Ugh—to-day at noon, I determined to present myself here and request to be allowed to—to——
To watch the rehearsal?
The rehearsal of those episodes in your comedy which remind me of a member of my family—a late member.
[Constrainedly]. Oh, certainly——
[Firmly.] By all means.
[Rising, assisted by Tom.] I don't wish to be steered at by any of your—what d'ye call 'em?—your gypsy crew——
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Company, we call 'em.
[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.
[Calling.] Mr. O'Dwyer——
[O'Dwyer appears; Tom speaks a word or two to him, and hands him the manuscript of the play.]
[To Sir William, falteringly.] And if you are pleased with what you see this morning, perhaps you will attend another——?
[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 itLife. 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.]
[To O'Dwyer.] Begin rehearsal. Begin rehearsal! Call Miss Trelawny!
[Tom and Sir William disappear.]
Miss Trelawny! Miss Trelawny! [Rushing to the left.] Miss Trelawny! how long am I to stand here shoutin' myself hoarse—? [Rose appears.]
[Gently.] Am I called?
[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——?
Here I am! here I am! I am Peggy.
[Calm.] Of course ye are, lovey—ma'am, I should say——
Yes, you should.
"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.
Thank you.
[Seating himself.] You're welcome.
[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.
[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——!
Hush, hush! Mr. O'Dwyer!
[Returning to his chair.] Here.
[Taking the hook from the prompt-table and handing it to Imogen.] You are reading.
[Sotto voce.] I thought so.
[To Rose.] You are working.
Working.
[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.
I remember it, Mr. Wrench.
The curtain rises. [To Imogen.] Miss Parrott——
0207m
[Referring to her part.] What do I say?
Nothing—you yawn.
[Yawning, in a perfunctory way.] Oh—h!
As if you meant it, of course.
Well, of course.
Your yawn must tell the audience that you are a young lady who may be driven by boredom to almost any extreme.
[Jumping up.] This sort of thing. [Yawning extravagantly.] He—oh!
[Irritably.] Thank you, O'Dwyer; thank you.
[Sitting again.] You're welcome.
[To Rose.] You speak.
[Reading from her part—retaining the needles and the end of the wool.] "What are you reading, Miss Chaffinch?"
[Reading from her part.] "A novel."
"And what is the name of it?"
"The Seasons."
"Why is it called that?"
"Because all the people in it do seasonable things."
"For instance——?"
"In the Spring, fall in love."
"In the Summer?"
"Become engaged. Delightful!"
"Autumn?"
"Marry. Heavenly!"
"Winter?"
"Quarrel. Ha, ha, ha!"
[To Imogen.] Close the book—with a bang——
[Bringing his hands together sharply by way of suggestion.] Bang!
[Irritably.] Yes, yes, O'Dwyer. [To Imogen.] Now rise——
Up ye get!
And cross to Dora.
[Going to Rose.] "Miss Harrington, don't you wish occasionally that you were engaged to be married?"
"No."
"Not on wet afternoons?"
"I am perfectly satisfied with this busy little life of mine, as your aunt's Companion."
[To Imogen.] Walk about, discontentedly.
[Walking about.] "I've nothing to do; let's tell each other our ages."
"I am nineteen."
[To Imogen.] In a loud whisper——
"I am twenty-two."
[Rising and going to Tom.] Now, hadn't ye better make that six-and-twenty?
[Joining them, with asperity.] Why? why?
No, no, certainly not. Go on.
[Angrily.] Not till Mr. O'Dwyer retires into his corner.
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.
"I shall think, and feel, the same when I am twenty-two, I am sure. I shall never wish to marry."
[To Imogen.] Sit on the stump of the tree.
Where's that?
[Pointing to the stool down the stage.] Where that stool is.
[Sitting on the stool.] "Miss Harrington, who is the Mr. Gerald Leigh who is expected down to-day?"
"Lord Parracourt's secretary."
"Old and poor!"
"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."
"Then he's young!"
"Extremely, I understand."
[Jumping up, in obedience to a sign from Tom.] "Oh, how can you be so spiteful!"
Rose.
"You mean he's too young!"
"Too young for what?"
"Too young for—oh, bother!"
[Looking towards the keen-faced gentleman.] Mr. Denzil.
[Putting his head round the corner.] Mr. Denzil!
[The keen-faced gentleman comes forward, reading his part, and meets Imogen.]
[Speaking in the tones of an old man.] "Ah, Miss Peggy!"
[To Rose.] Rise, Miss Trelawny.
[His head again appearing.] Rise, darlin'!
[Rose rises.]
[To Imogen.] "Your bravura has just arrived from London. Lady McArchie wishes you to try it over; and if I may add my entreaties——"
[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!"
[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.]
"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.]
[Reading from his manuscript.] "The piano is heard; and Peggy's voice singing. Gerald enters——"
[Clutching Tom's arm.] There——!
Ah, yes, here is Mr. Gordon.
[Arthur appears, in a traveling coat. Tom and Imogen hasten to him and shake hands with him vigorously.]
[On Arthur's right.]How are you?
[On his left nervously.] How are you?
[Breathlessly.] Miss Parrott! Mr. Wrench! forgive me if I am late; my cab-horse galloped from the station—-
We have just reached your entrance. Have you read your part over?
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!
[Nervously.] Ha, ha, ha!
Come! you enter! [pointing to the right] there! [returning to the prompt-table with Imogen] you stroll on, looking about you! Now, Mr. Gordon!
[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.]
Oh!
[Appearing, looking into the auditorium.] What's that? This is the noisiest theatre I've ever set foot in——!
Don't heed it! [To Arthur.] Go on, Mr. Gordon.
"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——"
Dora returns. [Calling.] Dora!
Dora! where are ye?
[Going to the Green-room door.]Dora! Dora!
[Rose appears in the wings.]
[To Tom.] I'm sorry.
Go on, please!
[There is another sound, nearer the stage, of the overturning of some object.]
What—-?
Don't heed it!
[Coming face to face with Arthur.]
Oh——!
Rose.!
Go on, Mr. Gordon!
[To Rose, holding out the ball of wool.] "I beg your pardon—are you looking for this?"
"Yes, I—I—I——" [Dropping her head upon his breast.] Oh, Arthur!
[Sir William enters, and comes forward on Arthur's right.]
Arthur.
[Turning to him.] Grandfather!
[Indignantly.] Upon my soul——-!
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.]
What's this? what is it——?
[Bewildered.] Sir, I—I—you—and—and Rose—are the last persons I expected to meet here——
Ah-h-h—h!
Perhaps you have both already learned, from Mr. Wrench or Miss Parrott, that I have—become—a gypsy, sir?
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.]
[To Sir William.] Sir William, the secret of your grandson's choice of a profession——
[Scornfully.] Profession!
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——
[Struggling to his feet.] Where is the door? the way to the door?
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—————
Conspiracy! the right word—conspiracy!
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.
[Looking about him.] The door! the door!
[Coming to Sir William.] Grandfather, may I, when rehearsal is over, venture to call in Cavendish Square——?
Call——!
Just to see Aunt Trafalgar, sir? I hope Aunt Trafalgar is well, sir.
[With a slight change of tone.] Your Great-aunt Trafalgar? Ugh, yes, I suppose she will consent to see ye——
Ah, sir——!
But I shall be out; I shall not be within doors.
Then, if Aunt Trafalgar will receive me, sir, do you think I may be allowed to—to bring Miss Trelawny with me——?
What! ha, I perceive you have already acquired the impudence of your vagabond class, sir; the brazen effrontery of a set of——!
[Rising and facing him.] Forgive him! forgive him! oh, Sir William, why may not Arthur become, some day, asplendidgypsy?
Eh?
Like——
[Peering into her face.] Like——?
Like——
Yes, sir, a gypsy, though of a different order from the old order which is departing—a gypsy of the new school!
[To Rose.] Well, Miss Gower is a weak, foolish lady; for aught I know she may allow this young man to—to—take ye——
I would accompany Rose, of course, Sir William.
[Tartly.] Thank ye, ma'am. [Turning.] I'll go to my carriage.
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.
[Choking.] Oh—h—h—hi
Grandfather, we are not rich people, and a cab to us——
[Exhausted.] Arthur—-!
Sir William will return to his box! [Going up the stage.] O'Dwyer!
[Protesting weakly.] No, sir! no!
[O'Dwyer appears.]
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.]
[Giving an arm to Sir William.] Lean on me, sir! heavily, sir-!
Shall we proceed with the rehearsal, Sir William, or wait till you are seated?
[Violently.] Wait! Confound ye, d'ye think I want to remain here all day!
[Sir William and O'Dwyer disappear.]
[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!