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

necklace. This is my reward for layin’ awake ’alf the night, is it, an’ for thinkin’ of you, an’ wonderin’ about you! Ungrateful little puss, you! Going towards the door. After this, you can keep your affairs to yourself for as long as ever you choose. Don’t you expect me——!

Lily.

Suddenly, sitting upon the settee. Mother——!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Sharply. Yes?

Lily.

Her hand to her brow. Oh, mother——!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Hurrying to Lily. Wot is it?

Lily.

Swaying. At last—at last——!

Mrs. Upjohn.

At last——?

Lily.

Clinging to Mrs. Upjohn. I’m in love, mother—I’m in love—in love—in love——!

END OF THE THIRD ACT.

THE FOURTH ACT

The scene is the same as in the preceding act, but the light outside is brighter and warmer and in the room is more diffused. On the table in the centre, placed close to the settee, there is a small tray with a breakfast of tea and toast upon it. The bedroom door is partly open.

Lily, wan and red-eyed, is lying, propped up by cushions, upon the settee. A newspaper is on her lap but she is gazing at vacancy. She is in négligé. A dainty morning-robe covers her night-gown, her bare feet are in slippers, and her hair is in a simple knot. Maud is at one of the drawers of the cupboard at the back, engaged in selecting some articles of lingerie, and Mrs. Upjohn, completely dressed for the day, is sitting in the arm-chair by the centre table, her face hidden by a newspaper which she is reading. Presently Maud shuts the drawer and, carrying the lingerie, comes forward.

Maud.

To Lily. What frock’ll you put on?

Lily.

Starting slightly. Eh?

Maud.

One of your embroidered muslins, or your Ninon?

Lily.

Languidly. Either; I don’t care.

Maud.

Oh, gracious, what on earth is the matter with you this morning! I’ve never known you as queer as this after any hop you’ve been to in my time. To Mrs. Upjohn, who has lowered her paper. Nothing wrong, is there?

Lily.

Turning over and burying her head in the cushions. Maud.

Maud.

Moving to the settee and bending over Lily. Here I am, lovey.

Lily.

In a muffled voice. Go into the next room and shut the door, and don’t let me see your stupid, fat face till I come to you.

Maud.

Laughing heartily. Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho! That’s better. Going to the bedroom door. That’s how I like to hear her talk. We needn’t send for Dr. Gilson yet awhile. Ha, ha, ha!

She disappears into the bedroom and closes the door.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Looking at Lily. Lil.

Lily.

Yes, mother?

Mrs. Upjohn.

’Ave another cup o’ tea, won’t you?

Lily.

No.

Mrs. Upjohn.

’Nother bit o’ toast, then?

Lily.

No.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Smoke a cigarette.

Lily.

No.

Mrs. Upjohn.

You always do ’ave a w’iff after your breakfast. Come!

Lily.

No.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Rising and walking away. Oh, dear; oh, dear! Deuce take Carlton Smythe an’ ’is supper party—those are my sentiments; an’ Lal Roper, busybody that ’e is! Things were goin’ on with us as smooth an’ peaceful as could be, before this upset.

Lily.

Raising herself, angrily. You were in it, mother; you’re as much to blame as anybody.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Halting. ’Ow in it?

Lily.

In Uncle Lal’s artful plan to prevent Nicko from being invited. You’ve confessed you were.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Lal twisted me round ’is little finger. I was clay in the porter’s ’and, as your dad was fond of sayin’.

Lily.

Changing her position. If only Nicko had been there, I shouldn’t have given young Farncombe all those dances, nor wandered about with him in the intervals, nor allowed him to see me home. It all simply wouldn’t, couldn’t have happened. Hitting a cushion. Oh! Sitting up and embracing her knees. Mother——!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Behind the settee. Wot?

Lily.

Knitting her brows. I—I’m so surprised at myself.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Surprised?

Lily.

So—so disappointed with myself.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Why, you ’aven’t done anything that—that’s not quite respectable, Lil. On the cont’ry——

Lily.

No, I haven’t done anything that’s actually not nice, but—fancy!——

Mrs. Upjohn.

Close to Lily. Fancy——?

Lily.

Opening her eyes widely. Fancy my letting myself go with young Farncombe as I did! He—he’d been admiring me from a distance for weeks and weeks, but I’d scarcely noticed him till last night! Leaning her head against Mrs. Upjohn, softly. I—I always thought I was such a cold girl, mother, in—in that way.

Mrs. Upjohn.

I s’pose it was wot’s called love at first sight, Lil.

Lily.

Laughing shamefacedly. Ha, ha, ha! Putting her feet to the ground and shielding her face with her hands. Oh, don’t talk rot, mother.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Moving away. Any’ow, it’s not too late, Lil—even now——

Lily.

Not too late——?

Mrs. Upjohn.

Behind the centre table. To back out, dearie. The Captain couldn’t possibly ’old you to a ’asty promise given ’im between four an’ five in the mornin’.

Lily.

Oh! Oh, how can you! I’ve passed my word to Nicko and I wouldn’t break it for twenty thousand pounds. Looking up. Mother——!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Fussing with the things upon the table. Yes?

Lily.

Resolutely. I’m going to pull Nicko up, mother. I’ve dragged him down, and I mean to raise him. Clenching her hands. So help me God, I do!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Well, you’ve got a tough job before you, Lil, in my opinion.

Lily.

Perhaps; but I mean to succeed. After a pause. Besides——

Mrs. Upjohn.

Besides——?

Lily.

Slowly. I’ve told you—Nicko or no Nicko—I’m determined—I’m determined not to draw Eddie Farncombe into my net.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Into your net? Another pause. Lil——

Lily.

Eh?

Mrs. Upjohn.

That’s twice you’ve made use o’ that remark. ’Oo’s accused you——? There is a lively rat-tat at the door on the left. Come in!

The door opens and Jimmie Birch bounces into the room.

Jimmie.

As she closes the door. Ah, Ma! Ah, Lillums!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Good mornin’.

Jimmie.

Kissing Mrs. Upjohn. Ha, ha! We’ve met before, this morning, haven’t we! Coming to Lily. Well, dear old girl, and how are you to-day? Kissing Lily and then eyeing her keenly. A wreck?

Lily.

Rather.

Jimmie.

I ought to be, but I’m not. Directly I laid my pretty head on my pillow I went off, and never stirred till I found the breakfast-tray on my chest. Reckoning on her fingers. Five to six—six to seven—seven to eight—eight to nine—nine to ten—ten to eleven. I’ve had six hours; that’s not so dusty. To Lily, slyly. You didn’t sleep very soundly, probably?

Lily.

Not very.

Jimmie.

Smiling from ear to ear. Excited? Lily shrugs her shoulders. There is a silence and then Jimmie, still beaming, looks round and sees that Mrs. Upjohn has seated herself upon the fauteuil-stool. May I sit down for a minute?

Lily.

Of course, Jimmie; do.

Jimmie sits in the arm-chair by the centre table, awaiting some communication which doesn’t come. Mrs. Upjohn drums upon the table with her fingers and Lily busies herself with re-arranging the cushions on the settee.

Jimmie.

After a while. Hope I haven’t dropped in too early?

Lily.

Settling her shoulders into the cushions. Not a bit, dear.

Jimmie.

It’s nearly half-past twelve. I—I dashed round. After another pause, unable to restrain herself further. Any news? Any-any-anything to tell me?

Mrs. Upjohn.

Abruptly. Yes.

Jimmie.

W-w-what——?

Mrs. Upjohn.

Lil’s engaged.

Jimmie.

Hah! Triumphantly. Hah, hah! Clapping her hands and beating her feet upon the floor. Hah, hah, hah, hah! Jumping up and sitting beside Lily and hugging and kissing her. Oh! Oh! Oh! Y’m! Y’m! Y’m! Oh, you humbugs! Rising and rushing at Mrs. Upjohn and embracing her. You solemn humbug, Ma! Leaving Mrs. Upjohn and singing and dancing to the refrain sung in the previous Act. “If you would only, only love me;—” Ha, ha, ha! “If you would merely, merely say,——” Her voice gradually dying away as she sees that the expression on Lily’s face, and upon Mrs. Upjohn’s, doesn’t alter. “Wait but a little— standing still little—for me——”

Mrs. Upjohn.

Caustically. Yes, you ’ad better wait a little; you’d better wait till you ’ear ’oo she’s engaged to.

Jimmie.

Who—to!

Lily.

Studying her nails. Whom to, mother.

Jimmie.

Why, isn’t it——?

Mrs. Upjohn.

No, it ain’t. It’s the Captain.

Jimmie.

T-t-the Cap—! To Lily. N-n-nicko? Lily nods. Jimmie draws a deep breath. Oh-h-h-h!

Lily.

Calmly. Nicko turned up here early this morning—while Eddie—while Lord Farncombe was with me, in fact—and I—we—the three of us—we talked matters over, and—and——

Jimmie.

Her eyes starting out of her head. Was there a row?

Lily.

Oh, don’t be so curious, Jimmie. Poor Nicko has been after me for six years. A girl must play the game, if she’s at all decent and wishes to preserve a shred of self-respect.

Again there is a pause and then Jimmie silently resumes her seat in the arm-chair.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Moistening her lips with her tongue—to Jimmie. ’Ow do you feel about it?

Jimmie.

Thoughtfully. How do I feel about it? To Lily. May I say?

Lily.

Coldly. Certainly.

Jimmie.

Rubbing the arm of her chair with the palm of her hand. Well, if I were on board a ship at this moment, I should be ringing for the stewardess; that’s how I feel about it.

Lily.

Throwing herself, face downward, at full length upon the settee. Oh! Oh, you’re just like the rest of our girls on the question of marriage! You—you—you’re detestable!

Jimmie.

Sliding out of her chair and kneeling at the settee and putting an arm round Lily. Oh, Lil—Lil——!

Lily.

Repulsing her. Yes, you are! Raising herself upon her elbow. You’d rejoice to see me draw this boy into my net, wouldn’t you! You know you would. Mrs. Upjohn rises and comes forward. I dare say you jolly well wouldn’t object to catching him yourself if you’d half a chance! Fiercely. You try it; you try it—you, or any of you!

Jimmie.

Attempting to rise, scandalised. Oh——!

Lily.

Holding her. No, no——! Jimmie——!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Lil, I’m perfec’ly ashamed of you, speakin’ to Jimmie Birch in that manner.

Lily.

Dropping her head on Jimmie’s shoulder. Oh——!

Jimmie.

She doesn’t mean it.

Mrs. Upjohn.

I ’ope not. It ain’t exac’ly pleasant to ’ave a dog in the manger for a daughter. To Lily. Why shouldn’t young Farncombe turn ’is attention to Miss Birch, pray, or to any young lady who doesn’t object to take your leavin’s!

Jimmie.

To Mrs. Upjohn. H’sh, h’sh, h’sh!

Mrs. Upjohn.

Walking about. No, I won’t ’ush!

Jimmie.

To Lily, quietly. I’ll come back in the afternoon.

Mrs. Upjohn.

Lil seems to ’ave got some maggot or other in ’er brain about drawin’ Lord Farncombe into ’er net. Net indeed! Jimmie, not heeding Mrs. Upjohn, arranges Lily comfortably upon the settee and then rises and smoothes out her skirt preparatory to departure. As Lal Roper was sayin’ yesterday, our tiptop, aristocratic English fam’lies ought to be ’xtremely grateful that strong, ’ealthy perfeshunals o’ the class of Miss ’Arker an’ Miss Trevail an’ Miss Shafto are enterin’ their ranks. An’ if Lil chooses to be pig-’eaded enough——! Jimmie makes a movement towards Mrs. Upjohn. ’Ave a bottle o’ ginger beer before you go. There is a prolonged, playful knocking at the door on the left followed, on the part of those in the room, by a gloomy pause. That is Lal.

Lily.

Groaning. Oh-h-h-h!

Jimmie.

Drawing a long face. H’m!

Lily.

To Jimmie. Oh, Jimmie—stay——!

The knocking