(_A Story in Scenes._)
[Illustration: "How shall I ever tell Cornelia?"]
SCENE I.--_A decorously-furnished Drawing-room, at Hornbeam Lodge,
Clapham, the residence of_ THEOPHILUS TOOVEY, Esq. _It is Sunday
evening._ Mr. TOOVEY, _an elderly Gentleman with a high forehead,
a rabbit mouth, and a long but somewhat wispy beard, is discovered
sitting alone with a suitable book, upon which he is endeavouring to
fix his thoughts, apparently without success._
_Mr. Toovey (reading)._ "With what a mixture of indescribable emotions
did I find myself actually standing upon the very brink ----" (_To
himself, as he puts the volume down_) It's no use, I can't concentrate
my mind on Palestine to-night, I can't forget this horrible
"Eldorado." Ever since I got that official warrant, or demand, or
whatever it was, yesterday, I've been haunted by the name. It seems
to meet me everywhere; even on the very hoardings! Why, _why_ didn't I
invest Aunt ELIZA'S legacy in consols, as CORNELIA told me, instead
of putting it into a gold-mine? I think LARKINS said it was a
_gold_-mine. If only I had never met him that day last year--but he
seemed to think he was doing me such a favour in letting me have some
of his shares at all; he'd been allotted more than he wanted, he told
me, and he was so confident the Company was going to be a success that
I--and now, after hearing nothing all this time, I'm suddenly called
upon to pay a hundred and seventy-five pounds, and that's only for one
half year, as far as I can make out.... How can I draw a cheque for
all that without CORNELIA finding out? I never dared tell her, and she
overlooks all my accounts. Why did I, who have never been a follower
after Mammon, fall so easily into that accursed mine? I am no business
man. All the time I was a partner in that floorcloth factory, I
never interfered in the conduct of it, beyond signing my name
occasionally--which was all they allowed me to do--and they took the
earliest opportunity of buying me out. And yet I must needs go
and speculate with Aunt ELIZA'S five hundred pounds, and--what is
worse--lose every penny, and more! I, a Churchwarden, looked up to by
every member of an Evangelical congregation, the head of a household
like this!... How shall I ever tell CORNELIA? And yet I must--I never
had a secret from her in my life. I shall know no peace till I have
confessed all. I _will_ confess--this very night--when we are alone.
If I could speak to CHARLES first, or to that young Mr. CURPHEW--they
will both be here to supper--and CHARLES is in a Solicitor's office.
But my nephew is too young, and Mr. CURPHEW, though he _is_ a
journalist, is wise and serious beyond his years--and if, as CORNELIA
thinks, he is beginning to feel a tenderness for ALTHEA, why, it might
cause him to reconsider his---- No, I can't tell anyone but my wife.
(_Sounds are heard in the hall._) There they are!--they are back from
Church--already! (_He catches up his book._) I must try to be calm.
She must not notice anything at present!
_Mrs. T. (outside)._ I've left my things downstairs, PH[OE]BE; you can
take them up to my room. (_Entering._) Well, Pa, I hope you feel less
poorly than you did, after your quiet evening at home?
_Mr. T. (flurried)._ Yes, my love, yes. I--I've had a peaceful time
with _Peregrinations in Palestine_. A--a most absorbing book, my love.
_Mrs. T._ You would find it more absorbing, Pa, if you held it the
right way up. You've been asleep!
_Mr. T._ No, indeed, I only wish I--that is--I may have dropped off
for a moment.
_Charles (who has followed his Aunt)._ You wouldn't have had much
chance of doing that if you'd been at Church, Uncle!
_Mrs. T._ No, indeed. Mr. POWLES preached a most awakening discourse,
which I am glad to find CHARLES appreciated.
_Charles._ I meant the cushion in your pew, Uncle; you ought to have
it restuffed. It's like sitting on a bag of mixed biscuits!
_Mrs. T._ We do not go to Church to be _comfortable_, CHARLES. Pa,
Mr. POWLES alluded very powerfully, from the pulpit, to the recent
commercial disasters, and the sinfulness of speculation in professing
Christians. I wish you could have heard him.
_Mr. T. (squirming)._ A--a deprivation indeed, my love. But I was
better at home--better at home.
_Mrs. T._ You will have other opportunities; he announces a course of
weekday addresses, at the Mission Rooms, on "The Thin End of the Wedge
of Achan." CHARLES, I gave you one of the circulars to carry for me.
Where is it?
_Charles._ In my overcoat, I think, Aunt. Shall I go and get it?
[ALTHEA _enters_.
_Mrs. T._ Not now; I haven't my spectacles by me. THEA, did you tell
PH[OE]BE to pack your trunk the first thing to-morrow?
_Althea._ Yes, Mamma; but there is plenty of time. CECILIA doesn't
expect me till the afternoon.
_Charles._ So THEA's going up to town for a few days' spree, eh, Aunt
CORNELIA?
_Mrs. T. (severely)._ Your cousin is going on a visit to a married
schoolfellow, who is her senior by two or three years, and who, I
understand, was the most exemplary pupil Miss PRUINS ever had. I have
no doubt Mrs. MERRIDEW will take ALTHEA to such entertainments as are
fit and proper for her--picture-galleries, museums, concerts, possibly
a lecture--but I should not describe that myself as a "spree."
_Charles._ No more should I, Aunt, not by any means.
_Mrs. T._ I never met this Mrs. MERRIDEW, but I was favourably
impressed by the way she wrote. A very sensible letter.
_Alth. (to herself)._ Except the postscript. But I didn't like to show
Mamma that!
_Charles._ But you'll go to a theatre or two, or a dance, or
something, while you're with her, won't you?
[ALTHEA _tries to signal to him to be silent_.
_Mrs. T._ CHARLES, you forget where you are. A daughter of ours
set foot in a playhouse! Surely you know your Uncle's objection to
anything in the nature of a theatrical entertainment? Did he not
write and threaten to resign the Vice-Presidency of the Lower Clapham
Athenaeum at the mere hint of a performance of scenes from some play by
that dissolute writer SHERIDAN--even without costumes and scenery? His
protest was most admirably worded. I remember I drafted it myself.
_Mr. T. (with some complacency)._ Yes, yes, I've always been extremely
firm on that subject, and also on the dangers of dancing--indeed,
I have almost succeeded in putting an entire stop to the children
dancing to piano-organs in the streets of this neighbourhood--a most
reprehensible custom!
_Mrs. T._ Yes, THEOPHILIUS, and you might have stopped it long before
you did, if you had taken my suggestion earlier. I hope I am not
to infer, from your manner, that you are yourself addicted to these
so-called pleasures, CHARLES?
_Charles._ Dancing in the street to a piano-organ, Aunt? Never did
such a thing in my life!
_Mrs. T._ That was not my meaning, CHARLES, as you very well know.
I hope you employ your evenings in improving your knowledge of your
profession. I should be sorry to think you frequented theatres.
_Charles (demurely)._ Theatres? rather not, Aunt, never go near 'em.
(_To himself._) Catch me going where I can't smoke! (_Aloud._)
You see, when a fellow has lodgings in a nice cheerful street in
Bloomsbury, it isn't likely he'd want to turn out of an evening after
sticking hard at the office all day!
_Mrs. T._ I am glad to hear you say so, CHARLES. It is quite a mistake
for a young man to think he cannot do without amusement. Your Uncle
never thought of amusing himself when he was young--or our married
life would not be what it is. And look at Mr. CURPHEW, who is coming
in to supper to-night, see how hard _he_ works--up to town every
afternoon, and not back till long after midnight. [_The bell rings._
_Charles._ Rather queer hours to work, Aunt. Are you sure he doesn't
go up just to read the paper?
_Althea (with a slight flush)._ He goes up to _write_ it, CHARLES. Mr.
CURPHEW is on the press, and has taken rooms here for the air of the
Common. And--and he is very clever, and works very hard indeed; you
can see that from his looks.
_Ph[oe]be (announcing)._ Mr. CURPHEW.
[_A tall slim young man enters, with a pale, smooth-shaven face, and
rather melancholy eyes, which light up as he greets_ ALTHEA.
_Mrs. T._ How do you do, Mr. CURPHEW? You are a little late--but some
services last longer than others. Oh, PH[OE]BE, now I think of it,
just bring me a paper you will find in one of the pockets of Mr.
COLLIMORE'S overcoat; it's hanging up in the hall--the drab one with
grey velvet on the collar. (PH[OE]BE _goes_.) It's a circular, Mr.
CURPHEW, which was given out in our Church this evening, and may
interest you to see.
_Ph[oe]be (returning)._ If you please, m'm, this is the only paper I
could find.
_Mrs. T. (taking it from the salver, without looking at it)._ Quite
right, PH[OE]BE--we shall be ready for supper when I ring. (_When_
PH[OE]BE _has gone_.) I can't see anything without my---- ALTHEA, just
go and see if I have left my spectacle-case in my room, my dear. It's
astonishing how they're always getting mislaid, and I'm so helpless
without them. (ALTHEA _goes_.) Mr. CURPHEW, perhaps you will read this
aloud for me; I want my husband to hear.
_Curphew (suppressing a slight start)._ May I ask if they distribute
papers of this sort at your Church--and--and why you think it is
likely to interest me in particular? (_To himself._) Wonder if this
can be a trap!
_Mrs. T. (taking back the document, and holding it close to her
nose)._ Gracious goodness! _this_ isn't the---- CHARLES, perhaps you
will explain how you come to have a paper in your pocket covered with
pictures of females in shamelessly short skirts?
_Charles (to himself)._ In for a pie-jaw this time! What an owl that
girl is! (_Aloud._) It's only a programme, Aunt; thing they give you
at a music-hall, you know.
_Mrs. T. (in an awful voice)._ Only a programme! Pa, tell this unhappy
boy your opinion of his conduct!
_Mr. T. (rising magisterially)._ CHARLES, am I to understand that a
nephew of mine allows himself to be seen in a disreputable resort such
as----
_Charles._ Oh come, Uncle, you can't know much about the Eldorado,
if----
_Mr. T. (with a bound)._ _The Eldorado._ How _dare_ you bring that
name up here, Sir? What do you mean by it?
_Charles (surprised)._ Why, you must have heard of it--it's one of the
leading music-halls.
_Mr. T. (gasping)._ A music-hall? the Eldorado! (_To himself._) If it
should turn out to be--but no, my nerves are upset, it _can't_ be--and
yet--what _am_ I to say to him?
[_He falls back into his chair with a groan._
_Mrs. T._ CHARLES, if you can stand there and feel no shame when
you see how disturbed and disgusted even Mr. CURPHEW looks, and the
agitated state to which you have reduced your poor Uncle, you must
indeed be hardened!
[CURPHEW _has considerately walked to the window_; Mr. TOOVEY
_endeavours to collect his faculties_; CHARLES _looks from one to the
other in bewilderment_.