Allan Monkhouse

“ Did Edgar leave his rod at home? Could you manage ten pounds? What did you give Mary?
MRS. TIMBRELL. Is there any hope for him, Mary?
LEONARD. What? Oh! the baby—I keep forgetting about that blessed baby. But he’s not ill. I’m sure he’s not ill. Look here! I must get away. I shall hate you, Mary, if you stop me. I want a change, as the doctors say. I want to talk to these chaps. They’re men you can talk to. I must go. I must go. I’m a flower turning to the light, I’m a prisoner breaking from his dungeon, I’m a spirit winging upwards. Don’t stop me.
MARY. Why should I stop you? ”

“ MARY. I shall never understand you.
LEONARD. I think you understand me very well. It’s only the things I say you don’t understand. Poor girl. I bewilder you. You’re quite right. I’m what you see. You keep thinking you don’t understand and that I may be better than that. You’re a brave, humble person. By God! There’s no one like you. I wish I was different. I wish I was like George Truefit.
MARY. Only a little bit like him. Yourself, too.
LEONARD. What must I do to be saved?
MARY. Now, you’re talking queer again.
LEONARD. What is it you want? I see you watching me anxiously sometimes. ”

“ LEONARD. You did think of him, Mary. No, you didn’t think. It’s not thought. It was nature—something bigger than you—forcing you—forcing you to bring little Leonard into the world. Now, take comfort in that, my girl; there is some comfort in it.
MARY. I can’t see what it’s got to do with him. It’s not children I care for; it’s him. Well, he’s here now. I’ve got him now.
LEONARD. Quite right, my dear.
MARY. But I think he ought to have Lubbock’s food regularly and we must have a perambulator.
LEONARD. Well, this must go. [Taking out his watch.]
MARY. Would you? Will you? ”

“ LEONARD. I don’t see that a scrap with George Truefit would help much. I’ve lost Mary. That’s plain.
TIMBRELL. Well, well. I’ve no more to say.
LEONARD. It has been an extraordinarily interesting episode. The most stimulating thing that ever happened to me. I must thank you for that, Mary.
MRS. TIMBRELL. [Turning suddenly on LEONARD.] Doesn’t it hurt you. Can you get outside it like that?
LEONARD. Oh! Yes. It hurts me splendidly.
TIMBRELL. Your conduct is despicable, sir. The man who allows his wife to leave him is not a man.
LEONARD. [Snappishly.] Oh! Don’t talk rubbish. ”

“ PENDLETON. Don’t you bother.
TIMBRELL. [With an effort at geniality.] Well, Mary, my girl. It’s a shame to keep you waiting.
MARY. It doesn’t matter a bit, sir.
TIMBRELL. [Testily.] Don’t call me Sir.
MARY. No, sir—I mean No, Mr. Timbrell.
[Pg 34]
LEONARD. Call him Daddy. She calls me Sir sometimes. I rather like it. It feeds my vanity. What I like about Mary is that she has none of that absurd pretence that woman is the equal of man.
ADA. What nonsense!
SHEILA. He always does talk nonsense.
MRS. TIMBRELL. I expect Mary keeps you in good order at home. Do you Mary? Is he behaving nicely? ”

“ LEONARD. It is a bit stale, isn’t it? I apologise for the old wheeze. Well, you see, there’s the perambulator first.
MRS. GREAVES. The what, sir?
LEONARD. The first money we get is for a perambulator—no. The first is for a pint or a peck, or whatever it is, of what’s-his-name’s food for the baby. Second, the perambulator. You’re only third, Mrs. Greaves. Rather a bad third, but your turn will come.
MARY. It’s not fair to her. She ought to be paid.
LEONARD. Of course she ought. We ought all to be paid. I’m in favour of handsome incomes all round and I hope Lloyd George will take it up. ”

“ I think sometimes that people like you are just as intelligent as we are but you’re timid, you daren’t let your thoughts stray, you have secrets from yourselves. Well, mother, I shall have to look to you now Mary’s gone.
MRS. TIMBRELL. I can do nothing for you. You’ve ceased to be a child.
LEONARD. To him—to my father—Yes. Not to you.
MRS. TIMBRELL. Yes. You know too much. You can only pretend to be my child.
LEONARD. I’m to be alone, then. Mary, I shall be quite alone.
MARY. I daresay you’ll pick up somebody.
LEONARD. You’ve no sentiment at all.
MARY. I must go. Good-bye, ma’am. ”

“ LEONARD. Wait a moment. This is getting serious. I’ll write to my mother again. I’ll ask her to come. It’s absurd. He thinks he’s teaching me a lesson. I suppose he is. Mary, do you remember exactly what he said that day—I mean about the three hundred pounds? The old man’s very particular about keeping his word. That sort of people always are.
MARY. Aren’t you?
LEONARD. Shall I explain to you what a promise is?
MARY. I know.
LEONARD. Ah! Yes. It would spoil you to understand these things; and I’m losing all my lightness of touch. I was rather stupid just now with Mrs. Greaves. ”

“ EDGAR. The fellow’s a Comedian.
MRS. TIMBRELL. Come, Mary.
TIMBRELL. Stop. Mary, would you marry him?
[Pg 18]
MARY. What, sir?
TIMBRELL. Would you condescend to marry him? Would you be such a fool?
MARY. He wouldn’t marry me.
TIMBRELL. So much the worse for him, then. [To LEONARD.] You’ve lived here hitherto at my expense. I turn you out. You’re old enough to earn a living. Go.
MRS. TIMBRELL. Edward—
TIMBRELL. My mind’s made up. There’s only one alternative.
LEONARD. And what’s that, sir?
TIMBRELL. That you do reparation. That you do the honest, manly thing. ”

“ LEONARD. That’s perfectly true. Most of the business men I have met would do for it very well.
EDGAR. You’d better try the music-hall stage.
LEONARD. Now that’s quite a helpful suggestion. That’s an idea, Edgar. Humbugs like myself make good actors.
TIMBRELL.—You are not serious, sir.
LEONARD. Hardly. No.
PENDLETON. I’ve heard that Harry Lauder got—how much a week was it—when he—? something astonishing. Why, sir, there are very few merchants in the city of London who make as much.
LEONARD. [Reflecting.] The music-halls. Mary! [Deep in talk with MRS. TIMBRELL she doesn’t hear.] No matter. ”

“ MARY. But the taxis go faster, father, and you’ve only got to pay the same.
BROOME. Never mind that. Why should they injure a established trade? Why should they spoil other trades? What’s a country without its trades?
MRS. BROOME. That’s the way he talks.
BROOME. Mark my words. They’ll find out their mistake. Look what’s coming to the breed of horses. Look at nosebags.
[Pg 60]
LEONARD. Nosebags?
BROOME. Ay. I’ve been told of a firm as used to turn out a matter of two hundred nosebags a week and now they don’t do fifty. ”

“ EDGAR. Gone?
TIMBRELL. Take care Sheila doesn’t go.
EDGAR. Sheila?
TIMBRELL. Perhaps she’s gone already.
EDGAR. What do you mean?
TIMBRELL. I’ve been listening to the ravings of lunacy and they’ve affected my brain. I’m getting old. Do you ever have any doubt about yourself, Edgar? Do you ever think you’re a fool? ”

“ LEONARD. Mary lives in the kitchen and the attic; Mary lives on poorer food than ours when it isn’t our leavings; the sheets on Mary’s bed are coarser than ours—
TIMBRELL. Silence, sir!
EDGAR. Shameful!
MRS. TIMBRELL. What would you have us do?
MARY. I’m making no complaint, ma’am.
MRS. TIMBRELL. Not of him?
MARY. I was as bad as him.
LEONARD. She is not bad. She can’t be bad. Anyone can see that who looks at her.
MARY. Yes, I’ve acted bad. I couldn’t face—I could never face— [Her voice catches. MRS. TIMBRELL crosses over to her.] ”

“ Pendleton have a word.
PENDLETON. Oh! don’t mind me, ma’am. I’m all right.
LEONARD. And Mrs. Pendleton’s all right, I’m sure. She’s got her eye on us. Of course, you know, Mrs. Pendleton, that Mary and I are—well—we’re rather on show here. This is a social experiment. Now, why not go deeper into it? Mary’s manners are quite nice. Anybody can see that. The housemaid’s manners are always better than those of the daughter of the house. Now, father, keep quiet. My manners are what they always have been. ”

“ But I should like to have a look at him through a keyhole or something.
TIMBRELL. Manly talk.
LEONARD. Mary, do you like him better than me?
MARY. It’s not the same thing.
LEONARD. It’s deuced interesting if one weren’t so close to it. As it is I feel rather uncomfortable. Unmanly. Yes, I suppose so. I suppose things are easy for these manly people. They just go to work with an axe. But how do I know that she isn’t right? Mary, I’m horribly uncomfortable. I’m unhappy. I seem to be losing something. Yes, really losing something. Are you quite sure about George Truefit? ”

“ SHEILA. She would be my brother-in-law’s wife not my sister-in-law.
LEONARD. You are saved.
TIMBRELL. I want to know whether I must write Mary Broome’s name here.
EDGAR. It’s after marriage you’d do that—not before.
TIMBRELL. This time it’s before.
LEONARD. There’s a sort of grandeur about a man with a fixed idea.
[Pg 24]
EDGAR. I know you’re an obstinate—a determined man, sir, but I’ll ask you for once to consider—
TIMBRELL. Silence.
EDGAR. Mother—
MRS. TIMBRELL. It’s no use. I’ve never stood up against him. I’ve let him have his own way all these years. It didn’t seem to matter. ”

“ LEONARD. What is it you’re thinking about, Mary. There’s something inscrutable in you. It seems to me that we’re just as uncomfortable as ever. Mother, let’s have a little motherliness or something. I don’t know how it is but I want cheering up. I came from the station most penitentially in a growler—an ancient fourwheeler. It made me think of your father, Mary. How is that good man? Got a job all right? By-the-bye, there’s an extraordinary upset at our place. ”

“ You see my point is that the question [Pg 35] whether we shall behave nicely on pleasant little family occasions isn’t interesting. If you are really interested in Mary and me let’s try to go a little deeper into things.
TIMBRELL. Perfect rubbish!
LEONARD. It’s your weak point, sir. If I haven’t pointed it out before I ought to have done—you will meet everything with exclamations and interjections. Conversation can’t be carried on like that. There must be some reasonable way of looking at me. I may be an extraordinary specimen, but you ought to get used to me. ”

“ I have, I mean. Mary, you have a sound social instinct. I can never tell what [Pg 30] these bourgeois people will do. And mind you [holding out his hand deprecatingly.] —I use the word simply and inoffensively. You understand that, Mrs. Pendleton. I’m an outsider.
EDGAR. You mean a bounder?
LEONARD. Quite good, Edgar, if you could only get a pleasant tone into your voice. As you say it it’s so bad socially. And how are you, Sheila?
SHEILA. I’m quite well, thank you.
LEONARD. Chilly, chilly. Mother, you’ve got an awkward job this evening.
TIMBRELL. Don’t be absurd, sir. ”

“ MRS. TIMBRELL. [To LEONARD.] I’ve found your photograph.
MARY. You have no right in my room.
MRS. TIMBRELL. [Greatly agitated.] Leonard, I can’t believe—Leonard—
[She has advanced into the room having closed the door. It opens and MR. TIMBRELL enters gaily with SHEILA on his arm. He is a rather precise man condescending to geniality, obviously righteous according to his lights and obstinately trustful of them. MRS. TIMBRELL’S general attitude to him is a rather tired acquiescence which sometimes stops short of submission. ADA and EDGAR follow closely.] ”

“ I don’t defend him. He is anxious to make amends. I must remind you that at a time when—that I insisted on his making reparation. It was an unusual course. I conceived it to be my duty. Later I found it necessary in certain painful circumstances to impose what I may call an ordeal. It is over. I am willing to be lenient. I should propose, if your husband remains reasonably—what shall I say?—steady, to make your pecuniary position a much easier one. ”

“ MRS. GREAVES. I should be sorry, sir, but I must have my money.
LEONARD. You shall have it with compound interest at 5 per cent. Do you know what that means?
MRS. GREAVES. I think so.
[Pg 53]
LEONARD. It’s more than you can get safely elsewhere so it means that the longer we keep you out of your money the more it will be to your advantage.
MRS. GREAVES. I think you’re a funny gentleman.
LEONARD. [To MARY.] She’s found me out.
MARY. Mrs. Greaves, we’ve got some money coming in a day or two. At least I think so. But I’m anxious about the baby and I must have some for it. I will pay you. ”

“ Why, sir, it’s as plain to me as if I’d been told that your father’s cut up rough about this.
LEONARD. You’re quite right.
BROOME. He wouldn’t have you marry my gel [Pg 67] and like an hon’rable young feller in love—in love mindyer—you ups and you sez: I’ll marry her so’s ’ow. It’s as plain as mud—
LEONARD. It does look like that, doesn’t it?
BROOME. It’s on’y the other day I was readin’ a bit of a novelette in the paper—just to pass the time—and there was a young feller who did just like that and the father says it’s a cut off of a shillin. ”

“ That’s just what I feel more and more Mr. Broome. I used to want to say things and now I say to myself. Is it any good? I believe we think very much alike about it.
BROOME. But a man has his feelings and so he’s got somethin’ to say. ”

“ MARY. [Who has taken a great interest in this.] That damper wants a bit of coaxing but I expect it’s the coals. [To TIMBRELL, reproachfully.] You’ve not gone back to those cheap coals again, sir? They do make such a lot of soot.
[Pg 33]
TIMBRELL. Well—er—
MRS. TIMBRELL. You would do it, you know. [To MRS. PENDLETON.] Does your husband come and shew you how to save money in the house?
MRS. PENDLETON. I’d like to see him try.
MRS. TIMBRELL. I’m afraid I don’t stand up against him. I’m very weak. Well, get things straight as soon as you can, Beryl.
MAID. Yes, ma’am. It’ll be a little time yet. ”