(As curtain rises slowly on empty stage...

(As curtain rises slowly on empty stage George D'Alroy and Captain Hawtree are seen to pass window from l. Handle of door is tried, and voices heard outside. Key then heard to turn in lock.)

Geo. (opening door and entering, followed by Hawtree). I told you so. The key was left under the mat in case I came. They're not back from rehearsal. (Crosses L., to fireplace.)

Haw. (coming c. looking around). And this is the Fairy's Bower.

Geo. And this is the Fairy's fireplace; the fire is laid, I'll light it. (Places hat and stick on table and lights fire with match from mantelpiece.)

[RED LIGHT gradually on at fireplace.]

Haw. And this is the abode rendered blessed by her abiding, it is here that she dwells, walks, talks, eats and drinks. Does she eat and drink?

Geo. Yes, heartily. I've seen her.

Haw. And you are really spoons—case of true love—hit dead.

Geo. Right through. Can't live away from her. (With elbow on other end of mantel up stage.)

Haw. Poor old Dal ! And you've brought me over the water to...

Geo. Stangate.

Haw. Stangate—to see her for the same sort of reason that when a patient is in a dangerous state one doctor calls in an- other for a consultation.

Geo. Yes ! Then the patient dies.

Haw. Tell us all about it. You know I've been away. (Sits R. of table, leg on chair, hat on back of head, stick dangling aimlessly in his hand)

Geo. Well, then, eighteen months ago

Haw. Oh, cut that. You told me all about that. You went to the theatre and saw a girl in a ballet, and you fell in love.

Geo. Yes, I found out that she was an amiable, good girl

Haw. Of course. Cut that. We'll credit her with all the virtues and accomplishments.

Geo. Who worked hard to support a drunken father.

Haw. Oh, the father's a drunkard, is he ? The father doesn't inherit the daughter's virtues.

Geo. No, I hate him.

Haw. Naturally, quite so, quite so.

Geo. And she, that is Esther, is very good to her younger sister. (Sits at l. on edge of table.)

Haw. The younger sister also angelic, amiable, accomplished, etc., etc.

Geo. Um, good enough, but got a temper, large temper ! Well, with some difficulty I got to speak to her—I mean to Esther ; then I was allowed to see her to her door here.

Haw. I know—pastry-cooks, Richmond dinner, and all that.

Geo. You're too fast. Pastry-cooks, yes—Richmond, no. Your knowledge of the world fifty yards round barracks misleads you. I saw her nearly every day, and I kept on falling in love ; falling and falling, till I thought I should never reach the bottom. (Walks to and fro.) Then I met you.

Haw. I remember the night when you told me, but I knew it was only an amourette. However, if the fire is a conflagration, subdue it; try dissipation.

Geo. I have.

Haw. What success ?

Geo. (pausing c). None. Dissipation brought on bad health, and self-contempt, a sick head and a sore heart.

Haw. Foreign travel. Absence makes the heart grow stronger. Get leave and cut away.

Geo. I did get leave and I did cut away, and while away I was miserable, and a gone 'er coon than ever.

Haw. What's to be done ?

Geo. Don't know. That's the reason I asked you to come over and see.

Haw. Of course, Dal, you're not such a soft as to think of marriage. You know what your mother is. Either you are going to behave properly, with a proper regard to the world, and all that, you know, or you're going to do the other thing. Now the question is, what do you mean to do? The girl is a nice girl no doubt, but as to your making her Mrs. D'Alroy the thing is out of the question.

Geo. Why, what should prevent me ? (Returns to place on table.)

Haw. Caste ! The inexorable law of caste. The social J law, so becoming and so good, that commands like to mate with like, and forbids a giraffe to fall in love with a squirrel; that holds sentiment to be a dissipation, and demands the exercise of common sense from all.

Geo. But, my dear Bark

Haw. My dear Dal, all those marriages of people with common people are all very well in novels and in plays on the stage, because the real people don't exist, and have no relatives who exist, and no connections, and so no harm's done, and it's rather interesting to look at; but in real life, with real relations, and real mothers, and so forth, it's absolute bosh — it's worse; it's utter social and personal annihilation and individual damnation.

Geo. As to my mother, I haven't thought about her.

Haw, Of course not. Lovers are so damned selfish they never think of anybody but themselves.

Geo. My father died when I was three years old, and she married again before I was six, and married a Frenchman.

Haw. a nobleman of the most ancient families in France, of equal blood to her own; she obeyed the duties imposed upon her by her station, and by caste.

Geo. Still it caused a separation and a division between us, and I never see my brother because he lives abroad. Of course the Marquise de St. Maur is my mother, and I look upon her with a sort of superstitious awe.

Haw. She's a grand Brahmin priestess.

Geo. Just so, and I know I'm a fool. Now you're clever, Bark, a little too clever, I think. You're paying your devoirs — that's the correct word, I think—to Lady Florence Carbury, the daughter of a Countess—she's above you, you've no title. Is she to forget her caste?

Haw. That argument doesn't apply; a man can be no more than a gentleman.

Geo. (sauntering tip stage to window). "Kind hearts are more than coronets and simple faith than Norman blood."

Haw. Now, George, if you're going to consider this question from a point of view of poetry, you're off to no man's land, where I won't follow you.

Geo. No gentleman can be ashamed of the woman he loves, no matter what her original station—once his wife he raises her to his rank.

Haw. Yes. (Rises and crosses l. ) He raises her—her — but her connections—her relatives. How about them?

T.W. Robertson, “Caste” in Nineteenth-Century Plays, ed. George Rowell, 1987, pp.347-350.

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