UNDER THE ROSE.
(A Story in Scenes.)
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.
"How shall I ever tell Cornelia?"
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, Phœbe; 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 Phœbe 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 Athenæum 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.
Phœbe (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, Phœbe, 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. (Phœbe goes.) It's a circular, Mr. Curphew, which was given out in our Church this evening, and may interest you to see.
Phœbe (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, Phœbe—we shall be ready for supper when I ring. (When Phœbe 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.
End of Scene I.
