George M. Baker
Poison / A Farce
CHARACTERS:
Scene. –
Breakfast-room of the suburban villa of Mr. Twitters. The mother of the late Mrs. Twitters and Mary Jane are discovered.
Mary Jane. But I tell you this is Mr. Twitters’ breakfast, mum. There’s no telling what he’ll do if he don’t catch the train this morning. He’s ordered the horse ready since seven o’clock.
Mother (
breaking an egg
). In the midst of life we are in death. I have left my humble lodgings this morning to attend the interment of the remains of our late pastor, the Rev. Dr. Elijah Paddy – a hot muffin, Mary Jane!
Mary Jane. What will master say, mum? There won’t be no breakfast left. He has the alarm-clock set in his hat-bath to wake him at seven, and it made such a noise, mum, that he flung it out the window and went to sleep again. And he’s been rampaging round and ordering breakfast on the table for the last hour.
Mother. The carriage will serve me in my sad errand. I have a floral tribute in this box to place upon the grave of the dear departed, – a little more hot toast, Mary Jane, – an anchor, expressive of hope and Christian resignation. It will be but a trifle among the many offerings. The Rev. Mr. Paddy never knew how many friends he had until he was dead (
breaking another egg
).
Mary Jane. You’re eating the last egg, mum.
Mother. I grieve that there is no other egg, but this will suffice to support me through the trying ceremony. He was an eminent Christian, – he had three wives. (
Bell rings.
)
Twitters (
without, calling
). Has that thundering shoemaker sent my new boots?
Mary Jane (
calling at door
). Just come, sir.
Mother. Cease this unseemly noise, girl (
rising
), summon the equipage.
Mary Jane. The equipage, mum? I didn’t see you come in no carriage.
Mother. My limited earthly resources do not permit me to provide myself with such luxuries. I shall use one of your master’s. My poor, dear, departed daughter, did not survive to enjoy his prosperity. I do.
Mary Jane. But he wants the carriage to go to the train, mum.
Mother. Trains go hourly. (
Takes up a box. Exit.
)
Mary Jane (
standing at window
). Well, if the late Mrs. Twitters was like this mother of hers, it ain’t no wonder that master’s kind of fidgety like. There, – she’s got hold of John, now, and she’s stepping into the carriage that was going to take master to the train. And she’s druv off! Oh, deary me. What vicious things elderly women can be. (
Enter Twitters hastily.
)
Twitters (
Looking at watch
). I shall have a close shave for the 9-20 train, but I think I can manage it. Breakfast’s ready of course, of course?
Mary Jane. It
was
ready sir.
Twitters (
approaching table
). Why, what on earth does this mean?
Mary Jane. The mother of the late Mrs. Twitters —
Twitters. The devil!
Mary Jane. No, sir, the mother of —
Twitters. Is she here? (
With feeling.
)
Mary Jane. No, sir, she’s gone.
Twitters. Something ghoulish is going on somewhere, then, or she would have stayed. That women is a perfect vulture. If anything horrible happens to anybody, she comes pouncing down to gloat over it. I’m becoming a fiend, myself; I rejoice in the news of any misfortune, for it means temporary deliveranc