George (raising a face white with misery--that is to say, if he has remembered to put the French chalk in the palms of his hands).
Henry, I am too late! She is another"s!
Henry (in surprise). Whose?
George (with dignity). I did not ask her. It is nothing to me.
Good-bye, Henry. Be kind to her.
Henry. Why, where are you going?
George (firmly). To the Rocky Mountains. I shall shoot some bears.
Grizzly ones. It may be that thus I shall forget my grief.
Henry (after a pause). Perhaps you are right, George. What shall I tell--her?
George. Tell her--nothing. But should anything (feeling casually in his pockets) happen to me--if (going over them again quickly) I do not come back, then (searching them all, including the waistcoat ones, in desperate haste), give her--give her--give her (triumphantly bringing his handkerchief out of the last pocket) this, and say that my last thought was of her. Good-bye, my old friend. Good-bye.
[Exit to Rocky Mountains.
Enter Isobel.
Isabel. Why, where"s Mr Turnbull?
Henry (sadly). He"s gone.
Isabel. Gone? Where?
Henry. To the Rocky Mountains--to shoot bears. (Feeling that some further explanation is needed.) Grizzly ones.
Isobel. But he was HERE a moment ago.
Henry. Yes, he"s only JUST gone.
Isobel. Why didn"t he say good-bye? (Eagerly.) But perhaps he left a message for me? (Henry shakes his head.) Nothing? (Henry bows silently and leaves the room.) Oh! (She gives a cry and throws herself on the sofa.) And I loved him! George, George, why didn"t you speak?
Enter George hurriedly. He is fully dressed for a shooting expedition in the Rocky Mountains, and carries a rifle under his arm.
George (to the audience). I have just come back for my pocket-handkerchief. I must have dropped it in here somewhere. (He begins to search for it, and in the ordinary course of things comes upon Isobel on the sofa. He puts his rifle down carefully on a table, with the muzzle pointing at the prompter rather than at the audience, and staggers back.) Merciful heavens! Isobel! Dead! (He falls on his knees beside the sofa.) My love, speak to me!
Isobel (softly). George!
George. She is alive! Isobel!
Isobel. Don"t go, George!
George. My dear, I love you! But when I heard that you were another"s, honour compelled me--
Isobel (sitting up quickly). What do you mean by another"s?
George. You said you were engaged!
Isobel (suddenly realizing how the dreadful misunderstanding arose which nearly wrecked two lives). But I only meant I was engaged to play tennis with Lady Carbrook!
George. What a fool I have been! (He hurries on before the audience can a.s.sent.) Then, Isobel, you WILL be mine?
Isobel. Yes, George. And you won"t go and shoot nasty bears, will you, dear? Not even grizzly ones?
George (taking her in his arms). Never, darling. That was only (turning to the audience with the air of one who is making his best point) A Slight Misunderstanding.
CURTAIN.
"MISS PRENDERGAST"
As the curtain goes up two ladies are discovered in the morning-room of Honeysuckle Lodge engaged in work of a feminine nature. Miss Alice Prendergast is doing something delicate with a crochet-hook, but it is obvious that her thoughts are far away. She sighs at intervals, and occasionally lays down her work and presses both hands to her heart. A sympathetic audience will have no difficulty in guessing that she is in love. On the other hand, her elder sister, Miss Prendergast, is completely wrapped up in a sock for one of the poorer cla.s.ses, over which she frowns formidably. The sock, however, has no real bearing upon the plot, and she must not make too much of it.
Alice (hiding her emotions). Did you have a pleasant dinner-party last night, Jane?
Jane (to herself). Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. (Looking up.) Very pleasant indeed, Alice. The Blizzards were there, and the Podbys, and the Slumphs. (These people are not important and should not be over-emphasized.) Mrs Podby"s maid has given notice.
Alice. Who took you in?
Jane (brightening up). Such an interesting man, my dear. He talked most agreeably about Art during dinner, and we renewed the conversation in the drawing-room. We found that we agreed upon all the main principles of Art, considered as such.
Alice (with a look in her eyes which shows that she is recalling a tender memory). When I was in Shropshire last week--What was your man"s name?
Jane (with a warning glance at the audience). You know how difficult it is to catch names when one is introduced. I am certain he never heard mine. (As the plot depends partly upon this, she pauses for it to sink in.) But I inquired about him afterwards, and I find that he is a Mr--
Enter Mary, the Parlour-maid.
Mary (handing letter). A letter for you, miss.
Jane (taking it). Thank you, Mary. (Exit Mary to work up her next line.) A letter! I wonder who it is from! (Reading the envelope.) "Miss Prendergast, Honeysuckle Lodge." (She opens it with the air of one who has often received letters before, but feels that this one may play an important part in her life.) "Dear Miss Prendergast, I hope you will pardon the presumption of what I am about to write to you, but whether you pardon me or not, I ask you to listen to me. I know of no woman for whose talents I have a greater admiration, or for whose qualities I have a more sincere affection than yourself.
Since I have known you, you have been the lodestar of my existence, the fountain of my inspiration. I feel that, were your life joined to mine, the joint path upon which we trod would be the path to happiness, such as I have as yet hardly dared to dream of. In short, dear Miss Prendergast, I ask you to marry me, and I will come in person for my answer. Yours truly--" (In a voice of intense surprise) "Jas. Bootle!"
[At the word "Bootle," a wave of warm colour rushes over Alice and dyes her from neck to brow. If she is not an actress of sufficient calibre to ensure this, she must do the best she can by starting abruptly and putting her hand to her throat.
Alice (aside, in a choking voice). Mr Bootle! In love with Jane!
Jane. My dear! The man who took me down to dinner! Well!