank silence, into which breakscarnaby'ssick voice.

carnaby.Take me indoors. I heard you ask the gardener to marry you.

ann.I asked him.

carnaby.I heard you say that you asked him. Take me in . . but not out of the rain.

ann.Look . . he's straight-limbed and clear eyed . . and I'm a woman.

sarah.Ann, are you mad?

ann.If we two were alone here in this garden and everyone else in the world were dead . . what would you answer?

abud.[Still amazed.] Why . . yes.

carnaby.Then that's settled . . pellucid.

He attempts to rise, but staggers backwards and forwards.sarahgoes to him alarmed.

sarah.Papa! . . there's no rain yet.

carnaby.Hush, I'm dead.

ann.[Her nerves failing her.] Oh . . oh . . oh . . !

sarah.Abud, don't ever speak of this.

abud.No, my lady.

ann.[With a final effort.] I mean it all. Wait three months.

carnaby.Help me up steps . . son-in-law.

carnabyhas started to grope his way indoors. But he reels and falls helpless.

abud.I'll carry him.

Throwing down his toolsabudlifts the frail sick man and carries him towards the house.sarahfollows.

ann.[Sobbing a little, and weary.] Such a long day it has been . . now ending.

She follows too.

The hall at Markswayde is square; in decoration strictly eighteenth century. The floor polished. Then comes six feet of soberly painted wainscot and above the greenish blue and yellowish green wall painted into panels. At intervals are low relief pilasters; the capitals of these are gilded. The ceiling is white and in the centre of it there is a frosted glass dome through which a dull light struggles. Two sides only of the hall are seen.

In the corner is a hat stand and on it are many cloaks and hats and beneath it several pairs of very muddy boots.

In the middle of the left hand wall are the double doors of the dining-room led up to by three or four stairs with balusters, and on either side standing against the wall long, formal, straight backed sofas.

In the middle of the right hand wall is the front door; glass double doors can be seen and there is evidently a porch beyond. On the left of the front door a small window. On the right a large fireplace, in which a large fire is roaring. Over the front door, a clock (the hands pointing to half-past one.) Over the fireplace a family portrait (temp. Queen Anne) below this a blunderbuss and several horse-pistols. Above the sofa full-length family portraits (temp. George I.) Before the front door a wooden screen, of lighter wood than the wainscot, and in the middle of it a small glass panel. Before this a heavy square table on which are whips and sticks, a hat or two and brushes; by the table a wooden chair. On either side the fire stand tall closed-in armchairs, and between the fireplace and the door a smaller red-baize screen.

When the dining-room doors are thrown open another wooden screen is to be seen.

There are a few rugs on the floor, formally arranged.

mrs. opiestands in the middle of the hall, holding out a woman's brown cloak: she drops one side to fetch out her handkerchief and apply it to her eye.dimmuckcomes in by the front door, which he carefully closes behind him. He is wrapped in a hooded cloak and carries a pair of boots and a newspaper. The boots he arranges to warm before the fire. Then he spreads the Chronicle newspaper upon the arm of a chair, then takes off his cloak and hangs it upon a peg close to the door.

dimmuck.Mrs. Opie . . will you look to its not scorching?

mrs. opiestill mops her eyes.dimmuckgoes towards the dining-room door, but turns.

dimmuck.Will you kindly see that theChroniclenewspaper does not burn?

mrs. opie.I was crying.

dimmuck.I leave this tomorrow sennight . . thankful, ma'am, to have given notice in a dignified manner.

mrs. opie.I understand . . Those persons at table . .

dimmuck.You give notice.

mrs. opie.Mr. Dimmuck, this is my home.

lord arthur carpcomes out of the dining-room. He is a thinner and more earnest-looking edition of his brother.mrs. opieturns a chair and hangs the cloak to warm before the fire, and then goes into the dining-room.

lord arthur.My chaise round?

dimmuck.I've but just ordered it, my lord. Your lordship's man has give me your boots.

lord arthur.Does it snow?

dimmuck.Rather rain than snow.

lord arthurtakes up the newspaper.

dimmuck.Yesterday's, my lord.

lord arthur.I've seen it. The mails don't hurry hereabouts. Can I be in London by the morning?

dimmuck.I should say you might be, my lord.

lord arthursits by the fire, whiledimmucktakes off his pumps and starts to put on his boots.

lord arthur.Is this a horse called "Ronald?"

dimmuck.Which horse, my lord?

lord arthur.Which I'm to take back with me . . my brother left here. I brought the mare he borrowed.

dimmuck.I remember, my lord. I'll enquire.

lord arthur.Tell Parker . .

dimmuck.Your lordship's man?

lord arthur.. . he'd better ride the beast.

sarahcomes out of the dining-room. He stands up; one boot, one shoe.

sarah.Please put on the other.

lord arthur.Thank you . . I am in haste.

sarah.To depart before the bride's departure.

lord arthur.Does the bride go with the bridegroom?

sarah.She goes away.

lord arthur.I shall never see such a thing again.

sarah.I think this entertainment is unique.

lord arthur.Any commissions in town?

sarah.Why can't you stay to travel with us tomorrow and talk business to Papa by the way?

dimmuckcarrying the pumps and after putting on his cloak goes out through the front door. When it is closed, her voice changes.

sarah.Why . . Arthur?

He does not answer. Thenmrs. opiecomes out of the dining-room to fetch the cloak. The two, with an effort, reconstruct their casual disjointed conversation.

sarah.. . Before the bride's departure?

lord arthur.Does the bride go away with the bridegroom?

sarah.She goes.

lord arthur.I shall never see such an entertainment again.

sarah.We are quite unique.

lord arthur.Any commissions in town?

sarah.Is she to go soon too, Mrs. Opie?

mrs. opie.It is arranged they are to walk . . in this weather . . ten miles . . to the house.

sarah.Cottage.

mrs. opie.Hut.

mrs. opietakes the cloak into the dining-room. Thensarahcomes a little towardslord arthur,but waits for him to speak.

lord arthur.[A little awkwardly.] You are not looking well.

sarah.To our memory . . and beyond your little chat with my husband about me . . I want to speak an epitaph.

lord arthur.Charlie Cottesham behaved most honourably.

sarah.And I think you did. Why have you not let me tell you so in your ear till now, to-day?

lord arthur.Sarah . . we had a narrow escape from. . .

sarah.How's your wife?

lord arthur.Well . . thank you.

sarah.Nervous, surely, at your travelling in winter?

lord arthur.I was so glad to receive a casual invitation from you and to come . . casually.

sarah.Fifty miles.

lord arthur.Your father has been ill?

sarah.Very ill through the autumn.

lord arthur.Do you think he suspects us?

sarah.I shouldn't care to peep into Papa's innermost mind. You are to be very useful to him.

lord arthur.No.

sarah.Then he'll go back to the government.

lord arthur.If he pleases . . if they please . . if you please.

sarah.I am not going back to my husband. Arthur . . be useful to him.

lord arthur.No . . you are not coming to me. Always your father! [After a moment.] It was my little home in the country somehow said aloud you didn't care for me.

sarah.I fooled you to small purpose.

lord arthur.I wish you had once made friends with my wife.

sarah.If we . . this house I'm speaking of . . had made friends where we've only made tools and fools we shouldn't now be cursed as we are . . all. George, who is a cork, trying to sink socially. Ann is mad . . and a runaway.

lord arthur.Sarah, I've been devilish fond of you.

sarah.Be useful to Papa. [He shakes his head, obstinately.] Praise me a little. Haven't I worked my best for my family?

lord arthur.Suppose I could be useful to him now, would you, in spite of all, come to me . . no half measures?

sarah.Arthur . . [He makes a little passionate movement towards her, but she is cold.] It's time for me to vanish from this world, because I've nothing left to sell.

lord arthur.I can't help him. I don't want you.

He turns away.

sarah.I feel I've done my best.

lord arthur.Keep your father quiet.

sarah.I mean to leave him.

lord arthur.What does he say to that?

sarah.I've not yet told him.

lord arthur.What happens?

sarah.To sell my jewels . . spoils of a ten years' war. Three thousand pound . . how much a year?

lord arthur.I'll buy them.

sarah.And return them? You have almost the right to make such a suggestion.

lord arthur.Stick to your father. He'll care for you?

sarah.No . . we all pride ourselves on our lack of sentiment.

lord arthur.You must take money from your husband.

sarah.I have earned that and spent it.

lord arthur.[Yielding once again to temptation.] I'm devilish fond of you . . .

At that momentabudcomes out of the dining-room. He is dressed in his best.sarahresponds readily to the interruption.

sarah.And you must give my kindest compliments to Lady Arthur and my . . affectionately . . to the children and I'll let Papa know that you're going.

lord arthur.Letters under cover to your father?

sarah.Papa will stay in town through the session of course . . but they all tell me that seventy-five pounds a year is a comfortable income in . . Timbuctoo.

She goes into the dining-room.abudhas selected his boots from the corner and now stands with them in his hand looking rather helpless. After a moment—

lord arthur.I congratulate you, Mr. Abud.

abud.My lord . . I can't speak of myself.

carnabycomes out of the dining-room. He is evidently by no means recovered from his illness. He stands for a moment with an ironical eye onjohn abud.

carnaby.Son-in-law.

abud.I'm told to get on my boots, sir.

carnaby.Allow me to assist you?

abud.I couldn't, sir.

carnaby.Désolé!

Then he passes on.abudsits on the sofa, furtively puts on his boots and afterwards puts his shoes in his pockets.

lord arthur.You were so busy drinking health to the two fat farmers that I wouldn't interrupt you.

carnaby.Good-bye. Describe all this to your brother John.

lord arthur.So confirmed a bachelor!

carnaby.Please say that we missed him.

lord arthurhands him the newspaper.

lord arthur.I've out-raced yourChroniclefrom London by some hours. There's a paragraph . . second column . . near the bottom.

carnaby.[Looking at it blindly.] They print villainously now-a-days.

lord arthur.Inspired.

carnaby.I trust his grace is well?

lord arthur.Gouty.

carnaby.Now doesn't the social aspect of this case interest you?

lord arthur.I object to feeding with the lower classes.

carnaby.There's pride! How useful to note their simple manners! From the meeting of extremes new ideas spring . . new life.

lord arthur.Take that for a new social-political creed, Mr. Leete.

carnaby.Do I lack one?

lord arthur.Please make my adieux to the bride.

carnaby.Appropriate . . . 'à Dieu' . . she enters Nature's cloister. My epigram.

lord arthur.But . . good heavens . . are we to choose to be toiling animals?

carnaby.To be such is my daughter's ambition.

lord arthur.You have not read that.

carnaby.[Giving back the paper, vexedly.] I can't see.

lord arthur."The Right Honourable Carnaby Leete is, we are glad to hear, completely recovered and will return to town for the opening of Session."

carnaby.I mentioned it.

lord arthur."We understand that although there has been no reconciliation with the Government it is quite untrue that this gentleman will in any way resume his connection with the Opposition."

carnaby.Inspired?

lord arthur.I am here from my father to answer any questions.

carnaby.[With some dignity and the touch of a threat.] Not now, my lord.

dimmuckcomes in at the front door.

dimmuck.The chaise, my lord.

carnaby.I will conduct you.

lord arthur.Please don't risk exposure.

carnaby.Nay, I insist.

lord arthur.Health and happiness to you both, Mr. Abud.

lord arthurgoes out, followed bycarnaby,followed bydimmuck.At that momentmr. smallpeiceskips excitedly out of the dining-room. A ferret-like little lawyer.

mr. smallpeice.Oh . . where is Mr. Leete?

Not seeing himmr. smallpeiceskips as excitedly back into the dining-room.dimmuckreturns and hangs up his cloak then goes towardsabud,whom he surveys.

dimmuck.Sir!

With which insult he starts for the dining-room reaching the door just in time to hold it open forsir george leetewho comes out. He surveysabudfor a moment, then explodes.

sir george leete.Damn you . . stand in the presence of your grandfather-in-law.

abudstands up.carnabyreturns coughing, andsir georgelooks him up and down.

sir george leete.I shall attend your funeral.

carnaby.My daughter Sarah still needs me.

sir george leete.I wonder at you, my son.

carnaby.Have you any money to spare?

sir george leete.No.

carnaby.For Sarah, my housekeeper; I foresee a busy session.

abudis now gingerly walking up the stairs.

sir george leete.Carnaby . . look at that.

carnaby.Sound in wind and limb. Tread boldly, son-in-law.

abudturns, stands awkwardly for a moment and then goes into the dining-room.

sir george leete.[Relapsing into a pinch of snuff.] I'm calm.

carnaby.Regard this marriage with a wise eye . . as an amusing little episode.

sir george leete.Do you?

carnaby.And forget its oddity. Now that the humiliation is irrevocable, is it a personal grievance to you?

sir george leete.Give me a dinner a day for the rest of my life and I'll be content.

carnaby.Lately, one by one, opinions and desires have been failing me . . a flicker and then extinction. I shall shortly attain to being a most able critic upon life.

sir george leete.Shall I tell you again? You cameinto this world without a conscience. That explains you and it's all that does. That such a damnable coupling as this should be permitted by God Almighty . . or that the law shouldn't interfere! I've said my say.

mr. smallpeiceagain comes out of the dining-room.

mr. smallpeice.Mr. Leete.

carnaby.[Ironically polite.] Mr. Smallpeice.

mr. smallpeice.Mr. Crowe is proposing your health.

mr. crowecomes out.A crop-headed beefy-looking farmer of sixty.

mr. crowe.Was.

carnaby.There's a good enemy!

mr. crowe.Get out of my road . . lawyer Smallpeice.

carnaby.Leave enough of him living to attend to my business.

mr. smallpeice.[wriggling a bow atcarnaby.] Oh . . dear sir!

sir george leete.[Disgustedly tomr. smallpeice.] You!

mr. smallpeice.Employed in a small matter . . as yet.

carnaby.[Tocrowe.] I hope you spoke your mind of me.

mr. crowe.Not behind your back, sir.

mrs. george leeteleadslady leetefrom the dining-room.lady leeteis a very old, blind and decrepit woman.dollyis a buxom young mother; whose attire borders on the gaudy.

carnaby.[With some tenderness.] Well . . Mother . . dear?

mr. crowe.[Bumptiously tosir george leete.] Did my speech offend you, my lord?

sir george leete.[Sulkily.] I'm a baronet.

lady leete.Who's this here?

carnaby.Carnaby.

dolly.Step down . . grandmother.

lady leete.Who did ye say you were?

dolly.Mrs. George Leete.

lady leete.Take me to the fire-side.

Socarnabyanddollylead her slowly to a chair by the fire where they carefully bestow her.

mr. smallpeice.[Tofarmer crowe.] He's leaving Markswayde, you know . . and me agent.

lady leete.[Suddenly bethinking her.] Grace was not said. Fetch my chaplain . . at once.

mr. smallpeice.I will run.

He runs into the dining-room.

dolly.[Calling after with her country accent.] Not parson Remnant . . t'other one.

lady leete.[Demanding.] Snuff.

carnaby.[To his father.] Sir . . my hand is a little unsteady.

sir georgeandcarnabybetween them givelady leeteher snuff.

mr. crowe.Dolly . . ought those children to be left so long?

dolly.All right, father . . I have a maid.

lady leetesneezes.

sir george leete.She'll do that once too often altogether.

lady leete.I'm cold.

dolly.I'm cold . . I lack my shawl.

crowe.Call out to your man for it.

dolly.[Going to the dining-room door.] Will a gentleman please ask Mr. George Leete for my Cache-y-mire shawl?

mr. crowe.[Tocarnaby.] And I drank to the health of our grandson.

carnaby.Now suppose George were to assume your name, Mr. Crowe?

mr. tozercomes out of the dining-room. Of the worst type of eighteenth century parson, for which one may see Hogarth's 'Harlot's Progress.' He is very drunk.

sir george leete.[In his wife's ear.] Tozer!

lady leete.When . . why!

sir george leete.To say grace.

lady leetefolds her withered hands.

mr. tozer.[through his hiccoughs.] Damn you all.

lady leete.[Reverently, thinking it is said.] Amen.

mr. tozer.Only my joke.

carnaby.[Rising to the height of the occasion.] Mr. Tozer, I am indeed glad to see you, upon this occasion so delightfully drunk.

mr. tozer.Always a gen'elman . . by nature.

sir george leete.Lie down . . you dog.

georgecomes out carrying the cashmere shawl.

george.[To his father.] Dolly wants her father to rent Markswayde, sir.

mr. crowe.Not me, my son. You're to be a farmer-baronet.

sir george.Curse your impudence!

carnaby.My one regret in dying would be to miss seeing him so.

georgegoes back into the dining-room.

mr. crowe.I am tickled to think that the man marrying your daughter wasn't good enough for mine.

carnaby.And yet at fisticuffs, I'd back John Abud against our son George.

dr. remnanthas come out of the dining-room.tozerhas stumbled towards him and is wagging an argumentative finger.

mr. tozer.. . Marriage means enjoyment!

dr. remnant.[Controlling his indignation.] I repeat that I have found in my own copy of the prayer book no insistence upon a romantic passion.

mr. tozer.My 'terpretation of God's word is 'bove criticism.

mr. tozerreaches the door and falls into the dining-room.

carnaby.[Weakly todr. remnant.] Give me your arm for a moment.

dr. remnant.I think Lady Cottesham has Mrs. John Abud prepared to start, sir.

carnaby.I trust Ann will take no chill walking through the mud.

dr. remnant.Won't you sit down, sir?

carnaby.No.

For some momentscrowehas been staring indignantly atsir george.Now he breaks out.

mr. crowe.The front door of this mansion is opened to a common gardener and only then to me and mine!

sir george leete.[Virulently.] Damn you and yours and damn them . . and damn you again for the worse disgrace.

mr. crowe.Damnyou, sir . . have you paid him to marry the girl?

He turns away, purple faced andsir georgechokes impotently.abudandmr. prestigecome out talking. He is younger and less assertive thanfarmer crowe.

mr. prestige.[Pathetically.] All our family always has got drunk at weddings.

abud.[In remonstrance.] Please, uncle.

carnaby.Mr. Crowe . . I have been much to blame for not seeking you sooner.

mr. crowe.[Mollified.] Shake hands.

carnaby.[Offering his with some difficulty.] My armis stiff . . from an accident. This is a maid's marriage, I assure you.

mr. prestige.[Open mouthed todr. remnant.] Onecouldhang bacon here!

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