The Silver Shield: An Original Comedy in Three Acts

THE SILVER SHIELD

[Act One]

[Act Two]

[Act Three]

[Transcriber’s Note]

THE SILVER SHIELD.
AN ORIGINAL COMEDY
IN THREE ACTS.
BY
SYDNEY GRUNDY.

Copyright, 1898, by Thomas Henry French.

THE SILVER SHIELD.

ACT I.

Scene.—A hall; passages, R. and L.; a double window of stained glass, on swivel hinges, opens upon a lawn, with view of grounds; large portrait on the wall; landscape, and mirror; a staircase, L. Tom Potter discovered working at an easel placed near the open window; Ned Chetwynd seated at a table, opening and destroying letters leisurely. Lucy Preston watching him; Mrs. Dozey asleep in an armchair, with a book of sermons lying open in her lap; footstool; fireplace, R.; large armchair side of fireplace.

Lucy. You’ve a great many letters?

Ned. A few friends inquiring after me.

Lucy. More creditors?

Ned. A regular assortment. I have ’em of all sizes—big and little; of all styles—polite to peremptory; of all nations—Jew and Gentile. (opens another letter) Another lawyer’s letter! (Lucy goes up to Tom) “Unless the amount, together with our charges, five and sixpence, be at once remitted——” Just so—common form. (opens another letter)

Lucy. Getting on, Mr. Potter?

Tom. Famously.

Lucy. I can begin to make out what it’s going to be.

Tom. Don’t say that, please.

Lucy. Why not?

Tom. I shall be told I am a servile copyist without a soul.

Lucy. Soul? What is “soul”?

Tom. The gift of representing things as they don’t exist.

Lucy. Surely that isn’t a gift. Isn’t it art to show things as they are?

Tom. Not in the least. That’s realism.

Lucy. Then what’s art?

Tom. That’s art. (points to portrait, L.)

Lucy. Sir Humphrey’s portrait.

Tom. (crosses to portrait, L.) I beg your pardon—whose?

Lucy. Sir Humphrey’s. Can’t you see the likeness?

Tom. Has anybody seen it?

Lucy. Of course! a score of people.

Tom. It’d take a score. (crosses to easel)

Lucy. (turns to Tom) It is by Sir Clarence Gibbs, the Royal Academician, and it cost five hundred guineas.

Tom. Ah! If I could only paint like that. (looks at portrait)

Lucy. (looking at picture) Perhaps you will in time.

Tom. Never. I may deteriorate, but I shall never be as bad as that. (looking at picture) Now, look at this aggravating thing. After all my trouble you can positively tell what it’s meant for. (Ned rises and joins them)

Lucy. Yes, two knights, on horseback, fighting.

Ned. What are you going to call it?

Tom. The Silver Shield.

Lucy. Silver Shield? (crosses to back of easel; Ned leans on back of chair)

Tom. Haven’t you heard the fable? Two knights, riding in opposite directions, passed a shield, hung on a tree to mark a boundary, and meeting some time afterwards, one of them happened to make some remark about the Silver Shield they had both ridden past. “Silver,” exclaimed the other, “it was gold.” Then they disputed, and words came to blows. They fought, and killed each other. When they were both dead, it occurred to somebody to examine the shield, when it turned out that it was gold on one side, and silver on the other.

Ned. What jackasses those two knights must have been.

Tom. So remarked everybody.

Lucy. Well, they were rather silly. (crosses to Mrs. Dozey, R.)

Tom. No sillier than we are, who see a fool in the looking-glass, and don’t recognise him.

Mrs. D. (waking with a start) Bless me! I’ve been asleep.

Lucy. For two hours, Mrs. Dozey.

Mrs. D. I beg everybody’s pardon. The fact is, I thought I was in church, and Dionysius was preaching.

Ned. That sent you off to sleep. (sitting on edge of chair)

Mrs. D. Oh, no, that woke me up. I wouldn’t miss one of his discourses for the world. This is a splendid one I’m reading now—the 22nd, in the 17th volume.

Lucy. You have got so far?

Mrs. D. Yes, my dear; I’ve read sixteen volumes of the twenty. The set were given to me by my husband on our honeymoon. Imagine my delight. I’ve been reading at them steadily for five and twenty years, and my only fear is that I shan’t live to finish them.

Ned. Take warning, Lucy, and begin them young.

Mrs. D. Shall I lend you the first volume?

Lucy. Thanks; I can get it from the library.

Mrs. D. I’m sure you’d like it, Mr. Potter.

Tom. Unfortunately, I am going home to-day, and shouldn’t have time to do it justice. (meanwhile Dr. Dozey has entered absently, his eyes cast down, his hands behind his back)

Dr. (raising his eyes) Going home?

Mrs. D. Ah, here’s the doctor! (dozes off again)

Dr. Home! sweet home! The very phrase is fraught with poetry. One seems to stand before the glowing fire, to hear the purring cat, the hissing urn, whilst from without a quaint but welcome cry heralds the advent of the evening milk on its accustomed round. If you are wishful to pursue the subject——

Lucy. (crosses in front to staircase) Excuse me, I must look after Sir Humphrey. (Exit, L.)

Dr. (turning to Ned) I would refer you to——

Ned. Thank you very much, but I’ve some letters to answer. (Exit, R.)

Dr. (turning to Tom) To the tenth discourse——

Tom. The light’s so bad here, I must go outside. (Exit through window, C.)

Dr. (turning to Mrs. Dozey) In my fifth volume.

Sir H. (top of stairs, L.) See to it at once.

Dr. Home I divide into three sections. First—— (Mrs. Dozey snores, Dr. Dozey stops and wakes her.)

Lucy. (with Sir Humphrey, top of stairs, L.) Will you take my arm?

Sir H. Thanks, I need no assistance. (stumbles and is obliged to take Lucy’s arm) Dear me, how bad my rheumatism is to-day.

Dr. (turns to Mrs. Dozey, smiling grimly) Poor Humphrey!

Mrs. D. (rises) He gets very feeble.

Sir H. (to Lucy) Mrs. Blake’s train is very nearly due. See if the brougham has been sent to meet her.

Mrs. D. Mrs. Blake? (Exit Lucy, through window, C. and L.)

Sir H. A visitor whom we expect today. (puts cap on table)

Dr. A lady visitor?

Sir H. Yes, a young widow, from Australia, whom we met on the Continent this summer, and whose society proved so agreeable (Dr. and Mrs. Dozey exchange glances) to my ward, Miss Preston, that I invited her to visit us, when she returned to England.

Mrs. D. A widow. (crosses in front to L.)

Dr. An Australian widow. (gets R.)

Mrs. D. It’s a long way off.

Sir H. Don’t you like widows, doctor?

Dr. Far be it from me, whose tenement is glass, to cut a stone; but of all types of widow, the most perilous is the Colonial.

Mrs. D. However, it’s our duty to be charitable.

Dr. Until we know the worst we will think the best.

Sir H. Wait till you’ve met Mrs. Blake; you’ll be charmed with her. (meanwhile Tom has re-entered through window and down R. of easel) You mustn’t go till you have seen her, Mr. Potter. (turns)

Tom. Till I’ve seen whom?

Mrs. D. A widow. (moves towards door, L.)

Dr. A Colonial widow. (moves towards door, R.)

Mrs. D. Sir Humphrey picked up on the Continent.

Dr. And found charming. (both sigh and exeunt, wagging their heads; Dr. Dozey, R.; Mrs. Dozey, L.)

Tom. Queer couple—a duet personified.

Sir H. The doctor will have his joke.

Tom. That’s fortunate, for no one else would take it.

Sir H. Very old friends of mine, and one must make allowances for age and infirmity. (sitting with difficulty, R. of table)

Tom. Can I assist you? (crosses to Sir Humphrey)

Sir H. Not at all. It’s only a little stiffness in the joints. I never felt it till the last few years.

Tom. Ah, we’re all older than we used to be. (goes to easel)

Sir H. Not at all, Mr. Potter, not at all. I’m younger than I look. I have had trouble.

Tom. You, Sir Humphrey!

Sir H. My son gives me a great deal of anxiety. His heart’s in the right place, I know, but he’s young, reckless, and extravagant. He’s taken to writing lately. A bad sign, Mr. Potter, a bad sign. I never knew a young man who took to writing come to any good. I’ve paid his debts more than once, and he won’t settle down. I found a charming wife for him, and he wouldn’t look at her. He has views of his own—very bad things to have. Why can’t men be content with the views of their forefathers? The opinions which are good enough for me ought to be good enough for a stripling like him.

Tom. Our forefathers believed the sun went round the earth.

Sir H. And what better are we for believing the earth goes round the sun? I’ve no patience with these revolutionary ideas. They unsettle men’s minds. Of course you don’t agree with me. You are another man with views, and that’s the reason why you don’t get on.

Tom. (comes down C.) You don’t like me, Sir Humphrey. You are very kind and hospitable; but I know it’s only as a distant relative that you put up with me. I don’t wonder at it. You represent society; I represent Bohemia. This makes it difficult to say what I must say before I go.

Sir H. What is that, Mr. Potter?

Tom. I want to ask your ward, Miss Preston, if she’ll be my wife. You’re astonished at my presumption—naturally.

Sir H. Not quite that. What are Miss Preston’s feelings in the matter?

Tom. I don’t know. I didn’t feel justified in speaking to her first.

Sir H. She is of full age, and can please herself.

Tom. Yes, but there’s something else. You know, I took my present name when I went in for art, to your disgust, on my return from abroad about five years ago; but of my previous history you know very little, and I must tell you part of it. I suppose you think I’m a bachelor?

Sir H. Of course.

Tom. I am a widower.

Sir H. You astound me.

Tom. Yes, I once had a wife; but we weren’t happy—in fact, we separated.

Sir H. How long has she been dead?

Tom. A few months after my return to England I saw her death announced in the newspapers.

Sir H. The newspapers!

Tom. There is no irony like that of destiny, no cynic half as cynical as life. Two beings live together in one home, are bound together in one interest, are animated by one hope. Fate separates them. They go different ways, and after many days (crosses to R.) they read about each other in the newspaper.

Sir H. She died abroad? Then you were never reconciled?

Tom. Reconciliation was impossible. I should prefer to say no more about it, (crosses to Sir Humphrey, L.) but I am bound to satisfy you I was not to blame. Those were the last words my wife wrote to me. (gives a letter to Sir Humphrey)

Sir H. (reads) “Tom,—I love another more than I love you. Isn’t it best that we should say good-bye? I have no right to tell you I will never see you, for the fault is mine; but if I do, it will be only painful, and I leave it to your magnanimity to go away from me for ever.” (returns letter to Tom) Enough, Mr. Potter. (rises) There was a time when I disapproved of second marriages. They struck me as a species of inconstancy. But as one grows in years, these sentimental notions lose their force. One begins to realise the loneliness of life. You understand me?

Tom. Perfectly. The need of a companion.

Sir H. More than a companion—the need of a—of a—I want a word.

Tom. Nurse is the word you want.

Sir H. No, sir! It is the very word I do not want.

Tom. I beg your pardon, I misunderstood you.

Sir H. Strange as it may sound, what you’ve just told me makes my task a little easier. Miss Preston also has a history. Her mother died when she was quite a child. Her father was my very oldest friend, whom I respected beyond everything, and it was only on his death, when I felt I could not repudiate the guardianship I’d undertaken, that I made a discovery which shocked me inexpressibly. I tell it you in confidence; I have told no one but my son, whom it was my duty to put upon his guard. Of course it puts an end to the proposal you have made, but, as a man of honour, I am bound to tell you.

Tom. Well, sir?

Sir H. The girl is illegitimate. (turning, L.)

Tom. What’s that?

Sir H. (turns and stares at him) Mr. Potter, you call yourself a Bohemian, but you are a distant—very distant—relative of my own, and you must have at least the instincts of a gentleman.

Tom. I hope so.

Sir H. Having those instincts, you will think no more of her.

Tom. Having those instincts, I think all the more of her.

Sir H. You’d marry her, after what I’ve told you? Then you have no respect for marriage.

Tom. If I had no respect for marriage I shouldn’t marry her.

Sir H. We will not argue, sir. Go your own way.

Tom. I’ve your permission?

Sir H. But don’t hold me responsible, whatever happens.

Re-enter Dr. Dozey, through window, and down, C.

Dr. The widow has arrived.

Sir H. Mrs. Blake?

Dr. I was sedately pacing up and down the drive, reflecting on the vanity of life, when I was nearly upset by her equipage.

Sir H. I must go and welcome her. Excuse me, Mr. Potter; the doctor will entertain you. (Exit through window)

Tom. Thanks, but I’ll find Miss Preston. (Exit, R.)

Re-enter Mrs. Dozey, down the stairs, in a flutter of excitement.

Mrs. D. Dionysius?

Dr. Diana?

Mrs. D. I’ve seen Mrs. Blake. I happened to be looking out as she drove up. There’s no doubt about her respectability. You should see her lace. Oh, Dionysius, real Valenciennes! (crosses, R.)

Dr. I am afraid, my love, that notwithstanding five and twenty years of my companionship, you have still a yearning after the pomps and vanities. And yet it is not the plaiting of hair or the putting on of real Valenciennes that constitutes respectability.

Re-enter Sir Humphrey with Alma Blake.

Alma. Oh, what a charming place.

Sir H. My own taste, plain but comfortable. Permit me to present to you my old friends, Dr. and Mrs. Dozey.

Alma. I am delighted to meet Dr. Dozey.

Mrs. D. (crosses to Alma) With whose sermons no doubt you are acquainted.

Alma. I don’t read sermons, as a rule.

Mrs. D. You don’t read sermons?

Alma. It may be very wicked, but I don’t. (crosses, L.)

Dr. (aside to Mrs. Dozey) A worldly-minded woman.

Mrs. D. I’m afraid so.

Alma. What a delightful, quaint, old-fashioned place this is! I must congratulate you on your taste, Sir Humphrey.

Sir H. Plain, but comfortable.

Alma. Whose portrait’s this? Isn’t he a dear old dignified soul? Quite one of the last century.

Sir H. It is considered much too old for me.

Alma. For you! Oh, fifty years! I thought it was your grandfather.

Dr. Makes herself quite at home. (aside to Mrs. Dozey)

Mrs. D. Ignores me altogether. (sits, R.)

Alma. What’s this? A mirror, I declare! (arranges herself before the glass)

Sir H. My taste again.

Alma. The looking-glass?

Sir H. The image it enshrines. (bowing)

Alma. I understand you. Plain, but comfortable. (laughs and passes on; gradually gets round, and down, R.)

Dr. (aside to Mrs. Dozey) Frivolous creature. (goes up, R., and down, R.C.)

Mrs. D. Lovely diamonds!

Alma. (at easel) That’s a good picture. Who’s the artist?

Sir H. (following Alma) Nobody particular. A sort of second or third cousin of mine.

Alma. Whoever he is, he’s clever.

Sir H. Started life under the best auspices, but he has made no way.

Alma. How’s that, Sir Humphrey? (both come down, C.)

Sir H. It’s the old story. First he got amongst a set of loose companions,—Bohemians, they called themselves—and then he took to——

Alma. Drink?

Sir H. Not drink exactly—art. (sits R. of table)

Alma. Oh dear! how very sad!

Sir H. The doctor knows the circumstances.

Dr. (down, R.C.) They were most distressing.

Alma. But after all, some artists are successful, and a man must begin at the beginning. There’s nothing wicked about art, is there, doctor?

Dr. A perilous pursuit, and it is not the part of a wise man to play with fire. (Alma pulls a long face, and is caught by Mrs. Dozey)

Sir H. I’ve no objection to a real artist, an Academician, such as Sir Clarence Gibbs, who painted my own portrait. A very gentlemanly man, indeed—received in the best families.

Alma. But he must have learnt his business before he became an Academician. (looking at portrait)

Sir H. I doubt it.

Alma. So do I. (turning to easel) Now there is talent in that picture. The man who did that shouldn’t have gone wrong.

Mrs. D. But he became a scene painter!

Dr. He got connected with a theatre. (both groan)

Sir H. (uncomfortable) Hem! Hem! (tries to attract Dr. Dozey’s attention)

Alma. You don’t approve of theatres?

Dr. My views on the subject of the drama you will find fully expounded in the 13th sermon of my 20th volume. For the present I will content myself with saying that those views are damnatory. (crosses, L.)

Sir H. Pardon me, doctor, but I should have told you, Mrs. Blake is herself connected with the stage.

Dr. (dropping glasses) An actress! (Mrs. Dozey rises and drops book)

Alma. You’ve dropped the sermons. (stoops to pick up book) Heavy, I dare say.

Mrs. D. (stopping her with a gesture, picks it up herself) Thank you. (goes up to armchair at back)

Dr. And so this is an actress. Bless my soul! (Exit, L.)

Mrs. D. Somehow or other one can always tell them. (sits, opens, book, and dozes off)

Sir H. (rises) You must excuse my friends.

Alma. With pleasure. It’s rather a relief than otherwise. They seem to have a nice opinion of actresses.

Sir H. The truth is, they have had no opportunity of forming one.

Alma. But have formed a very strong one, for all that.

Sir H. Now that they have the opportunity——

Alma. Let’s hope it’ll alter the opinion.

Enter Susan, R.

Susan. If you please, miss——

Alma. Susan, don’t call me miss. This is my maid, Sir Humphrey. I’m always called “miss” at the theatre, when I’m called anything at all. What is it, Susan?

Susan. Mr. Dick is here—wants to see you particularly.

Alma. Tell him I’m engaged. What business has he bothering me here?

Susan. But he’s come down from town express.

Alma. Well, he can go back express.

Sir H. One moment, Mrs. Blake. Who is this gentleman?

Alma. My manager. I don’t know what he wants.

Sir H. See him, by all means. Perhaps he’ll stay to dinner if I ask him.

Alma. Ah, you don’t know Dick. He’ll probably stay to dinner whether you ask him or not. He’s one of the old school of managers; they’re almost extinct now. Dick’s the sole survivor.

Sir H. I’m one of the old school myself, and shall be glad to meet him.

Susan. Here he is, with Mr. Chetwynd.

Re-enter Ned, with Mr. Dodson Dick, R.

Ned. This way, Mr. Dick. (goes up to easel)

Dick. (crosses to Alma) Ah, there she is. (Exit Susan, R.) Didn’t expect to see me, did you? Here’s a nice how d’you-do. Within four weeks of opening, and Sparkle not delivered his first act. Thought I’d run down and tell you. What are we to do?

Alma. This is Sir Humphrey Chetwynd—Mr. Dick.

Dick. (crosses to Sir Humphrey) Pleased to make your acquaintance. Nice sort of place you have down here. (looking round)

Sir H. Quiet, Mr. Dick, and yet accessible.

Dick. Out of the way, I call it—out of my way, at any rate. Make a good set, eh, wouldn’t it? That window’s fine, opens out the scene, and shows that landscape backing. Daren’t use that sky. Scrubbs is the man for skies.

Sir H. Is he indeed?

Dick. There’s an originality about his skies—you never saw such skies. The critics go in for originality. Scrubbs gives it ’em.

Alma. And don’t they give it Scrubbs?

Dick. Ha! ha! I’ll make a note of that. Give it to Sparkle—do for his next comedy. Poor Sparkle! Clever man, but sadly overworked. No wonder he’s behindhand with our piece.

Alma. It’s your own fault. Give someone else a chance.

Dick. No! no! Sparkle’s recognised.

Ned. (coming down, R.) His jokes are.

Dick. That doesn’t matter. It’s his name I want. The public judges only by the brand. One play’s just as good as another.

Sir H. That’s your experience?

Dick. Yes. On the whole, I think a bad play’s better than a good one, but we none of us know anything about it.

Alma. If you would only try him, here is an author to your hand.

Dick. (alarmed) You—an author? (puts hat on)

Ned. Only last week I wrote to you about a play I’d sent you.

Dick. (crosses to Sir Humphrey; pulls out watch) How are your trains, Sir Humphrey? I’ve an appointment at four sharp, in town.

Sir H. I see you are a man of business.

Dick. Yes, I’m a cheesemonger.

Sir H. A cheesemonger. I thought you were a theatrical manager?

Dick. Same thing. A theatre’s only a shop, and ought to be worked on the same principles.

Ned. Or want of principles?

Dick. Same thing. If my customers want a bad article, I give it ’em. It’s not my fault, it’s theirs.

Sir H. A philosopher as well as a cheesemonger!

Dick. My dear sir, all cheesemongers are philosophers.

Sir H. And all philosophers are fond of a good dinner. I hope you will join our party, Mr. Dick. (crosses, R.)

Dick. With pleasure. (puts hat down on table)

Alma. But your appointment at four sharp.

Dick. I’ll keep that to-morrow.

Sir H. Meanwhile, a biscuit.

Dick. (aside) A biscuit.

Sir H. And a glass of Heidseck.

Dick. (following Sir Humphrey off, R.) Heidseck, certainly. (takes hat)

Sir H. Come with me, Mrs. Blake?

Alma. Thank you, I’ll stop with Ned.

Dick. (turns) Capital set. First-rate. Can’t say I like that sky. Scrubbs is the man for skies. (Exit with Sir Humphrey, R.)

Alma. (crosses to L.) Now, Mr. Chetwynd. (sits L. of table) You never told me about this comedy. What’s it all about? What’s my part like?

Ned. Why it’s all you! I thought of no one else, and called the heroine “Alma” after you. (sits R. of table)

Alma. You dear old goose! If I were a manager, I should accept your pieces without reading them.

Ned. Excuse me. If you were a manager, you would reject them without reading them.

Alma. Not yours. You are my oldest admirer.

Ned. What nonsense! I never met you till last year.

Alma. Well, what of that? I’ve had a score since then, but they’ve all disappeared, and there you are still.

Ned. Faithful to the last.

Alma. The last’s a long way off yet, Mr. Chetwynd. He’s trundling a hoop somewhere at this moment. But he’ll turn up. Each season brings its crop. They’re mostly annuals, my loves.

Ned. I am an amaranth.

Alma. That locket on your chain? Isn’t it the one you put my portrait in? (rises to examine it)

Ned. Yes.

Alma. And he wears it still! You are an amaranth, indeed. (about to open locket)

Ned. You’d better not.

Alma. Do let me see. I’ve quite forgotten what I looked like then. (opens it; kneels)

Ned. Just as you like.

Alma. How I have altered!

Ned. You look younger there.

Alma. And my hair’s different.

Ned. The fashion’s changed.

Alma. Yes, and the colour too. There! Shut it up. (rises)