Victorian drawing-room a middle-aged maid-servant in cap and apron brings
a lamp, and proceeds to draw blinds and close curtains. To do this she
passes the fire-place, where before a pleasantly bright hearth sits,
comfortably sedate, an elderly lady whose countenance and attitude suggest
the very acme of genteel repose. She is a handsome woman, very conscious
of herself, but carrying the burden of her importance with an ease which,
in her own mind, leaves nothing to be desired. The once-striking outline
of her features has been rounded by good feeding to a softness which is
merely physical; and her voice, when she speaks, has a calculated
gentleness very caressing to her own ear, and a little irritating to
others who are not of an inferior class. Menials like it, however. The
room, though over-upholstered, and not furnished with any more individual
taste than that which gave its generic stamp to the great Victorian
period, is the happy possessor of some good things. Upon the mantel-shelf,
backed by a large mirror, stands old china in alternation with alabaster
jars, under domed shades, and tall vases encompassed by pendant ringlets
of glass-lustre. Rose-wood, walnut, and mahogany make a well-wooded
interior; and in the dates thus indicated there is a touch of Georgian.
But, over and above these mellowing features of a respectable ancestry,
the annunciating Angel of the Great Exhibition of_ 1851 _has spread a
brooding wing. And while the older articles are treasured on account of
family association, the younger and newer stand erected in places of
honour by reason of an intrinsic beauty never previously attained to.
Through this chamber the dashing crinoline has wheeled the too vast orb of
its fate, and left fifty years after (if we may measure the times of
Heaven by the ticks of an earthly chronometer) a mark which nothing is
likely to erase. Upon the small table, where Hannah the servant deposits
the lamp, lies a piece of crochet-work. The fair hands that have been
employed on it are folded on a lap of corded silk representing the
fashions of the nineties, and the grey-haired beauty (that once was) sits
contemplative, wearing a cap of creamish lace, tastefully arranged, not
unaware that in the entering lamp-light, and under the fire's soft glow of
approval, she presents to her domestic's eye an improving picture of
gentility. It is to Miss Julia Robinson's credit--and she herself places
it there emphatically--that she always treats servants humanly, though at
a distance. And when she now speaks she confers her slight remark just a
little as though it were a favour_.
JULIA. How the days are drawing out, Hannah.
HANNAH. Yes, Ma'am; nicely, aren't they?
(_For Hannah, being old-established, may say a thing or two not in the
strict order. In fact, it may be said that, up to a well-understood point,
character is encouraged in her, and is allowed to peep through in her
remarks_.)
JULIA. What time is it?
HANNAH (_looking with better eyes than her mistress at the large ormolu
clock which records eternally the time of the great Exhibition_).
Almost a quarter to six, Ma'am.
JULIA. So late? She ought to have been here long ago.
HANNAH. Who, Ma'am, did you say, Ma'am?
JULIA. My sister, Mrs. James. You remember?
HANNAH. What, Miss Martha, Ma'am? Well!
JULIA. No, it's Miss Laura this time: you didn't know she had married, I
suppose?
HANNAH (_with a world of meaning, well under control_). No, Ma'am.
(_A pause_.) I made up the bed in the red room; was that right,
Ma'am?
JULIA (_archly surprised_). What? Then you knew someone was coming?
Why did you pretend, Hannah?
HANNAH. Well, Ma'am, you see, you hadn't _told_ me before.
JULIA. I couldn't. One cannot always be sure. (_This mysteriously_.)
But something tells me now that she is to be with us. I have been
expecting her over four days.
HANNAH (_picking her phrases a little, as though on doubtful
ground_). It must be a long way, Ma'am. Did she make a comfortable
start, Ma'am?
JULIA. Very quietly, I'm told. No pain.
HANNAH. I wonder what she'll be able to eat now, Ma'am. She was always
very particular.
TULIA. I daresay you will be told soon enough. (_Thus in veiled words
she conveys that Hannah knows something of Mrs. James's character_.)
HANNAH (_resignedly_). Yes, M'm.
JULIA. I don't think I'll wait any longer. If you'll bring in tea now.
Make enough for two, in case: pour it off into another pot, and have it
under the tea-cosy.
HANNAH. Yes, Ma'am.
(_Left alone, the dear lady enjoys the sense of herself and the small
world of her own thoughts in solitude. Then she sighs indulgently_.)
JULIA. Yes, I suppose I would rather it had been Martha. Poor Laura!
(_She puts out her hand for her crochet, when it is arrested by the
sound of a knock, rather rapacious in character_.) Ah, that's Laura all
over!
(_Seated quite composedly and fondling her well-kept hands, she awaits
the moment of arrival. Very soon the door opens, and the over-expected
Mrs. James--a luxuriant garden of widow's weeds, enters. She is a lady
more strongly and sharply featured than her sister, but there is nothing
thin-lipped about her; with resolute eye and mouth a little grim, yet
pleased at so finding herself, she steps into this chamber of old memories
and cherished possessions, which translation to another and a better world
has made hers again. For a moment she sees the desire of her eyes and is
satisfied; but for a moment only. The apparition of another already in
possession takes her aback_.)
JULIA (_with soft effusiveness_). Well, Laura!
LAURA (_startled_). Julia!
JULIA. _Here_ you are!
LAURA. Whoever thought of finding you?
JULIA (_sweetly_). Didn't you?
(_They have managed to embrace: but Laura continues to have her
grievance_.)
LAURA. No! not for a moment. I really think they might have told me. What
brought you?
JULIA. Our old home, Laura. It was a natural choice, I think: as one was
allowed to choose. I suppose you were?
LAURA (_her character showing_.) I didn't ask anyone's leave to come.
JULIA. And how are you?
LAURA. I don't know; I want my tea.
JULIA. Hannah is just bringing it.
LAURA. Who's Hannah?
JULIA. _Our_ Hannah: our old servant. Didn't _she_ open the door
to you?
LAURA. What? Come back, has she?
JULIA. I found her here when I came, seven years ago. I didn't ask
questions. Here she is.
(Enter _Hannah with the tea-tray_.)
LAURA (_with a sort of grim jocosity_). How d'ye do, Hannah?
HANNAH. Nicely, thank you, Ma'am. How are you, Ma'am?
(_Hannah, as she puts down the tray, is prepared to have her hand
shaken: for it is a long time (thirty years or so in earthly measure)
since they met. But Mrs. James is not so cordial as all that_.)
LAURA. I'm very tired.
JULIA. You've come a long way.
(_But Laura's sharp attention has gone elsewhere_.)
LAURA. Hannah, what have you got my best tray for? You know that is not to
be used every day.
JULIA. It's all right, Laura. You don't understand.
LAURA. What don't I understand?
JULIA. Here one always uses the best. Nothing wears out or gets broken.
LAURA. Then where's the pleasure of it? If one always uses them and they
never break--'best' means nothing!
JULIA. It is a little puzzling at first. You must be patient.
LAURA. I'm not a child, Julia.
JULIA (_beautifully ignoring_). A little more coal, please, Hannah.
(_Then to her sister as she pours out the tea_.) And how did you
leave everybody?
LAURA. Oh, pretty much as usual. Most of them having colds. That's how I
got mine. Mrs. Hilliard came to call and left it behind her. I went out
with it in an east wind and that finished me.
JULIA. Oh, but how provoking! (_She wishes to be sympathetic; but this
is a line of conversation she instinctively avoids_!)
LAURA. _No_, Julia! ... (_This, delivered with force, arrests the
criminal intention_.) _No_ sugar. To think of your forgetting
that!
JULIA (_most sweetly_). Milk?
LAURA. Yes, you know I take milk.
(_Crossing over, but sitting away from the tea-table, she lets her
sister wait on her_.)
JULIA. Did Martha send me any message?
LAURA. How could she? She didn't know I was coming.
JULIA. Was it so sudden?
LAURA. I sent for her and she didn't come. Think of that!
JULIA. Oh! She would be sorry. Tea-cake?
LAURA (_taking the tea-cake that is offered her_). I'm not so sure.
She was nursing Edwin's boy through the measles, so of course _I_
didn't count. (_Nosing suspiciously_.) Is this China tea?
JULIA. If you like to think it. You have as you choose. How is our
brother, Edwin?
LAURA. His wife's more trying than ever. Julia, what a fool that woman is!
JULIA. Well, let's hope he doesn't know it.
LAURA. He must know. I've told him. She sent a wreath to my funeral, 'With
love and fond affection, from Emily.' Fond fiddlesticks! Humbug! She knows
I can't abide her.
JULIA. I suppose she thought it was the correct thing.
LAURA. And I doubt if it cost more than ten shillings. Now Mrs.
Dobson--you remember her: she lives in Tudor Street with a daughter one
never sees--something wrong in her head, and has fits--she sent me a cross
of lilies, white lilac, and stephanotis, as handsome as you could wish;
and a card--I forget what was on the card.... Julia, when you died--
JULIA. Oh, don't Laura!
LAURA. Well, you did die, didn't you?
JULIA. Here one doesn't talk of it. That's over. There are things you will
have to learn.
LAURA. What I was going to say was--when I died I found my sight was much
better. I could read all the cards without my glasses. Do _you_ use
glasses?
JULIA. Sometimes, for association. I have these of our dear Mother's in
her tortoise-shell case.
LAURA. That reminds me. Where is our Mother?
JULIA. She comes--sometimes.
LAURA. Why isn't she here always?
JULIA (_with pained sweetness_). I don't know, Laura. I never ask
questions.
LAURA. Really, Julia, I shall be afraid to open my mouth presently!
JULIA (_long-suffering still_). When you see her you will understand.
I told her you were coming, so I daresay she will look in.
LAURA. 'Look in'!
JULIA. Perhaps. That is her chair, you remember. She always sits there,
still.
(ENTER _Hannah with the coal_.)
Just a little on, please, Hannah--only a little.
LAURA. This isn't China tea: it's Indian, three and sixpenny.
JULIA. Mine is ten shilling China.
LAURA. Lor', Julia! How are you able to afford it?
JULIA. A little imagination goes a long way here, you'll find. Once I
tasted it. So now I can always taste it.
LAURA. Well! I wish I'd known.
JULIA. Now you _do_.
LAURA. But I never tasted tea at more than three-and-six. Had I known, I
could have got two ounces of the very best, and had it when----
JULIA. A lost opportunity. Life is full of them.
LAURA. Then you mean to tell me that if I had indulged more then, I could
indulge more now?
JULIA. Undoubtedly. As I never knew what it was to wear sables, I have to
be content with ermine.
LAURA. Lor', Julia, how paltry!
(_While this conversation has been going on, a gentle old lady has
appeared upon the scene, unnoticed and unannounced. One perceives, that is
to say, that the high-backed arm-chair beside the fire, sheltered by a
screen from all possibility of draughts, has an occupant. Dress and
appearance show a doubly septuagenarian character: at the age of seventy,
which in this place she retains as the hall-mark of her earthly
pilgrimage, she belongs also to the 'seventies' of the last century, wears
watered silk, and retains under her cap a shortened and stiffer version of
the side-curls with which she and all 'the sex' captivated the hearts of
Charles Dickens and other novelists in their early youth. She has soft and
indeterminate features, and when she speaks her voice, a little shaken by
the quaver of age, is soft and indeterminate also. Gentle and lovable, you
will be surprised to discover that she, also, has a will of her own; but
for the present this does not show. From the dimly illumined corner behind
the lamp her voice comes soothingly to break the discussion_.)
OLD LADY. My dear, would you move the light a little nearer? I've dropped
a stitch.
LAURA (_starting up_). Why, Mother dear, when did you come in?
JULIA (_interposing with arresting hand_). Don't! You mustn't try to
touch her, or she goes.
LAURA. Goes?
JULIA. I can't explain. She is not quite herself. She doesn't always hear
what one says.
LAURA (_assertively_). She can hear me. (_To prove it, she raises
her voice defiantly._) Can't you, Mother?
MRS. R. (_the voice perhaps reminding her_). Jane, dear, I wonder
what's become of Laura, little Laura: she was always so naughty and
difficult to manage, so different from Martha--and the rest.
LAURA. Lor', Julia! Is it as bad as that? Mother, 'little Laura' is here,
sitting in front of you. Don't you know me?
MRS. R. Do you remember, Jane, one day when we'd all started for a walk,
Laura had forgotten to bring her gloves, and I sent her back for them? And
on the way she met little Dorothy Jones, and she took her gloves off her,
and came back with them just as if they were her own.
LAURA. What a good memory you have, Mother! I remember it too. She was an
odious little thing, that Dorothy--always so whiney-piney.
JULIA. More tea, Laura?
(_Laura pushes her cup at her without remark, for she has been kept
waiting; then, in loud tones, to suit the one whom she presumes to be
rather deaf_:)
LAURA. Mother! Where are you living now?
MRS. R. I'm living, my dear.
LAURA. I said 'where?'
JULIA. We live where it suits us, Laura.
LAURA. Julia, I wasn't addressing myself to you. Mother, where _are_
you living?... Why, _where_ has she gone to?
(_For now we perceive that this gentle Old Lady so devious in her
conversation has a power of self-possession, of which, very retiringly,
she avails herself._)
JULIA (_improving the occasion, as she hands back the cup, with that
touch of superiority so exasperating to a near relative_). Now you see!
If you press her too much, she goes.... You'll have to accommodate
yourself, Laura.
LAURA (_imposing her own explanation_). I think you gave me
_green_ tea, Julia ... or have had it yourself.
JULIA (_knowing better_). The dear Mother seldom stays long, except
when she finds me alone.
(_Having insinuated this barb into the flesh of her 'dear sister,' she
takes up her crochet with an air of great contentment. Mrs. James,
meanwhile, to make herself more at home, now that tea is finished, undoes
her bonnet-strings with a tug, and lets them hang. She is not in the best
of tempers.)_
LAURA. I don't believe she recognised me. Why did she keep on calling me
'Jane'?
JULIA. She took you for poor Aunt Jane, I fancy.
LAURA (_infuriated at being taken for anyone 'poor'_).
Why should she do that, pray?
JULIA. Well, there always was a likeness, you know; and you are older than
you were, Laura.
LAURA (_crushingly_). Does 'poor Aunt Jane' wear widow's weeds?
(_This reminds her not only of her own condition, but of other things as
well. She sits up and takes a stiller bigger bite into her new world_.)
Julia!... Where's William?
JULIA. I haven't inquired.
LAURA (_self-importance and a sense of duty consuming her_.) I wish
to see him.
JULIA. Better not, as it didn't occur to you before.
LAURA. Am I not to see my own husband, pray?
JULIA. He didn't ever live _here_, you know.
LAURA. He can come, I suppose. He has got legs like the rest of us.
JULIA. Yes, but one can't force people: at least, not here. You should
remember that--before he married you--he had other ties.
(_Mrs. James preserves her self-possession, but there is battle in her
eye._)
LAURA. He was married to me longer than he was to Isabel.
JULIA. They had children.
LAURA. I could have had children if I chose. I didn't choose.... Julia,
how am I to see him?
JULIA (_Washing her hands of it_). You must manage for yourself,
Laura.
LAURA. I'm puzzled! Here are we in the next world just as we expected, and
where are all the--? I mean, oughtn't we to be seeing a great many more
things than we do?
JULIA. What sort of things?
LAURA. Well,... have you seen Moses and the Prophets?
JULIA. I haven't looked for them, Laura. On Sundays, I still go to hear
Mr. Moore.
LAURA. That's you all over! You never would go o the celebrated preachers.
But I mean to. (_Pious curiosity awakens._) What happens here, on
Sundays?
JULIA (_smiling_). Oh, just the same.
LAURA. No _High_ Church ways, I hope? If they go in for that here, I
shall go out!
JULIA (_patiently explanatory_). You will go out if you wish to go
out. You can choose your church. As I tell you, I always go to hear Mr.
Moore; you can go and hear Canon Farrar.
LAURA. Dean Farrar, I _suppose_ you mean.
JULIA. He was not Dean in my day.
LAURA. He ought to have been a Bishop--_Arch_bishop, _I_ think--
so learned, and such a magnificent preacher. But I still wonder why we
don't see Moses and the Prophets.
JULIA. Well, Laura, it's the world as we knew it-that for the present. No
doubt other things will come in time, gradually. But I don't know: I don't
ask questions.
LAURA (_doubtfully_). I suppose it _is_ Heaven, in a way,
though?
JULIA. Dispensation has its own ways, Laura; and we have ours.
LAURA (_who is not going to be theologically dictated to by anyone lower
than Dean Farrar_). Julia, I shall start washing the old china again.
JULIA. As you like; nothing ever gets soiled here.
LAURA. It's all very puzzling. The world seems cut in half. Things don't
seem _real_.
JULIA. _More_ real, I should say. We have them--as we wish them to
be.
LAURA. Then why can't we have our Mother, like other things?
JULIA. Ah, with persons it is different. We all belong to ourselves now.
That one has to accept.
LAURA (_stubbornly_). Does William belong to _him_self?
JULIA. I suppose.
LAURA. It isn't Scriptural!
JULIA. It's better.
LAURA. Julia, don't be blasphemous!
JULIA. To consult William's wishes, I meant.
LAURA. But I want him. I've a right to him. If he didn't mean to belong to
me, he ought not to have married me.
JULIA. People make mistakes sometimes.
LAURA. Then they should stick to them. It's not honourable. Julia, I mean
to have William!
JULIA (_resignedly_). You and he must arrange that between you.
LAURA (_making a dash for it_). William! William, I say! William!
JULIA. Oh, Laura, you'll wake the dead! (_She gasps, but it is too late:
the hated word is out._)
LAURA (_as one who will be obeyed_). William!
(_The door does not open; but there appears through it the indistinct
figure of an elderly gentleman with a weak chin and a shifting eye. He
stands irresolute and apprehensive; clearly his presence there is
perfunctory. Wearing his hat and carrying a hand-bag, he seems merely to
have looked in while passing._)
JULIA. Apparently you are to have your wish. (_She waves an introductory
hand; Mrs. James turns, and regards the unsatisfactory apparition with
suspicion._)
LAURA. William, is that you?
WILLIAM (_nervously_). Yes, my dear; it's me.
LAURA. Can't you be more distinct than that?
WILLIAM. Why do you want me?
LAURA. Have you forgotten I'm your wife?
WILLIAM. I thought you were my widow, my dear.
LAURA. William, don't prevaricate. I am your wife, and you know it.
WILLIAM. Does a wife wear widow's weeds? A widow is such a distant
relation: no wonder I look indistinct.
LAURA. How did I know whether I was going to find you here?
WILLIAM. Where else? But you look very nice as you are, my dear. Black
suits you.
(_But Mrs. James is not to be turned off by compliments._)
LAURA. William, who are you living with?
WILLIAM. With myself, my dear.
LAURA. Anyone else?
WILLIAM. Off and on I have friends staying.
LAURA. Are you living with Isabel?
WILLIAM. She comes in occasionally to see how I'm getting on.
LAURA. And how are you 'getting on'--without me?
WILLIAM. Oh, I manage--somehow.
LAURA. Are you living a proper life, William?
WILLIAM. Well, I'm _here_, my dear; what more do you want to know?
LAURA. There's a great deal I want to know. But I wish you'd come in and
shut the door, instead of standing out there in the passage.
JULIA. The door _is_ shut, Laura.
LAURA. Then I don't call it a door.
WILLIAM (_trying to make things pleasant_). When is a door not a
door? When it's a parent.
LAURA. William, I want to talk seriously. Do you know that when you died
you left a lot of debts I didn't know about?
WILLIAM. I didn't know about them either, my dear. But if you had, it
wouldn't have made any difference.
LAURA. Yes, it would! I gave you a very expensive funeral.
WILLIAM. That was to please yourself, my dear; it didn't concern me.
LAURA. Have you no self-respect? I've been at my own funeral to-day, let
me tell you!
WILLIAM. Have you, my dear? Rather trying, wasn't that?
LAURA. Yes, it was. They've gone and put me beside you; and now I begin to
wish they hadn't!
WILLIAM. Go and haunt them for it!
(_At this Julia deigns a slight chuckle._)
LAURA (_abruptly getting back to her own_). I had to go into a
smaller house, William. And people knew it was because you'd left me badly
off.
WILLIAM. That reflected on me, my dear, not on you.
LAURA. It reflected on me for ever having married you.
WILLIAM. I've often heard you blame yourself. Well, now you're free.
LAURA. I'm _not_ free.
WILLIAM. You can be if you like. Hadn't you better?
LAURA (_sentimentally_). Don't you see I'm still in mourning for you,
William?
WILLIAM. I appreciate the compliment, my dear. Don't spoil it,
LAURA. Don't be heartless!
WILLIAM. I'm not: far from it. (_He looks at his watch)_ I'm afraid I
must go now.
LAURA. Why must you go?
WILLIAM. They are expecting me--to dinner.
LAURA. Who's 'they'?
WILLIAM. The children and their mother. They've invited me to stay the
night.
(_Mrs. James does her best to conceal the shock this gives her. She
delivers her ultimatum with judicial firmness_!)
LAURA. William, I wish you to come and live here with me.
(_William vanishes. Mrs. James in a fervour of virtuous indignation
hastens to the door, opens it, and calls 'William!' but there is no
answer_!)
(_Julia, meanwhile, has rung the bell. Mrs. James stills stands
glowering in the doorway when she hears footsteps, and moves majestically
aside for the returned penitent to enter; but alas! it is only Hannah,
obedient to the summons of the bell. Mrs. James faces round and fires a
shot at her_.)
LAURA. Hannah, you _are_ an ugly woman.
JULIA (_faint with horror_). Laura!
HANNAH (_imperturbably)._ Well, Ma'am, I'm as God made me.
JULIA. Yes, please, take the tea-things. (_Sotto voce, as Hannah
approaches_.) I'm sorry, Hannah!
HANNAH. It doesn't matter, Ma'am. (_She picks up the tray expeditiously
and carries it off_)
(_Mrs. James eyes the departing tray, and is again reminded of
something_)
LAURA. Julia, where is the silver tea-pot?
JULIA. Which, Laura?
LAURA. Why, that beautiful one of our Mother's.
JULIA. When we shared our dear Mother's things between us, didn't Martha
have it?
LAURA. Yes, she did. But she tells me she doesn't know what's become of
it. When I ask, what did she do with it in the first place? she loses her
temper. But once she told me she left it here with _you_.
(_The fierce eye and the accusing tone make no impression on that
cushioned fortress of gentility. With suave dignity Miss Robinson makes
chaste denial._)
JULIA. No.
LAURA (_insistent)._ Yes; in a box.
JULIA. In a box? Oh, she may have left anything in a box.
LAURA. It was that box she always travelled about with and never opened.
Well, I looked in it once (never mind how), and the tea-pot wasn't there.
JULIA (_gently, making allowance_). Well, I _didn't_ look in it,
Laura.
(_Like a water-lily folding its petals she adjusts a small shawl about
her shoulders, and sinks composedly into her chair_.)
LAURA. The more fool you!... But all the other things she had of our
Mother's _were_ there: a perfect magpie's nest! And she, living in
her boxes, and never settling anywhere. What did she want with them?
JULIA. I can't say, Laura.
LAURA. No--no more can I; no more can anyone! Martha has got the miser
spirit. She's as grasping as a caterpillar. _I_ ought to have had
that tea-pot.
JULIA. Why?
LAURA. Because I had a house of my own, and people coming to tea. Martha
never had anyone to tea with her in her life--except in lodgings.
JULIA. We all like to live in our own way. Martha liked going about.
LAURA. Yes. She promised _me_, after William--I suppose I had better
say 'evaporated' as you won't let me say 'died'--she promised always to
stay with me for three months in the year. She never did. Two, and some
little bits, were the most. And I want to know where was that tea-pot all
the time?
JULIA (_a little jocosely_). Not in the box, apparently.
LAURA (_returning to her accusation_). I thought you had it.
JULIA. You were mistaken. Had I had it here, you would have found it.
LAURA. Did Martha never tell _you_ what she did with it?