Mary Broome: A Comedy, in Four Acts

MARY BROOME

[CHARACTERS]

[ACT I.]

[ACT II.]

[ACT III.]

[ACT IV.]

[Transcriber’s Note]

MARY BROOME: A COMEDY, IN
FOUR ACTS, BY ALLAN MONKHOUSE

BOSTON: JOHN W. LUCE & COMPANY
LONDON: SIDGWICK & JACKSON, LTD.
3 ADAM STREET, ADELPHI MCMXIII

First Impression, June, 1912
Second Impression, January, 1913

Entered at the Library of Congress, Washington, U.S.A.
All rights reserved

“Mary Broome” was first produced by Miss Horniman’s Company at the Gaiety Theatre, Manchester, on October 9th, 1911, with the following cast:—

The Play produced by Stanley Drewitt

[CHARACTERS]

EDWARD TIMBRELL

MRS. TIMBRELL

EDGAR TIMBRELL

LEONARD TIMBRELL

ADA TIMBRELL

SHEILA RAY (afterwards Mrs. Edgar Timbrell)

MARY BROOME (afterwards Mrs. Leonard Timbrell)

JOHN BROOME

MRS. BROOME

MR. PENDLETON

MRS. PENDLETON

MRS. GREAVES

A MAID

[ACT I.]

[The Drawing-room in a biggish suburban villa—The furniture, &c., are in middling taste. EDGAR TIMBRELL, an ordinary young man of nearly thirty in neat tweeds is sprawling self-consciously on the sofa. ADA and SHEILA are opening a parcel. They are the ordinary middle-class young women who might develop in all manner of unexpected ways and usually do not.]

SHEILA. Come and look, Edgar.

ADA. He’s only pretending not to care.

SHEILA. Lend me your knife. [She takes it from him and cuts the string.] I brought this over without opening it just to let you see it too.

EDGAR. For Heaven’s sake remember who sent them all.

SHEILA. It’s all right. Ada’s keeping a list.

EDGAR. Well, get all the fun out of it you can. You won’t often have the chance of being married.

SHEILA. [Opening the parcel.] Oh! how nice! What do you mean, Edgar? I’ve had lots of chances.

EDGAR. You can’t go on having them now, though.

ADA. Let me see, Sheila.

SHEILA. No, that’s why I want everything to be nice. Instead of all those chances I want one delightful reality. A sweet little tea caddy; that’s two; the other was bigger. One delightful reality, Edgar. You’ve got to see to that.

EDGAR. Oh! I’ll make a jolly good husband.

SHEILA. I wasn’t thinking of that. I was only thinking of the wedding. One thing at a time. I want to have the prettiest wedding that ever was. Something that I can look back to. No hitches and stupidities and uglinesses.

ADA. Some people like Indian tea. You could have Indian tea in that one.

[Enter MARY BROOME, the housemaid. She is a comely young woman in the housemaid’s usual afternoon dress and with the housemaid’s usual self-possession.]

MARY. A parcel for you, sir.

EDGAR. Thank you. Will you put it down—anywhere.

ADA. Another present! No.

EDGAR. Only my new silk hat.

SHEILA. Hurrah! That’s right.

[MARY puts the box on a chair and is going out when EDGAR speaks.]

EDGAR. Er—is Mr. Leonard in, do you know?

MARY. I think he went upstairs, sir.

ADA. What do you want with him?

SHEILA. Let’s see you in the new hat.

EDGAR. It’s just a notion I had. I’m afraid of forgetting. I wonder if he’s done anything about clothes and things; he’s fearfully casual.

MARY. Must I—? Do you want me, sir?

EDGAR. No, I think not, thank you.

[She goes out.]

SHEILA. The new hat. The new hat. How jolly!

[She begins to open the box.]

ADA. You’d better speak to him while you think about it.

EDGAR. He’s no good at ceremonial clothes. I believe he’s only got a frock coat.

SHEILA. Oh! don’t let us have a frock coat. I should never forget it.

ADA. I’ll go for him. I’ll fetch him.

SHEILA. Yes, do, Ada. No time like the present. [ADA goes out.] Edgar, I wish Leonard wasn’t coming to the wedding.

EDGAR. But, my dear girl—

SHEILA. Oh! I know. I know. Of course he must be best man. It would be all wrong if he wasn’t but somehow he’s so queer and different and I don’t feel safe with him and I don’t know what he’ll do or say. Of course he can be charming. I think he’s a flirt. You always know when he’s in the room.

EDGAR. Of course these artist people are very self-conscious and assertive and—

SHEILA. But he’s not assertive. He’s—he’s seductive. And he makes fun of things.

EDGAR. No harm in that.

SHEILA. Yes, there is. He makes fun of the wrong things. Why do you call him an artist, Edgar? He’s not one.

EDGAR. Oh! he’s artistic—literary and so on—It’s all the same.

SHEILA. But he’s a barrister, isn’t he?

EDGAR. Oh! yes, of sorts. He never had a brief.

SHEILA. Then how does he—I mean how does he get an income? Why doesn’t he go into the business, too?

EDGAR. Oh! ho! Leonard in the business! No. The old Pater prefers to pay him a handsome allowance to keep out. Besides, Leonard makes about five shillings a month by literature.

SHEILA. How horrid to be quite dependent like that! Why do you let him?

EDGAR. Bless you! I don’t want him in the business. It suits me well enough. Hullo! He’s coming.

[Enter ADA and LEONARD.] [LEONARD is rather younger than EDGAR; a handsome young man with an air of detachment. His manners are rather pleasantly impudent and now disguise some harassment. He is rather carefully dressed in what appears to be a careless way.]

LEONARD. I’m wanted? Very much honoured I’m sure. My dear Sheila, I kiss your hands.

SHEILA. You may shake one if you like.

[He tries to kiss it and she snatches it away.]

LEONARD. What a pity.

SHEILA. Don’t be so stupid.

LEONARD. You keep disappointing me. We should have done it very well.

ADA. Don’t be absurd, Leonard.

EDGAR. He will play the fool.

LEONARD. Well, well. Now to business. About this wedding. Does the best man kiss the bride?

SHEILA. } Of course not. Those vulgarities are out of date.

} [Together.]

EDGAR. } Deuce take it, Leonard!

LEONARD. I only want to know. I want to play my part like an English gentleman. Kissing in public—except the hand—is an atrocity, but if it has to be done it should be done firmly. No hesitations, no scrimmages. In fact there should always be a rehearsal. Very well. No kissing. Now about gloves—

EDGAR. Yes, what are you going to wear, Leonard?

LEONARD. I shall wear a grey morning coat, trousers of about the same colour but exquisitely striped, white waistcoat, grey hat with narrow black band, an orchid—the best that money can buy—if anyone will lend me the money—

EDGAR. Here, I say—

LEONARD. I know what you are going to say—that I ought just to dress up to you.

SHEILA. Oh! he won’t be sensible. I hope you won’t go and spoil things.

LEONARD. Spoil things? [He reflects for a moment.] Confess that you would like me to go away and telegraph that I can’t come to the wedding.

SHEILA. Oh! No. But I want everything to be nice.

EDGAR. Do the thing properly, Leonard.

LEONARD. Properly! I want to do things more than properly. I meant to write an ode on the marriage morning. I’m afraid I shan’t have time for more than a sonnet. I’ve made a start. I’ve got a first line:

‘The jocund sun has tinged the mountain tops’—

Good word ‘jocund’. The difficulty is to get three good rhymes to tops. Of course it might be crest—mountain crest—but I don’t like it. It’s poetical. That’s the worst of poetry now-a-days; you mustn’t use poetical words.

EDGAR. There’s no getting any sense out of you, but look here: Sheila and I want you to be decent over this affair. Just get the right sort of thing and a new hat, won’t you? I’ll tell you what to get if you like.

LEONARD. My dear fellow I have the sense of clothes.

SHEILA. He knows well enough, Edgar.

EDGAR. Come on then. Is mother downstairs?

ADA. I think so. Leonard, you might open the window; the room’s close.

LEONARD. Now, Ada, you know it’s not my business to open the window. I always leave this kind of thing to experts.

ADA. Well, ring for Mary.

LEONARD. Oh! no. I’ll do it. [He goes rather hastily to open the window. The others go out. He stands looking out of the window. MARY BROOME enters dubiously. She looks round the room and presently sees him. She advances quickly towards him and he turns round.]

LEONARD. Oh! I say!

MARY. You’re packing a bag. What for? You can’t be going away?

LEONARD. Now you mustn’t stop here. Anyone may come in.

MARY. After what I told you, you’re going away? You couldn’t do that.

LEONARD. And, look here! My mother’s talking about having missed a photograph—my photograph. You’ve never, surely—

MARY. Yes, I took it.

LEONARD. Oh! but that’s madness.

MARY. I thought I had a right to it.

LEONARD. Well, get away, that’s a good girl. We’ll talk about things again.

MARY. How can you go away? Why are you packing your bag?

LEONARD. You’ve been spying in my room.

MARY. You know I have to go into your room.

LEONARD. Of course. I beg your pardon. Yes, I am going away for two days.

MARY. There were ten shirts laid out.

LEONARD. I’m lying. Yes. We can’t talk here. Who’s this? Take care. [As MRS. TIMBRELL enters he continues:] Well, I shall be much obliged if you will. The brown boots—Yes. More polish—I’ve really been quite ashamed of them. Well, Mother? [He turns from MARY with an air of dismissal. MARY moves away but stops as MRS. TIMBRELL occupies the doorway. MRS. TIMBRELL is startled rather than surprised. She holds a small framed photograph in her hand.]

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.]

TIMBRELL. Let’s see the latest, then. Where’s the sweetly pretty tea-caddy? [To MRS. TIMBRELL.] Have you seen it, my dear? [His speech peters out as he sees his wife’s face and the attitudes of the group of whom LEONARD alone attempts to maintain an ordinary appearance.] Why! What’s the matter?

LEONARD. You’d better let Mary go, Mother. You can’t scold her in public like this. Besides it was only a trifle.

MRS. TIMBRELL. I must know.

TIMBRELL. What! What! A scolding? What have you been doing, Mary? Come, come. Never mind. Run away. Run away. I’ll speak up for you, Mary.

MARY. [To LEONARD.] Must I go?

LEONARD. I suppose so. Certainly.

MARY. Will you speak up for me?

TIMBRELL. What’s this? What’s this? [MARY makes for the door, SHEILA standing aside hastily.] Stop a bit. Stop a bit. [There is a pause and TIMBRELL looks at LEONARD and then at his wife.] What’s that in your hand? [MRS. TIMBRELL hesitates, but as her husband waits she turns the photograph towards him.] Leonard’s photograph? The one you lost? Well, where was it?

LEONARD. I think you might allow Mary to go.

TIMBRELL. Where was it? [He speaks to his wife but she is silent. He looks at MARY.]

MARY. It was in my room.

EDGAR. [To ADA.] You and Sheila had better go.

TIMBRELL. [Half turning to EDGAR.] Silence. Why was it in your room? [SHEILA and ADA have moved toward the door. They remain, possessed with a natural and intense curiosity.]

MARY. I had the right to it if anyone had.

TIMBRELL. You took it from his Mother’s room?

MARY. [After a very short pause.] Well, I shall be a Mother soon.

[TIMBRELL sits down and sinks back in the chair. SHEILA and ADA go out quietly.]

MRS. TIMBRELL. [To MARY.] Sit down, my dear.

[EDGAR gives MARY a chair. She sits down.]

MARY. Thank you, ma’am.

LEONARD. [To himself or the world.] Beautiful. Beautiful.

TIMBRELL. [Starting.] What!

LEONARD. I said it was beautiful.

TIMBRELL. What’s beautiful?

LEONARD. Mary and my Mother; and you, if you like. The whole thing.

TIMBRELL. What does he mean?

EDGAR. Is your share in it beautiful, too?

LEONARD. That doesn’t matter. I see it all.

TIMBRELL. [To MARY.] What are you stopping here for? Have you no sense of shame? [MARY stands up.] I don’t want to be hard on you. I daresay you’re less to blame than he is. I don’t know. It’s a disagraceful affair. Disagraceful. Now, be off. Be off. Please go.

MARY. But I want to hear what he says.

TIMBRELL. Yes. So do I.

LEONARD. The devil of it is that I say anything. If you get me into a fix I just want to get out of it.

TIMBRELL. That’s your character, is it?

LEONARD. From your point of view, sir, I’m afraid I’m a bad lot.

TIMBRELL. What good are you to anybody? Why were you born?

LEONARD. That’s your concern, sir.

TIMBRELL. Don’t bandy words with me. You should be down on your knees asking pardon of this poor girl, of your Mother, of your God. What are such things to you?

LEONARD. I’m extremely sorry. Of course I’ve no defence. I should have to go back to some kind of first principles and even then it’d be a bit shaky I daresay. Mother, it’s horrible for you. I see that.

TIMBRELL. But have you nothing to say? Do you think this is adequate? What are you going to do? What’s your way out?

LEONARD. You have a better head than I have, sir, for these practical matters.

TIMBRELL. You are a callous and impudent fellow. [To MARY.] What have you got to say?

MARY. I can’t make out how much he cares.

LEONARD. [To MARY.] I don’t know what to say to you. I can’t talk to you in public. This is a new aspect of the thing entirely. What’s the use of telling you I’m sorry?

MARY. Are you sorry?

LEONARD. Well, yes.

EDGAR. Is the beauty of the scene waning?

LEONARD. [To EDGAR.] You’ll want another best man. Well, Sheila didn’t want me.

EDGAR. Don’t speak of Sheila here.

LEONARD. Why not?

EDGAR. Your own sense of decency might tell you.

LEONARD. [Passionately.] In all my life I never said anything as bad as that. Never anything as unkind, as evil, as abominable.

EDGAR. Why, what do you mean?

LEONARD. To insult her now!

EDGAR. You’re a fine fellow to talk of—

TIMBRELL. Silence. This is no time for such bickering. [To MARY.] Just leave the room.

LEONARD. Don’t speak to her like that.

TIMBRELL. Are you addressing me?

LEONARD. Yes. You must treat her well.

TIMBRELL. Treat her!—What are you to talk of treating her well? Besides, I am treating her well. I think she will agree that I have shown the greatest forebearance. A fellow who has an intrigue with a servant and then—

LEONARD. A servant!

TIMBRELL. What is she?

LEONARD. You make these distinctions.

TIMBRELL. What does the fellow mean?

LEONARD. You’d hardly believe it but I feel a kind of moral exaltation. [EDGAR laughs.] Oh! yes, Edgar, I know your vast superiority but in this you’re despicable through and through—all of you. No, Mother was beautifully kind for a moment just now. She asked Mary to sit down. [Impetuously.] Do you like staying here, Mary? Why don’t you go?

MARY. I want to hear what you say.

LEONARD. I’ve wronged you, as the saying is, but I don’t wrong you with every instinct, at every hour of the day. After all, I’m the only member of this family that’s achieved any kind of human relationship with you. To me you’re not a servant. Listen to this—listen to Shakespeare: [He declaims.]

‘Why sweat they under burdens? Let their beds

Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates

Be season’d with such viands. You will answer,

The slaves are ours.’

I suppose that practically I’m as bad as any of you. It’s just the idea.

MARY. I don’t understand what he’s talking about.

TIMBRELL. Nor anybody else.

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.]

MRS. TIMBRELL. Come with me. You’ve been here long enough.

LEONARD. Go with my mother, Mary.

MARY. I can’t make you out. You talk so fine and yet—

MRS. TIMBRELL. Come.

MARY. [Going, turns and says to LEONARD.] Why were you going away?

TIMBRELL. Going away?

MARY. He was packing his things.

MRS. TIMBRELL. Why, Leonard?

LEONARD. What a brute I am.

MRS. TIMBRELL. You were going away?

LEONARD. That’s the kind of beast I am.

TIMBRELL. I don’t quite understand this. You were going away? Where? Why?

LEONARD. Where doesn’t matter.

TIMBRELL. Why were you going?

LEONARD. I wanted to get out of it.

MRS. TIMBRELL. You didn’t know. You didn’t understand.

LEONARD. Yes, I did. She told me.

MRS. TIMBRELL. But, Leonard—

TIMBRELL. What! What! You were running away? You knew—you knew everything?

LEONARD. Yes, I did.

TIMBRELL. Shameful! Monstrous!

LEONARD. I thought it the most sensible thing to do. I know it looks bad.

TIMBRELL. He amazes me. I can’t grasp it. What a coward! What an infamous coward! Had you no thought at all for this unfortunate girl? You never thought of any kind of reparation, I suppose? Reparation! By Heaven!—[He stops for a moment, considering and then goes on but with something working in his mind.] Had you no consideration for your Mother—for any of us? Don’t you see—don’t you understand?

LEONARD. I think I see a bit clearer than you do. As to Mary, I didn’t see how I could help her. Frankly, I didn’t. I knew you’d be as decent to her as anyone could. I’ve not a penny. I can’t earn a penny. I’d have written to my mother to explain. It wouldn’t have been pleasant, but less disagreeable for her than this, I think.

EDGAR. How would you go away without a penny?

LEONARD. Never mind. Yes. You shall know. I meant to take some of mother’s housekeeping money. I know where she keeps it.

EDGAR. You’d have stolen it?

LEONARD. I should have written to explain—and to ask for some more.

EDGAR. You’re the limit.

LEONARD. You’re damned small-minded. Don’t bother us. [To his father.] I quite understand your point of view, sir.

TIMBRELL. Oh! do you? You understand me very thoroughly, don’t you?

LEONARD. You see I have far more faith in your practical wisdom than in my own. I’m in a mess. You’ll say I ought to stop and face the music. My point is that it does no good. And then there was that infernal wedding of Edgar’s; I had to get out of that. They didn’t want me any how. Oh! I know I cut a very poor figure. From your point of view. And I quite understand it, mind you. I’m very much with you now. And when I look at you, Mary, I feel rather horrible.

MARY. I didn’t think you’d have run away.

LEONARD. No, that’s bad, isn’t it?

EDGAR. The fellow’s a Comedian.

MRS. TIMBRELL. Come, Mary.

TIMBRELL. Stop. Mary, would you marry him?

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. It hasn’t occurred to you, it seems.

LEONARD. You mean?—

TIMBRELL. I can hardly advise her to do it. Mary, if you marry him I’ll give him £300 a year so long as he behaves himself; if he doesn’t you shan’t suffer.

MRS. TIMBRELL. Edward. Don’t be hasty, don’t decide too quickly. I’m thinking of you, Mary, as well as of him.

MARY. I knew you’d be kind to me, ma’am.

MRS. TIMBRELL. Edward, I pray that we may do right.

TIMBRELL. Come, sir. You had better go down on your knees and woo your bride.

MRS. TIMBRELL. Oh! Edward; don’t speak like that.

TIMBRELL. He’s not worthy of consideration.

MRS. TIMBRELL. I was thinking of her.

TIMBRELL. [To LEONARD.] What’s your answer?

LEONARD. Mother, will you take Mary away and I will talk to my father.

TIMBRELL. You will talk now and in Mary’s presence.

LEONARD. You care nothing about her. It’s simply that you’re vexed with me. If you were doing it for her I could have some respect for you.

TIMBRELL. Your answer to my proposal.

LEONARD. What’s Edgar doing here? Surely we can do without him.

TIMBRELL. [To EDGAR.] Stay where you are.

LEONARD. Mary, you know it’s impossible.

MARY. Yes, Mr. Leonard.

LEONARD. Mary refuses.

TIMBRELL. So much the worse for you.

LEONARD. But if she refuses—

TIMBRELL. Out you go into the street.

MRS. TIMBRELL. That can’t be.

TIMBRELL. That shall be.

LEONARD. Oh! This is all very absurd. We are not being practical at all. Mary, I’m sorry. It’s no good you and me marrying. Now is it?

MARY. I suppose not, Mr. Leonard. I don’t know what I’m going to do, though.

LEONARD. My father can give you a bit of that £300 a year he talks about. And then—Oh! of course, I don’t know. I should like to act handsomely but what can I do? This talk of marriage—frankly—is a bit of antiquated Puritanism. Mary, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re a good girl. I’m all to blame. [He turns to his father who sits grimly silent, then to his mother.] Mother, you settle it.

MRS. TIMBRELL. I don’t know how.

LEONARD. You parents are in a middle stage. Once you’d just have been brutal to the girl. I don’t mean you, but parents generally. Presently we may have more sense. I’m a selfish brute but I’ve got some sense. But I’m powerless. [To his father.] Haven’t you any imagination? It’s all very fine to make a scene here and put down your foot and coerce me into your beastly righteousness but think of the years to come. Do you see us married? Do you see our married life? Forgive me, Mary.

TIMBRELL. You shall make an honest woman of her.

LEONARD. A fine old phrase, that.

TIMBRELL. I’m not ashamed of it.