[Rises and goesL.Mrs. Parbury.[Rising indignantly.] How dare you speak like that of my husband! A less vain man doesn’t exist, andwhat small faults he has concern only him and me—and not you in any way.Gunning.I beg ten thousand pardons, Mrs. Parbury. Of course you know Clement far better than I do. Please don’t go.Mrs. Parbury.I shall certainly not remain to hear my husband abused.Gunning.But I assure you——Mrs. Parbury.[Crosses toL.] Clement vain indeed!Gunning.No, no; a mistake. Do sit down again.Mrs. Parbury.[Crosses toR.C.] You might, with advantage, look for vanity nearer home, Mr. Gunning.Mr. Gunning.Perfectly true, perfectly true.[He places her chair for her.Mrs. Parbury.As for the sort of weakness you were good enough to credit my husband with——Gunning.Nothing but a slip of the tongue. Do sit down.Mrs. Parbury.No doubt you have accustomed yourself to judging other men from your own standpoint.Gunning.That’s it; quite true! You are always right. Won’t you sit?[She sits. He sighs with relief, then takes a chair himself.Mrs. Parbury.What do you propose?Gunning.I’m waiting for a suggestion from you.Mrs. Parbury.This brazen hussy——Gunning.That expression seems to me to be unnecessarily harsh, Mrs. Parbury.Mrs. Parbury.Oh, of course, if you defend the girl——Gunning.Pardon me, but I have an old-fashioned prejudice against speaking ill of the absent.Mrs. Parbury.I didn’t observe it when you spoke of my husband.Gunning.[Laughing.] Fairly hit. Come, let’s be practical.Miss Woodward must not remain in the house, and Clement must not know the truth. On these points we are quite agreed.Mrs. Parbury.Quite.Gunning.Very well. I’ll see Clement. I have an idea.[Rises.Mrs. Parbury.[Rises.] You’ll not tell him you’ve seen me.Gunning.Certainly not.Mrs. Parbury.Remember above all, it’s most important to our future happiness that Clement should be the first to give way.Gunning.Oh, I’ll remember that.Mrs. Parbury.And, Mr. Gunning, if you succeed I’ll try to forget the mischief you’ve created, and will ask you to come and see us—[shakes hands with him]—occasionally.Gunning.Thank you so much.[Voice ofColonel Armitageoutside singing “I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”Mrs. Parbury.That’s father’s signal. I am going to walk on the heath. I’m far too proud to allow myself to bediscovered by Clement here. He might think I want to come back.[ExitMrs. Parbury,R.[Voice ofArmitage,still singing, comes nearer until he enters withParbury,with the words “or charm thee to a tear.” Unseen byParbury,Gunningpoints out to theColonelthe direction in whichMrs. Parburyhas gone.Armitage.[In a low voice, toGunning.] Will it be all right?Gunning.I hope so.Armitage.[GoingR.] Well, I’ll finish my constitutional. I’ll look in again, Clement, in the hope that you will then be able to tell me how long this extremely uncomfortable state of affairs is to last.[ExitArmitage,R.,singing until he is well off.Parbury.Give me a cigarette, George.[Gunninghands him a cigarette, then takes a cigarette himself. They both smoke. There is a short silence.Parbury.Not a stroke of work. It’s absurd![Throws cigarette on ground in a rage.Gunning.You are not happy?Parbury.Not particularly.Gunning.Then how can you expect to do imaginative work?Parbury.Quite so!Gunning.I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, old chap.Parbury.Eh?Gunning.You know I’m your friend.Parbury.Of course.Gunning.Apart from all chaff.Parbury.Yes, yes.Gunning.Well, you’ve gone too far.Parbury.[Looks at him.] You think so?Gunning.Yes. By a petulant discontent you’ve precipitated an awkward crisis.Parbury.You see it now in that light.Gunning.Yes. I’ve been thinking things over, Clement. [Sits on front of table,C.] After all, the love of a good woman is a priceless possession.Parbury.You appear to have dropped into the platitudinous.Gunning.[With much gravity.] Don’t jest, old man, over so sacred a thing.Parbury.[After eyeingGunningkeenly for a moment.] You have changed your views since yesterday.Gunning.Only the unimaginative never change their views.Parbury.You think, then, I’ve been wrong?Gunning.Very!Parbury.I should have gone on putting up with the existing conditions?Gunning.They might have been worse.Parbury.Submitting to the old tyranny?Gunning.A wholesome discipline, believe me.Parbury.What of our spoilt yachting cruise?Gunning.I ought never to have proposed it. Think what a loving wife must suffer under the circumstances—lying awake at night listening to the wind howling in the chimneys and sobbing in the trees. It doesn’t bear thinking of.Parbury.Quite so—quite so! And about our dear old friends whom I was obliged to drop. You may remember you made some very strong comments on my weakness yesterday.Gunning.I was hasty. I admit it.Parbury.Wybrow, for instance—an awful good chap.Gunning.A tavern wit—a Johnsonian spirit—eminently out of place on the domestic hearth.Parbury.Well, take Carson—one of the best.Gunning.Foolishly married a woman your wife couldn’t get on with. You admitted it.Parbury.But Burleigh—a truly great spirit—your own words.Gunning.Burleigh? It isn’t because a man gives you a watch that you need thrust him down your wife’s throat, is it?Parbury.What an old fraud you are, George!Gunning.Not at all. One sees things more clearly in the morning.Parbury.Well, since you’ve resigned your attitude of nonintervention, what do you advise?Gunning.Discreet surrender.Parbury.I’m to send for my wife?Gunning.Exactly.Parbury.Unconditionally?Gunning.Of course. Why impose conditions on a weak, loving, trusting woman? [Going to him.] Damn it all, old man, show a little heart.Parbury.You know it means the sacrifice of my secretary?Gunning.Well?Parbury.Well?Gunning.[A little embarrassed; he drops his cigarette and places his foot on it.] It’s obvious that Miss Woodward can’t stay on here in your wife’s absence.Parbury.I’ve thought of that.Gunning.You heard what Evans said. The servants are talking already—and if the servants are talking this morning the neighbours will be talking this afternoon, and the entire north-west of London by the evening.Parbury.Quite true—quite true!Gunning.I suppose you don’t wish to compromise the girl?Parbury.Certainly not—certainly not! [He goes slowly over toGunning,and looks him in the face, smiling.] And so that’s your secret.Gunning.What do you mean?Parbury.All this solicitude for my happiness—this sudden change of your point of view—this miraculous conversion of the cynic into the peacemaker—all inspiredby a pair of blue eyes. An arrow from Cupid’s bow has winged its way into this wooden heart—[TappingGunning’schest]—and “Earth has won her child again,” as Goethe puts it.Gunning.Don’t talk rot!Parbury.Don’t be offended. I like it. It pleases me. Think of it! One dull evening in a suburban home, one morning’s encounter in a rose-garden, and the thing’s done—the sage melts into the man, the onlooker into the soldier. I tell you I like it. It’s so natural, so human—so splendidly unlike you. Let me help. What can I do? She’s coming here now with some letters for me to sign. “Were it ever so airy a tread, your heart would hear her and beat.” Isn’t it so? Shall I speak to her for you? Better still, shall I leave you alone together?Gunning.[Fixing his hat on more firmly and taking his stick.] I’m going. You bore me.EnterMiss Woodward,L.She carries some typewritten letters and pen and ink. She goes to the table and stands waiting forParbury.Parbury.One moment, old man. [He looks inGunning’sface, then speaks in a lower voice.] Don’t let it pass unrecorded. You have permitted yourself a blush.Gunning.[Trying to pass him.] Don’t be an idiot.Parbury.[Restraining him.] It’s a beautiful, touching truth. The philosopher—the man who has gained perspective—the student who sits perched on a lofty ledge and looks down pityingly on the rest of us, is actually blushing—blushing a poor, simple, human blush![Laughs loudly.Gunning.Go to the devil![ExitGunning,R.Parbury.[Turning toMiss Woodward.He goes to her.] Forgive my laughter, Miss Woodward, but it isn’t often one surprises a philosopher in a blush. Now, let us see! [He sits and takes the letters.Miss Woodwardremains standing by him. He reads. Interrupting himself after a moment, he laughs slightly.] Dear old George! [He continues reading, then signs the letter. He looks over another and says “Excellent!” and signs it. Then he quickly signs the other letters, sits back in his chair, and says] Thank you! [Miss Woodwardgathers up the letters.] I’m afraid that’s all the work I can do to-day. I’d like to have gone on with the novel, but it seems the mood won’t come.Miss Woodward.I’m very sorry.Parbury.The day is out of joint.Miss Woodward.I wish I could do something.Parbury.No, no, don’t you trouble. It’ll all come rightpresently. By the way, what a good fellow Gunning is!Miss Woodward.Is he?Parbury.Don’t you think so?[Looking at her.Miss Woodward.I’ve seen so little of him; but I’m sure he must be if you think so.[She is going,L.Parbury.Wait one moment, Miss Woodward. I know there was something else I wanted to say to you. [She comes back.] [He rises and paces stage thoughtfully.] Oh, yes; I know! I’m afraid my domestic complications have made things a little uncomfortable for you here.Miss Woodward.[Astonished, drops the letters on the table.] I don’t—don’t understand.Parbury.I mean that you probably feel it rather awkward to actually live—night and day in the house in my wife’s absence?Miss Woodward.[Blankly.] Oh, yes, yes; quite I suppose.Parbury.[Not looking at her.] I don’t know much about these matters; but I do know that you women are very sensitive, and apt to worry about what people might say.Miss Woodward.[In the same manner as before.] Yes—of course.Parbury.I thought so. Well, it has occurred to me that perhaps under present circumstances it would be better if——Miss Woodward.You mean for me to go away.Parbury.Yes.[Pause.Miss Woodward.[In a low voice.] If I had been wiser I would have expected it.Parbury.I mean, of course, to sleep only. Mrs. Howlands at Parkhurst House just down here lets some of her rooms I know, and probably she has a vacant bedroom now. I’ll send down presently and see what can be done. In fact, I’ll send Evans now.[Is about to goL.Miss Woodward.Mr. Parbury!Parbury.[Stopping.] Yes.Miss Woodward.Don’t send, please.Parbury.Oh, I see; you would rather go yourself.Miss Woodward.I would rather go altogether.Parbury.[Amazed.] You would rather go altogether!Miss Woodward.I mean Iwillgo altogether.Parbury.Miss Woodward, what is this for? What have I done?Miss Woodward.Nothing that hasn’t been perfect kindness to me.Parbury.Then why wish to go now? I know I can’t expect to have you always, because you will some day get married.Miss Woodward.I shall never get married.Parbury.Nonsense! Of course you will, and the man who gets you will, in my opinion, be a very lucky fellow; but until that day I certainly looked forward to having the benefit of your services.Miss Woodward.I’m sorry if I disappoint you. Please forgive me and let me go.Parbury.But really, Miss Woodward, I must beg for somesort of explanation. Last night you acknowledged you were perfectly satisfied. You wished to remain.Miss Woodward.You have unconsciously shown me to-day that I was wrong.Parbury.Indeed! I would be glad to know how. Oh, how weary one gets of mysteries! [Miss Woodward’shead droops lower.] [He walks the stage, then looks atMiss Woodwardand pauses; he goes to her and speaks more gently.] I beg your pardon, I fear I spoke impatiently. Do understand that I only wish for your own good. I admit in our relations I’ve hitherto been rather selfish. I’m afraid writing men are prone to be so. I’ve allowed you to study my wishes and feelings and nerves all the time, without giving any thought to yours. I’ll try to be more considerate in the future if you’ll only regard me as an elder brother and tell me what is troubling you now.Miss Woodward.I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m ashamed that you should worry about me at all.Parbury.Is it anything to do with Mr. Gunning?Miss Woodward.Nothing at all. How could it be?Parbury.Miss Woodward, I don’t like to press you, but this general cloud of mystery is seriously affectingmy nerves. At least tell me—I make it a personal favour—the cause of the quarrel between my wife and you.Miss Woodward.It’s impossible! Mrs. Parbury may tell you after I’ve gone. I’d rather you despised me then than now.Parbury.[Wonderingly.] Despise you?[Their eyes meet. Pause.Miss Woodward.[Passionately.] Please don’t—don’t even try to guess.Parbury.[The light breaking in on him slowly.] I think I understand.[Miss Woodwardturns up stage and stands with head bowed, her back to the audience. There is a long pause. At firstParburydoesn’t appear ill-pleased. He looks down at the rose in his buttonhole, and begins to raise it half-tenderly to his face. Then his face becomes grave, and he slowly removes the flower from his coat, and places it on the table against whichMiss Woodwardis standing. He takes one of her hands.Parbury.I don’t ask anything—I don’t guess anything, my dear child—my little sister. I was wrong to press you to tell me your trouble; for what could ahardened, rough-natured man do with the secrets of a young girl’s heart?Miss Woodward.Don’t speak like that; only say that I may go.Parbury.Yes.[Goes upC.Miss Woodward.Thank you.[Sees the rose where he has placed it. After a slight pause she takes it up. During the following, she slowly picks it to pieces, dropping the petals on the ground.Parbury.[Coming down to back of table and speaking very gently.] I suppose there must soon come a time to every girl of heart who goes out alone into the world—a time when life seems to press hardly upon her and weariness of the unaccustomed stress makes her heart falter, and when she longs to take rest for a time in the old childhood, in the home she perhaps once thought to be dull and dreary, in the mother’s arms that have always been ready to open with love for her.Miss Woodward.Don’t![Sinks into chair,R.C.;buries her face in her hands.Parbury.Perhaps you feel that that time has come now.If so, go home for a little while, and get rest and fresh strength for the battle of life. Come back to the fight soon. You are bound to succeed, because you have talent and ambition and courage. [Slight pause. He takes her hand.] Don’t cry. There is nothing you have lost or suffered yet quite worth a tear—EnterMrs. Parbury,R.,Gunning,andArmitage.—nothing quite worth a tear. [He is bending towards her.][Mrs. Parbury,who is slightly in advance ofArmitageandGunning,stops nearMiss WoodwardandParbury,brought up short by seeing their intimate position.Parburydraws back fromMiss Woodward,who remains upright and motionless.GunningandArmitage,who exchange glances, remainL.Miss WoodwardcrossesL.to go.Mrs. Parbury.[In a low voice, speaking slowly, with deep emotion.] I suppose—I have still a right to ask—for some explanation?Parbury.Of what, dear?Mrs. Parbury.Of this familiarity.Parbury.You shouldn’t mistake sympathy for familiarity. I was only giving Miss Woodward some advice about her affairs.Mrs. Parbury.What affairs?Parbury.I saidheraffairs, dear, not ours.Mrs. Parbury.If that is all the explanation——[Turns awayL.Miss Woodward.Mr. Parbury very kindly and very properly advised me to go home for a time—[She comes down toMrs. Parburyand speaks to her alone]—and I—I descended to your level—I cried!Quick Curtain.END OF ACT III.ACT IVScene.—Same as Acts I. and II.Same day as Act III.[Upon the curtain rising,Miss Woodwardis discovered at the desk. A luncheon gong is immediately heard.Miss Woodwardlooks up and listens for a moment, then shrugs her shoulders and resumes her work. She opens a drawer of the desk, glances at its contents, and then writes.]Miss Woodward.[Writing.] Drawer four. Reviews favourable of “Harvey Masterton.” In top corner, tied in bundle, reviews unfavourable. [She closes and locks that drawer and unlocks another, into which she looks. Writing.] Drawer five. Proof sheets of new novel corrected to page 180. At back, accounts with publishers. [The luncheon gong is struck again. She opens another drawer, looks into it for a moment, turns over its contents, then shrugs her shoulders and writes.] A variety of photographs of Mrs. Parbury and two packets of letters marked “Private.” How touching! [She closes the drawer with a bang, and opens another.]EnterEvans,L.Evans.[C.] Excuse me, Miss, but have you heard the luncheon gong?Miss Woodward.Yes, thank you.Evans.It’s been struck twice, specially for you, Miss.Miss Woodward.Who told you to strike it the second time?Evans.Mr. Parbury, Miss.Miss Woodward.And who sent you now?Evans.Mrs. Parbury asked me to tell you they’re at lunch. They’re the only words that’s been spoken since they sat down. It’s rather trying to the nerves, Miss, waiting on people that only open their mouths to eat.Miss Woodward.You will please say that I don’t wish any lunch.Evans.Yes, Miss.Miss Woodward.Has Emma packed my things?Evans.She’s packing them now, Miss.Miss Woodward.[Glancing at an A.B.C. which is on the desk.] Willyou please order a cab for me at—let me see—[consulting the book]—four-twenty—say at half-past three.Evans.Yes, Miss. Excuse me, Miss, but we’re all very sorry you’re going—particularly cook. Cook’s very strong in her attachments.Miss Woodward.[Looking into a drawer.] It’s very kind of cook.Evans.Cook’s words was, “This’ll be a dull ’ouse when the little sunbeam’s gone.”Miss Woodward.That will do, Evans.Evans.Excuse me, Miss, it was meant kindly. We was all on your side in this embroglo.[A pause.Miss Woodwardis obstinately silent, and goes on working.Evans.Can’t I get you something, Miss?Miss Woodward.Yes; ask cook to kindly make me a sandwich, and I’ll have a glass of beer.Evans.Sandwich of mutton or ’am, Miss?Miss Woodward.Ham, please. [ExitEvans,L.] It’s sure to be cold mutton to-night. [She writes.] Old manuscripts. [Closes drawer.] There, that’s all in order for him. [Rises.] I know there are some books of mine here. I may as well have them. [Goes towards book-shelves, but stops when she comes to the occasional table on which is the photo ofMr. Parbury.She stretches out her hand and takes the photograph gingerly. Then she looks round to see if she is observed, with to herself an affectation of fear.] Poor thing! Was it outraged by a kiss! What a shame! But it’s all right now! [Puts it back with care.] No one shall hurt it. It’s perfectly safe—perfectly safe. [She goes to book-shelf.] Keats—mine. [Takes a volume.] Matthew Arnold—mine.EnterEvanswith sandwiches, beer, &c., on a small tray, which he places on the desk.Jane Eyre—mine. I think that’s all. [Brings the books down and places them on desk.] Thank you, Evans.[She sits.Evans.Cook thought you would care for that piece of cake, Miss.Miss Woodward.I would. Thank cook for me.Evans.Yes, Miss. [He goes to door.] There’s still a hominous silence at the lunch-table, Miss.Miss Woodward.[Taking a sandwich.] That’s all right, Evans. [ExitEvans,L.] After all, one must have food. [She takes a respectable bite out of a sandwich.] And who could over-estimate the consolations of literature? [Opens a book and reads.]“Is the calm thine of stoic souls who weighLife well, and find it wanting, nor deplore,But in disdainful silence turn away,Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more?”Yes, Mr. Arnold, it is.[Takes another bite of a sandwich.EnterMrs. Parbury,L.Mrs. Parbury.Why won’t you come to lunch, Miss Woodward. But oh, I see you’re having something here.Miss Woodward.[For a moment slightly confused.] I—I—[Drinks some of her beer]—I have a railway journey before me.[She rises.Mrs. Parbury.All the more reason you should come and lunch properly.Miss Woodward.You are very kind, but I am in no mood for merriment.Mrs. Parbury.Merriment!Miss Woodward.Aren’t you all merry? I’m so sorry. I thought it would be all right now that I’m going away.Mrs. Parbury.I’m afraid that won’t make any difference. You speak as though you thought you had a grievance against me.Miss Woodward.Oh no; I suppose it’s the other way about.Mrs. Parbury.Perhaps it ought to be, but somehow I don’t feel it acutely. I feel only a dull pain. It’s a terrible thing, Miss Woodward, for a young married woman to suddenly realise that her happiness is gone. I feel that I have aged many years in the last few hours.Miss Woodward.So do I. I’m sadder, but healthier.[Finishes the beer.Mrs. Parbury.It’s so much worse for me.Miss Woodward.Oh, of course our own troubles are always the worst. That is what has been called “The vanity of grief.”Mrs. Parbury.Well, Miss Woodward, I’ll say good-bye. I bear you no ill-will now—really I don’t; and I shall always be glad to hear that you are doing well, although naturally under the circumstances I can hold out no hopes of your coming back here.Miss Woodward.[In amazement.] You, Mrs. Parbury, hold out hopesof my returning here! Do you think there is enough money in the Bank of England to induce me to do that?Mrs. Parbury.I didn’t mean it unkindly. I was only trying to say a nice womanly thing, and to show you that I didn’t blame you so much for falling in love with my husband.Miss Woodward.I never did.Mrs. Parbury.Oh, Miss Woodward, you know I saw you here. [Pointing toParbury’sphotograph.] It was the greatest shock of my life.Miss Woodward.You mean I kissed his photograph?Mrs. Parbury.You know you did.Miss Woodward.[With a little laugh.] I suppose I did.Mrs. Parbury.Then how can you say——Miss Woodward.[Gravely.] It was a motherly kiss.Mrs. Parbury.[Turning away.] It seems impossible to talk with you. I used to think you a serious-minded person.Miss Woodward.Please don’t go, Mrs. Parbury, I’m quite serious. I’d like to explain. I think I owe it to you.Mrs. Parbury.[Turning.] Well?Miss Woodward.You will let me be quite frank?Mrs. Parbury.Oh, I shall like it.Mrs. Parbury.I’ll take the risk. [Comes downL.,sits on sofa.] Go on, please.Miss Woodward.The interest which I began to take in Mr. Parbury sprang in a way from what has been called the maternal instinct.Mrs. Parbury.If you go through the world exercising your maternal instinct on other women’s husbands, Miss Woodward, you’ll end badly.Miss Woodward.I don’t propose doing so. I’m going home to try it on my sisters.Mrs. Parbury.If you had known anything of life, you would have seen that I had sufficient of the maternal instinct for the needs of my husband.Miss Woodward.I’m very, very sorry; please don’t be angry, but I didn’t think it found the right expression. It was very impudent of me, I know.Mrs. Parbury.Very.Miss Woodward.It seemed to me that you smoothed his hair when he’d rather it was rough, and roughed it when he’d rather it was smooth. [Demurely.] I think that expresses what I mean. I have a beastly sly way of noticing everything, and I began to feel sorry for Mr. Parbury. And being quite as egotistical as most girls, I began to think I should have made him a better wife than you.Mrs. Parbury.Oh.[Rises.Miss Woodward.Perhaps in the remotest corner of my heart I think so still.Mrs. Parbury.[Indignant.] Well?Miss Woodward.But I never loved him—never in the least degree.[Mrs. Parbury,during the foregoing, has listened with anger gathering in her face, but at the end, after an apparent momentary struggle with herself, she bursts into laughter.Miss Woodward.I’m glad you’re not angry.Mrs. Parbury.[Still laughing.] It’s impossible to be angry. And so because you thought his wife bored him, you gave his photograph a nice motherly kiss. That was very sweet of you, I’m sure.Miss Woodward.It was well meant, Mrs. Parbury; and you must always remember that I didn’t know you were looking.Mrs. Parbury.[Laughing, sits on sofa.] Why do you make me laugh when you must know that my heart is breaking—that I have lost my happiness for ever. [Pause. She begins to laugh again. Rises.] And I thought you a designing hussy, when you are only a very quaint and harmless girl.[Laughs.EnterGunning,L.;keeps the door open.Gunning.I’m afraid I’m in the way.Mrs. Parbury.Not at all. We have said all we had to say to each other. Oh, how that girl has made me laugh![ExitMrs. Parbury,L.,laughing.Gunningshuts the door.Miss Woodward.Good-bye, Mr. Gunning.[Gathering her books together.Gunning.I want a little talk with you.Miss Woodward.I’m sorry I can’t give you the time,Gunning.Oh yes, you will, Miss Woodward.Miss Woodward.Indeed? I admit my position is a lowly one, but that doesn’t lessen your presumption.[Goes towards the door.Gunning.[With conviction.] You won’t go.Miss Woodward.But I will.Gunning.My dear Miss Woodward, believe me, you will not.Miss Woodward.You don’t propose using force, I suppose?Gunning.No; I think you would like me to, but unfortunately this is not our house, and one must observe the convenances.Miss Woodward.[Going to door,L.] Good-bye, Mr. Gunning.Gunning.Moral force will detain you.Miss Woodward.What moral force, pray?[Turning.Gunning.Curiosity. You know you are dying to know what I have to say.Miss Woodward.Indeed I am not.Gunning.Oh yes, you are. And further, a certain womanly graciousness will prevent your going. You are saying to yourself, “Mr. Gunning has evinced a genuine interest in me. It would be cattish of me to refuse him a few minutes’ talk.”Miss Woodward.[Slowly comes to sofa and puts her books down.] I certainly don’t wish to be cattish.Gunning.Of course not.Miss Woodward.[Sits on sofa.] And anyway I want to eat my piece of cake. Will you pass it, please? [He passes the plate.] Thank you. I hope you won’t mind my eating.Gunning.Not at all. I like it.Miss Woodward.Not that I fear it would make any difference if you did.Gunning.No, certainly not. Go on being natural, please. [Pause. He watches her nibbling the cake.] Shall I ring for a fresh piece?Miss Woodward.No, thank you. I’m used to this piece now. [She glances up at him.] You needn’t be disconcerted, Mr. Gunning.Gunning.I’m not a bit.Miss Woodward.You look it a little.Gunning.Do I?Miss Woodward.And you know you didn’t detain me here to watch me eating cake.Gunning.No, although you do it very nicely. I want to ask you what you think of me.[Leaning on back of chair,R.C.Miss Woodward.I haven’t thought of you.Gunning.Well, I’d like you to begin.Miss Woodward.I’m afraid I haven’t time now.Gunning.It might be to your interest, though I don’t say positively that it would be.Miss Woodward.Explain.[Turns to him.Gunning.I think I ought first to tell you something about myself.Miss Woodward.[In mock alarm.] Not the story of your life, surely. My cab will be here soon.Gunning.You told me yours last night?Miss Woodward.You asked me to. I haven’t asked you.Gunning.You needn’t reproach me for taking an interest in you.Miss Woodward.I don’t; but you make such a fuss about it, as if it were a sort of miracle.Gunning.[Crossly takes plate from her lap and cake from her hand; puts them on table,R.] Oh well, I suppose I oughtn’t to detain you, Miss Woodward. You are evidently anxious to get back to your twelve sisters and the hat and frock you told me about.Miss Woodward.[Rises.] You needn’t throw the family poverty in my face, although it serves me right for giving my confidence to a comparative stranger.Gunning.Miss Woodward, I humbly beg your pardon.Miss Woodward.Although the home may be grubby, I daresay we are as happy as you. We believe in things, anyway—you don’t.Gunning.Don’t judge me by a hasty remark. Besides, I had an alternative to suggest.Miss Woodward.You? You don’t want a secretary, do you?Gunning.I—I wanted to tell you in a different way, but you won’t let me. I want you as my wife.Miss Woodward.Your wife, Mr. Gunning?Gunning.It may appear sudden and cold-blooded—but your cab is coming.Miss Woodward.You’ve taken my breath away. How exciting it is when it does come. I really don’t know what to say. I know there is a usual thing. It isn’t “To what am I indebted for this honour,” is it?Gunning.I don’t know. I’ve never asked a girl before.Miss Woodward.We don’t know each other in the least.Gunning.That’s where we would start with a big advantage. We’d have all the pleasure of finding each other out. Anyway, you are not displeased.Miss Woodward.Oh no; either way I score. If I say yes, I suppose I’ll make a good match.Gunning.Pretty good.Miss Woodward.And if I say no, I shall at least be able to boast of a proposal.Gunning.That’s so.Miss Woodward.Not that there’s much satisfaction in that to a practical mind.Gunning.No? [Goes to her.] Try the other.Miss Woodward.But we don’t love each other.Gunning.Another big advantage. Love is the rock upon which so many well-intentioned young persons split. They engage to marry each other while the intelligence is perverted, the reason unbalanced, and the judgment obscured by an overpowering sentiment. They enter into a solemn life-binding contract in a highly emotional and altogether unnormal moral condition. The disastrous results of such folly we see examples of daily. We will escape that snare. [He comes close to her.] Of course if the sentiment should subsequently come, if that particular kind of emotion should by chance supervene, we’ll deal with it as best we may.Miss Woodward.[Sits on arm of sofa.] Still there must be something in love-making. I remember my sister and the curate seemed to have a very good time. We all thought them fussy, but I know they liked it.Gunning.I made love to you in the garden this morning.Miss Woodward.Did you? I thought it was pity, and resented itGunning.You refused me a rose, and gave one——Miss Woodward.I refused you because I thought you pitied me, and gave one to Mr. Parbury because I pitied him.Gunning.I’d like you to pity me.Miss Woodward.Ishouldif I said yes. [Leaves him.] But I mean to say no.Gunning.[Following her.] You are afraid.Miss Woodward.Of what?Gunning.Of what people call my “nasty sneering way,” for instance.Miss Woodward.[Confidently.] Oh, I could deal with that all right.Gunning.I’m sure you could. [Goes near to her.] Say yes, Hyacinth.EnterEvans,L.Evans.Your cab is here, Miss.Gunning.[ToMiss Woodward,in low voice.] Send it away. [She hesitates.] Do.Miss Woodward.Thank you, Evans. Let it wait.[Gunningmoves away toC.with a satisfied smile.Evans.Yes, Miss.[ExitL.Miss Woodward.Good-bye, Mr. Gunning. If you were entirely different from what you are, I think I could have liked you; or if I were entirely different from what I am, I think I might have married you. But you are hopelessly modern and cold-blooded, and I am only an old-fashioned, healthy English girl, and a healthy English girl doesn’t want to make experiments, she wants to be loved.[SuddenlyGunningthrows his arm round her, and bends forward to kiss her. She quickly raises her clenched hand as if to strike him in the face. He looks her in the eyes without flinching.Gunning.Perhaps she wants a master.Miss Woodward.[Softly.] Perhaps.[Her hand slowly drops; he kisses her.Colonel.[OutsideL.] No, my dear; I can’t wait any longer.
[Rises and goesL.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Rising indignantly.] How dare you speak like that of my husband! A less vain man doesn’t exist, andwhat small faults he has concern only him and me—and not you in any way.
Gunning.
I beg ten thousand pardons, Mrs. Parbury. Of course you know Clement far better than I do. Please don’t go.
Mrs. Parbury.
I shall certainly not remain to hear my husband abused.
Gunning.
But I assure you——
Mrs. Parbury.
[Crosses toL.] Clement vain indeed!
Gunning.
No, no; a mistake. Do sit down again.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Crosses toR.C.] You might, with advantage, look for vanity nearer home, Mr. Gunning.
Mr. Gunning.
Perfectly true, perfectly true.
[He places her chair for her.
Mrs. Parbury.
As for the sort of weakness you were good enough to credit my husband with——
Gunning.
Nothing but a slip of the tongue. Do sit down.
Mrs. Parbury.
No doubt you have accustomed yourself to judging other men from your own standpoint.
Gunning.
That’s it; quite true! You are always right. Won’t you sit?
[She sits. He sighs with relief, then takes a chair himself.
Mrs. Parbury.
What do you propose?
Gunning.
I’m waiting for a suggestion from you.
Mrs. Parbury.
This brazen hussy——
Gunning.
That expression seems to me to be unnecessarily harsh, Mrs. Parbury.
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh, of course, if you defend the girl——
Gunning.
Pardon me, but I have an old-fashioned prejudice against speaking ill of the absent.
Mrs. Parbury.
I didn’t observe it when you spoke of my husband.
Gunning.
[Laughing.] Fairly hit. Come, let’s be practical.Miss Woodward must not remain in the house, and Clement must not know the truth. On these points we are quite agreed.
Mrs. Parbury.
Quite.
Gunning.
Very well. I’ll see Clement. I have an idea.
[Rises.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Rises.] You’ll not tell him you’ve seen me.
Gunning.
Certainly not.
Mrs. Parbury.
Remember above all, it’s most important to our future happiness that Clement should be the first to give way.
Gunning.
Oh, I’ll remember that.
Mrs. Parbury.
And, Mr. Gunning, if you succeed I’ll try to forget the mischief you’ve created, and will ask you to come and see us—[shakes hands with him]—occasionally.
Gunning.
Thank you so much.
[Voice ofColonel Armitageoutside singing “I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”
Mrs. Parbury.
That’s father’s signal. I am going to walk on the heath. I’m far too proud to allow myself to bediscovered by Clement here. He might think I want to come back.
[ExitMrs. Parbury,R.
[Voice ofArmitage,still singing, comes nearer until he enters withParbury,with the words “or charm thee to a tear.” Unseen byParbury,Gunningpoints out to theColonelthe direction in whichMrs. Parburyhas gone.
Armitage.
[In a low voice, toGunning.] Will it be all right?
Gunning.
I hope so.
Armitage.
[GoingR.] Well, I’ll finish my constitutional. I’ll look in again, Clement, in the hope that you will then be able to tell me how long this extremely uncomfortable state of affairs is to last.
[ExitArmitage,R.,singing until he is well off.
Parbury.
Give me a cigarette, George.
[Gunninghands him a cigarette, then takes a cigarette himself. They both smoke. There is a short silence.
Parbury.
Not a stroke of work. It’s absurd!
[Throws cigarette on ground in a rage.
Gunning.
You are not happy?
Parbury.
Not particularly.
Gunning.
Then how can you expect to do imaginative work?
Parbury.
Quite so!
Gunning.
I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, old chap.
Parbury.
Eh?
Gunning.
You know I’m your friend.
Parbury.
Of course.
Gunning.
Apart from all chaff.
Parbury.
Yes, yes.
Gunning.
Well, you’ve gone too far.
Parbury.
[Looks at him.] You think so?
Gunning.
Yes. By a petulant discontent you’ve precipitated an awkward crisis.
Parbury.
You see it now in that light.
Gunning.
Yes. I’ve been thinking things over, Clement. [Sits on front of table,C.] After all, the love of a good woman is a priceless possession.
Parbury.
You appear to have dropped into the platitudinous.
Gunning.
[With much gravity.] Don’t jest, old man, over so sacred a thing.
Parbury.
[After eyeingGunningkeenly for a moment.] You have changed your views since yesterday.
Gunning.
Only the unimaginative never change their views.
Parbury.
You think, then, I’ve been wrong?
Gunning.
Very!
Parbury.
I should have gone on putting up with the existing conditions?
Gunning.
They might have been worse.
Parbury.
Submitting to the old tyranny?
Gunning.
A wholesome discipline, believe me.
Parbury.
What of our spoilt yachting cruise?
Gunning.
I ought never to have proposed it. Think what a loving wife must suffer under the circumstances—lying awake at night listening to the wind howling in the chimneys and sobbing in the trees. It doesn’t bear thinking of.
Parbury.
Quite so—quite so! And about our dear old friends whom I was obliged to drop. You may remember you made some very strong comments on my weakness yesterday.
Gunning.
I was hasty. I admit it.
Parbury.
Wybrow, for instance—an awful good chap.
Gunning.
A tavern wit—a Johnsonian spirit—eminently out of place on the domestic hearth.
Parbury.
Well, take Carson—one of the best.
Gunning.
Foolishly married a woman your wife couldn’t get on with. You admitted it.
Parbury.
But Burleigh—a truly great spirit—your own words.
Gunning.
Burleigh? It isn’t because a man gives you a watch that you need thrust him down your wife’s throat, is it?
Parbury.
What an old fraud you are, George!
Gunning.
Not at all. One sees things more clearly in the morning.
Parbury.
Well, since you’ve resigned your attitude of nonintervention, what do you advise?
Gunning.
Discreet surrender.
Parbury.
I’m to send for my wife?
Gunning.
Exactly.
Parbury.
Unconditionally?
Gunning.
Of course. Why impose conditions on a weak, loving, trusting woman? [Going to him.] Damn it all, old man, show a little heart.
Parbury.
You know it means the sacrifice of my secretary?
Gunning.
Well?
Parbury.
Well?
Gunning.
[A little embarrassed; he drops his cigarette and places his foot on it.] It’s obvious that Miss Woodward can’t stay on here in your wife’s absence.
Parbury.
I’ve thought of that.
Gunning.
You heard what Evans said. The servants are talking already—and if the servants are talking this morning the neighbours will be talking this afternoon, and the entire north-west of London by the evening.
Parbury.
Quite true—quite true!
Gunning.
I suppose you don’t wish to compromise the girl?
Parbury.
Certainly not—certainly not! [He goes slowly over toGunning,and looks him in the face, smiling.] And so that’s your secret.
Gunning.
What do you mean?
Parbury.
All this solicitude for my happiness—this sudden change of your point of view—this miraculous conversion of the cynic into the peacemaker—all inspiredby a pair of blue eyes. An arrow from Cupid’s bow has winged its way into this wooden heart—[TappingGunning’schest]—and “Earth has won her child again,” as Goethe puts it.
Gunning.
Don’t talk rot!
Parbury.
Don’t be offended. I like it. It pleases me. Think of it! One dull evening in a suburban home, one morning’s encounter in a rose-garden, and the thing’s done—the sage melts into the man, the onlooker into the soldier. I tell you I like it. It’s so natural, so human—so splendidly unlike you. Let me help. What can I do? She’s coming here now with some letters for me to sign. “Were it ever so airy a tread, your heart would hear her and beat.” Isn’t it so? Shall I speak to her for you? Better still, shall I leave you alone together?
Gunning.
[Fixing his hat on more firmly and taking his stick.] I’m going. You bore me.
EnterMiss Woodward,L.She carries some typewritten letters and pen and ink. She goes to the table and stands waiting forParbury.
Parbury.
One moment, old man. [He looks inGunning’sface, then speaks in a lower voice.] Don’t let it pass unrecorded. You have permitted yourself a blush.
Gunning.
[Trying to pass him.] Don’t be an idiot.
Parbury.
[Restraining him.] It’s a beautiful, touching truth. The philosopher—the man who has gained perspective—the student who sits perched on a lofty ledge and looks down pityingly on the rest of us, is actually blushing—blushing a poor, simple, human blush!
[Laughs loudly.
Gunning.
Go to the devil!
[ExitGunning,R.
Parbury.
[Turning toMiss Woodward.He goes to her.] Forgive my laughter, Miss Woodward, but it isn’t often one surprises a philosopher in a blush. Now, let us see! [He sits and takes the letters.Miss Woodwardremains standing by him. He reads. Interrupting himself after a moment, he laughs slightly.] Dear old George! [He continues reading, then signs the letter. He looks over another and says “Excellent!” and signs it. Then he quickly signs the other letters, sits back in his chair, and says] Thank you! [Miss Woodwardgathers up the letters.] I’m afraid that’s all the work I can do to-day. I’d like to have gone on with the novel, but it seems the mood won’t come.
Miss Woodward.
I’m very sorry.
Parbury.
The day is out of joint.
Miss Woodward.
I wish I could do something.
Parbury.
No, no, don’t you trouble. It’ll all come rightpresently. By the way, what a good fellow Gunning is!
Miss Woodward.
Is he?
Parbury.
Don’t you think so?
[Looking at her.
Miss Woodward.
I’ve seen so little of him; but I’m sure he must be if you think so.
[She is going,L.
Parbury.
Wait one moment, Miss Woodward. I know there was something else I wanted to say to you. [She comes back.] [He rises and paces stage thoughtfully.] Oh, yes; I know! I’m afraid my domestic complications have made things a little uncomfortable for you here.
Miss Woodward.
[Astonished, drops the letters on the table.] I don’t—don’t understand.
Parbury.
I mean that you probably feel it rather awkward to actually live—night and day in the house in my wife’s absence?
Miss Woodward.
[Blankly.] Oh, yes, yes; quite I suppose.
Parbury.
[Not looking at her.] I don’t know much about these matters; but I do know that you women are very sensitive, and apt to worry about what people might say.
Miss Woodward.
[In the same manner as before.] Yes—of course.
Parbury.
I thought so. Well, it has occurred to me that perhaps under present circumstances it would be better if——
Miss Woodward.
You mean for me to go away.
Parbury.
Yes.
[Pause.
Miss Woodward.
[In a low voice.] If I had been wiser I would have expected it.
Parbury.
I mean, of course, to sleep only. Mrs. Howlands at Parkhurst House just down here lets some of her rooms I know, and probably she has a vacant bedroom now. I’ll send down presently and see what can be done. In fact, I’ll send Evans now.
[Is about to goL.
Miss Woodward.
Mr. Parbury!
Parbury.
[Stopping.] Yes.
Miss Woodward.
Don’t send, please.
Parbury.
Oh, I see; you would rather go yourself.
Miss Woodward.
I would rather go altogether.
Parbury.
[Amazed.] You would rather go altogether!
Miss Woodward.
I mean Iwillgo altogether.
Parbury.
Miss Woodward, what is this for? What have I done?
Miss Woodward.
Nothing that hasn’t been perfect kindness to me.
Parbury.
Then why wish to go now? I know I can’t expect to have you always, because you will some day get married.
Miss Woodward.
I shall never get married.
Parbury.
Nonsense! Of course you will, and the man who gets you will, in my opinion, be a very lucky fellow; but until that day I certainly looked forward to having the benefit of your services.
Miss Woodward.
I’m sorry if I disappoint you. Please forgive me and let me go.
Parbury.
But really, Miss Woodward, I must beg for somesort of explanation. Last night you acknowledged you were perfectly satisfied. You wished to remain.
Miss Woodward.
You have unconsciously shown me to-day that I was wrong.
Parbury.
Indeed! I would be glad to know how. Oh, how weary one gets of mysteries! [Miss Woodward’shead droops lower.] [He walks the stage, then looks atMiss Woodwardand pauses; he goes to her and speaks more gently.] I beg your pardon, I fear I spoke impatiently. Do understand that I only wish for your own good. I admit in our relations I’ve hitherto been rather selfish. I’m afraid writing men are prone to be so. I’ve allowed you to study my wishes and feelings and nerves all the time, without giving any thought to yours. I’ll try to be more considerate in the future if you’ll only regard me as an elder brother and tell me what is troubling you now.
Miss Woodward.
I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m ashamed that you should worry about me at all.
Parbury.
Is it anything to do with Mr. Gunning?
Miss Woodward.
Nothing at all. How could it be?
Parbury.
Miss Woodward, I don’t like to press you, but this general cloud of mystery is seriously affectingmy nerves. At least tell me—I make it a personal favour—the cause of the quarrel between my wife and you.
Miss Woodward.
It’s impossible! Mrs. Parbury may tell you after I’ve gone. I’d rather you despised me then than now.
Parbury.
[Wonderingly.] Despise you?
[Their eyes meet. Pause.
Miss Woodward.
[Passionately.] Please don’t—don’t even try to guess.
Parbury.
[The light breaking in on him slowly.] I think I understand.
[Miss Woodwardturns up stage and stands with head bowed, her back to the audience. There is a long pause. At firstParburydoesn’t appear ill-pleased. He looks down at the rose in his buttonhole, and begins to raise it half-tenderly to his face. Then his face becomes grave, and he slowly removes the flower from his coat, and places it on the table against whichMiss Woodwardis standing. He takes one of her hands.
Parbury.
I don’t ask anything—I don’t guess anything, my dear child—my little sister. I was wrong to press you to tell me your trouble; for what could ahardened, rough-natured man do with the secrets of a young girl’s heart?
Miss Woodward.
Don’t speak like that; only say that I may go.
Parbury.
Yes.
[Goes upC.
Miss Woodward.
Thank you.
[Sees the rose where he has placed it. After a slight pause she takes it up. During the following, she slowly picks it to pieces, dropping the petals on the ground.
Parbury.
[Coming down to back of table and speaking very gently.] I suppose there must soon come a time to every girl of heart who goes out alone into the world—a time when life seems to press hardly upon her and weariness of the unaccustomed stress makes her heart falter, and when she longs to take rest for a time in the old childhood, in the home she perhaps once thought to be dull and dreary, in the mother’s arms that have always been ready to open with love for her.
Miss Woodward.
Don’t!
[Sinks into chair,R.C.;buries her face in her hands.
Parbury.
Perhaps you feel that that time has come now.If so, go home for a little while, and get rest and fresh strength for the battle of life. Come back to the fight soon. You are bound to succeed, because you have talent and ambition and courage. [Slight pause. He takes her hand.] Don’t cry. There is nothing you have lost or suffered yet quite worth a tear—
EnterMrs. Parbury,R.,Gunning,andArmitage.
—nothing quite worth a tear. [He is bending towards her.]
[Mrs. Parbury,who is slightly in advance ofArmitageandGunning,stops nearMiss WoodwardandParbury,brought up short by seeing their intimate position.Parburydraws back fromMiss Woodward,who remains upright and motionless.GunningandArmitage,who exchange glances, remainL.Miss WoodwardcrossesL.to go.
Mrs. Parbury.
[In a low voice, speaking slowly, with deep emotion.] I suppose—I have still a right to ask—for some explanation?
Parbury.
Of what, dear?
Mrs. Parbury.
Of this familiarity.
Parbury.
You shouldn’t mistake sympathy for familiarity. I was only giving Miss Woodward some advice about her affairs.
Mrs. Parbury.
What affairs?
Parbury.
I saidheraffairs, dear, not ours.
Mrs. Parbury.
If that is all the explanation——
[Turns awayL.
Miss Woodward.
Mr. Parbury very kindly and very properly advised me to go home for a time—[She comes down toMrs. Parburyand speaks to her alone]—and I—I descended to your level—I cried!
Quick Curtain.
END OF ACT III.
Scene.—Same as Acts I. and II.Same day as Act III.
[Upon the curtain rising,Miss Woodwardis discovered at the desk. A luncheon gong is immediately heard.Miss Woodwardlooks up and listens for a moment, then shrugs her shoulders and resumes her work. She opens a drawer of the desk, glances at its contents, and then writes.]
Miss Woodward.
[Writing.] Drawer four. Reviews favourable of “Harvey Masterton.” In top corner, tied in bundle, reviews unfavourable. [She closes and locks that drawer and unlocks another, into which she looks. Writing.] Drawer five. Proof sheets of new novel corrected to page 180. At back, accounts with publishers. [The luncheon gong is struck again. She opens another drawer, looks into it for a moment, turns over its contents, then shrugs her shoulders and writes.] A variety of photographs of Mrs. Parbury and two packets of letters marked “Private.” How touching! [She closes the drawer with a bang, and opens another.]
EnterEvans,L.
Evans.
[C.] Excuse me, Miss, but have you heard the luncheon gong?
Miss Woodward.
Yes, thank you.
Evans.
It’s been struck twice, specially for you, Miss.
Miss Woodward.
Who told you to strike it the second time?
Evans.
Mr. Parbury, Miss.
Miss Woodward.
And who sent you now?
Evans.
Mrs. Parbury asked me to tell you they’re at lunch. They’re the only words that’s been spoken since they sat down. It’s rather trying to the nerves, Miss, waiting on people that only open their mouths to eat.
Miss Woodward.
You will please say that I don’t wish any lunch.
Evans.
Yes, Miss.
Miss Woodward.
Has Emma packed my things?
Evans.
She’s packing them now, Miss.
Miss Woodward.
[Glancing at an A.B.C. which is on the desk.] Willyou please order a cab for me at—let me see—[consulting the book]—four-twenty—say at half-past three.
Evans.
Yes, Miss. Excuse me, Miss, but we’re all very sorry you’re going—particularly cook. Cook’s very strong in her attachments.
Miss Woodward.
[Looking into a drawer.] It’s very kind of cook.
Evans.
Cook’s words was, “This’ll be a dull ’ouse when the little sunbeam’s gone.”
Miss Woodward.
That will do, Evans.
Evans.
Excuse me, Miss, it was meant kindly. We was all on your side in this embroglo.
[A pause.Miss Woodwardis obstinately silent, and goes on working.
Evans.
Can’t I get you something, Miss?
Miss Woodward.
Yes; ask cook to kindly make me a sandwich, and I’ll have a glass of beer.
Evans.
Sandwich of mutton or ’am, Miss?
Miss Woodward.
Ham, please. [ExitEvans,L.] It’s sure to be cold mutton to-night. [She writes.] Old manuscripts. [Closes drawer.] There, that’s all in order for him. [Rises.] I know there are some books of mine here. I may as well have them. [Goes towards book-shelves, but stops when she comes to the occasional table on which is the photo ofMr. Parbury.She stretches out her hand and takes the photograph gingerly. Then she looks round to see if she is observed, with to herself an affectation of fear.] Poor thing! Was it outraged by a kiss! What a shame! But it’s all right now! [Puts it back with care.] No one shall hurt it. It’s perfectly safe—perfectly safe. [She goes to book-shelf.] Keats—mine. [Takes a volume.] Matthew Arnold—mine.
EnterEvanswith sandwiches, beer, &c., on a small tray, which he places on the desk.
Jane Eyre—mine. I think that’s all. [Brings the books down and places them on desk.] Thank you, Evans.
[She sits.
Evans.
Cook thought you would care for that piece of cake, Miss.
Miss Woodward.
I would. Thank cook for me.
Evans.
Yes, Miss. [He goes to door.] There’s still a hominous silence at the lunch-table, Miss.
Miss Woodward.
[Taking a sandwich.] That’s all right, Evans. [ExitEvans,L.] After all, one must have food. [She takes a respectable bite out of a sandwich.] And who could over-estimate the consolations of literature? [Opens a book and reads.]
“Is the calm thine of stoic souls who weigh
Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore,
But in disdainful silence turn away,
Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more?”
Yes, Mr. Arnold, it is.
[Takes another bite of a sandwich.
EnterMrs. Parbury,L.
Mrs. Parbury.
Why won’t you come to lunch, Miss Woodward. But oh, I see you’re having something here.
Miss Woodward.
[For a moment slightly confused.] I—I—[Drinks some of her beer]—I have a railway journey before me.
[She rises.
Mrs. Parbury.
All the more reason you should come and lunch properly.
Miss Woodward.
You are very kind, but I am in no mood for merriment.
Mrs. Parbury.
Merriment!
Miss Woodward.
Aren’t you all merry? I’m so sorry. I thought it would be all right now that I’m going away.
Mrs. Parbury.
I’m afraid that won’t make any difference. You speak as though you thought you had a grievance against me.
Miss Woodward.
Oh no; I suppose it’s the other way about.
Mrs. Parbury.
Perhaps it ought to be, but somehow I don’t feel it acutely. I feel only a dull pain. It’s a terrible thing, Miss Woodward, for a young married woman to suddenly realise that her happiness is gone. I feel that I have aged many years in the last few hours.
Miss Woodward.
So do I. I’m sadder, but healthier.
[Finishes the beer.
Mrs. Parbury.
It’s so much worse for me.
Miss Woodward.
Oh, of course our own troubles are always the worst. That is what has been called “The vanity of grief.”
Mrs. Parbury.
Well, Miss Woodward, I’ll say good-bye. I bear you no ill-will now—really I don’t; and I shall always be glad to hear that you are doing well, although naturally under the circumstances I can hold out no hopes of your coming back here.
Miss Woodward.
[In amazement.] You, Mrs. Parbury, hold out hopesof my returning here! Do you think there is enough money in the Bank of England to induce me to do that?
Mrs. Parbury.
I didn’t mean it unkindly. I was only trying to say a nice womanly thing, and to show you that I didn’t blame you so much for falling in love with my husband.
Miss Woodward.
I never did.
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh, Miss Woodward, you know I saw you here. [Pointing toParbury’sphotograph.] It was the greatest shock of my life.
Miss Woodward.
You mean I kissed his photograph?
Mrs. Parbury.
You know you did.
Miss Woodward.
[With a little laugh.] I suppose I did.
Mrs. Parbury.
Then how can you say——
Miss Woodward.
[Gravely.] It was a motherly kiss.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Turning away.] It seems impossible to talk with you. I used to think you a serious-minded person.
Miss Woodward.
Please don’t go, Mrs. Parbury, I’m quite serious. I’d like to explain. I think I owe it to you.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Turning.] Well?
Miss Woodward.
You will let me be quite frank?
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh, I shall like it.
Mrs. Parbury.
I’ll take the risk. [Comes downL.,sits on sofa.] Go on, please.
Miss Woodward.
The interest which I began to take in Mr. Parbury sprang in a way from what has been called the maternal instinct.
Mrs. Parbury.
If you go through the world exercising your maternal instinct on other women’s husbands, Miss Woodward, you’ll end badly.
Miss Woodward.
I don’t propose doing so. I’m going home to try it on my sisters.
Mrs. Parbury.
If you had known anything of life, you would have seen that I had sufficient of the maternal instinct for the needs of my husband.
Miss Woodward.
I’m very, very sorry; please don’t be angry, but I didn’t think it found the right expression. It was very impudent of me, I know.
Mrs. Parbury.
Very.
Miss Woodward.
It seemed to me that you smoothed his hair when he’d rather it was rough, and roughed it when he’d rather it was smooth. [Demurely.] I think that expresses what I mean. I have a beastly sly way of noticing everything, and I began to feel sorry for Mr. Parbury. And being quite as egotistical as most girls, I began to think I should have made him a better wife than you.
Mrs. Parbury.
Oh.
[Rises.
Miss Woodward.
Perhaps in the remotest corner of my heart I think so still.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Indignant.] Well?
Miss Woodward.
But I never loved him—never in the least degree.
[Mrs. Parbury,during the foregoing, has listened with anger gathering in her face, but at the end, after an apparent momentary struggle with herself, she bursts into laughter.
Miss Woodward.
I’m glad you’re not angry.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Still laughing.] It’s impossible to be angry. And so because you thought his wife bored him, you gave his photograph a nice motherly kiss. That was very sweet of you, I’m sure.
Miss Woodward.
It was well meant, Mrs. Parbury; and you must always remember that I didn’t know you were looking.
Mrs. Parbury.
[Laughing, sits on sofa.] Why do you make me laugh when you must know that my heart is breaking—that I have lost my happiness for ever. [Pause. She begins to laugh again. Rises.] And I thought you a designing hussy, when you are only a very quaint and harmless girl.
[Laughs.
EnterGunning,L.;keeps the door open.
Gunning.
I’m afraid I’m in the way.
Mrs. Parbury.
Not at all. We have said all we had to say to each other. Oh, how that girl has made me laugh!
[ExitMrs. Parbury,L.,laughing.Gunningshuts the door.
Miss Woodward.
Good-bye, Mr. Gunning.
[Gathering her books together.
Gunning.
I want a little talk with you.
Miss Woodward.
I’m sorry I can’t give you the time,
Gunning.
Oh yes, you will, Miss Woodward.
Miss Woodward.
Indeed? I admit my position is a lowly one, but that doesn’t lessen your presumption.
[Goes towards the door.
Gunning.
[With conviction.] You won’t go.
Miss Woodward.
But I will.
Gunning.
My dear Miss Woodward, believe me, you will not.
Miss Woodward.
You don’t propose using force, I suppose?
Gunning.
No; I think you would like me to, but unfortunately this is not our house, and one must observe the convenances.
Miss Woodward.
[Going to door,L.] Good-bye, Mr. Gunning.
Gunning.
Moral force will detain you.
Miss Woodward.
What moral force, pray?
[Turning.
Gunning.
Curiosity. You know you are dying to know what I have to say.
Miss Woodward.
Indeed I am not.
Gunning.
Oh yes, you are. And further, a certain womanly graciousness will prevent your going. You are saying to yourself, “Mr. Gunning has evinced a genuine interest in me. It would be cattish of me to refuse him a few minutes’ talk.”
Miss Woodward.
[Slowly comes to sofa and puts her books down.] I certainly don’t wish to be cattish.
Gunning.
Of course not.
Miss Woodward.
[Sits on sofa.] And anyway I want to eat my piece of cake. Will you pass it, please? [He passes the plate.] Thank you. I hope you won’t mind my eating.
Gunning.
Not at all. I like it.
Miss Woodward.
Not that I fear it would make any difference if you did.
Gunning.
No, certainly not. Go on being natural, please. [Pause. He watches her nibbling the cake.] Shall I ring for a fresh piece?
Miss Woodward.
No, thank you. I’m used to this piece now. [She glances up at him.] You needn’t be disconcerted, Mr. Gunning.
Gunning.
I’m not a bit.
Miss Woodward.
You look it a little.
Gunning.
Do I?
Miss Woodward.
And you know you didn’t detain me here to watch me eating cake.
Gunning.
No, although you do it very nicely. I want to ask you what you think of me.
[Leaning on back of chair,R.C.
Miss Woodward.
I haven’t thought of you.
Gunning.
Well, I’d like you to begin.
Miss Woodward.
I’m afraid I haven’t time now.
Gunning.
It might be to your interest, though I don’t say positively that it would be.
Miss Woodward.
Explain.
[Turns to him.
Gunning.
I think I ought first to tell you something about myself.
Miss Woodward.
[In mock alarm.] Not the story of your life, surely. My cab will be here soon.
Gunning.
You told me yours last night?
Miss Woodward.
You asked me to. I haven’t asked you.
Gunning.
You needn’t reproach me for taking an interest in you.
Miss Woodward.
I don’t; but you make such a fuss about it, as if it were a sort of miracle.
Gunning.
[Crossly takes plate from her lap and cake from her hand; puts them on table,R.] Oh well, I suppose I oughtn’t to detain you, Miss Woodward. You are evidently anxious to get back to your twelve sisters and the hat and frock you told me about.
Miss Woodward.
[Rises.] You needn’t throw the family poverty in my face, although it serves me right for giving my confidence to a comparative stranger.
Gunning.
Miss Woodward, I humbly beg your pardon.
Miss Woodward.
Although the home may be grubby, I daresay we are as happy as you. We believe in things, anyway—you don’t.
Gunning.
Don’t judge me by a hasty remark. Besides, I had an alternative to suggest.
Miss Woodward.
You? You don’t want a secretary, do you?
Gunning.
I—I wanted to tell you in a different way, but you won’t let me. I want you as my wife.
Miss Woodward.
Your wife, Mr. Gunning?
Gunning.
It may appear sudden and cold-blooded—but your cab is coming.
Miss Woodward.
You’ve taken my breath away. How exciting it is when it does come. I really don’t know what to say. I know there is a usual thing. It isn’t “To what am I indebted for this honour,” is it?
Gunning.
I don’t know. I’ve never asked a girl before.
Miss Woodward.
We don’t know each other in the least.
Gunning.
That’s where we would start with a big advantage. We’d have all the pleasure of finding each other out. Anyway, you are not displeased.
Miss Woodward.
Oh no; either way I score. If I say yes, I suppose I’ll make a good match.
Gunning.
Pretty good.
Miss Woodward.
And if I say no, I shall at least be able to boast of a proposal.
Gunning.
That’s so.
Miss Woodward.
Not that there’s much satisfaction in that to a practical mind.
Gunning.
No? [Goes to her.] Try the other.
Miss Woodward.
But we don’t love each other.
Gunning.
Another big advantage. Love is the rock upon which so many well-intentioned young persons split. They engage to marry each other while the intelligence is perverted, the reason unbalanced, and the judgment obscured by an overpowering sentiment. They enter into a solemn life-binding contract in a highly emotional and altogether unnormal moral condition. The disastrous results of such folly we see examples of daily. We will escape that snare. [He comes close to her.] Of course if the sentiment should subsequently come, if that particular kind of emotion should by chance supervene, we’ll deal with it as best we may.
Miss Woodward.
[Sits on arm of sofa.] Still there must be something in love-making. I remember my sister and the curate seemed to have a very good time. We all thought them fussy, but I know they liked it.
Gunning.
I made love to you in the garden this morning.
Miss Woodward.
Did you? I thought it was pity, and resented it
Gunning.
You refused me a rose, and gave one——
Miss Woodward.
I refused you because I thought you pitied me, and gave one to Mr. Parbury because I pitied him.
Gunning.
I’d like you to pity me.
Miss Woodward.
Ishouldif I said yes. [Leaves him.] But I mean to say no.
Gunning.
[Following her.] You are afraid.
Miss Woodward.
Of what?
Gunning.
Of what people call my “nasty sneering way,” for instance.
Miss Woodward.
[Confidently.] Oh, I could deal with that all right.
Gunning.
I’m sure you could. [Goes near to her.] Say yes, Hyacinth.
EnterEvans,L.
Evans.
Your cab is here, Miss.
Gunning.
[ToMiss Woodward,in low voice.] Send it away. [She hesitates.] Do.
Miss Woodward.
Thank you, Evans. Let it wait.
[Gunningmoves away toC.with a satisfied smile.
Evans.
Yes, Miss.
[ExitL.
Miss Woodward.
Good-bye, Mr. Gunning. If you were entirely different from what you are, I think I could have liked you; or if I were entirely different from what I am, I think I might have married you. But you are hopelessly modern and cold-blooded, and I am only an old-fashioned, healthy English girl, and a healthy English girl doesn’t want to make experiments, she wants to be loved.
[SuddenlyGunningthrows his arm round her, and bends forward to kiss her. She quickly raises her clenched hand as if to strike him in the face. He looks her in the eyes without flinching.
Gunning.
Perhaps she wants a master.
Miss Woodward.
[Softly.] Perhaps.
[Her hand slowly drops; he kisses her.
Colonel.
[OutsideL.] No, my dear; I can’t wait any longer.