A Duet (with an occasional chorus) | Page 4

and all that I
have--but how little it all amounts to! You are a girl in a thousand, in

ten thousand--bright, beautiful, sweet, the dearest lady in all the land.
And I an average man--or perhaps hardly that--with little to boast of in
the past, and vague ambitions for the future. It is a poor bargain for you,
a most miserable bargain. You have still time. Count the cost, and if it
be too great, then draw back even now without fear of one word or
inmost thought of reproach from me. Your whole life is at stake. How
can I hold you to a decision which was taken before you realised what
it meant? Now I shall place the facts before you, and then, come what
may, my conscience will be at rest, and I shall be sure that you are
acting with your eyes open.
You have to compare your life as it is, and as it will be. Your father is
rich, or at least comfortably off, and you have been accustomed all your
life to have whatever you desired. From what I know of your mother's
kindness, I should imagine that no wish of yours has ever remained
ungratified. You have lived well, dressed well, a sweet home, a lovely
garden, your collie, your canary, your maid. Above all, you have never
had anxiety, never had to worry about the morrow. I can see all your
past life so well. In the mornings, your music, your singing, your
gardening, your reading. In the afternoons, your social duties, the visit
and the visitor. In the evening, tennis, a walk, music again, your father's
return from the City, the happy family-circle, with occasionally the
dinner, the dance, and the theatre. And so smoothly on, month after
month, and year after year, your own sweet, kindly, joyous nature, and
your bright face, making every one round you happy, and so reacting
upon your own happiness. Why should you bother about money? That
was your father's business. Why should you trouble about
housekeeping? That was your mother's duty. You lived like the birds
and the flowers, and had no need to take heed for the future. Everything
which life could offer was yours.
And now you must turn to what is in store for you, if you are still
content to face the future with me. Position I have none to offer. What
is the exact position of the wife of the assistant-accountant of the
Co-operative Insurance Office? It is indefinable. What are my
prospects? I may become head-accountant. If Dinton died--and I hope
he won't, for he is an excellent fellow--I should probably get his berth.
Beyond that I have no career. I have some aspirations after literature--a
few critical articles in the monthlies--but I don't suppose they will ever

lead to anything of consequence.
And my income, 400 pounds a year with a commission on business I
introduce. But that amounts to hardly anything. You have 50 pounds.
Our total, then, is certainly under 500 pounds. Have you considered
what it will mean to leave that charming house at St. Albans--the
breakfast-room, the billiard-room, the lawn--and to live in the little 50
pounds a year house at Woking, with its two sitting-rooms and pokey
garden? Have I a right to ask you to do such a thing? And then the
housekeeping, the planning, the arranging, the curtailing, the keeping
up appearances upon a limited income. I have made myself miserable,
because I feel that you are marrying me without a suspicion of the long
weary uphill struggle which lies before you. O Maude, my darling
Maude, I feel that you sacrifice too much for me! If I were a man I
should say to you, 'Forget me--forget it all! Let our relations be a closed
chapter in your life. You can do better. I and my cares come like a great
cloud-bank to keep the sunshine from your young life. You who are so
tender and dainty! How can I bear to see you exposed to the drudgery
and sordid everlasting cares of such a household! I think of your graces,
your pretty little ways, the elegancies of your life, and how charmingly
you carry them off. You are born and bred for just such an atmosphere
as the one which you breathe. And I take advantage of my good-fortune
in winning your love to drag you down, to take the beauty and charm
from your life, to fill it with small and vulgar cares, never-ending and
soul- killing. Selfish beast that I am, why should I allow you to come
down into the stress and worry of life, when I found you so high above
it? And what can I offer you in exchange?' These are the thoughts
which