LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1641, 24 May 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

PICKING UP THE PIECES.

A Comedy.

[Blackwoo Vs Magazine.] ( Concluded.)

Mrs M.—Are there muffs in your family ? But don’t interrupt nm. I must have the last word. Anything else I will give up but tbo last word —never la your position you must sway something. If you won t s ay the country, sway the county, sway a vestry, a workhouse, a something, or anything. (.Inly do amnethng. You would be a great deal happier, and—l don’t know why 1 should bo afraid to say—a great deal better, i you won’d only do something.

D, —You forget that 1 am d l ento. Ilm doctor says I an delicate, and that is why a come abroad Ido wish you would c range the subject. It is a delicate subject, you know.

Mrs jM.— Again! You have uu’y one malady—idleness. D.—No, no. no ! All the doctors. Mrs M.—Quacks.

D.—As you ple;se. But I have not the rude health of some strong minded women Mrs M —Nor 1 the rude manners of some weak minded men. But I bsg your pard< n ; I won’t be rude, 1\ Was I rule? I am awfully sorry. I beg your pardon, But lam so tired cf myself,

Mrs M.—Then work —work and be cured. Do something—anything. A stitch in time saves ;.ine, D,—Oh, if you come to proverb*—Look before you loan. Mrs M—Procrastination is the thief of time. D.— More haste less speed. If one does nothin',', at least one does uo harm. Mrs M. • -Nor does a stuffed poodle, D.—Another beast. I have been n. squirrel and an owl. And, after all, I did not come hero to talk about myself nor poodles. Mrs Ai. —Did you como to speak of the weather i) —1 wanted to speak about you, Mrs M.—About me ! Here’s a turning of the tables. D.—May I ? Mrs M. —If you have energy for so lively a topic. D.—May I speak plainly, as an old friend ? Mrs M,—As a month old friend. Speak plainly by all means. I’ve a passion for plain speaking. D.—lt is an uncommonly disagreeable subject, Mrs M. —Thank you, You were going to talk about me. D—l don’t mean that; of course not. It does not matter whether I talk about you or not But there are other people here who talk about yon. Mrs M.—Talk about me ! What do they say? D. —They say things I don’t like; so I thought that I Mrs M.—Thank you, Lord Dawlish; but I can take very good care of myself, D.—Very well. Mrs M —Why should I care what this Anglo-Florentine society say of me ? It doesn’t hurt me; I don’t care what they say of me ;I am entirely indifferent; I.am Oh, do not stand there like a stick, but tell me what these people say about me. D.—lI— It is so awkward for me to tell yon. You know Flitterly ? Mrs M. —Flitterly ! A sparrow ! D.—Oh, he is a sparrow! What is to be done to the sparrow ? Mrs M.~Nothing. He is beneath punishment —beneath contempt, A little chattering, intrusive, cruel —I suppose it would not do for me to horsewhip Flitterly ? D. —lt wouid be bettor for me to do that. I thought of pulling his nose ; it is a little one ; but I might do it with time. I think 1 should enjoy it. Mrs M. —It’s too bad 1 It’s too bad that a woman of my age should not be safe from these wretches—from the tongues of these malicious chatterers. The cowards to attack a woman ! D,~I was afraid that you would feel it. Mrs M. -I don’t feel it. Why should I ? Why should I feel it ? But, good gracious ! is the man going to stand there all day and never tell me what this—what.that —that — pha! what ho says of me ? D, —I don’c like to tell you. Mrs M.—Do you take me for a fool, Lord Dawlish. D,— No ; a woman. Mrs M —What does he say ? D.-If you will know, you must. Ho says—ho says that you and I are going to be married. Mrs M.—Married ! You and I! Well, at least he might have invented something less preposterous. D.—Preposterous. Mrs M.—Ycu and I! D.—l don’t see anything preposterous in it. Why should not you and Ibe married ? By George, I have made an offer. Mrs M.—Are you mad? You say— D. —Oh, I don’t want to hurry you. Don’t speak in a hurry. Think it over; think it over. Take time. Mrs M. —But do you moan D, —Oh, please don’t hurry. Think it over. Any time will do, Mrs M.—Will it ? D t —l am not clever, nor interesting ; but if you don’t mind me, I will do anything I can. You shall have any sort of society you like - fast or slow; literary or swell, or anything. Of course there would be plenty of money, and jewels, and cooks, and all that. You can have gowns, and check books, and pin money, and— Mrs M. —And find my own washing and beer. Lord Dawlish, are you offering me a situation ? D,—Yes—no—l mean that I Mrs M.—A thousand thanks. The wages are most tempting ; but I have no thought of leaving my present place. D.~I fear that I have been offensive. I beg your pardon. I had better go. Good moiming Mrs Melton. Mrs M. —Good bye, Lady Dawlish. (So he goes out; straightway her mood changes, and she wishes him back agdu.) Mrs M, (sold) —He will never come back. I can’t let him go forever. I can’t afford to lose a friend who makes mo laugh so much. Flitterly may say what he likes—a goose 1 a sparrow I a grasshopper I I shall call him back. (So she calls to him down the stair ; then from the window, and as she caffs from the window he comes in at the door, watches her awhile, then speaks.) D. —Did you call me, Mrs Melton ? Mrs M, —Is the man deaf ! I have been screaming like a peacock, and all for your sake—all because I didn’t want you to go away angry. D.—l tnought it was you who were angry. Mrs M.—No, it was you. D. —Very well. Mrs M. —You must drop the preposterous subject f rever. and we will be good friends, as we were before. Sit down and be friendly. D. —Thank you. That is capital. We will bo as we were before —as we were before. Mrs M.—You are sure you can bear the disappointment ? D. —Oh, yes. We will be friends, aa we were. That is much better, Mrs M. —Lord Dawlish, you are simply delicious! D. —Am I? Thank you. And I may come and sit here sometimes ? Mrs M.—ln spite of Flitterly, D. —Flitterly be Mrs M, —Yea, by all means. (Then he meditates, and after due deliberation speaks.) D.—l should like to ask you something, Mrs Melton—something personal, Mrs M.—Ask what you like, and I will answer if I choose. D.—May I ask as a friend—only as a friend, you know—if you are quite determined never to marry again ? I know that is no business of mine, but I can’t help being curious about you. I don’t think I am curious about anything elso, But you aie such an extraordinary woman. Mrs M.—Extraordinary because I have refused to be Lady Dawlish. It is strange, very. 0, don’t be alarmed, I have refused. But it is strange. I am a woman, and I refused rank and wealth. Wealth means gowns and cooks from Paris, a brougham and a victoria, a stepper, a tiger and a pug ; rank means walking out before oth-T women and the envy of all my sex. lam a woman, and ! refuse these luxuries. You were mad when you offered them. D. —I don’t think that I could be mad. Mrs M.—Not another word upon the subject. I). —But won’t yon satisfy my curiosity ? Mrs M —I never knew you so persistent, D.—I uev. r was befor.-.

Mrs M, —Hnch arilet.t curiosity, such desperate perseverance, deserve to ho reW*r’ied. I have nothing to do for the moment, and there is one luxury which no woman can f rego, the luxury of talking about herself. You needn’t listen if the

effort is too great; I address the chair, or the universe. \ ou will hardly believe it of me, but I cherish a sentiment. There ! Years and years ago (how many, I am woman enough not to specify) X lived with an aunt in Paris ; you hate cousins, I am not in love wits aunts ; however, she was my only relation j there was no choice, and there I lived with her in Paris and was finished ; there was nothing to finish, for I knew nothing. Well, it w«s there, in Paris (I was quite a child) it was there that I one

day met a bny scarcely older than myself. lam in love with him still, Quito idyllic, isn’t it ?

J-)—Very likely. In Paris? Paris, Mrs M.—There never was any one in the world like to him, so brave, so good, so boyish ; be rejoiced in life, certain of pleasure, and purposing noble work. D. (aside) —Cousin John! Cousin John, of course. Confound Cousin John ! Mrs M.—Ho fell in love with me at once, almost before I had fa'lcn in love with him. We were both so absurdly shy, so silly, and so young. I can ace him blush now, and I could blush then. Bub I shall be sentimental in a minute; this is egregious folly. Of course it is folly, and it was folly. Of course it was merely childish fancy, boy and girl sentiment, calf love. Of course a wesk’s absence would put an end to it; and of course I love him still. But forgive me, Lord Dawlish. Why should I bother you with this worn-out, commonplace romance? D. —I like it. It interests me. Go on, if it does nov bore you. It reminds me of something—of something which I had better forget, Mrs M.—Yon shall hear the rest; there isn’t much. He was taken away, and —I suppose forget mo. I came out in Paris, went everywhere, was vastly gay and terribly unhappy. My aunt was youngish and good-looking—in a way; she was dying to be rid of me, and I knew it; and so things were very uncomfortable at home, until—until I married. Oh, I told him the truth, the whole truth ; 1 told him that the love of my life had gone by. lam glad I told him the truth. D. —An American, was he not. Mrs M,—Yes. I was grateful to him and proud of him. He was so good and true. But he made light of my story. He thought, like the rest, that it was a mere girlish fancy; that I should soon forget; that— There, you have my story ! Touching, isn’t it ? 0. —It is most extraordinary. Mrs M.— What is most extraordinary ? D—Your story is like my story. Mrs M.—lt’s everybody’s story. It’s common as the whooping cough, and dull as the mnmps. But, come, give me the details of your case. D.~The details! If I can remember them. Mrs M.—lf you can remember them. Who would be a man ? D.—lt was in Paris— Mrs M.—ln Paris? D.—lt is just like your story. Suppose that we take it as told. Mrs M.—Go on. I must hear it, D,—l was sent to Paris when I was a boy, with a bear leader. There I saw a girl—a little bread and butter miss—and—--1 got fond of her—awfully fond of her. She was the dearest little girl—the best little thing. She was like—like Mrs M.—Go on. What happened ? D.—Nothing. Mrs M. —Nothing! Nonsense! Something always happens. D, —Nothing came of it. They said boy and girl, and calf love, and all that, like the people in your story, and they packed me off to England. Mrs M.—Why did jmu go ? D.-T always was a fool. They said that it would try the strength of her feelings ; that, if we were both of the same mind when I had got my degree, the thing should bo. Mrs M, —And you never wrote ? D,—No. Mrs M.—Nor did he, never one line. D. —They said she wished me not to write, Mrs M —How likely ; These men, these men ! They never know what letters are to women. What was the end? D.—The usual thing. As soon as my degree was all right I made for Paris. She was gone. Mrs M. —My poor friond! She was dead. D,—Married. Mrs M. —Married! How could she be so— D.—lt’s very like your story, ain’t it ? Only in my story the parties were not American, Mrs M.—American ! What do you mean ? I wasn’t an American till I married one, and Tom—--I>.—Then it wasn’t Cousin John 7 Mrs M. —John! No, no, no! Lord Dawlish I Lord Dawlish, what is your family name ? D.—My family name ! What on earth, my dear Mrs Melton— Mrs M.—Quick, Quick! What is it ? D. Why or why Dashleigh, of course. Mrs M.—And are yon Tom Dashleigh ? (As she looks at him the truth dawns on him.) D. —And you are little Kitty Gray. Mrs M. —Oh my bright boy lover, you are lost now indeed. D. —I think I have got a chill, (When they have sat a little while in silence, she jumps up.) Mrs M.—No more sentiment, no more folly I Away with sentiment forever ! The boy and gid lovers are dead long ago, and we old folks, who know the world, may strew flowers on their grave and be gone. Look up, old friend, look up. D. — Yet you are you, and I—l suppose that I am I, Mrs M.—Young fools ! young fools ! why should we pity them, we wise old folks who know the world? Love is but—is but—(And she dashes into music at the piano ; soon her hands begin to fail, and she stoops over them to hide her eyes ; then she jumps up in tears,fand moving knocks over the little jar which was Cousin John’s gift. He would pick it up, but she stops him.). No, no ; let it lie there. D.—Shan’t I pick up the pieces ? Mrs M —Let them lie there. One can never pick up the pieces. D.—Why not? I don’t think I understand. But I can’t bear to see you cry. I thought that you could not cry ; that you were too clever and strong minded to cry. Look here 1 You might have made something of me once, It is too late, Mrs Melton ? Mrs M.—The jar is broken. D.—ls it too late, Kitty ? Mrs M.—Let ua pick up the pieces together.