The Tyranny of Tears Part 9

Parbury.

[As they go out to the garden.] I angry with you! Nonsense. [He pats her hand.] Poor little woman! Poor little woman!

[Exit Mr. and Mrs. Parbury.

Gunning.

[Crossing to R.C. top of the table.] Are you not coming, Miss Woodward?

Miss Woodward.

No, thank you. I have some work to do.

Gunning.

But you seem to me to be always working.

Miss Woodward.

I needn't, you know. I do it because I like it.

Gunning.

What are you doing now?

Miss Woodward.

Correcting proof sheets of a new novel. It will save Mr. Parbury the trouble of doing it to-morrow.

Gunning.

I wanted you to talk to me.

Miss Woodward.

What about?

Gunning.

Yourself.

Miss Woodward.

I'm not interesting.

Gunning.

On the contrary.

Miss Woodward.

What do you wish to know?

Gunning.

All about you. May I?

Miss Woodward.

Will you go away and leave me to work if I tell you?

Gunning.

Yes.

[Comes down by chair R.C.

Miss Woodward.

[Putting down her pen, and resting her cheek on her hand.] I'm the thirteenth daughter of a parson. Why my parents had thirteen daughters, I don't know; but I suppose it was because they are very poor. We were all given the names of flowers-Rose, Lily, Tulip, Mignonette-I can't remember them all-but Hyacinth fell to my lot. Why we were called after flowers, I don't know; but I suppose it was because we are none of us the least like flowers. My eldest sister married my father's curate. I don't know why, but I suppose it was because she came first and is the plainest in the family.

Gunning.

[Laughing.] Yes, well?

Miss Woodward.

[Speaking in an even, emotionless way.] Two other of my sisters run a Kindergarten, and one other is a governess. Personally I would rather be a domestic servant. The others remain at home, help in the house, and await husbands. I fear they will wait in vain, because there are so many women in our part of the country and so few men. For my part I seized an early opportunity of learning shorthand and typewriting-and-well, here I am. Now you know the story of my life.

[She returns to her work.

Gunning.

I'm afraid it was deuced impertinent of me to ask.

Miss Woodward.

Not at all-only eminently man-like.

[Pause. She works, he smokes.

Gunning.

And so you have found your happiness.

Miss Woodward.

Oh no. I've only just started to look for it.

Gunning.

Oh ho! Ambitious!

Miss Woodward.

Very. Have you ever been poor?

Gunning.

Yes, at one time-had to p.a.w.n things.

Miss Woodward.

I mean being one of fifteen in family-large inferior joints to last for days-hot, cold, hashed, minced, shepherd's pie-[Gunning shudders at this]-too much potatoes-too much boiled rice-too much bread and dripping-too much weak tea-too much polishing up of things not worth polishing up-too much darning on too little material-and for ever giving thanks out of all proportion to the benefits received. I wish some one would write the history of a hat or a frock-I mean a hat or a frock that has marched steadily and sullenly under various guises through an entire family such as ours, from the mother down to the youngest girl. What might be written of the thoughts that had been thought under such a hat, or of the hearts that had felt under such a frock!

Gunning.

Why don't you write the story?

Miss Woodward.

Perhaps some day I shall try. [Returns to her work.] In the meantime you ought to go. You promised, you know. You have nothing more to learn. I don't think in all my life I've talked so much about myself as I have to you, a stranger.

[She keeps her eyes on her work.

Gunning.

You have been engagingly frank. I do hope I shall have another opportunity-- Miss Woodward.

Not at all likely, Mr. Gunning. [Pause.] Goodnight. [Still without looking up.]

[Gunning looks at her, goes up to the window, turns, looks at her again.

Gunning.

[At window.] Good-night, Miss Woodward.

[Exit to garden, R.

[Miss Woodward goes on with her work for a few moments, then drops her face on her hand in her favourite att.i.tude.

Miss Woodward.

[Soliloquising.] Rather than go back, I-well, I know I'd rather die. [She looks over the pages for a moment or two, then yawns slightly; she gathers her pages together and places a paperweight over them.] That will have to do. [She rises, looks off R.] There was actually a man ready to take a sort of languid interest in me. Quite a new experience. [She takes up Parbury's photograph and speaks to it.] You don't take an interest in me of any kind, do you? [To the photograph.] You never will, and I don't think I want you to. But I do want to stay near you, because you are so strong- Enter Mrs. Parbury from garden carrying the Colonel's coffee cup and saucer.

-and so weak, and so kind, and so foolish.

[Mrs. Parbury has come down and is watching her un.o.bserved. Miss Woodward slowly raises the photograph to her lips. The cup and saucer drop from Mrs. Parbury's hand to the floor and are broken. Miss Woodward, much startled, slowly turns towards Mrs. Parbury, and their eyes meet. There is a pause. Suddenly, with a quick movement, Mrs. Parbury s.n.a.t.c.hes the photograph from Miss Woodward.

Mrs. Parbury.

How dare you! How dare you! [Long pause. She is almost breathless. Then she partly regains self-control.] What train do you intend taking?

Miss Woodward.

[R.C.] I don't understand you.

Mrs. Parbury.

I mean for your home, of course.

Miss Woodward.

[Moves as if she had received a blow, and clasps her hands together.] I am not going home.

Mrs. Parbury.

Oh, indeed you are. You don't suppose you can stay here, do you?

Miss Woodward.

Why shouldn't I?

Mrs. Parbury.

How dare you ask that when I have just caught you in the act of kissing my husband's photograph?

Miss Woodward.

That was in a moment of abstraction. I wasn't even thinking of Mr. Parbury.

Mrs. Parbury.

Oh! And you are the daughter of a clergyman! [She goes up and fetches the A.B.C. from bookcase, and offers it to Miss Woodward.] Here is the A.B.C.

Miss Woodward.

[Turning away.] I have no use for it just now, thank you.

Mrs. Parbury.

Then I'll look you out an early morning train myself. [Sits L.] Let me see-[turning over leaves]-Carfields, Worcestershire, isn't it? Here it is. 7.20. I suppose that's too early. 9.35; that will do. Please understand you are to take the 9.35 from Paddington in the morning.

Miss Woodward.

[Firmly.] I shall do nothing of the kind.

Mrs. Parbury.