UNCLE 
 
 A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS 
 
 / 
 By Henry J. Byron 
 
 ^"^^ ^ of ''Our "Boys/' ''Uncle ^ck'$ "Darling/' ''War to 
 
 the Knife," etc. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 i S> O 2 
 
 t 
 
CHAL.^CTK'RS 
 
 Ur>"^-c BooTL"., . , . . 
 Paul 1 eaumont (his neplv 
 Fetkr !?letcher (h's best 
 Pur FIN (a Pastrycook's li-^i 11 ). . . 
 
 IdRS. BeaUMO! . ; . 
 
 ^^■MILY MONTROSF; . . 
 
 Sarah Jane (a Mai^.^:-'' d.ii yVork), 
 
 . . Mr. E. Royce 
 Mr. Edward Terry 
 Mr. J. H. Barnes 
 . . Mr. Crutwell 
 . . Miss E. Muir 
 Miss Eveleen Rayne 
 . . . Miss Amalia 
 
 "'CENE 
 Beaumorit's Cottage at Sydenham 
 
 There is no interval between Acts I and II, and a vei 
 short one between Acts II ana HI. 
 
 M. 
 

 UNCLE 
 
 Act I 
 
 ScE^Y.— Prettily fufuished drawing-room or living-room in 
 a cottage or nee a little way out of town. Doors r. a?id v.. 
 \Vi?idow L. c. Chimney piece r. <?r r. c. French windows 
 leading down to garden— the room supposed to be first 
 floor. 
 
 After rise of curtain and slight pause, then Sarah, the 
 servant maid, rather showily dressed, hut in bad taste, 
 enters r, d. 
 
 Sarah. I'm going, mum. {Pause) I say I'm going, mum. 
 {Pause) Missis hears sharp enough when you don't want 
 her to. If one has a few minutes' chat with the baker, or 
 waits at the gate whilst the young man from the grocer's 
 pays one a few innocent comphments, she bursts on one 
 hke a thunder-storm. Fact is, I daresay she finds some 
 difficulty in getting my month's money together, for these 
 Beaumontses ain't over-burdened, / know. I've heard one 
 or two of their squabbles about money. They say walls 
 haves ears, but what's better they haves doo7^s, and them 
 doors liaves key-holes, or we poor servants would often 
 find our characters took away behind our backs and never 
 know it. Hem! {Loud) Vm going, m\xm. 
 
 Enter Beaumont. 
 
 Beaumont. Going, mum ! You're going it. What's the 
 matter. Sarah ! That's if you are Sarah. Upon my word, 
 you domestics dress in such a fashion nowadays it's difficult 
 to tell you from your mistresses. 
 
 Sarah. Yes, sir. There's no law, I beheve, to stand in 
 the way of us servants wearing what we can pay for. 
 
 Beaumont. None that I'm aware of. I'm an advocate 
 for letting people do as they please myself. 
 
 Sarah"^ That's what I always say— it's not the masters, 
 it's the missises as does it. 
 
 Beaumont. As does what, Sarah ? 
 
 5 
 
6 UNCLE 
 
 Sarah. Oh ! sir, as does everything. As won't let a 
 young woman keep her place if she happens to be good- 
 looking. 
 
 Beaumont. Ha! that's where you're wrong; it's when 
 
 • she's good-looking she won't keep her place herself. Have 
 
 you suffered from that injustice, Sarah ? 
 
 H4^>^ ^ Sarah. Oh ! sir, it's not for me to tribute motives to no 
 
 one, but missis is like the rest, I suppose. Missis says it's 
 
 my insolence as parts us, but that's rubbish ! 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) Weil, I'm sorry the girl's going. She 
 has a temper, but I'm afraid Teresina does try it. Teresina 
 tries mine sometimes ; she's the dearest little woman, but 
 prone to suspicion, is Teresina. 
 
 E?der Mrs. Beaumont. 
 
 Mrs. B. {aside) Why is Paul talking to Sarah .=* {To 
 Beaumont) I think when you know that young woman has 
 been grossly insolent to me, and is now being packed off at 
 a moment's notice, you might .show me some respect by not 
 noticing her. {Goes to Sarah with mojiey.) 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) I didn't know anything about it. I 
 know the girl's only been here a couple of months or so, 
 and seemed willing enough, with a fair notion of cooking, 
 too. I suppose for the next week or so it'll be the old 
 story — chops and a charwoman. They may well call her a 
 char^ovs\2iXi, for she cooks 'em to cinders. 
 
 Mrs. B. {to Sarah) There's your money — count it. 
 
 Sarah. No needs to do that, mum ; / can trust you. 
 {Opens a?i elaborate porte-monnaie) 
 
 Mrs. B. {aside to Beaumont) The ide-a! Only look — 
 fancy a servant with a porte-monnaie like that. 
 
 Beaumont. Well, my love, it's not my fault. 
 
 Mrs. B. No. But 1 wonder how she could have got it. 
 ( To Sarah) There's nothing more. 
 
 Sarah. No, mum, there ain't. Which wishing you both 
 a good morning. I will take die liberty of sending my 
 Cousing Haugusttus for my box early in the hevenink. 
 {Exit) 
 
 Mrs. Beaumont turns. Beaumont and she face to face. 
 
 Mrs. B. Well, Paul. 
 
 Beaumont. Well, my love. 
 
 Mrs. B, " Well, my love " ! Is that all you've got to say .'* 
 A servant insults your wife, is turned away on the instant, 
 and all you can say is, " Well, my love." 
 
UNCLE 7 
 
 Beaumont. Since you i;ut. it in that light, Teresina, 1 
 will add— what are wa going to do now? 
 
 Mrs. B. Well, Mrs. Grubbins will— 
 
 Beaumont. Have we got to fall back on old Mother 
 Grubbin.s again ? 
 
 Mrs. B. a most respectable woman, Paul. She's not the 
 cook she might be. 
 
 Beaumont. No, she Lmt. There's one thing that's eco- 
 nomical about her culinary arrangements, however ; we save 
 something in pepper. 
 
 Mrs. B. How so ? 
 
 Beaumont. Because, my love, she substitutes snuff. The 
 powder is equally pungent, and she purchases it herself. I 
 prefer pepper, myself, but tastes differ. 
 
 Mrs B. Ah ! you always were partial to Sarah. 
 
 Beaumont. I prefer Sarah to snuff, certainly. 
 
 Mrs. B. There'll be no dithculty in supplying her place. 
 You've only got to atlvertise for a week or so. 
 
 Beaumont. Yes. But you see spare cash is rather con- 
 spicuous by its absence just now. Uncle Bootle's la.st re- 
 mittance has miscarried — ;ir possibly he has heard we're — 
 Oh ! no, no, don't let me think of anything so horrible as tliat ! 
 
 Mrs. B. What do you mean ? 
 
 Be.\umont. Never mind. Nothing much. Only, that if 
 ever the fatal fact that I have married should — 
 
 Mrs. B /v?/*^/ fact, indeed! 
 
 Beau.mont No, no, don't catch up one's words. Don't 
 let's quarrel, Teresina, there's a love. I'm bothered out of 
 my life as it is. 
 
 Mrs. B. I never want to quarrel — you always begin it. 
 
 Beaumont. Very well, little woman, then let's have a di- 
 vision of labor that shall at once be fair and satisfactory. 
 /'// always begin the quarrels, yon shall always end them. 
 Now, let's sit down and look matters in the face. There. 
 {They sit, good ft ie?ids) Do you know that the prospect is 
 anything but agreeable ? 
 
 i\lRS. B That's very polite, sir, considering you're look- 
 ing at me 
 
 Beaumont No, no. You see I can't expect to get any 
 business unless I — a — I shoiv myself. Unless I mix a bit 
 amongst people who can help me, and who would, too. 
 
 Mrs. B. Unless you join a club, you mean. Unless you 
 are always away from home, leaving me here alone with 
 Mrs. Grubbins. 
 
 Beaumont. There you touch me, Teresina. /shouldn't 
 like to be left alone with her. 
 
8 UNCLE 
 
 Mrs. B. Then you would be always receiving invita- 
 tions — going out to dinners and suppers, and goodness 
 knows where. If your success simply depends on mixing 
 with a parcel of selfish men, most of them bachelors — 
 
 Beaumont. Ah! there you're quite mistaken. They are 
 not, as a rule, bachelors. 
 
 Mrs. B. Then they're bad men w-ho don't appreciate their 
 homes. 
 
 Beaumont. There's no arguing w'ith you. 
 
 Mrs. B. Of course, you regret your freedom. 
 
 Beaumont. No, but I should like, if I can't see any of my 
 old friends at my old haunts — 
 
 Mrs. B. {in temper) Oh ! go to your old aunt's, though I 
 never knew^ you had any. 
 
 Beaumont. "//(22^;//^," Teresina, dear, not " rt-^/^z/ 'i"." As 
 I w^as saying, if I can't see them in toum, I should like some 
 of them — one or two of them, say — to see what a nice little 
 home I've got. — w^hat a nice little wife. 
 
 Mrs. B. You've told me all about your bachelor friends. 
 There's only one I should ever care to see here — mind you, 
 I don't say I should care to see him, but I should say your 
 friend Fletcher was rather more endurable than the others. 
 
 Beaumont. Eh ! Oh ! yes. {Aside) Now that's most re- 
 markable. With a depth worthy of Plymouth Sound I wrote 
 to Fletcher privately suggesting he should drop in by acci- 
 dent, and — now that's one of these extraordinary — it's be- 
 cause I've always been cracking Fletcher up to her. Hem ! 
 Without having ever seeji Fletcher she evidendy takes an 
 interest in Fletcher. 
 
 Mrs. B. You have always described him as such a very 
 charming person. 
 
 Beaumont, {airily) Have I ? Oh ! ah ! well, as to that, 
 you know, friends are partial. 
 
 Mrs. B. He's very handsome, isn't he? 
 
 Beaumont. Oh ! he'd pass in a crowd. 
 
 Mrs. B. Why, you said he was a perfect Apollo Belvi- 
 dere. 
 
 Beaumont. Did I ? Well, I never saw Apollo. I've been 
 to Belvidere, and don't care about it. 
 
 Mrs. B. And you said his manners were so fascinating. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) Confound 'em, so they are. 
 
 Mrs. B. Altogether a dangerous sort of person, I should 
 say. {Goes up.) 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) He won't come. A fellow like Fletcher 
 has something better to do than waste his time (Fletcher 
 ^ters ; neither see him) in a slow place like this. Good 
 
UNCLE 9 
 
 looking-^well— a— yes — probably, but I don't think there's 
 anything particularly striking about him. 
 
 Fletcher brings his hand well down on Beaumont's back. 
 
 Fletcher. I say, old boy, it's delightful to find such rural 
 simplicity so near to town. Don't even close your front door. 
 Yours was wide open. 
 
 Mrs. B. {aside) It's that Sarah. The sort of young 
 woman who would leave and not shut the door. — Who is 
 this gentleman ? 
 
 Beaumont. Well, this is a surprise. ( Winks aside to 
 Fletcher.) I say a surprise. — He — hem ! 
 
 Fletcher. Eh, but you wrote that you wished — 
 
 Beaumont. Hush ! You don't quite — {whispers) — 
 
 Mrs. B. {at back) What's the matter ? I suppose it's one 
 of Paul's creditors. I wonder if it's the landlord. I know 
 he's intending to call. 
 
 Beaumont. Ha — oh ! Teresina dear. Ha ! ha ! talk of 
 
 {awkwardly) — of the d beg your pardon — I mean — . 
 
 Ha! ha! actually here is Fletcher. My wife — Fletcher, 
 the original of the photograph. 
 
 Fletcher. Which miserable attempt — I won't call it a 
 work of art — did no justice whatever to the original', Mrs. 
 Beaumont. You should really bring an action against the 
 photographer and " subpoena " the sun as an accomplice. 
 
 Fletcher arid Mrs. Beaumont talk aside. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) He's quite at home already. Always 
 was. Sort of fellow who can hob and nob with a coal-heaver 
 or hold his own with a cabinet minister. {To hivi) Well, 
 Fletcher, this is quite a surprise. 
 
 Fletcher. Yes. I knew you hung out somewhere in 
 this district, and as I had nothing to do for a day or two I 
 set out to hunt you down, run you to earth, in fact, Mrs. 
 Beaumont, to find out where he was concealing himself 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh! he prefers this rustic seclusion, don't you, 
 Paul ? 
 
 Beaumont. A — yes — I like seclusion. You've no notion, 
 Fletcher, what nice walks we have. 
 
 Fletcher. Ah. 
 
 Beaumont. Never meet a soul. 
 
 Fletcher. That is secluded. 
 
 Beaumont. And we're never bored with excursionists, 
 or Good Templars, or Odd Fellows, or anything of that 
 kind. 
 
 Fletcher. Rather rollicking altogether, then ? 
 
lO UNCLE 
 
 Beaumont, {gloomily) Quite so. 
 
 Fletcher. And you're contented here ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Why should he not be ? 
 
 Fletcher. On tlie contrary, there is every reason why 
 he should be as happy as the days are long. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) And they are long. {Sighs.) Deuced 
 long. 
 
 Fletcher. Well, now, you know, Mrs. Beaumont, I'm 
 simply astonished at all this. 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed, Mr. Fletcher. 
 
 Before this all seated. 
 
 Fletcher. To see old Paul here settled down into a 
 regular married man — a prize Benedick — a model husband. 
 Paul, who was as wild a fellow in his way as any young 
 fellow of his time. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) He-hem ! 
 
 Mrs, B. Was he though, Mr. Fletcher ? 
 
 Fletcher. You should have seen him. Such a fellow 
 to waltz — all night — such a fellow to flirt. 
 
 Mrs. B= {becoming annoyed) W'^j' he though ? Hem! 
 
 Fletcher. Ha! ha! All the women were mad after 
 him. 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed. Mad, were they ? 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) Fletcher means well, but he's making 
 it hot for me. 
 
 F'letcher. I say, Paul, old man, do you remember Tilly 
 Trotter and the picnic at Lynton Wood ? 
 
 Beaumont, {pith petulance) No, I don't, and I don't want 
 to. 
 
 Fletcher. You wouldn't recognize the man of those 
 days in the sober and demure party of the present, Mrs. 
 Beaumont. 
 
 Mrs. B. I've no doubt of that. {Aside) " Tilly Trotter !" 
 I'll " Tilly Trotter " him, by-and-by. {Goes ?(/>.) 
 
 BEAur^iONT. {brings Fletcher down) I say, my dear 
 fellow, surely you can see with half an eye — 
 
 Fletcher. No, I can't, nor you either. What do you 
 mean ? 
 
 Beaumont. Let a fellow finish, please. Surely you can 
 see with two eyes, we'll sa}', of which two eyes, by the way, 
 you are absurdly conceited. 
 
 Fletcher. (z£/zV/z a grin) I own it, I own it, dear boy. 
 
 Beaumont. That you're adding to the jealousy and sus- 
 picion which are already characteristics of my wife. 
 
 Fletcher. No ! 
 
UNCLE IX 
 
 Beaumont. Yes. 
 
 Fletcher. I didn't mean it. 
 
 Beaumont. But you've do7ie it. 
 
 Fletcher. Then I'll undo it. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) We've got a good excuse in being 
 without a servant, for his not being asked to stop. But 
 he's one of those fellows wlio'd rather prefer making his 
 own bed ; yes, and cooking the dinner, too. 
 
 Goes up ; Mrs. Beau.moxt and Fletcher come down. 
 
 Fletcher. I assure you that was all exaggeration. 
 But I like to chaff old Paul on what were never his weak 
 points, because he pretends to think they wei^c. 
 
 Mrs. B. ^Then he wasn't much of a waltzer? 
 
 Fletcher. One round always finisiied him. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ha ! ha ! How good ! I can see him. 
 
 Fletcher. And \\\'S flirtation was of so mild a nature 
 that his friends used to watch him in entranced admiration, 
 in which pity and contempt struggled for the mastery, and 
 invariably ran a dead heat. 
 
 Mrs. B. {deligtited) Of course — that's what /always found 
 it. ( TJiey sit aside) 
 
 Beaumont, {who has overheard t/iis) I think of the two I 
 should rather prefer my previous description. 
 
 Mrs. B. And how do you like our little place, Mr. 
 Fletcher ? 
 
 Fletcher. I think it's charming. 
 
 Mrs. B. Wouldn't you think it dull, if you lived here ? 
 ' Fletcher. Not if I were Beaumont. 
 
 Mrs. B. I'm afraid you're a very terrible person. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) So am I. 
 
 Fletcher. I love quiet. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) Does he ! The rackettyest dog in 
 England. 
 
 Fletcher. I could stay at a place like this for — oh ! for 
 ever so long. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) Not if I know it, Fletcher. Not if I 
 know it. 
 
 Mrs. B. There are some charming little villas — quiet 
 little bachelor's boxes, in the neighborhood. I should say 
 one of them would suit a person like you, if you are so 
 fond of quiet, and, oh ! dear ! it would be relief to have a 
 little genial society. 
 
 Beaumont. He — hem ! Ain't / a relief. Teresina, my 
 dear ? You'll make Fletcher think we're altogether out of 
 the world. 
 
12 UNCLE 
 
 Mrs. B. So we are. 
 
 Fletcher. I suppose it*s very healthy here ? 
 
 Beaumont, {hastily) Not a bit of it. Notoriously the 
 other way. 
 
 Fletcher. Why on earth do you live here ? 
 
 Beaumont. Why ? You know it was necessary that I 
 should hide my wife. I mean in its sea^etive, not its phys- 
 ical sense, of course. I married without Uncle Bootle's 
 knowledge. Uncle Bootle is my sole resource. He allows 
 me a small income, he has provided for me in his will ; he 
 is old, bedridden, and abroad — 
 
 Fletcher. Thafs a model uncle, if you like. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, but isn't it dreadful to be hidden away 
 like — like — 
 
 Fletcher. A treasure. 
 
 Beaumont, {rises and moves aside) He — hem! I don't 
 think your interpretation in the best taste. I was explain- 
 ing. 
 
 Fletcher. Very sorr}^ — I'm mum. 
 
 Beaumont, {with dig?iity) Thank you, Fletcher — a — 
 where was I ? 
 
 Fletcher. On the sofa. 
 
 Beaumont. Hem ! Thank you, Fletcher. {Sits) Uncle 
 Bootle was jilted by my mother, his brother married her 
 under his nose. 
 
 Fletcher. " Married her under his nose " ? Then I 
 suppose old Booties a very tall party, 
 
 Mrs. B. Ha! Ha! Ha! 
 
 Beaumont. Fletcher, your interruption is at once ridic- 
 ulous and ill-timed. Your laughter, Teresina, is unfeeling. 
 Uncle Bootle — who has never seen me since a baby — has 
 for years allowed me a small annual sum. 
 
 Fletcher. Ah, that's because he's never seen you. 
 
 Beaumont. With the proviso that it should cease on 
 my committing matrimony. I have committed matrimony. 
 
 Fletcher. How long is the charitable old lunatic going 
 to last ? Do you give him a year ? 
 
 Beaumont. I'd give him seven if I was trying him. 
 
 Fletcher. Well, all you've got to do is to make your- 
 selves as jolly as you can under the circumstances — no- 
 body'll ever inform your uncle of your marriage, and — 
 
 Beaumont, {shakes hand) Thank you, Fletcher, thank 
 you, Peter, You alone know my condition. It's a pity you 
 can't stay this evening. 
 
 Fletcher. Who said I couldn't stay ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Why, Paul, you've been all along wishing for 
 
UNCLE . 13 
 
 Mr. Fletcher to come here. I assure you, Mr. Fletcher, I 
 heard so much about you that I was becoming quite 
 jealous. 
 
 Fletcher. Jealousy, I'm sure, never entered into your 
 disposition. 
 
 BEAUMOxr. {aside) That's quite true, for it was born 
 with it. 
 
 Mrs. B. Well, I do think a jealous wife makes herself 
 exceedingly ridiculous. 
 
 Beaumont. Hear ! hear ! 
 
 Fletcher. Yes, and a jealous husband is simply a 
 nuisance. 
 
 Beaumont. But jealousy is more pardonable on the 
 male side. 
 
 Mrs. B. I don't see that at all. 
 
 Beaumont. Teresina, my love, Caesar's wife should be — 
 
 Fletcher. Tliat was a very good argument from 
 Caesar's point of view. I should liked to have heard Mrs. 
 C.'s opinion on the subject But about my not staying, 
 Paul. I feel jolly here. Don't cold-shoulder a poor fellow. 
 
 Beaumont. Unfortunately — most unfortunately — Mrs. 
 Beaumont and the servant have fallen out. 
 
 Fletcher. Didn't hurt themselves, I hope. 
 
 Beaumont, {loiid/y) 1 didn't mean out of window, Peter 
 Fletcher. To come to the point, we're without a servant. 
 
 Fletcher. All the better. That's why the kind offices 
 of a friend who can cook like Francatelli, and — 
 
 Mrs. B. Besides, Mrs. Grubbins — a most worthy woman, 
 Mr. Fletcher — is coming by-and-by. And though there's 
 nothing in the house — 
 
 Beaumont, {quickly) There you are — there's nothing in 
 the house. Can't ask a man to stay when there's nothing 
 in the house. 
 
 Mrs. B. But, you know, we've often had some very nice 
 things from Pappinger's. 
 
 Fletcher. Pappinger's, Pappinger's — sounds like a 
 place where there would be nice things. Confectioner's, 
 1 suppose .f* 
 
 Beaumont. Yes, tarts and jellies and all that. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, and cold fowl, and glazed tongue, and 
 pigeon pies, and no end of nice things. 
 
 F'letcher. It makes one's mouth water to look at 
 them. 
 
 Beaumont, {to Mrs. Beaumont) Can't ask a man to stop 
 on chance of confectioner's roast fowl, some old fossil that's 
 been in the window a week ! Glazed tongue, too, equally 
 
14 UNCLE 
 
 ancient, all jelly and grits. Fletcher's accustomed to good 
 living. 
 
 Fletchfr, Yes, and I have been ordered to knock oft 
 all luxuries. You've made me so hungry with your remarks 
 that I believe I could clear Pappinger's shop, wherever it is. 
 By the way, where is Pappinger's ? I should like to go 
 there and order round a small banquet. It would be n(-» 
 end of fun. What say, Paul ? 
 
 Beaumont, (aside) It would get rid of him for a short 
 time, and I could improve the occasion by speaking 
 seriously to Teresina — who has been, to use a 7fii/d term, 
 rather ''goi?ig it." {To Fletcher) Well, if you like to tjy. 
 
 Mrs. B. Yes, but, of course, you wouldn't dream of 
 allowing Mr. Fletchei' to go and order the things. Put on 
 your hat, dear, and go yourself 
 
 Be.\umont. Eh ? 
 
 Fletcher. Besides, you know the way, and I don't. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) It's rather awkward, considering I'm 
 in Pappinger's debt. Pajpinger's pastry and Pappinger's 
 bills are equally heavy. In fact, in going to the station, 
 I have for some time given that respected pastrycook's a 
 wide berth. Made a detour, in fact. If the other trades- 
 men follow Pappinger, I shall have to make something 
 more than a day-tovr. If Uncle Bootle should, by any acci- 
 dent, have heard I— {Faintly^ Phew ! I mustn't imagine 
 such an awful possibility — I — 
 
 Fletcher, {claps Beaumont's hat on him) There you 
 are, old man ! Don't be long. {Goes to Mrs. Beaumont). 
 
 Beaumont, {aside, observing them) No, I wo?it. 
 
 Mrs. B. It's a warm day, Paul dear ; don't walk too fast ; 
 you know it ahvays upsets you. 
 
 Beaumont. Ha ! ha ! I won't walk flist. {.-Iside ) I'll run 
 like the deuce. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Mrs. B. And so you and my husband are such very old 
 friends ! 
 
 Fletcher. Oh! friends of years. 
 
 Mrs. B. Do you know, he has spoken so much about 
 you that at last I quite pictured to myself whiil sort of per- 
 son you were .? 
 
 Fletcher. And of course the reality turns out a disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh ! you want me to pay you a compliment. 
 
 Fletcher. Not at all. Only Pm afraid if dear old Paul 
 was always singing my praises, as of course he was— 
 
UNCLE 15 
 
 Mrs. B. {aside) He takes that for granted. Upon my 
 word ! 
 
 Fletcher. Why, of course, you know expectations are 
 aroused which {turning over vuisic) — you play, of course. 
 
 Mrs. B. a little. 
 
 Fletcher. And sing, I'm sure. 
 
 Mrs. B. SHghtly. 
 
 Fletcher. How delightful ! How I envy Beaumont ! 
 
 Mrs. B. Indeed! A musical wife is not always appre- 
 ciated. When I sing, as a rule, Paul goes to sleep. 
 
 Fletcher. The Goth! I wonder, now, if you would so 
 far oblige a poor fellow, who is simply a musical enthusiast, 
 who can't afford the opera, and finds the Monday Pops too 
 deep for him — I wonder if you would be so charitable as 
 to— to— 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh! I'm afraid you're a critic. 
 
 Fletcher. Not I, indeed. You have, — I see. Do be 
 generous and sing it. 
 
 Mrs. B. If you insist. {Plays symphony >j 
 
 Fletcher. If Beaumont sleeps through that sort of 
 thing, his dreams must be delicious. 
 
 Mrs. B. Ha! ha! How absurd you are! 
 
 She sings a love ballad ; at its co?iclusion, or whefi beginning 
 to repeat it, re-enter Beaumont out of breath ; he watches 
 them. 
 
 Fletcher. A thousand thanks. Voice, style, execution 
 perfect. When I hear such a combination I really feel in- 
 clined to remark — 
 
 Beaumont, {abruptly and severely) I've got the grub. 
 The man'll be here directly. I intercepted a pigeon pie 
 that was going to Mrs. McWhopper, and diverted its des- 
 tiny into this direction. 
 
 Mrs. B. I told you there'd be no difficulty. {Goes up.) 
 
 Beaumont. And I've got a fowl, and I've got a tongue— 
 and I've got a — 
 
 Fletcher, {reflectively) Fowl — tongue. 
 
 Beaumont. What do you mean by that, Peter ? 
 
 Fletcher. I was merely a re-peater. {Aside to Beau- 
 mOxNt) If I didn't know your eccentricities, Paul, I should 
 look upon you as decidedly cranky to-day. 
 
 Beaumont. Cranky f 
 
 Fletcher. Rather short. 
 
 Beaumont. You don't expect me to groav at my time 
 of life. {Aside) Fletcher always was a fool. 
 
 Mrs. B. I declare, it will be quite like a picnic. We 
 
I 6 UNCLE 
 
 must do our own waiting, you know. It will be quite fun. 
 And I'm so hungry. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) I'm not. 
 
 Fletcher. And I've the appetite of a hunter. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) He always had. A hunter! Ha! 
 ha! Thefeld. 
 
 Mrs. B. Paul, my dear, you must come and assist. 
 
 Fletcher. And I too, please. 
 
 Mrs. B. Come along then, and help me get the knives 
 and forks and things. 
 
 Exit, R. D. 
 Fletcher. Enchanted. 
 
 Follows her ; when he is ^^* Beaumont rushes to door to look 
 after them — the followiiig is give?i disjointedly as he walks 
 about, etc. 
 
 Beaumont. Any one more at home I never met. He's 
 horribly good health, too, and likes rougliing it. He'll stop. 
 We haven't got a spare room, but he'll suggest the sofa, I'll 
 take my oath. I can't turn him out — at least I — a — don't 
 think I can. I don't want to quarrel with him, for I owe 
 him fifty pounds. Besides, I'm fond of Fletcher, At lea.st 
 — a — I used to be fond of him. But old bachelors get so 
 beastly selfish. He hasn't brought any bag or anything 
 with him. Oh ! he'll go presently. Of course he'll go 
 and — 
 
 Enter Mrs. Beaumont /(^//^w.?^' by Fletcher. They carry 
 a table-cloth, knives, forks, castors, etc. 
 
 Mrs. B. Paul, what a lazy fellow you are. I couldn't 
 have done without Mr. Fletcher. 
 Beaumont, {aside) /could. 
 
 Business of laying cloth ^ etc. Bekv^^O'ST looki?ig on 
 biliously. 
 
 Mrs. B. Why. Mr. Fletcher, you're quite clever. 
 Beaumont. Yes, might have been born a footman. 
 Fletcher. And a very good thing too. There's the 
 confectioner's man, Paul. 
 
 Mrs. B. Just go and open the door, dear? 
 Beaumont, {aside) Ha! ha! V//^ chivied about, /am. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Fletcher. I'm afraid you've allowed your husband to 
 
UNCLE 17 
 
 lapse into lazy habits. Domestic bliss has made him, sloth- 
 ful. 
 
 Mrs. B. And he always was the dearest old dormouse. 
 
 Fletcher, {aside) Was he though ? 
 
 Re-enter ^^KVi-MO^-Y followed by Confectioner's Man with 
 
 tray. 
 
 Beaumont. Here you are. 
 
 Mrs. B. That's all right, thank you. I'll take them. 
 {business). What a lovely pie. 
 
 Confectioner's Man. Yes'm, that's a pie as is a pie, 
 that thei'e pie. 
 
 Beaumont. Yes, yes, of course. 
 
 Confectioner's Man. Fowl, mum, tongue, mum, tarts, 
 mum. 
 
 Fletcher. Ha ! ha ! So you ordered tarts, eh 1 
 
 Beaumont. Yes, I knew your childish tastes. 
 
 Confectioner's Man. Hanythink further, m_um ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Nothing more, thanks. 
 
 Confectioner's Man. I will call round for the dishes. 
 
 Exit. 
 
 Fletcher, {at door) Yes, don't hurry ; this'll last us a 
 couple of days at least. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside, to Mrs. Beaumont severely) Do you 
 hear that ? 
 
 Mrs. B. No. What? 
 
 Beaumont. Yes, I believe you do " kiiow what'' {Aside) 
 If I don't bring matters to a climax — I can see Fletcher's a 
 fixture. 
 
 Mrs. Beaumont has placed the dishes. 
 
 Mrs. B. Now, I call that a picture. Now, Paul, dear, go 
 and fetch the champage. 
 
 Fletcher. Champagne ? By Jove, you are Sybarites. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) The last of his race. The sole re- 
 maining member of the dozen I ordered on coming here. 
 
 Fletcher. Now, wake up, old man, and fetch the 
 fizz. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside). Fetch the fizz. I should Hke to 
 fetch his " phiz." {action of striking). What's the worst of 
 it is it's cheap, and he'll find it out. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh ! do go, Paul, dear, don't be an hour. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside, almost tearfully). I am chivied about 
 
 Exit. 
 
l8 UNCLE 
 
 Mrs. B. It seems quite a shame to destroy the symmetry - 
 of that pie, doesn't it ? 
 
 Fletcher. Yes — it's quite a work of art. Really your 
 local confectioner is a decided find. 
 
 Mrs. B. Isn't he ? Oh ! we're not quite outside the 
 pale of civilization, Mr. Fletcher. 
 
 Enter quickly Beaumont, ivith c/iampag?ie opened. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) Opened it outside, for he'd be sure to 
 ask to see the cork. Now, I can tell you, Fletcher, this wine 
 is I'ather. That's what it is — rather. 
 
 Fletcher. Sorry for that, I prefer it quite. 
 
 Beaumont. Just so. How ready you are. 
 
 Fletcher. Hope the champagne isn't. 
 
 Beaumont. Isn't what f 
 
 Fletcher. Reddy. Gooseberry like, you know. Prefer 
 it light-tawny. 
 
 Beaumont, (aside) He'll twig it direcdy. 
 
 Mrs. B. Now sit down. Mr. Fletcher says that pie's a 
 work of art. 
 
 Fletcher. Yes, ought to be put under a glass case. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) I know what sort of a glass case he'll 
 put it under. 
 
 Mrs. Beaumont begins to cut pie ajid assist. Beaumont 
 pours out wine into Fletcher's glass. The glasses have 
 been on the sideboard. 
 
 Beaumont, {genially) There, Peter, my boy, that's not 
 half a bad glass of wine. 
 
 Fletcher, {holding it vp — // is not full) Excuse me, 
 Paul, it is half a bad glass of wine. Suppose you make it a 
 full one. 
 
 Beaumont. Beg your pardon. {Business, Jills his ow?i 
 and Mrs. Beaumont's glass) 
 
 Fletcher. Your good health, Mrs. Beaumont. Paul, 
 dear boy, bless you. {Dri7iks) 
 
 Mrs. B. I'm sure this is infinitely preferable to the 
 ruined joints and vilely cooked chops and steaks Sarah 
 gave us. 
 
 Fletcher. Ha, not a despicable brand by any means. 
 
 Beaumont, {gettiiig genial) Thought you'd like it, old 
 fellow, 
 
 Fletcher, {aside) Poison. 
 
 Beaumont. Ha! ha! This is rather rich after all. I 
 wonder what old Uncle Bootle would say if he were to see 
 us now. Eh, Teresina, my love. 
 
UNCLE 19 
 
 Mrs. B. Ha ! ha ! Paul, what a man you are. 
 
 Fletcher. Yes. Ha! ha! Yes, he always ze/^w. Don't 
 let's have the skeleton at the banquet. 
 
 Beaumont. No, no, unless it's that of the fowl when 
 we've finished him. 
 
 All laugh. Fletcher helps Mrs. Beaumont to wine, etc. 
 
 Fletcher. I suppose you've no recollection of him. 
 
 Beaumont. No. Got his miniature on the chimney 
 piece. Taken some years ago. Hideous then — by this 
 time, must be revolting. 
 
 Fletcher. Ha ! ha ! You're severe, Paul. Glass of 
 wine. {Business, music piafio.) 
 
 Mrs. B. What a lucky thing it is for poor Paul that the 
 terrible old man's in a far distant land. 
 
 Beaumont. Well, here's his better health, wherever 
 he is. 
 
 About to dririk. A loud kuocktpg heard at the door, and a 
 loud ringing. Pause — consternation. 
 
 Beaumont, {in a low voice) Who — who can that be ? 
 
 Mrs. B. What a knock and ring ! Oh dear, I feel quite 
 frightened. 
 
 Fletcher, {goes to window) It's a cab, or fly. And 
 there's an old gentleman getting out of it. A little old gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Beaumont, {faintly, half staggering to chimney-piece, r., 
 and clutching the miiiiatm'e) A — a little old gentleman. 1 
 don't know any little old gentleman. What — what is he 
 like? 
 
 Fletcher. Well, he's not a beauty. In fact, he's plain 
 — indeed, he's ugly. 
 
 Beaumont. A horrible suspicion over — over — {looking 
 at miniature). Has he got a face like parchment? A — a — 
 hook nose ? A pair of heavy eyebrows ? ? A glance like 
 an eagle ? ? ? A bald head ? ? ? ? 
 
 Fletcher. A face like parchment, a hook nose, heavy 
 eyebrows, an eagleish expression, and now he takes his hat 
 off, he certainly is as bald as — you've simply described him 
 to the very letter. 
 
 Beaumont. Uncle Bootle. 
 
 Collapses on to chair ; Mrs. Beaumont clasps her hands, 
 looking in dismay at Fletcher * music swells. 
 
 Act Drop 
 
ACT 11 
 
 Scene. — Same as Act I. As the Act drop rises, the stage is 
 vacant. 
 
 Flyman, {heard outside) Call yourself a gentleman, do 
 you? 
 
 Beaumont. Hold your insolent tongue, sir. 
 
 Flyman. I've got just as good a right to speak as I think 
 proper as you have, or anybody helse. 
 
 Uncle. You're evidently a very ill-regulated individual. 
 You've got your fare and you'll get no more. 
 
 Flyman. All right. If you wants to go back to the sta- 
 tion don't send for me, that's all. 
 
 Uncle. Go along with you, you ill-regulated individual. 
 
 Enter By^kvugnt, followed by Uncle Bootle. 
 
 Beaumont. I'm so sorry, my dear sir, you should have 
 been so bothered. Flymen are all ruffians. 
 
 Uncle. Never mind, he didn't do me. I can stand any- 
 thing but being done. Well, you're thunderstruck to see me 
 here. So I am myself. Marvelous cure. Legs as right as 
 ninepence. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) Nine pins, he means. 
 
 Uncle. Let's have a look at you. Ha ! don't recall a 
 single feature. 
 
 Beaumont. No; you haven't seen me since I was an 
 infant. 
 
 Uncle. Perhaps that accounts for it. And how do you 
 think / look ? 
 
 Beaumont. Wonderful. 
 
 Uncle. So I am. So I am. What an out-of-the-way hole 
 of a place to live in. What on earth makes you select this 
 place, of all others. 
 
 Beaumont. My dear uncle, quiet — quiet is so essential 
 to study. London's all dissipation, and — and — 
 
 Uncle. So it is, so it is. At least, it used to be when / 
 was a young fellow. Ha ! ha ! and when I was a young fel- 
 low I was one, and no mistake, sir. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) I wonder where my wife and Fletcher 
 have got to ? 
 
 Uncle. There's one thing that has pleased me about 
 you, Nephew Paul — you never exceeded your allowance. 
 
 20 
 
UNCLE 21 
 
 Beaumont. My dear uncle, I have always studied econ- 
 omy. .A simple chop, a glass of humming ale, a crust of 
 bread and cheese have formed my staple — a — {Sees that 
 Uncle Bootle has observed the elegant spread^ 
 
 Uncle. The deuce they have ! This doesn't look hke a 
 chop and glass of beer. 
 
 Beaumont. Eh? No— Ha! ha! Fact is, an old friend 
 of mine's birthday, and — a — 
 
 Uncle, (j-^/^r/j^) Bah ! Birthday! If people never married 
 there'd be no birthdays. 
 
 Beaumont, {blankl}^ No, I daresay it would make a differ- 
 ence. I confess that never struck me before. 
 
 Uncle. Now that it has struck you let the impression be 
 a lasting one. Thank Heaven, when I quit this world I 
 shall have the satisfaction of leaving behind me one being 
 whom self-interest will always keep a single man. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside, agonizedly) Why — why isn't he bed^ 
 ridden as of yore. 
 
 Uncle. Champagne, as I'm alive! 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) He's much more alive than the cham- 
 pagne was. 
 
 Uncle, {takes up bottle) I say, my young spark, this is 
 rather different from what I expected. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) It was just what / expected. 
 
 Uncle. I suppose this is an occasional case. 
 
 Beaumont. It wasn't a case, it was only half-a-dozen. 
 Fact is — a — it was a little present from a fellow-student. I 
 don't drink champagne myself. { Virtuously) Give me good, 
 sound, humming ale. 
 
 Uncle. Rubbish. There's rather too mzich " humming " 
 about that ale of yours. However, let's chat of other mat- 
 ters. I sha'n't be with you long. 
 
 Beaumont. My dear uncle, I trust you may live for many, 
 many years. 
 
 Uncle. Bosh I 1 didn't mean that. Live ! Of course I 
 may. And intend to. I meant I shall only be with you a 
 short time here — in this cottage. I'm going to Torquay this 
 afternoon. I believe it's rather a dull sort of — 
 
 ^Y.k\5'^\0'i^i:. {enthusiastically) Dull ! Torquay? The most 
 lively, lovely, healthy, picturesque, and popular seaside para- 
 dise imaginable. Fancy, dear uncle, the rippling waves as 
 they come rolling and tumbling along on — 
 
 Uncle, {enraged) Hold your tongue ! Waves ! Hate 'em ! 
 Haven't I just had six weeks of 'em ? 
 
 Beaumont, {plausibly) Ah ! but these are such diffe*^^nt 
 waves. So gentle, so undulating — 
 
22 UNCLE 
 
 Uncle. Shut up. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside, mildly) He's a nice old man, uncle. 
 
 Uncle. By the way, Paul, you may as well come with me 
 to Torquay. As you say it's so delightful, and you do look 
 rather pale — overwork. 1 suppose — why, a month at the sea- 
 side would do you all the good in the world. 
 
 Beaumont. Well, but, uncle, I — 
 
 Uncle. Not at all, not at all. You'll come ? {Goes up) 
 
 Beaumont. It'll have to come out. How can / go to 
 Torquay ? And — I w^onder where my wife and Fletcher are. 
 
 Uncle, {turns) Nice sort of place, this. Half a mind to 
 stay a bit. Healthy here, eh ? 
 
 Beaumont. Well — a — {Aside) Now, which would be 
 more awful — to go with him to Torquay or for him to re- 
 main here ? Either way " madness lies." Just so. But 
 madness never lied half as much as /shall have to do. 
 
 Uncle. Now, go and get some things ready. A bachelor 
 like you won't care for an outfit. By Jove ! sir, we'll have a 
 jolly month of it. 
 
 Beaumont. Yes — a — the fact is, uncle, I have accepted 
 an invitation to an old school-fellow's in Yorkshire, and the 
 day after to-morrow I am due at his house. I can't get out 
 of it, and — 
 
 Uncle. {keenly>) Ha ! Has he got any sisters ? 
 
 Beaumont. Nothing of the kind. 
 
 Uncle. Very good. Then of course you can go. For — 
 {bringing BeaUxMONT down seidously) — my dear Paul, it 
 would grieve me to have to turn you adrift. Now be hon- 
 est with me. You don't think, of any such madness as — 
 
 Beaumont. Marrying ? Why should I } 
 
 Uncle. And, on your honor, you're not engaged ? 
 
 Beaumont. Certainly not. 
 
 Uncle. No inclination that way ? 
 
 Beaumont. Not the slightest. 
 
 Uncle, {shaking hands) Then, my boy, you may con- 
 sider yourself a wealthy man. It's only a question of time. 
 Now, if you'll allow me, I'll just go up-stairs and have a 
 wash. I'm all dust. Is that your room .? Thank you. 
 Don't >'<?2^ bother to come. 
 
 Exit L. D. 
 
 Beaumont, {alone) Five minutes longer and I should 
 fiave fainted. What's to be done — what's to be — 
 
 Enter Mrs. Beaumont and Fletcher, quickly. 
 
 Both, {in u?tder tone, hastily) Well, well.'* 
 
UNCLE 23 
 
 Beaumont. He's gone up- stairs ; he'll be down again 
 directly, and I'm a ruined man. 
 
 Fletcher. Is he going to stop ? 
 
 Beaumont, No. He's going to Torquay, presently. 
 
 Mrs. B. Well, all I have to do is to keep out of his way. 
 
 Fletcher. Certainly. Let us conceal ourselves. 
 
 Beaumont. What have you got to do with it ? It wouldn't 
 signify Uncle Bootle seeing jj/^^/a 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh ! Paul dear, why not confess ail and fling 
 yourself on his heart? 
 
 Beaumont. Because I should upset him— knock him 
 over. 
 
 Fletcher. Sui^pose / play the "go between," and ne- 
 gotiate. 
 
 Beaumont. Madness. Once he discovers I'm married, 
 and I'm a pauper. 
 
 Mrs. B. But he hasn't discovered it j^^/, Paul, dear, and 
 if he's going away presendy, there's no reason he should. 
 
 Beaumont. Just so. But don't you think it advisable 
 you should both — 
 
 Uncle Bootle enters. Fletcher seeing Bootle behind 
 Beaumont, signifies to him the fact by what he supposes 
 to be expressive pantomimic action. 
 
 Beaumont. I say— you should both {pause, business) 
 What's the matter, old fellow ? 
 
 Uncle. Paul, has your friend got St. Vitus's dance ? 
 
 Beaumont, {aside — in dismay) Oh ! lor ! 
 
 Uncle. Gracious me. A lady ! 
 
 Beaumont, {blankly^ Eh ? A what ? 
 
 Uncle, {blandly) A lady, Pauj. 
 
 Beaumont. Ah — yes — of course. Dear me. 
 
 Uncle. This gentleman's — 
 
 Beaumont, {with a burst) Wife— certainly. Allow me, 
 uncle. Mr. and— hem !— Mrs. Fletcher. Old friends of 
 mine — old — a — ( Wanders up the room, quite overcome^ 
 
 Uncle, {politely) Fletcher—Fletcher. Any relation to 
 Phineas Fletcher, some time since — forty years ago or so — 
 in the India House ? 
 
 Fletcher. A distant relation, I believe, Mr. Bootle. 
 
 Uncle, {shakes ha?ids) Happy to know you, sir. {To 
 Mrs. Beaumont) Madame, this is indeed a surprise. 
 {Boze's. Aside) Devilish fine young woman that. {Aside 
 to Beaumont) By Jove, sir, if you'd fallen a victim to 
 something like what your friend Fletcher — 
 
 Beaumont, {eagerly) You'd have forgiven me if I'd — 
 
24 UNCLE 
 
 Uncle. Married ? Not a bit of it. But I shouldn't have 
 felt surprised. I should have sympathized with you, pitied 
 you, and — 
 
 Beaumont, {eagerly) Yes, uncle ! 
 
 Uncle, {drily) Cut you off with a shilling. ( Turns aside 
 and joins Mrs. Beaumont ; Ihey co7iverse.) 
 
 Fletcher, {aside to Beaumont) Paul, my dear fellow, 
 that sudden idea was inspiration. All we've got to do now 
 is to keep up the deception. Rely on me. {Grasps his 
 hand) 
 
 Beaumont, {blankly) Thank you, Peter ; you — a — you 
 always were a true friend. 
 
 Fletcher. So long as there's a shadow of danger I'll 
 never leave you. ( Wrbigs his hand) 
 
 Beaumont. Thank you. ( They go up ; Uncle a7id Mrs. 
 Beaumont come down) 
 
 Uncle, ^'our husband and mv nephew very old friends, 
 eh? 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh! yes! school-fellows. 
 
 Uncle. Ha — wow— 2.— yon know all about Paul, of 
 course, from your husband. Husbands always tell their 
 wives everything ; it's one of the results of an atrocious sys- 
 tem — a — I suppose all those reports that reached me about 
 your husband's friend were fabrications. I can talk to you 
 I see ; you're a young lady of sense. 
 
 Mrs. B. Reports ? What reports ? 
 
 Uncle. As to what a sad dog he was with j^^z^r sex. 
 
 Mrs. B. {a little overcome) No, indeed — indeed, no. How 
 long ago was that ? 
 
 Uncle. Oh ! a year or so. Some kind friends of his. 
 since gone abroad, wrote me that he was — that he'd been 
 engaged to a young person in a restaurant, and jilted her. 
 
 Mrs. B. What, Paul — I mean Mr. Beaumont — my — 
 
 Uncle. Your ivhat ? 
 
 Mrs. B. My gj^acions ! 
 
 Beaumont, {up to Fletcher) The old fellow seems to be 
 getting on all right with the wife. 
 
 Fletcher. Oh! everybody who meets her must be fas- 
 cinated. 
 
 Beaumont. He-hem ! {Moves aside) 
 
 Uncle. But I heard worse things than that. 
 
 Mrs. B. Worse I What could be worse ? 
 
 Uncle. My dear, you don't know what men are. 
 
 Mrs. B. {aside) If I hnd Paul was a monster before his 
 marriage — I'll — I don't know what I wo7i't do. 
 
 Uncle. I heard also that the brother of a young lady at 
 
UNCLE 25 
 
 Twickenham had a violent interview with him, resulting in 
 a severe assault, which took the form of kicks. These. I 
 heard, my nephew pocketed. 
 
 Mrs. B. Pocketed the— how could he ? 
 Fletcher, {down) Well, Mr. Bootle, I'm sorry I shall 
 not have a speedy opportunity of renewing our acquaint- 
 ance. I hear you are booked for that exquisite spot, 
 Torquay. 
 
 Beaumont. Loveliest place in the three kingdoms. 
 
 Uncle, {aside) They seem rather anxious about Torquay. 
 Bootle, my boy, you haven't come all the way from Hydera- 
 bad to be do?ie. The poUteness here's a little oppressive. 
 He-hem ! {Moves aside.) 
 
 Beaumont, {to Mrs. Beaumont, aside) Teresina, my 
 angel, the necessity for this miserable subterfuge will soon 
 be over, I — 
 
 Mrs. B. {with restrained temper, to him) The girl at the 
 restaurant ! 
 
 Beaumont. Eh ? 
 
 Mrs. B. The Twickenham brother! {Goes aside to 
 Uncle.) 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) That four-and-sixpenny champagne's 
 too much for Teresina. 
 
 Uncle, {to Mrs. Beaumont) As I was determined to 
 find out the truth, partly for pleasure — partly ior business — 
 but principally to see for myself if the reports of Paul were 
 true, I came to England. Once an invalid, I'm all right 
 again now. I soon get used up, though. I feel over-tired 
 already. ( Yawns and sinks into a chair), 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) If he's going to settle to sleep it's all 
 up with us. 
 
 Fletcher, {to Beaumont, aside) The best thing for us 
 to do is to clear out for a bit. I'm so afraid your wife may 
 forget her new position. 
 
 Beaumont. Oh ! I don't think there's any fear of that. 
 
 Fletcher. Now, as Paul and his uncle have no doubt 
 plenty to talk about, I think, my dear, we'll leave them 
 together a bit. (Mrs. Beaumont and he prepare to go.) 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) He " my dear's " her as if he'd done 
 it before. (Uncle Bootle is settling for a nap.) 
 
 Mrs. B. {to Fletcher) Oh ! yes, you're quite right. And 
 possibly he may wish to explain to his uncle about the kicks. 
 
 Beaumont. About the what? 
 
 Mrs. B. {severely) The well-merited, well-delivered, and 
 unavenged kicks. Come, Peter. ( They exit.) 
 
 Beaumont, {blankly) Kicks! I wonder if lunacy runs 
 
26 UNCLE 
 
 in Teresina's family. I believe her father was sane, and 
 her mother's a mass of maternal intellect. Perhaps she'd 
 a rabid grandparent. " Come, Peter." Peter's him. I'm 
 afraid I shall have to assault Peter. I've half a mind to 
 throw myself on my uncle's generosity. I'm sure he's got 
 a good heart. He's so deuced ugly, he must have a good 
 heart. I — I'll test it. {Strikes an attitude of humility.) 
 Uncle, — best, most generous, most forgiving and niosi 
 revered of uncles, listen to the — (Uncle Bootlk gives a 
 long and decided snore. Pause) At the outset that's a little 
 chilling. Hem ! {Loudly) Uncle ! (Uncle Bootle snores 
 louder, as if half wakiiig.) " Now could I kill him, pat !" 
 I think it would be as well, as the poet says, to leave him 
 alone in his glory. (Uncle Bootle gives another snore.) 
 Or rather his snorey. If I remained, I might be tempted to 
 do him a mischief. That bald head does look so inviting. 
 I — a — I — rather — (Uncle Bootle gives an enormous 
 snore) 
 
 Beaumont. Oh ! law ! {Exit quickly) 
 
 Uncle, {in his sleep) Take my advice — a — a — three per 
 cents — three per cents — small interest but easy conscience 
 —a — a {gurgles) — Bah ! 
 
 Enter at French window Emily Montrose. 
 
 Emily. Hem! {Pause) A-hem! {Comes in) No one 
 here. The front door bell broken and the side entrance 
 open. What very honest people there must be about here. 
 Hem ! Surely this is the house Mr. Lapwing, the agent, 
 said was to let furnished for the summer. Aunt Nabbs 
 says it is, and Aunt Nabbs is always right. Where is the 
 landlady, or owner, or whatever she is ? {Sees remai?is of 
 luncheo7i) They've been dining early. Shouldn't wonder 
 if they'd gone to sleep. (Uncle Bootle s?iores gently) 
 They have. Wherever did that sound proceed from ? 
 Why, I declare — {goes on tiptoe to chair where Uncle 
 Bootle is) — it's actually a — 
 
 Uncle, {wakes up suddenly and looks round with his 
 handkerchief over his head) Halloa ! 
 
 Emily, {with a slight shriek, goes to r.) Oh ! if you please, 
 I didn't mean to. 
 
 Uncle. Was that a fly ? 
 
 Emily, {kijidly) No, sir ; a female. 
 
 Uncle. A what ? 
 
 Emily. A lady. 
 
 Uncle, {grinning) It's that wicked Mrs. Fletcher been 
 trying to win a pair of gloves. Where are my glasses ? 
 
UNCLE 27 
 
 Emily, {aside) What a plain liiile old man! I wonder if 
 he's the owner of the house. I hope it won't suit Aunt Nabbs, 
 for I'm sure I should be haunted with the recollection of the 
 proprietor. I should be afraid of going up-stairs in the dark 
 for fear of meeting his ghost. I'm terribly frightened. I 
 never saw a real, live ogre, but I'm sure they're like him. 
 How he rolls his ej'es, and how wild he looks ! 
 
 Uncle. Confound those glasses ! I had glasses. 
 
 Emily, {aside) I believe he's had several. 
 
 Uncle. I'm afraid to move about, for I'm sure to fall over 
 something. 
 
 Emily. Oh ! if you please, I'm sorry to disturb you. 
 
 Uncle, {aside) Voice seems more geritle than it was. 
 
 Emily. Do I understand this house is to let ? 
 
 Uncle. Eh ? {Aside) Oh ! I see. She and Fletcher'd 
 like to stop here. Of course, Paul considers / represent 
 everything 7io2v. If it is, my dear — ha ! ha I I will say you're 
 early in the field as an applicant. 
 
 Emily. ''My dear'\' The familiarity of the plain old man ! 
 
 Uncle. Nothing like taking time by the forelock. 
 
 Emily, {aside) I wonder time hasn't taken him by the fore- 
 lock. Oh ! I see, he hasn't got one. 
 
 Uncle, {aside) If I don't find 'em I'm grounded, and I 
 don't care about all the world knowing I'm as — 
 
 Emily. Not that / care for the house, but it might suit 
 my aunt. 
 
 Uncle. Your who .? 
 
 Emily. My aunt, Mrs. Nicholas Nabbs, of The Nastur- 
 tiums, Norwood. 
 
 Uncle. My dear young lady, take the advice of one who's 
 seen rather more than_y^?< have. Never have your relations 
 to live with you. 
 
 Emily. But my aunt always has lived with me. I am 
 entirely dependent on her. 
 
 Uncle, {aside) Ah ! There is a sort of idle, happy-go- 
 lucky air about the fellow. Don't suppose he does much for 
 a living. Comes down here, sees a place that suits, sets his 
 wife on to pump me. Aunt Nabbs indeed ! Ha ! ha ! The 
 innocent ynanner she assumes, too ! {Loudly) Ha ! woman ! 
 woman ! what a swindle you are ! 
 
 Emily. What ? {Aside) Not only a very plain old man. 
 but he's a very insolent old man. The idea of calling me a 
 woman ! I should like to hear him call Aunt Nabbs one. 
 I'll go back and send her to tackle him. {Aloud) As you 
 don't appear willing, or indeed capable of giving me any 
 information, I won't trouble you any further. 
 
28 UNCLE 
 
 Uncle. Don't be huffy, don't be huffy, my dear Mrs. 
 Fletcher. 
 
 Emily, {ivith a smothei^ed half- shriek, falls back a step or 
 two) Mrs. ! {Pause) What do you say ? 
 
 Uncle, {aside) Ah ! that's more in her old style. Little 
 woman of spirit — objects to the " viy dear.'' Well, then, 
 plai7i " Mrs. Fletcher." 
 
 Emily, {aside) Can I believe my ears ? How is it possible 
 .that this dreadful old man can have — oh ! it's too ridiculous 
 — it's — {She sees something through the window that causes 
 her to shriek and stagger back. Uncle Bootle starts, 
 alaf 77ied.) 
 
 Uncle. My dear madam, what on earth — 
 
 Emily. Oh ! don't speak to me. Ah ! let me — let me — 
 {Staggers out.) 
 
 Uncle. I .couldn't catch what she said. Bah ! Women 
 are such hysterical, uncertain creatures. I hope Paul will 
 be favored with a few exhibitions of his friend's wife's 
 vagaries. It'll do him good, and convince him more than — 
 Why, here they are, confound them ! {discovers his glasses) 
 As Macbeth very nearly said. " Why so being " found. 
 Ha! ha! I'm a man again. 
 
 Enter Fletcher. 
 
 Fletcher, {aside) I suppose Beaumont and his wife are 
 concocting further plans, for she didn't remain with 7ne for a 
 moment. 
 
 Uncle. I hope she's better, Mr. Fletcher. 
 
 Fletcher. Eh ? Anything the matter with her? 
 
 Uncle. I don't know. She's only just now gone out, 
 with a shriek like the Scotch express. 
 
 Fletcher, {aside) Poor Mrs. Beaumont! This excite- 
 ment has no doubt upset her. Of course, too, Paul's been 
 blowing her up about me. It's not my fault if I happen to 
 fascinate. Nature's done a good deal for me, my tailor's 
 backed up nature, and if I'm dangerous it isn't 7ny fault. 
 
 Uncle, {aside) I'll tackle him about her applying for the 
 house. You'll excuse me, Mr. Fletcher, but considering 
 everything, I put it to you — do 3^ou — hem ! — do you think 
 this quite the thing, eh ? 
 
 Fletcher, {aside) What's he mean .? 
 
 Uncle. It's anything but good taste owyour part, but I 
 don't hold the lady free from the charge of deception. 
 
 . Fletcher, {astonished) You'll excuse me — a — 
 
 Uncle. You'll excuse me, but it's fishy, sir — that's what 
 it \s, fishy. 
 
6 
 
 UNCLE 29 
 
 Fletcher, {aside) She's confessed. 
 
 Uncle. When I say she's to blame, I know well that a 
 wife is to a certain extent under her husband's influence. 
 It's part ot the abominable arrangement. 
 
 Enter Beaumont at back ; paiises. 
 
 Fletcher. Believe me, my dear sir, the notion was not 
 mine. But this is a great relief, and I'm only too delighted 
 that now you see everything. As you now know all, I hope 
 you'll acquit me of — 
 
 Uncle, {aside) Dreadful snob this. Wants to shift all 
 the blame to his wife. ( To him) I don't suppose my opin- 
 ion one way or the other would signify to you. {Aside) 
 I'll just go and take a stroll in the garden. There's some- 
 thing about this fellow I can't put up with, and he's so 
 abominably good looking. Very much what / was about 
 his age. {Exit.) 
 
 Fletcher, {aside) He doesn't seem half as enraged as 
 one fancied he would be. Poor little woman, I don't wonder 
 at her breaking down. I don't wonder at her — {as he turjis, 
 finds Beaumont, pallid with suppressed rage, by his side) — 
 halloa. Paul. 
 
 Beaumont. Don't " Paul " me sir ! Traitor ! Snake in 
 the grass ! Paltry, perfidious Peter ! " Peter." Never again ! 
 False, fascinating, but fallacious Fletcher ! >( f\ 
 
 Fletcher. Don't make a fool of yourself, Beaumont! 
 
 Beaumont. i(with polite sarcasm) No, sir, you saved me 
 that trouble. \^ Q"^ 
 
 Fletcher. Pardon me, don't give vie credit for what is 
 really due to nature. 
 
 Beaumont. Now, I daresay you think that smart, 
 
 Fletcher. I do, and yow feel it. 
 
 Beaumont. Ha! ha! Yow'yq Si wit,you sme.'i i\ 
 
 Fletcher. Not my fault — we can't be all dull. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) If I wasn't morally certain he'd hit 
 me back again, I'd strike him. I once had an encounter 
 with him at school. I bear the marks still. Hem ! I will 
 restrain myself 
 
 Fletcher. Wliat on earth are you angry with me about? 
 
 Beaumont. What ? Fortunately I have ears. 
 
 Fletcher. Vou have. And thoroughly are those ears 
 developed. 
 
 Beaumont. Hem ! So/ue people have noses. 
 
 Fletcher. Most people. 
 
 Beaumont. Which are occasionally pulled. 
 
 Fletcher. By other people. 
 
30 UNCLE 
 
 Beaumont. Why, of course, you miserable idiot, nobody 
 pulls his own. {Slight pause) 
 
 Fletcher, {determinedly) I believe you remarked " mis- 
 erable idiot." 
 
 Beaumont. I believe I did. 
 
 Fletcher. Meaning me. 
 
 Beaumont. Well — a — 
 
 Fletcher. I say, was it meant for me? 
 
 Beaumont. Oh ! whoever the cap fits can wear it. 
 
 Fletcher. Were it — I mean was it intended lor mef 
 
 Beaumont. Peter Fletcher — {seizes his /iaiid)—wQ have 
 been friends almost from childhood. 
 
 Flktcher. Bosh ! {Takes his hand back.) 
 
 Beaumont. We have grown up into riper years, almost 
 constant companions, ^'ou come to see me. \'ou partake 
 of my pigeon pie. 
 
 Fletcher. Pappinger's. 
 
 Beaumont. You partake of my Pappinger's pigeon pie. 
 You have so upset me, I don't know what 1 am saying. 
 
 Fletcher. 1 don't suppose you do. 
 
 Beaumont. Ungenerous Fletcher! Knowing the fatal 
 effect of my marriage being known to Uncle Bootle — to the 
 one sole relative on whom I depend for everything — you — 
 you — {over-come) — oh ! Peter — for the fast lime, Peter, you 
 have ruined me. {Sinks into chair.) 
 
 F'letcher. Have you been taking any more of that re- 
 volting, so-called, champagne ? 
 
 Beaumont, {aside , faintly) 1 knew he'd find it out. 
 
 Fletcher. Eh ? Paul, confess. 
 
 Beaumont. Anyway, you helped to put it out of sight. 
 
 Fletcher. And it helped to put you " out of mind." 
 What's the matter ? 
 
 Beaumont. Ha ! ha ! You go and tell Uncle Bootle I'm 
 married — explain the wretched expedient I've resorted to — 
 and you ask me " What's the matter." 
 
 Fletcher. I told your uncle nothing. 
 
 Beaumont. {s7ieeringly) Oh ! indeed. 
 
 Fletcher. And as you talk about caps being worn 
 by those they fit, let Mrs. Beaumont wear this particular 
 one. 
 
 Beaumont. Mrs. Beaumont doesn't wear caps, sir. Mrs. 
 Beaumont is a lady incapable of — 
 
 Fletcher. Wearing caps ? 
 
 Beaumont. No, Fletcher. Mrs. Beaumont would wear^ 
 anything / wished her. If 1 desired it Mrs. Beaumont 
 would wear a — a suit of mail. 
 
UNCLE 31 
 
 Fletcher. Mail, no doubt. Regarding dress, her views 
 are decidedly masculine. 
 
 Beaumont. Masculine, sir. 
 
 Fletcher. And a good thing, too. Many women dress 
 so vulgarly. It's much better her taste should tend rather 
 to Maskeline than Cook. 
 
 Beaumont. Miserable quibble. Do you know Dr. John- 
 son's definition of a punster, Mr. Fletcher? 
 
 Fletcher. Would you like to hear my definition oi Dr. 
 Johnson f 
 
 Beaumont. Yes. 
 
 Fletcher. Then you sha'n't. 
 
 Be.\umont. All this is subterfuge. What did you mean 
 about Mrs. Beaumont and the cap '^ 
 
 Fletcher. Simply that she — not /—confessed the con- 
 spiracy to your uncle. 
 
 Beaumont, {staggered) She ! Teresina ! 
 
 Fletcher. Teresina. 
 
 Beaumont, {enraged) Dont ca!l my wife Teresina, Peter 
 Fletcher. 
 
 Fletcher. But her nanie's Teresina, Paul Beaumont, 
 and I repeat that she has confessed everything to your 
 uncle. He has just now told me so — at least, now I come to 
 think of it, he didn't exactly fell me so, but he said enough 
 to — / see, Teresina — I — 
 
 E7i/er Mrs. Beaumont. 
 
 Beaumont. So, madam, you have capped your mys- 
 terious behavior. You have put a climax to conduct that 
 included remarks about a restaurant and observations 
 about kicks. \'our unaccountable course of action has 
 culminated, I say, in a confession — a confession that dooms 
 me to a pauper's fate. {Sinking on chair) 
 
 Mrs. B. {lo Fletcher) Don't you think you'd better fetch 
 a doctor ? He's — 
 
 Beaumont, {sfarti/ig up) Don't you attempt it. Teresina 
 Beaumont, j'<?/< have sealed my doom. You have told Uncle 
 Bootle we are married. You have exposed the swindle. 
 You have — 
 
 Mrs. B. {firing up) Who says so— fell me who says 
 so ? 
 
 Beaumont. Fletcher. ( With infeiifion, aside to her) 
 Your new, but evidently intensely appreciated acquaint- 
 ance — Fletcher. 
 
 Mrs. B. {to Fletcher) Yy'xAyou say / had — 
 
 Fletcher, {aside) Once out of this house. I shall con- 
 
32 UNCLE 
 
 sider myself lucky. I'm so muddled that really I couldn't 
 
 vow he — but it sounded so deuced like it. 
 
 Mrs. B. Why don't you reply ? 
 
 Beaumont. Yes, why don't you reply ? You're ready 
 enough to make assertions. {Blusteri?igly) Why don't you 
 back 'em up, eh ? 
 
 Fletcher, {aside) I'd better get out of this. I'll leave it 
 to old Bootle. ( To Beaumont) Well, you know the most 
 sensible of us i'^'w^times make a — 
 
 Mrs. B. {triumphantly, but with malice, to Beaumont) 
 There ! Ha ! ha ! {Aside) He shall smart for this. 
 
 Fletcher. I repeat, the most sensible of us may make 
 a mistake. 
 
 Beaumont. {blu.steri?igly) Certainly, the most sensible 
 may, but you don't c\2iss yourself in that category. 
 
 Fletcher, {threateningly) Mr. Beaumont, if your wife 
 were not present I'd — 
 
 Mrs. B. Mr. Fletcher, don't deign to touch him. {To 
 Beaumont) Since you have chosen to bring this false 
 accusation against me, you shdll not have cause to repeat 
 it. Whilst your uncle remains there shall be no doubt on 
 his mind that we are Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher. 
 
 Enter Uncle Bootle. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) I foresee a fleeting future in Hanwell. 
 Uncle. Now, my dear Mrs. Fletcher, I do hope you — 
 Beaumont, {to hini) Mrs. Fletcher ! 
 
 Emily e^iters at back. 
 
 Mrs. B. Why not, Mr. Beaumont .'' 
 
 Uncle, {turning to him) Yes, why not, Mr. Beaumont ? 
 
 Emily, {aside) Fickle, false, heartless, base, and abomi- 
 nable traitor! This was what he called sketching in 
 Wales ! 
 
 Mrs. B. {to Fletcher) Your friend seems to have some 
 doubt upon the subject. As if we hadn't been married 
 
 THESE three MONTHS, LOVE! 
 
 Fletcher. Of course, darl — 
 
 Emily gives a wailing shriek and falls into Uncle's arms. 
 Uncle turns, thunderstruck. Fletcher stands trans- 
 fixed, and Beaumont, with a slight shriek in imitation 
 of Emily's, collapses into Uncle's other arm. Uncle 
 turns to him, thunderstruck. 
 
 picture 
 Act Drop 
 
ACT III 
 
 Scene. — The same as Acts I and U. Lamps lighted, cur' 
 tains drawn. Fletcher and Emily discovered ; they are 
 both walking up and dow?i the room at opposite sides. 
 
 Emily. Well, sir? 
 
 Fletcher. Well, Emily. 
 
 Emily. " Emily ''—pah ! 
 
 Fletcher. Why Emily Parr? You haven't changed 
 your name, surely ? 
 
 Emily. /.'' That comes well from j/(??/. No, sir. /am 
 not a false and perfidious impostor. 
 
 Fletcher. That I'm sure of 
 
 Emily. Now, that at last we are alone, what I demand 
 is an explanation. 
 
 Fletcher. I would have explained before, but you 
 wouldn't let me. 
 
 Emily. Because of course you can't. 
 
 Fletcher. Then why don't you ask me ? 
 
 Emily. Because you must. 
 
 Fletcher. Eh ? 
 
 Emily. And shall. 
 
 Fletcher. And will. 
 
 Emily. Eh ? 
 
 Fletcher. If you'll permit me. 
 
 Emily. You haven't written to me for more than 'a 
 month. 
 
 Fletcher. Admitted. 
 
 Emily. For your own reasons, of course. Possibly you 
 object to the victim of your artful wiles being in possession 
 of written documents. 
 
 Fletcher. I don't understand you. 
 
 Emily. You will: you'll find I've a spirit; that Aunt 
 Nabbs has a spirit. 
 
 Fletcher, {aside) She has, and occasionally partakes 
 of it. 
 
 Emily. I come by accident to this cottage. 
 
 Fletcher. So do I. 
 
 Emily. Yes, you'd have never come had you expected 
 to meet me here. 
 
 Fletcher. On the contrary, that's just what would 
 have induced me to do so. 
 
 3 33 
 
34 UNCLE 
 
 Emily. Don't put me out ! 
 
 Fletcher. I can't, my love, it's not my house. 
 
 Emily. "My love!" You presume, with a wife on the 
 premises, to call me, ' my love " ! Why don't you blush to 
 the roots of your hair? No other kind of blush will meet 
 the case — {melodramatically) it must be a blush to the roots 
 of your hair. 
 
 Fletcher. I assure you I haven't any — any — 
 
 Emily. Any i-oots ? 
 
 Fletcher. No. Anything to blush for. 
 
 Emily. What! I ask you if there isn't a wife on the 
 premises. Answer that. 
 
 Fletcher. I do answer that. There is a wife on the 
 premises, /couldn't help it. 
 
 Emily. Oh ! you couldn't help it. Your behavior is as 
 unaccountable as it is unmanly. You deceive me heartlessly 
 {half crying) and you coolly say " you — you — c — couldn't 
 help it." — {Sinks i?i tears on sofa.) 
 
 Fletcher, {affected) Emily — Emily ! 
 
 Emily, {in same tone as before) And you don't blush to 
 the roots of your hair. 
 
 Fletcher. Emily — believe me, if I've done wrong I'll 
 turn crimson to the soles of my boots. You won't hear 
 me. 
 
 Emh.y. {sitting up) I have heard too much — seen too 
 much. {Rising) But Aunt Nabbs shall know all. {Crosses 
 to L.) 
 
 Flktcher. Why will you persistently fling your aunt 
 in my teeth ? 
 
 Emily. You have flung your wife in nmie. 
 
 Fletcher. You'll excuse 7ne, but — 
 
 Emily. No. I won't — I have your letters — a boxful of 
 them, and if you think conduct such as yours can pass un- 
 punished and unexposed, you are mightily mistaken. 
 
 Fletcher. A woman who brings a breach of promise 
 action is — is — 
 
 Emily. Perfectly right. " If," as Shakespeare says. " it 
 will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge." 
 
 Fletcher. You'll excuse me, but there'll be the counsel 
 who'll have to be fee'd as well. Do you know what the 
 costs of that sort of thing come to ? 
 
 Emh.v. What does it matter ? Yoiill\\di\^ to pay them, 
 You must lose. 
 
 P'letcher. ^'es, if you prove your case. 
 
 Emily. Which I can. 
 
 Fletcher. Which you can't. 
 
UNCLE 35 
 
 Emily. Not after what I've seen and heard ? 
 
 Fletcher, No — not even after that. 
 
 Emily. Then there's no such thing as evidence. 
 
 Fletcher. No — not \xiyour case. 
 
 Emily. There's the evidence of my senses. 
 
 Fletcher. Yes. You can't very well put your senses 
 in the witness box. 
 
 Emily. I tell you what it is, Peter. 
 
 Fletcher. That's right. I'm glad you call me Peter 
 once again. {Smgs) " Pee-eeter once again !" 
 
 Emily. Yes, sir ; but only once. I tell you what, you 
 treat this terrible business with such levity that I am at a 
 loss to understand you. You may have been false, but I 
 could never have believed you would have been heartless. 
 
 Turns aside. 
 
 Fletcher. No, nobody ever said I was that. Here have 
 I been waiting to explain. 
 
 Emily. And here have / been, hardly opening my mouth 
 and sayi?ig a word. 
 
 Fletcher. He-hem ! 
 
 Emily. Waiting /<?r an explanation — and — 
 
 Fletcher. Yes! 
 
 Emily, {severely) With the perfect knowledge that no 
 explanation is possible. 
 
 Fletcher. Now suppose I tell you a little story. 
 
 Emily. Do. After so many big ones it'll be a novelty. 
 
 Fletcher. Suppose I find an old friend in a scrape. 
 Married in secret, unknown to the uncle on whom every- 
 thing depends, and which uncle turning up unexpectedly it 
 is found advisable to hoodwink by pretending the lady is my 
 wife till the uncle's — 
 
 Emily. Then why, tell me luhy, Peter Fletcher, you 
 didn't explain all this before. 
 
 Fletcher. You wouldn't allow me. 
 
 Emily. You men always make such a mystery of every- 
 thing. 
 
 Fletcher. Come, Emily, you must see you've mis- 
 judged me. Make it up. {Close by her, places his arm 
 around her.) 
 
 Emily. Ah ! it's all very well, but you don't know how 
 very terrible it seemed. 
 
 Fletcher, {affectionately) Make it up. 
 
 Emily, {softened) Really, I— a — 
 
 Fletcher. And I'll forgive you. 
 
 Emily, {indignantly) What I 
 
36 UNCLE 
 
 Fletcher. I mean we'll forgive each other. 
 
 Emily, {melting) Peter, you were always so persuasive. 
 
 Fletcher. Emily, most bewitching of — {Embraces 
 her; as they do so Uncle Bootle enters abruptly , pauses, 
 puts on his glasses. They don't observe him.) 
 
 Fletcher, {preparing to go out with Emily) And now let 
 me explain how it was my letters didn't reach you. What a 
 neglectful ruffian you must have thought me ! 
 
 - Emily. I did, dearest Peter. But, pray, don't let us come 
 across that old Uncle Brutal, or whatever his name is. 
 
 They exit affectionately. 
 
 Uncle. Well, that's a pretty sort of a scoundrel, that is ! 
 And the young woman — she's a nice piece of goods. Uncle 
 Brutal ! Evidently an old flame of hers. Poor, dear, de- 
 ceived, and ill-treated Mrs. Fletcher must know of this. 
 Ha ! ha ! This is all a glorious example for Paul. I should 
 think this will rather confirm my theory. 
 
 Enter Mrs. Beaumont. 
 
 Mrs. B. {aside) I suppose by this time Paul has confessed 
 all. He said he would immediately, and appeal to his uncle's 
 generosity. 
 
 Uncle. Well, my dear madam, your husband's a pretty 
 vagabond. 
 
 Mrs. B. {aside) He knows all. Poor, dear Paul ! 
 
 Uncle. I regret to have to say it, madam, but your hus- 
 band is a deceiver and a scamp. 
 
 Mrs. B. {passio?iately) O Mr. Bootle ! do, do forgive him. 
 He — he couldn't help it. 
 
 Uncle, {blankly) Oh ! a — he couldn't help it, couldn't he ? 
 
 Mrs B. Pray, pray don't be severe with him. Think of 
 the frailty of human nature. Oh ! pardon him for my sake, 
 dear Mr. Boode ! 
 
 Uncle, {aside) This is the most remarkable young woman 
 I ever heard of. 
 
 Mrs. B. And /was as much to blame. More to blame. 
 
 Uncle. Well, I think you were rather weak-minded to 
 let her enter the house, to come after him under your very 
 nose. 
 
 Mrs. B. {aside) The shock's shaken his senses. I told Paul 
 not to be abrupt. 
 
 Uncle. But that's no excuse for the way he went on with 
 'her. 
 
 Mrs. B. Who went on with whom f 
 
UNCLE 37 
 
 Ungle. Your husband, of couse. If you'd been here a 
 minute sooner you'd have seen it yourself 
 
 Mrs. B. {aside) A horrible suspicion overcomes me. Can 
 that young lady — 
 
 Uncle. Young fiddlesticks ! Considering he's a married 
 man, her behavior was simply atrocious. 
 
 Mrs. B. I thought the story of inquiring about the house 
 was suspicious. ( To him) You're sure you were not mis- 
 taken ? 
 
 Uncle. Not a bit of it. They took care there should be 
 no mistake about it. 
 
 Mrs. B. What did he do ? 
 
 Uncle. What clidn't he do ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Did he — a — {indicating an embrace). 
 
 Uncle. Very much so. 
 
 Mrs. B. {crossing) I'll never see him again ! 
 
 Uncle. Quite right. 
 
 Mrs. B. I'll have a separation ! 
 
 Uncle. So you shall. 
 
 Mrs. B. And that person shall not remain another mo- 
 ment in my house. 
 
 Uncle, {aside) Her house. Makes up her mind she's got 
 it. A fine spirited little woman this. 
 
 Mrs. B. Stay! It will be more dignified to leave him. 1 
 will. I'll go and write him a letter — a letter that shall wring 
 his very soul. 
 
 Uncle. Do so ; and when you've done wringing his very 
 soul ring the bell and I'll give it to him. 
 
 Mrs. B. {tearfully) And we might have been so happy. 
 We were so happy, except — except — when he put me out. 
 And now to have to go back to mamma I 
 
 Uncle. Awful! awful! 
 
 Mrs. B. {turning on him) Not at all ! How dare you call 
 going back to mamma awful ? Don't pity me, don't sympa- 
 thize with me ! Don't speak to me ! Don't — a — oh ! 
 
 Pushes him aside and exit. Uncle Bootle staggers hark 
 on to sofa. 
 
 Uncle. That's a very nice woman. Strong, too. I was 
 jilted in early life by very much the same sort of superior 
 article. Ha! ha! ha! But they don't do it «(?ze;. Not if you 
 know it, eh, Barnaby Bootle, old boy ? {Goes up.) 
 
 Enter Sarah. 
 
 Sarah. What a lucky thing as I took away one of the 
 door keys by mistake this morning. I lets myself in with 
 
38 UNCLE 
 
 Cousing Haugustus, as is out of work, on strike, and enjoy- 
 ing hisself quite quiet and comfortable. Shouldn V wonder 
 if they was all out. Gone to the play, no wonder, so me 
 and Haugustus can have our lobster down-stairs quite 
 pleasant. (Uncle Bootle is examining the ornaments on 
 the chimney-piece, turning them npside down, etc) Oh ! lor, 
 who's that ? What a grubby-looking little old man ! Least- 
 ways, to judge by his back. Counting the ornaments, too. 
 Well, if I didn't always say it'd come to this. Any one 
 who'd taken in the rude messages from the tradesmen and 
 specially suffered hignomy from the baker would know as 
 sooner or later it 7mist come to a man in possession. You 
 can always tell one with half an eye. There's a reg'ler 
 family look about 'em. I've seen many, and I knows 'em 
 at a glance. He-hem ! (Uncle Bootle starts, and breaks 
 china ornament) 
 
 Uncle. What the — look here, what you've made me do 
 whoever you are. 
 — Sarah, {aside) Whai manners ! 
 
 Uncle. I've smashed that china figure. 
 • Sarah. Never mind — Fve fetched him one or two cracks 
 before now. He's used to it. 
 
 Uncle. You / Excuse me, but how did you come in ? 
 I ask because this house, is, as it were, vii7te for the 
 present. 
 
 Sarah, {aside) His'n as it were! I knew I was right 
 about him. ( To him) Well, you see, when I went out this 
 morning I took the key away with me by accidents. 
 
 Uncle. When you went out this morning? {Aside) 
 Here's more of them. {To her) You'll excuse me, but there 
 appear to be several reside^its in this house, but as yet I 
 haven't come across anything in the shape of a servant. 
 
 Sarah. No ! Ain't you seen old Grubbins ? 
 
 Uncle Old Grubbins? No Who's he ? 
 
 - Sarah. It's not a nim, it's a 7ier. She goes out cliairnig 
 Uncle. Chairing ! Mending 'em ? 
 
 - Sarah. No! The idea of j'^/^ " a man in possession.'" 
 making believe not to know what chairing is ! 
 
 Uncle, {aside) A man in possession ! Well, she's not 
 altogether wrong. {To her) So, my dear, ha ! ha! I'm — I'm 
 a man in possession, eh ? 
 
 Sarah. Of course. And you looks it. 
 
 Uncle, {aside) Hem ! And if I'm the man in possession 
 {edging to her) ha! ha ! what — what ^x^you, eh — ^^eh ? 
 -^ Sarah, {aside) They're all loving in their way, specially 
 the old ones. 
 
UNCLE 39 
 
 Uncle. Wha.t's your particular occupation here ? 
 
 Sarah. Nothink ; I were 'ousemaid. {Aside) Gin'ral 
 servant sounds so ungenteel. 
 
 Uncle. Housemaid, eh ? 
 
 Sarah. Yes. I left this morning-, and I've come to take 
 away my box. 
 
 Uncle. Oh ! indeed, and your name — 
 
 Sarah. Sarah Jane Beanfieid, and no cause to dis- 
 own it. 
 
 Uncle. Now, between ourselves, Sarah Jane Beanfieid, 
 I should like to learn a little about your master. 
 
 Sarah. Which /a/e master is the word, please. 
 
 Unx'lk. I beg your pardon. Late master. You mean 
 he used to come in at all hours, I suppose. Door always 
 left on the latch, I presume. 
 
 Sarah. Latch ! Not it ! Catch missis allowing the door 
 to be left on the latch ! 
 
 Uncle. Missis ? Did I understand you to say missis ? 
 W/ial missis ? IV/tose missis ? 
 
 Sarah. Nobod3^'s, now I've left. 
 
 Uncle, {excitedly) What do you mean ? 
 
 Sarah, {aside) How he rolls his eyes ! It's a blessing 
 Haugustus is in the yall. 
 
 Uncle, {aside) There's something awful coming, I'm 
 !ertain. {Taker) You don't mean to say that Mr. Beau- 
 inont — your late master's — 
 
 -"Sarah. Married! Ain't he, though. There ain't no 
 more marrieder man in this neighborhood. 
 
 Uncle, {aside) Let me be calm. ( 7b her) Where is the lady? 
 
 Sarah. She were in when I left this morning. Probulay 
 gone to the play. They're very fond of the play, though I 
 know they pits it. 
 
 Uncle. Was — is she anything like that / {Holding pho- 
 tograph to her.) 
 ''•* Sarah. Like \ha.l\ That's 'er. 
 
 Uncle. Mrs. 
 
 - Sarah. Mrs. Beaumont, of course. 
 
 Uncle. Then — who's — who's Fletcher?' 
 
 Sarah. Who's Fletcher ? {Nudges him)' Go along with 
 yen - Who's Griffiths r 
 
 Uncle, {aside) An extraordinary, a horrible suspicion 
 overwhelms me ! {Suddenly seizes Sarah violently by the 
 arm, and brings her a little down) Woman ! Sarah Jane 
 Cornfield. 
 
 Sarah, {alarmed) Beanfieid ! Which also my cousing's 
 in the yall. 
 
40 UNCLE 
 
 Uncle. Cousin me no cousins ! Answer me, and answer 
 me truly, Sarah Jane Brickfield — remember, your box is 
 still on the premises, and, as the man in possession, I tell 
 you you shall not remove that box until you have — {fiercely 
 and hoarsely) — told 7ne more ! 
 
 Sarah, {alarmed) You wouldn't keep back a poor 
 girl's— 
 
 Uncle. Keep back nothing from me then, Sarah Jane. 
 
 Sarah, {quickly) Bean — 
 
 Uncle, {quickly) Field ! Had these Beaumonts any re- 
 lations ? 
 
 Sarah. Yes, Mrs. Beaumont has a mar — and I've heard 
 — quite accidental, because I'd scorn to listen — 
 
 Uncle. Go on ! 
 
 Sarah. I've heard as master had married unbeknown 
 to his uncle abroad. 
 
 Uncle, {ferociously) Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Sarah. And his uncle must never know it, or he'd cut 
 him off. 
 
 Uncle. So he would. So he would. What did he say 
 that uncle was like, eh, eh ? 
 
 Sarah. Master said as he was a ugly little old feller as 
 lived on 'ot pickles and curry powder, kep' his bed and 
 couldn't see a hole through a sieve ! 
 
 Uncle. Ha! ha! {Lets her go) For the first time for 
 many a long 3^ear, Barnaby Bootle, you've been done. But 
 tell me, ivho — who is Fletcher ? 
 
 Sarah. I think I have heard his name mentioned, some 
 old friend of master's. 
 
 Uncle. Enough. Fetch your box. Stay ! Here's half- 
 a-sovereign. Till you're off the premises hold your tongue. 
 
 Sarah. I'll try to. {Aside) If he ain't the queerest 
 man in possession /ever see. Catch me leaving the prem- 
 ises. I'll git my box out, and then see what's a-going on. 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Uncle. Duped ! done ! tricked, befooled, and laughed 
 at. Wait a bit, Paul Beaumont, and Mrs. Beaumont, too, 
 and friendly but mendacious Fletcher also. Wait a bit, 
 my tricksey trio. {Goes up and off.) 
 
 Enter Mrs. Beaumont, followed by Beaumont, hastily. 
 
 Mrs. B. This is a climax. Making love to this Miss 
 Whatever-her-name-is. Oh ! 3'our uncle saw you. 
 
 Beaumont. No, he didn't. For he couldn't. I don't 
 know the lady's name even. 
 
 Mrs. B. Rubbish ! The restaurant was bad enough. 
 
UNCLE 41 
 
 Beaumont. Ma?iy of them are. 
 
 Mrs. B. And the kicking at Twickenham, and — 
 
 Beaumont. You are barking up the wrong tree. 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh ! save your vulgar Americanisms for Miss 
 Whatever-her-name-is. After confessing everything to 
 your uncle. 
 
 Beaumont. I haven't confessed a word. 
 
 Mrs. B. You haven't confessed a word. After you said 
 you'd go and confess at once ? Then he doesn't know ? 
 
 Beaumont. Of course not. 
 
 Mrs. B. Then my supposed husband — 
 
 Beaumont. Was Fletcher, of course. Now don't you 
 feel small ? 
 
 Mrs. B. And he still- - 
 
 Beaumont. Fancies you're Mrs. Fletcher, of course. 
 And we must keep up the hideous deception till he leaves 
 by the forty-five past nine. {Looks at watch) The fatal — I 
 mean joyful hour approaches. 
 
 Mrs. B. O Paul ! dear Paul — T suspected you wrong- 
 fully. 
 
 Beaumont, {injured) You're always doing so, Teresina. 
 
 Mrs. B. Forgive me, Paul ; do please forgive me. 
 
 Beaumont, {dignified) Hem! You may kiss me, Tere- 
 sina. 
 
 Mrs. B. Thank you, Paul. {Moves toward him) 
 
 Enter Uncle Bootle. 
 
 Uncle. Halloa ! halloa ! Interrupting a little tHe-h-tete, 
 eh .? {Aside to Mrs. Beaumont) Quite right. ^\iovj your 
 husbandj'^'^^ can do a little flirtation on your own account. 
 Tit for tat. 
 
 Enter Fletcher and Emily. Mrs. Beaumont goes to 
 Emily and talks. 
 
 Fletcher. Beaumont, your early peas are prime. 
 Promise to be nearly as good as those at the green- 
 grocer's, and I suppose not much more than double the 
 price. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) What a cor^soling way Fletcher has 
 with him. Well, Fletcher, nice place, isn't it ? {Aside to 
 Fletcher)" Say it isn't. 
 
 Fletcher. No, do;i't think so. 
 
 Uncle. Jolly in the early morning, I should say. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside to Fletcher) Say it's beastly. 
 
 Fletcher. No, it's awfully misty and damp in the morn- 
 ing. 
 
42 UNCLE 
 
 Uncle. Why, I thought you only came to-day. 
 
 Beaumont. Oh ! dear, no ; been here a week. He's 
 quite right about the damp. 
 
 Uncle. Well, I don't object to a little moisture after be- 
 ing parched for years. Paul, old boy, I've made up my mind 
 to stay. 
 
 Beaumont. To stay — a — {All rather shonped.) 
 
 Uncle. Yes. You're not deaf. To stay. You can put 
 me anywhere. My night's rest's only a sham. I'm awake 
 nearly all the time. And I walk about a good deal. Make 
 up for it in the afternoon, you know. Habit — all habit. 
 
 Turns aside ; the four others put their heads together, and in 
 a low to7ie express their annoyance and difficulty. As 
 Uncle Bootle cries ''Hem /" they all separate, and try 
 to appear uncojicerned. 
 
 Uncle, {aside) Barnaby Bootle. old boy, your turn's come 
 now. 
 
 Emily. But /can't stay ; Aunt Nabbs will wonder what's 
 become of me. 
 
 Fletcher. Oh ! I can see you to the train. You're only 
 two stations off. It goes at forty-five minutes past nine, you 
 said. 
 
 Beaumont, {eagerly^ Yes, thoX'syour train, uncle. You'll 
 all three go together. That'll be very pleasant, won't it ? 
 
 Uncle, {aside to Mrs. Beaumont) You don't mean to say 
 you'll let him take that young woman home ? 
 
 Mrs. B. But he'll come back again. 
 
 Beaumont, Oh! yes, don't you see, he'll come back 
 again. 
 
 Uncle, {aside to Beaumont) Of course he will ; but re- 
 flect, his wife can't very well be left here — a — two bachelors 
 like you and me, you know — appearances, you know. 
 
 Beaumont. But you're going, too. 
 
 Uncle. That would make it worse — hem ! Orie bachelor, 
 {Grins^ 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) If he grins like that I must hurt him. 
 
 Uncle. But I'm not going. 
 
 Beaumont, {shouts) We've nowhere to put you ! 
 
 Uncle, {loudly) Then go and sleep out ! 
 
 Beaumont. Besides, your watch is slow. Mine tells 
 me it's thirty minutes past now. My watch hasn't varied 
 a minute for forty years, and it's twenty minutes to the 
 station, 
 
 Emily, {to Fletcher) What will Aunt Nabbs say ? I 
 must walk if there's no fly to be got. It's five miles, but 
 
UNCLE 43 
 
 I'm not. afraid of a walk, especially in tlic cool of the even- 
 ing. 
 
 Fletcher. And I shall be with you, and the five miles 
 won't seem iwo. {Aloud) Well, Teresina, I'd better see 
 Miss Montrose to Upper Norwood. 
 
 Mrs. B. Certainly, dear; of course, you must. 
 
 Uncle. Nothing of the sort. Here, Paul, where 's your 
 manners ? You must see the young lady home, of course. 
 I insist upon it, and if the sky does look a little threatening, 
 never mind — ril lend you. my overcoat. 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) A tive-mile walk, and I suppose it's 
 the same distance back. I can tell by my favorite corn it's 
 going to be a pouring night. And that fascinating black- 
 guard, Fletcher, left — a — 
 
 Uncle, You'd better start at once. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Fletcher and self will have a game at whist. I'll take 
 dummy ; you needn't bother about the key. /'// sit up for 
 you. 
 
 Moves aside, talking to Mrs. Beaumont. 
 
 Beaumont, {to Fletcher and Emily, excitedly, aside. 
 To Emily) You mustn't go. Nobody must go. You must 
 send a messsage to your Aunt Nabbs, saying you find Mrs. 
 Beaumont an old school-fellow, and you're going to stay to- 
 night. 
 
 Fletcher. But who's to take it ? 
 
 Beaumont. Yoii, Fletcher, you. You're a pedestrian, / 
 am 7iot. 
 
 Fletcher. Well, I can't desert you, Paul ; I — a — wait a 
 minute. 
 
 Exits, abruptly. 
 
 Beaumont, {to Uncle) Fletcher's insisted on going him- 
 self, and this young lady, old school-fellow of— a— 
 
 Uncle. But he'll do the walk there and back in little 
 over two hours. We'll all sit up for him. {Talks aside to 
 Emily.) 
 
 Beaumont, {aside to Mrs. Beaumont. Melodramatically) 
 The awful hour has come. You must leave me with him. 
 I must confess all and trust to his better nature. India has 
 absorbed his liver but possibly left him a remnant of heart. 
 If he turns his back upon us — 
 
 Mrs. B. {cheerfully) Even that is preferable to the front 
 view. 
 
 Beaumont, {grasping her ha?rd) Bless you, Teresina, 
 bless you. 
 
44 UMCLE 
 
 Emily, {aside) I wonder where Peter is. 
 
 Mrs. B. {aside to her) I hear him talking to some one in 
 the hall. Let's leave uncle and nephew together, there'll 
 be such a scene. 
 
 Emily. I declare I'm so bewildered, I — a — where is 
 Peter ? ( They exit quickly) 
 
 Uncle aiid Nephew are on opposite sides. The Uncle has 
 his back to Beaumont — looking at book of photographs. 
 
 Uncle. Pretty collection of beauties you've got here, 
 only fools are photographed. Bah ! A conspiracy between 
 nature and art to show you up. 
 
 Beaumont, {after a?i effort grasps his Uncle's arm and 
 brings him forward) Uncle — dear uncle. 
 
 Uncle. HuUoa ! 
 
 Beaumont. Uncle Bootle, the time has arrived when I 
 feel I can no longer conceal from you a terrible and painful 
 fact. 
 
 Uncle {aside) Ha ! )ia! I knew it must come. 
 
 Beaumont. Before condemning the accused unheard, 
 listen to the few feverish sentences that rise, despite my 
 better judgment, to my — a — a — 
 
 Uncle. Lips. 
 
 Beaumont. Thank you, lips. And picture to yourself 
 the position of a man who meeting by accident his destiny, 
 I say his inevitable destiny, at Margate — 
 
 Uncle. Rubbish ! Destinies don't go to Margate. 
 
 Beaumont. This particular destiny did. Picture to your- 
 self a young couple, single-souled, heart free, romantic, en- 
 thusiastic — with similar tastes. 
 
 Uncle. Just so — both fond of shrimps. No novelty that. 
 
 Beaumont. Sharing the same aspirations, knowing no 
 pleasure apart {rhapsodically), wretched asunder — happy 
 only when side by side, dreaming of the indefinite, and 
 dimly realizing the impossible ! 
 
 Uncle. Very nice way of getting through the time. 
 Almost as jolly as driving over to Pegwell Bay. 
 
 Beaumont. Uncle — Uncle Bootle — you — you have no 
 romance. 
 
 Uncle, {walkiiig up) Haven't I ? Haven't I, Paul Beau- 
 mont? Do you think /—in early life — didn't know what it 
 was to be dazed — to dream and doubt and be deceived ! 
 Do you think because >ou see me here a dried-up old pep- 
 per-box, a dilapidated jar of preserved ginger — a valetudi- 
 narian Chili — a superannuated mass of mulligatawney ! No, 
 sir. /once had aspirati6ns7-I once had hopes of happi- 
 
UNCLE 
 
 45 
 
 ness, but they were doomed to be dashed to the ground, 
 even as the priceless blue china of the cormorant-like col- 
 lector falls into fragments from the careless clutch of the 
 neglectful housemaid. {Blows his nose violently}) 
 
 Beaumont, {aside) He has a heart. I will get at it, but 
 not direct— the route must be via Fletcher. ( To him) Uncle 
 —you — you have seen the young couple who are domiciled 
 for the day or so beneath this roof I blush down to my 
 heels as I think of the deception — 
 
 Uncle. What — what do you mean, sir ? Not a word 
 against that young woman. I admire her, I respect her, 
 and — and — 
 
 Beaumont. And she is not Fletcher's wife. 
 
 Uncle si aggers back. 
 
 Beaumoxt. {aside) Ruat coelum ! That's, to say, if the 
 ceiling likes to come down, let it. 
 
 Uncle. Not— not Fletcher's wife ? 
 
 Beaumont. No, sir. 
 
 Uncle. No, sir ! Oh ! sir ! SO, sir ! You knowing my 
 severely moral principles have — 
 
 Beaumont. Dear uncle, it was to save those very identi- 
 cal high-pressure extra double distilled moral principles a 
 shock that I was induced to represent Fletcher as the hus- 
 band of my — I mean his — I mean as married. Knowing 
 that finding a young lady and a young gentleman on fa- 
 miliar terms in another person's house might irritate your 
 severely sensitive cuticle, we concocted this innocent de- 
 ception, hoping — I mean thinking — your visit would only 
 be for an hour or two. Don't glare so, Uncle Bootle — please 
 don't glare so ! {Aside) He's sure to go now, and I can 
 send him the rest by post. 
 
 Uncle, {not rmpleasantly) Now, hang me if I haven't sus- 
 pected this all along. 
 
 Beaumont, (^^/z;^/^/^^) You have ! {Aside) He doesn't 
 glare ! He has found us out, and will forgive us. 
 
 Uncle. You have accused me of a want of romance. 
 Nothing of the kind ; I'm full of it. It would have engulfed 
 and swamped me, had I not enveloped myself in an anti- 
 matrimonial crust. But you will see I have still the feelings 
 of youth. Mrs. Fletcher is 7iot Mrs. Fletcher. From the 
 first moment I met her, I felt fascinated. I'm positively 
 certain she's struck with me. I'll propose to her this even- 
 ing, and if she accepts me, I'll marry her to-morrow, 
 
 Beaumont. You don't know what you're talking 
 about ? 
 
46 UNCLE 
 
 Uncle. She will. 1 can settle a hundred thousand upon 
 any woman I make Mrs. Bootle I 
 
 Beaumont. But what's to becom.e oimef 
 
 Uncle. Assist me, and you sha'n't suffer. Thwart me, 
 and I'll cut you off with a shilling — yes, sir, a shilling, and 
 not free of legacy duty. Don't .say a word. I'll put the 
 matter before her eyes at once. Don't stare. Do you 
 think I'm a hundred ? Sixty-seven next birthday, and was 
 taken for forty-six only last Saturday. Forty-SL\. sir, and 
 when my back's to the light I don't look that ! {Exit.) 
 
 Beaumont. There's nothing for us l)ut to fly — the lot of 
 us, and lock this old lunatic up in the house. I certainly — 
 {sees Sarah, who eiders) Halloa ! What the deuce do iw^ 
 want ? 
 — * Sarah. Haugustus, my cousing, which I left him in the 
 yall, and he have vanished. And hoping bye-gones will be 
 bye-gones, I mu.st say as I'm sorry to see you've got a man 
 in possession. 
 
 Beaumont. What do you mean ? 
 _— Sarah. And a essentric party he is, and very pleasant; 
 we could have got on together, if I'd stayed. 
 
 Beaumont, {seizing her) Sarah ! Again, what do you 
 mean ! That little old gentleman's my uncle. What have 
 you been saying to him ? 
 •^"' Sarah. Your uncle! O heavens! then I've told him 
 all! 
 
 Beaumont. All what, you miserable maid-of-all-work.? 
 ^- Sarah. All about your being married and being afraid 
 of your uncle, and your saying he lived on curry and hot 
 pickles, and a sieve was too much for his eyesight. 
 
 Beaumont. Wretched w^oman ! I said a cullender. Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! And in the teeth of this he wants to marry his 
 niece-in-law. No! no! no! I see it all! He's playing with 
 me, torturing me. and it serves me right. {T^ij-ns fiercely 
 onSxKhW, ivhojujnps back) Sarah! You have ruined me. 
 You have destroyed the hopes of — 
 
 Enter Uncle ivith Mrs. Beaumont on his arm, Emily and 
 Fletcher at another entrance. 
 
 Uncle. It's all right, my boy, she's accepted me. 
 
 Beaumont, {livid) Old man! I have every respect for 
 your gray hairs — at least I should have if you had any — in 
 your absence I revere that bald but boldly developed brow. 
 But, Uncle Boot'e— I must— 
 
 Fletcher, {jerks him roinid to himself sharply. Beau- 
 jMONT nearly losing his balance) It's all right. The long 
 
UNCLE 47 
 
 party in the hall has gone with the letter to Aunt Xabbs. 
 Everything's smooth enough at last. {Slaps him on the 
 back.) 
 
 Emily. Yes, Mr. Beaumont, and though your wife and I 
 are noi old school-fellows I trust we shall always be the 
 best of friends, in fact we're quite fond of each other, are 
 we not, dear ? 
 
 Mrs. B. Oh ! very much so indeed, love. ( 7 hey talk 
 aside.) 
 
 Fletcher and Beaumont are in the front a little apart. 
 
 Beaumont. Fletcher, will you oblige me by explaining .? 
 
 Uncle, {coming between them and taking each of their 
 arms) Suppose we none us us explain anything. You've 
 behaved very badly, my boy, but I'm not the old monster 
 you imagine. You've suffered sufficiently in a small way. 
 Take my advice, be open for the future. Fletcher, don't 
 you flirt so much ; it's bad for your complexion. Teresina, 
 my dear, look to little temper. Miss Emily — that's yoiir 
 department. ( 71:? Fletcher) Suppose somebody suggests 
 supper. 
 
 ' Sarah. Which excuse me, but I can't go home without 
 my cousing's pertection. so — 
 
 Mrs. B. So you'd better stay, Sarah. 
 — Sarah. And if so be as a lobster, purchased permiscous, 
 and biled recent, would be acceptable, here's one as 
 Haugustus has left in the yall as him and me were going to 
 have for supper. 
 
 Beaumont. Good. I hope he hasn't been sitting on it 
 much. 
 
 Uncle, {taking it) I haven't looked a lobster in the face 
 for years. 
 
 Beaumont. Well, never mind, let bye-gones be bye- 
 gones and have supper, at vvhich, if you will only give us 
 the pleasant sauce of your approval, I don't care how often 
 I commit matrimony and risk the remorseless rancour of 
 dear old 
 
 "UNCLE" 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 HI 
 
 014 458 611 6 
 
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