by Unknown
(For the moment PHOEBE is flattered. Here, she believes, is some one who does not think her too old for the dance. Then she perceives a meaning smile pass between CHARLOTTE and the ENSIGN.)
PHOEBE (paling). Is it that you desire to make sport of me?
BLADES (honestly distressed). Oh no, ma’am, I vow — but I — I am such a quiz, ma’am.
MISS SUSAN. Sister!
PHOEBE. I am sorry, sir, to have to deprive you of some entertainment, but I am not going to the ball.
MISS SUSAN (haughtily). Ensign Blades, I bid you my adieux.
BLADES (ashamed). If I have hurt Miss Phoebe’s feelings I beg to apologise.
MISS SUSAN. If you have hurt them. Oh, sir, how is it possible for any one to be as silly as you seem to be.
BLADES (who cannot find the answer). Charlotte — explain.
(But CHARLOTTE considers that their visit has not been sufficiently esteemed and departs with a cold curtsy, taking him with her.)
(MISS SUSAN turns sympathetically to PHOEBE, but PHOEBE, fighting with her pain, sits down at the spinet and plays at first excitedly a gay tune, then slowly, then comes to a stop with her head bowed. Soon she jumps up courageously, brushes away her distress, gets an algebra book from the desk and sits down to study it. MISS SUSAN is at the window, where ladies and gentlemen are now seen passing in ball attire.)
MISS SUSAN. What book is it, Phoebe?
PHOEBE. It is an algebra.
MISS SUSAN. They are going by to the ball. (In anger.) My Phoebe should be going to the ball, too.
PHOEBE. You jest, Susan. (MISS SUSAN watches her read. PHOEBE has to wipe away a tear; soon she rises and gives way to the emotion she has been suppressing ever since the entrance of VALENTINE.) Susan, I hate him. Oh, Susan, I could hate him if it were not for his poor hand.
MISS SUSAN. My dear.
PHOEBE. He thought I was old, because I am weary, and he should not have forgotten. I am only thirty. Susan, why does thirty seem so much more than twenty-nine? (As if VALENTINE were present.) Oh, sir, how dare you look so pityingly at me? Because I have had to work so hard, — is it a crime when a woman works? Because I have tried to be courageous — have I been courageous, Susan?
MISS SUSAN. God knows you have.
PHOEBE. But it has given me the headache, it has tired my eyes. Alas, Miss Phoebe, all your charm has gone, for you have the headache, and your eyes are tired. He is dancing with Charlotte Parratt now, Susan. ‘I vow, Miss Charlotte, you are selfish and silly, but you are sweet eighteen.’ ‘Oh la, Captain Brown, what a quiz you are.’ That delights him, Susan; see how he waggles his silly head.
MISS SUSAN. Charlotte Parratt is a goose.
PHOEBE. ‘Tis what gentlemen prefer. If there were a sufficient number of geese to go round, Susan, no woman of sense would ever get a husband. ‘Charming Miss Charlotte, you are like a garden; Miss Phoebe was like a garden once, but ‘tis a faded garden now.’
MISS SUSAN. If to be ladylike ——
PHOEBE. Susan, I am tired of being ladylike. I am a young woman still, and to be ladylike is not enough. I wish to be bright and thoughtless and merry. It is every woman’s birthright to be petted and admired; I wish to be petted and admired. Was I born to be confined within these four walls? Are they the world, Susan, or is there anything beyond them? I want to know. My eyes are tired because for ten years they have seen nothing but maps and desks. Ten years! Ten years ago I went to bed a young girl and I woke with this cap on my head. It is not fair. This is not me, Susan, this is some other person, I want to be myself.
MISS SUSAN. Phoebe, Phoebe, you who have always been so patient!
PHOEBE. Oh no, not always. If you only knew how I have rebelled at times, you would turn from me in horror. Susan, I have a picture of myself as I used to be; I sometimes look at it. I sometimes kiss it, and say, ‘Poor girl, they have all forgotten you. But I remember.’
MISS SUSAN. I cannot recall it.
PHOEBE. I keep it locked away in my room. Would you like to see it? I shall bring it down. My room! Oh, Susan, it is there that the Phoebe you think so patient has the hardest fight with herself, for there I have seemed to hear and see the Phoebe of whom this (looking at herself) is but an image in a distorted glass. I have heard her singing as if she thought she was still a girl. I have heard her weeping; perhaps it was only I who was weeping; but she seemed to cry to me, ‘Let me out of this prison, give me back the years you have taken from me. Oh, where are my pretty curls?’ she cried. ‘Where is my youth, my youth.’
(She goes out, leaving MISS SUSAN woeful. Presently SUSAN takes up the algebra book and reads.)
MISS SUSAN. ‘A stroke B multiplied by B stroke C equal AB stroke a little 2; stroke AC add BC. “Poor Phoebe!” Multiply by C stroke A and we get — Poor Phoebe! C a B stroke a little 2 stroke AC little 2 add BC. “Oh, I cannot believe it!” Stroke a little 2 again, add AB little 2 add a little 2C stroke a BC.’ ...
(PATTY comes in with the lamp.)
PATTY. Hurting your poor eyes reading without a lamp. Think shame, Miss Susan.
MISS SUSAN (with spirit). Patty, I will not be dictated to. (PATTY looks out at window.) Draw the curtains at once. I cannot allow you to stand gazing at the foolish creatures who crowd to a ball.
PATTY (closing curtains). I am not gazing at them, ma’am; I am gazing at my sweetheart.
MISS SUSAN. Your sweetheart? (Softly.) I did not know you had one.
PATTY. Nor have I, ma’am, as yet. But I looks out, and thinks I to myself, at any moment he may turn the corner. I ha’ been looking out at windows waiting for him to oblige by turning the corner this fifteen years.
MISS SUSAN. Fifteen years, and still you are hopeful?
PATTY. There is not a more hopeful woman in all the king’s dominions.
MISS SUSAN. You who are so much older than Miss Phoebe.
PATTY. Yes, ma’am, I ha’ the advantage of her by ten years.
MISS SUSAN. It would be idle to pretend that you are specially comely.
PATTY. That may be, but my face is my own, and the more I see it in the glass the more it pleases me. I never look at it but I say to myself, ‘Who is to be the lucky man?’
MISS SUSAN. ‘Tis wonderful.
PATTY. This will be a great year for females, ma’am. Think how many of the men that marched away strutting to the wars have come back limping. Who is to take off their wooden legs of an evening, Miss Susan? You, ma’am, or me?
MISS SUSAN. Patty!
PATTY (doggedly). Or Miss Phoebe? (With feeling.) The pretty thing that she was, Miss Susan.
MISS SUSAN. Do you remember, Patty? I think there is no other person who remembers unless it be the Misses Willoughby and Miss Henrietta.
PATTY (eagerly). Give her a chance, ma’am, and take her to the balls. There be three of them this week, and the last ball will be the best, for ‘tis to be at the barracks, and you will need a carriage to take you there, and there will be the packing of you into it by gallant squires and the unpacking of you out, and other devilries.
MISS SUSAN. Patty!
PATTY. If Miss Phoebe were to dress young again and put candles in her eyes that used to be so bright, and coax back her curls —
(PHOEBE returns, and a great change has come over her. She is young and pretty again. She is wearing the wedding-gown of ACT I., her ringlets are glorious, her figure youthful, her face flushed and animated. PATTY is the first to see her, and is astonished. PHOEBE signs to her to go.)
PHOEBE (when PATTY has gone). Susan. (MISS SUSAN sees and is speechless.) Susan, this is the picture of my old self that I keep locked away in my room, and sometimes take out of its box to look at. This is the girl who kisses herself in the glass and sings and dances with glee until I put her away frightened lest you should hear her.
MISS SUSAN. How marvellous! Oh, Phoebe.
PHOEBE. Perhaps I should not do it, but it is so easy. I have but to put on the old wedding-gown and tumble my curls out of the cap. (Passionately.)
Sister, am I as changed as he says I am?
MISS SUSAN. You almost frighten me.
(The band is heard.)
PHOEBE. The music is calling to us. Susan, I will celebrate Waterloo in a little ball of my own. See, my curls have begun to dance, they are so anxious to dance. One dance, Susan, to Phoebe of the ringlets, and then I will put her away in her box and never look at her again. Ma’am, may I have the honour? Nay, then I shall dance alone. (She dances.) Oh, Susan, I almost wish I were a goose.
(Presently PATTY returns. She gazes at MISS PHOEBE dancing.)
PATTY. Miss Phoebe!
PHOEBE (still dancing). Not Miss Phoebe, Patty. I am not myself tonight, I am — let me see, I am my niece.
PATTY (in a whisper to SUSAN). But Miss Susan, ‘tis Captain Brown.
MISS SUSAN. Oh, stop, Phoebe, stop!
PATTY. Nay, let him see her!
(MISS SUSAN hurries scandalised into the other room as VALENTINE enters.)
VALENTINE. I ventured to come back because —— (PHOEBE turns to him — he stops abruptly, bewildered.) I beg your pardon, madam, I thought it was Miss Susan or Miss Phoebe.
(His mistake surprises her, but she is in a wild mood and curtsies, then turns away and smiles. He stares as if half-convinced.)
PATTY (with an inspiration). ‘Tis my mistresses’ niece, sir; she is on a visit here.
(He is deceived. He bows gallantly, then remembers the object of his visit. He produces a bottle of medicine.)
VALENTINE. Patty, I obtained this at the apothecary’s for Miss Phoebe’s headache. It should be taken at once.
PATTY. Miss Phoebe is lying down, sir.
VALENTINE. Is she asleep?
PATTY (demurely). No, sir, I think she be wide awake.
VALENTINE. It may soothe her.
PHOEBE. Patty, take it to Aunt Phoebe at once.
(PATTY goes out sedately with the medicine.)
VALENTINE (after a little awkwardness, which PHOEBE enjoys). Perhaps I may venture to present myself, Miss — Miss —— ?
PHOEBE. Miss — Livvy, sir.
VALENTINE. I am Captain Brown, Miss Livvy, an old friend of both your aunts.
PHOEBE (curtsying). I have heard them speak of a dashing Mr. Brown. But I think it cannot be the same.
VALENTINE (a little chagrined). Why not, ma’am?
PHOEBE. I ask your pardon, sir.
VALENTINE, I was sure you must be related. Indeed, for a moment the likeness — even the voice ——
PHOEBE (pouting). La, sir, you mean I am like Aunt Phoebe. Every one says so — and indeed ‘tis no compliment.
VALENTINE. ‘Twould have been a compliment once. You must be a daughter of the excellent Mr. James Throssel who used to reside at Great Buckland.
PHOEBE. He is still there.
VALENTINE. A tedious twenty miles from here, as I remember.
PHOEBE. La! I have found the journey a monstrous quick one, sir.
(The band is again heard. She runs to the window to peep between the curtains, and his eyes follow her admiringly.)
VALENTINE (eagerly). Miss Livvy, you go to the ball?
PHOEBE. Alas, sir, I have no card.
VALENTINE. I have two cards for your aunts. As Miss Phoebe has the headache, your Aunt Susan must take you to the ball.
PHOEBE. Oh, oh! (Her feet move to the music.) Sir, I cannot control my feet.
VALENTINE. They are already at the ball, ma’am; you must follow them.
PHOEBE (with all the pent-up mischief of ten years). Oh, sir, do you think some pretty gentleman might be partial to me at the ball?
VALENTINE. If that is your wish ——
PHOEBE. I should love, sir, to inspire frenzy in the breast of the male. (With sudden collapse.) I dare not go — I dare not.
VALENTINE. Miss Livvy, I vow ——
(He turns eagerly to MISS SUSAN, who enters.)
I have ventured, Miss Susan, to introduce myself to your charming niece.
(MISS SUSAN would like to run away again, but the wicked MISS PHOEBE is determined to have her help.)
PHOEBE. Aunt Susan, do not be angry with your Livvy — your Livvy, Aunt Susan. This gentleman says he is the dashing Mr. Brown, he has cards for us for the ball, Auntie. Of course we cannot go — we dare not go. Oh, Auntie, hasten into your bombazine.
MISS SUSAN (staggered). Phoebe ——
PHOEBE. Aunt Phoebe wants me to go. If I say she does you know she does!
MISS SUSAN. But my dear, my dear.
PHOEBE. Oh, Auntie, why do you talk so much. Come, come.
VALENTINE. I shall see to it, Miss Susan, that your niece has a charming ball.
PHOEBE. He means he will find me sweet partners.
VALENTINE. Nay, ma’am, I mean I shall be your partner.
PHOEBE (who is not an angel). Aunt Susan, he still dances!
VALENTINE. Still, ma’am?
PHOEBE. Oh, sir, you are indeed dashing. Nay, sir, please not to scowl, I could not avoid noticing them.
VALENTINE. Noticing what, Miss Livvy?
PHOEBE. The grey hairs, sir.
VALENTINE. I vow, ma’am, there is not one in my head.
PHOEBE. He is such a quiz. I so love a quiz.
VALENTINE. Then, ma’am, I shall do nothing but quiz you at the ball. Miss Susan, I beg you —
MISS SUSAN. Oh, sir, dissuade her.
VALENTINE. Nay, I entreat.
PHOEBE. Auntie!
MISS SUSAN. Think, my dear, think, we dare not.
PHOEBE (shuddering). No, we dare not, I cannot go.
VALENTINE. Indeed, ma’am.
PHOEBE. ‘Tis impossible.
(She really means it, and had not the music here taken an unfair advantage of her it is certain that MISS PHOEBE would never have gone to the ball. In after years she and MISS SUSAN would have talked together of the monstrous evening when she nearly lost her head, but regained it before it could fall off. But suddenly the music swells so alluringly that it is a thousand fingers beckoning her to all the balls she has missed, and in a transport she whirls MISS SUSAN from the blue and white room to the bedchamber where is the bombazine. VALENTINE awaits their return like a conqueror, until MISS LIVVY’S words about his hair return to trouble him. He is stooping, gazing intently into a small mirror, extracting the grey hairs one by one, when PATTY ushers in the sisters WILLOUGHBY and MISS HENRIETTA. MISS HENRIETTA is wearing the new veil, which opens or closes like curtains when she pulls a string. She opens it now to see what he is doing, and the slight sound brings him to his feet.)
MISS HENRIETTA. ‘Tis but the new veil, sir; there is no cause for alarm.
(They have already learned from PATTY, we may be sure, that he is in the house, but they express genteel surprise.)
MISS FANNY. Mary, surely we are addressing the gallant Captain Brown!
VALENTINE. It is the Misses Willoughby and Miss Henrietta. ‘Tis indeed a gratification to renew acquaintance with such elegant and respectable females.
(The greetings are elaborate.)
MISS WILLOUGHBY. You have seen Miss Phoebe, sir?
VALENTINE. I have had the honour. Miss Phoebe, I regret to say, is now lying down with the headache. (The ladies are too delicately minded to exchange glances before a man, but they are privately of opinion that this meeting after ten years with the dazzling BROWN has laid MISS PHOEBE low. They are in a twitter of sympathy with her, and yearning to see MISS SUSAN alone, so that they may draw from her an account of the exciting meeting.) You do not favour the ball tonight?
MISS FANNY. I confess balls are distasteful to me.
MISS HENRIETTA. ‘Twill be a mixed assembly. I am credibly informed that the woollen draper’s daughter has obtained a card.
VALENTINE (gravely). Good God, ma’am, is it possible?
MISS WILLOUGHBY. We shall probably spend the evening here with Miss Susan at the card table.
VALENTINE. But Miss Susan goes with me to the ball, ma’am.
(This is scarcely less e
xciting to them than the overthrow of the Corsican.)
VALENTINE. Nay, I hope there be no impropriety. Miss Livvy will accompany her.
MISS WILLOUGHBY (bewildered). Miss Livvy?
VALENTINE. Their charming niece.