The Second Mrs. Tanqueray by Arthur W. Pinero (top 100 novels TXT) 📕

them here. Aubrey Laughing mirthlessly. Ha, ha, ha! They say Orreyed has taken to tippling at dinner. Heavens above! Paula Oh! I’ve no patience with you! You’ll kill me with this life! She selects some flowers from a vase on the table, cuts and arranges them, and fastens them in her bodice. What is my existence, Sunday to Saturday? In the morning, a drive down to the village, with the groom, to give my orders to the tradespeople. At lunch, you and Ellean. In the afternoon, a novel, the newspapers; if fine, another drive⁠—if fine! Tea⁠—you and Ellean. Then two hours of dusk; then dinner⁠—you and Ellean. Then a game of Bésique, you and I, while Ellean reads a religious book in a dull corner. Then a yawn from me, another from you, a sigh from Ellean; three figures suddenly rise⁠—“Good night, good night, good night!” Imitating a kiss. “God bless you!” Ah! Aubrey Yes, yes, Paula⁠—yes, dearest⁠—that’s what it is now. But, by-and-by, if people begin to come round us⁠— Paula Hah! That’s where we’ve made the mistake, my friend Aubrey! Pointing to the window. Do you believe these people will ever come round us? Your former crony, Mrs. Cortelyon? Or the grim old vicar, or that wife of his whose huge nose is positively indecent? Or the Ullathornes, or the Gollans, or Lady William Petres? I know better! And when the young ones gradually take the place of the old, there will still remain the sacred tradition that the dreadful person who lives at the top of the hill is never, under any circumstances, to be called upon! And so we shall go on here, year in and year out, until the sap is run out of our lives, and we’re stale and dry and withered from sheer, solitary respectability. Upon my word, I wonder we didn’t see that we should have been far happier if we’d gone in for the devil-may-care, café-living sort of life in town! After all, I have a set and you might have joined it. It’s true I did want, dearly, dearly, to be a married woman, but where’s the pride in being a married woman among married women who are⁠—married! If⁠—Seeing that Aubrey’s head has sunk into his hands. Aubrey! My dear boy! You’re not⁠—crying? He looks up, with a flushed face. Ellean enters, dressed very simply for walking. She is a low voiced, grave girl of about nineteen, with a face somewhat resembling a Madonna. Towards Paula her manner is cold and distant. Aubrey In an undertone. Ellean! Ellean Good morning, papa. Good morning, Paula. Paula puts her arms round Ellean and kisses her. Ellean makes little response. Paula Good morning. Brightly. We’ve been breakfasting this side of the house, to get the sun. She sits at the piano and rattles at a gay melody. Seeing that Paula’s back is turned to them, Ellean goes to Aubrey and kisses him; he returns the kiss almost furtively. As they separate, the servants re-enter, and proceed to carry out the breakfast-table. Aubrey To Ellean. I guess where you’ve been: there’s some gorse clinging to your frock. Ellean Removing a sprig of gorse from her skirt. Rover and I walked nearly as far as Black Moor. The poor fellow has a thorn in his pad; I am going upstairs for my tweezers. Aubrey Ellean! She returns to him. Paula is a little depressed⁠—out of sorts. She complains that she has no companion. Ellean I am with Paula nearly all the day, papa. Aubrey Ah, but you’re such a little mouse. Paula likes cheerful people about her. Ellean I’m afraid I am naturally rather silent; and it’s so difficult to seem to be what one is not. Aubrey I don’t wish that, Ellean. Ellean I will offer to go down to the village with Paula this morning⁠—shall I? Aubrey Touching her hand gently. Thank you⁠—do. Ellean When I’ve looked after Rover, I’ll come back to her. She goes out; Paula ceases playing, and turns on the music-stool looking at Aubrey. Paula Well, have you and Ellean had your little confidence? Aubrey Confidence? Paula Do you think I couldn’t feel it, like a pain between my shoulders? Aubrey Ellean is coming back in a few minutes to be with you. Bending over her. Paula, Paula dear, is this how you keep your promise? Paula Oh! Rising impatiently and crossing swiftly to the settee, where she sits, moving restlessly. I can’t keep my promise; I am jealous; it won’t be smothered. I see you looking at her, watching her; your voice drops when you speak to her. I know how fond you are of that girl, Aubrey. Aubrey What would you have? I’ve no other home for her. She is my daughter. Paula She is your saint. Saint Ellean! Aubrey You have often told me how good and sweet you think her. Paula Good!⁠—yes! Do you imagine that makes me less jealous? Going to him and clinging to his arm. Aubrey, there are two sorts of affection⁠—the love for a woman you respect, and the love for a woman you⁠—love. She gets the first from you: I never can. Aubrey Hush, hush! you don’t realise what you say. Paula If Ellean cared for me only a little, it would be different. I shouldn’t be jealous then. Why doesn’t she care for me? Aubrey She⁠—she⁠—she will, in time. Paula You can’t say that without stuttering. Aubrey Her disposition seems a little unresponsive; she resembles her mother in many ways; I can see it every day. Paula She’s marble. It’s a shame. There’s not the slightest excuse; for all she knows, I’m as much a saint as she⁠—only married. Dearest, help me to win her over! Aubrey Help you? Paula You can. Teach her that it is her duty to love me; she hangs on to every word you speak. I’m sure, Aubrey, that the love of a nice woman who believed me to be like herself would do me a world of good. You’d get the benefit