I don't know what I should do if she sent me about my business. I'd rather continue in this awful uncertainty than lose all hope for ever.
By George. You're pretty far gone, my son. The lover who's diffident is in a much worse way than the lover who protests.
[With a little laugh.] I must say it amuses me that Lady Frederick should have had both my brother and my son dangling at her skirts. Your respective passions are separated by quite a number of years.
Lady Frederick has already told me of that incident.
With the usual indiscretion of her sex.
It appears that she was very unhappy and you, with questionable taste, made love to her.
Do your best not to preach at me, dear boy. It reminds me of your lamented father.
And at last she promised to go away with you. You were to meet at Waterloo Station.
Such a draughty place for an assignation.
Your train was to start at nine, and you were going to take the boat over to the Channel Isles.
Lady Frederick has a very remarkable memory. I remember hoping the sea wouldn't be rough.
And just as the train was starting her eye fell on the clock. At that moment her child was coming down to breakfast and would ask for her. Before you could stop her she'd jumped out of the carriage. The train was moving, and you couldn't get out, so you were taken on to Weymouth – alone.
You must have felt a quite egregious ass, Paradine.
I did, but you need not rub it in.
Doesn't it occur to you, Charlie, that a woman who loves so easily can't be very worthy of your affection?
But, my dear mother, d'you think she cared for my uncle?
What the dickens d'you mean?
D'you suppose if she loved you she would have hesitated to come? D'you know her so little as that? She thought of her child only because she was quite indifferent to you.
[Crossly.] You know nothing about it, and you're an impertinent young jackanapes.
My dear Paradine, what can it matter if Lady Frederick was in love with you or not?
[Calming down.] Of course it doesn't matter a bit.
I have no doubt you mistook wounded vanity for a broken heart.
[Acidly.] My dear, you sometimes say things which explain to me why my brother-in-law so frequently abandoned his own fireside for the platform of Exeter Hall.
It may also interest you to learn that I am perfectly aware of Lady Frederick's financial difficulties. I know she has two bills falling due to-morrow.
She's a very clever woman.
I've implored her to let me lend her the money, and she absolutely refuses. You see, she's kept nothing from me at all.
My dear Charlie, it's a very old dodge to confess what doesn't matter in order to conceal what does.
What do you mean, mother?
Lady Frederick has told you nothing of the Bellingham affair?
Why should she?
It is surely expedient you should know that the woman you have some idea of marrying escaped the divorce court only by the skin of her teeth.
I don't believe that, mother.
Remember that you're talking to your respected parent, my boy.
I'm sorry that my mother should utter base and contemptible libels on – my greatest friend.
You may be quite sure that I say nothing which I can't prove.
I won't listen to anything against Lady Frederick.
But you must.
Are you quite indifferent to the great pain you cause me?
I can't allow you to marry a woman who's hopelessly immoral.
Mother, how dare you say that?
This isn't the sort of thing I much like, but hadn't you better hear the worst at once?
Very well. But if my mother insists on saying things, she must say them in Lady Frederick's presence.
That I'm quite willing to do.
Good.
[He rings the bell. A servant enters.
You'd better take care, Maudie. Lady Frederick's a dangerous woman to play the fool with.
[To the servant.] Go to Lady Frederick Berolles and say Lord Mereston is extremely sorry to trouble her ladyship, but would be very much obliged if she'd come to the drawing-room for two minutes.
Very well, my lord.
[Exit.
What are you going to do, Maud?
I knew there was a letter in existence in Lady Frederick's handwriting which proved all I've said about her. I've moved heaven and earth to get hold of it, and it came this morning.
Don't be such a fool. You're not going to use that?
I am indeed.
Your blood be upon your own head. Unless I'm vastly mistaken you'll suffer the greatest humiliation that you can imagine.
That's absurd. I have nothing to fear.
I'm so sorry to disturb you. I hope you don't mind?
Not at all. I knew you wouldn't have sent for me in that fashion without good cause.
I'm afraid you'll think me dreadfully impertinent.
Really you need not apologise so much, Charlie.
My mother has something to say against you, and I think it right that she should say it in your presence.
That's very nice of you, Charlie – though I confess I prefer people to say horrid things of me only behind my back. Especially if they're true.
Look here, I think all this is rather nonsense. We've most of us got something in our past history that we don't want raked up, and we'd all better let bygones be bygones.
I'm waiting, Lady Mereston.
It's merely that I thought my son should know that Lady Frederick had been the mistress of Roger Bellingham. [Lady Frederick turns quickly and looks at her; then bursts into a peal of laughter. Lady Mereston springs up angrily and hands her a letter.] Is this in your handwriting?
[Not at all disconcerted.] Dear me, how did you get hold of this?
You see that I have ample proof, Lady Frederick.
[Handing the letter to Mereston.] Would you like to read it? You know my writing well enough to be able to answer Lady Mereston's question.
[He reads it through and looks at her in dismay.
Good God!.. What does it mean?
Pray read it aloud.
I can't.
Then give it to me. [She takes it from him.] It's addressed to my brother-in-law, Peter Berolles. The Kate to whom it refers was his wife. [Reads.] Dear Peter: I'm sorry you should have had a row with Kate about Roger Bellingham. You are quite wrong in all you thought. There is absolutely nothing between them. I don't know where Kate was on Tuesday night, but certainly she was not within a hundred miles of Roger. This I know because…
[Interrupting.] For God's sake don't go on.
[Lady Frederick looks at him and shrugs her shoulders.
It's signed Elizabeth Berolles. And there's a postscript: You may make what use of this letter you like.
What does it mean? What does it mean?
Surely it's very clear? You can't want a more explicit confession of guilt.
I tried to make it as explicit as possible.
Won't you say something? I'm sure there must be some explanation.
I don't know how you got hold of this letter, Lady Mereston. I agree with you, it is compromising. But Kate and Peter are dead now, and there's nothing to prevent me from telling the truth.
[Paradine Fouldes takes a step forward and watches her.
My sister-in-law was a meek and mild little person, as demure as you can imagine, and no one would have suspected her for a moment of kicking over the traces. Well, one morning she came to me in floods of tears and confessed that she and Roger Bellingham [with a shrug] had been foolish. Her husband suspected that something was wrong and had kicked up a row.
[Drily.] There are men who will make a scene on the smallest provocation.
To shield herself she told the first lie that came into her head. She said to Peter that Roger Bellingham was my lover – and she threw herself on my mercy. She was a poor, weak little creature, and if there'd been a scandal she'd have gone to the dogs altogether. It had only been a momentary infatuation for Roger, and the scare had cured her. At the bottom of her heart she loved her husband still. I was desperately unhappy, and I didn't care much what became of me. She promised to turn over a new leaf and all that sort of thing. I thought I'd better give her another chance of going straight. I did what she wanted. I wrote that letter taking all the blame on myself, and Kate lived happily with her husband till she died.
It was just like you.
But Lord and Lady Peter are dead?
Yes.
And Roger Bellingham?
He's dead too.
Then how can you prove your account of this affair?
I can't.
And does this convince you, Charlie?
Of course.
[Impatiently.] Good heavens, the boy's out of his senses. Paradine, for Heaven's sake say something.
Well, much as it may displease you, my dear, I'm afraid I agree with Charlie.
You don't mean to say you believe this cock-and-bull story?
I do.
Why?
Well, you see, Lady Frederick's a very clever woman. She would never have invented such an utterly improbable tale, which can't possibly be proved. If she'd been guilty, she'd have had ready at least a dozen proofs of her innocence.
But that's absurd.
Besides, I've known Lady Frederick a long time, and she has at least a thousand faults.
[With flashing eyes.] Thanks.
But there's something I will say for her. She's not a liar. If she tells me a thing, I don't hesitate for a moment to believe it.
It's not a matter of the smallest importance if any of you believe me or not. Be so good as to ring, Charlie.
Certainly.
[He rings, and a Servant immediately comes in.
Tell my servant that he's to come here at once and bring the despatch-box which is in my dressing-room.
Yes, miladi.
[Exit.
[Quickly.] I say, what are you going to do?
That is absolutely no business of yours.
Be a brick, Betsy, and don't give her those letters.
I think I've had enough of this business. I'm proposing to finish with it.
Temper, temper.
[Stamping her foot.] Don't say temper to me, Paradine.
[She walks up and down angrily. Paradine sits at the piano and with one finger strums "Rule Britannia."
Shut up.
[He takes a book, flings it at his head and misses.
Good shot, sir.
I often wonder how you got your reputation for wit, Paradine.
By making a point of laughing heartily at other people's jokes.
[The Footman enters with the despatch-box, which Lady Frederick opens. She takes a bundle of letters from it.
Betsy, Betsy, for heaven's sake don't! Have mercy.
Was mercy shown to me? Albert!
Yes, miladi.
You'll go to the proprietor of the hotel and tell him that I propose to leave Monte Carlo to-morrow.
[Aghast.] Are you going?
Very well, my lady.
Have you a good memory for faces?
Yes, my lady.
You're not likely to forget Lord Mereston?
No, my lady.
Then please take note that if his lordship calls upon me in London I'm not at home.
Lady Frederick!
[To Footman.] Go.
[Exit Footman.
What d'you mean? What have I done?
[Without answering Lady Frederick takes the letters. Paradine is watching her anxiously. She goes up to the stove and throws them in one by one.
What on earth is she doing?
I have some letters here which would ruin the happiness of a very worthless woman I know. I'm burning them so that I may never have the temptation to use them.
I never saw anything so melodramatic.
Hold your tongue, Paradine. [Turning to Mereston.] My dear Charlie, I came to Monte Carlo to be amused. Your mother has persecuted me incessantly. Your uncle – is too well-bred to talk to his servants as he has talked to me. I've been pestered in one way and another, and insulted till my blood boiled, because apparently they're afraid you may want to marry me. I'm sick and tired of it. I'm not used to treatment of this sort; my patience is quite exhausted. And since you are the cause of the whole thing I have an obvious remedy. I would much rather not have anything more to do with you. If we meet one another in the street you need not trouble to look my way because I shall cut you dead.
[In an undertone.] Thank God for that.
Mother, mother. [To Lady Frederick.] I'm awfully sorry. I feel that you have a right to be angry. For all that you've suffered I beg your pardon most humbly. My mother has said and done things which I regret to say are quite unjustifiable.
Charlie!
On her behalf and on mine I apologise with all my heart.
[Smiling.] Don't take it too seriously. It really doesn't matter. But I think it's far wiser that we shouldn't see one another again.
But I can't live without you.
[With a gasp.] Ah!
Don't you know that my whole happiness is wrapped up in you? I love you with all my heart and soul. I can never love any one but you.
[To Lady Mereston.] Now you've done it. You've done it very neatly.
Don't think me a presumptuous fool. I've been wanting to say this ever since I knew you, but I haven't dared. You're brilliant and charming and fascinating, but I have nothing whatever to offer you.
[Gently.] My dear Charlie.
But if you can overlook my faults, I daresay you could make something of me. Won't you marry me? I should look upon it as a great honour, and I would love you always to the end of my life. I'd try to be worthy of my great happiness and you.
You're very much too modest, Charlie. I'm enormously flattered and grateful. You must give me time to think it over.
Time?
But I can't wait. Don't you see how I love you? You'll never meet any one who'll care for you as I do.
I think you can wait a little. Come and see me to-morrow morning at ten, and I'll give you an answer.
Very well, if I must.
[Smiling.] I'm afraid so.
[To Lady Frederick.] I wonder what the deuce your little game is now.
[She smiles triumphantly and gives him a deep, ironical curtsey.
Sir, your much obliged and very obedient, humble servant.
Бесплатно
Установите приложение, чтобы читать эту книгу бесплатно
О проекте
О подписке
Другие проекты