822 3 -^ 22 1 Jones, J. Hilton Contents A first exoeriisent On an island 1 FIRST EXPERIMENT, A DOMESTIC COMEDIETTA IN ONE ACT. CY J. WILTON JONES, (Member of the Dramatic Authors ’ Society) AUTHOR Otf “On an Island ” “ The King’s Dragoons,” “What’s the Odds,” “ Cruel Carmen ; or, the Demented Dragoon and the Terrible Torreador,” “Merry Mignon ; or, the Beauty and the Bard,” “ Young Dick Whittington,” “Recommen- ded to Mercy,” &c., &c. London : AMUEL FRENCH, Publisher, 89, STRAND. New York : SAMUEL FRENCH & SON, Publishers, 38, EAST 14th STREET 2 A FIRST EXPERIMENT. First produced at the Grand Theatre , Leeds , March 13th, 1883. CHARACTERS. The Honourable Percy Desmond (son of the late Lord Desmond) Mr. Hy. Hastings. Mr. Nicholas Hebblethwaite (a Yorkshire manufacturer) Mr. A. Gow Bentinck, Martin Lawley (a retired tradesman) ... Mr. H. C. Arnold. Olive (Law ley’s daughter) ... Miss Fannie Leslie, Tune in Representation. Thirty* five Minutes. A FIRST EXPERIMENT. Scene. — Brightly furnished interior , with French windows in flat at back looking on to a garden. Doors , r. and l. The usual drawing-room furniture ; large round table, c. ; chairs and couch ; piano , l. Fire burning in grate. ‘CN T 5-, Martin Lawley, a middle-aged man , discovered in light summer costume , sitting on couch and reading a letter. Mar. Coming this morning, eh ? I shall be delighted to see him — delighted ! It’s dull enough here, with the county swells fighting shy of my brand new villa as if we’d got some- thing catching. A lot of beggarly upstarts ! But my Olive is the finest girl in Devonshire after all’s said and done, and the most accomplished too. Let ’em deny that if they can ! Ah ! Here he is. My old friend. Nicholas Hebbleth waite, a middle-aged Yorkshire manufacturer , dressed in good but awkwardly fitting clothes , enters through French window in fiat. He carries portmanteau. Nic. (dropping his portmanteau and advancing) What, Martin, my lad ! Mar. What, Nicholas ! {they shake hands) Nic. I’m right glad to see thee — right glad ! So you’ve made your brass and settled down here, eh ] ( looking round critically) Pretty place, but a sight too fine for me. Too much paint and gilding about. I were brought up in the kitchen myself, and I don’t feel comfortable out of it. And how’s the lass l (sits) Mar. What, Olive ? Nic. Aye, Olive ! What a name to give her! Suggests sour plums ! Well, how is the little (with a wry face) Olive ? Mar. Little no longer, my boy. Olives grow, you know; she’s quite a woman. Nic. Really, now ! Look here, Martin ; you and me’s been friends for thirty year. Do you remember our old compact made a matter of twenty year ago ? Mar, Well, really, Nick — I 4 A FIRST EXPERIMENT, Nic. Do you remember when we were both poor men starting in life together ? You married, I kept single, and went on toiling from morn till night to make money ; but the friendship between us still lasted. And do you remember you promised that if I came to you years afterwards, and said, “ Martin, old boy, give me your daughter for a wife,” you’d do it ? Mar. Of course ; I did make such a promise. Nic. Very well, then — Martin, old boy, give me your daughter for a wife. Mar. (astonished) What ? Nic. Make me one of the family. Come, you’re a man of your word. Let me marry your gal. Mar. I should be delighted, my old friend — delighted to know that she had such a good man for a husband. Nic. Then your hand upon it, lad. ( offers his hand ) Mar. But wait a minute. She might not like you. Nic. Rubbish ! She couldn’t help it. I’ve got heaps of brass, and brass carries everything. Don’t talk to me of your pride of birth, and your brains. What’s the good of brains if you can’t spin money out of ’em ! Why, I made heaps when I was bailiff to old Lord Desmond. That was the first start of my success. Money’s worshipped by everybody. I’ve made money, therefore everybody worships me. Your gal will worship me. Mar. (dubiously) Yes ; quite so— of course — but Nic. But what ? Out with it. Nobody else after her, is there ? Mar. Oh, dear no — not that I know of, Nic. Then what is it ? Mar. Difference of age — of tastes — of bringing up. Nic. Ah, that’s just it. As for age, what’s a difference of thirty year? Nothing. As for difference of tastes, when she marries me she’ll have to change her tastes to mine, Come now, how have you educated her ? Mar. Expensively. ^ Nic. That’s wrong. You should have brought her up humble. I were brought up humble myself. Mar. She has been to the best schools. She has learnt French. Nic. French ! I hate ’em. They brought disgrace on my family. My great grandmother eloped with a French polisher ! Mar. And Italian A FIRST EXPERIMENT. 5 Nic. All brigands and organ-grinders. What does a girl want with foreign language ? There’s no countryman in the world so good as an Englishman, and no Englishman so good as a Yorkshireman. That’s my creed ! Come, now, Martin, I want your daughter for a wife. But she must change her tastes and her education before she marries an honest, straight- forward chap like me. Mar. That will be difficult. She is very high-spirited. Nic. All the more pleasure in breaking her in. I want no French and Italian and music and fancy work. 1 want a wife as’ll put on a kitchen apron, tuck up her sleeves and go to work. Can’t think what wenches are coming to now-a- days. My mother wasn’t above making the puddings and washing the front doorstep arterwards. In my young days women were useful, and not lolloping, dressed-up dolls. Mar. Well, as a fond and foolish father, perhaps, old friend, I have educated her above her station. After all I’m only a retired tradesman. But it’s not too late to make a change. And then, when she lias learnt to be useful, she will find her reward in marrying you — the honest old friend of my youthful days. Nic. Aye. I think that ought to be reward enough for her. Sack her music -master — kick her French master out of the house — pack off your cook and housemaid with a month’s wages, and make her buckle to and cook the dinner and wash up the dishes and saucepans arterwards. That’s the woman for my money. Mar. You’re right. Sensible as you always were. I will take a firm stand. I will begin a new code of education from this day ; then you , Nick, who always had the master brain of us two, will be more firmly bound to me than ever. Your hand, Nick. ( they shake hands warmly. Olive heard singing without , refrain of the song u Some dag , some day I shall meet you,” dec.) Hush ! here she is. Enter Olive, brightly and prettily dressed for walking , through French window in flat. As she enters she takes off her hat , which is prettily trimmed with flowers, and throws it on a chair. Ol. Morning, daddy, (kissing him) I’ve been for such a jolly walk. Nic. {who is standing , still having his hat on) That’s right, lass. Nothing like exercise for young women. Ol. A stranger, father ? A FIRST EXPERIMENT. N ic. Nay, not a stranger. Why your father and me were old friends before you were thought of. Perhaps you think you’ve seen me before ? O l. ( emphatically ) Never ; for if I had I’m sure I couldn’t have forgotten it. Nic. Why, when you were quite a bairn I’ve nursed you on my knee a thousand times, and Lord ! how you used to squall, and scratch, and kick. Ol. I’m glad that instinct taught me what was due to you even in those youthful days. Nic. Eh ? {aside) Now what the dickens does she mean by that ? (to her ) But you’ve growed wonderful since then. G rowed ? Growed ain’t the word. Ol. You are right. “ Growed” is not the word ! {Looking meaningly at Nicholas’ hat on his head) Don’t you find it rather warm ? Nic. No — oh no. Ol. About the head, I mean? Nic. Nay, in my business I’ve always been accustomed to keep my brain cool. Ol. Don’t you find your hat rather an incumbrance in a room, particularly when a lady is present i Nic. Nay, I can talk just as well with it on. Ol. (aside) Who is this vulgar fellow ? If Percy could only see him as a friend of papa’s ! Mar. Olive, come here, my dear, (she crosses) Nic. (aside) Olive ! A foolish fancy of her fine lady mother’s. Never mind ; she shall change it ; Susan’s good enough for me. Mar. This gentleman— -my old friend Nick Hebbleth waite —is your affiance 1 husband. Ol. (with only slight surprise) Indeed! Nic. (aside) Takes it wonderful quiet. Just as a gal should. Mar. Yes. When you were a little thing in your cradle I made him a promise that if he wished he should marry you in the future. Nic. (gleefully) Yes; you could only say “papa” and “ mamma ” at that time. Ol. I presume I couldn’t say “ No ” at the time. Nic. You couldn’t, indeed. You hadn't got so far as that. Ol. Then, perhaps, you will let me supply the deficiency now. Nic. (i astounded ) What ? Ol. (decidedly) No ! I have improved since then. I can spell it for you now, if you like— N — 0 ! Nic. But I’ve got a tliousand a year. A FIRST EXPERIMENT. 7 Ol. I don’t care if you’ve got a million a minute. {goes towards open piano and sits on music stool) Nic. {gasping) Martin ! You hear ! Am I to be “ tret ” like this ? Think of your promise ! (Olive plays softly on the piano) There ! At her infernal music now, playing things in A flat which last five and twenty minutes and no tune in ’em — “ Op.” so-and-so. /know ’em. Why don’t you stop her ? Be firm and fit her to become my wife. Mar. Yes, old friend, I will be firm. A promise is a promise, and I am a man of my word ! Olive ! Ol. Yes, papa. Mar. Stop playing, {she does so) Close the piano, {she closes it) Now lock it and give me the key. {she does so wondcringly) Ol. What does this mean, papa ? Mar. It means that you’re not to play any more. It means that you’ve got to be useful instead of ornamental. {pockets the key) What are your engagements for to-day ? Ol. My French master comes at two. Mar. I’ll go to him now, pay him his quarter, and tell him I’ll break every bone in his body if 1 catch him inside the garden gate. Nic. (patting him approvingly on the hack) That’s right, my boy. Be firm ! Be firm ! Ol. Father, have you taken leave of your senses ? Mar. On the contrary, I’m just returning to ’em. The present system of education for young girls is all wrong. I’m going to commence the right one. It’s on my conscience that I’ve neglected you. You must instruct yourself in household duties — learn to cook, to wash, to dust, to sweep - Ol. Chimneys, perhaps. I don t understand you in this vein, {picks up book from table) I’ll take my book into the garden and will come back in an hour, when I hope to find you my own dear, indulgent old daddy. (leans her head on his shoulder) Nic. Be firm, my boy. Don’t give way. Mar. {slightly repulsing her) Ah ! now what have we got here ? {bakes the book) Poetry ! Nic. {aside) The incoherent ravings of moonstruck idiots ! Mar. {reading title ) “ Winged Words.” All right, I'll give the words wings they little dreamt of. {throws book out of window) I’ve got a cookery book somewhere, {crosses tc bookcase and returns with book) In future you will study the 8 A FIRST EXPERIMENT. poetry which you will find here . ( opens booh to cross-examine her) Now, then. Chapter four. “ On Dressing Vegetables.” How do you dress potatoes without their jackets ? Ol. Don’t know. If you took their jackets off I should call that -undressing them. Mar. Come, you will learn afc once. We will take a walk and when we come back I shall expect to find that you — you have cooked the dinner. We’ll look over the failures of a first attempt, but a start must be made afc once. Ol. But, papa, Mary Jane and Susan won’t have me interfering in the kitchen. Mar. In five minutes’ time Mary Jane and Susan won’t be there. They’ll pack up their boxes and be off with a month’s wages in their pockets instanter. Nic. We shall make something of the lass affcer all, Martin, my boy ; you have acted nobly. Mar. I have ! I’ll keep my word to you, Nick, in spite of all. Come, old friend — son-in-law that is to be ! Martin takes the arm of Nicholas, who waves an adieu to Olive ; she turns away in disgust , and Nicholas goes out defiantly with Martin through French window , c. Ol. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I turn cook anddomesticservanfc ! Why I don’t even knowthe names of the joints. What can have come over papa? It’s that vulgar old man. Marry him, indeed? Not while Percy’s true, for though he is a bit of a donkey, he’s a gentleman. Besides I like donkeys. Well, I’ll cook the dinner for him {viciously) and what a dinner it shall be ! Yes, I’ll be a good little girl and do as I’m told, and, perhaps, I shall be allowed a Sunday out once a fortnight. A Sunday out with Percy ! Bliss ! Exit through r. door. Enteric., the Hon. Percy Desmond, an aristocratic and exquisitely dressed young gentleman ; hi wears lavender kid gloves and patent leather boots ; he has an eyeglass in his eye . Des. Nobody in? I watched old Lawley off the premises. Don’t know the man who was with him. Dreadful looking old cad. Sort of man who’d sit down to dinner in his shirt sleeves. The fellow’s face seemed familiar, too. Don’t know where I’ve seen it before. Wonder where dear little Olive is. Hang it ! I’ll pluck up courage this morning. I’ll ask her to be mine. Of course, I know she won’t but I can’t rest till I’ve done it. I may as well get it over. A FIRST EXPERIMENT. 0 Re-enter Olive through R. door , her sleeves tucked up above her elbows , and her dress covered with a large kitchen apron. Her arms are covered with flour. She carries a tray containing a piece of dough on a paste board , a rolling pin , a few apples, some potatoes , and a knife. Des. {starting) Olive ! Ol. How de do ? I thought I’d bring my work up here ; it’s nicer than in the kitchen. Des. But hang it, you don’t mean to say you’ve turned slavey ? Ol. {enjoying his surprise) Why not ? One might follow many occupations less useful. (puts down tray on table) Des. But I don’t understand it at all. Ol. ( leaning over the table) Percy. Ahem ! The Honour- able Percy Desmond ! If you are going to base your con- versation upon the subjects you don't understand, our inter- view is likely to last for a year or two. Des. I want it to last for a year or two. I want it to last all through life. Going in for cookery, eh ? What a wife you’d make for a poor man. Ol. But I’m not going to marry a poor man. I’m engaged to a rich one. Des. Engaged ? You mean to say that you are Ol. Engaged ! Oh, yes, it’s all settled. Des. Who is the scoundrel ? Ol. {secretly delighted) Scoundrel ? How dare you use such a term in speaking of my future husband ? Des. I don’t care. I’m desperate ! I’ll run him through the body, whoever he is ! I’ll show him that I’m not an office in the Volunteers for nothing. Ol. Now don’t get trying to do any harm with that sword of yours. It’s like your jokes. Des. How ? Ol. Not much point. Des. Olive, I demand an explanation. You have led me to believe that I am not altogether disagreeable to you. Ol. Quite so. Not c^sagreeable, but that’s a very different thing from saying you are agreeable to me, isn’t it ? Des, Olive, don’t ! You’ll send me out of my mind. Ol. I shouldn’t have to send you far. Now listen, I am a useless, ignorant girl. I know nothing of house- keeping or cookery. I’m trying to learn now, for the bene- fit of my future husband. Des. Suppose I were to be your future husband, 10 A FIRST EXPERIMENT. Ol. Can’t suppose anything of the sort. Have you ever earned a penny in your life ? Des. Never ! Ol. I have a healthy ai>petite. How would you support me ? Des. Don’t know ; my father’s will left me his heir to everything, but the everything consisted of nothing, except debts. Stay ! I’m in the Volunteers now. I’d get a com- mission in the army. “ The world is mine oyster — with my sword I will open it.” Ol. You can’t open oysters with a sword, particularly a sword like yours. Des. But I say, you won’t marry the other fellow, will you ? Ol. I don’t know. All depends upon the result of this {'pointing to cooking materials) my first experiment. You'll see what it will be like. Des. It’s a rum start your turning cook, isn’t it ? Ol. Is it a rum start, as you call it, that I am trying to bo useful ? Suppose I had to marry somebody Des. Like me. Ol. Well we’ll say somebody like you — with more ances- tors than money. Cooks cost £30 a year and the unlimited run of the cellaret. I suppose ancestors couldn’t rise up and cook a dinner ? Des. Don’t know. I should think the post mortem experiences of some of my ancestors would give them a few capital wrinkles about cooking . Ol. Where’s the degradation if I try to save my father — or my husband — £30 a year and don’t touch the cellaret at all ? Come ! I’m going to cook this dinner and you shall help me. (aside) He will about settle it. Des. I ? Jove ! To think that I, the last of a long line of Desmonds, should come to this. Ol. Help me, sir, if you want to win me. Des. Don’t I ? Ol. And mind — you musn’t utter one word of love to me until Des. (eagerly) Until when, Olive? Ol. Until the dinner is served up ar J. my other admirer refuses me. Des, (eagerly) What? You think he will refuse you ? Ol. I think so. (aside) It shan’t be my fault if he doesn’t. Des. But what would people say if they saw me getting a dinner ready ? A FIRST EXPERIMENT. 11 Ol. Say ? — why, that you were doing something useful for once in your life. I know your family fortune has gone ! {tenderly) Don’t think me rude, Percy, but you are what men call “hard up.” Come, swallow your pride. Des. I will. It’s about the only thing I’ve got left to swallow. Well, I’ll do my best. What are your materials for the dinner ? Ol. Potatoes, apples, and dough. Now I look to you for advice. What shall I do with them ? Des. 1 should put the potatoes in the dough and boil the apples separately. Ol. No ! I’m sure that wouldn’t do. The potatoes must be peeled. This shall be your work. Sit down here. (Desmond sits on a chair. £he gives him the potatoes and a knife) Now begin at once, sir. Des. But, Olive, I must speak, {rising and moving towards her) I’d planned two things — first, to ask you to become my wife. Now that's knocked on the head ; second, to give you a kiss. Now the second thing’s knocked on the head. Ol. {holding up rolling pin threateningly) There’ll be a third thing knocked on the head directly. Go on with your work, sir. I’m going to make up the fire. (Olive takes up her hat and exits through door , Pv.) Des. {holding up a potato in his gloved hand) So this is really a potato. I’ve never seen one in its natural state before. I always thought potatoes grew boiled. Useful, but un- attractive vegetable, prepare for the sacrifice. {commences to peel potato) Re-enter Olive, carrying some coals in her large hat. Ol. I couldn’t find the coal-scuttle, so I’ve had to bring the coals up in my hat. (crosses to fire and puts coals on) How are you getting on ? Des. Badly. Can’t get the confounded peel off. Ol. Hush ! Don’t use bad language ; and don’t let any one hear your confession of failure “ Walls have ears.” Des. {trying to peel potato properly) Yes, and potatoes have eyes ! { ring at bell) Ol. Excuse me one moment, {in the manner of servant) It’s my place to answer the door. (Exits through l. door) Des. Dear little girl ! I’d do anything to please her, but I never expected to find myself in such an undignified position as this. I don’t understand it at all. What on earth can the cooking of this dinner have to do with the other fellow’s 12 A FIRST EXPERIMENT, refusal of her? {apostrophising potato) Happy tuber ! You kuow nothing of the hopes and fears and miseries of love. ( peeling potato) Confound this peel ! Can’t get it off anyhow. I wish I had one of the little articles that fellow was selling in the street to-day. He called it ( spoken very rapidly in the manner of an itinerant merchant , peeling potato at the same time) “The patent, portable, self-adjusting, apple, pear, or potato peeler ; and bear in mind I don’t cut one slice the size of a cart-wheel and the other the size of a threepenny piece, but each and every slice is of the same circumference. The beauty of the invention is, ladies and gentlemen, that a child in the cradle or an adult can use it with equal success ! ” Enter Olive holding a fowl up by the legs; she attracts Desmond’s attention by holding up the fowl and giving it one or two little jerks up and down . Des. What's that? Ol. A fowl. Des. Is that a fowl ? I thought it was a firework. Ol. It’s evidently for dinner. Daddy’s sent it home, Des. Is it — er — trussed ? Ol. ( mistaking Ms meaning) Oh, no. It’s paid for. Des. I don’t mean that. I mean is it done up read y for cooking ? Ol. I suppose so. Let me see — I forget how a fowl looks when it comes to table. Do you remember ? Des. No ; but I don’t think it straggles about so much as that. Seems to me the animal ought to be more compact. Ol. All right, I’ll tie it up. There ; I don’t know where there’s a piece of string. Des. ( looking round helplessly) I’m sure I don’t. You might take one of the strings out of the piano. Ol. An eighty-guinea Broadwood ? No ! perhaps daddy mightn’t like it ! I have it ! There’s a piece of tape in my work-basket. Takes the fowl to table, and begins to tie up the Ugi and wings with tape. Desmond rises and goes to her . Des. So you won’t tell me my hated rival’s name ? Ol. Can’t. Don’t remember it. Des. Don’t remember it ? How long has he been engaged to you ? Ol. About twenty-two years. Des. {whistles) Phew ! Isn’t he beginning to get rather impatient for the— er — marriage ? 13 A FIRST EXPERIMENT. Ol. Very ! Get on with your potatoes. Des. But, Olive Ol. Get on with your potatoes ! See ! The fowl is tied up. (holds up the fowl, clumsily tied up with tape) Des. 1 wish I were tied up — to you. (sighs) Ol. That’s a breach of contract. No love-making yet. Go outside that door (pointing r.), turn to the right, and there you’ll find a saucepan. Bring it; Des. I fly ! But, Olive Ol. Go ! (Desmond exits , r.) Somehow the fowl doesn’t look quite right, but I daresay it will pass muster. Papa must remember this is a first experiment. Re-enter Desmond, carrying saucepan 4 Des. There you are* (puts it on table) Ol. I’ll first pop the fowl in. (does it) Now I’ll put the apples in the dough — (rolls the dough round the apples ) — and there’s the pudding. Why, it’s lovely ! Talk of people making a fuss about learning to cook. It’s as easy as ABC. Des. How will the apple pudding boil with the fowl ? Ol. Splendidly. Give it a flavour. Des. Aren’t you going to tie it up in anything ? Ol. Certainly not. I’m going to give it a fair chance of getting done. In it goes ! (puts the pudding in the saucepan) Oh, dear ! the fire wants making up, and I don’t know where the wood is kept. There wasn’t a scrap in the coal cellar. Des. Can I be of any use ? Ol. Now, how can you supply a deficiency in the matter of w T ood? You w r ant your head for yourself ! Des. Oh, come ; you’re too severe on a fellow. I know I’m not brilliant or clever, or anything of that sort, but my father did think of putting me up for Parliament. Ol. Oh, you’d be all right for that even if you had no head at all. Come, I must have some fuel somehow. Break off a leg from one of the chairs. Des. What will your father say about the damage to the furniture ? Ol. I can’t help that. I have my instructions to prepare the dinner somehow, and I’m going to do it in spite of all obstacles. Am I to have that leg of a chair or am I not ? Des. All right, (goes to specially made chair and breaks off a leg , which he puts on the tire) 14 A FIRST EXPERIMENT. Ol. I’ll put the saucepan on. (puts saucepan on) There ! Now I’ll run and dress myself in a manner becoming to my new station of life. You go on with those potatoes. They don’t take so long as the other things. (Desmond sits and resumes peeling potatoes) Why, what a bad boy you are. You’re simply spoiling your clothes. Here, this will fix you up. ( takes off the large and coarse servant's apron which she has worn, and ties it round him , quite enveloping him) Now, you wear this till I come back, or I’ll never speak to you again. Never ! Never ! Never ! (Exit through door , r.) Des. (looking round , bewildered) 1 have no distinct idea on the subject, but I have a lurking impression that in the eyes of any casual and disinterested spectator I should appear d — d ridiculous \ But it’s all for her sweet sake, and if she commanded me to stand on my head, I’d attempt the feat with pleasure. Ee-ei t r Nicholas Hebblethwaite, c. Nic. Martin will be back directly. Now, to see how T the lass is getting on. She’s pretty enough and nice enough, but she must be something more than that before i marry he”. She must be useful. There’s no beastly pride about me. Des. (suing Nicholas) Hallo! Who’s this old cad ? Nic. Hallo ! Who’s this young cub ? Why, here’s a harristocrat dressed up like a scullery-maid, a-peeling of potatoes, (sniffs) Hallo ! There’s a queer smell of burning. Hi ! sir ! Des. Well ? Nic. Do you happen to be afire ? Des. Do I happen to be a what ? Nic. Afire ? Des. (aside) The man’s a lunatic. What next will he take me for ? It’s the old ruffian I saw with Mr. Lawley. Ha ! what did she say ? Engaged twenty-two years ago ! This must be the blackguard — and a pretty specimen Le looks. Nic. (aside) Seems to be making himself at home. 1 see it all. He’s here courting the lass. Curse his impudence ! Des. (aside) Shall I fetch my sword and run him through the body ? No — I’ll give him one chance for his life. I’ll make a tender and touching appeal to him. (rises, and goes to Nicholas) Oh, sir, would you rob me of the greatest treasure on earth ? A FIRST EXPERIMENT. 15 Nic. Now look here, young man, I’m not the sort of party to go about robbing people of no treasures. I’m an honest man. Des. Would you see me lying in the cold grave ? Nic. Don’t be a fool, sir. It’s all the same to me whether you lie in a cold grave or a hot one ! ' Des. Sir, if you reject my appeal I will go in for a military career. I will meet the savage foe face to face. I’m only in the Volunteers at present, but I’ll join the regulars. They will make me an ensign — they will make me a lieutenant — they will make me a cornet. Nic. A cornet ? Bosh, sir ! I don’t care if they make you a trombone ! Des. You love Olive — I love Olive ! Olive loves me, and — you’ll pardon me for suggesting it — she cannot do other- wise than detest and abominate you. Nic. Don’t talk to me, sir ! I was engaged to her first. I’m an honest man, sir ! Des. I’m sorry to hear you dwell so much on the point When a man is continually prating about his honesty it’s a sure sign he’s done something fishy. Nic. ( proudly ) Look at me. I made myself. Des. You’ve made rather a bad job of it. Nic. Hang your impudence ! Go to the deuce, sir ! 1 wash my hands of you. Des. I’m glad your encounter with me has at least given you the excuse for washing your hands. They want it. Nic. (hi a great passion) You shall repent this language — you shall, as sure as my name’s Nicholas Hebblelhwaite, (goes up ^ Des. (aside, quietly) So your name’s Nicholas Hebble- fchwaite, is ifc 1 Very well. I think I shall have the pleasure of settling you directly. All in good time, my friend ! (goes up, it.) Be-enter Martin, c. Mar. Well, Nick, my boy, how’s the cooking getting on ? Nic. Don’t know. I have my doubts. Don’t you (sniffs) smell anything ? Mar. There certainly is a kind of a — sort of a suggestion of something being done too much. But we mustn’t be 16 A FIRST EXPERIMENT, too critical. It’s a first experiment, you know. {sniffing) By Jove, though, it’s getting stronger. What can it be ? Nic. (; pointing to Desmond) Here’s a young gentleman who has assisted in the operations. Perhaps he can tell. Desmond turns , standing in the apron ivhich has been put round him , and having an eyeglass in his eye . Mar. Eh ? Who is he ? Nic. That’s what I want to know : who the devil is he ? Re-enter Olive, dressed in servant's cap and apron , and carrying table-cloth and knives and forks. Ol. ( demurely ) If you please, sir, he’s my young man ! Mar. Olive, what is the meaning of this masquerade ? Ol. Well, you see, sir, as I was told to go in for domes- tic work, I thought I’d do it thoroughly, and as when I took the place, it wasn’t made a point that no followers were allowed, I thought I would avail myself of a servant’s ordinary privilege ; and so {bashfully') Des. {taking her arm) And so — here I am ! Mar. This is too much ! {pointing to table-cloth) What’s this black patch on my new table-cloth ? Ol. Oh, if you please, sir, I think that must have been the saucepan ! Mar. And who has been breaking this chair? Ol. Well, you see, sir, we was out of wood, and so — — Des. And so w T e broke off a leg ! Mar. Confound it ! Smashing up the furniture to light the fire ? {to Nicholas) Here’s a promising married life for you , old fellow. Nic. {reassuringly) First experiment, my boy — first experi- ment ! {aside) When I am married, the order “ No followers allowed,” shall be put in force immediate ! Aren’t you hungry ? {to Martin). Mar. Famishing ! (sess saucepan) Ah ! Now we shall see ! {takes saucepan off fire and removes lid) Ol. {demurely) Is there anything wrong, sir? Mar. Wrong, miss? No — nothing particular. Only you’ve been trying to boil the fowl — and the pudding — with- out water. That’s all. Op. Oh ! I thought it ivas something serious. A FIRST EXPERIMENT. 17 Martin holds the saucepan towards Nicholas, ivho is forced to turn away . Nic. If it wasn’t rude I’d swear ! Mar. Look here, Nick, you’re a straightforward chap, and an honest chap ; that’s what I admire about you. Nic. I am. As I always say, this may be the ’orny ’and of toil, but it’s honest. Mar. Therefore, old friend, I shouldn’t like to see you doomed to a life of misery with a girl who would play such tricks as this, though that girl is my daughter ! Nic. Misery ? Nonsense ! First experiment ! Til break her in ! It’s all the fault of that young jackanapes there. Bundle him out of the house— d’ye hear ? Bundle him neck and crop. Des. I’m not so easily bundled, as you will find, Mr. Nicholas Hebbleth waite. ( takes off apron and throws it down) See, I cast off the badge of domestic servitude, arid appear before you in my proper person, as your master. Nic. Master ? You ! Pooh ! Who the dickens are you ? Mar. That’s right — give it him, Nick — honest old Nick, as we used to call you. Des. Your master, sir — your old master’s son ! And the day of reckoning has come, as sure as I’m the Honour- able Percy Desmond, and as sure as you are the false steward ! Nic. {staggered) Young Master Percy ! Phew ! It’s getting warm. Warm ? The desert of the great Sarah is a fool to it. {with braggadocio) Here, you can’t bully me, you know. What do you mean ? Des. That I have come back from abroad after many years’ absence ! That I have gone into my late father’s aflairs with the family solicitor, and that we have discovered you to be a defaulter to the tune of £8,000. Mar. What, is this honest old Nick ? Des. Yes, he’s about as honest as “ Old Nick” can be. Ol. That’s right, Percy, give it him ! Let him have it — hot. Nic. Bosh, sir ! You have no evidence ! Des. No, I haven’t. The authorities at Scotland Yard have it all. Nic. Run to earth, by Jupiter ! Martin ! ( holds out his hand) Mar, {turning away) No, I won’t touch the hand of a thief. 18 A FIRST EXPERIMENT. Nic. Oh, very well. Done, am 1 1 I suppose I’d better be off while there’s time. ( jauntily ) Good-bye. (Nicholas goes up and stands at back, c.) Des. Ta-ta. Shouldn’t w 7 onder if you find ’em waiting for you outside. Ol. {slily) Father, am I to continue my studies in the cookery department ? Mar. No ! A thousand times no. What do you think of your first attempt 1 Look here ! {pointing to saucepan ) Des. Olive, may I say a word of love to you now ? Ol. {merrily) Yes ; the first dinner is done, and you may say as many words of love as you like. Des. My darling ! {embraces her) Mar. What — under my very eyes ? Ol. Yes, daddy. When I was a servant I had a young man, as every servant has a right to. I want to have him still. The foolish old contract made twenty years ago is broken. ( taking Desmond’s hand) So give consent, as now you justly can, And please approve {curtseying) of “Me and my young man.” Curtain. *7 L** • o fJ £ ^ ON (a" wO AN ISLAND; ^ DRAMATIC sketch in WATER-COLOUR, BY j. W. JONES. (Member of the Dramatic Authors' Society.) author op *By the River,” “ In Advance of the Times,” “After Marriage ” “A Royal Visit.” “St. Valentine’s Day,” etc., etc, Part Author of “ Christine.” London : SAMUEL FRENCH PUBLISHER, 8 9, STRAND. New York: SAMUEL FRENCH & SON PUBLISHERS, 3S, EAST 14th .STREET. First produced at the Theatre Royal, Bradford , March 6th , 1879. CHARACTERS. Jack Carlyon ( Barrister- at- Law ) Mr. Chas. Cooper Milly Garland (ef Curzon Street , Mayfair) Miss Busan Rigknold Time— Autumn. SCENE - HENHOLM E ISLAND. LAKE WINDERMERE. 4 /*> UN AN ISLAND. Scene.— Aw island. Trees, k. andz., and at lack Water painted on lack cloth and seen through the trees ; time sun- set During the progress of the piece the red light changes and moonlight takes its place. At l. of stage the remains of a pic-mc repast, two empty champagne bottles, a sardine a’i-l 16 ^ - S °f- a tmd the dying embers o F a -five. As the curtain rises voices are heard singing in the distance . gradually dying away. 3 V oices Qi armonised) A boat, a boat, ha3to to tbo ferry And we’ll go over to be merry, 9 To laugh and dance and drink brown sherry. A fZLt 0 1r Pmm ’ mt ‘l ; lACK Carlyo *> dressed in boating costume. He carries with him a small box of chocolate creams, lie sits on camp-stool. Tlf* 1S th , e , sound of niusic on the water. Even that old catch seems like a siren’s song. Delicious thins? music, when sweet sights seem, by some subtle mao-ic to ^ assist sweet sounds. Tobacco helps it, too. I’ll smoko' (prodwes Life couldn’t have been worth living in the days before good Sir Walter brought com- foit t to miserable man in the shape of smoke. There s bliss in bird s-eye, contentment in cut Caven- dish, so lace in shag, and luxury in Latakia. (looking at pipe) And as for you, old friend, how unlike you are to a woman You are faithful when she is false, a companion " he “ , sh ® “ - Talk about a "Oman breaking aman’s fu ! / Ba . h L A P lpe and tobacco wil1 hold the pieces to- g , h * v -Wdsthepipein his mouth and opens box) Hallo' what the devil s this ? Chocolate creams ! Now, what cruel hZl th - la m e haS Changed S°° d honest birdWye nto onnlV rM 1 ? 1 " Ventl0M °, f a dyspepsia-spreading pastry- * T i’il llg *u° “’f wbo invented chocolate creams! 1 11 swear I left my box of tobacco here, and I feel certain I took it up again,. Chocolate creams ! I wonder how tliev’d smoke— ugh ! ( shudders ) Never mind, find the ’bacca again 4 ON AN ISLAND. directly, I dare say, or borrow a weed from old Boodle. By the way, where is old Boodle, and where the deuce are all the others? ( goes to the remains of pic-nic repast) And where’s the com- fortable looking kettle which boiled the water for our tea? Where are the plates, and the knives, and the lobster salad? Where’s everything and everybody ? (. Harmonised refrain heard very faintly . A boat, a boat, haste to the ferry, And we’ll go over to be merry, To laugh, and dance, and drink brown sherry.) Eh ! what ? (runs to back eagerly) A steam-launch ! Our steam-launch ! Half-way to Bowness, too. Hanged if they haven’t left me behind on the island. This is a nice cheer- ful thing, (shouting) Hi ! hi ! hi ! (refrain heard, “ To laugh and dance, and drink brown sherry.”) Music on the water ! Confound music on the water ! Hi ! hi ! hi ! (Exit at back, l.) Enter Milly Garland, r. She carries a box of tobacco. Mil. What a dreadful shouting ! what horrible noises men can make. They’ve no consideration for one’s nerves. Jack, (shouting) Hi ! hi ! Mil. There, again ! I know the voice ; it’s Jack’s voice. I may call him Jack when there’s nobody to hear me. Jack, (off) Hi ! Mil. There’s a “hi !” He might at least shout in tune. How strange that dear old Mr. Boodle should have invited him down here to Windermere, and how strange that we should have lived in the same house for three whole days without speaking a word to each other. Well, he brought all this on himself. I’ll never forgive him as long as I live — never ! never ! Now for a little peace and quietness and my chocolate creams, (she hums a few bars cf an air, opens the box, stops short suddenly, smells it, and shudders in evident disgust) Why, it’s nasty tobacco. What ever can have be- come of Oh ! (sees Jack coming, and draws herself up stiffly) Re-enter Jack hurriedly, and much annoyed. Jack. Hang it all, here’s a pretty go ! (stops short on seeing Milly and raises his hat) I beg your pardon, (she bows slightly and takes no further notice, but idly fingers the tobacco) I wonder if she knows of the unpleasant mess we’re in. There’s no getting out of it. We shall have to make a night of it on this infernal island, that’s certain. Alone with a lady on ON AN ISLAND, 5 this patch of ground in the middle of the lake ! The situa- tion would be romantic if it wasn’t so deucedly awkward. ( sees box inher hand) Jove ! she’s got my ’bacca ! Mil. I feel so horribly nervous, being alone with him after so long. But the thought of his cruel conduct gives me courage ! I will be as inflexible as steel, (artlessly) I’m glad I put this dress on to-day, though, {she glances round and starts a little; then aside) Oh ! oh, good gracious ! He’s got my chocolate creams. Jack, {looldng contemptuously at his box) All night here without a smoke. I can’t stand it. I must pluck up courage. I’d sooner face the rifles of an entire company of infantry than the fire in her indignant eyes. It must be done, though. Now for it. (he advances a little towards her) Er — er — I beg your pardon. ( she does not turn) I say, I beg your pardon, (aside) Oh, confound it ! I must get that tobacco somehow, (to her) Miss Garland. Mil. (turning and facing him) Yes? Jack. I — that is — allow me to suggest Mil. (coldly) Yes ? Jack. Well, the fact is we both hold property which can be of no possible use to us, and I would respectfully suggest an exchange. Mil. (in the same tone) Yes ? Jack, (aside) I wish she wouldn’t speak in confounded monosyllables, like a talking doll, (continuing) I say that as this (pointing to his box) is of no use to me, while that (pointing to her box) can scarcely be of any use to you Mil. Are you sure of that ? Jack. Yes, quite sure; that is — unless you indulge in a whif or two yourself on the quiet. (Milly rises , calmly indignant, holds out her hand containing the box of tobacco at arm’s length, and receives the chocolate creams in exchange) Mil. You find me alone, sir, and you take advantage of the opportunity to add to your insults. It is noble of you ! It is like you. My friends will be here in a moment to take me back to the mainlaind, and there I can at least avoid you. I shall leave Windermere for the South the first thing in the morning, and I trust never to see your face again. Jack, (aside) By George ! She doesn’t know that the launch has gone and that we are alone here. I must break the news to her. (to her) Miss Garland. Mil. Mr. Carlyon, this interview is at an end so far as I am concerned. I hope you ?/ill enjoy your tobacco. Jack. I can’t enjoy anything till you hear the dreadful news I have to tell. The boat has gone and left us behind. 6 ON AN ISLAND. Mil, (| greatly alarmed) What ? Gone ? and left us all alone here ? Impossible ! Whatever shall I do ? ( re-assured ) Oh ! of course they’ll find out that we are missing, and will send back for us. Jack. I regret to say that’s hardly likely. I told Boodle that I might get a boatman to row over from Bowness and take me back before the others left. They may — knowing that we have been old lovers — imagine that we have returned in the boat together. Mil. This is some wicked plot of yours, Mr. Carlyon ; some cruel, wicked plot to compromise me in the eyes of my friends. Jack, {earnestly) You wrong me, Miss Garland ; you do me the greatest injustice that a woman can do to a man. I give my word of honour that I would have done anything in the world rather than this should have happened. Mil. I believe you. Pray forgive me. I scarcely know what I say. Oh, tell me what is to be done. I look to you in this terrible emergency. What is to be done ? Jack. It’s only two miles to Bowness. I can swim it, and send a boat back for you. {aside) Deucedly unpleasant job tliis chilly night ; wonder if she’ll take me at my word. Mil. Two miles? Jack. Two miles as the crow flies, even supposing the crow were to fly straight. Mil. Is it difficult to swim two miles ? Jack. Not for a professional, but for an amateur it’s rather a stiffish job. Never mind. I’ll risk it. Mil. No, you must not — you must not findeed ; suppose you were to be seized with cramp on the way? Jack. Well, I am rather liable to cramp. Mil. Suppose you were to miss the lights in the town and swim about till you were exhausted? Jack. Well, there is a bit of a mist on, and I might lose my way. Mil. Suppose you were to be droivned ? Jack, {solemnly) Well? Mil. I should always reproach myself. I should con- sider myself morally guilty of your murder ! Jack, {aside) She ivon't take me at my word. I’ll try it on a bit. {to her) You will pardon me, Miss Garland — I will say “ Milly,” as it may be for the last time — {she shudders) but I see my duty before me, and an Englishman, not to mention a Carlyon, was never known to flinch at the call of duty, {takes off his coat) I mean to make one desperate effort, and if the cold dark waters of the lake should close 0 ver me ON AN ISLAND. 7 Mil. (eagerly) No, no! Jack. If I should find an untimely grave at the muddy bottom of Windermere, I shall at least have cleared my cha* racter from the aspersion which it has pleased you to cast upon it. Mil. (going to him and clutching him by the arm) No, no 1 You must not go. You must not. I withdraw all I said. Jack, (wavering) I think I’d better go. Mil. No ! I will bear the hardest things they may say of me, anything rather than you should go to your death. Jack. Leander, when he took his fatal moonlight swim, met his fate merely from a desire to see his love. Mil. But one would have thought he’d have been too damp to comfortably embrace her. Jack. Well, then, why should I shirk a much less difficult task to render a real service to the woman who I know loved me once ! Mil. But Leander was drowned, remember that. Besides, despite his fatal end, he may have been a better swimmer than you. He may have taken lessons. Don’t go. (he makes a movement ; she puts her arm round him to detain him) Stop here and protect me. Stop for my sake ! Jack, (aside) We’re getting on a bit. (to her) Well, as you put the matter in that light, and the understanding is that it is for your sake alone — I will stay ! (he puts on his coat) Mil. (aside) How brave and noble he is after all ! She leaves him and sits on camp stool again . Jack. I’ve often wondered why, after you broke off the engagement with me, you didn’t get married. Mil. Get married *? To whom ? Jack. Some other fellow, of course — some miserable fortune-hunter. Mil. Not I ! I’ve only a thousand a year in my own right, and a husband would be too expensive an appendage. Jack. But you might take a little one. Mil. The smaller the husband the larger the bills. Little men are lavish. Besides, why should I marry ? Jack. Out of spite. Mil. No ; when I do marry it shall be out of love. My husband shall be all in all to me — he shall never leave my side. Jack (aside) Poor devil ! Mil. ( looking into chocolate box) Bemember, after all that has passed between us, when we leave this place and part, we part never to meet again. 8 ON AN ISLAND. Jack, (repeating earnestly) Never to meet again. Mil. The course of our lives must be widely apart. Should we ever meet by accident — as we have met at Mr. Boodle’s house — we would never know each other. Jack. We would cut each other dead. We would be greater strangers than if we were man and wife. Mil. No reference to the old times should ever pass our lips. Jack. No reference to the sweet and happy old limes should ever pass our lips. Mil, (looks up pleased , then aside) He remembers those dear old days a3 well as I do ! (to him) Our quarrel could never be patched up. Jack, (earnestly) Never ! Mil. The cruel things you said to me could never be for- gotten or forgiven : Jack. No, pardon me, I said nothing cruel. It was you . You called me base, mean, and a coward — words which a man can never forget, though he may forgive them. Mil. Oh, Jack ! I — I mean Mr. Carlyon, how can you say so ! Called you a coward 1 Jack. Yes, indeed you did. I remember the scene as well as if it had taken place only yesterday. Mil. (eagerly) Yes. Jack. You had dressed for Mrs. Colonel McGillicuddy’s ball, and 1 waited for you in the drawing-room, eagerly watching the hands of the little ormolu clock, and knowing that every tick was bringing you nearer to me. I heard a light footfall on the stairs, the door opened, and a graceful figure loomed through a clcud of white, fleecy drapery, while a pretty, blushing face appeared at the top. Two cherry lips parted for a moment, and a voice, which then sounded like sweetest music in my ears, asked the all-important question — “ How do I look V’ Do you remember? Mil. (in a low voice) I remember very well. Jack. 1 noticed a flower in the magnificent coils of your hair. I ventured to say, “ What a splendid tea-rose !” You replied, mildly, but firmly, that it was not a tea-rose at all, but a moss-rose. Mil. And I was right ! It was an insult to my intelli- gence to suppose I didn’t know one from the other. You maintained your ground with brutal persistency, and at last so far forgot yourself as to tell me I looked “ horrid !” But I gave you back insult for insult — scorn for scorn ! I sent back your letters and presents next morning. J ack. And I sent back yours — by Parcels Delivery, carriage paid. You forgot to pre-pay the carriage on yours. ON AN ISLAND. 9 Mil. Did I ? I was too indignant to think of such a trifle. Jack. And then we parted — parted on the question of a tint of a flower. A great subject that to wreck the happi- ness of two lives and estrange two loving hearts. Mil. [t meant more — much more — than that to me. That, as you know, was my first ball. I was just ee coming out,” and was anxious to make a success. Place yourself in my position. "What would you do, if you were a woman and were to “ come out ” and not make a success? Jack. I should go in again. Mil. And so the breach between us can never be closed. Jack. Never ! Mil. (i aside , vexed) How he does keep on saying “ Never.” (to him) I say that we must always be utter strangers to each other. Jack. Always. Mil. (vexed) You seem to agree with everything I say. Jack. I have had a lesson. Right or wrong, I shall in future never contradict a lady. Mil. You will never clasp mein your arms again. Jack, (firmly) Never 1 Mil. (aside) There he goes again — “ Never.” He shall though, and in a very short time, too. I’ll make him. I’ll bring him to my feet again before we leave this lonely island. How to do it, though ! Let me think of a plan, (she goes on her knees , and looks into sardine tin , lobsters claws , etc.) Jack, (aside, musing) “ You will never clasp me in your arms again.” Jove ! that’s a distinct invitation. I will though. I’d bet a fiver to an unlucky sixpence that her fairy form is reclining in these manly arms before we get off this confounded island — before the lazy autumn sun gets up for his day’s work. How can I manage it, though ] Mil. (aside, looking off) There are some hips and haws growing yonder. Suppose I were to eat some and pretend — — Yes, I think I will, Jack, (going over to her) Miss Garland, we must make the best of things while we’re here. I see you looking wistfully at the fragments of your late feast. Pardon the unromantic question at such a time as this, but are you hungry ? Mil. Pardon the unromantic answer — awfully ! Jack. Then let me assist you. (takes up empty sardine box and turns it upside down) Empty ! Not a solitary sardine. Can I offer you the claw of a lobster ? (takes one up) Mil. Ohj thanks. 10 ON AN ISLAND. Jack. ( looking into claw) I beg your pardon. There’s nothing in it. The cold beef, too, has vanished like a beau- tiful dream. We shall certainly starve here. I have heard that tobacco, eaten in what I may call its raw state, will stave off the pangs of hunger. Will you allow me to— (i opening box) Mil. (; shuddering ) Oh, no ; thank you ! Jack. Then it is my melancholy duty to inform you that there is nothing to eat on the island — absolutely nothing. We are poor wretched castaways. Robinson Crusoe, when he first landed on that desert shore, was better off. (aside) He, at least, had only himself to look after. Mil. Stay ! Here are my chocolate creams. We will share them equally together. Jack. ( heroically ) It is noble, unselfish of you, but I would not rob you for all the world. You shall have them all to yourself. Mil. No, I will not hear of it. Do you think I could see you hunger while I feasted in luxury ? We will share them to the last one. ( opens box) There are only eight in all. There are four for you (gives him four) and four forme. Now commence your supper. Jack, (aside) How the deuce can I eat these infernal things ? (she puts one in her mouth and watches him ; he takes one and makes a wry face) What beastly concoctions ! Thank goodness there are only four of them to get through. (she takes another and looks aivay for a moment; Jack, watching his opportunity , throws two of them over his shoulder) Mil. How are you getting on ? Jack. Oh, famously ; I’ve only got one left, (drops it by design on the ground) and I’m hanged if I haven’t lost that. Mil. Oh , I’m so sorry ; you’ll be fearfully hungry before the morning. Let me look for it for you. (she rises from her seat) Jack. No, pray don’t ; I couldn’t think of it. (aside) By George, I hope she won’t find it. (she looks on the ground, Jack standing over her) Never mind i;. How have you en- joyed your supper ? Mil. It wasn’t very satisfying. Indeed, I’m not ashamed to say that I feel hungrier than ever. We shall be famished before morning. We shall be like the Babes in the Wood, with no robins to come and cover us with leaves. And the Babes in the Wood had at least the wild berries and the — Ha ! why shouldn’t we eat wild berries’? There are some over there. Look ! Jack. Not for me, thanks. I should expect to find myself sprouting. ON AN ISLAND. u Mil. Then I will ! Jack. What ? sprout ? Mil. No; eat some berries, (aside) Now for my pi an (exit, l.) Jack (filling his pipe and singing) “ Once 1 loved a maiden fair ; but she did deceive me.” Well, she didn’t exactly deceive me, but she said cruel things, went out of the door in a huff, sent back my letters and presents and never paid the carriage on the parcel. I could have forgiven her all if she’d only paid the carriage. But now it can never be. And yet if I could hold her to my heart again, though only for one brief moment, what bliss would be mine. How to do it, though — how to do it ? I think I see a way. I’ll try and frighten her about those berries. She’s eating a lot of ’em. What an appetite she must have. When she gets married won’t she run up her husband’s butcher’s bills. Re-enter Milly with hips and haws in her hand. Mil. (offering berries) Have some ? Jack. No, thanks. ( looks at them closely) Eh? — what? Good heavens ! you don’t mean to say you’ve been eating those things ? Mil. (alarmed) Yes — why ? What’s the matter ? You surely don’t mean that they are Jack, (seriously) Yes I do, indeed. Mil. Poison ? ■ r Jack. I’m afraid so. Mil. Oh ! (aside) What crammers he can tell ! Jack. I believe them to be berries of the most deadly poi- sonous description. Mil. No, you can’t mean it ! Oh, don’t tell me I shall die ! Jack. Very well ; as you particularly wish it, I won’t. Mil. Oh, Jack ! Can’t you save my life ? Jack. I am afraid I can do nothing. But give me some of the berries, and let us die together ! Let each have the melancholy pleasure of soothing the other’s dying moments ! Let me pay the debt of nature ! It will be the first debt I ever paid in my life ! Mil. No, no. What good would come of sacrificing your- self ? Let me die alone. You shall not eat them ! I will pre- vent you with all the strength I have. With all the strength I — (feebly) What a curious sensation ! I feel giddy, and faint, and — the poison is taking effect — I — oh ! (she falls in his arms } her face being turned to the audience.) Jack, (aside) I’ve frightened her into it; I knew I should. 12 ON AN ISLAND. Mil. (< opening her eyes— aside) I am in his arms ; I was certain I could succeed. (Jack goes to look into her face , she closes her eyes again) Jack. How wondrous fair she looks. I can never more kiss those cherry lips or watch the love light in those bonny eyes. How can I expect it] She’s far too good for a wretched, struggling barrister like myself. She’s a “stunner.” (feeling her weight) Jove ! she’s a tivelve stunner ! ( struggling beneath her weight) I’m literally a struggling barrister now. She’ll open her eyes directly and say “ Where am I? girls always do when they faint. Could I steal one kiss first ? (is about to lean over and kiss her when she opens her eyes) Mil. Where am I ? Jack. There ! I knew she would. Mil. Oh, tell me. Where am I ? Jack. Hush ! Don’t move ! Your life depends upon your keeping perfectly still. Mil. (putting her hand on his arm) What is this ? Jack. It is my manly arm which encircles you. Now, don’t move. For a person suffering from the effects of poison, manly arms are strongly recommended by the faculty. * Mil. (trying to disengage herself) Let me go 1 I don’t like manly arms. Jack. Oh yes, you do; at least I can say from personal ex- perience you did once. Ha ! I have an idea ! (aside) Here’s a chance of a kiss at last, (to her) In savage warfare, when a gentle cannibal receives a wound from a poisoned arrow, do you know how his friends cure him ? Mil. No. Jack. They apply their lips to the wound. Now that’s what I propose to do in this case. ( leans over to kiss her) Mil. No, no, I won’t hear of such a thing. Jack, Hush ! for Heaven’s sake keep still. It must be done. It is your last chance of life. Now, then, be perfectly quiet, please, (kisses her) There ! Do you feel better ? Mil. Yes, I think I do a little. Jack. I knew you would. Bless you, the remedy’s in- fallible. I’ll just try it again. Mil. (with pretended anger) No! After what has passed between us, death itself were preferable. Release me, sir, this instant. Jack. ( letting her go) By George, she’s in a deuce of a temper now. Mil. Let me look at the terrible things which are to lay 13 ON AN ISLAND. me in the cold grave, (looks at berries in her hand) Why, they are merely common hips and liaws. Jack. ( looking down at them solemnly) Are they ? You can’t mean it. Mil. (with sarcasm) Mr. Carlyon, this is worthy of you to play upon my fears in so cruel and base a manner. Your sophistry has deceived a weak and foolish woman. I con- gratulate you on your victory. Jack, (aside) Weak and foolish ! Come, I like that. Why, in ten minutes she could talk a fellow’s head off. Mil. Stern necessity compels me to spend a certain time in your company on this lonely island. I may at least demand that you do not repeat the insult you have just offered to me. Jack, (aside) Well, I’ve kissed many girls in my time, but I never knew one of them call it an insult before, (to her) Miss Garland, I confess my fault and ask for for- giveness. I admit I was deceived in the appearance of those berries. Mil. Deceived ! Why you’ll want to pretend next that you don’t know an oak from a weeping-willow, or a moss rose from a cauliflower. Jack (aside) She’s really angry. Damn the berries ! Mil. I have no more to say but “ good-night.” Jack. Good-night ? Why ? Where are you going ? Mil. To bed. Jack. To bed ? What, on this island ? Pardon me, but I don’t see how you’re to do it. Mil. I shall make myself a bed of leaves, and rest on this bank before the fire. Jack, (earnestly) How poor a nest to hold so sweet a bird ! Yet nuggets of gold are found embedded amongst heaps of rock and earth ; delicate pearls are found in the fishy recesses of the succulent, but unattractive-Jooking oyster — and why should not your fair form be surrounded with pretty, but decaying leaves — nature’s cast off clothing 1 Mil. A truce to compliments, Mr. Carlyon, and once again, good-night. Jack. Stay ! I am truly sorry for all I have done now, and on that memorable occasion when we parted for ever. Whether you forgive me or not, I shall still hold myself responsible for your comfort. While you are here you must consider yourself my guest. You will observe that the man- sion is light and airy ; the broad blue sky forms a capital roof, though it lets in the rain sometimes. I have nothing to offer you ; but you must take the will for the deed. Unfortunately, there is neither pantry nor wine-cellar on the 14 ON AN ISLAND. premises, but in all other respects I can offer good entertain- ment for man and Mil. Beast! Thank you. Finish the sentence, pray. As I’m not a man , your meaning is obvious. Jack. No, no, I don’t mean that. You are Beauty ; Tin the Beast. Believe me, I only want to make you comfort- able. Let me build your nest. Will it please you to sleep on the ground storey or on the first floor ? Mil. The first floor? You don’t suppose I’m going up in a balloon ! Which is the first floor of your commodious establishment ? Jack. The stalwart branches of yonder oak, where you can roost along with the birds. The bath-room is outside in the lake. If this wet weather continues I can promise you a shower bath during the night without any trouble. Now which shall it be — the garret or the basement ? Mil. Thanks, I’ll stop in front of the kitchen fire. Jack. Very well ; wait a minute. I’ve got my Ulster here. Mil. And I’ve got my waterproof. Jack. Have you ! That’s famous. Why you’ll sleep as luxuriously as though you were in the blue room at Boodle's. (green lime on for moon light) And see, the dear old moon will be the lamp which lights you to bed. (he brings Ulster; she brings cloak ; he lays cloak on bank and prepares to throw the Ulster on top of it . Now, good-night, and pleasant dreams. Mil. Good-night. Jack. Won’t you shake hands for the old friendship’s sake ? Mil. Yes. (she shakes hands with him) Jack. Now lie down and go to by-bje. (she lies down on bank, and he covers her completely with the Ulster) I’d do the nightingale business and sing you a lullaby, only I’m as hoarse as an asthmatical old crow. Instead, I’ll smoke a reflective pipe, and keen watch and ward over you through the long hours of the night, (he sits on campstool and lights his pipe) She seems very different now to when we had that row. She was in an awful temper then. When a woman lays her- self out to be disagreeable, its astonishing how jolly disagree- able she can contrive to be. Mil. (putting out her head) Mr. Carlyon ! Jack. Madam. Mil. I want to ask you — What did you do on that night ? Jack. On what night ? Mil. On the night, of course — the night we parted forever. 01ST AN ISLAND. 15 Jack. Let me see. Oh ! I remember now, I went to the chib, and played billiards with Tomkins. Mil. Billiards with Tomkins ! It is thus that men suffer ! (to him) Of course your nerves were unstrung at the thought of losing me — you couldn’t make a stroke, and you lost. Jack. Lost ? — oh no. I can give Tomkins fifty in a hun- dred at any time. I blush to say I won every game. Mil, I cried the whole night through. I drowned my grief in tears. Jack. I drowned mine in whiskey hot. (aside) I did drown it too. How fearfully drunk I did get to be sure ! Mil. I looked a terrible sight the next morning. Jack. So did// Mil. My eyes were all red and inflamed . Jack. So were mine — awful ! Mil And for a month afterwards I could never look at the marriage column of the Times without weeping again. Jack. What a pity to throw aw T ay good tears like that. You might have found them useful for watering your moss- roses. Mil. When a man is in trouble, a man can drink and smoke and swear and do all sorts of dreadful things. A woman can only wait. Jack. Yes, wait and weep, and conceive sudden and vio* lent affections for cats and parrots. But it is time you were asleep. When the rosy tints of sunrise come over the lake, your eyes will be redder than the sun itself from want of sleep — redder than they were after you had shed that quart or so of idle tears. Mil. But 1 can't sleep. Jack. You must ! And you mustn’t put your head out of window. Take it in. Mil. Very well ; I suppose I must. Good-night. Jack. Good-night, (she reluctantly puts her head under the Ulster) How late it’s getting. The pubs are just about shut- ting up at Bowness now. Couldn’t I do with some beer ! I wonder what they are doing now over at Boodle’s. Drinking some of his old port, I’ll warrant. There’s a good deal of local colour about Boodle, particularly at the end of his nose. What a dear, gouty old boy he is, with his feet bound up like a couple of well-preserved Egyptian mummies. Well, he’s gone to bed so often without being able to take his boots off, that it’s onlv a judgment on him to find that he can’t get ’em on , Mil. (putting ner head out) Oh, Mr. Carlyon. Jack. Here she is again. 16 ON AN ISLAND, Mil. I want to tell you before I go to sleep that I’m not very angry at your fib about the berries, I knew they weren’t poison when I ate them. Jack, {surprised) Eh! did you? Then what did you want to faint in my arms for? (pause) You do not answer. Now I command that you don’t put in your head again till you have told me. Mil. (impudently) Shall ! (puts in her head quickly) Jack. Woman is the very incarnation of contradiction. (reciting in mock-heroic fashion ) : — Oh woman, woman, in our hours of ease You worry, fret, and coax and tease — When pain and anguish wring the brow, An irritating blister thou ! Mil. (putting her head out again) Mr. Carlyon ? Jack. She’s popped out again. She’s a sort of female Jack-in-the-box. (to her) Well ? Mil. I can't sleep, and in spite of your kindness in tuck- ing me up, I feel that tne ground is damp, and I shall have horrid rheumatism and things. It must be the dew. Jack. The dew is considered by some ladies the best thing in the world for the complexion. Mil. In the case of some ladies the dew might wash it off. Jack. The fairies are said to hold their al fresco dances when the dew is falling Mil. But the fairies haven’t afterwards to undergo a course of sticky gruel and unpleasant sweet nitre. I will sit by the fire for the rest of the night — near you. Jack. The fire is going out, but the warmth of my great love should keep you from catching cold. Mil. How many degrees Fahrenheit is your love ? Jack. Summer heat now. Say something sweet to me and the glass will go up till the scorching sands of Africa will be as ice in comparison. Mil. I will test the heat of this love of yours. Jack. And you will say something sweet to me? Mil. Yet, I’ll try. (he takes off the Ulster , gives her his hand and she rises) How is love’s thermometer now ? Jack. ( fervently ) The dying embers of my love have been rekindled by the sparks from those bright eyes ; the flame burns brighter and brighter, fanned by your gentle breath and kind words. I’m like a patent register stove. ON AN ISLAND* 17 Mil. Perhaps ; but I hardly take it as a compliment to be compared to the bellows. Jack. Bellows be — Mowed, (toiler) Redeem your promise Say something sweet to me. Mil. Jack, 1 have always loved you ; even when I seemed most unkind to you. Are you warmer now 1 Jack. ( earnestly ) I am, indeed. You have added fuel to the fire. Mil. Oh ! Just now I was the bellows ; now you want to make me out to be the shovel. Go on, sir ; pray go on. Jack. Don’t chaff me, MilJy ; set me some task so that I may prove my love. I’d go through fire and water to serve you. Mil. According to your own statement there’s tire enough about you already. Jack. Then let me go through water. Mil. How do you mean? Jack. Let me do in earnest what I just now proposed in jest ; let me swim to Bowness, and bring a boat to take you off. Mil. But the water might put out the flame of your love. Jack. The water in this trumpery lake ? Bah ! The com- bined fire brigades of the world, pumping on me simultaneously with the wide and deep Atlantic to draw upon, could not do that. Say you will marry me. Mil. I should be afraid to live in the same house with so fierce a conflagration raging near me. Jack. Oh, let’s cut metaphor. 1 get worsted in it every time. I prefer deeds to words. ( takes off his coat) Now for my task ! Mil. What are you going to do ? Jack, (determinedly) I’m going to take that swim. Mil. No, no ; you can’t be serious. Jack. I am very serious indeed. Good-bye. Mil. You must not go — indeed you must not. I could not bear the thought of losing you even for a time. Jack, dear Jack, stop and protect me. Jack, (hesitating) I only desire to act for your own good. What will people think ? — what will people say ? Mil. If you will be true to me I don’t care what they say. Jack. My darling !* ‘Refrain heard as before , very faintly , as though the sound cams from a long distance) 18 ON AN ISLAND, A boat, a boat, haste to the ferry, And we’ll go over to be merry, To laugh, and dance, and drink brown sherry. Jack. Hark! Ho you hear that ? They’ve missed us and are coming back for us in the steam launch ! We’re saved ! We’re saved ! Hooray ! Mil. Saved. Yes, dear Jack, but they’ll declare that we stopped behind by design. They will never believe our story. Oh dear ! What shall I do ? What shall we say to them ? Jack. Say that we’re engaged, and are to be married in three weeks’ time at that goal of a woman’s ambition, St. George’s, Hanover-square. Mil. ( firmly ) But we’re not ! We’re not to be married anywhere. Jack. ( astonished ) What ? Mil. As matters stand, it cannot be. I have vowed never to forgive you until you have admitted that I was in the right about that rose. That vow I mean to keep. It was not a tea-rose. Jack It was not. I admit it. Mil. You do ? Then I take you to my heart again. Jack. No ! I refuse to be taken to your heart. Stand off! Mil. ( astonished ) What? Jack. I have vowed never to forgive you till you have paid me the sum expended for the carriage of your parcel of returned love-letters and presents. That vow X mean to keep. Mil. Oh, very well. How much did you pay ? Jack. Sixpence ! Why, I could have bought three bitter beers with that. Mil. (opening her purse and giving him sixpence) There, here you are. Now we are quits. (Jack takes sixpence and kisses it) Refrain heard louder , A boat, a boat, &c. Jack. They’re close upon us now. We’ve hardly a minute. Mil. Hardly a minute for what ? Jack. To seal this love compact with a lover’s seal. Mil. Does that mean kissing ? Jack. Yes, there’s only the moon above us. see us. ON AN ISLAND. 19 Mil. I’ve heard there's a man in the moon. He might 1 Jack. Let him ! Let his heart fill with envy as he sees my lips meet yours. -4 Mil. Very well then, you may. (< artlessly ) We shan’t have a chance to spoon on the way back ! But mind — only one. Jack. All right ! ( hissing her three or four times) There ! there ! and there ! Mil. Call that one? Oh, Jack, where did you learn arith- metic ? A Voice* ( without ) This way ! Here they are ! Jack. Yes, here they are, with the old love which bound them once still firm between them. Here they are - — Mil. Beady to go back to all the old happiness ! Jack. Our reconciliation, so complete and happy, has bee n brought about by the lucky accident which left us alone — 0 AN Island. ( they take hands and prepare to go up stage) N Curtain Quickly. . . ■ . * \