Ai
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LIBRARY
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
SANTA BARBARA
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PRESENTED BY
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^
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EDITION •
OFSTANDARDPLAYS
WALTER W .BAKER ^ CO.
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THF AMAZONS r'arce in Three Acts. Seven males, five females.
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No. 5 Hamilton Place,
CASTE
An Original Comedy in Three Acts
By
T. W. ROBERTSON
Reprinted from the acting book used in the performances of
the famous Boston Museum Company, by the courtesy of the
late Annie M. Clarke, for many years its leading lady.
Copyright, 1913, by Walter H. Baker & Co.
BOSTON
WALTER H. BAKER & CO
1913
LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
SANTA BARBARA
CASTE
CHARACTERS
(First production, Prince of fVales^ Theatre, London, April 6, 186'/.)
George D'Alroy Frederick Ymmge.
Captain Hawtree S. B. Bancroft.
EcCLES George Honey.
Sam Gerridge yo/in Hare.
Marquise de St. Maur Sophia Larkins.
Esther Eccles Lydia Foote.
Polly Eccles Marie Wilton.
(First production in the United States, Old Broadivay Theatre, August J, l86y.)
Hon. Geo. D'Alroy W. J. Florence .
Captain Hawtree
Eccles ....
Sam Gerridge
Esther Eccles .
Polly Eccles , .
Marquise de St. Maur
Owen Marlowe.
William Davidge.
. Edzvard Lamb.
Henrietta Chanfrau.
Mrs. W. y. Florence.
Mrs. G. H. Gilbert.
"{^First production in Boston, Hoivard Athenaum, September 2, l86y.)
Hon. George D'Alroy H. G. Clarke.
Captain "Hawtjiee Harry Crisp.
'Eccles Mr. Keeler.
Sam Gerridge . , . .' Mr. Scallan.
Marquise de St. Maur Mrs. Farren.
Esther Ecclks Cecile Rush.
Polly Eccles Lillie Marden.
(First production at The Boston Museum, September 22, i86y.)
Hon. George D'Alroy
Captain Hawtree .
Eccles
Sam Gerridge . . .
Esther Eccles . .
Polly Eccles . . .
Marquise de St. Maur
Z. R. Shewell.
. . J. A. Sjnith.
William Warren.
. . J.H. Ring.
Annie Clarke.
Louisa Meyers.
Mrs. E. L. Davenport.
CHARACTERS
[Wallack's Theatre^ New York, N. T., No-vember 8, 1873.)
Hon. George D'Alroy .... H. J. Montague.
Captain Hawtree C. A, Stcvcns.071.
ECCLES George HoJiey.
Sam Gerridge E. M. Holland.
Esther Eccles Ada Dyas.
Polly Eccles Effie Germon.
Marquise de St. Maur Mme. Pontsi.
{^Gluhe Theatre, Boston, Mass., No-vemher S, iS^j.)
Hon. George D'Alroy .... yohn C. Cowper.
Caftain Hawtree Owen Marloive.
Eccles George Honey.
Sam Gerridge J. H. Burnett.
Esther Eccles Katherme Rogers.
Polly Eccles Lilltaji Conivay.
Marquise de St. Maur . . . Clara Fisher Maeder.
{JVallack-s Theatre, New York, N. T., October, iSSg.)
Hon. George D'Alroy Osmond Tearle.
Captain Hawtree E. D. Ward.
Eccles Charles Graves.
Sam Gerridge Tom Robertson.
Esther Eccles Rose Coghlan.
Polly Eccles Florence Girard.
Marquise de St. Maur Mme. Ponisi.
{Garrick Theatre, London, February j, rSg^.)
Hon. George D'Alroy Forbes Robertson.
Captain Hawtree . W. L. Abington.
Eccles G. W. Anson.
Marquise de St. Maur Rose Leclercq.
Esther Eccles Kate Rorke.
Polly Eccles May Harvey.
Sam Gerridge Gilbert Hare.
{Grand Theatre, London, October i6, /Sg6, Knickerbocker Theatre,
Neiv York, yanuary iS, iSgj, and Tremont Theatre,
Boston, March 2, iSgj.)
Hon. George D'Alroy Frank Gilmore.
Captain Hawtree Frederick Kerr.
Eccles John Hare,
Sam Gerridge Gilbert Hare.
Marquise de St. Maur Susie Vaughan.
Esther Eccles Mona K Oram.
Polly Eccles May Harvey.
PREFACE
Of all the Robertson dramas probably " Caste " took the most
decided hold on popular favor. Its sentimental story, its strongly
drawn characters which allowed to half-a-dozen actors equally
good opportunities in very different lines of business gave it an in-
stant success.
It is doubtful if any other modern play was so many times per-
formed and in so many different theatres within a year as was
"Caste." At the time of its production there was not only no in-
ternational copyright ; there was no protection for a play of any
sort, so that as soon as it had been played in London it was the
property in fact, if not in honor, of any manager who would bother
to take it.
" Caste" was first produced at the famous Prince of Wales'
Theatre in the Tottenham Court Road, London, April 6, 1867,
during the regime of the Bancrofts. Lester Wallack secured the
manuscript of the play from the Bancrofts and prepared to produce
it in New York in the following September. But he was antici-
pated in tliis production by W. J. Florence, who had committed
the play to memory in London, and got it on the stage at the
Broadway Theatre, then in Broome Street, August 5, 1867, the
Wallack production being made in Brooklyn, September 2.
Wallack's attempt to protect his prior rights by suit is a matter of
history, the defeat of that manager and the legal triumph of
Florence not speaking very well for the honor of the courts of that
time.
No sooner was " Caste " successfully given in New York than it
sprang into popularity everywhere. That was the time of the stock
company, and the traveling company was practically unknown.
Within the month of September, for example, the piece was played
on four different stages in the city of Boston.
All through the sixties and seventies the piece continued a popu-
lar play, but with the disappearance of the stock company, it
dropped out of sight until the popular English comedian, John
Hare, who had created the role of Sam Gerridge, when the play was
first produced in London, revived it during his tour of the States in
1896-97.
Probably the best Eccles that the American public has known
was George Honey, who created the role in London and after-
wards was seen in this country for several seasons in the same
6 PREFACE
part. Next to him in point of genuine humor was the Eccles of
William Warren of the Museum. Mr. Honey had the advantage
of Warren in knowing the type better. But the performances of
both these men in this part will be remembered always with keen
relish by all who were so lucky as to see them.
"Caste" has been called by those who wish to put a httle
contempt on it "a cup and saucer" drama. But as a play it will
always remain a model of its kind. It is terse, well constructed,
with capital acting opportunities, and absolutely no halt in its
movement and interest. If it be in any sense really a " cup and
saucer drama," it is a pity that some modern writers do not catch
the trick.
The present edition is carefully compiled from the prompt book
in use at the Boston Museum where the play enjoyed one of its
most pronounced successes. Business, stage positions and the few
traditional interpolations are preserved exactly as employed in that
famous play house. In elaborating the business of the third act
in the scene in which D'Alroy returns the description given by
Mrs. Bancroft — the original Polly Eccles — in "On and Off the
Stage " has been carefully followed.
M. A.
Boston, December, igi2.
PROPERTIES
Act I. — Key ready at R. 3 e. Letters for postman. Box with
ballet dress. Rasher of bacon and other packages for Polly,
Cigar case for Hawtree. Teakettle on hob of fireplace. Letters
for Esther in pocket of gown. Coins for George to give Eccles.
Act II. — Cigarettes for George. Parasol for Polly. Decanter
of claret and brandy and glass for Eccles on sideboard of inner
room.
Act III. — Box with ballet dress. Slate and pencil on table.
Bundle of circulars in Sam's pocket. Coin in Polly's pocket.
Coral in baby's cradle. Wine bottle for Eccles. Letter and
check for Esther. Deal table at R. 3 E. for Sam. Ring for Sam.
Baby's cloak and cap for Marquise. Sample of wall paper.
CASTE
ACT I
Scene. — Home of the Eccles. Living-room in ground-floor
apartment at Stangate. Large zvindoiv with deep seat
at c, back, overlooking street. Door r. 3 e. into hall,
giving view of outer door when open. Door at R. i E. to
kitchen. Fireplace at 1,., zuith mantel over it. Fire laid
ready to light. At l. c. table with cover. Large chair
at R. of it; tivo small chairs at i^. of it. Against back
drop, at L. of window, dresser covered with dishes.
Bureau against wall r., betwee?i doors.
LIGHTS fwll up.
(As curtain rises slowly on empty stage George D'Alroy and
Captain Hawtree are seen to pass window from l.
Handle of door r. 3 e. is tried, and voices heard outside.
Key then heard to turn in lock.)
Geo. (opening door r. 3 e. and entering, followed by
Hawtree). I told you so. The key was left under the mat
in case I came. They're not back from rehearsal. (^Crosses
L., to fireplace.')
Haw. (coming c. ; looking around). And this is the Fairy's
Bower.
Geo. And this is the Fairy's fireplace ; the fire is laid, I'll
light it. {Places hat and stick on table and lights fire tvith
match from mantelpiece.)
RED LIGHT gradually
on at fireplace.
Haw. And this is the abode rendered blessed by her abid-
ing, it is here that she dwells, walks, talks, eats and drinks.
Does she eat and drink ?
Geo. Yes, heartily. I've seen her.
Haw. And you are really spoons — case of true love — hit
dead.
8 . CASTE
Geo. Right through. Can't live away from her. {With
elbotv on other end of mantel up stage.)
Haw. Poor old Dal ! And you've brought me over the
water to
Geo. Stangate.
Haw. Stangate — to see her for the same sort of reason that
when a patient is in a dangerous state one doctor calls in an-
other for a consultation.
Geo. Yes ! Then the patient dies.
Haw. Tell us all about it. You know I've been away.
(^Sits R. of table, leg on chair, hat on back of head, stick da?i-
gling aimlessly in his hand.')
Geo. Well, then, eighteen months ago
Haw. Oh, cut that. You told me all about that. You
went to the theatre and saw a girl in a ballet, and you fell in
love.
Geo. Yes, I found out that she was an amiable, good
girl
Haw. Of course. Cut that. We'll credit her with all the
virtues and accomplishments.
Geo. Who worked hard to support a drunken father.
Haw. Oh, the father's a drunkard, is he ? The father
doesn't inherit the daughter's virtues.
Geo. No, I hate him.
Haw. Naturally, quite so, quite so.
Geo. And she, that is Esther, is very good to her younger
sister. {Sits at l. on edge of table.)
Haw. The younger sister also angelic, amiable, accom-
plished, etc., etc.
Geo. Um, good enough, but got a temper, large temper !
Well, with some difficulty I got to speak to her — I mean to
Esther ; then I was allowed to see her to her door here.
Haw. I know — pastry-cooks, Richmond dinner, and all
that.
Geo. You're too fast. Pastry-cooks, yes — Richmond, no.
Your knowledge of the world fifty yards round barracks mis-
leads you. I saw her nearly every day, and I kept on falling
in love ; falling and falling, till I thought I should never reach
the bottom. ( Walks to and fro.) Then I met you.
Haw. I remember the night when you told me, but I knew
it was only an amourette. However, if the fire is a conflagra-
tion, subdue it; try dissipation.
Geo. I have.
CASTE , 9
Haw. What success ?
Geo. {pausing c). None. Dissipation brought on bad
health, and self-contempt, a sick head and a sore heart.
Haw. Foreign travel. Absence makes the heart grow
stronger. Get leave and cut away.
Geo. I did get leave and I did cut away, and while away I
was miserable, and a gone 'er coon than ever.
Haw. What's to be done ?
Geo. Don't know. That's the reason I asked you to come
over and see.
Haw. Of course, Dal, you're not such a soft as to think of
marriage. You know what your mother is. Either you are
going to behave properly, with a proper regard to the world,
and all that, you know, or you're going to do the other thing.
Now the question is, what do you mean to do? The girl is a
nice girl no doubt, but as to your making her Mrs. D'Alroy the
thing is out of the question.
Geo. Why, what should prevent me ? (^Returns to place
on table.)
Haw. Caste ! The inexorable law of caste. The social J
law, so becoming and so good, that commands like to mate
with like, and forbids a giraffe to fall in love with a squirrel ;
that holds sentiment to be a dissipation, and demands the
exercise of common sense from all.
Geo. But, my dear Bark
Haw. My dear Dal, all those marriages of people with
common people are all very well in novels and in plays on the
stage, because the real people don't exist, and have no rela-
tives who exist, and no connections, and so no harm's done,
and it's rather interesting to look at; but in real life, with real
relations, and real mothers, and so forth, it's absolute bosh —
it's worse; it's utter social and personal annihilation and indi-
vidual damnation.
Geo. As to my mother, I haven't thought about her.
Haw, Of course not. Lovers are so damned selfish they
never think of anybody but themselves.
Geo. My father died when I was three years old, and she
married again before I was six, and married a Frenchman.
Haw. a nobleman of the most ancient families in France,
of equal blood to her own ; slie obeyed the duties imposed upon
her by her station, and by caste.
Geo. Still it caused a separation and a division between us,
and I never see my brother because he lives abroad. Of course
lO CASTE
the Marquise de St. Maur is my mother, and I look upon her
with a sort of superstitious awe.
Haw. She's a grand Brahmin priestess.
Geo. Just so, and I know I'm a fool. Now you're clever,
Bark, a little too clever, I think. You're paying your devoirs —
that's the correct word, I think — to Lady Florence Carbury,
the daughter of a Countess — she's above you, you've no
title. Is she to forget her caste ?
Haw. That argument doesn't apply; a man can be no
more than a gentleman.
Geo. {sauntering tip stage to window). " Kind hearts are
more than coronets and simple faith than Norman blood."
Haw. Now, George, if you're going to consider this ques-
tion from a point of view of poetry, you're off to no man's
land, where I won't follow you.
Geo. No gentleman can be ashamed of the woman he loves,
no matter what her original station — once his wife he raises her
to his rank.
Haw. Yes. {Rises and crosses l. ) He raises her — her —
but her connections — her relatives. How about them ?
Enter Eccles, r. 3 e.
Ecc. (entering). Polly ! — Why the devil {Rushes c.
before he sees George and Hawtree ; assumes a deferential
manner.) Oh, Mr. D'Alroy, I didn't see you, sir. (George
comes down c.) Good-afternoon — the same to you, sir, and
many on 'em. {Doiein R.)
Geo. {crossing to Hawtree). This is papa.
Haw. Ah ! {Leafiing on corner of mantelpiece and scan-
7iifig Eccles through eye-glass.)
Geo. (c). Miss Eccles and her sister not returned from
rehearsal yet?
Ecc. (r.). No, sir, they have not ; I expect 'em in directly.
I hope you've been quite well since I saw you last, sir?
Geo. Quite, thank you ; and how have you been, Mr.
Eccles ?
Ecc. Well, sir, I have not been the thing at all. My'ealth,
sir, and my spirits is both broken. I am not the man I used
to be — I am not accustomed to this sort of thing. I have seen
better days — but they are gone, most like for ever. It's a
melancholy thing, sir, for a man of my time of life to look back
on better days that are gone most like for ever.
Geo. I dare say.
CASTE 1 1
Ecc. Once proud and prosperous, I am now poor and lowly
— once masler of a shop, 1 am now, by the pressure of circum-
stances over which I have no control, driven to seek work and
not find it. Poverty is a dreadful thing, sir, for a man as had
once been well off.
Geo. I daresay.
Ecc. {sighing). Ah! sir, the poor and lowly is often hardly
used. What chance has the working man?
Haw. (l.). None. {Aside.) When he don't work.
Ecc. We are all equal in mind and feeling.
Haw. (aside). I hope not.
Ecc. I am sorry, gentlemen, that I cannot offer you any
refreshment, but luxury and me has long been strangers.
Geo. (crossing to Eccles, taking him by ann and leading
him up R., speaking aside to him). I am very sorry for your
misfortunes, Mr. Eccles. May I hope that you will allow me
to offer you this trifling loan ? {Gives him half a sovereign.)
Ecc. {taking it). Sir, you are a gentleman — one can tell a
real gentleman, sir, with half a sov — I mean with half an eye — a
real gentleman, and understand the natural emotions of the
working man. {Edges up toward door u.) Pride, sir, is a
thing as should be put down by the strong 'and of pecuniary
necessity. I promised a friend to meet him at this time in the
neighborhood, on a matter of business — so if you'll excuse me,
sir.
Geo. With pleasure.
Ecc. {at door). Sorry to leave you, gentlemen — but
Geo. Don't stay on my account.
Haw. Don't mention it.
Ecc. Business is business. {Opens door.) The girls will
be here directly. Good-afternoon, gentlemen.
Exit, K. 3 E.
Geo. {up c, sighing with relief). Ah !
Haw. The papa is not nice, but " Kind hearts are more
than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood." Poor
George ! I wonder what your mamma, the most noble the
Marquise de St. Maur, would think of Papa Eccles. Come,
Dal, allow that there is something in caste. Conceive that dirty
ruffian, that rinsing of stale beer, that walking tap-room for a
father-in-law. Go out in Central America. Forget her. {Sits
on fable l.)
Geo. {down c). Can't.
12 CASTE
Haw. You'll be wretched and miserable with her.
Geo. I'd rather be wretched with her than miserable with-
out her. (Hawtree takes out cigar case.') Don't smoke
here.
Haw. {surprised, with cigar-case open). Why not?
Geo. She'll be coming in directly.
Haw. I don't think she'd mind. {Takes out cigar.)
Geo. I should ; do you smoke before Lady Florence Car-
bury ?
Haw, {closing case). Ha ! you're suffering from a fit of
the morals.
Geo. What is that ?
Haw. The morals is a disease, like the measles, that at-
tacks the young and innocent.
Geo. (unth temper). You talk like Mephistopheles without
the cleverness. {Goes up to window and looks at ivatch.)
Haw. I don't pretend to be a particularly good sort of fel-
low, nor a particularly bad sort of fellow. I suppose I'm about
the average standard sort of thing, and I don't like to see a
friend go down hill to the devil while I can put the drag on.
Here is a girl of humble station, poor, and all that, with a
drunken father, who evidently doesn't care how he gets money
so long as he doesn't work for it. Marriage — pah ! Couldn't
the thing be arranged ?
Geo. Hawtree, cut that. {At windoiv.) She's here.
{Turns from window ; enter Esther Eccles, r. 3 e. George
meets her at door ; flurried at sight of her.) Good-morning ;
I got here before you, you see.
(Hawtree rises and removes his hat.)
Est. {coming v.. c). Good-morning.
Geo. I've taken the liberty — 1 hope you won't be angry —
of asking you to let me present a friend of mine to you. Miss
Eccles, Captain Hawtree.
(Hawtree advances and bows ; George assists Esther ///
taking off bonnet and shawl, and places them on chair up
stage.)
Haw. (l. c., aside). Pretty!
Est. {aside). Thinks too much of himself.
Geo. You've had a late rehearsal. Where's Polly ? ( They
go up c. to window.)
Est. She stayed behind to buy something.
CASTE 1 3
Enter Polly Eccles, r. 3 e. These two girls to be dressed
alike — ballet girl' s kiss-me-quick curls, etc.
Pol. (crossing to table tvith packages ; speaking as she
passes c). Hallo, Mr. D'Alroy, how de do? Ah, 1 am liied
to death. Kept at rehearsal by an old fool of a stage manager
— but stage managers are always old fools — except when they're
young ones. We shan't have time for any dinner, so I've
brought something for lea, ham. (Bangs ham in paper on
table L. c, and seeing Wkwxk^^, patises, eyes him, and laughs.)
Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, I didn't see you.
Geo. a friend of mine, Mary, Captain Hawtree. Miss
Mary Eccles.
Pol. (behind table, aside). What a swell ! Got nice teeth,
and he knows it. (Takes off bonnet and shatvl.) How quiet
we all are. Let's talk about something. (^7/^ crosses to fire,
L., round table front ; Hawtree comes round to k. of table.)
Est. (sitting in zvindotv). What can we talk about?
Pol. Anything. (Bustles about, gets plates from dresser,
and slips the ham from paper on it.) Ham, Mr. D'Alroy ?
Do you like ham ?
Geo. (looki/tg at Esther). I adore her. (All laugh.) I
mean I adore it.
Pol. (to Hawtree). Do you like ham, sir?
Haw. Yes. (Sits at table atid follows her luith his eyes as
she puts the dishes out.)
Pol. Now that is very strange. I should have thought
you'd have been above ham.
Haw. Why ? May I ask why ?
Pol. You look above it. You look quite equal to tongue-
glazed. (Laughs.) Mr. D'Alroy is here so often that he knows
our ways.
Haw. I like everything that is piquante and fresh, and
pretty, and agreeable.
Pol. Ah! you mean that for me. (Curtseys.) Oh!
(Sings.) Tra, la lal la la ! Now I must put the kettle on.
(Looks up stage at Esther and George in windoiv. Sighs.)
Esther never does any work when Mr. D'Alroy is here. They're
spooning. Ugly word, spoon, isn't it? Reminds me of red
currant jam. By-the-bye, love is very like currant jam — at the
first taste, sweet; afterward shuddery. Do you ever spoon?
(Leans toward him on L. of table.)
Haw, I should like to do so at this moment.
14 CASTE
Pol. No, you're too grand for me. There's too much of
you for me. You want taking down a peg — I mean a foot.
Let's see, what are you, a corporal ?
Haw. Captain.
Pol. I prefer corporal. See here, let's change about. You
be corporal — it'll do you good — and I'll be my lady.
Haw, Pleasure.
Pol. You must call me my lady, though, or you shan't have
any ham.
Haw. Certainly, my lady. But I cannot accept your hos-
pitality, for V\w engaged to dine.
Pol. At what time ?
Haw. Seven.
Pol. Seven ! Why, that's half-past tea time. {Turns to
fireplace.) Now, Corporal, you must wait on me.
Haw. As the pages did of old.
Pol. {lifting teakettle from hob). My lady !
Haw. My lady.
Pol. Here's the kettle. {Comes round front of table.')
Corporal, take it into the back kitchen. {Holds kettle out to
him.)
Haw. Eh !
Pol. Pm coming too.
Haw. Oh, that alters the case. {He takes kettle handle
between fitiger and thimib. Polly at c. majestically points
the way. )
Geo. What are you about ?
Haw. About to fill the kettle. {Holds it out at arm's
length.)
Est. {to Polly). Mind what you are doing, Polly; what
will Sam say?
Pol. Whatever Sam chooses. What the sweetheart don't
see the husband can't grieve at. Corporal !
Haw. My lady. {Salutes with empty hand.)
Pol. Forward, march, and mind the soot don't drop upon
your trousers.
Exeunt Polly and Hawtree, door r. i e.
Est. {rising). What a girl it is — all spirits. The worst is
that it is so easy to mistake her. {Crosses l.)
Geo. {rising and following her). And so easy to find out
your mistake. But why won't you let me present you with a
piano ?
CASTE 15
Est. I don't want one.
Geo. You said you were fond of playing.
Est. We may be fond of many things without having them.
{Sits at R. of table.') Now here is a gentleman says that he is
attached to me. {Takes letter from pocket.)
Geo. {jealous). May I know his name? (/// front of
table at L.)
Est. What for ? It would be as useless as his solicitations.
{Throws letter into fire.)
Geo. I lit that fire. {Crosses to fire.)
Est. Then burn these two — no, not that {snatching one
back), I must keep that ; burn the others.
(George does so ; crosses again.)
Geo. Who is that from ?
Est. Why do you wish to know?
Geo. Because I love you, and I don't think you love me,
and I fear a rival.
Est. You have none !
Geo. I know you have so many admirers.
Est. They're nothing to me.
Geo. None ?
Est. No. They're admirers, but there's not a husband
among them.
Geo. Not the writer of that letter ?
Est. Oh, I like him very much.
Geo. Oh !
Est. And I am very fond of this.
Geo. Then, Esther, you don't care for me !
Est. Don't I ? How do you know ?
Geo. Because you won't let me read that letter.
Est. It won't please you if you see it.
Geo. I daresay not. That's just the reason that I want
to. You won't?
Est. I will — there ! {Gives it to him.)
Geo. {reading). "Dear madam."
Est. That's tender, isn't it ?
Geo. " The terms are four pounds. Your dresses to be found
for eight weeks certain, and longer if you should suit. {In as-
tonishment.) I cannot close the engagement until the return
of my partner. I expect him back to-day, and will write you
as soon as I have seen him. — Yours very, &c." Four pounds,
find dresses ! What does this mean ?
l6 CASTE
Est. It means that they want a Columbine for the panto-
mime at Manchester, and I think I shall get the engagement.
Geo. Manchester? Then you'll leave London.
Est. {rising). I must. {Goes behind table to fireplace ;
pauses.') You see this little house is on my shoulders, Polly,
only eighteen shillings a week and father has been out of work
a long, long time. I make the bread here, and it's hard to
make sometimes. I've been mistress of this place, and forced
to think ever since my mother died, and 1 was eight years
old. — Four pounds a week is a large sum. I can save out of it.
Geo. {following and standing at 'R. of and a little behind
her). But you'll go away and I shan't see you.
Est. Perhaps it will be for the best. What future is there
for us? You're a man of rank, and I am a poor girl who gets
her living by dancing. It would have been better that we had
never met.
Geo. No 1
Est. Yes, it would, for I'm afraid that
Geo. You love me ?
Est. I don't know. I'm not sure, but I think I do.
Geo. {trying to seize her hand). Esther !
Est. No. Think of the difference of our stations.
Geo. That's what Hawtree says. Caste, caste, curse caste !
(^Goes up a little.)
Est. If I go to Manchester it will be for the best. We
must both try to forget each other.
Geo. Forget you. No, Esther, let me {Seizes her
hand. )
Pol. {outside). Mind what you are about. Oh, dear ! oh,
dear !
(George and Esther retire up c. Enter Polly and Haw-
T'REE, R. I E.)
Pol. {shaking her skirts as she crosses). You nasty great
clumsy corporal, you've spilt the water all over my frock. Oh,
dear me i {Comes doivn c.)
Haw. Allow me to offer you a new one.
Pol. No {taking chair r. of table), I won't. You'll be
calh'ng to see how it looks when it's on. Haven't you got a
handkerchief? Wipe it dry.
(Hawtree bends almost on one knee, and zvipes dress on her.
Enter Sam Gerridge, door r. 3 e. )
CASTE 17
Sam. Afternoon. (^Savagely.) I suppose you didn't hear
me knock. The door was open. I'm afraid I intrude.
Pol. No, you don't, we're glad to see you ; if you've got a
handkerchief help to wipe it dry.
{?>ku passes to L. (?/" Polly and assists Hawtree.)
Haw. Fm very sorry. {Jii'scs.)
Pol. It won't spoil it.
Sam. The stain won't come out. (^jRises.)
Pol. It's only water.
Sam. Good -afternoon, Miss Eccles. (Polly rises.) Who's
the other swell ? (To Polly.)
Pol. I'll introduce you. Captain Hawtree — Mr. Sam
Gerridge.
Haw. Charmed. (To George, go/ //g u/>.) Who's this?
Geo. Polly's sweetheart.
Haw. Oh. (P/<ts up eye-g/ass and stares at Sam.) Now
if I can be of no further assistance, I'll go. (Looks at luatch.)
George, will you? (George takes no notice.) Will you?
Geo. What ?
Haw. Go with me.
Geo. Go ! No.
Haw. (l. c, to Polly, coming doimi). Then, Miss Eccles —
I mean, my lady. (Shakes hands.)
Pol. (r. c). Good-bye, Corporal.
Haw. Good-bye. (l.) Good-afternoon, Mr. — pardon me.
(To Sam.)
Sam {jvith constrained rage). Gerridge, sir.
Haw. Ah, Gerridge. Good-day. (Goes up.)
Exit, D. r.
Sam (to Polly). Who's that fool ? Who's that long idiot ?
Pol. I told you — Captain Hawtree.
Sam. What's he want here ?
Pol. He's a friend of Mr. D'Alroy's.
Sam. Ugh ! Isn't one of 'em enough !
Pol. What do you mean ?
Sam, For the neighbors to talk about. Who's he after?
Pol. What do you mean by after? You're forgetting
yourself, I think.
Sam. No, I'm not forgetting myself— I'm remembering you.
What can a long fool of a swell dressed up to the nines within
an inch of his life want after two girls of your class? Look at
1 8 CASTE
the difference of your stations. They don't come here after
any good. {Doivn l. c.)
(^During this speech Esther crosses to fire and sits before it in
low chair ; George fo/iows her and sits on her l.)
Pol. {down r. c). Samuel !
Sam. I mean what I say. People ought to stick to their
own class. Life is a railway journey, and mankind is a pas-
senger — first-class, second-class, third-class. Any person found
riding in a superior class to that for which he has taken his
ticket will be removed at the first station stopped at, according
to the by-laws of the company.
Pol. You're giving yourself nice airs. What business is it
of yours who comes here ? Who are you ?
Sam. Pm a mechanic.
Pol. That's evident.
Sam. I'm not ashamed of it. Pm not ashamed of my paper
cap.
Pol. Why should you be? I daresay Captain Hawtree
isn't ashamed of his fourteen and sixpenny gossamer.
Sam. You think a lot of him coS' he's a captain. Why did
he call you my lady ?
Pol. Because he treated me as one. I wish you'd make
the same mistake.
{They bounce tip stage wrangling.^
Est. {sitting with Geokge tete-a-tete by fire). But we must
listen to reason.
Geo. I hate reason.
Est. I wonder what it means ?
Geo. Everything disagreeable. When people insist on
talking unpleasantly, they always say listen to reason.
Sam {coming down^. What will the neighbors say ?
Pol. I don't care. {Comes dozvn.)
Sam. What will the neighbors thi7ik ?
Pol. They'll ////>//& nothing. They can't think. Like you,
they've not been educated up to it.
Sam. It all comes of your being on the stage.
Pol. It all comes of your not understanding me or anything
else but putty. Now, if you were a gentleman
Sam. Then of course I should make up to a lady.
{They bounce up stage again.)
CASTE 19
Geo. Reason's an idiot, two and two are four, and twelve
and eight are twenty. That's reason.
Sam {coming down). The stage ! Painting your cheeks.
Pol. Better paint our cheeks than paint nasty old doors as you
do. How can you understand art ? You, a mechanic. You're
not a professional; you're not in trade; you are not of the
same station that we are. When the manager speaks to you,
you touch your hat, and say, "Yes, sir," because he's your
superior.
Geo. When people love there's no such thing as money.
It don't exist.
Est. Yes, it does.
Geo. Then it oughtn't to.
Sam. The manager employs me, as he does you. Payment
is good everywhere and anywhere ; whatever is commercial is
right.
Pol. Actors are not like mechanics. They wear cloth
coats, and not fustian jackets.
Sam. I dislike play-actors.
Pol. And I despise mechanics.
{They tear up stage again.)
Geo. I never think of anything else but you.
Est. Really !
Sam {coining doiv 71). Polly, I won't stay here to be insulted.
[Puts on cap.)
Pol. Nobody wants you to stay. Go !
Sam. I will go. Good-bye, Miss Mary Eccles. {Crosses
c. to door R. 3 E.) I shan't come here again. {Turns to
door.)
Pol. Don't ! Good riddance to bad rubbish !
Sam. You can go to your captain.
Pol. And you to your putty. {Leans against r. of table
facing him.)
Est. And so you think you shall always love as you do
now ?
Geo. More !
Pol. [running quickly across to door r. 3 e.). Now, you
shan't go. {Locks door, takes out key, which she pockets ;
places back against door.) Now Pll just show you my power.
Sam. Miss Eccles, let me out. {Advances to door.)
Pol. Shan't.
Est. Now you two. {Postman's knock.) The postman.
20 CASTE
Sam. Now you must let me go ; you must unlock the door !
Pol. No, I needn't. (^Opeiis tvindow, looking out. ^ Here,
postman. {Takes letter.') Thank you. {Reads address.)
Esther.
Est. {rising). For me ?
Pol. Yes. {Gives it to her, closes window, and returns
to door triumphantly. Business of wranglifig loith Sam.)
Est. {going down l. of table). From Manchester.
Geo. Manchester? {Comes down l., back of table.)
Est. {l. c, reading). I've got the engagement, four pounds
a week,
(George places his arm rojind her.)
Geo. You shan't go, Esther. Stay, be my wife.
Est. But the world, your world ?
Geo. Damn the world, you're my world. Stay with your
husband, Mrs. D'Alroy.
Sam. I will go out. {With sudden determination.)
Pol. You can't and you shan't.
Sam. I can. I will ! {Rushes to window, opens it, and
Jumps out.)
WARN curtain.
Pol. {frightened). He's hurt himself. Sam, dear Sam !
{Runs to windoiv ; Sau's face appears at window; Polly
shuts it down violently; during this George has kissed
Esther.)
Geo. My wife! {The handle of door is heard to rattle,
then the door is shaken violently ; Esther crosses to Polly, up
c, who gives her key ; Esther then opens the door. Eccles
reels in very drunk and clings to the corner of bureau, "R.ffor
support. George stands l. c, pulling his moustache, Esther
a little way up r. c, looking ivith shame first at her father,
then at George. Polly sitting in window recess, up c.)
RING cwftain.
CURTAIN
{For call, George hat in hand bidding'E^.TU'E.R good-bye, r.,
Eccles sitting in chair, nods before the fire, Saj\i again
looks in at windoiv, Voian pulls the blind violently.)
ACT II
Scene. — George's lodgings in Mayfair. A handsome rooin
with folding doors at back through which is visible his
dining-room luith a glimpse of the side-board. There is a
ivindow at r., and a door at tJie upper r. corner. At l.,
opposite the windo7ci, is a piano with a stool before it.
There is a table at R. C, ivith a chair and footstool at L.
of it, and another at its r., a little doion stage. A chair
is placed on either side of the windoiv \\., and a stand of
flowers before it. TJiere is another stand of fioivers in
tfie upper L. corner, and a large chair below and in front
of it.
LIGHTS full «p.
(Esther atid George discovered sitting in easy chairs, r. and
L. of table ; George has his uniform trousers and spurs
on.)
Est. Cr.). George, dear, you seem out of spirits.
Geo. (l., smoking cigarette'). Not at all, dear; not at all.
{^Rallies.)
Est. Then why don't you talk.?
Geo. I've nothing to say.
Est. That's no reason.
Geo. I can't talk about nothing.
Est. Yes, you can. You often do. {Rises.) You used
to do so before we were married. {Passes behitid his chair,
bends over and caresses him.)
Geo. {looking tip at her and taking the hand she puts on his
face, kisses it, draiving her round before him). No, I didn't.
I talked about you and my love for you. D'ye call that
nothing ?
Est. [sitting on stool, l. of George). How long have we
been married, dear? Let me see, six months yesterday.
{Dreamily.) It hardly seems a week. It almost seems a
dream.
Geo. Awfully jolly dream. Don't let us wake up. {Aside.)
How ever shall I tell her ?
21
22 CASTE
Est. And when I married you I was twenty- two, wasn't I?
Geo. Yes, dear \ but then you know you must have been
some age or other.
Est. No ; but to think that I'd lived two-and-twenty years
without knowing you.
Geo. What of it, dear ?
Est. It seems such a dreadful waste of time.
Geo. So it was, awful.
Est. Do you remember our first meeting ? Then I was in
the ballet.
Geo. Yes. Now you're in the heavies.
Est. Then I was in tlie front rank. Now I'm of high rank.
The Hon. Mrs. George D'Alroy. You promoted me to be
your wife.
Geo. No, dear. You promoted me to be your husband.
Est. And now I'm one of the aristocracy, ain't I ?
Geo. Yes, dear. I suppose that we may consider our-
selves
Est. Tell me, George, are you quite sure that you are
proud of your poor little humble wife?
Geo. Proud of you ! Proud as the winner of the Derby.
Est. Wouldn't you have loved me better if I'd been a
lady?
Geo. You are a lady. You're Mrs. D'Alroy.
Est. What will your mamma say when she knows of your
marriage? I quite tremble at the thought of meeting her.
Geo. So do I. Luckily she's in Rome.
Est. Do you know, George, 1 should like to be married all
over again.
Geo. Not to anybody else, I hope ?
Est. My darling !
Geo. But why over again? Why?
Est. Our courtship was so beautiful ! it was like in a novel
from the library, only better. You, a fine, rich, high-born
gentleman, coming to our humble little house to court poor me.
Do you remember the ballet you first saw me in ? That was at
Covent Garden. "Jeanne la FoUe, or. The Return of the
Soldier." {Rises and goes to piaiw.') Don't you remember
the dance? {Sits and plays piatio.)
Geo. Esther, how came you to learn to play the piano?
Did you teach yourself?
Est. Yes; so did Polly. We can only just touch the notes,
to amuse ourselves.
CASTE 23
Geo. How was it ?
Est. {turning toiva? d him on piano stool'). I've told you
so often !
Geo. Tell me again. (Esther returns to stool at his
feet.) I'm like the children, 1 like to hear what I know
already.
Est. Well then, mother died when I was quite young ; I
can only just remember her. Polly was an infant, so I had to
be Polly's mother. Father, who is a very eccentric man, but a
very good one, when you know him (George' sy'az^/ drops and
he pulls his moustacfie), did not take much notice of us, and
we got on as well as we could. We used to let the first floor,
and a lodger took it — Herr Griffenhaagen. He was a ballet
master at the opera. He took a fancy to me, and asked me if
I should like to learn to dance, and I told him father couldn't
afford to pay for my tuition ; and he said that {imitation') he
didn't want payment, but that he would teach me for nothing;
for he had taken a fancy to me, because I was like a little lady
he had known long years ago in de far off land he came from.
Then he got us an engagement at the theatre. That is how we
first were in the ballet.
Geo. That fellow was a great brick ; I should like to ask
him to dinner ! What became of him ?
Est. I don't know; he left England. {Qi¥.o&q^ fidgets and
looks at watch ; gets up and goes to ivindow at R.) You are
very restless, George; what's the matter?
Geo. Nothing.
Est, Are you going out ?
Geo, Yes, {Looks at his boots and spurs.) That's the
reason I dined in these.
Est, To the barracks ? {Rises.)
Geo. Yes.
Est. On duty ?
{Both at c.)
Geo. {hesitating). On duty ! And of course when a man
is a soldier he must go on duty when he's ordered, and when
he's ordered, and — and {Aside.) Why did I ever enter
the service ?
Est. {ttvining her arms round him), George, if you must
go out to your club, go. Don't mind leavmg me, {Takes his
hand.) Somehow or other, George, these last few days every-
thing seems to have changed with me. I don't know why,
24 CASTE
sometimes my eyes fill with tears for no reason, and sometimes
I feel so happy for no reason. I don't mind being left by
myself as I used to do. When you are a few minutes behind
time I don't run to the window and watch for you, and turn
irritable. Not that I love you less, no ! for I love you more ;
but often when you are away I don't feel that I am by myself.
I never feel alone. (^Goes to piano and turns over music.)
Geo. (aside). What angels women are ! At least this one
is; I forget all about the others. (Carriage wheels heard
off R.) If I'd known I could have been so happy, I'd have
sold out when I married. (Knock at street door, r.)
Est. (standing at table). That's for us.
Geo. (at window, r.). Hawtree in a hansom ! (Aside.)
He's come for me. I must tell her sooner or later. (At door
up R. c) Come in, Hawtree.
Enter, tip r. c, Hawtree i7i regimentals.
Haw. How do? Hope you're well, Mrs. D'Alroy. (Es-
ther greets him, then turns aside to piano. Hawtree comes
doton R. ; places cap on table.) George, are you coming
to
Geo. (coming doivn tvith him, c). No, I've dined. We've
dined early.
(Esther /Ayx scraps of music at piano.')
Haw. (sotto voce). Haven't you told her ?
Geo. (going dozan l. of Hawtree). No, I daren't.
Haw. But you must.
Geo. You know what an awful coward I am. You do it
for me.
Haw. Not for worlds. I have just had my own adieu to
make.
Geo. Ah, yes, to Florence Carbury; how did she take it?
Haw. Oh, very well !
Geo. Did she cry ?
Haw. No.
Geo. Nor exhibit any emotion whatever ?
Haw. No, not particularly.
Geo. Didn't you kiss her ?
Haw. No, Lady Clardonax was in the room.
Geo. Didn't she squeeze your hand ?
Haw. No.
CASTE 25
Geo. Didn't she say anylhing ?
Haw. No, except that she hoped to see me back again
soon, and tliat India was a bad chmate.
Geo. Umph ! It seems to have been a tragic parting,
almost as tragic as parting your back hair.
Haw. Lady Florence is not the sort of person to make a
scene.
Geo. To be sure she's not your wife ! 1 wish Esther
would be as cool and comfortable. {Afier a pause.) No, I
don't. {A rap at door up u. c. j then enter UixoN.) Oh,
Dixon, lay out my
Dix. (r. c). I have laid them out; everything is ready.
[Stands 7ip stage near door.)
Geo. {after a pause, irresolutely). I must tell her,
mustn't I ?
Haw. Better send for her sister. Let Dixon go for her in
a cab.
Geo. Just so. I'll send him at once. Dixon (^Goes
up and talks to DixON. )
Est. (rising). Do you want to have a talk with my hus-
band ? Shall I go into the dining-room ?
Haw. No, Mrs. D'Alroy. {Goes to her at piano.)
Geo. No, dear. At once, Dixon. Tell the cabman to
drive like — (exit Dixon) like a cornet just joined. [Goes
down R. c.)
Est. {to Hawtree). Are you going to take him anywhere?
Haw. No. [Aside.) Yes, to India. [Crosses c, to
George.) Tell her now.
Geo. No, no. I'll wait till I put on my uniform. [Goes
up R. ; the door up R. c. opens and Vo\a.\ peeps in.)
Pol. How d'ye do, good people ? quite well ?
Geo. Eh ! Didn't you meet Dixon ?
Pol. Who?
Geo. Dixon — my man.
Pol. No. (Enters.)
Geo. [crossing down l. to Esther ; aside). Confound it !
He'll have his ride for nothing.
Pol. Bless you, my turtles. [Blesses them ballet fashion.)
George, kiss your mother. [He kisses her.) That's what I
call an honorable brotlier-in-law's kiss. I'm not in the way,
am I?
Geo. [crossing to Haw. ). Not at all. I'm very glad you've
come.
26 CASTE
(Esther and Polly embrace. Polly sits on piano stool from
which Esther has risen and takes off her hat, placing
parasol top of piano.')
Haw. {back to audience and elbozv on easy chair, r. ; aside
to George). Under ordinary circumstances she's not a very
eligible visitor.
Geo. Caste again. (^Goes up c.) Fll be back directly.
Exit through folding doors, c.
Haw. (crossing h.). Mrs. D'Alroy, I (Shakes hands.)
Est. (who is standing over YoiAN, at piano). Going?
Pol. (rising). I drive you away, Captain? (Takes her
parasol from piano.)
Haw. No.
Pol. Yes, I do, I frighten you. I'm so ugly; I know I
do. You frighten me.
Haw. How so ?
Pol. You're so handsome. (Comes do7un l. c.) Partic-
ularly in these clothes, for all the world like an inspector of
police.
Est. (half-aside). Polly !
Haw. (aside). This is a wild sort of thing in sisters-in-law.
(Up stage, c.)
Pol. Any news, Captain ?
Haw. (in a draivling tone). No. Is there any news with
you?
Pol. (imitating his drawl). Yes. We've got a new piece
coming out at our theatre.
Haw. What's it about?
Pol. (draivling). I don't know. (71? Esther.) Had him
there. (Haw. drops siuord impatiently.) Going to kill any-
body to-day that you've got your sword on?
Haw. No.
Pol. I thought not. (Sings.)
" With a sabre on his brow.
And a helmet by his side ;
The soldier sweethearts servant maids,
And eats cold meat besides." (Laughs.)
Enter George, door up stage, c, in uniform, carrying in his
hand his sword, sword belt and cap. Esther meets him,
CASTE 27
takes them from him, and places them on chair up L., (hen
comes half down L. ; George goes down r. c.
Pol. (clapping her hands). Oh, here's a beautiful brother-
in-law ! Why didn't you come in on your horse as they do at
Astley's? Gallop in and say {puts parasol under her ai'm and
imitates prances of a horse all through follozving scene ; can-
ters down c.) : Soldiers of France, the eyes of Europe are
a-looking at you. The Empire has confidence in you, and
France expects that every man this day will do his little utmost.
The foe is before you — more's the pity — and you are before
I hem — worse luck for you ! Forward ! Go and get killed, and
to those who escape, the Emperor will give a little bit of rib-
bon. Nineteens about ! Forward ! Gallop ! Charge ! {Round
to R., imitating bugle and giving point ivith parasol ; she nearly
spears Hawtree' s nose. Hawtree claps his hand upon his
sword-hilt ; she throit's herself into chair laughing, and clap-
ping \iPi.\V'V'R^^''s, cap from table upon her head. All laugh and
applaud — carriage zvheels heard without.) What's that ? [A
peal of knocks heard at street door. )
George {who has hastened to window, up R.). A carriage.
Good heavens, my mother !
Haw. {at taindoiv, r.). The marchioness !
Est. {crossing to George). Oh, George !
Pol. {crossing to windoiu). A marchioness ! A real live
marchioness ! Let me look ! I never saw a
Geo. {forcing her from window). No, no, no ! She
doesn't know I'm married. I must break it to her by degrees.
What shall I do?
Est. Let me go into the bedroom until
Haw. Too late. She's on the stairs.
Est. Here, then. {Goes to doors, c, up stage.)
Pol. I want to see a real live march
(George lifts her in his arms and places her within folding
doors with Esthek, crossing to door r. c. ; Hawtree
closes folding doors, c, as George opens door r. c,
and admits Marquise de St. Maur.)
Geo. {escorting her down stage, R.). My dear mother, I
saw you getting out of the carriage.
(Hawtree, up l.)
Mar. My dear boy {kissing his forehead), I am so glad I
28 CASTE
got to London before you embarked. (George nervous;
Hawtree comes down L.) Captain Hav;tree, I think. How
do you do ?
Haw. (crossing in front of table~). Quite well, 1 thank your
ladyship. I trust you are?
Mar. {sitting in easy chair, R.). Oh, quite, thanks. Do
you still see the Countess and Lady Florence?
Haw. Yes.
Mar. Please remember me to them. (Hawtree takes cap
from table and places sword under his ar)n.^ Are you going?
Haw. Yaas. I am compelled. (Bows, crosses round
back of table : to George, zuho meets him, r. c.) I'll be at the
door for you at seven. We must be at barracks by the quarter.
(George crosses back, l.) Poor devil ! This comes of a man
marrying beneath him.
Exit door r. ; George comes doivn l. of table.
Mar. I'm not sorry that he's gone, for I wanted to talk to
you alone. Strange that a woman of such good birth as the
Countess should encourage the atlentions of Captain Hawtree
for her daughter Florence. Lady Clardonax was one of the
old Carburys of Hampshire — not the Norfolk Carburys but
the direct line, and Mr. Hawtree' s grandfather was in trade —
something in the City — soap, 1 think, perhaps pickles. (Points
to stool ; George brings it to her; she motions that he is to
sit at her feet ; George does so.) He's a very nice person,
but parvenu as any one may see by his languor and his swag-
ger. My boy (kissi)ig his forehead), I am sure, will never
make a mesaUiance. He is a D'Alroy and by his mother's
side, Planta Genista. The source of our life stream is Royal !
Geo. How is the Marquis ?
Mar. Paralyzed. I left hirn at Spa with three physicians.
He always is paralyzed at this time of the year; it's in the
family. The paralysis is not personal but hereditary. I came
over to see my steward ; got to town last night.
Geo. How did you find me out here ?
Mar. I sent the footman to tlie barracks, and he saw your
man Dixon in the street, and Dixon gave him this address.
It's so long since I've seen you. (Leans back in chair.)
You're looking very well, and I dare say when mounted are
quite a beau cavalier ; and so, my boy (playing with his hair),
you are going abroad for the first time on active service ?
CASTE 29
Geo. {aside). Every word can be heard in the next room —
if they have only gone up-stairs !
Mar, And now, my dear boy, before you go I want to give
you some advice, and you mustn't despise it because I'm an old
woman. We old women know a great deal more than people
give us credit for. You are a soldier, so was your father, so
was his father, so was mine, so was our Royal founder. We
were born to lead — the common people expect it from us. It
is our duty. Do you not remember in the chronicles of Frois-
sart — {with great enjoyment') — I think I can quote it word for
word. I've a wonderful memory for my age. ( With closed
eyes.) It was in the 59th chapter how Godefroy D'Alroy helde
the towne of St. Amande during the siege before Tournay. It
said the towne was not closed but with pales, and captayne
there was Sir Amory of Pauy, the Seneschall of Carcassonne,
who had said it was not able to holde agaynste an hooste, when
one Godefroy D'Alroy say'd that rather than he vvoulde depart,
he woulde keep it to the best of his power. Whereat the sol-
diers cheered and say'd "Lead us on. Sir Godefroy," and then
began a fierce assault, and they within were chased, and sought
for shelter from streete to streete, but Godefroy stayed at the
gate so valyantly, that the soldiers helde the towne until the
commynge of the Earl of Haynault with twelve thousand men.
Geo. I wish she'd go. If she once gets on to Froissart
she'll never know when to stop. {Aside.)
Mar. When my boy fights, and you will fight over there,
he is sure to distinguish himself; it is his nature to. {Toys
with his hair.) He cannot forget his birth, and when you
meet these Asiatic ruffians who have dared to revolt and to
outrage humanity, you will strike as your ancestor Galtier of
Chevrault struck at Poictiers. Froissart mentions it thus:
"Sir Galtier with his four squires was in the front of that
battell, and there did marvels in arms, and Sir Galtier rode up
to the Prince and said to him, ' Sir, take your horse and ride
forth, this journey is yours ; God is this day in your hands,
Gette us to the French Kynge's batayle. I think verily by his
valyantesse he woll not fly. Advance banner in the name of
God and of Saynt George,' and Galtier gallopped forward to
see his Kynge's victory and meet his own death."
Geo. If Esther hears all this ! {Aside.)
Mar. There is another subject about which I should have
spoken to you before this, but an absurd prudery forbade me.
I may never see you more. I am old, and you are going into
30 - CASTE
battle (kissing his forehead with emotion'), and this maybe our
last meeting. (^Exclamation is heard outside folding doors.)
What's that?
Geo. Nothing. My man — Dixon — in there.
Mar. We may not meet again on this earth. I do not
fear your conduct, my George, with men, but I know the temp-
tations that beset a youth who is well born ; but a true soldier,
a true gentleman, should not only be without fear but without
reproach. It is easier to fight a famous man than to forego the
conquest of a love-sick girl. A thousand Sepoys slain in battle
cannot redeem the honor of a man who has betrayed the confi-
dence of a confiding woman. Think, George, what a dis-
honor, what a stain upon your manhood, to hurl a girl to
shame and degradation, and what excuse for it ? That she is
plebeian ! A man of real honor will spare the woman who has
confessed her love for him, as he would give quarter to an
enemy he had disarmed. (^Takes his hand.) Let my boy
avoid the snares so artfully spread, and when he asks his
mother to welcome the woman he has chosen for his wife, let
me take her to my arms and plant a motherly kiss upon the
white brow of a lady. (Noise of a fall heard outside folding
doors. Mar. rises.) What's that?
Geo. Nothing! {Rises.)
Mar. I heard a cry. (^Goes up stage and throws open
folding doors, discovering Esther lying on floor, with Polly
kneeling over her.)
Pol. George ! George !
(George goes up and raises Esther in his arms ; Polly goes
down L. and wheels easy chair up L. for her ; George
places Esther /// chair, George o?i her r., Polly oji
her l.)
Mar. (coming down, r.). Who are these women ?
Pol. Women !
Mar. George D'Alroy, these persons should have been sent
away. How could you dare to risk your mother meeting
women of their stamp ?
Pol. (back, l. c, violently). What does she mean? How
dare she call us women? What's she, I'd like to know?
Geo. Silence, Polly. You mustn't insult my mother.
Mar. The insult is from you. I leave you, and I hope
that time may induce me to forget this scene of degradation.
(Goes up R.)
CASTE 31
Geo. Stay, mother. (Marquise goes doiv?i a little, r.)
Before you go let me present to you Mrs. George D'Alroy, my
wife.
(George has raised Esther from chair in both ar??is and
supports her to up c.)
Mar. Married !
Geo. Married.
(^The Marquise sinks into easy chair, r. George replaces
Esther in easy chair up l., but still retains her hand.
Two hesitatijig taps heard at door r. c. Eccles enters
sneakingly.')
Ecc. They told us to come up-stairs. When your man
came, Polly was out, so I thought I should do instead. {Calls
at door.) Come up, Sam.
Enter Sam in his Sunday clothes and smoking a cheroot ; he
7iods and grins.
Ecc. Sam had just called, so we three, Sam and I, and
your man, all came in a hansom cab together. Didn't we,
Sam ?
(EccLES and Sam go over to the girls, l.)
Mar. (with glasses up, to George). Who is this?
Geo. {coming do2un l. of Marquise). My wife's father.
(EccLES comes down smilingly, l.)
Mar. What is he ?
Geo. a — nothing.
Ecc. I am one of Nature's noblemen. Happy to see you,
my lady. {Crosses to her.) Now my daughter's told me who
you are, (George titrns his back in an agony) we old
folks, father and mother of the young couple, ought to make
friends. {Holds out his dirty hand.)
Mar. {shrinki?ig back). Go away. What's his name?
(EccLES goes up again disgusted, L.)
Geo. Eccles.
Mar. Eccles ! Eccles ! There never was an Eccles. He
don't exist.
Ecc. {coming down, l.). Don't he? What d'ye call this?
{Goes up again, L., and speaks to Sam.)
32 CASTE
Mar. No Eccles was ever born.
Geo. He takes the liberty of breathing, notwithstanding.
{Aside.') And I wish he wouldn't.
Mar. And who is the little matt ? Is he also Eccles ?
(Sam looks round ; Polly gets close up to him, and looks with
defiant glance at the Marquise.)
Geo. No.
Mar. Thank goodness ! What, then ?
Geo. His name is Gerridge.
Mar. Gerridge! It breaks one's teeth. Why is he here?
Geo. He is making love to Polly, my wife's sister.
Mar. And what is he?
Geo. a gasman.
Mar. He looks it ! (George goes up to Esther, l.) And
what is the — the sister ?
(Eccles, who has been casting longing eyes at the decanter on
table, edges toward it and ivhen he thifiks no one is ?iotic-
ing, fills wine glass.)
Pol. (asserting herself indignantly). I'm in the ballet at
the Theatre Royal, Lambeth — so was Esther. We're not
ashamed of what we are. We have no cause to be.
Sam (back, l. c). That's right, Polly, pitch into the swells.
Who are they? (Goes up a little.)
(Eccles by this time has seized wine glass and turning his
back is about to drink, tvhen Hawtree enters door, r. c. ;
Eccles hides glass under his coat, and pretends to be look-
ing up at picture.)
Haw. (entering). George ! (Stops suddenly, looking
rotmd.) So all's known.
Mar. (rising). Captain Hawtree, see me to my carriage.
(Hawtree comes dotvn.) I am broken-hearted. (Takes
Hawtree' s arm, crosses, is going up.)
(Eccles, who simultaneously has tasted the claret, spits it out
again with a gri?nace, exclaiming, ^^Rot.^' Esther rises
from chair in tiervous excitement, clutching George's
ha fid.)
CASTE 33
Geo. (Jo Marquise). Don't go in anger. You may not
see me again.
(Marquise stops, r. ; Esther brings George do7vn c.
Est. (l. c, with arm round his neck). Oh ! George, must
you go ?
Geo. Yes.
Est. I can't leave you — I'll go with you.
Geo. Impossible, the country is too unsettled.
Est. May I come after you ?
Geo. Yes.
Est. {with her head on his shoulder'). I may !
Mar. {coming down, r.). It is his duty to go — his honor
calls him. The honor of his family — our honor !
Est. But I love him so. Pray don't be angry with me.
Haw. {looking at watch and coming down c). George !
Geo. I must go, love.
(Hawtree goes up r. c.)
Mar. {advancing). Let me arm you, George — let your
mother, as in the days of old. There is blood and blood, my
son, let Radicals and rebels rave as they will — see, your wife
cries, when she should be proud of you.
WARN cttftain.
Geo. My Esther is all that is true, good, and noble. No
lady born to a coronet could be gentler or more true. Esther,
my wife, fetch me my sword, and buckle my belt round me.
( Whispers to Esther.) It will please my mother. {To Mar-
quise at R.) You shall see. (Esther totters up stage, l.,
and brings dotvn his sword, Polly his cap ; as Esther is try-
ing to buckle his belt he ivhispers.) I've left money for you,
my darling. My lawyer will call on you to-morrow. Forgive
me ; I tried to tell you we were ordered for India, but when the
time came my heart failed me and I
RING cwftain.
(Esther, before she can succeed in fastetiing his s7vord belt, reels
and falls fainting in his arms. Polly hurries to her, L.,
and takes her hand. Sam stands at piano looking fright-
ened ; Eccles at back very little concerned ; Hawtree
34 CASTE
with hand upon handle of door, r. f., ^«</ Marquise look-
ing on R. of George.)
CURTAIN
{JFor call, Esther in chair fainting — Polly a?id Sam each
side of her holding her hands — the folding doors, l. c,
thrown open and Eccles sta7iding 7vithin holding up bottle
of bratidy to the light, with triumphant griti on his face.)
ACT III
Scene. — The room i?i Stangate, as in Act I. Piano in place
of bureau at l. Map of India, sword knot and s7Vord,
cap and spurs hangi?ig over ma?itel. Bandbox on table,
L. c, with ballet dress in it. Slate and peficil beside it.
Cradle up stage, L. C.
(Polly discovered, dressed in black, seated at table, R. corner
of it — she is placing the skirt in bandbox as curtain
rises.)
LIGHTS full up.
Pol. (singing as curtain rises).
"And she watched his department with anguish,
While the tears down in torrents did roll."
(Places skirt in box and leans her chin upo?i her hand).
There, there's the dress for poor Esther in case she gets the en-
gagement, which I don't suppose she will ; it's too good luck,
and good luck never comes to her, poor thing. (Rises and
goes up to cradle, up c, ) Baby's asleep still. How good he
looks, as good as if he were dead, like his poor father, and alive
too at the same time, hke his dear self. Oh, dear me, it's a
strange world. (Sits again as before, feeling ifi pocket for
money.) Four and elevenpence; that must do for to-day and
to-morrow. Esther's going to bring in the rusks for Georgie.
(Takes up slate.) Three, five, eight and four, twelve, one
shilling. Um, father can only have twopence ; he must make
do with that till Saturday, when I get my salary. If Esther
gets the engagement I shan't have any more salaries to take. I
CASTE 35
shall leave the stage and retire into private life. I wonder if I
shall like private life, and if private life will like me. It will seem
so strange being no longer Miss Mary Eccles — Mary Eccles —
but Mrs. Samuel Gerridge. (^Writes it on slate. ~) Mrs. Sam-
uel Gerridge. (^Laughs bashfully.) La! To think of my being
Mrs. Anybody. How annoyed Susan Smith will be. ( Writes
on slate.) Mrs. Samuel Gerridge presents her compliments to
Miss Susan Smith, and Mrs. Samuel Gerridge requests the favor
of Miss Susan Smith's company to tea on Tuesday evening next,
at Mrs. Samuel Gerridge's house. {Pause.') Poor Susan !
(^Begins again.) P. S., Mrs. Samuel Gerridge {Knock
heard at room door up R. Polly starts.)
Sam (outside). Polly, open the door.
Pol. Sam! {Wipes out note on slate.) Come in.
Sam {without). I can't,
Pol. Why not ?
Sam. I've got something on my head.
(Polly rises and opens door r. Sam enters, carrying a small
table on his head ; he has a rule pocket in corduroys ; rule
seen.)
Pol. {cofnifig down c). What's that? {Shuts door.)
Sam. Furniture. [Goes doivnR., and deposits table.) How
are you, my Polly? {Kisses her.) Bless you, you look hand-
somer than ever this morning. {Dances and sings.)
Fiddle-ti-tum de di do
Fiddle-ti-dum de day
Fiddle-ti-tum de di do
Toddle-rum-a day,
Pol. (l.). What's the matter, Sam, are you mad ? {Sits.)
Sam. No, happy ; much the same thing.
Pol. Where have you been these two days?
Sam. That's just what I'm going to tell you„ Polly, my
pet, my brightest batswing and most brilliant burner, what do
you think? [Crosses L., and leans over to kiss her.')
Pol, {pushing him away). Oh, do go on, Sam, or I'll slap
your face.
Sam (r,). Well, you've heard me speak of old Binks the
plumber, and glazier, and gasfitter, who died six months ago?
Pol. Yes.
Sam. I've bought his business. {Sits on table.)
36 CASTE
Pol. No !
Sam. Yes, of his widow, Mrs. Biiiks. So much down, so
much more at the end of the year. (^Imitates dancing with his
feet dangling as he sits on table, R. Sings. ^ Ri ti toodle,
roodle oodle. Ri ti tooral ororal lay.
Pol. La, Sam !
Sam (gesticulating). Yes, I've bought the good-will, fix-
tures, fittings, stock, rolls of gas pipe, and sheets of lead.
(Swings round on table to face Polly.) I am a tradesman with
a shop, a master tradesman. (Polly rises and crosses to table
with slate under her arm — leans against front of table. Sam
swings round beside her and puts his arm round her.) All
I want to complete the premises is a missus. (Tries to kiss
her ; she slaps his face. )
Pol. Sam, don't be foolish !
Sam. Come and be Mrs. Sam Gerridge, Polly, my patent
safety day and night light. You'll furnish me completely.
(Polly looks slyly at slate. Sam snatches it up and looks at
it; she snatches it from him tvith a shriek and rubs out
writing as he chases up stage — catches her tip c, kisses
her, comes down r. c. with her.')
Pol. (r. c). Only to think !
Sam. I spent all yesterday looking up furniture. I bought
that at a bargain. ( Opens drawer of table, R.) And I brought
it to show you for your approval. Fve bought lots of other
things, and I'll bring 'em all here to show you for your ap-
proval.
Pol. I couldn't think what had become of you.
Sam. I-ook here. (Produces patterns of paper.) I want
you to choose the pattern for the back parlor behind the shop.
I'll new paper it and new paint it, and new furnish it. It shall
be all bran new.
Pol. (l. of table). But won't it cost a lot of money, Sam ?
Sam. I can work for it. With customers in the shop, and
you in the back parlor, I can work like fifty men. (Sits on
table, R. C, 7vith arm roundFohLV.) Only fancy at night when
the shop's closed and the shutters are up, counting out the till
together. Besides, that isn't all I've done; I've been writing,
and what I've written I've got printed,
Pol. No !
Sam. True.
CASTE 37
Pol. You've been writing about me. {Delighted.)
Sam. No, about the shop. (Pollv disgusted.) Here it is.
{Takes roll of circulars from pocket.) You mustn't laugh;
you know it's ray first attempt. I wrote it the night before last,
and when I thought of you, Polly, the words seemed to flow
like red hot solder. {Reads.) " Sam Gerridge takes this op-
portunity of informing the nobility, gentry, and inhabitants of
the Borough Road " — you know there's not many of the
nobility and gentry live in the Borough Road; but it pleases
the inhabitants to make 'em believe you think so — "of inform-
ing the nobility, gentry, and inhabitants of the Borough Road,
and its vicinity " — that's rather good, I think ? {Looks at her.)
Pol. Yes ; I've heard worse.
Sam. 1 first thought of saying neighborhood, but I thought
vicinity sounded more genteel. "And its vicinity, that he has
entered upon the business of the late Mr. Binks, his relict, the
present Mrs. B., having disposed to him of the same." Now
listen, Polly, because it gets interesting — " S. G. "
Pol. S. G. Who's he ?
Sam. Me, S. G., Samuel Gerridge, me — us — we're S. G.
Don't interrupt me or you'll cool my metal and then I can't
work. " S. G. hopes by a constant attention to business and "
— mark this — " by supplying the best articles at the most rea-
sonable prices, to merit a continuance of those favors which it
will ever be his constant study to deserve." There ! {Turns
on table to R., triu/iiphantly.) Stop a bit — there's more yet —
"bell-hanging, gas-fitting, plumbing and glazing as usual."
I'here — it's all my own. {Tuts circular on mantelpiece, crosses
R., then stands back to contemplate it, his arm still romid
Polly's waist.) And now, Polly, I'll go — I shall go and send
some {Takes his table up r. ; postman's knock.) If
there ain't the postman ! {Goes off i<. d. — leaves table — and
returns with letter.)
Pol. (c, taking it). Oh! for Esther. I know who it's
from. {Places letter on mantelpiece, L. ; seriously.) Sam,
who do you think was here last night ?
Sam. Who ?
Pol. Captain Hawtree. {Comes across, L. c.)
Sam. {depreciatingly). Oh, come back from India, I
suppose ?
Pol. Yes ; luckily Esther was out. {Sits u of table.)
Sam. I never liked that long swell. He was an uppish,
conceited
38 CASTE
Pol. Oh, he's better than he used to be. He's a major
now. He's only been in England a fortnight.
Sam (l.). Did he tell you anything about poor D'Alroy?
Pol. {leaning on table). Yes; he said he was riding out
not far from the cantonment, and was surrounded by a troop
of Sepoy cavalry, which took him prisoner and galloped off
with him.
Sam. But about his death ?
Pol. Oh ! (^Hides her face J) Oh ! that, he said, was
believed to be too terrible to mention.
Sam. Did he tell you anything else?
Pol. No; he asked a lot of questions, and I told him
everything. How poor Esther had taken her widowhood, and
what a dear good baby the baby was, and what a comfort to us
all, and how Esther had come back to live with us again.
Sam. And the reason for it ?
Pol. (jioddi/ig her head sadly). Yes,
Sam. How your father got the money that was left for
Esther ?
Pol. Don't say any more about that, Sam.
Sam. I only think Captain Hawtree ought to know where
the money did go, and that you shouldn't screen your father
and let him suppose that you and Esther spent it all.
Pol. I told him.
Sam. Did you tell him that your father was always at har-
monic meetings, at taverns, and had half-cracked himself by
drink, and was always singing the songs and making the
speeches that he heard there, and that he was always going on
about his wrongs as one of the working classes? He's a pretty
one for one of the working classes — he is ! Hasn't done a
stroke of work these twenty years. Now, I am one of the
working classes, but I don't howl about it. I only work and I
don't spout. [Goes up c, and comes dow?i agahi.)
Pol. Hold your tongue, Sam. I won't have you say any
more against poor father. He has his faults, but he's a very
clever man.
Sam (sighing). Oh ! What else did Captain Hawtree say?
Pol. He advised us to apply to Mr. D'Alroy's mother.
Sam. The Marquissy ? And what did you say ?
Pol. I said that Esther wouldn't hear of it, and so the
Major said that he'd write to Esther, and I suppose this is the
letter.
Sam. Now, Polly, come and choose the paper. (Goes up c.)
CASTE 39
Pol. {rising). Can't; who's to mind baby? (JJp stage
to cradle.^
Sam {at window). There's your father passmg; won't he
mind him?
Pol. {at window with Sam). I daresay he will. If I prom-
ise him an extra sixpence on Saturday. {Taps at window.)
Hi ! Father !
Sam {aside). He looks down in the mouth. I suppose he's
had no drink. {Goes dowti R.)
Enter Eccles in shabby black ; taking half circle of stage, he
sits before fire, l.
Pol. Come in to stop a bit, father? {Down c.)
Ecc. No, not for long. Good -morning, Samuel. Going
back to work — that's right, my boy. Stick to it ! {Pokes
fire.) Stick to it ! Nothing like it !
Sam {down r. c. ; aside). Now isn't that too bad? {Aloud.)
No, Mr. Eccles, I've knocked off for the day.
Ecc. {ivaving poker). That's bad — that's bad. Nothing
like work for the young. I don't work so much as I used to
myself; but I like to see the young uns at it. It does me
good, and it does them good too. What does the poet say?
{Gesticulates with poker.)
"A carpenter said, tho' that was well spoke,
It was better by far to defend it with oak;
A currier, wiser than both put together,
Said, say what you will there is nothing like labor.
For a' that, an' a' that.
Your ribbon, gown, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The working man's the gold for a' that."
{Triumphantly wags his head. Polly crosses to him to
quiet him.)
Sam {aside). This is the sort of public-house loafer that
wants the wages and no work, an idle old {Goes up i?i
disgust. )
Pol. {on Eccles' l.). Esther will be in by and by. Do,
father.
Ecc. No, no, I tell you I won't.
Pol. {whispering ; arm around his neck). And I'll give
you sixpence extra on Saturday.
40 CASTE
Ecc. Oh ! Very well. (Polly gets hat and cloak from
peg up R.) Oh, you puss, you know how to get over your
poor old father.
Sam (aside). Yes ; with sixpence.
Pol. (putting on bonnet ; Eccles looks at clock). Give
the cradle a rock if baby cries, father.
Ecc. Twenty minutes !
Sam. If you should want employment or amusement, Mr.
Eccles, cast your eye over that. (Gives him circular and
exit with Polly, r. ; Eccles lights pipe afid statids with back
to fire, smoking vigorously ; a pause.)
Ecc. Poor Esther ! nice market she's brought her pigs
to. Ugh ! Mind the baby indeed ; what good is he to me ?
That fool of a girl to throw away all her chances — a honor-
abless — and her father not to have on him the price of a pint
of early beer or a quartern of cool refreshing gin ; stopping in
here to rock a young honorable. (Up to cradle and looks in.)
Cuss him ! (JRocks cradle.) Are we slaves, we working men?
(Sings savagely.) Britons never, never, never shall be
(Dashes pipe into fireplace, and going doiun, sits at etid of
table, L. of it; nods his head sagaciously ; hands in his
trousers pockets.) However, I won't stand this much longer;
I've writ to the old cat, I mean to the Marquissy, to tell her
that her daughter-in-law and her grandson is almost starving.
That fool Esther, too proud to write to her for money. I hate
pride, it's beastly ! (Rises.) There's no beastly pride about
me. (Goes up r. of table, smacking his lips.) I'm as dry as
a lime kiln. (Crosses to mantelpiece and takes up dram
bottle.) Empty. (Replaces it ; takes up fug from table.)
Milk. (With disgust.) For this young aristocratic pauper;
everybody in the house is sacrificed for him. (At foot of
cradle, R. c, 7vith hands on chair back.) And to think
that a working man, and a member of the Committee of
the Banded Brothers for the regeneration of human kind by
means of equal diffusion of intelligence and equal division of
property should be thirsty while this cub (Looks at
child — after a pause.) That there coral he's got round his
neck is gold, real gold. Oh ! society ! Oh ! Government !
Oh ! Class Legislature — is this right? Shall this mindless
wretch enjoy himself while sleeping with a jewelled gaud, and
his poor old grandfather wants the price of half-pint? No, it
shall not be. Rather than see it I will myself resent this out-
rage on the rights of man, and in this holy crusade of class
CASTE 41
against class, of weak and lowly against the powerful and the
strong (^pointing to child), I will strike one blow for freedom.
[Goes behind cradle and leans over it.) He's asleep. It will
fetch ten bob round the corner, and if the Marquissy gives us
anything it can be got out with some o' that. {Steals coral.)
Lie still, my darling. {^Rocks the cradle.) It's grandfather's
a- watching you ! {Puts coral in his pocket.)
" Who ran to catch me when I fell,
And kicked the place to make it well —
My grandfather. ' '
(Steals toward door. As he is going off R. 3 E., enter
Esther at that door; she is dressed like a widoiv,
pale face, and her manner quick, stern and imperious ;
she carries a parcel and paper bag of rusks in her hand.)
Ecc. {starting back confused). My love !
(Esther passes him, puts parcel on table, goes to cradle, kneels
down and kisses child. Eccles fumbles with the lock
nervously, and is going out as Esther speaks.)
Est. My Georgie I Where's his coral ? Gone ! Father,
— {rising; Eccles stopping) the coral ! Where is it?
Ecc. {confused). Where's what?
Est. The coral ! You've got it ; I know it. Give it me.
{Quickly and imperiously.) Give it me — give it me. (Eccr.ES
takes coral from his pocket and gives it back. ) If you dare to
touch my child ! {Goes to cradle.)
Ecc. Esther, am I not your father? {Comes doian R.
Esther gets round table to L. c.)
Est. And I am his mother.
Ecc. Do you bandy words with me, you pauper, to whom
I have given shelter, shelter to you and your brat ? I've a good
mind {Advances to her with clenched fist.)
Est. {confronting him). If you dare! I am no longer your
little drudge, your frightened servant. When mother died and
I was so high, I tended you, and worked for you, and you beat
me. That time is past. I am a woman, I am a wife, a widow, a
mother. Do you think I will let you outrage him ? {Points to
cradle.) Touch me if you dare ! {Advances a step.)
Ecc. {bursting into tears). And this is my own child which
I nursed when a baby, and sung cootchicum cootchie to afore
42 CASTE
she could speak. Honorable Mrs. D'Alroy, I forgive you for
all that you have said. In everything that I have done I've
acted with the best intentions. May the babe in that cradle
never treat you as you have tret me — a grey 'air'd father. May
he never cease to love and //onor you as you have ceased to
love and /zonor me, after all that I've done for you, and the
position to which I've raised you by my own industry. May
he never behave to you like the bad daughters of King Lear ;
and may you never live to feel how sharper than a serpent's
scales it is to have a toothless child.
Exit solemnly, r. 3 e.
Est. {kneeling by cradle^. My darling ! {Arranges bed
and places coral to the babf s lips arid then to her own.^
Mamma's come back to her own. Did she stay away from him
so long? {Rises and looks at the sabre, etc.^ My George, to
think you never can look upon his face, nor hear his voice !
My brave gallant, and handsome husband ! My lion and my
love! {Comes down c, pacing the stage.) Oh! to be a sol-
dier, and to fight the wretches who destroyed him, who took
my darling from me ! To gallop miles upon their upturned
faces! {Crosses L., with action; sees letter.) What's this !
Captain Hawtree's hand. {Reads.) "My dear Mrs. D'Al-
roy, I returned to England less than a fortnight ago. I have
some papers and effects of my poor friend's, which I am anxious
to deliver to you, and I beg of you to name a day when I can
call with them and see you. At the same time let me express
my deepest sympathy with your affliction. Your husband's loss
was mourned by every man in the regiment. (Esther over-
come for a tnoment, wipes her eyes and goes on.) I have
heard with great pain of the pecuniary embarrassments into
which accident and the imprudence of others have placed you.
I trust you will not consider me, one of poor George's oldest
comrades and friends, either intrusive or impertinent in sending
the enclosed — {she takes out check) — and in hoping that should
any further difficulties arise you will inform me of them, and
remember that I am, dear Mrs. D'Alroy, now and always, your
faithful and sincere friend, Arthur Hawtree." (Esther ^^^^x
to cradle and bends over it.) Oh, his boy, if you could read it !
Enter Polly, r. 3 e.
Pol. {crossing to Esther and kissing her affectionately).
Father gone ?
CASTE 43
Est. Polly, you look quite flurried. (Pollv laughs and
whispers to Esther. They come down c. together. Esther
near head of table takes Polly /// lier arms and kisses her.')
So soon ! Well, my darling, I hope you may be happy.
{Sobs.)
Pol. (crossing L. round table and putting rusks i?i sauce-
pan). Sam is going to speak to father to-day. Did you see
the agent, dear ?
Est. (r. of table). Yes; the manager didn't come, he
broke his appointment again.
Pol. (l. of table). Nasty rude fellow !
Est. {seated). The agent said it didn't matter. He
thought I should get the engagement; he'll only give me thirty
shillings a week though.
Pol. But you said that two pounds was the regular salary.
Est. {handkerchief to eyes). Yes, but they know I'm poor,
and want the engagement, and so take advantage of me. ( With
her handkerchief to her eyes.)
Pol. I put the dress in the bandbox; it looks almost as
good as new.
Est. (faking dress from box and examining it). I've had
a letter from Captain Hawtree.
Pol. I know, dear, he came here last night.
Est. a dear, good letter, speaking of George, and enclos-
ing me a check for thirty pounds.
Pol. (up at cupboard). Oh, how kind ! You mustn't let
father know of it. (Comes doivn to table ; noise of carriage
7t)heels without.)
Est. I shan't.
Enter Eccles, breathless ; Esther rises ; Polly runs to
windotv.
Ecc. (down c). It's the Marquissy in her coach. Now be
civil to her, and she may do something for us ; I see the coach
as I was coming from the Rainbow. (At door.) This way,
my lady; up them steps; they're rather awkward for anybody
like you, but them as is poor and lowly must do as best they
can with steps and circumstances. (Bows obsequiously as he
backs fro?n the door.)
(Esther and Polly l. at end of table — enter Marquise, r.
2 E., carrying baby's hood and cloak. She surveys the
place contemptuously. Esther drops the costume into
bandbox and Polly puts the lid on it. )
44 CASTE
Mar. (Jialf aside, going doivn r.). What a hole ! and for
my grandson to breathe such an atmosphere, and to be con-
taminated by such associations. (^To Eccles, wJw is a little
up R. c.) Which is the young woman who married my son?
Est. {coldly). I am Mrs. D'Alroy, widow of George D'Al-
roy. Who are you ?
Mar. I am his mother, the Marquise de St. Maur.
Est. {with a grand air). Be seated, I beg.
Mar. {rejecting chair offered servilely by EccLES, and look-
ing round). The chairs are all dirty.
Enter Sam, r. 3 e. , ivith an easy chair on his head, which he
puts do7vn, not seei?ig Marquise, who ifistantly sits dozen
in it, concealing it completely.
Sam {asto?iished, r. corner). It's the Marquissy. [Looks
at her.) These here aristocrats are fine women though. Plenty
of 'em. {Describes circle ; to VOLhW.) Quality and quantity.
Pol. (l. of table end). Sam, you'd better come back.
(Eccles nudges him and bustles him toward door.)
Sam {going toward door, aside). She's here. What's com-
ing, I wonder !
Exit Sam, r. 3 e. Eccles shuts door on him.
Ecc. [coming doivn r. C, rubbing his hands). If we'd
a-know'd your ladyship had bin a-coming we'd a-had the place
cleaned up a bit.
Mar. {to Esther). You remember me, do you not?
Est. Perfectly, though I only saw you once. [Seats her-
self with dignity, l. c.) May I ask what has procured me the
honor of this visit ?
Mar. I was informed that you were in want and I came
here to offer you assistance.
Est. I thank you for your offer, and the delicate consid-
eration for ray feelings with which it is made. I need no
assistance.
Mar. a letter I received last night informed me that you
did.
Est. May I ask if that letter came from Captain Hawtree ?
Mar. No, from this person, your father, 1 think.
Est. [to Eccles). How dare you interfere in my affairs?
Ecc. My love, I did it with the best intentions.
CASTE 45
Mar. Then you will not accept assistance from me ?
Est. No.
Pol. (aside to Esther, holding her hand). Bless you, my
darling.
Mar. But you have a child — a son — my grandson. ( Wilh
e mo lion.')
Est. Master D'Alroy wants for nothing.
Pol. And never shall !
Mar. (showing hood atid cloak). I came here to propose
that my grandson should go back with me.
Est. (rising defiantly). What, part with my boy? I'd
sooner die !
Mar. You can see him when you wish — as fur money
I
Est. Not for ten thousand million worlds — not for ten
thousand million marchionesses.
Ecc. Better do what the good lady asks you, my dear.
She's advising you for your good and for the child's likewise.
Mar. Surely you cannot intend to bring up my son's son
in a place like this ?
(Esther goes up c. )
Ecc. It is a poor place, and we are poor people, sure^
enough. We ought not to fly in the faces of our pastors and \
masters — our pastoresses and mistresses.
Pol. Oh, hold your tongue, do. (Goes up to cradle;
aside.) I should like to fly at her.
Est. (before cradle). Master George D'Alroy will remain
with his mother. The offer to take him from her is an insult
to his dead father and to him.
Ecc. He don't seem to feel it, stuck up little beast.
Mar. But you have no money. How can you rear him?
How can you educate him? How can you live?
Est. (tearing dress from bandbox). Turn Columbine !
Go on the stage again and dance.
Mar. (rising). You are insolent. You forget that I am a
lady.
Est. You forget that I am a mother. (Replaces dress in
box.) Do you dare to off'er to buy my child, his breathing
image, his hving memory, with money? (Crosses to door ^.,
and throws it open.) There is the door. Go ! (Picture.)
Ecc. (to Marquise, who has risen). Very sorry, my lady,
as you should be tret in this way, which was not my wishes.
46 CASTE
Mar. Silence! {Y^ozve.^ retreats, ■^., putting back chair ;
Marquise goes up to door k.). Mrs. D'Alroy, if anything could
have increased my sorrow for the wretched marriage my poor
son was decoyed into, it would be your conduct this day to his
mother.
Exit, R. 3 E.
Ecc. {looking after her at door R. 3 E.). To go away and
not leave a damned penny behind her. Cat ! cat ! stingy cat !
{Crosses to fire L., sits and pokes It violently ; carriage wheels
heard ivlthout ; Polly goes and kisses Esther up c.)
Est. Take me to my room. I'll lie down. Let me have
the baby (Polly takes It from cradle) or that old woman may
come back and steal him.
Exeunt Esther atid Polly with the baby, r. 3 e.
Ecc. (rocking in chair by fire). Well, women is the obsti-
natest devils that never wore horse shoes. {Strikes table.)
Children! beasts! beasts! {Rattles fire Irons.)
Enter Sam and Polly, r. 3 e. They pause up r. c.
Sam. I'll tell him now and get it over at once. {V01A.Y conies
down to table, takes bandbox from table and places it up l.
corner. Sam comes down R. c.) And now, Mr. Eccles,
since you've been talking on family affairs, I'd like to have a
word with you, so take this opportunity to
Ecc. {raising his head sharply). Take what you like and
then order more. {Rises and down l.) Samuel Gerridge,
that hand is a hand that never turned its back on a friend or a
bottle to give him. {Sings.) I will stand by my friend, if
he'll stand to me, me, gentlemen.
Sam. Well, Mr. Eccles, sir, it's this.
Pol. {aside ; coming dotvn R. of table). Don't tell him too
sudden, Sam, it might shock his feelings. {Goes round and
sits L. of table end. )
Sam. It's this. You know that for the past four years I've
been keeping company with Mary — Polly.
Ecc. {sinking into chair). Go it, go it. Strike home,
young man, strike on this grey head. {Slugs.) Britons, strike
home, home. Here ! {Taps his chest.) Here, to my heart,
don't spare me. {Goes c. and sits in big chair in 7vhich the
Marquise sat.) Have a go at my grey hairs. Pull 'em, pull
'em out, a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together.
{Cries and drops his face In his hands.)
CASTE 47
Pol. (at l. of Eccles). Oh, father, I wouldn't hurt your
feelings for the world. (^Hugs and kisses him.')
Sam {crossing to R. of Eccles). Mr. Eccles, I wouldn't
wish to annoy you, sir, but now I'm going to enter upon a busi-
ness. Here's a circular. {Gives one.')
Ecc. {indignantly). What are circulars compared to a fond
father's feelings?
Sam. And I wish Polly to name the day, sir, and so I ask
you.
Ecc. This is 'ard. This is 'ard. This is ^ard. One o'
my gals marries a so-dger, the other goes a gasfitting.
Sam. The business, which will enable me to maintain a
wife, is that of the late Mr. Binks, plumber, glazier, etc.
Ecc. (singing).
They have given thee to a plumber I
They have broken every vow.
They have given thee to a plumber.
And my heart is breaking now, gentlemen,
My heart is breaking now.
Pol. You know, father, you can come and see me.
Ecc. {ho/ding out his hatid). So I can and that's a com-
fort {shaking her hand), and you can see me, and that's a
comfort ; I'll come and see you often — every day {shaking
Sam's hand), and crack a fatherly bottle, and shed a friendly
tear. {Rises at c.)
Pol. Do, father, do.
Sam {with a gulp) . Yes, Mr. Eccles, do {aside) not.
Ecc. I will. {He takes the hand of each and goes down
ivith them.) And this it is to be a father. {Goes to bureau
at L., takes hat, puts it on and returns C.) I would part with
any of my children for their own good readily if I was paid for
it. {Sings.) "For I know that the angels are whispering to
me " — nie, gentlemen.
Sam. I will make Polly a good husband, and anything that
I can do to prove it {lowering his voice) in the way of spirit-
uous liquors and tobacco {slippitig coin into his hand ufiseeti by
Polly) shall be done.
Ecc. {lighting up).
"Be kind to thy father, wherever you be.
For he is a blessing and credit to thee — thee, gentlemen."
48 CASTE
Well, my children, bless you ; take the blessing of a grey-
hair'd father, (Polly sobs ; Eccles to Sam.) Samuel Ger-
ridge, she shall be thine. You shall be her husband. I know
of no gas-fitter man. [Looks at money.') A friend is await-
ing for me outside which I want to have a word with [up r.),
and may you never know how much more sharper than a ser-
pent's tooth it is to have a marriageable daughter. (Sings.)
"When I heard he was married,
I breathed not a tone,
The h'eyes of all round me
Was fixed on my own,
I flew to my chamber
To hide my despair ;
I tore the bright circlet
Of gems from my hair,
When I heard she was married.
When I heard she was
Exit, door k. 3 E. j outside.
Married, gentlemen, married."
Pol. (drying her eyes). There, Sam, I always told you that
though father had his faults his heart was in the right place.
Sam. Poor Polly ! (Knock at r. 3 E. ; Sam sits on table L.)
Pol. Come in !
Enter Hawtree /// black, r. 3 e. Polly goes to meet him ;
Sam rises and crosses to fireplace at l., and stands with
back to it.
Haw. (r. c). I met the Marquise's carriage on the bridge.
Has she been here?
Pol. (l. c). Yes.
Haw. What happened ?
Pol. Oh, she wanted to take away the child. (Crosses
round to cupboard up l., and business of preparifig for tea.)
S \M. In the coach.
Haw. And what did Mrs. D'Alroy say to that ?
Sam. Mrs. D'Alroy said she'd see her blow'd first, or words
to that effect.
Haw. I am sorry to hear this. I had hoped — however,
tliat's over.
CASTE 49
Pol. Yes, it's over, and I hope we shall hear no more about
it. Want to take away the child indeed ! Like her impu-
dence ! What next ! {Puts dishes on table.) Esther's gone
to lie down. I shan't wake her up for tea, though she's had
nothing to eat all day,
LIGHTS down gfadwally.
Sam (l. of table'). Shall I fetch some shrimps?
Pol. (l. of table). No; what made you think of shrimps?
Sam. They're a relish, and consoling — at least I always find
'em so. ( Goes up and pulls dorvn blind to window in back
flat. )
Pol. I won't ask you, Major, to take tea with us, you're too
grand.
Haw. [placing hat on piatw). Not at all; I shall be most .
happy. {Aside.) 'Pon my word, these are a very good sort \J
of people. I'd no idea {Sits r. of table, Polly and
Sam, l.)
Pol, Sam, light the gas.
Sam. No, don't light up ; I like this sort of dusk. It's un-
businesslike but pleasant. {Puts his arm round her waist.)
Pol. {making tea). Sugar, Sam?
Sam {aside). Look in the cup.
Pol. {to Hawtree, ha?iding cup). If you want sweetening,
sugar yourself — we've got no milk. It'll be here directly — it's
just his time.
Voice {outside and rattle of milk pails). Milk-oow !
Pol. There he is. {Knock at door, r. 3 e.) Oh, I know,
I owe him fourpence. {Feels her pockets — knock again louder.)
He's very impatient. Come in.
Enter George, r, 3 e., his face bronzed and in full health ;
he has a ?nilk can in his hand, which he carries to upper
end of table. Polly is in the act of raising her teacup to
her lips ; pauses luith it half -tv ay there, raises her eyes
slowly and sees George. Stares at hitn thitiking Jwn a
ghost, slowly puts cup back on table xvithout taking her
eyes from George' s/a'^:^, and slowly slides under the table.
Sam is eating his bread and butter, noting nothing until
Polly slips under the table. He looks up in surprise,
gasps, chokes, and terrified, dives under table after Polly.
Hawtree, marking Sam's fixed stare as he disappears,
turns his chair and looks. Remains fixed a moment.
Picture.
so CASTE
Geo. (^quietly). A fella hung this on the railings, so I
thought I'd bring it in. (Places can on table.') What's the
matter with you all ?
Haw. (rising). George !
Geo. (l. c). Haw tree ! you here? (They shake hands
vigorously.)
Pol. (peeping out). 0-o-o-o-oh ! The ghost! The ghost!
Sam (under table). It shan't hurt you, Polly. Perhaps it's
only indigestion.
Haw. (r. c). Then you're not dead?
Geo. Dead I no ! Where's my wife?
Haw. You were reported killed.
Geo. It wasn't true !
Haw. Alive, my old friend, alive !
Geo. And well. (Shakes hands again.) Landed this
morning. Where's my wife? (Looks about.)
Sam (tvho has popped his head from under table-cloth). He
isn't dead. Poll, he's alive ! (Pause ; comes out.)
Pol. (crawling out from under table aided by Sam). Alive !
My dear George ! Oh, my dear brother ! (Doivn L., looks
at him intently.) Alive ! (Hysterically, goes to him.) Oh,
my dear, dear, dear brother ! (In his arms.) How could
you go and do so ?
(Sam down l. GeO'RG^ places Polly in his arms.)
Geo. (c). Where's Esther?
Haw. (r.). Here — in this house.
Geo. Here! Doesn't she know I'm back?
Pol. (l. c). No! how should she?
Geo. (to Hawtree). Didn't you get my telegram?
Haw. No. Where from ?
Geo. Southampton. I sent it to the club.
Haw. (crossitig behind to fireplace, L.). I haven't been
there these three days.
Pol. (gushingly). Oh, my dear, dear, dear, dead and gone,
come back all alive brother George ! (Falls into his arms
at C.)
(G'EO'B.G^ passes her down to R. c.)
Sam (crossing c). Glad to see you, sir.
Geo. Thank you, Gerridge. [Shakes hands.) Same to
you. But Esther !
(Sam down r. c, to Polly.)
CASTE 51
Pol. {back to audience and kerchief to her eyes). She's
asleep in her room. (George is going r. 3 e. Polly stops
him.) You mustn't see her.
Geo. Not see her after this long absence ! Why not ?
Haw. She's so ill to-day ; she has been greatly excited.
The news of your death, which we all mourned, has shaken her
terribly.
Geo. Poor girl ! poor girl !
Pol. Oh ! we all cried so when you died {crying), and now
you're alive again I want to cry ever so much more. {Cries.)
Haw. We must break the news to her by degrees.
Sam. If we turn the tap on its full pressure she'll explode.
{Goes up.)
Geo. To return and not to be able to see her, to love her,
to kiss her ! {Stamps.)
Pol. Hush !
Geo. I forgot, I should wake her !
Pol. {jviping her eyes). More than that — you'll wake the
baby.
Geo. {wheeling about, astonished). Baby! What baby?
Pol. Yours.
Geo. Mine !
Pol. Yes, yours and Esther's. Why, didn't you know
there was a baby ? La, the ignorance of these men !
Haw, Yes, George, you're a father.
Geo. Why wasn't I told this? Why didn't you write?
Pol. How could we when you were dead ?
Sam. And hadn't left your address.
Geo. If I can't see Esther I will see the child. The sight
of me won't be too much for its nerves. Where is it?
Pol. Sleeping in its mother's arms. (George goes to door
R. 3 E. ; they stop him, Polly on r., Sam on L., and bring him
down c. again.) Please not ! Please not !
Geo. I must ! I will !
Pol. It might kill her, and you wouldn't like to do that.
I'll fetch the baby, but oh, please don't make a noise.
Exit, R. 3 E.
Geo. (c). My baby, my ba It's a dream. You've
seen it. What's it like?
Sam (r.). Oh, it's like a — like a sort of— infant, white and
milky, and all that.
52 CASTE
Enter Polly, r. 3 e., with baby wrapped in shawl ; George
meets Polly, c, /// stage, and they cotne doiv/i together.
Pol. (r. c). Gently, gently, take care. {Gives child to
George.) Esther will hardly have it touched.
Geo. (l. c.). But I'm its father.
Pol. That don't matter. She's very particular.
Geo. Boy or girl ?
Pol. Guess.
Geo. Boy ? (Polly nods ; George enraptured.) What's
its name ?
Pol. Guess.
Geo. George? {^oiAn nods.) Eustace? (yoixn fiods.)
Fairfax? Algernon? {Yo\xn nods ; pause.) My names.
Sam (^coming up behind Polly at r. to look on). There
don't seem room enough in him, sir, to hold so many names,
do there ?
(Hawtree comes up behind George, on l.)
Geo. {to baby). To come back all the way from India to
find that I'm dead, and that you're alive ! To find my wife a
widow with a new love, aged — how old are you ? I'll buy you
a pony to-morrow, my brave little boy. What's his weight ?
I should say two pound nothing. You are a surprise, my
[Affected ; touches him.) Take him away, Polly, for fear I
should bend him.
(Polly takes child and places it in cradle.)
Haw. (crossing to r. and sitting at piano ; Sam takes his
place). But tell us how it is you're back, how you escaped.
Geo. (r. c., coming down). Too long a story just now, by
and by. Tell me all about it. (Polly gives him chair, r. c.,
and returns to table, L.) How is it Esther's living here ?
Pol. (l. of table ; after a pause). She came back here
after the child was born, and the furniture was sold up.
Geo. {sitting). Sold up ! What furniture ?
Pol. That you bought for her.
Haw. It couldn't be helped, George; Mrs. D'AIroy was
so poor.
Geo. Poor ! but I left her six hundred pounds to put in
the bank.
Haw. We must tell you; she gave it to her father, who
banked it in his own name.
CASTE 53
Sam. And lost it in betting ) every copper.
Geo. Then she's been in want ?
Pol. No, not in want \ friends lent her money.
Geo. What friends? {Pause; to Hawtree, wJw rises
embarrassed?) You ?
Pol. Yes.
Geo. (rising and shaking Hawtree' s hatid). Thank you,
old fella.
(Hawtree goes up.')
Sam (aside). Who'd ha' thought that long swell had it in
him ! He never mentioned it. i
Geo. So papa Eccles had the money ?
Sam. And blowed it.
Pol. {pleadingly, both hands on end of table). You see
father was very unlucky on the race course. He told us that
if it hadn't been that all his calculations were upset by a horse
winning that had no business to, he should have made all our
fortunes. Father's been unlucky, and he gets tipsy at times,
but he's a very clever man, if you only give him scope enough.
Sam (aside). I'd give him scope enough !
Geo. Where is he now ?
Sam. Public-house.
Geo. And how is he ?
Sam. Drunk ! /
Geo. (rising, going up; to Hawtree). You were right. ^
There is something in Caste. {Aloud.) But tell us about
it. {Down c.)
Pol. Well, you know you went away, and then the baby
was born. Oh ! he was such a sweet little thing — just like —
your eyes
Geo. Cut that.
Pol. Well, baby came, and when baby was six days old
your letter came, Major. {To Hawtree.) I saw it was from
India, and that it wasn't in your hand. (To George.) I
guessed what was inside it, so I opened it unknown to her, and
I read there of your capture and death. I daren't tell her. I
went to father to ask his advice, but he was too tipsy to under-
stand me. Sam fetched the doctor. He told us that the
news would kill her. When she woke up she said she had
dreamt there was a letter from you. I told her no, and day
after day she asked for a letter. So the doctor advised us to
write one as if it came from you. So we did, Sam and I, and
54 CASTE
the doctor told her — told Esther, I mean — that her eyes were
bad and she mustn't read, and we read our letter to her, didn't
we, Sam? But bless you, she always knew it hadn't come
from you. At last when she was stronger we told her all.
Geo. {after a pause). How did she take it ?
Pol. She pressed the baby in her arms and turned her face
to the wall. {A pause ; George sits r. c.) Well, to make a
long story short, when she got up she found that father had
lost all her money you left her. There was a dreadful scene
between them. She told him he had robbed her and her
child, and father left the house and swore he'd never come
back again.
Sam. Don't be alarmed. He did come back.
Pol. Oh, yes. He was too good-hearted to stop away
from his children long. He has his faults, but his good points,
when you find them, are wonderful.
Sam {aside). Yes, when you do find them.
Pol. So she had to come back here to us, and that's all.
Geo. Why didn't she write to my mother ?
Pol. Father wanted her, but she was too proud. She said
she'd die first.
Geo. {rising ; paces up to Hawtree). There's a woman !
Caste's all humbug ! {Paces excitedly down c. ; sees stvord
over mantelpiece.) That's my sword and a map of India — and
that's the piano I bought her. I'll swear to the silk !
Pol. Yes, that was bought in at the sale.
Geo. {to Hawtree). Thank you, old fellow.
Haw. Not by me. 1 was in India at the time.
Geo. By whom, then ?
Pol. By Sam. (Sam zvinks to her to discontinue.') I shall.
He knew Esther was breaking her heart about any one else
having it, so he took the money he'd saved up for our wed-
ding, and we're going to be married now, ain't we, Sam?
Sam {coming l. c. to Polly). And hope by a constant at-
tention to business to merit
(Polly pushes him a^cjay.)
Pol, She's never touched the piano since you died ; but if
I don't play to-night may I die an old maid. {Goes up and
clears table ; Hawtree returns down r., eyeing Sam.)
(George crosses to Sam afid shakes his hand, then goes up
stage, pulls up blind and looks i?ito street ; Sam finishes
tea.)
CASTE 55
Haw. {aside). Who'd have thought that little cad had it
in him ! He never mentioned it. {Aloud.) Apropos, George,
your mother. I'll go to the square, and tgU her of {Takes
hat from pia?io.)
Geo. (c). Is she in town ?
Haw. Yes. Will you come with me ?
Geo. And leave my wife ! And such a wife !
Haw. I'll go at once, I shall catch her before dinner.
Good-bye, old fellow; seeing you back again alive, and well,
makes me feel quite — that I quite feel {Shakes George's \/
hand, goes to door R., then crosses to L. to Sam.) Mr. Ger-
ridge, I fear I have often made myself very offensive to you. 1
Sam. Well, sir, you have. ^
Haw. I feared so ; I didn't know you then ; I beg your
pardon ; let me ask you to shake hands, forgive me and forget
it. {Offers his hafid.)
Sam {taking it). Say no more, sir, and if ever I've made I
myself disagreeable to you, I ask your pardon, forget it and v
forgive me. {They shake hands wartnly.) And when you
marry that young lady as I know you're engaged to, if you
should furnish a house and require anything in my way
{Brings out circular ; Polly comes down l. , and pushes him
away ; he puts circular in his pocket and stands before fire.)
Haw. {up R.). Good-bye, George, for the present. Bye,
Polly. {Resumes his Pall Mall manner as he goes out.) I'm
off to the square.
Exit, R. 3 E.
Geo. But Esther !
Pol. {finishing at table). I'll tell her all about it.
Geo. How ?
Pol. I don't know ; but it will come. Providence will
send it to me as it has sent you, my dear brother. You must
go. {Crosses c.) Esther will be getting up directly. {Pushes
him up to door R. 3 E. ; George edges down to r. i e. and peers
through keyhole.) It's no use looking there; it's dark ! [Pushes
him up stage.)
Geo. {at door). It isn't often a man can see his own widow.
Pol. And it isn't often that he wants to. Now go away.
{Pushes him off. )
Geo. {coming back). I shall stop outside.
READY lights.
56 CASTE
Sam. And I'll whistle for you when you may come in.
{^Crosses C.)
Pol. Now !
Geo. Oh ! my Esther ! When you know I'm alive I'll
marry you all over again, and have a second honeymoon !
{They force him off, R. 3 e.)
Pol. {coining douni). Now, Sam, light the gas. I'm going
to wake her up. Oh, my darling, if I dare tell you. ( Whis-
pers.) He's come back ! He's come back ! He's come
back ! Alive ! Alive ! Alive ! Sam, kiss me ! {Kisses
Sam and goes off, R. i e.)
Sam {dancing shutter dance). I'm glad the swells are gone ;
now I can open my safety valve and let my feelings escape.
{Lights gas.)
LIGHTS full on.
To think of his coming back alive from India, just as I'm
going to open my shop. {Lights candles.) Perhaps he'll get
me the patronage of the Royal Family. It'd look stunning over
the door with a lion and a unicorn a-standing on their hind legs
doing nothing furiously with a lozenge between them. {Sits at
table, L.) Poor Esther, to think of my knowing her when she
was in the ballet line, then when she was in the honorable line,
then a mother. Then a widow and in the ballet line again.
And him to come back {growing affected), and find a baby with
all his furniture and fittings ready for immediate use. And the
poor thing lying asleep with her eyelids hot and swollen — not
knowing that that great, big, heavy, hulking, overgrown dra-
goon is prowling outside ready to fly at her lips, and strangle
her in his strong, loving arms. It — it — it {Breaks down
and sobs 7vith his head upon the table.)
Enter Polly, r. i e., with a light colored dress on.
Pol. Why, Sam, what's the matter?
Sam {rising and crossing r.). The water's got into my
meter.
Pol. Hush !
Enter Esther, r. i e. ; they stop suddenly ; Polly dotvn
stage.
Sam {up stage, singing and dancing). Tiddy-ti-tum-lo !
CASTE 57
Est. {sitting doivn near fire L. of head of table, taking up
costume and beginning to work ; Polly going to her and kiss-
ing her between laughing and crying~). Sam, you seem in high
spirits to-night.
Sam {crossing to L.). Yes ; you see Polly and I are going
to be married, and — and hope by bestowing a favor to merit, to
continuance, attention, by deserving a merit
Pol. {kissing Esther two or three ti?nes, then pushing ^ku
down stage to L.). What are you talking about? {Comes
down and sits on music stool, R.)
Sam. I don't know. I'm off my burner.
Est. What's the matter with you to-night, dear? {To
Polly.) I can see something in your eye.
Sam. It's the new furniture.
Pol. {crossing hurriedly and kissing Esther again; taking
waist of dress and sitting L. of table to help on it^. It was a
pretty dress when it was new ; not unlike the one Mdlle.
Delphine used to wear. {Suddenly claps her ha/ids.') Oh !
Est. What's the matter?
Pol. a needle ! {Aside to Sam, zaho comes to her, l.)
I've got it.
Sam {leaning over her'). The needle in your finger ?
Pol. No, an idea in my head.
Sam {still looking at finger). Does it hurt ?
Pol. {risi?ig, crossing c). Stupid! (Sam crosses to v.. ;
aloud.) Do you recollect Mdlle. Delphine, Esther?
Est. Yes.
Pol. Do you recollect her in that ballet that old Herr Grif-
fenhaagen arranged — "Jeanne la FoUe, or the Return of the
Soldier " ?
(Sam sits r., on nmsic stool.)
Est. Yes. Will you do the fresh hem ?
Pol. What's the use? Let me see — how did it go?
(Business of indicating the details of an imaginary stage.)
How well I remember the scene. The cottage that side, the
bridge at the back. La ! La 1 La ! Ballet of villagers and
the entrance of Delphine as Jeanne the bride. {Sings and
pantomimes.) Then the entrance of Claude the bridegroom.
Then there was the procession to church. The march of the
soldiers over the bridge. (Sings and pantomimes.) Arrest of
Chuule, who is drawn for the conscription {business, and
Esther looks dreamily), and is torn from the arms of his bride
58 CASTE
at the church porch. Omnes broken-hearted ! This is Omnes
broken-hearted. (^Pantominies.')
Est. Polly, I don't like this ; it brings back memories.
Pol. {s^oing to table and leaning her hands oii it looking
over at Esther). Oh ! fuss about memories. One can't
mourn forever. (Esther surprised.) Everything in this
world isn't sad. There's bad news, and — and there's good
news sometimes when we least expect it.
Est. Ah ! Not for me.
Pol. Why not? {Pause; crosses to c.) Ding, ling, ling
a ling.
Sam. What's that ?
Pol. Why, the second act, you know — second act, winter.
{Places Sam at r.) The village cross — this is the village cross.
Entrance of Jeanne — now called Jeanne la Folle, because she
has gone mad. This is Jeanne gone mad. (Patitomimes .^
Gone mad on account of the supposed loss of her husband.
Sam. The supposed loss ?
Pol. The supposed loss.
Est. [dropping costume'). Polly !
Sam. Mind !
Pol. Mustn't stop now ; go on. Entrance of Claude, who
isn't dead, in a captain's uniform — a cloak over his shoulder.
Don't you recollect the ballet ? Jeanne is mad and can't rec-
ognize her husband, and don't till he shows her the ribbon she
gave him when they were betrothed. Here, I'll do it. I want
a bit of ribbon. {Looks about.) Sam, have you got a bit of
ribbon? {Casts eyes on sword knot over fireplace.) Ah!
reach me that crape sword knot, that will do. ( Crosses r. ;
Sam goes up l. c.)
Est. Touch that ! {Rises and comes down l. c.)
Pol. Why not ? It's no use now.
Est. (c). You have heard of George ! I know you have !
I see it in your eyes ! You may tell me ! I can bear it ! I
can, indeed ! — indeed I can ! Tell me ! He is not dead !
Pol. No !
Est. {whispering). Thank heaven ! Are you sure?
Pol. Quite.
Est. You've seen him ! I see you have ! I know it ! I
feel it ! I had a bright and happy dream of him — I saw him
as I slept. Oh ! let me know if he is near ! {Paces stage, l.
to v..) Give me some sign, some sound — (Po'Lly opens piano)
some token of his life and presence.
CASTE 59
(Polly signals to Sam ; Voll\ plays piano on the treble only ;
Sam goes to r. 3 e.)
Est. (Jn an ecstasy). Oh, my husband ! Come to me, for
I know thai you are near ! Let me feel your arms clasp round
me ! Do not fear for me ! I can bear the sight of you ! It
will not kill me ! George — love — husband — come ! Oh,
come to me ! {During this George has appeared at k. d.,
and running to Esther enfolds her in his embrace. Polly
plays the bass as rue II as treble of the air forte, then fortis-
simo ; she then plays at ratidom, endeavoring to hide her tears ;
at last she strikes piano wildly, and goes off into a fit of hys-
terical laughter, to the alarm of Sam, zvho places her gently on
the floor. George and Esther go up c. to cradle.^
Sam. Polly ! Polly ! my darling !
(Polly seizes Sam by the hair and shakes him violently.')
PoL. Sam, Sam, I'm going mad !
Est. To see you here again, to feel your warm breath upon
my cheek ! Is it real ? Am I not dreaming? [Comes down.)
Sam (l., rubbing his head). No, it's real,
(Polly sits at piano, Sam beside her.)
Est. {placing chair c, and kneeling on his left). But tell
us, tell us, do, darling, how you escaped.
Geo. It's a long story, but I'll condense it. I was riding
out and suddenly found myself surrounded and taken prisoner.
One of the troop that took me was a fella who had been my
servant, and to whom I had done some little kindness; he
helped me to escape and hid me in a sort of cave, and for a
long time used to bring me food. Unfortunately, he was or-
dered away, so he brought another Sepoy to look after me. I
felt from the first this man meant to betray me, and I watched
him like a lynx during the one day he was with me. As even-
ing drew on a Sepoy picket was passing ; I could tell by the
look in the fella's eyes he meant to call out as soon as they were
near enough, so I seized him by the throat and shook the life
out of him.
Est. You strangled him ?
Geo, Yes.
Est. Killed him dead ?
Geo. He didn't get up again.
Pol. {to Sam). You never go and kill Sepoys !
6o CASTE
Sam. I pay rates and taxes.
Geo. The day after Havelock and his Scotchmen marched
through the village, and I turned out to meet them. I was too
done up to join, so I was sent straight on to Calcutta. I got
leave, took a berth on the P. and O. boat — the passage restored
me. I landed this morning, came on here and brought in the
milk. {Embraces Esther, and rises. ^
Enter ihe Marquise, r. 3 e. ; she rushes to embrace George, c.
Mar. My dear boy ! My dear, dear boy !
Pol. {seated R.). Why, see, she's crying. She's glad to
see Iiim alive and back. {^Rises.')
Sam (^profoundly). There's always something good in
women, even when they're ladies. (Polly and he cross to
L. ; Polly /^/j- dress in box and goes to cradle.)
Mar. (crossing to Esther, l. c). My dear daughter, we
must forget our little differences. (Kisses her.) Won't you ?
How history repeats itself ! You will find a similar and as un-
expected a return mentioned by Froissart in the chapter that
treats of Philip Dartneli.
Geo. Yes, mother. I remember. (^Kisses her.)
Mar. {to George, aside). We'll take her abroad and make
a lady of her.
Geo. Can't, mamma. She's ready made. Nature has done
it to our hands.
Mar. {aside to George). But I won't have the man who
smells of putty, nor the man who smells of beer. (Goes up to
cradle with Esther.)
Enter Hawtree, very pale.
Haw. (r. c). George ! Oh, the Marchioness is here.
Geo. (l. c). What's the matter?
Haw. Oh, nothing. Yes, there is. I don't mind telling
you. Why, Pve been thrown. I called at my chambers as I
came along and found this. (Gives George a note.)
Geo. From the Countess, Lady Florence, mother. (Reads.)
" Dear Major Hawtree, — I hasten to inform you that my
daughter, Florence, is about to enter upon an alliance with
Lord Saxeby, the eldest son of the Marquis of Loamshire.
Under these circumstances should you think fit to call here
again I feel assured " Well, perhaps it's for the best.
(Returns letter.) Caste, you know. Caste, and a marquis is
a bigger swell than a major.
CASTE 6l
Haw. (on music stool, k.). Best to marry in your own rank
of life.
Geo. (c). Yes. If you can find M^ girl. But if ever you
find the girl marry her. As to her station, "Kind hearts are
more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood."
Haw. Yaas. But a gentleman should hardly ally himself
to a nobody.
Geo. My dear fellow, nobody's a mistake. He don't exist.
Nobody's nobody. Everybody's somebody.
Haw. Yes. But still, Caste
Geo. Oh, Caste's all right. Caste is a good thing if it's
not carried too far. It shuts the door on the pretentious and
the vulgar, but it should open the door very wide for excep-
tional merit. Let brains break through its barriers, and what
brains can break through love may leap over.
Haw. Why, George, you're quite inspired ; quite an orator.
What makes you so brilliant? your captivity, the voyage?
what then ?
Geo. I'm in love with my wife !
Enter Eccles, r. 3 e., drunk, a bottle of gin in his hand.
Ecc. {crossing to head of table up L.). Bless this happy
company. Polly, my love, fetch some wine glasses — a tumbler
will do for me. Let me drink a toast. Mr. Chairman, ladies
and gentlemen, I propose the 'elth of our newly returned war-
rior, my son (Marquise shivers), the Right Honorable George
D'Alroy. Get glasses, Polly, and send for a bottle of sherry
wine for my ladyship. My ladyship {crossing to Marquise
round r. of table), we old folks must drink to wish the young
ones happy. So delighted to see you under these altered cir-
cum — circum — circum — Stangate — No — no — not
Sam. Unscrew his head and put it in a bucket !
Exit, in disgust, door r. 3 e.
WARN ctiftain.
Haw. {crossifig r. c, aside to George). I think I can
abate this nuisance, at least I can remove it. {Crosses c, to
EccLES.) Mr. Eccles, don't you think that with your talent
for liquor if you had an allowance of about two pounds a week
and went to Jersey, where spirits are cheap, that you could
drink yourself to death in a year?
62 CASTE
Ecc. I think I could. I'm sure — I'll try. (^Goes up R. of
table, steadying himself by it, and sits in chair by fire, with the
bottle of gi7i.')
Pol. Yes, dear, we can see each other, but we won't be
any bother to you. You can come and see us as often as you
like, but we won't return the visit.
Est. (aside ; kissing VoiA.\). She'll marry a workman and
live in a back shop. I wonder if she'll be happy? (^Returns
to Marquise at cradle. )
Pol. (tuatching her; aside). And she'll be a lady with a
coach and live with great folk. I wonder if she'll be happy ?
Geo. {coming down c. laith Esther). Come and play me
that air that used to ring in my ears when I lay awake night
after night captive in the cave. You know. {He hands
Esther to piano, she plays the air.')
RING ctti-tain.
Mar. {bending over the cradle at end, r.). My grandson !
(EccLES falls off the chair in the last stage of drunkenness,
bottle in ha?id. Hawtree, leaning ofi mantelpiece by the
other side of fire, looks at him through eye-glass. Sam
enters and goes to Pollv, up c, behind cradle, and pro-
ducing zaedding ring from several papers holds it up before
her eyes. Piano till end.)
SLOW CURTAIN
POSITIONS
Marquise {by cradle.)
{Piano) George. Polly. Sam. Eccles.
Esther. Hawtree,
LTPTJAKY
TTXTTTri:^T>CTTV OF CALIFORNIA
THF IWAfilSTRATF ^^^^^ ^^ Three Acts. Twelve males, four
females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, all
interior. Plays two hours and a half.
THE NOTORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH J^.^^-^ J'^ J°y ^f ^
Light males, five females.
Costumes, modern ; scenery, all interiors. Plays a full evening.
THE PROFMfiATF ^l^y in Four Acts. Seven males, five females.
Scenery, three interiors, rather elaborate ;
costumes, modern. Plays a full evening.
THF SCHOOI MISTRESS ^^^^ce in Three Acts. Klne males, seven
females. Costumes, modern ; scenery,
three interiors. Plays a full evening.
THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY ^'y '^J'^'^l ^«f ^y*
*■ males, nve females. Cos-
tumes, modern ; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening.
SWFFT I AVFNDFR C<'™®**y ™ Three Acts. Seven males, four
females. Scene, a single interior; costumes,
modern. Plays a full evening.
THF TIIWFS Comedy in Four Acts. Six males, seven females.
Scene, a single interior ; costumes, modern. Plays a
full evening.
THF WFAKFR SFX Co"^6*^'y '° Tliree Acts. Eight males, eight
females. Costumes, modern ; scenery, two
interiors. Plays a full evening.
A WIFE WITHOUT A SMILE ""T^^, '"^^-^f ^T\ ^'"
males, four females. Costumes,
moder^i ; scene, a single interior. Plays a full evening.
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