Three Plays by Granville-Barker Part 65

EDWARD. [_crowing in a mirthless enjoyment of his joke._] No! Business is over . . quite over. Come in, Honor.

HONOR _puts on the table a market basket bulging with little paper parcels, and, oblivious to_ MR. BOOTH'S _distracted face, tries to fix his attention_.

HONOR. I thought, dear Mr. Booth, perhaps you wouldn't mind carrying round this basket of things yourself. It's so very damp underfoot that I don't want to send one of the maids out to-night if I can possibly avoid it . . and if one doesn't get Christmas presents the very first thing on Christmas morning quite half the pleasure in them is lost, don't you think?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Yes . . yes.

HONOR. [_fis.h.i.+ng out the parcels one by one._] This is a bell for Mrs.

Williams . . something she said she wanted so that you can ring that for her which saves the maids. Cap and ap.r.o.n for Mary. Cap and ap.r.o.n for Ellen. Shawl for Davis when she goes out to the larder. All useful presents. And that's something for you but you're not to look at it till the morning.

_Having shaken each of these at the old gentleman, she proceeds to re-pack them. He is now trembling with anxiety to escape before any more of the family find him there._

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Thank you . . thank you! I hope my lot has arrived. I left instructions . .

HONOR. Quite safely . . and I have hidden them. Presents are put on the breakfast table to-morrow.

EDWARD. [_with an inconsequence that still further alarms_ MR. BOOTH.]

When we were all children our Christmas breakfast was mostly made off chocolates.

_Before the basket is packed_, MRS. VOYSEY _sails slowly into the room, as smiling and as deaf as ever_. MR. BOOTH _does his best not to scowl at her_.

MRS. VOYSEY. Are you feeling better, George Booth?

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No. [_then he elevates his voice with a show of politeness._] No, thank you . . I can't say I am.

MRS. VOYSEY. You don't look better.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I still have my headache. [_with a distracted shout._]

Headache.

MRS. VOYSEY. Bilious, perhaps! I quite understood you didn't care to dine. But why not have taken your coat off? How foolish in this warm room!

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Thank you. I'm just going.

_He seizes the market basket. At that moment_ MRS. HUGH _appears_.

BEATRICE. Your shawl, mother. [_and she clasps it round_ MRS. VOYSEY'S _shoulders_.]

MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you, Beatrice. I thought I had it on. [_then to_ MR.

BOOTH _who is now entangled in his comforter_.] A merry Christmas to you.

BEATRICE. Good evening, Mr. Booth.

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I beg your pardon. Good evening, Mrs. Hugh.

HONOR. [_with sudden inspiration, to the company in general._] Why shouldn't I write in here . . now the table's cleared!

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [_sternly, now he is safe by the door._] Will you see me out, Edward?

EDWARD. Yes.

_He follows the old man and his basket, leaving the others to distribute themselves about the room. It is a custom of the female members of the_ VOYSEY _family, especially about Christmas time, to return to the dining room, when the table has been cleared and occupy themselves in various ways which require s.p.a.ce and untidiness. Sometimes as the evening wears on they partake of cocoa, sometimes they abstain._ BEATRICE _has a little work-basket, containing a b.u.t.tonless glove and such things, which she is rectifying_. HONOR'S _writing is done with the aid of an enormous blotting book, which bulges with apparently a year's correspondence. She sheds its contents upon the end of the dining table and spreads them abroad._ MRS. VOYSEY _settles to the fire, opens the Nineteenth Century and is instantly absorbed in it_.

BEATRICE. Where's Emily?

HONOR. [_mysteriously._] Well, Beatrice, she's in the library talking to Booth.

BEATRICE. Talking to her husband; good Heavens! I know she has taken my scissors.

HONOR. I think she's telling him about you.

BEATRICE. What about me?

HONOR. You and Hugh.

BEATRICE. [_with a little movement of annoyance._] I suppose this is Hugh's fault. It was carefully arranged no one was to be told till after Christmas.

HONOR. Emily told me . . and Edward knows . . and Mother knows . .

BEATRICE. I warned Mother a year ago.

HONOR. Everyone seems to know but Booth . . so I thought he'd better be told. I suggested one night so that he might have time to think over it . . but Emily said that'd wake Alfred. Besides she's nearly always asleep herself when he comes to bed.

BEATRICE. Why do they still have that baby in their room?

HONOR. Emily considers it her duty.

_At this moment_ EMILY _comes in, looking rather trodden upon_. HONOR _concludes in the most audible of whispers_ . .

HONOR. Don't say anything . . it's my fault.

BEATRICE. [_fixing her with a severe forefinger._] Emily . . have you taken my best scissors?

EMILY. [_timidly._] No, Beatrice.

HONOR. [_who is diving into the recesses of the blotting book._] Oh, here they are! I must have taken them. I do apologise!

EMILY. [_more timidly still._] I'm afraid Booth's rather cross . . he's gone to look for Hugh.

BEATRICE. [_with a shake of her head._] Honor . . I've a good mind to make you sew on these b.u.t.tons for me.

_In comes the Major, strepitant. He takes, so to speak, just time enough to train himself on_ BEATRICE _and then fires_.

BOOTH. Beatrice, what on earth is this Emily has been telling me?

BEATRICE. [_with elaborate calm._] Emily, what have you been telling Booth?

BOOTH. Please . . please do not prevaricate. Where is Hugh?