Lady Macphail.
[Quietly to Macphail.] Colin, let her hear how a Macphail can love. [Kissing him.] My boy! [To the Dowager and Lady Twombley.] I’ll drive round to Lady Macwhirter’s and return. Leave them! Ah, the pipers shall play to the home-coming of a bride at Castle Ballocheevin! [She goes out.]
Dowager.
Come, Katherine. Think of it! To be the mother-in-law of the head of the Clan Macphail!
Lady Twombley.
Dora, what’s the use of a head with no tongue in it?
[The Dowager and Lady Twombley go out. Macphail looks round uneasily.]
Macphail.
Imogen.
[To herself.] Oh, why do they leave us! [To Macphail.] Were you at the dance of the Perth Highlanders last night, Sir Colin?
Macphail.
Aye, I was.
Imogen.
Did you dance much?
Macphail.
Aye, I did.
Imogen.
[To herself.] He must make the next remark.
Macphail.
[Nerving himself and rising suddenly.] Miss Twombley!
Imogen.
Sir Colin!
Macphail.
I—I just wish you had been there.
Imogen.
Do you? Why?
Macphail.
Because—because—because I’m thinking there was room for more people.
Imogen.
Oh, of course. [She goes to the window and looks out.] Lady Macphail is just driving away.
Macphail.
No!
Imogen.
Yes, there she goes.
[Macphail goes hastily to the window and looks out.]
Macphail.
[To himself.] Oh! Mother!
[He goes out quickly unnoticed by Imogen.]
Imogen.
She has turned the corner, Sir Colin. Did you see her? Why, where is he?
[Valentine enters. She does not see him.]
Valentine White.
Good-bye, Imogen. [She turns to him.]
Imogen.
Ah! [Falteringly.] Why will you go away, Val?
Valentine White.
You know my craze. Everything in this country is so stuck-up.
Imogen.
Mamma’s not—stuck-up, as you call it.
Valentine White.
Her gowns frighten me. My first recollection of anything is Aunt Kitty in a print-skirt at a wash-tub.
Imogen.
Valentine White.
There now! you’re horrified!
Imogen.
One doesn’t wish everybody to know.
Valentine White.
Then that’s being stuck-up, Imogen.
Imogen.
Then we differ.
Valentine White.
Of course. Everybody does differ from me in this stuck-up country. Wish me good-bye.
Imogen.
[Looking away.] I presume my brother Brooke is stuck-up also?
Valentine White.
Well, he appears to have fallen into the starch after that wash of Aunt Kitty’s.
Imogen.
Indeed. And papa?
Valentine White.
Oh, of course, he’s ironed out by the House of Commons.
Imogen.
How very rude! [Laying her hand on his arm.] And am I—altered, Val?
Valentine White.
Altered! The change is heart-breaking!
Imogen.
Oh, how cruel!
Valentine White.
Altered! Where are the tiny tea-things with which you once played at making tea in your old school-room? Where is the hoop you used to trundle in Portman Square—the skipping-rope Brooke and I turned for you till our arms nearly dropped from our shoulders? Where are the marbles I gave you—the top I taught you to spin? I say, where are these things and the jolly little girl who delighted in them?
Imogen.
[With much dignity.] I think you’re so violent that it isn’t safe to speak to you. But I’ll ask you one question.
Valentine White.
Pray do.
Imogen.
Where is the good-tempered, curly-headed boy for whom I used to make the tea; the boy who taught me, very patiently, how to play the marbles and to spin the top?
Valentine White.
You see him.
Imogen.
Oh, no. No, Val, no.
Valentine White.
Imogen! You don’t mean, at any rate, that I’m stuck-up?
Imogen.
No, indeed, I think you’re shockingly stuck-down. [He turns away, hanging his head. She comes to him.] There, now I’ve made you ashamed of yourself.
Valentine White.
No, you haven’t!
Imogen.
Then I will do so. Remain here. I will return in a moment. Don’t stir! [She runs out.]
Valentine White.
Shall I run away? Ah, if she only knew how ardently I wish that she had changed still more—how I wish that she had grown quite unlovable or I had forgotten how to love her! It’s hopeless; I will run away.
[He opens the door and the Dowager peeps in.]
Dowager.
May I come in?
Valentine White.
Eh? Oh, certainly.
[The Dowager enters.]
Dowager.
[To herself.] What has become of them? [To Valentine.] Pardon me, have you seen my niece, Imogen?
Valentine White.
Dowager.
With Sir Colin Macphail?
Valentine White.
Oh, no.
[A cab whistle is heard. Valentine looks out of the window.]
Dowager.
[To herself.] Where is he? I shan’t sleep till I know it is settled.
Valentine White.
Here’s Sir Colin—hailing a cab.
Dowager.
Ah! Something must have happened! [She goes hastily towards the door; Valentine is in her way.] Let me pass, please! I have a motive!
[She goes out as Imogen enters by another door carrying a large old-fashioned box.]
Imogen.
Valentine.
Valentine White.
Why, what have you there?
Imogen.
A modern young lady’s jewel casket. Open it, please. [Kneeling, he opens the box.]
Valentine White.
[Looking into the box.] Imogen! The tea-things! I recognize them!
Imogen.
You see, I’ve never parted with my playthings, Val.
Valentine White.
[Dragging out a large, faded, once gaudy doll.] And here’s Rosa! I helped to cut out Rosa’s mantle. Battered old Rosa!
Imogen.
[Taking the doll from him.] Don’t! Old she may be, but her sex should protect her from insult.
Valentine White.
And here are my marbles! and the top! Ah, ah! the skipping-rope! Imogen—perhaps—I—I’ve done you an injustice.
Imogen.
Do you think so?
Valentine White.
I feared fashion had put your bright little nature into tight corsets—but—I see—I see——
Imogen.
[Replacing the toys in the box.] You see, Val.
Valentine White.
I see you have some affection for the time when you were not Miss Twombley, but only—little Jenny.
Imogen.
Valentine White.
Not that these old dumb things prove much.
Imogen.
Oh, Val!
Valentine White.
They prove their own existence—not the existence of little Jenny.
Imogen.
[Crying.] How unjust you are!
Valentine White.
Perhaps. But your words and actions are so unlike.
Imogen.
[Wiping her eyes upon the doll’s frock.] No, no.
Valentine White.
I fancy we are children again when I hear you; but when I see your prim figure and stately walk I miss the little girl whose hair never submitted to a ribbon or a hairpin——
Imogen.
Oh!
[Impulsively she lets down her hair and disorders it wildly.]
Valentine White.
[Not observing her.] I miss the little Jenny with a tumbled frock, [She quickly disarranges her bow and sash.] the thoughtless romp who was generally minus one shoe!
Imogen.
[Fiercely.] Valentine!
[She takes off a shoe and flings it away.]
Valentine White.
Jenny!
Imogen.
Now! play! play marbles!
Valentine White.
What!
Imogen.
Play marbles!
[They go down upon their knees, she deliberately arranges the marbles for the game, he staring at her blankly.]
Imogen.
My mark—play.
Valentine White.
I beg your pardon, Jenny—I’ve been all wrong.
Imogen.
You have indeed, Val. Play. [He plays seriously.] Not within a mile of it.
Valentine White.
My eye is quite out.
Imogen.
My turn.
Valentine White.
By Jupiter, you’re still a crack at it!
Imogen.
Am I? Then which of us has changed—you or I? [She lays her hand on his.] Val, don’t go away and live in a rock.
Valentine White.
What am I to do? I’m poor, Jenny, and I suppose I’m crazy.
Imogen.
Any sort of horrid life would suit you, wouldn’t it?
Valentine White.
I suppose it would.
Imogen.
Then ask Lord Drumdurris to make you a bailiff or a head gamekeeper at Drumdurris.
Valentine White.
Not rough enough.
Imogen.
Why, you could get dreadfully dirty and wet through there every day.
Valentine White.
That’s true.
Imogen.
And, Val, we’re all going up to Drumdurris next month.
Valentine White.
Imogen.
Yes, and if you like, I—I’ll bring the marbles.
[Brooke enters.]
Brooke Twombley.
Imogen! Oh, I say! what?
Valentine White.
Do you ever play marbles now, Brooke?
[Drumdurris enters.]
Brooke Twombley.
Marbles, no! Billiards.
[Valentine collects the marbles, and puts them into the box.]
Imogen.
[To Drumdurris.] Keith! Oh, Keith, do me a favour!
Earl of Drumdurris.
Certainly.
Imogen.
Offer my poor cousin, Mr. White, some post in or about Drumdurris Castle.
Earl of Drumdurris.
What kind of post?
Imogen.
Some wretched, inferior position in which he needn’t be very polite.
Earl of Drumdurris.
What will he say if I propose such a thing?
Imogen.
He’ll be extremely rude, I think. But, oh, I shall be so grateful, Keith.
[Lady Twombley enters.]
Lady Twombley.
Imogen! Child, what has happened to your head?
Imogen.
I—I’ve been playing marbles, mamma.
Lady Twombley.
Not on your head?
Imogen.
No, mamma, upon the floor.
Lady Twombley.
With Sir Colin?
Imogen.
Certainly not, mamma; I don’t know Sir Colin nearly well enough to sit with him upon the floor. [Putting up her hair.]
Lady Twombley.
Darling, has Sir Colin made any remark of an interesting nature?
Imogen.
No—he stammered a little, and, while my back was turned, he ran away after his mammy.
Lady Twombley.
[To herself.] I knew it! Why didn’t we lock him in till he had provided for my poor child’s future?
Probyn.
Mrs. Gaylustre is here, my lady.
Imogen.
Oh, that person!
[Imogen snatches up the box of playthings and hurries out. Mrs. Gaylustre enters. Probyn retires.]
Mrs. Gaylustre.
[To everybody.] How d’ye do? How d’ye do? Lord Drumdurris, charmed to see you. How are you, Brooke?
Brooke Twombley.
[To himself.] Brooke! Impudence!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
You look bilious, Kate.
[She kisses Lady Twombley, who sinks on to the settee.]
Brooke Twombley.
[To Drumdurris.] It’s too bad of the Mater! Fancy a fellow making a chum of his tailor—what?
Earl of Drumdurris.
Mr. White, may I speak to you?
[Brooke, Drumdurris, and Valentine go out.]
Mrs. Gaylustre.
[Examining the flute.] Pa has been tootling again, Kate—we must buy him a drum.
Lady Twombley.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Hullo! What’s the matter?
Lady Twombley.
As if you didn’t know! Oh, those awful bits of paper!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Still worrying about those little Bills of yours which my brother Joseph holds, eh?
Lady Twombley.
Those Bills! Why doesn’t the ink fade that’s on them, or the house burn that holds ’em?
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Impossible. Joseph and I have been taught to believe that there is a special Providence watching over all Bills of Exchange. Come, don’t fume—Bill Number One doesn’t fall due till next month.
Lady Twombley.
Oh, Gaylustre, I shan’t be able to meet it.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Shan’t you? Well, I dare say Jo and I will renew—if you make much of us and pet us. Meanwhile, don’t think of the Bills.
Lady Twombley.
Think of ’em! I eat them—they’re on every ménu; I drink them—they label the champagne. My pillows are stuffed with them, for I hear their rustle when I turn my restless head. Small as those strips of blue are, they paper every wall of my home!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
I should drive out, then, as much as possible.
Lady Twombley.
When I do the sky is blue!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
[Carelessly taking up a newspaper.] At what time do we leave here?
Lady Twombley.
Sir Julian and I start at twelve.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
See that I’m not squeezed up in the carriage. I don’t play at sardines in this gown.
Lady Twombley.
Oh!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Talking of sardines, I shall lunch here to-day, en famille.
Lady Twombley.
Gaylustre! you fiend! I—I can’t stand it.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Don’t quite see how you’re going to get out of it.
Lady Twombley.
It’s true I owe that brother of yours thousands.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Well, we have kept your establishment going for some time.
Lady Twombley.
But I don’t owe you as much as a linen button!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Jo and I are one.
Lady Twombley.
No! I’ll never believe that a man—even a money-lender—would dance a set of devilish quadrilles on a lady when she’s down, as you’re doing.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Ha, ha!
Lady Twombley.
I saw your brother on that one fatal night. Common person that he is, he must have a heart under his vulgar waistcoat.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Be careful! Don’t insult my Jo!
Lady Twombley.
I compliment him! I will appeal to him to protect me from your claws, Gaylustre!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Oh, you will, will you?
Lady Twombley.
I will.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Very well then—do it! Kate Twombley, go to that door and call my brother Jo!
Lady Twombley.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Do it!
Lady Twombley.
What—do you—mean?
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Open that door and call Jo!
Lady Twombley.
No, no! [She opens the door and looks out.] You are only frightening me!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Call—Mr. Lebanon!
Lady Twombley.
Mr. Lebanon!
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
[Outside.] Heah!
[Lady Twombley utters a cry of horror as Mr. Joseph Lebanon enters—a smartly dressed, unctuous, middle-aged person, of a most pronounced common Semitic type, with a bland manner and a contented smile.]
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Lady Twombley, delighted to find myself in your elegant ’ouse. Most recherché.
Lady Twombley.
How do you come here?
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Lady Twombley.
How dare she?
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
’Ow dare she? H’m! Fan, I ’ope and trust not a coolness between you and Lady T.
[Lady Twombley sinks into a chair.]
Mrs. Gaylustre.
She was dying to see you—there’s no pleasing her.
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Dyin’ to see me! Flattered—flattered. [He sits in close proximity to Lady Twombley.] Deah Lady T, you and I and nobody by, eh? Excuse my humour. ’Ow can I ’ave the honour of servin’ you? Don’t ’esitate, Lady T, don’t ’esitate.
Lady Twombley.
I only wanted—to beg you—to rid me of that viper.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
That’s going a little too far!
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
There is a coolness—a triflin’, temporary coolness. Fan, be reasonable—Lady T, be forgivin’. Kiss and be friends.
Lady Twombley.
I know that you’ve got me—what’s the expression?—on something or another.
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
I ’ope “toast” is not the word you requiah, Lady Twombley?
Lady Twombley.
Oh, yes, on toast.
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Oh, Lady T.! Lady T.!
Lady Twombley.
I know that if I can’t meet those awful Bills you can drag my name into the papers, and set all London grinning for a month.
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Oh! Oh, Fan, is that my way of doin’ business?
Lady Twombley.
If you’re a nice, honest man—as you look—you’ll take her away, and never, either of you, show your ugl—show your faces here again.
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Ah, Lady T., now we come to the aim and object of the mornin’ call which I have the ’appiness of making on you. Fan, you haven’t explained to Lady T. You really must cut in.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
I shan’t. Explain yourself.
[Lebanon rises, replacing his chair.]
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
My dear Lady T., the long and the short of it is that Fan and I have considerable social ambition.
Lady Twombley.
You too! Not you!
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
And why not? Fanny, cut in!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Go on, Jo dear.
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Lady Twombley, it has been the desiah of Fan and self, ever since that period of our lives which I may describe as our checkered child’ood, to reach the top of the social tree.
Lady Twombley.
Hah!
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Lady Twombley, you’ll pardon my remarking that you are a little trying. I say, Fan and I desiah to reach the top of the social tree, where the cocoanuts are. Excuse my humour. Fan’s had a whirl or two in the circles of fashion.
Lady Twombley.
She! A hanger-on to the skirts of Society!
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
And very good skirts too when she makes ’em.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Jo, drop that.
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Excuse my humour, Fan. As for me, from those early boy’ood’s days when I made temporary advances of ha’pence to my sister Fanny, promptly and without inquiry, I have devoted myself to finance.
Lady Twombley.
Finance!
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
But now, Lady T—to use a poetic figure—I am prepared to cut an eight on the frozen lake of gentility.
Lady Twombley.
Man!
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
I ignore the innuendo. Lady Twombley, I am aware that for a successful entrée into Society I requiah a—ha—a substantial guarantee. I ’ave, therefore, the honour and the ’appiness to put myself under your sheltering and I ’ope sympathetic wing.
Lady Twombley.
You—you will drive me mad! You won’t dare to call here, to contaminate my bell-handle, to send up your hideous name!
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Oh, Fan, I really can’t! This is descendin’ to a mere wrangle. Pray cut in.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
No, Lady Twombley, as the Season is drawing to a close, Joseph certainly does not intend to attach himself to your London establishment.
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Not for Joseph—excuse my humour.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
But he and I do mean to take our flight from town with the rest of the swallows. [Pointing to a paragraph in the journal she still carries.] Look here, we saw this paragraph in the paper yesterday. Read it.
[Lady Twombley knocks the paper to the ground.]
Lady Twombley.
Insolent!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Jo, pet—read it.
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Fanny, this is really most trying. [Picking up the paper and reading.] “There are already signs of an exodus from town. Among the first of the notabilities to turn their faces northward are Sir Julian and Lady Twombley, who will spend the autumn at Drumdurris Castle as the guests of their nephew, Lord Drumdurris.”
Lady Twombley.
What is this to you?
Mrs. Gaylustre.
What’s that to us!
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Fan, what’s that to us! Lady Twombley, we entertain a not unreasonable desiah to spend our autumn at Drumdurris Castle.
Lady Twombley.
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Oh, Fan, I really can’t! You must cut in again.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
As the guests of Lord Drumdurris.
Lady Twombley.
Never!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Bill Number One falls due next month when you are at Drumdurris Castle!
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
No, no! Fan, do not mix up business with friendship. You know my rule.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Get us to Drumdurris and we renew!
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Oh, Fanny, how plainly you put it! Don’t!
Lady Twombley.
Never!
[Mr. Melton enters.]
Mr. Melton.
The carriages are here, Lady Twombley.
Lady Twombley.
I—I’ll come.
[Drumdurris enters talking to Valentine. Imogen, Lady Euphemia, and Brooke follow; then Egidia and Angèle with the infant.]
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
[To Lady Twombley.] Introduce me!
Lady Twombley.
Never!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
[To Lady Twombley.] Introduce him!
Lady Twombley.
I will not!
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Lady Twombley!
[He produces his pocketbook, opens it, and gives her a glimpse of the Bills.]
Lady Twombley.
The Bills! Oh!
[She makes a futile snatch at the pocketbook.]
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Lady Twombley, introduce me!
[Sir Julian enters, intent upon his speech, the MS. of which he carries in his hand.]
Sir Julian Twombley.
[To himself.] “I can conceive no position more agreeable to a Minister of the Crown——” [Seeing Lebanon.] Eh?
Mrs. Gaylustre.
[Whispering to Lady Twombley.] Now!
Lady Twombley.
Julian, Lord Drumdurris, Brooke, let me introduce to you—Mr. Lebanon.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
[Triumphantly to herself.] Ah!
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
[Triumphantly to himself.] Ah! [Lebanon grasps Sir Julian’s hand warmly.] De-lighted to find myself in your elegant ’ouse. Most recherché. [Shaking hands with all the others.] You all know my sister Fan. Elegant ’ouse this. Most recherché.
[Mrs. Gaylustre runs to Sir Julian and taking a flower from her dress fastens it in his coat.]
Dowager.
[Outside.] Katherine!
[The Dowager enters with her arm through Macphail’s, Lady Macphail following.]
Dowager.
I’ve found the truant. He had a motive.
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
[Quietly to Mrs. Gaylustre.] Who’s the Judy?
Mrs. Gaylustre.
[To Lebanon.] Old Lady Drum.
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Ah! [Turning to the Dowager and seizing her hand.] De-lighted! ’Ope to have the pleashah of meetin’ you up North.
Dowager.
Katherine!
[There is a general expression of astonishment, and Lady Twombley sinks upon the settee.]
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
Disaster.
The scene is the inner hall at Drumdurris Castle, Perthshire, leading on one side to the outer hall, and on the other to the picture gallery. It is solidly and comfortably furnished, and a fire is burning in the grate of the large oaken fireplace. It is an afternoon in August.
Imogen is sitting at the table reading over a letter she has written.
Imogen.
“Dear Mr. White.” I shall never call him Valentine again, except in my thoughts. [Reading.] “Dear Mr. White, I am sorry to hear that you are discontented with your recent appointment to the Deputy-Assistant-Head-Gamekeepership on the Drumdurris estate, and that you consider it a sinecure fit only for a debilitated peer.” Now for it. [Resuming.] “Permit me to take this opportunity of informing you that I have at length consented to an engagement between myself and Sir Colin Macphail of Ballocheevin.” Oh, how awful it looks in ink! [Resuming.] “As it is becoming that I should support such a position with dignity I would prefer not encountering your dislike to ‘stuck-up people’ by ever seeing you again.” Oh, Val. “I therefore suggest that you obtain a nastier appointment than that of Deputy-Assistant-Head-Gamekeeper at Drumdurris without delay.” That will do—beautifully. [In tears.] Oh, Val, why have you never spoken? I know you are poor, but I would have gone away with you and lived cheerfully and economically in that rock if you had but asked me. Why, why have you never asked me?
[She sits on a footstool looking into the fire. Brooke, in shooting dress, strolls in with Lady Euphemia. They do not see Imogen.]
Brooke Twombley.
[Coolly.] Well, then, Effie, I suppose I may regard our engagement as a fixture—what? I needn’t say you’ll find me an excellent husband.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
Thanks, awfully. But perhaps you had better mention the subject to me again at some other time.
Brooke Twombley.
Well, I shall be rather busy for the next week or two.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
Oh, quite as you please. [Giving him her hand.] But you are really too impetuous.
Brooke Twombley.
Not at all. [About to kiss her.] You’ll permit me, naturally?
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
[Languidly turning her cheek toward him.] Of course. Be careful of my hair—it will not be dressed again before lunch.
[He kisses her cheek cautiously. Imogen rises without seeing them.]
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
[To Brooke.] Somebody.
[They stroll away in opposite directions.]
Imogen.
After all, as he has never been a lover, why shouldn’t I see him and mention my engagement in a calm, cool, ladylike way? [Tearing up the letter passionately.] I must see him once more—in a calm, cool, ladylike way. I’ll write just a line asking him to come to me this morning.
[As she sits to write Lady Euphemia and Brooke stroll in again and meet each other.]
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
[To Brooke.] Good-morning.
Brooke Twombley.
[To Lady Euphemia.] Good-morning.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
Why, it’s Imogen! Oh, let me congratulate you. [Kissing her.] The news is too delightful.
Imogen.
Thank you.
Brooke Twombley.
Accept my congratulations also. Splendid fellow, Macphail; not one of those men who talk the top of your head off.
Imogen.
[Writing.] No, not quite. Brooke, dear, will you give Mr. White a little note from me?
Brooke Twombley.
Certainly. By the bye, while I think of it, you’ll be glad to hear that Effie has honored me by consenting to—er—marry me—what!
Imogen.
Effie!
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
How your mind does run on that subject, Brooke!
Imogen.
[Throwing her arms round Lady Euphemia’s neck.] What happy people, both of you!
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
My hair!
Imogen.
[Kissing Brooke.] A thousand congratulations, my dear, clever, old brother!
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
The bother with mamma will be too wearying.
Imogen.
Why a bother?
Brooke Twombley.
About my pecuniary position, don’t you know. You’ll hardly credit it, but I haven’t the least idea what pa intends to do for me.
Imogen.
But it doesn’t matter about that, so that you are deeply attached to each other.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
Oh, Imogen, that’s too ridiculous!
Brooke Twombley.
Quite absurd—what!
Imogen.
Besides, if you want money you can work.
Brooke Twombley.
Oh, it’s no good everybody working. It’s this stupid all-round desire to work that throws so many men out of employment. I’ll look for Valentine. [Imogen gives him her note.] He’s sure to be about. We’re going to shoot over Claigrossie Moor this morning. [He goes out.]
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
So you’ve made up your mind at last?
Imogen.
No; other people have made it up for me.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
Mamma?
Imogen.
Yes, Aunt Dora is the principal person who has rendered my life a burden to me.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
Imogen.
It’s true. Every hour of the livelong day Aunt Dora has goaded me on to this desirable, detestable match; even at night she has stalked into my room with a lighted candle, startling me out of my beauty sleep, to tell me she will never rest till I am Lady Macphail.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
Imogen, it’s too kind of mamma to take this interest in you.
Imogen.
Interest! It’s torture. And at last she threatened that if I married anybody else she would expire in great pain and appear to me constantly, a ghost, in her night-gown. Well, you’ve seen Aunt Dora in her night-gown—you can guess my feelings.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
And that decided you.
Imogen.
I went to mamma and asked her advice.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
I guess what that was.
Imogen.
Mamma’s expression was that she’d give the heels off her best shoes to see me provided for. And so, late last night, while my maid Phipps was washing my head, I gasped out a soapy sort of yes.
Dowager.
Where is Imogen?
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
Here, mamma.
Dowager.
[Embracing Imogen.] My favorite niece! I have just learned your decision over the breakfast-table. I was eating cold grouse at the moment; I thought I should have choked.
Imogen.
I hope you are satisfied, aunt.
Dowager.
Thoroughly. I feel now that I shall die, a great many years hence, a contented woman. Effie.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
Yes, mamma?
Dowager.
Don’t think you’re neglected, child. I cannot provide for everybody at once.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
No, mamma.
Dowager.
But having completely settled Imogen, I shall commence the adjustment of your future after lunch.
[Lady Macphail enters.]
Lady Macphail.
Dowager.
Dear Lady Macphail! What glorious news!
Lady Macphail.
[Rapturously, with her hand upraised.] Now let the worn banner of the Macphail be run up on the crumbling tower of Castle Ballocheevin!
Dowager.
Certainly—by all means.
Lady Macphail.
Now let the roar of the pipes startle the eaglets on the summit of black Ben-Muchty!
Dowager.
I hope such arrangements will be made.
Lady Macphail.
Let the shriek of the wild birds resound on the shores of Loch-na-Doich!
Dowager.
[Bringing Imogen forward.] But you haven’t seen Imogen yet.
Lady Macphail.
[Embracing her.] Child! Ah, when Colin learns your answer to his suit you shall listen to such words as none but a Macphail can utter to his betrothed.
Dowager.
Lady Macphail.
Not yet. He went out early to watch the sun gild the gray peak of Ben-Auchter.
[Lady Twombley enters, looking very troubled.]
Imogen.
Mamma. [Lady Macphail, the Dowager, and Lady Euphemia talk together.] Mamma, everybody has congratulated me. Have you nothing to say?
[Lady Twombley places her hand fondly on Imogen’s head.]
Lady Twombley.
[In a sepulchral voice.] Did Phipps dry your head thoroughly last night?
Imogen.
Yes, mamma.
Lady Twombley.
Then all’s well, I suppose. [Sir Julian’s flute is heard. To herself.] The first Bill—the first Bill due next week.
[She sits staring at the fire as Sir Julian enters, playing the flute.]
Imogen.
Papa.
Sir Julian Twombley.
Imogen, my dear, amidst severe official worries I must not omit to join in the general pæan of rejoicing.
Imogen.
Thank you, papa.
Sir Julian Twombley.
Sir Colin may lack that inexhaustible flow of anecdote with which I have often been credited.
Imogen.
He may, papa.
Sir Julian Twombley.
But I confess I respect a man who will sit for hours without saying anything. I wish there were more like him in the House.
Dowager.
Julian, let the newspapers have the details of Imogen’s engagement without delay.
Imogen.
Oh, no, aunt! Not yet.
Dowager.
Imogen, if I may use such an expression—fall-lall! Suffice it, I have a motive.
Imogen.
But why the papers?
Dowager.
It is our duty to our friends. Do you think if anything serious happened to me, my friends wouldn’t like to hear of it without delay? Julian! [Sir Julian writes.] Besides, it will be current talk at the dance to-morrow night.
Lady Macphail.
The dance! Aye! To-morrow night they shall see a Macphail lead the Strathspey with the girl who is to be his bride!
Imogen.
No, indeed they won’t!
Lady Macphail.
What!
Imogen.
I can’t make myself so supremely ridiculous.
Lady Macphail.
Ridiculous!
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
Oh, Imogen!
Dowager.
Imogen!
Lady Twombley.
Imogen!
Sir Julian Twombley.
My dear!
[Lady Macphail closes her eyes. Sir Julian and the Dowager take her hands.]
Sir Julian Twombley and Dowager.
My dear Lady Macphail!
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
Here is Sir Colin!
Dowager and Sir Julian Twombley.
Lady Macphail.
My boy!
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
Why, he is with Mrs. Gaylustre!
Sir Julian Twombley.
That woman!
Dowager.
That woman!
Lady Twombley.
That woman!
Imogen.
That woman!
[Macphail enters with Mrs. Gaylustre, he in Highland dress, she wearing a showy costume of tweed tartan with a Scotch bonnet.]
Lady Macphail.
Colin, lad!
Macphail.
Eh, mother?
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Dear Sir Colin gave me his arm to the top of Ben-Auchter.
Dowager and Lady Macphail.
To the top of Ben-Auchter!
Macphail.
[With an anxious glance at Mrs. Gaylustre.] Just to see the sun rise.
Dowager.
[Quietly to Sir Julian.] Julian, that’s scandalous!
Lady Macphail.
I thought you always witnessed the sun rise alone, Colin.
Macphail.
As a rule, mother.
Dowager.
[To herself.] That woman has a motive.
Lady Macphail.
[Pointing to Imogen.] My son, look—here is Imogen.
Macphail.
[To Imogen.] Good-morning.
Lady Macphail.
Colin, lad, don’t you guess?
Macphail.
No, mother.
Lady Macphail.
[Rapturously.] Now let the worn banner of the Macphail be run up on the crumbling tower of Castle Ballocheevin!
Macphail.
[Vacantly.] For what reason, mother?
Lady Macphail.
Now let the shriek of the wild birds sound on the shores of Loch-na-Doich!
Macphail.
Why?
Lady Macphail.
[Embracing Macphail.] Imogen is to be your bride.
Macphail.
[Blankly.] Oh!
[Sir Julian, the Dowager, and Lady Euphemia congratulate him.]
Sir Julian Twombley.
Most gratified!
Dowager.
I have a mother’s yearnings toward you.
Lady Euphemia Vibart.
We are too rejoiced!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
[To herself.] They’ve hooked him!
Lady Macphail.
[Bringing Macphail down.] Hush! Speak to her, Colin, lad. Let her hear how a Macphail greets the woman of his choice.
[Lady Macphail joins Sir Julian, the Dowager, and Lady Euphemia, while they all watch Macphail as he approaches Imogen.]
Lady Macphail.
Listen!
Macphail.
[To Imogen.] Er—I’m very much obliged to ye.
Lady Macphail.
Bravely spoken!
Dowager.
A grand nature!
Imogen.
Thank you, Sir Colin. [She joins the others.]
Mrs. Gaylustre.
[To Macphail, seizing his hand.] May your life be very, very blissful!
Macphail.
[Uneasily, withdrawing his hand.] Mother’s looking. [He joins the rest.]
Mrs. Gaylustre.
[To herself.] They’ve hooked my Scotch salmon; but they haven’t landed him yet! [Intercepting Lady Twombley as she advances towards the group.] Kate!
Lady Twombley.
Reptile!
Mrs. Gaylustre.
I’m not at all satisfied with the way things are going on here.
Lady Twombley.
Aren’t you? I think things are beautifully smooth.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
I’m pretty comfortable at Drumdurris myself, thank you; but I’m getting extremely anxious about Joseph.
Lady Twombley.
So am I.
Mrs. Gaylustre.
I’m afraid Joseph isn’t enjoying his little holiday at all. Did you observe him at dinner last night?
Lady Twombley.
Who could help it? The man eats enough for six.
Mrs. Gaylustre.