I U CHAMBER COMEDIES BY THE SAME AUTHOR. PETJT THEATRE DBS ENFAKTS. Twelve Tiny French Plays for Children. Fcp. 8vo. la. 6eJ. THEATRE DE LA JEUNESSE. Twelve Little French Playa for Schoolroom ami Drawing Hooiu. Fcp. Svo. 2s. 6d. WILL O' THE WISP : a Story. With 9 Illustrations by E. L. SHUTE. Crown 8vo. 3j. 6d. London : LONGMANS, GREEN, A- CO. n CHAMBER COMEDIES .4 COLLECTION OF PLAYS AND MONOLOGUES FOR THE DRAWING ROOM BY MBS HUGH BELL LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. AND NEW YORK : 15 EAST 16 th STREET 1890 All rights reserved PRINTED BY srorriswooDE AND co., NEW-STREET SQUABE LONDON CONTENTS Characters Milk' Female FAOK L'lNDECIS 12 I A CHANCE INTERVIEW . . . . . 1 2 21 THE WRONG POET 33 3s THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR .... 22 55 A WOMAN OF CULTURE .... 23 80 IN A FIRST-CLASS WAITING-KOOM . 21 123 A JOINT HOUSEHOLD 2 137 AN UNPUBLISHED MS 2 151 A MODERN LOCUSTA 2 171 THE 'Swiss TIMES' (> 1*7 LAST WORDS ' 2 213 A WOMAN OF COURAGE - Monologue . . 1 227 A HARD DAY'S WORK' ,. . . .1 237 THE RELIQUARY ' ,. 1 248 THE WATERPROOF ' 1 258 OH, No ! ' 1 2(55 NOT TO BE FORWARDED .... 1 271 THE CROSSING SWEEPEK r . . . (A Boy's Part) 27fi THE VICEROY'S WEDDING ., . . 1 280 JACK AND THE BEANSTALK 3 2 2-7 I lavs tor BEAUTY AND THE BEAST - . .', , 3 3 302 THE SURPRISE 3 5 ;; 1 7 1 Reprinted from ' Temple Bar,' by permission of Messrs. Bentley. - Reprinted from The Woman's World,' by permission of Cassell & Co., Limited. L'INDfiCIS CO ME DIE EN UN ACTS. PERSON N T AGES. PAUL IMBERT . . . (35 a 40 ans). ALIXE DELAROCHE . . (veuve, 28 ans). LOUISON .... (femme de chambre). SCENE. Le salon de madame Delaroche. Au fond, bureau, avec ce qu'il faut pour ecrire. Au premier plan, nit* petite table a ouvrage, Un canape, des sieges, etc. Louison (introduisant Imbert). Si monsieur vent entrer je vais prevenir madame. Imbert. C'est bien, c'est bien. (Se ravisant) Non, ne la preveiiez pas, je voudrais plutot lui faire une petite sur- prise. Louison. Tres bien, monsieur. Alors, je ne preViendrai pas madame ? Imbert. Mais si ... mais si ... la surprise pourrait lui etre desagreable . . . entin, faites comme vous voudrez. Louison. Bien, monsieur ! [Elle sort. Imbert (seul). Decidement, il n'y a pas de plus grand tourment que 1'indecision ! je ne peux pas arriver a savoir ce que je veux . . . je suis dans la situation la plus embar- rassante, la plus terrible dans laquelle puisse se trouver un homme de mon age, eperdument amoureux d'une jeune et charmante veuve. Oui, je suis amoureux ! cela au moins je le sais amoureux au point de demander en mariage celle B 2 L'Indccis que j'aime. Mais par quelles angoisses, 6 clieux ! ai-je passe" pour en arriver jusque-la ! et de dire qu'apres tout, apres avoir pris cette decision surhumaine, j 'ignore encore a 1'heure qu'il est, si ou non j'ai formellement demande la main de la belle madame Delaroche ! Cela vous sensible bizarre, n'est-ce pas 1 c'est pourtant vrai. Voici comment la chose s'est passee, J'ai fait la connaissance de madame Delaroche a Trouville, 1'etd dernier, sur la plage, ou elle etait toujours tres entouree, tres recherchee ce qui du reste n'avait rien d'etonnant, elle est toujours si aimable pour tout le monde ! c'est 1'unique defaut cue je lui reproche, celui d'etre trop avenante, trop charmante envers les gens ennuyeux et Dieu sait s'il s'en trouve, des ennuyeux, sur la plage de Trouville ! comme, du reste, partout ailleurs. Le vicomte de Ravignan, par exemple, ce grand lieutenant de cavalerie quel benet ! D'abord, je ne peux pas souffrir les militaires. Je sais bien que cela n'est pas bien port*; en France a 1'heure qu'il est, de ne pas aimer les militaires : mais que voulez-vous je suis comme cela je ne peux pas les voir, non, je ne peux pas les voir ! et le souvenir de ce Ravignan, toujours assidu, toujours empress^ aupres de madame Delaroche a Trouville, me crispe les nerfs rien que d'y penser. Mais erifin, il n'a pas besoin qu'on s'occupe de lui en ce moment, pauvre garden, puisqu'il est en garnison de province, et que madame Delaroche, depuis trois mois qu'elle est rentre'e a Paris, n'a pas paru trop obsede"e de son souvenir . . . tandis que pour moi, pendant ces trois mois, elle a ete parfaite j'ai frequent^ son salon, je 1'ai rencontree dans le monde, j'ai appris a la connaitre, et je commence enfin a entrevoir que je suis amoureux comme un gar9on de vingt ans, et que je n'ai plus qu'a demander sa main. A qui m'adresser ? elle est orpheline . . . elle a bien un frere, a ce qu'il parait, au Bre"sil il colonise. C'est un peu loin ! il n'y a done qu'a elle-meme que je puisse faire ma demande, cela est evident. L'lndecis 3 Eh bien, apres avoir pris cette resolution, j'attends encore i^ne semaine, pendant laquelle je pese le pour et le centre. Enfin, hier soir je retrouve madame Delaroche dans le monde, a un bal au ministere nous passons une soire'e delicieuse . . . je sens que nulle autre femme ne pourra completer mou existence . . . jerentre agite, heureux, tenant a la main une precieuse relique de ma bien-aimee, un carnet qu'elle avait laisse tomber. Je passe une nuit blanche . . . je compose une lettre d'une Eloquence persuasive . . . le matin, je cours moi-meme la jeter a la poste. Une fois la lettre partie, j'esperais reprendre mon calme me retrouver tranquille, digne, attendant de pied ferme la decision de celle que j'adore. Aucunement ! une fois la lettre partie, nies angoisses me reprennent de plus belle . . . je recommence mes discussions avec moi-meme . . . je me repre'sente le ref us accablant qui in 'attend peut-etre . . . bref, je me dis qu'il serait plus prudent d'attendre encore vingt-quatre heures, et je me precipite dans le bureau de poste, pour rt'clamer ma lettre a 1'employe. ' Comment, monsieur ! me repoiid-il d'un ton bourru vous ignorez qu'une lettre une fois jetee a la poste ne peut pas etre reclamee ? elle ne vous appartient plus ! Comment, elle ne m'appartient plus ? Non, monsieur, non ! elle ne vous appartient plus. Quoi ! la lettre que je viens d'ecrire est la, devant mes yeux, et je n'oserais pas etendre la main pour la prendre 1 mais puisque je vous dis que j'ai change* d'avis depuis que j'ai ecrit cette lettre, que vous allez vous rendre complice d'un malheur, oui, d'un malheur irreparable si vous persistez a 1'expedier ! Mais, monsieur, c'est pour expedier les lettres que je suis ici, ce n'est pas pour confesser le public ! me re'pond-il impatiente : si f malheur qui vous menace est aussi grand que cela, envoyez une depeche pour dire que vous avez change d'avis elle arrivera encore avant la lettre ! ' Oh, quels insolents que ces employes de bureau ! je sors furieux, la rage dans 1'ame j'arpente le boulevard pendant une demi-heure je me B2 4 I 'Inducts rSpete cent fois qu'elle ne voudra pas de moi, que j'aurais mieux fait d'attendre . . . je suis desespere. Je leve les yeux je suis a la porte d'un bureau telegraphique ! c'est la Providence qui m'a amene en ce lieu ! j'entre, je saisis uno plume d'une main agitee j'ecris la depeche suivante : ' A madame Delaroche, 305 Boulevard Malesherbes. Priere pas ouvrir ma lettre arrivant aujourd'hui ' je la donne a un employe ennuye qui n'a pas Fair de faire attention a moi . . . je sors, je reprends mon chemin. Je voudrais me retrouver le coeur soulage . . . mais non, impossible ! me voila de nouveau navre de regrets poignants ! je ne vois que trop clairement que j'ai etc un imbecile, un triple imbecile d'avoir laisse echapper le bonheur que j'avais sous la main. Je pense avec douleur a mon foyer perdu, a la douce compagne de ma vie, a laquelle de mon propre mouvement j'ai renonce . . . je n'y tiens plus ! je retourne sur mes pas, je cours, je vole, je me precipite dans le bureau telegraphique pour reolamer ma depeche vous me croirez si vous voudrez, elle etait deja partie ! Partie ! c'est inoui ! Que voulez-vous 1 il faut bien que le service telegraphique se fasse avec prompti- tude quelquefois, meme a Paris. II ne me reste plus qu'une chose a faire, c'est de courir moi-meme Boulevard Males- herbes pour arriver avant la depeche. C'est cela ! je me jette dans une voiture, nous partons a fond de train, et me voici en possession du terrain ! c'est toujours quelque chose. (// se promene dans la cliambre regards les livres, etc.} Decidement, madame Delaroche ne se presse pas ! mais, au fait, j'ai dit qu'il rie fallait pas 1'avertir de ma presence ici . . . j'ai eu to't, comme d'habitude ! je pensais a lui menager une j etifce surprise, agreable peut-etre . . . mais que faire si la surprise ne lui plaisait pas si je ne voyais sur ses traits expressifs qu'uii ennui profond en m'apercevant 1 je ferais peut-etre mieux de repartir, et de revenir toute a 1'heure, (// se dirige vers la porte.} Ah, la voila ! eh bien, je lui dirai que je suis venu pour lui rendre le carnet, voila tout. L'Indt'cis 5 Aline entre, une corbeille a ourraye a la main. Aline (surjrrise). Monsieur Imbert ! la bonne surprise ! Y a-t-il longtemps que vous etes la ? on ne m'avait pas pt Avenue. Imbert. Madame . . . quelques minutes seulement . . . mais le temps m'a paru long sans vous, comme toujours. Aline (soiiriant). Vous ttes trop aimable. Imbert. Quelle charmante soiiee hier au mimsttro, n'est-ce pas ? Aline. Charmante, en effet, une soiree tout a fait agreable. A propos, pendant que j'y pense est-ce que je vous aurai contie par hasard un petit carnet que je tenaiy a la main 1 Imbert. Non, madame, non, vous ne me 1'avez pas confie. Aline. Alors, mon dernier espoir est perdu. Imbert. Vous ne me 1'avez pas contie, mais vrus 1 '->.-:: laisse tomber en sortant de la salle, et j'ai eu le Lonheur de le ramasser. Le voici, je vous 1'apportais. Aline. Comment, vous avez eu cette pre'voyance ? Je vous remercie mille fois je tenais beaucoup a ce petit carnet, que mon pere m'a donne ... en i entrant j'ai voulu y chercher une adresse, et c'est en m'apercevant que je ne 1'avais plus que j'ai tout de suite pense a vous. Imbert. Je regrette de vous 1'avoir rendu alors, car vous auriez eu 1'occasion de penser a mci chaque fois que vous vouliez chercher une adresse. Aline. Mais il me semble que cela ne serait pas bicn Hatteur pour vous c'est plutct un role d'almanach Bottiu que celui de preux chevalier que vous vous attribuez la ! Imbert. Je ne demanderais pas mieux que d'etre votre Bottin toujours pres de vous, a la portee de votre main. Aline (riant malgre elle). Je vous demande pardon de rire, mais vraiment, cette comparaison est par trcp prosaique ! 6 L' fndecis Imbert (vexs). En effet, oui. (.4 part) J'ai voulu la toucher, elle se moque de moi ! Aline. Souhaitez plutot d'etre un mince volume de poesies, que je tiendrais a la main. Imbert. C'est cela, oui, un volume de poesies remplies do parishes tend res et dedicates, dont chaque page respire le sentiment et Painour. Aline. Oh ! comme vous dites cela bien ! c'est char- mant vous etes un poete manque ! Imhert (interdit). Manque, madam e ! Aline. Je voulais seulement dire que vous auriez du vous consacrer a la poesie, que vous vous etes me"pris sur votre veritable vocation. Imbert, (flatte). Mon Dieu, madame, pour ce qui est de la vocation, j'ai bien la prevention de me consacrer un peu a la litterature, comme tout le monde au jour qu'il est je f >> uuelouefois des vers, de la prose aussi . . . quelquefois je n'en fais pas voila mes moments vraiment inspired ! Aline. Comment, vous ecrivez ? vous etes auteur, et vous avez la modestie de ne pas vous declarer ? Imbert. Mais, madame, jusqu'ici ce sont les editeurs qui ont eu de la modestie pour moi, et qui in'ont empeche fie reclamer 1'attention du public . . . d'ailleurs, pour rnoi, la poesie est plutot une amie, une confidente, qu'un moyen de reclame. Aline. Oh, que c'est beau, que c'est genereux ce que vous dites la ! Ainsi, pour vous la poesie est uniquement un moyen d'epanchement ? dans les moments d'e'motion peut-etre . . . Imbert. Justernent, madame, oui, vous me devinez . . . dans des moments d'e'motion, comme tout a 1'heure, par exemple, une me"taphore a 1'aile hardie s'echappe de mes lev res . . . voila comme je suis. Aline. Oh, vous n'avez pas id4e a quel point cela m'interesse de penetrer ainsi dans les secrets de 1'inspira- L'Indt'cis 7 tion poetique ! Et vos ecrits ? C'est peut-etre dans les moments de solitude qu'un morceau fugitif s'echappe de votre plume. Jmbert. Oui, madame, oui : c'est cela. Aline. Ne me ferez-vous pas voir une fois quelque chose que vous aurez e"crit ? Imbert (ct part). Helas, que trop ! Si je saisissais cette occasion pour lui dire \0n entend sonner. Imbert tressaille, il regarde la ports avec inquietude. Aline. Qu'avez-vous, monsieur Imbert 1 vous paraissez inquiet ? Imbert. Mais, madame, j'ai cru entendre des pas, puis un coup de sonnette. Aline. Eh bien, quand cela serait 1 Ce n'est pro- bablement que le facteur, qui passe ordinairement vers cette heure-ci. Imbert (inquiet). Le facteur? Aline (surprise). Mais, mon cher monsieur, qu'avez- vous done? Imbert (cherchant). Madame, vous me voyez confondu . . . je vais vous expliquer la chose . . . c'est tres singulier . . . c'est plus fort que moi . . . mais depuis ma plus tendre enfancej'ai toujours eu la plus profonde antipathic pour les facteurs. Aline (surprise). Pour les facteurs ? Imbert. Pour les facteurs, oui, madame (parlant rapidement). II y a de ces exemples, qui sont parfaitement bien connus dans le monde de la science, de ces antipathies natives, inexplicables, contre lesquelles la raison ne peut rien . . . ainsi, il y a des personnes qui ne peuvent supporter la vue d'une araignee il y en a d'autres chez qui la presence d'un chat produit une crise de nerfs ... eh bien, moi aussi j'ai des antipathies comme cela, et je vous affirme que la seule pensee que je viens peut-etre d'entendre les pas d'un facteur, encore invisible pour moi, sur le palier de votre apparte- 3 L? Indecis ment, me cause un malaise inexprimable, qu'il m'est extreme- ment difficile de vaincre. Aline. Voila un fait tout a fait singulier vous devriez en faire part a 1'Academie des Sciences. Imbert. C'est vrai, on pourrait trouver cela interessarit. [On entend im bruit de pas, puis deux coups de sonnette. Aline (souriant). Rassurez-vous, on a sonne deux fois . . . ce n'est pas le facteur, ce sera probablement une depeche. Imbert (vivement emu). Une depeche ! Ah ! ! . . . [Louison entre avec une depeche. Aline. Vous voyez, j'ai eu raison voila une enveloppe bleue. \Louison sort. Imbert. Une enveloppe bleue ! Ah ! [Iljette un cri. Aline. Mais qu'avez-vous 1 encore une antipathic ? Imbert. Madame, je vous conjure de me pardonner . . . je sens que je suis completement ridicule, mais je vous avouerai que que je ne peux pas supporter le bleu ! (A part) C'est qa, j'ai trouve ! Aline. Le bleu ? vous n'aimez pas cette couleur ? Imbert. Non seulement je ne 1'aime pas, mais je ne peux pas la supporter. Aline. Comment faites-vous alors, vous qui vivez sous le ciel bleu de Paris ? Voila une antipathic qui doit etre assez genante. Imbert. Du tout, madame, du tout ... a Paris il y a bien de quoi regarder dans la ville, sans lever les yeux plus haut si je veux regarder le ciel, je n'ai qu'a aller a Londres, ou il est toujours gris. Aline (souriant). Au moins je puis vous 6ter la vue de cette depeche. (Elle la tient a la main, derriere le dos.) La, vous voila calme, je 1'espere 1 Imbert (tres nerveux). Oh, tout a fait, absolument . . . je suis extremement calme. Aline (le regardant). Vous faites bien de me le dire ! Imbert. Pourquoi ? L ' Indecis g Aline. Parce que je vous trouve, au contraire, exces- sivement agite. Imbert. Mon. Dieu, nmdame, vous allez me trouver tres arriere mais je vous avouerai que, malgre le nombre de depeches expedites par tout le monde aujourd'hui, malgre notre emploi constant du fil electrique a chaque instant de la vie, je n'ai jamais pu m'habituer a voir arriver un tele"- gramme sans en ressentir une vive emotion. Aline. Est-il possible, au jour ou nous sommes ? Eh bien, voyez, au contraire, combien. je suis esprit fort, moi ! je rec,ois cette depeche, je la tiens a la main avant de la lire, avec un calme absolu elle ne me cause pas la moindre Emotion. Imbert. Mais, madame, vous ne songez pas que ce chiffon de papier dont vous parlez si legerement peut contenir la nouvelle d'uii desastre effroyable que les quelques paroles sinistres que vous y trouverez vous appren- dront peut-etre quelque accident, quelque malheur arrive a une personne qui vous est chere . . . qui sait ? un tele- gramme est capable de tout ! en le tenant a la main on se sent parcourir toute la gamme des possibilites humaines ! Aline. Mais vous avez 1'imaginatioii illimitee, monsieur Imbert ! quand je vous disais que vous devriez vous faire poete ! Voyons, pour vous rassurer je vais ouvrir cette depeche alarmante, et vous verrez qu'il n'y aura pas de quoi vous inquieter vous ii'y trouverez pas cette nouvelle foudroyante qui, selon vous, nous attend ! \Elle ouvre la depeche Imbert la regarde avec inquietude. Imbert (a part). Mais puisque je sais a 1'avance que je vais etre foudroye, j'ai bien le droit d'etre inquiet, il me semble ! Aline. Mais c'est incomprehensible c'est un dnigme ! . . . je n'y comprends rien. Iinbcrt (trouble). Vous n'y comprenez . . . rien ? . . . Aline. Absolument rien. IO L'Indecis Imbert. J'espere au moins que mes provisions se sont trompees, et que ce n'est pas une mauvaise nouvelle qu'on vous envoie ? Aline. Une mauvaise nouvelle ! mais ce n'est pas une nouvelle du tout ! ecoutez plut6t ' Priere pas ouvrir ma lettre arrivant aujourd'hui ' Voila tout ! vous conviendrez que cela est mysterieux. Imbert (agitt). En effet . . . tres mysterieux . . . oui ! Est ce que vous auriez deja re9u la lettre dont il est question ? Aline. Mais puisque je ne sais pas seulement de qui elle est, cette lettre, j'ignore si je 1'ai re^ue ! Imbert. II me semble qu'elle doit etre de la meme personrie qui vous a envoye le telegramme. Aline. C'est evident ! mais quelle est-elle, cette personne inconnue ? elle n'a pas meme pense a signer la depeche ! Imbert (vivernent). Comment, la depeche n'est pas signed ? Aline. Mais non, elle n'est pas signee je ne comprends pas cela, car il y a ordinairement tant de formalite's a remplir. Imbert. C'est cet employe distrait qui n'a pas pense' a regarder ! (se reprenant) je vsux dire, cela arrive quelquefois. Aline. Entin, inutile de nous en preoccuper davantage . . . je n'ai qu'a attendre 1'arrivee de la lettre, qui me donnera la clef de 1'enigme ! (Se ravisant) Mais non, puisque je ne dois pas 1'ouvrir ! et,au fait, comment saurais-je laquelle je ne dois pas lire ? faudra-t-il que je me prive d'un des plus grands plaisirs d'une femme, celle de recevoir et de lire ses lettres, a cause de cette malheureuse depeche? par exemple, ce serait trop ! Imbert (inquiet). Mais, madame, que comptez vous faire alors 1 Aline. Ce que je compte faire 1 c'est tout simple : je compte tout bonnement ouvrir et lire chaque lettre que je reQois pendant toute la journee d'aujourd'hui ! s'il y en a L'lndecis 1 1 clont le contenu n'est pas pour moi, tant pis je le regrette, mais ce ne sera pas cle ma faute. Imbert (a part). Grands dieux ! que faire 1 je ne peux cepemlaiit pas rester ici . . . ce serait terrible ! (Prenant conge) Madame . . . Aline. Mais noil . . . restez . . . restez encore un in- stant - nous n'avons pas cause du tout. Ces antipathies, ces depSches arrivant a tout propos ont gate notre conversation! Imbert (distrait, inquiet). Madame, je ne demande pas mieux . . . Settlement, je crains d'etre indiscret . . . Aline. Pas le moins du monde. Asseyez-vous la, et racontez-moi vos impressions de la soiree d'hier. La marquise de B * * * comment la trouvez-vous 1 elle avait une bien jolie toilette hier, n'est-ce pas 1 Imbert (distrait). Charmante, oui, jolie toilette . . . elle est tres bien, la marquise. Aline. Et inadame de K * * * comment 1'avez-vous trouvee ? Imbert. Comme toilette, voulez-vous dire, ou comme fenime ? AHne. L'une et 1'autre, puisque la toilette d'une femme montre ce qu'elle est elle-meme. Imbert. Eh bien, franchement, je vous dirai que j'ai trouve la toilette un peu tapageuse. Aline. Ah ! vous voyez ! et la femme aussi, n'est-ce pas ? Imbert. Cela, je ne 1'ai pas dit . . . mais entin, madame de K * * * je la trouve fatigante . . . elle a trop d'esprit, elle parle trop, elle a des idees, des lubies . . . je n'aime pas les femmes qui ont des idees. Aline. Merci ! si vous ne recherchez que les femmes nulles ! II faut avouer que vous etes bien peu flatteur aujourd'lmi ! Imbert. Oh, madame ! vous donnez a mes paroles un sens bien clefavorable . . . je voulais seulement dire . . . que que \0n entend un coup de sonnette. Ah, mon Dieu ! 12 Ulndccis Aline. Qu'avez-vous ? Imbert. Je craignais seulement, madame, que ce coup de sonnette n'annonc,at quelque visite, qui me priverait du plaisir de causer avec vous en tete-a-tete. Aline. Oh, il ne vient guere de visites a cette heure-ci, avant trois heures ce n'est pas comme a Trouville, ou les visites pleuvaient toute la journee, vous rappelez-vous ? Imbert. Si je me rappelle ! je crois bien ! et ce grand dadais de Ravignan, qui arrivait toujours avec son air de commander une charge ! Aline (riant). Mais oui, il e"tait impayable, Ravignan ! Savez-vous que j'ai cru Fapercevoir hier aux Charnps- Elysees ? Imbert. Comment, il est ici ? mais qu'est-ce qu'il fait a Paris ? je le croyais en garnison a Tours ! Aline. A Tours 1 non son regiment est a Orleans, mais cela revient au meme. Imbert. Sauf pour les Orleanais, que je plains de tout mon co3ur ! Pourquoi abandonne-t-il son poste alors, pour venir a Paris ? Aline. Mais c'est qu'on lui aura donne un mois de conge, voyons ! Je ne sais pas pourquoi vous lui en voulez tant, a ce pauvre gar^on ! Imbert. D'abord, parce que je le trouve insupportable ! Aline. C'est deja une raison . . . et apres 1 Imbert. Apres . . . oh, il y en a bien d'autres, je vous assure ! [Louison entre avec une lettre, qiCelle donne d, A fine. Aline. Ah, voila une lettre ! c'est convenu, n'est-ce pas ? je les ouvre toutes ! ainsi . . . (Elle brise I'snveloppe.) Imbert. Je suis perdu ! (il reyarde Aline a la derobet) elle a Fair etonne, elle rit, elle se moque de m(,i ! Aline. A-t-on jamais rien vu de pareil ? Imbert. Ah ! Aline. Mais c'est de la folie ! LIndecis 1 3 Imbert. De la folie ? Aline. Mais oui, de la pure demence ! Comment, se poser en pretendant ! une connaissance de bains de mer ! Imbert (a part}. Decidement, je suis perdu ! je n'ai plus qu'a me retirer. (Ilaut) Madame . . . veuillez pardonner a mon indiscretion . . . je vous ai fait une visite d'une longueur deraisonnable . . . Aline (riant). Mais non restez encore un instant, trouvez-moi 1'explication de cette lettre ridicule ! Imbert (a part). Ridicule ! Le mot est un peu fort. (Haut) Mais, madame, la lettre, il me semble, doit conteiiir elle-meme son explication le malheureux qui 1'a ecrit a pense peut-etre que que il ne vous etait pas absolument indifferent ... la bonte que vous avez eue pour lui 1'a sans doute encourage a vous ouvrir son cceur . . . Aline. La bonte que j'ai eue ! Voyons, je n'ai pas ete meilleure pour lui que pour les autres ! vous le savez bien vous-meme, qu'au fond je suis de votre avis je le trouve insupportable. Imbert (saisi). De mon avis ! Insupportable ! De grace, de qui parlez-vous done ? Aline (e'tonne'e). De qui je parle ? mais de Ravignan, evidemment ! Imbert (de plus en plus mystifie} . De Ravignan ? Com- ment cette lettre Aline. Est de lui, certainement ! je croyais vous 1'avoir dit tout d'abord. De qui done voulez-vous qu'elle soit? Imbert. Madame, je ne le savais pas . . . je me le demandais . . . d'un inconnu, peut-etre, de quelque infor- tune dont la triste situation, le peu d'espoir aupres de vous ont eveille ma pitie, ma compassion. Aline (riant). Mais cet inconnu, cet infortune", c'est tout bonnemeiit Ravignan, qui, parce que je lui ai accorde quelques valses au casino, parce que je lui ai dorine une 14 L'Inaec:s po'gnee de main a la gare, se croit en droit de me demander ma main ! Imbert. De demander votre main ! Ravignan ! . , . Aline. Mais oui ! 1'histoire est divertissante, n'est-ce pas 1 C'est tres mal de ma part de vous 1'avoir dit . . . mais je n'aurais vraiment pas pu me priver d'en faire la confidence a quelqu'un. Vous ne trahirez pas le secret, n'est-ce pas ? Je puis compter sur vous ? Imbert. Madame, je serai d'une discretion a toute epreuve, je vous assure. Ali'-w. J'en suis convaincue. Je voudrais bien vous montrer la lettre c'est un chef-d'oeuvre ! mais ce serait bien mal, n'est-ce pas ? Cependant (die relit la lettre) . . . tiens ! voila un post-scriptum que je n'avais pas vu. (Riant.) Oh ! que cela lui ressemble ! c'est lui-meme ! ' Si vous me permettez, madame, de vous annoncer rna visile pour cette apres-midi, j'ose esperer que vous voudrez bien me faire 1'honneur de me recevoir.' I:nbert. Comment, il va venir ici ! II ne manquait plus que cela! Aline. C'est le plus correct des hommes . . . vous voyez, il ne me fait pas une visite sans m'envoyer un document a 1'avance pour me prevenir de son arrivee. Tout ce qu'il fait est compasse, reflechi je suis sure que s'il se trouvait empeche' par cause ou autre de se presenter, qu'il m'enver- rait une depeche pour m'annoncer un quart d'heure de retard ! Tiens ! j'ysonge ! Cette depeche ! . . . Imbert (trouble). Cette depeche . . . madame? Aline. Vous ne voyez pas de qui elle est? Imbert (de plus en 2)lus ahuri). Mais si, madame . . . mais si ... en effet . . . Aline. Cette depeche ne peut etre que de Ravignan ! Imbert. Comment, la depeche est de Ravignan aussi 1 Aline. Evidemment, ce ne peut etre que lui qui 1'a envoye"e ! L'lndcas 15 Imbert. Ah, trts bien ! mais c'est une mine de docu- mentation alors que ce gargon ! Aline. Oh, que cela lui ressemble encore ! Je vois d'ici ce qui est arrive ! (s'echaitffant, pen a pen, a mesure qu'elle parle.) II lui a fallu d'abord trois mois pour se decider a m'envoyer cette lettre puis, la lettre expedite, il s'est ravise il a pense qu'il lui fallait encore trois mois de reflexion, sur quoi il a envoye le telegramme, pour m'em- pecher de lire la lettre eh bien, je vous dirai que je trouve cela un procede assez peu galant, et qui certes n'est pas fait pour gagner les ca'urs. Imbert. . Mais, madame, je vous ferai seulement observer q'u'apres tout ce n'est peut-etre pas lui qui a envoye Aline (impatientee). Comment dcric ! il ii'y a que lui pour faire des betises pareilles ! Imbert. Ah . . . permettez . . . Aline. Du reste, je vous supplie de ne point prendre sa defense a present, vous qui 1'arrangiez d'une si belle fagon tout a 1'heuie ! d'autant plus que ce serait absolument inutile, car je vous atiirme que pour rien au monde je ne lui pardoimerai ce qu'il a fait aujourd'hui envers moi. II n'a qu'a se presenter ici^il verra comme il sera regu ! ou plutot comme il ne le sera pas un homme capable d'agir de la sorte ne remettra plus les pieds chez moi. Imbert (apart, s essuy ant h front). Quevais-je devenir, mon Dieu, que vais-je devenir 1 Louison entre. Louison. Madame, c'est monsieur le vicomte de Rarignan, qui demande si madame veut bien le recevoir. Aline (sechement). Non. Louison (surprise}. Madame ne le recoit pas ? (A roix basse, se rapprochant d'Aline) Monsieur le vicomte est la . dans Fantichambre . . . 1 6 L y lnde:is Aline (tres haut). Dites-lui que je n'y suis pas que je regrette bien de ne pas y etre. Louison. Bieii, madame. [Elle sort. Imbert (a part). Quelle situation, mon Dieu ! comment sortir de la ? Louison rentre. Louison. Monsieur le vicomte fait dire a madame, qu'il repassera plus tard, pour voir si rnadame veut avoir la bonte de le recevoir, et qu'il aura en tous les cas Fhon- neur d'ecrire a madame ce soir. Aline. C'est bien. [Louison sort. Un bon averti en vaut deux ! Je suis vraiment ridicule de me facher pour si peu, au lieu d'en rire ! mais, aussi, con- venez que ce personnage s'est conduit a mon egard d'une fagon quelque peu singuliere. Imbert. C'est possible, mais enfin . . . Aline. Mais enfin ! demandez-vous s'il vous serait jamais venu a 1'idee de faire vous-meme ce qu'il a fait ! non, ii'est-ce pas ? vous reconnaissez que vous en seriez tout a fait incapable. Imbert (de plus en plus embarrasse}. Madame, je ne dis pas . . . mais cependant . . . voici comment je m'ex- pliquerai la chose, moi. Le pauvre gar9on, follement amoureux de vous Aline. Follement ? ou prenez-vous cela 1 dites plutot methodiquement, flegmatiquement ! Imbert. Soit, comme vous voudrez mais amoureux enfin, n'importe comment, se decide a vous ecrire. II envoie la lettre, puis il reflechit trop tard que la parole ecrite ne serait peut-etre pas assez convaincante, assez irresistible il vous envoie done une depeche pour vous dire de ne pas ouvrir cette lettre, qu'il ne croyait pas digne de plaider sa cause, puis il est accouru ici pour se Jeter a vos pieds. LIndecis 17 Aline (riant). Qui n'ont pas voulu de sa prostration ! je suis vraiment fachee d'avoir fait dchouer cette belle com- binaison ! mais que voulez-vous 1 je n'ai pas, comme vous, 1'imagination d'un poete jamais je n'aurais pense a recon- struire de mon propre fonds le travail qui, selon vous, s'est ope"re dans le cerveau de ce pauvre vicomte ! dureste,je ne 1'aurais jamais cru capable d'une passion comme celle que vous lui attribuez. Tmbert. Mon Dieu, madame, ce n'est qu'une hypothese, une supposition que je pose la ... Aline. Evidemment, mais cependant je crois qu'elle est juste . . . je commence meme a regretter mon peu de cour- toisie . . . j'ai eiivie de lui ecrire un petit mot aimable, pour lui faire mes excuses, et lui dire que je le recevrai deinain. Cela ne m'engage a rien, apres tout. \Elle se dirge vers la table a ecrire, aufond. Tmbert (a part). Ah, je suis alle trop loin ! si cette lettre est envoyee, le vicomte viendra tomber ici, et il en resultera une explication des plus embarrassantes pour moi. Que faire, cependant ? je ne peux pas laisser la respon- sabilite de ce malheureux telegramme a mon rival . . . ce ne serait pas d'un galant homme . . . il faudra bien que j'en aie le coeur net, et que je fasse mon aveu. Mais cependant, 1'idee de me sacritier pour cet espece de lieutenant m'est souverainement deplaisante ! aussi, pourquoi est-il venu se fourrer a Paris en ce moment, pour m'embrouiller toutes mes affaires ? II aurait bien mieux fait de rester a Orleans. Charmante ville, Orleans . . . il y a des (cherchant) des seminaires . . . des archeveques . . . des statues de Jeanne d'Arc, quoi ! toute espece d'agrements de province, enfin ! Aline (se levant). Voila . . . je vais dire qu'on lui porte ce billet . . . cela me reconciliera avec rooi-meme. Imbert. Mais, madame . . . un instant . . . Aline (surprise). Qu'est-ce que c'est 1 Imbert (hesitant, confus). Madame, c'est peut-etre tres c 1 8 LIndecis indiscret ce que je vais vous dire la ... mais la confidence que vous avez daigne me faire m'encourage a penser que vous ne m'en voudrez pas . . . Aline (de plus en plus surprise). Mais parlez qu'y a-t-il done ? Imbert. Est-ce que vous auriez . . . c'est-a-dire, vous n'avezpas, n'est-cepas, I'mtention d'accueillir favorablement la demande de monsieur de Ravignan 1 Aline (riant aux eclats). Mais non, voyons ! Pour qui me prenez vous ? Imbert (soulage, a part). Grace a Dieu ! (Haul) Mais alors ne craignez-vous pas que ce billet amiable ne fasse renaitre en son cceur des esperances . . . qui n'en seront que plus cruellement degues ? Aline. Vous croyez ? Imbert. J'en suis sur. Aline (refleckissant}. Je ferais peut-etre mieux alors de ne rien lui envoyer d'attendre settlement qu'il repasse ici. Imbert. Je crois en effet que c'est ce qu'il aurait de plus prudent. [Aline dechire la lettre, jette les morceaux, se remet a la petite table au premier plan, et reprend son ouvrage. Imbert (pendant ce temps, a part}. Voila au moins du temps de gagne" . . . il s'agit main tenant de me tirer d'affaire. Ah, maudite depeche, va ! Aussi, pourquoi faut-il qu'on vous plante un bureau telegraphique a chaque coin de rue, pour entrainer les passants a leur perte ? C'est inique, cela ne devrait pas etre. Aline (riant aux eclats). Non, vraiment . . . cette his- oire est trop drole ! Certes, quand j'ai apergu Ravignan hier, qui arpentait les Champs-Elysees, guindt^, correct, comme d'habitude, jamais je ne rue serais doute"e que nous passerions cet apres-midi a nous occuper de lui ! LIndecis 19 Imbert. C'est vrai qu'il n'envaut pas precisement la peine! Aline. Et cependant . . . savez-vous ? il me plait au- jourd'hui plus qu'il ne 1'a jainais fait . . . car, si les choses se sont passe*es comme vous le dites, cette histoire de lettres, de telegrammes, quoiqu'elle soit, bien entendu, absurde et ridicule au possible Imbert (a part). Mille fois merci. Aline. Montre cependant qu'il n'est pas toujours aussi impassible qu'il en a Fair . . . que, sous 1'influence d'une veritable Emotion, lui aussi est capable de se troubler, de se laisser porter a des mouvements naifs et passionnes, qui font preuve d'un coeur sensible et aimant. Imbert (joyeux). Comment, madame ! vous vous sentez alois portee a 1'indulgence, a des dispositions favorables envers celui qui a pu agir de la sorte ? Aline. A des dispositions favorables, non ... a 1'indul- gence, -oui . . . mais rien de plus le pauvre Ravignan ne saurait m'en inspirer davantage. Imbert. Ah ! je n'y tiens plus, madame . . . vos paroles m'encouragent a vous faire un aveu que je ne peux plus retenir . . . celui qui vous a envoye ce telegrarnme, c'est moi moi-meme, et non pas Ravignan ! Aline (se levant vivement). Comment ! que dites-vous 1 c'est vous ? Imbert (avec une agitation toujours croissante). Oui, madame, oui oui ! c'est moi ! moi, qui, ainsi que vous 1'avez bien dit, suis absurde, ridicule, mais naif et passionne aussi . . . moi qui ai eu de ces mouvements qui font preuve d'un cceur sensible et aimant moi qui vous aime follement, qui vous adore, qui vous ai e*crit une lettre que je n'ai pas crue capable de vous persuader, qui vous ai ensuite envoye une depeche pour vous prier de ne pas 1'ouvrir, et qui su enfin accouru ici pour plaider moi-meme ma cause, et implorer a vos pieds votre misericorde ! [II se jette aux pieds d Aline. 02 2O LIndecis Aline. Decidement, il faut etre poete pour savoir se tirer d'embarras avec des figures de rhetorique ! mais qu'est- ce qui me prouvera que toutes vos declarations de tout a 1'heure ne sont pas dgalement dues au souffle de 1'esprit poetique ? Louison entre avec une lettre Imbert s'en empare vivement, et la donne a Aline. Louison sort. Imbert. Voici ! cette lettre vous le prouvera, j'espere . . . et si, apres 1'avoir lue, vous doutez encore de moi, accordez- inoi seulement le temps, madame, je saurai bien vous con- vaincre de la ve'rite de mon amour ! Louison rentre. Louison. C'est monsieur le vicomte de Ravignan qui demande si madame veut bien le recevoir. Aline. Faites entrer. [Louison sort. Imbert (inquiet). Comment, vous le recevez ? Aline. Mais oui a nous deux nous saurons bien 1'econduire ! \Elle tend la main a Imbert, qui la baise avec transport. On baisse vivement la toile au moment ou le vicomte est cense entrer. 21 A CHANCE INTERVIEW COMEDIETTA IJV ONE ACT. CHARACTERS. COLONEL PERCEVAL. LADY ROCKMOUNT. A MAID. SCENE. Mrs. Gremlins drawing-room. Books, . Dodson. Staccati ? I don't think I know that name. Who is he 1 Lady Rockville (aside). What an extraordinary woman ! [A bell is heard. Mrs. Vernon. There is another ring ! Mrs. Dodson. Perhaps it is the Poet Laureate. Servant (announces). Mr. Seraphin ! J//-.S'. Vernon (goes hastily to door). I wonder why he has come back 1 Enter Gore in costume of the time of Louis XIV. Lady Rockville (aside). What can this mean ? [Gore bows. Mrs. Vernon (embarrassed). I think there must be some mistake to whom have I the pleasure of speaking ? Gore. To a poor poet, madam, a wretched scribbler whose name you may perhaps have heard the poet Seraphin. All (together). The poet Seraphin ! Gore. No other. Seraphin, author of the ' Sobs of the Soul,' a trifle unworthy of consideration. Mrs. Vernon. I don't understand I think there must be some mistake. The poet Seraphin has just left us. Gore. What ! Some one has dared to take my name ? Lady Rockville. Your name ? Gore. My name, certainly. I am the poet Seraphin. Mrsi Vernon (still hesitating). But then how does it happen Gore. You don't believe me, I see. Just as you please, of course. If you prefer to believe in some impostor who has apparently been to see you - [Goes towards the door. Mrs. Vernon (stopping him). One moment. I am really very sorry this is the most extraordinary situation. E 5o The Wrong Poet If I only knew if I dared to ask you for some sort of proof. . . . Gore. Proof, madam ! My proofs are in my writings, in my inspiration. I will tell you, however, that I received a note from you this morning couched in the most flatter- ing and appreciative terms, and begging me to come and see you. Mrs. Vernon. What ! You received my letter, the one which I sent yesterday by post to the poet Seraphin 1 You are really the person, then, for whom it was meant ? Core. Apparently, since it was delivered to me. Mrs. Vernon. But oh, who can have come here instead of you 1 I have received and welcomed an impostor ! Core. So it would appear. But it doesn't surprise me it was probably some enemy, whose envy tried to bring discredit on me by investing me with his own unworthy personality. What was he like 1 Was he simple and modest, like myself 1 I dare say not. Mrs. Vernon. I can't say that he was very modest. Lady Rockville. If anything, I should say rather the reverse. Mrs. Dodson (aside). Yes, I should say the reverse ! Mrs. Vernon (to Seraphin). Oh, will you ever forgive me for doubting you, for the terrible mistake I made when I first saw you ? Gore. Since you recognise your fault so generously, I can say no more but come, let us leave this unpleasant subject. Tell me something of your literary tastes, which are admirable, I believe. Mrs. Vernon (pleased). Oh, you are too kind. I try to understand, that's all. Gore. That's a great deal, when you try to understand the right thing. Lady Rockville. I, also, try to understand. The Wrong Poet 5 i Core. Oh, indeed ! I congratulate you. (Smiling, to J//v. Dodsori) Do you also try to understand ? Mrs. Dodson. No, I'm afraid I don't. Mrs. Vernon (aside). She'll spoil everything. (Hurriedly showing him book) This is my favourite volume, the ' Sobs of the Soul.' Gore. Oh, oh ! really you are too good, indeed. Mrs. Dodson (aside). Come, I like this Seraphin better than the other, at any rate. Gore. And which is your favourite piece, may I ask ? Mrs. Vernon. ' A Seventh Love,' I think. Gore. ' A Seventh Love ' really ! It is my favourite too. Mrs. Vernon. I am so glad to find I have chosen rightly ! and now I wonder if you would do me a favour ? Gore. I am grateful to you beforehand for asking it. Mrs. Vernon. It is to write your name under your portrait, the frontispiece of this book. Gore (aside). A portrait ! That's awkward. (Aloud) Oh, really, this portrait, taken in my youth, is so unlike me. It's the portrait of an unknown Seraphin, who had written nothing, who had not even his present slight claims on your regard. If you will allow me, I will send you the next edition of my poems, which will have a better portrait. Mrs. Vernon. It's true that this one is not very like you. Gore. No, no. For one thing, I dressed differently at that time since I have consecrated myself in earnest to the immortal art of poetry, I always dress in the costumes worn by the masters of the past, in order to remind me that I must endeavour to tread, however un- worthily, in their footsteps. J//>-. Dodson (aside). Oh yes, I like this Seraphiu much better than the other. 5 2 The Wrong Poet Gore. I fear I must go now, Mrs. Vernon. I am most grateful to you for your kind welcome. Mrs. Vernon. It is I who feel grateful for the honour you have done me in coming here. Gore (bowing). No, it is I who am honoured, I assure you. [Exit Gore. Mrs. Vernon. Well, that was extraordinary, I must say. Mrs. Dodson. I don't suppose it often happens to any- one to receive two Seraphins in the same day. Lady Rockville. Who could the first have been ? Mrs. Vernon. One of his enemies, I should think, as he suggested. Imagine daring to assume the immortal name of Seraphin ! Lady Rockville. And to carry it off with such an air too! Mrs. Vernon. I will admit now that I thought him somewhat self-satisfied, though I did not like to say so. Lady Rockville. So did I. Mrs. Dodson (aside). And so did I! Mrs. Vernon. It certainly is a bore to have received the impostor so well. Lady Rockville. After all it does not matter much, as you have had the honour of receiving the real Seraphin all the same. Mrs. Vernon. Yes, indeed, that is something to have lived for. It consoles one for everything. \_A ring.~\ There is somebody else ! Mrs. Dodson (aside). Perhaps it's a third Seraphin. Servant (announcing). Mr. Seraphin ! All. Seraphin ! ! ! Enter Serapliin^ plainly dressed in a frock coat, &c. Exit Servant. Seraphin (bowing stiffly to Mrs. Vernon). Mrs. Yernon 1 The Wrong Poet 5 3 ., -iiink you were kind enough to ask me to come and see you. Mrs. Vernon (bewildered). I think there must be some mistake Seraphin. My name is Seraphin. Mrs. Vernon. Seraphin ! ! No this time it is too much ! even a woman's credulity has its limits. Seraphin. What ? ! ! Mrs. Vernon. Seraphin, the poet Seraphin has just left this room I beg, therefore, that you will cease this practical joke, which can have no other object than to insult me. Seraphin (furious, but controlling his passion). Madam, it is not you who are being insulted here ! but your sex pro- tects you I will say no more. I will only add that my name is Seraphin, that I came to gratify the burning desire you expressed to see me, and that I will now leave your house, never to re-enter it. I am much indebted to you for your courtesy and welcome. \Exit Seraphin, Mrs. Vernon. What can all this mean ? Lady Rockville. I don't understand a word of it. Mrs. Dodson. It's showering poets to-day ! I never saw anything like it. Enter Seymour and Core hastily, dressed in their own clothes. Gore (breathless). I must apologise to you, Mrs. Vernon, for rushing into your room in this way, but what have you been doing to Seraphin ? Mrs. Vernon. Seraphin ! ! Gore. Why have you turned him out of your house 1 Mrs. Vernon (faintly). Turned him out 1 Gore. Yes ! we've just met him on the stairs in the most raging, the most tearing passion. We tried to find 54 The Wrong Poet out what was the matter, but he rushed past, uttering curses like a madman. Mrs. Vernon (with a shriek). You met him on the stairs ! What, it was really Seraphin ? Seymour. Of course it was ! Gore (feigning surprise). Who else should it be ? Seymour. There's his portrait you only have to look at it to see it is the same person (pointing to book open on table). Mrs. Vernon (looking at it). Yes it is himself ! Lady Kockville. It is indeed ! Mrs. Dodson (aside). No mistake this time ! Mrs. Vernon. Oh, miserable woman that I am ! Seraphin has been into my house, and I have insulted him and turned him out ! Mrs. Dodson. 'And rapturously welcomed the Wrong Poets ! Curtain. 55 THE PUBLIC PEOSECUTOE. PLAY IX OXE ACT. (Suggested by Boisgobey's ' Crime de 1' Opera ') CHARACTERS. JEAX DARCY, the public prosecutor. PHILIP DARCY, his nephew. ALIKE, Philip's wife. DORA LARIY T IERE, a widow. SCENE. Aline' s drawing-room, Boulevard Malesherbes, Paris. Philip, Aline Ph. reading newspaper, Al. working. Al. How absorbed you are in your book, dear Philip ! [7 J A. does not answr. Al. (aside). How extraordinary it is that, when a man is reading anything he must needs give his whole attention to it! Women are not like that at all. (Ahud) Philip ! Ph. (starts). I beg your pardon, darling did you speak to me ? Al. (smiling). Speak to you 1 Of course I did ! I have been chatting with you for the last quarter of an hour. Ph. Oh, indeed it must have been rather a one-sided conversation! I always thought it took two to chat, but apparently I was mistaken. Al. Well, what am I to do if you will go on reading ? I can't sit silent for ever, can I ? Ph. Most certainly not, I should say from experience. Al. A pretty state of things it would be if we were 56 The Public Prosecutor each to sit in a corner of the room with our heads wrapped in a newspaper, buried in fusty politics. Ph. I am ashamed to say that it was not a political subject that was interesting me so deeply just then. Al. What was it, then? Ph. It was this celebrated trial that is exciting all Paris so much the murder that took place at the Opera, you know. AL That is the case that your uncle is trying to un- ravel, is it not 1 Ph. Yes but I fear that this time even his penetra- tion is at fault for once the Public Prosecutor is baffled. Al. Poor uncle John ! It will be a great blow to him. His whole heart is wrapped up in his profession --he has not a thought for anything else. Ph. (dubiously). H'm I am not so sure of that! He has found a fresh subject of interest lately, in the shape of the fascinating Madame Lariviere, who is acquiring an influence over him which no woman has ever had before. Al. You don't mean to say that you think there can be a question of his marrying her 1 Ph. I cannot tell -he is only 55 after all, and though I admit that I have known instances of men marrying at an earlier age than that, still I should not like to make any rash prophecies about his remaining a bachelor till the end of his days. Al. Well, I must say Madame Lariviere does not alto- gether inspire me with confidence. She is too too Ph. (maliciously). Too pretty 1 Al. No, no, Philip you always think women are jealous of each other. It isn't that at all. But she cer- tainly seems to have a kind of manner which Ph. Which men think delightful and women call bad style, eh ? I know ! ha, ha ! Al. You always laugh at me, Philip, as if I were so TJie Public Prosecutor 57 foolish. I know much more of the world than you think, I can tell you. Ph. I've no doubt of it, my darling. But don't be too worldly and clever, please. I like you best as you are, simple, unworldly, and trustful and, joking apart, I am quite ready to agree with you that perhaps your instinct about Madame Lariviere is right, and that it is a pity that a man in my uncle's position should show himself constantly and conspicuously alone in public with a charming widow. Al. Well, well it is not our business, I suppose. Ph. No, it is not and at any rate it would not come with a very good grace from me to persuade my uncle against any possible marriage for since, if he dies un- married, I am his acknowledged heir, he would certainly think I was preaching for my own parish, as the proverb says, and dissuading him from marrying for my own interest. Al. At any rate he will not be able to think of marriage until this case is settled. Ph. No, and it does not seem likely to be concluded just yet. They have most ingeniously got up to a certain point in their discoveries, but now they have arrived at a blank wall. Oh, how I wish I could lind out something ! Fancy, Alire, the joy of suddenly getting on to the clue ! There is no career in the world that appears to me as entrancing as that of the judicial investigation in a case of this kind playing a game of chess blindfold against the whole of society, and at last succeeding by mere force of patience and ingenuity in winning the match. Ah, what- ever my uncle may say slightingly of my talents in that direction, he will find them out some day, never fear. AL I hope so. dear Philip, since you wish it but I can't help thinking that it would be nicer if you did some- thing else. There is a ring who can it be, at this time ? Ph. It sounds like my uncle's voice. 58 The Public Prosecutor Door opens hastily. Enter Darcy. Al. What, uncle ! Darcy. Yes, you may well be surprised I have come early this morning. Al. Well, we are delighted to see you will you not sit down ? Darcy. No, thank you : I am afraid I have not time. AL And how is the case prospering ? Darcy (preoccupied). Oh, very well. Ph. "V ery well ? Then are you on the track 1 Darcy. No, no I was not thinking of what I was saying it is not prospering at all. Ph. (to Al.) He is farther gone than we thought ! Darcy. (to Al.) I think you know Madame Lariviere ? Al. I have seen her but I have not yet made her ac- quaintance. Darcy. Indeed ? how does that happen ? I have met you constantly in the same places. Al. (confused). Oh, it is because because I have not yet had an opportunity of being introduced to her. Darcy. That obstacle, I hope, will soon be removed you will oblige me very much, Aline, if you will go and call upon her. Al. Call upon her, uncle ? Darcy. Yes, call upon her why not ? Al. Because I don't know her. Darcy. But if you are only going to make the acquaint- ance of people you know already, it seems to me that your circle of friends will not have much chance of increas- ing. AL Besides, she might wonder at my going to see her. Darcy. Not at all she is the most accessible person in the world. The Public Prosecutor 59 Ph. (aside). I have no doubt of it. Darcy. She would receive you with open arms, I am sure. Al. Very kind Darcy. And I feel assured that, when once you know her, you will like her as much as as everyone else does. Al. Does everyone like her very much, uncle ? Darcy. All those, that is to say, who do not allow themselves to be unjustly prejudiced she is a person of unusual intellectual gifts. [Ph. bows assentingly. Darcy. Of rare personal charm. [Al. bows assentingly. Darcy. Of the warmest heart possible Al That is delightful. Darcy. Full of sympathy and kindness Ph. (smiling). It is something quite new to hear you, uncle, showing so warm an interest in anyone, or anything, outside the sphere of your profession. Darcy. Yes, it is new, I dare say everything is new when it is done for the first time, and yet everything must have a beginning at some time or other. I don't know why I, more than any other man, should, when I meet with a type of perfect womanhood, remain insensible to her charms. Ph. But are you quite sure, dear uncle, that in Madame Lariviere you have found that type 1 Darcy. Sure of course I am sure ! Have I not been describing her to you, and do you mean to tell me that is the description of an ordinary woman ? Ph. No certainly not only Darcy. Only what ? Ph. (embarrassed). Only that you may^ perhaps be prejudiced in her favour by the interest you appear to take in her. Darcy. Prejudiced ! ... if there is any prejudice it is not on my side, let me tell you ! 60 The Public Prosecutor Al. Dear uncle, the only reason we are perhaps seem- ing not to sympathise with you sufficiently is our anxiety for your welfare. Ph. You see, of course everyone knows the world's opinion of Madame Lariviere is Darcy (interrupting him). I beg your pardon / don't know it I don't wish to know it. Ph. But, uncle, surely, before forming a friendship seemingly as close as this you ought to hear Darcy. I want to hear nothing. I believe, as I have said, that Madame Lariviere is the type of what a woman ought to be and I have asked her to be my wife. Ph., Al. (together). Your wife ! Darcy. My wife, yes so, you see, it is rather late for criticism. I asked her last night if she would share my life, and she consented. Does that surprise you 1 I don't see what there is so utterly preposterous in the announce- ment, I must confess. Ph. Certainly not, uncle certainly not. Darcy. I am not as young as I was, I must admit but all the more, therefore, rny choice is likely to be guided by rational judgment rather than by youthful impulse and, after all, it is no reason, because I have been a bachelor so long, that I should remain so to the end of my days why, bless me it seems to me that being single is a very good reason why I should marry ! Al. Oh, certainly, dear uncle certainly. Darcy. Oh yes you may say certainly but I can see very well that you think me an old fool ! Al. I assure you, dear uncle Darcy. Well, let me tell you that I am not, then nothing of the kind ! Ph. We are quite ready to believe it. Darcy. I am not quite so sure of that you are a pair of most sympathetic confidants, I must say ! The Public Prosecutor 6 1 Ph. You know that everything which interests you interests us. Darcy. That, I dare say, is possible even people without much sympathy can be moved to feel a pecuniary interest in other people's affairs ! Ph. (angrily). Uncle ! [Aline lays her hand on his arm. Darcy. There there you need not fly into a rage. I only meant that if you are not a fool you must know that my marriage will make a certain difference to you after all, I don't blame you for resenting it each man for him- self, I suppose, in this egotistical world. Ph. Uncle, you wrong me most grievously if you think that my opposition has anything to do with my own in- terests and since you have made up your mind to the decisive step, all I can now do is to wish you happiness and joy, which I do from the bottom of my heart. [Holds out his hand to Darcy. Al. And so do I. Darcy. Thank you, thank you, my children I believe it you mustn't be angry with me I am hot-tempered, I dare say. And now, the only thing that stands in my way is this wretched case as long as it continues I am bound hand and foot to the law courts, and dare not absent myself for a single day in case anything fresh should appear. Al. How far have you got now ? Darcy. As far, and no further, as we were three weeks ago viz. that we have ascertained that the murdered woman, Fanny Duval, was visited in her box during the evening by another woman, closely veiled they seem to have had an excited and angry interview no one saw the visitor depart she probably succeeded in slipping away unob- served. At the close of the evening, Fanny Duval was found dead in her box, with a wound in her chest close to the heart a small dagger was lying by her side nothing more is kno\vn. 62 The Public Prosecutor Ph. I only wish I could prove my good wishes by helping you to a discovery. Darcy (smiling). Well, why don't you ? why don't you employ these famous aptitudes for the career that you are always talking of, and put us on the track of this? Ph. Ah, you may laugh at me, uncle but I will do it. Darcy. Just listen to him ! well, well ! it is a good thing to be self-confident ! no you have no turn, be- lieve me, for criminal investigation, but we will find you some other path of distinction, never fear in fact but no, I will not say anything about that yet. Good-bye, my little Aline now remember you are going to be a good, kind, sympathetic niece. Al. I will do all I can, dear uncle. Darcy. Good-bye, Philip, my boy. Ph. I am coming with you. Darcy. Not to the courts, my boy, please ! if you are going to carry on this discovery business, it must be on your own account, and quite unofficially it would never do to have the authorities imagine that I am employing my nephew as a sort of amateur detective. Ph. No, uncle, I will not go to the courts with you, yet I will bring no descredit on you, never fear. Darcy (laughing, going out). Well, Aline, I hope you believe in this husband of yours as much as he does himself ! (To Ph.) You will let me know, then, when you have made this famous discovery ? will it be within the next hour ? Ph. (laughing). Quite possibly. Darcy. Ha, ha ! The sooner the better, as far as I am concerned, remember ! \Exit Darcy. Ph. runs back to kiss A fine. Al. Oh, do take care of yourself, Philip don't bo murdered too ! The Public Prosecutor 63 Ph. Not if I can help it if I am I will let you know ! Silly child ! I shall be back this afternoon. [Exit Phil. Al. (alone). It is all very well to laugh at me, and call me silly child -but all the same I can't bear his going among murderers and people of that kind ! What an extraordinary mania it is, wanting to know who has done t hese things it is much nicer not to know, I think ! but then Philip says women do not understand. Dear Philip ! I wish it were time for him to come back how long has he been away ? [Looks at clock.] Dear me, I am afraid only about three minutes as yet. How nice it is to be married, and in love with one's husband ! Poor uncle ! I dare say he feels very lonely sometimes. It is hard he should not marry if he likes but yet what a pity he" should just fix on such a horrid woman ! I can't be sure she is horrid, of course but one can't help feeling inclined to dislike people before one knows them. And to think she is going to be my aunt ! What am I to do about going to see her ? I shall have to do it, I suppose but I really don't feel as if I could. Enter Servant ivith a letter. AL Is there any answer ? Sere. No, Madame. [Exit Serv. AL What a peculiar writing ! I wonder whose it is ? it is not the writing of anyone I know, or I am quite sure I should recognise it. It is beautiful, certainly so clear and legible, and yet not in the least stiff perhaps the best thing would be to look inside !! [Opens lettei looks puzzled turns to signature starts] ' Dora Lariviere' ! what, can this be her writing 1 I should not have thought so. (Read*) ' Madame, I venture to write to you, although I have not the pleasure of knowing you yet we have met often, but as strangers. Let us become friends now it would be a real and deep happiness to me. I have told the bearer not to 64 The Public Prosecutor wait for a reply to this letter I will come myself to learn the answer from you. Forgive me for being indiscreet enough to intrude on you unasked. DORA LARIVIERE.' She is coming here ! What must I do ? I shall have to see her, then. There is no help for it, I suppose. But as to swearing eternal friendship with her, that is quite another thing. Oh, how simple existence would be if there were no other people in the world besides one's self and one's husband, of course ! [Door opens, servant announces. Serv. Madame Lariviere ! AL What, already ! she has lost no time. Enter Dora. Aline bows stiffly. Dora. I hope I am not being very indiscreet. AL (embarrassed). Not at all ; I I am delighted ! Will you not sit down 1 [Dora situ. AL It is very warm to-day, do you not think so ? Dora. Yes, very at least, no I find it, on the con- trary, rather cold. AL Ah, indeed you have been driving, perhaps ? Dora. No, I walked here. [Pause. Dora. I have the pleasure of knowing your uncle. AL Yes. [Pause.] (Aside) What a wretch I am being what is the use of being so ungracious ? (Aloud) He has spoken to me of you. Dora. Have you seen him since last night ? AL Yes, he was here this morning. Dora. And he told you that that he that I AL That you had promised to be his wife yes. Dora. And you what did you say ? AL I was a little taken by surprise, I must confess. Dora. A little taken by surprise and also, probably, more than a little horrified 1 [AL is silent. Dora. Why should it have been such a surprise, such The Public Prosecutor 65 a blow to you 1 did you not think your uncle would ever marry ? Al. I really had not thought about it it seemed to me so utterly unlikely to happen, that I never considered the subject. Dora. Still, he is not at the age at which a man need necessarily remain a bachelor. Al. Certainly not in fact, I don't know that such an age is ever reached. Dora. Do not you think that everyone is happier married 1 Al. It is very nice to be married, certainly. Dora. Yes, you indeed are happy you look as if you had never known what it was to be otherwise is that not so ? Al. Yes, I must admit that my life has been a singularly fortunate and happy one. Dora. And in consequence, doubtless, you have a kind of feeling that when others are not so happy they deserve contempt for losing the chances life offers them ? Al. No, indeed I feel pity for them pity compassion. Dora. Pity ! compassion ! yes, I know what that means ! the shadow cast by compassion is called contempt ! Al. Nay I assure you I should like everyone to be as happy as I am myself, if Dora (bitterly). Provided, you would say, that they do not come and disturb the quiet comfort of a well- organised home ! oh, I know how pitiless you happy and virtuous women can be to those whom you think not so good as yourselves ! You cannot realise that happiness is as happy to me at it is to you that to me suffering is as keen that for me to give up the joy and brightness of my life is as great a sacrifice as it would be to you no, you know none of these things, for you have never even begun to try to learn them ! p 66 The Public Prosecutor Al. You wrong me, you do indeed. Dora. How do I wrong you ? Is it not true that when you heard your uncle had asked me to marry him, you instantly, without knowing me even, set your face against it 1 Oh, if you knew how I longed as I came here to-day for some kindly woman's hand to be stretched out to take mine to welcome me out of the storm into the harbour why will you not do it ? AL Indeed, indeed, you wrong me. I was unsympa- thetic, I know, at first but I was coming to see you my uncle asked me to do so and I did not know you I did not realise that Dora. That I, as well as you, might be in love ? that I might be full of joy in my newly-found happiness, while you were calmly and judicially considering whether it ought to be left to me or not ? Al. Forgive me I have been hard and unjust, I feel. Dora. If you knew the story of my life how lonely I have been how lonely I am you would not be so hard 011 me. Al. Tell me tell me something about yourself I will sympathise with you I will indeed. Dora. Oh, if you knew what your sympathy would be to me, in my loneliness ! I will tell you my story. My mother, a Russian, died when I was a child my sister, a year older than I, and upon whom I leant entirely, died after a short illness, when she was but eighteen. I felt the whole world had changed for me. My father, an enthusi- astic lover of sports and hunting, was oppressed at having the charge of a girl of my age, and encouraged me to marry the first suitor who presented himself Armand Lariviere. We came to Paris I, a raw girl, was plunged into Paris society my husband, I found, had made, and still con- tinued to make, his fortune in speculations which were no better than gambling I was giddy and thoughtless, The Ptiblic Prosecutor 67 and, as may be imagined, could not guide or steady him. At last reverses came, and dishonour he he put an end to his life, leaving me to face the world, as best I might, alone. I went back to Russia my father was dead I returned here, everywhere overshadowed by my husband's name and history. I met your uncle made friends with him he entreated me to marry him can you wonder that I should now be willing to assume the name offered to me by a good and honourable man ? Al. No, no, indeed and now you have broken with your past, you will begin your life anew with him you will make him happy, will you not ? for he is the noblest and the best of men. Dora. I know it I am sure of it. AL He has been to us like a father you cannot wonder that when we see him about to take such a, momentous step, we should be anxious lest he should not be as happy as he deserves. Dora. Yes, yes I feel it of course Al. (taking her hand). But, after what you have just said, I am sure you have a feeling heart that you will know how to appreciate his fine and noble natui^e. He is the very soul of honour a man who would be morbidly sensitive to the faintest shadow on his good name oh, keep it bright and unstained for him value his upright and noble character as we do ! Dora (Aside). Oh, what shall I do ? I can endure it no longer ! (Aloud) Madame Darcy but you must promise to keep my confidence sacred swear that you will not repeat what I am going to say to you. AL But I may tell my husband, of course ? I always tell him everything Dora. No, no indeed your husband least of all ! AL Very well, if you wish it but it will seem very strange F2 68 The Public Prosecutor Dora. Listen you have heard of the so-called crime, the mysterious crime that was committed at the Opera ? Al. Heard of it indeed I have my husband and my uncle talk of nothing else. Dora. Do you know how much they have discovered yet? Al. (hesitates). Not very much but I don't think I ought to tell you or anyone. Dora. No, you are right, quite right but I will tell you what I know for I know more than they do ! Al. (starts back). You ! . . . Dora. Yes, I ! . . listen don't turn from me till you have heard my story. Fanny Duval, the wretched woman who who died, had come into possession of a number of letters, written by other people in former days to a man who is now a friend of hers. Among them were some of mine. Al. Of yours ! . . . Dora. Yes, of mine girlish, foolish letters, with abso- lutely no harm in them, except that they were addressed to one whose admiration had flattered my youthful vanity, and to whom I had heedlessly written, without a thought of the possible consequences. The letters came into the possession of Madame Duval. Al. Oh, that you should have had anything to do with that woman ! Dora. You shall hear. She came into possession of the letters, and, in order to extort money, wrote to me that she would restore them to me if I would go myself to fetch them at the Opera, where she was to be that night. I thought only of my anxiety to get them back I felt that, before I mariied your uncle, I must break with the whole of my wretched past I went. She gave me the letters /,'ave them to me with taunting and insulting words. In iny agitation I made a hasty step forward she started back, caught her foot and fell -I saw a shining thing in her The Public Prosecutor 69 hand it was a little dagger that hung at her side in a sheath, and with which she had been playing as she talked. I left her I was thickly veiled, so no one had recognised me. The next morning all Paris was ringing with the crime that had been committed at the Opera the night before, but which was no crime the mysterious event of which I only knew the secret and of which, before God, T have told you the true story now ! Al. (covering her face with her hands). Oh, this is to-) horrible ! Dora. What, can it be that you do not believe me ? that you can think me guilty of of Al. No, no I believe you to be innocent of that but the whole thing is so dreadful that you should have been there that you should have gone to that woman ! Dora'. Yes, I know, I feel it all but oh, I have suffered enough to expiate far more than a mere girlish imprudence. Al. (starting). Suppose my uncle were to find out you had been at the Opera that evening 1 oh, what would happen 1 [Dora shudders. Al. I verily believe it would be a death blow to him. Dora. But he never will know he never need. Oh, keep my secret ! I told it you because the burden was too great for me to bear alone I am very, very unhappy ! [Sinks doivn by table, with her face in her hands, and bursts into tears. AL I am so sorry for you but I can do nothing for you, I feel nothing Dora. Yes, you can indeed, if you will only believe in me your sympathy, your womanly support will be everything you make me feal that my life is still worth enduring ! Philip (outside). Your mistress is not gone out yet, I .suppose ? ;o The Public Prosecutor Al. There is my husband ! Dora. Oh, what shall I do ? Al. Come to my room, and bathe your face I will tell him presently that you are here that you are not well. [Exeunt Enter Philip, hurriseTy. Ph. Aline ! Aline ! where are you ? Aline ! Enter Aline. Ph. Aline, I have a piece of such good news for you - I am on the track ! \_AL starts.] Imagine my joy ! don't you understand ? I have made a discovery 1 am actually on the track of the mystery that has been baffling my sage uncle, and the whole of Paris, for the last month! Are you not delighted? AL (nervously). Yes, dear Philip, yes indeed I am. Ph. You don't look it, I must say! What is the matter ? you don't look like yourself don't you feel well ? AL Yes that is I have a headache a severe headache. Ph. It must have come on very suddenly. AL Yes, it did since you left me. Ph. Poor darling ! I am so sorry but this news will do you good, I am sure. I rushed oft' here at once, know- ing how you would sympathise in my joy. AL Of course, of course, dear Philip you know I do. [Looking at door. Ph. I will tell you how it was. I went to the place where the pieces de conviction are old Wartel is a great friend of mine, and let me in under seal of secrecy I don't know what my uncle would have said if he had known! "Well, and one of these things was a splendid cloak with a fur lining. I thought how I should like to have one like it for you ! AL Oh, don't, Philip -- T/ie Public Prosecutor 7 1 Ph. Why, what is the matter with you 1 Al. You know how nervous it always makes me to hear about these things. Ph. (vexed). I should have thought that when it is something which affects me so nearly you could for once have put your nervousness aside you cannot have realised how immensely important it would be to me and my whole future career if I, and no one else, had first got on the track of the discovery. Al. Yes, yes I quite understand it ! forgive me, dear Philip tell me the rest. Ph. Well, I was turning over this fur cloak, running my hand mechanically over the soft warm lining, when my hand slipped inside a slit in the fur, and there I found a crumpled-up letter, that had evidently slid into a hole in the lining by mistake, instead of the pocket. Al. A letter ! then was there anything to show who did the murder ? Ph. My dear wife! certainly women were not cut out for judicial inquiries. You don't suppose that the assassin wrote his victim a polite note, requesting the pleasure of her company at the Opera on such a night, to be murdered 1 Ha ! ha ! no, that is not how those things are done, I fancy. Al. (shuddering). Don't, Philip, don't you should not laugh at those horrible things. Ph. My dear girl, I am quite willing to admit that the whole thing is very shocking and so on still I believe that everyone agrees that the poor creature who died is no great loss to society, and probably it will be found that she who did the deed for I mean to find her, I can tell you was not much better. Al. (with emotion). Ah, how can you know how can you tell the history of the woman who has such a horrible misfortune on her conscience ? 72 The Public Prosecutor Ph. Misfortune ! well, that is a polite way of putting it, certainly it was a contretemps which I fancy might have been avoided. AL But how do you know that the woman who did it, or rather who is supposed to have done it, did it intention- ally? Ph. (stares at her). My dear little wife, you have encouraged yourself in these nervous apprehensions about crimes, and so on, till you are ready to work yourself into all kinds of imaginations about them. A murder is not a thing that one can commonly do from an oversight people don't generally drop a corpse in an opera box with- out noticing it, as they would a pocket-handkerchief. No, no, depend on it, criminals are not such an ill-used class as you seem to think and I am sure that when all this affair is brought to the light of day, as I mean it to be, even your sympathies will not be with the culprit. Al. (with an effort). Does your uncle know ? Ph. Of what I have found, do you mean ? no, he does not yet but I have sent him an urgent note, asking him if he can come here in the midday interval, as I have some- thing important to communicate to him. I did not like to take it to him to the palace, after what he said this morn- ing, as he does not want the fact of his nephew's investiga- tions to be made public. And I did not like to meet him out of doors anywhere, as I feel this is so tremendous it ought only to be discussed within four walls ! [Takes a paper from his pocket. Aline looks at it, and gives a cry. Ph. Aline, what is the meaning of all this ? Al. It is only that that I was agitated at seeing the letter found in such a place. Ph. Upon my word ! I should have thought you were above these typical absurdities of women ! \Al. draws her handkerchief out to put it to her eyes The Public Prosecutor 73 the letter from Dora drops to the ground sh? snatches at it Ph. picks it up without looking at it, and holds it playfully behind him. Ph. Now, what will you give me, if I give you back your dear billet don.v 1 Only see what a model husband I am ! I don't even look to see whose writing it is ! There is this to be said, that you generally insist on my reading all the effusions you receive from your dear friends, which has given me rather a distaste for them like the girls in the confectioners' shops, who are allowed to eat bonbons till they won't look at another. Come, give me a kiss, and you shall have it. Al. Very well. [Kisses him hurriedly.] Don't tease me, Philip. Ph. Good girl here it is then ! Why, you silly child ! your hands are trembling ! let me put it into your pocket for you [As he puts it in he sees the writing on the envelope and starts] -why stay ! where have I seen that writing before ? Why good heavens ! Aline f rom whom is this letter ? Al. You said just now you did not want to know give it to me give me my letter. Ph. Aline, what does this mean ? I am not violating your confidence, as you may see I have seen but the envelope, not the contents of your letter but this is too important a coincidence not to be explained. Look at those two letters look at them ! Al. (faintly). I don't want to see them you know I told you I can't bear to see that kind of thing. Ph. Nay, this is too serious to put me off with a whim you must look at those two letters side by side one that was found in the murdered woman's cloak, and one that has just fallen out of your own pocket look at them, and ex- plain to me how it is that the handwriting is the same on both ! 74 The Public Prosecutor Al. I cannot I cannot. Ph. You cannot 1 Great God ! am I rnaJ 1 Aline Aline what can you, my wife, have to do with this horrible business 1 what can you possibly have to do with it 1 [Al. is silent. Ph. This, then, was the reason of your agitation when I came in and told you of my discovery when you saw the writing on the letter ! What does it all mean 1 Aline, rny wife, tell me I insist upon knowing who wrote that letter in your hand ? [Dora has entered during the last senf<-/;<. Dora. I did. Ph. Madame Lariviere ! ! . . I did not know you were here still less could I have imagined that my wife knew of your presence at our interview, without telling me. AL (imploringly). Philip ! Ph. (sternly). Aline, perhaps you will be good enough to explain the mysteries and conspiracies you have suddenly taken to indulging in, and by which, I must confess, I am a good deal bewildered. Dora. It is not your wife's fault, Monsieur Darcy, that she has been led into a mystery it is mine. Ph. Then it is you apparently, Madame Lariviere, that I must ask for an explanation of what certainly needs most urgently to be explained this letter to my wife, you say, is in your handwriting ? Dora. It is. Ph. And this other one, then, which appears to be exactly like it is that yours also 1 Dora. The other 1 . . [Approaches, looks at it, and start ] yes yes, it is where did you find that letter? it is mine oh, give it me back ! Ph. Nay, I am afraid I cannot do that, considering the circumstances under which it was found. Dora. Where was it found ? The Public Prosecutor 75 Ph. Inside the lining of a cloak, where it had slipped by mistake a cloak belonging to Madame Duval, who was murdered at the Opera on March 20. Dora. Good heavens ! I am lost, then ! [Covers her fate icith lier hands. Ph. Lost ! . . . what does this mean ? Al. Oh, Philip, do not be cruel ! Ph. Cruel! . . I am not cruel that I know of but this has gone too far now to go back I must have this explained. Al. Oh, Philip it was not her fault it was not in- deed ! Ph. What was not her fault 1 Madame Lariviere, I must ask you most solemnly and earnestly to explain how it was that a letter in your handwriting came to be found in such a place ? Dora. I will tell you all there is to tell you shall know everything. Ph. I shall be much obliged. Dora. Your wife knows already AL Oh, yes, Philip, she has told me and I quite understand how it was. Ph. Dear Aline, let Madame Lariviere tell her own story. Dora (with an effort). I will. The letter of which that is a fragment is one of several which I wrote years ago, to one of my male acquaintance. They were such letters as a young married woman might write, without a thought of harm. Al. Yes, indeed oh, Philip, you will see Dora. We were on terms of easy camaraderie he called me by my name and I him by his, in a way which to me then seemed natural enough, but v/hich I know now would be disapproved of in more decorous society. Enough I lost sight of him and of all the people I had known for 76 The Public Prosecutor my husband died I left Paris, and was thrown on the world alone. Al. Oh, Philip, think if I were thrown on the world alone, without you ! [Ph. is silent. Dora. I have told your wife all this story already. Ph. All the same, I must ask you to repeat it to me it is absolutely essential that I should know it. Dora. I came back at length to Paris. I made friends with with your uncle, the best and most honourable of men for his sake, I regretted the associations of my youth, the adventurers among whom my lot had been cast. Sheltered by his love, I looked forward to beginning my life again, to enjoying tranquillity and peace where I had only known a precarious and adventurous existence. I had known Fanny Duval years ago, when I first came to Paris, but I had never liked her. The other day I at last met her again, when I was with your uncle. She advanced, smiling, to claim my acquaintance I was foolish enough to receive her with marked coldness foolish, inasmuch as I did not realise that I might be making a deadly enemy of her. She took her revenge ! she wrote to me that evening, saying that she had found some letters of mine among the papers of a man we both knew, and that she would enclose them the next day to your uncle, Monsieur Darcy, unless I would go that same evening to the Opera, to beg them humbly from her myself. I went, in order that no trace of my past might remaiu to cast its shadow on my future if I had had time to think, I should have gone straight to your uncle instead, and told him the whole story. I humbled myself by asking her for the letters she drew the packet from her cloak, and gave them to me with words of mocking con- gratulation I started forward angrily she drew back as she did so she fell, I thought fainting and I left her. Al. There now, you see, Philip everything is ex- plained. T/ie Public Prosecutor 77 Ph. Hardly, it seems to me. Do you mean to say that you left her lying there alone, without an attempt to summon help 1 Dora. I thought she was only fainting, or even pre- tending to faint and that in a moment she would recover my one idea was to get away without being seen and I succeeded in doing so, as the play was going on, and the passages were empty. I then made up my mind that the next morning I would tell your uncle the whole story. When the morning came it was too late I learnt, to my horror, from the papers that the unhappy woman had been found dead where I left her. Al. Now you understand it all, Philip don't you ? [Anxiously. Ph. (pointedly). No, I cannot say lhat I do as yet I heard [to Dora] that she had died of a wound in her chest, supposed to have been inflicted by some sharp instrument, which was afterwards found on the ground near her how do you account for that ? Dora. She must have fallen on the edge of a beautiful little jewelled dagger she always wore, which hung at her side, and with which she had been mechanically playing, pulling it up and down as she talked. [A moment's silence. Ph. Madame Lariviere, you must see that it is im- possible for me to keep the story you have just told me, to myself it is of the gravest importance that my uncle should know it at once. Dora. Your uncle ! . . . Oh, no no ! AL Oh, Philip ! Ph. That he should hear it, just as you have told it to me ! Dora. Oh, think what that means to methink what a sentence of banishment of death you are pronouncing on my life ! [Ph. is silent. 78 The Public Prosecutor Dora. Think of my marriage of the happy life, the peace and shelter opening before me of his happiness too, which you will destroy ! Ph. Yes, I think of it all and your words make iny duty doubly hard for me. Dora. Duty ! and to that grim, pitiless abstraction you would sacrifice your uncle's whole life, as well as mine ! Ph. Nay, as for my uncle, remember that you are ready to sacrifice him also for you would darken his existence with the shadow of your own disgrace. \Darcy has opened the door unperceived by the others, and overhears the last sentence. Darcy. Philip ! is it possible that you are addressing those words to Madame Lariviere ? What does this mean ? Ph. (gravely). Ask Madame Lariviere herself what it means. Darcy (with respectful tenderness, looking at Dora, who is leaning against the table, struggling with her emotion). No, I am not going to ask Madame Lariviere for the ex- planation of the insults which I have heard. Dora (with emotion). Ah, you are the most generous of men ! Ph. Uncle, I do not deserve your reproaches Darcy (coldly). Let us pass to the matter in hand. You have sent for me, I understood, on urgent business. Ph. (with an effort). Yes, I had made an important discovery concerning the crime committed at the Opera but since . . . \Ile hesitates. Darcy (coldly). Since, you have found that the im- portant discovery comes to nothing ? that does not surprise me I never had much faith in your investigations. Ph. (slowly). No it is that that tire discovery is yet more important than I thought. The Public Prosecutor 79 Darcy (bewildered). More important ? [He looks from one to the other. Philip's eyes are cast down, Dora hides her face in her hands. Darcy (speaks with increasing emotion). Philip, Dora what is this mystery 1 Your manner leads me to suppose that that no, it cannot be ! the thought is too horrible Dora oh, speak ! the discovery cannot be connected with with you 1 Dora. It is. Darcy. Good God ! Ph. This paper was found inside the murdered woman' cloak. Darcy (looks at it). Ah ! ! [He sinks into a chair by the table, utterly overcome, his head on his folded arms. Dora goes sadly out. As she readies ilie door she tays softly Good-bye for ever ! Curtain. 8o A WOMAN OF CULTURE COMEDIETTA IN ONE ACT. CHARACTERS. MRS. CHESTER, a young widow a woman of culture. EVELYN BARRINGTON, her \\ard. MRS. SYMONDS. MAJOR SYMONDS, one of Evelyn's guardians. HERBERT SANDFORD, a rising barrister. TIME. July 1885. SCENE. Mrs. Chester's drawing-room in Brook Street, well furnished. A great many books and papers about. Door at back, R.C. Writing-table at back, L.C., covered with papers the table stands at right angles to the wall, and in such a way that the face of the person writing is turned from the door. Chairs R. and L. of writing- table. Sofa in front, R., parallel to side wall. Table R.C. Chair L. of table. Table L. against wall, with bookstand on it. Chair or divan L.C., &c. &c. Enter Major Symonds and Evelyn, from a walk. Maj. S. (looking round). No one here ! Evel. Aunt Diana is out, I suppose ? Maj. S. She is probably addressing the electors some- where. Evel. (laughing). Now, Uncle John, for shame ! you know you mustn't say that kind of thing here. A Woman of Culture 8 1 Maj. S. What, do people never talk nonsense in Mrs. Chester's house ? Evel. (laughing). Never ! Maj. S. Ahem ! how do you get on then ? what about all the jokes we've been having during our walk, eh 'I we must take care not to repeat any of them here ! We have had a very pleasant afternoon together, my dear and I'm very much obliged to you for taking me out, though you Jiave nearly given me brain fever by dragging me through the Inventions Exhibition ! EveL Dear, dear uncle ! how I wish I were going back to Lowndes Square with you, instead of staying here ! Maj. S. Why, what nonsense, my little girl ! you don't seem to value your privileges in having such a clever woman as your aunt, Mrs. Chester, for your guardian you will be much better off staying here with her than you would be with humdrum folks like us. Eve!. Oh, no, Uncle John, indeed I shan't. Aunt Diana is very kind, of course and I'm sure she wants to do me all the good in the world Maj. S. That must be rather trying. Evel. But oh, she is so clever, and so serious, and so terribly in earnest about everything, and so are her friends ! They none of them will talk to me, you know, because I am so stupid and ignorant. Maj. S. That is their loss, then, my darling, I'm sure, not yours. Conversation with these argumentative people is like trying to walk along a road, and being pulled up at every dozen yards by a prickly hedge you get through it and over it, somehow but you are very much scratched before you get to your journey's end. EveL Except except Mr. Sandford he is very nice, and and I think he likes talking to me but Aunt Diana won't let him. Maj. S. Why not ? G 82 A Woman of Culture Evel. Because she doesn't like him to waste his time ! So she sends me away, and then she talks to him about art, and religion, and evolution, and ever so many other elevated subjects ! Maj. 8. Why don't you learn to talk about them too, then? Evel. Oh, because I couldn't ! I don't know anything about Art Ambulance classes make me feel sick, and so does Vivisection and I don't understand Redistribution or Women's Suffrage and Sanitary Dustbins, and Over- crowding, are dirty and horrid. And as for the last thing my Aunt has taken up, the Pyc Phys Pish Psychical Society, it frightens me nearly to death only to think of it ! Would you believe that she is busy collecting one thousand well -authenticated ghost stories ! Maj. 8. Ha, ha, ha ! then that is why she asked me so anxiously yesterday if I had ever seen an apparition and was quite disappointed when I said I had never had the slightest symptom of one ! It is too absurd that she and all the other members of the society should go about saying to people, 'Put out your tongue and let's see if there's a ghost on it ! ' Evel. (in fits of laughter). Oh, Uncle John, if Aunt Diana heard you, what would she say 1 Maj. S. The fact is, Mrs. Chester wants some one to look after her she was a very delightful woman before her husband died, when she had a sensible male mind to prevent her from taking up all these follies. Evel. They are rather trying, certainly, at times. Uncle I'll tell you a great secret I wish she were not my guardian at all ! Maj. 8. (pretending to be shocked). Evelyn ! you horrify me ! Evel. I don't care I want to have only you for my guardian, you dear old uncle, nobody else ! A Woman of Culture 83 Maj. S. Very well, then, I'll tell you a great secret Mrs. Chester does not want to be your guardian either she told me so the other day ! Evel. Oh, how horrid of her ! Maj. S. Well, upon my word, I don't see that. It isn't nearly as horrid of her as it is of you, you heartless, perverse, ungrateful little girl ! Evel. Oh, uncle, do tell me about it ! am I not going to live here then, but to live with you always ? how nice ! and we'll ride in the Park, and read novels, and go to the theatre, and waste our time the whole day long ! what fun we shall have ! Maj. 8. My dear, you must have a little mercy on me ! Pity the pleasures of a poor old man ! Besides, what would your Aunt Diana say to such a programme 1 Evel. (joyfully). She won't have anything to do with it ! [Claps her hands and dances for joy, then stojis abruptly as door opens. Enter Mrs. Chester, with papers in her hand. Evel. (embarrassed). Oh, Aunt Diana you are not out ? you are at home, then 1 Mrs. C. Yes, I am at home, as you may see that seems an obvious and somewhat unnecessary remark of yours. I was receiving a deputation in the library, whence I heard and they heard [severely] your shrieks of laughter just now. Evel. I am so sorry, aunt. Maj. S. Did we disturb the deputation ? was it a nervous one ? Mrs. C. No, as it happens, you did not disturb them, as fortunately they were just taking leave of me. Other- wise, sounds of shrill mirth, not to say giggling, are not favourable to the consideration of serious questions. [Goes to writing-table, to put down powers. 02 84 -A Woman of Culture Maj. S. (aside to Evelyn). I feel crushed I'm going ! Evel. (aside to Maj. S). No, no pray don't ! Mrs. C. (turning over papers). Major Symonds, before you go, I just wanted to ask you about a case I am inte- rested in. (Searching] I wonder where those papers on the Welfare of the Blind have been put ? Dear me, here they are with the Bluebooks on Egypt how very stupid of the maids ! [Comes forward to Maj. &'.] I suppose you don't happen to want a servant ? Maj. S. What sort of one ? Mrs. C. Well this man is blind but it is really his only drawback. Maj. S. Oh, indeed ! thank you, no not just at this moment. I have as many blind servants as I want already, thank you at least they have all the ordinary symptoms of blindness, as they never see anything they look for, or discover when a button is missing, or when my white ties are not ironed straight ! \Evel. laughs Mrs. C. looks at ler severely. Mrs. C. This man is very clever with his hands, I assure you, in spite of his blindness he was once a brushmaker and weaver, but now he wants to go into domestic service. Maj. S. Well, it is very good of you to have thought of me, but T generally find that when people recommend their proteges to me, it is more from a consideration of their wants than of mine. I remember one protege of yours that I took in, who was supposed to be in delicate health, and only to require rest and a comfortable home. He recovered so quickly under my care, that the night after he came he was able to sit up and see a few friends with whom, and some of my forks, he departed in a state of inebriation, at two o'clock in the morning. Mrs. C. Ah, I remember. Yes, I happened to be mis- taken in that man, certainly but of course everyone is A Woman of Culture 85 liable to be mistaken at times, though I must admit it does not very often happen to me. Maj. S. Besides, I would rather not have my brushes made by a blind man, thank jou. He'd be putting the bristles into the wrong place, the handle or somewhere, I know ! [ Winks at Evelyn. Evel. (giggling). Oh, uncle, how can you ? Mrs. C. (impatiently). Hadn't you better go and take off your things, Evelyn, and then get something to do ? There is no greater waste of time than to dawdle about with your bonnet on. It is quite impossible to settle to any serious occupation in a bonnet. Evel. Very well, Aunt Diana. (Aside to Maj. S. as she passes) Try to find out about our secret, mind don't for- get. [Exit Evelyn. Maj. S. (looking after her with a smile). I must say, I can't fancy my little Evelyn sitting down to any very serious occupation, either with a bonnet or without one. Mrs. C. No, it is what is inside her head, not outside, that is the obstacle. I fear she is deplorably shallow and frivolous. M~j. S. Do you think so ? She seems to me to be one of the most charming girls I have ever met. Mrs. C. Indeed 1 I am afraid then that you have been unfortunate in your female acquaintance. She seems to me, on the contrary, just like a hundred other girls you may meet with on a summer's day. Mrij. S. That is the kind of summer's day I should enjoy I should like to meet a hundred girls like her, very much. Mrs. C. Because you are the sort of man who thinks any woman charming if only she smiles and simpers sweetly when she is spoken to, and agrees with everything that is said to her. Moj. -V. I quite admit it. I don't like those set-you- 86 A Woman of Culture down, advise-you-what-to-do young women, of which there are so many in the world nowadays. I'm sure I don't know where they all come from. Such things were never heard of when I was young. It is like one of these newly- discovered diseases, unknown to our forefathers an epidemic of universal wisdom, to which the young are especially liable ! ha, ha ! [Mrs. C. remains grave. Mrs. C. I wonder that Evelyn's parents, who in some things were sensible enough, should have chosen for the joint guardians of their child two people of such entirely opposite views as you and myself, just because you happened to be her mother's brother, and I her father's sister espe- cially with the absurd proviso, that for any decisive act in her life she should require the consent of both of us. Maj. S. Yes, it is unfortunate that might prove an awkward condition, certainly. (Aside) Especially with regard to Sandford ! Mrs. C. But, after all, I dare say it will not matter much for if the occasion were to arise, I suppose I should be able to convert you to my opinion. Maj. S. Or perhaps I to bring you over to mine ! Mrs. C. No, I hardly think that is likely, as mine would probably be the right, one. Maj. S. (aside). There is nothing like a modest self-con- fidence to help one on in the world ! (Aloud) By the way, Mrs. Chester, did you not ask me the other day whether, after having assumed the office of guardian, it would be possible to give it up ? Mrs. C. (indifferently). Did I ? Yes, I remember now that I did. What about it ? Maj. S. (with assumed unconcern). Oh, only that as 1 happened to be calling on Mr. Deeds, in Lincoln's Inn, the other day, I asked him about the matter and he said there would not be the slightest difficulty. So I begged him to A Woman of Culture 87 draw up the document, which now only needs your signa- ture, and I brought it with me to-day to show you. J//-,v. (7. Ah, indeed, thank you but I almost think we had better leave things as they are. I don't think for Evelyn's sake that I ought to give it up, though I must say I despair of ever making anything of her. Jfcij. 8. Just as you think best, of course. (Aside) I must not show her how anxious I am, or she will not do it ! (Aloud) But I should have thought that with your manifold occupations . . . Mr*. C. Yes, it is very inconvenient. The fact is, that it was quite absurd making me her guardian at all, when one thinks of the numbers of idle women there are in the world, without an idea beyond matchmaking, who would have been too delighted to have taken charge of a common- place girl like Evelyn. Jfaj. S. (aside). Upon my word ! (Aloud) Well, my wife and I fulfil those conditions. We are idle we have no ideas, to speak of we are commonplace and we shall be delighted to take charge of Evelyn ! Eh 1 ha, ha J Mrs. C. (calmly). Yes, I know all that. J/iry. S. (nettled). Oh, you do, do you ? J//>'. C. But I doubt if I could reconcile it to my conscience to leave Evelyn entirely to your care. M\ C. And sing ? Evel. (modestly). A little -just enough to sing at parties, you know, while people are talking. J//-.V. C. What sort of music do you prefer ? Evel. Oh, sheet music, certainly, that isn't bound I hate having to take out a large fat book to dinner with me, for the sake of one song I may have to sing in the evening. Mrs. C. No I mean the music of which particular school do you like best 1 Evel. I liked the music at Miss Perkins's school best, 92 A Woman of Culture where they had none of those horrid concerts the girls have to play at, whether they like it or not, as they did at the one where poor Loly Smith was. Mrs. C. (aside). This is really hopeless ! (Aloud) You misapprehend my meaning what I am trying to find out is, whether you prefer the music of one composer, or period, to another ? Evel. Oh, no, certainly not ! I don't care what it is. I like whatever takes my fancy, no matter where I find it, provided it is pretty. Mrs. C. ' Pretty ! ' what an epithet to apply to music nowadays! You are quite mistaken you should find out what you ought to admire, and like nothing else. Evel. (impressed). Really 1 but wouldn't that be very difficult ? is that what you do ? Mrs. C. I am somewhat different I, unfortunately perhaps for myself, have such keen, critical perceptions, such a sensitive impressionable nature, so fastidious a taste, that it is only what I know beforehand to be the very best of everything that in the least satisfies me. Evel. (innocently). Dear me ! how uncomfortable that must be ! Doesn't it make you feel very discontented ? Mrs. C. (sententiously). Discontent is the first step towards improvement. Evel. But one can't always be thinking of improvement. Mrs. C. I always am if not of my own, of other people's. Evel. But do other people like being improved 1 Mrs. C. They ought to, if they don't. And when I see they are going the wrong way about a thing, I tell them which is the right one. Evel. But suppose they do not consider it the right one 1 ? Mrs. C. Then, they are mistaken. (Aside) Tiresome girl ! there is no making her understand anything ! A Woman of Culture 93 Evd. I see ! Mrs. C. You have many opportunities of improving yourself here, where you associate with me and my friends. You should make the most of it, and endeavour, by inter- course with people of superior intellectual power, to get some ideas and information into your head. Evel. Oh, aunt it really is not my fault but I never can find anything to say to your friends ! Mrs. C. And yet I saw you yesterday in conversation with Mr. Sandford. What were you talking about then ? Evel. (smiling). Oh, Mr. Sandford, yes he is very easy to talk to. Let me see we were wondering how many lanterns are lighted every evening at the Inventions Exhibition and then I asked him if we ought to say Inven- tories or /nventories. Mrs. C. I really believe you've got that Exhibition on your brain ! No wonder there is no room for anything else there. Could you have found no topic more likely to interest Mr. Sandford than such a very commonplace one 1 Evel. What, for instance ? Mrs. C. Let me see the Channel Tunnel I know he is interested in boring by compressed air or the reorganis- ing of the Household Suffrage. I think if you spoke to him on such subjects as these you would soon see a very marked alteration in his manner. Evel. (aside). Yes, I think I probably should. Mrs. C. Now do try to remember all I have been say- ing to you, like a good girl Evel. Yes, aunt, I will and I will go now and get the Report on Agriculture to read. J/rx. C. That's right. In the meantime just give me the ' Times ' as you pass, off that table. Evel. (looking at paper as she brings it). W"hy, here is Mr. Sandford's name ! Look ! Mrs. C. (eagerly). What about him ? [Takes paper.] 94 A Woman of Culture Good heavens ! the Member for Blackney is dead ! Mr. Sandford has been asked to stand ! Dear me, how very important ! we must take steps at once not a moment must be lost about the canvassing. I will write directly to Mr. Birmingham and Sir Charles Drake to ask them to dinner to meet him. Enter Maid. Maid (announces). Mr. Sandford. Enter Sandford. Exit Maid. Mrs. C. Mr. Sandford ! I am very glad to see you, as indeed I always am, but more especially to-day, as we have just seen the exciting news about Blackney in the paper. 8andf. Yes, it is exciting, isn't it ? Were you excited too, Miss Barrington 1 Evel. (shyly). Yes, I was. Mrs. C. I am afraid Evelyn hardly cares enough about politics yet to have been much interested. Evel. (to Sandf.) I was, though, all the same ! (Aside) What a shame, when it was I saw it in the paper first ! Mrs. C. (to Sandf.) And now, what are you going to do 1 I am frightfully and overwhelmingly busy to-day, but still I must really hear all about your plans. Evelyn, you will hardly be interested in a dry political discussion, I imagine you need not stay if you do not feel inclined. You will find the pamphlet I told you of, in my room. Evel. Very well, I will get it. [Goes, slotvly. Sandf. (opening door for her). But why should you go away, Miss Barrington ? Mrs. C. She will be much happier away ! Evel. (aside to Sandf.) I shall come back again. [Exit Evelyn. Mrs. C. It is much better that she should go for it would be very hard on you, when you have come intending, A Woman of Culture 95 I suppose, to have some sensible talk, that you should be put off with the meaningless chatter which girls of Evelyn's age consider conversation. Sandf. Oh, not at all, I assure you it is quite amus- ing hearing what they think ! Mrs. C. Yes, I know how good-natured you always are in that way. But now let us talk of something more interesting about yourself, your views, and what you pro- pose to do. Remember that you once promised not to take any important step without consulting me. (Smiling.} Sandf. Indeed, I do remember and it is for that I have come here to-day. I want to ask your advice. Mrs. C. You know how delighted I always am to help you. Sandf. You are the kindest and best of friends ! Mrs. C. Besides, I feel it is almost a duty with me not to keep my opinions to myself I can't help realising that they are worth having, on most subjects, and that I do generally know better than other people. Sandf. You do, certainly and that is why I have come to appeal to your friendship, at a momentous crisis of my life. Mrs. C. I have not the slightest hesitation about it there is not a doubt in my mind as to what you should do. Sandf. (surprised). Not a doubt 1 . . . Mrs. C. None whatever. You must organise your committee, make friends with the leading men on both sides, and begin canvassing at once, as energetically as possible. In the meantime I will ask Mr. Birmingham and Sir Charles Drake, and one or two other influential men, to meet you here at dinner, and then we can arrange the campaign. Sandf. Oh ! . . . You were thinking of Blackney ? Mrs. C. Of course ! Is it possible to think of any- thing else, while this immeasurably important question still remains unsettled ? f)5 A Woman of Culture Sandf. Of course what am I thinking of ? certainly, some steps ought to be taken at once. [Preoccupied. Mrs. C. Who is your right-hand man your chief supporter ? who is the Liberal agent for Blackney ? you were telling me his name the other day. Sandf. Was 1 1 I don't remember. Oh, yes, to be sure I was. It is Smith, I think if it is not Smith it is Jenkins. . . . Mrs. C. You are strangely absent to-day, and unlike yourself. Is there anything on your mind ? or is it the suddenness and agitation of all this that has upset you 1 Sandf. (hesitating). No, it is not that. . . (Resolutely) The fact is that it was not about Blackney at all that I came to ask your advice to-day. Mrs. C. (eagerly and rapidly). Not about Blackney ? then what other place have you been asked to stand for '( you don't mean to say they've offered you Sleaford 1 What a triumph it would be if you were returned there, in that nest of red-hot Tories. Is it Sleaford ? Sandf. No, it isn't. Mrs. C. Then is it Sandf. It isn't any place at all. Mrs. C. What, you don't mean to say it is a county ? Oh, how glorious ! only you must remember that a county is always much more expensive, as the voters who live in remote parts won't come to the poll unless you send cabs for them. Sandf. (desperately). No, no, no ! Mrs. Chester, you have misunderstood me it was not about Parliament at all that I came to speak to you. Mrs. C. (disappointed). Not about Parliament ? then it can't be anything that matters much. I shall be delighted to help and advise you all the same, of course, in any way I can but still I feel that nothing else is of much importance just now. A Woman of Culture 97 Sandf. I wish I thought so too ! Mrs. (7. (amazed). Why, what extraordinary change has come over you ? Sandf. The fact is, that I am I am in love ! Mrs. C. In love ! ! Sandf. In love. I must admit it ! Mrs. C. Oh, what a very unfortunate moment to have chosen ! Sandf. Yes, after all the discussions we have had on the subject, all the derision we have heaped upon it, all my firm resolutions not to succumb for at least ten years longer, I am as utterly, as ridiculously in love as it is possible for a man to be ! Now, do you despise me ? Mrs. C. N no I don't despise' you exactly but I am a little surprised, I must confess. Sandf. Yes, that comes to much the same thing I know what people mean when they say they are surprised at you ! Mrs. C. I can't help regretting it should have happened just at this juncture, as I am terribly afraid it will stand in the way of your election. Sandf. Don't say that you disapprove of me, just when I have come to ask your advice Mrs. C. And to disregard it, I suppose, as people always do on these occasions ! Sandf. I hope not. Mrs. C. You must remember that I am still quite in the dark as to whether the object of your love is worthy or not. Sandf. You ought to know that, of all people in the world you who must best know her real character Mrs. C. I ? . . . Sandf. Yes, you you who have helped me for the last two years by your untiring sympathy and friendship who H 98 A Woman of Culture have been iny guide and counsellor the conficlpnte of every hope, every ambition of mine as it arose Mrs. C. Mr. Sanclford you bewilder me Sandf. Listen to me again now ! . . . in your hands the decision principally rests the decision I await in trembling suspense, yet hardly dare to ask for. Mrs. C. I am so taken by surprise that I hardly know what to say Sand/. Taken by surprise ? Do you mean to say you had no suspicion of my attachment ? Mrs. C. Well, I have sometimes thought But then, you know, people are so liable to be mistaken in these matters one is so apt to believe the thing one wishes to believe ! Sandf. One wishes to believe ! How good of you to say so ! You will be on my side, then 1 your own kind heart will plead my cause with her whom I love. Enter Major and Mrs. Symonds. Mrs. C. (bored, aside). What, again ? Mrs. S. (effusively). Well, dear Diana, and how are you ? It seems to me positively an age since we met ! [Kisses her. Mrs. C. cold. Mrs. C. Does it 1 It has not seemed to me so very long. Mrs. S. I said to John this morning, ' Now mind, whatever happens, I must go and see Diana this after- noon.' Mrs. C. Too kind of you. Mrs. S. Not at all, my dear besides I knew you would never forgive me if I didn't come near you for so long. But John, great stupid creature that he is, instead of waiting for me here as I asked him, must needs leave before I got here [smiling at her husband]. However, S9 fortunately I met him in Piccadilly on the way, so I brought him back again. .I//-*-. C. I see. (Aside). Mi'j. S. Behold the melancholy result of having a wife Mr. Sandford ! Take a warning by me I am not even allowed to walk down Piccadilly in which direction I like Mrs. S. Now, John, you are really too bar! ! \ Mm. (,' bored.] Very hot to-day, isn't it 1 Sandf. Very one of the hottest days we have had. Maj. S. But not quite so oppressive as last night do you think so, Mrs. Chester ? Mrs. C. I never discuss the weather. Mnj. '. C. No, she does not care about these things, I am sorry to say she preferred to go to her room. Maj. S. (aside). I dare say yes ! Mrs. S. And so, Mr. Sandford, I hear you have decided to make the fatal plunge that you are, in fact, in the position of a man who is going to propose, and does not know whether he will be accepted. [ Mrs. C. and Sandf. startled. Sandf. Why, who told you . . . . ? Mrs. S. (surprised). Who told me ? It was in the paper this morning about your standing for Blackney John read it out to me at breakfast, didn't you, John ? H2 IOO A Woman of Culture Sanif. (relieved). Oh, yes yes ! it is quite true, I am going to try my chance at Blackney. Maj. S. Well, I wish you luck though you are on the wrong side, mind ! Sandf. Thank you. Mrs. S. I was so interested when I heard of it ! I didn't read it myself till this afternoon, as John of course takes possession of the paper at breakfast, as every husband does, and I don't get it for ever so long afterwards. Maj. S. (laughing). Of course. It is an Englishman's prerogative. What do women want with a newspaper at breakfast ? they read nothing but the advertisement sheet, and the letters from British Matrons about the Royal Academy, and that sort of thing. Mrs. /?. (laughing). What a shame, John ! That's the way he always goes on, Mr. Sandford you wouldn't be- lieve the things he says sometimes it is too bad of him, it is really ! Never mind, Diana, we know that we women are not quite so frivolous as he tries to make out, are we 1 Mrs. C. (stiffly). Thank you, I am quite aware that 7, at any rate, am not in the least frivolous I do not feel the slightest anxiety on that score. Maj. S. No, T must say I think you may feel quite comfortable about it, ha, ha ! Mrs. C. (coldly, looking among papers on writing-table). I am afraid that jokes are lost upon me as I have often told you, I have no sense of humour. Mnj. S. (laughs aside). Why, what a formidable array of papers, Mrs. Chester ! I don't wonder you can't lay your hand on the one you want. Is it the one I left with you this morning that you are looking for ? that is it, I believe. [Taking up. -deed. During the following, Mrs. C. and Maj. S. at back, R. and L. of writing-table Mrs. S. and Sandf. talking, R. at sofa. A Woman of Culture I o I Mrs. C. No, that is not the one I was looking for. It was the draft of a scheme for a Mutual Improvement Society. Maj. S. I see you have not signed this one yet after all, as you s*y perhaps it is better left alone. I think I would rather you continued to share my responsibility [n-ith intention] being a guardian takes up a great deal of time, and means a lot of worry and trouble to fulfil the duties properly. Mrs. C. (with a sigh). It does, indeed ! (Aside) Be- sides, how can I fulfil them now, after what has passed, and the new obligations I have undertaken ? how can I now give up my time, to Evelyn or anyone else but [Looks fondly at Sandf. Maj. S. putting deed ostentatiously into his pocket Mrs. C. holds out her hand for it.] Stay, give it to me I have changed my mind I will sign it. [Maj. S. affects indifference to conceal his delight Mrs. C. sits down to writing-table, holding her pen ready as she }>eaksMnj. S. watches h#rJ\ I feel I should never be able to fulfil the duties properly I should have liked to have raised Evelyn nearer to my own level, but I am really too busy to attempt it and now this election puts the finishing stroke, by overwhelming me with work for the next fortnight. [Dips pen into ink. Just as she is going to sign, enter Maid. Maid. Please, ma'am [Mrs. C. turns round and puts down her pen Maj. S. makes a gesture of disappointment} -the Committee of the Improvement Society is down- stairs. Mrs. C. Dear me, yes I forgot they were coming eo <>;irly, and I have not yet found that paper how unfor- tunate ! How many are there ? Maid. Seven ladies, ma'am, and one gentleman. Mrs. C. I will go and speak to them. [Goes to door IO2 A Worn in of Culture turns 6c'\l No ask if they will have the goodness to wait a few minutes, while I get their papers ready. Jfaid. Yes, ma'am. [Exit Maid. Mrs. C. I do wonder what I have done with that prospectus ! [Turns over papers. Maj. S. (indifferently). What about this, then 1 will you sign it now ? Mrs. C. I really don't think I have time to-day. Maj. S. (carelessly). Just as you like, of course but it would not take you long just to write your name, and I really don't see how you can possibly have time to look after Evelyn, with committees, and elections, and all that you have to do. Mrs. C. No that is true I suppose I must give it up. [Hesitates a 'moment, then signs paper and gives it to Maj. S. Maj. >S'. Thank you. (Aside) Victory ! my little Evelyn will thank me for this morning's work ! now we shall see ! [Puts paper in his pocket comes forward, L. Mr. C. Ah, here is the prospectus, at last. \Comes forward with paper. Mrs. 8. What is it about ? Mrs. C. It is the draft scheme of the society (To Sandford) we were speaking of the other day. Mrs. 8. But may we not hear about it too ? I am very much interested in schemes, I assure you, though I don't understand anything about inventing them, ha, ha ! Mrs. C. I don't suppose that this will interest you in the very least. It occurred to me as desirable that a small number of suitable people should form themselves into a Society, to be called the Society of Mutual Improve- ment, each member of which should make it his or her duty to improve all the other members. Maj. 8. It will be rather a dangerous experiment, I should imagine. A Woman of Culture 103 Mrs. C. I don't see why. Mrs. S. If I were to try to improve other people, I should be so afraid that they might know better than myself after all ! Mrs. C. (pointedly). Of course, that is more likely to happen in some cases than in others besides, people with any misgivings of that kind are not fit and proper persons to join the Society. Sandf. Have you drawn up the rules of the Society yet ? Mr*. S. Yes, pray do let us hear how they are to set about improving each other. J/"/. S. First rule 'No member to improve more than two other members at the same time ! ' [Mrs. S. and Sandf. laugh Mrs. C. looks severe. Mrs. C. (reads from prospectus). ' By pointing out the weak places in each person's pet theory by contradicting and correcting them whenever they make a statement of fact by questioning any authority they may bring to bear on the subject, and by generally setting them right on any political, social, or general topic they may happen to discuss.' Mr*. S. Dear me, I am afraid it won't be a society for improving people's tempers, then ! [Sandf. hnjhx. J//v*. C. (vexed). This is not the proper spirit in which to discuss so serious a scheme. (To Sanclf.) I should hardly have thought that you would have joined in throw- ing ridicule on it, especially as I have drawn it up. Sandf. (becoming serious). You know how deeply in terested I always am in everything you do. M'. looks at Evel. and tiandf., who are standiity together, looking conscious. Mrs. S. What, Evelyn, my little girl and Mr. Sand- ford it surely can't be Moj. S. Yes, it is though, I assure you ! Did you ever hear of two such foolish young people ? the very moment they are left alone, instead of talking about the election, or unearned increment, or something equally interesting, they must needs go and propose to one another ! .!//>. /$'. (delighted). Evelyn, my darling ! [Kisses her. EvcL Don't say ' proposed to one another,' uncle, please ! it was only one of us who proposed. Mj. S. But the other one agreed you are an accessory before the fact, there is no denying it ! I2O A Woman of Culture Mrs. S. And what does your Aunt Diana say to it ? Maj. S. She doesn't know yet ! [Smiling aside at his wif Evel. (anxiously). Here she comes, I think. \_All wait in suspense. Enter Mrs. Chester. Mrs. C. I am afraid I have been a very long time. Why, Lucy and John ! I did not know you were here. (Aside) For once I am glad to see them, as it must have relieved the tedium of that incongruous tete-a-tete ! Mrs. S. Yes, we came back again, to see if Evelyn would come with us to hear the band. Maj. S. But we found she couldn't come being engaged I ! Mrs. C. Why, what is she going to do ? Maj. S. Can't you guess ? what do you suppose these young people have been doing, while you were downstairs listening to ghost stories ? Mrs. C. I have absolutely no idea. [Mrs. Symonds, R. Maj. S., R. C.Mrs. Chester, C. Evel., L. C. Sandford, L. Maj. S. Look at them juvenile offenders appearing before the Board of Guardians ! [Mrs. C. starts. Sandf. (going to Mrs. C.) [Mrs. S. crosses to speak to Evelyn] Dear Mrs. Chester, after what I told you to-day of my love for your niece, you will know what we have to tell you. Mrs. C. (bewildered). Mr. Sandford ! is it pos- sible Sandf. (astonished). Did you not tell me yourself that we might count on your sympathy and support ? that you wished to see us attached to each other 1 Mrs. C. (recovering herself). I did yes only only I am a little taken by surprise, as I did not know you A Woman of Culture 121 contemplated such a very immediate step I must have a moment to reflect, before I can give my consent. [Goes, R. Major S. follows her. Maj. S. (to Mrs. C.) But if you are too busy about the election, or the ghosts, to be able to give any time to this, it does not matter there is no need for you to worry yourself about it for you will remember that, since you signed that paper this morning [ With assumed carelessness], the whole responsibility of Evelyn's vagaries now rests on my unfortunate shoulders, as I am her sole guardian. Mrs. C. Ah, that is true ! where is that paper 1 ? Maj. S. (carelessly). It is at Mr. Deeds', in Lincoln's Inn I sent it to him at once, as I never like carrying a legal document loose in my pocket, for fear it should explode ! [Goes back to the others, leaving Mrs. C. plunged in thought. Mrs. C. (aside). Yes, it is true I am powerless to prevent it, even if I wished it but I don't think I do ! a man who can consecrate his life to a girl of that type is not worth having. How I have been mistaken in him ! However, no one shall ever know, he least of all, that I misinterpreted his words to me and after all these things are a great waste of time I am well out of such follies ! v Evel. (advancing, timidly). Dear Aunt Diana, you are not vexed with me ? Mrs. C. (with extreme cordiality). Vexed, my dear child, how could you imagine such a thing ? on the contrary, I am delighted ! the only reason that I was a little taken aback was, that I did not expect it quite so soon I should like you to have had a little more time for cultivation and improvement before becoming Mr. Sandford's wife but you must do your best. Evel. Indeed, dear aunt, I will and you will help 122 A Woman of Culture me, -won't you, and tell me what I must read, in order to become less ignorant ? Sandf. And I will sit by you with a dictionary, to explain the words you don't understand ! Mrs. S. Why, Evelyn, in another year you will be so learned and clever, we shall hardly know you again ! Maj. S. (to Evel.) Yes, my little girl ! by that time even you will be on the high road to becoming a Woman of Culture ! Curtain. 123 IN A FIEST-CLASS WAITING-ROOM COMEDIETTA IN ONE ACT. CHARACTERS. Miss SELINA TIMMERSOME. MR. WALTER GRAHAM. A RAILWAY PORTER. SCEXK. A Waiting-room at Barningliam Station benches, advertisements, &,c. Fireplace left-hand corner. Door R. Enter Porter carrying luggage, folloived by Miss Timmersome. Porter. This way, mum, this way. [Putting down 'bundle. ^fiss Timmersome (looking round). Is this the first- class waiting-room 1 Porter. Well, mum the fact is, that this is the only sort of waiting-room we have just now a sort of general waiting-room, do you see ? as the first-class ladies' is being papered, and the first-class gentlemen being whitewashed and so everybody has to use this. Miss Timmersome. Then do you mean to say that anyone who likes may come in here ? that I shall be ex- posed to the company of the ruffians who infest railway stations 1 Porter. Not many ruffians at this time of the year, mum they're not in season yet they generally come later on, for Barningham races. 124 In a First-Class Waiting- Room Miss Timmersome. Good heavens ! I wonder if I am in safety here 1 [Looks nervously round her. Porter. Oh, quite, mum, I assure you. This room has been cleaned and done up since the spring races, so there can't have been any ruffians left in the corners. [Looking about, yoes to door turns round.] If you want anything, mum, just step to the door and call me, will you ? Miss Timmersome. Oh, thank you, I will. What is your name ? Porter. My name is Alexander Magillicuddy, but I don't know that I should recognise it if I heard it unex- pectedly (reflectively] if it's anything very special you might call me by it and see if not, then just call Porter and if I'm not there, some one else will come Miss Timmersome. Oh, are you sure ? sometimes, when I've called Porter, nobody has come, and I remember the same thing once happened to one of my aunts. Porter. You don't say so, mum ! I never heard of such a thing before ! Nothing of that kind happens here. I'll come to tell you when your train is coming, mum you've half an hour yet. [Going, then turns back.] Oh, I forgot the tire. [Pokes the fire, gathers the fire-irons together and takes them away. Miss Timmersome. Why are you taking the fire-irons away ? I shall not be able to poke the fire, if I wish to ! Porter. No one but the servants of the Railway Com- pany pokes the fire here, mum, with the permission of the Company, or with anything else either. Certainly not with a poker, which is the most mischievous instrument that was ever invented for making the fire burn up, and wasting the Company's fuel ! [Bell rings.] There's the express ! [Going.] I'll come and tell you, mum, when your train comes in. You've plenty of time yet. [Exit. Miss Timmersome. What a difficult and alarming thing In a First-Class Waiting-Room 125 a journey is for a solitary woman ! If only I had a father or a brother or (coyly) even a husband it would make me feel so much safer ! but I have no one. The one relation I have in the world is a cousin, in India, so I am quite unprotected. Dear Walter ! he writes me such nice letters every Christmas I have not seen him since he was six years old. I wonder what he is like now ? I sometimes think that when he comes home, we shall .... meet ! but goodness knows when that will be. [Looks at watch.] I wish I had something to read. Ah, here is a newspaper that is something at any rate. And it is the interesting part too the advertisement sheet. [Sits down to read.] ' Fifty pounds reward A diamond brooch Five shillings a bunch of keys Two-pounds-ten a lap-dog.' I remember, when I was a child I used to think how delightful it would be to meet with the missing object and claim the reward Not if it were a thief or a murderer though. ' 500. reward Missing from Pentington Prison, since the 21st instant, Henry Brownlow, aged 30. Medium height dark complexion, saturnine cast of features, a deep scar on his right hand hair closely cropped, face clean-shaven, or beard of few days' growth last seen in the neighbourhood of Blackney.' Dreadful to think he is still at large ! but I am glad he is in the neighbourhood of Blackney, as that is a long way from here, but still, that means nothing as seeing himself described as being at Blackney, he would probably go somewhere else, as far off as possible. Supposing he were to come here ! Oh dear, I feel very nervous I don't know whether to wish that anyone should come in, or not . . . Enter Graham carrying rugs, &c. Miss Timmersome shrinks into her corner with great timidity. Graham (heartily). Very cold to-day ! [Jfiss Timmersome makes no answer. Graham (louder). Very cold indeed to-day ! 126 In a First-Class Waiting-Room Miss Timmersome (nervously). Very. Graham (going to lire). They don't seem to keep up very good fires here, either. [Looks about everywhere for the fire-irons. Miss Timmersome says nothing^ I wonder where the fire-irons are kept ? Miss Timmersome. The porter has taken away the fire-irons. Graham. Taken away the fire-irons ! How very odd ! what for ? Miss Timmersome. So that no one might poke the fire. He says it wastes the Company's fuel. Graham. Then he must think that the people who wait in here must be people of very limited capacity indeed, not to poke the fire because the poker's gone ! what do chairs have legs for then ? Miss Timmersome (starts. Aside). I believe he is of unsound mind ! . . . Chairs .... Legs? really .... (Aloud) I should say, to walk with I mean to sit down with at any rate, they have nothing to do with poking the fire. Graham. If you had ever been a school-boy you wouldn't say so ! Miss Timmersome. I never was ! Graham. At the school I was brought up at, we used to inscribe a word on a door with the blackened leg of a chair, some weeks before the holidays, and rubbing out a letter every week. I will give the Directors of the Com- pany an opportunity of recalling their past youth ! So here goes ! [Seizes up chair and pokes the fire violently. Miss Timmersome, Oh, dear me, you'll break its leg! Graham. And if I do, I believe that all the railway porters are made to attend ambulance classes nowadays, so that they will be able to bind it up again. Besides, I won't break it only blacken it a little. [Poking vigorously J] I dare say it won't be the first blackleg that has appeared In a First-Class Waiting- Room 127 at this station. I only wish all the others could be as easily sat upon as this one ! [Looks up at Miss Timmersome and smiles. She is stony.] (Aside) That joke wasn't very successful, I'm afraid. Never mind / enjoyed it ! [Finishes poking and puts down chair with a bang] There now ! the next Director who ' takes the chair ' at a meeting had better take care that it isn't that one he takes, or the consequences would be surprising ! [Draws it up to the fire and sits down cautiously] It is a little rickety, certainly it is more like a rocking-chair now, but there is no harm done. [All this time Miss Timmersome pays no attention. Graliam takes off his hat and puts on a travel- ling cap] I must apologise for keeping my head covered, but the fact is, that I have just had a fever, after which my hair was cut very short so I am obliged to be very careful, especially when sitting in a room which is about as sheltered as a breezy common ! [Pulls coat collar up] There are as many draughts here as as on a draught- board ! Ha ! ha ! [Miss Timmersome snatches tremulously at paper. Miss Timmersome (aside). Hair closely cropped ! Oh, it must be only a coincidence. Graham (reading oft' paper on wall, crosses and reads oft time table). How very badly the connection of trains is managed in England ! At this station, for instance, here are five trains get in from Dodgeborough during the day and they one and all get here just after another train has left to go somewhere else don't matter where and then one has to wait ever so long. Has it been fine in this part of the world to-day ? J//X.S- Timmersome. I really don't know I only arrived here from Crosswell at two o'clock there it was fine. Graham. Oh, I asked because the showery weather has been very local. At Blackney, for instance, where I was yesterday 128 In a First-Class Waiting- Room Miss Timmersome. Blackney ! . . . Ah ! . . \_Shrieks, falls back in chair, rises and goes up stage. Graham goes to her to see what is the matter she waves him back still more violently. Miss Timmersome. Go away ! Go away ! [Barricades herself, Graham (aside). She must be a lunatic, I think what can be the matter ? I wonder if she is mad it's dangerous to be shut up with her ! Miss Timmersome (agitated taking up paper, reads description aside). ' Henry Brownlow, aged 30 medium height, dark complexion, saturnine cast of features a deep scar on his right hand, hair closely cropped, face cleanly shaven, or beard of a few days' growth last seen at Blackney.' Alas ! It is all too plain there can be no mistake. Graham. I'm sure she is insane there can't be a doubt of it ! I see it in the anxious glare of her eye when she looks at me these maniacs are always suspicious of violence being done them. [Miss Timmersome has retreat l into the furthest corner of the room, and barricaded herself with a chair. Graham looks nervously at Jier.~\ I hope she won't attempt any violence I believe they possess super- human strength at these times. I wish I had sat on the other side of the fire if I go away she may spring at me as I pass ! I had better humour her in all she says. (Aloud, with exaggerated heartiness of manner) Yes, very unfor- tunate weather for travelling, is it not ? However, even this drizzling mist, with the fresh country air blowing through it, is acceptable to me a,fter being imprisoned so long in London. Miss Timmersome (aside). Imprisoned ! there is no further concealment in the matter. I don't want to arouse his suspicions by going away I must simply make the best of it until I see a porter outside. In a First-Class Waiting- Room 129 Graham. Ah, London is a very horrid place of deten- tion for those who love the country. [J/ws Timmersome f/'. Mrs. T. I was just going to see what the bedrooms were like. Mrs. S. Not bad. I have chosen mine, the one over this. Mrs. T. Over this 1 The one on the front 1 Mrs. 8. (firmly). On the front. Mrs. T. (aside). Upon my word ! Mrs. 8. There is a nice room at the back that I thought you would like, as it is so quiet. Mrs. T. Thank you. I should have liked to soe the rooms before making a final decision. Mrs. S. Well, you see, now I have put my things into the front room my bonnet is in the cupboard and my cloak hanging up. Mrs. T. Still, I suppose, if necessary, the bonnet and cloak could be moved. They are not glued to the shelves, I imagine. Mrs. S. (aside). Rude woman ! (Aloud) No, they are not glued) but it is hardly worth while to move them again, especially as there will be a good deal to do before we are settled. Mrs. T. (looking round). Yes, and we shall have to begin by turning a good many unlovely things out of this room, I think. Mrs. S. Do you think so ? This room struck me as A Joint Household 141 being furnished with very good taste. I don't see that we need remove anything. Mrs. T. (taking up Mrs. S.'s shawl). Surely you wouldn't keep this thing here ! do let us put it away some- where. Mrs. S. (taking it, with dignity). It shall be put in the cupboard in the front room, Mrs. Tallett that is my shawl. Mrs. T. (confused). I beg your pardon ! I thought it was one of the things that people hang over the back of chairs. Mrs. S. So it is ! but I will take care that it doesn't happen again. Mrs. T. (aside). That was unfortunate ! (Aloud) What a bright, sunny room this is ! Mrs. S. Yes, too sunny, in fact. There is quite a glare. Mrs. T. Do you think so ? Mrs. S. Yes, I was just thinking I would put up some nice red curtains I have, as my husband, who will like that rocking-chair in the window, cannot endure a glare. Mrs. T. Curtains ! What a pity ! A room cannot be too sunny for me. I was thinking how I should enjoy sitting on that chair with baby, and looking out at the sun shilling on the water. Mrs. 8. Then do you mean to use this room as a sitting- room for the children ? J//-x. T. (apologetically). Well, you see, there are only two of them, and they are really very little trouble Jacky is only two, and the baby not quite a year. Mrs. S. Do you consider those are ages at which children give no trouble 1 Mrs. T. I don't say that exactly. But still, it isn't like having two extra grown-up people in the room. 142 A Joint Household Mrs. S. I quite agree with you, it is not like having grown-up people in the room. I should have thought it would have been much better for the children to be in the little room at the back, under the stairs. Mrs. T. Oh, I shouldn't like that for them at all. Besides, I want baby to be in the same room as the piano I am quite sure she is going to be musical. Mrs. 8. (bored). Indeed 1 How does she show it ? Mrs. T. Whenever I say, ' Baby, where's the piano ? ' she begins drumming with both lists on her nurse's face. Mrs. S. Then can't she do that in a room without a piano ? Mrs. T. She wouldn't enjoy it nearly so much but we will see when Edwin comes. By the way, I see the piano is locked. Have you asked for the key 1 Mrs. S. No, I have not asked for it. Mrs. T. I must try to get hold of it presently. It will make all the difference to me to have the piano going constantly. Mrs. S. (aside). It would make a greater difference to me to have it gone altogether. Mrs. T. Dear me, I am getting very hungry ! I wonder if there is anything in the house to eat ? Mrs. S. I was just going to draw up a list of the things we should need. Mrs. T. It will be rather amusing living from hand to mouth for a little I feel quite as if we were come out for a picnic ! Mrs. S. In what respect ? Mrs. T. Oh, I mean not knowing what one is going to eat, and so on. Mrs. S. I assure you that I always know very well indeed what I am going to eat. Mrs. T. I mean, feeling that it doesn't matter. Mrs. S. It always matters. [Sits at table.] I will make A Joint Household 143 a list of the joints we may require during the next week. [Pulls letter out of her pocket and writes on bacK\ A leg of mutton, a loin of lamb Mrs. T. Edwin likes a shoulder. Mrs. S. A most extravagant, wasteful joint. I never order a shoulder. A neck, to cut into cutlets Mrs. T. The cutlets off the neck are so scraggy. Edwin doesn't like them scraggy. Mrs. ft. Not if they are properly cooked, which mine always are. Mrs. T. I shouldn't have thought we needed all these things, while we two women are alone here. I suppose we shall not dine late, shall we, till our husbands come ? Mrs. S. Not dine late ? Why not ? Mrs. T. It is so much nicer to have supper. Mrs. S. I don't agree with you at all. That seems to me a most slovenly habit. [ Walks to window. Pause. Mrs. T. How are we going to arrange about the house- keeping ? Mrs. S. What about it ? Mrs. T. I mean, who is going to undertake it 1 Mrs. S. I am, I suppose. Mrs. T. Altogether ? Mrs. S. I am very particular about housekeeping. I don't think I could endure to live with anyone who did not conform to my ideas on the subject. Mrs. T. But I think I ought to have a little say on the subject sometimes. Mrs. S. Oh yes, of course you can have a say in the matter. Mrs. T. (aside). Not much good having a say if I mayn't have a do as well ! Mrs. S. We can discuss the various points as we go on. Now, about breakfast. You put down your items on your list, and I oil mine. 144 A Joint Household [Mrs. T. pulls Mr. S.'s letter out of her pocket, smiling aside as she does so, tears off the half-sheet on which the P.S. is written and begins making list on it. Mrs. S. and Mrs. T. with lists at different sides of table. Mrs. T. I was thinking that perhaps I might pour out the tea at breakfast, and you might carve at luncheon. Mrs. S. Yes, I think I had better carve at luncheon, certainly, but I am not sure about your plan for breakfast so few people know how to manage a teapot. Mrs. T. Oh, I think I can manage a teapot, if it is not too headstrong ! what is the difficulty ? Mrs. S. The way you speak of it shows you don't realise the importance of it. George is most particular about his tea. Mrs. T. (smiling, aside). Yes indeed ! (Aloud) I know what I can look after for breakfast ! the toast ! Edwin always says no one can make such good toast as I do. Mrs. S. Is Mr. Tallett very particular 1 Mrs. T. I really don't know he generally likes what I give him. Mrs. S. George is extremely particular. Mrs. T. (aside). Oh, what an escape I had Mrs. S. Especially about his bacon in the morning. Mrs. T. (aside). Little wretch ! Mrs. S. What kind of bacon do you get ? Mrs. T. Oh, I don't know. Fat, streaky bacon. Mrs. S. Is it Cumberland, Wiltshire, smoked, or American 1 Mrs. T. I really don't know. Mrs. ft. (after a moment). Then perhaps you had better let me see about the bacon. Mrs. T. Perhaps I had. [Mrs. S. puts it down. Mrs. S. Now, about the marmalade. A Joint Ho use ho la 145 Mrs. T. Oh, that I can choose, I'm sure ! I'm devot,?.! to marmalade. Mrs. S. What is your recipe 1 Mrs: T. My what ? Mrs. S. Your recipe ! Mrs. T. My recipe for what ? Mrs. S. (aside). The woman is an idiot, I do believe ! (Aloud) For making marmalade, of course. Mrs. T. Oh ! I haven't any, I buy it. Mrs. S. You buy it ! Gracious heavens ! I should never think of eating marmalade bought in shops ! Mrs. T. Where should one buy it, if not in shops 1 Mrs. S. One should never buy marmalade ! one should always, always make it at home. My mother had a better recipe than anyone else for making it, and I do it in the same way. J//-X. T. My mother used to make it too, I remember. Mrs. S. Did she ? But I don't suppose her recipe was as good as mine. My mother never put any water into her marmalade. Did your mother put any into hers ? If she did, you may be sure it spoilt before the year was out. Mrs. T. I really don't know whether she did or not. Her marmalade never had a chance of spoiling, for it was so good it was eaten long before the year was over. .)//>. S. Oh, then she did not make enough. That is what so often happens to unskilful housekeepers. Mrs. T. My mother was an excellent housekeeper. I only wish I had benefited more by her instructions ! Mrs. S. It would have been better, certainly, especially if you are keeping house with some one else. Mrs. T. (aside). I wonder why I ever said I would do it ! Mrs. S. Then shall I see about the marmalade ? I had better, I think. [Puts it very terrible in it. Mrs. S. Then may I ask why he writes to you to say that I am to be kept in ignorance of the fact ? Mrs. T. Well .... I suppose because he thought you would be vexed, and it appears that he was right ! Mrs. 8. What you can laugh at it ! Oh, you wicked, wicked woman ! to come between me and my husband, after seven happy years of married life ! Mrs. T. Come between you and your husband ? I assure you I have done nothing of the kind. Mrs. S. Nothing of the kind ! When he writes to you secretly, asking you not to tell me of your former relation to one another ! Oh, you abandoned creature ! Mrs. T. Abandoned ! how dare you say so 1 Because I refused him ? Mrs. 8. Refused him ! Mrs. T. Refused him ! I should think so ! you don't suppose I would have accepted him ? Mrs. S. What, my husband proposed to you asked you to marry him ! Oh, how I have been deceived ! Mrs. T. Deceived ! Mrs. S. I thought I was the only woman he had ever loved ! Mrs. T. What difference does it make now ? Mrs. S. What difference ? Oh, you woman with no feeling, no principle, no sense of anything you should have ! I believe the whole thing was a deep-laid plan of yours, that you might be under the same roof with him ! Mrs. T. I ! 7, want to be under the same roof with that horrid little red-haired man ! Mrs. S. (gasping). ' Horrid little Mrs. T. Red-haired man ! Mrs. S. (furious). Oh, that I should have lived to be insulted by an evil woman, who poisons my happiness and A Joint Household 1 5 3 scoffs at my dearest affections ! but I will soon learn the rights of the matter I will return to Leeds this instant, by the very next train, and confront him with the proofs of his perjury ! J//-.S-. T. Then this evening, I suppose, by exception, you will not want dinner punctually at 7.30 ? Mrs. 8. Dinner ! Do you suppose I would ever dine at the same table, or sleep under the same roof as you ? No, madam, the arrangement which you had so artfully combined is dissolved we are a joint household no longer ! I might have known that a woman so lax in all domestic principles, so utterly wanting in regularity of habits, would Le deficient in morals also you are no fit companion for my George to associate with. Mrs. T. There was a time when he thought differently. Mrs. S. Fling it in my teeth as much as you like you will not get him back ! [Bangs mit oft/ie room. Mrs. T. Ha ! ha ! Exit to get her things out of the best bed-room ! Horrid, odious woman ! how glad I am she is gone ! and now I shall write to Nurse to bring the children by the early train to-morrow and Edwin will come on Saturday how happy we shall all be ! Re-enter Mrs. Stttbbs, violently, in travelling costume. J//-.S-. S. Good-bye, madam ! I hope that in the solitude and discomfort of your feckless life alone here, you may come to a sense of your guilt ! [Exit , banging door. Mrs. T. Oh, I shall come to a sense of the inestimable comfort of no longer being a Joint Household ! Curtain. 154 AN UNPUBLISHED MS. COMEDIETTA J,V ONE ACT. CHARACTERS. LADY VEENON. MRS. PAYNE. SCEXE. Lady Vernon's drawing/ -room. Enter Lady Vernon. Lady V. Only two o'clock, and I have finished luncheon already ! dear me, how fast one eats when one is alone it must be very bad for one ! I took my novel down with me, thinking that then I shouldn't hurry but it had just the reverse effect ! as when I came to the exciting part I unconsciously devoured my meal as fast as my book and when I had finished the chapter and came to the surface again, so to speak, I found that my cutlet was gone ! I wish I hadn't let the children go out to their aunt's I miss them dreadfully. Besides, I am quite sure that Molly will do something dreadful at luncheon, and I shall be told afterwards how badly she behaved. Well, well, it is no good thinking about it. What a horrid time in the day just after luncheon is, to be sure it's neither one thing nor the other one doesn't feel brisk enough either to go on with the morning or begin the after- noon. I shall sit down and finish this absurd novel. It really is rather interesting, though one of my friends wrote it ! [Settles herself in arm-chair with book.] I have just g ,t to the part where the hero, who is eloping with the heroine in a railway carriage, leans against the door in a tunnel An Unpublished MS. 155 and falls out very embarrassing for her ! [Reads on to herself.] Oh dear ! her former lover, a very wicked man, jumps in at the next station . . . \Rends on.] Drags her to a church at the journey's end, and marries her by force ! This is indeed thrilling ! I must take breath a moment after that. [Leans back, musing.] Why is it that one's friends always write such very odd books, I wonder ? That reminds me of Mrs. Payne, whom I met for the tirst time at the Astleys, the other afternoon poor thing, what an extraordinary creature she is ! the most flighty, sen- timental, commonplace of human beings, and the most anxious to be considered a genius ! I was rather interested at meeting her, for her husband and I used to be friends in fact, if the truth were known, he wanted to marry me ten years ago, when I was Mary Russell. What a long way off that seems, and how absurd he was, poor fellow, always beseeching me to give him the most sentimental love tokens ! a flower I had held in my hand, a bow of ribbon I had worn once, I remember, he carried off a ridiculous old photograph of me, done when I was a girl of sixteen a hideous old thing it was too, like most photo- graphs done at that age ! I wish I had it now, in order to see if it is like Mary, my second girl she is supposed to be so like me. It is too annoying of the creature to have carried off the only copy I had I wonder if I couldn't get it back ? That is, if it hasn't been in the fire these ten years. I might write to Mrs. Payne for it if I knew her address, the piece of faded sentiment is just the thing she would like. I am told the whole energy of her being has run into the line of romantic fiction, which she reads and she writes till she thinks that everything happens in the world like it does in Arrowsmith's novels ! She is probably convinced that her husband has got something dreadful something penny dreadful in his past I should say he's got something much worse in his present ! I wonder if 156 An Unpublished MS. she reads him her novels, poor fellow ! I am told she is very full just now of something harrowing she is writing, about which she talks to everybody as the most profound secret, and then offers to come and read it aloud to them afterwards : she has not taken that desperate course with me yet, I am glad to say. I really don't see why I shouldn't write to Mr. Payne for the photograph, though I don't know his exact address it is sure to be somewhere in the Temple. It will be so amusing to show it to the children, and tell them that was their mother eighteen years ago. I will. ( Writes) ' Dear Mr. Payne, in case you should still have among your old papers a photograph of me, done when I was sixteen, it would be very good of you to let me have it again. I have no other copy, and I should like to see whether it resembles my eldest girl. Yours sincerely, MAUY VERNOX.' (Addresses it) ' Robert Payne, Esq., Temple, EC.' There, that will be very amusing ! curious that the thing should have come into one's mind after being out of it all these years. [Puts letter on table.] I wonder why the two o'clock post hasn't come yet it is very late. [Enter Maid with letters.] Oh, what a nice fat bundle ! [Opens and reads them, tJirowinrj envelopes into thefire.] Why, all these seem to be invitations to tea this afternoon. ' Darling come to a meeting of the Primrose League this afternoon and home to tea after- wards.' [Shakes head.] ' We have a most interesting Psychical seance, Mr. Myers in the chair.' No, thank you be told a hundred well -authenticated ghost stories, and then be afraid to come home in the dark afterwards. ' Do come round this afternoon, Nurse has gone out for the day and I am keeping darling Baby.' (Shakes head) ' We have a few remarkable people to tea, do look in Mr. Glad- stone hasn't absolutely promised to come.' That's more like it ! Who is this, I wonder ? What a frenzied hand- writing ! f Tarns to end.] ' Belinda Payne ! ' She looked as if her name An Unpublished MS. 157 were Belinda ! What can she want? 'Dear Lady Vernon, you were so kind the other evening as to ask me to come and see you ' (that is to say she was so kind as to ask if she might come and see me ! !) So, as I shall be in your part of the world this aftei'noon about 2 - 30, it will give me so much pleasure to look in. on the chance of finding you. I shall have a few chapters of my last book with me [^Cartel, which I have promised to read at Mrs. Jessop's this after- noon.' [Jumps up-} Heavens ! I will rush and say I'm not at home. [As she gets to the door the Maid throws it open and announces Mrs. Payne. Lady V. Too late ! Enter Mrs. Payne with a large roll of MS. in her hand. Mrs. P. (effusively). How do you do, my dear Lady Vernon 1 you received my note, I hope ? Lady V. I was just reading it. Mrs. P. Indeed. How curious ! I thought I should be more certain of finding you in if I wrote beforehand. Lady V. (aside). I'm not so sure of that, if I had had half a minute longer ! Mrs. P. (takes MS.) I am a little earlier than I said, I think. My hansom drove very fast. I had at first meant to come in an omnibus, but the idea of the seething, jostling crowd repelled me it would have been too much, I am sure, for the state in which my nerves are to-day, so I took a hansom. There is something very soothing in its rapid motion. Do you know, it is quite curious how often my moments of great inspiration are in hansoms ? Lady V. That must be very inconvenient. J/V*. P. But there is something very interesting in a 'bus too, don't you think so 1 Has it never struck you how very like life it is ? 158 An Unpublished MS. Lady V. (bored). No, I can't say that it has. Mrs. P. Really ? how curious ! to me it is so like it. People getting in, people getting out, jostling one another meeting going away again oh. so like it ! But the fact is, things appeal to me in a way they don't to most people. I think it is that my imagination is livelier I see the relations of things in a way that most people don't I seem somehow to have a knack of simile of comparisons after all, everyone can't have the same sort of knack, can they? Lady V, No, and a very good thing they can't. Mrs. P. (heartily). Oh, I do so agree with you. I see you think exactly as I do about things, I'm sure we shall get on famously together. Lady V. I'm so glad you think so. Mrs. P. Oh, I feel quite certain of it ! That's an- other thing about me, I have such an unerring instinct about people I meet, it's almost a divination. Now the other evening when I met you at the Astleys, before I had talked to you five minutes I had formed my impres- sion of what our relations to each other were. Hadn't you? Lady V. Oh, quite definitely, I assure you. Mrs. P. Exactly, and I felt I could talk to you about all kinds of things. I mean intimate, private things that I wouldn't dream of discussing with most people about what I am writing, you know, and that sort of thing. [Makes a motion towards MS. Lady V. (alarmed). Won't you undo your cloak 1 I am afraid it must be very hot in here, isn't it ? [Puts roll of MS. on further table. Mrs. P. Oh, thank you, you really are very kind. No, I don't take off any more, thank you, I will just remove my boa. Why Lady V. Your muff? Here it is. An Unpublished MS. 159 Jfrs. P. Xo, thank you. It was a roll of papers I had in my hand. [,l/r.s\ P. looks round. Lady V. sees the letter to Mr. P. and puts it quickly in her pocket. Lady V. (pretending to look). Oh, this must be it, I suppose this roll that I happened to have put down over here. Mrs. P. (delighted). Thank you, that's it, I began to think I must have lost it on the way. [Holds out her hand for if. Lady V. Oh, there is no hurry for it yet. You shall have it before you go away. [Replaces it on further table. Mrs. P. (with a little affected laugh). I dare say you are wondering Lady V. You are quite sure you are not too hot ? Mrs. P. (impatiently). Quite, thank you. Lady V. Because this has been such a particularly cold day a sort of damp insidious day, and one ought to be very careful about not being overheated indoors, and then getting a chill going out. Mrs. P. Thank you, I am glad to say I don't get over- heated indoors, neither do I get chilled going out. Lady V. Indeed ? You are very fortunate. You are quite independent of the weather then ? Mrs. P. Yes, I am glad to say so. You will perhaps think it curious, that a person like myself, so acutely sus- ceptible to every mental and moral influence, so strongly sensitive to the magnetic currents of the universe around us, should not be more susceptible to the material influence of cold. That is what you were thinking, I dare say. Lady V. Yes, I was thinking, certainly, how nice it must be not to catch cold but since I have adopted the habit of taking ten drops of camphor on a piece of sugar whenever I feel a cold coming on, I feel almost as inde- pendent of chills as you do. 160 An Unpublished MS. Mrs. P. (bored). Indeed ? Lady V. But the London climate is very trying, don't you think so ? Mrs. P. Extremely so, in several respects, but most especially in the way that it obtrudes itself into the front of every conversation, until people seem to be able to think and speak of nothing else. Lady V. Still, people must make rather meaningless remarks sometimes, just to begin the conversation. Mrs. P. I really don't see why I never do. Lady V. What would you have them speak of then ? Mrs. P. Of life's dark depths, of the heart's dark un- fathomable depths of sorrow .... Lady V. Dear me your experience seems to have been an unfortunate one. Mrs. P. Unfortunate ! ah ! you may indeed say so ! I have tasted an agony which it is given to few to endure while others may be assailed by the straightforward blows of visible misfortune, for which they may claim the sym- pathy of their fellow-creatures I / must creep, crawl, crushed along, under the weight of a concealed and invisible sorrow. Ah me ! If the world but knew my sad story ! A dark history is mine ! Lady V. Indeed ! I am very sorry to hear it. Mrs. P. To explain it, I must go back many years [Lady V. sighs], to the time when, an innocent child, I frolicked in the fields with darling Bobby. Lady V. (surprised). Darling Bobby ? Who is that 1 Mrs. P. Mr. Payne. Lady V. Well, but I don't quite understand. He wasn't Mr. Payne I mean you were not Mrs. Payne then ? Mrs. P. It is true, I was not in fact, but I already was in intention, for, childlike, we had plighted our troth to one another, and agreed that we would marry when we grew up. Alas ! for the fond trustingness of our childhood ! An Unpublished MS. 161 Lady V. Well, but you've carried out your agreement after all, since you are married ! Mrs. P. Ah ! but now comes the tragic part of my story. Mr. Payne arrived at manhood, went to college, and in due time began his career at the bar. My father and mother died, and I came to live with one of my aunts in London, so that Bobby and I, who had frolicked hand in hand in the fields, could now have Lady V. Frolicked hand in hand in the Park ? Mrs. P. Yes, not actually perhaps, but in the spirit. It was nothing of the kind ! Lady V. Indeed ? J//-x. P. For three years, for three long years did he keep aloof from her he loved so well, for three years she pined in secret. Now tell me what was he doing these three years ? Lady V. (startled). Why do you ask me 1 M rx. P. I ask you, alas ! with no hope of your being able to give me an answer but only as a human being, as one, perhaps, of that universal sisterhood of those who despairingly love what, oh ! what was he doing during those three years 1 Lady V. Well, I imagine that he was deep in examina- tions. I suppose Mr. Bobby I beg his pardon, Mr. Payne -like most other young men, was examined, before he could embrace his career, in a great many subjects abso- lutely foreign to it. Mr*. P. No no I fear it must have been something much more potent than the law, which could engage his affections. It was, I am convinced, some artful, designing woman (perhaps even more than one !), into whose toils he fell, and who stole away the heart that should have been mine ! Lady V. Perhaps, if he did think of some one else during the time, the fault was not hers, but his ! M 1 62 An Unpublished MS. Mrs. P. Impossible that one who had given his heart into my keeping should have voluntarily succumbed to the wiles of the ordinary butterfly of society. For I am con- scious of being a woman of peculiar type. A man who cared for me would not lightly turn his thoughts elsewhere unless he were forcibly drawn into it. Yes, I am a strange being ! I never made an attempt to allure the opposite sex during the whole time of my probation no man ever ventured to address the smallest word of admiration to me. Lady V. (aside). I don't wonder. Mrs. P. I might have expected Bobby's conduct to be the same but what good is it to talk of the past ? Some day, some day I shall come face to face with those women, and taunt them with my wrongs they shall know the world shall know shortly. [Jtises, looking at MS. Lady V. Must you go ? Well it is very good of you to h ive come. Remember me to Mr. Mrs. P. No I need not go for a while yet. I rose to seek yonder confidante of my grief. [Sitting again. Lady V. Yonder 1 .... I beg your pardon what is it you want ? Mrs. P. Yonder scroll. Lady V. Oh ! that roll of papers ! here it is, but if you are not going just yet you don't want it. Mrs. P. Yes I do, thank you. It will help me to tell you and others my soul's story. [Sits with roll in her hand sighs a deep sigh. Lady V. Pei haps you are feeling the cold ? I beg your pardon, I remember you don't like to have it mentioned. Mrs. P. The cold 1 feel is the cold, cruel, grim grasp of grief laid upon rny heart. Lady V. (aside). What a very perplexing symptom ! (Aloud) I am sorry you feel uncomfortable. Mrs. P. Ah, dear lady uncomfortable ! that were An Unpublished MS. 163 indeed little but stay, I will read you some papers into which my full heart has overflowed. You will then under- stand the significance of my words. Lady V. Certainly, I shall be delighted. (Aside) I am in for it now, so I may as well put a good face on it besides which, the conversation was beginning to take rather an awkward turn ! (Aloud) What do you call your book ? Mrs. P. The Loves of the Deceived Alinda.' What do you think of that title 1 Lady V. I think it a very good title. Mrs. P. Ah good is that all ? Doesn't it strike you also as having something of yearning and sorrowful, yet forgiving and womanly in it 1 Lady V. And now you mention it I think it does. Mrs. P. Ah ! I am glad you feel it as I do. You will tell me, will you not, if any criticism occurs to you 1 It may have happened that in the soul's passionate outpouring some minor details of style have been overlooked thoti .jh generally speaking my style is a singularly finished and perfect one. Lady V. I really don't think I can promise that I am so very ignorant of these things. Mrs. P. But that will make your genuine simple remarks the more valuable. Lady V. Very well, I will then. Mrs. P. I fear I haven't time to go through the earlier chapters. I have called each book by some appropriate name. 1. Preparation. 2. Probation. 3. Expectation. 4. Revelation. That sounds well, does it not ? Lady V. Indeed, yes ! it sounds . . . portentous. Mrs. P. Portentous it is. (Reads) Book 4 Reve lation. ' The sun was shining brightly through the windows as Alinda took leave of her husband for the day. " I shall be in at five then, my dear," he said, as he felt in it 2 164 An Unpublished MS. his coat pocket for his gloves.' I think it well to throw in these little domestic touches, in order to heighten the effect of the awful tragic element that follows. ' " Very well," she replied, " the day will not seem long, I am going to turn out the spare room." " Oh, capital ! " he answered, heartily. " By the way, darling," she said as he turned to go, " can you give me the key of that secretary 1 There are several drawers I must use." So unsuspecting was she ! " The key of the secretary 1 " he said slowly, " I don't think I have it but all the drawers are open, I believe, except one or two that have nothing but old papers in them." " Very well," she answered with a strange calmness. " Good-bye, dear," he said. " At five then," and went out. Alinda stood motionless, to the eye, but with the intense vivid perception of a moment of supreme crisis. She remembered afterwards, when the blow had fallen, how, as she stood there, she had heard her husband give two slams to the hall door to make it shut, and had vaguely thought that the first dull thud was caused by a piece of his ulster being caught in it. Ah ! never again, never again ! ' Lady V. What, never again ? Mrs. P. Oh, you'll soon see that one word is a kind of epitome of her whole bygone life, and , the beginning of a fresh era of sorrow. Lady V. I see. Mrs. P. 'Silently she turned and walked upstairs with her Fate Lady V. With her what ? Mrs. P. With her fate her destiny it's clear enough when you see it written a big F. Lady V. Oh yes but should it not be to her fate ? Mrs. P. Now, now, my dear Lady Vernon, you must forgive my saying so, but that is just where an inexperienced critic goes astray we of the craft know what a magical effect may be produced by one unexpected word. An Unpublished MS. 165 Lady V. The fact is, as you say, I am so very inex- perienced, that I am afraid my criticisms will not be of much use to you. J/AS. P. Oh, not at all, I am quite delighted to hear what you say only you know what I mean, don't you 1 Lady V. Oh, entirely. What happened then, when she got upstairs with her fate 1 Mrs. P. 'The rest of the morning passed, she never knew how she must mechanically have turned out the spare room as she intended, for there were odds and ends in all the chairs seven best pincushions on the table a heap of old cotton dresses on the floor. At length, her work done, calm and resolute, she stood in front of the secretary she tried one drawer then another they yielded to her touch with glib and hollow smilingness.' Do you like those epithets, 'glib and hollow smilingness'? they are effective, are they not 1 Lady V. They are certainly, as you were saying just now, unexpected. Mrs. P. There now, you see how quickly you could get in the way of seeing those little things, it makes such a difference to one's enjoyment of literature, you can't think ! Lady V. (resigned). I should like to enjoy some things more, I must say. Mrs. P. ' Only the bottom drawer remained with the heroic self-control of a martyr she tried it it resisted her efforts, it was locked she never lost her presence of mind- she hesitated not an instant, but, with infinite courage and coolness, she went straight to the box of keys that was in her bedroom and searched until she found one which would fit the lock slowly she turned it slowly she opened the drawers transfixed she stood, and gazed at the contents.' Now what is your feeling about the situation ? Lu.s'. P. How can that be, when you this very day have written him a letter secretly, addressed to his cham bers ? Lady V. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I beg your pardon this is really too funny ! Appearances are against me, I must confess ! This is the plain fact when I met you the other day, I was reminded for the first time for many years of Mr. Payne, and of that old photograph another very plain fact ! that he has. I want it, to see if it is like my eldest girl so, as I didn't know your address, I wrote to the Temple, which I imagined would find him somehow that is the whole history. J/r.s\ P. What, can this really be 1 But no, there were others yet F. W. and E.H.C. WHO were they 1 Lady V. (quietly). E.H.C. was Ethel Creswick she married the year after I did, and went out to India, where she has been ever since. F.W. was Flora Williamson, whom your husband certainly admired, as everyone else did she died at Mentone, poor girl, a long time ago. J/V.*. P. She is dead 1 Lmly V. Yes, F.W. is dead E.H.C. transported for life and M.R., I assure you, is quite harmless so there are all your ghosts laid. Jfrs. P. (holding out her hands to Lady V.) Forgive rne ! I have wronged you. Lady V. Forgive there is nothing to forgive the whole thing is laughable ! But now, since we are making friends, let me take the privilege of one, and entreat you, who ought to be one of the happiest of women, not to insist on being the most miserable just take life in an ordinary and sensible way as it comes, and you will find it a very 170 An Unpublished MS. pleasant way of passing the time. When your husband comes in tired and worried, take it for granted that it has something to do with the day's business, and not with his early love affairs ! Mrs. P. Yes, I know he often says it is his business, but I never believed him ! Lady V. Well, I am sure that if you would turn your attention more to the endless delightful possibilities of everyday life, and neglect romantic fiction a little, you would be ever so much happier. Mrs. P. Ah that, I fear, I could not promise quite neglect fiction ! no, no I really feel it would be wrong, with a gift like mine, not to go on writing the 'Loves of the Deceived Alinda' must be finished, but I can go more bravely to work now that I feel it is not my own melancholy history I am recording. Lady V. Well, if you promise not to identify yourself with the heroine I must be satisfied, I suppose. Mrs. P. And now I must be going. I have stayed an unconscionable time, but oh, I go with a lighter heart than I came with ! Lady V. (shaking hands warmly). I am glad to hear it. Mrs. P. I may come and see you again some day, may I not? Lady V. I shall be delighted. Mrs. P. And then, you know, I can read you the rest of my unpublished MS ! Curtain. A MODERN LOCUSTA CHARACTERS. Mr.s. VERNON. MRS. MEREIXDER. Mrs. Vernon discovered, alone. Mrs. V. (reading the ' World '). Dear me ! How dull the ' World ' is this week. It's generally so delightful. I took it in first to guess the acrostics, and then when I found how entertaining the rest of the paper was, I read it regularly, from the first page to the last but I must say I don't think this one is worth it. [Looks up and down the columns.] I wonder what this paragraph is about. 'It is rumoured that an eminent Q.C., in spite of the proverbial clear-sightedness of his profession, is about to be united in the bonds of holy matrimony to a lady who was once known in criminal circles as the modern Locusta.' Locusta ! What does that mean ? Who was the ancient Locusta, I wonder 1 Now this is the good of guessing acrostics. You have all sorts of books to tell you things. [Takes a book to look it out.] Locusta, a celebrated female poisoner in the time of Nero. A poisoner ! Fancy an eminent Q.C. marrying a poisoner. I must ask my uncle about that- He will b.3 so interested in one of his brother barristers doing such a thing. I know ! I'll pretend that I think it is himself. Ha, ha, what a good joke that would be ! No, I must say I can't imagine Uncle Greville ever marrying ! How funny it would be ! Why, if he did I should feel as if 1/2 A Modern Locus ta I had a step-mother ! I wonder what she would be like ? The very pattern of respectability, I'm sure ! And have bi-j; grey curls here [Touching cheeks]. However, it isn't very likely to happen ! He hardly ever speaks to any woman. In fact, I was quite surprised when I saw him taking Mrs. Merrinder about the other night at Lady Grey's, and providing her with supper in the most empresse way. Pro- bably she is a wealthy client. Well, he shall marry if he likes, though it would certainly be a blow to me if he did. But anything to make him happy though, after all, it would never make him happy to go away from Philip and me and the baby. Why, as he has often said, he looks on my husband and me as his own children and the baby ! he adores the baby, and 110 wonder. [Looks at, clock.~\ Dear baby ! I wonder how soon he will be in. [Goes to window.] Oh, dear me, there's the sun shining, and I told nurse to take an umbrella, because I thought it would rain. Oh no, there's a cloud. I'm so glad. I was right, then. Oh, how nice it is to have a baby, and a husband, and an uncle, a delightful uncle like one in a fairy tale, always showering presents upon one. I really am a lucky woman. The only thing is that my nurse is going away, and she does make baby's food so beautifully. However, I have advertised for another, so I dare say it will all come right. I've said, ' Can anybody recommend a trustworthy nurse 1 ' for I must have her trustworthy, it would be so fearful if I couldn't depend on her to make baby's food. How long the day is ! I wish 1 hadn't finished the 'World.' I think I shall put my hat on and go and join nurse and baby in the square. [Ex'd. Enter Mrs. Merrinder. Mrs M. She is not here. How foolish I have been to come up unannounced. What shall I do next ? Have I not made a mistake in coming here at all in wishing to A Modern Locusta 173 see for myself how slie will receive my news, how she will face the fact of her uncle's engagement ? What sort of woman is she, I wonder ? Empty -headed, from what I hear, but is she empty-hearted as well ? At any rate, I need not tell her anything until I see. I fortunately have a reason ready to give for my coming here to-day that I have seen her advertisement, and have come to recommend her a servant. Then if she is a gentle good woman, we will see. [Looks round.] A nice little room enough. What has she been reading 1 The ' World.' \Shakfs her head:] Perhaps she is not a prude, then. No, she may be all the same. A baby's toy ! Ah, that should mean a woman with a gent.le heart. Here she is. [.!//>. V. comes in singing, her walking things on. WIP. stops, surprised at seeing Mrs. Merrinder. Mrs. M. I hope you will forgive me, Mrs. Yernon. This is extremely indiscreet of me, I feel I am Mrs. Merrinder. Mrs. V. Oh yes, I think I saw you the other evening at Lady Grey's. Mrs. M. At Lady Grey's ? Yes, I was there. I saw your advertisement in the ' Times ' yesterday, and I thought you would allow me to come and tell you of a nice woman I happen to know. .]//*. V. Ch, thank you. Do you think she could make Ridge's Food ? J//-x. M. Ridge's Food ? M r. V. Yes, for baby, you know, one has to be so careful to boil it long enough. Mrs. M. Oh ! Yes, I dare say she could. Mrs. V. I think on the whole Ridge's Food is the best. What did you feed your children on ? Mrs. M. I never had a child. Mrs. V. Oh. I am so very sorry for you. I think it must be terrible not to have a baby in the house quite terrible. Mrs. M. Is yours a great delight to you ? Mrs. V. Indeed he is : he is the greatest darling ! and he is such an intelligent child. Mrs. M. Really 1 How old is he 1 Mrs. V. Eight months to-morrow. Mrs. M. Eight months ? that is very early to show such intelligence. Mrs. V. Isn't it ? That is what I say. It's wonderful quite wonderful. Just imagine what he does. When his father comes into the room with a great noise, and says ' Baby, where's papa ? ' he looks round immediately. Now I call that quite extraordinary, don't you ? Mrs. M. Quite. Mrs. V. I'm so glad you agree with me. Do you know I told that story to one of my husband's cousins the other day, and she didn't see anything surprising in it ? Wasn't it funny of her ? Mrs. M. Very. One's relations are very trying at times, no doubt. Mrs. V. They are indeed. I have very few, I am glad to say. I have only, let me see, a great-aunt (in the country, so she doesn't count), and that cousin of my husband's and an uncle of my own, but he is worth a whole family put together. Mrs. M. Your uncle ? Mrs. V. My uncle, yes, indeed. But you know him, I think. Surely I saw you with him the other evening 1 Mrs. M. Yes, you did. I know him. Mrs. V. And don't you think him very charming ? Mrs. M. Yes. Mrs. V. And he is as good and kind as he is delightful. Mrs. M. You are very fortunate. Mrs. V. I am. I can't tell you what he has been to A Modern Locus ta 175 me My parents died when I was quite a child, and my uncle has been father and mother in one to me. Then, when I married, he quite adopted my husband too, and now I'm sure he is more devoted to dear baby than either of us. So altogether, we are the happiest family in the world. Mrs. M. You are indeed fortunate. It isn't every- one who is so happy. Mrs. P. I have no patience with people who are not happy. I think it is so silly of them. Mrs. M. (aside). There is nothing so merciless as youth and prosperity combined. (Aloud) But perhaps it isn't always in their own power. Mrs. V. Oh, more or less, I think it is ! Mrs. M. To begin with, some people don't marry. Mrs. V. Oh, that is a great mistake. I think every- one ought to marry. Mrs. M. Everyone ? Mrs. V. Certainly, if they want to be happy. Mrs. M. In that case, there would be no bachelor uncles. Mrs. V. I shouldn't like my uncle Greville to marry, of course. Mrs. M. Why not 1 Mrs. V. I should feel as if I had a step-mother, and I shouldn't like that at all. Mrs. M. I see you have made up your mind to the worst already. Mrs. V. But the whole thing is too absurd to think of. Of course he will never marry. Mrs. M. "Why of course 1 Mrs. V. For one thing, he is too fond of us. Mrs. M. Why shouldn't he be happy because he is fond of you ? Mrs. V. Oh, it isn t a question of his happiness. 176 A Modern Locusta Mrs. M. Not if he were to marry ? Mrs. V. He won't. Mrs. M. Let us suppose it possible, and that you heard it was going to happen. What would you say, what would you do, I wonder ? I am really curious to know. Mrs. V. Oh, I think first of all, I should burst into tears. Mrs. M. Into tears 1 Mrs. V. Yes, I am sure I should. I should sob, and feel that I had lost my best friend, and that baby W;LS going to be slighted and neglected, and altogether I should be very wretched indeed. Mrs. M. But suppose you found he were going to marry some one who only longed to make friends with you \vho would care for you and your husband, and instead of neglecting your boy, would love him too ? Mrs. V. That would be delightful, of course, but it is so unlikely to happen. So very few people would be as kind as you were just now about dear baby, or would understand his mind so well. Mrs. M. My dear child ! Mrs. V. (surprised). Mrs. Merriiider ! Mrs. M. I should like to care for you -and yours if you will let me. Mrs. V. Let you 1 Why, it would be charming. Do let us be friends, I should like it so much. Mrs. M. (takes her hand). If you knew what it is to me to have a warm, womanly hand in mine to feel I am no longer alone ! Do you really mean you would like to be friends ? Mrs. V. Indeed, indeed I do, from the very bottom of my heart. Mrs. M. Then let me tell you something I came to say, something I determined you should only hear from my own lips, that I might read in your face what your answer Wiis. No, now it comes to the point, I am afraid. A Modern Locnsta 177 Mrs. V. What is it ? What can you mean ? J//-,s'. M. Can you not guess? When I tell you that I h;i ve the right to ask you for your friendship, your love, and to offer you mine ? Now do you know ? J//-.S-. F. (shakes her head). Mrs. M. You saw me with your uncle, you said, two nights ago. Mrs. V. (starting). With my uncle? Is it -no, it is not possible that Mr*. M. That he has asked me to marry him ? Yes, he has. Mrs. V. To marry him my uncle ! Oh ! [Bursts into tears. Mrs. M. (aside). There's nothing like carrying out one's programme ! (Aloud) You see, your worst previsions are realised. I fear I need not ask what your answer is. J//-.S-. V. Forgive me forgive me ! The fact is, I was so taken by surprise, that I hardly knew what I was say- ing but you will not take his love from us, will you ? Mrs. M. No indeed, I have told you that I won't. (Meaninyly) You do not wish, then, to take his love from me? Mrs. V. No, no ! How can you think so ? Mrs. M. And yet, if I am not mistaken, it is a great blow to you to hear of his engagement ? Mrs. V. Yes, of course. Then when I found it was to you, that was different. [Mrs. M. strokes Mrs. V.'s /tand. Mrs. V. I hope you will be very happy. Mrs. M. Don't you think that everyone is happier married ? Mrs. V. It's very nice to be married, certainly. Mrs. M. Yes, indeed you are happy ! You look as if you had never known what it was to be otherwise. Is that so? Mrs. V. Yes, I must admit that I have always been. 1/8 A Modern Locus ta very happy, and now I am more so than ever since I have had dear baby. Mrs. M. (smiling). And in consequence, doubtless, you have a kind of feeling that when others are not so happy, it is their own fault for losing the chances that life has to offer them ? Mrs. V. (confused). No, no, not that exactly. I am sorry for them. I feel pity, compassion. Mrs. M. Pity, compassion yes, I know what that means. The shadow cast by compassion is called contempt ! Mrs. V. No, no, I assure you I should like everyone else to be as happy as myself, if it were possible. Mrs. M. If it were possible, yes, but you hardly feel that it is ? You are a little surprised that other people should fall in love, and wish to live their own lives, instead of living in other people's. Is not that so ? Mrs. V. Well, of course one doesn't realise that other people feel the same as one does oneself. Mrs. M. No, I have noticed that it appears to be difficult. Mr*. V. And I shall soon get accustomed to the idea of my uncle's marrying. In fact, only this morning, just before you came, I was thinking how strange it would be if he married. Something a paragraph in the ' World ' put it into my head. Mrs. M. A paragraph in the ' World 1 ' What was that ? Mrs. V. Here it is. Haven't you seen it ? About an eminent Q.C.'s engagement. [Puts paper into her hand. Heads the paragraph aloud. Mrs. M. And what did you think when you read that paragraph ? Mrs. V. I thought how interested my uncle would -be when he saw it and that as he is a Q.C. himself, he would probably know who the people were. A Modern Locus fa 179 Mrs. M. Do you want to know who the modern Locusta is ? Mrs. V. Yes, I should like to know who she is, and what she did. Mrs. M. I can tell you what she did. Mrs. V. Can you ? How very interesting. Do ! Mrs. M. She ran away from her first husband with a man whom she afterwards married, and then, so it was said, tried to poison. Mrs. V. Oh, what a horrible woman ! Is she alive now ? Mrs. M. Yes, I believe she is. Mrs. V. And what was done to her 1 Mrs. M. Nothing nothing, that is, according to the law. The jury disagreed upon their verdict. They con- tented themselves with dismissing her into the world with an indelible shadow hanging over her name. Mrs. V. And she deserved it ! Mrs. M. You think she did ? without knowing any- thing more of her history, any of the grounds of her defence, you condemn her at once ? Mrs. V. Well, a woman who runs away from one husband, and poisons another, can't be a nice woman. Mrs. M. ' Nice ' perhaps not ! One of the accusa- tions against her, that of trying to poison her lover, I believe to have been false. It's true she ran away from the first one, but we cannot tell on whose shoulders rested the responsibility of that crime. She may have been flying from misery greater than she could bear. Mrs. V. Oh no. A woman is always in the wrong who runs away from her husband. J//',s-. M. Ah. that is your hard and fast code ! That is how the world is governed, doubtless. Mrs. V. And a good thing too. Mrs. M. Oh, how merciless you happy and virtuous K -2 1 80 A Modern Locusta women can be to those whom you think not so good as yourselves ! Mrs. V. But don't you think that's right ? That's how we help to keep other women straight, by turning out- backs on them when they behave badly. J//-,s'. M. By turning your backs on them a Chris- tian code indeed ! Mrs. V. I feel quite sure my uncle would agree with me. He's so intensely particular about women. Mrs. M. You don't think he would have a wider tolerance and more lenient judgment that he would readily hold out his hand to an unfortunate woman against whom fortune has set her face ? Mrs. V. Oh, I think his kind heart would be sorry for her, grieved for her but I know quite well how very strong his views about women are, for he is never tired of repeating them. Mrs. M. Indeed ? and what does he say ? Mrs. V. Oh, he has the most exaggerated and high- flown sentiments. My husband often tells him that he carries it a great deal too far. He would never have a woman's name mentioned at all outside the domestic circle. Tlie very idea of criticism, of discussion, by those who ape not her nearest and dearest, is repugnant to him. Mrs. M. Repugnant to him ? Mrs. V. Yes, in fact he often says, partly in fun, of course, that he is so glad that I am never likely to be famous to do anything clever, you know, that would have made people talk about me. He wouldn't have liked it at all. J//-s. M. I see. (Aside) That must be a delightful certainty. Mrs. V. Do you know what his nickname is what he is called among his friends 1 Mrs. M. No, I don't indeed. A Modern Locusta \ 8 1 Mrs. V. He is called The Guarantee, because people always say, ' Oh, Mr. Greville's name is a guarantee for everything ! ' For justice in a cause for honesty in a servant for innocence in a client Mrs. M. For a good name in a woman ! Mrs. V. Exactly ! so that you see that to be his niece is a very great privilege. J//-.S. Jf. Still more, then, I imagine, to be his wife ? Jfrs. V. (starting). His wife ! yes of course. I beg your pardon I was forgetting. Some people grumble at him for being such an oldfashioned Puritan, but I think it's a good thing. J//v*. Jf. Very ! J//-.S-. V. For it is horrid for a woman not to be nice, isn't it ? J//-.s\ M. (with veiled sarcasm). Oh yes. A woman, of course, must be 'nice' before everything. (Aside) Oh, to think that public opinion is made by such intelligences as these ! Mrs. V. You do agree with me, don't you ? Mrs. M. Oh, entirely, of course ! Mrs. V. (relieved). That's right. Do you know I was afraid you didn't and I was so surprised, knowing so well what my uncle's opinions are ! Mrs. M. Your uncle, then, would not have been likely to many the lady who is known as the Modern Locusta 1 Mrs. V. (in fits of laughter). My uncle ! Oh, how very funny ! What an extraordinary idea ! Oh, I never heard anything so funny. I shall die of laughing I really shall. J//-.S-. JA. It is indeed extraordinarily amusing. Mrs. V. I tell you what is making me laugh now the thought of what immense fun it would be to pretend, for ;i joke, that I thought this man mentioned in the ' World' was himself. 1 82 A Modern Locus ta Mrs. M. Or to pretend that it really was he. Mrs. V. How do you mean ? Mrs. M. To tell him that / am the Modern Locusta. Mrs. V. (in fits of laughter). Oh, the idea is too delicious, really ! You will kill me, I know you will. Mrs. M. I dare say I shall, before I have done with it! Mrs. V. Now I tell you what would be amusing. Let's rehearse what we should say when we told him, and what he would say. Mrs. M. What he would say yes ! Mrs. V. I should begin, ' Uncle, you are going to be married ? ' ' Yes,' he would reply, ' to a very charming woman.' ' I know it,' I should say, ' I have seen her.' Mrs. M. (with a little smile of acknowledgment). Thank you. But go on : you have not yet come to the interesting part. Mrs. V. ' Ha, ha, uncle ! ' I should say, 'I know some- thing about her that you don't.' Then he would be sur- prised, wouldn't he ? Mrs. M. Undoubtedly. Mrs. V. ' Something about her past life.' Then he would begin to be startled and rather anxious. Mrs. M. Startled yes, and anxious ! Mrs. V. ' Do you know who she is 1 ' I would say. Of course, he would say ' Yes,' and then I'd say, ' But do you know who she was 1 ' That's my great point, you see. Mrs. M. Yes. Who she was. That's an important point, certainly. Mrs. V. And then Do you think I had better prepare him more ? Mrs. M. (endeavouring to smile). Oh no, I should think by this time he would be sufficiently prepared. I would tell him at once. It would come to the same thing in the end, I fancy. A Modern Locus ta 183 Mrs. V. Very well. Then I would tell him, in the words of that paragraph, in the most tragical tones, 'She was a, lady known in criminal circles as the Modern Locusta ! ' Ha ! ha ! Now wouldn't that be good ? .I//-*. M. Excellent ! But now what does lie say 1 That seems to be the important part. J//-.S-. V. First he turns white, as white as a sheet. Then he recovers himself, and says. ' You are laughing at. me.' I tell him I know it for a fact. J//-.X. M. By the way, you have not told him how you are supposed to know it. Mrs. V. Oh, I know it, because you've told me. J/>x. M. Ah, because I've told you. Exactly. Go on. And then ? Mrs. V. Oh, I don't know. I haven't imagined all that yet. Of course there is a great tragical scene, when he finds that, as they say in books, he is linked to the vilest of her sex. [Mrts. M. starts. J//-,v. V. He is broken-hearted, and in despair. He struggles between his love and [Hesitates for a word. J/r.v M. And his honour. Mrs. V. And his honour exactly. And and but I am not clever enough to imagine the rest of it. You must go on now. Mrs. M. Perhaps I had better imagine what / should be saying and doing in the meantime. Mrs. V. Ah yes, just so. What would you be saying ? Mrs. M. I would say to you What, can you, a woman, thus lightly brand another with being the vilest of her sex ] Can you judge her, and dismiss her to everlasting ignominy, without another thought hardly even knowing of what she is accused ? Mrs. V. (interrupting). ' No, no,' I should say. ' I do know that she ran away from one man, and poisoned another ' 1 84 A Modern Locusta Mrs. M. You know that was what people said l,ut what if it were not true ? What if the woman you are ready to destroy were far from being the vilest of her sex ? with a heart beating to passions such as you cannot even understand with a mind tuned to emotions that you can- not reach what if she were persecuted, ruined, by the villain who at last drove her from his house, and were afterwards falsely accused of having caused the death of the one being whom she cared for on this earth what then ? Mrs. V. Oh, go on. You do act splendidly ! Mrs. M. (recovering herself). Ah yes I do act splendidly ! Now it's your turn. Mrs. V. What a pity ! You do it so much better. Then we would say my uncle and I, you know Mrs. M. Your uncle and you yes. Mrs. V. Then we should say, of course, that it was impossible, that a woman who could have those things said about her, whether they were true or not, could never be a fitting wife for him, that the whole thing was a terrible misfortune, and and that would be the end of it, I suppose. Mrs. M. The end of it ? No, that would not be the end of it. I would still plead her cause. Suppose, I would say, that this woman, whom you spurn from you with such ruthless cruelty, whose youth was wrecked by an unpitying fate, suppose that she at last conquered in the struggle with destiny, and that she has since led a pure and stainless life, far from the world which has now forgotten even her name what then ? May she never again take her place among her kind ? May she never stand with head erect among her sister women ? Mrs. V. Oh, but my uncle couldn't bear a woman who had been talked about. The woman who has had those tilings said about her couldn't be a nice woman, you know. Mrs. M. A nice woman ah ! Your uncompromising A Modern Locusta 185 pettiness passes the bounds of my endurance. What can a nature like yours have ever known of passion, misfortune, of repentance of anything which throbs in the life of a great heart 1 You, who would father your imbecility upon one of the noblest of men pretending that you fulfil his ideal ! His ideal indeed ! You must well nigh have destroyed it, by cramping all his nobler impulses bounding his larger views with your miserable horizon binding him with the petty chains of a sleek and canting domesticity ! oh, that it should be you, and such as you, who are the arbiters of such as I am ! Good God ! Mrs. V. Mrs. Merrinder, you frighten me ! you say all that as if it were true. J//-.V. J/. It is true ! [Mrs. V. starts J/,-x. J/. stops her with a yestureJ] Listen to me ! If you have been capable of understanding one word of what I have been saying, listen, to me now, while I tell you it is true that it is my own cause that I have been pleading that I I, do you hear am the woman who was driven from her home that it was I who sought shelter with the man of whose death I was accused, but of which, as I stand in sight of Heaven, I am innocent ! J//-x. V. You you ! .1//-.V. J/. Ah, shrink from me as much as you like you need not fear that I shall draw near you again. My dream is over. Fool that I was to have cherished it, even for a moment ! to have dreamt that after a life of loneliness and regret I might yet become the wife of a good man, and be welcomed to share the lives of happy women ! fool indeed ! I see now to what I am doomed. You need no longer fear that my shadow will fall across your spotless life. No, I renounce my last chance of happiness. I will not condemn the man I love to be the guarantee for my good name. Do not fear that you will ever see me again. \Goes toward* door.] I have humbled myself in the dust before you, it is 1 86 A Modern Locust a true, in one moment of delusive hope, but I could not, I know it now, pass my life in ashes before you, in one long expiation expiation of what ? Of the chance the luck the fate that gave you happiness, and me [Standing in door- way] .... misery ! [E.cit. Mrs. V. buries her face in her hands. Curtain. 1 8 7 THE 'SWISS TIMES' COMEDIETTA IN ONE ACT. CHARACTERS. MRS. GORDON, a rich widow. MRS. JACKSON. MRS. PROUT. CARRIE, Mrs. Jackson's daughter. ALETHEA, Mrs. Prout's daughter. HELEN MAY.NE, an orphan. SCENE. The Hotel du Lac, Zurich. The public sitting-room. Upright piano, R. Ditto, L. Small table at back L.C. Chair by it. Table in front R.C. Couch, L. Chairs, &c. Enter Mrs. Gordon with books, work, &c. Mrs. G. No one here how delightful to find a public sitting-room at an hotel unoccupied ! But it is too good to last, I fear, for in a few minutes all the rest of the inhabi- tants will come in from the long, hot table d'hote, and fill the room with their meaningless talk. [Looks at watch.] Seven thirty, and the post goes out at eight ! I must finish my letters. I'll just read over this letter to see if I've left out any words I usually do ! [Read*\ ' Thursday, July 20, Hotel du Lac, Zurich. Dearest Susan I wish you were here for it is so dull being at an hotel by oneself ! Where is the enjoyment of meeting ridiculous people if you have no one to whom you can say how ridiculous they are ? Never mind, in a few days I shall have a companion, I 1 88 The ' Swiss Times ' hope, for what do you think ? I have advertised for one ! in the " Swiss Times " ! I dare say you have never heard of that periodical it is an English paper published at Berne for the use of tourists. This is what 1 have said: "Wanted, for a tour on the Continent, a young lady as companion, age between twenty and twenty-five. Must be bright, intelligent, a good linguist, and a good musician. Apply personally at the Schweizerhof, Lucerne, on Saturday, July the 22nd." Don't you think that sounds attractive ? There must be many a young woman who would be too delighted to come for a tour round Europe. The only thing is that I must find exactly the right person. As you know, I unfor- tunately have a great many fads and fancies I should like my companion to have some too, provided they chime in with mine. For instance, I should hate some one who would borrow my scissors, or lend me her thimble, or cut my magazines, or wander about the room with a distracted air 1 ioking for something when I am talking, or read me scraps of news out of a paper, or tell me the end of a book I am panting over or on the other hand, I should hate her just as much it' she jumped up from her chair and offered it to me when I came into the room, instead of leaving me a cool unrumpled seat, or who would give me up her footstool, and generally lead a life of outward and visible mortification of which I should feel with impotent rage that I was the in- voluntary cause ! Oh, if I were Ibsen, and had to regene- rate society, I would quickly write a companion play to the " Pillars of Society " and call it the " Caterpillars of Society," in which I would hold up to ignominy and reprobation all those who insist on creeping through life and being down- trodden by their fellow creatures ! No, my ideal companion (may Fate send her to Lucerne on Saturday !) is a quiet, simple, yet dignified young girl, cultivated and intelligent, who is always pleasantly occupied, who can knit and who can read, and who is equally happy doing either or both, 7 Jie ' Szwss Times ' 1 89 and above all who cannot only play patiences, but who likes doing them on her own account instead of mine ! There riow, dear Susan, that is the person I want if you know of such a one, telegraph, and I will rush rapidly across Europe to find her. Ever your affectionate friend, Jane Gordon. P.S. Harry writes to me from India that his love affair is off, I am grieved to say. I am dreadfully sorry I had had visions of all that a daughter-in-law might be to me and yet when I reflect how impossible it would be that my son should ever find anyone approaching to good enough for him, the thought of his marriage makes me anxious.' [Fattens letter.] There, now, that is done. And now, to write to Harry I really don't know what to say where is his letter 1 [Reads his letter to her.'] 'As to what I told you of in my last letter, dear mother, it has come to an untimely end, for the moment at least. She has left gone back to Europe. She has been very badly treated by the people she is with, but it is no use saying anything more about it now. Next year I shall go on leave, and then we shall see.' Well, I don't understand all this. I must wait till he comes, I suppose dear boy ! I >//-. P. (coming up to table). Oh, I beg your pardon, 1 think I saw the ink there yes. [Takes away ink, pens and blotting-paper from before Mrs. G., retires to the other table, at back, L.C. J//-X. G. No, I think on the whole that is the rudest. Mrs. J. (who has been reading paper, gives a shriek). Oh, I wonder where Carrie is ! Here is exactly the thing she wants. (To Mrs. P.) Just listen to this. [Mrs. Jackson stands by Mrs. Front's table and reads to her Mrs. Gordon's advertisement. Mrs. P. (excited). The very thing, of course. Mrs. J. (pleased). Exactly. I see it strikes you as it does me. It is the very thing for Mrs. P. Alethea. Mr.t. J. (taken aback). For Alethea ? No I meant for Carrie. Mrs. P. For Carrie for your daughter ? Mrs. J. And why not for my daughter, as well as for yours ? May I ask ? Mrs. P. Firstly, because it says she must be intelligent. That seems to apply more to Alethea. J/ rs. J. Yes but it doesn't say she is to be pedantic. J//-.S. P. (outraged). Pedantic ? Mrs. J. Yes pedantic. That is what I should say the characteristic of your daughter is. Mrs. P. I suppose that is because she doesn't dance breakdowns in the public room of the hotel like Miss Jackson. Mrs. J. Breakdowns indeed 1 Carrie danced a reel 1 92 The ' Swiss Times ' the other night, if that is what you mean. And very well she did it. I like a girl to be lively. Mrs. P. Lively, yes, but not acrobatic. Mrs. J. (aside). It's quite evident her girl can't dance a step those girls never can. (Aloud) I see that candi- dates are requested to apply at Lucerne. Curiously enough, we had arranged to be at Lucerne on Saturday. Mrs. P. Indeed ? It is singular that we should have settled to do the same thing. Mrs. J. Oh, really ! We shall meet there then, that will be very agreeable. Mrs. P. Particularly so. Mrs. J. (lays the paper down). I wonder where Carrie is ! Mrs. P. I do wish Alethea wouldn't remain out so long. Mrs. G. If you have done with the paper, may I have it for a few minutes 1 I had not quite finished reading it. Mrs. J. Oh, certainly, certainly. It is very dull : there is nothing in it. Mrs. G. (aside). That is what people always say when they hand you a paper they have read from the first word to the last. Mrs. J. There is one thing very interesting in it, to me, at least an advertisement for a companion there, on the third page. Mrs. G. Yes. I have seen it. Mrs. J. (confidentially). I thought that would do so well for my daughter. Mrs. G. Indeed does your daughter wish to be a companion ? Mrs. J. Well, I don't know that she wishes it parti- cularly, but it seems to me to be the only thing for her to do. I thought she would have been married before this. We were at Southsea last year, and she had the greatest The ' Siviss Times ' 193 success with the officers there, but somehow she is still at home. And now Pa says Mrs. <;. Who ? Mrs. J. Pa that's my husband, you know. He says that with the four other girls we have growing up, and two boys to provide for, he can't afford to keep them all, and that Carrie must provide for herself in some way, either by teaching or by going out as a companion. Now as to teaching, I'm not sure that she has the patience for it : and though she is as clever as she can be, perhaps her cleverness is not quite in that line it is more the kind of cleverness that can that can Mrs. G. Amuse officers at Southsea. Mrs. J. Exactly. Now this is the sort of thing that would suit her excellently. For she is certainly bright and intelligent. Mrs. G. Is she good-tempered 1 Mrs. J. Yes, I think so. With strangers, certainly, she would be good-tempered enough, and she picks up all the new songs, and sings them with quite a dash. Oh, she would be an acquisition anywhere, I'm sure. Ah, there she is passing the window, I must go and talk to her about it. {Exit quickly. Mrs. G. (shaking her head). No. I am afraid that is hardly my ideal ! Mrs. P. (advancing confidentially). Did I hear Mrs. Jackson talking to you about her daughter ? I thought so. You know I can't help thinking she is making the very greatest mistake in wanting her to apply for that post of companion which is advertised in the ' Swiss Times.' You see, it isn't as if the girl were like mine, or even like that little Miss Mayne, though she is commonplace enough the person whom it would suit exactly is my Alethea. Mrs. G. Does your daughter wish to be a companion '} Mrs. P. I won t say that exactly, but she particularly o 1 94 The ' Swiss Times ' wants to travel, and I really have not the strength nor the means to take her. I was ill for a week, I really was, after we spent a day at the Palace of the Csesars in Rome. It is all very interesting, I dare say, but we were not taught about those things when I was a girl. I don't know the difference between one Csesar and another, and I don't want to know which of the Seven Hills we were walking upon. I could see it was the steepest and the muddiest, and that was enough for me. However, I am told they are levelling all the hills in Rome now, so that will make it less tiring both to the mind and to the body. But what would suit me would be a quiet country life in England, near the village of which my dear husband used to be rector, and if I felt that Alethea could find some one to travel with, who would know all about the Csesars and that sort of thing, it would be a great comfort to me. Mrs. G. I see. Mrs. P. So we shall try to make an early start for Lucerne early in the day that is, if I have had a good night, but I am such a wretched sleeper ! Then we shall be beforehand with other people. Mrs. G. Yes, I dare say that would be a good plan. Then what about that other girl you mentioned Miss Mayne ? Will she be one of the competitors too for this post ? Mrs. P. Oh, well, if she is, she won't be a formidable one. Mrs. G. Will she not 1 I always thinks she looks interesting. She is certainly very pretty. Mrs. P. Pretty ? Well, if you call having regular features, pretty it is intensity of expression I look for, more like Alethea's, you know. Mrs. G. I haven't had the pleasure of seeing your daughter yet. TJie 1 Swiss Times' 195 Mrs. P. Ah, then, that is why you think Miss Mayne pretty. As for her being interesting, I should have thought her the dullest little person : she is always knit- ting, or reading, or something of that kind. And she does patiences by herself in the evening : so unlike a girl, I call that ! Mrs. G. (aside). Knitting, and reading, and doin^ patiences ! I like the sound of that. J//-X. P. Here she is, coming in. Pretty and interest- ing indeed ! Enter Helen, her knitting and a book in her hand. She strolls to table, looks at books, &c. Mrs. Prout goes back to writing. Mrs. G. (watching Helen). Were you looking for this paper ? [Handing the ' Swiss Times.' Helen (pleasantly). Oh, thank you very much that is, if you don't want it. Mrs. G. Not at all. [Helen reads paper, Helen (smiling). I think I am taking all the lamp- light. [Pushes lamp towards Mrs. G. Mrs. P. Tiresome woman to go and give her that paper to read ! she will be packing up and going to Lucerne too. Helen (suddenly interested). I wonder if this is any- one's paper, or if it belongs to the hotel ? Mrs. G. It belongs to the hotel, I think. Why ? Helen. Only that there is something here that I should have liked to cut out an advertisement. But it doesn't matter, I will copy it. [Goes to table at back. Mrs. Gordon looks on and smiles aside, as Helen copies the advertisement. 02 1 96 The ' Swiss Times ' Enter Mrs. Jackson and Carrie. Carrie. Really, mother, it is a shame to bring me in on this fine evening, just when we were having such fun out of doors. Mrs. J. I wanted to speak to you. Besides it is much better that you should sit in here with me, rather than be running about the garden with a crowd of strangers. Carrie. It wasn't with a crowd, mamma, I assure you, only one person Monsieur Barette, that young Frenchman who sat opposite us at the table d'hote. I was teaching him how to hop. Mrs. J. How to hop ! my dear ! I really think that that is a thing which girls need not teach young gentlemen to do. Carrie. Why not, mamma ? we can do it so much better than they can ! you see the mistake most people make when they hop is that they hang their spare foot out behind, and then rock their shoulders about, so. [llojis round.] The real way to do it is to put your foot out in front, and go round lightly like this then you are like a bird. [Hops. Mrs. J. Like a bird, indeed ! The bird you are like is a goose ! hopping about, neglecting your most important interests ! Carrie. Important interests ? I didn't know I had any. Mrs. J. But you have though. There is a place of companion which is waiting for you, if you choose to take it. Carrie. Do you really mean it 1 Where ? Anything should like 1 Mrs. J. I should say you would like it extremely. It is an advertisement in the ' Swiss Times.' Here it is. Oh, The ' Suv'ss Times' 197 I beg your pardon, you were not reading this paper, were you ? [Taking the paper out of Helen's hand. Helen. Oh dear no ! Mrs. J. (reading advertisement to Carrie). There, you see, that is just what you want. It will suit you exactly. Carrie. Yes. It would suit me exactly, I dare say the question is, whether I shall suit the advertiser exactly. Mrs. J. Why shouldn't you ? You are bright, intelli- gent, between twenty and twenty- five Carrie. Oh yes, I'm all that. Now go on. Mrs. J. You are a good linguist. Carrie. A good linguist ! My dearest mother, pray draw it mild ! Mrs. J. Carrie ! How often must I beg you not to use those slang expressions ! Nobody will want you as a companion if you talk like that. Carrie. Except M. Barette he wants me dreadfully ! I see the poor thing panting with impatience in the garden at this minute. Mrs. J. Now just oblige me by listening to me a minute. Do you mean to tell me you are not a good linguist 1 Why, what was the good of your going to Madame Blancbec's at Fontainebleau for three months ? Carrie. Madame Blancbec's was an exemplary establish- ment certainly the only drawback to it was that we learnt no French. Mrs. J. But why was I never told this before ? Why in that case did all our neighbours at Croydon send their daughters to the same place ? Carrie. That was always a mystery to me. We used to talk French to each other, certainly, but it seemed to me that to send several English girls abroad to learn French from one another was rather like the inhabitants of the Scilly Isles taking in each other's washing. 198 The ' Swiss Times ' Mrs. J. I must say I never heard anything like that ! I am sure Pa will be furious when I tell him. Carrie. Then don't tell him, dear mother. Mrs. J. There's Mabel Price, who only went to Berlin for two months, arid she has spoken with a German accent ever since. That is the sort of thing Pa would have liked, and it shows at once that a girl has been abroad. Carrie. Dear mother, I'm very sorry you should have s^nt me to the same place. Perhaps the French accent is not so adhesive. Mrs. J. Well, now about the music. Do you think you are a good musician 1 Carrie. Yes, I should have thought so. What do you suppose they mean by a good musician ? Mrs. J. I should think some one who could play in the evening when people are talking, or sing a bright little song after dinner, Milton Wellings or some one of that sort. Carrie. Oh yes, I could quite well do that. Mrs. J. There now, you see the whole thing would suit you exactly. Enter Mrs. Prout and Alethea. Alethea in an aesthetic gown carrying several large books. Mrs. P. (with paper open in hand). Now don't you agree with me, darling, that it is exactly the thing for you ? Aleth. Well, of course, the question would have to be considered. I don't know enough about it yet to give an opinion. Mrs. P. No, no, of course not, my dear. But it would be such an opportunity for you to see the world, wouldn't it ? Aleth. No doubt that qua social opportunity it might be a good one qud opportunity for self-improvement it is more doubtful. The ' Szt'iss Times ' , 1 99 .I//-.--. J. (to Carrie). You see, we could leave here at eleven thirty on Saturday. Carrie. Yes, and I could travel in my fawn colour to look decent when we arrived. Mrs. P. All that is wanted you could do so well ! you are bright and intelligent Aleth. Yes, doubtless. Mrs. P. You are a good linguist Aleth. I should like to know more accurately what is meant by a good linguist. If it means to chatter French slang more or less fast, that is one thing, and I don't pretend to it if it means to have a thorough critical, philological, and etymological knowledge of foreign tongues, so as to be able to read the masterpieces of France, Germany, and Italy with intelligence and understanding, that is another. That, I think, I should be qualified to do. Mrs. P. Really, Alethea, you always seem to go so deep into things ! much too deep for me, I'm sure. Aleth. There you are mistaken, mamma. It is im- possible to go into things too deeply. Mrs. P. (aside). It really would be very nice if she had some one to travel with. Mrs. J. (to Carrie). And what I feel about this is, it might lead to something else. Carrie. What sort of thing ? Mrs. J. You might meet some one abroad who who - oh ! well, all sorts of things may happen. Aleth. (to Mrs. Prout). Of course there is no doubt, that did I obtain this post, my horizon would be infinitely widened. Mrs. P. Of course, dear, of course, and that is so nice for young people ! Aleth. (sharply). It is most unfortunate, mamma, that I cannot succeed in making you see my point of view. Mrs. P. Oh, yes, dear, I quite understand you think, 20O The ' Swiss Times ' as I do, that it would be a good thing if we went to Lucerne on Saturday. Mrs. J. (to Carrie). I shall give notice then that we don't need our rooms here after Saturday morning. \Botli couples advance and lay papers on table at same moment. Mrs. G. Well, have you come to any conclusion 1 Mrs. P. and Mrs. J. (together). Yes, the post mentioned in this advertisement will exactly suit my daughter. Mrs. G. So many people seem to want companions just now I have a friend who is looking for one. Mrs. P. Oh, indeed ! Her place might suit Miss Jack- son. Mrs. J. I was going to say that it might do for Miss Prout. Mrs. G. Are you sure you don't want to apply too, Miss Mayne 1 Helen. On the contrary, I should like to very much indeed. Mrs. J. Oh, I hardly think you would find either of these would do for you. Helen. Do you think not 1 Why ? Mrs. J. Oh, well, you know Mrs. P. The fact is, you see Mrs. J. In the meantime, Carrie, don't you think it would be a good thing if you were to freshen up your music a little before Saturday 1 Carrie. I think it would. [Looking ro^^nd at piano. Mrs. P. (hurriedly). Alethea, darling, suppose you were to practise a little ? Aleth. Yes, that might be advantageous. Mrs. J. (aside to Carrie). You make up to this lady while we are here, and show her what you can be in the way of a companion. Then if by any chance you didn't get the other see ? The ' Swiss Times ' 20 1 Carrie. I see, mamma I wasn't born yesterday, thank you. I know my way about. Mrs. P. Alethea, dearest, suppose in case the other idea came to nothing Aleth. Came to nothing, mamma ? Why should it come to nothing ? Mrs. P. Oh, well, because you might not like it, you know. Aleth. That is possible, of course. Mrs. P. Suppose you were to make yourself agree- able to this lady here ? Her friend might suit you better. Aleth. Yes, I agree with you, mamma, that such a plan appears to offer many advantages. Mrs. J. (to Carrie). You ask her if she likes music. Carrie. Or I might sing a song that would show her what I can do. Mrs. P. (to Alethea). If I were you, my dear, I would go and play. Aleth. Yes, that would not be undesirable. [Gets up and goes to piano, L. Mrs. J. (looking round). Good gracious ! She's going to play. We really can't have her monopolising everybody's attention in this way, Quick, Carrie ! Don't keep in the background, pray. [Carrie jiunps up and rushes to the other piano, R., just as Alethea is going to begin. Carrie makes a spring on to the music stool and begins a song. Alethea looks round, much surprised: Carrie goes on as if she saw nothing. Aleth. Oh, I beg your pardon. [Carrie goes on.~\ I beg your pardon ! perhaps you didn't observe that I was just going to play. Carrie. Oh, what a pity, I'm so sorry you should be disappointed. [Carrie sings. Alethea plays. 202 The ' Szviss Times' Mrs. G. (loud, to Helen). It is a pity there is not a third piano for you to play upon at the same time. Helen. Yes, it is a great pity I might have shown you some of my accomplishments. Mrs. G. My dear, I am only so thankful that if you have any accomplishments you keep them to yourself. Mrs. J. (from piano). What do you think of that, Mrs. Gordon ? Mrs. G. Do you mean of hearing two different things at once ? I am not sure that I think it quite answers. Mrs. J. No, I mean my daughter's singing. She's con- sidered to have a most effective style of singing. Mrs. G. Yes, I should think it was most effective. Mrs. P. (to Alethea). Say something to show how much you know about it do put yourself forward a little more, my dear ! Aleth. (from piano, to Mrs. Gordon). You doubtless have observed that what I have been playing is one of the best examples of Beethoven's second period before he altered his manner. Mrs. G. (aside). I wish she would alter her manner ! Aleth. Perhaps if Miss Jackson doesn't wish to sing any more just now, I might play you the last movement of this it is a typical rondo, characteristic of that form in its highest development. Carrie. Or I was just going to suggest that if Miss Prout didn't wish to go on playing I might sing you Linda Wright's last composition the words are so touching as well as the air. It is called ' The Ninth Love is the Love that endures.' Shall 1 1 Mrs. G. I am so very much obliged to you both but to tell you the truth, I have a slight headache this evening I think I am not up to listening to any more music. Mrs. J. A headache ! Oh, dear me, Carrie knows just The ' Swiss Times ' 203 what to do for a headache don't you, Carrie ? Let her get you something for it. Mrs. P. Alethea will fetch you something. J//-.S-. J, Carrie will get some menthol run quick, dear ! J//v*. G. No, no, please don't do anything of the kind. Carrie, Oh, please do let me a headache is such a wretched thing, I know. I so often have them myself ! where did you put the menthol, mamma ? M /*. J. The menthol ? I put it into your hand. Carrie. Oh, yes, I remember and I dropped it in the garden, when I was hopping. Dear me, I'm afraid I didn't pick it up again ! J//x J. Just like your carelessness, Carrie. Mrs. P. Alethea, you know what to do for a headache, don't you ? She has been a martyr to them herself, poor girl ! It is all that study of course it would be surprising if she didn't have them. Ahth. (to Mrs. G.) I wonder what sort of headache yours is whether it arises from some general constitutional disturbance, or if it is purely nervous ? Is it over the brow, or do you find one side affected more than the other ? J//-.N'. G. Thank you, I really couldn't say what class of headache it is, except that it is really not worth paying any attention to. Alcth. My headaches, the worst ones, generally begin over the left eye and go gradually round the head. Mrs. P. Ah, my dear, you take after your poor Aunt Eliza hers, I remember, used to do just the same thing. They were not quite as violent as yours, perhaps, but that was not surprising, as she was not nearly so clever. Mrs. J. My headaches always come on just at the top of my head. Carrie. Mine come on just here. 2O4 The ' Siviss Times ' Mrs. G. Why, what afflicted people you all are ! Have you no headaches, Miss Mayne ? Helen. No, I am sorry to say I haven't. In fact I am quite unequal to the occasion when headaches are talked about, as I never have any. Mrs. G. (aside). What a delightful person ' Mrs. J. (aside). I never saw such a silly little creature as that girl is. Mrs. P. She has none of the poetry of feeling that belongs to ill health. Mrs. J. Look here, Carrie, why don't you get a foot- stool for Mrs. Gordon or do something ? Carrie. I don't know where there is one. Mrs. J. Look then ! Let her see how energetic and useful you are. \Carriefu8Sfs round, while Mrs. Gordon is talking to Ifefen, to Mrs. Gordon's manifest annoyance. Mrs. G. (to Helen). So you never have any headaches ? what an agreeable companion ! Mrs. P. Companion ! Surely she's not thinking of her ! Helen. Yes, I'm a very sturdy person. Mrs. G. Sturdy, are you ? I should hardly have thought it from your appearance. Helen (smiling). Oh, yes, I am though I dare say the reason you think 1 look pale is that I have been a long time in India. Mrs. G. In India ? Have you ? Where ? Carrie (who has been looking about for footstool). There under the table ! Mrs. G. (worried). There, what ? Carrie. Oh, only a footstool. Mrs. G. Do you want a footstool 1 Carrie (with an engaging giggle). Oh, it was for you I wanted it, The ' Swiss Times ' 205 Mrs. G. For me, was it ? Thank you, I have one already I never use a pair. Carrie. Oh, I see I beg your pardon. (To Mrs. Jackson) Mamma ! Why did you tell me to get a foot- stool ? J//-x. P. (to Alethea). Mind, my dear, you never offer to get anything people don't want. Aleth. Well, really, mamma, I should have thought it was hardly necessary to say that to one who has studied the most elementary laws of supply and demand. Mrs. P. I see, my dearj I see ! (Aside) That girl always has an answer for everything. It would be a good thing if she could find some one to travel away with ! Do do something more to make yourself agreeable, my dear. Mrs. J. (to Carrie). Why don't you do something a companion does? it would be the best possible practice for you. Aleth. (to Mrs. P.) What shall I do ? Carrie (to Mrs. J.) Do 1 What do companions do 1 Mr*. P. Oh, you might do a hundred things ! people read aloud Mrs. J. They pick up stitches in knitting Mrs. P. Write letters Mrs. J. They suggest things for colds in the head all sorts of agreeable things. Aleth. Well, I can read aloud, I dare say, if that would do ? Carrie. I could pick up her stitches, if that's all. Mrs. P. W'ell, try, dear don't stay in the background ! it is such a mistake for a girl to be in the background Aunt Eliza used always to say so. Mrs. J. (to Carrie). Do suggest something don't let that stupid little creature engross her attention in that way ! 206 The ' Siviss Times ' Mrs. G. (to Helen). I am very much interested in India we must have a long talk about it. Aleth. (advancing with a book). This is an essay on the comparative method of enquiry as applied to the researches of modern science. Mrs. G. (bored). Oh indeed ! Well, Miss Mayne, as we were saying Aleth. I thought perhaps you would like to hear some of it read aloud. Mrs. G. I am afraid I should hardly understand it. But pray don't let me interrupt you Miss Mayne and I can go on chatting in a low voice without disturbing any- one, can't we, Miss Mayne ? Aleth. Oh, it was only for your sake I was going to read aloud I think reading to oneself is a much more fruitful method of study. Mrs. J. Now, quick, Carrie, you say something ! Carrie. Oh, I think it is so sociable just to talk and to work ! (To Mrs. Gordon) May I see what your work is 1 What lovely knitting ! It is beautiful quite a work of art ! Mrs. G. I am glad you find it so. I should have thought it was a very ordinary object. [Holds up loiiy woollen stocking.} It is a pair of winter stockings I am knitting for a charity. Carrie. Oh, I am so devoted to knitting ! If you drop any stitches you will let me pick them up for you, won't you 1 Mrs. G. Thank you, you are too kind I don't often drop any stitches, I am glad to say. Perhaps that is because I have knitted vigorously for twenty years past. Carrie. No wonder you knit BO beautifully then. But you will let me help you whenever you need it, won't you ? The ' Swiss Tiwes ' 207 Mrs. G. Oh, thank you, thank you, yes. (Aside) Dear me, this torrent of solicitude from everyone is becom- ing maddening ! I wish there were some other place to sit. [Gets up and goes to window, Alethea follows her. Aleth. Does not the light in the middle distance recall to you what Ruskin says in one of the recent numbers of ' Prteterita ? ' Mrs. G. (turning back from window). No, I can't say that it does. I dislike Ruskin particularly. Carrie (enthusiastically). Oh, do you dislike Ruskin 1 I'm so glad ! I can't abide him at least I can't under- stand a word he says ! never could ! Mrs. G. (aside). This is getting unbearable ! But this evening will save me the trouble of making my choice at Lucerne. [Takes a pack of cards out of her bay. Carrie. Oh, are you going to play at cards ! How delightful ! I love cards ! Oh, you should hear me play a Nap ! I scream I can't help it I quite scream ! Mrs. G. I don't think you will be called upon to scream over my cards I am going to do a patience. Carrie. A patience ! Oh, I shall love that of all things ! I do like watching a patience only that I never can understand why people want to arrange the cards in a particular way. Mrs. G. It must interest you immensely to watch it then. Carrie. I'm such a silly creature about that sort of thing ! Aleth. I shall be very glad to see how a patience is done I have always understood that it is a most desirable form of recreation for an over-taxed brain. Mrs. G. (to Helen). Are you also intensely interested in patience, Miss Mayne ? Helen. Indeed I am ! in fact I hope you won't be 208 The ' Swiss Times ' shocked at me if I tell you that I do a patience every evening before going to bed. Mrs. G. (pleased). Indeed ? how delightful ! Then I am sure you will be able to teach me some I don't know. Helen. I dare say I might, I learnt a good many in India they were a great resource in the hot weather, when we were obliged to stay indoors for so many hours. I know one most delightful one shall I show it you ? Mrs. G. Pray do. \_Helen shuffles. Mrs. J. (to Carrie). How is it that you can't play patience or do any of these things 1 Carrie. Because you never took me to India, of course ! it is not my fault if you will remain at Croydon all the year round. Mrs. P. (to Alethea). How is it you don't know any patiences, Alethea 1 I thought you knew everything. Aleth. I have never had any leisure to spend in acquiring mere pastimes. [Helen lays out cards the others look on. Helen. This is a rather complicated one, I am afraid, but very interesting. Mrs. G. I wonder if it is in the handbook for Patience ? Helen. No, I should think not in fact I have only met one person who knows it the one from whom I learnt it. Mrs. G. (excited). Why, surely I know this what's the name of it ? Helen. It is called ' The Mystery of the Skies.' Mrs. G. That's it then it's my boy's patience ! Helen. Your boy 1 Mrs. G. My son Harry Major Gordon. Helen. Major Gordon ! Mrs. G. Ye.s was it from him you learnt ii r t Yes> I see it was I see it in your face ! The ' Swiss Times 209 Helen. It was yes, it was ! Mes about, finds the candle.] Here is the candle, but the matches, where are they ? A measure- less darkness is round me I am giddy I am lost I no longer remember where I am ! I am afraid to move, for fear I should go near him, and rouse him to violence and madness ! [Gropes about, finds matches, draws a deep sigh of relief] Ah ! at last, the matches ! I hardly dare to strike one, the flame will light up some hideous thing peering out of the darkness ! Oh ! George, George, why did you ever leave me ? Oh ! if you were here now ! [Strikes match, and lights th* candle with trembling hands, then looks furtively round her, sees the boots, she is close to them starts away again at finding herself so near them, and darts to the other side of the room] Is it possible he has not heard me 1 He must be asleep, worn out by the excitement of his wicked project. I have heard that so the American Indians sleep at the stake he can sleep 234 -A Woman of Courage between one dark deed and another ! [ Watches the cur- tains.} I saw a rustle I am sure I saw a rustle. He is waking now, now the moment comes. Oh ! for courage to inspire me ! I must try to put him off the scent. [Speaks loudly and cheerfully, looking furtively at curtains at intervals.} What a very nice hotel this is ! What a charming room ! I am very glad I came here, very glad indeed. The whole thing has been so pleasant : a journey without a hitch, then the arrival here, all so comfortable ! and I don't feel the least lonely, with so many people sleep- ing near me. I see the rooms on each side of me are in- habited and just now, when I looked into the passage, I saw two waiters on duty there, and I noticed a burly porter walking up and down, too, with a thick stick in his hand, so I only have to open the door and call if I want anything, or ring the bell. (Aside) I only wish I could ! (Aloud) Besides, how comfortable it is being without any luggage ! I feel so independent ! for, of course, as I am going back to-morrow, it was not worth while to bring anything but my things for the night they just fill up my hand-bag, it is so convenient. It is so light I can carry it quite easily myself, so I am not afraid of its going astray not that it would matter if it did, as there are no valuables in it. So that I really have nothing at all to think about. That is what makes my expedition so thoroughly delight- ful ! Oh ! I am enjoying myself ! [Looks round.} Now, if he is awake, he must have been completely lulled to security. Yes, I am sure he is awake. His feet seem to me to have changed their position the right foot is a shade more forward, I am almost sure, as if he were going to step out into the room . . . and yet no, it looks stiff, inert, as though it were Ah ! [Starts up, catches her dress in the chair, shrieks, covers her face with her hands without look- ing behind her.} Ah ! what is it ? Yes, I arn your prisoner, I am at your mercy ! Take it, take the bag, take every- A Woman of Courage 235 thing I have, but oh, unlock the door and let me go from here unharmed ! [Looks round.} Why, I was caught on a nail ! I thought I already felt the cruel hands dragging me to my fate ! But oh, if he would not prolong my tor- ture if he would leap out on me in savage exultation and take my heart's blood ! I could not defend myself, there is no weapon at hand yes ! What is that ? [Looks at the fender] A bottle an empty bottle. Ah ! it is labelled laudanum ! now, now I know it all ! This is the meaning of the stillness, the horrible stillness of that form behind the curtain it is the stillness of the dead ! It is not with a robber, a murderer, I am shut in here at midnight it is with a corpse a cold corpse the corpse of one who has died by his own deed who died by poison here in his lonely room under the roof ! There he stands, hidden by the curtains behind which I dare not look I dare not draw the curtain which shelters that horrible inmate ! This, then, was the reason why this room oppressed me with horror from the moment I came into it, why I shrank from the sight of these walls which had received the dying look of the suicide the air was heavy with crime this is the room that witnessed his last struggle with his last effort he drew that curtain before his convulsed features ! Oh, how little I realised till this moment the tragedies of which we daily read ! Now I am face to face with one alone with suicide and death. Oh, what must I do ? What shall I do ? I shall go mad ! [Leans forward on the table with her head on her arms.] [Knocking at the door. She starts up and stands quivering. More knocking. She whispers close to the door hoarsely.] Yes, what is it ? Voice (outside). Sorry to trouble you, ma'am gentleman leaving at four o'clock in the morning has left his boots here, he says. Mrs. Trembleton. Left his boots here ! 236 A Woman of Com age Waiter. Yes, m'm, behind the curtain. Mrs. Trembleton. Left them behind the curtain ! [Looks round.] What ! oh ! Can it be ? [JRushes at curtain and draws it aside.] A pair of boots ! Oh ! how foolish I have been ! [ Waiter knocks again.] Yes, the boots are here, but I can't open the door. I have hampered the lock somehow. Will you get a key, please 1 Thank you and, waiter, when you come back, I think I would rather go into the room below never mind if it is noisy. [Puts on bonnet, &c., takes bag.] Oh, what an hour of agony I have passed ! if only I had known there were no legs inside those boots, how much suffering I should have been spared ! still, I am not sorry to have had this expe- rience this terrible experience ! and after all, I don't know that I have come out of it so badly. [More knocking at the door.] Is that the key 1 Thank you. Open the door, please. [The door is opened from the outside.] And I really believe [Going out] that when I tell George how I confronted the perils of a hotel at midnight, he will at last agree that I must be A Woman of Courage ! 237 A HAED DAY'S WOEK MONOLOGUE. On dear, what an exhausting day I have had ! Since this morning when I first went out, until this evening when I returned from a dinner-party, I have been on the move all day, mentally as well as physically, about other people's business. Perhaps it is partly my own fault that there are so many claims upon my time but there, I can't help taking a keen interest in all that surrounds me I am too impressionable, too clear-sighted, too sympathetic ! It would be better for me, I dare say, if I spared myself more, and did not allow myself to be troubled about other people's trials and difficulties, but then I feel it would not be right of me to refuse to help them by my advice, when I always see exactly the thing to be done it would be hardly fair for me to stand aloof and let people settle their affairs the wrong way, when a word from me would set them right but still, it is very trying, most fatiguing ! Poor Fanny Howard ! I wonder how she has settled her difficulties ! I met her in Knightsbridge this morning, as I was going out to shop the first thing after breakfast. I saw she looked preoccupied, and in a hurry, so I stopped her at once to ask what was the matter with her, and then I turned back to walk with her, which I felt was only kind. ' I'm going for the character of a nurse,' she said, in her usual flurried and nervous way, 'a perfect paragon I've heard of ! ' 238 A Hard Days Work (' A paragon ! ' I thought to myself, ' that sounds bad ! I don't believe in other people's paragons ! ') ' I must make haste, for the lady I am going to is just leaving town such splendid references I've had with this woman and I've had a personal interview with everyone she has lived with, except Mrs. Tyler.' Mrs. Tyler ! Not Mrs. Henry Tyler 1 ' I cried. ' Yes, Mrs. Henry Tyler she has just gone to Switzer- land, and they don't know where a letter will find her besides, the nurse was only there three months, for she said it was impossible to bear with Mrs. Tyler's temper.' ' But, good heavens ! my dearest Fanny, if the woman was only there three months, Mrs. Tyler is exactly the one you should have seen you must really communicate with her at once ! I know her very well, and I know, too, that she had a French nurse the other day, who was the most dread- ful woman ! I shouldn't be surprised if this were the very one. Jeanne Duval, did you say her name was 1 ' 'No Mathilde Laborde.' ' Ah, well still it is the same, you may depend upon it!' ' Oh, Geraldine ! ' cried Fanny petulantly (she certainly has become very irritable lately poor thing, it must be the fault of that husband of hers, one of the most tedious men T ever met). ' Now you have quite unsettled me again, just as I had made up my mind at last ! ' ' But how very fortunate it was that I happened to meet you now, dear Fanny, before it was too late ! ' I wished I could have remained longer with the poor thing, to have helped her out of her difficulties to the end, but I really had not the time to spare, as I had promised Lady Agnes Merton to look in during the morning. So I was obliged to leave poor Fanny, although my heart smote me for doing so. When I saw Lady Agnes, I felt at once that something A Hard Day's Work 239 unusual had happened she came in, her face wreathed with smiles, bubbling over with happiness. ' My dear friend, what do you think 1 Nita is engaged ! ' ' Nita, your daughter ! I am glad to hear it ! To whom ? ' ' To one of the most delightful young men I have ever met. (' Of course ! ' I thought. I never yet knew a mother who did not say the same thing of her daughter's jiancJ.) ' We have not known him very long, but he seems to be in every respect exactly the husband we could have desired for her. You know him too, I dare say Bertie Erskine.' 'Not Bertie Erskine about whom there was thatsc I checked myself in time. ' What did you say ? ' asked Lady Agnes quickly. I hesitated. ' Well, really . . . My dear Lady Agnes, it may not be true, you know, but there certainly was some story about his being turned out of his club last year that Lady Gordon was mixed up in it somehow. I really forget exactly what it was, but I dare say I could find it all out for you.' ' Bertie Erskine ! ' repeated Lady Agnes slowly she certainly is stupid at taking in things sometimes. ' Can it be possible 1 However, it is not too late he will be here this morning.' ' Exactly ! and then he can tell you all about it himself - so much nicer and after all, an engagement is not such an irrevocable thing ' (cheerfully). ' Good-bye, dear Lady Agnes ! I am so glad I just happened to come in this morning ! ' By the way, I heard from a friend I met in the after- noon, that it was not Bertie Erskine, but the story was about. I wonder if Lady Agnes has found that out. 240 A Hard Day s Work I dare say she has. At any rate, I am afraid I shan't have time this week to go and tell her, and I never like putting that kind of thing in a letter I am always so afraid of spreading scandal but certainly for the next few days I shall not have a minute to spare. Really, I can't think how I live through all I have to do I am quite worn out with it sometimes. I got to Lady Greville's to-day, where I have a standing invitation to luncheon, quite faint and exhausted. I was rather surprised there to find no one but Sir Charles Porter in possession of the drawing-room. Nice youth, Sir Charles Porter at least he will be when he is older. I don't know how it is, boys of six or seven and twenty are not nearly so interesting as they used to be : perhaps it is the difference in education everything is changing nowadays. Sir Charles seemed to be in a state of nervous anxiety, quite unlike his usual light-hearted manner and started when he saw me come into the room, as though when the door opened he had expected to see some one else. 1, seeing he was unwilling to talk, took the whole burden of the conver- sation on my shoulders as well as I could, but it was very uphill work, and I finally had to fall back upon a photo- graph album, which I never do unless I am positively at my last gasp. Sir Charles seemed quite listless at first, but he gradually woke up into pa} ing more attention, as I told him about all the people whose portraits we were looking at. I have a way of running on, I suppose, that makes people listen to me somehow they seem to think I have a happy knack of putting tilings, a sort of sparkling way with me, perhaps and so, I began telling him all about everybody. The first two portraits in the book were of course Lady Greville's father and mother. The mother is a most extraordinary- looking old lady, and, as I said to Sir Charles, is certainly a warning to her daughter of what she will be like and A Hard Day's Work 24 1 still more to Blanche Greville, her granddaughter, for the girl is as like her grandmother as she can be. Sir Charles had not noticed the likeness until I pointed it out to him. Then there came a portrait of General Chaloner, Lady Greville's brother, Blanche's bachelor uncle, who, it is said, means to leave his niece all his fortune. He is a most splendid, soldierly-looking creature, and, as I told Sir Charles, likely to live for thirty years longer, for all those Chaloners are a wonderfully long-lived race. Their name is legion and their photographs are legion too ! And as for the Greville family, I got quite tired of looking at all the representations of them, depicted in every stage of growth and fashion ! Sir Charles, poor fellow ! evidently thought it his duty to please me by looking at every one of them scrupulously, as if they were the most interesting things in the world to him it was too funny ! I couldn't help feeling, and saying, as we turned over page after page, ' Really, I don't think I ever saw such an uninteresting family they are all one worse than the other. Don't you think so, Sir Charles ? ' ' Well, I don't know, it hadn't occurred to me,' he said, in a constrained voice his manner certainly has altered incredibly for the worse since I first knew him ! ' Let us go on to something more interesting,' I said, turning over the pages. ' Ah, this is better do look ! this is really a very amusing juxtaposition of people ! Guy Paget, Henry Fitzwilliam, Captain Morgan and Charlie Lennox all of them Blanche's admirers ! What a good idea to put them on the same page, isn't it 1 ' ' Very,' said Sir Charles grimly. ' Captain Morgan was a great friend of mine,' I con- tinued, determined to amuse my gloomy companion if I could. ' He was ordered out to Africa at the end of last summer, as I dare say you know. During the whole season he had been very intimate with some friends of mine. I R 242 A Hard Day's Work won't tell you their names, as I don't think it would be quite fair. I hate spreading gossip but I dare say you will guess ! He had more especially seen a great deal of the daughter, a very intimate friend of mine, who had certainly looked very kindly on him, as young girls too often im- prudently do. Ill-natured people said though I am not sure that I quite believe them that when Captain Morgan was ordered to Africa, he was not sorry of the opportunity it gave him to say good-bye to Miss (never mind who) ' (archly} ' before arriving at a further stage of friendship at which a farewell might perhaps be more difficult, though more dramatic so accordingly the night before he sailed, he went to say good-bye to her, and found her, by the most curious chance in the world, quite alone. What do you think happened ? Either she was unable to restrain her feelings, or else she had the most wonderful presence of mind I have never known which to call it but when the fatal word ' Good-bye ' passed his lips, she burst into an agony of tears, and well-nigh sank on the ground at his feet ! This threw him into the greatest perturbation, poor youth! which was still further increased when the door suddenly opened, and Lady Greville, finding the young couple in the touching situation I have described, gave them her bless- ing!' ' Lady Greville ! ' shouted Sir Charles, in a state of un- accountable excitement. ' Dear me, yes now I have let the name slip out, like the stupid thing I am ! How very absurd but however, I dare say you had guessed it already 1 ' ' Guessed it ? No, indeed ! by heavens, I had not ! What ! Do you mean to say that the heroine of your story, the girl who fell at the feet of of Captain Morgan, was Miss Greville ? Blanche Greville ? It is impossible ! ' ' No I assure you the story is quite true, perfectly true Captain Morgan, I 3ieed not say, went away from here A Hard Day's Work 243 that night for it happened in this very room an engaged man.' ' But then, if it is true, why did he not marry her ? ' ' Ah, now you come to the dramatic part of the story. Affection, they say, depends upon propinquity. So, when, one person is in Grosvenor Square, and the other in Africa, affection is perhaps apt to languish ! At any rate, when Captain Morgan had been away six months, Blanche thought that Sir Henry Smythe, with 20,000/. a year, would make a more desirable husband. So she wrote to break off her engagement to Captain Morgan, who, they say, was not at all sorry to be released but now a dreadful thing happens. Sir Henry Smythe, who, as you know, is always going round the world when he has nothing else to do, turns out to be engaged to a girl in Japan, the daughter of the English Minister there and so, poor Blanche is left mourn- ing!' Sir Charles certainly is a most extraordinary person, he had suddenly awoke out of his lethargy into a state of violent passion, like a child who is roused from its sleep, and begins to scream he began striding about the room like a madman (I shouldn't be surprised if that happened some day, he is so very peculiar sometimes), and then said abruptly : ' I find I must go I'm afraid I can't wait till Lady Greville comes in. Will you tell her that that I had an appointment at half-past one, in the City ? I had forgotten it,' and off he went. Of course I, who, when I am shown one sentence of a story, can always reconstruct the rest of it, now saw the state of things, which indeed I should have discovered in any case a few minutes later, when Lady Greville arrived, very much surprised to see me, and me only. ' What, Geraldine ! you hei*e ! How long have you been here ? ' and she looked round the room vaguely, as if she expected to see some one else. B2 244 A Hard Day's Work ' Yes, dear,' I said, ' I thought I would come in to luncheon with you to-day, and as I was told you would be home at half-past one, I waited but I have not been at all dull. Sir Charles Porter lias been here, and I found .him most entertaining ! ' ' Sir Charles Porter ! Is he gone, then 1 ' ' Yes, he was obliged to go he told me to tell you he. had an appointment in the City at half-past one.' ' How very odd why that is the very time he appointed to come here ! He wrote to me last night to ask if he might come to speak to me at 1.30 to-day. Of course I knew what for for, between ourselves, he has been paying a great deal of attention to Blanche lately, and in fact I have wondered a little at his not declaring himself before. Blanche had already settled to go out driving with Lady Castleton this morning, but I expect her in every moment. Sir Charles, I dare say, will turn up here presently.' However, I don't believe that Sir Charles did turn up, or what is more, that he ever will, in that particular way but I did not remain to see, for I made my escape as soon as I could after luncheon, as I had to get to the other end of London by tea-time. I had promised to go to tea with Mary Woollier, dear good creature ! She is one of those people whose children are always at a crisis of their educa- tion when you go to see them. She is always just making up her mind to have a holiday governess for Mary, or to take Jack away from school for a year, with a tutor, or to send Nellie to Queen's College, and so on. Accord- ingly, when I got there this afternoon, I found the customary state of things namely, that Mary was quite rigid with agitation at having decided to send Lucy to Heidelberg for six months, to live with a former governess of her own who takes in six young English ladies, who have the privilege of speaking German to her, and their mother tongue to each other, for the sum of 1 201. a year. I felt when I first heard A Hard Day's Work 245 of it that the whole thing was inexpedient and absurd, and that the plan could never answer, but I don't like meddling, so I held my peace, until Mary so pointedly asked my advice that I was obliged to tell her what I thought. I said, ' I don't think I can give an unbiassed opinion about Heidelberg, for I happen to know two or three things about the place that would quite prevent me from ever sending a daughter of mine there.' ' Good heavens, Geraldine, not really?' Mary exclaimed. ' Why, I have just posted my letter to Fraulein Zimmern. making all the final arrangements, and saying Lucy will cross next Tuesday. Do tell me what you have heard ! What sort of thing do you mean 1 ' ' Well, on the face of it,' I replied, ' a university town is not quite the place to send a girl to. The students make it very disagreeable in many ways, and I believe at Heidel- berg it is not at all an uncommon thing for them to kiss their hands to girls in the street. Now I consider that shocking ! ' 'Oh, extremely so, no doubt but still, if that is all- ' All ! But, my dear Mary, how much more do you want ? Besides, it is not all far from being all ! There are all kinds of stories about the place, and I believe it to be an undoubted fact that last winter no less than three English girls ran away from boarding-houses with German students. Now, how would you like that to happen to your daughter ? ' ' Not at all, I must confess. Still, I don't think it very likely that Lucy 1 Lucy ! but after all, Lucy is in some respects, I imagine, like other girls ! I know, of course, how carefully you have trained her, and what excellent principles she has, what charming manners but girls will be girls, you know, and you can't expect her to be quite unlike the rest of her sex.' 246 A Hard Day's Work 'Well, we will see what my husband says,' Mary answered, as that kind of woman invariably does and as it happened, just at that moment the door opened, and Mr. Woolner walked in. Now, he is exactly the type of man I have a perfect horror of a great, bluff, matter-of-fact sort of creature, priding himself on his common sense and know- ledge of the world, and always settling things in an off-hand manner which he considers infallible, without an idea of the more sensitive perceptions and scruples of womankind. ' Oh, George, I am so glad you have come in ! ' Mary cried. ' What do you think Geraldine has been telling me about Heidelberg ? ' ' I'm sure I can't tell,' he answered, in his indifferent, ill-mannered fashion. 'That the university has the cholera, perhaps, or that the Schloss has fallen into the river. Is there any tea left, Mary ? ' ' No, but do listen, George ! She says there have been three elopements from Heidelberg ! What are we to do about Lucy 1 ' 1 About her eloping, do you mean ? She must manage that for herself, my dear. We can't do anything for her ! ' 'George ! how tiresome you are you know quite well what I mean. Do you think that Heidelberg can be a proper place to send her to, after all 1 ' ' Well, all I can say is, that if it is not, London isn't a proper place either for there were certainly three, if not four, elopements from London last year, and many other wicked things, which perhaps Lucy may take to, if she has a turn that way ! Come, give me a cup of tea, my dear, and let's hear no more of this nonsense ! ' Horrid, gormandising creature, always thinking of his own comfort, and preferring his tea to his children's wel- fare ! I need not say that after his most rude and insulting words I would not stay in the room with him a minute longer. Perhaps next time Mary is in a difficulty, she will A Hard Day's Work 247 be sorry that she has cut herself off from the chance of my help. I dislike of all things having to dress for dinner in a hurry the result of all this Heidelberg discussion was that I got to Lady Marie Stanhope's dinner-party a quarter of an hour after everyone else had arrived. My host, who took me down, was in rather a thorny frame of mind in consequence, in spite of his delight with his new cook which, by the way, he most naively imparted to all his guests ! though, as I told him, I don't think she is as good as the last. But he doesn't care what anybody says, he is the sort of man who always thinks he is right. I got quite exhausted by the end of dinner, after vainly trying to prove to him on several occasions that he was wrong ! He said only one thing that interested me, and that was, that he had met Sir Charles Porter this afternoon, who said he was going to the East. I am glad of it he will be out of the way of that flirting Blanche Greville. Heigho ! / should like to go to the East, or to the West, or somewhere at any rate a long way oft', beyond the reach of people who come to me for advice and sympathy but I really don't like to do it. I don't feel as if it would be right to leave all my friends for so long. But there is time enough to think of it, after all I won't trouble my head about it to-night, as I have a busy day, and an early start, before me to-morrow. I promised I would go to Lady Walmer's in the morning, to help her to choose the new paper for her dining-room I know if I don't go that she will take that horrid greenish-grey one she has set her heart upon, and which I detest ! And now, to bed for I am quite worn out, in mind and in body, by my hard day's work ! Curtain. 248 THE EELIQUAEY MONOLOGUE. Alice. It is done ! I have written to accept him ! There is the letter, the fatal letter, that carries my destiny within its folds. I am almost afraid of it, it seems to me such a terribly important document ! It is very odd from the moment I had written it I felt less and less inclined to send it. What a curious thing, to be sure ! It doesn't always happen, I suppose : people can't always feel like that about the letters they've written, or we should never I'eceive any at all. Correspondence would cease, postmen would starve, the Dead Letter Office would be the only one we should need. But I am talking vainly this is an idle dream ! there lies the letter, it is written, stamped and sealed, and there- fore, in accordance with a stern and unvarying law of nature, it must now go to the post there is no help for it, I suppose. Still, it cannot go until to-morrow morning, that is one comfort ; for it is past midnight, and time all good letters were in bed. And yet, if I could only have had it posted now there would have been an end of it, and I should never have seen it again. I should have heard of it, though, often enough, for I know what the result would be Frank would come rushing round here the first thing after breakfast, and then I should never be left in peace again. I really don't think I could stand it. TJie Reliquary 249 Have I done right, I wonder 1 What a silly creature he must be to give me all this trouble to write to propose to me, instead of asking me straight out when we were together, and getting my answer then and there. It would have been so much better ! I should have been surprised into saying something I'm sure I don't know what and there would have been an end of it. He has had heaps of opportunities, I am sure, for doing so. We were together at Lord's on Monday, and stood on the top of a little shed for ever so long after luncheon, while he was explaining the cricket to me what could have been better than that ? Or the night before, at Lady Montague's, when we were crushed into an alcove on the stairs by three dowagers, for ever so long, why couldn't he have done it then ? not to mention all the other places I've met him at in the last fortnight, for he has been absolutely my shadow ! Bazaars, where I've sold him rose-buds for fifteen shillings, and cups of tea for a pound private theatricals, where he's had to stand on the landing all the evening and look through the chink of the door recitations in the afternoon, where he has sometimes been the only man in the room, poor dear, such was his devotion ! Ah, well, it has been a pleasant and peaceful time, without fiery emotions of any kind, and now he must needs write me this idiotic love-letter, and put an end to it ! put a beginning, I suppose I should rather say which is it to be ? Perhaps if I sleep upon it I shall feel happier in the morning. 'Night brings good counsel,' the French pro- verb says. I suppose I can't be so very much in love with him, or I shouldn't hesitate at all. I should like to ask somebody's advice about it some one of my own age, who knows exactly what it is to be in love, who has had the complaint recently, like my aunt and her friends, who are always comparing experiences of their last illness but I don't quite know whom to ask. Not Rose Leigh, for I 250 The Reliquary believe she is more than half in love with Frank herself I don't know that that matters, though she might be all the better able to judge. Not Carrie Macdonald, for she. has the most extraordinary ideas. I've heard her say that one can only be in love once in a lifetime now I know for a fact that isn't true ! Well, well, I must struggle out of it myself, I suppose, as best I may. At any rate, if I am on the eve of such an important crisis in my life, I think that before going to sleep I ought to put my papers in order how grand that sounds ! Yes, I must turn out my secret drawer my drawer of relics all my precious souvenirs that have been lying there and accumulating with astonishing rapidity for the last five years, since my eighteenth birthday ! and now I am going to tear them up, throw them away, forget all the love affairs I've ever had, and subside into an ugly, commonplace matron. Oh, how many things ! I declare I've almost forgotten what they all are. I wish I had written their names on them when I put them away, as mamma does on her jams in the summer. What on earth is this ? a piece of broken pencil. That must be here by mistake. I'll throw it away no stay surely I remember something about it what was it ? Oh ! (laughing} oh I remember it must be Bertie FitzWilliam's ! Poor Bertie, what a dear good creature he was, and how stupid ! a great immense fellow, with a deep voice, and no more ideas than than a soldier gene- rally has ! and so shy, so shy. Declaring his love was an expression which could by no possibility be applied to him. He insinuated it, perhaps, hinted at it, made distant allu- sions to it, but as to declaring it, it was a great deal too much for him, in spite of his being six feet two. I shall never forget him, that last evening we were staying in a country house, where there had been a lawn tennis tournament in the afternoon he and I were drawn T lie Reliquary 251 to play together he put me in the corner of the court and took everything himself, and we won. I was so proud ! In the evening there was a great ball I danced nine times with him, I remember and then I discovered that the poor creature actually thought I cared about him ! We were sitting in the conservatory, after a waltz he certainly did waltz most divinely ! when he suddenly said, blushing violently, in a very hoarse, deep voice, ' Miss Beverley, I have something to say to you.' ' Indeed ? ' I said, smiling sweetly, 'I arn very glad of that.' 'Yes I have something to say to you.' ' I should not have thought it,' I replied, after waiting a moment to see if anything came. ' Can't you guess what it is 1 ' he said, becoming more and more strangled. ' Certainly not,' I answered, airily. ' Can't you really guess, Miss Beverley 1 ' ' Haven't an idea ! ' and I suppose the entire blank of my expression must have quenched his hopes at once and for ever for, after sitting for a moment, speechless, like a design for an image of misery to be executed on a colossal scale, he seized my ball programme, saying, ' Give me something that has belonged to you something that has touched your hand : give me this.' Such was his agita- tion, and such the size of his hands, that he broke the pencil in two, and left this half of it in my lap, and then he fled ! Poor Bertie, he is married now I hate those sandy-haired women with light eyelashes ! No, I don't think I can throw away that pencil, after I've had it all these years. [Puts it back. What is this 1 [Taking up letter.] ' My own dearest darling ' that sounds affectionate ! [Looks at signature.] O'Grady Captain O'Grady, of course! he was a lieu- tenant then I had forgotten his very existence ! [Look- ing over letter.] This is exactly the way he used to talk I fancy I can hear his Irish brogue now ! [Read.-*] ' My own dearest darling, I am leaving you, it may be for 252 The Reliquary years.' (That's an original expression !) 'I am going to India, to win honour and renown but oh, my darling, the fiercest sun that ever blazed in the East is but cool compared to the burning, consuming flame of love that fills my heart ! The wildest tiger that ever leaped in the jungle is tame compared to the unconquerable ardour of my passion ! Think of me, dear, when you are at home at ease.' (Another original remark !) ' Think of me beneath the scorching sun of India, scaling the snow-capped Himalayas, track- ing the wary crocodile, subduing the mighty elephant think of me, braving every hardship, every danger life can afford, that I may gather fame, riches, and glory, to lay them at your feet ! ' Ha, ha ! he never did produce any of them to lay at my feet, poor fellow. Perhaps the wary crocodile was too much for him after all ! [Puts the letter back with the others.] I don't think I can tear it up, for if I were to find he had been eaten by a tiger, I should never forgive myself ! What is this printed paper 1 Royal Institution a list of lectures ! It looks much too learned for the company it is in. I wonder how I came to get hold of it, for I don't think / ever attended one of those lectures in my life. With all my faults, I don't think I ever went through the phase of suddenly taking a deep interest in some learned or artistic subject that I cared nothing about, and pursuing it hotly for a season at a time, as I have seen various of my friends doing ! [Looks at paper.] And yet there must be some reason for my having this. [Sees name on it.] Ah, I see. Professor Schmitz was to lecture it was that funny little German who took such a fancy to me ! Nice little man he was, and most amusing to listen to, with his broken English and foreign expressions, until he became so silly about me : then, of course, all the sense went out of him. The fact is, I never can keep my men friends, because Tlie Reliquary 253 just as we have got to know one another well, they fall in love with me, propose to me, I refuse them, and there is an end of it ! I am always so unfortunate in that way. I wonder why 1 It isn't that I am so very pretty rather pretty, perhaps, but not enough to account for everything and I'm quite sure I'm not clever, for even the Professor, who was in love with me, used to be in despair because I couldn't understand his learned talk. Perhaps there is a ' charm ' about me ! Yes, that must be it ! That is what people always say when they wish to praise a woman who is neither pretty, nor amusing, nor anything else ' there is such an indefinable charm about her ! ' Why, here is a letter from the Professor, put away with the programme in such a funny little cramped German writing! [Reads] 'Honoured Fraulein!' why do Germans always put a note of exclamation after the beginning of their letters, I wonder ? perhaps it is be- cause they are astonished at finding they can write one at all and I don't wonder, with the crabbed little charac- ters they use ! 'I send you the programme of a soon-to- be-delivered-and-I-hope-a-little-interesting-to-you lecture at the Royal Institution. She treats of a subject of whom certainly you have heard, and which I think will to you in the highest pleasure and interest bring. Her name is " The Unconscious Cerebration of Tadpoles, and the Influence of their Brain Development on the Intelligence of Man." She has been through-translated into English by one of your learned Herr-Professors, by reason of the English technical words, in which it fails me of readiness, spite my being able, as you well know, in daily life English to speak like German.' (That is very true no one can deny that /) ' I hope then, dear Fraulein, that you will make me the honour of hearing my lecture. I have been having the pleasure of speaking her already last Thursday, before a numberfull and mixed-up audience. I hope then, dear 254 The Reliquary Fraulein, that you will come, and that you will bring some of your friends with, to listen also.' Ha, ha ! I don't think I can wade through any more of this effusion, especially all this imnantic nonsense at the end. Oh dear, how funny it is ' any of your friends with ' so exactly what he used to say ! I fancy I can see him now, at my mother's afternoons, handing about the five o'clock tea in a state of cheerful bustle, and saying in an insinuating manner with his head on one side, ' Some shucar with ? ' ' A leetle milk with ? ' Poor little man ! I never saw him again after I received that letter ! he never for- gave me for not attending his lecture ! I shall keep the programme and letter, though to show how foolish even a wise man can be when he is in love ! [Turns over papers takes out a photograph, her face changes. Ah ! what is this ? an old photograph of me, with two words written across it : ' Until death ! ' Until death, indeed, it was ! the sight of it gives me a stab I feel my heart-string stighten as I look at it my poor Fred ! why, why was I so foolish \\hy was I so weak why did I let them send him away from me, because, forsooth, he was poor ! Ah, if it were now, when I am older, braver than I was then, I would have insisted on my right to choose him to follow him to the end of the world ! Ah, it is very well to say, as I foolishly said just now, that we can love many times No, it is not true, no, we cannot not with the overmastering passion that comes to us but once ! I may have cared, in a way, have thought myself in love with this one or that one but Fred Fred was myself he belonged to me, and I to him, from the first moment we met it was as natural as that the sun should shine, or the trees bud in the spring. . . . Fred, Fred ! Ah ! that day, the last day we ever had together- the day they sent you from me ! we had been so happy that afternoon. we had walked under the trees liLe The Reliquary 255 two children, hardly conscious of the world around us, except to feel what a beautiful world it is, and what great happiness there is in it for those who love and then, my father came home you went to him oh, he laughed at your tale he laughed at your youthful passion. he bade you leave me for two years. Oh, Fred, I almost wish you had not come back to me that day, to whisper to me your- self what our fate was to be, for whenever I think of you I see you with the white, stony, despairing face I saw then. . . . [Speaking low and rapid j yj\ He went away to Africa he fought there he rushed purposely into the thickest of the fight at Ulundi he was found there after the battle, lying dead amongst the dead the portrait of me on his breast, his hand resting on it as though with his latest strength he had striven to take it out, to look on it with those dear eyes, that could no longer see. No, no, this I cannot destroy ' until death,' too, it shall be mine and yet I must not look on it again, for the sight of his writing, the mere thought of his name sends a quiver through my whole being. . . . [After a minute rouses herself, turns over papers listlessly, then pushes them away.] No, I can- not look over these to-night my merry mood is gone they have lain here so long, they may e'en remain a little longer, and yet I shall no longer be free now \Ha\f-shuddering\ is it safe to leave the ghosts of my past life to rise at any moment 1 No, I will destroy them all. I will burn the whole heap of them without looking at one of them again, lest some tender recollection should bid me stay my hand. [Pushes them into a heap. And yet, what a pity it seems [A paper falls from the heap at her feet she picks it up] What is this ? Why, here is the letter I had this morning from Frank. I wonder how it got in here 1 I need not keep that, I suppose for if if I send that letter of mine [ With a sigh\ I shall hear often enough from him for the next few months, and then and then oh, I know exactly how it will be. 256 The Reliquary Maggie Brice used to show me the letters she had from her husband when they were engaged such long delightful letters, eight or ten pages, full of poetry and passion, and all that kind of thing. I have seen some of those he writes to her now, after they have been married two years half a sheet of note paper. ' I shall be home on Wednesday by the nine train, and shall want supper,' or ' The man forgot to put up my dress clothes, send them after me dusty journey the sandwiches were stale ! ' Good heavens ! it is enough to make the gods weep ! Can it be that this is the sort of thing that awaits me 1 that this is the bondage into which I am so madly rushing ? No, no, my every conception of life would be turned upside down. I should have to grovel where I have commanded. /, who all my life have been petted and adored, would have daily to minister to the comforts of some one else ! oh, the thought is too fearful ! I simply couldn't endure it ! To think that I, with rny own hand, should have signed away my freedom ! [Takes up the letter she has written.] Happily the letter is not sent yet it can be recalled it shall be recalled ! this, and no other, is the letter I will destroy - this shall be the burnt-offering I will make to the past ! [Tears up letter throws pieces on ground stands a moment looking at them.] There, I can again feel I belong to no one but myself ! it is delightful, of course, to be free oh yes I am glad I have done it, very glad. I can't help feeling a little flat, though, all the same. I should have been happy with Frank, I am sure, very happy indeed and after all, even if he did write to me to order his meals for him, I think I think I should have enjoyed doing it for him, I really should it would be so much more satisfactory to feel there is some one in the world whose existence revolves round one's own. I should hate to feel I was not first with anyone in the world. . . . And after all, I can't go on refusing people for ever it The Reliquary 257 isn't as if they went 011 being in love with me either, it wouldn't matter so much then but the moment I've re- fused them, they go and marry somebody else. I never saw anything like it ! if I don't marry in self-defence I shall degenerate into an aunt absolutely only an aunt. Oh, no ! That would be worse than anything ! I should have no one to take care of me, to look after me. Frank would take care of me, I know he always does now, at least. How nice he was at that picnic at Maiden- head the other day, when he carried my wraps, and helped me across the stream ! I wonder if he would do that after we were married ? Yes, I'm sure he would. And yet, I remember noticing that day that Mrs. Merewether had to cross the brook by herself her husband was helping Mrs. Humphrey, while Mr. Humphrey was taking charge of Lady Scott ! still, I don't think that could ever happen to me, for Frank is not like anyone else in the world no, no, he certainly is not. I have thrown away the chance of happiness that lay beneath my hand. I have torn my letter up. How could I 1 . . After all, why should I not write it over again? No one need ever know I hesitated. I will tell Frank, perhaps, some day, but nobody else . . . yes I will write it again ! [Takes a sheet of paper quickly, to write as she does so, pushes the wliole heap of papers, &c., she has been looking at into a basket beneath. Curtain. 2 5 8 THE WATERPROOF A MONOLOGUE. AH ! Now I have got home I can take off this miser- able waterproof of Mrs. Mowbray's. I do hate wearing other people's things. I can't think why she insisted on my borrowing it, except that there are some people who always will lend you things you don't want to have. 'Oh, you really must have a waterproof,' she kept saying ' it is going to rain heavily, and you will get so wet jumping in and out of hansoms.' Cat ! After all, she wouldn't have had a carriage herself if Mr. Mowbray had not made all his money in tea and he looked so exactly that sort of man, with a red face, and little sandy-grey whiskers ! Why she should have made such a fuss about him after he died I can't imagine. [Laying cloak on chair. There, now I've got rid of that horrid thing. Some one was saying just now who was it ? Oh, I know, it was Mrs. Mowbray herself : that woman is always trying to say something learned that menkind are divided into groups by the shapes of their heads. That's the kind of thing that is quite useless to know, and I consider it indecent to talk about in a drawing-room. I am sure that womenkind are divided into groups by the shapes of their waterproofs and when I see a woman with one of those hideous, old-fashioned, round shiny things on, I know exactly what she would say if I were to talk to her, that is : but I never would, for I don't want to hear about the The Waterproof 259 outbreak of whooping-cough at Jacky's school, or how much more susceptible to infection Minnie is than Polly. On the other hand, I dare say that the woman who wears a waterproof with silk outside, and a hood lined with red, would be more dangerous in some respects, though perhaps more agreeable. As to Mrs. Mowbray, she is neither the one thing nor the other ; she is half-way between the dowdy and the dangerous. [Looking at cloak. I can't quite make her out. It is very odd, but I don't believe she likes me. I wonder why not 1 I hate the woman myself, of course : to me she is a most dreary creature. She never has anything interesting to say about people, only the most meaningless praise. I am told that everyone confides their private affairs to her. There are some women who have that sort of mission to be a sort of friend of all work, as it were a kind of aunt to the human race. Well, those people are useful sometimes ! Just at this juncture I rather want a confidante, for I asked Major Symonds for two days for reflection. This is the second what am I going to say to him 1 Why do I hesitate, I wonder ? Why did I not say yes at once ? He is pleasant oh, certainly pleasant enough I don't like people who are oppressively intellectual and his sister has told me that he is not nearly so passionate as he used to be. He doesn't look very soldierly, perhaps, but I don't mind that in fact, I think a warlike air is misplaced in a drawing-room. He looked quite presentable at Lady Brightwell's At Home, I thought. We were coming down- stairs together at least, we were not together at that moment, for I was coming down alone, and I saw him also alone. And it is so odd for a soldier, he sometimes has those tits of shyness. I don't know what else it could have been, he seemed really afraid to meet my eye. He was turning his head away, as though he didn't dare to speak but of course I saw how it was., and felt it would S2 260 The Waterproof be only kind to come to his help, so I suggested to him that we should go in to supper together. I saw how grate- ful he was to me. Then, while we had supper, we began talking about all sorts of things I thought would please him about the sadness of being lonely, and of wanting a companion and I told him I saw he was lonely sometimes, and that I was sorry for him. And then he said, ' Mrs. Story, you are quite right, indeed, you are right it is a terrible thing to be alone at my time of life.' Su^-h non- sense to speak in that way his time of life, indeed ! He's much too young to talk like that I don't consider that people arrive at a ' time of life ' till they're well over sixty, certainly not at fifty-two. He said, ' I have made up my mind not to be lonely any longer. Do you think would it be possible that I could find anyone to share rny soli- tude ? that a battered old soldier like me would have any chance ? ' A battered old soldier, indeed ! If he is battered, it's nature and the east winds in the streets of London that have done it I don't believe he has ever- been further afield than Wimbledon Common. ' Battered ! ' I exclaimed. ' Oh, my dear Major Symonds ! ' He looked pleased, certainly pleased and soothed. There are some women who know exactly the right thing to say, and I am one of them. ' Well,' he said, trying to look modest, ' I must say I thought the other day, when I was with Mrs. Mowbray -' and he stopped. ' With Mrs. Mowbray ! ' I cried. ' But what has she to do with this question ? ' He said nothing. He smiled rather inanely, I must con- fess. I saw at once how it was he had been making a confidante of that woman, and telling her about me. It was indiscreet of him, of course, but I don't know that I minded it in fact, I was rather pleased, as I am quite sure it must have annoyed her. At this moment we were interrupted by two dowagers looking for seats, who came and stood behind us, until The Waterproof 25 r they positively lifted us from our chairs by the force of their glare, so we could say nothing more. ' I will give you an answer the day after to-morrow,' I .said hurriedly, as we went out through the hall. This is Monday, come to see me at five o'clock on Wednesday.' He said no- thing I left him looking absolutely vacant, as I must say he does sometimes. I suppose he was taken aback at the (Ulay. And now, this is 4.30 on Wednesday what am I going to say to him 1 Let me look back into the past. Ah, I have too many broken hearts on my conscience to dare to bear the burden of another ! There was Douglas Benson, a barrister, brilliant and successful what a life to have ruined ! There was no doubt about his feelings. Whenever he was in iny society he was a prey to the deepest melancholy. I never shall forget that night that we dined at Maidenhead with the Tollemaches. I felt I must endeavour to dispel his gloom, and after dinner I offered to go with him for a row on the river. I saw his inward struggle he dared not expose himself to the fatal temptation but I nerved myself to the effort for his sake. It was no use : the cloud settled darker, darker on his features. He could not trust him- self to speak. We never met again after that evening. What became of him I dared not ask ; I was haunted by the thought of those dark, lowering features ! Then there was Lionel Talbot. What a handsome fellow he was ! the very type of a British sailor. Ah, that time at Portsmouth, when thjy gave a farewell dance on board his ship ! I saw what he wanted what he was evidently longing to suggest, and let him understand in covert terms that I would overcome my dread of the sea to gratify his parting wish. But he was too noble, poor fellow, too heroic. He replied that there were 'some things too precious to expose to the fury of the elements.' Ah, he was right there ! It was his last voyage. His 262 The Waterproof ship was lost in the midst of the Pacific Ocean, and he died, breathing my name at least, I have no doubt he did breathe it, though I shall never, never know. But why should I melt my heart by dwelling on these tender memories, instead of steeling it to be firm and valiant ? It is an awful thing to have to make up one's mind. I could almost be sorry to-day that I have no chattering female friends to whom I am in the habit of telling everything. Like my Cousin Lucy, for instance I know as a fact that if any interesting crisis happens in her life, she has to sit down and write it to eleven intimate female friends, with whom she has sworn to exchange every thought. And there is Mrs. Mowbray, who is in the same position as regards Mrs. Fanshawe. I have heard that not only do these two tell each other everything, but they also send each other all the letters they receive from other people. In fact, I believe that if one of them were to receive a proposal, she would send it to the other to know what she was to say. I call that really immodest. Ah ! [sighing] and that brings me back to the question I ought to be considering all this time. What must I say to Major Symonds 1 What must I do ? Ah ! I fear I have no doubt I have most foolishly suffered myself to be melted by dwelling thus upon the past. I must accept him yes, I must for I couldn't break another heart, I really couldn't. [Is going to dry her eyes. Why, where is my handkerchief ? Oh, of course, I must have left it in the pocket of that wretched waterproof. [Feels in pocket of waterproof- pulls out two letters with handkerchief. What are these *\ These are not mine. [Looks at one. ' DEAR MRS. MOWBRAY, It is in the handwriting of Major Symonds ! [Closes her hand on it, and stands for a minute irresolute. The Waterproof 263 It is as I thought he evidently wrote to her about inc. Well, one can hardly blame him, poor fellow, for seeking a friend's advice at this crisis this most momentous crisis ! Oh, I really must read it. I shall like to see how he speaks of me to others. [Opens it with a coy smile. 'DEAR MRS. MOWBRAY, You will know you must know the subject on which I am writing to you [Heads on shrieks. Ah, the base treachery ! That wicked, deceiving woman ! Oh, my poor friend, that he should have been caught in her toils. Ah, how powerless a man is when a designing, shame- less woman entraps him ! This, then, was why he turned despairingly to me that night he sought for succour, for rescue, and I, cold-hearted, cruel that I was, refused it. Ah, why did I not answer him then and there 1 Why did I not cleave to my place, though all the dowagers in England stood behind it 1 Well, well, his destiny would have been different with me. He has, in despair at my seeming coldness, proposed to another woman out of pique his manly heart has been caught at the rebound. [Sighs. It is as well, perhaps, for in a moment of yielding I might have fettered myself for ever. [ Walks up and down her eye falls on the other letter. Ah ! I had forgotten this one. I wonder what surprise this contains. [Picks it up looks at signature. ' Lina Fanshawe.' Of course it is one of the dozen letters she sends to her dear friend every day. ' DARLING MABEL, ' Ugh ! that makes me quite sick, it really does ! ' I return Major Symonds' letter, which has amused me excessively.' Coarse, insolent woman. ' Imagine his proposing to you ! I am so glad you refused him how could he ever think you would do anything else 1 ' What, she has refused him ! Refused ! well, so much the worse for her. She has not caught him at the rebound then 264 The Waterproof his heroic sacrifice has not been accepted. Let me see what else she says. ' I only hope he won't be as broken- hearted over it as Douglas Benson was. Do you remember that night you refused him at Maidenhead ? ' What, I drove him too into madness by my cruelty ! It's well for him she refused him. What an escape he has had ! [Heads. ' And now I must congratulate you, dearest, on the good news you tell me the return of ' What ! 'Lionel Talbot ! ' His return ! ' What a hero he will be when he comes back, after being supposed to be drowned : such a hero that I imagine that you will no longer hesitate to ' ah, it is impossible ! ' to announce your engagement.' Lionel Talbot alive not dead and engaged to Mrs. Mowbray ! Well, I dare say even that is better than lying at the bottom of the Pacific and yet, no, I am not sure that it is. Oh, what shipwreck of all his hopes ! Alas, how many lives have I ruined ! But there is one person, at any rate, to whom I can make amends. It was I- drove Major Symonds to the desperate sacrifice he attempted, and I will reward him for it. This decides me. It was I who well-nigh seared and blighted his life I will console him myself ! Curtain. 265 'OH, xor I WAS a young girl once not so very long ago a very shy young girl I smile now, as I think of the agonies of timidity and embarrassment which I used to go through every day every hour almost with such very inadequate cause ! When I first 'came out ' when I began to go to balls, receptions, afternoon teas, garden parties positively everyone who came to speak to me was a fresh source of terror another alarming incarnation cf society, before whom I felt more utterly speechless and awkward than words can describe. My very heart used to quail when I saw good-natured friends of my mother's come up to me, out of sheer kindness, I am sure, to make small talk to me when some courtly young man would advance to put my cup down, or some still more polite youth invite me to dance I was pleased, of course but oh ! the. sufferings I underwent ! I was so shy on these occasions that I could absolutely utter no word and the more I tried to think of something to say, the more utterly did speech, thought, intelligence and everything else appear to have departed from me ! At last, unable to bear it any longer, I confided my sorrows to my mother one evening, as we were going out to a ball, and asked her to help me. ' My dear Violet,' she said, smiling, 'girls of seventeen are not expected to be very eloquent- if you can listen agreeably when people talk to you, and make some trifling rejoinder every now and again, that will do quite well for the present.' ' But that is exactly my difficulty I can't think of any 266 ' Oh, No ! ' rejoinder I am so shy, all my ideas go away the moment people speak to me ! ' ' But surely you can think of saying Ok, yes or Oh, no as the case may be that is not a great effort of imagi- nation ! ' 'But I should never know which to say I should invariably say Yes when it ought to have been No if I only had one answer that would always do, then I shouldn't have to think about it at all.' ' Well, I am not sure that it would be a good plan always to answer Yes to everything that is said to you you might find it inconvenient sometimes ! ' ' Then I will say Oh, no that can never commit me to anything.' ' Very well,' said my mother, laughing ' you had better try it to-night, and see how it succeeds ! ' So, thus provided with a fund of conversation, I arrived at the ball a little happier in my mind than I generally felt on these occasions, but still with some misgivings, as usual. We were received in the drawing-room by our hostess, Mrs. Fenwick, one of the kindest -hearted women in the world, who was at once anxious to find me a host of partners. ' Now, my dear, you've come prepared to enjoy yourself, 1 hope you don't mean to sit by your mother all the evening, as some strait-laced young ladies I know do ? ' ' Oh, no ! ' ' You must let me introduce a great many partners to you.' ' Oh, no ! ' \Deprecatingly. ' Nonsense of course I shall there is my nephew just arriving Arthur, you know Miss Graham Violet, I need not introduce Captain Gosset to you.' ' Oh, no ! ' 'May I have the pleasure of a waltz 1 or is your card quite full ? ' ' Oh, No ! ' 267 1 Oh, no ! ' ' That is delightful let us have a turn now, before the room is too crowded ' and off we went. ' I don't think I have ever had a better waltz in my life,' he said as we left off. ' I won't ask you if you have enjoyed it too that would be conceited of me ! ' 4 Oh, no ! ' ' We have not met for such ages I was wondering if I should ever see you again not since that day at Maiden- head, have we ? ' ' Oh, no ! ' ' How delicious it was on the river in the evening and what a splendid little canoe that was I rowed you in ! nothing so jolly as a canoe, is there ? ' ' Oh, no ! ' ' I dare say, though, you've been on the river hundreds of times since, and have forgotten all about that day 1 ' 1 Oh, no ! ' ' What a pity there is the end of the waltz you must give me another presently let me see, there is No. 4 give me No. 9 and No. 13 may I put my name down for those you don't think that will be too many 1 ' 1 Oh, no ! ' ' It isn't enough, / think ! ' ' Oh, n [Checks herself. 1 Let us go out on to the balcony or are you afraid of being too cold ? ' ' Oh, no ! ' I don't know how long we remained on the balcony I am afraid, a long time. Presently Lucy Fenwick came out, with Mr. Le Marchant by the way, I believe it was settled when they were children, by their mothers, that Lucy was to marry her cousin, Arthur Gosset, when they grew up people say that Mrs. Fenwick is very anxious, now, to bring it about. I don't care about Lucy 268 ' Oh, No ! ' very much she talks and giggles so much, no one knows what she is going to say next. ' What, Violet ! is this where you are ? ' she cried. ' Mrs. Graham has been wondering what had become of you is this where you have been all the evening 1 ' 1 Oh, no ! ' ' She says it is more than half an hour since she has seen you ! ' 'Oh, no ! ' I said indignantly as I rose. ' This is our dance, I believe, No. 9,' Captain Gosset said, as we stepped back into the rcom. ' Oh, no ! ' I said, incredulously, rather horrified at find- ing that actually four dances had passed while we were on the balcony. 'Indeed it is, T assure you,' he said; 'don't let us waste any more of this delicious music ! . . . . not so nice as it was before too many people now let us go on to the balcony again ! ' ' Oh, no ! ' ' That is very cruel of you mind you don't forget that you have promised me No. 13.' ' Oh, no ! ' By the time No. 13 came round, I was quite tired out with dancing, and besides, the room was so hot and crowded one could hardly move. So Captain Gcsset suggested that instead of dancing we should go into the conservatory, which was delightfully cool, and quite empty. 'Jolly place, a conservatory ! ' he said ' fountains plashing, Chinese lanterns burning flowers smelling and all that ! no place like it when you want to talk, is there?' 'Oh, no!' After this remark, however, Captain Gosset relapsed into silence, instead of at once breaking into the irresistible eloquence he had led me to expect and we both sat for some minutes contemplating the fountains, the flowers and 'Oh, No!' 269 the Chinese lanterns which at last appeared to have the desired elieet for he suddenly said, 'Miss Graham ! Violet ! do you mind my calling you Violet ?' ' Oh, no ! ' ' I am going to India next month it may be years before I see you again ' Oh, no ! ' I said, reassuringly. ' I cannot leave England without speaking to you, without telling you of my love for you must know, you must have seen what I feel for you have you not guessed it long ago 1 ' ' Oh, 110 ! ' ' Nay, I am sure you have ! Violet -could you, would you endure the idea of going out to India 1 ' ' Oh, no ! ' [Decidedly. ' What you would not 1 but surely you must care a little for me you could not have been to me as you have been, if you did not feel something more for me than friend- ship ? ' ' Oh, no ! ' ' Think over what I have said, then do not reject the idea at once give me a little hope ! I am not displeasing to you, am I ?' ' Oh, no ! ' ' Do you dislike a soldier's life ? ' ' Oh, no ! ' ' My darling ! how happy you would make me -' At this moment Mrs. Fenwick appeared in the doorway. 'What, Violet, my dear child! are you not afraid of a chill, sitting in this cold place ? ' ' Oh, no ! ' ' Have you had any supper ? ' ' Oh, no ! ' ' Arthur, how neglectful of you do take Miss Graham in to supper.' And so we went into the supper-room, where 2;o ' Oh, No I ' there was an immense crowd, and where Lucy Fenwick kindly insisted on giving me up her seat, between two female friends of her mother's and after supper we went home. -Captain Gosset went to India, the next month. You will ask whether I ever went there too ? Oh, no ! Time and absence, new friends and fresh scenes, turned the current of his thoughts, and brought healing to his grief. His heart did not break neither did mine. He is now, I believe, happily married so am I so is Lucy Fenwick and we are none of us as foolish, or as shy, as we were ten years ago Oh, no ! ! Curtain. 271 NOT TO BE FOKWAKDED A MONOLOGUE. SCENE. A sitting-room in chambers. A pile of unopened letters, papers, &c., on the table. Enter Dick Stanley hurriedly, in travelling costume, with a bag in his hand. Dick. Ha ! what a comfort to be back again in my own chambers! this week that I have been out of town has seemed to me an eternity. What an enormous pile of documents is awaiting me ! That is the result of saying nothing is to be forwarded during one's absence. It is quite a mistake, not to have things forwarded. That was old Brown's idea. When he heard I was going out of town for a few days' change, he said at once, ' Well, my dear feller, if I were you, I would say nothing is to be sent after me, otherwise your holiday will be no holiday. You can't think what a feeling of perfect peace it gives one to be beyond reach of the post ! ' I was fool enough to believe him, and to act on his advice but it didn't give me a feeling of perfect peace at all quite the reverse ! It gave me a feeling of perfect fever. I was the whole time wondering if my correspondence, just this week, might not contain something of vital importance, that was now awaiting me at home if the crisis of my fate might not have been reached, and if by my idiotic folly I might not have missed the road to Fortune ! not that I had any 272 Not to be Forwarded reason, from past experience, to expect that such a thing would happen, for up to now I have been singularly free from any crisis in my fortunes. I have enjoyed a complete immunity from the feverish emotions which beset those of rny friends who achieve unexpected success. Yes, there i.s no doubt about it, I have been unlucky from the begin- ning. First of all, nothing could be more unfortunate than having 500A a year to live upon it is neither the one thing nor the other it is too much or too little. In secure, inglorious possession of that unworthy pittance, I have been debarred from all the incitements of heroic poverty. I have never known the joy of coming to London with a crust in my pocket, determined to make my fortune or starve uncomprehended in. a garret. No, mine has been the prosaic, vegetating existence of one whose daily wants have always been supplied, and no more whose income is sufficient for one, but not enough, alas ! for two. For two . . . yes, there is the rub ! It is no good denying it unless I can doable my income by my own exertions, I am condemned to a life of hopeless celibacy ! I shall see the woman I love carried off under my eyes by a more success- ful rival, while I am seeking, pining, yearning for fame and fortune, that I may lay them at her feet. But how am I to do it I have sat for hours in chambers, waiting for briefs th..t have never come. I have written three plays and a novel, which have all been refused. I tried to get on to the staff of a newspaper, which wouldn't have me. I went on to the Stock Exchange, and embarked all my available means in a venture which I was told would make my fortune .... it came to grief next week. In the meantime, the possibility of my ever winning Amy Wilton is drifting further and further away from me and the worst of it is, that that fellow Fortescue, who is always dangling after Amy, will keep on succeeding in everything he does ! If he sits in his chambers, solicitors come to Not to be Forwarded 273 him with fat briefs under their arms if he were to write a play Irving would act it to-morrow if he were to speculate, it is a dead certainty that his shares would immediately go up to 100 per cent. Well it's no good getting excited about it I suppose some people are luckier than others, that is all. But it certainly is an undoubted fact, that whenever a good thing turns up, Fortescue is always on the spot, ready to catch it and put it in his pocket ! [Turns over papers.] Six ' St. James's Gazettes ' in a heap ! I've escaped reading those, at any rate. I'll just look at last night's, though, and see if a fresh mare's nest has been discovered by anybody. [Looks at paper.] By Jove ! [Reads aloud.] ' An extraordinary excitement was created in the City yesterday by a rapid and unexpected rise in Kimberley diamond shares, brought about, it seems, by a small band of enterprising speculators. The fortunate individuals who were in possession of private sources of information, and had bought a few days ago, at the right moment, succeeded, it is said, in realising a fortune.' By George, what a piece of luck ! That is the kind of thing that never happens to me. [Throws down paper] Why, here's a letter from old Smithson he's a lucky fellow on the Stock Exchange, if ever there was one ! I've 110 doubt he made something out of this Kimberley business. [Opens letter] ' Dear Dick, I can put you up to a good thing if you like. We want three more men to join, and I thought perhaps you would like to be one of them, as it will pro- bably mean making some thousands apiece out of Kimberley. Please answer by return of post, as if you don't feel in- clined to risk it we must have some one else. Yours ever, HENRY SMITHSON.' Out of Kimberley ! Why, when was this letter written ? oh, miserable man that I am, it is dated Wednesday, 9th, and this is Tuesday, loth it was written nearly a week ago ! I wonder if there is any- thing else from him 1 [Turns over letters hurriedly.] Y^s> T 274 No? to be Forwarded here is another. [Tears it openJ\ ' Did you receive my letter about Kimberley 1 let me hear at once ! ' and all this time I was sitting in a punt at Twickenham, trying to think of some way to make money ! Here's another letter from him, by hand, marked ' Immediate.' ' Send me a telegram when you get this, or it will be too late.' Too late, indeed ! Oh, why did I ever go away ? A telegram perhaps this is from him too. [Opetts telegram. ' Stanhope, 6 Paper Buildings, Temple. 'If I do not hear from you by 6 P.M. to-day (Friday), must ask some one else. SMITIISON.' Friday five days ago ! I wish that punt had been at the bottom of the river ! Another telegram I hardly dare open it ! [Opens it. ' Stanhope, 6 Paper Buildings, Temple. ' Not hearing from you, have made offer to Fortescue, who accepts. SMITHSON.' (Wildly) Fortescue ! of course, it couldn't be anyone else ! what, he offered the shares, my shares, to Fortescue, and the shameless fellow dared to accept them, and to make the fortune that ought to have been mine ! and now Amy is lost to me for ever ! to think that at a moment like this I was loafing about on the banks of the Thames, listening for a foolish cuckoo, of which I might have heard a dozen more distinctly at any clock -maker's in Regent Street ! oh, why did I ever listen to Brown, when he advised me to go away and leave no address 1 Never will I do it again. Never will I leave home for an instant, except on Sundays when there is no delivery I will be on the doorstep when the postman comes, take the letters from his hand, and answer them before I go upstairs ! But what is the good of saying so now now, when it is too late ? when I have lost the only chance Fortune ever Not to be Fonvarded 275 threw in my way when my correspondence is useless, and my life is a blank ? [After a moment tries to recover him- self.] Well, I had better open these other letters, I sup- pose perhaps I shall find I might have made another fortune the day before yesterday ! here is one from my little cousin, Ethel Broadstairs she and Amy are tremen- dous friends. [Opens it.] Hallo ! ' Dear Dick, I want to tell you something that I know will interest you but you must promise and swear not to tell anyone else, because I've promised and sworn I won't tell you ! Mr. Fortescue proposed to Amy Wilton on Satur- day night at Mrs. Gordon's ball ' Proposed ! I knew it ! [Turns over page] 'and what do you think ? she refused him ! ' Refused him ! in spite of all the diamond rivers of Kimberley ! joy and victory ! well done, Amy ! and what a good little soul Ethel is, to write and tell me at once ! Come, I feel encouraged to open the others, though I can't expect to find anything much better than that ! [Looking at an envelope.] Commercial Union I wonder what that is about 1 [Opens letter. 'Dear Sir, you told me the other day you wished to find some employment. Our secretary is obliged to leave us on account of his health, so I write to offer his post to you. If you think it will suit you, please let me hear from you without fail before three o'clock to-morrow (Tuesday).' Tuesday that is to-day ! [Looks at watch] and it is only just two o'clock ! extraordinary though it may seem, for once I am still in time ! my luck has turned at last ! I will take a hansom and drive to the Commercial Union this very instant the road to fortune, the road to Amy, lies open before me perhaps, after all, Fate means to atone for my letters not having been forwarded ! [Snatches up hat, and exit hurriedly. T2 2/6 THE CROSSING SWEEPER A MONOLOGUE. Crossing Sweeper. Well, I dare say you think it very amusing, standing and sweeping this 'ere crossing all day, and no one to say ' Thank you ' for it. I don't think it is myself, and I wouldn't do it if it weren't for a reason I've got, that I'll tell you about in a minute. I haven't learnt any other trade 'cos I never had no father nor mother, as far as I can make out, to teach me one. I sometimes wonder what it must be like to have a mother. I don't know that I should care about it much one is more free and independent-like without one. Mothers drags little boys by the hand when they're crossing the road, and says to them, ' There now, you've stepped into all that mud ! ' then they're so busy scolding 'em they never think of giving me a penny. I don't quite see how people can get about London if they're afraid of mud it's a thing I never minded myself, and many a time I've been thankful I hadn't on fine boots like some of the gentlemen as crosses here, and is in a state if they dirties 'em. It doesn't matter to me if I splashes my legs, nor yet my trousers they're all the same colour to begin with, and no one's any the wiser. I was washed once, though, and that was in the hospital for a week at a time, and I didn't like it at all, I can tell you. What's the good of wetting you all over and making you all greasy with soap and rubbing at you with towels, just to get off the dirt that's there again next day 1 The Crossing Sweeper 277 there's no sense in it. Well, that time I was in the hospital was what I was going to tell you about, when I saw that beautiful lady I want to see again. It wasn't a bad time, barring the washing : there was plenty to eat, and I was as warm as warm the whole day long; but I was precious glad to get out of it again into the streets and the mud, I can tell you. One week of keeping still is enough for me. I had got knocked clown by a carriage when I was running across Oxford Street one day, to ask an old lady for a penny : that's why I was taken to the hospital. Well, so the day before I was coming out, a beautiful lady corned in and talks to all the people round about so I looked at her and wondered if she was going to speak to me. She did, she looks at me and says, 'And how are you, my little man 1 ' ' I'm all right, thank you, lady,' says I, ' and I'm going out to-morrow.' ' Going out, are you ? ' she says. < Well, mind you're an honest boy when you go out.' She was a beautiful lady, and no mistake. She had pink cheeks, just like a doll that the little girl had in the next bed to me, and bright shining eyes, and a dress all sticking out and flopping about everywhere, the kind of dress that fine ladies holds up very high, like this, when they're cross- ing the street. Well, I came out of the hospital next day, and I met Jim Bates, and he wanted me to go with him and pick up a living, as he calls it, in the streets the sort of living he picks up is purses, and handkerchieves and such like, if people dropped them, or even if they didn't drop 'em, and sell them to a Jew. But I thought I wouldn't do that, as I wanted to tell the lady when I met her again that I had been an honest boy, the same as she said. So I begged in the streets till I'd got money enough to buy an old broom, and then I come here and swep' this crossing, 'cause it's near the hospital, and I thought the lady was sure to come this way again some time. But I've swep' and swep' 'ere ever since that's close upon a year now and 278 The Crossing Sweeper I've never seen her once. I've many a time thought I saw her, and once a lady came along over there, with a dress all sticking out and a long cloak all covered with spots, and lines and marks, and I thought it was her, and I made all ready and had a beautiful clean crossing for her to walk over, and then when she came up it was somebody else ! it was quite a fat old lady with a red face, and 1 was so angry I spluttered the mud all over her with my broom, and serve her right too. And so yesterday night I thought to myself, ' I'm about tired of this ! if she don't come soon I shall just throw away my broom and go after Jim Bates, for I've had enough of this 'ere.' I'll go away to-day, this very day, I declare. 1 11 just wait till six people more have passed, and if she don't come then, why, I can't help it, that's all. I won't wait here for her any longer. There's somebody over there. That's No. 1, that's the old gentle- man who comes down here every day. He don't give me anything, he just turns up his trousers and wears old boots, and doesn't care twopence about the mud ! I won't sweep for him. There's a maid and two children, that counts for three. I see that maid often, and she never gives me nothing so I'll just spite her and put a little pile of mud ready for the little uns to walk into. That's ri^ht, he's dabbed 'is foot right into the middle of it. It's no use your shaking and scolding him like that ! serve you right, p'raps that'll make you take some notice of the crossing sweeper. There's a lady coming right away over there, who's that ? No, it's only a district visitor, I know her ! she's been across a good many roads to-day by the look of her- oh, thank you, lady ! well, it isn't always the richest as give most ! that's 5 no, that's 6. Ah what, there's some one, yes, away over there . . . why, I believe, yes, I do believe it's a cloak, just like hers was ! Yes, and it's a face like hers too, and bright eyes and pink cheeks yes, yes, it's her after- all ! well, this is luck, I was right to wait this time anyhow ! The Crossing Sweeper 279 and it's a good job I didn't go off with Jim Bates, else I couldn't have told her as I'd kept straight. Here she is now, quick ! I've made a nice clean place for her to walk. ' Please, lady, it's me, lady, as you saw -' Why, she's gone on ! She don't know me again. [Stands staring a minute and then throws his broom down and runs after her.] ' Please, lady ' What's that ? ' You go away, I never {lire to beggars in the streets' 'I ain't a beggar ! you can see that by my broom. What do you say " Go away, or I'll call the police " ? ' [Stands looking after her, then dashes his broom down.] Well, if that's how it is, I'll just go off to Jim and make a living with him. That wasn't worth keeping honest for, that yonder ! 280 THE VICEEOY'S WEDDING A MONOLOGUE. OF course I wanted to go to the Viceroy's wedding ! I'm not ashamed of it everybody did. Everyone always does want to go to everyone's wedding, especially if they're not asked. And besides, I was particularly interested in this wedding. I saw so much of the Viceroy when I was in India, staying with my sister who is in the 91st. He was very nice to me, most particularly nice I -was quite looking forward to seeing him again over here. B^ut people who are nice to you in India are not always the same in England : it's something in the climate, I suppose. I must confess I was surprised when I heard he was going to marry Mrs. Stanhope, such a dull little person ! especially as in India he used to seem to like more attractive women. Ah ! I little thought of his ever being married without my being there to see ! especially as, when I heard the wedding was to be in Westminster Abbey, I gave him a hint I wrote and asked him for an invitation. But no, nothing came, either for the Abbey or for the garden-party after- wards at the Duchess of Portlake's, from whose house the bride was to be married. And the dreadful thing was, that I had told all the neighbours that I should be at both ! It is really too inconsiderate of people not to ask one to a party that everybody expects one to go to. Then, as the day drew near they all began asking me what I was going to wear if I was going to have a new dress, and so on. 'No,' I said, 'that is not the way I like spending my The Viceroy's Wedding 281 money.' Then they all admired ray self-control. So did I ! I don't know how I managed to hide the sufferings I under- went as the days went on. Yesterday was the last of them I went to bed quite determined that this morning I should say that I was too ill to go after all but Mrs. Robinson must needs send round to know by what train I was leaving, as she longed to see me dressed. Horrid woman ! I believe she suspected the truth. But I was a match for her I sent word back that I was leaving by the eleven o'clock train. I got up, dressed, and went off to the station. The neighbours were all as excited as if I had been going to be married myself. The booking clerk, even, knew all about it. ' Westminster Bridge, I suppose ? ' he said, with an admiring smile. 'Yes,' I said firmly, 'Westminster Bridge.' ' Ah ! you are a lucky woman,' said the Vicar, who had come to see some one off. ' It isn't often I want to go to a wedding, but I must say, I should like to see this one.' ' Well, you see, he's an old friend of mine,' I said, airily, getting into the carriage. ' Of course when people are old friends ' ' Oh, yes,' he said, ' when people are old friends ' Fortunately at this moment the train moved on. The people in the carriage had all heard what the officious creature said. ' All this in your honour ! ' said one of them jocosely, as we got to Westminster Bridge and saw the flags. 'Yes, in my honour,' I said with a sickly smile, and I got out, meaning to go to Marshall and Snelgrove's and buy remnants for the rest of the morning. I felt there was a chance of my being a remnant myself by the time I got there. I never was so jostled and pushed in all my life. Rude people go to weddings very rude, indeed. Just as I was getting to the foot of the stairs, I heard my name uttered in a piercing shriek. 282 The Viceroy's Wedding ' Lucy ! Lucy ! ' I looked round. It was Aunt Eliza ! My heart died within me. Now she would go with me to Marshall and Snelgrove's, choose the things I bought, and buy the things I had chosen. That's what happens when you shop with your relations. ' Hah, Aunt Eliza ! ' I said, with a ghastly attempt at a rapturous smile. ' Where are you going 1 ' ' I was going to the Abbey,' she said, clinging to my arm convulsively. ' To the Abbey ! ' I shrieked. ' You're not going to the wedding ? ' ' I was going to the wedding, but the most terrible thing has happened.' ' Is the wedding put off? ' I cried. 'Put off? No !' my aunt said impatiently, 'but I've lost Mrs. Ronner.' ' Mrs. Ronner ! But still, you need not go into mourn- ing for her it is not as if she were a relation.' ' It isn't as if she were dead either ! ' said my aunt exasperated. If there's one thing that makes people more angry than not understanding what somebody else says, it is not being understood themselves. ' I mean I lost her in the crowd when I got into the train and what to do I don't know, for I've got her ticket.' ' Her ticket ! ' I cried. ' Then you've got a spare one if you don't find her ? ' 'But I must find her!' my aunt shrieked. 'They're her own tickets. She got them, from being a cousin of Miss Anderson, who taught Mrs. Stanhope's sister-in-law's children when they lived at Prince's Gate, so I must fird her. Besides, I can't possibly fight my way into the Abbey all by myself.' ' No, no, you shall not do that,' I said. ' I'll go with you, sooner than you should go alone.' The Vicerofs Wedding 283 ' But, my dear, I must find her,' said my aunt, not at all grateful for the suggestion. ' She must go to the wedding ! It isn't as if she weren't a cousin of Miss Anderson, who taught Mrs. Stanhope's sister-in-law's ' Yes. yes,' I said, edging determinately towards the way out. ' She is a tall, dark woman ? ' ' Yes,'' my aunt said, 'and dressed in ' A light brown silk,' I cried, ' and a black cape, and bonnet with white lace strings?' for I knew just the kind of clothes Aunt Eliza's friends wear at weddings. ' Then she's gone up that staircase.' ' Oh, you dear Lucy, you always see everything ! ' So with Aunt Eliza clinging to my arm we hustled up the staircase with the crowd. ' Where is she ? ' panted my aunt as we got up to the top of the stairs and looked round. ' There's a black cape,' I shouted, pointing in the direc- tion of the Abbey ' not a minute to be lost ! ' So Aunt Eliza, who on ordinary occasions is terrified if she is in the same street with a horse, darted after me between cabs and omnibuses, behind carts, on people's feet, and under them still in hot pursuit of the invisible Mrs. Homier, a fat ghost in brown silk beckoning us on. Through the crowd, along the cloisters ' She went round that corner! ' I cried, completely carried away by the excitement of the moment. Round the corner after her on to the door of the Abbey ! My heart stood still but the rest of me didn't. To stop was impossible, with the rest of the guests surging behind. ' Each 'old yer own ticket, please,' said the distracted policeman. My aunt pressed Mrs. Ronner's ticket into my hand. I took it silently. Mrs. Ronner's ticket ? No, my ticket ! We were inside the Abbey I was saved ! 284 The Viceroy's Wedding 1 Oh dear, where is she now 1 ' said Aunt Eliza gasp- ing. ' South transept,' said I, looking at my ticket. ' Come to the south transept, and look for her there.' ' She can't be there,' said my aunt with one last gleam of bewildered lucidity. ' How can she have got in ? ' 'Come along, come along,' I said, dragging herafter me. Oh dear ! what a weight she was, and how I wished I were alone ! There ought to be a place to leave one's aunt in when one goes to Westminster Abbey. However, we got to the south transept at last. Crowds of people there already hot and satisfied people on the front seats hot and angry ones at the back. ' Dear me ! we shall never see Mrs. Ronner here ! ' sighed my aunt, as she looked round her. ' I'm afraid we never shall,' I said with great truth. ' Why, there's Mrs. Welby,' said my aunt, ' and her brother Captain Clarke, and his niece Booboo Smith ! . . How delightful ! We'll go and sit with them. Mrs. Welby was Mrs. Ronner's second cousin, you know her mother was a Jones . . .' And she began vigorously pushing her way through the crowd towards them. The seat she was making for, exclusive of its being occupied by Mrs. Welby, Captain Clarke and Miss Smith, had no particular advan- tage. It was about the worst place for seeing in the Abbey. No, it was not for that I had left Wandsworth at eleven ! ' There now, this is cosy,' Aunt Eliza said as we squeezed in, ' isn't it, Lucy 1 ' 1 Yery ! ' I said. It had not occurred to me till that moment that cosiness was our object. 'I'm afraid we shan't see much from here though, shall we ? ' I said, and I stood on tiptoe and craned my neck. So Aunt Eliza, Mrs. Welby, Captain Clarke and Miss Smith all stood on tiptoe and craned their necks too, such as The Viceroy's Wedding 285 they were and we all had a distinct view of the same thing ; that is, of the backs of some enormous people in the row in front of us. Tall people go to weddings very tall people indeed and I don't know how it is that the people in front of one especially, always seem to average nine feet high on these occasions. I then saw one empty chair in front. I said to Aunt Eliza, ' I will find another seat, so that you may be less crowded here but you stay with Mrs. Welby . It does not signify where I go, so long as you are comfort- able.' ' No, no, dear,' said Aunt Eliza. ' I could not think of letting you go alone. You don't mind going, do you, Mrs. Welby ? ' ' Of course not,' said Mrs. Welby, ' nor will Captain Clarke and Booboo.' And so after some delay in finding Mrs. Welby's umbrella, a most valuable adjunct at a wed- ding, we all five fought our way to the empty chair, on which there were already two people when we got there. I was in despair. 'Never mind the chair, I will stand,' I said to Aunt Eliza, taking up my position bravely in the gangway in front of the first row of people. ' The only thing is,' whispered my aunt, ' I'm not sure of Mrs. Welby being able to stand, she suffers so terribly from rheumatism. Do you think you can stand, Mrs. Welby ? ' '/ can,' said Mrs. Welby, 'but I'm not sure about Captain Clarke. He has the gout so badly, you know.' ' Then, my dear,' said Aunt Eliza to me, ' we'll just go back to the seats we had before.' 'All right,' said Mrs. Welby. 'Captain Clarke, will you tell Booboo that we are going back to where we were before ? ' And they all waited in a fat row for me to lead the way. Then I played my trump card. ' Very well,' I said, 286 The Viceroy's Wedding 1 and I'll just go back to the door for a last look and see if Mrs. Ronner is there.' ' Oh, you good Lucy ! ' said Aunt Eliza. I fled, without waiting for more. I looked furtively round when I got to the other side, to be sure they were not following. No, they had settled in some seats several rows farther back than they were before, and behind a large pillar. They must have felt cosy this time ! I saw that pursuit was impossible went round the other way got back again to the front. I found an old man standing on a chair I cheerfully offered to share it with him. Then, when the crowd pushed us, later on, and he fell off, I had it to myself, and so I had a most excellent view of everything. I saw the top of the bride's head as she stood in front of the rails. I saw the back of the best man perfectly, and I almost think I heard a murmur of voices as the ceremony was taking place. So altogether nothing could have been more impressive. Then when it was all over, I picked up the favour the old man had dropped, I pinned it in the front of my gown, and went to the Duchess of Portlake's party. I ate strawberries and cream all the afternoon, and I gave my name clearly to the reporter at the door so that now everybody in London knows as well as you do \_To the audience] that I was at the Viceroy's wedding. 28; JACK AND TEE BEANSTALK A PLAY IX THREE ACTS. CHARACTERS. MRS. BROWN. JACK (her son). COUNTRYMAN. OGRE. GRUMPS (his wife). ACT I. Mrs. Brown (spinning). Seven o'clock It's time for supper ! but there's nothing to eat in the house what I shall say to Jack when he comes in I don't know. And I know the first thing he'll say will be, ' Well, mother ! what is there for supper ? ' Ah, there he is outside. [Jack heard whistling and singing]. He is a nice boy certainly, and a very good boy too sometimes, but he is a very noisy one. Enter Jack. Jack. Mother, what is there for supper ? Mrs. Brown. There, I knew it ! Don't shout, Jack, I'm not deaf. Jack. All right, I won't. (Whispering) Mother, what is there for supper 1 Mrs. Brown. I never saw such a boy ! He thinks of nothing but his meals ! Jack. Of course I do, at meal times. That's right and proper ! (sin;/*} Yes, yes, my appetite Is always good for meals at night 288 Jack and the Beanstalk You mustn't starve me quite, You'll see me grow quite thin and white. Mrs. Brown. Well, well, I can't help that, I'd rather see you pink and fat I don't know what to be at, I feel inclined to stew the cat. Jack. Now then, let's lay the cloth. Mrs. Brown. You may lay the cloth on the table if you like, but there's nothing else to put on it. Jack. Nothing for supper ! Mrs. Brown. Not one crumb. Jack. Let's buy something then. Mrs. Brown. We haven't any money to buy anything with. Jack. Let's sell something. Mrs. Brown. We've got nothing to sell. Jack (making a dart at the cat). Let's sell the cat ! Mrs. Brown. Sell the cat ! What would you get by that? Jack. We should get scratches, spits, and mews, I should think. Ha, ha ! Mrs. Brown. Ah ! It's nothing to laugh at ! there is only one thing we can sell, and that is the cow. Jack. What, mother, sell our pretty Brindle 1 Mrs. Brown. Alas, yes ! We must part with her, there is nothing else to be done. Jack. How much will you get for her? Mrs. Brown. Well, neighbour Hoclge would give me fifteen pounds for her. Jack. Fifteen pounds ! Dear me, how many break- fasts, dinners, and suppers I could have for that. Mrs. Brown (going out). Oh that I should have such a greedy, greedy boy as this ! Now take care of the house, and don't you get into mischief for once. Jack and the Beanstalk 289 Jack. All right, mother, I'll take care of it. [Exit Mrs. Broii'ii. Jack, There ! Now I'm the master of the house ! Now, what shall I do next 1 If I could find the cat I would tie. him up in the pudding bag. Perhaps I had better learn my spelling for to-morrow. [//e takes book and plays at football with it. Enter Countryman. Countryman. Good evening, young man. Jack. Good evening, old man. Countryman. You're not very polite. Jack. I'm not generally considered so. Countryman. Where's the master of the house ? Jack. Here. I'm the master of the house. Countryman. What, do you live alone here ? Jack. Yes, except my mother she lives with me, but that doesn't count. Countryman. Where is your mother gone to 1 Jack. She has gone to see neighbour Hodge about selling the cow. Countryman. Selling the cow 1 Jack. Yes. We're very poor. We haven't got any- thing to eat in the house. Countryman. Nothing to eat ! that's bad. How much will she sell it for 1 Jack. Oh, I don't know. As much as she ean get. Countryman. Pity she didn't sell her to me, I want a cow myself. Jack. Do you ? Look here, what fun it would be to sell you the cow before mother comes back ! it would be a surprise. Countryman. Not a bad idea. (Aside) I will de- ceive this innocent child, and buy his cow for nothing. Jack. What will you give me for it 1 You must give u 290 Jack and the Beanstalk me a great deal, you know. Let me see, more than fifteen pounds, I should think. Countryman. I don't know that I can give you that much in ordinary money, but I have something of much more value in my pocket. [Produces beany. Jack. Oh, what lovely things ! Countryman. I should think so ! it is not often you come across anything like that. Jack. Then how many of those will you give me for the cow 1 Countryman. "Well, let me see you say you want fifteen pounds for the cow, and these are much more valu- able. I will give you a dozen. Jack. A dozen, all right. (Aside) That's a splendid bargain ! I hope I am not taking the poor man in. Countryman. All right, that's a bargain. Where is the beast ? Jack. There she is, outside go out of doors and turn down the path, it is the first cow to the left. Countryman. Your hand on it. Jack (sings). Then there's my hand I understand ! Countryman. To fortune 'tis the way You ne'er again Will have, 'tis plain, The chance you've had to-day ! {.Repeat together and dance. [Mrs. Brown comes in and sees the others dancing. Mrs. Brou]n. I hope I'm noc interrupting you. Countryman (still dancing). Not in the least m'am, not in the least, thank you I happened to be calling, m'am, and as you were not in I thought I would dance a little to pass the time until your return. Mrs. Brown. Thank you, that is very kind of you, but I am sorry to say that I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance. Jack and tJie Beanstalk 29 1 Countryman. No, m'am, no, m'am, that is quite true, that is why I began to think it was time you should. Mm. Brown (aside). He is too polite for my taste I never trust people who are polite. Countryman. In the meantime your son has been entertaining me what a charming, well-bred young gen- tleman he is ! Mrs. Brown. It is not often he has that said of him. Countryman. He is just the young gentleman I like. [Holds his hand to Jack they dance together orl tiptoe, Mrs. Brown following angrily after them Countryman dances out. Mrs. Brown. I never saw such doings as this ! as if we had nothing better to do ! sit down and get your spell- ing book, and see if you can keep quiet for five minutes. [Jack sits down with his book. Jack. C O W What does COW spell, mother ? Mrs. Broivn. COW spells Cow. Jack (smiling to himself). Cow ! I thought it did ! Mrs. Brown. Neighbour Hodge says he will buy Brindle I wonder where she is, I must go out and see her. Jack. Oh no, you need not, I have just seen her. Mrs. Brown (looking out of the window). I don't see her anywhere ! where can she be 1 Jack. Perhaps she is sitting under a cabbage leaf, or she's climbed the cherry tree oh no, I forgot, she is a grizzly cow and can't climb trees. M rs. Brown. Hold your tongue, you naughty boy ! go and see where she is. Jack. I know where she is without going to see at least I know where she is not, and that's in the garden. J//X Brown. Not in the garden ! "Where is she then 1 Jack. I've sold her. J//-.S. Brown. You've sold her ! You naughty, bad boy ! Not at all, I've saved you the trouble. 292 Jack and the Beanstalk Mrs. Brown. What did you get for her 1 Jack. Ah, mother, you will be pleased ! Mrs. Brown. What, have you got more than twenty pounds ? you are a good boy ! Jack. Well, not for more than fifteen in money. Look \lle puts his hands into his pockets. J/rx. Brown. Be quick ! I'm dying to know what' you got. [Jack pulls out a handful of beaux. Mrs. Brown (impatiently). Come, never mind those stupid things give me the money ! [Takes the handful and throws them out of the window. Jack. Stop, stop, mother, that's the money ! You are throwing away the money that I got for the cow! Mrs. Brown. What ! Do you mean to say that you sold my cow for a few worthless beans 1 you wretched boy, you have ruined me ! you have ruined your mother ! Jack. But, mother, Mr. Barleycorn said they were worth a great deal more ! a great, great deal more ! Mrs. Brown. But he did not speak the truth you stupid boy Jack. I thought grown-up people always spoke the truth. Mrs. Brown. Well, you'll know better after this, I hope. You stupid, stupid boy ! Whatever are we to do ? Jack. Well, I do think it is a pity my beautiful beans were thrown away. [Goes to window to look.] Why, what's that in the garden 1 Look, mother, look ! Mrs. Brown (rushing). Is it Brindle ? Brindle come back 1 Jack. No, no, something far better than that it is something growing, growing right up to the sky. Mrs. Brown. I do believe it's a beanstalk ! Jack. A beanstalk ? Yes, it is my beans growing ! Oh, mother, how exciting ! I'll climb up and see where it "oes to Jack and the Beanstalk 293 Mrs. Brown. No, no, don't go up into the sky in that way without knowing where you are going. Jack. I must, mother, I must ! Good-bye ! I'll bring you back something beautiful from the clouds perhaps another cow as good as Brindle. \lle climbs on to unndow sill and sings. Sony. Up, upon a beanstalk, high as a balloon, All among the little clouds, a-sailing round the moon. Mrs. Brown. Oh, if you are going, mind you come back soon I don't like your climbing things that lead up to the moon ! Curtain. ACT II. SCENE I. Interior of the Ogre's castle. A. large kitchen. Enter Jack, cautiously, looking round. Jack. Oh ! at last ! What a long beanstalk ! I thought I should never get to the top. And now that I am here, I wonder where I am ! It looked like a castle from outside. Ah ! here is some one coming, j Enter Grumps, the Ogre's wife. Grumps. Shsh ! Shoo ! ! Go away ! ! ! [ Waving frying - pcn at JackJ\ No boys here. Jack. But, my good soul Grumps. No, I ain't your good soul. Go away, T tell you. Jack. But why ?' 294 Jack and the Beanstalk Crumps. Because this is the Ogre's castle, and he will be back directly for his dinner. Jack. And what will he have for his dinner ? Grumps. You, if you stay any longer ! So I advise you to disappear. Jack. That's all very well, but where am I to go to ? Grumps. Go back to the place you came from. Jack. But I don't know the way. Grumps. How did you get here, then ? Jack. I happened to meet a fairy after I left the bean- stalk, and she directed me to your house. Grumps. Well, happen to meet another then, and let her direct you back. If you wait much longer you'll meet the Ogre, and then you won't need any directions. \_0yre heard outside, Ogre. Fee, fi, fo, fum ! I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive, or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread. Jack. What is that 1 Grumps. The Ogre the Ogre ! Jack. Oh ! do hide me somewhere please ! Gmmps (opening oven door). Quick, then ! Here you are. Jump in here ! [Jack jumps in. Grumps closes door just as 0. Grumps. A boy nonsense ! Where should a boy come from 1 [Stands in front of orcn. Jack and the Beanstalk 295 Ogre. I'm sure there's a boy in that oven and what is more, I mean to look. [Goes to oven. Grumps (in front of the oven). Very well if you open the oven now, your dinner will be spoiled, that's all the kid won't be done enough. Ogre. Hum, ha well I won't look in it till after dinner then but mind the kid is done right, or I'll throw you out of the window. I'm going to change my seven- leagued boots, and when I come back it must be ready. [Exit, singing ' Fee,fi,fo, fum.' Grumps (to Jack). Quick, quick ! now is your time ! [Jack comes out.] I don't think it would be safe for you to try to escape now, as he might see you from the window but he always goes to sleep after his dinner when you hear him snore go gently out. [Pitts him behind a chest. Enter Ogre, singing, ( Fee,fi,fo,fum,' &c. Sits down, ties a napkin round his neck. Ogre. Well, where's that kid 1 Isn't it ready 1 Grumps. Coming - coming here it is ! it's no good my putting it on the table to get cold while you're half a mile oft', is it ? Ogre. Silence, you horrid old woman ! or I'll eat you for my pudding. [He dines : she waits on him. Song ad lib.'] Now then clear away, old witch and bring me my fairy hen ! [Grumps goes to where Jack is hiding and gets tlte hen he puts his head out, Grumps pushes hi in down again. Ogre. Now then, is that hen coming ? I never saw such a house the hens are always late ! [Sing*. Come, make haste make no delaying ! Do you hear what I am saying ? If that hen has not been laying You shall die this very day ! 296 Jack and the Beanstalk Crumps (bringing hen). Here she is, your call obeying - Here's the pretty beast dis- playing All her talents, ever laying Fifteen golden eggs a day. [Repeat toy ether. Ogre. Now then, what are you standing there singing for ? Go and get my money ba,g ready and my fairy liddle all the things I shall want [Grumps going, Ogre calls after her]. And Hi ! [She turns backJ\ If I should happen to go to sleep presently Grumps. Happen ! Why, you never do anything else ! Ogre. Hold your tongue, you monster or I will put you into the oven ! I was going to say, I wish you to sit on the door mat, in case anyone should disturb me if I should happen to go to sleep. Grumps. All right. Now you have everything com- fortable. Your hen and money bag and your armchair. Ogre. I thought I heard something behind that chest! the dog isn't here, is he ? I won't have him left in the room. Grumps. No, no. He isn't there. Ogre. How do you know ? Go and look. Grumps (takes stick and pokes behind chest where Jack is, Sh sh ! Ogre (imitating her). Sh ! indeed ! What's the use of that "2 Here, give it to me, I'll soon see if the creature is there. [Runs at one side of chest and bangs stick doicn, Jack runs out at the other and the same at the other side.} There, that's the way to do things ! there doesn't seem to be anything there. You were right for once so you may- go and leave me in peace. [Exit Grumps singing. Ogre strokes hen.] Pretty creature ! And you are not only pretty you are clever that's better still ! and not only Jack and the Beanstalk 297 clever, you are good, which is best of all ! for you know how to lay me fifteen golden eggs every day. Come, where are they ? [Lifts her up and finds the eggs.} Ah that will do for my pocket money till to-morrow so now you may just wait there until this evening. [Goes to sleep. Soft music. Jack comes out softly carries the hen behind fhe chest, and as he does so falls over something with a crash. Ogre ivakes, looks round.] Why, what was that ? I'm sure I heard a noise it must have been a cinder falling out of the fire or I woke myself by snoring though I don't believe I do snore, though that old Grumps always declares./ 1 do. How tiresome to be awake, just when I was so comfortable ! However, I'll count my money now and go to sleep again afterwards. [Draws the money bag foru-ards. Sings. Gold ! gold ! gold ! gold ! Bright and yellow, hard and cold. Pounds and shillings, pennies too. All for me, and none for you. There don't seem to be as many as there were last time. I believe Grumps has been taking some ! I'll hang her up to the top of the castle presently, if I remember it. [MaJees a knot in nightcap.] There, that will remind me. [Ties up bag.] There there are a great many starving people in the world who would be glad to have only a little of what that bag contains Ha, ha ! they shan't have any of it I'll keep it all for myself every bit ! [Puts money bog behind his chair, where it mils down.] Now I'll see if I can't go to sleep again. [Music as before. Ogre snores. Jack comes out, and tries to draw money bag it is too heavy at last he succeeds, but rolls over with it. Ogre starts up. Jack lies down behind tin' hl AYESHA >(his daughters). FATIMA ' PRINCE FURRYSKIN. MOLINKO (his servant). SCKXK I. Abou Cassi-m's house. Zu. and Ay. writing at different tables. Zul. What are you writing, sister Ayesha ? Ay. I'm making a list of all the things I want father to buy me when he is away. What are you writing, sister Zuleika ? Ztd. I'm doing the same thing but it is so tiresome, I can't remember any of the things I want. Ay. Can't you 1 poor thing ! I can. I've put clown twenty-nine things on my list. Zul. Twenty-nine? dear me ! and I have only seventeen on mine ! It is hardly worth while making a list at all ! \^Abou Cassim heard calling outside Ab. C. Zuleika, Ayesha, Fatima ! Zul. and Ay. Yes, father. Beauty and the Beast 303 Enter Abou Cassim, still calling. Ab. C. Zuleika Ayesha Fatima ! where is every- body 1 why don't you answer when you are called ? why don't you come and help me to pack my things ? Znl. Oh, father, I am so sorry. I was just coming. Al>. C. Just coming what's the good of that ? I'm just going ! you'll make me miss my camel ! I said he was to b* at the door at 3 o'clock, and it is now [Looks at the *",.] I never can remember where the sun ought to be in the afternoon. I wish people used watches in Turkey. Ay. Oh, father, some day you must go a long way across the sea, to buy me a real gold watch, like the one you told me about once. Ab. C. I dare say ! you think that your father has nothing to do but go shopping for you ! Where is Fatirna, my dear youngest girl 1 she is the only one that is any use to me. when I am starting on my travels. Fatima Beauty! [Goes u/), C. Zul. (to Ay.) It makes me sick to hear her called Beauty. Ay. So it does me. 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