Part 2

[_After a pause._] I must seem a brute to you, Cayley. But there are some acts which are hard to explain, hard to defend----

DRUMMLE.

To defend----?

AUBREY.

Some acts which one must trust to time to put right.

[DRUMMLE _watches him for a moment, then takes up his hat and coat._

DRUMMLE.

Well, I'll be moving.

AUBREY.

Cayley! Confound you and your old friendship! Do you think I forget it? Put your coat down! Why did you stay behind here? Cayley, the lady I am going to marry is the lady--who is known as--Mrs. Jarman.

[_There is a pause._

DRUMMLE.

[_In a low voice_] Mrs. Jarman! are you serious?

[_He walks up to the fireplace, where he leans upon the mantelpiece uttering something like a groan._

AUBREY.

As you've got this out of me I give you leave to say all you care to say. Come, we'll be plain with each other. You know Mrs. Jarman?

DRUMMLE.

I first met her at--what does it matter?

AUBREY.

Yes, yes, everything! Come!

DRUMMLE.

I met her at Homburg, two--three seasons ago.

AUBREY.

Not as Mrs. Jarman?

DRUMMLE.

No.

AUBREY.

She was then----?

DRUMMLE.

Mrs. Dartry.

AUBREY.

Yes. She has also seen you in London, she says.

DRUMMLE.

Certainly.

AUBREY.

In Aldford Street. Go on.

DRUMMLE.

Please!

AUBREY.

I insist.

DRUMMLE.

[_With a slight shrug of the shoulders._] Some time last year I was asked by a man to sup at his house, one night after the theatre.

AUBREY.

Mr. Selwyn Ethurst--a bachelor.

DRUMMLE.

Yes.

AUBREY.

You were surprised therefore to find Mr. Ethurst aided in his cursed hospitality by a lady.

DRUMMLE.

I was unprepared.

AUBREY.

The lady you had known as Mrs. Dartry? [DRUMMLE _inclines his head silently._] There is something of a yachting cruise in the Mediterranean too, is there not?

DRUMMLE.

I joined Peter Jarman's yacht at Marseilles, in the Spring, a month before he died.

AUBREY.

Mrs. Jarman was on board?

DRUMMLE.

She was a kind hostess.

AUBREY.

And an old acquaintance?

DRUMMLE.

Yes.

AUBREY.

You have told your story.

DRUMMLE.

With your assistance.

AUBREY.

I have put you to the pain of telling it to show you that this is not the case of a blind man entrapped by an artful woman. Let me add that Mrs. Jarman has no legal right to that name, that she is simply Miss Ray--Miss Paula Ray.

DRUMMLE.

[_After a pause._] I should like to express my regret, Aubrey, for the way in which I spoke of George Orreyed's marriage.

AUBREY.

You mean you compare Lady Orreyed with Miss Ray? [DRUMMLE _is silent._] Oh, of course! To you, Cayley, all women who have been roughly treated, and who dare to survive by borrowing a little of our philosophy, are alike. You see in the crowd of the Ill-used only one pattern; you can't detect the shades of goodness, intelligence, even nobility there. Well, how should you? The crowd is dimly lighted! And, besides, yours is the way of the world.

DRUMMLE.

My dear Aubrey, I _live_ in the world.

AUBREY.

The name we give our little parish of St. James's.

DRUMMLE.

[_Laying a hand on_ AUBREY's _shoulder._] And you are quite prepared, my friend, to forfeit the esteem of your little parish?

AUBREY.

I avoid mortification by shifting from one parish to another. I give up Pall Mall for the Surrey hills; leave off varnishing my boots and double the thickness of the soles.

DRUMMLE.

And your skin--do you double the thickness of that also?

AUBREY.

I know you think me a fool, Cayley--you needn't infer that I'm a coward into the bargain. No! I know what I'm doing, and I do it deliberately, defiantly. I'm alone; I injure no living soul by the step I'm going to take; and so you can't urge the one argument which might restrain me. Of course, I don't expect you to think compassionately, fairly even, of the woman whom I--whom I am drawn to----

DRUMMLE.

My dear Aubrey, I assure you I consider Mrs.--Miss Jarman--Mrs. Ray--Miss Ray--delightful. But I confess there is a form of chivalry which I gravely distrust, especially in a man of--our age.

AUBREY.

Thanks. I've heard you say that from forty till fifty a man is at heart either a stoic or a satyr.

DRUMMLE.

[_Protestingly._] Ah! now----

AUBREY.

I am neither. I have a temperate, honourable affection for Mrs. Jarman. She has never met a man who has treated her well--I intend to treat her well. That's all. And in a few years, Cayley, if you've not quite forsaken me, I'll prove to you that it's possible to rear a life of happiness, of good repute, on a--miserable foundation.

DRUMMLE.

[_Offering his hand._] Do prove it!

AUBREY.

[_Taking his hand._] We have spoken too freely of--of Mrs. Jarman. I was excited--angry. Please forget it!

DRUMMLE.

My dear Aubrey, when we next meet I shall remember nothing but my respect for the lady who bears your name.

MORSE _enters, closing the door behind him carefully._

AUBREY.

What is it?

MORSE.

[_Hesitatingly._] May I speak to you, Sir? [_In an undertone._] Mrs. Jarman, sir.

AUBREY.

[_Softly to_ MORSE.] Mrs. Jarman! Do you mean she is at the lodge in her carriage?

MORSE.

No, sir--here. [AUBREY _looks towards_ DRUMMLE, _perplexed._] There's a nice fire in your--in that room, sir. [_Glancing in the direction of the door leading to the bedroom._]

AUBREY.

[_Between his teeth, angrily._] Very well.

[MORSE _retires._

DRUMMLE.

[_Looking at his watch._] A quarter to eleven--horrible! [_Taking up his hat and coat._] Must get to bed--up late every night this week. [AUBREY _assists_ DRUMMLE _with his coat._] Thank you. Well, good-night, Aubrey. I feel I've been dooced serious, quite out of keeping with myself; pray overlook it.

AUBREY.

[_Kindly._] Ah, Cayley!

DRUMMLE.

[_Putting on a neck-handkerchief._] And remember that, after all, I'm merely a spectator in life; nothing more than a man at a play, in fact; only, like the old-fashioned playgoer, I love to see certain characters happy and comfortable at the finish. You understand?

AUBREY.

I think I do.

DRUMMLE.

Then, for as long as you can, old friend, will you--keep a stall for me?

AUBREY.

Yes, Cayley.

DRUMMLE.

[_Gaily._] Ah, ha! Good-night! [_Bustling to the door._] Don't bother! I'll let myself out! Good-night! God bless yer!

[_He goes out_; AUBREY _follows him._ MORSE _enters by the other door, carrying some unopened letters which after a little consideration he places on the mantelpiece against the clock._ AUBREY _returns._

AUBREY.

Yes?

MORSE.

You hadn't seen your letters that came by the nine o'clock post, sir; I've put 'em where they'll catch your eye by-and-by.

AUBREY.

Thank you.

MORSE.

[_Hesitatingly._] Gunter's cook and waiter have gone, sir. Would you prefer me to go to bed?

AUBREY.

[_Frowning._] Certainly not.

MORSE.

Very well, sir.

[_He goes out._

AUBREY.

[_Opening the upper door_] Paula! Paula!

PAULA _enters and throws her arms round his neck. She is a young woman of about twenty-seven: beautiful, fresh, innocent-looking. She is in superb evening dress._

PAULA.

Dearest!

AUBREY.

Why have you come here?

PAULA.

Angry?

AUBREY.

Yes--no. But it's eleven o'clock.

PAULA.

[_Laughing._] I know.

AUBREY.

What on earth will Morse think?

PAULA.

Do you trouble yourself about what servants _think_?

AUBREY.

Of course.

PAULA.

Goose! They're only machines made to wait upon people--and to give evidence in the Divorce Court. [_Looking round._] Oh, indeed! A snug little dinner!

AUBREY.

Three men.

PAULA.

[_Suspiciously._] Men?

AUBREY.

Men.

PAULA.

[_Penitently._] Ah! [_Sitting at the table._] I'm so hungry.

AUBREY.

Let me get you some game pie, or some----

PAULA.

No, no, hungry for this. What beautiful fruit! I love fruit when it's expensive. [_He clears a space on the table, places a plate before her, and helps her to fruit._] I haven't dined, Aubrey dear.

AUBREY.

My poor girl! Why?

PAULA.

In the first place, I forgot to order any dinner, and my cook, who has always loathed me, thought he'd pay me out before he departed.

AUBREY.

The beast!

PAULA.

That's precisely what I----

AUBREY.

No, Paula!

PAULA.

What I told my maid to call him. What next will you think of me?

AUBREY.

Forgive me. You must be starved.

PAULA.

[_Eating fruit._] _I_ didn't care. As there was nothing to eat, I sat in my best frock, with my toes on the dining-room fender, and dreamt, oh, such a lovely dinner-party.

AUBREY.

Dear lonely little woman!

PAULA.

It was perfect. I saw you at the end of a very long table, opposite me, and we exchanged sly glances now and again over the flowers. We were host and hostess, Aubrey, and had been married about five years.

AUBREY.

[_Kissing her hand._] Five years.

PAULA.

And on each side of us was the nicest set imaginable--you know, dearest, the sort of men and women that can't be imitated.

AUBREY.

Yes, yes. Eat some more fruit.

PAULA.

But I haven't told you the best part of my dream.

AUBREY.

Tell me.

PAULA.

Well, although we had been married only such a few years, I seemed to know by the look on their faces that none of our guests had ever heard anything--anything--anything peculiar about the fascinating hostess.

AUBREY.

That's just how it will be, Paula. The world moves so quickly. That's just how it will be.

PAULA.

[_With a little grimace._] I wonder! [_Glancing at the fire._] Ugh! do throw another log on.

AUBREY.

[_Mending the fire._] There. But you mustn't be here long.

PAULA.

Hospitable wretch! I've something important to tell you. No, stay where you are. [_Turning from him, her face averted._] Look here, that was my dream, Aubrey; but the fire went out while I was dozing, and I woke up with a regular fit of the shivers. And the result of it all was that I ran upstairs and scribbled you a letter.

AUBREY.

Dear baby!

PAULA.

Remain where you are. [_Taking a letter from her pocket._] This is it. I've given you an account of myself, furnished you with a list of my adventures since I--you know. [_Weighing the letter in her hand._] I wonder if it would go for a penny. Most of it you're acquainted with; _I've_ told you a good deal, haven't I?

AUBREY.

Oh, Paula!

PAULA.

What I haven't told you I daresay you've heard from others. But in case they've omitted anything--the dears--it's all here.

AUBREY.

In Heaven's name, why must you talk like this to-night?

PAULA.

It may save discussion by-and-by, don't you think? [_Holding out the letter._] There you are.

AUBREY.

No, dear, no.

PAULA.

Take it. [_He takes the letter._] Read it through after I've gone, and then--read it again, and turn the matter over in your mind finally. And if, even at the very last moment, you feel you--oughtn't to go to church with me, send a messenger to Pont Street, any time before eleven to-morrow, telling me that you're afraid, and I--I'll take the blow.

AUBREY.

Why, what--what do you think I am?

PAULA.

That's it. It's because I know you're such a dear good fellow that I want to save you the chance of ever feeling sorry you married me. I really love you so much, Aubrey, that to save you that I'd rather you treated me as--as the others have done.

AUBREY.

[_Turning from her with a cry._] Oh!

PAULA.

[_After a slight pause._] I suppose I've shocked you. I can't help it if I have.

[_She sits, with assumed languor and indifference. He turns to her, advances, and kneels by her._

AUBREY.

My dearest, you don't understand me. I--I can't bear to hear you always talking about--what's done with. I tell you I'll never remember it; Paula, can't you dismiss it? Try. Darling, if we promise each other to forget, to forget, we're bound to be happy. After all, it's a mechanical matter; the moment a wretched thought enters your head, you quickly think of something bright--it depends on one's will. Shall I burn this, dear? [_Referring to the letter he holds in his hand._] Let me, let me!

PAULA.

[_With a shrug of the shoulders._] I don't suppose there's much that's new to you in it--just as you like.

[_He goes to the fire and burns the letter._

AUBREY.

There's an end of it. [_Returning to her._] What's the matter?

PAULA.

[_Rising, coldly._] Oh, nothing! I'll go and put my cloak on.

AUBREY.

[_Detaining her._] What _is_ the matter?

PAULA.

Well, I think you might have said, "You're very generous, Paula," or at least, "Thank you, dear," when I offered to set you free.

AUBREY.

[_Catching her in his arms._] Ah!

PAULA.

Ah! ah! Ha, ha! It's all very well, but you don't know what it cost me to make such an offer. I do so want to be married.

AUBREY.

But you never imagined----?

PAULA.

Perhaps not. And yet I _did_ think of what I'd do at the end of our acquaintance if you had preferred to behave like the rest.

[_Taking a flower from her bodice._

AUBREY.

Hush!

PAULA.

Oh, I forgot!

AUBREY.

What would you have done when we parted?

PAULA.

Why, killed myself.

AUBREY.

Paula, dear!

PAULA.

It's true. [_Putting the flower in his buttonhole._] Do you know I feel certain I should make away with myself if anything serious happened to me.

AUBREY.

Anything serious! What, has nothing ever been serious to you, Paula?

PAULA.

Not lately; not since a long while ago. I made up my mind then to have done with taking things seriously. If I hadn't, I---- However, we won't talk about that.

AUBREY.

But now, now, life will be different to you, won't it--quite different? Eh, dear?

PAULA.

Oh yes, now. Only, Aubrey, mind you keep me always happy.

AUBREY.

I will try to.

PAULA.

I know I couldn't swallow a second big dose of misery. I know that if ever I felt wretched again--truly wretched--I should take a leaf out of Connie Tirlemont's book. You remember? They found her---- [_With a look of horror._]

AUBREY.

For God's sake, don't let your thoughts run on such things!

PAULA.

[_Laughing._] Ha, ha, how scared you look! There, think of the time! Dearest, what will my coachman say! My cloak!

[_She runs off, gaily, by the upper door._ AUBREY _looks after her for a moment, then he walks up to the fire and stands warming his feet at the bars. As he does so he raises his head and observes the letters upon the mantelpiece. He takes one down quickly._

AUBREY.

Ah! Ellean! [_Opening the letter and reading._] "My dear father,--A great change has come over me. I believe my mother in Heaven has spoken to me, and counselled me to turn to you in your loneliness. At any rate, your words have reached my heart, and I no longer feel fitted for this solemn life. I am ready to take my place by you. Dear father, will you receive me?--ELLEAN."

PAULA _re-enters, dressed in a handsome cloak. He stares at her as if he hardly realised her presence._

PAULA.

What are you staring at? Don't you admire my cloak?

AUBREY.

Yes.

PAULA.

Couldn't you wait till I'd gone before reading your letters?

AUBREY.

[_Putting the letter away._] I beg your pardon.

PAULA.

Take me downstairs to the carriage. [_Slipping her arm through his._] How I tease you! To-morrow! I'm so happy!

[_They go out._

THE SECOND ACT

_A morning-room in_ AUBREY TANQUERAY'S _house, "Highercoombe," near Willowmere, Surrey--a bright and prettily furnished apartment of irregular shape, with double doors opening into a small hall at the back, another door on the left, and a large recessed window through which is obtained a view of extensive grounds. Everything about the room is charming and graceful. The fire is burning in the grate, and a small table is tastefully laid for breakfast. It is a morning in early Spring, and the sun is streaming in through the window._

AUBREY _and_ PAULA _are seated at breakfast, and_ AUBREY _is silently reading his letters. Two servants, a man and a woman, hand dishes and then retire. After a little while_ AUBREY _puts his letters aside and looks across to the window._

AUBREY.

Sunshine! Spring!

PAULA.

[_Glancing at the clock._] Exactly six minutes.

AUBREY.

Six minutes?

PAULA.

Six minutes, Aubrey dear, since you made your last remark.

AUBREY.

I beg your pardon; I was reading my letters. Have you seen Ellean this morning?

PAULA.

[_Coldly._] Your last observation but one was about Ellean.

AUBREY.

Dearest, what shall I talk about?

PAULA.

Ellean breakfasted two hours ago, Morgan tells me, and then went out walking with her dog.

AUBREY.

She wraps up warmly, I hope; this sunshine is deceptive.

PAULA.

I ran about the lawn last night, after dinner, in satin shoes. Were you anxious about me?

AUBREY.

Certainly.

PAULA.

[_Melting._] Really?

AUBREY.

You make me wretchedly anxious; you delight in doing incautious things. You are incurable.

PAULA.

Ah, what a beast I am! [_Going to him and kissing him, then glancing at the letters by his side._] A letter from Cayley?

AUBREY.

He is staying very near here, with Mrs.---- Very near here.

PAULA.

With the lady whose chimneys we have the honour of contemplating from our windows?

AUBREY.

With Mrs. Cortelyon--yes.

PAULA.

Mrs. Cortelyon! The woman who might have set the example of calling on me when we first threw out roots in this deadly-lively soil! Deuce take Mrs. Cortelyon!

AUBREY.

Hush! my dear girl!

PAULA.

[_Returning to her seat._] Oh, I know she's an old acquaintance of yours--and of the first Mrs. Tanqueray. And she joins the rest of 'em in slapping the second Mrs. Tanqueray in the face. However, I have my revenge--she's six-and-forty, and I wish nothing worse to happen to any woman.

AUBREY.

Well, she's going to town, Cayley says here, and his visit's at an end. He's coming over this morning to call on you. Shall we ask him to transfer himself to us? Do say yes.

PAULA.

Yes.

AUBREY.

[_Gladly._] Ah, ha! old Cayley!

PAULA.

[_Coldly._] He'll amuse _you_.

AUBREY.

And you too.

PAULA.

Because you find a companion, shall I be boisterously hilarious?

AUBREY.

Come, come! He talks London, and you know you like that.

PAULA.

London! London or Heaven! which is farther from me!

AUBREY.

Paula!

PAULA.

Oh! Oh, I am so bored, Aubrey!

AUBREY.

[_Gathering up his letters and going to her, leaning over her shoulder._] Baby, what can I do for you?

PAULA.

I suppose, nothing. You have done all you can for me.

AUBREY.

What do you mean?

PAULA.

You have married me.

[_He walks away from her thoughtfully, to the writing-table. As he places his letters on the table he sees an addressed letter, stamped for the post, lying on the blotting-book; he picks it up._

AUBREY.

[_In an altered tone._] You've been writing this Morning before breakfast?

PAULA.

[_Looking at him quickly, then away again._] Er--that letter.

AUBREY.

[_With the letter in his hand._] To Lady Orreyed. Why?

PAULA.

Why not? Mabel's an old friend of mine.

AUBREY.

Are you--corresponding?

PAULA.

I heard from her yesterday. They've just returned from the Riviera. She seems happy.

AUBREY.

[_Sarcastically._] That's good news.

PAULA.

Why are you always so cutting about Mabel? She's a kind-hearted girl. Every thing's altered; she even thinks of letting her hair go back to brown. She's Lady Orreyed. She's married to George. What's the matter with her?

AUBREY.

[_Turning away._] Oh!

PAULA.

You drive me mad sometimes with the tone you take about things! Great goodness, if you come to that, George Orreyed's wife isn't a bit worse than yours! [_He faces her suddenly._] I suppose I needn't have made that observation.

AUBREY.

No, there was scarcely a necessity.

[_He throws the letter on to the table, and takes up the newspaper._

PAULA.

I am very sorry.

AUBREY.

All right, dear.

PAULA.

[_Trifling with the letter._] I--I'd better tell you what I've written. I meant to do so, of course. I--I've asked the Orreyeds to come and stay with us. [_He looks at her and lets the paper fall to the ground in a helpless way._] George was a great friend of Cayley's; I'm sure _he_ would be delighted to meet them here.

AUBREY.

[_Laughing mirthlessly._] Ha, ha, ha! They say Orreyed has taken to tippling at dinner. Heavens above!

PAULA.

Oh! I've no patience with you! You'll kill me with this life! [_She selects some flowers from a vase on the table, cuts and arranges them, and fastens them in her bodice._] What is my existence, Sunday to Saturday? In the morning, a drive down to the village, with the groom, to give my orders to the tradespeople. At lunch, you and Ellean. In the afternoon, a novel, the newspapers; if fine, another drive--_if_ fine! Tea--you and Ellean. Then two hours of dusk; then dinner--you and Ellean. Then a game of Bésique, you and I, while Ellean reads a religious book in a dull corner. Then a yawn from me, another from you, a sigh from Ellean; three figures suddenly rise--"Good-night, good-night, good-night!" [_Imitating a kiss._] "God bless you!" Ah!

AUBREY.

Yes, yes, Paula--yes, dearest--that's what it is _now_. But, by-and-by, if people begin to come round us----

PAULA.

Hah! That's where we've made the mistake, my friend Aubrey! [_Pointing to the window._] Do you believe these people will _ever_ come round us? Your former crony, Mrs. Cortelyon? Or the grim old vicar, or that wife of his whose huge nose is positively indecent? Or the Ullathornes, or the Gollans, or Lady William Petres? I know better! And when the young ones gradually take the place of the old, there will still remain the sacred tradition that the dreadful person who lives at the top of the hill is never, under any circumstances, to be called upon! And so we shall go on here, year in and year out, until the sap is run out of our lives, and we're stale and dry and withered from sheer, solitary respectability. Upon my word, I wonder we didn't see that we should have been far happier if we'd gone in for the devil-may-care, _café_-living sort of life in town! After all, _I_ have a set and you might have joined it. It's true I did want, dearly, dearly, to be a married woman, but where's the pride in being a married woman among married women who are--married! If---- [_Seeing that_ AUBREY'S _head has sunk into his hands._] Aubrey! My dear boy! You're not--crying?

[_He looks up, with a flushed face._ ELLEAN _enters, dressed very simply for walking. She is a low voiced, grave girl of about nineteen, with a face somewhat resembling a Madonna. Towards_ PAULA _her manner is cold and distant._

AUBREY.

[_In an undertone._] Ellean!

ELLEAN.

Good-morning, papa. Good-morning, Paula.

[PAULA _puts her arms round_ ELLEAN _and kisses her._ ELLEAN _makes little response._

PAULA.

Good-morning. [_Brightly._] We've been breakfasting this side of the house, to get the sun.

[_She sits at the piano and rattles at a gay melody. Seeing that_ PAULA'S _back is turned to them,_ ELLEAN _goes to_ AUBREY _and kisses him; he returns the kiss almost furtively. As they separate, the servants re-enter, and proceed to carry out the breakfast-table._

AUBREY.

[_To_ ELLEAN.] I guess where you've been: there's some gorse clinging to your frock.

ELLEAN.

[_Removing a sprig of gorse from her skirt._] Rover and I walked nearly as far as Black Moor. The poor fellow has a thorn in his pad; I am going upstairs for my tweezers.

AUBREY.

Ellean! [_She returns to him._] Paula is a little depressed--out of sorts. She complains that she has no companion.

ELLEAN.

I am with Paula nearly all the day, papa.

AUBREY.

Ah, but you're such a little mouse. Paula likes cheerful people about her.

ELLEAN.

I'm afraid I am naturally rather silent; and it's so difficult to seem to be what one is not.

AUBREY.

I don't wish that, Ellean.

ELLEAN.

I will offer to go down to the village with Paula this morning--shall I?

AUBREY.

[_Touching her hand gently._] Thank you--do.

ELLEAN.

When I've looked after Rover, I'll come back to her.