Some women are Love's toys, kiss'd and flung by,Some his pale martyrs: thou art womanhood,Superbly symbol'd in rare flesh and blood.Eternal Beauty, she for whom we sigh,Dowers thee with her own eternity;Thou art Love's sibyl: in proud solitudeO'er his old mysteries thy deep eyes brood,And at thy feet his rich dominions lie.Hast thou a heart? Let me desire it still.Torture my heart to life with thy disdain;Yet smile, give me immortal dreams, still beMy Muse, my inspiration, vision, will!I ask no pity, I demand but pain:And if I love thee, what is that to thee?
Some women are Love's toys, kiss'd and flung by,Some his pale martyrs: thou art womanhood,Superbly symbol'd in rare flesh and blood.Eternal Beauty, she for whom we sigh,Dowers thee with her own eternity;Thou art Love's sibyl: in proud solitudeO'er his old mysteries thy deep eyes brood,And at thy feet his rich dominions lie.Hast thou a heart? Let me desire it still.Torture my heart to life with thy disdain;Yet smile, give me immortal dreams, still beMy Muse, my inspiration, vision, will!I ask no pity, I demand but pain:And if I love thee, what is that to thee?
It sounds very well; but I'm afraid I don't quite understand it.
Denham.
That is the highest praise you could give it; if it be unintelligible itmustbe fine. It means "mes hommages!" (Kisses her hand.) And now come down! (He hands her down from the "throne".)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(with a shy laugh, crossesr) But you don't mean to say that you have said all those fine words about me?
Denham.
Yes—toyou, Blanche. I love you. What is that to you? (Comes down to fire.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
It is very flattering, no doubt, to be made love to in pretty verses. (With a mocking smile.) Is this your "situation" at last?
Denham.
Yes, it is a situation.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(sharply) Oh, I see! I am to be a sort of lay figure for your poetry, as well as your painting; the Laura of this new Petrarch. Thank you! (She bows with a little laugh.)
Denham.
I love you, Blanche, I love you!
Mrs. Tremaine.
Say it in verse as much as you like. It does not sound nice in prose. Don't let us make fools of ourselves, Mr. Denham.
Denham.
We can't avoid it, Mrs. Tremaine. To do it with dignity is all that can be expected of us.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(with increased vexation) That's impossible. (Crossesr,and takes cloak.) Don't let us spoil a pleasant friendship with nonsense of this kind. Let me keep that—and your sonnet—and good-bye!
(She comes down tol c.Denham takes her cloak and puts it on her, keeping his hands on her shoulders.)
Denham.
As you please. Call it friendship, or anything you like. To me it is new life. You have simply taken possession of me from the first—imagination, heart, soul, everything. I live in you, I see your face, I hear your voice, I speak to you when you are absent, just as if you were present. I call you aloud by your name—Blanche, Blanche!
(She starts away from him, and the cloak remains in his hands.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Hush, hush, Mr. Denham! I ought not to listen to such words from you. I never dreamed—
Denham.
(throwing cloak over back of sofa) I know, I know. Women never do; they go on their way like blindfold fates. Is there such a thing as a magnetic attraction—affinity? I never believed in it till I saw you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(laughs nervously) With how little ingenuity men make love!
Denham.
Don't laugh at my raving, you cruel Blanche! I know it sounds as foolish as a schoolboy's valentine; but it is as sincere—and inadequate. Words are stupid things. (He takes her hands, and looks in her face.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Do let us part friends. If you are in earnest, you must know this is wicked as well as foolish.
Denham.
Yes, it is always wicked to snatch a moment's supreme happiness in this world.IfI am in earnest! You know I am in earnest! (He strokes her hair, then, as she turns away, he puts his arm round her waist and draws her to him.) Blanche, my beautiful Blanche! I did not mean to say all this, but it was too strong for me.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Let me go, Mr. Denham!
Denham.
(releasing her) Well, go! (Crossesl.) Go, if you can!
Mrs. Tremaine.
(angrily) I can and will. (Turns to take her cloak.)
Denham.
Do you know, Blanche, I thought you loved me?
Mrs. Tremaine.
(turning sharply) Then you were more foolish than I thought. (Softening.) Perhaps I was to blame, but I meant nothing wrong.
Denham.
Oh, I acquit you completely! We drifted—that was all. Jest sometimes turns to earnest. Well, go—go with those tears in your eyes. There is nothing worth crying about—more than is becoming.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Don't say unkind things to me. I can't bear them, though I suppose I deserve them. I liked you, and your admiration flattered my vanity; and I suppose I may have made you think I cared more for you than—I did.
Denham.
Well, you don't love me. What does it matter?Iloveyou; that is the important thing to me. I thank you for that eternal possession. Let it be a dream, austere and pure. Passion has its own ascetic cell, where it can fast and scourge itself. I ask you for nothing, Blanche. I am yours wholly. Do what you like with me.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Go back to your wife.
Denham.
Yes—my poor Constance! Well, Blanche, at least you and I can't utterly spoil each other's lives. We can'tmarryeach other.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Don't say any more. Let us forget all this.
Denham.
Forget? No. But we must renounce. You, too, will wear the sackcloth.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(petulantly) Why shouldIwear sackcloth?
Denham.
My dear Blanche, you are not such a fine coquette as you imagine. (Going close up to her.) Do you think I can't read those beautiful eyes of yours? You love me! Your love fills the air like the fragrance of a flower. (He clasps her in his arms.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(impatiently) Suppose I did.Après?
Denham.
You do love me, Blanche? (Kisses her.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
(with inward rage) Yes, I love you. (Suddenly embracing him.) I love you! What does it matter?
Denham.
Oh, it is the eternal tragedy! We must renounce.
(Half releasing her.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Why must we renounce? Now that you have gone so far, why turn back?
Denham.
(releasing her) It is the least of evils. How should I hide you from the world's vile slanders? Let us keep our dream unsullied. (Crossesl.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
I have been through the fire already, and could face it again—for a man I loved, and who loved me.
Denham.
But it would scorch you worse than before. Then, Constance!
Mrs. Tremaine.
(with scorn) Ay, Constance! You ought to have thought of her before. (Passionately.) Why have you spoken to me? Why have you compelledmeto speak, if you are not bold enough to break the bonds that are strangling you?
Denham.
Because I must. Don't tempt me, Blanche. We shall sometimes meet, look in each other's eyes, and keep our secret. It is best so. I love you so much that I would save you from yourself.
Mrs. Tremaine.
I don't understand such love. (Turns awayr.)
Denham.
Women never do. They prefer being treated like dogs. Is it nothing that we have met heart to heart for one sweet moment, that you have rested a moment in my arms? To me it is a glimpse of the unattainable heaven of love. (Going up to her.) Kiss me once, Blanche, and farewell!
Mrs. Tremaine.
It must be for ever, then.
(They kiss, and remain clasped in each other's arms.)
(Enter Mrs. Denham suddenly.)
Mrs. Denham.
Arthur! Oh, I see, I am in the way! (She is about to retire.)
Denham.
(coming forward) No; come in, Constance. Blanche is going away. (Crossesl.)
Mrs. Denham.
Indeed! I must apologise for interrupting a very pretty parting scene. Had I not better retire until your interestingtête-à-têteis over?
Denham.
There is no necessity. It is over.
Mrs. Denham.
(coming downc) Then may I ask for an explanation of—what I have unintentionally seen?
Denham.
Certainly. You have a right to ask anything you please.
Mrs. Denham.
Well?
Denham.
We have had our fit of madness. Now we are sane, and Blanche is going away. That is all. (Goes to tablel.)
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, indeed! Arthur, Arthur, I trusted in your love, and you have betrayed me. You love this woman!
Mrs. Tremaine.
(coming down) Letmespeak, Constance. If there be a fault or a folly in the matter, it is mine. You hate me; you have cause. I have—been vain and selfish. I thought, like many another woman, I could play with temptation—
Mrs. Denham.
(with fierce scorn) And with your experience, too!
Mrs. Tremaine.
I know my own weakness now. But I am going away, Constance—going away out of your lives for ever. If I have sinned, I can expiate.
Mrs. Denham.
Expiate! A fine word, with which we drug our consciences. You have treated me basely, cruelly, treacherously, and youwill expiate! A common thief can at least make restitution. Can you do that? You are going away, taking my husband's heart with you. Can you give me that back? I would rather you had stabbed me—killed me with one merciful stroke.
Mrs. Tremaine.
No, I am taking nothing with me—nothing but my own folly. I have been the toy of your husband's imagination, that is all. To him this has been nothing more than a passing flirtation.
Mrs. Denham.
You love him, and he loves you. Don't palter with the truth. (Crossesl.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes, I love him; but he doesnotlove me. If either of us have cause for jealousy, it is not you.
Mrs. Denham.
(laughing bitterly) You jealous of me? You dare to say this? (Moves towards door.)
Denham.
For God's sake, Constance, don't let us lose our heads! Let us be just to each other. This was our fate. Call it our fault, if you will. We have been in the grip of a strong temptation; but we have given each other up.
(Mrs. Tremaine puts on her hat, cloak, and gloves.)
Mrs. Denham.
(coming backc) Given each other up! Do you think you can satisfymewith such phrases? I am to be your faithful wife, I suppose; content with whatever poor shreds of affection you choose to dole out to me, while all your thoughts are with another woman. It would have been more straightforward, (with withering contempt) I won't say moremanly, to have told me plainly: "I cannot love you, therefore I must leave you." But this intrigue behind my back is despicable—despicable!
Denham.
(pacing about angrily) Intrigue! Yes, of course. You always knew the value of an ugly word. (Restraining himself.) Otherwise you have put the abstract morality of the thing admirably. But I am unprincipled enough not to want to desert my wife and child, merely because I love another woman.
Mrs. Denham.
Oh yes, compromise, compromise, the god that men worship! Go to your mistress, if she will have you. I renounce you.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(laughing bitterly) Excuse me, but our little comedy is played out. I am out of the story. (Exit.)
Denham.
(crosses up to door) Stay, Blanche! You must not go like this. One moment, Constance.
(Exit, following Mrs. Tremaine.)
Mrs. Denham.
(flinging herself down on the sofa) My God! my God! what am I to do? How am I to live? I cannot stay in this house with a man who no longer loves me. Oh, ifshehad not come between us! Yes, yes! A pretty face and a little flattery outweighs a life's devotion. Oh, it is hard, it is hard!
(A pause. Then enter Undine.)
Undine.
Mother! Are you sick?
Mrs. Denham.
No, dear. I have a headache, that's all.
Undine.
I'm sorry, mother. (Kisses her.)
Mrs. Denham.
(clasping her in her arms) Well, what does my little girl want now?
Undine.
May I go and play with Maude and Bertie after school to-morrow, and stay to tea?
Mrs. Denham.
You may go and play; but you know I cannot let you stay to tea.
Undine.
Oh, but why? They want me to stay to tea.
Mrs. Denham.
You know you broke your promise the last time, and stayed without leave.
Undine.
But I forgot—I really did.
Mrs. Denham.
You must be taught not to forget. Now I'll give you one more chance. You may go and play, but youmustcome back to tea. Promise me that you will.
Undine.
Well, I promise. But it's very hard to remember promises, when you want to do a thing very much.
Mrs. Denham.
Yes; but you must learn to be trustworthy. Now run away. (Exit Undine.)
The child hates me, I know. I suppose I must expect nothing but dislike and contempt. She is her father's child. I wish I had died long ago. (Crossesr,and sits by table.)
(A pause, then re-enter Denham.)
Denham.
Well, Blanche is gone.
Mrs. Denham.
(listlessly) Indeed!
Denham.
(seating himself) To the advanced moralist, I know I am an object of contempt. I can't help that.
Mrs. Denham.
(rising) If you have come here to insult me with sneering speeches, I will go. (Crossescup stage.)
Denham.
Let us leave this tone of falsetto, Constance, and speak seriously to each other. I have come to you for help in this crisis of our lives. Sit down. (Gives her a chair.)
Mrs. Denham.
(sitting) To me! That is very magnanimous.
Denham.
No. You are the only friend I have.
Mrs. Denham.
Well?
Denham.
You bid me desert the nest?
Mrs. Denham.
Since it is cold.
Denham.
Is it so cold?
Mrs. Denham.
Need you ask? (Shivers.) If you do not quit it, I will.
Denham.
I have no doubt you will do what you think right. The question is, whatisright? (Rises, and looks at her.)
Mrs. Denham.
(looking away from him) You have always held yourself aloof from me. All my love has been powerless to gain an entrance into your heart. Now it is too late. I give up the useless struggle.
(Crossesl,and sits in armchair crouching over fire.)
Denham.
(passionately) Held myself aloof! Good God! is that my fault? You want something that you can neither excite nor reciprocate. (With a sudden change of manner.) No—it was my own dulness of heart. My poor Constance! This has been a revelation for us both. But you don't know how I have tried to conform to your ideals—to spare you in every possible way.
Mrs. Denham.
(bitterly) Yes, you have been very patient, very forbearing, no doubt. It is better to kill a woman than to tolerate her.
Denham.
You did not always think so. You wanted love in the form of an unselfish intellectual friendship. Well, I have tried to love you unselfishly, God knows! It is an impossible basis for marriage. However, wearemarried. May we not at least be friends? (Comes and stands by her chair.) Do you think marriage exists for the sake of ideal love? What about Undine?
Mrs. Denham.
I presume you will provide for your daughter?
Denham.
Is she not yours too?
Mrs. Denham.
She loves you; she does not love me. I suppose I don't deserve it. I know you think I have been a bad wife, a bad mother. I am better out of your way. (Weeps.)
Denham.
This is morbid. Oh, if I could have cured you! Constance! (He caresses her hair.)
Mrs. Denham.
Don't touch me! It is an insult.
Denham.
(sighing) I suppose I have lost the right of comforting you. (Crossesr.)
Mrs. Denham.
I don't want your pity. (Rises.)
Denham.
Perhaps I want yours.
Mrs. Denham.
(indignantly) Supposeyouhad caughtmein a low intrigue, and I had dared to speak to you as you have spoken to me—without so much as a word that implied sorrow or repentance, what would you say to me?
Denham.
I would ask your forgiveness humbly enough if that were of any use. It isn't, I know. Sins that are instinctive, not of malice, lie too deep for forgiveness.
Mrs. Denham.
A fine aphorism, no doubt. How does it apply?
Denham.
You can't forgive insults that were not intended, and a "low intrigue" which was only a mad, selfish leap for life. Let us part then, if you please. We missed our moment for passion long ago, if that is what you want.
Mrs. Denham.
My want aches deeper. Well, you love another woman. Go to her. Let her make you happy if she can.
Denham.
Why should I go to her? I love her as a dream; let me keep her as a dream. Why should I spoil her life as I have spoiled yours?
Mrs. Denham.
You could not spoil her life as you have spoiled mine, if you love her.
Denham.
(half to himself as he comes down stager) It is a magnificent temptation. To give one's passion its full reckless swing, to feel the blood bounding in one's veins—
Mrs. Denham.
Why not? And leave the woman to pay.
Denham.
(with a reckless bitterness) Yes, that's the devil of it. You have put me out of conceit with love. Your chamber of horrors haunts my imagination. If a woman could give us all she promises, we should be like gods. But she can't. Why should we worry about it? Why ask for cakes and ale, when sermons and soda-water are so much better for us?
Mrs. Denham.
You never loved me. Your cakes and ale are no concern of mine. (Crosses to table. Knock at door.) Come in!
(Enter Jane, showing in Miss Macfarlane.)
Jane.
Miss Macfarlane!
(Exit.)
Miss Macfarlane.
Well, my dear, how are you all? Eh! but what's the matter now? (She looks from one to the other.) Mrs. Tremaine, I suppose?
Denham.
Mrs. Tremaine has gone away—back to the desert, as she says.
Miss Macfarlane.
And high time for her, too. Upon my word, I should like to give that fascinating person a bit of my mind.
Denham.
And me too, I am sure.
Miss Macfarlane.
Well, as you ask me, Mr. Denham, I think your conduct in bringing that woman into the house, and carrying on a flirtation with her under your wife's eyes, was simply abominable. It was an insult to Constance. Did ye ever consider that? It was not the conduct of a gentleman!
Denham.
No, a gentleman should throw a decent veil of secrecy over his—flirtations. But, you see, if I had done that, I should have been a hypocrite; now I'm only a brute.
Miss Macfarlane.
Oh, my dear boy, don't be a brute, and then you needn't be a hypocrite. There's the way out of that.
Denham.
It is a narrow way.
Miss Macfarlane.
If ye can't have good morals, at least have good manners. (Crossesl.)
Denham.
Oh, good manners are becoming obsolete. They are too much trouble for this Bohemian age. Ladies and gentlemen went out with gold snuffboxes and hooped petticoats; we are trying to be men and women now, frankly and brutally.
Miss Macfarlane.
Eh! and I suppose ye thought ye were learning to be a man by playing at Adam and Eve with Mrs. Tremaine?
Denham.
(crossesr) We drifted, we drifted.
Miss Macfarlane.
A man has norighttodrift, Mr. Denham. Ye have to look before ye, and pick your steps in this world; at any rate, when other people are hurt by your slips. An irresponsible animal isn't a man.
Denham.
I wish we had a Court of Love, Miss Macfarlane, with you for President. But, if you'll excuse me, I shall leave you with Constance now. I know she would like to speak to you.
(Exit.)
Miss Macfarlane.
Well, my dear, what is it? You see I claim the privilege of an old friend.
Mrs. Denham.
I can bear my burden alone, Miss Macfarlane. (Crossesc.)
Miss Macfarlane.
Of course you can, my dear. But there's no harm in a little honest sympathy.
Mrs. Denham.
(sobbing and embracing her) Oh, I beg your pardon! But I am so miserable, so miserable!
Miss Macfarlane.
There, there—that's right. (Leads Mrs. Denham to sofa.) And now you can tell me or not, just as you like.
Mrs. Denham.
What is there to tell? It is all over—that is all. (She sits down, weeping.)
Miss Macfarlane.
But what's all over? We sometimes think things are all over, when they're only beginning. A thunderstorm's not the Day of Judgment. It clears the air.
Mrs. Denham.
Thisisthe Day of Judgment for me. I am weighed in the balance and found wanting. I wish I were dead.
Miss Macfarlane.
Nonsense, dear; you're no failure. But I'll tell ye what the two of you are—a pair of fools; that's what you are. You should have put your foot down, my dear.Shewas the Black Cat you ought to have got rid of, and nipped this business in the bud. I don't know how far it has gone. Does he want to run away with her?
Mrs. Denham.
No; he professes to have given her up.
Miss Macfarlane.
Then he's none such a fool, after all. That woman would have led him a pretty dance!
Mrs. Denham.
He loves her—let him go to her. (Rises and crossesl.Stopped by Miss Macfarlane.)
Miss Macfarlane.
Fiddlesticks, my dear! Don't force him into herarms. Mind you, he has vowed to cherish you as well as to love you; and how can he do that if you drive him away? Do ye remember one of his misquotations from Byron:
"Man's love is from his life a thing apart,'Tis woman's main subsistence?"
"Man's love is from his life a thing apart,'Tis woman's main subsistence?"
There's truth in that.
Mrs. Denham.
Men make love, like everything else, a meregame.
Miss Macfarlane.
Ay, you're right there. But untilwehold the purse strings, it's hard to keep them to the strict rules o' the game.
Mrs. Denham.
That is a vile injustice! I may not be able to fight on equal terms, but I will never submit. If he does not go, I will. (Crossesr.)
Miss Macfarlane.
Don't wreck your lives for a man's passing fancy. If that's your new morality, I prefer the old. Don't turn this comedy into a tragedy. That's all very well on the stage, but we're not acting an Ibsen play; it doesn't pay in real life.
Mrs. Denham.
A good tragedy is better than a bad comedy.
Miss Macfarlane.
Come to your room, my dear. Have your cry out, sponge your eyes, and we'll have a quiet talk.
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, this sense of failure! It will drive me mad!
Scene: The Studio. Mrs. Denham lying on sofar c,a shawl over her feet, her face buried in her hands, moaning inarticulately. Table as inAct II.
(Enter Denham excitedly.)
Denham.
Constance!
Mrs. Denham.
(moving and raising her head) Well?
Denham.
Where is Undine?
Mrs. Denham.
Undine?
Denham.
Yes. Do you know where she is?
Mrs. Denham.
In her room, I suppose. I told her to stay there.
Denham.
She is not in the room—not in the house.
Mrs. Denham.
But—I locked the door.
Denham.
She must have got out of the window.
Mrs. Denham.
She can't have dropped from the balcony.
Denham.
Stay a moment. (Exit.)
Mrs. Denham.
(resuming her position) No peace! No peace!
(Re-enter Denham.)
Denham.
Yes. Her skipping rope is tied to the rails. She must have dropped into the garden. She's as active as a cat.
Mrs. Denham.
And as sly. Another act of disobedience.
Denham.
Tell me, Constance, have you had a—I mean, have you punished her?
Mrs. Denham.
(bitterly) I beat her, since you are kind enough to inquire—beat her for her utter untrustworthiness and mean prevarication. I said I would, if she disobeyed me again.
Denham.
Poor little wretch! But what did you say to her? A mother's tongue is sometimes worse than her hands.
Mrs. Denham.
Yes, I know you think me a vulgar scold.
Denham.
I think you sometimes say more than you mean—more than you realise at the time. I wonder where the child has gone?
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, she has slunk away to some of her friends. (Throwing off the shawl, and letting her feet drop on the ground.) Arthur, are you uneasy about her?
Denham.
Yes, rather. Jane heard her sobbing in her room, and saying she would run away.
Mrs. Denham.
Why didn't you tell me that before? (Rises, and moves to and fro.) Oh, what have I done? What have I done?
Denham.
We must look for her. Some one may have seen her. Wait a moment. (He opens the door, and meets Fitzgerald, who comes in smiling.) Fitzgerald!
Fitzgerald.
(coming down to back of sofa) Well, I've brought you back your little waif, Mrs. Denham.
Mrs. Denham.
Undine?
Fitzgerald.
Ay, Undine!
Mrs. Denham.
Oh, I am so thankful! But where is she?
Fitzgerald.
Well, I left her below, having some milk or something. She seemed quite done up—excitement or something—eh?
Denham.
Where did you meet her, Fitz?
Fitzgerald.
I was going to my studio, and I met—met her running along the road with—with a little white scared face, and no hat on her—and her curls flying behind her—an'—an'—'pon my word, I could hardly stop her But we met a little girl with a goat, an' we stroked the goat—eh, stroked the goat—an' that comforted her a bit.
Mrs. Denham.
But where was she going?
Fitzgerald.
Oh, that's the cream o' the joke! I had a great piece of work to get out of her what ailed her, an'—an'—would you believe it?—that Undine of yours—that Undine of yours was going back to her native element. The—the mite was looking for the Thames, to drown herself!
Mrs. Denham.
To drown herself?
Fitzgerald.
Ay. She told me, "Mother said—said she was too wicked to live—an' she—she didn't want her any more." By Jove! Mrs. Denham, you must be careful what you say to that imp. She'll take you at your word—eh?
Mrs. Denham.
How can we ever thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald?
Denham.
Well, we can laugh at it now; but it was rather a ghastly bit of tragi-comedy. A thousand thanks, Fitz, old fellow!
Fitzgerald.
Well, I hope she's none the worse for it. I carried her home on my back; an' I can tell you her heart was beating like—like the heart of a hunted mouse. I must be off, Arthur; I have a model coming. You'll bring the drawing round, eh? I must have it by five o'clock.
Denham.
I have about ten minutes' work on the background—the figures are all right. I'll bring it round just now.
Fitzgerald.
All right. Good-bye. (Shakes hands, and exit.)
Denham.
Stay here, Constance. I'll bring the child to you.
(Exit, following Fitzgerald.)
Mrs. Denham.
Undine, my little Undine! Have I been a bad mother to you? And I have tried to do right. Oh, how I have tried! All in vain—all in vain. (Paces up and down, then sits listlessly on the sofa.) Utter wreck! Utter wreck! Utter failure in everything!
(Re-enter Denham, with Undine. Mrs. Denham starts up.)
Denham.
Here's our little truant come back to mother.
(Undine comes down the stage slowly, looking dazed. Mrs. Denham embraces the child passionately.)
Mrs. Denham.
My little Undine! My little girl! Did she think mother wanted to get rid of her?
Undine.
(with sorrowful indignation) You said you wished I was dead, and I thought you didn't want me any more. I thought perhaps you were going to kill me with a knife, like Medea, and I didn't like that. I thought the river would be kinder.
Mrs. Denham.
That was foolish, Undine. Mother would not kill her own little girl.
(Sits down on sofa with Undine. Denham shrugs his shoulders, and sits down at the table to work at his drawing.)
Undine.
But I thought you meant what you said. You oughtn't to say what you don't mean, mother.
Mrs. Denham.
No, my darling, I ought not. But I was angry with you for being disobedient, and I suppose I said more than I meant. I don't remember, Arthur, I don't remember what I said.
Denham.
I quite understand that, dear.
Mrs. Denham.
Will my little girl forgive mother?
Undine.
Yes, you know I'llalwaysforgive you, mother. But you said I had brought shame upon father. (Going up to Denham, bursting into indignant tears.) I don'twantto bring shame upon father! (Takes out her handkerchief, and mops her face.)
Denham.
(comforting her) Of course not. But you know you should be obedient to mother, Undine, and keep your promises. Then we sha'n't be ashamed of our little girl.
Undine.
(sobbing) But there's nousepromising. Oh, Iamso tired! (Yawns.)
Denham.
Well, suppose you go to sleep for a while?
Mrs. Denham.
She can lie on her bed, and I'll put mother's cloak over her. Would you like that?
Undine.
(sleepily) Yes.
(Mrs. Denham leads her away, the handkerchief falls on the floor.)
Denham.
(gets up from the table, takes his pipe, lights it, and sits down again) Everything seems torn up by the roots here. What is to become of that monkey? She has routed her mother, horse, foot, and dragoons,this time. Well, it's a wise mother that knows her own daughter. (Works on again.) Going to drown herself! Perhaps it would have been better if her father had hung himself long ago. There's always that question of: To be or not to be?
(Re-enter Mrs. Denham.)
Mrs. Denham.
She's asleep, Arthur.
Denham.
Poor little ugly duck!
Mrs. Denham.
I suppose you think I have acted very injudiciously?
Denham.
(sighing) Oh, what does it matter what I think? You always act on principle. Imusttry to get this drawing done.
Mrs. Denham.
Don't send me away, Arthur. You will soon be rid of me altogether.
Denham.
Don't say that, dear. I know you are very miserable about Undine—and other things. So am I. I wonder whether we are all going mad.
Mrs. Denham.
I thinkIhave gone mad.
Denham.
Do you say that in earnest?
Mrs. Denham.
You know there was—something in our family.
Denham.
Oh, nonsense, Constance! For Heaven's sake don't brood over that. There is something in every family, if one only inquires. Your nerves are over-strained. I wish you'd go to bed, and let me have some one to see you. You are looking like a ghost.
Mrs. Denham.
I feel like one. But I am not going to haunt the scene of my crimes any longer. I am going away—going away!
Denham.
Well, I'm going with you, then, to take care of you. We'll send Undine somewhere, and go abroad for a while.
Mrs. Denham.
Oh yes. You can be kind enough, if that were all.
Denham.
Will you never make peace?
Mrs. Denham.
The only peace Icanmake.
Denham.
What do you mean?
Mrs. Denham.
I shall trouble you no longer.
Denham.
My dear girl, don't talk like that. It is ghastly. Constance, I must go to Fitzgerald with this wretched drawing. I have to give some directions about the reproduction. I sha'n't be long. Promise me that you won't do anything foolish—that I shall find you here when I come back.
Mrs. Denham.
Yes—you shall find me here.
Denham.
That's right. (Goes to settee, and takes up shawl.) And now lie down here, and let me cover you with this shawl.
Mrs. Denham.
Very well. (She lies down.) Arthur!
Denham.
Yes, dear.
Mrs. Denham.
Kiss me once before you go.
Denham.
Oh, if I may! (Kisses her.) My poor Constance! I would give my heart's blood to comfort you. And meanwhile I'll send you a better thing—tea.
Mrs. Denham.
Thank you, dear. You have always tried to be good to me. You could not help being cruel, I suppose.
Denham.
I want to be good to you always. Well, good-bye, and God bless you! (Kisses her.)
Mrs. Denham.
God bless you! (Exit Denham.)
Mrs. Denham.
(listens for a while, then starts up) He had tears in his eyes when he kissed me. Poor Arthur! he thinks we are going to patch it up, I suppose. I am to live on pity—a man's pity, more akin to contemptthan to love. Whyshouldhe love me? I was not born to be loved, not made to be loved. And yet I wanted love so much. I wanted all or nothing, and I have got pity—pity that puts you in a madhouse, and comfortably leaves you to rot! Oh, my God! is this madness—this horror of darkness that seems pressing on my brain? (A knock at the door.) What's that? Come in! (Enter Jane with tea.) No, not there, Jane—the small table; and bring another cup, will you?
Jane.
Yes, m'm.
(Jane places tea-things, and exit.)
Mrs. Denham.
What have I to do? Ah, yes. (Sits at the table and writes hurriedly. Re-enter Jane with a cup.) Jane, take this note to Mrs. Tremaine's at once. You know the house?
Jane.
Yes, m'm.
Mrs. Denham.
(giving note) Take it at once.
Jane.
Yes, m'm. Was I to wait for an answer, please?
Mrs. Denham.
No, Jane; no answer. (Exit Jane.) She will be here directly. Shemustcome—and I? Yes—yes. There is no other way of quitting the wreck forme. The key? (Searches her pockets.) Yes! (She goes to the cupboard, opens it, and takes out a small bottle, places it on the tea-table, and looks at it; then takesout the stopper, and smells the poison.) It smells like some terrible flower. (Re-stops and replaces the bottle.) And now to arrange—to arrange it all decently. (Pushes the couch behind the screen, returns to the table, and pours out a cup of tea.) My throat is parched. (Drinks eagerly.) Poor Arthur! He will be sorry—perhaps he will understand a little now. (She pours the contents of the bottle into the cup.) The Black Cat had a friend; I am not so fortunate. It is a survival of the fittest, I suppose. The world was made for the sleek and treacherous. (She replaces the bottle in the cupboard, then returns, and lays the keys on the table.) Yes, my little Undine, mother is tired too—so tired! Oh, sleep, sleep! If it were but eternal sleep—if I could besureI should never wake again! No more life. And yet I want to live. Oh, my God, I want to live! (Paces to and fro, mechanically putting things in order; sees Undine's handkerchief on the ground, and picks it up.) Undine's little handkerchief, still wet with her tears—the last human thing on the brink of the abyss. Poor little rag; it will give me courage to face the darkness. (Kisses it, and thrusts it into her bosom, then goes back to the table.) Perhaps Idothink too much of things—even of death. And now! (Takes up the cup and shudders.) Who said "Poor Constance"? (Puts it down again, and presses her hands to her ears.) There are voices in my brain—voices that burn like the flames of hell. Sleep, sleep—we must cheat the madness. (Takes the cup, and passesr,as if to go behind screen.) How awfully things look at you when you're going to die! I did not know this. There's Demeter with Undine's wreath of daisieswithered on her head. My life has withered with them, since that day she made the libation. She forgot the speedwell for me. Mother! Mother! Mother! This is my libation! (Drinks the poison, and lets the cup fall.) It is done! (She stands a moment perfectly still.) My God! not sleep, but horror! Quick! Quick! (Staggers behind the screen, and throws herself on the couch, where she is hidden from the audience.) Arthur! Arthur! Oh! save me! Arthur—oh! (Moans and dies.)
(A pause, then enter Denham and Mrs. Tremaine.)
Denham.
Constance! I left her here on the sofa, and now—Constance! She must have gone to her room—she sometimes does. Have some tea, won't you?
(They approach the tea-table.)
Mrs. Tremaine.
I don't know why I have come here, I am sure. I never meant to see this place again; and yet, here I am, like the good-natured fool I always was.
(He places a chair for her by the table.)
Denham.
It was awfully good of you to come. That's such a strange letter for Constance to have written. She asked you to come here at once, for my sake and your own?
Mrs. Tremaine.
Yes. It's a mad kind of letter. (She sits down.)
Denham.
I am very uneasy about her.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Well, what's that to me?
Denham.
Nothing, of course. Blanche, we have been living in hell since yesterday.
Mrs. Tremaine.
I daresay. I have not been in Paradise, I assure you. What are you going to do? (Pours out some tea.)
Denham.
I don't know.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(puts in sugar) Will she—stay with you?
Denham.
What else can she do?
Mrs. Tremaine.
(stirring her tea) Then I wish you joy of theménage. You don't seem to have gained much by making a fool of me.
Denham.
You have renewed the world for me. The mere thought of you is sunshine. Here we have always been at loggerheads with life.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Then why—? (Sips her tea.) Bah! Upon my word, Arthur Denham, that woman has drained you of your manhood like a vampire, made you the limp coward that you are.
Denham.
Not a word against Constance, or I shall hate you, Blanche. No—I am haunted by a ghost.
Mrs. Tremaine.
A metaphorical one?
Denham.
The ghost that came to Hamlet in the shape of his father—duty. It is a trick of my British bourgeois blood, I suppose.
Mrs. Tremaine.
What duty? To that internal Mrs. Grundy we call conscience? To the thing called Society? To the sacred bond of marriage? Her own principles are against you there. No—she holds you in some deeper way than this.
Denham.
It is true—she does.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(rising) Is it because you loveherthat you abandonme? If so, say so; and I shall understand that I am a toy goddess, nothing more.
Denham.
She loves me.
Mrs. Tremaine.
Ah! a woman's love can blight as terribly as a man's—almost. Well, I like you none the worse for this curious spice of loyalty. It is so rare in a man.
Denham.
No—not so rare. Don't let us talk any more about it now. I think you begin to understand. But where can she be? I seem to feel her presence here. (He looks behind the screen, then thrusts it aside, showing Mrs. Denham lying dead on the couch.) Blanche! Blanche! Look here! Is she—?
Mrs. Tremaine.
She has fainted—let me—!
Denham.
(throws himself down beside the couch and puts his finger on her wrist) Oh my God! Dead! Dead!
Mrs. Tremaine.
No, no, no! It is too terrible! Let us try if— (Attempts to open dress, then recoils in horror.) And I had begun to hate her—yes, tohateher. My poor good Constance!
Denham.
But how—? (Rising.)Isshe dead, Blanche?
Mrs. Tremaine.
(mastering her agitation) Yes, dear, dead! She has taken poison. See here! (Picks up the cup.) What a horrible death! Her face is awful!
Denham.
Oh, Constance, why did I leave you? I had a vague fear of something—but not this! (Throws himself down again, and stoops to kiss her.) Ha! Prussic acid! No help! No hope! Yet she is warm. (He starts up.) Could we—? But death is a matter of seconds with that infernal stuff. Blanche, Blanche, I have killed her!
Mrs. Tremaine.
I claim my share in the guilt.
Denham.
No, no. Leave me! Let the dead bury their dead!
Mrs. Tremaine.
If you wish me to leave you, dear, I will go.
Denham.
Yes—for God's sake, go! (She moves towards the door.) But, Blanche, don't leave the house. I can't bear this alone.
Mrs. Tremaine.
(returns to him) You know, dear, I am yours always. Oh, don't hate me! I dare to say it in this presence. (She kisses his hand. He shrinks from her.) Now I can go. (She goes to the door and looks back as Denham kneels and clasps the body in his arms.) Will he hate me now? (Exit Mrs. Tremaine.)
Denham.
Constance! I meant to have kept you from all the thorns of life! It was fate! It was fate!
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