Goose! They're only machines made to wait upon people—and to give evidence in the Divorce Court. [Looking round.] Oh, indeed! A snug little dinner!
Aubrey.
Three men.
Paula.
[Suspiciously.] Men?
Aubrey.
Men.
Paula.
[Penitently.] Ah! [Sitting at the table.] I'm so hungry.
Aubrey.
Let me get you some game pie, or some——
Paula.
No, no, hungry for this. What beautiful fruit! I love fruit when it's expensive. [He clears a space on the table, places a plate before her, and helps her to fruit.] I haven't dined, Aubrey dear.
Aubrey.
My poor girl! Why?
Paula.
In the first place, I forgot to order any dinner, and my cook, who has always loathed me, thought he'd pay me out before he departed.
Aubrey.
The beast!
Paula.
That's precisely what I——
Aubrey.
No, Paula!
Paula.
What I told my maid to call him. What next will you think of me?
Aubrey.
Forgive me. You must be starved.
Paula.
[Eating fruit.]Ididn't care. As there was nothing to eat, I sat in my best frock, with my toes on the dining-room fender, and dreamt, oh, such a lovely dinner-party.
Aubrey.
Dear lonely little woman!
Paula.
It was perfect. I saw you at the end of a very long table, opposite me, and we exchanged sly glances now and again over the flowers. We were host and hostess, Aubrey, and had been married about five years.
Aubrey.
[Kissing her hand.] Five years.
Paula.
And on each side of us was the nicest set imaginable—you know, dearest, the sort of men and women that can't be imitated.
Aubrey.
Yes, yes. Eat some more fruit.
Paula.
But I haven't told you the best part of my dream.
Aubrey.
Tell me.
Paula.
Well, although we had been married only such afew years, I seemed to know by the look on their faces that none of our guests had ever heard anything—anything—anything peculiar about the fascinating hostess.
Aubrey.
That's just how it will be, Paula. The world moves so quickly. That's just how it will be.
Paula.
[With a little grimace.] I wonder! [Glancing at the fire.] Ugh! do throw another log on.
Aubrey.
[Mending the fire.] There. But you mustn't be here long.
Paula.
Hospitable wretch! I've something important to tell you. No, stay where you are. [Turning from him, her face averted.] Look here, that was my dream, Aubrey; but the fire went out while I was dozing, and I woke up with a regular fit of the shivers. And the result of it all was that I ran upstairs and scribbled you a letter.
Aubrey.
Dear baby!
Paula.
Remain where you are. [Taking a letter from her pocket.] This is it. I've given you an account of myself, furnished you with a list of my adventures since I—you know. [Weighing the letter in her hand.] I wonder if it would go for a penny. Most of it you're acquainted with;I'vetold you a good deal, haven't I?
Aubrey.
Oh, Paula!
Paula.
What I haven't told you I daresay you've heard from others. But in case they've omitted anything—the dears—it's all here.
Aubrey.
In Heaven's name, why must you talk like this to-night?
Paula.
It may save discussion by-and-by, don't you think? [Holding out the letter.] There you are.
Aubrey.
No, dear, no.
Paula.
Take it. [He takes the letter.] Read it throughafter I've gone, and then—read it again, and turn the matter over in your mind finally. And if, even at the very last moment, you feel you—oughtn't to go to church with me, send a messenger to Pont Street, any time before eleven to-morrow, telling me that you're afraid, and I—I'll take the blow.
Aubrey.
Why, what—what do you think I am?
Paula.
That's it. It's because I know you're such a dear good fellow that I want to save you the chance of ever feeling sorry you married me. I really love you so much, Aubrey, that to save you that I'd rather you treated me as—as the others have done.
Aubrey.
[Turning from her with a cry.] Oh!
Paula.
[After a slight pause.] I suppose I've shocked you. I can't help it if I have.
[She sits, with assumed languor and indifference. He turns to her, advances, and kneels by her.
Aubrey.
My dearest, you don't understand me. I—I can'tbear to hear you always talking about—what's done with. I tell you I'll never remember it; Paula, can't you dismiss it? Try. Darling, if we promise each other to forget, to forget, we're bound to be happy. After all, it's a mechanical matter; the moment a wretched thought enters your head, you quickly think of something bright—it depends on one's will. Shall I burn this, dear? [Referring to the letter he holds in his hand.] Let me, let me!
Paula.
[With a shrug of the shoulders.] I don't suppose there's much that's new to you in it—just as you like.
[He goes to the fire and burns the letter.
Aubrey.
There's an end of it. [Returning to her.] What's the matter?
Paula.
[Rising, coldly.] Oh, nothing! I'll go and put my cloak on.
Aubrey.
[Detaining her.] Whatisthe matter?
Paula.
Well, I think you might have said, "You're verygenerous, Paula," or at least, "Thank you, dear," when I offered to set you free.
Aubrey.
[Catching her in his arms.] Ah!
Paula.
Ah! ah! Ha, ha! It's all very well, but you don't know what it cost me to make such an offer. I do so want to be married.
Aubrey.
But you never imagined——?
Paula.
Perhaps not. And yet Ididthink of what I'd do at the end of our acquaintance if you had preferred to behave like the rest.
[Taking a flower from her bodice.
Aubrey.
Hush!
Paula.
Oh, I forgot!
Aubrey.
What would you have done when we parted?
Paula.
Why, killed myself.
Aubrey.
Paula, dear!
Paula.
It's true. [Putting the flower in his buttonhole.] Do you know I feel certain I should make away with myself if anything serious happened to me.
Aubrey.
Anything serious! What, has nothing ever been serious to you, Paula?
Paula.
Not lately; not since a long while ago. I made up my mind then to have done with taking things seriously. If I hadn't, I—— However, we won't talk about that.
Aubrey.
But now, now, life will be different to you, won't it—quite different? Eh, dear?
Paula.
Oh yes, now. Only, Aubrey, mind you keep me always happy.
Aubrey.
I will try to.
Paula.
I know I couldn't swallow a second big dose ofmisery. I know that if ever I felt wretched again—truly wretched—I should take a leaf out of Connie Tirlemont's book. You remember? They found her—— [With a look of horror.]
Aubrey.
For God's sake, don't let your thoughts run on such things!
Paula.
[Laughing.] Ha, ha, how scared you look! There, think of the time! Dearest, what will my coachman say! My cloak!
[She runs off, gaily, by the upper door.Aubreylooks after her for a moment, then he walks up to the fire and stands warming his feet at the bars. As he does so he raises his head and observes the letters upon the mantelpiece. He takes one down quickly.
Aubrey.
Ah! Ellean! [Opening the letter and reading.] "My dear father,—A great change has come over me. I believe my mother in Heaven has spoken to me, and counselled me to turn to you in your loneliness. At any rate, your words have reached my heart, and I no longer feel fitted for this solemn life.I am ready to take my place by you. Dear father, will you receive me?—Ellean."
Paulare-enters, dressed in a handsome cloak. He stares at her as if he hardly realised her presence.
Paulare-enters, dressed in a handsome cloak. He stares at her as if he hardly realised her presence.
Paula.
What are you staring at? Don't you admire my cloak?
Aubrey.
Yes.
Paula.
Couldn't you wait till I'd gone before reading your letters?
Aubrey.
[Putting the letter away.] I beg your pardon.
Paula.
Take me downstairs to the carriage. [Slipping her arm through his.] How I tease you! To-morrow! I'm so happy!
[They go out.
A morning-room inAubrey Tanqueray'shouse, "Highercoombe," near Willowmere, Surrey—a bright and prettily furnished apartment of irregular shape, with double doors opening into a small hall at the back, another door on the left, and a large recessed window through which is obtained a view of extensive grounds. Everything about the room is charming and graceful. The fire is burning in the grate, and a small table is tastefully laid for breakfast. It is a morning in early Spring, and the sun is streaming in through the window.AubreyandPaulaare seated at breakfast, andAubreyis silently reading his letters. Two servants, a man and a woman, hand dishes and then retire. After a little whileAubreyputs his letters aside and looks across to the window.
A morning-room inAubrey Tanqueray'shouse, "Highercoombe," near Willowmere, Surrey—a bright and prettily furnished apartment of irregular shape, with double doors opening into a small hall at the back, another door on the left, and a large recessed window through which is obtained a view of extensive grounds. Everything about the room is charming and graceful. The fire is burning in the grate, and a small table is tastefully laid for breakfast. It is a morning in early Spring, and the sun is streaming in through the window.
AubreyandPaulaare seated at breakfast, andAubreyis silently reading his letters. Two servants, a man and a woman, hand dishes and then retire. After a little whileAubreyputs his letters aside and looks across to the window.
Aubrey.
Sunshine! Spring!
Paula.
[Glancing at the clock.] Exactly six minutes.
Aubrey.
Six minutes?
Paula.
Six minutes, Aubrey dear, since you made your last remark.
Aubrey.
I beg your pardon; I was reading my letters. Have you seen Ellean this morning?
Paula.
[Coldly.] Your last observation but one was about Ellean.
Aubrey.
Dearest, what shall I talk about?
Paula.
Ellean breakfasted two hours ago, Morgan tells me, and then went out walking with her dog.
Aubrey.
She wraps up warmly, I hope; this sunshine is deceptive.
Paula.
I ran about the lawn last night, after dinner, in satin shoes. Were you anxious about me?
Aubrey.
Certainly.
Paula.
[Melting.] Really?
Aubrey.
You make me wretchedly anxious; you delight in doing incautious things. You are incurable.
Paula.
Ah, what a beast I am! [Going to him and kissing him, then glancing at the letters by his side.] A letter from Cayley?
Aubrey.
He is staying very near here, with Mrs.—— Very near here.
Paula.
With the lady whose chimneys we have the honour of contemplating from our windows?
Aubrey.
With Mrs. Cortelyon—yes.
Paula.
Mrs. Cortelyon! The woman who might have set the example of calling on me when we first threw out roots in this deadly-lively soil! Deuce take Mrs. Cortelyon!
Aubrey.
Hush! my dear girl!
Paula.
[Returning to her seat.] Oh, I know she's an old acquaintance of yours—and of the first Mrs. Tanqueray. And she joins the rest of 'em in slapping the second Mrs. Tanqueray in the face. However, I have my revenge—she's six-and-forty, and I wish nothing worse to happen to any woman.
Aubrey.
Well, she's going to town, Cayley says here, and his visit's at an end. He's coming over this morning to call on you. Shall we ask him to transfer himself to us? Do say yes.
Paula.
Yes.
Aubrey.
[Gladly.] Ah, ha! old Cayley!
Paula.
[Coldly.] He'll amuseyou.
Aubrey.
And you too.
Paula.
Because you find a companion, shall I be boisterously hilarious?
Aubrey.
Come, come! He talks London, and you know you like that.
Paula.
London! London or Heaven! which is farther from me!
Aubrey.
Paula!
Paula.
Oh! Oh, I am so bored, Aubrey!
Aubrey.
[Gathering up his letters and going to her, leaning over her shoulder.] Baby, what can I do for you?
Paula.
I suppose, nothing. You have done all you can for me.
Aubrey.
What do you mean?
Paula.
You have married me.
[He walks away from her thoughtfully, to the writing-table. As he places his letters on the table he sees an addressed letter, stamped for the post, lying on the blotting-book; he picks it up.
Aubrey.
[In an altered tone.] You've been writing this Morning before breakfast?
Paula.
[Looking at him quickly, then away again.] Er—that letter.
Aubrey.
[With the letter in his hand.] To Lady Orreyed. Why?
Paula.
Why not? Mabel's an old friend of mine.
Aubrey.
Are you—corresponding?
Paula.
I heard from her yesterday. They've just returned from the Riviera. She seems happy.
Aubrey.
[Sarcastically.] That's good news.
Paula.
Why are you always so cutting about Mabel? She's a kind-hearted girl. Every thing's altered; she even thinks of letting her hair go back to brown. She's Lady Orreyed. She's married to George. What's the matter with her?
Aubrey.
[Turning away.] Oh!
Paula.
You drive me mad sometimes with the tone you take about things! Great goodness, if you come to that, George Orreyed's wife isn't a bit worse than yours! [He faces her suddenly.] I suppose I needn't have made that observation.
Aubrey.
No, there was scarcely a necessity.
[He throws the letter on to the table, and takes up the newspaper.
Paula.
I am very sorry.
Aubrey.
All right, dear.
Paula.
[Trifling with the letter.] I—I'd better tell you what I've written. I meant to do so, of course. I—I've asked the Orreyeds to come and stay with us. [He looks at her and lets the paper fall to the ground in a helpless way.] George was a great friend of Cayley's; I'm surehewould be delighted to meet them here.
Aubrey.
[Laughing mirthlessly.] Ha, ha, ha! They say Orreyed has taken to tippling at dinner. Heavens above!
Paula.
Oh! I've no patience with you! You'll kill me with this life! [She selects some flowers from a vase on the table, cuts and arranges them, and fastens them in her bodice.] What is my existence, Sunday toSaturday? In the morning, a drive down to the village, with the groom, to give my orders to the tradespeople. At lunch, you and Ellean. In the afternoon, a novel, the newspapers; if fine, another drive—iffine! Tea—you and Ellean. Then two hours of dusk; then dinner—you and Ellean. Then a game of Bésique, you and I, while Ellean reads a religious book in a dull corner. Then a yawn from me, another from you, a sigh from Ellean; three figures suddenly rise—"Good-night, good-night, good-night!" [Imitating a kiss.] "God bless you!" Ah!
Aubrey.
Yes, yes, Paula—yes, dearest—that's what it isnow. But, by-and-by, if people begin to come round us——
Paula.
Hah! That's where we've made the mistake, my friend Aubrey! [Pointing to the window.] Do you believe these people willevercome round us? Your former crony, Mrs. Cortelyon? Or the grim old vicar, or that wife of his whose huge nose is positively indecent? Or the Ullathornes, or the Gollans, or Lady William Petres? I know better! And when the young ones gradually take the place of the old, there will still remain the sacred tradition that the dreadful person who lives at the top of the hill isnever, under any circumstances, to be called upon! And so we shall go on here, year in and year out, until the sap is run out of our lives, and we're stale and dry and withered from sheer, solitary respectability. Upon my word, I wonder we didn't see that we should have been far happier if we'd gone in for the devil-may-care,café-living sort of life in town! After all,Ihave a set and you might have joined it. It's true I did want, dearly, dearly, to be a married woman, but where's the pride in being a married woman among married women who are—married! If—— [Seeing thatAubrey'shead has sunk into his hands.] Aubrey! My dear boy! You're not—crying?
[He looks up, with a flushed face.Elleanenters, dressed very simply for walking. She is a low voiced, grave girl of about nineteen, with a face somewhat resembling a Madonna. TowardsPaulaher manner is cold and distant.
Aubrey.
[In an undertone.] Ellean!
Ellean.
Good-morning, papa. Good-morning, Paula.
[Paulaputs her arms roundElleanand kisses her.Elleanmakes little response.
Paula.
Good-morning. [Brightly.] We've been breakfasting this side of the house, to get the sun.
[She sits at the piano and rattles at a gay melody. Seeing thatPaula'sback is turned to them,Elleangoes toAubreyand kisses him; he returns the kiss almost furtively. As they separate, the servants re-enter, and proceed to carry out the breakfast-table.
Aubrey.
[ToEllean.] I guess where you've been: there's some gorse clinging to your frock.
Ellean.
[Removing a sprig of gorse from her skirt.] Rover and I walked nearly as far as Black Moor. The poor fellow has a thorn in his pad; I am going upstairs for my tweezers.
Aubrey.
Ellean! [She returns to him.] Paula is a little depressed—out of sorts. She complains that she has no companion.
Ellean.
I am with Paula nearly all the day, papa.
Aubrey.
Ah, but you're such a little mouse. Paula likes cheerful people about her.
Ellean.
I'm afraid I am naturally rather silent; and it's so difficult to seem to be what one is not.
Aubrey.
I don't wish that, Ellean.
Ellean.
I will offer to go down to the village with Paula this morning—shall I?
Aubrey.
[Touching her hand gently.] Thank you—do.
Ellean.
When I've looked after Rover, I'll come back to her.
[She goes out;Paulaceases playing, and turns on the music-stool looking atAubrey.
Paula.
Well, have you and Ellean had your little confidence?
Aubrey.
Confidence?
Paula.
Do you think I couldn't feel it, like a pain between my shoulders?
Aubrey.
Ellean is coming back in a few minutes to be with you. [Bending over her.] Paula, Paula dear, is this how you keep your promise?
Paula.
Oh! [Rising impatiently and crossing swiftly to the settee, where she sits, moving restlessly.] Ican'tkeep my promise; Iamjealous; it won't be smothered. I see you looking at her, watching her; your voice drops when you speak to her. I know how fond you are of that girl, Aubrey.
Aubrey.
What would you have? I've no other home for her. She is my daughter.
Paula.
She is your saint. Saint Ellean!
Aubrey.
You have often told me how good and sweet you think her.
Paula.
Good!—yes! Do you imaginethatmakes me less jealous? [Going to him and clinging to his arm.] Aubrey, there are two sorts of affection—the love for a woman you respect, and the love for a woman you—love. She gets the first from you: I never can.
Aubrey.
Hush, hush! you don't realise what you say.
Paula.
If Ellean cared for me only a little, it would be different. I shouldn't be jealous then. Why doesn't she care for me?
Aubrey.
She—she—she will, in time.
Paula.
You can't say that without stuttering.
Aubrey.
Her disposition seems a little unresponsive; she resembles her mother in many ways; I can see it every day.
Paula.
She's marble. It's a shame. There's not the slightest excuse; for all she knows, I'm as much a saint as she—only married. Dearest, help me to win her over!
Aubrey.
Help you?
Paula.
You can. Teach her that it is her duty to love me; she hangs on to every word you speak. I'm sure, Aubrey, that the love of a nice woman who believed me to be like herself would do me a world of good. You'd get the benefit of it as well as I. It would soothe me; it would make me less horribly restless; it would take this—this—mischievous feeling from me. [Coaxingly.] Aubrey!
Aubrey.
Have patience; everything will come right.
Paula.
Yes, if you help me.
Aubrey.
In the meantime you will tear up your letter to Lady Orreyed, won't you?
Paula.
[Kissing his hand.] Of course I will—anything!
Aubrey.
Ah, thank you, dearest! [Laughing.] Why, good gracious!—ha, ha!—just imagine "Saint Ellean" and that woman side by side!
Paula.
[Going back with a cry.] Ah!
Aubrey.
What?
Paula.
[Passionately.] It's Ellean you're considering, not me? It's all Ellean with you! Ellean! Ellean!
Elleanre-enters.
Ellean.
Did you call me, Paula? [Clenching his hands,Aubreyturns away and goes out.] Is papa angry?
Paula.
I drive him distracted sometimes. There, I confess it!
Ellean.
Do you? Oh, why do you?
Paula.
Because I—because I'm jealous.
Ellean.
Jealous?
Paula.
Yes—of you. [Elleanis silent.] Well, what do you think of that?
Ellean.
I knew it; I've seen it. It hurts me dreadfully. What do you wish me to do? Go away?
Paula.
Leave us! [Beckoning her with a motion of the head.] Look here! [Elleangoes toPaulaslowly and unresponsively.] You could cure me of my jealousy very easily. Why don't you—like me?
Ellean.
What do you mean by—like you? I don't understand.
Paula.
Love me.
Ellean.
Love is not a feeling that is under one's control. I shall alter as time goes on, perhaps. I didn't begin to love my father deeply till a few months ago, and then I obeyed my mother.
Paula.
Ah, yes, you dream things, don't you—see them in your sleep? You fancy your mother speaks to you?
Ellean.
When you have lost your mother it is a comfort to believe that she is dead only to this life, that she still watches over her child. I do believe that of my mother.
Paula.
Well, and so you haven't been bidden to loveme?
Ellean.
[After a pause, almost inaudibly.] No.
Paula.
Dreams are only a hash-up of one's day-thoughts, I suppose you know. Think intently of anything, and it's bound to come back to you at night. I don't cultivate dreams myself.
Ellean.
Ah, I knew you would only sneer!
Paula.
I'm not sneering; I'm speaking the truth. I say that if you cared for me in the daytime I should soon make friends with those nightmares of yours. Ellean, why don't you try to look on me as your second mother? Of course there are not many years between us, but I'm ever so much older than you—in experience. I shall have no children of my own, I know that; it would be a real comfort to me if you would make me feel we belonged to each other. Won't you? Perhaps you think I'm odd—not nice. Well, the fact is I've two sides to my nature, and I've let the one almost smother the other. A few years ago I went through some trouble, and since then I haven't shed a tear. I believe if you put your arms round me just once I should run upstairs and have a good cry. There, I've talked to you as I've never talked to a woman in my life. Ellean, you seem to fear me. Don't! Kiss me!
[With a cry, almost of despair,Elleanturns fromPaulaand sinks on to the settee, covering her face with her hands.
Paula.
[Indignantly.] Oh! Why is it! How dare you treat me like this? What do you mean by it? What do you mean?
AServantenters.
Servant.
Mr. Drummle, ma'am.
Cayley Drummle,in riding dress, enters briskly.
TheServantretires.
Paula.
[Recovering herself.] Well, Cayley!
Drummle.
[Shaking hands with her cordially.] How are you? [Shaking hands withEllean,who rises.] I saw you in the distance an hour ago, in the gorse near Stapleton's.
Ellean.
I didn't see you, Mr. Drummle.
Drummle.
My dear Ellean, it is my experience that nocharming young lady of nineteen ever does see a man of forty-five. [Laughing.] Ha, Ha!
Ellean.
[Going to the door.] Paula, papa wishes me to drive down to the village with you this morning. Do you care to take me?
Paula.
[Coldly.] Oh, by all means. Pray tell Watts to balance the cart for three.
[Elleangoes out.
Drummle.
How's Aubrey?
Paula.
Very well—when Ellean's about the house.
Drummle.
And you? I needn't ask.
Paula.
[Walking away to the window.] Oh, a dog's life, my dear Cayley, mine.
Drummle.
Eh?
Paula.
Doesn't that define a happy marriage? I'm sleek, well-kept, well-fed, never without a bone to gnaw and fresh straw to lie upon. [Gazing out of the window.] Oh, dear me!
Drummle.
H'm! Well, I heartily congratulate you on your kennel. The view from the terrace here is superb.
Paula.
Yes, I can see London.
Drummle.
London! Not quite so far, surely?
Paula.
Ican. Also the Mediterranean, on a fine day. I wonder what Algiers looks like this morning from the sea! [Impulsively.] Oh, Cayley, do you remember those jolly times on board Peter Jarman's yacht when we lay off——? [Stopping suddenly, seeingDrummlestaring at her.] Good gracious! What are we talking about!
Aubreyenters.
Aubrey.
[To Drummle.] Dear old chap! Has Paula asked you?
Paula.
Not yet.
Aubrey.
We want you to come to us, now that you're leaving Mrs. Cortelyon—at once, to-day. Stay a month, as long as you please—eh, Paula?
Paula.
As long as you can possibly endure it—do, Cayley.
Drummle.
[Looking at Aubrey.] Delighted. [To Paula.] Charming of you to have me.
Paula.
My dear man, you're a blessing. I must telegraph to London for more fish! A strange appetite to cater for! Something to do, to do, to do!
[She goes out in a mood of almost childish delight.
Drummle.
[Eyeing Aubrey.] Well?
Aubrey.
[With a wearied, anxious look.] Well, Cayley?
Drummle.
How are you getting on?
Aubrey.
My position doesn't grow less difficult. I told you, when I met you last week, of this feverish, jealous attachment of Paula's for Ellean?
Drummle.
Yes. I hardly know why, but I came to the conclusion that you don't consider it an altogether fortunate attachment.
Aubrey.
Ellean doesn't respond to it.
Drummle.
These are early days. Ellean will warm towards your wife by-and-by.
Aubrey.
Ah, but there's the question, Cayley!
Drummle.
What question?
Aubrey.
The question which positively distracts me. Ellean is so different from—most women; I don't believe a purer creature exists out of heaven. And I—I ask myself, am I doing right in exposing her to the influence of poor Paula's light, careless nature?
Drummle.
My dear Aubrey!
Aubrey.
That shocks you! So it does me. I assure you I long to urge my girl to break down the reserve which keeps her apart from Paula, but somehow I can't do it—well, I don't do it. How can I make you understand? But when you come to us you'll understand quickly enough. Cayley, there's hardly a subject you can broach on which poor Paula hasn't some strange, out-of-the-way thought to give utterance to; some curious, warped notion. They are not mere worldly thoughts—unless, good God! they belong to the little hellish world which our blackguardism has created: no, her ideas have too little calculation in them to be called worldly. But it makes it the more dreadful that such thoughts should be ready, spontaneous; that expressing them has become a perfectly natural process; that her words,acts even, have almost lost their proper significance for her, and seem beyond her control. Ah, and the pain of listening to it all from the woman one loves, the woman one hoped to make happy and contented, who is really and truly a good woman, as it were, maimed! Well, this is my burden, and I shouldn't speak to you of it but for my anxiety about Ellean. Ellean! What is to be her future? It is in my hands; what am I to do? Cayley, when I remember how Ellean comes to me, from another world I always think, when I realise the charge that's laid on me, I find myself wishing, in a sort of terror, that my child were safe under the ground!
Drummle.
My dear Aubrey, aren't you making a mistake?
Aubrey.
Very likely. What is it?
Drummle.
A mistake, not in regarding your Ellean as an angel, but in believing that, under any circumstances, it would be possible for her to go through life without getting her white robe—shall we say, a little dusty at the hem? Don't take me for a cynic. I am surethere are many women upon earth who are almost divinely innocent; but being on earth, they must send their robes to the laundry occasionally. Ah, and it's right that they should have to do so, for what can they learn from the checking of their little washing-bills but lessons of charity? Now I see but two courses open to you for the disposal of your angel.
Aubrey.
Yes?
Drummle.
You must either restrict her to a paradise which is, like every earthly paradise, necessarily somewhat imperfect, or treat her as an ordinary flesh-and-blood young woman, and give her the advantages of that society to which she properly belongs.
Aubrey.
Advantages?
Drummle.
My dear Aubrey, of all forms of innocence mere ignorance is the least admirable. Take my advice, let her walk and talk and suffer and be healed with the great crowd. Do it, and hope that she'll some day meet a good, honest fellow who'll make her life complete, happy, secure. Now you see what I'm driving at.
Aubrey.
A sanguine programme, my dear Cayley! Oh, I'm not pooh-poohing it. Putting sentiment aside, of course I know that a fortunate marriage for Ellean would be the best—perhaps the only—solution of my difficulty. But you forget the danger of the course you suggest.
Drummle.
Danger?
Aubrey.
If Ellean goes among men and women, how can she escape from learning, sooner or later, the history of—poor Paula's—old life?
Drummle.
H'm! You remember the episode of the Jeweller's Son in the Arabian Nights? Of course you don't. Well, if your daughter lives, shecan'tescape—what you're afraid of. [Aubreygives a half stifled exclamation of pain.] And when she does hear the story, surely it would be better that she should have some knowledge of the world to help her to understand it.
Aubrey.
To understand!
Drummle.
To understand, to—to philosophise.
Aubrey.
To philosophise?
Drummle.
Philosophy is toleration, and it is only one step from toleration to forgiveness.
Aubrey.
You're right, Cayley; I believe you always are. Yes, yes. But, even if I had the courage to attempt to solve the problem of Ellean's future in this way, I—I'm helpless.
Drummle.
How?
Aubrey.
What means have I now of placing my daughter in the world I've left?
Drummle.
Oh, some friend—some woman friend.
Aubrey.
I have none; they're gone.
Drummle.
You're wrong there; I know one——
Aubrey.
[Listening.] That's Paula's cart. Let's discuss this again.
Drummle.
[Going up to the window and looking out.] It isn't the dog-cart. [Turning toAubrey.] I hope you'll forgive me, old chap.
Aubrey.
What for?
Drummle.
Whose wheels do you think have been cutting ruts in your immaculate drive?
AServantenters.
Servant.
[ToAubrey.] Mrs. Cortelyon, sir.
Aubrey.
Mrs. Cortelyon! [After a short pause.] Very well. [TheServantwithdraws.] What on earth is the meaning of this?
Drummle.
Ahem! While I've been our old friend's guest, Aubrey, we have very naturally talked a good deal about you and yours.
Aubrey.
Indeed, have you?
Drummle.
Yes, and Alice Cortelyon has arrived at the conclusion that it would have been far kinder had she called on Mrs. Tanqueray long ago. She's going abroad for Easter before settling down in London for the season, and I believe she has come over this morning to ask for Ellean's companionship.
Aubrey.
Oh, I see! [Frowning.] Quite a friendly little conspiracy, my dear Cayley!
Drummle.
Conspiracy! Not at all, I assure you. [Laughing.] Ha, ha!
Elleanenters from the hall withMrs. Cortelyon,a handsome, good humoured, spirited woman of about forty-five.
Elleanenters from the hall withMrs. Cortelyon,a handsome, good humoured, spirited woman of about forty-five.
Ellean.
Papa——
Mrs. Cortelyon.
[ToAubrey,shaking hands with him heartily.] Well, Aubrey, how are you? I've just been tellingthis great girl of yours that I knew her when she was a sad-faced, pale baby. How is Mrs. Tanqueray? I have been a bad neighbour, and I'm here to beg forgiveness. Is she indoors?
Aubrey.
She's upstairs putting on a hat, I believe.
Mrs. Cortelyon.
[Sitting comfortably.] Ah! [She looks round:DrummleandElleanare talking together in the hall.] We used to be very frank with each other, Aubrey. I suppose the old footing is no longer possible, eh?
Aubrey.
If so, I'm not entirely to blame, Mrs. Cortelyon.
Mrs. Cortelyon.
Mrs. Cortelyon? H'm! No, I admit it. But you must make some little allowance for me,Mr. Tanqueray. Your first wife and I, as girls, were like two cherries on one stalk, and then I was the confidential friend of your married life. That post, perhaps, wasn't altogether a sinecure. And now—well, when a woman gets to my age I suppose she's a stupid, prejudiced, conventional creature. However,I've got over it and—[giving him her hand]—I hope you'll be enormously happy and let me be a friend once more.
Aubrey.
Thank you, Alice.
Mrs. Cortelyon.
That's right. I feel more cheerful than I've done for weeks. But I suppose it would serve me right if the second Mrs. Tanqueray showed me the door. Do you think she will?
Aubrey.
[Listening.] Here is my wife. [Mrs. Cortelyonrises, andPaulaenters, dressed for driving; she stops abruptly on seeingMrs. Cortelyon.] Paula dear, Mrs. Cortelyon has called to see you.
[Paulastarts, looks atMrs. Cortelyonirresolutely, then after a slight pause barely touchesMrs. Cortelyon'sextended hand.
Paula.
[Whose manner now alternates between deliberate insolence and assumed sweetness.] Mrs.——? What name, Aubrey?
Aubrey.
Mrs. Cortelyon.
Paula.
Cortelyon? Oh, yes. Cortelyon.
Mrs. Cortelyon.
[Carefully guarding herself throughout against any expression of resentment.] Aubrey ought to have told you that Alice Cortelyon and he are very old friends.
Paula.
Oh, very likely he has mentioned the circumstance. I have quite a wretched memory.
Mrs. Cortelyon.
You know we are neighbours, Mrs. Tanqueray.
Paula.
Neighbours? Are we really? Won't you sit down? [They both sit.] Neighbours! That's most interesting!
Mrs. Cortelyon.
Very near neighbours. You can see my roof from your windows.
Paula.
I fancy Ihaveobserved a roof. But you have been away from home; you have only just returned.
Mrs. Cortelyon.
I? What makes you think that?
Paula.
Why, because it is two months since we came to Highercoombe, and I don't remember your having called.
Mrs. Cortelyon.
Your memory is now terribly accurate. No, I've not been away from home, and it is to explain my neglect that I am here, rather unceremoniously, this morning.
Paula.
Oh, to explain—quite so. [With mock solicitude.] Ah, you've been very ill; I ought to have seen that before.
Mrs. Cortelyon.
Ill!
Paula.
You look dreadfully pulled down. We poor women show illness so plainly in our faces, don't we?
Aubrey.
[Anxiously.] Paula dear, Mrs. Cortelyon is the picture of health.
Mrs. Cortelyon.
[With some asperity.] I have neverfeltbetter in my life.
Paula.
[Looking round innocently.] Have I said anything awkward? Aubrey, tell Mrs. Cortelyon how stupid and thoughtless I always am!
Mrs. Cortelyon.
[ToDrummlewho is now standing close to her.] Really, Cayley——! [He soothes her with a nod and smile and a motion of his finger to his lip.] Mrs. Tanqueray, I am afraid my explanation will not be quite so satisfactory as either of those you have just helped me to. You may have heard—but, if you have heard, you have doubtless forgotten—that twenty years ago, when your husband first lived here, I was a constant visitor at Highercoombe.
Paula.
Twenty years ago—fancy. I was a naughty little child then.
Mrs. Cortelyon.
Possibly. Well, at that time, and till the end of her life, my affections were centred upon the lady of this house.
Paula.
Were they? That was very sweet of you.
[ElleanapproachesMrs. Cortelyon,listening intently to her.
Mrs. Cortelyon.
I will say no more on that score, but I must add this: when, two months ago, you came here, I realised, perhaps for the first time, that I was a middle-aged woman, and that it had become impossible for me to accept without some effort a breaking-in upon many tender associations. There, Mrs. Tanqueray, that is my confession. Will you try to understand it and pardon me?
Paula.
[WatchingEllean,—sneeringly.] Ellean dear, you appear to be very interested in Mrs. Cortelyon's reminiscences; I don't think I can do better than make you my mouthpiece—there is such sympathy between us. What do you say—can we bring ourselves to forgive Mrs. Cortelyon for neglecting us for two weary months?
Mrs. Cortelyon.
[ToEllean,pleasantly.] Well, Ellean?[With a little cry of tendernessElleanimpulsively sits besideMrs. Cortelyonand takes her hand.] My dear child!
Paula.
[In an undertone toAubrey.] Ellean isn't so very slow in taking to Mrs. Cortelyon!
Mrs. Cortelyon.
[ToPaulaandAubrey.] Come, this encourages me to broach my scheme. Mrs. Tanqueray, it strikes me that you two good people are just now excellent company for each other, while Ellean would perhaps be glad of a little peep into the world you are anxious to avoid. Now, I'm going to Paris to-morrow for a week or two before settling down in Chester Square, so—don't gasp, both of you!—if this girl is willing, and you have made no other arrangements for her, will you let her come with me to Paris, and afterwards remain with me in town during the Season? [Elleanutters an exclamation of surprise.Paulais silent.] What do you say?