Part 11

_Lucy._ Harold!

_Harold._ If we are going to be married, we----

_Lucy._ If?

_Harold._ Well, when, if you like it better; we shall see enough of one another then. I have written to you, it isn't as though I hadn't done that.

_Lucy._ But that is not the same thing as seeing you; and your letters, too, have been so scrappy. [Harold _throws himself into the arm-chair_.] They used to be so different before your book came out.

_Harold._ I had more time then.

_Lucy._ I sometimes wish that it had never been published at all, that you had never written it, or, at all events, that it had never been such a success.

_Harold._ That's kind, at all events--deuced kind and considerate!

_Lucy._ It seems to have come between us as a barrier. When I think how eagerly we looked forward to its appearance, what castles in the air we built as to how happy we were going to be, and all the things we were going to do, if it were a success, and now to think that----

_Harold._ [_Jumps up._] Look here, Lucy, I'm damned if--I can't stand this much longer! Nag, nag, nag! I can't stand it. I am worked off my head during the day, I am out half the night, and when I come here for a little quiet, a little rest, its--[_Breaks off suddenly_].

_Lucy._ I am so sorry. If I had thought----

_Harold._ Can't you see that you are driving me mad? I have been here half an hour, and the whole of the time it has been nothing but reproaches.

_Lucy._ I don't think they would have affected you so much if you hadn't felt that you deserved them!

_Harold._ There you go again! I deserve them--[_laughs harshly_]. It is my fault, I suppose, that it is the season; it is my fault that people give dinner-parties and balls; it is my fault, I suppose, that you don't go out as much as I do?

_Lucy._ Certainly not; although, as a matter of fact, I haven't been out one single evening for the last three--nearly four--months.

_Harold._ That's right; draw comparisons; say I'm a selfish brute. You'll tell me next that I am tired of you, and----

_Lucy._ Harold! don't, don't--you--you hurt me! Of course I never thought of such a--[_she rises_]--You are not, are you? I--I couldn't bear it!

_Harold._ Of course I am not. Don't be so silly. [_He sits._]

_Lucy._ It was silly of me, I confess it. I know you better than that. Why, it's rank high treason, I deserve to lose my head; and my only excuse is that thinking such a thing proves I must have lost it already. Will your majesty deign to pardon?

_Harold._ [_Testily._] Yes, yes, that's all right! There, look out, you'll crumple my tie.

_Lucy._ I am so sorry! And now tell me all about your grand friends and----

_Harold._ They are not grand to me. Simply because a person is rich or has a title, I don't consider them any "grander" than I--by jove, no! These people are useful to me, or else I shouldn't stand it. They "patronise" me, put their hand on my shoulder and say, "My dear young friend, we predict great things for you." The fools, as though a single one of them was capable even of forming an opinion, much less of prophesying. They make remarks about me before my face; they talk of, and pet, me as though I were a poodle. I go through my tricks and they applaud; and they lean over with an idiotic simper to the dear friend next to them and say, "Isn't he clever?" as though they had taught me themselves. Bah! They invite me to their houses, I dine with them once a week; but if I were to tell them to-morrow that I wanted to marry one of their daughters, they would kick me out of the room, and consider it a greater insult than if the proposal had come from their own footman.

_Lucy._ But that doesn't matter, because you don't want to marry one of them, do you? Was that Miss Mockton with you in the Park last Sunday?

_Harold._ How do you know I was in the Park at all?

_Lucy._ Because I saw you there.

_Harold._ You were spying, I suppose.

_Lucy._ Spying? I don't know what you mean. I went there for a walk after church.

_Harold._ Alone?

_Lucy._ Of course not, I was with Mrs. Glover.

_Harold._ Your landlady?

_Lucy._ Why not?--Oh! you need not be afraid. I shouldn't have brought disgrace upon you by obliging you to acknowledge me before your grand friends. I took good care to keep in the background.

_Harold._ Do you mean to insinuate that I am a snob?

_Lucy._ Be a little kind.

_Harold._ Well, it is your own fault, you insinuate that----

_Lucy._ I was wrong. I apologise, but--but--[_begins to cry_].

_Harold._ There, don't make a scene--don't, there's a good girl. There, rest your head here. I suppose I am nasty. I didn't mean it, really. You must make allowances for me. I am worried and bothered. I can't work--at least I can't do work that satisfies me--and altogether I am not quite myself. Late hours are playing the very deuce with my nerves. There, let me kiss away the tears--now give me your promise that you will never be so foolish again.

_Lucy._ I--I promise. It is silly of me--now I am all right.

_Harold._ Giboulées d'Avril! The sun comes out once more, the shower is quite over.

_Lucy._ Yes, quite over; you always are so kind. It is my fault entirely. I--I think my nerves must be a little upset, too.

_Harold._ We shall make a nice couple, shan't we? if we are often going to behave like this! Now, are you quite calm?

_Lucy._ Yes, quite.

_Harold._ That's right, because I want you to listen patiently for a few minutes to what I am going to say; it is something I want to talk to you about very seriously. You won't interrupt me until I have quite finished, will you?

_Lucy._ What is it? not that--no, I won't.

_Harold._ You know we talked about--I mean it was arranged we should be married the beginning of July--wasn't it?

_Lucy._ Yes.

_Harold._ Well, I want to know if you would mind very much putting it off a little--quite a little--only till the autumn? I'll tell you why. Of course if you _do_ mind very much, I sha'n't press it, but--it's like this: the scene of my new book is, as you know, laid abroad. I have been trying to write it, but can't get on with it one little bit. I want some local colour. I thought I should be able to invent it, I find I can't. It is hampering and keeping me back terribly. And so--and so I thought if you didn't mind very much that--that if I were to go to France for--for six months or so--alone, that--in fact it would be the making of me. I have never had an opportunity before; it has always been grind, grind, grind, and if I am prevented from going now, I may never have a chance again. What do you say?

_Lucy._ But why shouldn't we be married as arranged, and spend our honeymoon over there?

_Harold._ Because I want to work.

_Lucy._ And would my being there prevent you? You used to say you always worked so much better when I was----

_Harold._ But you don't understand. This is different. I want to work _hard_, and no man could do that on his honeymoon--at least I know I couldn't.

_Lucy._ No, but--And--and till when did you want to put off our--our marriage? Until your return?

_Harold._ Well, that would depend on circumstances. You don't suppose I would postpone it for a second, if I could help it; but--Until my return? I hope sincerely that it can be managed then, but, you see, over there I shall be spending money all the time, and not earning a sou, and--and so we _might_ have to wait a little bit longer, just until I could replenish the locker, until I had published and been paid for my new book.

_Lucy._ But I have given notice to leave at midsummer.

_Harold._ Has Mrs. Duncan got another governess!

_Lucy._ No, but----

_Harold._ Then you can stop on, can't you! They will surely be only too delighted to keep you.

_Lucy._ Yes--I can stop on. [_He tries to kiss her._] No, don't; not now.

_Harold._ And you don't really mind the postponement very much, do you?

_Lucy._ Not if it will assist you.

_Harold._ I thought you would say that, I knew you would. It will assist me very much. I shouldn't otherwise suggest it. It does seem too bad though, doesn't it? To have to postpone it after waiting all these years, and just as it was so near, too. I have a good mind not to go, after all--only, if I let this chance slip, I may never have another. Besides, six months is not so very long, is it? And when they are over, then we won't wait any longer. You will come and see me off, won't you? It would never do for an engaged man to go away for even six months, without his lady love coming to see him start.

_Lucy._ Yes, I will come. When do you go?

_Harold._ The end of next week, I expect; perhaps earlier if I can manage it. But I shall see you before then. We'll go and have dinner together at our favourite little restaurant. When shall it be! Let me see, I am engaged on--I can't quite remember what my engagements are.

_Lucy._ I have none.

_Harold._ Then that's settled. Good-bye, Luce; you don't mind very much, do you? The time will soon pass. You are a little brick to behave as you have done. [_Going._] It will be Monday or Tuesday next for our dinner, but I will let you know. Good-bye.

_Lucy._ Good-bye.

Thirty Years elapse between Scene II. and Scene III.

## Scene III--Lucy Rimmerton, Agnes Rimmerton (her niece)

_A well-furnished comfortable room in_ Lucy Rimmerton's _house. She is seated in front of the fire, in an easy-chair, reading. The door opens, without her noticing it, and_ Agnes _comes in, closes the door gently, crosses the room, and bends over her_.

_Agnes._ A happy New Year to you, Aunt Luce.

_Lucy._ What! Agnes, is that you? I never heard you come in. I really think I must be getting deaf.

_Agnes._ What nonsense! I didn't intend you should hear me. I wanted to wish you a happy New Year first.

_Lucy._ So as to make your Aunt play second fiddle. The same to you, dear.

_Agnes._ Thank you. [_Warms her hands at the fire._] Oh, it _is_ cold; not here I mean, but out of doors; the thermometer is down I don't know how many degrees below freezing.

_Lucy._ It seems to agree with you, at all events. You look as bright and rosy as though you were the New Year itself come to visit me.

_Agnes._ [_Laughs merrily._] So I ought to. I ran nearly all the way, except when I slid, to the great horror of an old gentleman who was busily engaged lecturing some little boys on the enormity of their sins in making a beautifully long slide in the middle of the pavement.

_Lucy._ And what brought you out so early?

_Agnes._ To see you, of course. Besides, the morning is so lovely it seemed a sin to remain indoors. I do hope the frost continues all the holidays.

_Lucy._ It is all very well for you, but it must be terribly trying for many people--the poor, for instance.

_Agnes._ Yes. [_A pause._] Auntie, you don't know anything, do you, about how--how poor people live?

_Lucy._ Not so much as I ought to.

_Agnes._ I didn't mean _very_ poor people, not working people. I meant a person poor like--like I am poor.

_Lucy._ [_Smiling._] Don't you know how you live yourself?

_Agnes._ Of course I do, but--I was thinking of--of a friend of mine, a governess like myself, who has just got engaged; and I--I was wondering on how much, or, rather, how little, they could live. But you don't know of course. You are rich, and----

_Lucy._ But I wasn't always rich. Thirty years ago when I was your age----

_Agnes._ When you were my age! I like that! why you are not fifty.

_Lucy._ Little flatterer. Fifty-two last birthday.

_Agnes._ Fifty-two! Well, you don't look it, at all events.

_Lucy._ Gross flatterer. When I was your age I was poor and a governess as you are.

_Agnes._ But I thought that your Aunt Emily left you all her money.

_Lucy._ So she did, or nearly all; but that was afterwards. It isn't quite thirty years yet since she came back from India, a widow, just after she had lost her husband and only child. I was very ill at the time--I almost died; and she, good woman as she was, came and nursed me.

_Agnes._ Of course, I know. I have heard father talk about it. And then she was taken ill, wasn't she?

_Lucy._ Yes, almost before I was well. It was very unfair that she should leave everything to me; your father was her nephew, just as I was her niece, but he wouldn't hear of my sharing it with----

_Agnes._ I should think not indeed! I should be very sorry to think that my father would ever allow such a thing. Although, at the same time, it is all very well for you to imagine that you don't share it, but you _do_. Who pays for Lillie's and May's and George's schooling? Who sent Alfred to Cambridge, and Frank to----

_Lucy._ Don't, please. What a huge family you are, to be sure.

_Agnes._ And last, but not least, who gave me a chance of going to Girton? Oh, we are not supposed to know anything about it, I know, but you see we do. You thought you had arranged it all so beautifully, and kept everyone of us entirely in the dark, but you haven't one little bit.

_Lucy._ Nonsense, Agnes, you----

_Agnes._ Oh, you are a huge big fraud, you know you are; I am quite ashamed of you. [Lucy _is going to speak_.] You are not to be thanked, I know; and you needn't be afraid, I am not going to do so; but if you could only hear us when we are talking quietly together, you would find that a certain person, who shall be nameless, is simply worship----

_Lucy._ Hush! you silly little girl. You don't know what you are saying. You have nothing to thank me for whatsoever.

_Agnes._ Haven't we just? I know better.

_Lucy._ Young people always do. So you see I do know something of how "the poor" live.

_Agnes._ Yes, but you were never married.

_Lucy._ No, dear.

_Agnes._ That is what I want to----Why weren't you married? Oh, I know I have no business to ask such a question: it is fearfully rude I know, but I have wondered so often. You are lovely now, and you must have been beautiful when you were a girl.

_Lucy._ No, I wasn't--I was barely pretty.

_Agnes._ I can't believe that.

_Lucy._ And I am not going to accept your description of me now as a true one; although I confess I am vain enough--even in my present old age--to look in the glass occasionally, and say to myself: "You are better-looking now than you ever were."

_Agnes._ Well, at all events you were always an angel.

_Lucy._ And men don't like angels; besides--I was poor.

_Agnes._ You were not poor when you got Aunt Emily's money.

_Lucy._ No, but then it was too----I mean I then had no wish to marry.

_Agnes._ You mean you determined to sacrifice yourself for us, that is what you mean.

_Lucy._ I must have possessed a very prophetic soul then, or been gifted with second sight, as none of you, except Reginald, were born. But to come back to your friend, Agnes; has she no money?

_Agnes._ No, none.

_Lucy._ Nor he?

_Agnes._ Not a penny.

_Lucy._ And they want to get married?

_Agnes._ Yes.

_Lucy._ And are afraid they haven't enough.

_Agnes._ They certainly haven't.

_Lucy._ Then why don't they apply to some friend or relative who has more than enough; say, to--an aunt, for instance.

_Agnes._ Auntie!

_Lucy._ And what is his name?

_Agnes._ Geo----Mr. Reddell.

_Lucy._ And hers is?

_Agnes._ Oh, I never intended to tell you. I didn't mean to say a word.

_Lucy._ When did it happen?

_Agnes._ Three days ago. That is to say, he proposed to me then, but of course it has been going on for a long time. I could see that he--at least I thought I could see. But I can hardly realise it yet. It seems all so strange. And I _did_ intend telling you, I felt I _must_ tell somebody, although George doesn't want it known yet, because, as I told you, he--and so I haven't said a word to father yet; but I must soon--and you won't say anything, will you? and--and oh, I am silly.

_Lucy._ There, have your cry out, it will do you good. Now tell me about Mr. Reddell. What is he?

_Agnes._ He is a writer--an author. Don't you remember I showed you a story of his a little time ago?

_Lucy._ I thought I knew the name.

_Agnes._ And you said you liked it; I was so pleased.

_Lucy._ Yes, I did. I thought it clever and----

_Agnes._ He _is_ clever; and I do so want you to know him. He wants to know you, too. You will try to like him, won't you, for my sake?

_Lucy._ I have no doubt I shall.

_Agnes._ He is just bringing out a book. Some of the stories have been published before; the one you read was one, and if that proves a success then it will be all right; we shall be able to get married and----

_Lucy._ Wait a minute, Agnes. How long have you known him?

_Agnes._ Over a year--nearly two years.

_Lucy._ And do you really know him well? Are you quite certain you can trust him?

_Agnes._ What a question! How can you doubt it? You wouldn't for a minute if you knew him.

_Lucy._ I ought not to, knowing you, you mean. And supposing this book is a success. May it not spoil him--make him conceited?

_Agnes._ All the better if it does. He is not conceited enough, and so I always tell him.

_Lucy._ But may it not make him worldly? May he not, after a time, regret his proposal to you if he sees a chance of making a more advantageous----

_Agnes._ Impossible. What a dreadful opinion you must have of mankind. You don't think it really, I know. I have never heard you say or hint anything nasty about anybody before.

_Lucy._ I only do it for your own good, my dear. I once knew a man--just such another as you describe Mr. Reddell to be. He was an author, too, and--and when I knew him his first book was also just about to appear. He was engaged to be married to--to quite a nice girl too, although she was never so pretty as you are.

_Agnes._ Who is the flatterer now?

_Lucy._ The book was published. It was a great success. He became quite the lion of the season--it is many years ago now. The wedding-day was definitely fixed. Two months before the date he suggested a postponement--for six months.

_Agnes._ How horrible!

_Lucy._ And just about the time originally fixed upon for the wedding she received a letter from him--he was abroad at the time--suggesting that their engagement had better be broken off.

_Agnes._ Oh, the brute! the big brute! But she didn't consent, did she?

_Lucy._ Of course. The man she had loved was dead. The new person she was indifferent to.

_Agnes._ But how--but you don't suggest that Mr. Reddell could behave like that? he couldn't. He wouldn't, I feel certain. But there must surely have been something else; I can't believe that any man would behave so utterly unfeelingly--so brutally. They say there are always two sides to every story. Mayn't there have been some reason that you knew nothing about? Mayn't she have done something? She must have been a little bit to blame, too, and this side of the story you never heard.

_Lucy._ Yes--it is possible.

_Agnes._ I can't think that any man would deliberately behave so like a cad as you say he did.

_Lucy._ It may have been her fault. I used to think it might be--just a little, as you say.

_Agnes._ Well, it sha'n't be mine at all events. I won't give any cause--besides even if I did----Oh, no, it is utterly impossible to imagine such a thing!

_Lucy._ I hope it is, for your sake.

_Agnes._ Of course it is; of that I am quite certain. And you don't think it is very wrong of me to--to----

_Lucy._ To say Yes to a man you love. No, my dear, that can never be wrong, although it may be foolish.

_Agnes._ From a worldly point of view, perhaps; but I should never have thought that you----

_Lucy._ I didn't mean that. But love seems to grow so quickly when you once allow it to do so, that it is sometimes wiser to----but never mind, bring him to see me, and--and may you be happy. [_A long pause._]

_Agnes._ You are crying now, Auntie! You have nothing----

_Lucy._ Haven't I? What, not at the chance of losing you? So this is what brought you out so early this morning and occasioned your bright, rosy cheeks? You didn't only come to see me.

_Agnes._ To see you and talk to you, yes, that was all. No, by-the-by, it wasn't all. Have you seen a paper this morning? No? I thought it would interest you so I brought it round. It is bad news, not good news; your favourite author is dead.

_Lucy._ I am afraid my favourite authors have been dead very many years.

_Agnes._ I should say the author of your favourite book.

_Lucy._ You mean----

_Agnes._ Sir Harold Sekbourne. [Lucy _leans back in her chair_.] He died last night. Here it is; here is the paragraph. [_Reads._] "We regret to announce the death of Sir Harold Sekbourne, the well-known novelist, which occurred at his town house, in Prince's Gate, late last evening." Shall I read it to you?

_Lucy._ No--no, give me the paper. And--and, Agnes, do you mind going down to Franklin's room, and telling her that receipt you promised her?

_Agnes._ For the Japanese custard? Of course I will; I quite forgot all about it. There it is. [_Gives her the paper, indicating the paragraph with her finger, then goes out._]