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.