Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (1044 page)

you know.

PROCTOR.
 
You mean well, my child, I have no doubt; but you have

an unfortunate way of expressing yourself. (He puts arm

round her. TOM rushes across stage and exit. He is

followed by BULLDOGS. They stop when they see PROCTOR

and BAB.)

GREG.
 
Hullo!

SIM. Ahem!

PROCTOR.
 
What do you mean?

SIM. Beg pardon, but your arm you know — eh?

PROCTOR (fiercely). What about my arm?

GREG.
 
It is round — don’t you see?

PROCTOR.
 
I do not.

GREG.
 
Allow me. (Takes PROCTOR’s arm off BAB.)

PROCTOR.
 
Oh, thanks!

BAB. Oh, there is Miss Sims! Save me, Mr. Proctor!

PROCTOR.
 
In here, quick! (Pushes BAB into arbour.) She is a nice

girl. (To BULLDOGS.) Remember, you have not seen any

girl here, if you are asked.

GREG.
 
Not here! Why, she is in the arbour.

PROCTOR.
 
There is no one in the arbour. What you see is — is an

optical illusion. Furthermore, my orders to you are

that you see no one in the arbour for the next half-

hour, do you hear?

SIM. We — we hear.

PROCTOR (aside). In half an hour I am sure I can convince Bab

of the error of her ways. (Aloud.) And stop, if any one

inquires for me, I am — I am — gathering flowers by

the river’s brim. Do you — do you —

GREG.
 
Twig?

PROCTOR.
 
Yes, twig?

SIM and GREG.
 
We twig.

PROCTOR.
 
Good. (Goes to BAB.)

GREG.
 
Now, Sim, do you give him up?

SIM
 
(after a struggle). No!

Exeunt L., expostulating with each other.

BAB. I knew that you would save me.

PROCTOR.
 
Yes, but you must me a good girl in future. You know

it’s best in the long run.

BAB. Oh, how beautifully you talk!

PROCTOR.
 
To be happy you must be good.

BAB. Yes, but to be awfully, dreadfully, excruciatingly

happy, you must be naughty. But I am sure I should be

good if Miss Sims would talk to me as you have done.

PROCTOR.
 
Really! Do you mind my calling you Baby?

BAB. Not at all. May I call you Little One?

PROCTOR.
 
Certainly. Do you know I feel a strange something

creeping over me!

BAB. So do I.

PROCTOR.
 
I like it!

BAB. So do I.

PROCTOR.
 
Yum yum!

BAB. So do I.

DUET. — BAB and PROCTOR.

PROCTOR.
 
I’m a man of erudition,

And a scorner of frivolities,

With loftiest ambition,

And most domineering qualities.

The rowdiest grow meeker

When I fix them with this eye;

But I feel I’m growing weaker,

And I don’t know why —

No I don’t — not I.

I’m growing quite gelatinous, and can’t guess why.

BAB.
  
I’m just a little girlie,

Who still am in my teens, you know.

For love it’s much too early,

And I can’t guess what it means, you know.

But since I saw that simper,

And the twinkle of that eye,

I feel I’m growing limper,

And I can’t guess why —

No I can’t — not I.

I’m growing quite invertebrate, and can’t tell why.

PROCTOR.
 
I’ve a will that’s adamantine,

And my nerve is quite unshakable,

My strength is elephantine,

And my spirit is unbreakable,

I cow the flippant cabby,

I can make the coster cry,

Yet I feel I’m growing flabby,

And I can’t tell why —

No I can’t — not I.

I’m growing quite blanc-mangeical, and can’t tell why.

BAB.
  
I’m just a little dolly,

With an uneventful history,

They tell me love is jolly

But to me it’s still a mystery.

I love my playthings dearly,

And my dolls and apple pie,

But I’m feeling, oh, so queerly,

And I can’t tell why —

No I can’t — not I.

I’m growing quite gutta-perchical, and can’t tell why.

PROCTOR.
 
I fancy that this weakness

May seem to you undignified.

BAB.
  
Ah me, these words of meekness,

Now tell me what they signified?

BOTH.
 
Your love can hide no longer,

It beckons from your eye;

We’re unquestionably stronger,

And we both know why.

Do you? So do I.

We are feeling dry-champagnified,

And both know why.

BAB. Oh, how nice-looking you are! You would look so pretty

with this round your neck. (Puts her long boa round.)

Now, it should come across your chest like that.

(PROCTOR smiles indulgently). Then round like this, and

fasten so. (Ties it behind the chair and fastens it.

Then laughs and claps her hands.)

PROCTOR (struggling to rise). What is this? What do you mean?

BAB. Oh, he mustn’t make a noise. (Puts a handkerchief round

his mouth. PROCTOR glares horribly and frowns.) Ha! ha!

ha! (Goes up stage calling “Tom!” PROCTOR gurgles. The

BULLDOGS enter and stand one on each side of the

arbour.)

GREG.
 
There is no one in the arbour, Sim.

SIM. N — No. (PROCTOR gurgles.)
I thought —

GREG.
 
So did I. But it’s only an optical illusion, Sim.

SIM. So it is, Greg. I wonder where the Proctor is?

GREG.
 
He is gathering flowers by the river’s brim.

BULLDOGS close arbour and retire.

Enter TOM.

TOM. Now, darling, are you ready?

BAB. My own! (They embrace.)

Enter JACK followed by JANE ANNIE.

JACK (aside). I am sure she will choose me. Eh — ah — ho -

- what’s this?

BAB. Don’t you see?

JACK.
 
I wish I didn’t. Haw!

BAB. Jane Annie, you promised to help me if I took Tom.

JANE A. And I shall.

JACK (aside). That unpleasant girl again.

TOM. But what can you do?

JANE A. One of the letters I made Miss Sims write was to the

livery stables, requesting that a carriage should be

sent to the other side of the river at two o’clock

today. It is there now.

TOM. Are you sure?

JANE A. Listen! (She whistles — an answering whistle is

heard.) See, there it is! (A carriage is seen driving

up.)

BAB. Let us cross at once.

JANE ANNIE signs to carriage to go on, and it goes out of sight.

CADDIE (entering). You can’t get away. Ho! ho!

BAB. Why not?

CADDIE. Because I’ve locked the boat-house and hidden the key.

JACK.
 
Good boy!

CADDIE. That’s a stimie for you.

TOM. Quick, the key!

CADDIE. Sha’n’t!

BAB. What’s to be done?

JANE A. Leave him to me. (Hypnotizes CADDIE.) Now give me the

key.