Chapters 3
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1 01 - Act 1 - The Family Skeleton 51:15
The Persons of the Play Mr. Poskett Magistrate of the Mulberry Street Police Court Read by Larry Wilson Agatha Poskard, read by Sonia. Cis Farringdon, her son, read by Thomas Peter. Charlotte Verinder, her sister, read by Leanne Yell. Colonel Lucan, read by Son of the Exiles. Captain Horace Fell, read by Nick Bolker. B.T. Tomlinson, read by Ava'i. Mr. Bullomy, Magistrate of the Mulberry Street Police Court, read by Alan Mapstone. Achille Blonde, read by Todd. Isidore, read by Vivian Weaver. Mr. Warmington, read by Vivian Weaver. Inspector Mezeter, Metropolitan Police, read by Tricia Gee. Sergeant Lug. Metropolitan Police. Constable Harris. Metropolitan Police. Sandra. Wyke, the butler. Read by Beth Thomas.
Popham. Read by Amy Deutschler. Stage directions. Read by Lynette Geisel.
The Magistrate. The First Act. The Family Skeleton. The scene represents a well-furnished drawing-room in the house of Mr. Poskett in Bloomsbury. Beatty Tomlinson, a pretty, simply-dressed little girl of about sixteen, is playing the piano as Sis Farringdon, a manly youth wearing an Eton jacket, enters the room. Beatty! Sis, dear, dinner isn't over, surely? Not quite. I had one of my convenient headaches and cleared out. Taking an apple and some cob-nuts from his pocket and giving them to Beattie. These are for you, dear, with my love. I sneaked them off the sidewalk as I came out. Oh! I mustn't take them. Yes, you may. It's my share of dessert. Besides, it's a horrid shame you don't grub with us.
What? A poor little music mistress? Yes. They're only going to give you four guineas a quarter. Fancy getting a girl like you for four guineas a quarter? Why, an eighth of you is worth more than that. Now peg away at your apple. Produces a cigarette. There's company at dinner, isn't there? Munching her apple. Well, hardly. Aunt Charlotte hasn't arrived yet, so there's only old Bullymy. Isn't old Bullymy anybody? Old Bullomy. Well, he's only like the governor, a police magistrate at the Mulberry Street Police Court. Oh! Does each police court have two magistrates? Sirs, proudly. All the best have two. Don't they quarrel over getting the interesting cases? I should. I don't know how they manage.
Perhaps they toss up who's to hear the big sensations. There's a Mrs. Beldum who is rather a bore sometimes. I know the governor always lets old Boulomere tend to her, but as a rule I fancy they go half and half in a friendly way. Lighting cigarette. For instance, if the governor wants to go to the derby, he lets old Boulomere have the oaks, and so on, see? He sits on the floor, comfortably reclining against Beattie, and puffing his cigarette. Oh, I say, sis, won't your mama be angry when she finds I haven't gone home? Oh, put it on to your pupil. Say I'm very backward. I think you are extremely forward. In some ways. Biting the apple and speaking with her mouth full.
I do wish I could get you to concentrate your attention on your music lessons.
But I wouldn't get you into a scrape. No fear of that. Ma is too proud of me. But there's your stepfather. The dear old governor. Why, he is too good-natured to say boo to a goose. You know, Beatty, I was at school at Brighton when Ma got married. When she got married the second time, I mean. And the governor and I didn't make each other's acquaintance till after the honeymoon. Oh! Fancy your stepfather blindly accepting such a responsibility. Gives him a cub-nut to crack for her. Yes, wasn't the governor soft? I might have been a very indifferent sort of young fellow for all he knew. Having cracked the nut with his teeth, he returns it to her. Thank you, dear. Well, when I heard that your dad was a police magistrate, I was scared.
Said I to myself, if I don't mind my P's and Q's, the governor, from force of habit, will find me all my pocket-money. But it's quite the reverse. He's the mildest. Meekest. The door opens suddenly. Look out! Someone coming. They both jump up, Beattie scattering the nuts that are in her lap all over the floor, Sis throwing his cigarette into the fireplace and sits at the piano, playing a simple exercise, very badly. Beattie stands behind him, counting. One and two and one and two. Wyke, the butler, appears at the door and mysteriously closes it after him. Ssss, Master Sis. Master Sis! Hello. What is it, Wyke? Wyke, producing a decanter from under his coat. The port wine you asked for, sir. I couldn't get away before.
The old gentlemen do hug the port wine so. Got a glass? Yes, sir. Producing wine-glass from his pocket and pouring out wine. What ain't missed ain't mourned, eh, Master Sis? Sis, offering wine. Here you are, Beatty dear. The idea of such a thing? I couldn't. Why not? If I merely sipped it, I shouldn't be able to give you your music lesson properly. Drink it yourself, you dear, thoughtful boy. I shan't. It's for you. I can't drink it. Mr. Brown. You must. I won't. Mr. Brown. Oh, you're disagreeable. Not half so disagreeable as you are. They wrangle. Wyke, to himself watching them. What a young gentleman it is, and only fourteen. Fourteen? He behaves like forty. Sis chokes as he is drinking the wine.
Beatty pats him on the back. Why, even Cook has made a ash of everything since he's been in the house, and as for Popham— Seeing someone approaching, Look out, Master Sis! Sis returned to the piano, Beattie counting as before, Wyke pretending to arrange the window curtains, concealing the decanter behind him. One and two, and one and two, and one and two, and— Enter Popham, a smart-looking maidservant. Wike, where's the port? Wike, vacantly. Port? Port wine. Mrs. is furious. Port? Popham, pointing to the decanter. Why, there! You're carrying it about with you. Why, so I am. Carrying it about with me. Shows what a sharp eye I keep on the governor's wines. Carrying it about with me, Mrs. will be amused.
There's that boy with her again, Minx. Her two hours was up long ago. Why doesn't she go home? Master Sis, I've got a message for you.
For me, Popham? Yes, sir. Quietly to him. The message is from a young lady, who up until last Wednesday was all in all to you. Her name is Emma Popham. Sis, trying to get away. Oh, go along, Popham. Popham, holding his sleeve. Ah, it wasn't go along, Popham, till that music girl came into the house. I will go along, but... Cast your eye over this before you sleep tonight. She takes out of her pocket handkerchief a piece of printed paper, which she hands him between her finger and thumb. Part of a story in Bow Bells called Jilted, or Could Blood Atone. Wrap it in your handkerchief. It came round the butter. She goes out. Sis throws the paper into the grate. Bother the girl. Beatty, she's jealous of you.
A parlour-maid jealous of me, and with a bit of a child of fourteen. I may be only fourteen, but I feel like a grown-up man. You're only sixteen. There's not much difference. And if you'll only wait for me, I'll soon catch you up and be as much a man as you are a woman. Will you wait for me, Beatty? I can't. I'm getting older every minute. Mr. Brown. Oh, I wish I could borrow five or six years from somebody. L. Brown. Many a person would be glad to lend them. Lovingly. And oh, I wish you could. Sis, putting his arm round her. Mr. Brown. You do? Why? Because I—because— Sis, listening. Look out. Here's a mater. They run to the piano. He resumes playing, and she counting as before. One and two, and one and two, and one and two.
Enter Agatha Poskett, a handsome, showy woman of about thirty-six, looking perhaps younger. Why, sis child, at your music again? Yes, ma'am, I always at it. You spoil my taste by forcing it if you're not careful. We have no right to keep Miss Tomlinson so late. Oh, thank you. It doesn't matter. I... I... I'm afraid we're not making very great progress. Sis, winking at Beatty. Well, if I play that again, will you kiss me? Beatty, demurely. I don't know. I'm sure. To Agatha Poskett. "'May I promise that, ma'am?' Sits in the window recess. Sis, joining her, puts his arm round her waist. "'No, certainly not,' to herself watching them. "'If I could only persuade Ineas to dismiss this protégé of his, and to engage a music-master, it would ease my conscience a little.
If this girl knew the truth, how indignant she would be. And then there is the injustice to the boy himself.' And to my husband's friends who are always petting and fondling and caressing what they call a fine little man of fourteen. Fourteen. Oh, what an idiot I have been to conceal my child's real age. Looking at the clock. Charlotte is late. I wish she would come. It will be a relief to worry her with my troubles. Mr. Poskett, talking outside. We smoke all over the house, ballamy. All over the house.
I will speak to Aeneas about this little girl at any rate. Enter Mr. Poskett, a mild gentleman of about fifty, smoking a cigarette, followed by Mr. Bulami, a fat, red-faced man with a bronchial cough and general huskiness. Smoke anywhere, Bulami. Smoke anywhere. Not with my bronchitis, thank ye. Mr. Poskett, beaming at Agatha Poskett. Ah, my darling. Mr. Bulamy, producing a small box from his waistcoat pocket. All I take after dinner is a jujube. Sometimes two. Offering the box. May I tempt Mrs. Poskett? No, thank you. Treading on one of the nuts which had been scattered over the room. How provoking! Who brings nuts into the drawing-room? Miss Tomlinson still here? Too beady. Don't go, don't go.
Glad to see Sis so fond of his music. Your sister Charlotte is behind her time, my darling. Her train is delayed, I suppose. You must stay and see my sister-in-law, Bolomy. Pleasure, pleasure. I have never met her yet. We will share first impressions. In the interim will Miss Tomlinson delight us with a little music. Mr. Bolomy, bustling up to the piano. If this young lady is going to sing, she might like one of my jujubes. Beattie sits at the piano with Sis and Mr. Bollamy on each side of her. Mr. Posket treads on a nut as he walks over to his wife. Dear me, how come nuts into the drawing-room? To Agatha. Of what is my darling thinking so deeply? Treads on another nut. Another. My pet, there are nuts on the drawing-room carpet.
Yes. I want to speak to you, Aeneas. About the nuts? No. About Miss Tomlinson, your little protégé. Ah, nice little thing. Very, but not old enough to exert any decided influence over the boy's musical future. Why not engage a master? What, for a mere child? A mere child? Oh! A boy of fourteen. Agatha Poskett, to herself. Fourteen. A boy of fourteen not yet out of Cerny's exercises. Agatha Poskett, to herself. If we were alone now, I might have the desperation to tell him all. Besides, my darling, you know the interest I take in Miss Tomlinson. She is one of the brightest little spots on my hobby horse. Like all our servants, like everybody in my employ. She has been brought to my notice through the unhappy medium of the police court over which it is my destiny to preside.
Our servant Wick is a man with a beautiful nature, is the son of a person I committed for trial for marrying three wives. To this day Wick is ignorant as to which of those three wives he is the son of. Cook was once a notorious dipsomaniac, and has even now not entirely freed herself from early influences. Popham is the unclaimed charge of a convicted baby farmer. Even our milkman came before me as a man who had refused to submit specimens to the analytic inspector. And this poor child, what is she? Yes, I know. The daughter of a superannuated general who abstracted four silk umbrellas from the army and navy stores. And on a fine day, too. Beattie ceases playing. Very good, very good. Thank you, thank you.
Mr. Bollamy, to Mr. Poskett, coughing and laughing and popping a jujube into his mouth. My dear Poskett, I really must congratulate you on that boy of yours, your stepson. A most wonderful lad. So confoundedly advanced, too. Yes, isn't he, eh? Mr. Bollamy, confidentially. While the piano was going on just now, he told me one of the most humorous stories I've ever heard. Laughing heartily and panting, then taking another jujube.
Bless me! I don't know when I've taken so many jujubes. My dear Boulomy, my entire marriage is the greatest possible success. A little romantic, too. Pointing to Agatha Poskett. Beautiful woman. Very, very. I never committed a more stylish, elegant creature. Thank you, Bollamy. We met abroad at Spa when I was on my holiday. Wyke enters with tea tray, which he hands round. I shall go there next year. She lost her first husband about twelve months ago in India. He was an army contractor. Beattie, to Sis at the piano. I must go now. There's no excuse for staying any longer. Sis, to her, disconsolately. What to do shall I do? Mr. Poskett, pouring out milk. Dear me, this milk seems very poor. When he died, she came to England, placed her boy at a school in Brighton, and then moved about quietly from place to place, drinking.
Sips tea. Drinking? The waters. She's a little dyspeptic. Wyke goes out. We encountered each other at the Tour des Fontanes. By accident, I trod upon her dress. Good night, sis dear. Oh. Mr. Poskett, continuing to Mr. Bollamy. I apologize. We talked about the weather. We drank out of the same glass. Discovered that we both suffered from the same ailment, and the result is complete happiness. He bends over Agatha Poskett gallantly. Aeneas! He kisses her, then Sis kisses Beatty loudly. Mr. Poskett and Mr. Bollamy both listen puzzled. Echo? Suppose so. He kisses the back of his hand experimentally. Beattie kisses Sis. Yes. Curious. To Mr. Bollamy. A romantic story, isn't it? Good night, Mrs. Poskett.
I shall be here early tomorrow morning. I am afraid you are neglecting your other pupils. Oh, they're not so interesting as Sis. Master Farrington. Good night. Good night, dear. Beattie goes out quietly. Agatha Poskett joins Sis. Mr. Poskett to Mr. Bollamy. We were married abroad without consulting friends or relations on either side. That's how it is I have never seen my sister-in-law, Miss Verinder, who is coming from Shropshire to stay with us. She ought to— Wyke enters. Miss Verinder has come, ma'am. Here she is. Charlotte. Charlotte, a fine, handsome girl, enters, followed by Popham with hand luggage. Agatha Poskett kissing her. My dear Charlie.
Wyke goes out. Aggie, darling, aren't I late? There's a fog on the line. You could cut it with a knife. Scene, sis. Is that your boy? Yes. Good gracious! What is he doing in an Eton jacket at his age? Agatha Poskett softly to Charlotte. Hush! Don't say a word about my boy's age yet a while. Oh! Agatha Poskett, about to introduce Mr. Poskett. There is my husband. Charlotte mistaking Mr. Bollamy for him. Oh, how could she? To Mr. Bollamy, turning her cheek to him. I congratulate you. I suppose you ought to kiss me. No, no. Welcome to my house, Miss Verinder. Oh, I beg your pardon. How do you do? Mr. Bollamy to himself. Mrs. Poskett's an interfering woman. Mr. Poskett, pointing to Mr. Bollamy. Mr.
Bollamy. Mr. Bollamy, aggrieved, bows stiffly. Agatha Poskett to Charlotte. Come upstairs, dear. Will you have some tea? No, thank you, Pat. But I should like a glass of soda water. Soda water? Well, dear, you can put what you like at the bottom of it. Agatha Poskett and Charlotte go out, pompom following. Pompom to Sis. Give me back my bow bells when you've read it, you imp. Goes out. By Jove, Gov, isn't Aunt Charlotte a stunner? Seems a charming woman. Poskett's got the wrong one. That comes a-marrying without first seeing the ladies' relations. Come along, Gov. Let's have a gamble. Mr. Bullomy will join us. Opens the card table. Arranges chairs and candles. A gamble? Yes, the boy has taught me a new game called Fireworks.
His mother isn't aware that we play for money, of course, but we do. Ha ha ha! Who wins? He does now, but he says I shall win when I know the game better. What a boy he is! Isn't he a wonderful lad, and only fourteen, too? I'll tell you something else. Perhaps you had better not mention it to his mother. No, no, certainly not. He's invested a little money for me. What in? Not in. On. On Silicon for the Lincolnshire handicap. Silicon to win... And Butterscotch One-Two-Three. Good Lord! Yes, the dear boy said. Gov, it isn't fair that you should give me all the tips. I'll give you some. And so he did. He gave me silicon and Butterscotch. He'll manage it for you if you like. Plank it down, he calls it.
Mr. Bollamy, chuckling and choking.
Taking a jujube. This boy will ruin me in jujubes. All ready. Look sharp. Gough, let me a salve to start with. A salve to start with? They sit at the table. Agatha Poskett and Charlotte come into the room. We didn't think you would return so soon, my darling. Go on amusing yourselves, I insist. Only don't teach my sis to play cards.
Mr. Poskett to Mr. Bollamy.
Agatha Poskett to Charlotte. I am glad of this. We can tell each other our misery is undisturbed. Will you begin? Well, at last I am engaged to Captain Horace Vale. Oh, Charlie, I am so glad. Yes, so is he, he says. He proposed to me at the haunt ball. In the passage, Tuesday week. What did he say? He said, By Jove, I love you awfully. Well, and what did you say? Oh, I said, Well, if you're going to be as eloquent as all that, by Jove, I can't stand out. So we settled it, in the passage. He bars flirting till after we're married. That's my misery. What's yours, Aggie? Oh, something awful. Cheer up, Aggie. What is it? Well, Charlie, you know I lost my poor dear first husband at a very delicate age.
Well, you were five-and-thirty, dear. Yes, that's what I mean. Five-and-thirty is a very delicate age to find yourself single. You're neither one thing nor the other. You're not exactly a two-year-old, and you don't care to pull a handsome. However, I soon met Mr. Poskett at Spa. Bless him. And you nominated yourself for the matrimonial stakes. Mr. Farringdon's The Widow. By bereavement, out of mourning. Ten pounds extra. Yes, Charlie, and in less than a month I went triumphantly over the course. But, Charlie, dear, I didn't carry the fair weight for age, and that's my trouble. Oh, dear! Undervaluing Aeneas' love, In a moment of, I hope, not unjustifiable vanity, I took five years from my total, which made me thirty-one on my wedding morning.
Well, dear, many a misguided woman has done that before you. Yes, Charlie, but don't you see the consequences? It has thrown everything out. As I am now thirty-one, instead of thirty-six, as I ought to be, it stands to reason that I couldn't have been married twenty years ago, which I was. So I have had to fib in proportion. I see. Making your first marriage occur only fifteen years ago. Exactly. Well then, dear, why worry yourself further? Why, dear, don't you see? If I am only thirty-one now, my boy couldn't have been born nineteen years ago. And if he could, he oughtn't to have been, because on my own showing I wasn't married till four years later. Now you see the result. Which is, that that fine, strapping young gentleman over there is only fourteen.
Precisely. Isn't it awkward? And his moustache is becoming more and more obvious every day. What does the boy himself believe? He believes his mother, of course, as a boy should. As a prudent woman, I always kept him in ignorance of his age, in case of necessity. But it is terribly hard on the poor child, because his aims, instincts and ambitions are all so horribly in advance of his condition. His food, his books, his amusements are out of keeping with his palate, his brain and his disposition. And with all this suffering, his wretched mother has the remorseful consciousness of having shortened her offspring's life. Oh, come, you haven't quite done that. Yes, I have. Because if he lives to be a hundred, he must be buried at ninety-five.
That's true. Then there's another aspect. He's a great favorite with all our friends. Women friends especially. Even his little music mistress and the girl servants hug and kiss him because he's such an engaging boy. And I can't stop it. But it's very awful to see these innocent women fondling a young man of nineteen. The women don't know it. But they'd like to know it. I mean, they ought to know it. The other day I found my poor boy sitting on Lady Jenkins' lap, and in the presence of Sir George. I have no right to compromise Lady Jenkins in that way. And now, Charlie, you see the whirlpool in which I am struggling. If you can throw me a rope, pray do. What sort of a man is Mr. Poskett, Aggie?
The best creature in the world. He's a practical philanthropist. He's a police magistrate too, isn't he? Yes, but he pays out of his own pocket half the fines he inflicts. That's why he has had a reprimand from the Home Office for inflicting such light penalties. All our servants have graduated at Mulberry Street. Most of the pictures in the dining room are genuine constables. Take my advice. Tell him the whole story. Why dare not? Why? I should have to take such a backseat for the rest of my married life. The party at the card table breaks up. Mr. Bollamy grumpily. No, thank you. Not another minute. To Mr. Poskett. What is the use of talking about revenge, my dear Poskett, when I haven't a penny piece left to play with?
I'm in the same predicament. Sis, will you lend us some money, won't you, sis? Rather. No, thank ye. That boy is one too many for me. I've never met such a child. Good night, Mrs. Poskett. Treads on a nut. Confound the nuts. Going so early, sis to Mr. Poskett. I hate a bad loser, don't you, Gov? Show Mr. Bulimie downstairs, sis. Good night, Posket. Oh, I haven't a shilling left for my cabman. I'll pay the cab. No, thank you. I'll walk. Opening jujube box. Bah! Not even a jujube left. And on a foggy night, too. Arrgh! Goes out. Entering Wyke with four letters on salver. Sis to Wyke. Any for me? One, sir. Sis to himself. From his sheer blonde. Lucky the mate I didn't see it. Goes out. Wyke hands letters to Agatha Poskett, who takes two, then to Mr.
Poskett, who takes one. This is for you, Charlie. Already. Wyke goes out. Spare my blushes, dear. It's from Horace, Captain Vale. The dear wretch knew I was coming to you. Heyo! Will you excuse me? Certainly. Excuse me, please. Certainly, my dear. Certainly, my darling. Excuse me, won't you? Oh, certainly. Certainly, Aeneas. Simultaneously, they all open their letters and lean back and read. Agatha Poskett reading. Lady Jenkins is not feeling very well. If Captain Horace Vale stood before me at this moment, I'd slap his face. Charlotte! Charlotte reading. Dear Miss Verinda, your desperate flirtation with Major Bristow at the meet on Tuesday last, three days after our engagement, has just come to my knowledge.
Your letters and gifts, including the gold-headed hairpin given me at the Hauntball, shall be returned to-morrow. By Jove, all is over. Horace Vale. Oh, dear! Oh, Charlie, I'm so sorry. However, you can deny it. Charlotte, weeping. That's the worst of it. I can't. Mr. Poskett to Agatha Poskett. My darling, you will be delighted. A note from Colonel Lukin. Lukin? Lukin? I seem to know the name. An old schoolfellow of mine who went to India many years ago. He has just come home. I met him at the club last night and asked him to name an evening to dine with us. He accepts for tomorrow. Lukin. Lukin. Listen. Reading. It will be especially delightful to me, as I believe I am an old friend of your wife and of her first husband.
You may recall me to her recollection by reminding her that I am the Captain Lucan, who stood sponsor to her boy when he was christened at Baroda. Ah! My dear! I've twisted my foot. How do nuts come into the drawing-room? Charlotte, quietly to Agatha Poskett. Aggie? Agatha Poskett to Charlotte. The boy's godfather. When was the child christened? A month after he was born. They always are. Mr. Poskett, reading the letter again. This is very pleasant. Agatha Poskett to Mr. Poskett. Let me see the letter. I may recognize the handwriting. Mr. Poskett handing her the letter. Certainly, my pet. To himself. Awaken memories of Number One. That's the worst of marrying a widow. Somebody is always proving her previous convictions.
Agatha Poskett to Charlotte. Number 19A, Cork Street. Charlie. Put on your things and come with me. Agatha, you're mad! I'm going to shut this man's mouth before he comes into this house tomorrow. Wait till he comes. Yes, till he stalks in here with his... How do you do, Poskett? Haven't seen your wife since the year 66, by God, sir. Not I. Aeneas! My dear. Lady Jenkins, Adelaide, is very ill. She can't put her foot to the ground with neuralgia. Taking the letter from her pocket and giving it to him. Bless me. We have known each other for six long years. Only six weeks, my love. Weeks are years in close friendship. My place is by her side. Mr. Poskett reading the letter. Slightly indisposed, caught trifling cold at the dog show.
Where do you buy your handkerchiefs? And nothing about neuralgia or putting her foot to the ground here, my darling? No, but can't you read between the lines, Aeneas? That is the letter of a woman who is not at all well. All right, my darling, if you are bent upon going, I will accompany you. Certainly not, Aeneas. Charlotte insists on being my companion. We can keep each other warm in a closed cab. But can't I make a third? Don't be so forgetful, Aeneas. Don't you know that in a four-wheeled cab the fewer needs there are, the better? Agatha Poskett and Charlotte go out. Cis comes in hurriedly. What's the matter, Gav? Your mother and Miss Verinder are going out. Out of their minds? It's a horrid night.
Yes, but Lady Jenkins is ill. Oh? Is ma'am mentioned in the will? Good gracious, what a boy! No, sis, your mother is merely going to sit by Lady Jenkins' bedside, to hold her hand and to tell her where one goes to... to buy pocket-handkerchiefs. Mr. By Jove, the Major can't be home again till half-past twelve or one o'clock. Much later, if Lady Jenkins' condition is alarming. Mr. Hurray! He takes the watch out of Mr. Poskett's pocket. Just half past ten. Greenwich mean, eh, Gov? He puts the watch to his ear, pulling Mr. Poskett towards him by the chain. What an extraordinary lad. Sis returning watch. Thanks. They have to get from here to Camden Hill and back again. I'll tell White to get them the worst horse on the rank.
My dear child. Three-quarters of an hour's journey from here, at least. Twice three-quarters, one hour and a half, an hour with Lady Jenkins. When women get together, you know, Gov, they do talk. That's two hours and a half. Good. Gov, will you come with me? Go with you? Where? Hotel des Princes, Meek Street. A sharp, handsome decision, ten minutes. Meek Street. Hotel des Princes. Child, do you know what you're talking about? Rather. Look here, Gov. Honour-bright. No blab if I show you a letter. I won't promise anything. You won't? Do you know, Guff, you are doing a very unwise thing to check the confidence of a lad like me. Sis, my boy. Can you calculate the inestimable benefit it is to a youngster to have someone always at his elbow, someone older, wiser, and better off than himself?
Of course, sis, of course. I want you to make a companion of me. Then how the deuce can I do that if you won't come with me to Meek Street? Yes, but deceiving your mother. Deceiving the mater would be to tell her a crammer, a thing I hope were both of us much above. Good boy, good boy. Concealing the fact that we're going to have a bit of supper at the Hotel des Princes is doing my mother great kindness, because it would upset her considerably to know of the circumstances. You've been wrong, Guff, but we won't say anything more about that. Read the letter. Gives Mr. Poskett the letter. Mr. Poskett, reading in a dazed sort of way. Hotel des Princes, Meek Street. W. dear sir, unless you drop in and settle your arrears, I really cannot keep your room for you any longer.
Yours obediently, Achille Blonde, Cecil Farrington, Esquire. Good heavens! You have a room at the Hotel des Princes? A room? It's little better than a coop. You don't occupy it? But my friends do. When I was at Brighton, I was in with the best set. Hope I always shall be. I left Brighton. Nice hole I was in. You see, Gov, I didn't want my friends to make free with your house. Oh, didn't you? So I took a room at the Hotel des Princes. When I want to put a man up, he goes there. You see, Gov, it's you I've been considering more than myself. But you are a mere child. A fellow is just as old as he feels. I feel no end of a man. Hush! They're coming down. I'm off to tell Wike about the rickety four-wheeler.
Sis, Sis, your mother will discover I have been out. Oh, I forgot. You're married, aren't you? Married. So you are going to the club? But that's not the truth, sir. Yes, it is. We'll pop in at the club on our way, and you can give me a bitters. Good gracious, what a boy! Hotel des Princes, Meek Street. What shall I do? Tell his mother? Why, it would turn her hair gray. If I could only get a quiet word with this Mr. Achille Blonde, I could put a stop to everything. That is my best course not to lose a moment in rescuing the child from his boyish indiscretion. Yes, I must go with Sis to Meek Street. Enter Agatha Poskett and Charlotte, elegantly dressed. Have you sent for a cab, Ineas? Sis is looking after that.
Poor Sis. How late we keep him up. Sis comes in. Wike is gone for a cab, Ma dear. Thank you, sis darling. If you'll excuse me, I'll go to my room. I've another bad headache coming on. Agatha Poskett kissing him. Run along, my boy. Good night, Ma. Good night, Aunt Charlotte. Good night, sis. Agatha Poskett, to herself. I wish the cab would come. Agatha Poskett and Charlotte look out of the window. Sis at the door.
Good night, Goff. You've told the story, too, sir. You said you were going up to your room. So I am. To dress. You said you had a bad headache coming on. So I have, Goff. I always get a bad headache at the Hôtel de France. What a boy. Agatha Poskett, to herself, When will that cab come? My pet, the idea has struck me that, as you are going out, it would not be a bad notion for me to pop into my club. The club? You were there last night. I know, my darling. Many men look in at their clubs every night. A nice example for Sis, truly. I particularly desire that you should remain at home tonight, Aeneas. Mr. Poskett, to himself. Oh dear me. Charlotte, to Agatha Poskett. Why not let him go to the club, Agatha?
He might meet Colonel Lukin there. If Colonel Lukin is there, we shan't find him in Cork Street. Then we follow him to the club. Ladies never call at a club. Such things have been known. Wyke enters, Wyke grinning behind his hand. The cab is coming, ma'am. Coming? Why didn't you bring it with you? I walk quicker than the cab, ma'am. It's a good horse, slow, but very certain. We will come down. Wyke to himself. Just what the horse has done. To Agatha Poskett. Yes, ma'am. Wyke goes out. Good night, Aeneas. Mr. Poskett nervously. I wish you would allow me to go to the club, my pet. Aeneas, I am surprised at your obstinacy. It is so very different from my first husband. Really, Agatha, I am shocked.
I presume the late Mr. Farringdon occasionally used his clubs? Indian clubs. Indian clubs are good for the liver. London clubs are not. Good night. I'll see you to your cab, Agatha. No, thank you. Upon my word. Charlotte to Agatha Poskett. Why not? He would want to give the direction to the cabman. The first tiff. To Mr. Poskett. Good night, Mr. Poskett. Good night, Miss Verinder. Agatha Poskett to Mr. Poskett. Have you any message for Lady Jenkins? Confound Lady Jenkins. I will deliver your message in the presence of Sir George, who, I may remind you, is the permanent secretary at the home office. Agatha Poskett and Charlotte go out. Mr. Poskett paces up and down excitedly.
"'I'm not going to the club. I set a bad example to Sis. Ha! Ha! Ha! I am different from her first husband. Yes, I am. I'm alive for one thing. I—I—I—I'm dashed if I don't go out with the boy.'" Sis, putting his head in at the door, "'Kirsklyagov? All right.'" Enter sis in fashionable evening dress, carrying Mr. Poskett's overcoat and hat. Here are your hat and overcoat. Where on earth did you get that dress suit? Mum's a word, Gov. Brighton Taylor, six months credit. He promised to send in the bill to you so the mater won't know. Putting Mr. Poskett's hat on his head. By Jove, Gov, don't my tog show you up. I won't go. I won't go. I've never met such a boy before. Cis proceeds to help him with his overcoat.
Mind your arm, Gav. You've got your hand in the pocket. No, no, that's a tear in the lining. That's it. I forbid you to go out. Yes, Gav. And I forbid you to eat any of those deviled oysters we shall get at the Hotel des Princes. No, you're right. I am not right. Oh, I forgot. He pulls out a handful of loose money. I found this money in your desk, Gov. You had better take it out with you. You may want it. Here you are. Gold, silver, and coppers. He empties the money into Mr. Poskett's overcoat pocket. One last precaution, and then we're off. Goes to the writing table, and writes on a half-sheet of notepaper. I shall take a turn around the square. and then come home again. I will not be influenced by a mere child.
A man of my responsible position, a magistrate, supping slyly at the Hotel des Princes in Meek Street. That is horrible. Now, then, we'll creep downstairs quietly so as not to bring work from his pantry. Giving Mr. Poskett paper. You stick that up prominently while I blow out the candles. Sis blows out the candles on the piano. Mr. Poskett reading. Your master and Mr. Cecil Farringdon are going to bed. Don't disturb them. I will not be a partner to any written document. This is untrue. No, it isn't. We are going to bed when we come home. Make haste, Gov. Ah, what a boy. Pinning the paper onto the curtain. Sis. Turning down the lamp and watching Mr. Poskett. Hello, Cuff, hello. You're an old hand at this sort of game, are you?
How dare you? Sis, taking Mr. Poskett's arm. Now then, don't breathe. Mr. Poskett quite demoralized. Sis, sis, wait a minute, wait a minute. Hold up, Cuff. Wyke enters. Oh, bother. Wyke to Mr. Poskett. Going out, sir. Mr. Poskett, struggling to be articulate. No, yes, that is partially half round the square and possibly back again. To Sis. Oh, you bad boy. Wyke. coolly going up to the paper on curtains. "'Shall I take this down, Nasa?' Mr. Poskett, quietly, to Sis. "'I'm in an awful position. What am I to do?' "'Do as I do. Tip him.' "'What?' "'Tip him.' "'Oh, yes, yes. Where's my money?' Sis takes two coins out of Mr. Poskett's pocket and gives them to him without looking at them. Sis, to Mr.
Poskett. Give him that. Yes. And say, Wyke, you want a new umbrella? Buy a very good one. Your mistress has a latchkey, so go to bed. Wyke? Yes, sir? Mr. Poskett, giving him money. Go to bed. Buy a very good one. Your mistress has a latchkey, so you want a new umbrella. All right, sir. You can depend on me. Are you well muffled up, sir? Mind you take care of him, Master Sis. Sis, supporting Mr. Posket, Mr. Posket groaning softly. Capital, Garf, Capital. Are you hungry? Hungry? You're a wicked boy. I've told the falsehood. No, you haven't, Garf. He really does want a new umbrella. Does he, Sis? Does he? Thank heaven. They go out. Wyke, looking at money, throws the coins down in disgust. End of the first act.
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2 02 - Act 2 - It Leaves Its Cupboard 56:12
The second act. It leaves the cupboard. The scene is a supper room at the Hotel de Princes, Meek Street, with two doors. The one leading into an adjoining room, the other into a passage, and a window opening onto a balcony. Isidore, a French waiter, is showing in Sis and Mr. Poskett. Come on, Gav, come on. How are you, Isidore? I beg your pardon? I am quite well. And so are you. Thank you. I want a pretty little light supper for myself and my friend, Mr. Skinner. Mr. Skinner. Mr. Poskett to Sis. Skinner? Is someone else coming? No, no, you're Skinner. Oh. Mr. Skinner of the Stock Exchange, what have you ready? Isidore in an undertone to Sis. I beg your pardon. Very good. But Monsieur Blonde, he say to me, Isidore, listen now.
If Mr. Farringdon he come here, you say. I beg your pardon. You are a nice gentleman, but will you pay your little account when it is quite convenient, before you leave the house at once? Mr. Brown. Quite so. There is no difficulty about that. What's the bill? Isidore gives the bill. I beg your pardon. Eight pounds, four shillings. Mr. Brown. Phew! Here go my winnings from Aunt Boulomay and the Gove. Two pounds short. Turning to Mr. Poskett, who is carefully examining the scratches on the mirrors. Skinner? Skinner? Visitors evidently scratched their names on the mirrors. Dear me. Surely this is a spurious title. Lottie, Duchess of Fulham. How very curious. Skinner, got any money with you? Yes, sis, my boy.
Feels for his money. You always keep it in that pocket, Skinner. Mr. Poskett taking out money. Oh, yes. Sis takes two sovereigns from Mr. Poskett and gives the amount of his bill to Isidore, who goes to the sideboard to count out change. No putting the change to bed, Isidore. What's that? Putting the change to bed. Isidore will show you. To Isidore, who comes to them with the change and the bill on a plate. Is it all? Show Mr. Skinner how you put Silver to bed. Oh, Mr. Farringdon, I beg your pardon. No, no. It would be most instructive. Very good. Goes to the table, upon which he puts plate. Say I have to give you change, sixteen shillings. Certainly. Very good. Before I bring it to you, I slip a little half-crown under the bill.
So. Then I put what is left on the top of the bill, and I say, I beg your pardon, your change. You take it, you give me two shillings for myself, and all is right. Mr. Poskett, counting the silver on the bill with the end of his glasses. Yes, but suppose I count the silver. It is half a crown short. Then I say, I beg your pardon? How dare you say that? Then I do so. He pulls the bill from the plate. Then I say the bill is eight pounds four shillings. Handing the plate. Count again. Of course. It's all right now. Very good. Then you will give me five shillings for doubting me. Do it. Do it. Mr. Poskett, in a daze, giving him the five shillings. Like this? Yes, like that. Slipping the money into his pocket.
I beg your pardon, thank you. Handing Sis the rest of the change. Your change, Mr. Farringdon. Oh, I say, Isidore. Blonde, a fat middle-aged French hotel keeper, enters with a letter in his hand. Monsieur Blonde. Good evening, Mr. Farringdon. Isidore quietly to Blonde. The bill is all right. Good evening. Introducing Mr. Poskett. My friend, Mr. Harvey Skinner of the Stock Exchange. Very pleased to see you. To Sis. Are you going to enjoy yourselves? Rather. You usually eat in this room. But you don't mind giving it up for tonight, now do you? Oh, a sheil. Come, come, to please me. A cab has just brought a letter from an old customer of mine, a gentleman I haven't seen for over twenty years, who wants to sup with a friend in this room tonight.
It's quite true. Give Cis a letter. Cis reading to himself. 19 A. Cook Street. Dear Blonde, Fresh Or rather, stale from India. Want to sup with my friend, Captain Vale, tonight, at my old table in my old room. Must do this for Auld Lang Syne. Yours, Alexander Lukin. To Blonde. Oh, let him have it. Where will you put us? You shall have the best room in the house, the one next to this. This room, pa! Come with me. To Mr. Poskett. Have you known Mr. Faddington for a long time? No, no, not very long. Ah, he is a fine fellow, Mr. Farrington. Now, if you please, you can go through this door. Wheels Sofa away and unlocks the door. Sis to Mr. Poskett. You look better after a glass or two, Pomericuff.
No, no, Sis. Now, no champagne. No champagne? Not for my friend Harvey Skinner. Come, Gov. Dig me in the ribs. Like this. Digging him in the ribs. Chuck! Mr. Posket, shrinking. Oh, don't. And say, hey, go on, Gov. I can't. I can't. I don't know what it may mean. Sis, digging him in the ribs again. Go on. Chuck! What, like this? Returning the dig. Jack. That's it, that's it. You are doing it, Gov. Am I, Sis? Am I? Waving his arm. Hey. Hey. Hey. Ha ha ha! Come on, serve the supper, Shiel. Ah, he is a grand fellow, Mr. Faddingdon. Sis and Mr. Posket go into the other room. To Isidore. Replace the canapé. There is a sharp knock at the other door. Blonde follows Sus and Mr. Poskett into the other room, then locks the door on the inside.
Come in, please. Colonel Lucan and Captain Vale enter the room. Lucan is a portly, gray-haired, good-looking military man. Vale is pale-faced and heavy-eyed, while his manner is languid and dejected. This is the room. Come in, Vale. This is my old supper room. I haven't set foot here for over twenty years. By George, I hope to sup here for another twenty. Vail, dejectedly, Do you? And less than that, unless I am lucky enough to fall in some foreign set-to, I shall be in Council Green. Lucan, looking round the room sentimentally, Twenty years ago. Confound them! They've painted it! My people have eight shelves in the catacombs at Kensal Green. "'Nonsense, man, nonsense. You're a little low. Waiter, take our coats.' "'Don't check me, Lukin.
My shelf is fourth from the bottom.' "'You'll forget the number of your shelf before you're halfway through your oysters.' Vail, shaking his head, "'An oyster merely reminds me of my own particular shell.' Isidore begins to remove Vale's coat.
Don't, Lucan, don't. It's very good of you, but by Jove my heart is broken. Mind my flour, waiter. Confound you. He adjusts flour in his buttonhole. You have ordered supper, sir? Yes, on the back of my note to Mr. Blonde. Serve it at once. "'I beg your pardon, sir, at once.' He goes out. "'So you've been badly treated by a woman, eh, there?' "'Shockingly. Between man and man, a Miss Verinder, Charlotte.' Turning away. "'Excuse me, Lucan.' Produces a folded silk handkerchief, shakes it out, and gently blows his nose. Lucan, lighting a cigarette. "'Certainly, certainly. Does your great credit.' Pretty woman? Oh, lovely. A most magnificent set of teeth. All real, as far as I can ascertain. No. Fact.
Great loss. Have a cigarette. Vale, taking case from Lukan. Parachos? Yes. Was she full-grown? Vale, lighting his cigarette. Just perfection. She rides eight stone fifteen, and I have lost her, Lucan. Beautiful tobacco. What finished it? She gave a man a pair of worked slippers three days after our engagement. No. Fact. You remember Bristow? Gordon Bristow? Perfectly. Best fellow in the world. He wears them.
Will you begin with a light wine, or go right on to the champagne? By Jove, it's broken my heart, old fellow. I'll go right on to the champagne, please, Lucan. I shall make you my executor. Oh, you'll all leave me. Why don't they bring the supper? My heart has been broken like yours. It was broken first in Ireland in fifty-five. It was broken again in London in sixty-one. But in 1870, it was smashed in Calcutta by a married lady at that time. A married lady? Yes, my late wife. Talk about broken hearts, my boy, when you've won your lady, not when you've lost her. Enter Isidore with a tray of supper things. To supper. To Vale. Hungry? Vale mournfully. Very. Enter Blonde with an envelope. Colonel Lucan.
Ah, Blonde, how are you? Not a day older. What have you got there? Blonde quietly to Lucan in an undertone. Two ladies, Colonel. Downstairs in a cab. Must see you for a few minutes alone. Good gracious. Excuse me, Val. Takes the envelope from Blonde and opens it, reading the enclosed card. Mrs. Poskett? Mrs. Poskett? Mrs. Poskett entreats Colonel Loken to see her for five minutes upon a matter of urgent necessity, and free from observation. My, George, Poskett must feel in bed. I thought he looked seedy last night. To Blonde. Of course, of course, say I'll come down. It is raining outside. I had better ask them up. Do, do. I'll get Captain Vale to step into another room. Be quick. Tell them I am quite alone.
Yes, Colonel. Hurries out. Sis, in the next room, rattling glasses and calling. Waiter! Waiter! Waiter! Where the deuce are you? Coming, sir. Coming. I beg your pardon. Bustles out. My dear Vale, I am dreadfully sorry to bother you. Two ladies, one the wife of a very old friend of mine, have followed me here and want half a dozen words with me alone. I am in your hands. How can I manage it? Mr. Brown, my dear fellow, don't mention it. Let me go into another room. Thank you very much. You're so hungry, too. Where's the waiter? Confound him. He's gone. Mr. All right. I'll pop in here. He passes behind sofa and tries the door leading into the other room. Sis within. Mr. What do you want? Who's there?
Mr. Occupied. Never mind. I'll find my way somewhere. There is a knock. Vale draws back, blonde without. Colonel, are you alone? The ladies. Colonel One moment. "'Just take it, Vale. The ladies don't want to be seen. By George, I remember. There's a little balcony to that window. Step out for a few moments. Keep quiet. I shan't attain you. It's nothing important. Husband must have had a fit or something.' "'Oh, certainly.' "'Good fellow. Here's your hat.'" In his haste, he fetches his own hat. Blonde, outside knocking, "'Colonel! Colonel!' One moment. Giving his hat to Vale. Awfully sorry. You're so hungry, too. Vale puts on the hat, which is much too large for him. Ah, that's my hat. My dear Lucan, don't mention it.
Opening the window and going out, Lucan drawing the curtain over the recess. Just room for him to stand like a man in a sentry box. Come in, blonde. Blonde shows in Agatha and Charlotte, both wearing veils. Agatha Poskett agitated. Oh, Colonel Lucan. Precompose yourself. Pray, compose yourself. What will you think? That I am perfectly enchanted. Thank you. Pointing to Charlotte. My sister. Lucan and Charlotte bow. Be seated. Blonde. Keep the waiter out till I ring. That's all. The loud pattering of rain is heard. Yes, Colonel. Good gracious, Blonde. What's that? The rain outside. It is cats and dogs. Lucan horrified. By George, is it? To himself looking towards Window. Poor devil. To Blonde. There isn't any method of getting off that balcony, is there?
No, unless by getting on to it. What do you mean? It is not at all safe. Don't use it. Lucan stands horror-stricken. Blonde goes out. Heavy rain is heard. Lucan, after some nervous glances at the window, wiping perspiration from his forehead. I am honored, Mrs. Poskett, by this visit. Though for a moment, I can't imagine. Colonel Lukin, we drove to Cork Street to your lodgings, and there your servant told us that you were supping at the Hôtel des Princes with a friend. No one will be shown into this room while we are here. No, we shall not be disturbed. To himself. Good heavens! Suppose I never see him alive again. Agatha Poskett, sighing wearily.
I'm afraid you've come to tell me Poskett is ill. I... no. My husband is at home. A sharp gust of wind is heard with the rain. Lord forgive me, I've killed him. Colonel Lucan! Madam! Indeed, Mr. Poskett is at home. Lucan, glancing at the window. Is he? I wish we all were. Agatha Poskett, to herself. Sunstroke, evidently. Poor fellow. To Lucan. I assure you my husband is at home quite well, and by this time sleeping soundly. Sis and Mr. Poskett are heard laughing in the next room. Isidore within. You are too funny, gentlemen. I beg your pardon. Agatha Poskett, startled. What is that? In the next room. Raps at the door. Hush! Hush! Hush! Get it over, Aggie, and let us go home. I am so awfully hungry.
It is still bearing him. What's his weight? Surely he can't be over ten stone. Lord, how wet he is. Colonel Lucan, leaving the window sharply. Madam, command me. Colonel Lucan, we knew each other at Baroda twenty years ago. When I look at you, impossible. Ah, then you mustn't look at me. Equally impossible? Charlotte to herself. I feel quite out of this. You were at my little boy's christening. Lucan absently. Yes, yes, certainly. You remember what a fine little fellow he was. Lucan thoughtfully. Not a pound over ten stone. Colonel Lukin. I beg your pardon, yes. I was at the cursing of your boy. Agatha Pasquette to herself. One of the worst cases of sunstroke I have ever known. I remember the child very well.
Has he still got that absurd mug? Colonel Lukin. Madam. My child is, and always was. Perfect. You misunderstand me. I was his godfather. I gave him a silver cup. Oh, do excuse me. How did I become acquainted with such a vulgar expression? I don't know where I pick up my slang. It must be through loitering at shop windows.
Recompose yourself. I'll leave you for a moment. Going to the window. Agatha Poskett to Charlotte. How shall I begin, Charlie? Make a bold plunge, do. The odor of cooking here to a hungry woman is maddening. Vail softly opens the window and comes into the recess, but remains concealed by the curtain. Vail, to himself. This is too bad of Lucan. I'm wet to the skin and frightfully hungry. Who the deuce are these women? Colonel Lukin. "'Madam!' Agatha Poskett, impulsively laying her hand upon his arm. "'Friend of twenty years, I will be quite candid with you. You are going to dine with us to-morrow.' "'Madam, I will repay your candour as it deserves. I am.' "'My husband knows of your acquaintance with the circumstances of my first marriage.' I know what men are.
When the women leave the dinner table, men become retrospective. Now, tomorrow night, over dessert, I beg you not to give my husband dates. Eh? Keep anything like dates from him. Mustn't it stone fruit? No. I mean years, months, days. Dates connected with my marriage with Mr. Farringdon. Dear me, sole subject. I will be more than candid with you. My present husband, having a very short vacation in the discharge of his public duties, wooed me but for three weeks. You, who have in your time courted and married, know the material of which that happy period is made up. The future is all-engrossing to the man, the present's—I mean the present—a joyous dream to the woman. But in dealing with my past, I met with more than ordinary difficulties.
Don't see why. Late husband died a natural death. Wasn't stood on a balcony or anything. Colonel Lukin, you know I was six and thirty at the time of my recent marriage. You surprise me. You know it. Be frank, Lukin. Am I not six and thirty? You are? Very well, then. In a three weeks' engagement, how was it possible for me to deal with the various episodes of six-and-thirty years? The past may be pleasant, gold, and beautiful, but one may have too much of a good thing. Lucan to himself. I am in that position now. The man who was courting me was seeking relaxation from the discharge of multifarious responsibilities. How could I tax an already-wearied attention with the recital of the events of thirty-six years?
What did you do? Out of consideration for the man I loved, I sacrificed five years of happy girlhood, told him I was but one in thirty, that I had been married only fifteen years previously, that my boy was but fourteen. By George, madam. And am I to subscribe to all this? I only ask you to avoid the question of dates. But at a man's dinner table. You need not spoil a man's dinner. Not only a man's, but a woman's. Lukin. Lukin. Promise. Give me a second to think. Lukin, turning away, discovers Charlotte in the act of lifting the covers from the dishes. And inspecting the contents. Ah, deviled oysters. Oh. Drops dish cover with a crash and runs over to the table and speaks to Agatha Poskett. Don't go.
Pray look at them again. Wish I could persuade you to taste them. What am I to do? Shall I promise? Poor Poskett. If I don't promise, she'll cry and won't go home. The oysters are nearly cold. Cold. What must he be? Drawing aside the curtain, and not seeing Vale, he staggers back. Gone, and without a cry. Brave fellow, brave fellow. Colonel Lukin. Decay of stamina in the army? Pa! The young'uns are worthy of our best days. Colonel Lukin, will you promise? Promise? Anything, my dear madam, anything? Ah, thank you. May I ask you to see us to our cab? Certainly. Thank heaven they're going. Agatha Poskett to Charlotte. It's all right. Come along. Charlotte to Agatha Poskett. Oh, those oysters look so nice.
Lucan to himself. Stop in my trouble. I am forgetting even the commonest courtesy to these ladies. To Agatha Poskett. You have a long journey before you. I am sure your husband would not forgive me for letting you face such weather unprepared. Let me recommend an oyster or two, and a thimbleful of champagne. No, thank you, Colonel Lucan. To Agatha Poskett. Say yes! I'm starving! As you please. To himself. I knew they'd refuse. I've done my duty. Charlotte. To Agatha Poskett. I was in the train till seven o'clock. Wait till you're a bona fide traveller. Accept.
Colonel, the fact is my poor sister has been travelling all day, and is a little exhausted. Lucan horrified. You don't mean to say that you're going to give me the inestimable pleasure? Charlotte looks across at him, nodding and smiling. I am delighted. Charlotte sits hungrily at the table. Lucan fetches a bottle of champagne from the sideboard. Agatha Poskett to Charlotte. Charlotte, I am surprised. Charlotte to Agatha Poskett. Nonsense! The best people come here. Some of them have left their names on the mirrors.
This is much too bad of Lucan. What are they doing now? Lucan draws the cork. Confound it! They're having my supper. Lucan pours out wine. Why doesn't he give me something to eat? There is a clatter of knives and forks heard from the other room, then a burst of laughter from Sis. Agatha Poskett starting. Charlie! Hark! How strange! Very! This bread is beautiful! Sis is heard singing the chorus of a comic song boisterously. Don't you recognize that voice? Charlotte munching. The only voice I recognize is the voice of hunger. I am overwrought, I suppose. Lucan, with his head drooping, fetches the dish of oysters from the sideboard. Vale, behind the curtains. He has taken the oysters. I've seen him do it.
The oysters. Lucan sinks into his chair at the table and leans his head upon his hand. The two women look at each other. Charlotte to Agatha Poskett. Anything wrong? Sunstroke. Bad case. Oh, poor fellow. She gently lifts the corner of the dish, sniffs, then replaces cover. No plates? Ask for them. You ask. You're hungry. You're married. Comes better from you. Veil behind curtains. This silence is terrible, Agatha Poskett to Lucan.
Lucan, looking up suddenly, Eh? There are no plates. No plates? No plates? It's my fault. Pardon me. Where are the plates? Vale, still invisible, stretches out his hand through the curtain, takes up the plates, and presents them to Lucan. Who recoils.
He takes the plates, then grasps Vale's extended hand. I myself again. Going gaily to the table with the plates. My dear ladies, I blush. I positively blush. I am the worst host in the world. Vale to himself. By Jove, that's true. Not at all, not at all. Lucan, helping the ladies. I'll make amends by George. You may have noticed I've been confoundedly out of sorts. That's my temperament. Now up, now down. I've just taken a turn. Ha ha, oysters. Handing plate to Agatha Poskett. Thank you. I've passed many a happy hour in this room. The present is not the least happy. Charlotte, trying to attract his attention. Ahem. Ahem. Lucan, gazing up at the ceiling. My first visit to the Hotel des Princes was in the year...
the year... let me think. Charlotte, whispering to Agatha Poskett, Isn't he going to- Was it fifty-five? I'm not hungry. You're a dear. She was in fifty-five. I'm forgetful again. Pardon me. He hands plate of oysters to Charlotte, and is surprised to find her eating vigorously. Why, I thought I... To Agatha Poskett. My dear madam, a thousand apologies. He helps her, and then himself. Pah! They're cold! I say! You could skate on them! There's a dish of something else over here. He goes to the sideboard. Vale's hand is again stretched forth with the other covered dish. I say, Lucan. Lucan, taking the dish. Thanks, old fellow. He returns to the table and lifts the cover. "'Souls! They look tempting.
If there are only some lemons. Surely they are not so brutal as to have forgotten the lemons. Where are they?' He returns to the sideboard. Where are they? In an undertone to Vale. Have you seen any lemons? Pray think less of us, Colonel Lukin. Let me take care of you. You're very kind. I wish you would let me ring for some lemons. Vale's hand comes as before from behind the curtain to the sideboard, finds the dish of lemons, and holds it out at arm's length. Vale, in a whisper, Lemons! Agatha Poskett is helping Lucan. When suddenly Charlotte, with her fork in the air, leans back open-mouthed, staring wildly at Vale's arm extended with the dish. Charlotte, in terror. Agatha! Agatha! Charlotte!
What's the matter, Charlie? Agatha! You're ill, Charlotte. Surely you're not choking. Charlotte, pointing to the curtains. Look, look! Don't be alarmed, I— Who is that? What's that? I can explain. Don't condemn till you've heard. I—I—Damn it, sir, put those lemons down! He calls him sir? It must be a man. It is a man? I am not in a position to deny that. Really, Colonel Lukin? It is my friend, he—he— He's merely waiting for his supper. Your friend. To Charlotte. Come home, dear. Do, do hear me. To avoid the embarrassment of your encountering a stranger, he retreated to the balcony. To the balcony? You have shamefully compromised two trusting women, Colonel Lukin. I would have laid down my life rather than do so.
I did lay down my friend's life. He has overheard every confidential word I have spoken to you. Hear his explanation. Why the devil don't you corroborate me so? Vail, from behind the curtain. Certainly, I assure you, I heard next to nothing. Charlotte, grasping Agatha Poskett's arm. Oh, Agatha! I didn't come in till I was exceedingly wet. Lucan, to Agatha Poskett. You hear that? And when I did come in— Charlotte hysterically. Horace! I beg your pardon? It's Horace! Captain Vale! Charlotte! Miss Verinder! What are you doing here? What a fright you look! What am I doing here, Miss Verinder? Really, Lucan, your conduct calls for some little explanation. My conduct, sir? You make some paltry excuse to turn me out in the rain while you entertain a lady who you know has very recently broken my heart.
I didn't know anything of the kind. I told you, Colonel Lucan, this isn't the conduct of an officer and a gentleman. This isn't yours or mine? Mine. I mean yours. You are in the presence of ladies, sir. Take off my hat. Mr. Brown. I beg your pardon. I didn't know I had it on. He throws the hat away, and the two men exchange angry words. He's a very good-looking fellow. You don't see a man at his best when he's wet through. Agatha Poskett to Lucan. Colonel Lucan, do you ever intend to send for a cab? Mr. Brown. Certainly, madam. One moment. I have some personal explanation to exchange with Miss Verinder. Charlotte. The slippers. To Vale. I am quite ready, Captain Vale. Captain Vale. Thank you.
Colonel Lukan, will you oblige me by stepping out on that balcony? Certainly not, sir. Captain Vale. You're afraid of the wet, Colonel Lukan? You are no soldier. Colonel Lukan, you know better, sir. As a matter of fact, that balcony cannot bear a man like me. Which shows that inanimate objects have a great deal of common sense, sir. Mr. Brown. You didn't prove it in your own instance, Captain Vail. That's a verbal quibble, sir. They talk angrily. Agatha Poskett to Charlotte. It's frightfully late. Tell him to write to you. I must speak to him tonight. Life is too short for letters. Then he can telegraph. Halfpenny a word, and he is nothing but his pay. Very well, then. Lady Jenkins has a telephone.
I'll take you there to tea tomorrow. If he loves you, tell him to ring up 133-8091. You thoughtful angel! Mrs. Poskett, Miss Verinda, ahem, we— Colonel Lucan and myself— Captain Vale and I fear that we have been betrayed in a moment of— Natural irritation. Natural irritation into the atrocious improprietary of differing— Before ladies. Charming ladies. We beg your pardon. Lucan? Vale. They grasp hands. Mrs. Poskett, I am now going out to hail the cub. Pré-du. Mr. Varenda, the process will occupy five minutes. Vail, giving his hat to Lucan. Mr. Lucan, I return your kindness. My hat. Mr. Thank you, my boy. Lucan puts on Vail's hat, which is much too small for him. As he is going out, there is a knock at the door.
He opens it. Blonde is outside. Colonel, it is ten minutes past the time of closing. May I ask you to dismiss your party? Mr. Brown. Isn't this a free country? He goes out. Mr. Brown. Yes, you are free to go home, Colonel. I shall get into trouble. Following him out, Charlotte to Agatha Poskett. I'll have the first word. Really, Captain Vale, I'm surprised at you. Captain Vale. There was a happy time, Miss Verinder, when I might have been surprised at you. A few hours ago, it was, by Jove, all is over. Now I find you with a bosom friend enjoying deviled oysters. I beg your pardon. I find you enjoying deviled oysters. Horace Vale, you forget you forfeited the right to exercise any control over my diet.
One would think I had broken off our engagement. If you have not, who has? I have your letter saying all is over between us. Putting her handkerchief to her eyes. That letter will be stamped to-more at Somerset House. I know how to protect myself. Charlotte, can you explain your conduct with Gordon Bristow? I could if I chose. A young lady can explain anything. But he is showing your gift to our fellows all over the place. It was a debt of honour. He laid me a box of gloves to a pair of slippers about forked lightning for the regimental cup, and forked lightning went tender at the heel. I couldn't come to you with debts hanging over me. I'm too conscientious. By Jove, I've been a brute. Y-yes.
Can you forget I ever wrote that letter? That must be a question of time. She lays her head on his shoulder and then removes it. How damp you are! She puts her handkerchief upon his shoulder and replaces her head. She moves his arm gradually up and arranges it round her shoulder. If you went on anyhow every time I discharge an obligation, we should be most unhappy. I promise you I won't mention Bristow's slippers again. By Jove, I won't. There. Very well, then. If you do that, I'll give you my word I won't pay any debts before our marriage. My darling. About to embrace him, but remembering that he is wet. No, no. You are too damp. Isidore, outside. I beg your pardon. It is a quarter of an hour over our time.
Agatha Poskett has been sitting on the sofa. Suddenly she starts, listening intently. Mr. Poskett, outside. I know. I know. I'm going directly. I can get the boy away. Agatha Poskett, to herself. Aeneas! Sis, outside. All right, Gav, you finish your bottle. My boy! Isidore, outside. Gentlemen, come, come. Agatha Pasquett, to herself. Miserable deceiver! This, then, is the club, and the wretched man conspires to drag my boy down to his own awful level. What shall I do? I daren't make myself known here. I know. I'll hurry home, and if I reach there before Aeneas, which I shall do, I'll sit up for him. Lucan returns. Is the cab at the door? It is. Charlotte! Charlotte! Drawing her veil down. I'm ready, dear.
To veil. Married sisters are always a little thoughtless. Vail offering his arm. Permit me. Lucan offering his arm to Agatha Poskett. My dear madam. They are all four about to leave when Blonde enters hurriedly. Blonde, holding up his hand for silence. Hush! Hush! What's the matter? The police! All in a whisper. The police! The police! The police! Blonde quietly. The police are downstairs at the door! I told you so! Charlotte, clinging to Vale. Oh dear! Oh dear! Gracious powers! Keep quiet, please. They may be satisfied with Madame Blonde's assurances. I must put you in darkness. They can see the light here if they go round to the back. Blows out candles and turns down the other lights. Oh! Oh!
Keep quiet, please. My license is once marked already. Colonel Lucan, thank you for this. He goes out. Agatha Poskett, whimpering. "'Miserable man! What have you done? Are you criminals?' "'You haven't deserted or anything on my account, have you, Horace?' "'Hush, don't be alarmed. Our time has passed so agreeably that we have overstepped the prescribed hour for closing the hotel. That's all.' "'What can they do to us?' At the worst, take our names and addresses, and summon us for being here during prohibited hours. Oh! Charlotte, to Vale. Horace, can't you speak? By Jove, I very much regret this. Isidore enters. Well, well. I beg your pardon. The police have come in. The devil. To Agatha Poskett.
My dear lady. Don't faint at such a moment. Blonde enters quickly, carrying a rug. They are going all over the house. Hide!
There is a general commotion. They have put a man at the back. Keep away from the window. They are all bustling, and everybody is talking in whispers. Lucan places Agatha Poskett under the table, where she is concealed by the cover. He gets behind the overcoats hanging from the pegs. Vale and Charlotte crouch down behind Sofa. Thank you very much. I am going to put Isidore to bed on the sofa. That will explain the light which has just gone out. Isidore quietly places himself upon the sofa, blonde covering him with the rug. Thank you very much. He goes out. Agatha Poskett, in a stifled voice, Charlie! Charlie! Yes. Where are you? Here. Oh, where is Captain Vale? I think he's near me. By Jove, Charlotte, I am.
Colonel Lucan? Lucan, from behind the coats. Here, madam. Don't leave us. Madam, I am a soldier. Charlotte, to Vale. Oh, Horace, at such a moment, what a comfort we must be to each other! My dear Charlotte, it's incalculable. Isidore gently raises himself and looks over the back of Sofa. Charlotte, in terror, Isidore softly, I beg your pardon. Blonde enters quietly, followed by Sis and Mr. Poskett on tiptoe. Mr. Poskett holding on to Sis. This way. Be quick. Excuse me. The police are just entering the room in which these gentlemen were having supper. One of them is anxious not to be asked any questions. Pleased to hide him and his friends somewhere. They are both very nice gentlemen. He goes out, leaving Sis and Mr.
Poskett. Sis, Sis, advise me, my boy. Advise me. It's all right, Gough, it's all right. Get behind something. Agatha Poskett peeps from under the tablecloth. Aeneas and my child. Mr. Poskett and Sis wander about, looking for hiding places. Vale to Sis. Go away. Oh. Lucan to Mr. Poskett, who is fumbling at the coats. No, no. Blonde, popping his head in. The police! Coming! Sis disappears behind the window curtain. Mr. Poskett dives under the table. Oh! Mr. Poskett to Agatha Poskett, and whisper, I beg your pardon. I think I am addressing a lady. I am entirely the victim of circumstances. Accept my apologies for this apparent intrusion. No answer. Madam, I applaud your reticence, though any statement made under the present circumstances would not be used against you.
Ah, where is that boy? Oh, madam, it may be acute nervousness on your part, but you are certainly pitching my arm. There is the sound of heavy feet outside. Then Meseter, a gruff matter-of-fact inspector of police, enters, followed by Harris, a constable, and a keely blonde. You need not trouble yourself. Take my word for it. No trouble, Mr. Blonde, thank you. Candles blown out lately. This is where the light was. Perhaps. My servant Isidore sleeps here. He has only just gone to bed. Oh. Taking a bull's-eye lantern from Harris and throwing the light on Isidore, who is apparently sleeping soundly. Dead tired, I suppose? I suppose so. Meseter, slightly turning down the covering. He sleeps in his clothes?
Oh, yes. Always? Always. It is the room of the hotel. Oh, why's that? To be ready for the morning. All right, all right. Throwing the rug and blanket aside. Isidore, go downstairs and give your full name and particulars to Sergeant Jarvis. Isidore, rising instantly. Yes, sir. Very good. Blonde, to Isidore. Why do you wake up so soon? Devil take you! I beg your pardon. He goes out. What is underneath that window, Mr. Blonde? The skylight over the kitchen. Devil take it. Thank you. You can go down to the sergeant now, Mr. Blonde. With pleasure. Devil take me. He goes out. Now then, Harris. Yes, sir? Keep perfectly still and hold your breath as long as you can. Hold my breath, sir? Yes. I want to hear how many people are breathing in this room.
Are you ready? Yes, sir. Go. Harris stands still, tightly compressing his lips. Meseter quickly examines his face by the light of the lantern, then walks round the room, listening and nodding his head with satisfaction as he passes the various hiding places. Harris writhes in agony. In the end, he gives it up and breathes heavily. Harris? Harris, exhausted. Yes, sir? You're breathing. Oh, Lord, yes, sir. You'll report yourself tonight. I held on till I nearly went off, sir. Meseter, giving him the bull's-eye. Don't argue, but light up. There are half a dozen people concealed in this room. There is a cry from the women. Charlotte and Vale rise. Lucan steps from behind the coats. I thought so. As Meseter turns, Agatha Poskett and Mr.
Poskett rise. Sis comes quickly, catching hold of Mr. Poskett, and drags him across to the window. Sis to Mr. Poskett. Come on, Gov, come on! They disappear through the curtain as Harris turns up the lights. Then there is a cry and the sound of a crash. They're killed! Meseter looks through the window. No, they're not. They've gone into the kitchen and the balcony with them. Look sharp, Harris. Harris goes out quickly. Lucan to Messeter. I shall report you for the star. Messeter, taking out his notebook. Very sorry, sir. It's my duty. D'yote, sir. Coming your confounded detective tricks on ladies and gentlemen. How dare you make ladies and gentlemen suspend their breathing till they nearly have apoplexy?
Do you know I'm a short-necked man, sir? I didn't want you to leave off breathing, sir. I wanted you to breathe louder. Your name and address, sir.
Army gentlemen, sir? How do you know that? Short style of speaking, sir. Army gentlemen run a bit bruskish when on in years. Alexander Lucan, Colonel, Her Majesty's Cheshire Light Infantry, late 41st Fort 3rd Battalion, Bengal, retired. Meseter writing. Hotel or club, Colonel? Neither. 19A Cork Street, lodging. Meseter writing. Very nice part, Colonel. Thank you. Bah! Other gentlemen? Vail, with language, Hattor. Horace Edmund Chomley Clive Napier Vail. Captain Shropshire Fusiliers. Starks Hotel, Conduit Street. Meseter, writing. Retired, sir? No, confound you. Active. Thank you, Captain. Beg pardon. The—the ladies. Charlotte clings to Vail. Agatha Poskett to Lucan. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.
Luca to Agatha Poskett. All right, all right, trust me. To Meseter. Officer. Names and addresses, please. Officer, my good fellow, tell me now, um, at the present moment, what are you most in want of? These two ladies' names and addresses, please. Be quick, Colonel. Pointing to Agatha Poskett. That lady first. Christian names are, um, Alice Emmeline. Messager writing. Alice Emmeline. Surname? Um, Fitzgerald. 101 Wilton Strait, Peccadilla. Single lady? White. Very good, sir. Agatha Poskett to Lucan tearfully. Oh, thank you. Such a nice address, too. Meseter to Vale. Now, Captain, please, that lady. Vale, who has been reassuring Charlotte. Ha, ha! This lady is the other lady's sister. Single lady, sir?
Certainly. Meseter writing. Christian name, Captain? Uh, Harriet. Meseter, writing. Surname? McNamara. Meseter, with a grim smile. Quite so. Lives with her sister, of course, sir? Of course. Where at, sir? Albert Mansions, Victoria Street. Charlotte to Vale. Oh, thank you. I always fancied that spot. Very much obliged, gentlemen. Lucan, who has listened to Vale's answers in helpless horror. By George, well out of it. Charlotte totters across to Agatha Poskett, who embraces her. Lucan, taking down the overcoats and throwing one to Vale. Vale, your coat! Harris enters. Harris to Mezeter. Very sorry, sir. The two other gentlemen got clean off through the Beck's gallery door. Old hands to all appearance.
Agatha Poskett to herself. My boy. Saved. Lucan to Harris, who stands before the door. Constable, get out of the way. Harris. Harris without moving. Yes, sir? You will leave the hotel with these ladies, and not lose sight of them till you've ascertained what their names are and where they do live. What? What? Oh! Oh! Your own fault, gentlemen. It's my duty. And it is my duty to save these hopeless women from the protecting laws of my confounded country. Vale! Vale, putting his coat on the sofa. Active. Lucan to Harris. Let these ladies pass. He takes Harris by the collar and flings him over to Vale, who throws him over towards the ladies, who push him away. Meseter puts a whistle to his mouth and blows.
There is an immediate answer from without. More of your fellows outside? Yes, sir, at your service. Very sorry, gentlemen, but you and your party are in my custody. What? What? Oh! Oh! For assaulting this man in the execution of his duty. You'll dare to lock us up all night? It's one o'clock now, Colonel. You'll come on first thing in the morning. Come on? At what court? Mulberry Street. Ah! The Magistrate! Mr. Poskett, Mum.
Agatha Poskett sinks into a chair. Charlotte at her feet. Lucan, overcome, falls on Vale's shoulders.
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3 03 - Act 3 - It Crumbles 1:01:15
The third act. It crumbles. The first scene is the magistrate's room at Mulberry Street Police Court, with a doorway covered by curtains, leading directly into the court, and a door opening into a passage. It is the morning after the events of the last act. Police Sergeant Lug, a middle-aged man with a slight country dialect, enters with the Times newspaper, and proceeds to cut it and glance at its contents while he hums a song. Mr. Warmington, an elderly, trimmed, precise man, enters. Good morning, Lou. Morning, Mr. Warmington. Mr. Poskett not arrived yet? Not yet, sir. Hello. Reading. Raid on a West End hotel, at an early hour this morning. Yes, I've read that. A case of assault upon the police.
Why, these must be the folks who've been so precious rampageous all night. Very likely. Yes, sir. Protesting and protesting until they protested everybody's sleep away. Nice-looking women, too. Though, as I tell Mrs. Lug, nowadays there's no telling who's the lady and who isn't. Who's got this job, sir? Inspector Messiter. Messiter? That's luck. Why, he's the worst elocutionist in the force, sir. As he arranges the newspaper upon the table, he catches sight of Mr. Wormington's necktie, which is bright red. Well, I—excuse me, Mr. Wormington, but all the years I've had the honour of knowing you, sir, I've never seen you wear a necktie with, so to speak, a dash of colour in it. Well, Lug, no, that's true, but today is an exceptional occasion with me.
It is, in fact, the twenty-fifth anniversary of my marriage, and I thought it due to Mrs. Warmington to vary, in some slight degree, the somberness of my attire. I confess I am a little uneasy, in case Mr. Poskett should consider it at all disrespectful to the court. Not he, sir. I don't know. Mr. Poskett is punctiliousness, itself in dress, and his cravettes invariably block. However, it is not every man who has a silver wedding day. It's not every one who wants one, sir. Mr. Warmington goes out. At the same moment Mr. Poskett answers quickly, and leans on his chair as if exhausted. His appearance is extremely wretched. He is still in evening dress, but his clothes are muddy, and his linen soiled and crumpled, while across the bridge of his nose he has a small strip of black plaster.
Mr. Poskett faintly. Good morning, Lug. Good morning to you, sir. Regretting the liberty I'm taking, sir, I've seen you look more strong and hearty. I am fairly well, thank you, Lug. My night was rather—ah, rather disturbed. Lug? Sir? Have any inquiries been made about me this morning? Any messenger from Mrs. Poskett, for instance, to ask how I am? No, sir. Oh! My child, my stepson, young Mr. Farrington. Has not called, has he? No, sir. Mr. Poskett, to himself. Where can that boy be? To Lug. Thank you. That's all. Lug, who has been eyeing Mr. Poskett with astonishment, goes to the door, and then touches the bridge of his nose. Nusty-cut while shaving, sir. Lug goes out. Where can that boy have got to?
If I could only remember how, when, and where we parted. I think it was at Kilburn. Let me think. First the kitchen. Putting his hand to his side, as if severely bruised. Oh, sis was all right, because I fell underneath. I felt it was my duty to do so. Then what occurred? A dark room, redolent of onions and cabbages and paraffin oil, and Sis dragging me over the stone floor, saying—'We're in the scullery, Gove. Let's try and find the tradesman's door. Next—the night air. Oh, how refreshing. Sis, my boy, We will both learn a lesson from tonight. Never deceive. Where are we? In Argyle Street? Look out, Gov. They're after us. Then—then as Cis remarked when we were getting over the railings of Portman Square—then the fun began.
We over into the square. They after us. Over again into Baker Street, down Baker Street. Curious recollections while running of my first visit, as a happy child to Madame Tussauds, and wondering whether her removal had affected my fortunes. Come on, Gove. You're getting blown. Where are we? Park Road. What am I doing? Ah, getting up out of a puddle. St. John's Wood, the cricket ground. I say, Gov, what a run this would be at Lord's, wouldn't it? And no fear of being run out, either. More fear of being run in.
What road is this, sis? My de Vail, oh, good gracious! A pious aunt of mine once lived in Hamilton Terrace, She never thought I should come to this. Gov? Yes, my boy? Let's get this kind-hearted coffee-stall keeper to hide us. We apply. Will you assist two unfortunate gentlemen? No, blo'd if I will. Why not? Cause I'm a-goin to join in the chase after you. Ha! Off again, along my de Vell. On, on, heaven knows how or where, till at last no sound of pursuit, no siss, no breath, and the early Kilburn buses starting to town. Then I come back again, and not much too soon for the court. Going to the washstand, and looking into the little mirror with a low groan. Oh, how! Shockingly awful I look, and how stiff and sore I feel.
Taking off his coat and hanging it on a peg, then washing his hands. What a weak and double-faced creature to be a magistrate. Ah, I really ought to get some member of Parliament to ask a question about me and the House. Where's the soap? I shall put five pounds in costs into the poor's box tomorrow, but I deserve a most severe caution, and perhaps I shall get that from Agatha. He takes off his white necktie, rolls it up, and crams it into his pocket. When Wormington arrives, I will borrow some money and send out for a black cravat. All my pocket money is in my overcoat at the Hotel des Princes. If the police sees it there is some consolation in knowing that the money will never be returned to me."
There is a knock at the door. Come in. Lug enters. Your servant, Mr. Wynk, wants to see you, sir. Bring him in. Lug goes out. Wicke. From Agatha, from Agatha. Lug re-enters with Wyke. Ahem. Good morning, sir. Good morning, Wyke. Ahem. Is Master Farrington quite well? He hadn't arrived home when I left, sir. Oh, where is that boy? To Wyke. How's your mistress this morning, Wyke? Very well, I hope so. She ain't come home yet, either. Not returned? Nor Miss Verinder? No, sir. Neither of them. Mr. Poskett, to himself. Lady Jenkins is worse. They are still nursing her. Good women. True women. Wyke, to himself. That's eased his deceiving old mind. Mr. Poskett, to himself. Now, if the servants don't betray me, and Cis returned safely, the worst is over.
To what a depth I have fallen when I rejoice at Lady Jenkins' indisposition. Cook thought you ought to know that the mistress hadn't come home, sir. Certainly. Take a cab at once to Campton Hill, and bring me back word how poor Lady Jenkins is. Tell Mrs. Poskett I will come on the moment the court rises. Yes, sir. And Wick. It is not at all necessary that Mrs. Poskett should know of my absence with Master Farringdon from home last night. Mrs. Poskett's present anxieties are more than sufficient. Inform Cook and Popham and the other servants that I shall recognize their discretion in the same spirit I have already displayed towards you. Wyke, with sarcasm. Thank you, sir. I will. He produces from his waistcoat pocket a small packet of money done up in newspaper, which he throws down upon the table.
Meanwhile, sir, I thought you would like to count up the little present of money you gave me last night, and, in case you thought you'd been over-liberal, sir, you might halve the amount. It isn't no good spoiling of us all, sir. Lug enters. You are an excellent servant, Wick. I am very pleased. I will see you when you return from Lady Jenkins. Be quick. Yes, sir. To himself. He won't give me tuppence again in a hurry. He goes out. Lug is about to follow. Oh, Lug, I want you to go to the nearest Hosiers and purchase me a neat cravat. Lug looking inquisitively at Mr. Poskett. A necktie, sir? Yes. Turning up his coat collar to shield himself from Lug's gaze. A necktie, a necktie. What sort of a kind of one, sir?
Oh, one like Mr. Wormington's. One like he's wearing this morning, sir? Of course, of course, of course. Lug to himself. Fancy him being jealous of Mr. Wormington now. Very good, sir. What price, sir? The best. To himself. Ah, there now. I've no money. Seeing the packet on table. Oh, pay for it with this, Lug. Yes, sir. And keep the change for your trouble. Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir. Very much obliged to you, sir. To himself. That's like a liberal gentleman. Lug goes out as Mr. Warmington enters through the curtains with a charge sheet in his hand. Mr. Warmington, unseeing Mr. Poskett, uneasily tucks his pocket handkerchief in his collar so as to hide his necktie. Hmm. Good morning. Good morning, Warmington.
The charge sheet. Sit down. Mr. Warmington puts on his spectacles. Mr. Poskett also attempts to put on his spectacles, but hurts the bridge of his nose, winces, and desists. Mr. Poskett, to himself, My nose is extremely painful.
To Mr. Warmington. You have a bad cold, I'm afraid, Warmington. Bronchio? Um, well, uh, the fact is, you may have noticed how very chilly the nights are. Very, very. The only way to maintain the circulation is to run as fast as one can. To run as fast as one can? Yes, quite so. Mr. Warmington, to himself, looking at Mr. Poskett's shirt front. How very extraordinary. He is wearing no crawlet whatever. Mr. Poskett buttoning up his coat to avoid Mr. Warmington's gaze. Anything important this morning? Nothing particular. After the first charge, a serious business arising out of the raid on the Hotel des Princeses. Mr. Poskett starting. Hotel des Princeses? Inspector Massateur found six persons. Supping there at one o'clock this morning, two contrived to escape.
Dear me, I am surprised. I mean, did they? But they left their overcoats behind them, and it is believed they will be triced. Oh, do you think it is worthwhile? The police have a great deal to occupy them just now. But surely if the police see their way to capture anybody, we had better raise no obstacle. No, no, quite so. Never struck me. Mr. Warmington, referring to charge sheet. The remaining four it was found necessary to take into custody. Good gracious! What a good job the other two didn't wait. I beg your pardon. I mean, you say we have four? Yes, on the charge of obstructing the police. The first assault occurred in the supper room, the second in the four-wheeled cab on the way to the station.
There were five persons in the cab at the time, the two women, the two men, and the inspector. Dear me, it must have been a very complicated assault. Who are the unfortunate people? The men are of some position.
Lucan, I... I... know Colonel Lucan. We are old school fellows. Very sad. Reading. The other is Horace, etc., etc., Vale, Captain Shropshire Fusiliers. And the ladies? Call themselves Alice Emmeline Fitzgerald and Harriet McNamara. Mr. Poskett, to himself. Which is the lady who is under the table with me? They are not recognized by the police at present, but they furnish incorrect addresses, and their demeanor is generally violent and unsatisfactory. Mr. Poskett, to himself. Who pinched me? Alice or Harriet? I mention this case because it seems to be one calling for most stringent measures. Wouldn't a fine and severe warning from the bench to the two persons who have got away? I think not. Consider Mr.
Poskett not only defying the licensing laws, but obstructing the police. That's true. It is hard when the police are doing anything that they should be obstructed. Lug enters. Lug, attempting to conceal some annoyance, Mr. Warmington to himself, Then he came without one. Dear me. Lug, clapping down a paper parcel on the table. As near like Mr. Wormington's as possible. Brighter, if anything. Mr. Poskett Opening the parcel and finding a very common, gaudy handkerchief. Good gracious! What a horrible affair! According to my information, sir. Like Mr. Warmington's. Mr. Warmington would never be seen in such an abominable color. Well, really, I... Removing the handkerchief from his throat. I am extremely sorry.
My dear Wormington. I happen to be wearing something similar the first time for five and twenty years. Oh, I beg your pardon. To himself.
Everything seems to be against me. What a nine it come to, sir. Producing the paper packet of money and laying it upon the table. And I brought back all the money you gave me, thinking you'd like to look over it quietly. Really, sir, I never showed up smaller in any shop in all my life. Mr. Brown. Upon my word, first one, and then another. What is wrong with the money? Opens the packet. Mr. Tupence? To himself. Mr. Brown. That man, Wick, will tell all to Agatha. Oh, everything is against me. Lug has opened the door, taken a card from someone outside, and handed it to Mr. Warmington. From cell number three. Handing the card to Mr. Poskett. Mr. Poskett reading. Dear Poskett, for the love of goodness see me before the sitting of the court, Alexander Lucan.
Poor dear Lucan. What on earth shall I do? Such a course would be most unusual. Everything is unusual. Your cravat is unusual. The prisoner is invited to dine at my house today. That's peculiar. He is my wife's first husband's only child's godfather. That's a little out of the ordinary. The charge is so serious. But I am a man as well as a magistrate. Advise me. Wormington, advise me. Why, you can apply to yourself for permission to grant Colonel Lucan's request. Mr. Poskett, hastily scribbling on Lucan's card. I do, I do. And after much conflicting argument, I consent to see Colonel Lucan here immediately. Handing the card to Mr. Wormington, who passes it to Lug. who then goes out. Don't leave me, Wormington.
You must stand by to see that I remain calm, firm, and judicial. He hastily puts on the red necktie in an untidy manner. Poor Logan. I must sink the friend in the magistrate, and, in dealing with his errors, apply the scourge to myself. To Mr. Warmington. Warmington, tap me on the shoulder when I am inclined to be more than usually unusual. Mr. Warmington stands behind him, and Lug enters with Lucan. Lucan's dress clothes are much soiled and disordered, and he, too, has a small strip of plaster upon the bridge of his nose. There is a constrained pause. Lucan and Mr. Poskett both cough. Lucan, to himself. Poor Poskett. Mr. Poskett, to himself. Poor Lucan. Lucan, to himself. I suppose he's been sitting up for his wife all night, poor devil.
To Mr. Poskett. Ahem! How are you, Poskett? Mr. Warmington touches Mr. Poskett's shoulder. I regret to see you in this terrible position, Colonel Lucan. By George, old fellow, I regret to find myself in it. Sitting and taking up newspaper. I suppose they've got us in the Times, confound em'. While Lucan is reading the paper, Mr. Poskett and Mr. Warmington hold a hurried consultation, respecting Lucan's behavior.
To Lug. Sergeant, I think Colonel Lucan may be accommodated with a chair. He's in it, sir. Lucan, rising and putting down paper, beg your pardon. Forgot where I was. I suppose everything must be formal in this confounded place. I am afraid, Colonel Lucan, it will be necessary even here to preserve strictly our unfortunate relative positions. Lucan bows. Sit down. Lucan sits again. Posket takes up the charge sheet. Colonel Lucan, in addressing you now, I am speaking not as a man, but as an instrument of the law. As a man, I may or may not be a weak, vicious, despicable creature. Certainly, of course. But, as a magistrate, I am bound to say— You fill me with pain and astonishment. Quite right. Every man to his trade.
Go on, Poskett. Mr. Poskett, turning his chair to face Lucan. Alexander Lucan, when I look at you, when I look at you... He attempts to put on his spectacles. Ah, my nose. To Lucan. I say, when I look at you, Alexander Lukin, I confront a most mournful spectacle. A military officer, trained in the ways of discipline and smartness, now, in consequence of his own misdoings, lamentably bruised and battered, shamefully disfigured by plaster, with his apparel soiled and damaged. All terrible evidence of a conflict with that power of which I am the representative. Lucan turning his chair to face Mr. Poskett. Well, Poskett, if it comes to that, when I look at you, when I look at you... He attempts to fix his glass in his eye.
Confound my nose! To Mr. Poskett. When I look at you, you are not a very imposing object this morning. Lucan. You look as shaky as I do. And you're not quite innocent of court plaster? Lucan, really? And as for your attire, we neither of us look as if we've slipped out of a bound box. Don't, Lucan, don't. Pray respect my legal status. Mr. Warmington leads Mr. Poskett, who has risen, back to his seat. Thank you, Warmington. Alexander, Lucan, I have spoken. It remains for you to state your motive in seeking this painful interview. Certainly. You know, of course, that I am not alone in this affair. Mr. Poskett, referring to charge sheet. Three persons appear to be charged with you. Yes, two others got away.
Cowards! If I ever find them, I'll destroy them. Lucan! I will. Another job for you, Poskett. Mr. Poskett, with dignity. I beg your pardon. In the event of such a deplorable occurrence, I should not occupy my present position. Go on, sir. Horace Vale and I are prepared to stand the brunt of our misdeeds, but, Poskett, there are ladies in this case. In the annals of Mulberry Street Police Court, such a circumstance is not unprecedented. Too helpless forlorn, ladies. Mr. Poskett, referring to Charge Sheet. Alice, Emmeline Fitzgerald, and Harriet McNamara. Oh, Lucan, Lucan! Oh, I ask no favour for myself or veil that I come to you, Poskett. Mr. Warmington touches Mr. Poskett's shoulder. Mr. Upon my word, Lucan, do you think I am to be undermined?
Mr. Undermine the devil, sir. Don't talk to me. Let these ladies go, I say. Don't bring them into court. Don't see their faces. Don't hear their voices. If you do, you'll regret it. Colonel Lucan. Lucan, leaning across the table and gripping Mr. Poskett by the shoulder. Poskett, do you know that one of these ladies is a married lady? Of course I don't, sir. I blush to hear it. And do you know that from the moment this married lady steps into your confounded court, The happiness, the contentment of a dating husband, becomes a confounded wreck and ruin. Then, sir, let it be my harrowing task to open the eyes of this foolish doting man to the treachery, the perfidy which nestles upon his very heartthrog.
Oh, Lord! Be careful, Poskett. By George, be careful. Alexander Lucan, you are my friend. Amongst the personal property taken from you when you entered these precincts may have been found a memorandum of engagement to dine at my house tonight, at a quarter to eight o'clock. But, Lukan, I solemnly prepare you. You stand in danger of being late for dinner. I go further. I am not sure, after this morning's proceedings, that Mrs. Poskett will be ready to receive you. I'm confoundedly certain she won't. Therefore, Lucan, as an English husband and father, it will be my duty to teach you and your disreputable companions Alice Emmeline Fitzgerald and Harriet McNamara some rudimentary notions of propriety and decorum.
Confound you, Poskett! Listen! I am listening, sir, to the gaudy voice of Mrs. Poskett, that newly-made wife still blushing from the embarrassment of her second marriage, and that voice says, Strike for the sanctity of hearth and home, for the credit of the wives of England. No mercy. It is time to go into court, sir. The charge against Colonel Lugan is first on the list. Pascot, I'll give you one last chance. If I write upon a scrap of paper the real names of these two unfortunate ladies, will you shut yourself up for a moment, away from observation, and read these names before you go into court? Certainly not, Colonel Lukan. I cannot be influenced by private information in dealing with an offense which is, in my opinion, as black as...
Mr. Warmington and Mr. Poskett look at each other's necktie and turn up their collars hastily. Lucan, to himself, to Mr. Poskett, Then, Poskett, you must have the plain truth where you stand by, George. These two ladies who are my companions in this affair are... Sergeant. Colonel Lucan will now join his party. Lug steps up to Lucan sharply. Lucan, boiling with indignation. What, sir? What? Lucan, I think we both have engagements. Will you excuse me? Poskett, you've gone too far. If you went down on your knees, which you appear to have been recently doing, and beg the names of these two ladies, you shouldn't have them. No, sir, by George, you shouldn't. Good morning, Colonel Lugan. You're the lectured mayor, poo-pooed mayor, snubbed mayor, a soldier, sir, a soldier.
But when I think of your dinner party tonight, with my empty char, like Banquo by George, sir, and the chief dish composed of a well-browned, well-basted family skeleton, served up under the best silver cover... I pity you, Poskett. Good morning. He marches out with Lug. Thank goodness that ordeal has passed. Now, Wormington, I think I am ready to face the duties of the day. Shall we go into court? Certainly, sir. Mr. Wormington gathers up papers from the table. Mr. Poskett, with a shaking hand, Pours out water from craft and drinks. My breakfast. To Mr. Warmington. I hope I defended the sanctity of the Englishman's hearth, Warmington. You did, indeed. As a married man, I thank you. Give me your arm, Warmington.
I am not very well this morning, and this interview with Colonel Lucan has shaken me. I think your coat collar has turned up, Warmington. So is yours, I fancy, sir.
They turn their collars down. Mr. Poskett takes Mr. Warmington's arm. They are going towards the curtains when Wyke enters hurriedly at the door. Excuse me, sir. Hush, hush. Mr. Poskett is just going into court. Lady Jenkins has sent me back to tell you that she hasn't seen the missus for the last week or more. Mrs. Poskett went to Campton Hill with Miss Verinder last night. They haven't arrived there, sir. Haven't arrived. No, sir. And even a slow four-wheeler won't account for that. Wormington, there's something wrong. Mrs. Poskett quitted a fairly happy home last night and has not been seen or heard of since. Pray don't be anxious, sir. The court is waiting. Ah, but I am anxious. Tell Sergeant Lug to look over the accident book.
This morning's hospital returns. List of missing children. Suspicious pledges people left chargeable to the parish. Attend to your window fastenings. I, I, Wormington, Mrs. Poskett and I disagreed last night. Don't think of it, sir. You should hear me and Mrs. Warmington. Pray do come into court. Court? I am totally unfit for business. Totally unfit for business. Mr. Warmington hurries him off through the curtains. Lug enters, almost breathless. We've got Charge One in the dock. All four of them. Seen Wyke. Hello. You back again? Yes. Seems so. They stand facing each other, dabbing their foreheads with their handkerchiefs. Phew! You seem warm. Phew! You don't seem so cool. I've been looking after two ladies.
So have I. I haven't found them. If I'd known, I'd have been pleased to lend you our two. From the other side of the curtains there is a sound of a shriek from Agatha Poskett and Charlotte. Hello! What's that? That is our two. Don't notice them. They're hystericals. They're mild now to what they have been. I say, old fellow, is your governor all right in his head? I suppose so. Why? I've a particular reason for asking. Does he ever tell you to buy him anything and keep the change? What do you mean? Well, does he ever come down handsome for your ex-ray exertion? Do you ever get any tips? Rather. What do you think he made me a present of last night? Don't know. Tuppence. To buy a new umbrella. Well, I'm blessed.
And he gave me the same sum to get him a silk necktie. In my opinion, he's got a softening of the brain. Another shriek from the two women, a cry from Mr. Posket, and then a hubbub are heard, running up to the curtains and looking through. Hello. What's wrong? Here! I told you so. He's broken out. He's broken out. Who's broken out? The lunatic! Keep back! I'm wanted! He goes through the curtains, Wyke looking after him. Look at the governor waving his arms and going on anyhow at the prisoners. Prisoners? Gracious goodness! It's the missus! Amid a confused sound of voices, Mr. Poskett is brought in, through the curtains, by Mr. Warmington. Lug follows. Warmington! Wormington, the two ladies! The two ladies!
I know them. It's all right, sir. It's all right. Don't be upset, sir. I'm not. Well, what shall I do? Nothing further, sir. What you have done is quite in form. What I have done? Yes, sir. You did precisely what I suggested. Took the words from me. They pleaded guilty. Guilty. Yes, sir, and you sentenced them. Sentenced them? The ladies? Yes, sir. You've given them seven days without the option of a fine. Mr. Poskett collapses into Mr. Warmington's arms.
The second scene. The scene changes to Mr. Poskett's drawing room, as in the first act. Beatty enters timidly, dressed in simple walking costume. How dreadfully early. Eleven o'clock, and I'm not supposed to come till four. I wonder why I want to instruct sis all day. I'm not nearly so enthusiastic about the two little girls I teach in Russell Square. Papa Minters. Her eyes are red as if from crying. Popham, drawing back on seeing Beattie. That music person again. I beg your pardon. I ain't got no instructions to prepare no drawing-room for no lessons till four o'clock. I wish to see Mrs. Poskett. She hasn't come home. Oh, then, uh, um, Master Farrington will do. He hasn't come home either. Oh, where is he?
No one knows. His wicked old stepfather took him out late last night and hasn't returned him. Such a night as it was, too, and him still wearing his summer under-vests. Mr. Poskett? Mr. Poskett? No, my sis! How dare you speak of Master Farrington in that familiar way? How dare I? Because me and Nim formed an attachment before ever you darkened our doors. Taking a folded, printed paper from her pocket. You may put down the iron eel too heavy, Miss Tomlinson. I refer you to Bow Bell's First Love is Best Love, or The Earl's Choice. As Popham offers the paper, Sis enters. Looking very pale, worn out, and disheveled. Oh! Oh! Sis, staggering to a chair. Where's the mater? Not home yet. Thank Jivany.
He's ill! Oh! Beattie, assisted by Popham, quickly wheels the large armchair forward. They catch hold of Sis and place him in it. He submits limply. Beattie, taking Sis's hand. What's the matter, Sis dear? Tell Beattie. Popham, taking his other hand. Well, I'm sure. Who's giving you raisins and ketchup from the store cupboard? Come back to Emma. Sis, with his eyes closed, gives a murmur. He's whispering. They both bob their heads down to listen. He says his head's a whirlin'. Put him on the sofa. They take off his boots, loosen his necktie, and dab his forehead with water out of a flower vase. I... I... I wish you two girls would leave off. He's speaking again. He hasn't had any breakfast. He's hungry.
Hungry? Why, I thought he looked thin. Wait a minute, dear. Emma Popham knows what her boy fancies. She runs out of the room. Oh, Beattie, hold my head while I ask you something. Yes, darling? No lady would marry a gentleman who had been a convict, would she? No, certainly not. I thought not. Well, Beattie, I have been run after by a policeman.
Oh! Not caught, you know, only run after. And, walking home from Hendon this morning, I came to the conclusion that I ought to settle down in life. Beatty, could I write out a paper promising to marry you when I am one-and-twenty? Don't be a silly boy. Of course you could. Then I shall, and when I feel inclined to have a spree, I shall think of that paper and say, "'Sis Farringdon, if you ever get locked up, you'll lose the most beautiful girl in the world.'" And so you will. He goes to the writing-table. "'I'd better write it now before my head gets well again.'" He writes. She bends over him. "'You simple, foolish sis!' If your head is so queer, shall I tell you what to say? Popham enters, carrying a tray with breakfast dishes.
Popham to herself. He won't think so much of her now. His breakfast is my triumph. To Sis. Coffee, bacon, and a tea-cake. Hush! Master Farrington is writing something very important. Popham going to the window. That's a cab at our door. It must be the mater. I'm off. He picks up his boots and goes out quickly, Beattie following him with the paper and inkstand. Sis! Sis! You haven't finished the promise! You haven't finished the promise! Lug heard outside. All right, sir. I've got you. I've got you. Popham opens the door. The master and a policeman! Lug enters, supporting Mr. Poskett, who sinks into an armchair with a groan. Oh, what's the matter? All right, my good girl. You run downstairs and fetch a drop of brandy and water.
Mr. Poskett, hurrying out. Oh! Now don't take on so, sir. It's what might happen to any married gentleman. Now you're all right, sir. And I'll hurry back to the court to see whether they've sent for Mr. Bullomy. My wife! My wife! Oh, come now, sir. What is seven days? Why, many a married gentleman in your position, sir, would have been glad to have made it fourteen. Go away and leave me. Certainly, sir. Papa Marie enters with a small tumbler of brandy and water. He takes it from her and drinks it. It's not wanted. I'm thankful to say he's better. Popham, to Lug. If you please, Cook presents her compliments, and she would be glad of the pleasure of your company downstairs before leaving. They go out.
Agatha and Lucan. Agatha and Lucan supping together at the Hotel de Princes while I was at home and asleep. While I ought to have been at home and asleep. It's awful. Sis, looking in at the door and entering. Hello, Gov. Mr. Poskett, starting up. Sis! Where did you fetch, Gov? Where did I fetch? You wretched boy, I fetch Kilburn, and I'll fetch you a sound whipping when I recover my composure. What for? For leading me astray, sir. "'Yours is the first bad companionship I have ever formed. Evil communication with you, sir, has corrupted me.'" Taking Sis by the collar and shaking him. "'Why did you abandon me at Kilburn?' "'Because you were quite done, and I branched off to draw the crowd away from you after me.'" "'Did you, Sis?
Did you?' Putting his hand on Sis's shoulder. My boy, my boy, oh, sis, we're in such trouble. You weren't caught, Gov? No, but do you know who the ladies are who were supping at the Hotel des Princeses? No. Do you? Do I? They were your mother and Aunt Charlotte. The Mater and Aunt Charlotte.
Laughing and dancing with delight. Oh, I say, Guff, what a lark! A lark? They were taken to the police station. My mother. They were brought before the magistrate and sentenced. Sentenced? To seven days' imprisonment. Oh! He puts his hat on fiercely. What are you going to do? Get my mother out first, and then break every bone in that magistrate's body. Sis, sis, he's an unhappy wretch, and he did his duty. His duty? To send another magistrate's wife to prison? Gov, I'm only a boy, but I know what professional etiquette is. Come along. Which is the police station? Mulberry Street. Who's the magistrate? I am. You? Seizing Mr. Posket by the collar and shaking him. You dare to lock up my mother? Come with me and get her out.
He is dragging Mr. Posket towards the door when Mr. Balamy enters breathlessly. My dear Posket. Sis, seizing Mr. Balamy and dragging him with Mr. Posket to the door. Come with me and get my mother out. Leave me alone, sir. She is out. I managed it. How? How? Wormington sent to me when you were taken ill. When I arrived at the court, he had discovered from your manservant Mrs. Poskett's awful position. You leave my mother alone. Go on! said I to myself, this won't do. I must extricate these people somehow. To Mr. Poskett. I'm not so damn conscientious as you are, Poskett. Bravo. Go on. Mr. Bollamy, producing his jujube box. The first thing I did was to take a jujube. Sis, snatching the jujube box from him.
Will you make haste? Then I said to Wormington, Poskett was non-composmentis when he heard this case. I am going to reopen the matter. Hurrah! And I did. And what do you think I found out from the proprietor of the hotel? What? What? That this young scamp, Mr. Cecil Farringdon, hires a room at the Hotel des Princes. I know that. And that Mr. Farringdon was there last night with some low stockbroker of the name of Skinner. Go on, go on. Offering him the jujube box. Take a jujube. Mr. Bollamy taking a jujube. Now the law. Which seems to me quite perfect, allows a man who rents a little apartment at an inn to eat and drink with his friends all night long. Well? So said I from the bench, these ladies and gentlemen appear to be the friends or relatives of a certain lodger at the Hôtel des Princes.
So they are? They were all discovered. In one room. So we were. I mean, so they were. And I shall adjourn the case for a week to give Mr. Farringdon an opportunity of claiming these people as his guests. Three cheers for bullying me. So I censured the police for their interference and released the ladies on their own recognisances. Mr. Poskett. Taking Mr. Bollamy's hand. And the men? Well, unfortunately, Wormington took upon himself to dispatch the men to the House of Correction before I arrived. I'm glad of it. They are dissolute villains. I'm glad of it. Popham enters. Oh, sir, here's the Mrs. and Miss Verinder, in such a plight. The Mater? Gov, you explain. He hurries out. Mr. Poskett rapidly retires into the window recess.
Agatha Poskett and Charlotte enter pale, red-eyed, and agitated. Popham goes out. Agatha Poskett and Charlotte, falling onto Mr. Bollamy's shoulders.
My dear ladies. Preserver! Friend! How is my boy? Never better. And the man who condemned his wife and sister-in-law to the miseries of a jail?
Poskett? Oh, he... Is he well enough to be told what that wife thinks of him? It might cause a relapse. It is my duty to risk that. Charlotte, raising the covers of the dishes on the table. Food?
Agatha Poskett and Charlotte began to devour a tea cake ferociously. Mr. Poskett, advancing with an attempt at dignity. Agatha Poskett. Agatha Poskett, rising with her mouth full and a piece of tea cake in her hand. Sir. Charlotte takes the tray and everything on it from the table and goes towards the door. Mr. Bollamy going to the door. There's going to be an explanation. Charlotte at the door. There's going to be an explanation. Charlotte and Mr. Bollamy go out quietly. How dare you look me in the face, madam. How dare you look at anybody in any position, sir. You sent your wife to prison for pushing a mere policeman. I didn't know what I was doing. Not when you requested two ladies to raise their veils and show their faces in the dock?
We shouldn't have been discovered but for that. It was my duty. Duty? You don't go to the police court again alone. I guess now, Aeneas Poskert, why you clung to a single life so long. You liked it. I wish I had. Why didn't you marry till you were fifty? Perhaps I hadn't met a widow, madam. Paltry excuse! You reveled in a disillute bachelorhood. Ha! Whist every evening. You can't play whist alone. You're an expert at hiding, too. If I were, I should thrash your boy. When you wished to conceal yourself last night... You selected a table with a lady under it. Ah, did you pinch me, or did Charlotte? I did. Charlotte's a single girl. I fancy, madam, you found my conduct under that table perfectly respectful.
I don't know. I was too agitated to notice. Evasia, you're like all the women. Profligate. You oughtn't to know that. No wife of mine sups unknown to me with dissolute military men. We will have a judicial separation, Mrs. Poskett. Mrs. Certainly. I suppose you'll manage that at your police court, too. I shall send for my solicitor at once. Mrs. Aeneas, Mr. Poskett, whatever happens, you shall not have the custody of my boy. Your boy? I take charge of him? Agatha Poskett, he has been my evil genius. He has made me a gambler at an atrocious game called fireworks. He has tortured my mind with abstruse speculations concerning Silken and Butterscotch for the St. Leger. He has caused me to cower before servants and to fly before the police.
He? My sis? Sis enters, having changed his clothes. Sis, breezily. Hello, Mater. Got back? You wicked boy! You dare to have apartments at the Hotel des Princes! Yes, and it was to put a stop to that which induced me to go to Meek Street last night. Don't be angry, Mater. I've got you out of your difficulties. But you got me into mine. Well, I know I did. One can't be always doing the right thing. It isn't Cove's fault. There. Swear it. No, he doesn't know the nature of an oath. I believe him. Aeneas, I see now this is all the result of a lack of candour on my part. Tell me, have you ever particularly observed this child? Oh. Has it ever struck you he is a little forward? Sometimes. You are wrong.
He is awfully backward. Taking Mr. Poskett's hand. Aeneas. Men always think they are marrying angels, and women would be angels if they never had to grow old. That warps their dispositions. I have deceived you, Aeneas. Ah, Lucan. No, no, you don't understand. Lucan was my boy's godfather. In— 1866. 1866. 1886. Sis and Mr. Poskett, together reckoning rapidly upon their fingers, 1886. 1886. Shh!
Don't count! Sis, go away! To Mr. Poskett. When you proposed to me in the Pantheon at Spa. You particularly remarked, Mrs. Farringdon, I love you for yourself alone. I know I did. Those were terrible words to address to a widow with a son of nineteen. Sis and Mr. Poskett again reckon rapidly upon their fingers. Don't count, Aeneas, don't count. Those words tempted me. I glanced at my face in a neighboring mirror, and I said, Aeneas is fifty. Why should I, a mere woman, compete with him on the question of age? He has already the advantage. I will be generous. I will add to it. I led you to believe I had been married only fifteen years ago. I deceived you and my boy as to his real age, and I told you I was but one-and-thirty.
It wasn't the truth? Ah! I merely lacked woman's commonest fault. Exaggeration. But... Lucan. Lucan. Knows the real facts. I went to him last night to beg him not to disturb an arrangement which had brought happiness to all parties. Look, in place of a wayward troublesome child, I now present you with a youth, old enough to be a joy, comfort and support. Oh, I say, Mater, this is a frightful sell for a fellow. Lucan. Go to your room, sir. I always thought there was something wrong with me. Blessed if I'm not behind the age. Sis goes out. Forgive me, Aeneas. Look at my bonnet. A night in Mulberry Street without even a powder puff is an awful expiation. Agatha, how do I know Sis won't be five-and-twenty tomorrow?
No, no, you know the worst, and as long as I live, I'll never deceive you again. Except in little things. Lucan and Vale enter. Lucan, boiling with rage. Bye, George Poskett. My dear Lucan. Do you know I am a confounded jailbird, sir? An accident. And do you know what has happened to me in jail? A soldier, sir? An officer? No. I have been washed by the authorities. Lucan, no. Charlotte has entered, and she rushes across to Vale. Horace! Horace! Not you too! By Jove, Charlotte! I would have died first. Mr.
Poskett! I shall choke, sir. Inspector Messeter is downstairs and says that Isidore, the waiter, swears that you are the man. Who escaped from Meek Street last night. What? This is a public scandal, sir. Your game is up, sir. You have brought a stain upon a spotless police court. And lectured me upon propriety and decorum? Gentlemen, gentlemen, when you have heard my story, you will pity me. Lucan and Mr. Bollamy, laughing ironically.
You will find your old friend a man, a martyr, and a magistrate. Sis enters, pulling Beattie after him. Come on, Beattie. Gov, Mater, here's news. Beattie and I have made up our minds to be married.
Popham enters with champagne and glasses. What's this? Bellinger, seventy-four, extra dry, to drink our health and happiness. Champagne! It may save my life! Miss Tomlinson, go home. Stop. Sis Farringdon, my dear boy, you are but nineteen at present, but you were only fourteen yesterday, so you are a growing lad. On the day you marry and start for Canada, I will give you a thousand pounds. Popham, putting her apron to her eyes. Oh! Sis, embracing Beatty. Hurrah! We'll be married directly. He's an infant. I forbid it. I am his legal guardian, gentlemen. Bear witness. I solemnly consent to that little wretch's marriage. Oh! Agatha Poskett sinks into a chair. The End End of Act III End of The Magistrate by Arthur Wing Pinero