The Profligate 11

The Profligate 11

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

 

Thank you for your warning, Mr. Murray. It is my intention to expiate

my atrocities by a life of tolerable ease and comfort. [_Looking at his

watch._] We shall really lose our train.

 

HUGH MURRAY.

 

[_Turning away in disgust._] Oh!

 

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

 

And it may surprise a sentimental Scotch gentleman like yourself to

learn that marriages of contentment are the reward of husbands who have

taken the precaution to sow their wild oats rather thickly.

 

HUGH MURRAY.

 

Contentment!

 

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

 

Yes--I’ve studied the question.

 

HUGH MURRAY.

 

Contentment! Renshaw, do you imagine there is no Autumn in the life of

a profligate? Do you think there is no moment when the accursed crop

begins to rear its millions of heads above ground; when the rich man

would give his wealth to be able to tread them back into the earth

which rejects the foul load? To-day, you have robbed some honest man of

a sweet companion!

 

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

 

Look here, Mr. Murray----!

 

HUGH MURRAY.

 

To-morrow, next week, next month, you may be happy--but what of the

time when those wild oats thrust their ears through the very seams of

the floor trodden by the wife whose respect you will have learned to

covet! You may drag her into the crowded streets--there is the same

vile growth springing up from the chinks of the pavement! In your

house or in the open, the scent of the mildewed grain always in your

nostrils, and in your ears no music but the wind’s rustle amongst the

fat sheaves! And, worst of all, your wife’s heart a granary bursting

with the load of shame your profligacy has stored there! I warn

you--Mr. Lawrence Kenward!

 

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

 

What! Hold your tongue, man; d----n you, hold your tongue!

 

[_LESLIE enters with WILFRID and CHEAL._]

 

LESLIE.

 

[_To DUNSTAN._] Have I kept you waiting? You’re not cross with me, Dun,

dear?

 

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

 

Cross--no. But--[_looking sullenly at HUGH_] let us get on our journey.

 

LESLIE.

 

Good-bye, Mr. Murray. [_He takes her hand._] Won’t you--won’t you

congratulate Mrs. Dunstan Renshaw? Do say something to me!

 

HUGH MURRAY.

 

What can I say to you but this--God bless you, little school-girl,

always?

 

[_She joins DUNSTAN and goes out, followed by WILFRID and CHEAL. HUGH

is left alone gazing after them._]

 

 

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

 

 

 

 

THE SECOND ACT.

 

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

 

 

_The scene is the Loggia of the Villa Colobiano, a beautiful old

Florentine villa on the road to Fiesole, with a view of Florence

in the distance. It is an artistic-looking place, with elegant

pillars supporting a painted ceiling, coloured marble flooring,

and a handsome balustrade and steps leading to the road and garden

below, while noticeable on the wall of the villa, between the two

entrance windows, is a glass case protecting the remnants of an

old, half-obliterated fresco._

 

_WEAVER is gazing down the road through a pair of field-glasses, and

PRISCILLA is bringing in the tea things, which she proceeds to

arrange on a little table._

 

WEAVER.

 

Pris.

 

PRISCILLA.

 

Hush! [_Pointing towards the inner room._] Mr. Wilfrid has gone right

off, tired out with his travelling.

 

WEAVER.

 

I’m very sorry, but what am I to do? Here’s a carriage, with some

ladies, coming up the road; of course they’ll pull up here to look at

our blessed cartoon.

 

PRISCILLA.

 

Well, whatever folks can see in them few smears and scratches to come

botherin’ us about, passes my belief.

 

WEAVER.

 

_You_ don’t see nothing in it, of course--a country-bred girl. But

there’s a real bit of Michael Angelo under that glass. When he was

stayin’ in this ’ouse some time back he amused himself by drawing that

with a piece of black chalk.

 

PRISCILLA.

 

Why don’t he send and fetch it away?

 

WEAVER.

 

It’s on the wall of the villa--how can he fetch it? And then again,

he’s dead. [_A bell rings._] I said so.

 

PRISCILLA.

 

Bother it! It’s sp’iled my dear little missy’s honeymoon. Jest as

master is stroking the back of her little ’and, or dear missy is a’

goin’ to droop her head on master’s shoulder, in comes Weaver with

“Somebody to look at the wall!” Lovin’ master as she do, why don’t she

wipe it off and a’ done with it!

 

[_MRS. STONEHAY’S voice is heard within the house._]

 

MRS. STONEHAY.

 

There is a step there, Irene--I have already struck my foot.

 

PRISCILLA.

 

Hush! Don’t show it ’em, Weaver.

 

WEAVER.

 

I must. The villa was let to us on condition that all visitors was

allowed to see the cartoon. This way, please.

 

[_He shows in MRS. STONEHAY, a pompous-looking woman with an arrogant

and artificial manner, and her daughter IRENE, a handsome girl of

about twenty, cold in speech and bearing._]

 

MRS. STONEHAY.

 

I hope we have not toiled up two flights of stairs for nothing. What is

there to be seen here?

 

PRISCILLA.

 

[_Pointing to WILFRID._] Please, ma’am, the young gentleman has just

travelled right through from England, and has fallen asleep.

 

MRS. STONEHAY.

 

Oh, indeed. This is surely not _all_.

 

WEAVER.

 

[_Opening the glass case._] Here is the cartoon, ma’am.

 

MRS. STONEHAY.

 

Cartoon--where?

 

WEAVER.

 

A allegorical design, by Michael Angelo, ma’am; done when he was stayin’ in this very ’ouse.