Part 2

_Pri._ I’ll tell her, madam, she will be delighted; such a day, you understand, madam. If she’s only happy! May heaven—

_Cha._ He’s having a reel in the next room now.

_Luc._ Who are you talking about?

_Pri._ Eh, my daughter, madam; at this moment she’s so happy—may she be so all her life! and as to your maid, madam, she dances as if my daughter’s happiness depended on her legs, you understand. Madam, of course I mean—

_Luc._ Perfectly; be good enough to open that door, and show the gentleman in, who is in there.

[_Sits down, and puts on veil._

_Pri._ But, madam—

_Luc._ Do what I tell you.

_Pri._ (_hesitating, yet opens door of communication, and enters_ CHARLES’S _room_). Sir!

_Cha._ All right, I’ve heard; you can announce me.

_Pri._ You wrote your name in my book; but you see, sir, my daughter’s—

_Cha._ You’ve forgotten it; say Mr. Charleston King.

_Pri._ (_re-entering_ L. H.). Mr. Charles, son of a king!

_Luc._ Son of a king!

_Cha._ (_entering_). Charleston King, at your service, madam.

_Pri._ (_aside, going_). A veiled woman in my house on such a day!

[_Exit._

_Cha._ (_taking a chair near_ LUCY). It is really too good of you, madam, to receive a man in your rooms who you never saw; and I scarcely know how to thank you.

_Luc._ You will thank me, sir, by explaining how it is that one can be—

_Cha._ Too lazy for any thing.

_Luc._ Precisely. If you will take the chair near you, you can be seated.

_Cha._ Well, you see, in this world men have all sorts of faces. (PRICHARD _enters with tea-tray_.) Confound this fellow! Just as I was getting on so nicely!

_Pri._ (_putting down tea_). Madam—

_Cha._ Talking of faces, let me draw your attention, madam, to this one (_pointing to_ PRI.’S _face_). There is a face that has committed faults—crimes.

_Pri._ Crimes! Faults! Me, madam! me, sir! Here is the best tea, which upon this auspicious day—

_Cha._ That’ll do.

_Pri._ Crimes! Faults! Yes, madam, your maid has charmed us to such an extent with her dancing on this auspicious—

_Luc._ (_taking no notice of_ PRI.). Go on talking, sir, whilst I pour out the tea.

_Cha._ Well, madam, in consequence of my misfortune my lifetime has indeed been a miserable one,—sorrow upon sorrow, faults accumulating upon faults.

_Pri._ (_leaving_). Crimes! Faults, indeed!

[_Exit._

_Cha._ My friends always insisted on declaring that I was too lazy to do any thing; and the unlucky star that I was born under, gossiping tongues, and certain circumstances all combined, seemed to favor such a prediction.

_Luc._ But, sir, was this merited? (_Making tea._) Will you have a cup of tea, Mr.—Mr.—

_Cha._ (_absorbed_). Apollo.

_Luc._ Mr. Apollo.

_Cha._ Madam! Ah, a thousand pardons. I was absorbed in thinking of my miserable self.

_Luc._ (_getting interested_). Have you no relations?

_Cha._ I had an uncle, a well-known merchant, but he died two years ago.

_Luc._ And didn’t he leave any thing?

_Cha._ Oh, dear, yes; he left a very nice fortune. In fact, he adopted this young lady on purpose to do that.

_Luc._ Oh, that wasn’t right.

_Cha._ I don’t know that it’s wrong; but it is not on account of this that I owe him a grudge. I heard that the only way in which he could discharge an obligation to a friend of his was by adopting this friend’s daughter, who was left an orphan, a very charming person, I heard; at least, so I was told, for I refused to put my foot inside his house.

_Luc._ Curious determination!

_Cha._ Pardon me: not at all. The fact is, he insulted me,—he made me a present.

_Luc._ A present! what could it be?

_Cha._ “_A very handsome dressing-case_” (_a waltz is heard playing outside_), with my name engraved upon it, and below my name the following compliment: “Too lazy to do any thing.” I was furious, but I wanted a dressing-case: so, as I wanted a dressing-case, I kept it. I’ll trouble you for another cup of tea, at least if you don’t find me too lazy for that?

[_Handing cup._

_Luc._ With pleasure.

[_Hands cup._

_Cha._ Thanks; don’t let’s talk of my unfortunate self any more; a little more sugar, please.

_Luc._ This country band really plays that waltz charmingly.

_Cha._ (_listening and pondering_). Yes, oh, yes; how often have I heard that air, and how happy have I been!

_Luc._ That waltz?

_Cha._ My mother used to play it to me when _I was a little child_!

_Luc._ Have you any control over yourself?

_Cha._ Most certainly, a good deal even; ask me to prove it.

_Luc._ You would not grant what I ask.

_Cha._ I wouldn’t. Ah, madam! you want to send me away.

_Luc._ Not at all: only I wished to explain to you, that, never having worn a thick veil in a room, I’m simply stifling.

_Cha._ I can quite believe you. Nothing, nothing is so dangerous as a thick veil: you must take it off at once,—you must.

_Luc._ If you can sufficiently control yourself to sit in a chair here without turning your head, I will sit behind you, and we can finish our conversation without my being stifled.

_Cha._ (_reproachfully_). What, madam!

_Luc._ Well, you must choose; for, as I don’t want to die of suffocation, I shall be forced to give you your _congé_.

_Cha._ (_taking chair down front of scene, and sitting_). Madam, this is the second time it is my good fortune to save your life to-night, in return for which—

_Luc._ (_advancing with a cup of tea in one hand, whilst with the other she keeps him down in the chair_). Then, sir, I am to understand that, notwithstanding all the misfortunes connected with your nickname, you have still hope.

_Cha._ Yes,—hope, that poor little creature that nothing can kill.

_Luc._ It is, then, this hope that takes you to Baden?

_Cha._ Baden is, as far as I’m concerned at this moment, my last hope in this world; then, if my luck is once more against me, if fortune fails to help me, if that poor little creature, hope, succumbs to bad luck, why, then—

_Luc._ You’ll go and join your mother.

_Cha._ Yes, madam, I shall go.

[_Endeavoring to turn round._

_Luc._ If you do that, I shall have to tie you with my handkerchief. Don’t you think now, joking apart, that it would be wiser, without tempting fortune at Baden, to go to your “mother at once”? (_Waltz music again._) She’d play to you again. (_Listening._) Come, do you hear that waltz? and when you hear it once more by her side,—that dear mother,—you’ll be happy, and—

_Cha._ Ah! then, in reading my letter, you evidently did not understand, did not comprehend.

_Luc._ Comprehend what?

_Cha._ The country that my mother is gone to.

_Luc._ No.

_Cha._ It is the Country of Peace, of Repose,—the only land from which the mother cannot return to console her child.

_Luc._ (_making a movement as if to show herself_). Then, sir, am I to understand that if you lost—you would—(_stops, and reseats herself_)—he has no mother!

_Cha._ It would not interest you, madam, to learn all these details; but please to remember that you are not my friend George, and that I’ve not absolutely gone on my knees to you to read my letter.

_Luc._ (_aside, looking at_ CHARLES). Just imagine if it were him! (_Rising with animation._) Well, sir, I don’t repent of having read your letter: in fact, I congratulate myself on having done so; and I am also glad to see you here, for now I can implore you, beseech you, to renounce such fatal plans; to beg of you with clasped hands to do so, in the name of your mother.

_Cha._ Madam!

_Luc._ Listen, sir. I cannot explain to you my object in being so curious; but what is your name?

_Cha._ Charleston King.

_Luc._ Sir!

_Cha._ That is my veil. If you want to take it off, remove your own.

_Luc._ No, sir: that is impossible; but—

_Cha._ In that case, madam, I am Charleston King, too lazy to do any thing, but quite at your service.

_Luc._ (_aside_). What shall I do? (_Looking round, sees flowers._) Ah! (_Takes a sprig of May, and comes towards_ CHA.) Sir, we are about to part, probably never to meet again; would it be repugnant to your feelings to accept a souvenir?

_Cha._ Pardon, madam, but you don’t propose giving me a dressing-case?

_Luc._ Don’t be alarmed. The souvenir I give you, do you promise to keep it?

_Cha._ For ever, madam, I swear it. (_Aside._) What can it be?

_Luc._ (_kissing sprig, and leaning against back of_ CHA.’S _chair_). Take it.

_Cha._ (_looking at it, but not taking it_). A sprig of May!

_Luc._ Upon which I have just left a kiss. (CHA. _moves_.) You have sworn never to part with it. Good! Should you persist in your fatal project, at the moment when you are about to commit this frightful act, perhaps my poor little sprig may catch your eye; perhaps it will remind you of the days of your childhood, those happy days that have fled away; those Sundays when your mother’s smile was upon you as you filled your little arms with flowers, and brought your childish offering to her knees.

_Cha._ Keep still, my heart!

_Luc._ If you should have such thoughts, your courage will be tried; for, in speaking to you of me, my little sprig will also remind you of your mother; and if you should still desire—

_Cha._ (_seizing sprig_). No, no! I have no longer any such desire (_seizing her hand, and kissing it, slides upon his knees_). I swear it to you on my knees. But I must see the angel who—(_Lifts his head, when_ LUCY _turns away_). Ah, cruel! This hand at least I hold.

[_Covers it with kisses._

_Luc._ Give me my hand, sir, or else—

_Cha._ Or else—

_Luc._ Tell me your name.

_Cha._ Shall I see your face?

_Luc._ No, no! I cannot possibly—

_Cha._ Madam, I implore you! I beseech you!

_Eliz._ (_outside_). It’s me, mam. There’s no key.

_Luc._ Elizabeth!—Get up at once, and return to your room, I implore you!

_Cha._ Madam, I obey you; but—

_Luc._ (_going towards door_). Thanks, sir, and don’t forget my lecture.

_Cha._ (_entering his room_). In thinking of you, madam, I shall always remember it.

[_Exit._ LUCY _opens door_.

_Eliz._ (_entering_ 2 E. L.). Why, the key’s fallen out. (_Aside._) She’s been up to something, I know.

[_Replaces it._

_Luc._ (_still upset_). You must be tired, Elizabeth. Go to bed, my good girl, go.

[_Reseats herself, and takes up book._

_Eliz._ (_takes off tea things_). I tired! Oh, no, mum! (_Returns._) Surely thirty waltzes or quadrilles wouldn’t tire me much; and there’s only two hours to sleep. It’s not worth while going to bed: so, if you please, mum, I’ll sit up with you.

[_Sits on sofa._

_Luc._ It must, then, be that nephew, the son of his sister, of whom Mr. Mortimer always avoided speaking to me.

_Cha._ (_in next room, uneasy_). What on earth made her so anxious to know my name?

_Luc._ At any rate, I have his promise: that’s some consolation. By the way, Elizabeth, did you know Mr. Mortimer’s nephew?

_Eliz._ Well, yes,—little Charley Devereux. Oh, yes! I recollect; and I—I—(_falling asleep and dreaming_) thank you, sir: I don’t dance any more.

_Cha._ And to think she’ll leave without my seeing her face! It’s abominable!

[_Rises._

_Luc._ (_Looking at_ ELIZABETH). She’s asleep, poor thing! She’ll catch cold.

[_Covers her with her cloak._

_Cha._ Ah, this window! Perhaps there’s a veranda.

[_Goes to window._

_Luc._ How can I ascertain for certain that he is Mr. Mortimer’s nephew? I must know it somehow.

_Cha._ No road here; perhaps by the other staircase. I shall just go in without knocking, as if I had forgotten; that’s it: here goes.

[_Exit, slamming door._

_Luc._ That noise was in his room. I think he’s gone out. If I was certain that dressing-case he spoke of would tell me! (_At door._) Sir, Mr. King! No answer. What have I to fear?

[_Enters room, closing door._

_Cha._ (_gently opening_ 2 E. L. _door_). Yes, this is the room. (_Looking round._) She sleeps; my handkerchief too. Now, my charming girl, let me see your face. (_Takes candle, starts back._) Confound it! Well, there’s the end of my dream.

[_Heaves a sigh, and goes out._

_Eliz._ (_starting up_). There’s somebody in the room. (_Goes to door at back, and looks in._) I knew she was up to something: I’ll find it out, see if I don’t.

[_Exit_ 1 L. E.

_Luc._ (_searching_). Ah, here it is at last,—Charles Devereux. It’s he, it’s he! (_She returns hastily, and bolts door._) Ah, how my heart beats! what shall I do now? (_Thinking._) The fact is, he’s very nice, notwithstanding his nickname.

_Cha._ (_entering, and falling into arm-chair_). Another dream, that takes itself off to the land of dreams. (_Striking table._) No, it’s always the same. If you were to go to a masked ball where there was only one woman—oh, love! oh, frenzy! the mask falls, ugh! no more love, no more frenzy. The woman’s ninety, and ugly as—heaven knows what.

_Luc._ He’s come in. (_Calling at door._) Mr. King!

_Cha._ And such a voice!

_Luc._ Sir.

_Cha._ Woke her up, I suppose. Madam—

_Luc._ Sir, I should like to have a few words of explanation with you.

_Cha._ (_running to fasten door_). Oh, by jingo!

_Luc._ He’s locked himself in. (_Aloud._) Pardon me, sir, for troubling you; but—but—if I mistake not, you are Mr. Charles Devereux, the nephew of Mr. Mortimer.

_Cha._ I suppose you mean, madam, that that gentleman was my uncle. I don’t dispute the fact. (_Aside._) How the mischief did she find that out? Ah! it’s that confounded landlord told her.

_Luc._ Well, sir, I’ve a most important communication to make to you from his adopted child.

_Cha._ But I don’t want to hear what she’s got to say, madam. You know her?

_Luc._ Yes, sir, I know her; and I also know that she has been seeking you for a long time, in order to give you up a fortune which by right belongs to you.

_Cha._ What you propose, madam, is ridiculous. I could never accept a farthing.

_Luc._ But suppose in seeing her you happen to like her, and that—

_Cha._ I shall never like her.

_Luc._ Perhaps you might. If she were like me, for instance?

_Cha._ Never, madam. I’m sworn celibacy,—a knight of Malta, in fact.

_Luc._ (_aside_). What an extraordinary change! (_Aloud._) Mr. King, I’m in the greatest danger, and you alone can save me.

_Cha._ Madam, I’ve saved you twice to-night, and I distinctly refuse to do it any more.

_Luc._ (_aside_). He’s absolutely getting impertinent. Sir, I have something to return to you that belongs to you,—a pocket-handkerchief.

_Cha._ Thanks: I’ve got it,—one with a monogram. I really believe I must barricade my door.

[_Puts furniture against door._

_Luc._ He’s got it! Why, he must have come in here, then; and—and—of course he saw Elizabeth with my cloak round her. I see. Ha, ha, ha!

_Cha._ Confound her, she’s laughing! She laughs too as if she was only twenty.

_Luc._ So, sir, you refuse to open the door?

_Cha._ Quite impossible, madam. I’m gone, I’m a long way off, I’m on my road to Baden.

_Luc._ Pleasant journey, sir. (_Aside._) It can’t be helped, I must have recourse to more violent means.

[_Exit_ L. D.

_Cha._ I verily believe she’s going to burst the door in: I’d better bolt. The devil! this is becoming serious. It almost reminds me of my adventure amongst the savages in Africa, where the daughter of a king, with rings in her nose, took a violent fancy to me. The king favored the marriage, and told me quietly that I had the choice, if I didn’t marry his daughter he’d eat me. I at once answered, “Your Majesty, I prefer to enter your family to your mouth; I’ll marry your daughter to-morrow.” And during the night I escaped to the coast. Let us do the same, and escape to the coast.

[_Makes for door._

_Pri._ (_appearing at door drunk_). Miss Lucy Mortimer wishes to have the honor of seeing you, sir.

_Cha._ Miss who, did you say?

_Pri._ Well, sir, beg pardon, it’s your cousin’s uncle or your uncle’s cousin.

_Cha._ Ask the lady to walk in, wretched man.

_Pri._ (_announcing_ LUCY, _who is in_ ELIZABETH’S _cloak with a thick veil on_). Miss Lucy Mortimer.

_Cha._ (_advancing, confused_). Madam, I thought I—

_Luc._ (_speaking to him in a disguised voice, and throwing back veil_). Well, sir, what do you think of me?

_Cha._ Ah, madam! Even the most confused man in the world could but confess that you are charming. (_Aside._) If my neighbor were only half as pretty! Charming is not the word; but, excuse me, you come here at five in the morning, and ask me what I think of you. Well, that’s all right, I suppose; but pardon me if I go further, and venture to ask in the most humble manner in the world a little question.

_Luc._ (_same voice_). I’m listening.

_Cha._ I scarcely know how to put it, but by what curious coincidence do you come to know my name?

_Luc._ (_in ordinary voice_). Because, sir, I found out. (_Points to dressing-case._) Because it’s the name of a kind, frank, brave young fellow, whom I really don’t find too lazy for any thing, and whom I’ve also learned to know as too honorable to misinterpret.

_Cha._ That voice! impossible. (_Points to_ L. H.) It can’t be you. Who could I have seen there just now?

_Luc._ My maid, who was asleep whilst I was here, reading your name.

_Cha._ Why, it’s like a dream. But your husband, madam—

_Luc._ He too has gone to that land of rest.

_Cha._ You are then—

_Luc._ Miss Lucy Mortimer, your cousin, who can no longer retain the fortune that so justly belongs to you.

_Cha._ (_confused_). But I absolutely refuse to—

_Luc._ Ah, if you refuse me, I shall ask you to give me back my sprig of May.

_Cha._ (_kneeling_). Never. I will keep it to the last moment of my life, and with it the hand I now hold.

[_Sinks on his knee. Door opens._

_Luc._ Get up: here’s some one coming.

_Enter_ PRICHARD, R. 2 E.

_Pri._ Madam, sir, the postilions are harnessed: I mean the horses.

_Cha._ Confound that landlord!—Come here, landlord. (_Takes_ PRI. _up_ C.) Did you ever hear that this hotel of yours was infected with a malady of the most infectious character?

_Pri._ Sir, I beg most distinctly to state that—

_Cha._ Landlord, you’re very drunk.

[_Pushes him through door into next room, where he falls on sofa._

_Luc._ Oh, Charles, dear! I hope we sha’n’t catch it.

_Cha._ Don’t be afraid, dear: the malady which I allude to is one from which we are both of us suffering, and it is one that has but one remedy for its cure. (_To audience._) Dear friends, the malady is love: the remedy is marriage. If any of you are suffering from some of the premonitory symptoms of this insidious disease, you will, I feel sure, accord us your utmost sympathy. But if there should be any here who have not yet been attacked, and who wish to avoid contagion, let me strongly recommend them to avoid, upon any pretence whatever, a conversation with a lady which is to be carried on

* * * * *

UNDER A VEIL.

_Curtain._

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Plays for Amateur Theatrics

BY GEORGE M. BAKER

_Author of “Amateur Dramas,” “The Mimic Stage,” “The Social Stage,” “The Drawing-Room Stage,” “Handy Dramas,” “The Exhibition Drama,” “A Baker’s Dozen,” &c._

=Titles in this Type are New Plays.=

=_Titles in this Type are Temperance Plays._=

DRAMAS.

_In Three Acts._ _Cts._