[Blore re-enters, showing in Sir Tristram Mardon, a well-preserved man of about fifty, with a ruddy face and jovial manner, the type of the thorough English sporting gentleman. Blore goes out.
Sir Tristram.
Hullo, Jedd, how are you?
The Dean.
My dear Mardon—are we boys again?
Sir Tristram.
[Boisterously.] Of course we are! Boys again!
[He hits The Dean violently in the chest.
The Dean.
[Breathing heavily—to himself.] I quite forgot how rough Mardon used to be. How it all comes back to me!
Sir Tristram.
Think I’m changed?
The Dean.
Only in appearance!
Sir Tristram.
I’m still a bachelor—got terribly jilted by a woman years ago and have run in blinkers ever since. Can’t be helped, can it? You’re married, aren’t you?
The Dean.
[With dignity.] I have been a widower for fifteen years.
Sir Tristram.
Oh lor’! awfully sorry—can’t be helped though, can it? [Seizing The Dean’s hand and squeezing it.] Forgive me, old chap.
The Dean.
[Withdrawing his hand with pain.] O-o-oh!
Sir Tristram.
I’ve re-opened an old wound—damned stupid of me!
The Dean.
Hush, Mardon! Please!
Sir Tristram.
All right. What do you think I’m down here for?
The Dean.
For the benefit of your health, Mardon?
Sir Tristram.
Ha! ha! Never had an ache in my life; sha’n’t come and hear you preach next Sunday, Gus.
The Dean.
I do not preach next Sunday!
Sir Tristram.
You’d better not! No, I’m here for the races.
The Dean.
The races! Hush, my dear Mardon, my girls——
Sir Tristram.
Girls! May I trot ’em into the paddock to-morrow?
The Dean.
Thank you, no.
Sir Tristram.
Think it over. You’ve seen the list of Starters for the Durnstone Handicap——?
The Dean.
No, I haven’t.
Sir Tristram.
Not! Look here! Sir Tristram Mardon’s Dandy Dick, nine stone two, Tom Gallawood up! What do you think of that?
The Dean.
I don’t think of anything like that!
Sir Tristram.
[Digging The Dean in the ribs.] Look out for my colors—black and white, and a pink cap—first past the post to-morrow.
The Dean.
Really, my dear Mardon——
Sir Tristram.
Good heavens! Jedd, they talk about Bonny Betsy.
The Dean.
I grieve to hear it. The tongue of scandal——
Sir Tristram.
[Taking The Dean’s arm and walking him about.] Do you imagine, sir, for one moment, that Bonny Betsy, with a boy on her back, can get down that bill with those legs of hers?
The Dean.
Another horse, I presume?
Sir Tristram.
No, a bay mare. George Tidd knew what she was about when she stuck to Dandy Dick to the very last.
The Dean.
[Aghast.] George—Tidd?
Sir Tristram.
Georgiana Tidman. Dandy came out of her stable after she smashed.
The Dean.
Bless me!
Sir Tristram.
Poor old George! I wonder what’s become of her.
The Dean.
My dear Mardon, I am of course heartily pleased to revive in this way our old acquaintance. I wish it were in my power to offer you the hospitality of the Deanery—but——
Sir Tristram.
Don’t name it. My horse and I are over the way at “The Swan.” Come and look at Dandy Dick!
The Dean.
Mardon, you don’t understand. My position in St. Marvells——
Sir Tristram.
Oh, I see, Jedd. I beg your pardon. You mean that the colors you ride in don’t show up well on the hill yonder or in the stable of the “Swan” Inn.
The Dean.
You must remember——
Sir Tristram.
I remember that in your young days you made the heaviest book on the Derby of any of our fellows.
The Dean.
I always lost, Mardon; indeed, I always lost!
Sir Tristram.
I remember that you once matched a mare of your own against another of Lord Beckslade’s for fifty pounds!
The Dean.
Yes, but she wasn’t in it, Mardon—I mean she was dreadfully beaten.
Sir Tristram.
[Shaking his head sorrowfully.] Oh Jedd, Jedd—other times, other manners. Good-bye, old boy.
The Dean.
You’re not—you’re not offended, Mardon?
Sir Tristram.
[Taking The Dean’s hand.] Offended! No—only sorry, Dean, damned sorry, to see a promising lad come to an end like this. [Georgiana enters with Salome on one side of her and Sheba on the other—all three laughing and chatting, apparently the best of friends.] By Jove! No! what—Tidd?
Georgiana.
Hullo, Mardon!
[They shake hands warmly.
Sir Tristram.
Of all places in the world, to find “Mr. Tidd!” [Roaring with laughter.] Ho! ho! ho!
Georgiana.
[Laughing.] Ha! ha!
Sir Tristram.
Why, Dean, you’ve been chaffing me, have you?
The Dean.
No!
Sir Tristram.
Yes, you have—you’ve been roasting your old friend!
The Dean.
[With dignity.] Mardon!
Sir Tristram.
Tidd is a pal of yours, eh? Ho! ho!
Georgiana.
Ha! ha!
The Dean.
Sir Tristram Mardon, Mrs. Tidman is my sister.
Sir Tristram.
Your sister?
Georgiana.
Yes, I’ve been running a bit dark, Mardon, but that stout, well-seasoned animal over there and this skittish creature come of the same stock and were foaled in the same stable. [Pointing to Salome and Sheba.] There are a couple of yearlings here, you don’t know. My nieces—Salome and Sheba.
Sir Tristram.
[Bowing.] How do you do? [Heartily taking Georgiana’s hand again.] Well, I don’t care whose sister you are, but I’m jolly glad to see you, George, my boy.
Georgiana.
Gracious, Tris, don’t squeeze my hand so!
The Dean.
[In horror.] Salome, Sheba, children! I must speak to you. Excuse me, Mardon. [To himself.] Oh, what shall I do with my widowed sister?
[He goes into the garden.
Sheba.
[To Salome.] That’s like pa, just as we were getting interested.
Salome.
We’ll come back in a minute.
[They go out by the window.
Sir Tristram.
Lord! How odd! You know your brother and I were at Oxford together, George?
Georgiana.
Were you, Tris! Then are you putting up here?
Sir Tristram.
He won’t have me.
Georgiana.
Won’t have you!
Sir Tristram.
Because I’m down here racing. You see, he’s a Dean.
Georgiana.
Is he? Well, then, you just lay a thousand sovereigns to a gooseberry that in this house I’m a Dean, too!
Sir Tristram.
I suppose he’s thinking of the Canons—and the Bishop—and those chaps.
Georgiana.
Lord bless your heart, they’re all right when you cheer them up a bit! If I’m here till the autumn meeting you’ll find me lunching on the hill, with the Canons marking my card and the dear old Bishop mixing the salad. So say the word, Tris—I’ll make it all right with Augustin.
Sir Tristram.
No, thanks, old fellow. The fact is I’m fixed at the “Swan” with—what do you think, George?—with Dandy Dick.
Georgiana.
Oh! my old Dandy!
Sir Tristram.
I brought him down with me in lavender. You know he runs for the Durnstone Handicap to-morrow.
Georgiana.
Know! There’s precious little that horse does that I don’t know, and what I don’t know I dream. Is he fit?
Sir Tristram.
As a fiddle—shines like a mirror—not an ounce too much or too little. He’ll romp in!
Georgiana.
He’ll dance in! Tris Mardon!
Sir Tristram.
Eh?
Georgiana.
[Mysteriously.] Tris, Dandy Dick doesn’t belong to you—not all of him.
Sir Tristram.
No—I’ve only a half share. At your sale he was knocked down to John Fielder the trainer. The other half belongs to John.
Georgiana.
No, it doesn’t, it belongs to me!
Sir Tristram.
George!
Georgiana.
Yes, directly I saw Dandy Dick marched out before the auctioneer I asked John Fielder to help me, and he did, like a Briton. For I can’t live without horseflesh, if it’s only a piece of cat’s meat on a skewer. But when I condescended to keep company with the Canons and the Bishop here I promised Augustin that I wouldn’t own anything on four legs, so John sold you half of Dick, and I can swear I don’t own a horse—and I don’t—not a whole one. But half a horse is better than no bread, Tris—and we’re partners.
Sir Tristram.
[Roaring with laughter.] Ho! ho! ha! ha! ha!
Georgiana.
What are you laughing at, man?
Sir Tristram.
Oh, the Dean! the Dean!
Salome and Sheba enter unperceived.
Sir Tristram.
[Still laughing.] I—ho! ho!—I beg your pardon, George—ha! ha! Well, now you know he’s fit, of course, you’re going to back Dandy Dick for the Durnstone Handicap.
Georgiana.
Back him! For every penny I’ve got in the world. That isn’t much, but if I’m not a richer woman by a thousand pounds to-morrow night I shall have had a bad day.
Salome.
Oh, Sheba!
[The girls come towards the Library.
Georgiana.
[Discovering them.] Hush! [To the girls.] Hallo!
Sheba.
It’s only us, Aunt.
[The girls go into the Library.
Sir Tristram.
I’ll be off.
Georgiana.
Keep your eye on the old horse, Tristram.
Sir Tristram.
Don’t fear. Good-morning, George!
Georgiana.
Good-morning, partner! [Sir Tristram bursts out laughing again, she joining in the laughter.] Oh, do be quiet!
Sir Tristram.
Ho! ho! ho! Ha! ha! Oh, say good-bye for me to the Dean! [She gives him a push and he goes out.
Sheba and Salome immediately re-enter from the Library.
Sheba.
Aunt—dear Aunt——
Georgiana.
Well, girls?
Sheba.
Aunt—Salome has something to say to you.
Salome.
No, it’s Sheba.
Georgiana.
Why, you’re shivering all over. [Catching hold of Sheba.] Hallo, little ’un!
Sheba.
Aunt—dear Aunt Georgiana—we heard you say something about a thousand pounds.
Georgiana.
You’ve been listening?
Sheba.
No—we only merely heard. And, oh, Aunt, a thousand pounds is such a lot, and we poor girls want such a little.
Georgiana.
Money?
Sheba.
Yes. Salome has rather got into debt.
Georgiana.
My gracious!
Salome.
I haven’t, any more than you have, Sheba.
Sheba.
Well, I’m in debt too, but I only meant to beg for Salome; but now I ask for both of us. Oh, Aunt Tidman, papa has told us that you have known troubles.
Georgiana.
So I have—heaps of them.
Sheba.
Oh, I’m so glad. Because Salome and I are weary fragments too—we’re everything awful but chastened widows. We owe forty pounds unknown to Pa!
Salome.
Forty pounds, nineteen.
Georgiana.
Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you girls!
Sheba.
We are!
Salome.
Georgiana.
To cry and go on like this about forty pounds!
Sheba.
But we’ve only got fifteen and threepence of our own in the world! And, oh, Aunt, you know something about the Races, don’t you?
Georgiana.
Eh?
Sheba.
If you do, help two poor creatures to win forty pounds, nineteen. Aunt Georgiana, what’s “Dandy Dick” you were talking to that gentleman about?
Georgiana.
Child! Dandy Dick’s a horse.
Sheba.
We thought so. Then let Dandy Dick win us some money.
Georgiana.
No, no! I won’t hear of it!
Sheba.
Oh, do, do!
Salome.
Oh, do, do, do!
Georgiana.
Go away—I won’t. I say decidedly, I will not!
Sheba.
Salome.
Do! Do, and we’ll love you for ever and ever, Aunt Georgiana.
Georgiana.
You will! [She embraces them heartily.] Bless your little innocent faces! Do you want to win forty pounds?
Salome and Sheba.
Yes, yes!
Georgiana.
Do you want to win fifty pounds?
Sheba and Salome.
Oh, yes, yes!
Georgiana.
[Taking her betting book from her pocket.] Very well, then, put your very petticoats on Dandy Dick!
[The girls stand clutching their skirts, frightened.
Salome.
Oh!
Sheba.
Oh!
END OF THE FIRST ACT.
THE SECOND ACT.
The morning-room at the Deanery, with the fire and the lamps lighted. It is after dinner.
Sheba is playing the piano, Salome lolling upon the settee, and Georgiana pouring out tea. They are in evening dress.
Georgiana.
Sugar, Sally? I call you Sally, Salome—the evening’s too short for your name.
Salome.
All right, Aunt George—two lumps, please.
Georgiana.
[To Sheba.] Little ’un?
Sheba.
Two lumps and one in the saucer, to eat.
Georgiana.
Quite a relief to shake off the gentlemen, isn’t it?
Salome.
Do you think so, Aunt?
Sheba.
Georgiana.
H’m! Now I understand why my foot was always in the way under the dinner-table.
[She holds out two cups, which the girls take from her.
Salome.
I thought the dinner was an overwhelming success.
Sheba.
All our dinners are at the Deanery.
Georgiana.
Awfully jolly. Mutton was overdone.
Salome.
That’s our new cook’s one failing.
Georgiana.
But the potatoes weren’t—they rattled.
Sheba.
Cook never can manage potatoes.
Georgiana.
What was wrong with the custards?
Salome.
Well, it was Cook’s first attempt at custards.
Georgiana.
However, they served one useful end. Now we know the chimney wants sweeping.
Salome.
But it was a frightfully jolly dinner—take it all round.
Sheba.
Yes, take it all round. One has to take things all round.
Georgiana.
What made us all so sad and silent—taking us all round?
Sheba.
Dear Papa was as lively as an owl with neuralgia.
Georgiana.
Major Tarver isn’t a conversational cracker.
Salome.
Gerald Tarver has no liver—to speak of.
Georgiana.
He might have spoken about his lungs or something, to cheer us up.
Sheba.
I fancy Mr. Darbey was about to make a witty remark once.
Georgiana.
Yes, and then the servant handed him a dish and he shied at it. So we lost that.
Salome.
Still, we ought to congratulate ourselves upon—upon a——
Sheba.
Upon a—upon a——
Georgiana.
Upon a frightfully jolly dinner. [Taking her betting book from her pocket.] Excuse me, girls. I’ve some figures to work out. If Dandy Dick hasn’t fed better at the “Swan” than we have at the Deanery, he won’t be in the first three. [Reckoning.] Let me see.
Salome.
[To Sheba.] All’s settled, Sheba, isn’t it?
Sheba.
[To Salome.] Yes—everything. Directly the house is silent we let ourselves out at the front door.
Salome.
How do we get in again?
Sheba.
By this window. It has a patent safety fastening, so it can be opened with a hairpin.
Salome.
We’re courageous girls, aren’t we?
Sheba.
Yes, I don’t consider we’re ordinary young ladies, at all.
Salome.
If we had known Aunt a little longer we might have confided in her and taken her with us.
Sheba.
Poor Aunt—we mustn’t spoil her.
Darbey.
[Speaking outside.] I venture to differ with you, my dear Dean.
Georgiana.
Here come the wax-works!
[She joins the girls as Darbey enters through the Library, patronizing The Dean, who accompanies him.
Darbey.
Haw! I’ve just been putting the Dean right about a little army question, Mrs.—Mrs.—— I can’t catch your name.
Georgiana.
Don’t try—you’d come out in spots, like measles.
[Darbey stands by her, blankly, then attempts a conversation.
The Dean.
[To Salome and Sheba.] Children, it is useless to battle against it much longer.
Salome.
Against what, Papa?
The Dean.
A feeling of positive distaste for Mr. Darbey.
Sheba.
Oh, Papsey—think what Wellington was at his age.
Major Tarver enters, pale and haggard.
Salome meets him.
Salome.
Major!
Tarver.
Salome.
Not well again?
Tarver.
Indigestion. I’m always like this after dinner.
Salome.
But what would you do if the trumpet summoned you to battle?
Tarver.
Oh, I suppose I should pack up a few charcoal biscuits and toddle out, you know.
Georgiana.
[To Darbey.] I’ve never studied the Army Guide.
Darbey.
You’re thinking of——
Georgiana.
The Turf Guide—beg pardon. I mean, the Army keeps a string of trained nurses, doesn’t it?
Darbey.
There are Army nurses.
Georgiana.
Certainly. I was wondering whether your Colonel will send one with a perambulator to fetch you at about half-past eight.
[She leaves Darbey and goes to The Dean. Sheba joins Darbey at the piano.
Georgiana.
Well, Gus, my boy, you seem out of condition.
The Dean.
I’m rather anxious for the post to bring to-day’s “Times.” You know I’ve offered a thousand pounds to our Restoration Fund.
Georgiana.
What!
The Dean.
Hush—I’ll tell you.
[They talk in undertones. Blore enters to remove the tea-tray.
Tarver.
[Jumping up excitedly—to Salome.] Eh? Oh, certainly—delighted! [Singing to himself.] “Come into the garden, Maud, for the black bat——”
Salome.
Now you’re yourself again.
Tarver.
I’m always dreadfully excited when I’m asked to sing. It’s as good as a carbonate of soda lozenge to me to be asked to sing. [To Blore.] My music is in my overcoat pocket.
[Blore crosses to the door.
Sheba.
And Mr. Darbey has brought his violin.
Tarver.
[In a rage, glaring at Darbey.] Hah! There now!
Darbey.
[To Blore.] You’ll find it in the hall.
[Blore goes out. The Dean dozes in a chair. Salome and Sheba talk to Georgiana at the table.
Tarver.
[To himself.] He always presumes with his confounded fiddle when I’m going to entertain. He knows that his fiddle’s never hoarse and that I am, sometimes.
Darbey.
[To himself.] Tarver always tries to cut me out with his elderly Chest C. He ought to put it on the Retired List.
Tarver.
I’ll sing him off his legs to-night—I’m in lovely voice.
[He walks into the Library and is heard trying his voice, singing “Come into the garden, Maud.”
Darbey.
[To himself.] He needn’t bother himself. While he was dozing in the carriage I threw his music out of the window.
Tarver re-enters triumphantly.
Blore re-enters, carrying a violin-case and a leather music roll. Darbey takes the violin-case, opens it, and produces his violin and music. Blore hands the music roll to Tarver and goes out.
Tarver.
[To Salome, trembling with excitement.] My tones are like a beautiful bell this evening. I’m so glad, for all our sakes. [As he takes the leather music roll from Blore.] Thank you, that’s it.
Salome.
Tarver.
“Come into the garden, Maud.” I’ve begun with “Corne into the garden, Maud” for years and years. [He opens the music roll—it is empty.] Oh! Miss Jedd, I’ve forgotten my music!
Salome and Sheba.
Oh! Major Tarver!
[Tarver with a groan of despair sinks on to the settee.
Sheba.
Never mind—Mr. Darbey will play.
Darbey.
[Tuning his violin.] Will you accompany me?
Sheba.
[Raising her eyes.] To the end of the world.
[She sits at the piano.
Darbey.
My mother says that my bowing is something like Joachim’s, and she ought to know.
Sheba.
Why?
Darbey.
Oh, because she’s heard Joachim.
[Darbey plays and Sheba accompanies him. Salome sits beside Tarver.
Georgiana.
[To herself.] Well, after all, George, my boy, you’re not stabled in such a bad box! Here is a regular pure, simple, English Evening at Home!
The Dean.
[Mumbling to himself.] A thousand pounds to the Restoration Fund and all those bills to settle—oh dear! oh dear! What shall I do?
Salome.
[To herself.] I hope my ball-dress will drive all the other women mad!
Tarver.
[To himself—glaring at Darbey.] I feel I should like to garrote him with his bass string.
Georgiana.
[Frowning at her betting book.] I think I shall hedge a bit over the Crumbleigh Stakes.
Darbey.
[As he plays, glancing at Tarver.] I wonder how old Tarver’s Chest C likes a holiday.
Sheba.
[As she plays.] We must get Pa to bed early. Dear Papa’s always so dreadfully in the way.
Georgiana.
[Looking around.] No—there’s nothing like it in any other country. A regular, pure, simple, English Evening at Home!
Blore enters quickly, cutting “The Times” with a paper-knife as he enters.
Blore.
The paper’s just arrived.
[The music stops abruptly—all the ladies glare at Blore and hush him down.
Georgiana, Salome, and Sheba.
The Dean.
[Taking the paper from Blore.] This is my fault—there may be something in “The Times” of special interest to me. Thank you, Blore.
[Blore goes out.
Tarver.
Ha, ha, ha! spoilt his pianissimo!
The Dean.
[Scanning the paper.] Oh, I can’t believe it!
Georgiana.
What’s the matter?
Salome and Sheba.
Papa!
Tarver and Darbey.
The Dean!
The Dean.
Children! Georgiana! Friends! My munificent offer has produced the desired result.
Salome and Sheba.
Oh!
The Dean.
Seven wealthy people, including three brewers, have come forward with a thousand pounds apiece in aid of the restoration of the Minster Spire!
Salome and Sheba.
[Horrified.] Ah!
Georgiana.
That means a cool thousand out of your pocket, Gus.
The Dean.
Yes. [Reading.] “The anxiety to which The Dean of St. Marvells has so long been a victim will now doubtless be relieved.” [With his hand to his head.] I suppose I shall feel the relief to-morrow.
Georgiana.
What’s wrong with the Spire? Nobody sleeps in it?
The Dean.
It is a little out of repair—but hardly sufficiently so to warrant the presumptuous interference of three brewers. Excuse me, I think I’ll enjoy the fresh air for a moment. [He goes to the window and draws back the curtains—a bright red glare is seen in the sky.] Bless me! Look there!
Georgiana, Salome, and Sheba.
Oh! what’s that?
The Dean.
It’s a conflagration!
Salome.
[Clinging to Tarver.] Where is it? Are we safe?
Sheba.
[Clinging to Darbey.] Where is it? Are we safe?
Georgiana.
Where is it?
Blore enters with a scared look.
The Dean.
All.
Where is it?
Blore.
The old Swan Inn’s a-fire!
[The gate-bell is heard ringing violently in the distance. Blore goes out.
Georgiana.
[Uttering a loud screech.] The Swan Inn! [Madly.] You girls, get me a hat and coat. Somebody fetch me a pair of boots!
[Salome, Sheba, and Tarver go to the window.
The Dean.
Georgiana!
Georgiana.
Don’t talk to me! [To Tarver.] Lend me your boots!
Tarver.
I daren’t. If I once get cold extremities——
Georgiana.
Ah!
[She is going, The Dean stops her.
The Dean.
Respect yourself, Georgiana—where are you going?
Georgiana.
Going! I’m going to help clear the stables at The Swan!
The Dean.
Remember what you are—my sister—a lady!
Georgiana.
I’m not. George Tidd’s a man, every inch of her! [Sir Tristram rushes in breathlessly. Georgiana rushes at him and clutches his coat.] Tris Mardon, speak!
Sir Tristram.
[Exhausted.] Oh!
Georgiana.
The horse? The horse! You’ve got him out?
Sir Tristram.
Yes, safe and sound.
Georgiana.
Safe and sound! That old horse has backed himself to win the handicap.
[She sinks into a chair. Tarver and Darbey with Salome and Sheba stand looking out of the window.
Sir Tristram.
George, his tail is singed a bit.
Georgiana.
The less weight for him to carry to-morrow. [Beginning to cry.] Dear old Dandy, he never was much to look at.
Sir Tristram.
The worst of it is, the fools threw two pails of cold water over him to put it out.
Georgiana.
The Dean.
Now, my dear Georgiana! what is a horse?
Georgiana.
A living example to a Dean. [The Dean goes distractedly into the Library.] Where is the animal?
Sir Tristram.
My man Hatcham is running him up and down the lane here to try to get him warm again.
Georgiana.
Where are you going to put the homeless beast up now?
Sir Tristram.
I don’t know.
Georgiana.
[Starting up.] I do though!
The Dean.
Madwoman! What are you going to do?
Georgiana.
Bring Dandy Dick into our stables!
The Dean.
No, no!
Sir Tristram.
The very place!
The Dean.
Georgiana, pray consider me!
Georgiana.
So I will, when you’ve had two pails of water thrown over you.
[The Dean walks about in despair.
The Dean.
Mardon, I appeal to you!
Sir Tristram.
Oh, Dean, Dean, I’m ashamed of you!
Georgiana.
[To Sir Tristram.] Are you ready?
Sir Tristram.
[Takes off his coat and throws it over Georgiana’s shoulders.] George, you’re a brick!
Georgiana.
A brick, am I? [Quietly to him.] One partner pulls Dandy out of the Swan—t’other one leads Dandy into the Deanery. Quits, my lad!
[They go out together.
The Dean.
What is happening to me! It will be in all the sporting papers. “Sir Tristram Mardon’s Dandy Dick reflected great credit upon the Deanery Stables!” “The Sporting Dean!”
[He walks into the Library, where he sinks into a chair, as Salome, Tarver, Darbey and Sheba come from the window.
Tarver.
They’re getting the flames under. If I had had my goloshes with me I should have been here, there, and everywhere.
Darbey.
Where there’s a crowd of Civilians the Military exercise a wise discretion in restraining themselves.
Sheba.
[To Tarver and Darbey.] You had better go now; then we’ll get the house quiet as soon as possible. Poor Papa looks worried.
Sheba and Salome.
Poor Papa!
Tarver.
We will wait with the carriage in the lane.
Salome.
Yes, yes. [Calling.] Papa, Major Tarver and Mr. Darbey must go.
[She rings the bell. The Dean comes from the Library.
The Dean.
Dear me, I’m very remiss!
Tarver.
[Shaking hands.] Most fascinating evening!
Darbey.
[Shaking hands.] Charming, my dear Dean.
Blore enters.
Salome.
Major Tarver’s carriage.
Blore.
Hat the gate, Miss Salome.
Salome.
[Blore goes out, followed by Sheba, Salome, and Tarver. Darbey is going, when he returns to The Dean.
Darbey.
By-the-bye, my dear Dean—come over and see me. We ought to know more of each other. Say Monday.
The Dean.
[Restraining his anger.] I will not say Monday!
Darbey.
Any time you like. Oh—and I say—let me know when you preach, and I’ll get some of our fellows to give their patronage!
[He goes out.
The Dean.
[Closing the door after him with a bang.] Another moment—another moment—and I fear I should have been violently rude to him, a guest under my roof! [He walks up to the fireplace and stands looking into the fire, as Darbey, having forgotten his violin, returns to the room.] Oh, Blore, now understand me, if that Mr. Darbey ever again presumes to present himself at the Deanery I will not see him!
Darbey.
[With his violin in his hand, haughtily.] I’ve come back for my violin.
[Goes out with dignity.
The Dean.
[Horrified.] Oh, Mr. Darbey! Hear an explanation, Mr. Darbey!
[He runs out after Darbey. Georgiana and Sir Tristram enter by the window.
Georgiana.
Don’t be down, Tris, my boy; cheer up, lad, he’ll be fit yet, bar a chill! Aha! he knew me, he knew me when I kissed his dear old nose!
Sir Tristram.
He’d be a fool of a horse if he hadn’t felt deuced flattered at that.
Georgiana.
He’s no fool. He knows he’s in the Deanery too. Did you see him cast up his eyes and lay his ears back when I led him in?
Sir Tristram.
Oh, George, George, it’s such a pity about his tail!
Georgiana.
[Cheerily.] Not it. You watch his head to-morrow—that’ll come in first.
[Hatcham, a groom, looks in at the window.
Hatcham.
Are you there, Sir?
Sir Tristram.
What is it?
Hatcham.
I jest run round to tell you that Dandy is a feedin’ as steady as a baby with a bottle.
Georgiana.
Don’t you close your eyes all night.
Hatcham.
Not me, mum. And I’ve got hold of the constable ’ere, Mr. Topping—he’s going to sit up with me, for company’s sake.
Sir Tristram.
Hatcham.
Yes, Sir Tristram. [Coming forward mysteriously.] Why, bless you and the lady, sir—supposin’ the fire at the “Swan” warn’t no accident!
Georgiana.
Eh?
Hatcham.
Supposin’ it were inciderism—and supposin’ our ’orse was the hobject.
Sir Tristram.
Good gracious!
Hatcham.
That’s why I ain’t goin’ to watch single-handed.
Sir Tristram.
Get back then—get back!
[Sir Tristram and Georgiana pace up and down excitedly.
Hatcham.
Right, Sir. There’s only one mortal fear I’ve got about our Dandy.
Georgiana and Sir Tristram.
What’s that?
Hatcham.
He ’asn’t found out about ’is tail yet, sir, and when he does it’ll fret him, as sure as my name’s Bob Hatcham.
Sir Tristram.
Keep the stable pitch dark—he mayn’t notice it.
Hatcham.
Not to-night, sir, but he’s a proud ’orse and what’ll he think of ’isself on the ’ill to-morrow? You and me and the lady, sir—it ’ud be different with us, but how’s our Dandy to hide his bereavement?
[Hatcham goes out of the window with Sir Tristram as The Dean enters, followed by Blore, who carries a lighted lantern.
The Dean.
[Looking reproachfully at Georgiana.] You have returned, Georgiana?
Georgiana.
Yes, thank ye.
The Dean.
And that animal?
Georgiana.
In our stables, safe and snug.
The Dean.
[With a groan.] Oh!
Georgiana.
You can sleep to-night with the happy consciousness of having sheltered the outcast.
The Dean.
We’re locking up now. The poor children, exhausted with the alarm, beg me to say good-night for them. The fire is quite extinguished.
Blore.
Yes, sir; but I hear they’ve just sent into Durnstone hasking for the Military to watch the ruins in case of another houtbreak. It’ll stop the wicked Ball at the Hathanæum, it will!
[Drawing the window curtains.
Sir Tristram.
[Having re-entered.] I suppose you want to see the last of me, Jedd.
The Dean.
Mardon!
Georgiana.
Don’t be unkind, Tris. Where shall we stow the dear old chap, Gus, my boy?
The Dean.
Where shall we stow the dear old chap! I really don’t know.
Georgiana.
Let me see. We don’t want to pitch you out of your loft if we can help it, Gus.
Sir Tristram.
No, no—we won’t do that.
The Dean.
Don’t consider me in this manner. But there’s Sheba’s little cot still standing in the old nursery.
Sir Tristram.
Just the thing for me—the old nursery.
Georgiana.
The old nursery. Toys to play with if you wake early.
The Dean.
[Looking round.] Is there anyone else before we lock up?
[Blore has fastened the window and drawn the curtain.
Georgiana.
Put Sir Tristram to bed carefully in the nursery, Blore.
Sir Tristram.
[Grasping The Dean’s hand.] Good-night, old boy. I’m too done for a hand of Piquet to-night.
The Dean.
I never play cards.
Sir Tristram.
[Slapping him on the back.] I’ll teach you during my stay at the Deanery.
The Dean.
[Helplessly to himself.] Then he’s staying with me!