The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, by Sir Arthur Wing
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Title: The Second Mrs. Tanqueray
A Play in Four Acts
Author: Sir Arthur Wing Pinero
Release Date: September 11, 2012 [eBook #40736]
Language: English
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY***
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THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY
* * * * *
_THE PLAYS OF ARTHUR W. PINERO_
WITH INTRODUCTORY NOTES
BY MALCOLM C. SALAMAN
Paper cover, 1s. 6d.; cloth, 2s. 6d. each
_THE TIMES_
_THE PROFLIGATE_
_THE CABINET MINISTER_
_THE HOBBY-HORSE_
_LADY BOUNTIFUL_
_THE MAGISTRATE_
_DANDY DICK_
_SWEET LAVENDER_
_THE SCHOOLMISTRESS_
_THE WEAKER SEX_
_THE AMAZONS_
_THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY_
_THE NOTORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH_
_THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT_
_THE PRINCESS AND THE BUTTERFLY_
_TRELAWNY OF THE "WELLS"_
_THE PINERO BIRTHDAY BOOK_
Selected and arranged by MYRA HAMILTON
With a Portrait. 16mo, cloth, 2s. 6d.
_LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN_
* * * * *
THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY
A Play In Four Acts
by
ARTHUR W. PINERO
London: William Heinemann
MCM
First Impression, 1895
Second Impression, 1898
Third Impression, 1900
Copyright, 1895
All rights reserved
Entered at Stationers' Hall
Entered at the Library of Congress
Washington, U.S.A.
All applications respecting amateur performances of this play must be
made to Mr. Pinero's agents, Samuel French, Limited, 89 Strand, London,
W.C.
THIS PLAY WAS PRODUCED
AT THE
ST. JAMES'S THEATRE
ON
Saturday, May 27, 1893.
_THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY_
AUBREY TANQUERAY.
PAULA.
ELLEAN.
CAYLEY DRUMMLE.
MRS. CORTELYON.
CAPTAIN HUGH ARDALE.
GORDON JAYNE, M.D.
FRANK MISQUITH, Q.C., M.P.
SIR GEORGE ORREYED, BART.
LADY ORREYED.
MORSE.
_The Present Day._
_The Scene of the First Act is laid at_ MR. TANQUERAY's
_rooms, No. 2x, The Albany, in the month of November; the
occurrences of the succeeding Acts take place at his house,
"Highercoombe," near Willowmere, Surrey, during the early part
of the following year._
THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY
THE FIRST ACT
AUBREY TANQUERAY's _Chambers in the Albany--a richly and
tastefully decorated room, elegantly and luxuriously
furnished: on the right a large pair of doors opening into
another room, on the left at the further end of the room a
small door leading to a bedchamber. A circular table is laid
for a dinner for four persons which has now reached the stage
of dessert and coffee. Everything in the apartment suggests
wealth and refinement. The fire is burning brightly._
AUBREY TANQUERAY, MISQUITH, _and_ JAYNE _are seated at the
dinner-table._ AUBREY _is forty-two, handsome, winning in
manner, his speech and bearing retaining some of the qualities
of young-manhood._ MISQUITH _is about forty-seven, genial and
portly._ JAYNE _is a year or two_ MISQUITH's _senior;
soft-speaking and precise--in appearance a type of the
prosperous town physician._ MORSE, AUBREY's _servant, places a
little cabinet of cigars and the spirit-lamp on the table
beside_ AUBREY, _and goes out._
MISQUITH.
Aubrey, it is a pleasant yet dreadful fact to contemplate, but it's
nearly fifteen years since I first dined with you. You lodged in
Piccadilly in those days, over a hat-shop. Jayne, I met you at that
dinner, and Cayley Drummle.
JAYNE.
Yes, yes. What a pity it is that Cayley isn't here to-night.
AUBREY.
Confound the old gossip! His empty chair has been staring us in the
face all through dinner. I ought to have told Morse to take it away.
MISQUITH.
Odd, his sending no excuse.
AUBREY.
I'll walk round to his lodgings later on and ask after him.
MISQUITH.
I'll go with you.
JAYNE.
So will I.
AUBREY.
[_Opening the cigar-cabinet._] Doctor, it's useless to tempt you, I
know. Frank--[MISQUITH _and_ AUBREY _smoke._] I particularly wished
Cayley Drummle to be one of us to-night. You two fellows and Cayley
are my closest, my best friends----
MISQUITH.
My dear Aubrey!
JAYNE.
I rejoice to hear you say so.
AUBREY.
And I wanted to see the three of you round this table. You can't
guess the reason.
MISQUITH.
You desired to give us a most excellent dinner.
JAYNE.
Obviously.
AUBREY.
[_Hesitatingly._] Well--I--[_glancing at the clock_]--Cayley won't
turn up now.
JAYNE.
H'm, hardly.
AUBREY.
Then you two shall hear it. Doctor, Frank, this is the last time we
are to meet in these rooms.
JAYNE.
The last time?
MISQUITH.
You're going to leave the Albany?
AUBREY.
Yes. You've heard me speak of a house I built in the country years
ago, haven't you?
MISQUITH.
In Surrey.
AUBREY.
Well, when my wife died I cleared out of that house and let it. I
think of trying the place again.
MISQUITH.
But you'll go raving mad if ever you find yourself down there alone.
AUBREY.
Ah, but I sha'n't be alone, and that's what I wanted to tell you.
I'm going to be married.
JAYNE.
Going to be married?
MISQUITH.
Married?
AUBREY.
Yes--to-morrow.
JAYNE.
To-morrow?
MISQUITH.
You take my breath away! My dear fellow, I--I--of course, I
congratulate you.
JAYNE.
And--and so do I--heartily.
AUBREY.
Thanks--thanks.
[_There is a moment or two of embarrassment._
MISQUITH.
Er--ah--this is an excellent cigar.
JAYNE.
Ah--um--your coffee is remarkable.
AUBREY.
Look here; I daresay you two old friends think this treatment very
strange, very unkind. So I want you to understand me. You know a
marriage often cools friendships. What's the usual course of things?
A man's engagement is given out, he is congratulated, complimented
upon his choice; the church is filled with troops of friends, and he
goes away happily to a chorus of good wishes. He comes back, sets up
house in town or country, and thinks to resume the old associations,
the old companionships. My dear Frank, my dear good doctor, it's
very seldom that it can be done. Generally, a worm has begun to eat
its way into those hearty, unreserved, pre-nuptial friendships; a
damnable constraint sets in and acts like a wasting disease; and so,
believe me, in nine cases out of ten a man's marriage severs for him
more close ties than it forms.
MISQUITH.
Well, my dear Aubrey, I earnestly hope----
AUBREY.
I know what you're going to say, Frank. I hope so, too. In the
meantime let's face dangers. I've reminded you of the _usual_ course
of things, but my marriage isn't even the conventional sort of
marriage likely to satisfy society. Now, Cayley's a bachelor, but
you two men have wives. By-the-bye, my love to Mrs. Misquith and to
Mrs. Jayne when you get home--don't forget that. Well, your wives
may not--like--the lady I'm going to marry.
JAYNE.
Aubrey, forgive me for suggesting that the lady you are going to
marry may not like our wives--mine at least; I beg your pardon,
Frank.
AUBREY.
Quite so; then I must go the way my wife goes.
MISQUITH.
Come, come, pray don't let us anticipate that either side will be
called upon to make such a sacrifice.
AUBREY.
Yes, yes, let us anticipate it. And let us make up our minds to have
no slow bleeding-to-death of our friendship. We'll end a pleasant
chapter here to-night, and after to-night start afresh. When my wife
and I settle down at Willowmere it's possible that we shall all come
together. But if this isn't to be, for Heaven's sake let us recognise
that it is simply because it can't be, and not wear hypocritical faces
and suffer and be wretched. Doctor, Frank--[_holding out his hands,
one to_ MISQUITH, _the other to_ JAYNE]--good luck to all of us!
MISQUITH.
But--but--do I understand we are to ask nothing? Not even the lady's
name, Aubrey?
AUBREY.
The lady, my dear Frank, belongs to the next chapter, and in that
her name is Mrs. Aubrey Tanqueray.
JAYNE.
[_Raising his coffee-cup._] Then, in an old-fashioned way, I propose
a toast. Aubrey, Frank, I give you "The Next Chapter!"
[_They drink the toast, saying, "The Next Chapter!"_
AUBREY.
Doctor, find a comfortable chair; Frank, you too. As we're going to
turn out by-and-by, let me scribble a couple of notes now while I
think of them.
MISQUITH _and_ JAYNE.
Certainly--yes, yes.
AUBREY.
It might slip my memory when I get back.
[AUBREY _sits at a writing-table at the other end of the
room, and writes._
JAYNE.
[_To_ MISQUITH, _in a whisper._] Frank---- [MISQUITH _quietly leaves
his chair and sits nearer to Jayne._] What is all this? Simply a
morbid crank of Aubrey's with regard to ante-nuptial acquaintances?
MISQUITH.
H'm! Did you notice _one_ expression he used?
JAYNE.
Let me think----
MISQUITH.
"My marriage is not even the conventional sort of marriage likely to
satisfy society."
JAYNE.
Bless me, yes! What does that suggest?
MISQUITH.
That he has a particular rather than a general reason for
anticipating estrangement from his friends, I'm afraid.
JAYNE.
A horrible _mésalliance_! A dairymaid who has given him a glass of
milk during a day's hunting, or a little anæmic shopgirl! Frank, I'm
utterly wretched!
MISQUITH.
My dear Jayne, speaking in absolute confidence, I have never been
more profoundly depressed in my life.
MORSE _enters._
MORSE.
[_Announcing_] Mr. Drummle.
[CAYLEY DRUMMLE _enters briskly. He is a neat little man of
about five-and-forty, in manner bright, airy, debonair,
but with an undercurrent of seriousness._
[MORSE _retires._
DRUMMLE.
I'm in disgrace; nobody realises that more thoroughly than I do.
Where's my host?
AUBREY.
[_Who has risen._] Cayley.
DRUMMLE.
[_Shaking hands with him._] Don't speak to me till I have tendered
my explanation. A harsh word from anybody would unman me.
[MISQUITH _and_ JAYNE _shake hands with_ DRUMMLE.
AUBREY.
Have you dined?
DRUMMLE.
No--unless you call a bit of fish, a cutlet, and a pancake dining.
AUBREY.
Cayley, this is disgraceful.
JAYNE.
Fish, a cutlet, and a pancake will require a great deal of
explanation.
MISQUITH.
Especially the pancake. My dear friend, your case looks miserably
weak.
DRUMMLE.
Hear me! hear me!
JAYNE.
Now then!
MISQUITH.
Come!
AUBREY.
Well!
DRUMMLE.
It so happens that to-night I was exceptionally early in dressing
for dinner.
MISQUITH.
For which dinner--the fish and cutlet?
DRUMMLE.
For _this_ dinner, of course--really, Frank! At a quarter to eight,
in fact, I found myself trimming my nails, with ten minutes to
spare. Just then enter my man with a note--would I hasten, as fast
as cab could carry me, to old Lady Orreyed in Bruton Street?--"sad
trouble." Now, recollect, please, I had ten minutes on my hands, old
Lady Orreyed was a very dear friend of my mother's, and was in some
distress.
AUBREY.
Cayley, come to the fish and cutlet?
MISQUITH _and_ JAYNE.
Yes, yes, and the pancake!
DRUMMLE.
Upon my word! Well, the scene in Bruton Street beggars description;
the women servants looked scared, the men drunk; and there was poor
old Lady Orreyed on the floor of her boudoir like Queen Bess among
her pillows.
AUBREY.
What's the matter?
DRUMMLE.
[_To everybody._] You know George Orreyed?
MISQUITH.
Yes.
JAYNE.
I've met him.
DRUMMLE.
Well, he's a thing of the past.
AUBREY.
Not dead!
DRUMMLE.
Certainly, in the worst sense. He's married Mabel Hervey.
MISQUITH.
What!
DRUMMLE.
It's true--this morning. The poor mother showed me his letter--a
dozen curt words, and some of those ill-spelt.
MISQUITH.
[_Walking up to the fireplace._] I'm very sorry.
JAYNE.
Pardon my ignorance--who _was_ Mabel Hervey?
DRUMMLE.
You don't----? Oh, of course not. Miss Hervey--Lady Orreyed, as she
now is--was a lady who would have been, perhaps has been, described
in the reports of the Police or the Divorce Court as an actress. Had
she belonged to a lower stratum of our advanced civilisation she
would, in the event of judicial inquiry, have defined her calling
with equal justification as that of a dressmaker. To do her justice,
she is a type of a class which is immortal. Physically, by the
strange caprice of creation, curiously beautiful; mentally, she
lacks even the strength of deliberate viciousness. Paint her
portrait, it would symbolise a creature perfectly patrician; lance
a vein of her superbly-modelled arm, you would get the poorest _vin
ordinaire_! Her affections, emotions, impulses, her very
existence--a burlesque! Flaxen, five-and-twenty, and feebly
frolicsome; anybody's, in less gentle society I should say
everybody's, property! That, doctor, was Miss Hervey who is the new
Lady Orreyed. Dost thou like the picture?
MISQUITH.
Very good, Cayley! Bravo!
AUBREY.
[_Laying his hand on_ DRUMMLE'S _shoulder._] You'd scarcely believe
it, Jayne, but none of us really know anything about this lady, our
gay young friend here, I suspect, least of all.
DRUMMLE.
Aubrey, I applaud your chivalry.
AUBREY.
And perhaps you'll let me finish a couple of letters which Frank and
Jayne have given me leave to write. [_Returning to the writing-table._]
Ring for what you want, like a good fellow!
[AUBREY _resumes his writing._
MISQUITH.
[_To_ DRUMMLE.] Still, the fish and cutlet remain unexplained.
DRUMMLE.
Oh, the poor old woman was so weak that I insisted upon her taking
some food, and felt there was nothing for it but to sit down
opposite her. The fool! the blackguard!
MISQUITH.
Poor Orreyed! Well, he's gone under for a time.
DRUMMLE.
For a time! My dear Frank, I tell you he has absolutely ceased to
be. [AUBREY, _who has been writing busily, turns his head towards
the speakers and listens. His lips are set, and there is a frown
upon his face._] For all practical purposes you may regard him as
the late George Orreyed. To-morrow the very characteristics of his
speech, as we remember them, will have become obsolete.
JAYNE.
But surely, in the course of years, he and his wife will outlive----
DRUMMLE.
No, no, doctor, don't try to upset one of my settled beliefs. You
may dive into many waters, but there is _one_ social Dead Sea----!
JAYNE.
Perhaps you're right.
DRUMMLE.
Right! Good God! I wish you could prove me otherwise! Why, for years
I've been sitting, and watching and waiting.
MISQUITH.
You're in form to-night, Cayley. May we ask where you've been in the
habit of squandering your useful leisure?
DRUMMLE.
Where? On the shore of that same sea.
MISQUITH.
And, pray, what have you been waiting for?
DRUMMLE.
For some of my best friends _to come up_. [AUBREY _utters a
half-stifled exclamation of impatience; then he hurriedly gathers up
his papers from the writing-table. The three men turn to him._] Eh?
AUBREY.
Oh, I--I'll finish my letters in the other room if you'll excuse me
for five minutes. Tell Cayley the news.
[_He goes out._
DRUMMLE.
[_Hurrying to the door._] My dear fellow, my jabbering has disturbed
you! I'll never talk again as long as I live!
MISQUITH.
Close the door, Cayley.
[DRUMMLE _shuts the door._
JAYNE.
Cayley----
DRUMMLE.
[_Advancing to the dinner table._] A smoke, a smoke, or I perish!
[_Selects a cigar from the little cabinet._
JAYNE.
Cayley, marriages are in the air.
DRUMMLE.
Are they? Discover the bacillus, doctor, and destroy it.
JAYNE.
I mean, among our friends.
DRUMMLE.
Oh, Nugent Warrinder's engagement to Lady Alice Tring. I've heard of
that. They're not to be married till the spring.
JAYNE.
Another marriage that concerns us a little takes place to-morrow.
DRUMMLE.
Whose marriage?
JAYNE.
Aubrey's.
DRUMMLE.
Aub----! [_Looking towards_ MISQUITH.] Is it a joke?
MISQUITH.
No.
DRUMMLE.
[_Looking from_ MISQUITH _to_ JAYNE.] To whom?
MISQUITH.
He doesn't tell us.
JAYNE.
We three were asked here to-night to receive the announcement.
Aubrey has some theory that marriage is likely to alienate a man
from his friends, and it seems to me he has taken the precaution to
wish us good-bye.
MISQUITH.
No, no.
JAYNE.
Practically, surely.
DRUMMLE.
[_Thoughtfully._] Marriage in general, does he mean, or this
marriage?
JAYNE.
That's the point. Frank says----
MISQUITH.
No, no, no; I feared it suggested----
JAYNE.
Well, well. [_To_ DRUMMLE.] What do you think Of it?
DRUMMLE.
[_After a slight pause._] Is there a light there? [_Lighting his
cigar._] He--wraps the lady--in mystery--you say?
MISQUITH.
Most modestly.
DRUMMLE.
Aubrey's--not--a very--young man.
JAYNE.
Forty-three.
DRUMMLE.
Ah! _L'age critique!_
MISQUITH.
A dangerous age--yes, yes.
DRUMMLE.
When you two fellows go home, do you mind leaving me behind here?
MISQUITH.
Not at all.
JAYNE.
By all means.
DRUMMLE.
All right. [_Anxiously._] Deuce take it, the man's second marriage
mustn't be another mistake!
[_With his head bent he walks up to the fireplace._
JAYNE.
You knew him in his short married life, Cayley. Terribly
unsatisfactory, wasn't it?
DRUMMLE.
Well---- [_Looking at the door._] I quite closed that door?
MISQUITH.
Yes.
[_Settles himself on the sofa_; JAYNE _is seated in an
armchair._
DRUMMLE.
[_Smoking, with his back to the fire._] He married a Miss Herriott;
that was in the year eighteen--confound dates--twenty years ago. She
was a lovely creature--by Jove, she was; by religion a Roman
Catholic. She was one of your cold sort, you know--all marble arms
and black velvet. I remember her with painful distinctness as the
only woman who ever made me nervous.
MISQUITH.
Ha, ha!
DRUMMLE.
He loved her--to distraction, as they say. Jupiter, how fervently
that poor devil courted her! But I don't believe she allowed him
even to squeeze her fingers. She _was_ an iceberg! As for kissing,
the mere contact would have given him chapped lips. However, he
married her and took her away, the latter greatly to my relief.
JAYNE.
Abroad, you mean?
DRUMMLE.
Eh? Yes. I imagine he gratified her by renting a villa in Lapland,
but I don't know. After a while they returned, and then I saw how
wofully Aubrey had miscalculated results.
JAYNE.
Miscalculated----?
DRUMMLE.
He had reckoned, poor wretch, that in the early days of marriage she
would thaw. But she didn't. I used to picture him closing his doors
and making up the fire in the hope of seeing her features relax.
Bless her, the thaw never set in! I believe she kept a thermometer
in her stays and always registered ten degrees below zero. However,
in time a child came--a daughter.
JAYNE.
Didn't that----?
DRUMMLE.
Not a bit of it; it made matters worse. Frightened at her failure to
stir up in him some sympathetic religious belief, she determined
upon strong measures with regard to the child. He opposed her for a
miserable year or so, but she wore him down, and the insensible
little brat was placed in a convent, first in France, then in
Ireland. Not long afterwards the mother died, strangely enough, of
fever, the only warmth, I believe, that ever came to that woman's
body.
MISQUITH.
Don't, Cayley!
JAYNE.
The child is living, we know.
DRUMMLE.
Yes, if you choose to call it living. Miss Tanqueray--a young woman
of nineteen now--is in the Loretto convent at Armagh. She professes
to have found her true vocation in a religious life, and within a
month or two will take final vows.
MISQUITH.
He ought to have removed his daughter from the convent when the
mother died.
DRUMMLE.
Yes, yes, but absolutely at the end there was reconciliation between
husband and wife, and she won his promise that the child should
complete her conventual education. He reaped his reward. When he
attempted to gain his girl's confidence and affection he was too
late; he found he was dealing with the spirit of the mother. You
remember his visit to Ireland last month?
JAYNE.
Yes.
DRUMMLE.
That was to wish his girl good-bye.
MISQUITH.
Poor fellow?
DRUMMLE.
He sent for me when he came back. I think he must have had a
lingering hope that the girl would relent--would come to life, as it
were--at the last moment, for, for an hour or so, in this room, he
was terribly shaken. I'm sure he'd clung to that hope from the
persistent way in which he kept breaking off in his talk to repeat
one dismal word, as if he couldn't realise his position without
dinning this damned word into his head.
JAYNE.
What word was that?
DRUMMLE.
Alone--alone.
AUBREY _enters._
AUBREY.
A thousand apologies!
DRUMMLE.
[_Gaily._] We are talking about you, my dear Aubrey.
[_During the telling of the story,_ MISQUITH _has risen
and gone to the fire, and_ DRUMMLE _has thrown himself
full-length on the sofa._ AUBREY _now joins_ MISQUITH
_and_ JAYNE.
AUBREY.
Well, Cayley, are you surprised?
DRUMMLE.
Surp----! I haven't been surprised for twenty years.
AUBREY.
And you're not angry with me?
DRUMMLE.
Angry! [_Rising._] Because you considerately withhold the name of a
lady with whom it is now the object of my life to become acquainted?
My dear fellow, you pique my curiosity, you give zest to my
existence! And as for a wedding, who on earth wants to attend that
familiar and probably draughty function? Ugh! My cigar's out.
AUBREY.
Let's talk about something else.
MISQUITH.
[_Looking at his watch._] Not to-night, Aubrey.
AUBREY.
My dear Frank!
MISQUITH.
I go up to Scotland to-morrow, and there are some little matters----
JAYNE.
I am off too.
AUBREY.
No, no.
JAYNE.
I must: I have to give a look to a case in Clifford Street on my way
home.
AUBREY.
[_Going to the door._] Well! [MISQUITH _and_ JAYNE _exchange looks
with_ DRUMMLE. _Opening the door and calling._] Morse, hats and
coats! I shall write to you all next week from Genoa or Florence.
Now, doctor, Frank, remember, my love to Mrs. Misquith and to Mrs.
Jayne!
MORSE _enters with hats and coats._
MISQUITH _and_ JAYNE.
Yes, yes--yes, yes.
AUBREY.
And your young people!
[_As_ MISQUITH _and_ JAYNE _put on their coats there is
the clatter of careless talk._
JAYNE.
Cayley, I meet you at dinner on Sunday.
DRUMMLE.
At the Stratfields'. That's very pleasant.
MISQUITH.
[_Putting on his coat with_ AUBREY's _aid._] Ah-h!
AUBREY.
What's wrong?
MISQUITH.
A twinge. Why didn't I go to Aix in August?
JAYNE.
[_Shaking hands with_ DRUMMLE.] Good-night, Cayley.
DRUMMLE.
Good-night, my dear doctor!
MISQUITH.
[_Shaking hands with_ DRUMMLE.] Cayley, are you in town for long?
DRUMMLE.
Dear friend, I'm nowhere for long. Good-night.
MISQUITH.
Good-night.
[AUBREY, JAYNE, _and_ MISQUITH _go out, followed by_ MORSE;
_the hum of talk is continued outside._
AUBREY.
A cigar, Frank?
MISQUITH.
No, thank you.
AUBREY.
Going to walk, doctor?
JAYNE.
If Frank will.
MISQUITH.
By all means.
AUBREY.
It's a cold night.
[_The door is closed._ DRUMMLE _remains standing with his
coat on his arm and his hat in his hand._
DRUMMLE.
[_To himself, thoughtfully._] Now then! What the devil----!
[AUBREY _returns._
AUBREY.
[_Eyeing_ DRUMMLE _a little awkwardly._] Well, Cayley?
DRUMMLE.
Well, Aubrey?
[AUBREY _walks up to the fire and stands looking into it._
AUBREY.
You're not going, old chap?
DRUMMLE.
[_Sitting._] No.
AUBREY.
[_After a slight pause, with a forced laugh._] Hah! Cayley, I never
thought I should feel--shy--with you.
DRUMMLE.
Why do you?
AUBREY.
Never mind.
DRUMMLE.
Now, I can quite understand a man wishing to be married in the dark,
as it were.
AUBREY.
You can?
DRUMMLE.
In your place I should very likely adopt the same course.
AUBREY.
You think so?
DRUMMLE.
And if I intended marrying a lady not prominently in Society, as I
presume you do--as I presume you do----
AUBREY.
Well?
DRUMMLE.
As I presume you do, I'm not sure that _I_ should tender her for
preliminary dissection at afternoon tea-tables.
AUBREY.
No?
DRUMMLE.
In fact, there is probably only one person--were I in your position
to-night--with whom I should care to chat the matter over.
AUBREY.
Who's that?
DRUMMLE.
Yourself, of course. [_Going to_ AUBREY _and standing beside him._]
Of course, yourself, old friend.
AUBREY.
[_After a pause._] I must seem a brute to you, Cayley. But there are
some acts which are hard to explain, hard to defend----
DRUMMLE.
To defend----?
AUBREY.
Some acts which one must trust to time to put right.
[DRUMMLE _watches him for a moment, then takes up his hat
and coat._
DRUMMLE.
Well, I'll be moving.
AUBREY.
Cayley! Confound you and your old friendship! Do you think I forget
it? Put your coat down! Why did you stay behind here? Cayley, the
lady I am going to marry is the lady--who is known as--Mrs. Jarman.
[_There is a pause._
DRUMMLE.
[_In a low voice_] Mrs. Jarman! are you serious?
[_He walks up to the fireplace, where he leans upon the
mantelpiece uttering something like a groan._
AUBREY.
As you've got this out of me I give you leave to say all you care to
say. Come, we'll be plain with each other. You know Mrs. Jarman?
DRUMMLE.
I first met her at--what does it matter?
AUBREY.
Yes, yes, everything! Come!
DRUMMLE.
I met her at Homburg, two--three seasons ago.
AUBREY.
Not as Mrs. Jarman?
DRUMMLE.
No.
AUBREY.
She was then----?
DRUMMLE.
Mrs. Dartry.
AUBREY.
Yes. She has also seen you in London, she says.
DRUMMLE.
Certainly.
AUBREY.
In Aldford Street. Go on.
DRUMMLE.
Please!
AUBREY.
I insist.
DRUMMLE.
[_With a slight shrug of the shoulders._] Some time last year I was
asked by a man to sup at his house, one night after the theatre.
AUBREY.
Mr. Selwyn Ethurst--a bachelor.
DRUMMLE.
Yes.
AUBREY.
You were surprised therefore to find Mr. Ethurst aided in his cursed
hospitality by a lady.
DRUMMLE.
I was unprepared.
AUBREY.
The lady you had known as Mrs. Dartry? [DRUMMLE _inclines his head
silently._] There is something of a yachting cruise in the
Mediterranean too, is there not?
DRUMMLE.
I joined Peter Jarman's yacht at Marseilles, in the Spring, a month
before he died.
AUBREY.
Mrs. Jarman was on board?
DRUMMLE.
She was a kind hostess.
AUBREY.
And an old acquaintance?
DRUMMLE.
Yes.
AUBREY.
You have told your story.
DRUMMLE.
With your assistance.
AUBREY.
I have put you to the pain of telling it to show you that this is
not the case of a blind man entrapped by an artful woman. Let me add
that Mrs. Jarman has no legal right to that name, that she is simply
Miss Ray--Miss Paula Ray.
DRUMMLE.
[_After a pause._] I should like to express my regret, Aubrey, for
the way in which I spoke of George Orreyed's marriage.
AUBREY.
You mean you compare Lady Orreyed with Miss Ray? [DRUMMLE _is
silent._] Oh, of course! To you, Cayley, all women who have been
roughly treated, and who dare to survive by borrowing a little of
our philosophy, are alike. You see in the crowd of the Ill-used only
one pattern; you can't detect the shades of goodness, intelligence,
even nobility there. Well, how should you? The crowd is dimly
lighted! And, besides, yours is the way of the world.
DRUMMLE.
My dear Aubrey, I _live_ in the world.
AUBREY.
The name we give our little parish of St. James's.
DRUMMLE.
[_Laying a hand on_ AUBREY's _shoulder._] And you are quite
prepared, my friend, to forfeit the esteem of your little parish?
AUBREY.
I avoid mortification by shifting from one parish to another. I give
up Pall Mall for the Surrey hills; leave off varnishing my boots and
double the thickness of the soles.
DRUMMLE.
And your skin--do you double the thickness of that also?
AUBREY.
I know you think me a fool, Cayley--you needn't infer that I'm a
coward into the bargain. No! I know what I'm doing, and I do it
deliberately, defiantly. I'm alone; I injure no living soul by the
step I'm going to take; and so you can't urge the one argument which
might restrain me. Of course, I don't expect you to think
compassionately, fairly even, of the woman whom I--whom I am drawn
to----
DRUMMLE.
My dear Aubrey, I assure you I consider Mrs.--Miss Jarman--Mrs.
Ray--Miss Ray--delightful. But I confess there is a form of chivalry
which I gravely distrust, especially in a man of--our age.
AUBREY.
Thanks. I've heard you say that from forty till fifty a man is at
heart either a stoic or a satyr.
DRUMMLE.
[_Protestingly._] Ah! now----
AUBREY.
I am neither. I have a temperate, honourable affection for Mrs.
Jarman. She has never met a man who has treated her well--I intend
to treat her well. That's all. And in a few years, Cayley, if you've
not quite forsaken me, I'll prove to you that it's possible to rear
a life of happiness, of good repute, on a--miserable foundation.
DRUMMLE.
[_Offering his hand._] Do prove it!
AUBREY.
[_Taking his hand._] We have spoken too freely of--of Mrs. Jarman. I
was excited--angry. Please forget it!
DRUMMLE.
My dear Aubrey, when we next meet I shall remember nothing but my
respect for the lady who bears your name.
MORSE _enters, closing the door behind him carefully._
AUBREY.
What is it?
MORSE.
[_Hesitatingly._] May I speak to you, Sir? [_In an undertone._] Mrs.
Jarman, sir.
AUBREY.
[_Softly to_ MORSE.] Mrs. Jarman! Do you mean she is at the lodge in
her carriage?
MORSE.
No, sir--here. [AUBREY _looks towards_ DRUMMLE, _perplexed._]
There's a nice fire in your--in that room, sir. [_Glancing in the
direction of the door leading to the bedroom._]
AUBREY.
[_Between his teeth, angrily._] Very well.
[MORSE _retires._
DRUMMLE.
[_Looking at his watch._] A quarter to eleven--horrible! [_Taking up
his hat and coat._] Must get to bed--up late every night this week.
[AUBREY _assists_ DRUMMLE _with his coat._] Thank you. Well,
good-night, Aubrey. I feel I've been dooced serious, quite out of
keeping with myself; pray overlook it.
AUBREY.
[_Kindly._] Ah, Cayley!
DRUMMLE.
[_Putting on a neck-handkerchief._] And remember that, after all,
I'm merely a spectator in life; nothing more than a man at a play,
in fact; only, like the old-fashioned playgoer, I love to see
certain characters happy and comfortable at the finish. You
understand?
AUBREY.
I think I do.
DRUMMLE.
Then, for as long as you can, old friend, will you--keep a stall for
me?
AUBREY.
Yes, Cayley.
DRUMMLE.
[_Gaily._] Ah, ha! Good-night! [_Bustling to the door._] Don't
bother! I'll let myself out! Good-night! God bless yer!
[_He goes out_; AUBREY _follows him._ MORSE _enters by the
other door, carrying some unopened letters which after
a little consideration he places on the mantelpiece
against the clock._ AUBREY _returns._
AUBREY.
Yes?
MORSE.
You hadn't seen your letters that came by the nine o'clock post,
sir; I've put 'em where they'll catch your eye by-and-by.
AUBREY.
Thank you.
MORSE.
[_Hesitatingly._] Gunter's cook and waiter have gone, sir. Would you
prefer me to go to bed?
AUBREY.
[_Frowning._] Certainly not.
MORSE.
Very well, sir.
[_He goes out._
AUBREY.
[_Opening the upper door_] Paula! Paula!
PAULA _enters and throws her arms round his neck. She is a
young woman of about twenty-seven: beautiful, fresh,
innocent-looking. She is in superb evening dress._
PAULA.
Dearest!
AUBREY.
Why have you come here?
PAULA.
Angry?
AUBREY.
Yes--no. But it's eleven o'clock.
PAULA.
[_Laughing._] I know.
AUBREY.
What on earth will Morse think?
PAULA.
Do you trouble yourself about what servants _think_?
AUBREY.
Of course.
PAULA.
Goose! They're only machines made to wait upon people--and to give
evidence in the Divorce Court. [_Looking round._] Oh, indeed! A snug
little dinner!
AUBREY.
Three men.
PAULA.
[_Suspiciously._] Men?
AUBREY.
Men.
PAULA.
[_Penitently._] Ah! [_Sitting at the table._] I'm so hungry.
AUBREY.
Let me get you some game pie, or some----
PAULA.
No, no, hungry for this. What beautiful fruit! I love fruit when
it's expensive. [_He clears a space on the table, places a plate
before her, and helps her to fruit._] I haven't dined, Aubrey dear.
AUBREY.
My poor girl! Why?
PAULA.
In the first place, I forgot to order any dinner, and my cook, who
has always loathed me, thought he'd pay me out before he departed.
AUBREY.
The beast!
PAULA.
That's precisely what I----
AUBREY.
No, Paula!
PAULA.
What I told my maid to call him. What next will you think of me?
AUBREY.
Forgive me. You must be starved.
PAULA.
[_Eating fruit._] _I_ didn't care. As there was nothing to eat, I
sat in my best frock, with my toes on the dining-room fender, and
dreamt, oh, such a lovely dinner-party.
AUBREY.
Dear lonely little woman!
PAULA.
It was perfect. I saw you at the end of a very long table, opposite
me, and we exchanged sly glances now and again over the flowers. We
were host and hostess, Aubrey, and had been married about five
years.
AUBREY.
[_Kissing her hand._] Five years.
PAULA.
And on each side of us was the nicest set imaginable--you know,
dearest, the sort of men and women that can't be imitated.
AUBREY.
Yes, yes. Eat some more fruit.
PAULA.
But I haven't told you the best part of my dream.
AUBREY.
Tell me.
PAULA.
Well, although we had been married only such a few years, I seemed
to know by the look on their faces that none of our guests had ever
heard anything--anything--anything peculiar about the fascinating
hostess.
AUBREY.
That's just how it will be, Paula. The world moves so quickly.
That's just how it will be.
PAULA.
[_With a little grimace._] I wonder! [_Glancing at the fire._] Ugh!
do throw another log on.
AUBREY.
[_Mending the fire._] There. But you mustn't be here long.
PAULA.
Hospitable wretch! I've something important to tell you. No, stay
where you are. [_Turning from him, her face averted._] Look here,
that was my dream, Aubrey; but the fire went out while I was dozing,
and I woke up with a regular fit of the shivers. And the result of
it all was that I ran upstairs and scribbled you a letter.
AUBREY.
Dear baby!
PAULA.
Remain where you are. [_Taking a letter from her pocket._] This is
it. I've given you an account of myself, furnished you with a list
of my adventures since I--you know. [_Weighing the letter in her
hand._] I wonder if it would go for a penny. Most of it you're
acquainted with; _I've_ told you a good deal, haven't I?
AUBREY.
Oh, Paula!
PAULA.
What I haven't told you I daresay you've heard from others. But in
case they've omitted anything--the dears--it's all here.
AUBREY.
In Heaven's name, why must you talk like this to-night?
PAULA.
It may save discussion by-and-by, don't you think? [_Holding out the
letter._] There you are.
AUBREY.
No, dear, no.
PAULA.
Take it. [_He takes the letter._] Read it through after I've
gone, and then--read it again, and turn the matter over in your
mind finally. And if, even at the very last moment, you feel
you--oughtn't to go to church with me, send a messenger to Pont
Street, any time before eleven to-morrow, telling me that you're
afraid, and I--I'll take the blow.
AUBREY.
Why, what--what do you think I am?
PAULA.
That's it. It's because I know you're such a dear good fellow that I
want to save you the chance of ever feeling sorry you married me. I
really love you so much, Aubrey, that to save you that I'd rather
you treated me as--as the others have done.
AUBREY.
[_Turning from her with a cry._] Oh!
PAULA.
[_After a slight pause._] I suppose I've shocked you. I can't help
it if I have.
[_She sits, with assumed languor and indifference. He turns
to her, advances, and kneels by her._
AUBREY.
My dearest, you don't understand me. I--I can't bear to hear you
always talking about--what's done with. I tell you I'll never
remember it; Paula, can't you dismiss it? Try. Darling, if we
promise each other to forget, to forget, we're bound to be happy.
After all, it's a mechanical matter; the moment a wretched thought
enters your head, you quickly think of something bright--it depends
on one's will. Shall I burn this, dear? [_Referring to the letter he
holds in his hand._] Let me, let me!
PAULA.
[_With a shrug of the shoulders._] I don't suppose there's much
that's new to you in it--just as you like.
[_He goes to the fire and burns the letter._
AUBREY.
There's an end of it. [_Returning to her._] What's the matter?
PAULA.
[_Rising, coldly._] Oh, nothing! I'll go and put my cloak on.
AUBREY.
[_Detaining her._] What _is_ the matter?
PAULA.
Well, I think you might have said, "You're very generous, Paula,"
or at least, "Thank you, dear," when I offered to set you free.
AUBREY.
[_Catching her in his arms._] Ah!
PAULA.
Ah! ah! Ha, ha! It's all very well, but you don't know what it cost
me to make such an offer. I do so want to be married.
AUBREY.
But you never imagined----?
PAULA.
Perhaps not. And yet I _did_ think of what I'd do at the end of our
acquaintance if you had preferred to behave like the rest.
[_Taking a flower from her bodice._
AUBREY.
Hush!
PAULA.
Oh, I forgot!
AUBREY.
What would you have done when we parted?
PAULA.
Why, killed myself.
AUBREY.
Paula, dear!
PAULA.
It's true. [_Putting the flower in his buttonhole._] Do you know I
feel certain I should make away with myself if anything serious
happened to me.
AUBREY.
Anything serious! What, has nothing ever been serious to you, Paula?
PAULA.
Not lately; not since a long while ago. I made up my mind then to
have done with taking things seriously. If I hadn't, I---- However,
we won't talk about that.
AUBREY.
But now, now, life will be different to you, won't it--quite
different? Eh, dear?
PAULA.
Oh yes, now. Only, Aubrey, mind you keep me always happy.
AUBREY.
I will try to.
PAULA.
I know I couldn't swallow a second big dose of misery. I know that
if ever I felt wretched again--truly wretched--I should take a leaf
out of Connie Tirlemont's book. You remember? They found her----
[_With a look of horror._]
AUBREY.
For God's sake, don't let your thoughts run on such things!
PAULA.
[_Laughing._] Ha, ha, how scared you look! There, think of the time!
Dearest, what will my coachman say! My cloak!
[_She runs off, gaily, by the upper door._ AUBREY _looks
after her for a moment, then he walks up to the fire
and stands warming his feet at the bars. As he does so
he raises his head and observes the letters upon the
mantelpiece. He takes one down quickly._
AUBREY.
Ah! Ellean! [_Opening the letter and reading._] "My dear father,--A
great change has come over me. I believe my mother in Heaven has
spoken to me, and counselled me to turn to you in your loneliness.
At any rate, your words have reached my heart, and I no longer feel
fitted for this solemn life. I am ready to take my place by you.
Dear father, will you receive me?--ELLEAN."
PAULA _re-enters, dressed in a handsome cloak. He stares at
her as if he hardly realised her presence._
PAULA.
What are you staring at? Don't you admire my cloak?
AUBREY.
Yes.
PAULA.
Couldn't you wait till I'd gone before reading your letters?
AUBREY.
[_Putting the letter away._] I beg your pardon.
PAULA.
Take me downstairs to the carriage. [_Slipping her arm through
his._] How I tease you! To-morrow! I'm so happy!
[_They go out._
THE SECOND ACT
_A morning-room in_ AUBREY TANQUERAY'S _house, "Highercoombe,"
near Willowmere, Surrey--a bright and prettily furnished
apartment of irregular shape, with double doors opening into a
small hall at the back, another door on the left, and a large
recessed window through which is obtained a view of extensive
grounds. Everything about the room is charming and graceful.
The fire is burning in the grate, and a small table is
tastefully laid for breakfast. It is a morning in early
Spring, and the sun is streaming in through the window._
AUBREY _and_ PAULA _are seated at breakfast, and_ AUBREY _is
silently reading his letters. Two servants, a man and a woman,
hand dishes and then retire. After a little while_ AUBREY
_puts his letters aside and looks across to the window._
AUBREY.
Sunshine! Spring!
PAULA.
[_Glancing at the clock._] Exactly six minutes.
AUBREY.
Six minutes?
PAULA.
Six minutes, Aubrey dear, since you made your last remark.
AUBREY.
I beg your pardon; I was reading my letters. Have you seen Ellean
this morning?
PAULA.
[_Coldly._] Your last observation but one was about Ellean.
AUBREY.
Dearest, what shall I talk about?
PAULA.
Ellean breakfasted two hours ago, Morgan tells me, and then went out
walking with her dog.
AUBREY.
She wraps up warmly, I hope; this sunshine is deceptive.
PAULA.
I ran about the lawn last night, after dinner, in satin shoes. Were
you anxious about me?
AUBREY.
Certainly.
PAULA.
[_Melting._] Really?
AUBREY.
You make me wretchedly anxious; you delight in doing incautious
things. You are incurable.
PAULA.
Ah, what a beast I am! [_Going to him and kissing him, then glancing
at the letters by his side._] A letter from Cayley?
AUBREY.
He is staying very near here, with Mrs.---- Very near here.
PAULA.
With the lady whose chimneys we have the honour of contemplating
from our windows?
AUBREY.
With Mrs. Cortelyon--yes.
PAULA.
Mrs. Cortelyon! The woman who might have set the example of calling
on me when we first threw out roots in this deadly-lively soil!
Deuce take Mrs. Cortelyon!
AUBREY.
Hush! my dear girl!
PAULA.
[_Returning to her seat._] Oh, I know she's an old acquaintance of
yours--and of the first Mrs. Tanqueray. And she joins the rest of
'em in slapping the second Mrs. Tanqueray in the face. However, I
have my revenge--she's six-and-forty, and I wish nothing worse to
happen to any woman.
AUBREY.
Well, she's going to town, Cayley says here, and his visit's at an
end. He's coming over this morning to call on you. Shall we ask him
to transfer himself to us? Do say yes.
PAULA.
Yes.
AUBREY.
[_Gladly._] Ah, ha! old Cayley!
PAULA.
[_Coldly._] He'll amuse _you_.
AUBREY.
And you too.
PAULA.
Because you find a companion, shall I be boisterously hilarious?
AUBREY.
Come, come! He talks London, and you know you like that.
PAULA.
London! London or Heaven! which is farther from me!
AUBREY.
Paula!
PAULA.
Oh! Oh, I am so bored, Aubrey!
AUBREY.
[_Gathering up his letters and going to her, leaning over her
shoulder._] Baby, what can I do for you?
PAULA.
I suppose, nothing. You have done all you can for me.
AUBREY.
What do you mean?
PAULA.
You have married me.
[_He walks away from her thoughtfully, to the writing-table.
As he places his letters on the table he sees an
addressed letter, stamped for the post, lying on the
blotting-book; he picks it up._
AUBREY.
[_In an altered tone._] You've been writing this Morning before
breakfast?
PAULA.
[_Looking at him quickly, then away again._] Er--that letter.
AUBREY.
[_With the letter in his hand._] To Lady Orreyed. Why?
PAULA.
Why not? Mabel's an old friend of mine.
AUBREY.
Are you--corresponding?
PAULA.
I heard from her yesterday. They've just returned from the Riviera.
She seems happy.
AUBREY.
[_Sarcastically._] That's good news.
PAULA.
Why are you always so cutting about Mabel? She's a kind-hearted
girl. Every thing's altered; she even thinks of letting her hair go
back to brown. She's Lady Orreyed. She's married to George. What's
the matter with her?
AUBREY.
[_Turning away._] Oh!
PAULA.
You drive me mad sometimes with the tone you take about things!
Great goodness, if you come to that, George Orreyed's wife isn't a
bit worse than yours! [_He faces her suddenly._] I suppose I needn't
have made that observation.
AUBREY.
No, there was scarcely a necessity.
[_He throws the letter on to the table, and takes up the
newspaper._
PAULA.
I am very sorry.
AUBREY.
All right, dear.
PAULA.
[_Trifling with the letter._] I--I'd better tell you what I've
written. I meant to do so, of course. I--I've asked the Orreyeds to
come and stay with us. [_He looks at her and lets the paper fall to
the ground in a helpless way._] George was a great friend of
Cayley's; I'm sure _he_ would be delighted to meet them here.
AUBREY.
[_Laughing mirthlessly._] Ha, ha, ha! They say Orreyed has taken to
tippling at dinner. Heavens above!
PAULA.
Oh! I've no patience with you! You'll kill me with this life! [_She
selects some flowers from a vase on the table, cuts and arranges
them, and fastens them in her bodice._] What is my existence, Sunday
to Saturday? In the morning, a drive down to the village, with the
groom, to give my orders to the tradespeople. At lunch, you and
Ellean. In the afternoon, a novel, the newspapers; if fine, another
drive--_if_ fine! Tea--you and Ellean. Then two hours of dusk; then
dinner--you and Ellean. Then a game of Bésique, you and I, while
Ellean reads a religious book in a dull corner. Then a yawn from me,
another from you, a sigh from Ellean; three figures suddenly
rise--"Good-night, good-night, good-night!" [_Imitating a kiss._]
"God bless you!" Ah!
AUBREY.
Yes, yes, Paula--yes, dearest--that's what it is _now_. But,
by-and-by, if people begin to come round us----
PAULA.
Hah! That's where we've made the mistake, my friend Aubrey!
[_Pointing to the window._] Do you believe these people will _ever_
come round us? Your former crony, Mrs. Cortelyon? Or the grim old
vicar, or that wife of his whose huge nose is positively indecent?
Or the Ullathornes, or the Gollans, or Lady William Petres? I know
better! And when the young ones gradually take the place of the old,
there will still remain the sacred tradition that the dreadful
person who lives at the top of the hill is never, under any
circumstances, to be called upon! And so we shall go on here, year
in and year out, until the sap is run out of our lives, and we're
stale and dry and withered from sheer, solitary respectability. Upon
my word, I wonder we didn't see that we should have been far happier
if we'd gone in for the devil-may-care, _café_-living sort of life
in town! After all, _I_ have a set and you might have joined it.
It's true I did want, dearly, dearly, to be a married woman, but
where's the pride in being a married woman among married women who
are--married! If---- [_Seeing that_ AUBREY'S _head has sunk into his
hands._] Aubrey! My dear boy! You're not--crying?
[_He looks up, with a flushed face._ ELLEAN _enters,
dressed very simply for walking. She is a low voiced,
grave girl of about nineteen, with a face somewhat
resembling a Madonna. Towards_ PAULA _her manner is
cold and distant._
AUBREY.
[_In an undertone._] Ellean!
ELLEAN.
Good-morning, papa. Good-morning, Paula.
[PAULA _puts her arms round_ ELLEAN _and kisses her._
ELLEAN _makes little response._
PAULA.
Good-morning. [_Brightly._] We've been breakfasting this side of the
house, to get the sun.
[_She sits at the piano and rattles at a gay melody.
Seeing that_ PAULA'S _back is turned to them,_ ELLEAN
_goes to_ AUBREY _and kisses him; he returns the kiss
almost furtively. As they separate, the servants
re-enter, and proceed to carry out the breakfast-table._
AUBREY.
[_To_ ELLEAN.] I guess where you've been: there's some gorse
clinging to your frock.
ELLEAN.
[_Removing a sprig of gorse from her skirt._] Rover and I walked
nearly as far as Black Moor. The poor fellow has a thorn in his pad;
I am going upstairs for my tweezers.
AUBREY.
Ellean! [_She returns to him._] Paula is a little depressed--out of
sorts. She complains that she has no companion.
ELLEAN.
I am with Paula nearly all the day, papa.
AUBREY.
Ah, but you're such a little mouse. Paula likes cheerful people
about her.
ELLEAN.
I'm afraid I am naturally rather silent; and it's so difficult to
seem to be what one is not.
AUBREY.
I don't wish that, Ellean.
ELLEAN.
I will offer to go down to the village with Paula this
morning--shall I?
AUBREY.
[_Touching her hand gently._] Thank you--do.
ELLEAN.
When I've looked after Rover, I'll come back to her.
[_She goes out;_ PAULA _ceases playing, and turns on the
music-stool looking at_ AUBREY.
PAULA.
Well, have you and Ellean had your little confidence?
AUBREY.
Confidence?
PAULA.
Do you think I couldn't feel it, like a pain between my shoulders?
AUBREY.
Ellean is coming back in a few minutes to be with you. [_Bending
over her._] Paula, Paula dear, is this how you keep your promise?
PAULA.
Oh! [_Rising impatiently and crossing swiftly to the settee, where
she sits, moving restlessly._] I _can't_ keep my promise; I _am_
jealous; it won't be smothered. I see you looking at her, watching
her; your voice drops when you speak to her. I know how fond you are
of that girl, Aubrey.
AUBREY.
What would you have? I've no other home for her. She is my
daughter.
PAULA.
She is your saint. Saint Ellean!
AUBREY.
You have often told me how good and sweet you think her.
PAULA.
Good!--yes! Do you imagine _that_ makes me less jealous? [_Going to
him and clinging to his arm._] Aubrey, there are two sorts of
affection--the love for a woman you respect, and the love for a
woman you--love. She gets the first from you: I never can.
AUBREY.
Hush, hush! you don't realise what you say.
PAULA.
If Ellean cared for me only a little, it would be different. I
shouldn't be jealous then. Why doesn't she care for me?
AUBREY.
She--she--she will, in time.
PAULA.
You can't say that without stuttering.
AUBREY.
Her disposition seems a little unresponsive; she resembles her
mother in many ways; I can see it every day.
PAULA.
She's marble. It's a shame. There's not the slightest excuse; for
all she knows, I'm as much a saint as she--only married. Dearest,
help me to win her over!
AUBREY.
Help you?
PAULA.
You can. Teach her that it is her duty to love me; she hangs on to
every word you speak. I'm sure, Aubrey, that the love of a nice woman
who believed me to be like herself would do me a world of good. You'd
get the benefit of it as well as I. It would soothe me; it would make
me less horribly restless; it would take this--this--mischievous
feeling from me. [_Coaxingly._] Aubrey!
AUBREY.
Have patience; everything will come right.
PAULA.
Yes, if you help me.
AUBREY.
In the meantime you will tear up your letter to Lady Orreyed, won't
you?
PAULA.
[_Kissing his hand._] Of course I will--anything!
AUBREY.
Ah, thank you, dearest! [_Laughing._] Why, good gracious!--ha,
ha!--just imagine "Saint Ellean" and that woman side by side!
PAULA.
[_Going back with a cry._] Ah!
AUBREY.
What?
PAULA.
[_Passionately._] It's Ellean you're considering, not me? It's all
Ellean with you! Ellean! Ellean!
ELLEAN _re-enters._
ELLEAN.
Did you call me, Paula? [_Clenching his hands,_ AUBREY _turns away
and goes out._] Is papa angry?
PAULA.
I drive him distracted sometimes. There, I confess it!
ELLEAN.
Do you? Oh, why do you?
PAULA.
Because I--because I'm jealous.
ELLEAN.
Jealous?
PAULA.
Yes--of you. [ELLEAN _is silent._] Well, what do you think of that?
ELLEAN.
I knew it; I've seen it. It hurts me dreadfully. What do you wish me
to do? Go away?
PAULA.
Leave us! [_Beckoning her with a motion of the head._] Look here!
[ELLEAN _goes to_ PAULA _slowly and unresponsively._] You could cure
me of my jealousy very easily. Why don't you--like me?
ELLEAN.
What do you mean by--like you? I don't understand.
PAULA.
Love me.
ELLEAN.
Love is not a feeling that is under one's control. I shall alter as
time goes on, perhaps. I didn't begin to love my father deeply till
a few months ago, and then I obeyed my mother.
PAULA.
Ah, yes, you dream things, don't you--see them in your sleep? You
fancy your mother speaks to you?
ELLEAN.
When you have lost your mother it is a comfort to believe that she
is dead only to this life, that she still watches over her child. I
do believe that of my mother.
PAULA.
Well, and so you haven't been bidden to love _me_?
ELLEAN.
[_After a pause, almost inaudibly._] No.
PAULA.
Dreams are only a hash-up of one's day-thoughts, I suppose you know.
Think intently of anything, and it's bound to come back to you at
night. I don't cultivate dreams myself.
ELLEAN.
Ah, I knew you would only sneer!
PAULA.
I'm not sneering; I'm speaking the truth. I say that if you cared
for me in the daytime I should soon make friends with those
nightmares of yours. Ellean, why don't you try to look on me as your
second mother? Of course there are not many years between us, but
I'm ever so much older than you--in experience. I shall have no
children of my own, I know that; it would be a real comfort to me if
you would make me feel we belonged to each other. Won't you? Perhaps
you think I'm odd--not nice. Well, the fact is I've two sides to my
nature, and I've let the one almost smother the other. A few years
ago I went through some trouble, and since then I haven't shed a
tear. I believe if you put your arms round me just once I should run
upstairs and have a good cry. There, I've talked to you as I've
never talked to a woman in my life. Ellean, you seem to fear me.
Don't! Kiss me!
[_With a cry, almost of despair,_ ELLEAN _turns from_
PAULA _and sinks on to the settee, covering her face
with her hands._
PAULA.
[_Indignantly._] Oh! Why is it! How dare you treat me like this?
What do you mean by it? What do you mean?
_A_ SERVANT _enters._
SERVANT.
Mr. Drummle, ma'am.
CAYLEY DRUMMLE, _in riding dress, enters briskly._
_The_ SERVANT _retires._
PAULA.
[_Recovering herself._] Well, Cayley!
DRUMMLE.
[_Shaking hands with her cordially._] How are you? [_Shaking hands
with_ ELLEAN, _who rises._] I saw you in the distance an hour ago,
in the gorse near Stapleton's.
ELLEAN.
I didn't see you, Mr. Drummle.
DRUMMLE.
My dear Ellean, it is my experience that no charming young lady of
nineteen ever does see a man of forty-five. [_Laughing._] Ha, Ha!
ELLEAN.
[_Going to the door._] Paula, papa wishes me to drive down to the
village with you this morning. Do you care to take me?
PAULA.
[_Coldly._] Oh, by all means. Pray tell Watts to balance the cart
for three.
[ELLEAN _goes out._
DRUMMLE.
How's Aubrey?
PAULA.
Very well--when Ellean's about the house.
DRUMMLE.
And you? I needn't ask.
PAULA.
[_Walking away to the window._] Oh, a dog's life, my dear Cayley,
mine.
DRUMMLE.
Eh?
PAULA.
Doesn't that define a happy marriage? I'm sleek, well-kept,
well-fed, never without a bone to gnaw and fresh straw to lie upon.
[_Gazing out of the window._] Oh, dear me!
DRUMMLE.
H'm! Well, I heartily congratulate you on your kennel. The view from
the terrace here is superb.
PAULA.
Yes, I can see London.
DRUMMLE.
London! Not quite so far, surely?
PAULA.
_I_ can. Also the Mediterranean, on a fine day. I wonder what
Algiers looks like this morning from the sea! [_Impulsively._] Oh,
Cayley, do you remember those jolly times on board Peter Jarman's
yacht when we lay off----? [_Stopping suddenly, seeing_ DRUMMLE
_staring at her._] Good gracious! What are we talking about!
AUBREY _enters._
AUBREY.
[_To Drummle._] Dear old chap! Has Paula asked you?
PAULA.
Not yet.
AUBREY.
We want you to come to us, now that you're leaving Mrs.
Cortelyon--at once, to-day. Stay a month, as long as you please--eh,
Paula?
PAULA.
As long as you can possibly endure it--do, Cayley.
DRUMMLE.
[_Looking at Aubrey._] Delighted. [_To Paula._] Charming of you to
have me.
PAULA.
My dear man, you're a blessing. I must telegraph to London for more
fish! A strange appetite to cater for! Something to do, to do, to
do!
[_She goes out in a mood of almost childish delight._
DRUMMLE.
[_Eyeing Aubrey._] Well?
AUBREY.
[_With a wearied, anxious look._] Well, Cayley?
DRUMMLE.
How are you getting on?
AUBREY.
My position doesn't grow less difficult. I told you, when I met you
last week, of this feverish, jealous attachment of Paula's for
Ellean?
DRUMMLE.
Yes. I hardly know why, but I came to the conclusion that you don't
consider it an altogether fortunate attachment.
AUBREY.
Ellean doesn't respond to it.
DRUMMLE.
These are early days. Ellean will warm towards your wife by-and-by.
AUBREY.
Ah, but there's the question, Cayley!
DRUMMLE.
What question?
AUBREY.
The question which positively distracts me. Ellean is so different
from--most women; I don't believe a purer creature exists out of
heaven. And I--I ask myself, am I doing right in exposing her to the
influence of poor Paula's light, careless nature?
DRUMMLE.
My dear Aubrey!
AUBREY.
That shocks you! So it does me. I assure you I long to urge my girl
to break down the reserve which keeps her apart from Paula, but
somehow I can't do it--well, I don't do it. How can I make you
understand? But when you come to us you'll understand quickly
enough. Cayley, there's hardly a subject you can broach on which
poor Paula hasn't some strange, out-of-the-way thought to give
utterance to; some curious, warped notion. They are not mere worldly
thoughts--unless, good God! they belong to the little hellish world
which our blackguardism has created: no, her ideas have too little
calculation in them to be called worldly. But it makes it the more
dreadful that such thoughts should be ready, spontaneous; that
expressing them has become a perfectly natural process; that her
words, acts even, have almost lost their proper significance for
her, and seem beyond her control. Ah, and the pain of listening to
it all from the woman one loves, the woman one hoped to make happy
and contented, who is really and truly a good woman, as it were,
maimed! Well, this is my burden, and I shouldn't speak to you of it
but for my anxiety about Ellean. Ellean! What is to be her future?
It is in my hands; what am I to do? Cayley, when I remember how
Ellean comes to me, from another world I always think, when I
realise the charge that's laid on me, I find myself wishing, in a
sort of terror, that my child were safe under the ground!
DRUMMLE.
My dear Aubrey, aren't you making a mistake?
AUBREY.
Very likely. What is it?
DRUMMLE.
A mistake, not in regarding your Ellean as an angel, but in
believing that, under any circumstances, it would be possible for
her to go through life without getting her white robe--shall we say,
a little dusty at the hem? Don't take me for a cynic. I am sure
there are many women upon earth who are almost divinely innocent;
but being on earth, they must send their robes to the laundry
occasionally. Ah, and it's right that they should have to do so, for
what can they learn from the checking of their little washing-bills
but lessons of charity? Now I see but two courses open to you for
the disposal of your angel.
AUBREY.
Yes?
DRUMMLE.
You must either restrict her to a paradise which is, like every
earthly paradise, necessarily somewhat imperfect, or treat her as an
ordinary flesh-and-blood young woman, and give her the advantages of
that society to which she properly belongs.
AUBREY.
Advantages?
DRUMMLE.
My dear Aubrey, of all forms of innocence mere ignorance is the
least admirable. Take my advice, let her walk and talk and suffer
and be healed with the great crowd. Do it, and hope that she'll some
day meet a good, honest fellow who'll make her life complete, happy,
secure. Now you see what I'm driving at.
AUBREY.
A sanguine programme, my dear Cayley! Oh, I'm not pooh-poohing it.
Putting sentiment aside, of course I know that a fortunate marriage
for Ellean would be the best--perhaps the only--solution of my
difficulty. But you forget the danger of the course you suggest.
DRUMMLE.
Danger?
AUBREY.
If Ellean goes among men and women, how can she escape from
learning, sooner or later, the history of--poor Paula's--old life?
DRUMMLE.
H'm! You remember the episode of the Jeweller's Son in the Arabian
Nights? Of course you don't. Well, if your daughter lives, she
_can't_ escape--what you're afraid of. [AUBREY _gives a half stifled
exclamation of pain._] And when she does hear the story, surely it
would be better that she should have some knowledge of the world to
help her to understand it.
AUBREY.
To understand!
DRUMMLE.
To understand, to--to philosophise.
AUBREY.
To philosophise?
DRUMMLE.
Philosophy is toleration, and it is only one step from toleration to
forgiveness.
AUBREY.
You're right, Cayley; I believe you always are. Yes, yes. But, even
if I had the courage to attempt to solve the problem of Ellean's
future in this way, I--I'm helpless.
DRUMMLE.
How?
AUBREY.
What means have I now of placing my daughter in the world I've left?
DRUMMLE.
Oh, some friend--some woman friend.
AUBREY.
I have none; they're gone.
DRUMMLE.
You're wrong there; I know one----
AUBREY.
[_Listening._] That's Paula's cart. Let's discuss this again.
DRUMMLE.
[_Going up to the window and looking out._] It isn't the dog-cart.
[_Turning to_ AUBREY.] I hope you'll forgive me, old chap.
AUBREY.
What for?
DRUMMLE.
Whose wheels do you think have been cutting ruts in your immaculate
drive?
_A_ SERVANT _enters._
SERVANT.
[_To_ AUBREY.] Mrs. Cortelyon, sir.
AUBREY.
Mrs. Cortelyon! [_After a short pause._] Very well. [_The_ SERVANT
_withdraws._] What on earth is the meaning of this?
DRUMMLE.
Ahem! While I've been our old friend's guest, Aubrey, we have very
naturally talked a good deal about you and yours.
AUBREY.
Indeed, have you?
DRUMMLE.
Yes, and Alice Cortelyon has arrived at the conclusion that it would
have been far kinder had she called on Mrs. Tanqueray long ago.
She's going abroad for Easter before settling down in London for the
season, and I believe she has come over this morning to ask for
Ellean's companionship.
AUBREY.
Oh, I see! [_Frowning._] Quite a friendly little conspiracy,
my dear Cayley!
DRUMMLE.
Conspiracy! Not at all, I assure you. [_Laughing._] Ha, ha!
ELLEAN _enters from the hall with_ MRS. CORTELYON,_a handsome,
good humoured, spirited woman of about forty-five._
ELLEAN.
Papa----
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_To_ AUBREY, _shaking hands with him heartily._] Well, Aubrey, how
are you? I've just been telling this great girl of yours that I
knew her when she was a sad-faced, pale baby. How is Mrs. Tanqueray?
I have been a bad neighbour, and I'm here to beg forgiveness. Is she
indoors?
AUBREY.
She's upstairs putting on a hat, I believe.
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_Sitting comfortably._] Ah! [_She looks round:_ DRUMMLE _and_
ELLEAN _are talking together in the hall._] We used to be very frank
with each other, Aubrey. I suppose the old footing is no longer
possible, eh?
AUBREY.
If so, I'm not entirely to blame, Mrs. Cortelyon.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Mrs. Cortelyon? H'm! No, I admit it. But you must make some little
allowance for me, _Mr. Tanqueray_. Your first wife and I, as girls,
were like two cherries on one stalk, and then I was the confidential
friend of your married life. That post, perhaps, wasn't altogether a
sinecure. And now--well, when a woman gets to my age I suppose she's
a stupid, prejudiced, conventional creature. However, I've got over
it and--[_giving him her hand_]--I hope you'll be enormously happy
and let me be a friend once more.
AUBREY.
Thank you, Alice.
MRS. CORTELYON.
That's right. I feel more cheerful than I've done for weeks. But I
suppose it would serve me right if the second Mrs. Tanqueray showed
me the door. Do you think she will?
AUBREY.
[_Listening._] Here is my wife. [MRS. CORTELYON _rises, and_ PAULA
_enters, dressed for driving; she stops abruptly on seeing_ MRS.
CORTELYON.] Paula dear, Mrs. Cortelyon has called to see you.
[PAULA _starts, looks at_ MRS. CORTELYON _irresolutely,
then after a slight pause barely touches_ MRS.
CORTELYON'S _extended hand._
PAULA.
[_Whose manner now alternates between deliberate insolence and
assumed sweetness._] Mrs.----? What name, Aubrey?
AUBREY.
Mrs. Cortelyon.
PAULA.
Cortelyon? Oh, yes. Cortelyon.
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_Carefully guarding herself throughout against any expression of
resentment._] Aubrey ought to have told you that Alice Cortelyon and
he are very old friends.
PAULA.
Oh, very likely he has mentioned the circumstance. I have quite a
wretched memory.
MRS. CORTELYON.
You know we are neighbours, Mrs. Tanqueray.
PAULA.
Neighbours? Are we really? Won't you sit down? [_They both sit._]
Neighbours! That's most interesting!
MRS. CORTELYON.
Very near neighbours. You can see my roof from your windows.
PAULA.
I fancy I _have_ observed a roof. But you have been away from home;
you have only just returned.
MRS. CORTELYON.
I? What makes you think that?
PAULA.
Why, because it is two months since we came to Highercoombe, and I
don't remember your having called.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Your memory is now terribly accurate. No, I've not been away from
home, and it is to explain my neglect that I am here, rather
unceremoniously, this morning.
PAULA.
Oh, to explain--quite so. [_With mock solicitude._] Ah, you've been
very ill; I ought to have seen that before.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Ill!
PAULA.
You look dreadfully pulled down. We poor women show illness so
plainly in our faces, don't we?
AUBREY.
[_Anxiously._] Paula dear, Mrs. Cortelyon is the picture of health.
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_With some asperity._] I have never _felt_ better in my life.
PAULA.
[_Looking round innocently._] Have I said anything awkward? Aubrey,
tell Mrs. Cortelyon how stupid and thoughtless I always am!
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_To_ DRUMMLE _who is now standing close to her._] Really,
Cayley----! [_He soothes her with a nod and smile and a motion of
his finger to his lip._] Mrs. Tanqueray, I am afraid my explanation
will not be quite so satisfactory as either of those you have just
helped me to. You may have heard--but, if you have heard, you have
doubtless forgotten--that twenty years ago, when your husband first
lived here, I was a constant visitor at Highercoombe.
PAULA.
Twenty years ago--fancy. I was a naughty little child then.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Possibly. Well, at that time, and till the end of her life, my
affections were centred upon the lady of this house.
PAULA.
Were they? That was very sweet of you.
[ELLEAN _approaches_ MRS. CORTELYON, _listening intently
to her._
MRS. CORTELYON.
I will say no more on that score, but I must add this: when, two
months ago, you came here, I realised, perhaps for the first time,
that I was a middle-aged woman, and that it had become impossible
for me to accept without some effort a breaking-in upon many tender
associations. There, Mrs. Tanqueray, that is my confession. Will you
try to understand it and pardon me?
PAULA.
[_Watching_ ELLEAN,--_sneeringly._] Ellean dear, you appear to be
very interested in Mrs. Cortelyon's reminiscences; I don't think I
can do better than make you my mouthpiece--there is such sympathy
between us. What do you say--can we bring ourselves to forgive Mrs.
Cortelyon for neglecting us for two weary months?
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_To_ ELLEAN, _pleasantly._] Well, Ellean? [_With a little cry of
tenderness_ ELLEAN _impulsively sits beside_ MRS. CORTELYON _and
takes her hand._] My dear child!
PAULA.
[_In an undertone to_ AUBREY.] Ellean isn't so very slow in taking
to Mrs. Cortelyon!
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_To_ PAULA _and_ AUBREY.] Come, this encourages me to broach my
scheme. Mrs. Tanqueray, it strikes me that you two good people are
just now excellent company for each other, while Ellean would
perhaps be glad of a little peep into the world you are anxious to
avoid. Now, I'm going to Paris to-morrow for a week or two before
settling down in Chester Square, so--don't gasp, both of you!--if
this girl is willing, and you have made no other arrangements for
her, will you let her come with me to Paris, and afterwards remain
with me in town during the Season? [ELLEAN _utters an exclamation of
surprise._ PAULA _is silent._] What do you say?
AUBREY.
Paula--Paula dear. [_Hesitatingly._] My dear Mrs. Cortelyon, this is
wonderfully kind of you; I am really at a loss to--eh, Cayley?
DRUMMLE.
[_Watching_ PAULA _apprehensively._] Kind! Now I must say I don't
think so! I begged Alice to take _me_ to Paris, and she declined. I
am thrown over for Ellean! Ha! ha!
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_Laughing._] What nonsense you talk, Cayley!
[_The laughter dies out._ PAULA _remains quite still._
AUBREY.
Paula dear.
PAULA.
[_Slowly collecting herself._] One moment. I--I don't quite----
[_To_ MRS. CORTELYON.] You propose that Ellean leaves Highercoombe
almost at once and remains with you some months?
MRS. CORTELYON.
It would be a mercy to me. You can afford to be generous to a
desolate old widow. Come, Mrs. Tanqueray, won't you spare her?
PAULA.
Won't _I_ spare her. [_Suspiciously._] Have you mentioned your plan
to Aubrey--before I came in?
MRS. CORTELYON.
No, I had no opportunity.
PAULA.
Nor to Ellean?
MRS. CORTELYON.
Oh, no.
PAULA.
[_Looking about her, in suppressed excitement._] This hasn't been
discussed at all, behind my back?
MRS. CORTELYON.
My dear Mrs. Tanqueray!
PAULA.
Ellean, let us hear your voice in the matter!
ELLEAN.
I should like to go with Mrs. Cortelyon--
PAULA.
Ah!
ELLEAN.
That is, if--if----
PAULA.
If--if what?
ELLEAN.
_[Looking towards_ AUBREY, _appealingly._] Papa!
PAULA.
[_In a hard voice._] Oh, of course--I forgot. [_To_ AUBREY.] My dear
Aubrey, it rests with you, naturally, whether I am--to lose--Ellean.
AUBREY.
Lose Ellean! [_Advancing to_ PAULA.] There is no question of losing
Ellean. You would see Ellean in town constantly when she returned
from Paris; isn't that so, Mrs. Cortelyon?
MRS. CORTELYON.
Certainly.
PAULA.
[_Laughing softly._] Oh, I didn't know I should be allowed that
privilege.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Privilege, my dear Mrs. Tanqueray!
PAULA.
Ha, ha! that makes all the difference, doesn't it?
AUBREY.
[_With assumed gaiety._] All the difference? I should think so!
[_To_ ELLEAN, _laying his hand upon her head, tenderly._] And you
are quite certain you wish to see what the world is like on the
other side of Black Moor?
ELLEAN.
If you are willing, papa, I am quite certain.
AUBREY.
[_Looking at_ PAULA _irresolutely, then speaking with an effort._]
Then I--I am willing.
PAULA.
[_Rising and striking the table lightly with her clenched hand._]
That decides it! [_There is a general movement. Excitedly to_ MRS.
CORTELYON, _who advances towards her._] When do you want her?
MRS. CORTELYON.
We go to town this afternoon at five o'clock, and sleep to-night at
Bayliss's. There is barely time for her to make her preparations.
PAULA.
I will undertake that she is ready.
MRS. CORTELYON.
I've a great deal to scramble through at home too, as you may guess.
Good-bye!
PAULA.
[_Turning away._] Mrs. Cortelyon is going.
[PAULA _stands looking out of the window, with her back
to those in the room._
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_To_ DRUMMLE.] Cayley----
DRUMMLE.
[_To her._] Eh?
MRS. CORTELYON.
I've gone through it, for the sake of Aubrey and his child, but I--I
feel a hundred. Is that a mad-woman?
DRUMMLE.
Of course; all jealous women are mad.
[_He goes out with_ AUBREY.
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_Hesitatingly, to_ PAULA.] Good-bye, Mrs. Tanqueray.
[PAULA _inclines her head with the slightest possible
movement, then resumes her former position._ ELLEAN
_comes from the hall and takes_ MRS. CORTELYON _out
of the room. After a brief silence,_ PAULA _turns
with a fierce cry, and hurriedly takes off her coat
and hat, and tosses them upon the settee._
PAULA.
Oh! Oh! Oh! [_She drops into the chair as_ AUBREY _returns; he
stands looking at her._] Who's that?
AUBREY.
I. You have altered your mind about going out?
PAULA.
Yes. Please to ring the bell.
AUBREY.
[_Touching the bell._] You are angry about Mrs. Cortelyon and
Ellean. Let me try to explain my reasons----
PAULA.
Be careful what you say to me just now! I have never felt like
this--except once--in my life. Be careful what you say to me!
_A_ SERVANT _enters._
PAULA.
[_Rising._] Is Watts at the door with the cart?
SERVANT.
Yes, ma'am.
PAULA.
Tell him to drive down to the post-office directly, with this.
[_Picking up the letter which has been lying upon the
table._
AUBREY.
With that?
PAULA.
Yes. My letter to Lady Orreyed.
[_Giving the letter to the_ SERVANT, _who goes out._
AUBREY.
Surely you don't wish me to countermand any order of yours to a
servant? Call the man back--take the letter from him!
PAULA.
I have not the slightest intention of doing so.
AUBREY.
I must, then. [_Going to the door. She snatches up her hat and coat
and follows him._] What are you going to do?
PAULA.
If you stop that letter, walk out of the house.
[_He hesitates, then leaves the door._
AUBREY.
I am right in believing that to be the letter inviting George
Orreyed and his wife to stay here, am I not?
PAULA.
Oh yes--quite right.
AUBREY.
Let it go; I'll write to him by-and-by.
PAULA.
[_Facing him._] You dare!
AUBREY.
Hush, Paula!
PAULA.
Insult me again and, upon my word, I'll go straight out of the
house!
AUBREY.
Insult you?
PAULA.
Insult me! What else is it? My God! what else is it? What do you
mean by taking Ellean from me?
AUBREY.
Listen----!
PAULA.
Listen to _me_! And how do you take her? You pack her off in the
care of a woman who has deliberately held aloof from me, who's
thrown mud at me! Yet this Cortelyon creature has only to put foot
here once to be entrusted with the charge of the girl you know I
dearly want to keep near me!
AUBREY.
Paula dear! hear me----!
PAULA.
Ah! of course, of course! I can't be so useful to your daughter as
such people as this; and so I'm to be given the go-by for any town
friend of yours who turns up and chooses to patronise us! Hah! Very
well, at any rate, as you take Ellean from me you justify my looking
for companions where I can most readily find 'em.
AUBREY.
You wish me to fully appreciate your reason for sending that letter
to Lady Orreyed?
PAULA.
Precisely--I do.
AUBREY.
And could you, after all, go back to associates of that order? It's
not possible!
PAULA.
[_Mockingly._] What, not after the refining influence of these
intensely respectable surroundings? [_Going to the door._] We'll
see!
AUBREY.
Paula!
PAULA.
[_Violently._] We'll see!
[_She goes out. He stands still looking after her._
THE THIRD ACT
_The drawing-room at "Highercoombe." Facing the spectator are
two large French windows, sheltered by a verandah, leading
into the garden; on the right is a door opening into a small
hall. The fireplace, with a large mirror above it, is on the
left-hand side of the room, and higher up in the same wall are
double doors recessed. The room is richly furnished, and
everything betokens taste and luxury. The windows are open,
and there is moonlight in the garden._
LADY ORREYED, _a pretty, affected doll of a woman with a
mincing voice and flaxen hair, is sitting on the ottoman, her
head resting against the drum, and her eyes closed._ PAULA,
_looking pale, worn, and thoroughly unhappy, is sitting at a
table. Both are in sumptuous dinner-gowns._
LADY ORREYED.
[_Opening her eyes._] Well, I never! I dropped off! [_Feeling her
hair._] Just fancy! Where are the men?
PAULA.
[_Icily._] Outside, smoking.
_A_ SERVANT _enters with coffee, which he hands to_ LADY
ORREYED. SIR GEORGE ORREYED _comes in by the window. He is a
man of about thirty-five, with a low forehead, a receding
chin, a vacuous expression, and an ominous redness about the
nose._
LADY ORREYED.
[_Taking coffee._] Here's Dodo.
SIR GEORGE.
I say, the flies under the verandah make you swear. [_The_ SERVANT
_hands coffee to_ PAULA, _who declines it, then to_ SIR GEORGE, _who
takes a cup._] Hi! wait a bit! [_He looks at the tray searchingly,
then puts back his cup._] Never mind. [_Quietly to_ LADY ORREYED.] I
say, they're dooced sparin' with their liqueur, ain't they?
[_The_ SERVANT _goes out at window._
PAULA.
[_To_ SIR GEORGE.] Won't you take coffee, George?
SIR GEORGE.
No, thanks. It's gettin' near time for a whisky and potass.
[_Approaching_ PAULA, _regarding_ LADY ORREYED _admiringly._] I say,
Birdie looks rippin' to-night, don't she?
PAULA.
Your wife?
SIR GEORGE.
Yaas--Birdie.
PAULA.
Rippin'?
SIR GEORGE.
Yaas.
PAULA.
Quite--quite rippin'.
[_He moves round to the settee._ PAULA _watches him with
distaste, then rises and walks away._ SIR GEORGE _falls
asleep on the settee._
LADY ORREYED.
Paula love, I fancied you and Aubrey were a little more friendly at
dinner. You haven't made it up, have you?
PAULA.
We? Oh, no. We speak before others, that's all.
LADY ORREYED.
And how long do you intend to carry on this game, dear?
PAULA.
[_Turning away impatiently._] I really can't tell you.
LADY ORREYED.
Sit down, old girl; don't be so fidgety. [PAULA _sits on the upper
seat of the ottoman with her back to_ LADY ORREYED.] Of course, it's
my duty, as an old friend, to give you a good talking-to--[PAULA
_glares at her suddenly and fiercely._]--but really I've found one
gets so many smacks in the face through interfering in matrimonial
squabbles that I've determined to drop it.
PAULA.
I think you're wise.
LADY ORREYED.
However, I must say that I do wish you'd look at marriage in a more
solemn light--just as I do, in fact. It is such a beautiful
thing--marriage, and if people in our position don't respect it, and
set a good example by living happily with their husbands, what can
you expect from the middle classes? When did this sad state of
affairs between you and Aubrey actually begin?
PAULA.
Actually, a fortnight and three days ago; I haven't calculated the
minutes.
LADY ORREYED.
A day or two before Dodo and I turned up--arrived.
PAULA.
Yes. One always remembers one thing by another; we left off speaking
to each other the morning I wrote asking you to visit us.
LADY ORREYED.
Lucky for you I was able to pop down, wasn't it, dear?
PAULA.
[_Glaring at her again._] Most fortunate.
LADY ORREYED.
A serious split with your husband without a pal on the premises--I
should say, without a friend in the house--would be most unpleasant.
PAULA.
[_Turning to her abruptly._] This place must be horribly doleful for
you and George just now. At least you ought to consider him before
me. Why don't you leave me to my difficulties?
LADY ORREYED.
Oh, we're quite comfortable, dear, thank you--both of us. George and
me are so wrapped up in each other, it doesn't matter where we are.
I don't want to crow over you, old girl, but I've got a perfect
husband.
[SIR GEORGE _is now fast asleep, his head thrown back and
his mouth open, looking hideous._
PAULA.
[_Glancing at_ SIR GEORGE.] So you've given me to understand.
LADY ORREYED.
Not that we don't have our little differences. Why, we fell out only
this very morning. You remember the diamond and ruby tiara Charley
Prestwick gave poor dear Connie Tirlemont years ago, don't you?
PAULA.
No, I do not.
LADY ORREYED.
No? Well, it's in the market. Benjamin of Piccadilly has got it in
his shop-window, and I've set my heart on it.
PAULA.
You consider it quite necessary?
LADY ORREYED.
Yes, because what I say to Dodo is this--a lady of my station must
smother herself with hair ornaments. It's different with you,
love--people don't look for so much blaze from you, but I've got
rank to keep up; haven't I?
PAULA.
Yes.
LADY ORREYED.
Well, that was the cause of the little set-to between I and Dodo
this morning. He broke two chairs, he was in such a rage. I forgot,
they're your chairs; do you mind?
PAULA.
No.
LADY ORREYED.
You know, poor Dodo can't lose his temper without smashing
something; if it isn't a chair, it's a mirror; if it isn't that,
it's china--a bit of Dresden for choice. Dear old pet! he loves a
bit of Dresden when he's furious. He doesn't really throw things
_at_ me, dear; he simply lifts them up and drops them, like a
gentleman. I expect our room upstairs will look rather wrecky before
I get that tiara.
PAULA.
Excuse the suggestion, perhaps your husband can't afford it.
LADY ORREYED.
Oh, how dreadfully changed you are, Paula! Dodo can always mortgage
something, or borrow of his ma. What _is_ coming to you!
PAULA.
Ah!
[_She sits at the piano and touches the keys._
LADY ORREYED.
Oh, yes, do play! That's the one thing I envy you for.
PAULA.
What shall I play?
LADY ORREYED.
What was that heavenly piece you gave us last night, dear?
PAULA.
A bit of Schubert. Would you like to hear it again?
LADY ORREYED.
You don't know any comic songs, do you?
PAULA.
I'm afraid not.
LADY ORREYED.
I leave it to you, then.
[PAULA _plays._ AUBREY _and_ CAYLEY DRUMMLE _appear outside
the window; they look into the room._
AUBREY.
[_To_ DRUMMLE. ] You can see her face in that mirror. Poor girl, how
ill and wretched she looks.
DRUMMLE.
When are the Orreyeds going?
AUBREY.
Heaven knows!
[_Entering the room._
DRUMMLE.
But _you're_ entertaining them; what's it to do with Heaven?
[_Following_ AUBREY.
AUBREY.
Do you know, Cayley, that even the Orreyeds serve a useful purpose?
My wife actually speaks to me before our guests--think of that! I've
come to rejoice at the presence of the Orreyeds!
DRUMMLE.
I daresay; we're taught that beetles are sent for a benign end.
AUBREY.
Cayley, talk to Paula again to-night.
DRUMMLE.
Certainly, if I get the chance.
AUBREY.
Let's contrive it. George is asleep; perhaps I can get that doll out
of the way. [_As they advance into the room,_ PAULA _abruptly ceases
playing and finds interest in a volume of music._ SIR GEORGE _is now
nodding and snoring apoplectically._] Lady Orreyed, whenever you
feel inclined for a game of billiards I'm at your service.
LADY ORREYED.
[_Jumping up._] Charmed, I'm sure! I really thought you'd forgotten
poor little me. Oh, look at Dodo!
AUBREY.
No, no, don't wake him; he's tired.
LADY ORREYED.
I must, he looks so plain. [_Rousing_ SIR GEORGE.] Dodo! Dodo!
SIR GEORGE.
[_Stupidly._] 'Ullo!
LADY ORREYED.
Dodo, dear, you were snoring.
SIR GEORGE.
Oh, I say, you could 'a told me that by-and-by.
AUBREY.
You want a cigar, George; come into the billiard-room. [_Giving his
arm to_ LADY ORREYED.] Cayley, bring Paula.
[AUBREY _and_ LADY ORREYED _go out._
SIR GEORGE.
[_Rising._] Hey, what! Billiard-room! [_Looking at his watch._] How
goes the----? Phew! 'Ullo, 'Ullo! Whisky and potass!
[_He goes rapidly after_ AUBREY _and_ LADY ORREYED. PAULA
_resumes playing._
PAULA.
[_After a pause._] Don't moon about after me, Cayley; follow the
others.
DRUMMLE.
Thanks, by-and-by. [_Sitting._] That's pretty.
PAULA.
[_After another pause, still playing._] I wish you wouldn't stare
so.
DRUMMLE.
Was I staring? I'm sorry. [_She plays a little longer, then stops
suddenly, rises, and goes to the window, where she stands looking
out._ DRUMMLE _moves from the ottoman to the settee._] A lovely
night.
PAULA.
[_Startled._] Oh! [_Without turning to him._] Why do you hop about
like a monkey?
DRUMMLE.
Hot rooms play the deuce with the nerves. Now, it would have done
you good to have walked in the garden with us after dinner and made
merry. Why didn't you?
PAULA.
You know why.
DRUMMLE.
Ah, you're thinking of the--difference between you and Aubrey?
PAULA.
Yes, I _am_ thinking of it.
DRUMMLE.
Well, so am I. How long----?
PAULA.
Getting on for three weeks.
DRUMMLE.
Bless me, it must be! And this would have been such a night to have
healed it! Moonlight, the stars, the scent of flowers; and yet
enough darkness to enable a kind woman to rest her hand for an
instant on the arm of a good fellow who loves her. Ah, ha! it's a
wonderful power, dear Mrs. Aubrey, the power of an offended woman!
Only realise it! Just that one touch--the mere tips of her
fingers--and, for herself and another, she changes the colour of the
whole world!
PAULA.
[_Turning to him, calmly._] Cayley, my dear man, you talk exactly
like a very romantic old lady.
[_She leaves the window and sits playing with the
knick-knacks on the table._
DRUMMLE.
[_To himself._] H'm, that hasn't done it! Well--ha, ha!--I accept
the suggestion. An old woman, eh?
PAULA.
Oh, I didn't intend----
DRUMMLE.
But why not? I've every qualification--well, almost. And I confess
it would have given this withered bosom a throb of grandmotherly
satisfaction if I could have seen you and Aubrey at peace before I
take my leave to-morrow.
PAULA.
To-morrow, Cayley!
DRUMMLE.
I must.
PAULA.
Oh, this house is becoming unendurable.
DRUMMLE.
You're very kind. But you've got the Orreyeds.
PAULA.
[_Fiercely._] The Orreyeds! I--I hate the Orreyeds! I lie awake at
night, hating them!
DRUMMLE.
Pardon me, I've understood that their visit is, in some degree,
owing to--hem!--your suggestion.
PAULA.
Heavens! that doesn't make me like them better. Somehow or another,
I--I've outgrown these people. This woman--I used to think her
"jolly!"--sickens me. I can't breathe when she's near me: the whiff
of her handkerchief turns me faint! And she patronises me by the
hour, until I--I feel my nails growing longer with every word she
speaks!
DRUMMLE.
My dear lady, why on earth don't you say all this to Aubrey?
PAULA.
Oh, I've been such an utter fool, Cayley!
DRUMMLE.
[_Soothingly._] Well, well, mention it to Aubrey!
PAULA.
No, no, you don't understand. What do you think I've done?
DRUMMLE.
Done! What, _since_ you invited the Orreyeds?
PAULA.
Yes; I must tell you----
DRUMMLE.
Perhaps you'd better not.
PAULA.
Look here. I've intercepted some letters from Mrs. Cortelyon and
Ellean to--him. [_Producing three unopened letters from the bodice
of her dress._] There are the accursed things! From Paris--two from
the Cortelyon woman, the other from Ellean!
DRUMMLE.
But why--why?
PAULA.
I don't know. Yes, I do! I saw letters coming from Ellean to her
father; not a line to me--not a line. And one morning it happened I
was downstairs before he was, and I spied this one lying with his
heap on the breakfast-table, and I slipped it into my pocket--out of
malice, Cayley, pure devilry! And a day or two afterwards I met
Elwes the postman at the Lodge, and took the letters from him, and
found these others amongst 'em. I felt simply fiendish when I saw
them--fiendish! [_Returning the letters to her bodice._] And now I
carry them about with me, and they're scorching me like a mustard
plaster!
DRUMMLE.
Oh, this accounts for Aubrey not hearing from Paris lately!
PAULA.
That's an ingenious conclusion to arrive at! Of course it does!
[_With an hysterical laugh._] Ha, ha!
DRUMMLE.
Well, well! [_Laughing._] Ha, ha, ha!
PAULA.
[_Turning upon him._] I suppose it _is_ amusing!
DRUMMLE.
I beg pardon.
PAULA.
Heaven knows I've little enough to brag about! I'm a bad lot, but not
in mean tricks of this sort. In all my life this is the most caddish
thing I've done. How am I to get rid of these letters--that's what I
want to know? How am I to get rid of them?
DRUMMLE.
If I were you I should take Aubrey aside and put them into his hands
as soon as possible.
PAULA.
What! and tell him to his face that I----! No, thank you. I suppose
_you_ wouldn't like to----
DRUMMLE.
No, no; I won't touch 'em!
PAULA.
And you call yourself my friend?
DRUMMLE.
[_Good-humouredly._] No, I don't!
PAULA.
Perhaps I'll tie them together and give them to his man in the
morning.
DRUMMLE.
That won't avoid an explanation.
PAULA.
[_Recklessly._] Oh, then he must miss them----
DRUMMLE.
And trace them.
PAULA.
[_Throwing herself upon the ottoman._] I don't care!
DRUMMLE.
I know you don't; but let me send him to you now, may I?
PAULA.
Now! What do you think a woman's made of? I couldn't stand it,
Cayley. I haven't slept for nights; and last night there was
thunder, too! I believe I've got the horrors.
DRUMMLE.
[_Taking the little hand-mirror from the table._] You'll sleep well
enough when you deliver those letters. Come, come, Mrs. Aubrey--a
good night's rest! [_Holding the mirror before her face._] It's
quite time.
[_She looks at herself for a moment, then snatches the
mirror from him._
PAULA.
You brute, Cayley, to show me that!
DRUMMLE.
Then--may I? Be guided by a fr--a poor old woman! May I?
PAULA.
You'll kill me, amongst you!
DRUMMLE.
What do you say?
PAULA.
[_After a pause._] Very well. [_He nods his head and goes out
rapidly. She looks after him for a moment, and calls "Cayley!
Cayley!" Then she again produces the letters, deliberately, one by
one, fingering them with aversion. Suddenly she starts, turning her
head towards the door._] Ah!
AUBREY _enters quickly._
AUBREY.
Paula!
PAULA.
[_Handing him the letters, her face averted._] There! [_He examines
the letters, puzzled, and looks at her inquiringly._] They are many
days old. I stole them, I suppose to make you anxious and unhappy.
[_He looks at the letters again, then lays them aside on
the table._
AUBREY.
[_Gently._] Paula, dear, it doesn't matter.
PAULA.
[_After a short pause._] Why--why do you take it like this?
AUBREY.
What did you expect?
PAULA.
Oh, but I suppose silent reproaches are really the severest. And
then, naturally, you are itching to open your letters.
[_She crosses the room as if to go._
AUBREY.
Paula! [_She pauses._] Surely, surely it's all over now?
PAULA.
All over! [_Mockingly._.] Has my step-daughter returned then? When
did she arrive? I haven't heard of it!
AUBREY.
You can be very cruel.
PAULA.
That word's always on a man's lips; he uses it if his soup's cold.
[_With another movement as if to go._] Need we----
AUBREY.
I know I've wounded you, Paula. But isn't there any way out of
this?
PAULA.
When does Ellean return? To-morrow? Next week?
AUBREY.
[_Wearily._] Oh! Why should we grudge Ellean the little pleasure she
is likely to find in Paris and in London.
PAULA.
I grudge her nothing, if that's a hit at me. But with that
woman----!
AUBREY.
It must be that woman or another. You know that at present we are
unable to give Ellean the opportunity of--of----
PAULA.
Of mixing with respectable people.
AUBREY.
The opportunity of gaining friends, experience, ordinary knowledge
of the world. If you are interested in Ellean, can't you see how
useful Mrs. Cortelyon's good offices are?
PAULA.
May I put one question? At the end of the London season, when Mrs.
Cortelyon has done with Ellean, is it quite understood that the
girl comes back to us? [AUBREY _is silent._] Is it? Is it?
AUBREY.
Let us wait till the end of the season----
PAULA.
Oh! I knew it. You're only fooling me; you put me off with any
trash. I believe you've sent Ellean away, not for the reasons you
give, but because you don't consider me a decent companion for her,
because you're afraid she might get a little of her innocence rubbed
off in my company? Come, isn't that the truth? Be honest! Isn't that
it?
AUBREY.
Yes.
[_There is a moment's silence on both sides._
PAULA.
[_With uplifted hands as if to strike him._] Oh!
AUBREY.
[_Taking her by the wrists._] Sit down. Sit down. [_He puts her into
a chair; she shakes herself free with a cry._] Now listen to me.
Fond as you are, Paula, of harking back to your past, there's one
chapter of it you always let alone. I've never asked you to speak of
it; you've never offered to speak of it. I mean the chapter that
relates to the time when you were--like Ellean. [_She attempts to
rise; he restrains her._] No, no.
PAULA.
I don't choose to talk about that time. I won't satisfy your
curiosity.
AUBREY.
My dear Paula, I have no curiosity--I know what you were at Ellean's
age. I'll tell you. You hadn't a thought that wasn't a wholesome
one, you hadn't an impulse that didn't tend towards good, you never
harboured a notion you couldn't have gossiped about to a parcel of
children. [_She makes another effort to rise: he lays his hand
lightly on her shoulder._] And this was a very few years back--there
are days now when you look like a schoolgirl--but think of the
difference between the two Paulas. You'll have to think hard,
because after a cruel life one's perceptions grow a thick skin. But,
for God's sake, do think till you get these two images clearly in
your mind, and then ask yourself what sort of a friend such a woman
as you are to-day would have been for the girl of seven or eight
years ago.
PAULA.
[_Rising._] How dare you? I could be almost as good a friend to
Ellean as her own mother would have been had she lived. I know what
you mean. How dare you?
AUBREY.
You say that; very likely you believe it. But you're blind, Paula;
you're blind. You! Every belief that a young, pure-minded girl holds
sacred--that you once held sacred--you now make a target for a jest,
a sneer, a paltry cynicism. I tell you, you're not mistress any
longer of your thoughts or your tongue. Why, how often, sitting
between you and Ellean, have I seen her cheeks turn scarlet as
you've rattled off some tale that belongs by right to the club or
the smoking-room! Have you noticed the blush? If you have, has the
cause of it ever struck you? And this is the girl you say you love,
I admit that you _do_ love, whose love you expect in return! Oh,
Paula, I make the best, the only, excuse for you when I tell you
you're blind!
PAULA.
Ellean--Ellean blushes easily.
AUBREY.
You blushed as easily a few years ago.
PAULA.
[_After a short pause._] Well! Have you finished your sermon?
AUBREY.
[_With a gesture of despair._] Oh, Paula!
[_Going up to the window and standing with his back to
the room._
PAULA.
[_To herself._] A few--years ago! [_She walks slowly towards the
door, then suddenly drops upon the ottoman in a paroxysm of
weeping._] O God! A few years ago!
AUBREY.
[_Going to her._] Paula!
PAULA.
[_Sobbing._] Oh, don't touch me!
AUBREY.
Paula!
PAULA.
Oh, go away from me! [_He goes back a few steps, and after a little
while she becomes calmer and rises unsteadily; then in an altered
tone._] Look here----! [_He advances a step; she checks him with a
quick gesture._] Look here! Get rid of these people--Mabel and her
husband--as soon as possible! I--I've done with them!
AUBREY.
[_In a whisper._] Paula!
PAULA.
And then--then--when the time comes for Ellean to leave Mrs.
Cortelyon, give me--give me another chance! [_He advances again, but
she shrinks away._] No, no!
[_She goes out by the door on the right. He sinks on to
the settee, covering his eyes with his hands. There is
a brief silence, then a_ SERVANT _enters._]
SERVANT.
Mrs. Cortelyon, sir, with Miss Ellean.
[AUBREY _rises to meet_ MRS. CORTELYON, _who enters,
followed by_ ELLEAN, _both being in travelling dresses.
The_ SERVANT _withdraws._
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_Shaking hands with_ AUBREY.] Oh, my dear Aubrey!
AUBREY.
Mrs. Cortelyon! [_Kissing_ ELLEAN.] Ellean dear!
ELLEAN.
Papa, is all well at home?
MRS. CORTELYON.
We're shockingly anxious.
AUBREY.
Yes, yes, all's well. This is quite unexpected. [_To_ MRS.
CORTELYON.] You've found Paris insufferably hot?
MRS. CORTELYON.
Insufferably hot! Paris is pleasant enough. We've had no letter from
you!
AUBREY.
I wrote to Ellean a week ago.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Without alluding to the subject I had written to you upon.
AUBREY.
[_Thinking._] Ah, of course----
MRS. CORTELYON.
And since then we've both written and you've been absolutely silent.
Oh, it's too bad!
AUBREY.
[_Picking up the letters from the table._] It isn't altogether my
fault. Here are the letters----
ELLEAN.
Papa!
MRS. CORTELYON.
They're unopened.
AUBREY.
An accident delayed their reaching me till this evening. I'm afraid
this has upset you very much.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Upset me!
ELLEAN.
[_In an undertone to_ MRS. CORTELYON.] Never mind. Not now,
dear--not to-night.
AUBREY.
Eh?
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_To_ ELLEAN _aloud._] Child, run away and take your things off. She
doesn't look as if she'd journeyed from Paris to-day.
AUBREY.
I've never seen her with such a colour.
[_Taking_ ELLEAN'S _hands._
ELLEAN.
[_To_ AUBREY, _in a faint voice._] Papa, Mrs. Cortelyon has been so
very, very kind to me, but I--I have come home.
[_She goes out._
AUBREY.
Come home! [_To_ MRS. CORTELYON.] Ellean returns to us, then?
MRS. CORTELYON.
That's the very point I put to you in my letters, and you oblige me
to travel from Paris to Willowmere on a warm day to settle it. I
think perhaps it's right that Ellean should be with you just now,
although I---- My dear friend, circumstances are a little altered.
AUBREY.
Alice, you're in some trouble.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Well--yes, I _am_ in trouble. You remember pretty little Mrs.
Brereton who was once Caroline Ardale?
AUBREY.
Quite well.
MRS. CORTELYON.
She's a widow now, poor thing. She has the _entresol_ of the house
where we've been lodging in the Avenue de Friedland. Caroline's a
dear chum of mine; she formed a great liking for Ellean.
AUBREY.
I'm very glad.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Yes, it's nice for her to meet her mother's friends. Er--that young
Hugh Ardale the papers were full of some time ago--he's Caroline
Brereton's brother, you know.
AUBREY.
No, I didn't know. What did he do? I forget.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Checked one of those horrid mutinies at some far-away station in
India, marched down with a handful of his men and a few faithful
natives, and held the place until he was relieved. They gave him his
company and a V.C. for it.
AUBREY.
And he's Mrs. Brereton's brother?
MRS. CORTELYON.
Yes. He's with his sister--_was_, rather--in Paris. He's
home--invalided. Good gracious, Aubrey, why don't you help me out?
Can't you guess what has occurred?
AUBREY.
Alice!
MRS. CORTELYON.
Young Ardale--Ellean!
AUBREY.
An attachment?
MRS. CORTELYON.
Yes, Aubrey. [_After a little pause._] Well, I suppose I've got
myself into sad disgrace. But really I didn't foresee anything of
this kind. A serious, reserved child like Ellean, and a boyish,
high-spirited soldier--it never struck me as being likely. [AUBREY
_paces to and fro thoughtfully._] I did all I could directly Captain
Ardale spoke--wrote to you at once. Why on earth don't you receive
your letters promptly, and when you do get them why can't you open
them? I endured the anxiety till last night, and then made up my
mind--home! Of course, it has worried me terribly. My head's
bursting. Are there any salts about? [AUBREY _fetches a bottle from
the cabinet and hands it to her._] We've had one of those hateful
smooth crossings that won't let you be properly indisposed.
AUBREY.
My dear Alice, I assure you I've no thought of blaming you.
MRS. CORTELYON.
That statement always precedes a quarrel.
AUBREY.
I don't know whether this is the worst or the best luck. How will my
wife regard it? Is Captain Ardale a good fellow?
MRS. CORTELYON.
My dear Aubrey, you'd better read up the accounts of his wonderful
heroism. Face to face with death for a whole week; always with a
smile and a cheering word for the poor helpless souls depending on
him! Of course, it's that that has stirred the depths of your
child's nature. I've watched her while we've been dragging the story
out of him, and if angels look different from Ellean at that moment,
I don't desire to meet any, that's all!
AUBREY.
If you were in my position----? But you can't judge.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Why, if I had a marriageable daughter of my own and Captain Ardale
proposed for her, naturally I should cry my eyes out all night--but
I should thank Heaven in the morning.
AUBREY.
You believe so thoroughly in him?
MRS. CORTELYON.
Do you think I should have only a headache at this minute if I
didn't! Look here, you've got to see me down the lane; that's the
least you can do, my friend. Come into my house for a moment and
shake hands with Hugh.
AUBREY.
What, is he here?
MRS. CORTELYON.
He came through with us, to present himself formally to-morrow.
Where are my gloves? [AUBREY _fetches them from the ottoman._] Make
my apologies to Mrs. Tanqueray, please. She's well, I hope? [_Going
towards the door._] I can't feel sorry she hasn't seen me in this
condition.
ELLEAN _enters._
ELLEAN.
[_To_ MRS. CORTELYON.] I've been waiting to wish you good-night. I
was afraid I'd missed you.
MRS. CORTELYON.
Good-night, Ellean.
ELLEAN.
[_In a low voice, embracing_ MRS. CORTELYON.] I can't thank you.
Dear Mrs. Cortelyon!
MRS. CORTELYON.
[_Her arms round_ ELLEAN, _in a whisper to_ AUBREY.] Speak a word to
her.
[MRS. CORTELYON _goes out._
AUBREY.
[_To_ ELLEAN.] Ellean, I'm going to see Mrs. Cortelyon home. Tell
Paula where I am; explain, dear.
[_Going to the door_
ELLEAN.
[_Her head drooping._] Yes. [_Quickly._] Father! You are angry with
me--disappointed?
AUBREY.
Angry?--no.
ELLEAN.
Disappointed?
AUBREY.
[_Smiling and going to her and taking her hand._] If so, it's only
because you've shaken my belief in my discernment. I thought you
took after your poor mother a little, Ellean; but there's a look on
your face to-night, dear, that I never saw on hers--never, never.
ELLEAN.
[_Leaning her head on his shoulder._] Perhaps I ought not to have
gone away?
AUBREY.
Hush! You're quite happy?
ELLEAN.
Yes.
AUBREY.
That's right. Then, as you are quite happy there is something I
particularly want you to do for me Ellean.
ELLEAN.
What is that?
AUBREY.
Be very gentle with Paula. Will you?
ELLEAN.
You think I have been unkind.
AUBREY.
[_Kissing her upon the forehead._] Be very gentle with Paula.
[_He goes out and she stands looking after him, then, as
she turns thoughtfully from the door, a rose is thrown
through the window and falls at her feet. She picks up
the flower wonderingly and goes to the window._
ELLEAN.
[_Starting back._] Hugh!
HUGH ARDALE, _a handsome young man of about seven-and-twenty,
with a boyish face and manner, appears outside the window._
HUGH.
Nelly! Nelly dear!
ELLEAN.
What's the matter?
HUGH.
Hush! Nothing. It's only fun. [_Laughing._] Ha, ha, ha! I've found
out that Mrs. Cortelyon's meadow runs up to your father's
plantation; I've come through a gap in the hedge.
ELLEAN.
Why, Hugh?
HUGH.
I'm miserable at The Warren; it's so different from the Avenue de
Friedland. Don't look like that! Upon my word I meant just to peep
at your home and go back, but I saw figures moving about here, and
came nearer, hoping to get a glimpse of you. Was that your father?
[_Entering the room._
ELLEAN.
Yes.
HUGH.
Isn't this fun! A rabbit ran across my foot while I was hiding
behind that old yew.
ELLEAN.
You must go away; it's not right for you to be here like this.
HUGH.
But it's only fun, I tell you. You take everything so seriously. Do
wish me good-night.
ELLEAN.
We have said good-night.
HUGH.
In the hall at The Warren before Mrs. Cortelyon and a man-servant.
Oh, it's so different from the Avenue de Friedland!
ELLEAN.
[_Giving him her hand hastily._] Good-night, Hugh.
HUGH.
Is that all? We might be the merest acquaintances.
[_He momentarily embraces her, but she releases herself._
ELLEAN.
It's when you're like this that you make me feel utterly miserable.
[_Throwing the rose from her angrily._] Oh!
HUGH.
I've offended you now, I suppose?
ELLEAN.
Yes.
HUGH.
Forgive me, Nelly. Come into the garden for five minutes; we'll
stroll down to the plantation.
ELLEAN.
No, no.
HUGH.
For two minutes--to tell me you forgive me.
ELLEAN.
I forgive you.
HUGH.
Evidently. I sha'n't sleep a wink to-night after this. What a fool I
am! Come down to the plantation. Make it up with me.
ELLEAN.
There is somebody coming into this room. Do you wish to be seen
here?
HUGH.
I shall wait for you behind that yew-tree. You must speak to me.
Nelly!
[_He disappears._ PAULA _enters._
PAULA.
Ellean!
ELLEAN.
You--you are very surprised to see me, Paula, of course.
PAULA.
Why are you here? Why aren't you with--your friend?
ELLEAN.
I've come home--if you'll have me. We left Paris this morning; Mrs.
Cortelyon brought me back. She was here a minute or two ago; papa
has just gone with her to The Warren. He asked me to tell you.
PAULA.
There are some people staying with us that I'd rather you didn't
meet. It was hardly worth your while to return for a few hours.
ELLEAN.
A few hours?
PAULA.
Well, when do you go to London?
ELLEAN.
I don't think I go to London, after all.
PAULA.
[_Eagerly._] You--you've quarrelled with her?
ELLEAN.
No, no, no, not that; but--Paula! [_In an altered tone._] Paula.
PAULA.
[_Startled._] Eh? [ELLEAN _goes deliberately to_ PAULA _and kisses
her._] Ellean!
ELLEAN.
Kiss me.
PAULA.
What--what's come to you?
ELLEAN.
I want to behave differently to you in the future. Is it too late?
PAULA.
Too--late! [_Impulsively kissing_ ELLEAN _and crying._] No--no--no!
No--no!
ELLEAN.
Paula, don't cry.
PAULA.
[_Wiping her eyes_] I'm a little shaky; I haven't been sleeping.
It's all right,--talk to me.
ELLEAN.
There is something I want to tell you----
PAULA.
Is there--is there?
[_They sit together on the ottoman,_ PAULA _taking_
ELLEAN'S _hand._
ELLEAN.
Paula, in our house in the Avenue de Friedland, on the floor below
us, there was a Mrs. Brereton. She used to be a friend of my
mother's. Mrs. Cortelyon and I spent a great deal of our time with
her.
PAULA.
[_Suspiciously._] Oh! [_Letting_ ELLEAN'S _hand fall._] Is this lady
going to take you up in place of Mrs. Cortelyon?
ELLEAN.
No, no. Her brother is staying with her--_was_ staying with her. Her
brother----
[_Breaking off in confusion._
PAULA.
Well?
ELLEAN.
[_Almost inaudibly._] Paula----
[_She rises and walks away,_ PAULA _following her._
PAULA.
Ellean! [_Taking hold of her._] You're not in love!
[ELLEAN _looks at_ PAULA _appealingly._
PAULA.
Oh! _You_ in love! You! Oh, this is why you've come home! Of course,
you can make friends with me now! You'll leave us for good soon, I
suppose; so it doesn't much matter being civil to me for a little
while!
ELLEAN.
Oh, Paula!
PAULA.
Why, how you have deceived us--all of us! We've taken you for a
cold-blooded little saint. The fools you've made of us! Saint
Ellean! Saint Ellean!
ELLEAN.
Ah, I might have known you'd only mock me!
PAULA.
[_Her tone changing._] Eh?
ELLEAN.
I--I can't talk to you. [_Sitting on the settee._] You do nothing
else but mock and sneer, nothing else.
PAULA.
Ellean dear! Ellean! I didn't mean it. I'm so horribly jealous, it's
a sort of curse on me. [_Kneeling beside_ ELLEAN _and embracing
her._] My tongue runs away with me. I'm going to alter, I swear I
am. I've made some good resolutions, and, as God's above me, I'll
keep them! If you are in love, if you do ever marry, that's no
reason why we shouldn't be fond of each other. Come, you've kissed
me of your own accord--you can't take it back. Now we're friends
again, aren't we? Ellean dear! I want to know everything,
everything. Ellean dear, Ellean!
ELLEAN.
Paula, Hugh has done something that makes me very angry. He came
with us from Paris to-day, to see papa. He is staying with Mrs.
Cortelyon and--I ought to tell you----
PAULA.
Yes, yes. What?
ELLEAN.
He has found his way by The Warren meadow through the plantation up
to this house. He is waiting to bid me good-night. [_Glancing
towards the garden._] He is--out there.
PAULA.
Oh!
ELLEAN.
What shall I do?
PAULA.
Bring him in to see me! Will you?
ELLEAN.
No, no.
PAULA.
But I'm dying to know him. Oh, yes, you must. I shall meet him
before Aubrey does. [_Excitedly running her hands over her hair._]
I'm so glad. [ELLEAN _goes out by the window._] The mirror--mirror.
What a fright I must look! [_Not finding the hand-glass on the
table, she jumps on to the settee, and surveys herself in the mirror
over the mantelpiece, then sits quietly down and waits._] Ellean!
Just fancy! Ellean!
_After a pause_ ELLEAN _enters by the window with_ HUGH.
ELLEAN.
Paula, this is Captain Ardale--Mrs. Tanqueray.
[PAULA _risen and turns, and she and_ HUGH _stand staring
blankly at each other for a moment or two; then_ PAULA
_advances and gives him her hand._
PAULA.
[_In a strange voice, but calmly._] How do you do?
HUGH.
How do you do?
PAULA.
[_To_ ELLEAN.] Mr. Ardale and I have met in London, Ellean.
Er--Captain Ardale, now?
HUGH.
Yes.
ELLEAN.
In London?
PAULA.
They say the world's very small, don't they?
HUGH.
Yes.
PAULA.
Ellean, dear, I want to have a little talk about you to Mr.
Ardale--Captain Ardale--alone. [_Putting her arms round_ ELLEAN,
_and leading her to the door._] Come back in a little while. [ELLEAN
_nods to_ PAULA _with a smile and goes out, while_ PAULA _stands
watching her at the open door._] In a little while--in a
little---- [_Closing the door and then taking a seat facing_ HUGH.]
Be quick! Mr. Tanqueray has only gone down to The Warren with Mrs.
Cortelyon. What is to be done?
HUGH.
[_Blankly._] Done?
PAULA.
Done--done. Something must be done.
HUGH.
I understood that Mr. Tanqueray had married a Mrs.--Mrs.----
PAULA.
Jarman?
HUGH.
Yes.
PAULA.
I'd been going by that name. You didn't follow my doings after we
separated.
HUGH.
No.
PAULA.
[_Sneeringly._] No.
HUGH.
I went out to India.
PAULA.
What's to be done?
HUGH.
Damn this chance!
PAULA.
Oh, my God!
HUGH.
Your husband doesn't know, does he?
PAULA.
That you and I----?
HUGH.
Yes.
PAULA.
No. He knows about others.
HUGH.
Not about me. How long were we----?
PAULA.
I don't remember, exactly.
HUGH.
Do you--do you think it matters?
PAULA.
His--his daughter. [_With a muttered exclamation he turns away and
sits with his head in his hands._] What's to be done?
HUGH.
I wish I could think.
PAULA.
Oh! Oh! What happened to that flat of ours in Ethelbert Street?
HUGH.
I let it.
PAULA.
All that pretty furniture?
HUGH.
Sold it.
PAULA.
I came across the key of the escritoire the other day in an old
purse! [_Suddenly realising the horror and hopelessness of her
position, and starting to her feet with an hysterical cry of rage._]
What am I maundering about?
HUGH.
For God's sake, be quiet! Do let me think.
PAULA.
This will send me mad! [_Suddenly turning and standing over him._]
You--you beast, to crop up in my life again like this!
HUGH.
I always treated you fairly.
PAULA.
[_Weakly._] Oh! I beg your pardon--I know you did--I----
[_She sinks on to the settee, crying hysterically._
HUGH.
Hush!
PAULA.
She kissed me to-night! I'd won her over! I've had such a fight to
make her love me! And now--just as she's beginning to love me, to
bring this on her!
HUGH.
Hush, hush! Don't break down!
PAULA.
[_Sobbing._] You don't know! I--I haven't been getting on well in my
marriage. It's been my fault. The life I used to lead spoilt me
completely. But I'd made up my mind to turn over a new life from
to-night. From to-night!
HUGH.
Paula----
PAULA.
Don't you call me that!
HUGH.
Mrs. Tanqueray, there is no cause for you to despair in this way.
It's all right, I tell you--it shall be all right.
PAULA.
[_Shivering._] What are we to do?
HUGH.
Hold our tongues.
PAULA.
Eh?
[_Staring vacantly._
HUGH.
The chances are a hundred to one against any one ever turning up who
knew us when we were together. Besides, no one would be such a brute
as to split on us. If anybody did do such a thing we should have to
lie! What are we upsetting ourselves like this for, when we've
simply got to hold our tongues?
PAULA.
You're as mad as I am!
HUGH.
Can you think of a better plan?
PAULA.
There's only one plan possible--let's come to our senses!--Mr.
Tanqueray must be told.
HUGH.
Your husband! What, and I lose Ellean! I lose Ellean!
PAULA.
You've got to lose her.
HUGH.
I won't lose her! I can't lose her!
PAULA.
Didn't I read of your doing any number of brave things in India?
Why, you seem to be an awful coward!
HUGH.
That's another sort of pluck altogether; I haven't this sort of
pluck.
PAULA.
Oh, I don't ask _you_ to tell Mr. Tanqueray. That's my job.
HUGH.
[_Standing over her._] You--you--you'd better! You----!
PAULA.
[_Rising._] Don't bully me! I intend to.
HUGH.
[_Taking hold of her; she wrenches herself free._] Look here,
Paula! I never treated you badly--you've owned it. Why should you
want to pay me out like this? You don't know how I love Ellean!
PAULA.
Yes, that's just what I _do_ know.
HUGH.
I say you don't! She's as good as my own mother. I've been downright
honest with her too. I told her, in Paris, that I'd been a bit wild
at one time, and, after a damned wretched day, she promised to
forgive me because of what I'd done since in India. She's behaved
like an angel to me! Surely I oughtn't to lose her, after all, just
because I've been like other fellows! No; I haven't been half as
rackety as a hundred men we could think of. Paula, don't pay me out
for nothing; be fair to me, there's a good girl--be fair to me!
PAULA.
Oh, I'm not considering you at all! I advise you not to stay here
any longer; Mr. Tanqueray is sure to be back soon.
HUGH.
[_Taking up his hat._] What's the understanding between us then?
What have we arranged to do?
PAULA.
I don't know what you're going to do; I've got to tell Mr.
Tanqueray.
HUGH.
By God, you shall do nothing of the sort!
[_Approaching her fiercely._
PAULA.
You shocking coward!
HUGH.
If you dare! [_Going up to the window._] Mind! If you dare!
PAULA.
[_Following him._] Why, what would you do?
HUGH.
[_After a short pause, sullenly._] Nothing. I'd shoot myself--that's
nothing. Good-night.
PAULA.
Good-night.
[_He disappears. She walks unsteadily to the ottoman, and
sits; and as she does so her hand falls upon the little
silver mirror, which she takes up, staring at her own
reflection._
THE FOURTH ACT
_The Drawing room at "Highercoombe," the same evening._
PAULA _is still seated on the ottoman, looking vacantly before
her, with the little mirror in her hand._ LADY ORREYED
_enters._
LADY ORREYED.
There you are! You never came into the billiard-room. Isn't it
maddening--Cayley Drummle gives me sixty out of a hundred and beats
me. I must be out of form, because I know I play remarkably well for
a lady. Only last month---- [PAULA _rises._] Whatever is the matter
with you, old girl?
PAULA.
Why?
LADY ORREYED.
[_Staring._] It's the light, I suppose. [PAULA _replaces the mirror
on the table._] By Aubrey's bolting from the billiard-table in that
fashion I thought perhaps----
PAULA.
Yes; it's all right.
LADY ORREYED.
You've patched it up? [PAULA _nods._] Oh, I am jolly glad----! I
mean----
PAULA.
Yes, I know what you mean. Thanks, Mabel.
LADY ORREYED.
[_Kissing_ PAULA.] Now take my advice; for the future----
PAULA.
Mabel, if I've been disagreeable to you while you've been staying
here, I--I beg your pardon.
[_Walking away and sitting down._
LADY ORREYED.
You disagreeable, my dear? I haven't noticed it. Dodo and me both
consider you make a first-class hostess, but then you've had such
practice, haven't you? [_Dropping on to the ottoman and gaping._]
Oh, talk about being sleepy----!
PAULA.
Why don't you----!
LADY ORREYED.
Why, dear, I must hang about for Dodo. You may as well know it; he's
in one of his moods.
PAULA.
[_Under her breath._] Oh----!
LADY ORREYED.
Now, it's not his fault; it was deadly dull for him while we were
playing billiards. Cayley Drummle did ask him to mark, but I stopped
that; it's so easy to make a gentleman look like a billiard-marker.
This is just how it always is; if poor old Dodo has nothing to do,
he loses count, as you may say.
PAULA.
Hark!
SIR GEORGE ORREYED _enters, walking slowly and deliberately;
he looks pale and watery-eyed._
SIR GEORGE.
[_With mournful indistinctness._] I'm 'fraid we've lef' you a grea'
deal to yourself to-night, Mrs. Tanqueray. Attra'tions of billiards.
I apol'gise. I say, where's ol' Aubrey?
PAULA.
My husband has been obliged to go out to a neighbour's house.
SIR GEORGE.
I want his advice on a rather pressing matter connected with my
family--my family. [_Sitting._] To-morrow will do just as well.
LADY ORREYED.
[_To_ PAULA.] This is the mood I hate so--drivelling about his
precious family.
SIR GEORGE.
The fact is, Mrs. Tanqueray, I am not easy in my min' 'bout the way
I am treatin' my poor ol' mother.
LADY ORREYED.
[_To_ PAULA.] Do you hear that? That's _his_ mother, but _my_ mother
he won't so much as look at!
SIR GEORGE.
I shall write to Bruton Street firs' thing in the morning.
LADY ORREYED.
[_To_ PAULA.] Mamma has stuck to me through everything--well, you
know!
SIR GEORGE.
I'll get ol' Aubrey to figure out a letter. I'll drop line to Uncle
Fitz too--dooced shame of the ol' feller to chuck me over in this
manner. [_Wiping his eyes._] All my family have chucked me over.
LADY ORREYED.
[_Rising._] Dodo!
SIR GEORGE.
Jus' because I've married beneath me, to be chucked over! Aunt
Lydia, the General, Hooky Whitgrave, Lady Sugnall--my own dear
sister!--all turn their backs on me. It's more than I can stan'!
LADY ORREYED.
[_Approaching him with dignity._] Sir George, wish Mrs. Tanqueray
good-night at once and come upstairs. Do you hear me?
SIR GEORGE.
[_Rising angrily._] Wha'----
LADY ORREYED.
Be quiet!
SIR GEORGE.
You presoom to order me about!
LADY ORREYED.
You're making an exhibition of yourself!
SIR GEORGE.
Look 'ere----!
LADY ORREYED.
Come along, I tell you!
[_He hesitates, utters a few inarticulate sounds, then
snatches up a fragile ornament from the table, and is
about to dash it on to the ground._ LADY ORREYED
_retreats, and_ PAULA _goes to him._
PAULA.
George!
[_He replaces the ornament._
SIR GEORGE.
[_Shaking_ PAULA'S _hand._] Good ni', Mrs. Tanqueray.
LADY ORREYED.
[_To_ PAULA.] Good-night, darling. Wish Aubrey good-night for me.
Now, Dodo?
[_She goes out._
SIR GEORGE.
[_To_ PAULA.] I say, are you goin' to sit up for ol' Aubrey?
PAULA.
Yes.
SIR GEORGE.
Shall I keep you comp'ny?
PAULA.
No, thank you, George.
SIR GEORGE.
Sure?
PAULA.
Yes, sure.
SIR GEORGE.
[_Shaking hands._] Good-night again.
PAULA.
Good-night.
[_She turns away. He goes out, steadying himself carefully.
Drummle appears outside the window, smoking._
DRUMMLE.
[_Looking into the room, and seeing_ PAULA.] My last cigar. Where's
Aubrey?
PAULA.
Gone down to The Warren, to see Mrs. Cortelyon home.
DRUMMLE.
[_Entering the room._] Eh? Did you say Mrs. Cortelyon?
PAULA.
Yes. She has brought Ellean back.
DRUMMLE.
Bless my soul! Why?
PAULA.
I--I'm too tired to tell you, Cayley. If you stroll along the lane
you'll meet Aubrey. Get the news from him.
DRUMMLE.
[_Going up to the window._] Yes, yes. [_Returning to_ PAULA.] I
don't want to bother you, only--the anxious old woman, you know. Are
you and Aubrey----?
PAULA.
Good friends again?
DRUMMLE.
[_Nodding._] Um.
PAULA.
[_Giving him her hand._] Quite, Cayley, quite.
DRUMMLE.
[_Retaining her hand._] That's capital. As I'm off so early
to-morrow morning, let me say now--thank you for your hospitality.
[_He bends over her hand gallantly, then goes out by the
window._
PAULA.
[_To herself._] "Are you and Aubrey----?" "Good friends again?"
"Yes." "Quite, Cayley, quite."
[_There is a brief pause, then_ AUBREY _enters hurriedly,
wearing a light overcoat and carrying a cap._
AUBREY.
Paula dear! Have you seen Ellean?
PAULA.
I found her here when I came down.
AUBREY.
She--she's told you?
PAULA.
Yes, Aubrey.
AUBREY.
It's extraordinary, isn't it! Not that somebody should fall in love
with Ellean or that Ellean herself should fall in love. All that's
natural enough and was bound to happen, I suppose, sooner or later.
But this young fellow! You know his history?
PAULA.
His history?
AUBREY.
You remember the papers were full of his name a few months ago?
PAULA.
Oh, yes.
AUBREY.
The man's as brave as a lion, there's no doubt about that; and, at
the same time, he's like a big good-natured schoolboy, Mrs.
Cortelyon says. Have you ever pictured the kind of man Ellean would
marry some day?
PAULA.
I can't say that I have.
AUBREY.
A grave, sedate fellow I've thought about--hah! She has fallen in
love with the way in which Ardale practically laid down his life to
save those poor people shut up in the Residency. [_Taking off his
coat._] Well, I suppose if a man can do that sort of thing, one
ought to be content. And yet---- [_Throwing his coat on the
settee._] I should have met him to-night, but he'd gone out. Paula
dear, tell me how you look upon this business.
PAULA.
Yes, I will--I must. To begin with, I--I've seen Mr. Ardale.
AUBREY.
Captain Ardale?
PAULA.
Captain Ardale.
AUBREY.
Seen him?
PAULA.
While you were away he came up here, through our grounds, to try to
get a word with Ellean. I made her fetch him in and present him to
me.
AUBREY.
[_Frowning._] Doesn't Captain Ardale know there's a lodge and a
front door to this place? Never mind! What is your impression of
him?
PAULA.
Aubrey, do you recollect my bringing you a letter--a letter giving
you an account of myself--to the Albany late one night--the night
before we got married?
AUBREY.
A letter?
PAULA.
You burnt it; don't you know?
AUBREY.
Yes; I know.
PAULA.
His name was in that letter.
AUBREY.
[_Going back from her slowly, and staring at her._] I don't
understand.
PAULA.
Well--Ardale and I once kept house together. [_He remains silent,
not moving._] Why don't you strike me? Hit me in the face--I'd
rather you did! Hurt me! hurt me!
AUBREY.
[_After a pause._] What did you--and this man--say to each
other--just now?
PAULA.
I--hardly--know.
AUBREY.
Think!
PAULA.
The end of it all was that I--I told him I must inform you of--what
had happened ... he didn't want me to do that ... I declared that I
would ... he dared me to. [_Breaking down._] Let me alone!--oh!
AUBREY.
Where was my daughter while this went on?
PAULA.
I--I had sent her out of the room ... that is all right.
AUBREY.
Yes, yes--yes, yes.
[_He turns his head towards the door._
PAULA.
Who's that?
_A_ SERVANT _enters with a letter._
SERVANT.
The coachman has just run up with this from The Warren, sir. [AUBREY
_takes the letter._] It's for Mrs. Tanqueray, sir; there's no
answer.
[_The_ SERVANT _withdraws._ AUBREY _goes to_ PAULA _and
drops the letter into her lap; she opens it with
uncertain hands._
PAULA.
[_Reading it to herself._] It's from--him. He's going away--or
gone--I think. [_Rising in a weak way._] What does it say? I never
could make out his writing.
[_She gives the letter to_ AUBREY _and stands near him,
looking at the letter over his shoulder as he reads._
AUBREY.
[_Reading._] "I shall be in Paris by to-morrow evening. Shall wait
there, at Meurice's, for a week, ready to receive any communication
you or your husband may address to me. Please invent some
explanation to Ellean. Mrs. Tanqueray, for God's sake, do what you
can for me."
[PAULA _and_ AUBREY _speak in low voices, both still
looking at the letter._
PAULA.
Has he left The Warren, I wonder, already?
AUBREY.
That doesn't matter.
PAULA.
No, but I can picture him going quietly off. Very likely he's
walking on to Bridgeford or Cottering to-night, to get the first
train in the morning. A pleasant stroll for him.
AUBREY.
We'll reckon he's gone, that's enough.
PAULA.
That isn't to be answered in any way?
AUBREY.
Silence will answer that.
PAULA.
He'll soon recover his spirits, I know.
AUBREY.
You know. [_Offering her the letter._] You don't want this, I
suppose?
PAULA.
No.
AUBREY.
It's done with--done with.
[_He tears the letter into small pieces. She has dropped
the envelope; she searches for it, finds it, and gives
it to him._
PAULA.
Here!
AUBREY.
[_Looking at the remnants of the letter._] This is no good; I must
burn it.
PAULA.
Burn it in your room.
AUBREY.
Yes.
PAULA.
Put it in your pocket for now.
AUBREY.
Yes.
[_He does so._ ELLEAN _enters and they both turn,
guiltily, and stare at her._
ELLEAN.
[_After a short silence, wonderingly._] Papa----
AUBREY.
What do you want, Ellean?
ELLEAN.
I heard from Willis that you had come in; I only want to wish you
good-night. [PAULA _steals away, without looking back._] What's the
matter? Ah! Of course, Paula has told you about Captain Ardale?
AUBREY.
Well?
ELLEAN.
Have you and he met?
AUBREY.
No.
ELLEAN.
You are angry with him; so was I. But to-morrow when he calls and
expresses his regret--to-morrow----
AUBREY.
Ellean--Ellean!
ELLEAN.
Yes, papa?
AUBREY.
I--I can't let you see this man again. [_He walks away from her in a
paroxysm of distress, then, after a moment or two, he returns to her
and takes her to his arms._] Ellean! my child!
ELLEAN.
[_Releasing herself._] What has happened, papa? What is it?
AUBREY.
[_Thinking out his words deliberately._] Something has occurred,
something has come to my knowledge, in relation to Captain Ardale,
which puts any further acquaintanceship between you two out of the
question.
ELLEAN.
Any further acquaintanceship ... out of the question?
AUBREY.
Yes.
[_Advancing to her quickly, but she shrinks from him._
ELLEAN.
No, no--I am quite well. [_After a short pause._] It's not an hour
ago since Mrs. Cortelyon left you and me together here; you had
nothing to urge against Captain Ardale then.
AUBREY.
No.
ELLEAN.
You don't know each other; you haven't even seen him this evening.
Father!
AUBREY.
I have told you he and I have not met.
ELLEAN.
Mrs. Cortelyon couldn't have spoken against him to you just now. No,
no, no; she's too good a friend to both of us. Aren't you going to
give me some explanation? You can't take this position towards
me--towards Captain Ardale--without affording me the fullest
explanation.
AUBREY.
Ellean, there are circumstances connected with Captain Ardale's
career which you had better remain ignorant of. It must be
sufficient for you that I consider these circumstances render him
unfit to be your husband.
ELLEAN.
Father!
AUBREY.
You must trust me, Ellean; you must try to understand the depth of
my love for you and the--the agony it gives me to hurt you. You must
trust me.
ELLEAN.
I will, father; but you must trust me a little too. Circumstances
connected with Captain Ardale's career?
AUBREY.
Yes.
ELLEAN.
When he presents himself here to-morrow of course you will see him
and let him defend himself?
AUBREY.
Captain Ardale will not be here to-morrow.
ELLEAN.
Not! You have stopped his coming here?
AUBREY.
Indirectly--yes.
ELLEAN.
But just now he was talking to me at that window! Nothing had taken
place then! And since then nothing can have----! Oh! Why--you have
heard something against him from Paula.
AUBREY.
From--Paula!
ELLEAN.
She knows him.
AUBREY.
She has told you so?
ELLEAN.
When I introduced Captain Ardale to her she said she had met him in
London. Of course! It is Paula who has done this!
AUBREY.
[_In a hard voice._] I--I hope you--you'll refrain from rushing at
conclusions. There's nothing to be gained by trying to avoid the
main point, which is that you must drive Captain Ardale out of your
thoughts. Understand that! You're able to obtain comfort from your
religion, aren't you? I'm glad to think that's so. I talk to you in
a harsh way, Ellean, but I feel your pain almost as acutely as you
do. [_Going to the door._] I--I can't say anything more to you
to-night.
ELLEAN.
Father! [_He pauses at the door._] Father, I'm obliged to ask you
this; there's no help for it--I've no mother to go to. Does what you
have heard about Captain Ardale concern the time when he led a
wild, a dissolute life in London?
AUBREY.
[_Returning to her slowly and staring at her._] Explain yourself!
ELLEAN.
He has been quite honest with me. One day--in Paris--he confessed to
me--what a man's life is--what his life had been.
AUBREY.
[_Under his breath._] Oh!
ELLEAN.
He offered to go away, not to approach me again.
AUBREY.
And you--you accepted his view of what a man's life is!
ELLEAN.
As far as _I_ could forgive him, I forgave him.
AUBREY.
[_With a groan._] Why, when was it you left us? It hasn't taken you
long to get your robe "just a little dusty at the hem!"
ELLEAN.
What do you mean?
AUBREY.
Hah! A few weeks ago my one great desire was to keep you ignorant of
evil.
ELLEAN.
Father, it is impossible to be ignorant of evil. Instinct, common
instinct, teaches us what is good and bad. Surely I am none the
worse for knowing what is wicked and detesting it!
AUBREY.
Detesting it! Why, you love this fellow!
ELLEAN.
Ah, you don't understand! I have simply judged Captain Ardale as we
all pray to be judged. I have lived in imagination through that one
week in India when he deliberately offered his life back to God to
save those wretched, desperate people. In his whole career I see now
nothing but that one week; those few hours bring him nearer the
Saints, I believe, than fifty uneventful years of mere blamelessness
would have done! And so, father, if Paula has reported anything to
Captain Ardale's discredit----
AUBREY.
Paula----!
ELLEAN.
It must be Paula; it can't be anybody else.
AUBREY.
You--you'll please keep Paula out of the question. Finally, Ellean,
understand me--I have made up my mind.
[_Again going to the door._
ELLEAN.
But wait--listen! I have made up my mind also.
AUBREY.
Ah! I recognise your mother in you now!
ELLEAN.
You need not speak against my mother because you are angry with me!
AUBREY.
I--I hardly know what I'm saying to you. In the morning--in the
morning----
[_He goes out. She remains standing, and turns her head
to listen. Then, after a moment's hesitation she goes
softly to the window, and looks out under the verandah._
ELLEAN.
[_In a whisper._] Paula! Paula!
[PAULA _appears outside the window and steps into the room;
her face is white and drawn, her hair is a little
disordered._
PAULA.
[_Huskily._] Well?
ELLEAN.
Have you been under the verandah all the while--listening?
PAULA.
N--no.
ELLEAN.
You _have_ overheard us--I see you have. And it _is_ you who have
been speaking to my father against Captain Ardale. Isn't it? Paula,
why don't you own it or deny it?
PAULA.
Oh, I--I don't mind owning it; why should I?
ELLEAN.
Ah! You seem to have been very very eager to tell your tale.
PAULA.
No, I wasn't eager, Ellean. I'd have given something not to have had
to do it. I wasn't eager.
ELLEAN.
Not! Oh, I think you might safely have spared us all for a little
while.
PAULA.
But, Ellean, you forget I--I am your step-mother. It was my--my
duty--to tell your father what I--what I knew----
ELLEAN.
What you knew! Why, after all, what can you know! You can only speak
from gossip, report, hearsay! How is it possible that you----! [_She
stops abruptly. The two women stand staring at each other for a
moment; then_ ELLEAN _backs away from_ PAULA _slowly._] Paula!
PAULA.
What--what's the matter?
ELLEAN.
You--you knew Captain Ardale in London!
PAULA.
Why--what do you mean?
ELLEAN.
Oh!
[_She makes for the door, but_ PAULA _catches her by the
wrist._
PAULA.
You shall tell me what you mean!
ELLEAN.
Ah! [_Suddenly looking fixedly in_ PAULA'S _face._] You know what I
mean.
PAULA.
You accuse me!
ELLEAN.
It's in your face!
PAULA.
[_Hoarsely._] You--you think I'm--that sort of creature, do you?
ELLEAN.
Let me go!
PAULA.
Answer me! You've always hated me! [_Shaking her._] Out with it!
ELLEAN.
You hurt me!
PAULA.
You've always hated me! You shall answer me!
ELLEAN.
Well, then, I have always--always----
PAULA.
What?
ELLEAN.
I have always known what you were!
PAULA.
Ah! Who--who told you?
ELLEAN.
Nobody but yourself. From the first moment I saw you I knew you were
altogether unlike the good women I'd left; directly I saw you I knew
what my father had done. You've wondered why I've turned from you!
There--that's the reason! Oh, but this is a horrible way for the
truth to come home to every one! Oh!
PAULA.
It's a lie! It's all a lie! [_Forcing_ ELLEAN _down upon her
knees._] You shall beg my pardon for it. [_Ellean utters a loud
shriek of terror._] Ellean, I'm a good woman! I swear I am! I've
always been a good woman! You dare to say I've ever been anything
else! It's a lie!
[_Throwing her off violently._
AUBREY _re-enters._
AUBREY.
Paula! [PAULA _staggers back as_ AUBREY _advances. Raising_ ELLEAN.]
What's this? What's this?
ELLEAN.
[_Faintly._] Nothing. It--it's my fault. Father, I--I don't wish to
see Captain Ardale again.
[_She goes out,_ AUBREY _slowly following her to the
door._
PAULA.
Aubrey, she--she guesses.
AUBREY.
Guesses?
PAULA.
About me--and Ardale.
AUBREY.
About you--and Ardale?
PAULA.
She says she suspected my character from the beginning ... that's
why she's always kept me at a distance ... and now she sees
through----
[_She falters; he helps her to the ottoman, where she
sits._
AUBREY.
[_Bending over her._] Paula, you must have said something--admitted
something----
PAULA.
I don't think so. It--it's in my face.
AUBREY.
What?
PAULA.
She tells me so. She's right! I'm tainted through and through;
anybody can see it, anybody can find it out. You said much the same
to me to-night.
AUBREY.
If she has got this idea into her head we must drive it out, that's
all. We must take steps to---- What shall we do? We had
better--better----What--what?
[_Sitting and staring before him._
PAULA.
Ellean! So meek, so demure! You've often said she reminded you of
her mother. Yes, I know now what your first marriage was like.
AUBREY.
We must drive this idea out of her head. We'll do something. What
shall we do?
PAULA.
She's a regular woman too. She could forgive _him_ easily
enough--but _me_! That's just a woman!
AUBREY.
What _can_ we do?
PAULA.
Why, nothing! She'd have no difficulty in following up her
suspicions. Suspicions! You should have seen how she looked at me!
[_He buries his head in his hands. There is silence for a time, then
she rises slowly, and goes and sits beside him._] Aubrey!
AUBREY.
Yes.
PAULA.
I'm very sorry.
[_Without meeting her eyes, he lays his hand on her arm
for a moment._
AUBREY.
Well, we must look things straight in the face. [_Glancing round._]
At any rate, we've done with this.
PAULA.
I suppose so. [_After a brief pause._] Of course, she and I can't
live under the same roof any more. You know she kissed me to-night,
of her own accord.
AUBREY.
I asked her to alter towards you.
PAULA.
That was it, then.
AUBREY.
I--I'm sorry I sent her away.
PAULA.
It was my fault; I made it necessary.
AUBREY.
Perhaps now she'll propose to return to the convent,--well, she
must.
PAULA.
Would you like to keep her with you and--and leave me?
AUBREY.
Paula----!
PAULA.
You needn't be afraid I'd go back to--what I was. I couldn't.
AUBREY.
Sssh, for God's sake! We--you and I--we'll get out of this place ...
what a fool I was to come here again!
PAULA.
You lived here with your first wife!
AUBREY.
We'll get out of this place and go abroad again, and begin afresh.
PAULA.
Begin afresh?
AUBREY.
There's no reason why the future shouldn't be happy for us--no
reason that I can see----
PAULA.
Aubrey!
AUBREY.
Yes?
PAULA.
You'll never forget this, you know.
AUBREY.
This?
PAULA.
To-night, and everything that's led up to it. Our coming here,
Ellean, our quarrels--cat and dog!--Mrs. Cortelyon, the Orreyeds,
this man! What an everlasting nightmare for you!
AUBREY.
Oh, we can forget it, if we choose.
PAULA.
That was always your cry. How _can_ one do it!
AUBREY.
Well make our calculations solely for the future, talk about the
future, think about the future.
PAULA.
I believe the future is only the past again, entered through another
gate.
AUBREY.
That's an awful belief.
PAULA.
To-night proves it. You must see now that, do what we will, go where
we will, you'll be continually reminded of--what I was. I see it.
AUBREY.
You're frightened to-night; meeting this man has frightened you. But
that sort of thing isn't likely to recur. The world isn't quite so
small as all that.
PAULA.
Isn't it! The only great distances it contains are those we carry
within ourselves--the distances that separate husbands and wives,
for instance. And so it'll be with us. You'll do your best--oh, I
know that--you're a good fellow. But circumstances will be too
strong for you in the end, mark my words.
AUBREY.
Paula----!
PAULA.
Of course I'm pretty now--I'm pretty still--and a pretty woman,
whatever else she may be, is always--well, endurable. But even now I
notice that the lines of my face are getting deeper; so are the
hollows about my eyes. Yes, my face is covered with little shadows
that usen't to be there. Oh, I know I'm "going off." I hate paint
and dye and those messes, but, by-and-by, I shall drift the way of
the others; I sha'n't he able to help myself. And then, some
day--perhaps very suddenly, under a queer, fantastic light at night
or in the glare of the morning--that horrid, irresistible truth that
physical repulsion forces on men and women will come to you, and
you'll sicken at me.
AUBREY.
I----!
PAULA.
You'll see me then, at last, with other people's eyes; you'll see me
just as your daughter does now, as all wholesome folks see women
like me. And I shall have no weapon to fight with--not one
serviceable little bit of prettiness left me to defend myself with!
A worn-out creature--broken up, very likely, some time before I
ought to be--my hair bright, my eyes dull, my body too thin or too
stout, my cheeks raddled and ruddled--a ghost, a wreck, a
caricature, a candle that gutters, call such an end what you like!
Oh, Aubrey, what shall I be able to say to you then? And this is the
future you talk about! I know it--I know it! [_He is still sitting
staring forward; she rocks herself to and fro as if in pain._] Oh,
Aubrey! Oh! Oh!
AUBREY.
Paula----!
[_Trying to comfort her._
PAULA.
Oh, and I wanted so much to sleep to-night! [_Laying her head upon
his shoulder. From the distance, in the garden, there comes the
sound of_ DRUMMLE'S _voice; he is singing as he approaches the
house._] That's Cayley, coming back from The Warren. [_Starting
up._] He doesn't know, evidently. I--I won't see him!
[_She goes out quickly._ DRUMMLE'S _voice comes nearer._
AUBREY _rouses himself and snatches up a book from the
table, making a pretence of reading. After a moment or
two,_ DRUMMLE _appears at the window and looks in._
DRUMMLE.
Aha! my dear chap!
AUBREY.
Cayley?
DRUMMLE.
[_Coming into the room._] I went down to The Warren after you?
AUBREY.
Yes?
DRUMMLE.
Missed you. Well? I've been gossiping with Mrs. Cortelyon. Confound
you, I've heard the news!
AUBREY.
What have you heard?
DRUMMLE.
What have I heard! Why--Ellean and young Ardale! [_Looking at_
AUBREY _keenly._] My dear Aubrey! Alice is under the impression that
you are inclined to look on the affair favourably.
AUBREY.
[_Rising and advancing to_ DRUMMLE.] You've not--met--Captain
Ardale?
DRUMMLE.
No. Why do you ask? By-the-bye, I don't know that I need tell
you--but it's rather strange. He's not at The Warren to-night.
AUBREY.
No?
DRUMMLE.
He left the house half-an-hour ago, to stroll about the lanes; just
now a note came from him, a scribble in pencil, simply telling Alice
that she would receive a letter from him to-morrow. What's the
matter? There's nothing very wrong, is there! My dear chap, pray
forgive me if I'm asking too much.
AUBREY.
Cayley, you--you urged me to send her away!
DRUMMLE.
Ellean! Yes, yes. But--but--by all accounts this is quite an
eligible young fellow. Alice has been giving me the history----
AUBREY.
Curse him! [_Hurling his book to the floor._] Curse him! Yes, I do
curse him--him and his class! Perhaps I curse myself too in doing
it. He has only led "a man's life"--just as I, how many of us, have
done! The misery he has brought on me and mine it's likely enough
we, in our time, have helped to bring on others by this leading "a
man's life"! But I do curse him for all that. My God, _I've_ nothing
more to fear--I've paid _my_ fine! And so I can curse him in safety.
Curse him! Curse him!
DRUMMLE.
In Heaven's name, tell me what's happened?
AUBREY.
[_Gripping_ DRUMMLE's _arm._] Paula! Paula!
DRUMMLE.
What?
AUBREY.
They met to-night here. They--they--they're not strangers to each
other.
DRUMMLE.
Aubrey!
AUBREY.
Curse him! My poor, wretched wife! My poor, wretched wife!
[_The door opens and_ ELLEAN _appears. The two men turn to
her. There is a moment's silence._
ELLEAN.
Father ... father...!
AUBREY.
Ellean?
ELLEAN.
I--I want you. [_He goes to her._] Father ... go to Paula! [_He
looks into her face, startled._] Quickly--quickly! [_He passes her
to go out, she seizes his arm, with a cry._] No, no; don't go!
[_He shakes her off and goes._ ELLEAN _staggers back
towards_ DRUMMLE.
DRUMMLE.
[_To_ ELLEAN.] What do you mean? What do you mean?
ELLEAN.
I--I went to her room--to tell her I was sorry for something I had
said to her. And I _was_ sorry--I _was_ sorry. I heard the fall.
I--I've seen her. It's horrible.
DRUMMLE.
She--she has----!
ELLEAN.
Killed--herself? Yes--yes. So everybody will say. But I know--I
helped to kill her. If I had only been merciful!
[_She faints upon the ottoman. He pauses for a moment
irresolutely--then he goes to the door, opens it, and
stands looking out._
_Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON, & CO.
_London and Edinburgh_
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Spelling has been preserved as in the original, but several cases of
missing punctuation have been corrected.
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