A A 1 1 m O 4 3 r— 1 f~ 4 6 9 o 4 1 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA BARBARA PRESENTED BY MRS. WILLIAM ASHWORTH FIVE LITTLE PLAYS FIVE LITTLE PLATS BY ALFRED SUTRO BR EN TANO'S NEW YORK 1916 These plays have all been copyrighted tv America by the author's agents, Messrs. Samuel French Ltd,, 26 Southampton Street, Strand, to whom all applications for production, both in England and Ameiica, should be addressed First Printed March 1912 Second Impression February 1913 Ihird Impression January 1916 Printed by Ballantyne, H ANSON & Co. Ltd. At the Ballantyne Press London and Edinburgh U8 f 5" CONTENTS PAGE THE MAN IN THE STALLS 1 A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED .... 33 THE MAN ON THE KERB 55 THE OPEN DOOR 77 THE BRACELET 99 THE MAN IN THE STALLS A PLAY IN ONE ACT THE PERRONS OF THE PLAY Hector Allen Elizabeth Allen (Betty) Walter Cozens Thix play icas pToducrd at the Palace Thpatre on Octoler 6, 1911 THE MAN IN IIIE STALLS The sitting-room of a little flat in Shafteahury Avenue. At hack is a door leading to the dining-room — it is open, and the dinner-table is infidl view of th.e audience^ To the extreme right is another door, leading to the hall. The place is lyleasantly and pretlihj, though quite inexpensively, furnished. To the left, at angles with the distempered wall, is a hahy -grand piano ; the firejiilace, in which afire is huming merrily, is on the sa7ne side, full centre. To the right of the door leadijrg to the dining-room is a small side- table, on v:hich there is a tray with decanter and glasses ; in front of this, a card. table, open, with two packs of cards on it, and chairs on each side. Another table, a round one, is in the centre of the room. — to right and to left of it are comfortable arTnchairs. Against the right wall is a long sofa ; a'ove it hang a few good ivater-colours and engrav- ings ; on the piano and the table there are flowers A general appearance of refinement and comfort pervades the room ; no luxury, but evidence every- where of good taste, and the countless feminini touches that mahi a room homelike and pleasant. ^ THE MAN IN THE STALLS Wli^n the curtain rises, Hector Allen, a youngish man of forty, with an attractive intel- lectual face, is seen standing hy the dining-table in the inner room, draining his liqueur-glass, with Walter Cozens to the right of him, lighting a cigarette. Walter is a few years younger them his friend, moderately good-looking, with fine, curly hrown hair and a splendid silky m.ousiache. His morning-clothes are conspicuously well-cut — he ia evidently something of a dandy ; Hector wears a rather shabby dress suit, his boots are awkioard, and his tie ready-made, Bettt, a handsome tfoman of thirty, wearing a ven'y prretty tea-gown, is talking to the maid at the bach of the dining-room. Hector puts doicn his glass and comes into the sitting-room, followed by Walter. Hector i% puffing at a short, stumvy little black cigar. Hector. [Talking as he comes through, continuing the conversation — he loalks to the fireplace and stands with his hack to it.] I tell you, if I'd known what it meant, I'd never have taken the job ! Sounded so fine, to be reader of plays for the Duke's Theatre — adviser to the great Mr. Honeyswill ! And ther. — when the old man said I was to go to all the fii-st nights — why, I just chortled ! " It's the first nights that show you the grip of the thing — that teach you most " — he said. Teach you ! As though there were anything to learn 1 Oh my stars ! I tell you, it's a dog's life I THE MAN IN THE STALLS 7 Walter. [Sitting to left of the round table.] I'd change places with you, sonny. Hector. You would, eh ? That's what they all Bay! Four new plays this week, my lad — one yesterday, one to-day — another to-morrow, and the night after ! All day long I'm reading plays — and 1 spend my nights seeing 'em ! D'you know I read about two thousand a jear ? Divide two thousand by three hundred and sixty five. A dog's life — that's what it is ! Walter. Better than being a stockbroker's clerk — you believe me I Hector. Is it ? I wish you could have a turn at it, my bonny boy ! Your hair'd go grey, like mine ! And look here — what are the plays to-day ? They're either so chock-full of intellect that they send you to sleep — or they reek of sentiment till you yearn for the smell of a cabbage ! Walter. Well, you've the change, at any rate. Hector, [Snorting.] Change? By Jove, give me a Punch and Judy show on the sands — or performing dogs ! Plays — I'm sick of 'em ! And look here — the one I'm off to to-night. It's adapted from the French — well, we know what that means. Husband, wife and mistress. Or wife, husband, lover. That's what a French play meanSi And you make it English, and pass the Censor, by putting the lady in a mackintosh, and dumping in a curate ! Betty". [Co7ning in, and closing the door leading to the dining-room.'] You ought to be going, Hector. 8 THE MAN IN THE STALLS [She stands listening for a moment, then goea through the other door into the hall. Hector. [^Disregarding her, too intent on his theme.] And I tell you, of the two, I prefer the home-made stodge. I'm sick of the eternal triangle. They always do the same thing. Husband strikes attitudes — sometimes he strikes the lover. The lover never stands up to him — why shouldn't he? He would — in real life. [Betty comes back vith his overcoat and inujfflei — she proceeds affectionatelij to wrap this round his neck, avd helps him on with his coat, he talking all the time.] He'd say, look here, you go to Hell. That's what he'd say — well, there you'd have a situation. But not one of the playwriting chaps dares do it. Why not, I ask you ? There you'd have truth, some- thing big. But no — they're afraid — think the public won't like it. The husband's got to down the lover — like a big tom-cat with a mouse — or the author'd have to sell one of his motor-cars ! That's just the fact of it ! Betty. [LooJcing at the clock on the mantelpiece.] Twenty-five past. Hector. Hector. [Cheerily.] All right, my lass, I'm off. By-bye, Walter — keep the old woman company for a bit. Good-bye, sweetheart. [He kisses her.] Don't wait up. Now for the drama. Oh, the dog's life ! \He goes, Betty waits till the hall door has hanged, then she sits on the elbow of Walter's chair, and rests her head on his shoulder. THE MAN IN THE STALLS 9 Betty. [SoftlT/.] Poor Hector! Walter. [Uiicomforiahly.] . . . Yes . . . Betty, Doesn't it make you feel dreadful when he talks liketliafc? [She kisses him; then puts her arms round his neck, draws his face to her, avd kisses him cvjain, on tfi^ cheek.] Doesn't it? [She nestles contentedly closer to him. Walter. [Trying to edge away.] Well, it does. Yea. Betty. [Di'eamily.] I — like it. Walter. Betty! Betty, Yes, I like it. I don't know why. I sup- pose I'm frightfully wicked. Or the danger perhaps — I don't know. Walter. [Ifaking a futile effort to get up.] Betty Betty. [Tightening her arms around him^ Stop there, and don't move. How smooth your chin is — his scrapes. Why don't husbands shave better ? Or is it that the forbidden chin is always smoother ? Poor old Hector ! If he could see us ! He hasn't a suspi- cion. I think it's lovely — really, I do. He leaves us here together, night after night, find imigines you're teaching me bridge. Walter. [Restlessly.] So I am. Where are the cards ? Betty. [Caressing him.] Silly, have you forgotten that this is Tuesday — Maggie's night out? She's gone — I told her she needn't wait to clear away. 10 THE MAN IN THE STALLS We've arranged master's supper. Master ! YovJxe mj master, aren't you ? Walter. ... I don't know what I am . . . Betty. Oh yes you do — you're my boy. Whom I love. There.' \She kisses him again, full on the lips.] That was a nice one, wasn't it? Peor old Hector, sitting in his stall — thinks he's so woiiderful, knows 8uch-a.4ot ! Yes, Maggie's out — with her young man, I suppose. The world's full of women, with their young men — and husbands sitting in the stalls. . . . And I suppose that's how it always has been, and always will be. Walter. [Shifting uneasily^ Don't, Betty — I don't like it. I mean, he has such confidence in us. Betty. Of course he has. And quite rightly. Aren't you his oldest friend ? Walter. [With something of a groan.] I've known him since I was seven. Betty. The first man he introduced me to — his best man at the wedding — do you remember coming to see us during the honeymoon ? I liked you then, Walter. [Really shocked.] Betty ! Betty. I did. You had a way of squeezing my hand. . . . And then when we came back here. You know it didn't take me long to discover Walter. [Protesting,] I scarcely saw you the first two or three yeai'S ! Betty. No — you were afraid. Oh I thought you so silly ! [He suddenly contrives to release hiinself — gets up, and moves to the card-table.] Why, what's the matter ? THE MAN IN THE STALLS 11 Walter. [At the table, with his back to her.] I hate hearing you talk like this. Betty. Silly boy ! [She rises, and fjoes to him ; he has taken a cigarette out of the box on the table, and stands th&re, with his head bent, tapping the cigarette against his hand.] Women only talk " like this," as you call it, to their lovers. They talk " like that " to their husbands — and that's why the husbands never know. That's why the husbands are always sitting in the stalls, looking on. [She puts her arms round him again,] Looking and not seeing. [She approaches her lips to his — he almost fret- fully unclasps her arms, Walter. Betty — I want to say a — serious word . . . Betty, [Looking fondly at him.] Well, isn't what I'm saying serious ? Walter. I'm thirty-eight. Betty. Yes. I'm only thirty. But i'm not com- plaining. Walter. Has it ever occurred to you [He stops. Betty. What? [Walter looks at her — tries to speak, out cannot — then he breaks away, goes acroi^H the room to the fireplace and stands for a moment looking into the fire. She has remained where she was, her eyes following him wonderingly. Suddenly he stamps his foot violently. Walter. Damn it ! DAMN it ! 12 THE MAN IN THE STALLS Betty. [Moving tovcards him, in alarmj\ What's the matter? "Walter. \With a swift turn towards /;er.] I'm going to get married. Betty. \_Stonily, stopping by the round tahle.'\ You . . . Walter. [Savagely.'] Going to get married, yes. Married, married! \She stands there and doesn't stir — doesn't speak or try to speak ; merely stands there, and looks at him, giving no sign. Her silence irritates him ; he becomes more andj more violent, as though to give himsdf courage. Walter. You're wonderful, you women — you really are. Always contrive to make us seem brutes, or cowards ! I've wanted to tell you this a dozen times — I've not had the piuck. Well, to-day I must. Must, do you hear that ? . . . Oh, for Heaven's sake, say something, Betty. [Still staring helplessly at him.] You . . . Walter. [Feverishly. "] Yes, I, I ! Now it's out, at least — it's spoken I I mean to get married, like other men — fooled, too, I daie say, like the others — at least I deserve it ! But I'm tired, I tell you — tired Betty. Of me? Walter. Tired of the life I lead — the beastly, empty rooms — the meals at the Club. And I'm thirty-eight — it's now or never. THE MAN IN THE STATJ.S 13 Betty. [Slowli/.] And how about — me ? "Waltee. You ? Betty. [Passionately.] Yes, Me. Me ! Walter. You didn't think this would last for tj-.ev ? Betty. [N'odding her head.] I did — yes — I did. Why shouldn't it? Walter. [Working himself into a/ury again.] Why? You ask that? Why? Oh yes, it's all right for you — you've your home and your husband — I'm there as an — annexe. To be telephoned to, when I'm wanted, at your beck and call, throw over everything, come when you whistle. And it's not only that — I tell you it makes me feel — horrid. After all, he's my — friend. Betty. He has been that always. You didn't feel — horrid — before. . . . Who is she ? Walter. [Shortly, as he turns hack to the fire.] That doesn't matter. Betty. Yes, it does. Who ? Walter. [Freifullij.] Oh, why should we Betty. I want to know — I'm entitled to know, Walter. [Still with his hack to her,] Mary Gil- lingham. Betty. Mary Giilingham ! Walter. [Firmly, sioinging round to her.] Yes. Betty. That child, that chit ol' a girl 1 Walter. She's twenty-three. Betty. Whom I introduced you to — ray own friend ? Walter. '^Qr ambling,] Vv'hat has that to do with 14 THE MAN IN THE STALLS it ? And besides . . . [I/e suddenly changes his tone^ noticing hoto calm she has become — he takes a step towards her, and stands by her side, at the back of the table ; his voice becomes gentle and affectionate.^ But I say, really, you're taking it awfully well — pluckily. I knew you would — I knew I was an ass to be so — afraid, . . . And look here, we'll always be pals — the very best of pals. I'll . . . never forget — never. You may be quite sure ... of that. I want to get married — I do — have a home of my own, and so forth — but you'll still be — just the one woman I really have loved — the one woman in my life — to whom I owe — everything. Betty. [With a mirthless laugh.'] Do you tell all that — to Mary Gillingham ? Walter. [Pettishly, as he moves away,] Do I — don't be so absurd. Betty. You tell her she is the only girl you have loved. Walter. [Moving bach to the fire, with his hack to her.] I tell her — I tell her — what does it matter what I tell her ? And one girl or another — she or some one else Betty. But you haven't answered my question — what's to become of me ? Walter. [Angrily, facing her.] Become of you ! Don't talk such nonsense. Becau.se it is — really it is. You'll be as you were. And Hector's a splendid chap — and after all we've been frightfully wrong — treating him infernally badly — despicably. Oh yes, we have THE MAN IN THE STALLS 15 — and you know it. Lord, there've been niglitswhen I have — but never mind that — that's all over! In future we can look him in the face without feeling guilty — we can— Betty. [Quietly.] You can. Walter. What do you mean ? -^f^,^ Aa. wt^<^ Betty, F'itside, and rushes to the card-table. Betty. Hector ! Quick, quick — the cards ! [Vv ALTER ^tes to the table, and sits by her side. He seizes one pack and proceeds to shu£ie it, she is dealing with the other. All this takes only a second. Hector coones in — they both spring up. Betty. Hector ! You're not ill ? Hector. [Kissing her.] Play postponed, my child — bit of luck ! When I got to the theatre I found that the actor-manager's car had collided with a cab outside the stage-door — he was thrown through the window — there's a magnificent exit for you ! and has been cut about a bit. "i^othing serious. But the play's post- poned for a week. Bit of luck ! Walter. [Sitting.] Not for him. Hector. Oh he has had luck enough — tons of it ! I'll get into a jacket — then we'll have some bridge, See what progress you've made, Betty ! [He hurries out, and closes the door, Betty. [Producing a little mirror from her hag. THE MAN IN THE STALLS 19 locking into it, touching her AaiV.]-We were only just An time. Walter. [Eagerly, as he bends across the table.] You're splendid — you are — splendid ! Betty. Yes. All very nice and comfortable for you — isn't it ? [She puts the mirror back into the bag. "Walter. [Coaxingly.] Betty. Betty. To-morrow you'll go to her — or to-night perhaps Walter. To-night — ridiculous ! At this hour ! Betty. She's a deceitful little cat. I saw her last week — she never t^ld me .. Walter. I don't think she knew. I only proposed to-day. Betty. [Flinging herself back in her chair, and opening wide eyes,] You — proposed — to-day ! Walter. [Very embarrassed.] Yes — I mean Bktty. You — proposed — to-day ! And waited till she had accepted you — to tell me Walter. [Eagerly.] Don't be so silly — come, come, he'll be back in a minute. . . . And, believe me, I'm not worth making a fuss about ! Betty. [Looking contemptuously at him.] That's true. Walter. Yes, it is, worse luckl I deserve all you've said to me. And you'll be . . . much better . . without me. Betty. Better ? Walter. Yes, better, better — any way you choose to put it ! I'm a — but never mind that !— -Look here — you'd like me to stop ? ^0 THE MAN L\ THE STALLS Betty. He wants to play bridge. Walter. Don't you think that I ' • Betty. [Hearing Hector coming.] Sh, [Hector comes in — she is idly tossing the cards about. Hector has put on a smoking- iacket — he comes in, very jolly, fussing around, rubbing his ha/nds, so glad to be home. Ee sits, to the right of Betty. Hector. Now for a game ! [He seizes a pack, and spreads out the cards. Betty. [Lea7iing hack.] Not sure that I want to play. Hector. Don't be disagreeable, Betty ! Why ? Betty. [Listlessly, as she rises and moves across the room.'\ No fun, being three. Hector. Good practice for you. Come on. Betty. [Leaning against the other table, and turning and facing them.] Besides, he has something to tell you. Hector. Walter? Betty. Yes. Hector. [Looking inquiringly at Walter.] To tell me f What is it ? Betty. That he's engaged. Hector. [Shouting, as he leans across the table.] Never! Walter! Engaged? You? Walter. [N'ervously,] Yes. Hector. [N'oisily and affectionately.] You old scoundrel ! You rascal and villain ! Engaged — and THE MAN IN THE STALLS 21 you don't come and tell me first ! Well I — am — damned ! "Walter. [Trying to take it gaily.'] I knew you'd chaff me about it. Hector. Chafl" you ! Silly old coon ! why I'm glad ! Of course Ave shall miss you — but marriage — it's the only thing, my boy — the only thing ! Who is she? Do I know her ? Walter. [Mumbling, as he fingers the cards.] A friend of Betty's — I fancy you've met her Hector. Who ? Betty. Mary Glllingham. We're the first to know — he only proposed to-day. Hector. Gillingham, Gillingham. ... Oh yes, I've seen her, just seen hei', but I don't remember. ... I Biiy, not the daughter of the sealing-wax man? Walter. Yes, Hector. Then there's lots of tin ! Fine ! Oh you artful old dodger ! Is she pretty ? Walter. So-so, Betty. [Still leaning against the table, and looking at them both.] She's excessively pretty. She has yellow hair and blue eyes. Hector. [Ghvckling.] And she has caught old Wallie, The cynical old Wallie who snift'ed at women ! Though perhaps it's the money Betty. No. He's in love with her. Hector. That's good. I'm glad. And I con- gratulate you — heartily, my boy. [77es5i':es Walter's 22 THE MAN IN THE STALLS hand, and wrings it.^ We must drink to it ! [^He gets uj), goes to the side-table, and pours some whiskey into a tumbler.] Charge your glass, Walter ! [Walter rises and goes to the side-table.] Ladies and gentlemen ^ I give you the bride and bridegroom ! [Re Jills the glass from the syphon and passes it to Walter, then proceeds to fill his own.] Betty, you must join us. Betty. [Quietly.] No, Hector. You can't toast him in water, of course. Has she cleared away yet ? I'll get you some Hock. [ffe puts his glass down and moves to the door at back, Betty. Don't be so silly. 1 won't drink at all. Hector. [Amazed.] Not to old Walter ? Betty. [Steadily.] No. Hector. Why ? Betty. [Almost jeeringly.] Because — old Walter — • has been my lover. Hector. [Stopping, and staring at her,] What ? Betty. [Calmly, looking fidl at him.] My lover . . , these last two years. Hector. [Staring stupidly at h&)\] He has been Betty. [Impatiently, as she taps the floor with her foot] Yes, yes. How often must I tell you ? My lover — don't you know what that means ? Why do you stare at me with those fat goggle-eyes of yours ? He has been my lover — and now he has fallen in love with this girl and means to marry her. That's all, THE ]\IAN IN THE STALLS 23 Hector. [Ttcrning towards Walter, who hasn't stirred from the side-table.] What ? You ? [Walter remains motionless and, silent. Hector. \_In r)iuj[}led tones, scarcely able to speak.] You ! It's true what this woman says ? Betty. [Contemptuously.] This woman ! Don't be so melodramatic ! Have you forgotten my name ? Hector. [Turning fiercely to her, roaring madly.] Silence, Jezebel ! \_She shrinks hack, in alarm, towards the fire.] Youi* name ! Wait a bit, I'll tell you ! \_Ue takes a step toioards her — she crouches in ten'or against the wall^ You shall hear what your name is ! Just now I'm dealing with him. [He swings round to Walter,] You there, you skunk and thief ! You, you lying hound ! I was your be^t friend. So you've taken my wife, have you ? And now mean to eo off and marry this girl. That's it ? Oh, it's so simple ! Here — come here — sit down. Sit down, I tell you. Here, in this chair. Shall I have to drag you to it ? I want to keep my hands off you. Here. [Walter has moved slowly towards hha. Hector has ha:i.ged down a chair behind the centre table, Walter sits in it — Hector speaks over his shoulder to Betty.] And you — fetch pen and ink and paper Betty. [In abject panic] Hector Hector. [Turning fieixely and scowling at her.] If you speak to me I'll brain you too. Just you go in there and fetch the things. D'you hear? Go. [She moves into the other room. Hector swings round to Walter.] As for you, you're a bcoundiel, A 24 THE MAN IN THE STALLS rogue, a thief, a liar, a traitor. Of the very worst kind, the blackest. Not an ordinary case of a hus- band and wife — I trusted you — you were my best friend. You spawn, you tiling of the gutter, you foul-hearted, damnable slug ! [Betty comes hack, dragging her feet, carrying paper and envelopes and a sti;lojrai>]t — she puts them on the table. Hector. Not that stylograph — that's mine — his dirty hands shan't touch it — I could never use it again. Fetch your pen — youts — you belong to him, don't you ? Go in and fetch it. D'you heu^r ? [Betty goes into the inner room again. Hector. My wife. And you the man I've done more for tliiin for any one eh^e in the world. Tue man 1 cared for, you low do^. Used my hotu-e — came here because it was dull at the Club — and took my wife ? I don't know \ rhy I don't kill you. I've the riii^'ht. But I v/on't. You shall pay for it, my fine fellow — you are going to nay — now. [Betxy brings a pen and an inkstand; she 2jlaces them on the table; Hector seizes them and pushes them in front o/Vv' alter. Betty slinks to the other side of the room, and stands by the sofa. Hector, [^'o Walter.] Now you write. You hear ? You write what I dictate. Word for word. What's the old brute's name ? Walter. Whose? THE MAN IN THE STALLS 25 Hector. Whose ! Her father, the Bealing-wax man, old Gillingham ? Walter. [Starmg.] Gillingham! Hkctor. Gillingham, Yes. What is it? Walter. You want me to write to him ? Hector, [^fodding.] To him. Who else? A con- fe.ssion ? I've had that. His name ? Walter. [Dro2y2nng the pen and half rising.'] I won't Hector. [Springing upon him in a mad fury, and, forcing him back into the chair.] You won't, you dog ! You dare say that — to me ! By Heaven, you will ! You'll lick the dust off this floor, if I tell you! You'll go on your hands and knees, and crawl ! Sit down, you ! Sit down and take up your lilthy pen. So. [Thoroughly cowed, Walter has taken up the j»;e-*i again.] And now — his name. Don't make me ask you again, I tell you, don't. What is it? Walter. Richard. Hector. Very well, Richard. So write that down. To Richard Gillingham. I have to-day proposed to your daughter, and she has accepted me. Got that ? She has accepted me. But I can't marry her — can't many her — because I have seduced the wife of my friend Hector Allen Walter. [Appealhigly, drop^nng his pen.] Hector! Hector. [Frantically grippi'ng Walter by the throat, till he takes up hin pen again.] The wife of my friend Hector Alien — a rite it — and plainly, you 26 THE MAN IN THE STALLS hound, plaiuly — so — and because I am taking the woman away with me to-night. Betty. [With a loud crt/.] Hector! Hector. [Over his shoulder, loatching Walter write,^ Silence, over there, you ! Hold your tongue ! Go into your room ;ind put on your things — we've done with you here ! Take what you want — I don't care — you don't show your face here again. And you — [he taps his clenched hand against Walter's arm] write. What are you stopping for ? How far have you got ? [He peers over Walter's shoulder.] Because — I — am — taking — the — woman — away — with — mo — to-night. Betty. [Beside herself, wringing her hands.] Hector, Hector Hector. [Savagely, as he makes a half-turn towards her.] You still there ? Wait a bit. I'll come to you, when I've finished with him. If you haven't gone and put on your things, you shall go ofi" without them. Into the street. You'll find other women there like you. [He turns hack to Walter.] Here, you, have you written ? [He looks over Walter's shoulder.] Go on — I'm getting impatient. Go on, I tell you. I — am — taking — the [Walter is sloicly writing down the words, Hector standing over him ; Betty sud- denly bursts into a peal of toild, uproarious laughter, and Itts herself fall into a chair to the left of the card-table. Hector. [Madly.] You ! [He leaves Walter, and almost springs at her.] THE MAN IN THE STALLS 27 Betty. [Brimming with merriment.^ Oh, you old donkey ! How we have gulled your leg ! Hector. [Staring at her, stopping dead short.] You Betty. [Through her laughter, choking.] Hector, Hector ! Conventional situations ! The usual stodge ! The lover and husband ! You goose, you wonderful old goose ! [Walter, with a mightij effort, has pidled him- self together, and roars with laughter too. He jumps up. Hector is standing there blinking, paralysed. Walter. [Merrily, to Betty.] Oh really, you shouldn't. You've given it awrty too soon ! Betty. Too soon ! He'd hava strangled us. Did you ever see such a tiger ? Walter. [Chuckling hugely.] He didn't give the lover much chauce to stand up to him, did he ? Betty. And ivasn't he original ! Dog, hound, villain, traitor ! Walter. To say nothing of Jezebel ! Though, be- tween ourselves, I think he meant Messalina ! Betty. And I was to go into the street. But he did let me till my bag ! Walter. I think the playwrights come out on top, I do indeed. [He goes to Hector, and stands to left of him.] Hector, old chap, here's the letter ! Betty. [Goi7ig to the other side 0/ Hector, and drop- ping a low ciirtsey.] And please, Mr. Husband, was it to 28 THE MAN IN THE STALLS be a big bag, or a small bag, and might I have taken the silver teapot ? [Hector has been standing there stupid, dazed, dumbfounded, too bewildered for his mivd to act or thoughts to come to him ; he sud- denly bursts into a roar of Titanic, over- tvhelming laughter. He laughs, and laughs, staggers to the sofa, falls on it, rocks and roars till the tears roll down his cheeks. He sways from side to side, unable to control himself — his laughter is so colossal that the infection catches the others ; theirs becomes i^d genuine too.] f), ^^'*"^ '©TTMas. \With difficulty, trying to control herself] The letter ! Old Gillingham ! " His name, scoundrel, his name ! " A I^hC^ Wsisras. [Gurgling.] With his hand at my throat ! Sit there, villain, and write ! Betty. " I'll deal with you presently ! Wait till I've finished with him ! " Walter. " Into the street ! " At least, they do usually say *' into the night ! " Hector. [Rubbing his eyes and panting for breath.] Oh, you pair of blackguards ! Too bad — no, really too bad ! It was ! I fell in, I did ! Oh, Lord, oh, Lord, what a nightmare ! But it wasn't right, really it wasn't — no really ! My Lord, how I floundered — head and shoulders — swallowed it all ! Comes of reading that muck every day — never stopped to think ! I didn't ! Walter, old chap ! \He holds out his hand. THE MAN IN THE STALLS 29 Betty ! My poor Betty ! [He draws her towards him."] The things I said to you ! Betty. [Carelessly eluding the caress.^ At least admit that you're rather hard on the playwriting people ! Hectob. [Getting up and shaking himself.^ Oh, they be blowed ! Well, you have had a game with me! [ffe shakes himself again.] Brrrrr! Oh, my Lord ! "What I went through ! Betty. It was a lark ! you should have seen your- self ! Your eyes starting out of your head ! You looked like a murderer ! Hector. By Jove, and 1 felt it ! For two pins I'd have Betty. And Mary GilUngham ! I'hafs the funniest part ! That you could have t&)ug©b Ac was engaged — to her I [Involuntarily the smile dies away on Walter's fOfCe ; he turns and stares at her ; she goes on calmly, Betty, When she happens to be the one girl in this world he can't stand ! Walter. [ With a movement that he can^t control. Betty 1 Betty. [Turning smilingly to hiin.] No harm in my telling Hector — he scarcely knows her! [Sfie swings round to Hector agai7i.] Why, Walter simply loathes the poor girl ! That's what made it so funny I [At the mere thought of it she bursts out laughing again, and goes on speaking through her laughter.] And I tell 30 THE MAN IN THE STALLS you — if you ever hear he's engaged to her — why, you can believe the rest of the story too ! Hector. [^Laughing heartily as he pats Walter on the shoulder.] Poor old Walter ! And, d'you know, I was quite pleased at the thought of his getting married ! I was ! [He turns to him.] But it's better, old chap, for us — we'd have missed you — terribly ! [With another pat on Walter's shoulder, he goes to the fi/re, and drops in the letter.] Mustn't leave that lying about ! \He t^irns.] Well, by Jove, if any one had told me. . . . And drinking to him, and all ! Betty. If you'll fetch me that glass of Hock now, I will drink to him, Hector. To Walter, the Bachelor ! Hector. [Beaming.] So we will ! Good. I'll get it. [He hustles into the dining-room. Betty. [Moving swiftly to Walter.] Well, now's your time. One thing or the other. Walter. [Savagely.] You fiend ! Betty. I'll go and see her to-morrow — see her constantly Walter. Why are you doing this ? Betty. You've ruined my life and his. At least, yoit shan't be happy. Walter. And you imagine I'll come back to you — that we'll go on, you and I ? Betty. [Scornfully.] No — don't be afraid ! You've shown yourself to me to-day. That's all done with — finished. His friend now — with the load off you — but never her husband. Never f- . . THE MAN IN THE STALLS 5i [Hkctou comes hustling hack, with the bottle of Hochf and a wine-glass that he gives to Betty — she holds it, and he fills it from the hottle. Hector, Here you are, my girl — and now, where's my whiskey? [Lfe t7-ots roiind to the side table, Jinds his glass, and Walter's — hands one to Walter.] Here, Wallie — yours must be the one that's begun — I didn't have time to touch mine ! Here. [Walter takes it.^ And forgive me, old man, for thinking, even one minute — [Re wrings him by the handJ] Here's to you, old friend. And Betty, to you ! Oh, Lord, I just want this drink ! Betty. [7?i cold, clear tones, as she holds up her glass.'\ To Walter, the Bachelor ! [She drains her glass; Walter has his momenfs hesitation ; he drinks, and with tremendous effort succeeds in composing his face. Hector. [Gaily.] To Walter, the Bachelor ! [ffe di'inks his glass to the dregs and puts it down,] And now — for a game. Walter. I think I Hector. [Coaxingly.] Sit down, laddie — just one rubber. It's quite early. Do. There's a good chap. [They all sit : Hector at hack, Betty to the left oj him, Walter to the right — he spreads out the cards — tlicy draw for partners.] As we are — you and Betty — I've got the dummy. [He shuffles the cards — Betty dita — he begins to deal,] That's how I like it — one 32 THE MAN IN THE STALLS on each side of me. Also I like having dummy. Now, Betty, play up. Oh, Lord, how good it is, how good ! A nightmare, I tell you — terrible ! And really you must forgive me for being such an ass. But the way you played up, both of you ! My little Betty — a Duse, that's what she is — a real Duse ! {He gathers up his cards.] And the gods are kind to me — I've got a har.d, I tell you! I call NO THUMPS ! [He heavis at them — the}/ are placidly sorting their cards. He piits his hand down and proceeds to look at his dummy, as the curtain falls. CURTAIN A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED .... THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY Mr. Harrison Crookstkad L1.DT Alink de Vaux Produced at the Oarrick Theatre on March 27, 1904 A MARRIAGE HAS BEEN ARRANGED .... Scene / I'he coase/rvaiory of No. SOO Grosvenor Square. Hour, close on midnight. A ball is in progress, and dreamy waltz music is heard in the distance. Laby Aline de Vaux enters, leaning on the arm of Mr. Harrison Crockstead. Lady Aline is a tall, exquisitely-gowned girl, of the conventional and much-admired type of beauty. Put her in way draiolng'room in the world, and she would at once be recognised as a high- horn Englishwoman. She has in her, in embryo, all those excellent qualities that go to make a great lady : the icy stare, the haxighty movement of the shoulder, the disdainful arch of the lip ; she has also, hut only an experienced observer would notice it, something of wistfulness, something that speaks of a sore and wounded heart — though it is sujffl- eieatly evident that this organ is kept under ad- mirable control. A girl who has been placed in a position of life where artificiality rules, who has been taught to be artificial and has thoroughly learned her lesson ; yei one who would unhesitat- ingly know the proper thing to do did a camel holt 37 38 A MARRIAGE HAS with her in the desert, or an eastern potentati invite her to become his two hundred aud fifty- seventh wife. In a word, a lady of complete self- possession and magnificent control. Mr. Ckock» STEAD is a big, burly man of forty or so, and of the kind to whom the ordinary West End butler would consider himself perfectly justified in declaring that her ladyship was not at home. And yet his evening clothes sit well on him ; and there is a certain air of command about the man that wotdd have made the butler uncomfortable. That functionary would have excused himself by declaring that Mr. Crock- stead didn't look a gevtleman. And perhaps he doesn't. His walk is rather a slouch ; he has a way of keeping his hands in his pockets, and of jerking out his sentences; a way, above all, of seeming perfectly indAfferent to the comfort of the people he happens to be addressing. The impression he gives is one of power, not of refinement ; and the massive face, with its heavy lines, and eyes that are usually veiled, seems to give no clue whatever to the character of the man loithin. The couple h-eak apart when they enter tfie room ; Ladt Aline is the least bit nervous, though she shows no trace of it ; Mr. Crockstead aJbto- lutdy imperturbable and undisturbed. Crockstead. [^Looking around."] Ah — this is the place — very quiet, retired, romantic — et cetera. Music in the distance — all very appropriate and sentimental. BEEN ARRANGED .... 39 [She leaves him, and sits, quietly fanning herself ; lie itands, looking at her.] You seem perfectly calm, Lady Mine? Aline. [Sitting.] Conservatories are not unusual appendages to a ball-room, Mr. Crcckstead ; nor is this coiisei'vatory unlike other conservatories. CsocKSTEAD [Tur7iing to her.] I wonder why women are always so evasive ? Aline. With your peimission we will not discuss the sex. You and I are too old to be cynical, and too young to be appreciative. And besides, it is a rule of mine, whenever I sit out a dance, that my partner shall avoid the subjects of women — and golf. Crcckstead. You limit the area of conversation. But then, in this particular instance, I take it, we have not come here to talk ? Aline. [Coldly.] I beg your pardon ! Crcckstead. [Sitting beside her.] Lady Aline, they are dancing a cotillon in there, so we have half an hour before us. We shall not be disturbed, for the Duchess, your aunt, has considerately stationed her aged companion in the corridor, with instructions to ward oflF intruders. Aline. [Ve7-y siir2)rised.] Mr. Crcckstead ! Crcckstead. [Looking hard at her.] Didn't you know ? [Aline turns aside, embarrassed.] That's light — of course you did. Don't you know why I have brought you here ? That's right ; of course you do. The Duchess, your aunt, and the Marchioness, your mother — observe how fondly my tongue trips out the 40 A MARRIAGE HAS titles — smiled sweetly on us as we left the ball-room. There will be a notice in the Morning Post to-morrow " A Marriage Has Been Arranged Between " ALI^^:. [Bewildered and offended.] Mr. Crockstead 1 This — this is Crockstead. [Always in the same quiet tone.] Because I have not yet proposed, you mean ? Of course I intend to, Lady Aline. Only as I know that you will accept me Aline. [In icy tones, as she rises,] Let us go back to the ball-room. Crockstead. [Quite undistrirhed.] Oh, please ! That won't help us, you know. Do sit down. I assure you I have never proposed before, so that naturally I am a trifle nervous. Of course I know that we are only supers really, without much of a speaking part ; but the spirit moves me to gag, in the absence of the stage-manager, who is, let us say, the Duchess Aline, I have heard of the New Humour, Mr. Crockstead, though I confess I have never understood it. This may be an exquisite example Crockstead. By no means. I am merely trying to do the right thing, though perhaps not the conven- tional one. Before making you the formal offer of my hand and fortune, which amounts to a little over three millions Aline. [Fanning herself.] How people exaggerate I Between six and seven, / heard. Crockstead. Only three at present, but we must be patient. Before throwing myself at your feet, BEEN ARRANGED .... 41 metaplioricallj, I am anxious that you should know something of the man whom you are about to marry. Aiiixa. That is really most considerate ! Crockstead. I have the advantage of yon, you see, inasmuch as you have many dear friends, who have told me all about you. Aline. [With growing exasperation, bttt keeping very cool.] Indeed? Crockstead, I am aware, for instance, that this is your ninth season Aline. [Snapping her fait.] You are remarkably well-informed. Crockstead. I have been told that again to-night, three times, by charming young women who vowed that they loved you. Now, as I have no dearest friends, it is unlikely that you will have heard any- thing equally definite concerning myself. I propose to enlighten you. Aline. [Satirically.] The story of your life — how thrilling ! Crockstkad. I trust you may find it so. [He sits, and pauses for a moment, then begins, very quietly.] Lady Aline, I am a self-made man, as the foolish phrase has it — a man whose early years were spent in savage and desolate places, where the devil had much to say ; a man in whom whatever there once had been of natural kindness was very soon kicked out. I was poor, and lonely, for thirty-two years : I have been rich, and lonely, for ten. My millions have been made honestly enough ; but poverty and wretchedness 42 A MARRIAGE HAS had left their mark on me, and you will find very few men with a good word to say for Han ison Crockstead, I have no polish, or culture, or tastes. Art wearies me, literature sends me to sleep Aline. When you come to the chapter of youi personal deficiencies, Mr. Crockstead, please remember that they are sufficiently evident for me to have already observed them. Crockstead. [Without a trace of annoyance.] That is true. I v/ill pass, then, to more intimate matters. In a little township in Australia — a horrible place where there was gold — I met a woman whom I loved. She was what is technically known as a bad woman. She ran away with another man. I tracked them to 'i'exas, and in a mining camp there I shot the man. I wanted to take the woman back, but she refused. That has been my solitary love affair ; and I shall never love any woman again as I loved her, I think that is all that I have to tell you. And now — will you marry me, Lady Aline ? Aline. [Very steadily, facing him.] Not if you were the last man in this world, Mr. Crockstead. Ceockstead. [With a pleasant smile.] At least that is emphatic. Aline. See, I will give you confidence for con- fidence. This is, as you suggest, my ninth season. Living in an absurd milieu where marriage with a wealthy man is regarded as the one aim in life, I have, during the past few weeks, done all that lay in my power to wring a proposal from you. BEEN ARRANGED .... 43 Crockstead. I appreciate your sincerity. Aline. Perhaps the knowledge that other women were doing the same lent a little zest to the pursuit, which otherwise would have been very dreary ; for I confess that your personality did not — especially appeal to me. CfiOCKSTEAD. [Cheerfully,^ Thank you very much. AnNE. Not at all. Indeed, this room being the Palace of Truth, I will admit that it was only by thinking hard of your three millions that I have been able to conceal the weariness I have felt in your society. And now will you marry me, Mr. Crock- stead ? Crockstead. [Serenely.^ I fancy that's what we're here for, isn't it ? Aline. [Stamping her foot.'\ I have, of course, been debarred from the disreputable amours on which you linger so fondly ; but I loved a soldier cousin of mine, and would have run away with him had my mother not packed me ofi' in time. He went to India, and I stayed here ; but he is the only man I have loved or ever shall love. Further, let me tell you I am twenty-eight ; I have always been poor — I hate poverty, and it has soured i;;e no less tha.M you. Dress is the thing in life I care for most, vulgarity my chief abomination. And to be frank, I consider you the most vulgar person I have ever met. Will you still marry me, Mr. Crock- stead ? Crockstead. [IPifA undiminished cheerfulness.^ Why not ? 44 A MARRIAGE HAS Aline. This is an outrage. Am I a horse, do you think, or a ballet-dancer ? Do you imagine I will sell myself to you for your three millions ? Crockstead. Logic, my dear Lady Aline, is evi- dently not one of your more special possessions. For, had it not been for my — somewhat eccentric pre- liminaries — you would have accepted me, would you not? Aline, [Embarrassed.] I — I Crockstead. If I had said to you, timidly : " Lady Aline, I love you : I am a simple, unsophisticated person ; will you marry me ? " You would have answered, " Yes, Harrison, I will." Aline. It is a mercy to have escaped marrying a man with such a Christian name as Harrison. Crockstead, It has been in the family for genera- tions, you know s but it is a strange thing that I am always called Harrison, and that no one ever adopts the diminutive. Aline. That does not surprire me: we have no pet name for the East wind, Crockstsad. The possession of millions, you see, Lady Aline, puts you into eternal quarantine. It is a kind of yellow fever, with the difl'erence that people are perpetually anxious to cat^^h your complaint. But we digress. To return to the question of our marriage Aline. I beg your pardon. Crockstead. I presume that it is — arranged ? Aline [Haughtily.] Mr. Crorkstead, let me remind you that frankness has its limits : exceeding these, it BEEN ARRANGED .... 45 is apt to degenerate into impertinence. Be good enough to conduct me to the ball.room, [She moves to the door. Crockstead. You have five sisters, I believe, Lady Aline ? [Alixe stops short.] All younger than your- sell, all marriageable, and all unmarried ? [Aline hangs her head and is silent. Crockstead. Your father Aline. [Fiercely.^ Not a word of my father ! Crockstead. Your father is a gentleman. The breed is rare, and very fine when you get it. But he is exceedingly poor. People marry for money nowa- days ; and your mother will be very unhappy if this marriage of ours falls through. Aline. [Moving a step towards him.] Is it to oblige my mother, then, that you desire to marry me ? Crockstead. Well, no. But you see I must marry some one, in mere self-defence ; and honestly, I think you will do at least as well as any one else. [Alinb bursts out laughing.] That strikes you as funny ? Aline. If you had the least grain of chivalrous feeling, you would realise that the man who could speak to a woman as you have spoken to me [She paViSes. Obockstead. Yes? Aline. I leave you to finish the sentence. Crockstead. Thank you. I will finish it my own way. I will say that when a woman deliberately tries to wring an offer of marriage from a man whom 46 A MARRIAGE HAS she does not love, she deserves to be spoken to as I have spoken to you, Lady Aline. Aline. [^Scornfully P[ Love ! What has love to do with marriage ? Crockstead. That remark rings hollow. You have been good enough to tell me of your cousin, whom you did love Aline. Well? Crockstead, And with whom you would have eloped, had your mother not prevented you. Aline. I most certainly should. Crockstead. So you see that at one period of your life you thought differently. — You were very fond of him ? Aline. I have told you. Crockstead. [3{editaiively.'\ If I had been he, mother or no mother, money or no money, I would have carried you off. I fancy it must be pleasant to be loved by you, Lady Aline. Aline. [Droppivg a mock curtsey, as she sits on the sofa.] You do me too much honour, Crockstead. [Still thoughtful, moving about the room.] Next to being king, it is good to be maker of kings. Where is this cousin now ? Aline. In America. But might I suggest that we have exhausted the subject ? Crockstead. Do you remember your "Arabian Nights," Lady Aline? Aline. Vaguely. Crockstead. You have at least not forgotten that sublime Caliph, Haroun Al-Raschid ? BEEN ARRANGED .... 47 Aline. Oh, no — but why ? Crockstead. We millionaires are the Caliphs t