E. J. Wheeler. “Ah, Joseph, you’re a sad dog!”
Sir Oliver.
[Looking up.] Eh? Is that you, Nephew. Yes, I remember. I sent for you.
Joseph.
You are busy this morning, Uncle. I’ll wait upon you another day.
Sir Oliver.
No, no, Joseph. Stay, and hear what I have to tell you. I sent for you to say that I had decided to pardon your past misconduct and restore you to favour. Six months of Charles’s society have convinced me of the folly of adopting a reprobate.
Joseph.
I thought they would, Uncle.
Sir Oliver.
Your brother’s extravagances pass all bounds. Here are four writs which were served upon him but yesterday. And the fellow has the assurance to send them on to me. [Josephlaughs heartily.] Zounds, Nephew, don’t stand chuckling there. And his character has not reformed one whit, in spite of his promises. His flirtations with my Lady Sneerwell and others are so excessive that Maria has quite thrown him over, and the engagement is broken off. Add to this that I have paid his debts three times, only to find him contracting fresh liabilities, and you may judge that my patience is exhausted.
Joseph.
But these are old stories, Uncle. You knew that Charles was vicious and extravagant when you made him your heir. He has done nothing fresh to offend you.
Sir Oliver.
On the contrary. He has done something which has hurt me deeply.
Joseph.
How absurd of him, Uncle, when he knows that he is dependent wholly on your bounty!
Sir Oliver.
Wait till you haveheard the whole story. A week ago your brother came to me for money to meet some gambling debt. I refused him. Whereupon, he returned to his house, had in an auctioneer and sold everything that it contained.
Joseph.
[Much amused.] And did you play little Premium a second time, Uncle?
Sir Oliver.
[Testily.] Certainly not, Sir. On this occasion I left the rogue to settle matters for himself.
Joseph.
But I see no great harm in this. Why should not Charles sell his furniture?
Sir Oliver.
[Angrily.] Deuce take his furniture. He sold my picture!
Joseph.
What, “the ill-looking little fellow over the settee”?
Sir Oliver.
Yes.
Joseph.
Ha! ha! ha! Delicious! Sold his Uncle’s portrait! Gad, I like his spirit.
Sir Oliver.
You seem vastly entertained, Nephew!
Joseph.
I confess the humour of the situation appeals to me.
Sir Oliver.
Happily for you I am less easily amused. No, no; Charles is a heartless scoundrel, and I’ll disown him.
Joseph.
No, no, Uncle. He’s no worse than other young men.
Sir Oliver.
But he sold my picture!
Joseph.
He was pressed for money.
Sir Oliver.
[Exasperated.] But he sold my picture!!
Joseph.
He meant no harm, I’ll be bound.
Sir Oliver.
[Still more enraged.] But he sold my picture!!!
[EnterSir Peterhurriedly, looking pale and disordered.
Joseph.
My dear Sir Peter, you are ill! You have had bad news?
Sir Oliver.
Sir Peter, old friend, what is it?
Sir Peter.
[Gasping.] Lady Teazle——
[Stops, choked with passion.
Sir Oliver.
Not dead?
Sir Peter.
Dead! Hell and furies! if it were only that! No; run away with your profligate nephew Charles!
Joseph.
Impossible!
Sir Oliver.
Is this certain?
Sir Peter.
Ay. Rowley saw them driving together in a post-chaise towards Richmond, not ten minutes ago.
Sir Oliver.
Then I disown him. Joseph, you are my heir. But see that you behave yourself, or I’ll disinherit you, too, and leave my money toa missionary society.
Curtain.
Many people must have wondered whether happiness resulted from the marriage between Charles Marlow, whose shyness with ladies, it will be remembered, prevented his ever having a word to say to any woman above the rank of a barmaid, and the vivacious Kate Hardcastle. The following sequel reveals the painful truth.
Scene I.—The parlour ofCharles Marlow’shouse. He andKateare sitting on opposite sides of the fire. Silence reigns, andCharlesfidgets nervously.
Kate.
[Anticipating a remark subsequently made byPaula Tanqueray.] Six minutes!
Charles.
[Finding his tongue with an effort.] Er—eh?
Kate.
Exactly six minutes, dear, since you made your last remark.
Charles.
[Laughing uneasily and blushing.] Um—ah!—ha! ha.
Kate.
Well? What are you going to say next? It’s really time you made an observation of some kind, you know.
Charles.
[Helplessly.] Um—er—I’ve nothing to say.
Kate.
[Rallying him.] Come, make an effort.
Charles.
[In desperation.] It’s—er—a fine day.
Kate.
[Genially.] Considering that it’s raining steadily, dear, and has been for the past half-hour, I hardly think that can be considered a fortunate opening.
Charles.
[Covered with confusion.] Confound it! so it is. Forgive me—er—my dear, I didn’t know what I was saying.
Kate.
You very seldom do, dear—to me.
Charles.
What a fool you must think me!
Kate.
[Touched by his evident sincerity.] Never mind. It’s a shame to laugh at you. But youarerather absurd, you know. [She goes over and kisses him. He accepts the caress with gratitude, but blushes painfully.]
E. J. Wheeler. “But I’ve always been shy.”
Charles.
I know, my love. But I’ve always been shy like that. It’s an idiosyncrasy.
Kate.
Not idiosyncrasy, dear. Idiocy. The words are so much alike.
Charles.
[Hurt.] Ah, now you’re laughing at me!
Kate.
Of course I am, goose. [Argumentatively.] You see, dear, as long as you were a bachelor it was all very well to be bashful. But now that we are married, I really think you ought to fight against it!
Charles.
Fight against it! I fight against it every hour of the day. Every morning I say to myself, “I really must get over this ridiculous shyness. I must try and show Kate how much I—er—love her.”
Kate.
You are curiously unsuccessful, dear.
Charles.
[Miserably.] I feel that. But it’s not for lack of trying. [Desperately.] Do you suppose, Kate, that anything but the strongest effort of will keeps me sitting in this chair at this moment? Do I ever, save under compulsion, remain in the same room withanylady for more than five minutes? Why, my dear girl, if I didn’t love you to distraction, I shouldn’t remain here an instant!
Kate.
You certainly have a curious method of displaying an ardent attachment.
Charles.
Yes. It’s most unfortunate. But I warned you, dear, didn’t I? I told you all about my absurd bashfulness before we became engaged. You knew that the presence of ladies invariably reducedme to speechlessness before you accepted me.
Kate.
[Sweetly.] Notinvariably, my love. What about your prowess with Mrs. Mantrap and Lady Betty Blackleg that you told me about? [Charlesblushes crimson.] Didn’t they call you “their agreeable Rattle” at the Ladies’ Club in Town?
Charles.
I—er—get on well enough with—um—er disreputable ladies. But you—er—aren’t disreputable.
Kate.
You are too modest, dear. Some of your conquests arequiterespectable. Didn’t I come upon you in the act of kissing Anne, the housemaid, yesterday? And no one can pretend thatmyhousemaids are disreputable!
Charles.
[Sighing.] Yes. I’m not shy with housemaids.
Kate.
So I noticed. I sent Anne away this morning.
Charles.
[With real concern.] Not Anne!
Kate.
Yes. And Sarah too. I thought I detected in you a lurkingpenchantfor Sarah.
Charles.
[Simply.] Yes, I liked Sarah.
Kate.
So now we haven’t a single maid in the house. It’s really very inconvenient.
Charles.
You must get others.
Kate.
For you to make eyes at? Certainly not. By the way, is thereanytype of female domestic servant whom you do not find irresistibly attractive? Dark ones? Fair ones? Young ones? Old ones? Tall ones? Short ones? [He shakes his head at each question.] Not one?
Charles.
I’m afraid not.
Kate.
[With decision.] Then I must do the house-work myself.
Charles.
[Delighted.] Charming! My dear Kate, how delightful! Put on a cap and apron and take a broom in your hand, and my bashfulness will vanish at once. I know it will.
Kate.
It seems the only course open to us, especially as there’s no one else to sweep the rooms. But I wish you were not so unfortunately constituted.
Charles.
[Heartily.] So do I. But, after all, we must accept facts and make the best of them. You stooped to conquer, you know. You must go on stooping. Go and put on an apron at once.
Scene II.—Charles’sspecial sitting-room, where he is wont to hide his shyness from visitors. Time, a week later.Kate, in a print dress, cap and apron, is on her knees before the fire-place cleaning up the hearth.
Charles.
[Entering the room unperceived, stealing up behind her and giving her a sounding kiss.] Still stooping,Kate!
Kate.
Charles! [Rising.]
Charles.
[Kissing her again.] Ah, Kate, Kate, what a charming little creature you are, and how much I love you!
Kate.
But how long will you go on loving me?
Charles.
Always, dearest—in a cap and apron. [Embraces her.]
Kate.
It’s rather hard that I should have to remain a housemaid permanently in order to retain my husband’s affection.
Charles.
[Seriously.] It is, dear. I see that.
Kate.
However, there’s nothing to be done, so I may as well accustom myself to the idea as soon as possible. [Takes a broom and begins to sweep the floor.] You don’t think your absurd shyness is likely to diminish with time?
Charles.
It may, dear. But I think it would be unwise to count upon it. No, as far as I can see, the only thing to be done is for you to continue in your present occupation—you sweep charmingly—for the rest of your natural life.
Kate.
[Sweeping industriously.] What would my father say if he saw me!
Charles.
[Easily.] He won’t see you. He hasn’t been over since we were married.
[A ring is heard.
Kate.
[Starting.] Who’s that?
Charles.
What does it matter? No one will be shown in here. Jenkins has orders never to bring visitors into my room.
Kate.
That’s true. [Returns to her sweeping.]
[Suddenly the door opens andMr. Hardcastleenters, with elaborate heartiness, thrusting asideJenkins, who vainly tries to keep him out.
Hardcastle.
Zounds, man, out of the way! Don’t talk to me about the parlour. Can’t I come and see my son-in-law in any room I choose?
[Charlesmutters an oath;Katestands, clutching her broom convulsively, facing her father.
Hardcastle.
[Boisterously.] How d’ye do, son-in-law? Kate, my dear, give me a kiss. Heavens, child, don’t stand there clinging to a broomstick as though you were going to fly away with it. Come and kiss your old father.
[Katedrops the broom nervously and kisses him obediently.
Charles.
[Endeavouring by the warmth of his welcome to divert attention from his wife.] How d’ye do, Sir—How d’ye do? [Wringing his hand.]
Hardcastle.
[Noticing a small heap of dust on the carpet, which has been collected byKate’sexertions.] Eh, what’s this? Why, I believe you were actually sweeping the room, Kate!
Kate.
[Shamefacedly.] I am sorry, father, that you should have found me so unsuitably employed.
Hardcastle.
Unsuitably? On the contrary, nothing could be more suitable.
Kate.
[Annoyed.] Come, Papa, don’tyoubegin to be eccentric too!
Hardcastle.
[Stiffly.] I am not aware that there is anything eccentric about me.
Charles.
[Intervening nervously.] No, no, Sir. Of course not.
Hardcastle.
But when I find my daughter laying aside her finery and looking after her house, I cannot conceal my satisfaction. Ah, Charles, you have improved her greatly. When she lived at home, you remember, I had hard enough work to persuade her to lay aside fine clothes and wear her housewife’s dress in the evenings. As for sweeping, I never even ventured tosuggest it.
Kate.
[Indignantly.] I should think not!
Hardcastle.
And yet, Kate, if you knew how charming you look in a print frock, a cap and apron——
Kate.
[Laughing in spite of herself.] You, too! Really, papa, I’m ashamed of you. However, you seem both of you determined that I should pass the remainder of my days as a housemaid, so I suppose you must have your way. This is what comes of “stooping to conquer.” Now go away, both of you, and leave me to finish sweeping.
[Takes up broom again resolutely.
Hardcastle.
We will, Kate. Come, Charles.
[Exit.
Charles.
Coming, Sir [darting across to his wife and kissing her.] Darling!
Kate.
Goose!
[He goes out hurriedly afterHardcastle.
Curtain.
When Lord Lytton provided the conventional “happy ending” for “The Lady of Lyons” by reuniting Pauline, née Deschappelles, to the devoted Claude Melnotte, promoting the latter to the rank of Colonel in the French army, he seems not to have troubled his head as to the divergent social ideas of the happy pair, nor as to how the vulgar and purse-proud family of Deschappelles and the humbler Melnottes would get on together. The sequel throws a lurid light on these points. In writing it, great pains have been taken to make the blank verse, wherever possible, as bad as Lord Lytton’s.
Scene.—The drawing-room ofClaude Melnotte’shouse.Paulineis sitting by the fire,Claudeleaning with his back against the mantelpiece.James, a man-servant in livery, enters with a card on a salver.
Pauline.
[Reading card.] Mrs. Smith! Not at home, James.
Claude.
[Who can never quite get out of his habit of speaking in blank verse.] Why are you not at home to Mrs. Smith?
[Who can never quite get out of his habit of speaking in blank verse.] Why are you not at home to Mrs. Smith?
[Who can never quite get out of his habit of speaking in blank verse.] Why are you not at home to Mrs. Smith?
Pauline.
My dear Claude, that woman! Mr. Smith kept agreengrocer’s shop. ’Tis true he made a great deal of money by his contracts to supply the armies of the Republic with vegetables, but they are not gentlepeople!
Claude.
[In his most Byronic manner.] What is it makes a gentleman, Pauline?Is it to have a cousin in the Peerage——
[In his most Byronic manner.] What is it makes a gentleman, Pauline?Is it to have a cousin in the Peerage——
[In his most Byronic manner.] What is it makes a gentleman, Pauline?
Is it to have a cousin in the Peerage——
Pauline.
Partly that, dear.
Claude.
[Refusing to be interrupted.] Or is it to be honest,simple, kind——
[Refusing to be interrupted.] Or is it to be honest,simple, kind——
[Refusing to be interrupted.] Or is it to be honest,
simple, kind——
Pauline.
But I have no reason for believing Mr. Smith to have been more honest than the general run of army contractors.
Claude.
[Continuing.] Gentle in speech and action as in name?Oh, it is this that makes a gentleman!And Mr. Smith, although he kept a shop,May very properly be so described.
[Continuing.] Gentle in speech and action as in name?Oh, it is this that makes a gentleman!And Mr. Smith, although he kept a shop,May very properly be so described.
[Continuing.] Gentle in speech and action as in name?
Oh, it is this that makes a gentleman!
And Mr. Smith, although he kept a shop,
May very properly be so described.
Pauline.
Yes, I know, dear. Everybody calls himself a gentleman nowadays, even the boy who cleans the boots. But I am not going to give in to these unhealthy modern ideas, and I am not going to visit Mrs. Smith. She is not in Society.
Claude.
[Off again on his high horse.] What is Society? Allnoble men——
[Off again on his high horse.] What is Society? Allnoble men——
[Off again on his high horse.] What is Society? All
noble men——
Pauline.
[Objecting.] But Mr. Smith isn’t anobleman, Claude.
Claude.
... And women, in whatever station born,These, only these, make up “Society.”
... And women, in whatever station born,These, only these, make up “Society.”
... And women, in whatever station born,
These, only these, make up “Society.”
Pauline.
[Patiently.] But that’s such a dreadful misuse of words, dear. When one talks of “Society,” one does not mean good people, or unselfish people, or high-minded people, but people who keep a carriage and give dinner parties. Those are the only things which really matter socially.
Claude.
Pauline, Pauline, what dreadful sentiments!They show a worldly and perverted mind.I grieve to think my wife should utter them!
Pauline, Pauline, what dreadful sentiments!They show a worldly and perverted mind.I grieve to think my wife should utter them!
Pauline, Pauline, what dreadful sentiments!
They show a worldly and perverted mind.
I grieve to think my wife should utter them!
Pauline.
[Very sweetly.] I wish, Claude, you’d try and give up talking in blank verse. It’s very bad form. And it’s very bad verse, too. Try and break yourself of it.
Claude.
[Off again.] All noble thoughts, Pauline——
[Off again.] All noble thoughts, Pauline——
[Off again.] All noble thoughts, Pauline——
Pauline.
No, no, no, Claude. I really can’t have this ranting. Byronics are quite out of fashion.
Claude.
[Relapsing gloomily into prose.] You may laugh at me, Pauline, but you know I’m right.
Pauline.
Of course you’re right, dear. Much too right for this wicked world. That’s why I never can take your advice on any subject. You’re so unpractical.
Claude.
[Breaking out again.] The world, the world, oh, how I hate this world!
[Breaking out again.] The world, the world, oh, how I hate this world!
[Breaking out again.] The world, the world, oh, how I hate this world!
Pauline.
Now that’s silly of you, dear. There’s nothing like making the best of a bad thing. By the way, Claude, didn’t you say Mrs. Melnotte was coming to call this afternoon?
Claude.
Yes. Dear mother, how nice it will be to see her again!
Pauline.
It will be charming, of course.... I do hope no one else will call at the same time. Perhaps I’d better tell James we are not at home to anyone except Mrs. Melnotte.
Claude.
Oh, no, don’t do that. My mother will enjoy meeting our friends.
Pauline.
No doubt, dear. But will our friends enjoy meeting your mother? [Seeing him about to burst forth again.] Oh, yes, Claude, I know what you are going to say. But, after all, Lyons is a very purse-proud, vulgar place. You know, howmymother can behave on occasions! And if Mrs. Melnotte happens to be here when any other people call it may be very unpleasant. I really think I had better say we are not at home to anyone else.
[Rises to ring the bell.
Claude.
Pauline, I forbid you! Sit down at once. If my family are not good enough for your friends, let them drop us and be hanged to them.
Pauline.
Claude, don’t storm. It’s so vulgar. And there’s not the least occasion for it either. I only thought it would be pleasanter for all our visitors—your dear mother among the number—if we avoided all chance of disagreeable scenes. But there, dear, you’ve nosavoir faire, and I’m afraid we shall never get into Society. It’s very sad.
Claude.
[Touched by her patience.] I am sorry, my dear. I ought to have kept my temper. But I wish you weren’t so set upon getting into Society. Isn’t it a little snobbish?
Pauline.
[Wilfully misunderstanding him.] It’s dreadfully snobbish, dear; the most snobbish sort of Society I know. All provincial towns are like that. But it’s the only Society there is here, you know, and we must make the best of it.
Claude.
My poor Pauline.
[Kissing her.
Pauline.
[Gently.] But you know, Claude, social distinctions do exist. Why not recognize them? And the late Mr. Melnottewasa gardener!
Claude.
He was—an excellent gardener.
Pauline.
One of the Lower Classes.
Claude.
In a Republic there are no Lower Classes.
Pauline.
[Correcting him.] In a Republic there are no Higher Classes. And class distinctions are more sharply drawn than ever in consequence.
Claude.
So much the worse for the Republic.
Pauline.
[Shocked.] Claude, I begin to think you are an anarchist.
Claude.
I? [Proudly.] I am a colonel in the French army.
Pauline.
But not arealcolonel, Claude. Only a Republican colonel.
Claude.
[Sternly.] I rose from the ranks in two years by merit.
Pauline.
I know, dear. Real colonels only rise by interest.
[Claudegasps.
James.
[Opening the door and showing in a wizened old lady in rusty black garments and a bonnet slightly awry.] Mrs. Melnotte.
[Paulinegoes forward to greet her.
Mrs. Melnotte.
[Not seeing her.] Ah, my dear son [runs across the room toClaudebefore the eyes of the deeply scandalisedJames, and kisses him repeatedly], how glad I am to see you again! And your grand house! And your fine servants! In livery, too!
[Paulineshudders, and so doesJames. The latter goes out.
Claude.
My dearest mother!
[Kisses her.
Mrs. Melnotte.
[Beaming on Pauline.] How do you do, my dear? Let me give my Claude’s wife a kiss.
[Does so in resounding fashion.
E. J. Wheeler. “Let me give my Claude’s wife a kiss.”
Pauline.
[As soon as she has recovered from the warmth of this embrace.] How do you do, Mrs. Melnotte? Won’t you sit down?
Mrs. Melnotte.
Thank you kindly, my dear. I don’t mind if I do.
[A ring is heard outside, followed by the sound of someone being admitted.Paulinelooks anxiously towards the door.
Pauline.
[To herself.] A visitor! How unlucky! I wonder who it is?
James.
[Throwing open the door.] Mrs. Deschappelles.
Pauline.
Great Heavens, my mother!
[Falls back, overwhelmed, into her chair.
Mrs. Deschappelles.
[In her most elaborate manner.] My dear child, you are unwell. My coming has been a shock to you. But there, a daughter’s affection, Claude—[shaking hands with him]—how wonderful it is!
Pauline.
Dear mother, we are delighted to see you.
Mrs. Deschappelles.
Of course I ought to have called before. I have been meaning to come ever since you returned from your honeymoon. But I have so many visits to pay; and you have only been back ten weeks!
Pauline.
I quite understand, mother dear.
Mrs. Deschappelles.
And, as I always say to your poor father, “When one is a leader of Society, one has so many engagements.” I am sureyoufind that.
Pauline.
I have hardly begun to receive visits yet.
Mrs. Deschappelles.
No, dear? But then it’s different withyou. When you married Colonel Melnotte, of course you gave up allsocialambitions.
Mrs. Melnotte.
I am sure no one could wish for a better, braverhusband than my Claude.
Mrs. Deschappelles.
[Turning sharply round and observingMrs. Melnottefor the first time.] I beg your pardon?
[Icily.
Mrs. Melnotte.
[Bravely.] I said no one could have a better husband than Claude.
Mrs. Deschappelles.
[Dumbfounded, appealing toPauline.] Who—who is thisperson?
Pauline.
[Nervously.] I think you have met before, mother. This is Mrs. Melnotte.
Mrs. Deschappelles.
[Insolently.] Oh! the gardener’s wife.
Claude.
[Melodramatic at once.] Yes. The gardener’s wife and my mother!
Mrs. Deschappelles.
[Impatiently.] Of course, I know the unfortunate relationship between you, Claude. You need not thrust it down my throat. You know how unpleasant it is to me.
Pauline.
[Shocked at this bad taste.] Mother!
Mrs. Deschappelles.
Oh, yes, it is. As I was saying to your poor father only yesterday. “Of course, Claude is all right. He is an officer now, and all officers are supposed to be gentlemen. But his relatives are impossible, quite impossible!”
Claude.
[Furiously.] This insolence is intolerable. Madame Deschappelles....
Mrs. Melnotte.
[Intervening.] Claude, Claude, don’t be angry! Remember who she is.
Claude.
[Savagely.] I remember well enough. She is Madame Deschappelles, and her husband is a successful tradesman. He was an English shop-boy, and his proper name was Chapel. He came over to France, grew rich, put a “de” before his name, and now gives himself airs like the otherparvenus.
Mrs. Deschappelles.
Monster!
Pauline.
My dear Claude, how wonderfully interesting!
Mrs. Melnotte.
[Rising.] My son, you must not forget your manners. Mrs. Deschappelles is Pauline’s mother. I will go away now, and leave you to make your apologies to her. [Claudetries to prevent her going.] No, no, I will go, really. Good-bye, my son; good-bye, dear Pauline.
[Kisses her and goes out.
Mrs. Deschappelles.
If that woman imagines that I am going to stay here after being insulted by you as I have been, she is much mistaken. Please ring for my carriage. [Clauderings.] As for you, Pauline, I always told you what would happen if you insisted on marrying beneath you, and now you see I’m right.
Pauline.
[Quietly.] You seem to forget, mamma, that papa was practically a bankrupt when I married, and that Claude paid his debts.
Mrs. Deschappelles.
I forget nothing. And I do not see that it makes the smallest difference. I am not blaming your poor father for having his debts paid by Colonel Melnotte; I am blaming you for marrying him. Good-bye.
[She sweeps out in a towering passion.
Pauline.
Sit down, Claude, and don’t glower at me like that. It’s not my fault if mamma does not know how to behave.
Claude.
[Struggling with his rage.] That’s true, that’s true.
Pauline.
Poor mamma, her want of breeding is terrible! I have always noticed it. But that story about Mr. Chapel explains it all. Why didn’t you tell it to me before?
Claude.
I thought it would pain you.
Pauline.
Pain me? I am delighted with it! Why, it explains everything. It explainsme. It explainsyou, even. A Miss Chapel might marryanyone. Don’t frown, Claude; laugh. We shall never get into Society in Lyons, but, at least, we shall never have another visit from mamma. The worst has happened. We can now live happily ever afterwards.
Curtain.
Most people, in their day, have wept tears of relief at the ending of T. W. Robertson’s comedy “Caste,” when the Hon. George D’Alroy—not dead, poor chap!—falls into the arms of his wife, Esther, while his father-in-law, Eccles, bestows a drunken benediction upon him before starting for Jersey, and his sister-in-law, Polly, and her adored plumber, Gerridge, embrace sympathetically in the background. In these circumstances it seems hardly kind to add a further act to this harrowing drama. But the writer of Sequels, like Nemesis, is inexorable. If the perusal of the following scene prevents any young subaltern from emulating D’Alroy and marrying a ballet-dancer with a drunken father, it will not have been written in vain.
Scene.—The dining-room of theD’Alroys’house in the suburbs. Dinner is just over, andGeorge D’Alroy, in a seedy coat and carpet slippers, is sitting by the fire smoking a pipe. On the other side of the fire sitsEsther, his wife, darning a sock.
Esther.
Tired, George?
George.
Yes.
Esther.
Had a bad day in the City?
George.
Beastly! I believe I’m the unluckiest beggar in the world. Every stock I touch goes down.
Esther.
Why don’t you give up speculating if you’re so unlucky?
George.
[Hurt.] I don’t speculate, dear. I invest.
Esther.
Why don’t you give up investing then? It makes a dreadful hole in our income.
George.
One must dosomethingfor one’s living.
Esther.
[Sighing.] What a pity it is you left the Army!
George.
I had to. The regiment wouldn’t stand your father. He was always coming to the mess-room when he was drunk, and asking for me. So the Colonel said I’d better send in my papers.
Esther.
[Gently.] Notdrunk, George.
George.
The Colonel said so. And he was rather a judge.
Esther.
[Unable to improve upon her old phrase.] Father is a very eccentric man, but a very good man, when you know him.
George.
[Grimly.] If you mean by “eccentric” a man who is always drunk and won’t die, he is—most eccentric!
Esther.
Hush, dear! After all, he’s my father.
George.
That’s my objection to him.
Esther.
I’m afraid you must have lost agreatdeal of money to-day!
George.
Pretty well. But I’ve noticed that retired military men who go into the City invariably do lose money.
Esther.
Why do they go into the City, then?
George.
[Gloomily.] Why, indeed?
[There is a short pause.Georgestares moodily at the fire.
Esther.
I had a visit from your mother to-day.
George.
How was she?
Esther.
Not very well. She has aged sadly in the last few years. Her hair is quite white now.
George.
[Half to himself.] Poor mother, poor mother!
Esther.
She was very kind. She asked particularly after you, and she saw little George. [Gently.] I think she is getting more reconciled to our marriage.
George.
Do you really, dear? [Looks at her curiously.]
Esther.
Yes; and I think it’s such a good thing. How strange it is that people should attach such importance to class distinctions!
George.
Forgive me, dear, but if you think it strange that the Marquise de St. Maur does not consider Mr. Eccles andthe Gerridges wholly desirable connections, I am afraid I cannot agree with you.