The 'Mind the Paint' Girl by Arthur Wing Pinero (i am malala young readers edition TXT) 📖

you won’t be angry with me for confiding in her. You see, I—I——

Lily.

At the further side of the table, fingering one of the objects upon it. And she’ll confide in Uncle Lal. Shrugging her shoulders. Oh, but dear old Lal appears to have summed up the situation pretty accurately as it is. With an artificial little laugh. Ha, ha, ha! Well, I’m afraid they’ll be horribly disappointed, poor wretches.

Farncombe.

Blankly. Disap-pointed?

Lily.

Raising her eyes to his and shaking her head at him. You—you silly boy!

Farncombe.

Coming to her quickly. Ah, please—please don’t take that tone with me. I’m no boy. And I’m simply mad about you. If you don’t marry me, I—I—I’m done for.

Lily.

H’sh! Nonsense; not you!

Farncombe.

It’s true. Life’ll be over for me from that moment, if you refuse to marry me.

Lily.

Mockingly. Over!

Farncombe.

Oh, love is all on my side at present, naturally; but, as God hears me, it’ll be no fault of mine if you don’t grow to love me in time.

Lily.

Listen——!

Farncombe.

I’ll worship you—worship you. I do worship you!

Lily.

H’sh! Lord Farncombe——

Farncombe.

Eddie! Won’t you?

Lily.

Certainly not.

Farncombe.

Do! Eddie! Eddie!

Lily.

Eddie, then——

Farncombe.

Ah——!

Lily.

Sit down a minute. She goes to the settee and sits there, somewhat ruffled, and he moves to the arm-chair by the centre table and also sits, his elbows on his knees, bending towards her. She pushes her hair back from her brow impatiently, as if vexed with herself. Lord Farncombe—Eddie—for how long have you known me?

Farncombe.

What does it matter? I—I admit——

Lily.

Reckoning our acquaintance from last week—from the afternoon Bertie brought you here, when we scarcely spoke to one another—you haven’t known me for as many days as you can count on your fingers.

Farncombe.

I’ve watched you—watched you in the theatre——

Lily.

On the stage! Ho, ho! Oh, you—but I mustn’t call you silly boy again, must I! And what do you know of me, apart from the glimpse you’ve had of me off the stage, and my being a shining light at the Pandora? What do you know of my—what’s the word?—origin—where and what I’ve sprung from; how I was reared; how much education I’ve received; how much I’ve contrived to pick up of the way to behave in perlite society? You can judge from poor mother, if from nothing else, that I come from humble beginnings. Yes, but how humble you couldn’t dream, making a grimace not after a supper of raw carrots!

Farncombe.

Do you think I care how humble your beginnings were! What I do know—what I am sure about—is that you’re good—and beautiful—and—and—and gifted—and—and— leaning his head on his hands oh, I can’t describe you; you’re—you’re—to me, you’re perfect.

Lily.

After a pause, looking at him with blinking eyelids. You—you dear! He raises his head. She changes her tone instantly. Merci; yes, perfect, pour le moment. Hear my French! Taking the box of cigarettes from the table. Have a cigarette? Don’t get up. She tosses him a cigarette and he catches it. My name’s printed on them—“Lily.” Lighting a cigarette. Isn’t it chic!

Farncombe.

Producing his cigarette case and exchanging her cigarette for one of his own. I’ll never smoke that.

Lily.

Pushing the match-stand towards him. Stoopid! Now, attend to me. What do you say to a tiny provision shop in Kennington, over the water?

Farncombe.

Was that——?

Lily.

Nodding. H’m; that was my start in the world. Father kept a small shop in Kennington—Gladwin Street, near the Oval. We sold groceries, and butter and eggs and cheese, and pickled-pork and paraffin. I was born there—on the second floor; and in Gladwin Street I lived till I was fourteen. Then father smashed, through the Stores cutting into our little trade. Well, hardly smashed; that’s too imposing. The business just faded, and one morning we didn’t bother to take the shutters down. Then, after a while, father got a starvation berth—eighteen shillings a week!—at a wholesale bacon warehouse—Price and Moseley’s—still over the water; and I earned an extra five at a place in the Westminster Bridge Road, for pasting the gilt edges on to passe-partouts from nine a.m. till six in the evening.

Farncombe.

His head bowed again. Great heavens!

Lily.

Not a syllable against the passe-partouts! They were the making of me. It was the passe-partouts that brought me and Tedder together.

Farncombe.

Who?

Lily.

Tedder. In the house where I worked, a man of the name of Tedder—Ambrose Tedder—taught dancing—stage dancing—“Tedder’s Academy of Saltatory Art”—and every time I passed Tedder’s door, and heard his violin or piano, and the sound of the pupils’ feet, I—! Breaking off and throwing herself back. Oh, lor’, if once I——!

Farncombe.

Go on; go on.

Lily.

Well, ultimately Tedder took me and trained me—did it for nix—for what he hoped to get out of me in the future. Ah, and he hasn’t lost over me—poor old Ambrose! He collared a third of my salary for ever so long; and now that the old chap’s rheumaticky and worn out, I—oh, it’s not worth mentioning. Jumping up and walking away. My stars, he could teach, could Tedder! I began by going to him for the last twenty minutes of my dinner-hour. He wanted to stop that, because it was bad for me, he said, to practise on a full—a full—! Ha, ha, ha! On a full—! Behind the table, resting her two hands upon it and shaking with laughter. Ho, ho, ho! As if I ever had—in those days——!

Farncombe.

Writhing. Ah, don’t—don’t——!

Lily.

Brushing the tears from her eyes. I was a pupil of Tedder’s for twelve months, and then he got me on at the Canterbury; and from the Canterbury I went to Gatti’s, and from Gatti’s to the Lane, for a few lines in the pantomime and an understudy—my first appearance in the West End— singing “Oh, the West End is the best end!”—and from there I went to the old Strand, and there Morrie Cooling spotted me, and that led to me being engaged at the Pandora, where I ate my heart out, doing next to nothing, for two whole years. Then came the production of The Duchess of Brixton, and it was in The Duchess—thanks to Vincent Bland—that I sang the “Mind the Paint” song. He believed in me, did Vincent; he saw I was fit for something more than just prancing about, and airing my ankles, in a gay frock. By Jupiter, how he fought for me; how he fought for me, up to the final rehearsal! And to this day, whenever I indulge in a prayer, you bet Vincent Bland has a paragraph all to himself in it! Checking herself and coming to Farncombe. Oh, but—I needn’t inflict quite so much of my biography on you, need I? He rises. Sorry. I merely wanted to tell you enough to show you—to show you——

Farncombe.

Close to her, gazing into her eyes. To show me what a—what a marvel you are!

Lily.

Pleased. Ha, ha! Oh, I’m not chucking mud at myself really. Why should I! Many a woman ’ud feel as vain as a peacock in my shoes. Fancy! From the shop in Gladwin Street to— with a gesture to this! And from Tedder’s stuffy room in the Westminster Bridge Road to the stage of the Pandora, as principal girl!

Farncombe.

Tenderly. Wonderful!

Lily.

Carried away by her narration and putting her hands upon his shoulders familiarly. Yes, and all the schooling I’ve ever had, Eddie, was at a cheap, frowsy day-school in Kennington, with a tribe of other common, skinny-legged brats. Imagine it!

Farncombe.

Taking her hands. I can’t imagine it; I defy anybody to.

Lily.

Unthinkingly allowing him to retain her hands. Everything I’ve learned since—except my music, and that I owe to Tedder and Vincent—everything I’ve learned since, I’ve learned by sheer cuteness, from novels, the papers, the theatres, and by keeping my ears open like a cunning little parrot. Softly. Ha, ha! That’s what I am—a cunning little parrot!

Farncombe.

Laughing with her. Ha, ha!

Lily.

Tossing her head. Ho, I dare say, if I had the opportunity, I could imitate the fine lydies you mix with, so that in less than six months you’d hardly know the difference between them and me!

Farncombe.

Holding her hands to his breast. There is no difference already; there is none.

Lily.

Isn’t there! Almost nestling up to him. Ah, you should see me in one of my vile tempers. Wistfully. Then—then you wouldn’t—! Becoming conscious of her proximity to him, she backs away and stands rubbing the palms of her hands together in embarrassment. Anyhow—anyhow it isn’t my intention to give you a chance of comparing us.

Farncombe.

Under his breath. Oh—Miss Parradell——!

Lily.

Collecting herself. No, I—I’m not going to let you make a fool of yourself over me, if I can help it.

Farncombe.

Fool——!

Lily.

Facing him and speaking quietly but firmly. Recollect, however shrewd and apt I may be, and however straight I’ve managed to keep myself, still—I’m only a Pandora girl, and should always be remembered as one by your chums and belongings. Only a Pandora girl. Nothing can alter that, dear boy; and you mustn’t—you mustn’t handicap yourself by hanging me round your neck.

Farncombe.

Heavily. I—I shouldn’t be the first of my sort to marry a “Pandora girl,” not by half a dozen or more.

Lily.

No, but—without wishing to flatter you—I don’t quite put you on a level with Robbie Kinterton, and Glenroy, and Georgie Fawcus, and—that crew. Cheerfully. And so I mean to take care of you—to take care of you for your own sake and for your mammy’s and daddy’s. She turns from him and fetches his hat and coat and gives them to him. He receives them from her with a dazed look. Time’s up. After a silence during which neither stirs. Never mind. You’ll survive it. Another pause. Come along.

She passes him, to go to the door on the left. As she does so he flings his hat and coat on to the settee, and clasps her in his arms.

Farncombe.

Lily—Lily——!

Lily.

Ah, that’s not fair!

Farncombe.

Don’t—don’t send me away like this!

Lily.

Her hand against his breast. It isn’t fair of you!

Farncombe.

Say you’ll take time to consider. 

Lily.

I hate you for it!

Farncombe.

Ask Roper’s advice—your mother’s——!

Lily.

I’ve trusted you!

Farncombe.

Ask Miss Birch——!

Lily.

Eddie! Lord Farncombe——! He releases her and they confront one another, she panting, he hanging his head guiltily. W-w-well, I—I have been mistaken in you.

Farncombe.

In despair. I—I—— Turning from her and hitting his temples with his fists. Forgive me. Forgive me.

Lily.

Ha! I—I thought you were such a quiet, bashful fellow.

Farncombe.

Forgive me. Forgive me.

She wavers and then slowly approaches him.

Lily.

Gently. Don’t—don’t fret about it. I forgive you. Touching his arm with her finger-tips. I’m to blame. Drawing a deep breath. All those dances——!

He seizes her hand and kisses it passionately.

Farncombe.

I may see you again? I may see you again? Lily—Lily—! Lily——!

Lily.

In a whisper, averting her head. N-no—we’d better not—— There is a low but distinct knocking at the door on the left. She withdraws her hand and they look at each other, he inquiringly, she with a calm face. The knocking is repeated. Mother. She goes to the door and speaks with her mouth close to it. That you, mother? She listens for a reply and again the knocking is heard. Who is it? She opens the door. Jeyes is outside. Nicko! Jeyes comes into the room. He has rid himself of his wig and beard and is wearing an overcoat buttoned up to