Dramatic Departing
SWEETHEARTS,
(Dngtnal gtanmtic dontet,
IN TWO ACTS.
Sf G I L B E E T.
LONDON :
AMUEL FllENCII,
89, STRAND.
NEW YORK:
SAMUEL FRENCH & SON,
PUBUSHEHS,
122, NASSAU STREET.
\
SWEETHEARTS,
First produced at the Prince of Wales Theatre (under
the management of Miss Marie Wilton), Saturday^
November 1th, 1874t
MR. HARRY SPREADBROW ... Mr.
WILCOX (a Gardener) Mr. F. GLOVKB.
MISS JENNY NORTHCOTT ... Miss MABIE Wit-row
(Mrs. Bancroft).
RUTH (her Mi:id Servant) Miss PLOWDEM.
ACT I. 1844, SPRING.
ACT II. 1874, AUTUMN,
SWEETHEARTS.
ACT I.
ID-A.TE--1844:-
SCENE. The Garden of a pretty Country Villa. The house
is new, and the garden shows signs of having been recently
laid out; the shrubs are small, and the few trees about are
moderate in size ; small creepers are trained against the house ;
an open country in the distance ; a little bridge, L. U. E., over
a stream, forms the entrance to the garden ; Music in orchestra
at rise of Curtain " Love's Young Dream."
WILCOX is discovered seated on edge of garden wheelbarrow up
stage, L., preparing his " bass" for tying up plants, he rises
and comes down with sycamore sapling in. his hand; il is care-
fully done tip in matting, and has a direction label attached to it.
WILCOX. (reading the label) " For Miss Northcott, with
Mr. Spreadbrow's kindest regards." " Acer Pseudo Plantanus."
Aye, aye ! sycamore, I suppose, though it ain't genteel to say so
Humph! sycamores are common enough in these parts, there
ain't no call, as I can see, to send a hundred and twenty mile
for one. Ah, Mr. Spreadbrow, no go no go ; it ain't to be
done with " Acer Pseudo Plantanuses." Miss Jenny's sent better
men nor you about their business afore this, and as you're agoin
about your'n of your own free will to-night, and a good long
way too, why I says, no go, no go ! If I know Miss Jenny,
she's a good long job, and you've set down looking at
your work too long, and now that it's come to going, you'll
need to hurry it, and Miss Jenny ain't a job to be hurried over,
bless her. Take another three months, and I don't say there
mightn't be a chance for you, but it'll take all that ah, thank
goodness, it'll take all that !
Enter JENNY from behind the hmise, R. u. E., prepared for
gardening.
JENNY. Well, Wilcoi, what have you got there? (he touches
his forehead and gives her the sycamore} Not my sycamore?
WILCOX. Yes, miss; Mr. Spreadbrow left it last night as the
mail passed.
4 SWEETHEARTS. [ACT 1.
JENKT. Then he's returned already? Why, he was not
expected for a week, at least.
WILCOX. He returned quite sudden last night, and left this
here plant with a message that he would call at twelve o'clock
to-day, miss.
JENNY. I shall be very glad to see him. So this is really a
shoot of the dear old tree!
\VILCOX. Come all the way from Lunnon, too. There's
lots of 'em hereabouts, miss ; I could ha' got you a armful for
the asking.
JENNY. Yes, I daresay ; but this comes from the dear old
house at Hampstead.
WILCOX. Doit, now?
JENNY. You remember the old sycamore on the lawn where
Mr. ^preadbrow and I used to sit and learn our lessons years
ago? well, this is a piece of it. And as Mr. Spreadbrow
was going to London, 1 asked him to be so kind as to call,
and tell the new people, with his compliments, that he wanted
to cut a shoot from it for a young lady who had a very pleasant
recollection of many very happy hours spent under it. It was
an awkward thing for a nervous young gentleman to do, and
it's very kind of him to have done it. (gives back the plant
which he places against upper porch of house, L.) So he's coming
this morning ?
WILCOX. Yes, miss, to say good-bye.
JENNY, (crosses to L. and busies herself at stand of flowers')
Good-bye ? " How d'ye do," you mean.
WILCOX. No, miss, good-bye. I hear Mr. Spreadbrow's
off to Ingy.
.1 F.NNY. Yes ; I believe he ift going soon.
WiLrox. Soon? All, soon enough! He joins his ship at
Southampton to-night so he left word yesterday.
JKNXV. To-night ? No ; not for some weeks yet ? (alarmed)
\\'n. "\. To night, miss. I had it from his own lips, and
he's coming to-day to say good-bye.
JKNNY. (a*ide) To-night!
WILCOX. And a good job too, say I, though he's a nice
youn^' gentleman too.
.!I:XNY. I don't see that it's a good job.
Wn.i o\. I don't want no young gentlemen hanging about
here, miss. I know what they comes arter; they comes
arter the flowers.
.1 r.N\ Y. The flowers ? What nonsense I
WILCOX. No, it ain't nonsense. The world's a hap-hazard
garden where common vegetables like me, and hardy annuals
like my hoys, and sour crabs like my old 'ooman, and pretty
delicate flowers like you and your sisters grow side by side.
It's the flowers they come arter.
ACT 1.] SWEETHEARTS. 5
JENNY. Really, Wilcox, if papa don't object I don't see
vhat you have to do with it.
WILCOX. No, your pa 1 don't object ; but I can't make your
pa' out, miss. Walk off with one of his tuppenny toolips and
he's your enemy for life. Walk off with one of his darters
and -he settles three hundred a year on you. Tell'ee what,
miss : if I'd a family of grown gals like you, I'd stick a
conservatory label on each of them " 1 Mease not to touch
the specimens!" and I'd take jolly good care they-didn't.
JENNY. At all events, if Mr. Sprekdbrow is going away
to-night you need not be alarmed on my account. I am a
flower that is not picked in a minute.
WILCOX. Well said, miss ! And as lie is going, and as you
won't see him no more, I don't mind savin 1 -; that a better-
spoken young gentleman I don't know. (approaching JENNY
who is noiv seated in chair L. of tablr} \ good honest
straight-for'ard young chap he is looks you full in the face
with eyes that seem to say, "I'm a open book turn me over-
look me through and through read every page of me, and if
you find a line to be ashamed on, tell me of it, and I'll score
it through."
JENNY, (demurely} I daresay Mr. Spreadbrow is much as
other young men are.
WILCOX. As other young men ? No, no Lord forbid, miss !
Come say a good word for him, miss, poor young gentleman.
He's said many a good word of you, I'll go bail.
JENNY. Of me?
WILCOX. (takes ladder which is leaning against the house and
places it against upper porch of house, and going a little way up
it, speaks this speech from it JENNY remains seated L. of table,
taking off her garden glores and lovlcing annnyed, she takes off
her hat and places it on back of R. chair by table) Aye. Why
only Toosday, when I was at work again the high road,
he rides up on his little bay 'oss, and he stands talking
to me over the hedge and straining his neck to catch
a sight of you at a window, that was Toosday. " Well,
Wilcox," says he, " it's a fine day !" it rained hard
Toosday, but it's always a fine day with him. " How's
Miss Northcott?" says he. "Pretty well, sir," says I.
" Pretty she always is ; and well she ought to be if the
best of hearts and the sweetest of natures will do it !"
Well, I knew that, so off I goes to another subject, and tries to
interest him in drainage and subsoils and junction pipes, but
no, nothin' would do for him but he must bring the talk back
to you. So at last I gets sick of it, and I up a*id says : " Look 'ye
here Mr. Spreadbrow," says I, " I'm only the gardener. This
is Toosdav and Miss Northcott's pa's in the study, and I
6 SWEETHEARTS. [ACT 1.
dessay he'll be happy to hear what you've got to say about
her. Lord it'd ha' done your heart Rood to see how In-
flushed up as he stuck his spurn into the b;iy, and rode off
fifteen mile to the hour ! (lauyliiiiy) That was Too.-iUy.
JENNY, (very amjrily) He had no right to talk about me to
a servant.
WlLCOX. (coming doim from ladder) But bless you, don't
be hard on him, he couldn't help it, miss. But don't you
be alarmed, he's going away to-night, for many and many
a long year, and you won t never be troubled with him
again, lie's going with a heavy heart, take my word for
it, and 1 see his eyes all wet, when he spoke about sayin'
good-bye to you; he'd the sorrow in his tliroat, but he's
a brave lad, and he gulped it down, though it was as
big as an apple, (ring) There he is. (yniny) Soothe him
kindly, miss don't you be afraid, you're safe enough now
he's a good lad, and he can't dp no harm now.
Exit WILCOX, L. u. E., over bridge.
JENNY. What does he want to go to-day for ? he wasn't going
for three months. lie could remain if he liked ; India Ins gone
on very well without him for five thousand years, it could have
waited three months longer ; but men are always in such a
hurry. He might have told me before he would have done
so, if he really, really liked me ! 1 wouldn't have left him yes
I would, but then that's different. Well, if some people can
go, some people can remain behind, and some other people
will be only too glad to rind some people out of their way !
Enter SPREADBROW, followed by Wn.cox, L. u. E.
(JENNY suddenly change* her manner, rises and crosses to n.)
Oh, Mr. Spreadbrow, how-d'ye-do ? Quite well? I'm co glad !
Sisters quite well? That's right how kind of you to think
of my tree! So you are really and truly going to India
to-night ? That is sudden !
SPREAD. Yes, very sudden terribly sudden. I only heard
of my appointment two days ago, in London, and I'm to join
my ship to-night. It's very sudden indeed and and I've
come to say good-bye.
JENNY. Good-bye, (offering ner hand)
SPREAD. Oh, but not like that, Jenny! Are you in a hurry?
JENNY. Oh dear no, I thought you were; won't you sit
down? (they tit JENNY, R., SPREADBROW, L., of table) And
so your sisters are quite well ?
^t-READ. Not very ; they are rather depressed at my going
so soon. It may seem strange to you, but they will miss me.
JENNY. I'm sure they will. I should be terribly distressed
ACT 1.] SWEETHEARTS. 7
at your going if I were your sister. And you're going for
so long !
SPREAD. I'm not likely to return for a great many years.
JENNY, (with a little suppressed emotion) I'm so sorry we
shall not see you again. Papa will be very sorry.
SPREAD. More sorry than you will be?
JENNY. Well, no, I shall be very sorry, too very, very
sorry there!
SPREAD. How very kind of you to say so.
JENNY. We have known each other so long so many years,
and we've always been good friends, ami it's always sad to say
good-bye for the last time (he is delighted) to anybody ! (fie
relapses) It's so very sad when one knows for certain that it
must be the last time.
SPREAD. I can't tell you how happy I am to hear you say
it's so sad. But (hopefully) my prospects are not altogether
hopeless, there's one chance for me yet. I'm happy to say
I'm extremely delicate, and there's no knowing, the climate
may not agree with me, and I may be invalided home ? (very
cheerfully)
JENNY. Oh ! but that would be very dreadful.
SPREAD. Oh yes, of course it would be dreadful, in one
sense; but it it would have it's advantages, (looking uneasily
of WILCOX, who is fiard at work) Wilcox is hard at work, I see.
JENNY. Oh, yes, Wilcox is hard at work. He is very
industrious.
SPREAD. Confoundedly industrious ! He is working in the
sun without his hat. (significantly)
JENNY. Poor fellow.
SPREAD. Isn't it injudicious, at his age?
JENNY. Oh, I don't think it will hurt him.
SPREAD. I really think it will, (he motions to her to send him
away)
JENNY. Do you? Wilcox, Mr. Spreadbrow is terribly
distressed because you are working in the sun.
WlLCOX. That's mortal good of him. (aside, winking} They
want me to go. All right ; he can't do much harm now. (aloud)
Well, sir, the sun is hot, and I'll go and look after the
cucumbers away yonder, right at the other end of the garden.
(WiLCOX going SPUEADHHOW is deli'/fded)
JENNY. No, no, no ! don't go away ! Stop here, only put
on your hat. That's what Mr. Spreadbrow meant. (WiLCOX
puts on his hat) There, now are you happy ? (to SPREADBROW,
who looks miserable)
SPREAD. I suppose it will soon be his dinner time V
JENNY. Oh, he has dined. You have dined, haven't you,
Wilcox ?
9 SWEETHEARTS. [ACT 1.
WlLCOX. Oh, yes, miss, I've dined, thank'ye kindly.
JENNY. Yes ; he has dined! Oh ! I quite forgot!
SPRKAD. What?
JENNY. I must interrupt you fora moment, Wilcox; I quite
forgot that I promised to send some flowers to Captain Dampier
this afternoon. Will you cut them for me?
WILCOX. Yes, miss, (knowingly) Out of the conservatory,
I suppose, miss? ( WILCOX going, SPREADKROW again deUi/hted)
JENNY, No, these will do. (painting to open-air flower beds
SPREADHROW again disti/ijwhitcd) Stop, on second thoughts
perhaps you had better take them out of the conservatory,
and cut them carefully there's no hurry.
WILCOX. (aside) I understand! Well, poor young chap,
let him be, let him be ; he's going to be turned off to-night, and
his last meal may as well be a hearty one. l'..nt. R. 1 E.
SPREAD, (rises in great delight) How good of you how
very kind of you !
JENNY. To send Captain Dampier some flowers?
SPREAD, (much disappointed) Do you really want to send
that fellow some flowers?
JENNY. To be sure I do. (crosses, L.) Why should I have
asked Wilcox to cut them ?
SPREAD. I thought I was a great fool to think so but I
thought it might have been because we could talk more plea-
santly alone.
JENNY. I really wanted some flowers ; but as you say, we
certainly can talk more pleasantly alone, (crosses, R., she
busies herself with preparing the tujai more)
SPREAD. I've often thought that nothing is such a check on
pleasant conversation as the presence of of a gardener
who is not interested in the subject of conversation.
JENNY, (gets t/ie tree and cuts off the matting with which it ia
bound, witii garden scissors whic/i she has brought icith her from
the table) Oh, but Wilcox is very interested in everything that
concerns you. Do let me call him back, (about to do so)
SPREAD. No, no ; not on my account !
JENNY. He and I were having quite a discussion about you
when you arrived, (digging a hole for tree)
SPREAD. About me ?
JENNY. Yes ; indeed we almost quarrelled about you.
SPREAD. What, was he abusing me then ?
JENNY. Oh, no; he was speaking of you in the highest
terms.
SPREAD, (much taJxn aback} Then you were abusing me !
JKNXY. N no, not exactly that; I I didn't agree with all
he said (he is much depressed, she notices this) at least, not
openly.
ACT 1.] SWEETHEARTS. 9
SPREAD, (hopefully') Then you did secretly ?
JENNY. I shan't tell you.
SPREAD. Why?
JENNY. Because it will make you dreadfully vain. There !
SPREAD, (delighted] Very very dreadfully vain ? (he takes
her hand)
JENNY. Very dreadfully vain indeed. Don't! (withdraws
her hand during this she is digging the hole kneeling on the edge
of the flower bed, he advances to her and kneels on edge of bed
near her)
SPREAD. Do you know it's most delightful to hear you say
that ? It's without exception the most astonishingly pleasant
thing I've ever heard in the whole course of my life ! (sees the
sycamore) Is that the tree I brought you ? (rises from his knees)
JENNY. Yes. I'm going to plant it just in front of the
drawing-room window, so that I can see it whenever I look
out. Will you help me? (he prepares to do so she puts it
into the hole) Is that quite straight ? Hold it up, please, Avhile
I fill in the earth, (he holds it while she fills in the earth
gradually his hand slips down till it touches hers) It's no use,
Mr. Spreadbrow, our both holding it in the same place ! (he
runs his hand up the stem quickly)
SPREAD. I beg your pardon very foolish of me.
JENNY. Very.
SPREAD. I'm very glad there will be something here to
make you think of me when I'm many many thousand miles
away, Jenny. For I shall be always thinking of you.
JENNY. Really, now that's very nice ! It will be so
delightful, and so odd to know that there's somebody thinking
about me right on the other side of the world !
SPREAD, (sighing) Yes. It will be on the other side of the
world !
JENNY. But that's the delightful part of it right on the
other side of the world ! It will be such fun !
SPREAD. Fun!
JENNY. Of course, the farther you are away the funnier it
will seem, (he is approaching her again) Now keep on the other
side of the world. It's just the distance that gives the point
to it. There are dozens and dozens of people thinking of me
close at hand, (she rises)
SPREAD, (taking her hand) But not as I think of you, Jenny
dear, dear Jenny, not as I've thought of you for years and
years, though I never dared tell you so till now. I can't bear
to think that anybody else is thinking of you kindly, earnestly,
seriously, as I think of you.
JENNY, (earnestly) You may be quite sure, Harry, quite, quite
sure that you will be the only one who is thinking of me kindly,
10 SWEETHEARTS. [ACT 1.
seriously, and earnestly (he 11 d'-liyited) in India, (he relaptet
she wifUbrmot fin' hand)
Sl'RKAU. And when this tree, that we have planted together,
is a big tree, you must promise me that you will sit under it
every day, and give a thought now and then to the old play-
fellow who gave it to yon.
JENNY. A big tree! Oh, but this litlle plant will never live
to be a big tree, surely ?
SPREAD. Yes, if you leaveit alone, it grows very rapidly.
JENNY. Oh, but I'm not gohig to have a big tree right in
front of the drawing-room window! It will spoil the view, it
will be an eyesore. We had better plant it somewhere else.
SPREAD, (bitterly) No, let it be, you can cut it down when
it becomes an eyesore. It grows very rapidly, but it will, no
doubt, have lost all interest in your eyes long before it becomes
an eyesore.
JENNY. But Captain Dampier says that a big tree in front
f a window checks the current of fresh air.
SPREAD. Oh, if Captain Dampier says so, remove it.
JENNY. Now don't be ridiculous about Captain Dampier ;
I've a very great respect for his opinion on iuch matters.
SPREAD. I'm .sure you have. You see ^ great deal of
Captain Dampier, don t you ?
JENNY. Yes, and we shall see a great deal more of him ;
he's going to take the (grange next door.
SPREAD, (bitterly) That will be very convenient.
JENNY, (demurely) Very.
SPREAD, (jealously) You seem to admire Captain Dampier
very much.
JENNY. I think he is very good-looking. Don't you ?
SPREAD. He's well enough for a small man.
JENNY. Perhaps he'll grow.
SPREAD. Is Captain Dampier going to live here always ?
JENNY. Yes, until he marries.
SPREAD, (eagerly) Is is he likely to marry ?
JENNY. I don't know, (demurely) Perhaps he may.
SPREAD. But whom whom ?
JENNY, (bashfully) Haven't you heard? I thought you knew !
SPREAD, (excitedly) No, no, I don't know ; I've heard
nothing. Jenny dear Jenny tell me the truth, don't kefp
anything from me, don't leave me to find it out; it will be
terrible to hear of it out there; and, if you have ever liked
me, and I'm sure you have, tell me the whole truth at once. !
JENNY, (bashfully) Perhaps, as an old friend, 1 oujrht !<
have told you before; but indeed, indeed I thought you knew.
Captain Dampier is engaged to be married to to my cousin
Emmie.
*
ACT l.J SWEETHEARTS. 11
SPREAD, (intensely relieved) To your cousin Emmie. Oh,
thank you, thank you, thank you ! Oh, my dear, dear Jenny,
do do let me take your hand, (takes her hand and shakes it
enthusiastically')
JENNY. Are you going ?
SPREAD. No. (releasing it much ast down] I was goig to
ask you to do me a great favour, and I thought I could ask it
better if I had hold of your hand. I was going to ask you if
you would give me a flower any flower, I don't tare what it is.
JENNY, (affecting surprise) A flower? Why, of course I
will. But why ?
SPREAD, (earnestly) That I may take a token of you and of
our parting wherever I go, that 1 may possess an emblem of
you that I shall never never part with, that I can carry
about with me night and day wherever I go, throughout my
whole life.
JENNY, (apparently much affected, crosses slowly to R., stoops
and takes up large geranium in pot) Will this be too big?
SPREAD, (disconcerted) But I mean a flower -only a flower.
JENNY. Oh, but do have a bunch ! Wilcox shall pick you
a beauty.
SPREAD. No, no; I want you to pick it for me. I don't care
what it is a daisy will do if you pick it for me !
JENNY. What an odd notion! (crossing to flower stand, L.,
and picking a piece of mignonette he puts down flower pot by
led, R.) There ! (picking a flower and giving it to him) will
that do?
SPREAD. I can't tell you how inestimably I shall prize this
flower. I will keep it while I live, and whatever good fortune
may be in store for me, nothing can ever be so precious in
my eyes.
JENNY. I had no Klea you were so fond of flowers. Oh, do
have some more !
SPREAD. No, no but you must let me give you this in
return ; I brought it for you, Jenny dear dear Jenny I Will
you take it from me ? (takes a rose from his button hole, and
offers it)
JENNY, (amused and surprised) Oh yes! (takes it and puts it
down on the table carelessly he notices this with much emotion)
SPREAD. Well, I've got to say good-bye ; there's no reason
why it shouldn't be said at once, (holding out his hand) Good-
bye, Jenny !
JENNY, (cheerfully) Good-bye! (he stands for a moment
with her hand in his she crosses to porch, R.)
SPREAD. Haven't haven't you any thing to say to me?
JENNY, (after thinking it over) No, I don't think there's
anything else. No nothing, (she leans against the porch he
stands over her)
12 SWEETHEARTS. [ACT 1.
SPREAD. Jenny, I'm going away to-day, for years and years,
or I wouldn't say what I'm going to say at least not yet.
I'm little more than a boy, Jenny; but it' I were eighty, I
couldn't be more in earnest indeed I couldn't ! Parting lor
BO many years is like death to me ; nnd if 1 don't say wliat I'm
going to bay before I go, I shall never have the pluck to say it
after. We were boy and girl together, and ami 1 loved you
then and every year I've loved you more and more; and now
that I'm a man, and you are nearly a woman, 1 I, Jenny
dear I've nothing more to say !
JENNY. How you astonish me!
SPREAD. Astonish you? Why, you know that I loved you.
JENNY. Yes, yes; as a boy loves a girl but now that I am
a woman it's impossible that you can care for me.
SPREAD. Impossible because you are a woman 1
JENNY. You see it's so unexpected.
SPREAD. Unexpected ?
JENNY. Yes. As children it didn't matter, but it seems so
shocking for grown people to talk about such things. And then,
not gradually, but all at once in a few minutes. It's awful !
SPREAD. Oh, Jenny, think. I've no time to delay my
having to go has made me desperate. One kind word from
you will make me go away happy : without that word, I shall
go in unspeakable sorrow. Jenny, Jenny, say one kind word !
JENNY, (earnestly) Tell me what to say V
SPREAD. It must come from you, mv darling ; say whatever
is on your lips whether for good or ill I can bear it now.
JENNY. Well, then : 1 wish you a very very pleasant
voyage and I hope you will be happy and prosperous and
you must take great care of yourself and you can't think how
glad I shall be to know that you think of me, now and then,
in India. There !
SPREAD. Is that all ?
JENNY. Yes, I think that's all. (r(factivdy) Yeb that's all.
SPREAD. Then (with great, emotion iclrich he struggles to
suppress) there's nothing left but to say goad-bye (ffvtie in
orchestra till end of Act, ' Good-bye, Stceahtart ) and I hope
you will always be happy, and that, when you marry, you
will marry a good fellow who will who will who will
good-bye ! Exit, rapidly.
(JKNNY watches him nut Kits down, leaving the gale open
hums an air yaifi/ /"/.-< round to re if lift is cf/<in</
back goes on kitmming i<ikes up (fiejl<m<r //> ; //>
her ploys i'-ii/i it f/mditully falters, and at last bursts
into tears, luyimj Ji< r I, mil on //<r table over the Jloicer he
hat giceu her, anil subbing rinli-ntly as the Curtain falls)
KXI> OK THE K1IUST ACT.
ACT 2.] SWEETHEARTS. 13
ACT II.
SCENE. The Same as in Act I., ivith such additions and changes
as may be supposed to have taken place in thirty years.
The house, which was bare in Act /., is noio entirely covered
with Virginia and other creepers ; the garden is much more
fully planted than in Act 1., and trees that were small in Act I.
are tall and bushy now ; the general arrangement of the garden
is the same, except that the sycamore planted in Act I. has
developed into a large tree, the bouyhs of which roof in the
stage; the landscape has also undergone a metamorphosis,
inasmuch as that which was open country in Act I. is now
covered with picturesque semi- detached villas, and there are
indications of a large town in the distance. The month is
September, and the leaves of the Virginia cre.epers wear their
Autumn tint. Music in orchestra for rise of curtain.
JENNY discovei-ed seated on a bench at the foot of the tree, and
RUTH is standing by her side, holding a slcein of cotton, 'which
JENNY is winding. JENNY is now a pleasant-looking middle-
aged lady.
JENNY. Have you any fault to find with poor Tom V
RUTH. No, miss, I've no fault to find with Tom. But a girl
can't marry every young man she don't find fault with, can
she now, miss ?
JENNY. Certainly not, Ruth. But Tom seems to think you
have given him some cause to believe that you are fond of him.
RUTH, (bridling up) It's like his impudence, miss, to say so!
Fond of him indued !
JENNY. He hasn't said so, Ruth, but I'm quite sure he
thinks so. I have noticed of late that you have taken a foolish
pleasure in playing fast and loose with poor Tom, and this
has made him very unhappy, very unhappy indeed, so much
80 that I think it is very likely that he will make up his mind
to leave my service altogether.
RUTH, (piqued) Oh, tniss, if Tom can make up his mind to
go, I'm sure / wouldn't stand in his way for worlds.
JENNY. But I think you would be sorry if he did.
RUTH. Oh yes, miss. I should be sorry to part with Tom !
JENNY. Then I think it's only right to tell you that the
foolish fellow talks about enlisting for a soldier, and if he does
it at all, he will do it to-night.
RUTH, (with some emotion) Oh, miss, for that, I do like Tom
very much indeed but if he wants to Mist, of course he's his
14 SWEETHEARTS. [ACT 2.
own master, and, if lie's really fond of me what dues lie want
to go and 'list for ? (yuing t<> cry) One would think he would
like to be where he could talk to me, and look at me odd
tinx's! I'm sure I don't want Tom to go and 'list!
.JK.XXY. Then take the advice of an old lady, who knows
something of these matters, and tell him so before it's too
late you foolish foolish girl ! Ah, Ruth, I've no right to be
Lard on you ! I've been a young and foolish girl like yourself
in my time, and I've done many thoughtless things that I've
le.arnt to be very sorry for. I'm not reproaching you but
I'm speaking to you out of the fulness of my experience, and
take my word for it, if you treat poor Tom lightly, you may
live to be very sorry for it too! (taking her hand) There, I'm
not angry with you, my dear, but if I'd taken the advice I'm
giving you, I shouldn't be a lonely old lady at a time of life
when a good husband has his greatest value, (ring) Go and
see who's at the gate !
Exit JKXXY KUTII goes to the gate, wiping her eyes on her
apron she opens it.
Enter SPREADBROW (now SIR HENRY), L. u. B.
SPREAD. My dear, is this Mr. Braybrook's?
RUTH. Yes," sir.
SPKEAD. Is he at home?
KUTII. No, sir, he is not ; but mistress is.
Sn:r..u>. Will you give your mistress my card? (feeling for
his card case) Dear me, I've left my cards at home never
imnd \\ill you tell your mistress that a gentleman will be
greatly indebted to her, if she will kindly spare him a few
minutes of her time? Do you think you can charge yourself
vitli that message?
Hi in. Mistress is in the garden, sir, I'll run and tell her if
you'll take a seat. Exit KUTH, R. u. E.
Srur.AD. That's a good girl! (he sits on seat) I couldn't
make up my mind to pass the old house without framing an
excuse to take a peep at it. (lotks round) Very nice very
pretty hut, deal me, on a very much smaller scale than I
fancied. Kemarkable changes in thirty years! (rixcs und walks
round tr<e, looking nlnitt and finishing hit speech doicn stage, I..C.)
"NYhv the place is a town, and a railway runs right through it.
And this is really the old garden in which I spent so many
pleasant hours? 1'oor little .Jenny ! I wonder what's become
ol' her '; 1'rctty little girl, but with a tendency to stoutness; if
fin-'.- alive, I'll be bound she's fat. So this in .Mr. Uraybrook 8,
is it : I wonder who liraybrook is I don't remember any
family of that nnme hereabout*, (lool.imj off) This, I
ACT 2.] SWEETHEARTS. 15
suppose, is Mrs. Braybrook. Now, how in the world am I
to account for my visit?
Enter JENNY she curtseys formally, he bows.
I beg your pnrdon, I hardly know how to explain this intrusion.
Perhaps I had better state my facts, they will plead my
apology : I am an old Indian civilian, who, having returned
to England after many years' absence, is whiling away a day
in his native p'ace, and amusing himself with polishing old
memories bright enough once, but sadly tarnished sadly
tarnished !
JENNY. Indeed ? May I hope that you have succeeded?
SPREAD. Indifferently, well indifferently well. The fact is, I
hardly know where I am, for all my old landmarks are swept
away ; I assure you I am within the mark, when I say that
this house is positively the only place I can identify.
JENNY. The town has increased very rapidly of late.
SPRKAD. Rapidly! When I left, there were not twenty
houses in the place, but (politely) that was long before your
time. I left a village, I find a town I left a beadle, I find a
mayor and corporation I left a pump, I find a statue to a
borough member. The inn is a " Palace Hotel Company "
the almshouse a county jail the pound is a police station,
and the Common a colony of semi-detached bungalows !
Everything changed, including myself everything new, except
myself ha, ha !
JENNY. I shall be glad to offer you any assistance in my
power. I should be a good guide, for I have lived here thirty-
two years !
SPREAD. Thirty-two years! is it possible? Then surely
I ought to know you ? (he feels for Ids ylasses) My name is
Spreadbrow Sir Henry Spreadbrow !
JENNY. Spreadbrow! (pulling on spectacles) Is it possible?
Why, my very dear old friend, (offering both her hands} don't
you recollect me ?
SPREAD, (he puts on his double eye-glass, takes both her hands)
God bless me ! is it possible! and this is really you ! you
don't say so ! Dear me, dear me ! Well, well, well ! I assure
you 1 am delighted, most unaffectedly delighted, to renew our
friendship ! (xhakiiir/ hands again they sit under tree, C.
look at each other curiously)
SPKEAD. (L.) Not changed a bit. My dear Jane, you really
must allow me. (Utnij shake hands ay a in) And now tell me,
how is Mr. Braybrook ?
JENNY, (u., rather surprised) Oh, Mr. Braybrook is very well;
I expect him home presently ; he will be very glad to see you,
for he has often heard me speak of you.
16 SWEETHEARTS. [ACT 2.
SPREAD. Has he indeed? It will give me the greatest the
very greatest possible pleasure, believe me, (rery emphatically)
to make his acquaintance.
JENNY, (stilt surprised at his emphatic manner) I'm sure he
will be delighted.
SPREAD. Now tell me all about yourself. Any family?
JENNY, (puzzled) I beg your pardon?
SPREAD. Any family?
JENNY. Mr. Braybrook?
SPREAD. Well yes
.1 NNY. Mr. Braybrook is a bachelor.
SPREAD. A bachelor? Then let me understand am I not
speaking to Mrs. Braybrook ?
JENNY. No, indeed you are not! Ha, ha! (much amused)
Mr. Hraybrook is my nephew ; the place belongs to him now.
SPREAD. Oh ! Then, my dear Jane, may I ask who you are?
,li NNY. I am not married
Sri:E.\D. Not married!
JENNY. No; I keep house for my nephew.
SPREAD. Why, you don't mean to sit there and look me in
the face and tell me, after thirty years, that you are still Jane
Northbrook?
JENNY, (rather hurt at the mistake) Northcott.
SPREAD. Northcott, of course. I beg your pardon I
should have said Northcott. And you are not Mrs. Braybrook ?
You are not even married! Why what were they about
what were they about ? Not married 1 Well, now do you
know I nm very sorry to hear that. I am really more sorry
and disappointed than I can tell you. (*he looks surprised and
rather hurt) You'd have made an admirable wife, Jane, and an
admirable mother. I can't tell you how sorry I am to find
that you are still Jane Northbrook I should say, Northcott.
JENNY. The same in name mucli changed in everything
else, (sighing)
SPREAD. Changed? Not a bit I won't hear of it. I
knew you the moment I saw you ? We are neither of us
changed. Mellowed perhaps a little mellowed, but what of
that '' Who >liall say that the blossom is pleasanter to look
upon than the fruit? Not I for one, .lane not I for one.
.JiNNY. Time has dealt very kindly with us, Imt we're old
folks now, Henry Spreadbrow. (me and go <l<m-n n little, i:.)
SPREAD. I won't allow it, Jane I won't hear it. (rise) What
constitutes youth ? A head of hair? Not at all; 1 was as
bald as an egg at five-and twenty babies are always bald.
Eyesight ? Some people are born blind. Years ? Year- urn
an arbitrary impertinence. Am I an old man or you an old
woman, because the earth contrives to hurry round the sun in
ACT 2.] SWEETHEARTS. 17
three hundred and sixty-five days? Why Saturn cau't do it in
thirty years. If I had been born on Saturn I should be two
years old, ma'am a public nuisance in petticoats. Let us be
thankful that I was not born on Saturn. No no, as long as I
can ride to cover twice a week, walk my five-and-tiventy miles
without turning a hair, go to bed at twelve, get up at six, turn
into a cold tub and like it, I'm a boy, Jane a boy a boy !
JENNY. And you are still unmarried?
SPREAD. I? Oh dear, yes very much so. No time to
think of marriage. Plenty of opportunity, mind, but no
leisure to avail myself of it. I've bad a bustling time of it i
assure you, Jane, working hard at the P>ar and on the Bench,
with some success with some succes:,; (sits again} and now
that Pvedone my work, I throw myself back in my easy chair,
fold my hands, cross my legs, and prepare to enjoy myself.
Life is before me, and I'm going to begin it. Ha, ha! And
so we are really Jane Northcott still?
JENNY. Still Jane Northcott.
SPREAD. I'm indignant to hear it I assure you that I am
positively indignant to hear it. You would have made some
fellow so infernally happy ; (rise} I'm sorry for that fellow's
sake, I don't know him, but still I am sorry. Ah, I wish I
had remained in England. I do wish, for the very first time
since I left it, that I hnd remained in England.
JENNY. Indeed ! And why !
SPREAD. Why? Because I should have done my best to
remove that reproach from society. I should indeed, Jane !
Ha, ha! After all it don't much matter, for you wouldn't
have had me. Oh, yes ! you had no idea of it ; but, do you
know, I've a great mind to tell you I will tell you. Do
you know I was in love witli you at one time ? Boy and girl,
you know boy and girl. Ha, ha ! you'd no idea of it, but I
was!
JENNY, (in wonder] Oh, yes; I knew it very well.
SPREAD, (much astonished) You knew it ? You knew that
I was attached to you !
JENNY. Why of course I did !
SPREAD. Did you, indeed ! Bless me, you don't say so !
Now that's amazingly curious. Leave a woman alone to find
that out ! It's instinctive, positively instinctive. Now, my
dear Jane, I'm a very close student of human nature, and in
pursuit of that study I should like above all things to know by
what signs you detected my secret admiration for you. (takes
her hand}
JENNY. Why, bless the man ! There was no mystery in the
matter ! You told me all it !
SPREAD. 1 told you all about it ?
18 SWEETHEARTS. [ACT 2.
JENKY. Certainly vou did here, in this garden.
SPREAD. That I admired you loved you?
JENNY. Most assuredly I Surely you've not forgotten it. (he
drops her hand) I haven't.
Si'KEAD. I remember that I had the itnnertinence to be very
fond of you. I forgot that I had the impeitiuenfu to tell you so.
1 remember it now. I made a tool of myself. I remember it by
that. I told you that 1 adored you. didn't 1? that you were a*
essential to me as the air I breathed -that it wa impossible to
support existence without you that your name should be the
most hallowed of earthly words, and so forth. Ha, ha! my
dear Jane, before I'd been a week on board I was saying
the same thing to a middle-aged governess whose name has
entirely escaped me. (she has ej-.'nbiti-.d *///* of pleasure during
the earlier /mrt of this speech, and ffi*appointinent at the last two
lines) What fools we make of ourselves!
JENNY. And of others!
SPREAD. Oh, I meant it Jane, I meant every word I said to
you.
JENNY. And the governess?
SPREAD. And the governess ! I would have married you,
Jane.
JENNY. And the governess ?
SPREAD. And the governess! I'd have married her, if she had
accepted me but she didn't. Perhaps it was as well she was a
widow with rive children 1 cursed my destiny at the time, but
I've forgiven it since. I talked of blowing out my brains. I'm
glad I didn't do it as I've found them useful in my profession.
Ha! ha! (looting round, croaniny to K. JKXXY stands C.,
watching him, her back to the audience) The place has changed
a good deal since my time improved improved we've all
three improved. I don't quite like this tree though it's in the
way. What is it? A kind of beech, isn't it?
JENNY. No, it's a sycamore.
SPREAD. Ha! I don't understand English trees but it's a
curious place for a bit: tree like this, just outside the drawing-
room window. Isn't it in the way ?
JENNY. It in rather in the way.
SIM:K.\I>. I don't like a tree before a window, it checks the
current of fresh air don't you find that ?
JENNY. It dues cheek the current of fresh air.
Si'UE.vD. Then the leaves blow into the house in autumn,
and that's a nuisance and besides it impedes the view.
.FENNY. It is certainly open to tho>e objection*.
Si'itKAK. Then cut it down, my dear .lane, (crossing round
behind tree to L.) Why don't you cut it down ?
JENNY. Cut it down ! I wouldn't cut it down for worlds.
ACT 2.] SWEETHEARTS 19
That tree is identified in my mind with many happy recol-
lections, (sits}
SPREAD. Remarkable the influence exercised by associations
over a woman's mind. Observe you take a house, mainly be-
cause it commands a beautiful view. You apportion the rooms
principally with reference to that view. You lay out your gar-
den at great expense to harmonize with that view, and having
brought that view into the very best of all possible conditions
for the full enjoyment of it, you allow a gigantic and wholly
irrelevant tree to block it all out for the sake of the senti-
mental ghost of some dead and gone sentimental reality !
Take my advice and have it down. If I had had anything
to do with it, you would never have planted it. I shouldn't
have allowed it 1
JENNY. You had so much to do with it that it was planted
there at your suggestion.
SPREAD. At mine ? Never saw it before in my life.
JENNY. We planted it together thirty years ago the day
you sailed for India.
SPREAD. It appears to me that that was a very eventful day
in my career. We planted it together ? IJiave no recollection
of having ever planted a gigantic sycamore anywhere. And we
did it together ! Why, it would take a dozen men to move it.
JENNY. It was a sapling then you cut it for me.
SPREAD, (suddenly and with enet-yy) From the old sycamore
in the old garden at llampstead! Why, I remember; I went
to London expressly to get it for you. (laughing sitting on her
left} And the next day 1 called to say good-bye and I found you
planting it, and I helped ; and as I was helping I found an op-
portunity to seize your hand, (does so} I grasped it pressed it
to my lips (does so} and said, " My dear, dear Jenny," (he drops
her hands suddenly) and so forth. Never mind iidiat I said but
I meant it I me?mt it ! (laughs heartily she joins him, but her
laughter is evidently forced eventually she shows signs of tears
which he doesn't notice) It all comes back with a distinctness
which is absolutely photographic. I begged you to give me a
flower you gave me one a sprig of geranium.
JENNY. Mignonette.
SPREAD. Was it mignonette? 1 think you're right it was
mignonette. I seized it pressed it to my trembling lips
placed it next my fluttering heart, and swore that come what
might I would never never part with it ! I wonder what I djd
with that flower ! and then I took one from my button hole
begged you to lake it you took it, and ha, ha. ha! you
threw it down carelessly on the table, and thought no more
about it, you heartless creature ha, ha, ha! Oh, I was very
angry I I remember it perfectly, it was a camellia,
20 SWEETHEARTS.
JENNY, (half crying aside) Not a camellia, I think.
SPREAD. Yes, a camellia, a large white camellia.
JENNY. I don't think it was a camellia, I rather think it
was a rose.
SPREAD. Nonsense, Jane come, come, you hardly looked
at it, miserable little dirt that you were; and you pretend,
after thirty years, to stake your recollection of the circum-
stance against mine? No, DO, Jaue, take my word for it, it
was a camellia.
JENNY. I'm sure it was a rose !
SPREAD. No, I'm sure it was a camellia.
JENNY, (in tears] Indeed indeed it was a rose, (produce* a
withered rose from a pocket-book he is very much impressed
looks at it and at her, and seem* much affected)
M-UEAD. Why, Jane, my dear Jane, you don't mean to say
that this is the very Sower?
JINNY. That is the very flower I (rising)
SPREAD. Strange ) You seemed to attach no value to
it when I gave it to you, you threw it away as something
utterly insignificant ; and when I leave, you pick it up, and
keep it for thirty years ! (ruing) My dear Jane, how like a
woman !
JENNY. And you seized the flower I gave you pressed it
to your lips, and swore that wherever your good or ill fortune
might carry you, you would never part with it; and and
vou quite forget what became of it! My dear Harry, how
like a man !
SPREAD. I was deceived, my dear Jane deceived ! I had
no idea that you attached so much value to my flower.
JENNY. \\ e were both deceived, Henry Spreadbrow.
SPREAD. Then is it possible that in treating me as you did,
Jane, you were acting a part ?
JENNY. We were both acting parts but the play is over,
and there's an end of it. (with assumed clieer fulness, crossing
to L.) Let us talk of something else.
SPREAD. No, no, Jane, the play is not over we will talk of
nothing else the play is not nearly over. (A/?wic in orchestra,
"John Anderson my Joe") My dear Jane (rising, and taking
her hand) my very dear Jane believe me, for I speak from
my hardened old heart, so far from the play being over, the
serious interest is only just beginning, (he kisses her hand
they walk towards the house.)
$!oto Ciutatn,
WITHERED LEAVES
A COMEDIETTA,
IN ONE A Q T.ji
BY
FEED W. BROUGHTON.
(Member 9f the Dramatic Authors' Society)
AUTHOB O9
''Ruth's Romance," "Light and Shade," "A Labour
Love," "Years Ago," "Byes and Hearts," " The
Finger of Fate," &c.,
And Joint Author of " Christine."
,,
LONDON :
SAMUEL FRENCH,
..., PUBLISHER,
89, STRAND.
. .
SAMUEL FRENCH & SON,
PUBLISHERS,
38, EAST 14TH STREET.
Pint Performed at the Theatre Royal, Sheffield,
April 2nd, 1875.
CHARA CTERS.
Sir Conyers Conyers, Baronet Mr.
Tom Conyers ... Mr. JAMES GARDEN
Arthur Middleton Mr. W. H. HALLATT
Cecil Vane Mr. ALFRED PARRY
LadyConyera Miss FANNY ENSON
May Rivers ... Miss FLORENCE STAWHOPB
PROPERTIES.
SCENE. Rustic Table, L.; Garden Seats, L.; Bank, R.H..
Fishing Tackle and Basket, Rod, &c., for Vane. A very
handsome Volume, withered Violets in it ; Violets on
Stage, to be plucked ; silver Match Box and Satchel for
I.ady Conyers ; Tobacco and Tobacco Pouch for Arthur ;
handsome Pipe for Tom ; packet of Letters and Locket
for Arthur ; Light walking cane for Vat.o.
WITHERED LEAVES.
SCENE. A pretty glen. At the lack runs a stream crossed ly
a rustic bridge j on which VANE stands fishing ; on the left at a
rude antique out- door tableM.*.? sits reading ; on the right is a
pretty grass slope, overhung by the foliage of a large tree. In
a moment, after the curtain has risen, to the refrain of "A
Little Faded Flower" VANE puts up his angling tackle and
comes forward to MAY.
VANE. What infernally bad sport I've had. (to MAY) I
shall stop fishing for this morning, May.
MAY. Are you tired of it, Cecil 1
VANE. Not at all.
MAY. Then why do you stop ?
VANS. Because the fish are tired of it they object to be
caught any more ; the water is too clear and their eyes are
too sharp.
MAY. And they see you, and you frighten them away ?
VANE. Yes, 1 suppose that's because I'm so ugly.
MAY. Ah, you're fishing on dry land now ; but you'll find
me as clear as the water, and compliments as scarce as the
trout.
VANE. You're funny this morning.
MAY. Well, why shouldn't I be, the day ia fine, and
I don't owe anybody anything ? x
VANE. But you're reading poetry, and it's the proper thing
you know, to be stern, sentimental, and sublime, (looking over
her shoulder at book) What is it ?
MAY. Tennyson's " Princess. " Have you read it ?
VANE. No, I hate poetry, I can stand a decent novel, and
don't object to a good play, but in poetry I'm like well like
(pointing to his fishing basket) fish out of water. I don't
understand it.
MAY. That's a poor reason ; lots of people I know don't
understand the poetry which they profess most to love.
VANE. As the precocious schoolboy loves the pipe that
makes him sick, it's the thing to smoke. As the girl loves the
excruciatingly tight boots that give her agony and bunions \
it 'a the thing to have small feet. As the brainless
WITHERED LEAVES.
well attends with faultless regularity classical concerts to
hear music iu.-^ nupreheiisiblo to him ; it's the thing to adore
music.
MAY. You're cynical, CeciL
VANS. No, baa tempered, May, but it's much the same
thing.
MAY. Why bad tempered ?
VANE. Oh ! I don't know because I've caught so few
fish because I don't understand poetry, and can't talk with
you about Tennyson's " Princess ' because you're so clever,
and all that ! and I'm such a dunce, and all that
MAY. You'll make me angry if you speak like that.
VANE. Then I won't speak like that ; but descend from
your exalted regions; cut the " Princess," shut her Royal
Highness up, and have mercy on a disloyal subject, (takes
the book from MAY and throws it rather heavily upon the table)
MAY. (anxiously taking the book u}>) Gently, Cecil, gently 1
VANS. I beg your pardon, I didn't notice the elegant
delicacy of the binding.
MAY. I don't mind the binding, I was afraid you might
have lost or spoilt these (she, opens tlie book and shewt
CECIL some withered flowers)
VANE. What is it ? Some rare treasure of botanical dis-
covery ?
MAY. No, only pressed violets.
VANE. Very pressed violets, (he takes the book) See how
you've stained the page ; you should have preserved them in
an "Enquire Within," or a cookery book, not in an elaborate
two guinea drawing-room edition of poetry.
MAY. But is there no poetry in the violets ?
VANE. No, it's all squeezed out into the " Princess;" and I
confess it doesn't improve the colour of her royal nose, (shew-
ing plate) She's not unlike a tattooed squaw, who likes her
liquor.
MAY. I'm getting cross ; don't make fun of my poor
" Princess," and don't make fun of my poor flowers.
VANE. They are not flowers, they are withered leaves. I'll
throw them away, (he is about to shake tJiem out of the book,
but MAY prevents him, snatching the book out of his hand)
MAY. JNo; I shall keep them, withered leaves though they bo
They remind me of him who gave them to me a year ago. They
help me to think of him, and I like to think of him.
VANE, (curiously) Him ! Who ? Your brother ?
]V1 AY. I never had a brother. I wish I had.
VANE, (aside) I don't ! (to MAY) Your cousin Jjae?
MAY. No indeed, Joe always smells of beer, and catches
rats on a Sunday.
WITHERED LEAVES. 5
VANE. Then who ?
MAY. (abstractedly) He was a good man ; so quiet, no
grave, so sensible. I wonder if ever I shall see him again.
I do hope I shall.
VANE, (uneasily) May, I don't like this.
MAY. Don't you ? You're jealous ; I'm glad of that.
VANE. Glad I
MAY. Yes ; for the extent of your jealousy shews the ex-
tent of your love. Jealousy is like the quicksilver in a
thermometer, and indicates the state of the temperature of
the heart ; I'll make you more jealous still ; I'll have the
quicksilver higher yet. If he, of whom I speak, had asked
me a year ago to be his wife and I thought then that he
meant to ask me I should gladly have assented. How's the
thermometer now, Cecil '? at boiling point ?
VANE. No, for you put me too much in the shade, (aside)
Jove ! is she going to slip through my fingers after all? (to
MAY) Seriously it's most inconsiderate to tell me this. It's
scarcely encouraging for a fellow to be informed by the very
girl who has promised to marry him that she was in love
with some other fellow a year ago.
MAY. I never said I was in love with him.
VAJJT?. You said you would have married him.
MAY. Marriape is not necessarily the consequence of love.
VANE, (drily) iiufc necessarily.
MAY. If it were we should have fewer poets.
VANE, (aside) And the Divorce Court fewer suitors, (to
MAY) Had he any money ?
MAY. Why do you ask 1 Do you believe that if a man or a
woman doesn't marry for love
VANE. Then a man or a woman marries for money.
MAY. You think money the unavoidable alternative ?
VANE. Generally speaking, the world thinks so.
MAY. You have not much money, have you ?
VANE. Not much, (aside) Devilish little, or I shouldn't be
here.
MAY. I am going to marry you.
VANE. Ah, but you love me.
MAY. (jokingly) Do I?
VANE, (seriously) Don't you ?
MAY. If I admit my love, I ruin my argument.
VANE. I prefer the love, (pressing the question) Don't you t
Come.
MAY. I think I do. I hope I do. (rises and crosses, R.H.)
VANE. (L. , reproachfully) May ! (aside) Curse it, I'm not
safe here;
MAY. (R.) Do you doubt me ?
O WITHERED LEAVES.
VAHE. You scorn to doubt yourself. Besides, you can't
wonder if I do acknowledge some uneasiness about the tone of
your sentiment concerning my rival of a year ago.
MAY. You have no rival, Cecil. You must trust ine as truly
and implicitly as I do you, and nothing shall destroy this trust
but the unworthiness of either of us. I have tried to give you
my whole heart, and my whole heart's love to your guardian-
ship. I have pledged my word to give myself my life.
VAJIE. (aside) And your money. Thank heaven I am safe.
MAY. (rising) Nearly all my life I have been a spoiled, weak
and wayward girl, accustomed to the indulgence of my own
whims, foibles, and caprices, unaccustomed to know, or to
try to know my own mind, my own nature. I am now your
promised wife; you are to be my husband, (placing her arm in
MS) And I shall look to you for help and counsel. You will
help and advise me, seriously, kindly, and wisely, won't you ?
VANE. I'll try to, May ; darling May. (aside, swinging his
fish basket over his shoulder impatiently) What a scamp I am!
Poverty is a sin after all; or if not it's very near akin, (they go
Off, * 1 B.)
_r -
Enter A axnuB MIDDLETON and TOM CONYEBS,
over bridge. TOM throws himself lazily upon the grasi
bank, whilst ARTHUR stands near him.
AR. You're a lazy beggar, TOM. We've scarcely walked fivo
miles yet.
TOM. Miles are so ridiculously long in the country. I'll
take my oath they're not properly measured. Some bumpkin
with the legs of a giraffe and the constitution of an elephant
guessed at them. I'm hungry, tired, knocked-up. My
stomach says it's lunch time, and my limbs that it's bed time.
I want to eat and I want to sleep. If I eat first I shall have
the night-mare, or rather morning-mare. If I sleep first 1
shall die of starvation and never wake. What can a fellow
do ? Can't you hit upon a happy medium ?
AR. (throwing him a tobacco pouch) Yes, here's one, try a
pipe of 'bacca. What a grumbler you are, and in a country
like this, too ; country that ought to compensate you for a
little bodily exertion, and consequent healthy fatigue. I
should like another fifteen miles of it.
TOM. Corns are not in your family, Arthur. The country
is jolly enough in its way, but one must get tired of it some-
times. (during the ensuing dialogue TOM idly fills his pipe)
AR. But not in a week. Two or three yearn in chamber!
would convert you, you heathen you snarler against nature I
TOM. What do you call nature ?
WITHERED LEAVES. 7
AR, Why, man, everything about us. The country i*
nature; sweet, pure, untainted air
TOM. Smells of manure !
AR. Bright, sunny lanes !
TOM. Which smother your boots in mud, and necessitate
Ihe reduction of an already limited exchequer in the constant
purchase of clothes brushes.
AR. Happy birds, singing their freedom in joyous song.
TOM. Quack ! Quack !
AR. Sparkling streams !
TOM. Picturesque bullheads 1
AR. Grand old trees !
TOM. Debilitated pumps 1
AR. Sweet flowers !
TOM. Bilious dandelions, soothing thistles, refreshing
watercresses, all exclaim in their sublimity
AR. (testily interrupting) Don't be a fool, Tom ; you're
quite intolerable. I'm ashamed of you, and your sacrilegious
sentiments uttered here, too, in the very heart of this lovely
Glen.
TOM. (languidly looking round) Yes, rather a neat thing in
Glens ; like most other Glens, I suppose 1
AR. Bah ! There's nothing of the artist in you.
TOM. I hope not. I can't paint and I can't draw. Yes, by-
the-way I can draw Bills of Exchange and bottled beer.
A R. (looking around him, musingly) Just as it was,
TOM. As what was ?
AR. Here, this place. The Glen.
TOM. Of course it is ; what could alter it ?
AR. Heaps of things fire, water, earthquakes, timber
merchants, railways
TOM. Yes, there's precious little romance about railways;
pretty little idealism about tunnels, porters, collisions, and
liquidated damages.
AR. (musingly) Just as it was.
TOM. So you observed before. But as this is my first visit
your remark has not much in it to excite my interest. You
seem to know this place.
AR. I was here a year ago. (quietly) A year ago.
TOM. I see it all, by Cupid ! There's a girl in the case.
AR. Bosh, (aside) Shall I see her?
TOM. Of course there's a girl in the case, we'll call her the J
Fairy of the Glen. She is simple very simple, rustic, un-
sophisticated, and freckled ; her long black hair despises the
chignon, and her short white dress exhibits her ankles. She
is of a retiring and modest disposition, speaks little, and
simpers a great deal. She feeds fat pigs, milka lean cows,
8 WITHERED LEAVES.
and smells of tub butter. Yon met, and sighed and spooned.
You lost your heart (feeling in his pocket) and, confound it,
I've lost my match-box, that jolly little silver match-box you
gave me, too. I'm deucedly sorry ; yes, it's gone; it must
nave slipped out of my pocket when I was climbing hist night.
AR. Climbing ?
TOM. Oh ! I didn't tell you I had a tremendous adventure;
a regular select penny novelist sort of affair.
AR. Tell us all about it.
* Tom. I will. Chapter the first : Tt was twilight, and beneath
the rugged heights yousee in the distance sauntered a beautiful
youth I was the beautiful youth. He smoked in deep medi-
tation a cigar given to him by a generous friend you wero
the generous friend, and the cigar was cabbage. Chapter the
second: Suddenly the beautiful youth, who, you'll remember,
was I, came upon an equally beautiful maiden, who was in
sore distress. The beautiful youth, with a noble self-sacrifice,
threw away his cabbage and rushed to the rescue. Chapter
the third : The wind, which was high, had in a very low sort
of a way blown off the hat of this lovely and accomplished
maiden, and carefully deposited it upon the ledge of the
rugged cliffs above. With one short prayer the beautiful
youth, who you must not forget was
AR. Yes, yes ; go on.
TOM. Commenced his perilous task. Chapter the last :
Slowly he laboured up the rocky precipice, the fair one
gazing at him tearfully and anxiously from below.
AR. You got the hat ?
TOM. Yes, but lost my match-box, and tore my trousers.
AR. Never mind the match-box, I'll give you another one
if you'll behave yourself decently and make a desperate
attempt not to be such an idiot.
TOM. If every one were as staid as you, what would become
of the popular drama that is burlesque ? You might be in
heavy training for missionary work or matrimony.
AR. Matrimony 1 Well, perhaps I c^ going in for matri-
mony.
TOM. Now you're coming round ; that's the first joke you'v*
made for melancholy knows how long.
AR. I never was more serious.
TOM. You get married ; no, I forbid the banns I can't
afford to lose you yet, old fellow, (icith fceliivj) You are the
only friend I have, or caro to have, on the face of earth, and
what could I do without you mope, drink, go to the dogs !
AR, No, go to your father, and beg his pardon like a man.
TOM. You know that I can't do that Don't speak of him.
(crows, K.)
WITHERED LEAVES. 9
AE. But think, Tom. (they converse earnestly)
Enter SIR CONYERS and LADY CONYERS, who sit at cidi
side of tfw table ; ARTHUR, standing talking ivith TOM,
has hit jack to the, new comers, and so hides TOM from
them.
SIR C. Yes, love, you rest hivre and forgive me leaving you
for a few moments ; I'll try the view from the top of the hill,
which is so steep for you.
LADY 0. I fear so. I'm very sorry ; the scenery is so
lovely.
SIR 0. Beautiful ! simply, but emphatically beautiful !
I'm delighted that you are pleased. But, really, would you
not have preferred your honeymoon in Hume or Paris ?
LADY 0. Really no, dear. Rome is too antique, Paris too
modern ; besides, newly married people are not fastidious.
They enjoy their honeymoon anywhere, and if such were not
an universal rule, in such a paradise as this it must be at
least.
SIR 0. Gad ! it is a perfect paradise. 'Pon my soul,
Madge, I've a good mind to buy the property for you.
LADY 0. You'll spoil me you are too good to me. I do
think that if, like the extravagant boy, I were to cry for the
moon, you would try to get it for me.
SIR C. Of course I would, (after a pause) No, I wouldn't,
thougJi.
LADY C. Why ?
SIR C. There's a man in the moon.
LADY C. Jealous of the man in the moon !
SIR 0. But he may have a large family of young men of the
moon.
LADY C. Preposterous !
SIR C. It is rather. He couldn't very well. No one ever
heard of a woman in the moon.
LADY C. What nonsense we are talking.
SIR 0. Nonsense is always talked in flirtation.
LADY C. But this is not flirtation ; we're stern married
people on our honeymoon.
SIR C. A honeymoon is a very advanced state of flirtation,
and so nonsense is as essential in one case as in the other.
It's as unreasonable to suppose that I could put my arm around
you as I do now and at the same time talk about the balance
of power in Europe, or the bank rate of discount, as it would
be unnatural for you, now that my arm is around you, to
criticise the shape of the latest Parisian bonnet, or the least
noisy things in sowing machines ; I like nonsense, old as I am.
C. You're not old.
10 WITHERED LEAVES.
SIB C. Not BO old as I was before I married you, but
still old enough to be your father.
LADY C. And young enough to be my husband.
SIB C. Well, you know best.
LADY 0. I could not possibly be better off; when I do-
serve it you can reprimand me as a father, and if I don't
relish the scolding you can comfort me as a husband, and if
you're not happy under such an arrangement you ought to
Mb
SIB 0. I am happy ; thoroughly, perfectly happy, but
LADYC. ' But ! " Conyers !
SiBO. But for Tom.
AB. You were in the wrong, Tom, and should apologise.
TOM. He was in the wrong, and ought to apologise.
AB. Remember that he is your father.
LADY C. Poor Tom ! where is he now ?
SIB C. In Jerusalem, for all I know.
AK. Have you heard of your father lately ? Where is ho ?
TOM. I don't know ; perhaps in Jericho.
LADY C. I never quite understood the cause of your
estrangement. How was it ?
SIB 0. Tom was a wild boy, and like all wild boys made
bad companions, and bad debts. Ten pound note after ten
pound note I paid for him, and the faster I paid the faster ho
got and, though a mere boy, owed as much as
TOM. Six hundred pounds odd. It was that unlucky Derby
vhen Cock Robin won.
SIB C. I refused to pay another sixpence ; when Tom, to
my bewilderment, told me that he had paid all.
LADY 0. How did he do it ?
TOM. A miserly relation of my poor dead mother (1 should
have been a better fellow if she had lived, Arthur), reputed
to be as hard up as an honest pauper, helped me out, and I
was free from debt, free from the sharpers who had punished
me, free to make another beginning.
AB. But, surely, you didn't have a row on that account ?
TOM. Yes, I did. I'll tell you how. My father and my
benefactor hated each other like poison, and both were :is
proud as Lucifer. The stringent condition upon which my
debts were paid wai that my father should never know by
whom.
SIB C. I couldn't imagine, fcr the life of me, how he had
obtained such a large sum of money. I became curious, un-
easy, but, not withstanding my solicitations, Tom preserved
the most provoking silence. I grew suspicious, very sus-
picious, and on one unfortunate day I accused him of coining
Dishonourably by the
WITHERED LEAVES. 11
LADY C. You were wrong, C'onyers, it you accused him on
suspicion alone.
SIR 0. I know I was wrong, bitterly wrong, and I >rouid
have asked my boy to pardon me, pardon me, his father, but
he swore at me, coarsely swore at me, and then it b- came him
to ask my forgiveness ; he refused, and from that day to this
I have never seen or heard of him.
AK. But to swear at your father that was terribly wicked.
TOM. (doggedly) He charged me with dishonesty, that was
terribly wicked, too.
AR. Be a brick, Tom, take my advice. You were a boy then,
you are a nyi now. Seek him up ; ask him to forgive and
forget ; he '..ould gladly receive you.
TOM. I fear not.
LADY C. If now, after these dreary years, he were to come
to you and acknowledge his fault ?
SIR C. I would take him by the hand and say, forgive me,
my lad. as I forgive you; but no such happy day is in store for
me; I feel that I shall never see him again.
LADY C. And I feel that you will. I don't know why, still I
feel that you will. , )
..--SiR C. (affected) I'll jusf-try the hill top, Madge ; I won't
be long, (goes off, leaving LADY CONYERS in deep thought)
AR. Then you decline to take my advice ?
TOM. I must ! There's such a thing, you know, as pride !
AR. And such a thing as pigheadedness, too. (ARTHUR
wanders away and stands meditatively leaning on rail of bridge
at back)
TOM. I hate him when he gets into those rum humours of
his ! He's so beastly moral ! I can't understand him ; he's
more mysterious than the ballot. No; that's impossible !
What does he mean by hinting about marrying ? Can my
nonsense about the Fairy of the Glen not be nonsense?
Arthur contemplate matrimony ! That reminds me I want a
match. Where there's smoke there's fire. Twaddle ! Here's
a pipe full of smoke where's the fire ? (rising) I say, Arthur,
where are you. (seeing LADY CONYERS) By Jingo !
LADY C. (seeing TOM) The gentleman who rescued my hat !
TOM. The lady who ruined my trousers, (raises his hat to
LADY CONYERS, who rises) Good morning, ( 1 trust yctir hat
was not much damaged ?
LADY C. Not at all ; but I fear you injured your (hastily
decking herself)
TOM. (perplexed) I I beg your pardon.
LADY C. (also perplexed) 1 mean, of course
TOM. Oh ! yes, quite so ; I did a little. You didn't happen
to notice whether I dropped a match-box last night?
WITHERED LEAVES.
LADY 0. Of coarse; I did find a match-box, but I had for-
gotten all about the circumstance, until now you mention it.
TOM. That's because you don't smoke.
LADY C. (producing silver match-box from her satcJiet) lit
this the one i
TOM. A thousand thanks ; that's it, certainly. My namo
is engraved upon it.
LADY 0. (hurriedly glancing at box) Good gracious ! How
strange How very strange. Tom Conyers, (gives match-box to
TOM)
TOM. I'm enormously grateful; but may I smoke? I'm very
rude to ask it I shall expire if I don't
LADY 0. By all means I like to see men smoke; it makes
them think more and talk less, (aside, as TOM lights his pipe)
Is this some wonderful coincidence, or is he really Tom
Conyers, my husband's son? If yes, how shall I act? With tact,
discretion, and care. A clumsy step may upset all that
this strange discovery may effectuate. Oh, if I wore a man 1
a clever, cool, thoughtful man.
TOM. (B., critically surveying her) Splendid woman I
LADY C. (L. , to TOM) I took the liberty of looking at you*
name on the box
TOM. Not a bad name, is it ? I mean the name itself, (aside,
$erioushi) Not what I may have made it
LADY 0. May I ask, are you the son of Sir Conyers
Conyers ?
TOM. I was, some time since. Do you know him ?
LADY 0. Well, a little. Indeed intimately I very
intimately.
TOM. Is he hale, hearty, and well ?
LADY C. Very well.
TOM. Yet, that's strange.
LADY C. Why?
TOM. I hear he is married again. la that truo }
LADY C. Quite.
TOM. Young wife ?
LADY C. Under thirty.
TOM. Pretty?
LADY 0. Hem ! moderately.
TOM. What a fool he was 1 Amy money ?
LADY C. Fifteen thousand pounds.
TOM. What a fool she was !
LADY C. And now may I ask you a question or twot
TOM. Any quantity.
LADY C. You used to be a thoroughly bad sort of a boy, did
you not ?
WITHERED LEAVES. J3
TOM. (amused at her cool question) I might have been bettor,
LADY 0. And cost your father no end of trouble, and
TOM. Cash.
L VDY 0. In fact, you were regular a dissipated young good-
for-nothing
TOM. Forgive the interruption ; but as you seem to bo
acquainted with my life and character so perfectly, let ma
suggest that if you're of a literary turn of mind, you might
advantageously compile my biography, beginning with my
birth.
LADY C. No, not with your birth, you were not an interest-
ing infant.
TOM. Wasn't I ? (aside) Perhaps she knew my wet nurse.
LADY 0. Commence rather with the quarrel between you
and your father.
TOM. Again, I must claim your indulgence for a moment.
Are you connected directly or indirectly with the witchcraft
line of business ? You certainly made me think of brimstone
and blue fire. What should you know of the row with the
governor ?
LADY 0. All. The governor told me ; you were much to
blame.
TOM. Possibly.
LADY C. You ought to apologise ; you will apologise ?
TOM. No, I shan't.
LADY 0. But you avow that you have been much to blame.
TOM. I suppose th it's the reason why I shan't apologise.
LADY C. That's cowardly, unmanly, contemptible ! You
ought to be ashamed of yourself.
TOM. I am ashamed of myself. I'm not a hero.
LADY C. I don't believe you. Remember last night the
lost hat the jagged rocks.
TOM. (aside) And the ragged breeches, (to LADY CONYERS)
Does Sir Conyers ever speak of me ?
LADY C. Often, even now, hoping almost against hope for
those manly, ^aagis words, " Father, I have sinned."
TOM. He called me a thief, I can't say them.
LADY C. I begin to despair. Reconciliation seems im-
possible, feiud falu help ma in my .maakasaa.! (to TOM,) Mr.
Conyers, do not think me officious in pursuing a topic that
must, unquestionably, be very painful to you ; but believe me,
as your father's young friend, I have some interest, anxioua
interest, in your long, long estrangement.
TOM. (aside) I thought I was in for a flirtation ; I find it's a
sermon instead.
LADY C. Years have elapsed since you saw Sir Conyers.
Would you know him, if now you were to see him ?
14 WITHERED LEAVES.
TOM. Anywhere ! His brown, India-burnt face ; hit
huge grey beard.
LADY 0. Oh I he has shaved that off ; his wife insisted
upon it.
TOM. Selfish creature 1 I suppose it interfered with her
spooning ?
LADY 0. Would Sir Conyers know you ?
TOM. It's not probable that he will see me ; I was a bare-
faced boy at the time of the row, now I am a man.
LADY 0. With a moustache 1
TOM. (proudly) Yes, very few like it.
LADY 0. Perhaps your wife will make you shave when you
marry.
TOM. I never shall marry; my income is ample for a
modest young bachelor like me ridiculously small for a
modern wife.
LADY C. But if you were to fall in love with some sweet .
creature with a fortune of her own. How then?
TOM. I should say, take me and my moustache. We are
worth the money.
LADY C. I fear that our conversation is not so formal as
it should bo npon an acquaintance so extremely slight.
TOM. I don't mind, if you don't.
LADY C. You are Sir Conyers Conyers' son or
TOM. You wouldn't do it, of course.
LADY C. Do what ?
TOM. I don't know, (aside) This is glorious. A lovely woman,
and a flirt. Of course, she couldn't be one without the other.
L.VDY C. (cuidz) Conyers will surely be back directly, and
I fear time is not yet ripe for their meeting, (to TOM) I must
say farewell for the present at any rate, Mr. Conyers.
TOM. Oh, no ! nut yet don't go yet. (aside) I'm only just
warming to the work. (oLADYCo>YERS, L.) At least, let rat*
accompany you a little way.
LADY C. No, perhaps I shall see you again before evening,
indeed, I should like to see you again !
TOM. You shall see me again; you shall have me for a whole
week if you like ; just let me go a little way with you, anc
we can arrange for another chat jusf f\ little way, if onlj
fifty yards.
LADY C. Then not an inch further. (<wjfe) Am I doinj
wrong ? Surely not! At the worst this it a harmless flirtation
At the best. Oh ! what a best it may be. (they an goiiv) of
ARTHUR calls after TOM)
AR. Hallo, Tom! \vhcrcareyouofTto?
To.tt. (to LADY COXY Kits) One moment ! (to AKTIIUI:) Al
right, Arthur! I'll be with you directly. It's the trousers girl
I
WITHERED LEAVES. 16
I won't be long, besides, you ought to be glad to get rid of
me. You may come across your inamorata, your fairy, you
know. Ta, ta 1 (he hurries after LADY CONYERS, who has
slowly sauntered off during TOM'S speech)
AR. My fairy 1 May liivers my fairy 1 What an ass that
fellow is ! And yet is he ! Is she my fairy 1 Why have I
come here ] Is it because here is nature's calm, beauty,
serenity ; or because here ii an enchanted ground ? her
haunt of a year ago 1 Is she my fairy ? and has she trans-
formed with magic wand Arthur Middleton, the careworn
man, with the dull apathy of a modern misanthrope, into
Arthur Middleton, the spooney boy, with the enthusiasm of a
mediaeval troubadour? Perhaps Tom Conyers is not an ass.
Enter MAY hastily, and for the moment mistaking ARTHUR /0r
VANE, ^ $ E.
MAY. So this is ihe way you take your trout home ia it,
Cecil ! (seeing her es~ror) It isn't Cecil, and I nearly ran into
him. (after a pause, to ARTHUR) Mr. Middleton !
AR. (with pleasant surprise) Miss Rivers !
BOTH, (shaking hands) I'm so pleased to see you.
MAY. I was thinking of you only this morning, not half-
an-hour ago ; thinking when I should have the pleasure of
meeting you again.
AR. Then it is a pleasure ?
MAY. Oh, Mr. Middleton, of course.
AR. I'm very glad.
MAY. (aside, very quickly) I wonder if he knows Fin en-
gaged.
AR. (aside) Paler than when I saw her last, (an awkward
pause)
MAY. (in a matter of fact sort of a ivay) It's a nico day.
AR. Splendid !
MAY. Are you quite well?
AR. Better than I've been for a year !
MAY. It's just a year since you left here.
AR. Yes, that's the reason. Just a year more to me
like five. Time gets tired of flying occasionally, and crawls
instead, yet everything is the same. The old ricketty bridge,
there.
MAY. Yes, the dear old bridge.
AR. Where you so often have sat and sketched, and I have
stood and watched, and admired
MAY. And bullied me for my bai perspective.
AR. No, no, I never bullied you.
MAY. You did, often, but I didn't mind, I liked it.
AR. (Seeing the book in her hand) Why, there is the vorit"
16 WITHERED LEAVES.
able "Princess" we used to read together. It can't be a year
since I was here. A year since is now, now is a year since.
All is the same ; nothing changed.
MAY. (opening book and shewing violets) Yes, these have
changed.
An. Those ! What are those ?
MAT. Don't you know ? Of course not ; the question is too
great a tax upon your memory.
An. I do know. They are the violets I gave you half in
joke, for then I had scarcely the courage to be serious. Oh,
May ! Miss Rivers, why have you kept them ?
MAY. Because I love (checking herself) violets, (aside) He
does not know I am engaged, and I had almost forgotten it
myself, (another pause)
AR. It is a nice day.
MAY. There's a dark cloud there though, which means rain.
(pointing)
AR. Are you quite well ?
MAY. Ko, that is, yes. (aside) This is folly, madness, 1
must end it. (to ARTHUR) Do you stay long in this neighbour-
hood, Mr. Middleton ?
Aa. I don't know ; perhaps yes, perhaps no, but 1 dare to
hope yes. All depends upon I cannot help but speak upon
you. When I left here last, I left because I was called away
by a great domestic trouble. Before leaving I had not told
you all that I had yearned to tell you. 1 ait you knew all without
the telling of it ; because our troth was not plighted in words,
we both know now it was none the less plighted. There is a
language more eloquent in its silence than any made of words,
however beautiful and soft.
MAY. You must not speak to me like this, and I must not
listen to you. It's wrong, very wrong.
Ay. Why wrong ? Tell me, why wrong ?
Enter VANE, L. 1 B.
VANE. At last I have found you, May 1 (seeing ABTHUE)
Who's that?
AR. (aside, having seen VANE) How like ! how strangely
like !
MAY. (to VANE) An old friend, whom I have accidentally
met. Mr. Midd'eton.
VANB. (startled, aside) Middleton ! Pshaw ! What a fool I
am ! There's more than one Middleton in the world ; more
than a thousand Middletons ! (he seems uneasy, and keeps his
face averted from ARTHUR. To MAY, as if anxious to get
awiy) Luncheon time, May, and we've a good walk.
MAY. (to VANE) In a moment, Cecil
1
WITHERED LEAVES. 17
AR. (aside) Cecil !
MAY. (crossing to ARTHUR) Good morning, Mr. Middleton;
I must see you before you leave. I have much to say to you.
AR. Say this now. You call him Cecil ! He calls you May.
What right has he ?
MAY. (very quietly and rather sadly) Every right ! (she gees
off, a. u. E. , with VANE ; ARTHUR, as if stupified withwhaths
has heard, sits at table, his head leaning wearily on his handfy
TOM enters R. IE., in high spirits.
TOM. Arthur, I was a fool to sneer at the country as I did
just now. The country is great, and she is great too. I walked
a little way with her, when in the distance we spied a hoary-
headed old nuisance, whom she said was her guardian, and so
I had to leave her. Hang guardians ! But she's going to get
rid of the old sinner and meet me again immediately. What
it is to have a moustache like mine ! (noticing ARTHUR'S
melancholy) Why, what's the row ? You're down in the mouth.
What are you thinking of ?
AR. (bitterly) Thinking of ? Nothing ! A fellow is mad to
think in our days. Thought and sensibility and feeling are
at a discount. They're delusions, failures, bubbles ! Go in
for heartlessness and cant. They're at a premium in this
paragon age. Honour ! truth ! fidelity ! Pom ! pom ! pom !
Sound! nothing more ! Faith! trust! hope! Fragile flowers
raised by the sun one day to be swept away by the blast the
next. Promises! pledges fair-looking enough for a moment!
but soon, withered leaves only withered leaves !
TOM. Two causes alone can make you spout like this,
Arthur. Too much liquor or too much love. Now you
drink about as much as a conscientious Good Templar, so
it's love.
AR. Never mind me, Tom, I'm a bit queer just now ;
le ve me a few minutes, that's a good fellow.
TON. With pleasure ! No, not with pleasure since I leave
you in pain. You've seen some one or heard something just
now, whilst I've been away. Girl ! I know all about it
thrown you over, eh ! Never heed, old boy, you can't expect
woman's affections to be chronic these revolutionary times.
Go on my principle love a lot and love them little ; then
you'll preserve a steady-going heart and an unapproachable
liver. Flirtation isthe thing cool, safe and pleasant it's Bur-
gundy. Love is fiery, intoxicating, dangerous it's brandy
of an inferior quality. I'm going in for claret.
(E.dt,n., 1 E.)
An. (after a pause) I'm wrong, a year is too long for a
Woman to keep unchanged. Men marry when they want,
18 WITHERED LEAVES.
women when they can. Tom's the philosopher, after all ;
and there's no use in whining. Women have babies enough
to answer for without men letting them make babies of them
I'm cut out, and there's an end of it. But by vhom ? (he
looks off) By that fellow coming this way ! (he draws locket
from his pocket and looks earnestly at it, and then off the stage,
as if making a comparison) And who is that fellow ? (excitedly)
If photography is not humbug, he is Cecil Vane.
Enter VANE, R. 3 E. , he hurries past ARTHUB as if eager
to avoid him.
AR. (rising, R. ) I want a word with you.
VAKB. (L.) Excuse me, I've no time.
AR. You must make time, Mr. Cecil Vane.
VANE, (aside) He is the Middleton after all, curse it. I
must brave him out. (to ARTHUR) Sir, I am at a loss to under-
stand this extraordinary tone. You and I are perfect strangers,
and if you were a most intimate friend tliis imperious manner
would be intolerable. Miss Uivers, whom you seem to know,
has wished me to bring from the Swiss Cottage there a
cloak, forgotten by her. I am weak enough to prefer serving
a lady to obeying the insolent and unwarrantable request
of a man I have never seen before. (He is going. ARTHUR
sternly stops him, crossing to L).
AR. Stay, the Swiss Cottage is two minutes' walk from
here. Twice two are four. I will meet you here in fivo
minutes.
VANE. Dramatic, but inaccurate. You'll do nothing of the
ort. I decline to exchange another word.
AR. I think you will, (shewing him letters and locket) Do
you know these 1 Only letters ! Do you know this ? Only a
locket, containing your picture 1
VANE. How came they in your possession ?
AR. My name is Middleton. In five minutes, Mr. Cecil
Vane. (Kxit, R. r. K.)
VANE. Run to earth ! Run to earth ! By the Lord !
(Exit, L. IB.)
Enter TOM and LADY CONYERS, B/J B.
LADY C. I'm very foolish to come and talk again with you.
TOM. On the contrary, I think you display a rare taste.
LADY C. Very rare ! I shall make you horribly vain.
TOM. Oh no, you won't ! When the sun shines upon tho
mow is the snow less white ?
LADY C. I suppose you mean yourself for the anow. Well
you're cool enough.
WITHERED LEA.VES. 19
TOM. And yon arc the sun shining on the snow. I'm
melting fast, you shine so brilliantly.
LADY 0. Then I'll go, melted snow is fearfully disagree-
able.
TOM. You're the sun,though, and will clear all up directly.
LADY C. But it's time the sun was beginning to dis-
appear.
TOM. No, the sun sets much later than this in summer.
LADY 0. What right has the snow to be here in summer
at all?
TOM. Let us cut metaphor. We are not Romeo and Juliet
LADY C. Fancy Romeo with a moustache like that,
TOM. Fancy Juliet with her hair like that.
LADY C. This reminds me who we really are ; reminds me
that I must hasten back to my guardian.
TOM. Bother your guardian ; why don't you demolish him ?
Shove him down a well, or put some turpentine in his tea.
Don't go yet. (puts his arm around her icaist) I shan't feel
nearly so happy if you go.
LADY C. How very dreadful ! (aside) And yet not very
dreadful for a man to squeeze his mother.
TOM. Let's wander up the Glen. There are some superior
wild flowers up the Glen, and I do love wild flowers.
LADY 0. Or anything else wild I should think. No, you
must let me go to-day, and I've a scheme for a meeting to-
morrow ! You know the Green Dragon Hotel near here ?
TOM. Yes, the beer is very bad.
LADY. C. I am staying there, so come and see me at this
time to-morrow, (aside) Twenty-four hours to talk over
Conyers. I think I can do it.
TOM. For whom shall I inquire at the hotel ?
LADY C. Don't inquire at all. We'll meet you outside.
TOM. We?
LADY C. Myself and guardian.
TOM. No, I won't have the guardian ; guardians are apt
to be in the way.
LADY C. Then my guardian shall not be with me (aside)
But my husband shall. Good-bye !
SIR CONYERS enters at back and watches them in amazement.
TOM. No, au revoir ! rather, (bending to Jdss her) May I ?
Just one !
LADY 0. (disengaging herself) Certainly not you dangerous
young man ! That is, not to-day. To-morrow you may ; good-
bye ! (she runs off H. u. E. , not seeing SIR CONYERS. TOM
gazes after her kissing his hand in an extravagant manner. Sin
CONYERS looks at him and seems in a toiveriny passion)
20 WITHERED LEAVES.
SIR C. To-morrow he may, eh ! No, I'll be damned if h
may ; he shall kiss me first ! Am I older than I thought
and has the imbecility of dotage come upon me so soon? Old;
or not I'll make that young cad account for his conduct ! (/i*
goes up to TOM, it7u> ts still kissing his hand to LADY CONYEHS,
and stamps his stick fiercely on the (/round) Sir !
TOM. (startled) Sir, to you ! (aside) Mr. Guardian, as I!
live, and how jolly volcanic he looks ! He's going to bully
me! No, hang it, I can't stand bullying befDre dinner!
(familiarly to SIR CONYEKS) How arc you ? Healthy sort oft
atmosphere this, (uxdking off very huniedly) Good morning r
(Exit TOM, B. 1 E.)
SIR C. (going after him, in a rage) Not until you've had a
word or two with me, sir, by Gad. (Exit, R. 1 E.)
Enter ARTHUR, B.U.B. ; VANE, L. 1 i<., meeting ; VAN
has a cloak,
AR. To your time, sir.
VANE. (Angrily) What do you want of me ?
AR. Do not bo impatient. I shall not detain you long.
VANE, (ironically) I thank you.
AR. Don't, I am not considering you ; Miss Rivers is waiting:
for her cloak.
Enter MAY, R. u. E., unseen by VANE and ARTHUR; she
seems surprised to see //icm conversing together.
MAY. (aside) They together !
VANE. Perhaps then, for her sake, it may be as well to
avoid all unnecessary sentiment.
MAY. (aside) Is this a quarrel ? Will it be very wrong to
listen ? (She stand* half hidden by tree)
VANE, (impatiently) What is it you want ?
AR. To tell you a little story about the past to give you a
hint about the future.
VANE, (tullenly) To save time I'll admit the little story
cf the past, (sits in chair)
AR. (R. ) I prefer that you should hear my version of it
VANE, (i.) Goon then, come to the point.
AR. Perhaps the i oint will prick.
MAY. (aside, amazed) What can this meant
AR. Little more than twelve months ago you gained,
know not how, an introduction into a certain little household I
in York.
MAY. (aside) Co -il said yesterday only that he was never
In Yorkshire in his life, (iluritiy ARTHUR'S following si>eech,
VANE hangs his hcnd sulkily doicn, toning with hit cant, and
prcserriny dogged siltnce)
WITHERED LEAVES. 21
AB. That household consisted of my mother and my sister,
Kate Middleton. Under some strange and unaccountable
apprehension that my sister possessed a considerate fortune,
with set purpose you resolved to win the supposed wealth by
winning her love. It is not for me to marvel how, but you
did win her love.
MAY. (aside) But he says I am the first girl who ever
cared for him.
AB. Knowing that Mrs. Middleton instinctively disliked
you, you persuaded Kate to keep your engagement hidden
from her, induced her, in short, to deceive her mother. Con-
sistently with your whole dishonourable scheme ; at last you
decoyed her with your fair- worded lies from her home.
VANE. But 1 married her.
MAY. (aside) Great heaven ! (leans against tree as if in
great pain)
AB. Married her ; yes, to kill her by cruel coldness and
neglect her, who had given up home, mother, all for you.
You had deceived yourself as to her pecuniary position, and
you punished her as if she had been the deceiver. I was
away ; indeed, in this very place, and returned home to find
my only sister, your wife, deserted by you, prostrate on a
bed of illness, from which she never rose again.
MAY. (aside, affected) Poor, poor sister ! Poor, poor
brother !
AE. Tiiis scientific and technical world has a crude, hard,
matter-of-fact name for everything, and sneers at the notion
of a broken heart ; but. as sure as you are the villain I know
you to be, thai girl died heart-broken, even at the last
pressing these canting letters, and this (sarcastically shewing
the locket) love token to her breast, with words of love and
tenderness, and pardon for you. And here you are, three
months after her death, the gay and dashing young bachelor,
with a heart as light as the cravat you wear. Why, a New
Cut costermonger will display the required outward grief in
sixpennyworth of crape for the wife he has kicked to her
grave.
MAY. Three months ago she died, and four months ago he
proposed to me. This is some joke, some terrible mysterious
joke.
AB. So much for the past. I thought once, if ever wo
should meet, I should kill you ; but such men as you are certain
eventually to kill yourselves. Now let us briefly discuss the
future. You are now the affianced husband of Miss Rivers.
Does Miss Rivers know what you are ?
VANB. How do you mean, what I am ?
22 WITHERED LEAVES.
AR. Since you wish me to be definite, does Miss Rivers
know that you are a thorough scamp 1 (pause) No answer !
She does not know it she must !
VANE. I quite expected this. This is your revenge, (rises)
AH. And do you deny I have a cause for revenge ! IJut it u
no revenge. It is a very proper consideration for the future
happiness of one who, I confess, is very dear to me.
VANE. I see, you aie a rival, an honest, manly, unselfish
rival !
AE. We are wasting time. I hare a duty to perform and
perform it I shall If you do not enlighten Miss Rivers as to
your true position and character, I must.
MAY. (coming forward) Unnecessary ! I have heard all
(taking cloak from VANE in. a sloii',mechanical way aiul speaking
to him) Is all true ?
VANE, (about emphatiailly to deny everything) N (Seeing
ARTHUR holding letters and locket) Yes ! (pause) I suppusc,
Miss Rivers, some, that is, some explanation is due.
MAY. (c. , indignantly) HuslJlfcJiow dare you suppose that
I can accept any explanation from a man who, on his own
admission, is an impostor and a liar ! I cannot forbid your
presence here, but I can and do forbid you to insult me by
uttering another syllable to me ! (to ARTHUR) Mr. Middletou.
I beg your aid and protection, (she takes A I;TH UK'S arm)
An. $he : takajBJMffm !
VANE? Yourchampion shall be put to no trouble, Miss
Rivers. I will obey you. (to ARTHUR) We may, perhajs, meet
again.
An. I pray not.
VANE. And be able, when we do meet again, to cry quits
with each other.
AR. I shall have to do you a very great wrong before we
can ever cry quits.
VANE. All up, and four valuable months wasted ; nothing
left now but the little widow at Twickenham. Money, ana
no romance there, (looks at ARTHUR aid MAY, muttcrt pas-
$ionately) Damn I
(Exit, L. 1 R.)
MAY. How can I ever thank you, Mr. Middleton ?
AR. Thank mo for making you unhappy !
Ay. For saving me from a future I shudder to think ot
AR. Then I have not made you unhappy ?
MAY. No, not unhappy. I am bewildered in trying to
realise my strange escape, but not unhappy I am pained to
think how you and yours have suffered yet not unhappy.
Was she was your sister very beautiful f
A*. Very.
23
MAY. And good?
AR. As good, I think, as any girl can be on this earth.
MAY. And I am neither beautiful, nor good, (they yo up)
Oh ! from what a misery you have saved me !
AR. Then I may leave here, assured of your belief that
what I have done I have done solely and wholly for your
Bake and for the sake of your happiness. And may I hope,
too, that you will sometimes think of me when I am gone,
that you will not altogether forget me?
MAY. I shall never do that ; I have thought of you every
day since (hesitates) since you gave me these violets.
(shewing book) Must you go ?
AK. Yes. (pause) But to return ere long, if you will let
me Oh, it is not wrong to say it now to return to make you
my wife.
MAY. Oh ! no, no ! I am unworthy of you.
An. (taking book from her and throiving out the violets) Let
me throw these away reminiscenses of the past not altogether
untinged with gloom, (he plucks fresh violets and offers them to
her) Let these fresh, and bright, take their place, and typify
for us a happy future. Do take them, May; you know you told
me you loved violets. Do take them, May. (MAY takes tJie / f
violets and ARTHUB is bending over her as if to kiss her, they L. It
go off)
Enter TOM hurriedly, L. jtt~E., followed by SIR CONYERS.
TOM. (aside, stopping his hurried pace) I can't do this sort of
thing and live long, (to SIR CONYERS) Look here, sir, my lungs
are not made of leather. Why the deuce do you chase mo
up and down the country in this outrageous manner 1
SIR C. (L.) Ask yourself the question, for I'll be sworn you
know the answer as well as I can g>e it to you. Why do you
run away from me ?
TOM. How do I know that you are not a creditor? One
of my numerous enemies the tailors ! For the sake of clear-
ness I ought to inform you, my dear sir, that I usually pay
the cost of a suit of togs, and the cost of a ^<Vuut.y Cwuft
summons at one and the same time. It's irritating for the
moment, but the after feeling is soothing you're happy in the
consciousness that you've done common justice to your tailor,
and given a lift to the revenue of your country.
SIR C. I am in no mood to hear your swagger and your sfring,
Bir. I am here to receive a rational explanation ; or to giva
you a sound thrashing, sir.
TOM. The programme is interesting, but it requires a little
Iteration to be relishable to me. 1 have really no explanation
DA.
s
$4 WITHERED LEAVES.
ik - give you, and not being an imaginative individual, I can. ml
',)inpose one for your express benefit. As for the hiding with
wliich you threaten me, I cannot believe you would DC so
cowardly.
SIR C. Cowardly ! I am an old man you're a young one 1
TOM. And so cannot think of striking you.
SIR. C. I want none of your sham heroism here, sir. I
want you, simply and plainly, to explain your position with
regard to the lady wl.o left hero a few minutes ago.
TOM. Then, simply and plainly, that lady and I were dis-
cussing a variety of topics of a perfectly proper and innocent
character.
SIR C. You had your arm round her waist, sir !
TOM. Well, I'm not a bad-looking fellow ; and I thought
she'd like it. Surely there's no harm in a platonic cuddle.
Besides, it is but natural she should tire occasionally of an
old buffer like you.
SIR C. (unable to restrain his passion) This is intolerable!
Take the chastisement you deserve! (he raises his stick to
strike TOM. TOM stays his arm)
TOM. Steady, old volcano, (they struggle)
Enter LADY CONYERS, x. H.
SIR 0. I'll punish you, you young cur.
LADY C. (to TOM) Stop ! You mustn't fight with my
husband.
TOM. (B. , surprised) Husband! (to SIR CONYERS) Is this lady
your wife f
SIR C. (L.) Who the plague do you think she is, else ? Of
course she's my wife, and to my shame I say it.
TOM. (to LADY CONYER?) Oh, you abandoned young
person ' What is to become of you? To humbug a guardian
is Bpir/jcdand excusable to deceive a husband is degrading
contemptible. (LADY CONYERS goes up. To SIR CONYERS)
Sir, before this moment I was totally ignorant of your true
relationship to this person. I ask you to believe me, when I
say I most heartily regret any annoyance or anxiety I may
have caused. And I beg you to forgive me.
SIR C. (impulsively) Spoken with all the manliness of a
thorough gentleman. Say no more; I do believe you, and I
do forgive you. (shakes hands) But as for my wife
LADY C. (down, R.) Do not condemn your wife until you
have heard your wife's defence, and do not let go your hands
yet. (to SIR CONYERS) This young gentleman has asked your
forgiveness for all anxiety he may have caused you, and that
forgiveness you have accorded to him. Don't loose your
wrrtn:uED LEAVES. 25
hands yet, but let each one grasp and press the other until both
bhall wring with pain. Sir Conycrs Conyers and Tom
Uonyers! Reconciled father and forgiven son.
SiBO. Eh?
TOM. What 1 (still holding each other's hand, they took
earnestly into each others face)
SIR C. (after a pause and very quietly) Tom!
TOM. (also quietly) Father ! (they press each other's hands,
a ifiug nothing)
SIR C. (after a pause, sneakingly wiping his eyes) I have a
touch of influenza, Tom.
TOM. (doing the same) Yes, it's prevalent.
LADY C. Come and kis3 your mamma, Tom.
TOM. Certainly, (kssses her ; SIR CONYERS looks jealous)
SIR C. (aside, to TOM) Excuse my mentioning it, Tom, but
1 shall esteem it a favour if you'll do that sort of thing to
your mother as little as possible,
TOM. As little as possible, 1 promise you. By the \vay, as
you are responsible for Lady Conyers' debts, I shall have to
trouble you for the price of a pair of trousers.
SIR (J. My wife ! trousers ! What do you mean ?
TOM. She'll tell you.
(SiR CONYERS and LADY CONYERS go up ; TOM sees ARTHUR
and MAY, who enter)
TOM. (to ARTHUR) Why, Arthur, I thought you had
Irowned yourself! (pointing to MAY) Made it up again?
That's right. Bless you ! Come and let me introduce you to
my father and mother don't be startled. I've such a
splendid little romance in real life to tell you after dinner.
\theygo up to SIR CONYERS and LADY CONYER ) Fa' her and
(comically) Mamma let me present to you my dearest friend,
Arthur Middleton, a very average Christian, a rattling good
s.holar, and the perfection of a gentleman. (ARTHUR bows,
SIR CONYERS shakes hands).
SIR C. Delighted to meetycr. sir. Do us the horour of
dining with us.
AR. I should be charmed but
TOM. (pointing to MAY) There's his excuse, (to SIR CONYEKS)
That's his young woman. They're going to be married in a
week, (to ARTHUR) Introduce us all to the excuse, oldfellow,
and we'll all make up a jolly party at dinner. Dad and his
wife, and you and your fairy can squeeze each other's hands
under the table cloth and I'll carve. (ARTHUR leads MAY up
to three at back and introduces her. TOM comes down)
TOM. What a morning of events this has been. Hang it ;
it's worthy of verse, and if I have not lost my cunning since I
28 vm: VI?PT
ascd fo do the Poets' corner for the "Suffolk Slasher,' vent-? \\
ihall have, (goes fo table and writes in note-book: <';>/><vi/ s r'o '}
very seriously engaged in compbittiotk } all come <l<in-n)
LADY C. (c., to TOM) We wait for you. Tommy dear.
TOM. All right, street mamma, half a moment.
SIR C. What are you doing? Reckoning up the price of
those trousers ?
TOM. No, listen, and let Tennyson look to his laurels! I've
written an inspired verse for this brilliant occasion, (stand*
between LADY and SIR COJTYERS on one side ; ARTHUR and MIY
ifU the other; reads from note-book)
" Let this eventful happy day be one
In each life here, set out from every other,
(foSin C.)A day whereon you've found a long lost son,
And I have found a father.
LADY C. (naively taking up line) And a mother.
TOM. (to ARTHUR) "Whilst Arthur there, the happiest of
men, has won
AR. (tahng np the line) I know ! " My Fairy of the Glen."
(ARTHUR afftdionatcly places his arm in MAY'S. TOM // ;
fmiling to SIR COKYERS and LADY CONYERS, and shews match-
box)
LADY CONYERS.
ARTHUR, TOM.
M/-r.
CURTAIN.
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