First Performed at the Royal Adelphi Theatre, under the Management of Mr. B. Webster,May, 1859.
SCENE
TIME
Present Day.
Really, really, Mrs. Wardour, this is a great deal too bad! A woman of forty has no right to kept a man waiting. Society's a great bore, but kicking one's heels in an empty boudoir is a greater bore even than society. People tell me I'm in good company; if they had as much of my society as I have, they wouldn't think so.
Hollo, general! you solus, of all men in the world! Have you seen my mother?
No, sir! I have not seen your mother, I wish I had—she gave me an appointment
here, which she hasn't kept.
She must have reflected on the danger of being caught tête-a-tête with such a lady killer.
Ah! blaze away youngster! George Witherington can stand fire, especially from a raw recruit.
I say, if you see my mother, tell her—
Your mother? I hate to see a lad of your inches trotting after his mother like a
six months' colt—psha!
Well but, general, she's such a jolly mother! Why, she's up to everything—the matches at Lord's, and the entries at Henley, and the odds at the Corner—all the fellows in my room have christened her "The young man's best companion." We get on like brother and sister—better a deal than most husbands and wives; only she's always a bullying me about work; she wants me to go abroad.
Best thing for you—show you a little of the world.
London's quite big enough—I hate foreign service!
Sir, as a public servant of the crown, though a civil one, your place is wherever your country requires your presence.
Then why did you always exchange when your regiment was ordered abroad?
Sir, my country required my presence at home.
So does my Foreign Office.
You're a lazy young rascal! I shall recommend your under-secretary to look sharp after you.
Oh! I don't care for Chetwynd—he's a great friend of my mother's.
So great a friend that he might have been your father if he hadn't been blind.
Why, I never heard of any attachment between them.
Ah! there are a good many things you never heard of.
She wants him to get me the Lisbon attachéship. I don't want anything of the kind, and I mean to tell him so.
Pooh! Chetwynd has something else to do than to attend to you. He's the busiest man in the house
I wonder what youngsters now-a-days are made of? Letting a lovely young creature like that be snapped up by an old fogy like Horace. Ah! you may well blush!
Which, perhaps, accounts for its diplomacy being a regular muddle. A fine lad that, but conceited like all young men of the present day. Really, Mrs. Wardour, your son's conversation may be very delightful, but it doesn't justify your neglecting your appointment. George Witherington is not used to this sort of thing. Ah! here she comes at last!
My dear general, I'm afraid I've kept you waiting, but I really could not make my way through the crowd. These official receptions are such mobs.
Mobs! of course they are! When the dykes are broken down, you can't wonder if the flood rushes in; I remember when there was such a thing as society.
Yes—you belong to the days before the flood, when there were giants in the land. But it is because I know your immense experience of society—
Always amiable, general.
Why should I be amiable? What good would it do me? What business, you may ask, have I in the middle of it all? I was at three drums last night—here I am to-night at the Foreign's Secretary's reception. What enjoyment do I find in it? Who's a bit the happier for seeing me? At our time of life, depend upon it, the best place is the chimney corner, and the most becoming coiffure a warm night cap.
At our time of life, eh? Well, I have the reputation of being a well preserved
woman, but I don't quite date back to the Regency. But confess, general, this is all jealously
on your part. The old conquests of Carlton House in 1814 will rise up like Banquo's ghost to
poison the festivities of Downing Street in 1852. In fact, you're an abominable old male
coquette—you know you are—and that's precisely why I've asked you for five minutes tête a tête
here. I want to consult you about my son.
About Fred—eh? what—he has been getting into mischief, I suppose—and like all the rest of you mammas, after the steed's stolen, you come to old Witherington to teach you how to shut the stable door. What's he been at now, the young puppy?
It is quite time be should have something like real employment. I can't tell you
how I dread his setting into that slough of despond—the life of the regular London lounger—his
day divided between the club, the corner, and the ring—his evenings between the coulisses and
the smoking-room—his best literature, the last French novel—his highest philosophy,
indifference—a Chesterfield, without his elegance—a Rochefoucauld, minus his wit.
A frightful picture of the young men of the present day, but too true—too true!
You know, I have considerable interest. In the first place, there's my husband's connection—Horace Chetwynd—his very high position in the House, and with his party, puts a great deal in his power.
I only wish he were as good a model of the husband as he is of the M.P. But with him, as
with so
Yes—Members of Parliament are the only married men licensed to carry latch keys, without
liability to curtain lectures. I'm certain Chetwynd has only to press his claim for an
attachéship for Fred to get it; then his wife, Lady Helen, is a niece of the Foreign
Secretary's—her uncle doats on her—I thought I might have relied on her
assistance.
Among you all, you surely can get the youngster a birth in this extraordinary mission to Lisbou that's just coming off.
Exactly what I had arranged before I left town. I thought it was all settled, but lo and
behold! on my return yesterday I find Fred still in statu quo in Downing Street,
apparently without the least idea of stirring.
Well, what do you wish me to do in the matter?
I want you to find out what it all means.
Perhaps Fred has been inattentive to Lady Helen. Young men of the present day are sad bears, you know. He used to be a great admirer of her's before she married Chetwynd. Perhaps he has transferred his sighs to another quarter, and Lady Helen doesn't like it. Perhaps—
A truce to perhapses! I want you to find out the fact. Fred used to profess himself so eager for employment abroad, and now he seems, all of a sudden, to have a perfect horror of leaving London.
What do you mean by that very Lord Burleighish shake of the head?
When a lad of Fred's age shews a disinclination to stir, there's generally one reason for it.
And that is?
A woman.
My son has no attachment that I know of.
Mothers seldom do know of their sons' attachments—at least, when—
What do you mean?
Young men will be young men, Mrs. Wardour; but I'm afraid my hint has distressed you—after all, I may be wrong. It may be debt, it may be play, it may be the turf.
All are bad enough! See him—question him!
Strange what bad diplomatists you women are in everybody's affairs but your own. To question Fred would be the worst way to discover the truth. I'll inquire at his club.
His club? Do you suppose he has made his club friends confidants of a secret he keeps from his mother.
Nothing more likely! Young fellows must talk of their affaires de cœur to
somebody—and I find they generally take the club into their confidence. The
Travellers is the depository of half the mysteries of London—petticoat as well as
political.
If the general's opinion should be well founded —should it turn out to be some disgraceful
attachment that binds him to London? Oh, these boys! how much they teach us of life which we
should never know without them. But my Fred and I have been more like a brother and a sister
than mother and son. I thought he had no secrets from me—I have had none from him. I have been
too indulgent I'm afraid, but I will know the worst, whatever pain it costs him to
betray his secret, or me to learn it.
(without L.) Good night, general! take care of your gout.
Don't be ridiculous, Fred!
I'm quite serious.
Oblige me by dropping this silly rhodomontade. It is bad taste from a son to a mother. We are entitled to respect from our children, if we cannot insure love.
Respect? My dear mother, you don't seriously mean to say my rattle annoys you—come, look me
in the face and say so, if you dare.
I am annoyed, Fred—seriously annoyed! There has been too much of this tone between us.
What a very charming dress this is you have on to-night! I know where you bought it—I'll bet
you a pony I do—at that shop on the right hand side in Langham Place, where there is that
remarkably pretty brunette. I wish you'd let me escort you the next time you go
there.
So you employ your time in ogling the milliner's apprentices.
Only the brunettes—I have a weakness for brunettes.
Frivolity? Dissipation? My dear mother, I don't pretend to be better than my neighbours—but there is one thing I am incapable of—of wilfully causing you one hour's pain. Come, tell me what I have done?
Nothing that I know of! I do not accuse you, my dear boy, but you must make allowances for a
mother's anxiety. We have our consolations—precious ones—but we have our sufferings, too;
among the worst is the inevitable moment when the mother sees her boy disappear in that
unknown region, where young men's
It's rivals, perhaps, would be the better term. I am not blind, Fred—I know the temptations that beset young men in your position. I cannot doubt that it is one of these temptations that keeps you spell bound in London. To feel certain of this, but not to know what the fatal fascination may be, is agony to me; I do not ask your full confidence, my boy, but you can at least assure me, that—if there be an attachment at the bottom of this sudden unwillingness to leave London—it is not one you need blush for.
My dear mother, when I do love, I am likelier to fly too high than too low. Make your mind perfectly at ease on that point.
I wish I could—but there are dangers on that side too. Better anything than one of those
liaisons of good society in which passion borrows the mask of sentiment, and sin is veneered
with sophistry. Can you say you are free from any such entanglement? You are silent—if your
attachment be one you can avow, why keep it from me?
I do not know—to-night will decide! Oh, my dear mother, you would pity me if you knew what I
have suffered before speaking to her. It is no sudden fancy, it has grown with my youth, it
possessed me long before her marriage.
She is the wife of another! I feared this! Cut the poison out, my poor boy, if you cut to the core.
He neglects her, mother—cruelly, culpably! She is goodness itself! She must have long seen
my attachment,
Was she so imprudent?
She could not escape it. We were interupted before she could answer me.
I am glad of that. Promise not to see her again—not to write to her—
I have written. I have only asked for a second interview. I expect her answer here.
Here! Is she coming to-night?
No, but her husband is. Her answer will be given by a signal.
A signal! What imprudence!
It was my planning.
And what is the signal ?
The presence or absence of a ruby ring upon his finger—
My darling boy—be guided by your mother, and not by your passions. You have been
mad—she, as yet, only imprudent. The tie is but a cobweb to break now—a few months
may convert it into a chain of iron.
What do you wish me to do?
Leave London at once—add your efforts to mine to secure this attachéship in the Lisbon mission, which it is your own fault you have not received before this.
Why, you see, as an old Whig one doesn't like to go a begging to the Tories. I know how proud you are—you wouldn't like to see me stooping to ask a favour of Lord Beaurepos.
Who asks you to stoop? You have only to allow your connexions to stoop for you. Of course, if you choose to quarrel with your best friends—
I? Whom have I been quarrelling with?
With the Chetwynds. You look startled. You didn't know that a little bird told me what had passed between you and Lady Helen.
Oh, it's no use denying it. Chetwynd wrote
Did he tell you the reason?
Some womanish pet, he supposed; perhaps she may have detected this secret attachment of yours—women are quick to discover these things and may wish to let you see her disapproval of it. But whatever the cause of her pique may be, you must do your best to remove it.
Then I will—but don't be surprised if you find her very cold and distant with me—when a woman takes a fancy against a fellow, you know—
Five minutes' conversation will set all that to rights. Meanwhile, go and look for Chetwynd—bring him to me and we'll secure his interest, at all events.
Rely upon my finding him. Farewell! Now, mother, is it to be a bow or a kiss—respect or affection?
Poor boy! Oh, these fatal entanglements with married women! Who can she be, I wonder. Better I should never know, perhaps. We must trust to that best of all cures—absence. If I could but see Chetwynd—
You appeared so hard upon my wish. Where did you spring from, and in full dress, too?
That's not my fault: why, I've been hunting after you all day with a perseverance worthy of better success. Now confess—you have a particular motive for avoiding me just now. You knew I should call you to account for not having kept your promise to me about Fred's appointment.
But my dear friend, what am I to do for a young gentleman who seem to take a peculiar pleasure in thwarting every step I attempt in his interest? It's plain he won't stir, if he can help it, be his reasons what they may—they have induced him to quarrel with Helen, as I can't help thinking for the express purpose of spoiling our game. She is omnipotent with Lord Beaurepos, who has these appointments; and she really almost seems to hope he mayn't get it.
Have you any idea how Fred has offended Helen?
Not I—you don't suppose I can find time for the gossip of Helen's drawing-room. Ask me particulars of the last Revolution in Central America, the statistics of the Russian Settlements on the Amoor, the prospect of next year's cotton trade with Abeokuta, and you'll find me posted up to the latest blue book, but I'm the last man to ask about what's going on in Hertford Street.
My dear Horace it's all very well for a member to be au fait to what passes in the
House; but for a married man it's at least as important to know what's going on at Home.
But where on earth is one to find the time? You cannot have the least conception what a parliamentary life is.
A very ill-employed one, I'm afraid.
Ill-employed! Can that life be called ill-employed which deals in turn with all the ideas,
passions, and interests that agitate mankind, which is passed in contests that determine the
fortunes of nations—nay, the destinies of the world? It may be too engrossing—too
stimulating—its labour may often be vanity and vexation of spirit—its best fruits fret, fever,
and disappointment —but it is at least a masterful and a manly struggle—its stakes are
noble—its prizes brilliant—the whole world
You feel that you are to blame, or you would not take refuge in exaggeration. Wide as your experience is, there in one corner of the world you know a great deal less about than you ought; and that is 36, Hertford Street. Come, suppose you let me play your confessor a little.
With all my heart—begin your interrogatory.
After your late sittings in the house, I suppose you don't get up very early?
I can manage with as little sleep, I believe, as most men; but even I seldom show before ten o'clock.
And then I suppose you breakfast?
If breakfast it can be called—a cold cup of tea gulped in a chaos of newspapers—orders of the day—blue books—letters from one's constituents and that still larger circle of a public man's correspondents, one's ill-natured critics, and one's d—d good-natured friends. Of late, rather than insult poor Helen with the mockery of a tête-a-tête, I've breakfasted by myself in my library.
And then?
It's time for the morning sittings on Wednesdays—on the other days of the week there are one's select committees—I'm seldom on less than three or four, so you may believe I have rarely an idle morning.
And when the committees rise?
It's four o'clock, and the speaker's at prayers. From four till seven there are the questions, and the notices of motion—one can't miss them, you know—at seven one must dine.
When off you rush to Hertford Street?
Oh, I never dine at home when parliament is sitting—a chop in the house dining-room is as much as a busy member can manage.
And after dinner?
Comes the tug of war—seldom over till the
What a pity it is you don't sleep in the house, too.
I must own to doing that occasionally, and I think I'm not the only one.
Then, it seems, of the twenty-four hours, six or eight are the utmost you can find for your home, and these, hours either of sleep or utter exhaustion.
A melancholy fact—I don't dine tête-a-tête with Helen six times between February and August.
And this is only the second year of your marriage! I hope she finds it as easy to dispense with the society of a husband as you do with that of a wife.
Oh! don't infer too hastily that we bore each other—we're a model couple. It's true Helen is rather young, and not particularly interested in my pursuits. I might once have found a wife who would have shared my political cares, and doubled my triumphs, but it's too late to think of that now.
(sighing) Yes, "might have" is a very dangerous mood.
And Helen is at least secure of one thing— she need fear no rival.
An egotist—I ?
Even so, give it what spurious name you will. Women must live their lives as well as men, Horace; we live by the heart, as plants live by their leaves, and some men by their heads; when you take a wife you take her upon this condition, that in exchange for all she gives up, she shall find this life of the heart in her home. If she do not find it there, she subsides into an automaton, or she dies, or she finds it elsewhere.
(who has listened with astonishment) My dear
A present—indeed?
What's the matter?
Helen gave you this ruby, and begged you to wear it here, at Lord Beaurepos' reception?
Yes, what is there so strange in that?
My dear Emily, I know you too well not to see there's something about this present that annoys you.
Oh, nonsense—you fancy so.
I am certain of it.
Well I suppose I may confess the truth to you without forfeiting your good opinion for ever—
That would be difficult, however grave the confession may be.
You know my passion for jewels.
No.
It's pleasant to think I've succeeded in keeping one weakness out of sight. But jewels are
my foible, I confess it—I set my heart on that identical ring at Phillips's, two days ago. I
struggled with my fancy for eight-and-forty hours, and then yielded at discretion, and drove
to the shop; when lo and behold, my pet ruby had been snapped up—the man said by Lady Helen
Dear me, how unlucky—if it had not been my wife's present—
Oh, it's no matter. It is not the first time I have had to say "No" to my inclinations—they are well disciplined by this time; as you say, if it had not been your wife's present—Helen is not coming to-night, you said?
No, she was a little flat, and staid at home to nurse herself. But I fathom the motive of your question. Confess you would like to wear the ring.
You are a dear, good soul for guessing me so cleverly. I should like to wear it for half-an-hour, if you had no objection.
(giving ring) It will have a new value in my eyes from to-night.
We are all children sometimes—not the least happy those of us who can be so longest. But won't you walk through the rooms?
Yes, I want to see Lord Beaurepos with you. I really must have Fred's attachéship without further delay. I am more than ever anxious for his leaving London.
I happen to know that the appointment must be made before the end of this week.
The more need to make good use of the time —come! (giving him her arm)
Look, there is our victim, whom we are conspiring to banish from London's gardens of Armida to the odorous and olive colour'd society of Lisbon. Poor lad—none but a mother would be capable of such cruelty. It's really too bad. Can't you let him stay and have his fling out?
(coming forward, L.) Ah, Chetwynd, I've been looking for you everywhere.
(giving his hand) Always look for me where your mother is, Fred.
Nonsense! Do you think I have time to be ill?
You're decidedly feverish.
Of course I am! Who wouldn't be, in the heat of a crisis like this—with the fate of the continent hanging on a thread, and a vote of dissolution looming in the distance?
I hope Lady Helen is well—I don't see her here to-night.
No, she had a slight cold, or something of the kind—nothing of any consequence, I fancy. If
you have anything to say to—I'll ascertain if Lord Beaurepos is accessible, and let you know.
Good bye, victim!
Thank you very much.
Fred—her husband—is he here? have you seen him?
Yes!
And the signal you spoke of—had he the ruby ring on?
No!
Then that extinguishes your pretensions!
How do you mean?
It shows that the lady has had good sense to nip your folly in the bud.
On the contrary, that would have been the answer conveyed by the presence of the ring. Its absence invites me to complete the confession I left unfinished yesterday.
Why not?
Because you are not expected.
Not expected?
No, I can easily satisfy you of that.
My dear Mrs. Wardour, there's not a moment to be lost. Beaurepos' button is free for a few minutes—I've secured it for you till I've given him a note on this confidential memorandum apropos of Windlestraw's motion. Go and plead for Fred yourself. I've smoothed the way. Quick! I see Jawkins ploughing his way towards the vacant button.
What's the joke?
Joke? something a good deal more serious than Windlestraw's motion, I can tell you. Promise me not to lose sight of him.
Your wishes are orders to me always.
Mind, I rely upon you implicitly.
Not a step!
But my dear fellow—
I must obey orders!
I'm not particular to door or window, but out I will get.
Then you'd better try the window. Even if I let you pass, your mother has her eye on the door. She'll pull you up before the whole room full of people.
What is to be done? I say, Chetwynd, just put yourself in my situation.
Then do let me go, Chetwynd.
Wait till your mother comes back, and I'll intercede for you.
It's no use talking to my mother. She won't listen to reason—I'm sure she won't. (looks at watch) A quarter past ten already,—my appointment was for half-past, and I promised to meet Witherington at the Travellers first—the old fogey has something very particular to say to me. What will she think?
Isn't it?
I meant your fidgetting about in that way.
I can't help it, Chetwynd—I can't really.
Perfectly!
A key!
It opens that side door, which leads to a lobby, which leads to a back staircase, which leads to the street. Be off with you!
Be off and keep your appointment.
My dear Chetwynd, I'm very sorry, but on second thoughts I don't think—perhaps I ought not to take advantage of your offer.
Gone? impossible! I had my eye on the door the whole time—I never saw him come out.
No, he didn't go by that door. The Foreign Office is like a rabbit warren, each room has two holes, at least—saves a great many diplomatic collisions—
The one you entered by he couldn't get out of—that I saw you lock it and put the key in your pocket.
Quite true—culpa mea—it was I released the prisoner.
You!
Yes, I couldn't stand his fidgetting—so in despair I gave him the key.
Bless me! I had no idea the case was so serious. But you exaggerate—after all it was only an appointment.
Only an appointment! There are appointments, Mr. Chetwynd, on which may hang the happiness of a home—appointments which can be kept only at the risk of honour, perhaps of life.
My dear Emily, if I had had the least idea—
If—if! Were"ifs" excuses, who would be to blame?
Well, as I committed the blunder, I ought to do my best to repair it.
It may be too late.
No, he said he was to call at the Travellers on his way, to see old Witherington—the General is safe to keep him for a quarter of an hour.
If I could only got the carriage up, I might be in time to find him there.
I'll take a cab to Pall Mall at once; if I catch him I'll carry him off prisoner to Hertford Street, and leave him in Helen's custody.
No, no, let me go—you have business here.
Never mind—it must wait—I'll be back in ten minutes.
But, Chetwynd—
I'll retake the runaway and carry him off to Hertford Street, dead or alive—
What is the use of a maid, if she can't help one to make up one's mind?
Better try and make it up for yourself, my lady.
That's as bad as having to pack up one's own things. Shall I go to Lord Beaurepos' reception, or shall I stay at home?
If I were you, I would do whichever I liked best, my lady.
I like neither—I shall be bored to death there—I'm tired of my own company here.
Then if I were you I would go, my lady— anything's better than being moped.
But what would Mr. Chetwynd think? I told him I did not mean to go.
Oh! I'm sure master will be delighted to see you, my lady.
I'm afraid he won't care a bit about it, Hopwood. Then it's almost half past ten, and I'm not dressed.
I'm sure the dress you have on would be beautiful. If you'd just put on a wreath, you would be ready in five minutes, my lady.
Very well—get me a wreath, and order the brougham.
How dreary these long, lonely evenings are! Horace tells me I should go out more. Oh, if he
knew what weariness of heart it is, to drag oneself all alone, from
Here's the sweetest wreath, my lady.
I've changed my mind, Hopwood—I shall not want the brougham.
What could I be thinking of? There's no house to-night —Horace may come back early. Oh, what would I give for one quiet evening's tête-a-tête with him.
You have countermanded the brougham?
Yes, my lady—I'm very sorry you're not going, my lady—I'm sure if you'd a tried on this wreath, my lady, you'd have looked beautiful.
Do you think so, Hopwood? Well, there would be no harm in trying it on.
Well, there's plenty that will, my lady, if he doesn't. I don't know how it is, but husbands
seldom think much what their wives wear, my lady. Now,
A knock! who can be calling at this time of the evening?
And another gentleman with him, my lady.
It's Mr. Frederick Wardour, my lady—I see 'em under the gas-lamp.
Frederick—with my husband! What can have brought them here together? you may go, Hopwood.
Horace can't know anything of Frederick's mad outburst last night. I wish I hadn't allowed him to say so much. But he was so old a friend—I thought there was no harm —and we were both so unhappy. They are here—how loud they seem to be talking.
Can they have quarrelled?
Now do you understand?
Really, Mr. Chetwynd, not half an hour ago you seemed delighted to get rid of me on any terms—a quarter of an hour after, you lay hands on me at the Travellers, and bring me here without a word of why or wherefore.
I declare he's going to eat me up, because I've changed the place of his confinement from
the musty back drawing-room of the Foreign Office to your boudoir,
Perhaps I ought to apologise, Helen, for imposing such a duty on you without your leave. But the case was urgent—Mrs. Wardour was in despair. I'm afraid I must peach, Fred—Helen is too good a constitutionalist to take you into custody without seeing the warrant.
Then you must understand that this young scapegrace has been making an appointment, which his mamma particularly wishes him not to keep. I haven't an idea what it is, or with whom. It's enough for me that Mrs. Wardour, considering it a high crime and misdemeanour, gave the culprit in charge, by way of keeping him out of mischief. Unluckily the policeman she selected happened to be of a compassionate turn of mind, and helped the prisoner to escape. He suffered for it, for such a blowing up as I got from Mrs. Wardour, when she returned and found the bird flown!
Then it was you—
I by myself—I. The only way of purchasing my pardon was to rush off, recapture the fugitive at his club, and bring him to you, as the most trustworthy gaoler of the family—so into your fair hands I resign him.
Into my hands—really Horace—
Oh, he's too much of a gentleman to break a lady's chain. Eh, Fred? You'll resign yourself to an hour's captivity in this very comfortable strong room, won't you?
But it is so late—
Well, well, let bygones be bygones. Good night! I must hurry back to Downing Street.
I have left an important paper behind me, on which I must see your uncle without delay—good bye.
What have you done with the ruby I put on your finger to-night? You haven't lost it, I hope.
Lost my Helen's pretty present? No, I may be a sad careless, husband, but I'm not quite so bad as that. You'll laugh when I tell you—only fancy—Mrs. Wardour confessed to a perfect craze about your ring—she begged me to lend it her for an hour. I thought it such a compliment to your good taste, that you wouldn't be angry if I granted her odd request.
Oh, no! so that one knows it's in good hands; one might so easily misinterpret its absence, you know.
Well, do your best to lighten poor Fred's captivity.
I was so glad to see you, dear.
And en grande toilette, too! why, I never saw anything less like stay at home than
that wreath. One would say you had changed your mind, and were bound for a ball.
No, Hopwood was only trying it on. Don't you recognise it, dear?
No — have I ever seen it before?
It's just like the one I wore so much the first season before our marriage.
Is it? I had forgotten all about it. But I must be off to my paper. Fred, you must give me your parole not to attempt to escape till I come back?
I give you my word I won't.
That's a promise. Remember, Helen, he's a state prisoner; be as kind as you like, but don't lose sight of him. I may rely upon you, may I not?
You may, safely.
I was sure of it.
Mr. Wardour!
You have forced me to be distant. I can never call you "Fred" again; you must never call me "Helen."
Why not? Surely after last night—
It is because of last night—after what you said last night I do not wish—do not think you ought to remain here.
But I was coming by your appointment.
I am very angry with you for daring to suggest such a thing. I did use it, but it was only because it enabled me to say no; I gave Horace my ring to wear.
I never saw him wear it, upon my honour.
He gave it to your mother.
Yes, that explains all. But had I been your husband would I have so lightly let your dear gift go? It is this that tortures me, to know that you are unhappy—that you have married one who neglects you.
Stop, sir, I will not hear this again. Last
Pretended sympathy! Oh, Helen, what is sincerity if my sympathy is pretence?
You are not sincere—not my real friend, or you would respect my sufferings by being
silent about your own. I was foolish—very foolish to let you see I am unhappy. Had I guessed
at the avowal my confidence in you has elicited, I never would have spoken. But we had been
friends from childhood, and I thought I might open my heart to you; you were the only friend
of my womanhood; to you I turned for sympathy and companionship; for your sake I risked
offending my husband and your dear mother. I would not—I could not urge upon my uncle this
Lisbon appointment, for I could not bear to lose you—and this is my reward. I must never open
my heart to you again.
You may—you may! What law of society—that accursed system of dead conventions—forbids you?
And he lets the precious jewel fall from his hands.
As you please! I may be forced to submit to your presence, but I must insist—
Make yourself easy, I am dumb. I only wish to keep my word to your husband. Will you oblige me by pointing out the part of the room where you wish me to sit.
Wherever you please.
must refuse it. Oh,
why will you force me to shut my heart against you—you whom I have looked on from a
child as my kind, good brother! Even now you blush for the part you are playing, or why your
agitation in my husband's presence just now? Do not be offended—it did you honour. But how do
you explain it, if your feeling towards me be one neither to be concealed nor blushed for?
I can explain nothing—I can but suffer. But one thing I know, and feel only too keenly—that I am banished from your presence, and by you—you whom I have loved.
Mr. Wardour! leave me!
No, do not drive me from you—one kind word —only one, Helen, for mercy's sake, or I cannot answer for my reason—for my life—
Mrs. Wardour!
Ha!
My dear Helen, what will you say to such an untimely visit.
You are always welcome, you know.
You are too kind, to remember a poor little recluse like me. I hope my uncle's reception was very brilliant?
Yes, Lord Beaurepos knows how to receive en grand seigneur. But why weren't you
there? You were missed, I assure you.
You see I had dressed to go, but I changed my mind. To tell you the truth, I find these drums and receptions a terrible bore. I wonder how you endure them.
Thanks to a stern sense of duty. I look upon these assemblages as a kind of social clearing house, where a great number of small visiting debts are wiped out without any interchange of heavy visits. Depend on it, dear, crowds are a blessed invention.
Won't you sit down?
Not till I have preferred my humble petition, and till you have granted it. I come to beg—can't you guess what for?
No, tell me—see if I make any difficulty.
I really don't see how—
How you can help me, eh? You must know, then—but this is in the strictest confidence—the object of his absurd passion is a married woman—the wife of one of our most intimate friends. That of course, is bad enough to begin with; Frederick ought to have seen the gross impropriety of the thing, young and thoughtless as he is; yet what can you expect of a boy of twenty. I admit it is my duty to think for him—to make him feel, if he can, how utterly unworthy of a gentleman it is, to abuse the opportunities of intimacy and old acquaintanceship—the terrible consequences, if the object of his passion be as weak and unprincipled as himself—the contempt she must feel for him if she have a proper regard for her duty, and a becoming horror of treachery and deceit. I'm sure, my dear Helen, you must agree with me.
Entirely, but what can I do in the matter?
Much—you may rescue my son from this unworthy folly, and save her, whom he thinks he loves,
from the certain misconstruction, the possible remorse, which must be the consequence of her
listening to him. I hope it is not too late for this—
To write to your uncle a pressing letter in favour of my son's appointment to this
attachéship at Lisbon. The sooner he leaves London, and the further
Alas! he is my only friend—my companion. Must I part with him?
If I can, you can. Think, I implore you, of my friend's danger.
I will write at once—but—
Well?
You are so severe—so rigid.
On the contrary, I know too well what a noble resolution is, not to be indulgent to the struggle it costs. What's the matter?
A carriage passing in the street; but get on with your letter, dear.
Let Markham take this letter to Lord Beaurepos.
My poor Helen, Mr. Wardour had very little respect for me; but he had a great respect for appearances. There was another who loved me before I married Mr. Wardour.
He told you of his love?
Never, and yet I knew it.
But how was that, if he never told you?
My dear, I loved him; but I was the wife of another, and he was too generous to relieve his own sufferings at the cost of my self-respect.
But you were free at Mr. Wardour's death.
Then he was the husband of another.
And his wife knew nothing?
We both conspired to keep the secret from her.
Oh, that was noble of you, and of him. I hope he loves his wife?
He does—more than she is aware.
I beg your pardon, but Frederick spoke so strangely—so desperately, just before you came in.
Oh, they all speak desperately on these occasions.
But he said he could not answer for his reason—for his life.
But he looked so haggard—so desperate.
Positively, Helen, I shall scold you if you talk such nonsense.
Why, you look uneasy yourself—
Uneasy! why, of course when you will put
No; but I cannot forget the expression of his face as he left the room.
I wish we knew what has become of him.
Hark! there's a knock! (knock.
Ah, General Witherington!
Of Frederick—yes.
Where he is at this moment is more than I can take upon myself to say. But I can tell you where he was five minutes since.
In close confab with Lady Helen's maid—at the area gate.
Thankful, eh—Well, there's no saying what odd things some people can be thankful for! I knew he was after no good, when I saw him just before at the Travellers.
Oh, what was he about at the club?
Scribbling away in the library like a candidate at a competitive examination. I'm always
suspicious when I see a youngster at pen and ink. I've observed young men's letter-writing
never comes to any good. I strolled up to the table, when I caught a glimpse of the
direction—36, Hertford-street—your house, Lady Helen —so I asked him if I could drop his
letter for him. He shook his head and bolted out of the room. I followed and caught sight of
him, striding along Pall Mall like a general postman, so I jumped into a Hansom, and thanks to an
A letter! The letter you saw him writing at the club?
I presume so. But as you had constituted me guardian of his morals pro tem, and as
I never knew any good come of letters delivered through a lady's maid, I took the liberty of
clapping him on the shoulder, and asking him what he was up to. Of course he blushed —said he
didn't know by what right I pried into his concerns, but that if I must know, the letter was
for Chetwynd, about the attachéship—and then he sailed away, with a bow, which said, as plain
as a bow can say— "You're a meddlesome old fogie, and if it were not for your years, I should
like uncommonly to pull your nose."
And the letter?
I suppose if I hadn't been there, Mrs. Hopwood would have put it very quietly on Chetwynd's library table, where he wouldn't have got it till to-morrow morning. Now, as I happened to know the Lisbon appointments are to be settled to-night, for approval at the cabinet to-morrow, I felt that wouldn't do,
And so?
I took the liberty of taking charge of the letter from your maid. Your servant was just coming out with a note of yours for Lord Beaurepos, so I forwarded Fred's letter to Chetwynd by the same hand—
Yes, there was no harm in that, I suppose?
Interfere, Mrs. Wardour!
Yes, interfere. Lady Helen particularly wished to see it before it went, in order to add a postscript —in short, you may have seriously injured Frederick's chances by this very ill-advised piece of meddling.
But you told me to keep an eye on the boy, to find out—
I never told you to dog him—to play the spy on him—still less to crown your curiosity by a blunder.
Excuse me, but such stupidity would provoke a saint. There, you see, Lady Helen is tired to death. I'm sorry I can't set you down.
have set me down already!
Do not leave me—oh, say you will not leave me!
Don't be afraid—only compose yourself—you distress me, when I want all my coolness.
But you don't think of the consequences to me!
Oh, I shall die!
Ah! here you are at last—I have been waiting for you so anxiously.
Oh, how can I ever thank you enough? Helen's letter to her uncle must have done wonders.
Yes.
I have not seen him—we must have crossed on the road. Where is Helen?
In her room, looking out an embroidery pattern I asked her for—she'll be here directly.
Your brougham is waiting, I think. Perhaps it might be as well to thank Beaurepos before the party breaks up—you have still time.
You seem harassed—you are not ill, I hope?
I told you not a moment ago.
So you did—writing a letter, you said? You'll have a capital opportunity of getting hold of Beaurepos, now that most of the political people are gone.
My dear Chetwynd, you seem quite upset. What has happened?
Nothing, nothing, I tell you—I'm a little tired—overworked, I suppose.
Oh, you cannot deceive me—I see something has occurred. Do tell me what it is.
I really do. I never saw you with such a sombre, almost savage look before—you would make a capital study for Othello.
I don't believe you do—its foundation is baseless suspicion. You are incapable of that.
Of baseless suspicion. Yes, but look here, and say if my suspicions are
baseless—
Read it,
Yes, it's a letter to my wife. Read, I tell you.
No!
My dear Chetwynd, be calm, I implore you—the thing is too improbable. How did this letter come into your hands?
It was delivered to me in Downing Street, not a quarter of an hour since. I have racked my
brain with conjectures, as I came along; but I cannot reason—my head burns—I seem to see
things through a mist. Don't think me weak, Emily—I thought nothing could shake my
self-control. Heaven help me, I did not know what it was to be struck here.
I?
You—you can—you will. This letter, it speaks of a meeting to-night—of an accident that interrupted the meeting—that must have been my arrival here with your son; I noticed Helen's agitation. How little did I guess the cause! She never looked so lovely. Well she might—she had dressed herself for her lover!
Her lover! take care, Chetwynd—don't say such things, or you may end by believing them.
End by believing them! where am I to begin?
This letter shows passion in the writer, I admit, but what proof does it contain that the passion is returned?
The woman to whom a man dares write such a letter as this condemns herself. She must be guilty— —in your eyes—in mine—in those of every person with nice honour. These sins have no degrees. When once the heart has played traitor, the crime is complete.
I agree with you if we take the genuineness of the letter for granted. For my part I don't believe a word of it.
You don't believe it?
Not a word of it, I tell you.
Do you take me for a child? What do you mean?
I mean that this anonymous letter, written by you don't know who, delivered you don't know
how, looks very like a trick—a calumny—a mystification. I
Monstrous! Didn't you yourself warn me of the danger of my neglect of her?
I?
You, to night.
You must have misunderstood me. If I did say anything of the kind, it must have been in joke.
In joke? Are we people to joke on such a subject? You told me women live by the heart—that, unless they found this life of the heart at home, they would seek it elsewhere. You did not think it anything so monstrous then.
How you twist my words. Did ever I say Helen's was such a case? She knows how much you are occupied with public matters, that you couldn't be always with your wife.
But I never was with her—selfish idiot that I was. I left her here, sad and solitary—long lonely days —longer lonelier nights. Oh, fool! fool! You know better than I do how a woman's heart will pine for sympathy and fellowship—how it's treasure of tenderness must be bestowed somewhere. I might have had it all—all—and now I see the truth when it is too late.
On your own showing, then, you neglected this young and lovely woman—you exposed her to temptation unguarded—you did your best to bring about that of which the bare suspicion goads you to madness.
But yet—
I but take your own view of the case. Do not be alarmed—a heart like Helen's can excuse anything to love. It may suffer—it may pine—but where it once anchored, there it clings, while love finds it holding ground.
Oh, I never felt how deep my love was till now. But what matters my love, if it wore the
aspect of indifference? Can I blame her if, between the crowd that paid their ready homage at
her feet, and the heart which hid its treasure of love under a load of public cares, she has
chosen, and chosen wrongly?
You admit as much?
My poor friend.
not forgive—the writer of this
letter. Let him conceal himself as he may, I will drag him to light. He shall pay for what I
suffer.
Really? Then your vengeance needn't be delayed very long—your victim is within your grasp!
What do you mean?
Can't you guess? This other, "whom you will not forgive"—this atrocious author of
all your misery —stands before you.
Are you mad? Do you mean to tell me—
That I am the author of this letter. Just be kind enough to examine the writing a little more closely.
You the writer of this letter?
I was afraid I never could have succeeded in imitating a clumsy masculine hand so well.
I understand you, and I thank you. But before I acccept a love like his, I must feel I deserve it. I dare not owe it to—to—a deception.
A deception. Helen—Then this story she has told me—
Was invented to screen me, and to spare you much suffering. It is true, Horace. I must speak out, though I know this confession may separate us for ever. In a moment of sadness and suffering, I was imprudent enough to listen to another's passion.
My folly went no farther. I gave him no encouragement. I never forgot that I was your wife, Horace!
Had you known how dear you were to me—
You never told me so. I thought your heart had turned from me; but mine was all your own always. Oh, Horace, if you had but revealed to me one tithe of the love for me which you avowed to her just now. I heard it, and even in my mortal terror the words came to me like music. Whatever my lot may be, it will not be a bitter one, now I know you loved me. Leave me if you will—you cannot unsay those blessed words.
You forgive me?—
It is for you to forgive me!
About what?
Your good luck, dear?
chef on this mission?
Fred's chef! why, you don't mean to say—
No less a person than your humble servant.
Well, my darling, how shall you like doing the honours of the embassy?
Oh, I shall be so proud, when you are the ambassador.
I say, Mrs. Wardour, you owe me an apology, I think.
With all my heart—you gave me a tremendous wigging just now; but after all, if it hadn't been for me, I don't suppose Fred would have been appointed.
Why, how did you help him, Witherington?
It was through me you got Fred's letter?
What letter?
The one I forwarded to you at Beaurepos', a quarter of an hour ago.
Ah!
Mrs. Wardour, you hear!
I'm afraid my visit is rather a late one; but as I knew my mother was here, I was anxious to give her news of my appointment, and at the same time to congratulate you, my dear Chetwynd, and to thank you—
On the contrary, I have to thank you for a lesson, which a few minutes ago I should
have attempted to repay in something more solid than words.
I'm afraid, my dear Frederick, that the Lisbon air may be dangerous to your health—your mother and Lady Helen both tell me you're liable to disease of the heart. I shall recommend Lord Beaurepos to cancel your appointment. My dear Emily, go and scold your naughty child, while I scold mine.
Come, schoolmaster, your pupil's pains applaud.
Schoolmaster? I! The schoolmaster abroad!