The Title by Arnold Bennett (free ebook reader TXT) 📖

of your mother's personality that I felt sure she'd win anyhow; and--and--for reasons of my own, I wished to be on the winning side. No harm in that, surely. And as regards principles, I have a theory about principles. Your father was much struck by it when I told him.

HILDEGARDE. Namely?

TRANTO. There are no principles in married life.

HILDEGARDE. Oh, indeed! Well, there may not be any principles in your married life, but there most positively will be in mine, if I ever have a married life. And let me tell you that you aren't on the winning side after all--you're on the losing side.

TRANTO. How? Has your--

HILDEGARDE. Johnnie and I have had a great interview with mamma, and she's yielded. She's abandoned the baronetcy. In half an hour from now the baronetcy will have been definitely and finally refused.

TRANTO. Great Scott!

HILDEGARDE. You're startled?

TRANTO. No! After all, I might have foreseen that you'd come out on top. The day before yesterday your modesty was making you say that your mother could eat you. I, on the contrary, insisted that you could eat your mother. Who was right? I ask: who was right? When it really comes to the point--well, you have a serious talk with your mother, and she gives in!

HILDEGARDE (gloomily). No! I didn't do it. I tried, and failed. Then Johnnie tried, and did it without the slightest trouble. A schoolboy! That's why I'm so upset.

TRANTO (shaking his head). You musn't tell me that, Miss Hilda. Of course it was you that did it.

HILDEGARDE (impatiently; standing up). But I do tell you.

TRANTO. Sorry! Sorry! Do be merciful! My feelings about you at this very moment are so, if I may use the term, unbridled--

HILDEGARDE (with false gentle calm). And that's not all. I suppose you haven't by any chance told father that I'm Sampson Straight?

TRANTO. Certainly not.

HILDEGARDE. You're sure?

TRANTO. Absolutely.

HILDEGARDE. Well, I'm sorry.

TRANTO. Why?

HILDEGARDE (quietly sarcastic). Because papa told me you did tell him. Therefore father is a liar. I don't like being the daughter of a liar. I hate liars.

TRANTO. Aren't you rather cutting yourself off from mankind?

HILDEGARDE (going straight on). For the last day or two father had been giving me such queer little digs every now and then that I began to suspect he knew who Sampson Straight was. So I asked him right out this morning--he was in bed--and he had to acknowledge he did know and that you told him.

TRANTO. Well, I didn't exactly tell him. He sort of guessed, and I--

HILDEGARDE (calmly, relentlessly). You told him.

TRANTO. No. I merely admitted it. You think I ought to have denied it?

HILDEGARDE. Of course you ought to have denied it.

TRANTO. But it was true.

HILDEGARDE. And if it was?

TRANTO. If it was true, how could I deny it? You've just said you hate liars.

HILDEGARDE (losing self-control). Please don't be absurd.

TRANTO (a little nettled). I apologise.

HILDEGARDE. What for?

TRANTO. For having put you in the wrong. It's such shocking bad diplomacy for any man to put any woman in the wrong.

HILDEGARDE (angrily). Man--woman! Man--woman! There you are! It's always the same with you males. Sex! Sex! Sex!

TRANTO (quite conquering his annoyance; persuasively). But I'm fatally in love with you. HILDEGARDE. Well, of course there you have the advantage of me.

TRANTO. Don't you care a little--

HILDEGARDE (letting herself go). Why should I care? What have I done to make you imagine I care? It's quite true that I've saved your newspaper from an early grave. It was suffering from rickets, spinal curvature, and softening of the brain; and I've performed a miraculous cure on it with my articles. I'm Sampson Straight. But that's not enough for you. You can't keep sentiment out of business. No man ever could. You'd like Sampson Straight to wear blouses and bracelets for you, and loll on sofas for you, and generally offer you the glad eye. It's an insult. And then on the top of all, you go and give the whole show away to papa, in spite of our understanding; and if papa hadn't been the greatest dear in the world you might have got me into the most serious difficulties.

TRANTO (equably, after a pause), I don't think I'll ask myself to stay for lunch.

HILDEGARDE. Good morning.

TRANTO (near the door). I suppose I'd better announce that he's died very suddenly under mysterious circumstances?

HILDEGARDE. Who?

TRANTO. Sampson Straight.

HILDEGARDE. And what about my new article, that you've got in hand?

TRANTO. It can be a posthumous article, in a black border.

HILDEGARDE. Indeed! And why shouldn't Sampson Straight transfer his services to another paper? There are several who'd jump at him.

TRANTO. I never thought of that.

HILDEGARDE. Naturally!

TRANTO. He shall live.

(A pause. Tranto bows, and exit, back.)

(Hildegarde subsides once more on to the sofa.)

Enter Culver, in his velvet coat, L.

CULVER (softly, with sprightliness). Hello, Sampson!

HILDEGARDE. Dad, please don't call me that.

CULVER. Not when we're alone? Why?

HILDEGARDE. I--I--Dad, I'm in a fearful state of nerves just now. Lost my temper and all sorts of calamities.

CULVER. Really! I'd no idea. I gathered that the interview between you and your mother had passed quite smoothly.

HILDEGARDE. Oh! That!

CULVER. What do you mean--'Oh! That!'?

HILDEGARDE (standing; in a new, less gloomy tone). Papa, what are you doing out of bed? You're very ill.

CULVER. Well, I'd managed to dress before your mother and Johnnie came. As soon as they imparted to me the glad tidings that baronetcies were off I felt so well I decided to come down and thank you for your successful efforts on behalf of the family well-being. I'm no longer your father. I'm your brother.

HILDEGARDE. It was Johnnie did it.

CULVER. It wasn't--I know.

HILDEGARDE (exasperated). I say it was! (Apologetically). So sorry, dad. (Kisses him). Where are they, those two? (Sits). CULVER. Mother and John? Don't know. I fancy somebody called as I came down.

HILDEGARDE. Called! Before lunch! Who was it?

CULVER. Haven't the faintest.

Enter John, back.

JOHN (proudly). I say, good people! New acquaintance of mine! Just looked in. Met him at the Automobile this morning with Skewes. I was sure you'd all give your heads to see the old chap, so I asked him to lunch on the chance. Dashed if he didn't accept! You see we'd been talking a bit about politics. He's the most celebrated man in London. I doubt if there's a fellow I admire more in the whole world--or you either. He's knocked the mater flat already. Between ourselves, I really asked him because I thought he might influence her on this baronetcy business. However, that's all off now. What are you staring at?

CULVER. We're only bursting with curiosity to hear the name of this paragon of yours. As a general rule I like to know beforehand whom I'm going to lunch with in my own house.

JOHN. It's Sampson Straight.

HILDEGARDE (springing up). Sampson Str--

CULVER (calmly). Keep your nerve, Hilda. Keep your nerve.

JOHN. I thought I wouldn't say anything till he'd actually arrived. He mightn't have come at all. Then what a fool I should have looked if I'd told you he was coming! Tranto himself doesn't know him. Tranto pooh-poohed the idea of me ever meeting him, Tranto did. Well, I've met him, and he's here. I haven't let on to him that I know Tranto. I'm going to bring them together and watch them both having the surprise of their lives.

CULVER. John, this is a great score for you. I admit I've never been more interested in meeting anyone. Never!

Enter Parlourmaid, back.

PARLOURMAID. Miss Starkey, sir.

CULVER (cheerfully). I'll see her soon. (Pulling himself up suddenly; in an alarmed, gloomy tone.) No, no! I can't possibly see her.

PARLOURMAID. Miss Starkey says there are several important letters, sir.

CULVER. No, no! I'm not equal to it.

HILDEGARDE (confidentially). What's wrong, dad?

CULVER (to Hildegarde). She'll give me notice the minute she knows she can't call me Sir Arthur. (Shudders.) I quail.

Enter Mrs. Culver and Sampson Straight, back.

(The Parlourmaid holds the door for them, and then exit.)

MRS. CULVER. This is my husband. Arthur, dear--Mr. Sampson Straight. And this is my little daughter. (Hilda bows, John surveys the scene with satisfaction.)

CULVER (recovering his equipoise; shaking hands heartily). Mr. Straight. Delighted to meet you. I simply cannot tell you how unexpected this pleasure is.

STRAIGHT. You're too kind.

CULVER (gaily). I doubt it. I doubt it.

STRAIGHT. I ought to apologise for coming in like this. But I've been so charmingly received by Mrs. Culver--

MRS. CULVER. You've been so charming about my boy, Mr. Straight. STRAIGHT. I was so very greatly impressed by your son this morning at the Club that I couldn't resist the opportunity he gave me of visiting his home. What I say is: like parents, like child. I'm an old-fashioned man.

MRS. CULVER. No one would guess that from your articles in The Echo. Of course they're frightfully clever, but you know I don't quite agree with all your opinions.

STRAIGHT. Neither do I. You see--there's always a difference between what one thinks and what one has to write.

MRS. CULVER. I'm so glad. (Culver starts and looks round.) What is it, Arthur?

CULVER. Nothing! I thought I heard the ice cracking. (Hildegarde begins to smile.)

STRAIGHT (looking at the floor; simply). Ice?

MRS. CULVER. Arthur!

STRAIGHT. It was still thawing when I came in. As I was saying, I'm an old-fashioned man. And I'm a provincial--and proud of it.

MRS. CULVER. But my dear Mr. Straight, really, if you'll excuse me, you look as if you never left the pavement of Piccadilly. CULVER. Say the windows of the Turf club, darling.

STRAIGHT (serenely). No. I live very, very quietly on my little place, and when I feel the need of contact with the great world I run over for the afternoon to--St. Ives.

MRS. CULVER. How remarkable! Then that explains how it is you're so deliciously unspoilt.

STRAIGHT. Do you mean my face?

MRS. CULVER. I meant you don't seem at all to realise that you're a very great celebrity in London; very great indeed. A lion of the first order.

STRAIGHT (simply). Lion?

CULVER. You're expected to roar, Mr. Straight.

STRAIGHT. Roar?

MRS. CULVER. It may interest you to know that my little daughter also writes articles in The Echo. Yes, about war cookery. But of course you wouldn't notice them. (Hildegarde moves away.) I'm afraid (apologetically) your mere presence is making her just a wee bit nervous. HILDEGARDE (from a distance, striving to control herself). Oh, Mr. Sampson Straight. There's one question I've been longing to ask you. I always ask it of literary lions--and tigers.

STRAIGHT. Tigers?

HILDEGARDE. Do you write best in the morning or do you burn the midnight oil?

STRAIGHT. Oil?

MRS. CULVER. Do sit down, Mr. Straight. (She goes imploringly to Hildegarde, who has lost control of herself and is getting a little hysterical with mirth. Aside to Hildegarde.) Hilda! (John, puzzled and threatening, also approaches Hildegarde.)

CULVER (sitting down by Straight.)