John.
John.
John.
You mean that?
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
If ever I meant anything in my life.
John.
John.
John.
[Referring to the letter.] “I shall plant myself at some quiet spot near your cottage——”
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
Ah, no! never mind the quiet spot near the cottage. Why can’t you have your business interview here?
John.
John.
John.
Here?
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
[In a low voice, her head drooping.] Where we are now, while I—[glancing towards the library]—while I take my place in there?
[There is a pause; he stands looking at her for a moment silently.
John.
John.
John.
And this is how you propose to carry out your undertaking to make amends to Mrs. Fraser?
[He turns away from her.
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
Everything is altered since—since——
John.
John.
John.
Since we were reconciled! reconciled!
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
Since I promised to aid Mrs. Fraser. The arrival of these people—that letter—has undone everything. [Throwing herself upon the settee despairingly.] Oh, they knew well enough where their bird would fly to! [Burying her face in the pillows.] Oh, John, you’ll kill me!
John.
John.
John.
Ha! and so you would like to try Mrs. Fraser twice in one day! And there would be no mistake this time, no doubt whatever! Innocent or Guilty—guilty for choice!
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
No, no, innocent. But I want to be satisfied. Only satisfy me?
John.
John.
John.
Satisfy you! My heavens!
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
Satisfy me! satisfy me!
John.
John.
John.
And what a model judge of this lady you would make, of any woman you are jealous of! How scrupulously fair! how impartial! how——
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
I would be just, John; I would be!
John.
John.
John.
[Savagely taking a cigarette from the box on the table and sticking it between his teeth.] Women of your temperament detect a leer in the smile of a wax doll.
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
I give you my word that I will make every allowancefor you both, if you will let me hear you together. Youareold friends—“chums” was her expression for it in the witness-box to-day—and you are Jack and Theo to each other, naturally; I am prepared for all that kind of thing. She can kiss you good-bye when she parts from you—[beating her brow]—I can comprehend eventhat. Only—only let me be satisfied by her general tone and bearing, by that unmistakable ring in the voice, that she has never been the arrant little profligate I once thought her.
[Johnnow sitting staring at the carpet and chewing the end of his cigarette.
John.
John.
John.
Supposing I—consented, and you were—satisfied——?
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
[Rising and speaking earnestly and rapidly.] We are in June; I would have her to stay with me. My friends, her own friends, should see that we were close companions. She should go everywhere with me; my arm should always be through hers. I would get a crowd together; she should receive my guests with me. Oh, by Goodwood week her reputationshould be as sound as any woman’s in England! Come! think of the dreadful days and nights she’s given me, whether she’s good or bad! Come! wouldn’t that be generous?
John.
John.
John.
[In a low voice.] Look here! you would swear to me you’d never use against her anything that might arise during our meeting—I mean anything that your cursed jealousy could twist into harm?
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
Solemnly. If she proclaimed herself openly in this room to be your—[with a stamp of the foot he rises]—she should go scot-free, for me. If she behaved as an innocent woman, she might walk over me in the future, trample on me; I’d be a slave to her. Only satisfy me!
[He goes to the writing-table, and rapidly scribbles a note. She watches him with eager eyes. When he has finished writing, he takes an envelope, rises, comes toOlive,and holds the note up before her.
John.
John.
John.
“Come to the cottage.—J. A.”
[She inclines her head. He touches the bell-press. Then he encloses the note in the envelope, which he fastens, and hands toOlive.
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
Why?
John.
John.
John.
Take it. [She takes it wonderingly.] I have met your demands so far. Now, if you wish to do a womanly thing, you’ll throw that on the fire. [Quaifeenters;Olivestands staring before her. Speaking in measured tones, keeping his eyes onOlive.] Quaife, the note which Mrs. Allingham will give you is for the messenger.
Quaife.
Quaife.
Quaife.
Yes, sir.
John.
John.
John.
If a lady arrives, ask her to sit down in the card-room; let me know when she comes. I am alone, should the lady make any inquiries.
Quaife.
Quaife.
Quaife.
Very good, sir.
John.
John.
John.
Olive, Quaife is waiting for the note. [There is a pause; thenOliveturns suddenly and handsQuaifethe note. He goes out. There is another pause.] And after this—after this!—you and I! Upon what terms do you imagine you and I will be after this?
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
Oh, if she comes out of it well, I will be so good to her——
John.
John.
John.
[Contemptuously.] Ah——!
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
[Clutching his arm.] I will make you forgive me for it; I will make you! [He releases himself from her, almost roughly, and moves away, turning his back upon her.] Of course, you will not mention to Mrs. Fraser that you and I are in any way—in any way——?
John.
John.
John.
Reconciled! [Sitting on the settee, laughing wildly.] Ha, ha, ha——! [Turning to her.] Why not?
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
Naturally, she wouldn’t open her lips to you at all if you did.
John.
John.
John.
[Waving her away.] Faugh!
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
[Her hand to her brow.] You are—very—polite—[She walks slowly and painfully towards the steps, pausing in her walk, and referring to her watch.] John, when the talk between you and Mrs. Fraser has—gone far enough, I will strike ten on the bell of the little clock in here. You understand?
John.
John.
John.
When you are satisfied!
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
[Beginning to ascend the steps, with the aid of the balustrade.] When I am satisfied.
John.
John.
John.
Olive——! [She stops.] It’s not too late now for us to think better of playing this infernally mean trick upon her.
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
[Steadily, in a low hard voice.] Why, nothing can arise, during this interview, injurious, in the mind of any fair person, to Mrs. Fraser’s reputation?
John.
John.
John.
[Starting to his feet.] Nothing! nothing!
Olive.
Olive.
Olive.
Then I am clearly serving Mrs. Fraser’s interests by what I am doing.
[She disappear into the library. After a brief pause,Johnhastily goes to the dining-room door, and opens it slightly.
John.
John.
John.
Mrs. Cloys! Mrs. Cloys!
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
[From the dining-room.] Yes.
John.
John.
John.
Let me speak to you? [Mrs. Cloysenters; he closes the door sharply, speaking hurriedly and excitedly.] I—I have altered my mind about meeting Mrs. Fraser——
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Altered your mind——?
John.
John.
John.
I have sent a note to her by her messenger asking her to see me here.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mr. Allingham, I protest against this as quite unnecessary.
John.
John.
John.
Pardon me. [ProducingTheophila’sletter, and speaking disjointedly, uneasily.] On—on consideration, it seems to me that—that—for everybody’s sake, I have to satisfy my wife that Mrs. Fraser’s presence is due solely to the most innocent causes.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Allingham has, I take it, arrived at certain conclusions as to the motive of my visit?
John.
John.
John.
She has.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
And now, Theophila following upon our heels——?
John.
John.
John.
It is a most unfortunate accident——
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Eyeing him penetratingly.] Mr. Allingham, you have no doubt whatever of the absolute genuineness of my niece’s excuse for calling upon you?
John.
John.
John.
Oh, Mrs. Cloys——!
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Sitting.] Yes, I admit that I came here to-night to ask you to pledge your word to us that Theo should run no further risk from her—her acquaintanceship with you; to entreat you, if she should be so base, so abandoned——
John.
John.
John.
You mean you thought it possible, probable, that this lady had run away from her husband and friends with the deliberate intention of joining me—me! [Mrs. Cloyscovers her eyes with her handkerchief.] Great Heaven, I suppose thereisno living soul who will believe in an honest friendship between a young man and a young woman!
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
There are certain rules for the conduct of friendship, Mr. Allingham——
John.
John.
John.
[Excitedly.] Rules! The world is getting choked with rules for the conduct of everything and every body! What’s the matter with the world that a woman has to lose her character and paint her face before she is entitled to tell a man her troubles, and hear his in return, across a dying fire, by lamplight, when the streets are still and a few words of sympathy and encouragement stir one like a sudden peal of bells——?
[He stands by the fire, bowing his head upon the mantelpiece.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Looking at him, and speaking in a low voice.] Ah! a dying fire, the lamplight, the still streets——! The world is what it is, Mr. Allingham.
John.
John.
John.
Yes, and it’s a damnable world!
Quaifeenters.
Quaifeenters.
Quaifeenters.
Quaife.
Quaife.
Quaife.
The lady has arrived, sir.
Mrs. Cloysrises.
Mrs. Cloysrises.
Mrs. Cloysrises.
John.
John.
John.
[ToQuaife.] When I ring, show her in here.
Quaifewithdraws.
Quaifewithdraws.
Quaifewithdraws.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Agitatedly.] Mr. Allingham, you will not let Theo slip through my fingers; you won’t let her escape me——? [Looking at him.] Oh, I will trust you so far.
John.
John.
John.
You may. I only ask you to allow me to have my interview with Mrs. Fraser undisturbed.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Ah, if you knew how I hate the idea of this meeting between you two! [Turning sharply.] I’ve a feeling that something evil is going to result from it——!
John.
John.
John.
I can only repeat, you’re wrong in what you think of me—[turning away]—wrong, every one of you.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Coming to him, her manner gradually changing to harshness, almost to violence.] Well, understand me, Mr. Allingham! I’m inclined to—to half-believe in you; you’ve an honest face and air—not that those things count for much; but understand me: if you bring, in any shape or form, further harm to her——!
John.
John.
John.
[Indignantly.] What further harm can I bring to her? You find me here with my wife——!
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Sir, you had a wife round the corner when you were engaged in destroying my niece’s reputation in Lennox Gardens! [Recovering her composure.] But enough of that. [Calmly, amiably.] We do understand one another, do we not?
John.
John.
John.
[Shortly.] Oh, perfectly.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Cloys.
That’s right. [Arranging her bonnet-strings, whichhave become slightly disordered.] Excuse me for breaking out in this fashion. [She goes to the door, he following her. At the door she turns to him with grave dignity.] I’m afraid I’ve impressed you as being rather a tigress.
[She goes out. He closes the door after her and stands staring at the ground for a moment; then he gently turns the key in the lock and carefully draws theportièreacross the door. He is about to put his finger upon the bell-press when he pauses.
John.
John.
John.
[In a low voice.] Olive. Olive. I have not yet rung the bell. Do you stop me? [A pause.] Won’t you stop me?
[He waits; there is no answer; with an angry gesture he rings the bell. After a brief pauseQuaifeenters;Theophilafollows. She is dressed as in the previous Act, but is now thickly veiled.Quaifegives a puzzled look round the room and withdraws.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
[Advancing and speaking in a weak, plaintive voice.]Oh, Jack——! [They shake hands, but in a constrained, rather formal way.] Of course, we could have had our talk very well in the lane; but it’s kind and considerate of you to ask me in.
John.
John.
John.
Oh, not in the least. [Confusedly.] I—er—I—Do sit down.
[She looks at him, expecting him to find her a chair. In the end, after a little uncertainty, she seats herself on the right of the table. In the meantime he ascertains that the door by whichTheophilahas entered is closed.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
[Lifting her veil.] I’m afraid you’re a little angry with me for hunting you up.
John.
John.
John.
Angry? Why should I be angry?
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Well, I suppose itisanother—what d’ye call it?—injudicious act on my part. But it seemed to me, ifI thought about it at all, that we came so badly out of it to-day, that nothing matters much now. At any rate,mycharacter’s gone.
John.
John.
John.
[Advancing a step or two, but avoiding her eye.]
No, no——
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Oh, isn’t it? And yours has gone too, Jack; only a man gets on comfortably without one. [Facing him, her elbows on the table.] Well, what do you think of my news?
John.
John.
John.
[Looking at her, startled.] By Jove, how dreadfully white you are!
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
[With a nod and a smile.] The looks have gone with the character—[putting her hands over her face]—both departed finally.
John.
John.
John.
[Coming a little nearer to her.] Er—when you’ve had a little rest you will see everything in a brighter light——
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
I should have kept my appearance a good many years, being fair and small. [Removing her hands—looking up at him.] You used to tell me I should last pretty till I’m forty-five. Do you remember? [His jaw drops a little, and he stares at her without replying.] Do you remember?
John.
John.
John.
[Moving away.] Oh—er—yes——
[Theophila.
Is there anything wrong with you, Jack?
John.
John.
John.
Wrong—with me? No.
[She shifts to the other side of the table, to be nearer to him. He eyes her askance.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Why don’t you tell me what you think of my news?
John.
John.
John.
Your news?
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
[Impatiently.] You’ve read my letter, Jack. I’m a—what am I?—a single woman again; a sort of widow.
John.
John.
John.
You are acting too hastily; you’re simply carried away by a rush of indignation. Perhaps matters can be arranged, patched up. You mustn’t be allowed to——
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Arranged! patched up! You don’t realise what you’re proposing! You wouldn’t make such a suggestion if you had been a fly on the wall this afternoon while Mr. Fraser and I were—having a little talk. [Struggling to keep back her tears.] Alec—my husband—he was very much in love with me at one time! I never doubted that he would stand by me through thick and thin. He has done so pretty well, up till to-day, up till the trial, and then, suddenly, he—he——
[She produces her handkerchief, rises, then moves away abruptly, and stands, with her back toJohn,crying.
John.
John.
John.
[Turning to the fire.] Mr. Fraser was taken aback, flabbergasted, I expect, by the tone adopted by the judge to-day; there’s that poor excuse for him. But a little reflection will soon——
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
[Drying her eyes.] Oh, don’t prose, Jack! [Turning.] On the whole, I think it’s better that he and I have at last managed to find out where we are.
John.
John.
John.
[Turning to her.] Where you are?
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
You know, there’s always a moment in the lives of a man and woman who are tied to each other when the man has a chance of making the woman really, really, his own property. It’s only a moment; if he let’s the chance slip, it’s gone—it never comes back. I fancy my husband hadhischance to-day. If he had just put his hand on my shoulder this afternoon and said, “You fool, you don’t deserve it, for your stupidity, but I’ll try to save you——”; if he had said something, anything, of that kind to me, I thinkI could have gone down on my knees to him and——[Coming toJohnexcitedly.] But he stared at the carpet, and held on to his head, and moaned out that he must have time, time! Time! Oh, he was my one bit of rock! [Throwing herself into a chair on the right.] If he’d only mercifully stuck to me for a few months—three months—two—for a month——!
John.
John.
John.
[Going to her slowly and deliberately, and standing by her.] Mrs. Fraser. [She looks up at him surprised.] Of course, whatever future is in store for you, nothing—no luck, no happy times—can ever pay you back for the distress of mind you’ve gone through.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Nothing, Jack—Mr. Allingham. [Her hand to her brow.] Oh, nobody knows! Oh, Jack, some nights—some nights—I’ve said my prayers.
John.
John.
John.
I’ve found myself doing that too—in hansoms, or walking along the street.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Praying forme?
John.
John.
John.
[Nervously.] Y-yes.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Oh, don’t make me cry again! Oh, my head! oh, don’t let me cry any more——!
John.
John.
John.
Hush, hush, hush! What I want to say is this. You knew young Goodhew?
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Charley Goodhew—the boy that cheated at baccarat?
John.
John.
John.
He didn’t; he was innocent.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
I’m sure he was, poor fellow.
John.
John.
John.
Well, he told me, one day in Brussels, that he managed to take all the sting out of his punishment by continually reminding himself that it was undeserved,that there wasn’t a shadow of justification for it. I suppose it would be the same with a woman who—who gets into a scrape; an innocent woman?
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
It’s good, under such circumstances, if you can feel a bit of a martyr, you mean?
John.
John.
John.
That’s it. So, in the future, you must never tire of remindingyourselfof the utter harmlessness of those hours we used to spend together in Lennox Gardens.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
They were harmless enough, God knows.
John.
John.
John.
[Earnestly, eagerly.] God knows.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
And they were awfully jolly, too.
John.
John.
John.
[Blankly, his voice dropping.] Jolly——?
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
You know—cosy, comforting.
John.
John.
John.
Yes, yes—comforting. It was the one thing that kept me together during those shocking Pont Street days of mine.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Our friendship?
John.
John.
John.
Our friendship. When I was in the deepest misery, the thought would come to me: “Well, I shall see my little friend to-day or to-morrow.” And then I’d go through our meeting as I supposed it would be—as it always was——
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
“’Ullo, Jack! good morning—or good evening. Oh, my dear boy, you’re in trouble again, I’m afraid!”
John.
John.
John.
“Dreadfully. I shall go mad, I believe—or drink.”
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
“Mad—drink; not you. Sit down and tell me all about it.”
John.
John.
John.
And so on.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
And so on. I had my miseries too.
John.
John.
John.
Yes, you had your miseries too.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
And then you invariably came out with that one piece of oracular advice of yours.
John.
John.
John.
Ah, yes. “Don’t fret; it’ll be all the same a hundred years hence.”
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Which you couldn’t act upon, yourself. How vexed it used to make me—and the ponderous way you said it!
John.
John.
John.
Well, it was a good, helpful friendship to me.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
And to me.
John.
John.
John.
[Standing a little behind her; speaking calmly, but watching her eagerly.] Because, all the while, there was never one single thought of anything but friendship on either side.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Why, of course not, Jack.
John.
John.
John.
You’d have detected it in me, if there had been?
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Trust a woman for that.
John.
John.
John.
And if you had for a moment fancied that I was losing sight of mere friendship——?
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
You!
John.
John.
John.
What would you have done?
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Oh, one day, the usual headache; not at home the next—the proper thing. But, Jack dear, I never felt the slightest fear ofyou—and that’s what makes an end like this so cruel, so intolerably cruel.
John.
John.
John.
Never felt the slightest fear of me——?
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
No, never; oh, of course, a woman can tell. Somehow, I knew—I knew youcouldn’tbe a black-guard.
John.
John.
John.
[About to seize her hand, but restraining himself.] God bless you! God bless you! [He walks away and pokes the fire vigorously, hitting the coal triumphantly.] Ah, ha, ha! [Turning toTheophila.] I beg your pardon; you’re in the most uncomfortable chair in the room.
[She rises and crosses the room.
John.
John.
John.
[Arranging the pillows on the settee.] You must be so weary, too. I’m confoundedly stupid and forgetful to-night.
Theophila.
Theophila.
Theophila.
[Sitting on the settee.] Fancy! a fire in June!
John.
John.
John.
[Walking about elatedly, dividing his glances betweenTheophilaand the library.] I love to see a fire.