 |
LADY FILSON.
H-how?
SIR RANDLE.
Disap-point us?
OTTOLINE.
[Abruptly.] What's the time, Dad?
SIR RANDLE.
[Looking at a clock standing on a commode against the wall on the right.] Twenty minutes past eleven.
OTTOLINE.
He—he will be here at half-past. Don't be angry. I've asked him to come—to explain his position clearly to you and mother with regard to me. There's to be nothing underhand—rien de secret!
LADY FILSON.
A-asked whom?
OTTOLINE.
[Throwing her head back.] Ho! You'll think I'm ushering in an endless string of lovers this morning! I promise you this is the last.
SIR RANDLE.
Who is coming?
OTTOLINE.
[Sitting at the writing-table and, her elbows on the table, supporting her chin on her fists.] Mr. Mackworth.
LADY FILSON.
[After a pause.] Mackworth?
OTTOLINE.
Philip Mackworth.
LADY FILSON.
[Dully.] Isn't he the journalist man you—you carried on with once, in Paris?
OTTOLINE.
What an expression, mother! Well—yes.
SIR RANDLE.
[Simply.] Good God!
OTTOLINE.
He doesn't write for the papers any longer.
LADY FILSON.
W-what——?
OTTOLINE.
A novelist chiefly.
LADY FILSON.
[Faintly.] Oh!
SIR RANDLE.
Successful?
OTTOLINE.
It depends on what you call success.
SIR RANDLE.
I call success what everybody calls success.
BERTRAM.
[Rising, stricken.] There are novelists and novelists, I mean t'say.
OTTOLINE.
Don't imagine that I am apologizing for him, please, in the slightest degree; but no, he hasn't been successful up to the present, in the usual acceptation of the term.
LADY FILSON.
[Searching for her handkerchief.] Where—where have you——?
OTTOLINE.
I met him yesterday at Robbie Roope's, at lunch. [LADY FILSON finds her handkerchief and applies it to her eyes.] Oh, there's no need to cry, mother dear. For mercy's sake——!
LADY FILSON.
Oh, Otto! [Rising and crossing to the settee on the right, whimpering.] Oh, Randle! [To BERTRAM, who comes to her.] Oh, my boy!
SIR RANDLE.
[Gazing blinkingly at the ceiling as LADY FILSON sinks upon the settee.] Incredible! Incredible!
BERTRAM.
[Sitting beside LADY FILSON, dazed.] My dear mother——!
OTTOLINE.
[Starting up.] Oh, do try to be understanding and sympathetic! Mr. Mackworth is a high-souled, noble fellow. If I'd been honest with myself, I should have married him ten years ago. To me this is a golden dream come true. Recollect my bitter experience of the other sort of marriage! [Walking away to the fireplace.] Why grudge me a spark of romance in my life!
SIR RANDLE.
[Raising his hands.] Romance!
LADY FILSON.
[To SIR RANDLE and BERTRAM.] Just now she was resenting our considering her a child!
OTTOLINE.
[Looking down upon the flowers in the grate.] Romance doesn't belong to youth, mother. Youth is greedy for reality—the toy that feels solid in its fingers. I was, and bruised myself with it. After such a lesson as I've had, one yearns for something less tangible—something that lifts one morally out of oneself—an ideal——!
SIR RANDLE.
Ha! An extract from a novel of Mr. Mackworth's apparently!
LADY FILSON.
[Harshly.] Ha, ha, ha, ha——!
OTTOLINE.
[Turning sharply and coming forward.] Sssh! Don't you sneer, mother! Don't you sneer, Dad! [Her eyes flashing.] C'est au-dessus de vous de sentir ce qu'il y a d'eleve et de grand! [Fiercely.] Tenez! Qu'il vous plaise ou non——!
[She is checked by the entrance of UNDERWOOD from the hall.
UNDERWOOD.
[Addressing the back of LADY FILSON's head.] Mr. Philip Mackworth, m'lady.
LADY FILSON.
[Straightening herself.] Not for me. [Firmly.] For Madame de Chaumie.
UNDERWOOD.
I beg pardon, m'lady. The gentleman inquired for your ladyship——
OTTOLINE.
[To UNDERWOOD.] In the drawing-room—[with a queenly air] no, in my own room.
UNDERWOOD.
[To OTTOLINE.] Yes, mad'm.
[UNDERWOOD withdraws.
OTTOLINE.
[Approaching SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON.] Dad—mother——?
LADY FILSON.
Your father may do as he chooses. [Rising and crossing to the writing-table, where she sits and prepares to write.] I have letters to answer.
OTTOLINE.
[To SIR RANDLE.] Dad——?
SIR RANDLE.
[Rising.] Impossible—impossible. [Marching to the fireplace.] I cannot act apart from your dear mother. [His back to the fireplace, virtuously.] I never act apart from your dear mother.
OTTOLINE.
Comme vous voudrez! [Moving to the glazed door and there pausing.] You won't——?
[SIR RANDLE blinks at the ceiling again. LADY FILSON scribbles audibly with a scratchy pen. OTTOLINE goes out, closing the door.
BERTRAM.
[Jumping up as the door shuts—in an expostulatory tone.] Good heavens! My dear father—my dear mother——!
SIR RANDLE.
[Coming to earth.] Eh?
BERTRAM.
[Agitatedly.] My sister will pack her trunks and be off to an hotel if you're not careful. She won't stand this, I mean t'say. There'll be a marriage at the registrar's, or some ghastly proceeding—a scandal—all kinds of gossip——!
LADY FILSON.
[Throwing down her pen and rising—holding her heart.] Oh——!
BERTRAM.
[With energy.] I mean to say——!
SIR RANDLE.
[To LADY FILSON, blankly.] Winnie——?
LADY FILSON.
R-Randle——?
SIR RANDLE.
[Biting his nails.] He's right. [BERTRAM hastens to the glazed door.] Dear Bertram is right.
BERTRAM.
[Opening the door.] You'll see him——?
LADY FILSON.
Y-yes.
SIR RANDLE.
Yes. [BERTRAM disappears. SIR RANDLE paces the room at the back, waving his arms.] Oh! Oh!
LADY FILSON.
[Going to the fireplace.] I won't be civil to him, Randle! The impertinence of his visit! I won't be civil to him!
SIR RANDLE.
A calamity! An unmerited calamity!
LADY FILSON.
[Dropping on to the settee before the fireplace.] She's mad! That's the only excuse I can make for her!
SIR RANDLE.
Stark mad! A calamity.
LADY FILSON.
You remember the man?
SIR RANDLE.
[Taking a book from the rack on the oblong table and hurriedly turning its pages.] A supercilious, patronizing person—son of a wretched country parson—used to loll against the wall of your salon—with his nose in the air.
LADY FILSON.
[Tearfully.] A stroke of bad fortune at last, Randle! Fancy! Everything has always gone so well with us——!
SIR RANDLE.
[Suddenly, groaning.] Oh!
LADY FILSON.
[Over her shoulder.] What is it? I can't bear much more——
SIR RANDLE.
He isn't even in Who's Who, Winnie!
[BERTRAM returns, out of breath.
BERTRAM.
I caught her on the stairs. [Closing the door.] She'll bring him down.
LADY FILSON.
[Weakly.] I won't be civil to him. I refuse to be civil to him.
SIR RANDLE.
[Replacing the book in the rack and sitting in the chair at the oblong table—groaning again.] Oh!
[There is a short silence. BERTRAM slowly advances.
BERTRAM.
[Heavily, drawing his hand across his brow.] Of course, my dear father—my dear mother—we must do our utmost to quash it—strain every nerve, I mean t'say, to stop my sister from committing this stupendous act of folly.
LADY FILSON.
[Rocking herself to and fro.] Oh! Oh!
SIR RANDLE.
A beggarly author!
BERTRAM.
[The picture of dejection.] But if the worst comes to the worst—if she's obdurate, I mean t'say—an alliance between Society and Literature—I suppose there's no actual disgrace in it.
SIR RANDLE.
A duffer—a duffer whose trash doesn't sell——!
LADY FILSON.
Taking advantage of a silly, emotional woman, to feather his nest!
SIR RANDLE.
[Rising and pacing up and down between the glazed door and the settee on the right.] I shall have difficulty—[shaking his uplifted fist] I shall have difficulty in restraining myself from denouncing Mr. Mackworth in her presence!
BERTRAM.
[Dismally.] As to the wedding, there's no reason that I can see—because a lady marries a literary man, I mean t'say—why the function should be a shabby one.
LADY FILSON.
[Rising and moving about at the back distractedly.] That it sha'n't be! If we can't prevent my poor girl from throwing herself away, I'm determined her wedding shall be smart and impressive!
SIR RANDLE.
[Bitterly, with wild gestures.] "The interesting engagement is announced of Mr.—Mr.——"
BERTRAM.
[Wandering to the fireplace, his chin on his breast.] Philip, father.
SIR RANDLE.
"—Mr. Philip Mackworth, the well-known novelist, to Ottoline, widow of the late Comte de Chaumie—[peeping into the hall through the side of one of the curtains of the glazed door—his voice dying to a mutter] only daughter of Sir Randle and Lady Filson——"
LADY FILSON.
"Mrs.—Philip—Mackworth"! Ha, ha, ha! Mrs. Philip Nobody!
BERTRAM.
[Joining her.] Perhaps it would be wiser, mother, for me to retire while the interview takes place.
LADY FILSON.
[Falling upon his neck.] Oh, my dear boy——!
SIR RANDLE.
[Getting away from the door.] They're coming!
BERTRAM.
[Quickly.] I'm near you if you want me, I mean t'say——
[He goes out at the door on the left. LADY FILSON hastily resumes her seat at the writing-table, and SIR RANDLE, pulling himself together, crosses to the fireplace. The glazed door opens and OTTOLINE appears with PHILIP.
OTTOLINE.
[Quietly.] Mr. Mackworth, mother—Dad——
PHILIP.
[Advancing to LADY FILSON cordially.] How do you do, Lady Filson?
LADY FILSON.
[Giving him a reluctant hand and eyeing him askance with mingled aversion and indignation.] H-how do you do?
PHILIP.
This is very good of you. [Bowing to SIR RANDLE.] How are you, Sir Randle?
SIR RANDLE.
[His head in the air, severely.] How do you do, Mr. Mackworth?
PHILIP.
[Breaking the ice.] We—we meet after many years——
SIR RANDLE.
Many.
LADY FILSON.
[Still examining PHILIP.] M-many.
PHILIP.
And—if you've ever bestowed a thought on me since the old Paris days—in a way you can scarcely have expected.
LADY FILSON.
[Turning to the writing-table to conceal her repugnance.] Scarcely.
SIR RANDLE.
Scarcely.
PHILIP.
[To SIR RANDLE.] Oh, I am not vain enough, Sir Randle, to flatter myself that what you have heard from Ottoline gives you and Lady Filson unmixed pleasure. On the contrary——
LADY FILSON.
[Gulping.] Pleasure! [Unable to repress herself.] Unmixed—! Ho, ho, ho, ho——!
SIR RANDLE.
[Restraining her.] Winifred——!
OTTOLINE.
[Coming to LADY FILSON and touching her gently—in a low voice.] Mother——!
PHILIP.
[Smiling at OTTOLINE apologetically.] It's my fault; I provoked that. [Walking away to the right.] I expressed myself rather clumsily, I'm afraid.
SIR RANDLE.
[Expanding his chest and advancing to PHILIP.] I gather from my daughter, Mr. Mackworth, that you are here for the purpose of "explaining your position" in relation to her. I believe I quote her words accurately——
OTTOLINE.
[Moving to the fireplace.] Yes, Dad.
PHILIP.
That is so, Sir Randle—if you and Lady Filson will have the patience——
[SIR RANDLE motions PHILIP to the settee on the right. PHILIP sits. Then OTTOLINE sits on the settee before the fireplace, and SIR RANDLE in the arm-chair by PHILIP. LADY FILSON turns in her chair to listen.
SIR RANDLE.
[To PHILIP, majestically.] Before you embark upon your explanation, permit me to define my position—mine and Lady Filson's. [PHILIP nods.] I am going to make a confession to you; and I should like to feel that I am making it as one gentleman to another. [PHILIP nods again.] Mr. Mackworth, Lady Filson and I are ambitious people. Not for ourselves. For ourselves, all we desire is rest and retirement—[closing his eyes] if it were possible, obscurity. But where our children are concerned, it is different; and, to be frank—I must be frank—we had hoped that, in the event of Ottoline remarrying, she would contract such a marriage as is commonly described as brilliant.
PHILIP.
[Dryly.] Such a marriage as her marriage to Monsieur de Chaumie, for example.
SIR RANDLE.
[Closing his eyes.] De mortuis, Mr. Mackworth! I must decline——
PHILIP.
I merely wished, as a basis of argument, to get at your exact interpretation of brilliancy.
SIR RANDLE.
[Dismissing the point with a wave of the hand.] It is easy for you, therefore, as you have already intimated, to judge what are our sensations at receiving my daughter's communication.
PHILIP.
[Nodding.] They are distinctly disagreeable.
SIR RANDLE.
[Conscientiously.] They are—I won't exaggerate—I mustn't exaggerate—they are not far removed from dismay.
LADY FILSON.
Utter dismay.
SIR RANDLE.
[Shifting his chair—to PHILIP.] I learn—I learn from Ottoline that you have forsaken the field of journalism, Mr. Mackworth, and now devote yourself exclusively to creative work? [Another nod from PHILIP.] But you have not—to use my daughter's phrase—up to the present—er——
PHILIP.
[Nursing his leg.] Please go on.
SIR RANDLE.
You have not been eminently successful?
PHILIP.
Not yet. Not with the wide public. No; not yet.
SIR RANDLE.
Forgive me—any private resources?
PHILIP.
None worth mentioning. Two-hundred-a-year, left me by an old aunt.
LADY FILSON.
[Under her breath.] Ho——!
SIR RANDLE.
[To her.] My dear——! [To PHILIP.] On the other hand, Mr. Mackworth, as you are probably aware, my daughter is—no, I won't say a rich woman—I will say comfortably provided for; not by the late Comte de Chaumie, but by myself. [Closing his eyes.] I have never been a niggardly parent, Mr. Mackworth.
OTTOLINE.
[Softly, without turning.] Indeed, no, Dad!
PHILIP.
[To SIR RANDLE, bluntly.] Yes, I do know of the settlement you made upon Ottoline on her marriage, and of your having supplemented it when she became a widow. Very handsome of you.
LADY FILSON.
[As before.] Ha!
SIR RANDLE.
[Leaning back in his chair.] There then, my dear Mr. Mackworth, is the state of the case. Ottoline is beyond our control——
LADY FILSON.
Unhappily.
SIR RANDLE.
If she will deal this crushing blow to her mother and myself, we must bow our heads to it. But, for the sake of your self-esteem, I beg you to reflect! [Partly to PHILIP, partly at OTTOLINE.] What construction would be put upon a union between you and Madame de Chaumie—between a lady of means and—I must be cruel—I must be brutal—a man who is—commercially at least—a failure?
LADY FILSON.
There could only be one construction put upon it!
OTTOLINE.
[Rising.] Mother——!
PHILIP.
[To SIR RANDLE, calmly.] Oh, but—ah, Ottoline hasn't told you——!
OTTOLINE.
[To PHILIP.] No, I hadn't time, Philip——
PHILIP.
My dear Sir Randle—[rising and going to LADY FILSON]—my dear Lady Filson—let me dispel your anxiety for the preservation of my self-esteem. Ottoline and I have no idea of getting married yet awhile.
OTTOLINE.
No, mother.
LADY FILSON.
When, pray——?
PHILIP.
We have agreed to wait until I have ceased to be—commercially—a failure.
OTTOLINE.
[To SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON.] Until he has obtained public recognition; [coming forward] until, in fact, even the member's of one's own family, Dad, can't impute unworthy motives.
SIR RANDLE.
[To PHILIP, incredulously—rising.] Until you have obtained public recognition, Mr. Mackworth?
PHILIP.
[Smiling.] Well, it may sound extravagant——
LADY FILSON.
Grotesque!
SIR RANDLE.
[Walking about on the extreme right.] Amazing!
OTTOLINE.
Why grotesque; why amazing? [Sitting in the low-backed arm-chair.] All that is amazing about it is that Philip should lack the superior courage which enables a man, in special circumstances, to sink his pride and ignore ill-natured comments.
PHILIP.
[To LADY FILSON.] At any rate, this is the arrangement that Ottoline and I have entered into; and I suggest, with every respect, that you and Sir Randle should raise no obstacle to my seeing her under your roof occasionally.
LADY FILSON.
As being preferable to hole-and-corner meetings in friends' houses——!
OTTOLINE.
[Coolly.] Or under lamp-posts in the streets—yes, mother.
LADY FILSON.
[Rising and crossing to the round table.] Ottoline——!
SIR RANDLE.
[Bearing down upon PHILIP.] May I ask, Mr. Mackworth, how long you have been following your precarious profession? Pardon my ignorance. My reading is confined to our great journals; and there your name has escaped me.
PHILIP.
Oh, I've been at it for nearly ten years.
LADY FILSON.
Ten years!
PHILIP.
[To SIR RANDLE.] I began soon after I left Paris.
SIR RANDLE.
And what ground, sir, have you for anticipating that you will ever achieve popularity as a writer?
LADY FILSON.
[Sitting in the chair by the round table.] Preposterous!
OTTOLINE.
[Stamping her foot.] Mother——! [To SIR RANDLE.] Philip has high expectations of his next novel, Dad. It is to be published in the autumn—September.
SIR RANDLE.
[To PHILIP.] And should that prove no more successful with the "wide public" than those which have preceded it——?
PHILIP.
Then I—then I fling another at 'em.
SIR RANDLE.
Which would occupy you——?
PHILIP.
Twelve months.
LADY FILSON.
And if that fails——!
PHILIP.
[Smiling again, but rather constrainedly.] Ah, you travel too quickly for me, Lady Filson—you and Sir Randle! You heap disaster on disaster——
SIR RANDLE.
If that fails, another twelve-months' labour!
LADY FILSON.
While my daughter is wasting the best years of her life!
SIR RANDLE.
[Indignantly.] Really, Mr. Mackworth! [Throwing himself upon the settee on the right.] Really! I appeal to you! Is this fair?
LADY FILSON.
Is it fair to Ottoline?
OTTOLINE.
Absolument! So that it satisfies me to spend the best years of my life in this manner, I don't see what anybody has to complain of. Mon Dieu! I am relieved to think that some of my best years are still mine to squander!
SIR RANDLE.
[To PHILIP, who is standing by the writing-table in thought, a look of disquiet on his face—persistently.] Mr. Mackworth——!
OTTOLINE.
[Rising impatiently.] My dear Dad—my dear mother—I propose that we postpone this discussion until Mr. Mackworth's new book has failed to attract the public, [crossing to SIR RANDLE] and that in the meantime he sha'n't be scowled at when he presents himself in Ennismore Gardens. [Seating herself beside SIR RANDLE and slipping her arm through his.] Dad——!
LADY FILSON.
[To PHILIP.] Mr. Mackworth——!
PHILIP.
[Rousing himself and turning to SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON—abruptly.] Look here, Sir Randle! Look here, Lady Filson! I own that this arrangement between Ottoline and me is an odd one. It was arrived at yesterday impulsively; and, in her interests, there is a good deal to be said against it.
LADY FILSON.
There's nothing to be said for it. Oh——!
SIR RANDLE.
[To LADY FILSON.] Winifred—[To PHILIP.] Well, Mr. Mackworth?
PHILIP.
Well, Sir Randle, I—I'm prepared to take a sporting chance. It may be that I am misled by the sanguine temperament of the artist, who is apt to believe that his latest production will shake the earth to its foundation. I've gammoned myself before into such a belief, but—[resolutely] I'll stake everything on my next book! I give you my word that if it isn't a success—an indisputable popular success—I will join you both, in all sincerity, in urging Ottoline to break with me. Come! Does that mollify you?
[There is a short silence. SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON look at each other in surprise and OTTOLINE stares at PHILIP open-mouthed.
OTTOLINE.
Philip——!
PHILIP.
[To SIR RANDLE.] Sir Randle——?
SIR RANDLE.
[To LADY FILSON.] Winnie——?
LADY FILSON.
[In a softer tone.] It certainly seems to me that Mr. Mackworth's undertaking—as far as it goes——
OTTOLINE.
[With a queer laugh.] Ha, ha, ha! As far as it goes, mother! [Rising, thoughtfully.] Doesn't it go a little too far? [Contracting her brows.] It disposes of me as if I were of no more account than a sawdust doll! [To PHILIP.] Ah, traitor! [In a low voice.] Vos promesses a une femme sont sans valeur!
PHILIP.
[Taking her hands reassuringly.] No, no——!
OTTOLINE.
[Withdrawing her hands.] Zut! [Moving slowly towards the glazed door.] You have acquitted yourself bravely, mon cher Monsieur Philippe! [Shrugging her shoulders.] Say good-bye and let me turn you out in disgrace.
PHILIP.
[Deprecatingly.] Ha, ha, ha! [Going to LADY FILSON.] Good-bye, Lady Filson. [She rises and shakes hands with him.] Have I bought my right of entree? I may ring your bell at discreet intervals till the end of the season?
LADY FILSON.
[Stiffly.] Ottoline is her own mistress, Mr. Mackworth; [more amiably] but apart from her, you will receive a card from me—music—Tuesday, July the eighth.
[He bows and she crosses to the fireplace. Then he shakes hands with SIR RANDLE, who has risen and is standing in the middle of the room.
PHILIP.
[To SIR RANDLE.] Good-bye.
SIR RANDLE.
[Detaining PHILIP, searchingly.] Er—pardon me—this new novel of yours, on which you place so much reliance—pray don't think me curious——
OTTOLINE.
[Suddenly.] Ha! [Coming to the back of the settee on the right, her eyes gleaming scornfully at SIR RANDLE.] Tell my father, Philip—tell him——
PHILIP.
[Shaking his head at her and frowning.] Otto——
OTTOLINE.
Do; as you told it to me yesterday. [Satirically.] It will help him to understand why your name has escaped him in the great journals!
SIR RANDLE.
Any confidence you may repose in me, Mr. Mackworth——
OTTOLINE.
[Prompting PHILIP.] It's called—allons! racontez donc!——
PHILIP.
[After a further look of protest at OTTOLINE—to SIR RANDLE, hesitatingly.] It's called "The Big Drum," Sir Randle.
SIR RANDLE.
[Elevating his eyebrows.] "The Big Drum"? [With an innocent air.] Military?
PHILIP.
No; social.
SIR RANDLE.
Social?
PHILIP.
[Leaning against the arm-chair on the left of the settee on the right.] It's an attempt to portray the struggle for notoriety—for self-advertisement—we see going on around us to-day.
SIR RANDLE.
Ah, yes; lamentable!
PHILIP.
[Deliberately, but losing himself in his subject as he proceeds.] It shows a vast crowd of men and women, sir, forcing themselves upon public attention without a shred of modesty, fighting to obtain it as if they are fighting for bread and meat. It shows how dignity and reserve have been cast aside as virtues that are antiquated and outworn, until half the world—the world that should be orderly, harmonious, beautiful—has become an arena for the exhibition of vulgar ostentation or almost superhuman egoism—a cockpit resounding with raucous voices bellowing one against the other!
SIR RANDLE.
[Closing his eyes.] A terrible picture!
LADY FILSON.
[Closing her eyes.] Terrible.
PHILIP.
It shows the bishop and the judge playing to the gallery, the politician adopting the methods of the cheap-jack, the duchess vying with the puffing draper; it shows how even true genius submits itself to conditions that are accepted and excused as "modern," and is found elbowing and pushing in the hurly-burly. It shows how the ordinary decencies of life are sacrificed to the paragraphist, the interviewer, and the ghoul with the camera; how the home is stripped of its sanctity, blessed charity made a vehicle for display, the very grave-yard transformed into a parade ground; while the outsider looks on with a sinking of the vitals because the drumstick is beyond his reach and the bom-bom-bom is not for him! It shows——! [Checking himself and leaving the arm-chair with a short laugh.] Oh, well, that's the setting of my story, Sir Randle! I won't inflict the details upon you.
SIR RANDLE.
Er—h'm—[expansively] an excellent theme, Mr. Mackworth; a most promising theme! [To LADY FILSON.] Eh, Winifred?
LADY FILSON.
[Politely.] Excellent; quite, quite excellent!
PHILIP.
[Bowing to LADY FILSON and going to OTTOLINE.] Thank you.
OTTOLINE.
[To PHILIP, glowingly.] Splendid! [Laying her hand upon his arm.] You have purged your disgrace. [Softly.] You may come and see me to-morrow.
PHILIP.
[To OTTOLINE.] Ha, ha——!
SIR RANDLE.
[In response to a final bow from PHILIP.] Good-bye.
LADY FILSON.
Good-bye.
[OTTOLINE opens the glazed door and PHILIP follows her into the hall. Immediately the door is shut, LADY FILSON hurries to SIR RANDLE.
SIR RANDLE.
[In high spirits.] Winnie——!
LADY FILSON.
That will never be a popular success, Randle!
SIR RANDLE.
Never. An offensive book——!
LADY FILSON.
Ho, ho, ho, ho——!
SIR RANDLE.
A grossly offensive book!
LADY FILSON.
[Anxiously.] He—he'll keep his word——?
SIR RANDLE.
To join us in persuading her to drop him——
LADY FILSON.
If it fails?
SIR RANDLE.
[With conviction.] Yes. [Walking about.] Yes. We must be just. We owe it to ourselves to be just to Mr. Mackworth. He is not altogether devoid of gentlemanlike scruples.
LADY FILSON.
[Breathlessly.] And—and she——?
SIR RANDLE.
I trust—I trust that my child's monstrous infatuation will have cooled down by the autumn.
LADY FILSON.
[Supporting herself by the chair at the writing-table, her hand to her heart—exhausted.] Oh! Oh, dear!
SIR RANDLE.
[Returning to her.] I conducted the affair with skill and tact, Winifred?
LADY FILSON.
[Rallying.] It was masterly—[kissing him] masterly——
SIR RANDLE.
[Proudly.] Ha!
[She sits at the writing-table again and takes up her pen as SIR RANDLE stalks to the door on the left.
LADY FILSON.
Masterly!
SIR RANDLE.
[Opening the door.] Bertram—Bertram, my boy—Bertie——!
[He disappears. LADY FILSON scribbles violently.
END OF THE SECOND ACT
THE THIRD ACT
The scene represents two rooms, connected by a pair of wide doors, in a set of residential chambers on the upper floor of a house in Gray's Inn. The further room is the dining-room, the nearer room a study. In the wall at the back of the dining-room are two windows; in the right-hand wall is a door leading to the kitchen; and in the left-hand wall a door opens from a vestibule, where, opposite this door, there is another door which gives on to the landing of the common stair.
In the study, a door in the right-hand wall admits to a bedroom; in the wall facing the spectator is a door opening into the room from the vestibule; and beyond the door on the right, in a piece of wall cutting off the corner of the room, is the fireplace. A bright fire is burning.
The rooms are wainscotted to the ceilings and have a decrepit, old-world air, and the odds and ends of furniture—all characteristic of the dwelling of a poor literary man of refined taste—are in keeping with the surroundings. In the dining-room there are half-a-dozen chairs of various patterns, a sideboard or two, a corner-cupboard, a "grandfather" clock, and a large round table. In the study, set out into the room at the same angle as the fireplace, is a writing-table. A chair stands at the writing-table, its back to the fire, and in the front of the table is a well-worn settee. On the left of the settee is a smaller table, on which are an assortment of pipes, a box of cigars and another of cigarettes, a tobacco-jar, an ash-tray, and a bowl of matches; and on the left of the table is a capacious arm-chair. There is an arm-chair on either side of the fireplace; and against the right-hand wall, on the nearer side of the bedroom door, is a cabinet.
On the other side of the room, facing the bedroom door, there is a second settee, and behind the settee is an oblong table littered with books and magazines. At a little distance from this table stands an arm-chair, and against the wall at the back, on the left of the big doors, is a chair of a lighter sort. Also against the back wall, but on the left of the door opening from the vestibule, is a table with a telephone-instrument upon it, and running along the left-hand wall is a dwarf bookcase, unglazed, packed with books which look as if they would be none the worse for being dusted and put in order.
In the vestibule, against the wall on the right, there is a small table on which are Philip's hats, caps, and gloves; and an overcoat and a man's cape are hanging on some pegs.
It is late on a November afternoon. Curtains are drawn across the dining-room windows, and the room is lighted rather dimly by an electric lamp standing upon a sideboard. A warm glow proceeds from the nearer right-hand corner as from a fire. The study is lighted by a couple of standard lamps and a library-lamp on the writing-table, and the vestibule by a lamp suspended from the ceiling.
The big doors are open.
[PHILIP, a pipe in his mouth and wearing an old velvet jacket, is lying upon the settee on the right, reading a book by the light of the lamp on the writing-table. In the dining-room, JOHN and a waiter—the latter in his shirt-sleeves—are at the round table, unfolding a white table-cloth.
JOHN.
[A cheery little man in seedy clothes—to the waiter, softly.] Careful! Don't crease it.
PHILIP.
[Raising his eyes from his book.] What's the time, John?
JOHN.
Quarter-to-six, sir.
PHILIP.
Have my things come from the tailor's yet?
JOHN.
[Laying the cloth with the aid of the waiter.] Yes, sir; while you were dozing. [Ecstatically.] They're lovely, sir. [A bell rings in the vestibule.] Expect that's the cook, sir. [He bustles into the vestibule from the dining-room. There is a short pause and then he reappears, entering the study at the door opening from the vestibule, followed by ROOPE.] It's Mr. Roope, sir!
PHILIP.
No! [Throwing his book aside and jumping up.] Why, Robbie!
ROOPE.
[As they shake hands vigorously.] My dear fellow!
PHILIP.
Return of the wanderer! When did you get back?
ROOPE.
Last night.
PHILIP.
Take your coat off, you old ruffian. [Putting his pipe down.] I am glad.
ROOPE.
[To JOHN, who relieves him of his hat, overcoat, and neckerchief.] How are you, John?
JOHN.
Splendid, Mr. Roope. [Beaming.] Our new novel is sech a success, sir.
PHILIP.
Ha, ha, ha, ha!
ROOPE.
[To JOHN.] So Mr. Mackworth wrote and told me. [Giving his gloves to JOHN.] Congratulate you, John.
JOHN.
[Depositing the hat, coat, etc., upon the settee on the left.] Thank you, sir.
ROOPE.
[Crossing to the fireplace, rubbing his hands, as JOHN retires to the dining-room.] Oh, my dear Phil, this dreadful climate after the sunshine of the Lago Maggiore!
PHILIP.
[Walking about and spouting, in high spirits.] "Italia! O Italia! thou who hast the fatal gift of beauty——!"
ROOPE.
Sir Loftus and Lady Glazebrook were moving on to Rome, or I really believe I could have endured another month at their villa, bores as they are, dear kind souls! [Looking towards the dining-room, where JOHN and the waiter are now placing a handsome centre-piece of flowers upon the round table.] Hallo! A dinner-party, Phil?
PHILIP.
Dinner-party? A banquet!
ROOPE.
To celebrate the success of the book?
PHILIP.
That and something more. This festival, sir, of the preparations for which you are a privileged spectator—[shouting to JOHN] shut those doors, John——
JOHN.
Yessir.
PHILIP.
[Sitting in the chair on the left of the smoking-table as JOHN closes the big doors.] This festival, my dear Robbie—[glancing over his shoulder to assure himself that the doors are closed] this festival also celebrates my formal engagement to Madame de Chaumie.
ROOPE.
[Triumphantly.] Aha!
PHILIP.
[Taking a cigarette from the box at his side.] Ottoline and I are to be married soon after Christmas. The civilized world is to be startled by the announcement on Monday.
ROOPE.
[Advancing.] My dear chap, I've never heard anything that has given me greater pleasure. [PHILIP offers ROOPE the cigarette-box.] No, I won't smoke. [Seating himself upon the settee on the right.] When was it settled?
PHILIP.
[Lighting his cigarette.] The day before yesterday. I got Titterton to write me a letter—Titterton, my publisher—certifying to the enormous sales of the book, and sent it on to Sir Randle Filson. Nothing like documentary evidence, Robbie. [Leaning back in his chair with outstretched legs and exhaling a wreath of tobacco-smoke.] Twenty-five thousand copies, my boy, up to date, and still going strong.
ROOPE.
Wonderful.
PHILIP.
Phew! The critics treated me generously enough, but it hung fire damnably at first. At one particularly hellish moment I could have sworn it wouldn't do more than my usual fifteen or eighteen hundred, and I cursed myself for having been such a besotted fool as to pin my faith to it. [Sitting upright.] And then, suddenly, a rush—a tremendous rush! Twenty-four thousand went off in less than six weeks. Almost uncanny, eh? [Touching the tobacco-jar.] Oh, lord, sometimes I think I've been putting opium into my pipe instead of this innocent baccy, and that I shall wake up to the necessity of counting my pence again and apologizing to John for being in arrear with his wages!
ROOPE.
And Titterton's letter brought the Filsons round?
PHILIP.
[Nodding.] Brought 'em round; and I must say they've accomplished the change of attitude most graciously.
ROOPE.
[Oracularly.] Graciously or grudgingly, they couldn't help themselves, dear excellent friend. As you had pledged yourself in effect to resign the lady if your book was a failure, it follows that they were bound to clasp you to their bosoms if it succeeded. I don't want to detract from the amiability of the Filsons for an instant——
PHILIP.
Anyhow, their opposition is at an end, and all is rosy. [Rising and pacing the room.] Master Bertram is a trifle glum and stand-offish perhaps, but Sir Randle—! Ha, ha, ha! Sir Randle has taken Literature under his wing, Robbie, from Chaucer to Kipling, in the person of his prospective son-in-law. You'd imagine, to listen to him, that to establish ties of relationship with a literary man has been his chief aim in life.
ROOPE.
[Jerking his head in the direction of the dining-room.] And this is to be a family gathering——?
PHILIP.
The first in the altered circumstances. I proposed a feast at a smart restaurant, but Sir Randle preferred the atmosphere which has conduced, as he puts it, to the creation of so many of my brilliant compositions. [Behind the smoking-table, dropping the end of his cigarette into the ash-tray—gaily.] Robbie, I've had a magnificent suit of joy-rags made for the occasion!
ROOPE.
[Earnestly.] Good! I rejoice to hear it, dear excellent friend, and I hope it portends a wholesale order to your tailor and your intention to show yourself in society again freely. [With a laugh, PHILIP goes to the fireplace and stands looking into the fire.] Begin leaving your cards at once. No more sulking in your tent! [Rising and crossing to the other side of the room.] You have arrived, my dear chap; I read your name in two papers in my cabin yesterday. [Marching up and down.] Your foot is on the ladder; you bid fair to become a celebrity, if you are not one already; and your approaching marriage sheds additional lustre on you. I envy you, Phil; I do, positively.
PHILIP.
[Facing ROOPE.] Oh, of course, I shall be seen about with Ottoline during our engagement. Afterwards——
ROOPE.
[Halting.] Afterwards——?
PHILIP.
Everything will depend on my wife—[relishing the word] my wife. Ottoline has rather lost her taste for Society with a capital S, remember.
ROOPE.
[Testily.] That was her mood last June, when she was hypped and discontented. With a husband she can be proud of, surely——!
PHILIP.
[Coming forward.] As a matter of fact, Robbie, I'm inclined to agree with you; I've been staring into my fire, or out of my windows here, a jolly sight too much. [Expanding his chest.] It'll be refreshing to me to rub shoulders with people again for a bit—[smiling] even to find myself the object of a little interest and curiosity.
ROOPE.
[Delighted.] Dear excellent friend!
PHILIP.
Ha, ha! You see, I'm not without my share of petty vanity. I'm consistent, though. Didn't I tell you in South Audley Street that I was as eager for fame as any man living, if only I could win it in my own way?
ROOPE.
You did.
PHILIP.
[Exultingly.] Well, I have won it in my own way, haven't I! [Hitting the palm of his hand with his fist.] I've done what I determined to do, Robbie; what I knew I should do, sooner or later! I've got there—got there!—by simple, honest means! Isn't it glorious?
ROOPE.
[Cautiously.] I admit——
PHILIP.
[Breaking in.] Oh, I don't pretend that there haven't been moments in my years of stress and struggle when I've been tempted to join the gaudy, cackling fowl whose feathers I flatter myself I've plucked pretty thoroughly in my book! But I've resisted the devil by prayers and fasting; and, by George, sir, I wouldn't swap my modest victory for the vogue of the biggest boomster in England! [Boisterously.] Ha, ha, ha! Whoop! [Seizing ROOPE and shaking him.] Dare to preach your gospel to me now, you arch-apostle of quackery and self-advertisement!
ROOPE.
[Peevishly, releasing himself.] Upon my word, Phil——!
[The bell rings again.
PHILIP.
The cook! [To ROOPE, seeing that he is putting on his muffler.] Don't go.
ROOPE.
I must. [Taking up his overcoat.] I merely ran along to shake hands with you, and I'm sorry I took the trouble. [PHILIP helps him into his overcoat laughingly.] Thanks.
PHILIP.
[Suddenly.] Robbie——!
ROOPE.
[Struggling with an obstinate sleeve.] Hey?
PHILIP.
It's just struck me. Where are you dining to-night?
ROOPE.
At the Garrick, with Hughie Champion. [Picking up his hat and gloves.] He's getting horribly deaf and tedious; but I had nothing better.
PHILIP.
Bother Colonel Champion! I wish you could have dined with me.
ROOPE.
[His hat on his head, drawing on his gloves.] Dear excellent friend! I should be out of place.
PHILIP.
Rubbish! Your presence would be peculiarly appropriate, my dear Robbie. Wasn't it you who brought Ottoline and me together, God bless yer! [Observing that ROOPE is weakening.] There's heaps of room for an extra chair. Everybody 'ud be delighted.
ROOPE.
[Meditatively.] I could telephone to Hughie excusing myself. He didn't ask me till this afternoon. [With an injured air.] I resent a short notice.
PHILIP.
[His eyes twinkling.] Quite right. Mine's short too——
ROOPE.
That's different.
PHILIP.
Entirely. You'll come?
ROOPE.
If you're certain the Filsons and Madame de Chaumie——
PHILIP.
Certain. [Following ROOPE to the door admitting to the vestibule.] Eight o'clock.
ROOPE.
[Opening the door.] Charming.
PHILIP.
Won't you let John fetch you a taxi?
ROOPE.
[Shaking hands with PHILIP.] No, I'll walk into Holborn. [In the doorway.] Oh, by-the-by, I've a message for you, Phil.
PHILIP.
From whom?
ROOPE.
Barradell, of all people in the world.
PHILIP.
[Surprised.] Sir Timothy?
ROOPE.
He's home. I crossed with him yesterday, and we travelled in the same carriage from Dover.
PHILIP.
What's the message?
ROOPE.
He saw your book in my bag, and began talking about you. He said he hadn't met you for years, but that I was to give you his warm regards.
PHILIP.
Indeed?
ROOPE.
[Astutely.] My impression is that he's heard rumours concerning you and Madame de Chaumie while he's been away, and that he's anxious to show he has no ill-will. I suppose your calling so often in Ennismore Gardens has been remarked.
PHILIP.
Extremely civil of him, if that's the case. [Loftily.] Decent sort of fellow, I recollect.
ROOPE.
[Going into the vestibule.] Very; very.
PHILIP.
Poor chap!
ROOPE.
[Opening the outer door.] Eight o'clock, dear excellent friend.
PHILIP.
[At his elbow.] Sharp.
ROOPE.
[Disappearing.] Au revoir!
PHILIP.
Au revoir! [Calling after ROOPE.] Mind that corner! [Closing the outer door with a bang and shouting.] John! [Coming back into the study.] John! [Closing the vestibule door.] John! [Going to the big doors and opening the one on the left a little way.] John——!
[OTTOLINE, richly dressed in furs, steps through the opening and confronts him. Her cheeks are flushed and her manner has lost some of its repose.
OTTOLINE.
[Shutting the door behind her as she enters—playfully.] Qu'est-ce que vous desirez John?
PHILIP.
[Catching her in his arms.] My dear girl!
OTTOLINE.
Ha, ha! I'm not going to stop a minute. [Rapidly.] I've been to tea with Kitty Millington; and as I was getting into my car, I suddenly thought—! [He kisses her.] I waited in there to avoid Robbie Roope.
PHILIP.
Robbie came back yesterday. I hope I haven't done wrong; I've asked him to dine here to-night.
OTTOLINE.
Wrong! Dear old Robbie! But I didn't want him just now. [Loosening her wrap and hunting for a pocket in it.] I've brought you a little gift, Phil—en souvenir de cette soiree——
PHILIP.
[Reprovingly.] Oh——!
OTTOLINE.
I got it at Cartier's this afternoon. I meant to slip it into your serviette to-night quietly, but it's burning a hole in my pocket. [She produces a small jewel-case and presents it to him.] Will you wear that in your tie sometimes?
PHILIP.
[Opening the case and gazing at its contents.] Phiou! [She leaves him, walking away to the fireplace.] What a gorgeous pearl! [He follows her and they stand side by side, he holding the case at arm's-length admiringly, his other arm round her waist.] You shouldn't, Otto. You're incorrigible.
OTTOLINE.
[Leaning her head against his shoulder—softly.] Phil——
PHILIP.
[Still gazing at the scarf-pin.] To-morrow I'll buy the most beautiful silk scarf ever weaved.
OTTOLINE.
Phil, I've a feeling that it's from to-night, when I sit at your table—how sweet your flowers are; I couldn't help noticing them!—I've a feeling that it's from to-night that we really belong to each other.
PHILIP.
[Pressing her closer to him.] Ah——!
OTTOLINE.
[With a shiver, closing her eyes.] What has gone before has been hateful—hateful!
PHILIP.
[Looking down upon her fondly.] Hateful?
OTTOLINE.
Until—until your book commenced to sell, at any rate. Suspense—a horrid sensation of uneasiness, mistrust—the fear that, through your foolish, hasty promise to mother and Dad, you might, after all, unite with them to cheat me out of my happiness! That's what it has been to me, Philip.
PHILIP.
[Rallying her, but a little guiltily.] Ha, ha, ha! You goose! I knew exactly how events would shape, Otto; hadn't a doubt on the subject. [Shutting the jewel-case with a snap and a flourish.] I knew——
OTTOLINE.
[Releasing herself.] Ah, yes, I dare say I've been dreadfully stupid. [Shaking herself, as if to rid herself of unpleasant memories, and again leaving him.] Well! Sans adieu! [Fastening her wrap.] Get your hat and take me downstairs.
PHILIP.
Wait a moment! [Chuckling.] Ho, ho! I'm not to be outdone altogether. [Pocketing her gift, he goes to the cabinet on the right and unlocks it. She watches him from the middle of the room. Presently he comes to her, carrying a little ring-case.] Take off your glove—[pointing to her left hand] that one. [She removes her glove tremulously. He takes a ring from the case, tosses the case on to the writing-table, and slips the ring on her third finger.] By George, I'm in luck; blessed if it doesn't fit!
[She surveys the ring in silence for a while; then she puts her arms round his neck and hides her face on his breast.
OTTOLINE.
[Almost inaudibly.] Oh, Phil!
PHILIP.
[Tenderly.] And so this is the end of the journey, Otto!
OTTOLINE.
[In a whisper.] The end?
PHILIP.
The dreary journey in opposite directions you and I set out upon nearly eleven years ago in Paris.
OTTOLINE.
[Quivering.] Ah——!
PHILIP.
My dear, what does it matter as long as our roads meet at last, and meet where there are clear pools to bathe our vagabond feet and sunshine to heal our sore bodies! [She raises her head and rummages for her handkerchief.] Otto——!
OTTOLINE.
Yes?
PHILIP.
In April—eh——?
OTTOLINE.
[Drying her eyes.] April——?
PHILIP.
You haven't forgotten the compact we entered into at Robbie Roope's?
OTTOLINE.
[Brightening.] Ah, no!
PHILIP.
In April we walk under the chestnut-trees once more in the Champs-Elysees——!
OTTOLINE.
[Smiling through her tears.] And the Allee de Longchamp——!
PHILIP.
As husband and wife—we shall be an old married couple by then——!
OTTOLINE.
[Pulling on her glove.] And drink milk at the d'Armenonville——!
PHILIP.
And the Pre-Catelan——!
OTTOLINE.
And we'll make pilgrimages, Phil——!
PHILIP.
Yes, we'll gaze up at the windows of my gloomy lodgings in the Rue Soufflot—what was the number?——
OTTOLINE.
[Contracting her brows.] Quarante-trois bis.
PHILIP.
[Banteringly.] Where you honoured me with a visit, madame, with your maid Nanette——
OTTOLINE.
[Warding off the recollection with a gesture.] Oh, don't——!
PHILIP.
Ha, ha, ha! A shame of me——!
OTTOLINE.
[Turning from him.] Do get your hat and coat.
PHILIP.
[Going into the vestibule.] Where's your car?
OTTOLINE.
[Moving towards the vestibule.] In South Square.
PHILIP.
[Returning to her, a cape over his shoulders, a soft hat on his head.] Eight o'clock!
OTTOLINE.
Eight o'clock.
[He takes her hands and they stand looking into each other's eyes.
PHILIP.
[After a pause.] Fancy!
OTTOLINE.
[Faintly.] Fancy! [He is drawing her to him slowly when, uttering a low cry, she embraces him wildly and passionately.] Oh! [Clinging to him.] Oh, Phil! Oh—oh—oh——!
PHILIP.
[Responding to her embrace.] Otto—Otto——!
OTTOLINE.
[Breaking from him.] Oh——!
[She hurries to the outer door. He follows her quickly, closing the vestibule door after him. Then the outer door is heard to shut, and the curtain falls. After a short interval, the curtain rises again, showing all the doors closed and the study in darkness save for the light of the fire. The bell rings, and again there is an interval; and then the vestibule door is opened by JOHN—attired for waiting at table—and BERTRAM brushes past him and enters. BERTRAM is in evening dress.
BERTRAM.
[As he enters, brusquely.] Yes, I know I'm a little too soon. I want to speak to Mr. Mackworth—before the others come, I mean t'say——
[JOHN switches on the light of a lamp by the vestibule door. It is now seen that BERTRAM is greatly flustered and excited.
JOHN.
[Taking BERTRAM's hat, overcoat, etc.] I'll tell Mr. Mackworth, sir. He's dressin'.
[JOHN, eyeing BERTRAM wonderingly, goes to the door of the bedroom. There, having switched on the light of another lamp, he knocks.
PHILIP.
[From the bedroom.] Yes?
JOHN.
[Opening the door a few inches.] Mr. Filson, sir.
PHILIP.
[Calling out.] Hallo, Bertram!
JOHN.
Mr. Filson wants to speak to you, sir.
PHILIP.
I'll be with him in ten seconds. Leave the door open.
JOHN.
Yessir.
[JOHN withdraws, carrying BERTRAM's outdoor things into the vestibule and shutting the vestibule door.
PHILIP.
[Calling to BERTRAM again.] I'm in the throes of tying a bow, old man. Sit down. [BERTRAM, glaring at the bedroom door, remains standing.] O'ho, that's fine! Ha, ha, ha! I warn you, I'm an overpowering swell to-night. A new suit of clothes, Bertram, devised and executed in less than thirty-six hours! And a fit, sir; every item of it! You'll be green with envy when you see this coat. I'm ready for you. Handkerchief—? [Shouting.] John—! Oh, here it is! [Switching off the light in the bedroom and appearing, immaculately dressed, in the doorway.] Behold! [Closing the door and advancing to BERTRAM.] How are you, Bertram? [BERTRAM refuses PHILIP's hand by putting his own behind his back. PHILIP raises his eyebrows.] Oh? [A pause.] Anything amiss? [Observing BERTRAM's heated look.] You don't look well, Filson.
BERTRAM.
[Breathing heavily.] No, I'm not well—I mean t'say, I'm sick with indignation——
PHILIP.
What about?
BERTRAM.
You've attempted to play us all a rascally trick, Mackworth; a low, scurvy, contemptible——
PHILIP.
[Frowning.] A trick?
BERTRAM.
I've just come from Mr. Dunning—a man I've thought it my duty to employ in the interests of my family—Sillitoe and Dunning, the private-inquiry people——
PHILIP.
Private-inquiry people?
BERTRAM.
Dunning rang me up an hour ago, and I went down to him. The discovery wasn't clinched till this afternoon——
PHILIP.
The discovery?
BERTRAM.
[Derisively.] Ho! This precious book of yours—"The Big Drum"! A grand success, Mackworth!
PHILIP.
[Perplexed.] I don't——
BERTRAM.
"The Big Drum"! Wouldn't "The Big Fraud" be a more suitable title, I mean t'say?
PHILIP.
Fraud?
BERTRAM.
Reached its twenty-fifth thousand, and the demand still continues! You and Mr. what's-his-name—Titterton—ought to be publicly exposed, Mackworth; and if we were in the least spiteful and vindictive——
PHILIP.
[Tightening his lips.] Are you sober, Filson?
BERTRAM.
Now, don't you be insolent, because it won't answer. [PHILIP winces, but restrains himself.] The question is, what are we to do to-night—for Ottoline's sake, I mean t'say. We must spare her as much shock and distress as possible. I assume you've sufficient decency left to agree with me there. My father and mother too—they're quite ignorant of the steps I've been taking——
PHILIP.
[Controlling himself with difficulty.] My good fellow, will you condescend to explain——?
BERTRAM.
[Walking away.] Oh, it's no use, Mackworth—this air of innocence! [Puffing himself out and strutting to and fro on the left.] It's simply wasted effort, I mean t'say. In five minutes I can have Dunning here with the whole disreputable story. He's close by—bottom of Chancery Lane. He'll be at his office till half-past-eleven——
PHILIP.
[Between his teeth—thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets.] Very accommodating of him!
BERTRAM.
I tried to get on to my father from Dunning's—to ask his advice, I mean t'say—but he'd dressed early and gone to one of his clubs, and they couldn't tell me which one. [Halting and looking at his watch.] My suggestion is that you and I should struggle through this farce of a dinner as best we can—as if nothing had happened. I mean t'say—and that I should reserve the disclosure of your caddish conduct till to-morrow. You assent to that course, Mackworth? [Dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief.] Thank heaven, the announcement of the engagement hasn't appeared!
PHILIP.
[In a calm voice.] Bertram—[pointing to the chair on the left of the smoking-table] Bertie, old man—[seating himself easily upon the settee on the right] you're your sister's brother and I'm not going to lose my temper——
BERTRAM.
[Sneeringly.] My dear sir——
PHILIP.
[Leaning back and crossing his legs.] One thing I seem to grasp clearly; and that is that, while I've been endeavouring to conciliate you, and make a pal of you, you've been leaguing yourself with a tame detective with the idea of injuring me in some way with Ottoline and your father and mother. [Folding his arms.] That's correct, isn't it?
BERTRAM.
[With a disdainful shrug.] If you think it will benefit you to distort my motives, Mackworth, pray do so. [Returning to the middle of the room.] What I've done, I've done, as I've already stated, from a sheer sense of duty——
PHILIP.
[Again pointing to the chair.] Please! You'll look less formidable, old man——
BERTRAM.
[Sitting, haughtily.] Knowing what depended on the fate of your book, I felt from the first that you might be unscrupulous enough to induce your publisher to represent it as being a popular success—in order to impose on us, I mean t'say—though actually it was another of your failures to hit the mark; and when Titterton started blowing the trumpet so loudly, my suspicions increased. [PHILIP slowly unfolds his arms.] As for desiring to injure you with my family at any price, I scorn the charge. I've had the delicacy to refrain from even mentioning my suspicions to my father and mother, let alone Ottoline. [Putting his necktie straight and smoothing his hair and his slightly crumpled shirt-front.] Deeply as I regret your connection with my sister, I should have been only too happy, I mean t'say, if my poor opinion of you had been falsified.
PHILIP.
[His hands clenched, but preserving his suavity.] Extremely grateful to you, Bertie. I see! And so, burdened by these suspicions, you carried them to Mr.—Mr. Gunning?
BERTRAM.
Dunning. I didn't regard it as a job for a respectable solicitor——
PHILIP.
[Politely.] Didn't you!
BERTRAM.
Not that there's anything against Dunning——
PHILIP.
[Uncrossing his legs and sitting upright.] Well, that brings us to the point, doesn't it?
BERTRAM.
The point?
PHILIP.
The precise, and illuminating, details of the fable your friend at the bottom of Chancery Lane is fooling you with.
BERTRAM.
[In a pitying tone.] Oh, my dear Mackworth! I repeat, it's no use your adopting this attitude. You don't realize how completely you're bowled over, I mean t'say. Dunning's got incontestable proofs——
PHILIP.
[Jumping up, unable to repress himself any longer.] Damn the impudent scoundrel——!
[The bell rings.
BERTRAM.
[Listening.] Your bell!
PHILIP.
[Striding to the left and then to the fireplace.] You said he's still at his office, didn't you?
BERTRAM.
[Rising.] Yes.
PHILIP.
[Pointing to the telephone, imperatively.] Get him here at once.
BERTRAM.
[Rather taken aback.] At once?
PHILIP.
I'll deal with this gentleman promptly.
BERTRAM.
[Icily.] Not before Ottoline and my parents, I hope?
PHILIP.
[Seizing the poker and attacking the fire furiously.] Before Ottoline and your parents.
BERTRAM.
A most painful scene for them, I mean t'say——
PHILIP.
A painful scene for you and Mr. Dunning.
BERTRAM.
After dinner—when they've gone—you and I'll go down to Dunning——
PHILIP.
[Flinging the poker into the grate and facing BERTRAM.] Confound you, you don't suppose I'm going to act on your suggestion, and grin through a long meal with this between us! [Pointing to the telephone again.] Ring him up, you treacherous little whelp—quick! [Advancing.] If you won't——!
BERTRAM.
[Bristling.] Oh, very good! [Pausing on his way to the telephone and addressing PHILIP with an evil expression.] You were always a bully and a blusterer, Mackworth; but, take my word for it, if you fancy you can bully Mr. Dunning, and bluster to my family, with any satisfactory results to yourself, you're vastly mistaken.
PHILIP.
[Gruffly.] I beg your pardon; sorry I exploded.
BERTRAM.
[Scowling.] It's of no consequence. [At the telephone, his ear to the receiver.] I am absolutely indifferent to your vulgar abuse, I mean t'say.
[JOHN announces ROOPE. Note: ROOPE and the rest of the guests divest themselves of their overcoats, wraps, etc., in the vestibule before entering the room.
JOHN.
Mr. Roope.
ROOPE.
[Greeting PHILIP as JOHN withdraws.] Am I the first——?
PHILIP.
[Glancing at BERTRAM.] No.
BERTRAM.
[Speaking into the telephone.] Holborn, three eight nine eight.
ROOPE.
[Waving his hand to Bertram.] Ah! How are you, my dear Mr. Filson?
BERTRAM.
[To ROOPE, sulkily.] How'r you? Excuse me——
ROOPE.
[To PHILIP.] My dear Phil, these excursions to the east are delightful; they are positively. The sights fill me with amazement. I——
PHILIP.
[Cutting him short by leading him to the fireplace.] Robbie——
ROOPE.
Hey?
PHILIP.
[Grimly, dropping his voice.] Are you hungry?
ROOPE.
Dear excellent friend, since you put the question so plainly, I don't mind avowing that I am—devilish hungry. Why——?
PHILIP.
There may be a slight delay, old chap.
ROOPE.
Delay?
PHILIP.
Yes, the east hasn't exhausted its marvels yet, by a long chalk.
ROOPE.
[Looking at him curiously.] Nothing the matter, Phil?
BERTRAM.
[Suddenly, into the telephone.] That you, Dunning——?
PHILIP.
[To ROOPE.] Robbie——
[Turning to the fire, PHILIP talks rapidly and energetically to ROOPE in undertones.
BERTRAM.
[Into the telephone.] Filson.... Mr. Filson.... I'm speaking from Gray's Inn.... Gray's Inn—Mr. Mackworth's chambers—2, Friars Court.... You're wanted, Dunning.... Now—immediately.... Yes, jump into a taxicab and come up, will you?...
ROOPE.
[To PHILIP, aloud, opening his eyes widely.] My dear Phil——!
PHILIP.
[With a big laugh.] Ha, ha, ha, ha——!
BERTRAM.
[To PHILIP, angrily.] Quiet! I can't hear. [Into the telephone.] I can't hear; there's such a beastly noise going on—what?... Dash it, you can get something to eat at any time! I mean to say—!... Eh?... [Irritably.] Oh, of course you may have a wash and brush up!... Yes, he is.... You're coming, then?... Right! Goo'bye.
ROOPE.
[To PHILIP, who has resumed his communication to ROOPE—incredulously.] Dear excellent friend——!
[The door-bell rings again.
PHILIP.
Ah—! [Pausing on his way to the vestibule door—to BERTRAM.] Mr. Dunning will favour us with his distinguished company?
BERTRAM.
[Behind the table on the left, loweringly.] In a few minutes. He's washing.
PHILIP.
Washing? Some of his customers' dirty linen? [As he opens the vestibule door, JOHN admits SIR RANDLE FILSON at the outer door.] Ah, Sir Randle!
SIR RANDLE.
[Heartily.] Well, Philip, my boy! [While JOHN is taking his hat, overcoat, etc.] Are my dear wife and daughter here yet?
PHILIP.
Not yet.
SIR RANDLE.
I looked in at Brooks's on my way to you. I hadn't been there for months. [To JOHN.] My muffler in the right-hand pocket. Thank you. [Entering and shaking hands with PHILIP.] Ha! They gave me quite a warm welcome. Very gratifying. [ROOPE advances.] Mr. Roope! [Shaking hands with ROOPE as PHILIP shuts the vestibule door.] An unexpected pleasure!
ROOPE.
[Uneasily.] Er—I am rather an interloper, I'm afraid, my dear Sir Randle——
SIR RANDLE.
[Retaining his hand.] No. [Emphatically.] No. This is one of Philip's many happy inspirations. If my memory is accurate, it was at your charming flat in South Audley Street that he and my darling child—[discovering BERTRAM, who is now by the settee on the left.] Bertie! [Going to him.] I haven't seen you all day, Bertie dear. [Kissing him on the forehead.] Busy, eh?
BERTRAM.
[Stiffly.] Yes, father.
PHILIP.
[At the chair on the left of the smoking-table, dryly.] Bertram has been telling me how busy he has been, Sir Randle——
SIR RANDLE.
[Not perceiving the general air of restraint.] That reminds me—[moving, full of importance, to the settee on the right—feeling in his breast-pocket] the announcement of the engagement, Philip—[seating himself and producing a pocket-book] Lady Filson and I drew it up this morning. [Hunting among some letters and papers.] I believe it is in the conventional form; but we so thoroughly sympathize with you and Ottoline in your dislike for anything that savours of pomp and flourish that we hesitate, without your sanction, to—[selecting a paper and handing it to PHILIP] ah! [To ROOPE, who has returned to the fireplace—over his shoulder.] I am treating you as one of ourselves, Mr. Roope——
ROOPE.
[In a murmur.] Dear excellent friend——!
SIR RANDLE.
[To PHILIP.] We propose to insert it only in the three or four principal journals——
PHILIP.
[Frowning at the paper.] Sir Randle——
SIR RANDLE.
[Blandly.] Eh?
PHILIP.
Haven't you given me the wrong paper?
SIR RANDLE.
[With a look of alarm, hurriedly putting on his pince-nez and searching in his pocket-book again.] The wrong——?
PHILIP.
This has "Universal News Agency" written in the corner of it.
SIR RANDLE.
[Holding out his hand for the paper, faintly.] Oh——!
PHILIP.
[Ignoring SIR RANDLE's hand—reading.] "The extraordinary stir, which we venture to prophesy will not soon be eclipsed, made by Mr. Philip Mackworth's recent novel, 'The Big Drum,' lends additional interest to the announcement of his forthcoming marriage to the beautiful Madame de Chaumie—" [The bell rings. He listens to it, and then goes on reading.] "—the beautiful Madame de Chaumie, daughter of the widely and deservedly popular—the widely and deservedly popular Sir Randle and Lady Filson——"
[After reading it to the end silently, he restores the paper to SIR RANDLE with a smile and a slight bow.
SIR RANDLE.
[Collecting himself.] Er—Lady Filson and I thought it might be prudent, Philip, to—er—to give a lead to the inevitable comments of the press. [Replacing the paper in his pocket-book.] If you object, my dear boy——
PHILIP.
[With a motion of the head towards the vestibule door.] That must be Lady Filson and Ottoline.
[He goes to the door and opens it. LADY FILSON and OTTOLINE are in the vestibule and JOHN is taking LADY FILSON's wrap from her.
LADY FILSON.
[Brimming over with good humour.] Ah, Philip! Don't say we're late!
PHILIP.
[Lightly.] I won't.
LADY FILSON.
[Entering and shaking hands with him.] Your staircase is so dark, it takes an age to climb it. [To ROOPE, who comes forward, shaking hands with him.] How nice! Ottoline told me, coming along, that we were to meet you.
ROOPE.
[Bending over her hand.] Dear lady!
LADY FILSON.
[Coming to SIR RANDLE.] There you are, Randle! [Nodding to BERTRAM, who is sitting aloof in the chair on the extreme left.] Bertie darling! [SIR RANDLE rises.] Aren't these rooms quaint and cosy, Randle?
SIR RANDLE.
[Still somewhat disconcerted.] For a solitary man, ideal. [Solemnly.] If ever I had the misfortune to be left alone in the world——
LADY FILSON.
[Sitting on the settee on the right.] Ho, my dear!
[PHILIP has joined OTTOLINE in the vestibule. He now follows her into the room, shutting the vestibule door. She is elegantly dressed in white and, though she has recovered her usual stateliness and composure, is a picture of radiant happiness.
OTTOLINE.
[Giving her hand to ROOPE, who raises it to his lips—sweetly.] I am glad you are home, Robbie, and that you are here to-night. [To LADY FILSON and SIR RANDLE.] Mother—Dad—[espying BERTRAM] oh, and there's Bertram—don't be scandalized, any of you! [To ROOPE, resting her hands on his shoulders.] Une fois de plus, mon ami, pour vous temoigner ma gratitude!
[She kisses him. LADY FILSON laughs indulgently, and SIR RANDLE, wagging his head, moves to the fireplace.
ROOPE.
Ha, ha, ha——!
OTTOLINE.
Ha, ha, ha! [Going to the fireplace.] Ah, what a lovely fire! [To SIR RANDLE, as ROOPE seats himself in the chair by the smoking-table and prepares to make himself agreeable to LADY FILSON.] Share it with me, Dad, and let me warm my toes before dinner. I'm frozen!
PHILIP.
[Coming to the middle of the room.] My dear Ottoline—Lady Filson—Sir Randle—I fear we shall all have time to warm our toes before dinner. [ROOPE, who is about to address a remark to LADY FILSON, puts his hand to his mouth, and SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON look at PHILIP inquiringly.] You mustn't blame me wholly for the hitch in my poor entertainment——
LADY FILSON.
[Amiably.] The kitchen! I guess your difficulties, Philip——
PHILIP.
No, nor my kitchen either——
OTTOLINE.
[Turning the chair on the nearer side of the fireplace so that it faces the fire.] The cook wasn't punctual! [Installing herself in the chair.] Ah, la, la! Ces cuisinieres causent la moitie des ennuis sur cette terre!
PHILIP.
Oh, yes, the cook was punctual. [His manner hardening a little.] The truth is, we are waiting for a Mr. Dunning.
LADY FILSON.
Mr.——?
SIR RANDLE.
Mr.——?
OTTOLINE.
[From her chair, where she is almost completely hidden from the others—comfortably.] Good gracious! Who's Mr. Dunning, Philip?
[JOHN and the waiter open the big doors. The dining-table, round which the chairs are now arranged, is prettily lighted by shaded candles.
PHILIP.
[To JOHN, sharply.] John——
JOHN.
Yessir?
PHILIP.
Tell the cook to keep the dinner back for a little while. Do you hear?
JOHN.
[Astonished.] Keep dinner back, sir?
PHILIP.
Yes. And when Mr. Dunning calls—[distinctly] Dunning——
JOHN.
Yessir.
PHILIP.
I'll see him. Show him in.
JOHN.
Yessir.
PHILIP.
You may serve dinner as soon as he's gone. I'll ring.
[JOHN and the waiter withdraw into the kitchen, whereupon PHILIP, after watching their departure, deliberately closes the big doors. ROOPE, who has been picking at his nails nervously, rises and steals away to the left, and SIR RANDLE, advancing a step or two, exchanges questioning glances with LADY FILSON.
OTTOLINE.
[Laughingly.] What a terrible shock! I was frightened that Philip had sprung a strange guest upon us. [As PHILIP is shutting the doors.] Vous etes bien mysterieux, Phil? Why are we to starve until this Mr. Dunning has come and gone?
PHILIP.
Because if I tried to eat without having first disposed of the reptile, Otto, I should choke.
LADY FILSON.
[Bewildered.] Reptile?
OTTOLINE.
Philip!
PHILIP.
[At the chair beside the smoking-table—to LADY FILSON.] I apologize very humbly for making you and Sir Randle, and dear Ottoline, parties to such unpleasant proceedings, Lady Filson; but the necessity is forced upon me. [Coming forward.] Mr. Dunning is one of those crawling creatures who conduct what are known as confidential inquiries. In other words, he's a private detective—an odd sort of person to present to you!——
LADY FILSON.
[Under her breath.] Great heavens!
PHILIP.
And he has lightened your son's purse, presumably, and crammed his willing ears with some ridiculous, fantastic tale concerning my book—"The Big Drum." Mr. Dunning professes to have discovered that I have conspired with a wicked publisher to deceive you all; that the book's another of my miss-hits, and that I'm a designing rogue and liar. [To BERTRAM.] Come on, Bertram; don't sit there as if you were a stuffed figure! Speak out, and tell your father and mother what you've been up to!
LADY FILSON.
[Open-mouthed.] Bertie!
SIR RANDLE.
[Moving towards BERTRAM, mildly.] Bertram, my boy——?
BERTRAM.
[Curling his lip—to PHILIP.] Oh, you seem to be getting on exceedingly well without my assistance, Mackworth. I'm content to hold my tongue till Dunning arrives, I mean t'say.
PHILIP.
[Approaching LADY FILSON.] You see, Lady Filson, Master Bertram is endowed with an exceptionally active brain; and when I gave those assurances to you and Sir Randle last June, it occurred to him that, in the event of my book failing to attract the market, there was a danger of my palming it off, with the kind aid of my publisher, as the out-and-out triumph I'd bragged of in advance; and the loud blasts of Titterton's trumpet strengthened Master Bertie's apprehensions. [OTTOLINE, unobserved, rises unsteadily and, with her eyes fixed fiercely upon BERTRAM, crosses the room at the back.] So what does he do, bless him for his devotion to his belongings! To safeguard his parents from being jockeyed, and as a brotherly precaution, he enlists the services, on the sly, of the obliging Mr. Dunning. We shall shortly have an opportunity of judging what that individual's game is. [With a shrug.] He may have stumbled legitimately into a mare's nest; but I doubt it. These ruffians'll stick at nothing to keep an ingenuous client on the hook—[He is interrupted by feeling OTTOLINE's hand upon his arm. He lays his hand on hers gently.] Otto dear——
OTTOLINE.
[Clutching him tightly and articulating with an effort.] It—it's infamous—shameful! My—my brother! It's infamous!
PHILIP.
Oh, it'll be all over in ten minutes. And then Bertie and I will shake hands—won't we, Bertie?—and forget the wretched incident——
OTTOLINE.
[Confronting BERTRAM, trembling with passion.] How dare you! How dare you meddle with my affairs—mine and Mr. Mackworth's! How dare you!
BERTRAM.
[Straightening himself.] Look heah, Ottoline——!
OTTOLINE.
Stand up when I speak to you!
[BERTRAM gets to his feet in a hurry.
LADY FILSON.
[Appealingly.] Otto——!
OTTOLINE.
[To BERTRAM.] All your life you've been paltry, odious, detestable——
BERTRAM.
Look heah——!
OTTOLINE.
But this! My God! For you—for any of us—to impugn the honesty of a man whose shadow we're not fit to walk in——!
SIR RANDLE.
[To LADY FILSON—pained.] Winifred——!
OTTOLINE.
[To BERTRAM.] You—you—you're no better than your common, hired spy——!
LADY FILSON.
[Rising and going to OTTOLINE.] My child, remember——!
OTTOLINE.
[Clenching her hands and hissing her words at BERTRAM.] C'est la verite! Tu n'es qu'une canaille—une vile canaille——!
LADY FILSON.
Control yourself, I beg!
OTTOLINE.
[To LADY FILSON.] Leave me alone——!
[She passes LADY FILSON and sits on the settee on the right with glittering eyes and heaving bosom. PHILIP has withdrawn to the fireplace and is standing looking into the fire.
LADY FILSON.
[To BERTRAM.] Bertie dear, I'm surprised at you! To do a thing like this behind our backs!
BERTRAM.
My dear mother, I knew that you and father wouldn't do it——
LADY FILSON.
I should think not, indeed!
SIR RANDLE.
[To BERTRAM.] Your mother and I!
LADY FILSON.
[Horrified at the notion.] Oh!
BERTRAM.
Upon my word, this is rather rough! [Walking away.] I mean to say——!
PHILIP.
[Turning.] We mustn't be too hard on poor Bertram, Lady Filson——
BERTRAM.
[Pacing the room near the big doors.] Poor Bertram! Ho!
SIR RANDLE.
[To PHILIP.] I trust we are never unduly hard on our children, my dear Philip——
PHILIP.
To do him justice, he was most anxious to postpone these dreadful revelations till to-morrow——
BERTRAM.
Exactly! [Throwing himself into the chair between the big doors and the vestibule door.] I predicted a scene! I predicted a scene!
PHILIP.
[To SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON, penitently.] Perhaps it would have been wiser of me—more considerate—to have complied with his wishes. But I was in a fury—naturally——
LADY FILSON.
[Sitting on the settee on the left.] Naturally.
SIR RANDLE.
And excusably. I myself, in similar circumstances——
PHILIP.
[Rubbing his head.] Why the deuce couldn't he have kept his twopenny thunderbolt in his pocket for a few hours, instead of launching it to-night and spoiling our sole a la Morny and our ris de veau——!
OTTOLINE.
[Gradually composing herself and regaining her dignity]. P-P-Philip——
PHILIP.
[Coming to the smoking-table.] Eh?
OTTOLINE.
[Passing her handkerchief over her lips.] Need you—need you see this man to-night? Can't you stop him coming—or send him away?
PHILIP.
Not see him——?
OTTOLINE.
Why—why should you stoop to see him at all? Why shouldn't the matter be allowed to drop—to drop?
PHILIP.
Drop!
OTTOLINE.
It—it's too monstrous; too absurd. [To BERTRAM, with a laugh.] Ha, ha, ha! Bertie—Bertie dear——
BERTRAM.
[Sullenly.] Yes?
OTTOLINE.
Ha, ha! I almost scared you out of your wits, didn't I?
BERTRAM.
You've behaved excessively rudely——
LADY FILSON.
Bertram—Bertram——
BERTRAM.
I mean to say, mother! What becomes of family loyalty——?
OTTOLINE.
[To BERTRAM, coaxingly.] Forgive me, Bertram. I'm ashamed of my violent outburst. Forgive me——
ROOPE.
[Who has been effacing himself behind the table on the left, appearing at the nearer end of the table.] Er—dear excellent friends—[SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON look at ROOPE as if he had fallen from the skies, and BERTRAM stares at him resentfully.] dear excellent friends, if I may be permitted to make an observation——
PHILIP.
[To ROOPE.] Go ahead, old man.
ROOPE.
In my opinion, it would be a thousand pities not to see Mr. Dunning to-night, and have done with him. [Cheerfully.] The fish is ruined—we must resign ourselves to that; [sitting in the chair on the extreme left] but the other dishes, if the cook is fairly competent——
SIR RANDLE.
[Advancing.] Mr. Roope's opinion is my opinion also. [Ponderously.] As to whether Lady Filson and my daughter should withdraw into an adjoining room——
LADY FILSON.
I feel with Philip; we couldn't sit down to dinner with this cloud hanging over us——
SIR RANDLE.
[Sitting in the chair by the smoking-table.] Impossible! I must be frank. Impossible!
ROOPE.
Dear Madame de Chaumie will pardon me for differing with her, but you can't very well ignore even a fellow of this stamp—[glancing at BERTRAM] especially, if I understand aright, my excellent friend over there still persists——
BERTRAM.
[Morosely.] Yes, you do understand aright, Roope. I've every confidence in Dunning, I mean t'say——
PHILIP.
[Turning away, angrily.] Oh——!
LADY FILSON.
[Severely.] Bertie——!
SIR RANDLE.
Bertram, my boy——!
[The bell rings. There is a short silence, and then BERTRAM rises and pulls down his waistcoat portentously.
BERTRAM.
Here he is.
OTTOLINE.
[To LADY FILSON, in a low voice.] Mother——?
LADY FILSON.
[To PHILIP.] Do you wish us to withdraw, Philip?
PHILIP.
[Sitting at the writing-table.] Not at all, Lady Filson. [Switching on the light of the library-lamp, sternly.] On the contrary, I should like you both to remain.
LADY FILSON.
[To OTTOLINE.] Otto dear——?
OTTOLINE.
[Adjusting a comb in her hair.] Oh, certainly, mother, I'll stay.
LADY FILSON.
[Arranging her skirt and settling herself majestically.] Of this we may be perfectly sure; when my son finds that he has been misled, purposely or unintentionally, he will be only too ready—too ready——
SIR RANDLE.
[Leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.] That goes without saying, Winifred. A gentleman—an English gentleman——
BERTRAM.
[Who is watching the vestibule door—over his shoulder, snappishly.] Oh, of course, father, if it turns out that I've been sold, I'll eat humble-pie abjectly.
ROOPE.
[Shaking a finger at BERTRAM.] Ha, ha! I hope you've brought a voracious appetite with you, dear excellent friend.
BERTRAM.
[To ROOPE, exasperated.] Look heah, Mr. Roope——!
[The vestibule door opens and JOHN announces DUNNING.
JOHN.
Mr. Dunning.
[DUNNING enters and JOHN retires. MR. ALFRED DUNNING is a spruce, middle-aged, shrewd-faced man with an affable but rather curt manner. He is in his hat and overcoat.
DUNNING.
[To BERTRAM.] Haven't kept you long, have I? I just had a cup o' cocoa—[He checks himself on seeing so large an assembly, removes his hat, and includes everybody in a summary bow.] Evening.
BERTRAM.
[To DUNNING.] Larger gathering than you expected. [Indicating the various personages by a glance.] Sir Randle and Lady Filson—my father and mother——
DUNNING.
[To SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON.] Evening.
BERTRAM.
My sister, Madame de Chaumie——
DUNNING.
[To OTTOLINE.] Evening.
BERTRAM.
Mr. Roope—Mr. Mackworth——
DUNNING.
[To them.] Evening.
[SIR RANDLE, LADY FILSON, and ROOPE, looking at DUNNING out of the corners of their eyes, acknowledge the introduction by a slight movement. PHILIP nods unpleasantly. OTTOLINE, with a stony countenance, also eyes DUNNING askance, and gives the barest possible inclination of her head on being named.
BERTRAM.
[Bringing forward the chair on which he has been sitting and planting it nearer to SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON—to DUNNING.] I suppose you may——
DUNNING.
[Taking off his gloves and overcoat—to PHILIP.] D'ye mind if I slip my coat off, Mr. Mackworth?
PHILIP.
[Growling.] No.
DUNNING.
Don't want to get overheated, and catch the flue. I've got Mrs. D. in bed with a bad cold, as it is.
BERTRAM.
[To DUNNING.] Now then, Mr. Dunning! I'll trouble you to give us an account of your operations in this business from the outset——
DUNNING.
[Hanging his coat over the back of the chair.] Pleasure.
BERTRAM.
The business of Mr. Mackworth's new book, I mean t'say.
DUNNING.
[Sitting and placing his hat on the floor.] Pleasure.
BERTRAM.
Middle of October, wasn't it, when I——?
DUNNING.
Later. [Producing a dog's-eared little memorandum-book and turning its leaves with a moistened thumb.] Here we are—the twenty-fourth. [To everybody, referring to his notes as he proceeds—glibly.] Mr. Filson called on me and Mr. Sillitoe, ladies and gentlemen, on the twenty-fourth of last month with reference to a book by Mr. P. Mackworth—"The Big Drum"—published September the second, and drew our attention to the advertisements of Mr. Mackworth's publisher—Mr. Clifford Titterton, of Charles Street, Adelphi—relating to the same. Mr. F. having made us acquainted with the special circumstances of the case, and furnished us with his reasons for doubting Titterton's flowery statements, [wetting his thumb again and turning to the next leaf of his note-book] on the following day, the twenty-fifth, I purchased a copy of the said book at Messrs. Blake and Hodgson's in the Strand, Mr. Hodgson himself informing me in the course of conversation that, as far as his firm was concerned, the book wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary. [Repeating the thumb process.] I then proceeded to pump one of the gals—er—to interrogate one of the assistants—at a circulating library Mrs. D. subscribes to, with a similar result. [Turning to the next leaf.] My next step——
SIR RANDLE.
I wonder whether these elaborate preliminaries——?
BERTRAM.
Oh, don't interrupt, father! I mean to say——!
DUNNING.
[Imperturbably.] My next step was to place the book in the hands of a lady whose liter'y judgment is a great deal sounder than mine or Mr. Sillitoe's—I allude to Mrs. D.—and her report was that, though amusing in parts, she didn't see anything in it to set the Thames on fire.
PHILIP.
[Laughing in spite of himself.] Ha, ha, ha!
ROOPE.
Ha, ha! [To PHILIP, with mock sympathy.] Dear excellent friend!
BERTRAM.
[To ROOPE.] Yes, all right, Mr. Roope——!
DUNNING.
[Turning to the next leaf.] I and Mr. Sillitoe then had another confab—er—consultation with Mr. Filson, and we pointed out to him that it was up to his father and mother to challenge Titterton's assertions and invite proof of their accuracy.
ROOPE.
[Quietly.] Obviously!
DUNNING.
Mr. F., however, giving us to understand that he was acting solely on his own, and that he wished the investigation kept from his family, we proposed a different plan——
BERTRAM.
To which I reluctantly assented.
DUNNING.
To get hold of somebody in Titterton's office—one of his employees, male or female——
LADY FILSON.
[Shocked.] Oh! Oh, Bertie!
OTTOLINE.
[Rising, with a gesture of disgust.] Ah——!
SIR RANDLE.
[To BERTRAM.] Really! Really, Bertram——!
[Seeing OTTOLINE rise, PHILIP also rises and comes to her.
LADY FILSON.
That a son of mine should countenance——!
OTTOLINE.
[Panting.] Oh, but this is—this is outrageous! [To SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON.] Dad—mother—why should we degrade ourselves by listening any further? [To PHILIP.] Philip——!
PHILIP.
[Patting her shoulder soothingly.] Tsch, tsch, tsch——!
BERTRAM.
[To LADY FILSON and SIR RANDLE.] My dear mother—my dear father—you're so impatient!
PHILIP.
[To OTTOLINE.] Tsch, tsch! Go back to the fire and toast your toes again.
BERTRAM.
I consider I was fully justified, I mean t'say——
[Falteringly OTTOLINE returns to the fireplace. She stands there for a few seconds, clutching the mantel-shelf, and then subsides into the chair before the fire. PHILIP advances to the settee on the right.
PHILIP.
[To DUNNING.] Sorry we have checked your flow of eloquence, Mr. Dunning, even for a moment. [Sitting.] I wouldn't miss a syllable of it. [Airily.] Do, please, continue.
SIR RANDLE.
[Looking at his watch.] My dear Philip——!
BERTRAM.
[To DUNNING, wearily.] Oh, come to the man—what's his name, Dunning?—Merryweather——!
DUNNING.
[Turning several pages of his note-book with his wet thumb.] Merrifield.
BERTRAM.
Merrifield. [Passing behind DUNNING and half-seating himself on the further end of the table on the left.] Skip everything in between; [sarcastically] my father and mother are dying for their dinner.
LADY FILSON.
Bertram!
DUNNING.
[Finding the memorandum he is searching for, and quoting from it.] Henry Merrifield—entry clerk to Titterton—left Titterton, after a row, on the fifteenth of the present month——
BERTRAM.
A stroke of luck—Mr. Merrifield—if ever there was one! I mean t'say——
DUNNING.
[To everybody.] Having gleaned certain significant facts from the said Henry Merrifield, ladies and gentlemen, [referring to his notes] I paid two visits last week to the offices of Messrs. Hopwood & Co., of 6, Carmichael Lane, Walbrook, described in fresh paint on their door as Shipping and General Agents; and the conclusion I arrived at was that Messrs. Hopwood & Co. were a myth and their offices a blind, the latter consisting of a small room on the ground floor, eight foot by twelve, and their staff of the caretakers of the premises—Mr. and Mrs. Sweasy—an old woman and her husband——
ROOPE.
[To DUNNING.] If I may venture to interpose again, what on earth have Messrs. Hopwood——?
SIR RANDLE.
Yes, what have Messrs. Hopwood——?
BERTRAM.
[Over his shoulder.] Ho! What have Messrs. Hopwood——!
ROOPE.
[To BERTRAM, pointing to DUNNING.] I am addressing this gentleman, dear excellent friend——
DUNNING.
[To ROOPE.] I'll tell you, sir. [Incisively.] It's to the bogus firm of Hopwood & Co. that the bulk of the volumes of Mr. Mackworth's new book have been consigned.
BERTRAM.
[Getting off the table, eagerly.] Dunning has seen them, I mean t'say——
SIR RANDLE.
[To BERTRAM, startled.] Be silent, Bertie!
LADY FILSON.
[To BERTRAM, holding her breath.] Do be quiet!
ROOPE.
[Blankly.] The—the bulk of the volumes——?
PHILIP.
[Staring at DUNNING.] The—the bulk of the——?
DUNNING.
[To SIR RANDLE and ROOPE.] Yes, gentlemen, the books are in a mouldy cellar, also rented by Messrs. Hopwood, at 6, Carmichael Lane. There's thousands of them there, in cases—some of the cases with shipping marks on them, some marked for inland delivery. I've inspected them this afternoon—overhauled them. Mr. Sweasy had gone over to the Borough to see his married niece, and I managed to get the right side of Mrs. S.
SIR RANDLE.
[Softly, looking from one to the other.] Curious! Curious!
LADY FILSON.
[Forcing a smile.] How—how strange!
ROOPE.
[To LADY FILSON, a little disturbed.] Why strange, dear Lady Filson? Shipping and other marks on the cases! These people are forwarding agents——
DUNNING.
[Showing his teeth.] Nobody makes the least effort to despatch the cases, though. That's singular, isn't it?
ROOPE.
But——!
DUNNING.
[To ROOPE.] My good sir, in the whole of our experience—mine and Mr. Sillitoe's—we've never come across a neater bit of hankey-pankey—[to PHILIP] no offence—and if Merrifield hadn't smelt a rat——
ROOPE.
But—but—but—the cost of it all, my dear Mr. Dunning! I don't know much about these things—the expense of manufacturing many thousands of copies of Mr. Mackworth's new book——!
SIR RANDLE.
[Alertly.] Quite so! Surely, if we were to be deceived, a simpler method could have been found——?
ROOPE.
[With energy.] Besides, what has Mr. Titterton to gain by the deception?
SIR RANDLE.
True! True! What has he to gain——?
PHILIP.
[Who is sitting with his hands hanging loosely, utterly bewildered—rousing himself.] Good God, yes! What has Titterton to gain by joining me in a blackguardly scheme to—to—to——?
DUNNING.
[To SIR RANDLE and ROOPE.] Well, gentlemen, in the first place, it's plain that Titterton was too fly to risk being easily blown upon——
BERTRAM.
He was prepared to prove that the books have been manufactured and delivered, I mean t'say——
DUNNING.
And in the second place, on the question of expense, the speculation was a tolerably safe one.
LADY FILSON.
[Keenly.] Speculation?
DUNNING.
Madarme dee Showmeeay being, according to my instructions—[to LADY FILSON, after a glance in OTTOLINE's direction] no offence, ladies—[to SIR RANDLE and ROOPE] Madarme dee Showmeeay being what is usually termed a catch, Mr. Mackworth would have been in a position, after his marriage, to reimburse Titterton——
[PHILIP starts to his feet with a cry of rage.
PHILIP.
Oh——!
ROOPE.
[Jumping up and hurrying to PHILIP—pacifying him.] My dear Phil—my dear old chap——
PHILIP.
[Grasping ROOPE's arm.] Robbie——!
[SIR RANDLE rises and goes to LADY FILSON. She also rises as he approaches her. They gaze at each other with expressionless faces.
ROOPE.
[To PHILIP.] Where does Titterton live?
PHILIP.
Gordon Square.
ROOPE.
[Pointing to the telephone.] Telephone—have him round——
PHILIP.
He's not in London.
ROOPE.
Not——?
PHILIP.
He's gone to the Riviera—left this morning. [Crossing to SIR RANDLE and LADY FILSON—appealingly.] Lady Filson—Sir Randle—you don't believe that Titterton and I could be guilty of such an arrant piece of knavery, do you? Ho, ho, ho! It's preposterous.
SIR RANDLE.
[Constrainedly.] Frankly—I must be frank—I hardly know what to believe.
LADY FILSON.
[Pursing her mouth.] We—we hardly know what to believe.
PHILIP.
[Leaving them.] Ah——!
ROOPE.
[Who has dropped into the chair by the smoking-table—to SIR RANDLE.] Sir Randle—dear excellent friend—let us meet Mr. Dunning to-morrow at Messrs. Hopwood's in Carmichael Lane—we three—you and I and Mackworth——
PHILIP.
[Pacing up and down between the table on the left and the bookcase.] Yes, yes—before I wire to Titterton—or see Curtis, his manager——
ROOPE.
[Over his shoulder, to DUNNING.] Hey, Mr. Dunning?
DUNNING.
Pleasure.
[While this has been going on, DUNNING has put his note-book away and risen, gathering up his hat and overcoat as he does so. BERTRAM is now assisting him into his coat.
SIR RANDLE.
[Advancing a step or two.] At what hour——?
DUNNING.
[Briskly.] Ten-thirty suit you, gentlemen?
SIR RANDLE, PHILIP, and ROOPE.
[Together.] Half-past-ten.
ROOPE.
[Scribbling with a pocket-pencil on his shirt-cuff.] 6, Carmichael Lane, Walbrook——
DUNNING.
[Pulling down his under-coat.] I'll be there.
ROOPE.
[Lowering his hands suddenly and leaning back in his chair, as if about to administer a poser.] By the way, Mr. Dunning, you tell us you have a strong conviction that Messrs. Hopwood & Co. are a myth, and their offices a sham—[caustically] may I ask whether you've tried to ascertain who is the actual tenant of the room and cellar in Carmichael Lane?
BERTRAM.
[Sniggering.] Why, Titterton, of course. I mean to say——!
ROOPE.
[Waving BERTRAM down.] Dear excellent friend——!
DUNNING.
[Taking up his hat, which he has laid upon the smoking-table—to ROOPE, with a satisfied air.] Mr. Sillitoe's got that in hand, sir. What I have ascertained is that a young feller strolls in occasionally and smokes a cigarette——
BERTRAM.
And pokes about in the cellar——
DUNNING.
Calls himself Hopwood. But the name written on the lining of his hat—[to BERTRAM, carelessly] oh, I forgot to mention this to you, Mr. Filson. [Producing his memorandum-book again.] Old mother Sweasy was examining the young man's outdoor apparel the other day. [Turning the pages with his wet thumb.] The name on the lining of his hat is—[finding the entry] is "Westrip." "Leonard Westrip." |
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