



Produced by Andrew Sly, Cindy Horton, Al Haines and the
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_THE PLAYS OF ARTHUR W. PINERO_

Paper cover, 1s 6d; cloth, 2s 6d each


     _THE TIMES_
     _THE PROFLIGATE_
     _THE CABINET MINISTER_
     _THE HOBBY-HORSE_
     _LADY BOUNTIFUL_
     _THE MAGISTRATE_
     _DANDY DICK_
     _SWEET LAVENDER_
     _THE SCHOOLMISTRESS_
     _THE WEAKER SEX_
     _THE AMAZONS_
  [A]_THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY_
     _THE NOTORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH_
     _THE BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT_
     _THE PRINCESS AND THE BUTTERFLY_
     _TRELAWNY OF THE “WELLS”_
  [B]_THE GAY LORD QUEX_
     _IRIS_
     _LETTY_
     _A WIFE WITHOUT A SMILE_
     _HIS HOUSE IN ORDER_
     _THE THUNDERBOLT_
     _MID-CHANNEL_
     _PRESERVING MR. PANMURE_
     _THE “MIND THE PAINT” GIRL_


  THE PINERO BIRTHDAY BOOK
  Selected and Arranged by MYRA HAMILTON
  With a Portrait, cloth extra, price 2s 6d.


  _LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN_


FOOTNOTES:

[A] This Play can be had in library form, 4to, cloth with a portrait,
5s.

[B] A Limited Edition of this play on hand-made paper, with a new
portrait, 10s net.




  _THE PROFLIGATE_

  _A PLAY_

  _In Four Acts_

  _By ARTHUR W. PINERO_


  “_It is a good and soothfast saw;
  Half-roasted never will be raw;
  No dough is dried once more to meal,
  No crock new-shapen by the wheel;
  You can’t turn curds to milk again,
  Nor Now, by wishing back to Then;
  And having tasted stolen honey,
  You can’t buy innocence for money._”


  _LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN_




  _First Printed, 1891_

  _New Impressions, 1902, 1909, 1914_


  _All applications respecting amateur performances
  of this play must be made to Mr. Pinero’s Agents,
  Samuel French Limited, 26 Southampton Street,
  Strand, London, W.C._


  _Copyright_




INTRODUCTORY NOTE


IT is now more than four years since “The Profligate” was written,
and in the interval we have seen many conflicting influences at work
upon the theatre, many signs of progress; but in June 1887, although
the dramatic atmosphere was full of agitation and uncertainty, and the
clamorous plaints of the pessimists were loud, the bolt of Norwegian
naturalism had not yet fallen upon our stage, Ibsen was still, as
far as England was concerned, an exotic of the library. Mr. Pinero,
however, appears to have been an unswerving optimist in the face of
spreading pessimism; he evidently felt that the air was clearing, that
the period was approaching when the British dramatist might begin to
assert his artistic independence, and at least attempt to write plays
which should, by means of simple and reasonable dramatic deduction,
record actual experience flowing in the natural irregular rhythm of
life, which should at the same time embody lofty ideals of conduct and
of character. So he wrote “The Profligate,” wrote it as he explained,
to fit no particular theatrical company, fettered the free development
of his ideas by no exigencies of managerial expediency.

As soon as the play was completed he sought the opinion of one whose
attitude towards the drama has always been marked by keen artistic
sympathy and generous devotion--that delightful comedian, that masterly
manager, John Hare. Mr. Hare’s opinion of “The Profligate” found
expression in very practical form. He was at that time on the eve of
becoming theatrically homeless, but explaining to the author his plans
for the future, he begged Mr. Pinero to keep his play for him until
such time as he should be in a position to produce it, a request to
which Mr. Pinero gladly acceded.

Two years elapsed, during which period the battle of the _isms_ had
proceeded apace, realism clashing with conventionalism, naturalism
with romanticism. And the time now seemed ripe to gauge the practical
progress of the modern dramatic movement, as we may call it, to test
how far theatrical audiences were really prepared to accept serious
drama without “comic relief.” The opportunity was at hand, the new
Garrick Theatre was completed, and Mr. John Hare produced “The
Profligate.”

It must be admitted, however, that in doing this a question of
managerial policy prompted a concession to popular taste or custom
which Mr. Pinero had never anticipated in the composition of “The
Profligate.” He had ended his play with the suicide of the penitent
profligate at the very moment that the wife is coming to him with pity
and forgiveness in her heart, resolved to share his life again, to
bear with him the burden of his past as well as his future--a grimly
ironical trick of fate which the author considered to be the legitimate
and logical conclusion of this domestic tragedy.

But authors propose, and the “gods” dispose. Mr. Hare, as he frankly
admitted in a letter to the papers, felt somewhat timorous of braving
the popular prejudice in favour of theatrical happiness in the last
act of new plays, and he suggested to Mr. Pinero that, as a matter of
expediency, it would be well to alter his _dénouement_, so as to bring
about a reconciliation between the reformed profligate and his innocent
wife. Mr. Pinero fell in with the managerial views, determining at the
same time that, while he allowed the hero of his story to live on with
promise of future happiness upon the stage, when the play came to be
printed the terrible finality of the tragedy should be restored exactly
as it was first written.

Now, therefore, that it has become feasible to place “The Profligate”
in the hands of the reader, the author’s intention is adhered to, and
the play appears in its original form. As a matter of record, however,
and for the benefit of those readers who may possibly be interested
in comparing the two versions, I think it advisable to append below
that portion of the acted text which differs from the play as it is
now published, especially since the matter has excited some critical
discussion.

The Fourth Act, as generally performed, is entitled “On the Threshold,”
and the departure from the original occurs on p. 122, when Dunstan
Renshaw is about to drink the poison. From that point it runs thus:--

 DUNSTAN.

 [_He is raising the glass to his lips when he recoils with a cry
 of horror._] Ah! stop, stop! This is the deepest sin of all my
 life--blacker than that sin for which I suffer! No, I’ll not! I’ll
 not! [_He dashes the glass to the ground._] God, take my wretched life
 when You will, but till You lay Your hand upon me, I will live on!
 Help me! Give me strength to live on! Help me! Oh, help me!

  [_He falls on his knees, and buries his face in his hands. LESLIE
    enters softly, carrying a lamp which she places on the sideboard;
    she then goes to DUNSTAN._

 LESLIE.

 Dunstan! Dunstan!

 DUNSTAN.

 [_Looking wildly at her._] You! You!

 LESLIE.

 I have remembered. When we stood together at our prayerless marriage,
 my heart made promises my lips were not allowed to utter. I will not
 part from you, Dunstan.

 DUNSTAN.

 Not--part--from me?

 LESLIE.

 No.

 DUNSTAN.

 I don’t understand you. You--will--not--relent? You cannot forget what
 I am!

 LESLIE.

 No. But the burden of the sin you have committed I will bear upon
 my shoulders, and the little good that is in me shall enter into
 your heart. We will start life anew--always seeking for the best
 that we can do, always trying to repair the worst that we have done.
 [_Stretching out her hand to him._] Dunstan! [_He approaches her as in
 a dream._] Don’t fear me! I will be your wife, not your judge. Let us
 from this moment begin the new life you spoke of.

 DUNSTAN.

 [_He tremblingly touches her hand as she bursts into tears._] Wife!
 Ah, God bless you! God bless you, and forgive me!

  [_He kneels at her side, she bows her head down to his._

 LESLIE.

 Oh, my husband!

This ending found many advocates, even Mr. Clement Scott and Mr.
William Archer, who may be regarded as representing the opposite poles
of dramatic criticism, agreeing in their decision that this was the
only logical conclusion. “There can be but one end to such a play,”
wrote Mr. Scott, “and Mr. Pinero has chosen the right one. To make this
wretched man whose sin has found him out a wanderer and an outcast
is bad enough; to make him a suicide would be worse.” Yet there were
others who thought differently.

Wednesday, the 24th of April, 1889, saw the opening of the Garrick
Theatre and the production of “The Profligate,” the programme of which
occasion is here appended.




_Programme._


  OPENING OF THE GARRICK THEATRE.

  THIS EVENING, WEDNESDAY, APRIL 24th, 1889.
  WILL BE ACTED
  FOR THE FIRST TIME

  THE PROFLIGATE

  A New and Original Play in Four Acts.

  BY
  A. W. PINERO.

  LORD DANGARS          Mr. JOHN HARE.
  DUNSTAN RENSHAW       Mr. FORBES ROBERTSON.
  HUGH MURRAY           Mr. LEWIS WALLER.
  WILFRED BRUDENELL     Mr. S. BROUGH.
  Mr. CHEAL             Mr. DODSWORTH.
  EPHGRAVES             Mr. R. CATHCART.
  WEAVER                Mr. H. KNIGHT.

  Mrs. STONEHAY         Mrs. GASTON MURRAY.
  LESLIE BRUDENELL      Miss KATE RORKE.
  IRENE                 Miss BEATRICE LAMB.
  JANET                 Miss OLGA NETHERSOLE.
  PRISCILLA             Miss CALDWELL.

  “It is a good and soothfast saw;
  Half-roasted never will be raw;
  No dough is dried once more to meal,
  No crock new-shapen by the wheel;
  You can’t turn curds to milk again,
  Nor Now, by wishing, back to Then;
  And having tasted stolen honey,
  You can’t buy innocence for money.”




  ACT I.

  “THIS MAN AND THIS WOMAN.”

  _London; Furnival’s Inn_;
  Mr. MURRAY’S _Room at_ Messrs. CHEAL & MURRAY’S.


  ACT II.

  THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

  _Florence; On the Road to Fiesole; The Loggia of the Villa
  Colobiano._


  ACT III.

  THE END OF THE HONEYMOON.

  _The same place._


  ACT IV.

  ON THE THRESHOLD.

  _London; The Old White Hart Hotel, Holborn_;
  Mr. MURRAY’S _Sitting-Room_.


  TIME--THE PRESENT DAY.

The Incidental Song with Guitar Accompaniment, sung by Mr. AVON SAXON,
has been kindly composed by SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN.

THE NEW SCENERY PAINTED BY MR. HARFORD.


Probably few who were present on this occasion will need to be reminded
of the impression made upon the audience by the new play, or of the
plaudits with which it was greeted. The success that attended the
initial representation was echoed for the most part in the chorus of
criticism. On all sides the new play was greeted with warm words of
welcome, even when these words were qualified by serious critical
strictures; the pessimists regarded it at least as an oasis in the
desert of our modern drama, while the optimists hailed it as the herald
of a bright new era of English dramatic literature. The various voices
of criticism were, in fact, unanimous for once in regarding this as an
artistic event of quite unusual importance, even while they were raised
to question certain psychological and ethical elements of the play in
relation to actual human experience.

It does not come within my province here to discuss the several points
of controversy, the various critical objections urged against the
play, but merely to recall them as a matter of theatrical history. So
be it remembered that the central motive of the story was condemned
as being fantastically strained, for the simple reason that at this
end of the nineteenth century the mental condition of Leslie Brudenell
was inconceivable, the position therefore being untenable from the
point of view of real life. It was further urged that any right-minded
young wife would have submissively accepted the situation in the true
wisdom of modern cynicism, or that Dunstan Renshaw would have turned
round upon her and with brutal frankness revealed to her that her
disillusioning was only the common experience of all wives, and that
she must bow to the inevitable and make no fuss. It was laid down
as law moreover that, as a leopard cannot change its spots, so can
no man who has once lived evilly be influenced to a better, a purer
life; that profligate once, profligate he must remain for evermore.
Then Hugh Murray, the serious-minded, lofty-natured lawyer, who can
never restrain his tongue when he sees wrong-doing, but can be nobly,
piteously silent when he must bury his love deep down in his lonely
life until it nearly breaks the heart of him--he was found by certain
critics to be impossibly unreal and even comic. It was discovered, too,
that the office of Messrs. Cheal and Murray was in Furnival’s Inn,
Fairyland--that such proceedings as were witnessed in that office could
never have been possible in Holborn.

Those who made all these discoveries charged “The Profligate” on this
score or that with being untrue to nature or false to art. Yet Mr.
Pinero, in essaying to deal dramatically with a moral problem in a
manner which, while neither cynical nor commonplace, should still be
in touch with human sympathy and possible experience, appears to have
deliberately set himself to conceive a group of characters, natural yet
not ordinary, which should embody his ideals, and with a sufficient
sense of actuality evolve the tragic recoil of sin, the dramatic
pathos of innocence in contact with the irony of life, the exquisite
influence of purity. Whether Mr. Pinero succeeded in carrying out his
idea or not, even the severest of his critics could not deny this
play respectful consideration. “A real play at last,” cried one; “a
faulty play with one faultless act,” was another’s summing-up after his
first enthusiasm had cooled in the refrigerator of time; while yet a
third recorded that “no original English play produced on our stage
for many a day has stirred its audience so deeply at the time of its
representation, or has sent them home with so much to think over, to
discuss and to remember.”

“The Profligate” was performed eighty-six consecutive times at the
Garrick Theatre with considerable success, and, as I believe some
impression to the contrary prevails, I may be pardoned for adding,
with results very satisfactory to Mr. Hare’s treasury. The season
coming to an end on July 27, the Garrick closed, and Mr. Hare took
“The Profligate” on a brief provincial tour. At the Prince of Wales’s
Theatre, Birmingham, on September 2, it was received with extraordinary
enthusiasm, the local critics poured forth eulogy upon eulogy, and
for the next five nights the house was crammed. From Birmingham the
play went to Manchester, where it was produced at the Theatre Royal,
on September 9, and performed there nine times. But the Manchester
critics, though respectful in their attitude, were sparing in their
praise. They complained that Mr. Pinero was neither Dumas nor Augior,
compared him with Georges Ohnet, and found fault with his metaphors.
And the playgoers of Cottonopolis were depressed, and bestowed such
scant favour upon the play that Mr. Hare determined to occupy the
last three nights of his engagement with a mirthful adaptation of
“Les Surprises du Divorce,” and the Manchester folk then attended the
theatre in their numbers, and laughed, and were happy again.

A triumph, however, was in store for “The Profligate” at Liverpool.
On September 23, and during the rest of the week, it was given at the
Shakespeare Theatre, and press and public alike greeted Mr. Pinero’s
play with acclaim. Then Mr. Hare returned to town with his company,
and reopened the Garrick with “The Profligate” on Wednesday, October
2. Again was criticism busy with the play, and the praise of some had
cooled, and the praise of others had warmed, but the original “run”
of the play had been interrupted in the midst of its prosperity,
Mr. Hare had resigned his part to an actor of less influence and
distinction, and after forty-five more performances it was thought
politic to withdraw the play. The notable fact remains, however, that
while theatrical audiences were still being encouraged to expect “comic
relief” and melodramatic sensation, a serious English drama, which made
no concession to either, had been performed one hundred and fifty-three
times within a few months, with profit to author and to manager.

But although “The Profligate” had been withdrawn from the boards of the
theatre, its influence was still active. It commanded a hearing beyond
the footlights, even on the platform of the Literary and Scientific
Institute. Mr. Pinero was invited by the committee of the Birkbeck
Institution to read his play there, and this he did on the evening of
May 16th, 1890, with such marked success that he has since been invited
to repeat the reading at many of the leading institutions in the
provinces.

But the theatrical career of “The Profligate” was to take a wider
range. The voice of the British dramatist was to be heard in the land
of the foreigner; but it spoke in the necessarily mimetic tones of
adaptation, and the tongue was Dutch. “The Profligate,” bearing the
title of “De Losbol,” was produced in Amsterdam on November 30, 1889,
under the personal supervision of Mr. J. T. Grein, at the Municipal
Theatre, which has since been burnt down. Only a partial success is to
be recorded, the play having enjoyed but a brief career, as it did also
at the Hague, where the production took place at the Royal Theatre.
The Dutch critics were for the most part patronising and lukewarm,
patronising because the play was English, lukewarm because the author
had not treated his theme after the cynical and pessimistic methods of
certain modern French writers. But one of the most prominent critics of
Holland was fain to admit, in the _Algemeen Handelsblad_ of Amsterdam,
that “viewed from an English standpoint, ‘The Profligate’ may certainly
be called a remarkable drama,” and that “it is a legitimate play
with a properly worked-out plot, although it contains a good deal of
coincidence, and shows a want of spirit in the dialogue.”

“The Profligate” is next heard of in Germany, where “The Magistrate”
and “Sweet Lavender” already enjoyed popularity; but there the voice of
the author was almost lost in the falsetto tones of the adapter. Dr.
Oscar Blumenthal, a well-known German _littérateur_ and the popular
director of the Lessing Theatre in Berlin, undertook to introduce
Mr. Pinero’s play to German playgoers. But Dr. Blumenthal has won
reputation as a wit and a humorist, and any work from his pen must make
his audience laugh before everything; so he appears to have adopted
very drastic measures in preparing “The Profligate” for the German
theatre. He has in fact transformed a serious drama of English life
into a frivolous comedy of Parisian manners; innocence is turned into
intrigue, the betrayed maiden becomes the scheming adventuress, the
play terminates with a laugh, and it is called “Falsche Heilige”--which
may be translated as “False Saints.” But the result is popular success.

The first performance took place on Friday, February 13, of the present
year, at the Stadttheater, Hamburg, and a perfect triumph was achieved,
adapter and actors were called before the curtain no less than twenty
times, and the press unanimously belauded the “author”--Dr. Blumenthal.
Performances then followed with equal success at Altona, Stettin, Graz,
München, Dresden, Hildesheim, and Lübeck, and on Saturday, August 29,
1891, “Falsche Heilige” was produced in the German capital at Dr.
Blumenthal’s own Lessing Theatre. The reception by Berlin playgoers and
critics was as enthusiastic as it had been elsewhere, and the glory
of the adapter was everywhere. And this is to spread still further,
for the play is to visit all the other important theatrical towns of
Germany.

This summarises so far the Continental career of “The Profligate,” but
in all probability it will penetrate much further. As a modern instance
of the vagaries of adaptation, the following German criticism of “The
Profligate” in its Teutonic dress may be found amusing, in connection
with the English text of the play:--

“The German author may be indebted to the English original of ‘Falsche
Heilige’ for the plan of the piece, and the material for the several
acts, but in the entire modelling, in its general character, and in
all its merits, it is the play of Blumenthal. It is insinuating and
amusing, persuading by fluent, elegant, refined diction, and especially
by the sparkling firework witticisms of Blumenthal, which rise like
rockets in every scene, while the dramatic _aplomb_ is preserved
throughout the grand scene in the third act, which did not fail to
impress, as the author intended. Blumenthal has shifted the action of
the story into the salons of aristocratic Parisian society, and the
strongly perfumed atmosphere of the _bons-vivants_ and the _grisettes_
of Paris, where comfort-loving fathers and guardians compare their
marriage-hunting daughters or wards to ‘freckles,’ which (as the German
Hugh Murray says) ‘scarcely got rid of, make their reappearance.’ The
ornaments of the Boulevards are the main characters of the play, but
the author (Blumenthal) nowhere disgusts a sensitive listener. He tones
down the conversation of the circle, and accentuates its fascinating
features, utilising it as a frame for setting his brilliant coruscating
jokes. He places contrastingly by the side of the frivolous Don Juan
the sentimentally virtuous Paul Benoit, and by the side of the cunning
and false Magdalen the innocent child Jeanne de Lunac. The piece is
full of rich veins of light and cheerful amusement.”

The Australian career of “The Profligate” has been both experimental
and successful. Mr. Charles Cartwright and Miss Olga Nethersole
produced the play at the Bijou Theatre in Melbourne on Tuesday, June
9, of the present year, and for the first time it was acted in the
original version, as now printed. The play ended with Dunstan Renshaw’s
suicide, a _dénouement_ which the Melbourne critics accepted as “more
powerfully dramatic” than the reconciliation, but the impression
produced upon the public was considered too painful, and on the
following Thursday evening the ending of the Garrick version was
substituted for the original, and “gave greater satisfaction to the
public.” Consequently, this is how the play was presented on Tuesday,
August 4, 1891, at the Garrick Theatre in Sydney, where it achieved
very considerable success, and aroused critical enthusiasm, while it
was even then urged that the substitution of the “happy ending,” though
managerially politic, was calculated to “detract from the actual merits
of the play.”

      MALCOLM C. SALAMAN.

  LONDON, _November_ 1891.


       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber's Note: The following appears as a handwritten note in the
original text.

       *       *       *       *       *


[Illustration: The Profligate

Dunstan Renshaw & Lord Dangars have been wild, and Dunstan is to marry
Leslie Brudenell, an innocent school girl. Knowing what Dunstan’s past
has been Hugh Murray won’t come to the wedding. Janet Preece, a girl
ruined & deserted by Dunstan enters & Murray says he will help find her
wronger.

Dunstan returned & in love with Leslie, go to Italy for their
honeymoon. The Michael Angelo sketches at their villa draw tourists,
among whom are Mrs Stonehay & her daughter, Irene, engaged to Lord
Dangars, and a school friend of Leslie. Leslie tries to prevent the
match. Dunstan goes to Rome for furnishings & meets Lord Dangars.
In the meantime Janet Preece comes to the villa, weak & weary. She
confesses she has been ruined & can not marry Wilfred, Leslie’s
brother. Leslie persuades her to tell Mrs. Stonehay how Lord Dangars
ruined her. Thinking he was the one but when the indictment comes to
Leslie’s horror Dunstan is found guilty. She sends him away.

Janet Preece goes for Australia, & leaves Wilfred, Hugh Murray tries to
look after Leslie, and Dunstan returns to her. Thinking she will spurn
him he takes poison. Leslie comes to him, forgiving calling “Husband!”]




_THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY_


  WILFRID BRUDENELL
  LESLIE, _his sister_
  DUNSTAN RENSHAW
  JANET PREECE
  MR. CHEAL
  HUGH MURRAY
  MR. EPHGRAVES
  LORD DANGARS
  MRS. STONEHAY
  IRENE, _her daughter_
  WEAVER
  PRISCILLA




  _THE FIRST ACT_

  “THIS MAN AND THIS WOMAN”


  _THE SECOND ACT_

  THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES


  _THE THIRD ACT_

  THE END OF THE HONEYMOON


  _THE FOURTH ACT_

  THE BEGINNING OF A NEW LIFE




THE PROFLIGATE




THE FIRST ACT.

THIS MAN AND THIS WOMAN.

_The scene is the junior partner’s room in the offices of MESSRS. CHEAL
    and MURRAY, solicitors, Furnival’s Inn, Holborn. There is a gloomy
    air about the place, with its heavy, old-fashioned furniture,
    its oak-panelled walls and dirty white mantelpiece, and its
    accumulation of black tin deed-boxes._

_HUGH MURRAY, a pale, thoughtful, resolute-looking man of about thirty,
    plainly dressed, is writing intently at a pedestal-table. He pays
    no heed to a knock at the door, which is followed by the entrance
    of MR. EPHGRAVES, an elderly, sober-looking clerk, who places a
    slip of paper before him._

HUGH MURRAY.

Lord Dangars.

EPHGRAVES.

Yes.

HUGH MURRAY.

Mr. Cheal always sees Lord Dangars.

EPHGRAVES.

Yes, sir, but Mr. Cheal is so put about by this morning’s very unusual
business that he doesn’t wish to see anybody till after the wedding.

HUGH MURRAY.

Very well.

EPHGRAVES.

[_Handing a bundle of legal documents to HUGH._] “Dangars v. Dangars.”
Oh, excuse me, but Mr. Renshaw has sent in some little nosegays with a
request that they should be worn to-day. [_Sniffing the flower in his
buttonhole._] As the wedding takes place from the office, as it were,
I considered it would be a permissible compliment to our client, the
bride----

HUGH MURRAY.

Quite so--very kind of Mr. Renshaw.

EPHGRAVES.

I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but I see you’re not wearing yours.

HUGH MURRAY.

Oh, this is from Mr. Renshaw?

EPHGRAVES.

Yes.

HUGH MURRAY.

We are keeping Lord Dangars waiting.

  [_EPHGRAVES goes into the clerk’s office, as HUGH takes a flower from
    a glass on the table._]

I can’t wear it--I can’t wear it, at _her_ wedding.

  [_EPHGRAVES ushers in LORD DANGARS, a dissipated-looking man of about
    forty, dressed in the height of fashion._]

LORD DANGARS.

Good morning, Mr. Murray.

HUGH MURRAY.

Good morning. Pray sit down.

LORD DANGARS.

I don’t want to bother you, you know, but my servant, who has been
reading the newspapers for me since my damned--I beg your pardon--since
my divorce business has been before the public, says that we were in
Court again yesterday.

HUGH MURRAY.

Oh, yes. The Decree _Nisi_ has been made absolute on the application of
the petitioner.

LORD DANGARS.

The Petitioner. Let me see--they call me the Respondent, don’t they?

HUGH MURRAY.

They do--[_under his breath_] amongst other things.

LORD DANGARS.

It’s a deuced odd circumstance that I have been nearly everything in
divorce cases, but _never_ a petitioner. Decree _Nisi_ made absolute,
eh? That means I am quite free, doesn’t it?

HUGH MURRAY.

Certainly.

LORD DANGARS.

And eligible?

HUGH MURRAY.

I beg pardon?

LORD DANGARS.

I can marry again?

HUGH MURRAY.

You could marry again if you thought proper.

LORD DANGARS.

You wouldn’t call it improper?

HUGH MURRAY.

If you ask me that as your solicitor I answer No. Otherwise I have what
are perhaps peculiar notions as to the eligibility of a man who marries.

LORD DANGARS.

Oh, have you! Well, I don’t see that a man’s eligibility requires any
further qualification than that of his being single. You differ?

HUGH MURRAY.

May I speak honestly, Lord Dangars?

LORD DANGARS.

Do. I admire anything of that sort. I think your partner told me you
were a Scotchman and new to London. I like to encounter a man in his
honest stage.

HUGH MURRAY.

Thank you. Then you will allow me to maintain that the man who marries
a good woman knowing that his past life is not as spotless as hers
grievously wrongs his wife and fools himself.

LORD DANGARS.

As for wronging _her_, that’s an abstract question of sentiment. But I
don’t see how the man is a fool.

HUGH MURRAY.

A man is a fool to bind himself to one who sooner or later must learn
what little need there is to respect her husband.

LORD DANGARS.

Why, my dear Mr. Murray, you’re actually putting men on a level with
ladies. Ladies, I admit, are like nations--to be happy they should have
no histories. But don’t you know that Marriage is the tomb of the Past,
as far as a man is concerned?

HUGH MURRAY.

No, I don’t know it and I don’t believe it.

LORD DANGARS.

Oh, really----

HUGH MURRAY.

You can’t lay the Past: it has an ugly habit of breaking its tomb.

LORD DANGARS.

Even then the shades of pretty women should not be such very bad
company. [_Referring to his watch._] By Jove, a pleasant chat runs into
one’s time. If you want me, “_Poste Restante_, Rome,” till you hear
again.

HUGH MURRAY.

Going abroad, during the shooting?

LORD DANGARS.

I must, you know. This divorce business checks the pleasant flow
of invitations for a season or two. So I shall spend a few months
tranquilly in Italy and write a Society novel.

HUGH MURRAY.

A Society novel!

LORD DANGARS.

Yes--that seems the only thing left for a man whose reputation is a
little off colour. Good-bye, Mr. Murray.

HUGH MURRAY.

Good-bye, Lord Dangars. Come this way.

  [_HUGH opens the door leading on to the staircase-landing._]

LORD DANGARS.

Excuse me, but didn’t I see Mr. Dunstan Renshaw enter your outer office
just then?

HUGH MURRAY.

I am expecting Mr. Renshaw. Do you know him?

LORD DANGARS.

Know him! We’re bosom friends.

HUGH MURRAY.

Friends? You and Mr. Renshaw? Then of course you know that he is going
to be married this morning.

LORD DANGARS.

Married! You’re joking!

HUGH MURRAY.

I have a perfectly serious engagement to accompany Mr. Renshaw to the
Registrar’s in half-an-hour.

LORD DANGARS.

You! No! Ha, ha! That’s very good--that’s very good--that’s capital!

HUGH MURRAY.

Why does the idea of Mr. Renshaw’s marriage amuse you so much, Lord
Dangars?

LORD DANGARS.

My dear Mr. Murray, I am not laughing at Renshaw’s marriage, but it
tickles me confoundedly to think that you, my Quixotic young friend,
are to assist at laying the marble slab upon dear old Dunstan’s
bachelor days--and nights.

HUGH MURRAY.

You mean that Mr. Renshaw is not, according to my qualification, an
eligible husband for a pure honest-hearted woman?

LORD DANGARS.

Oh, come, come, Mr. Murray, let us be men of the world. Renshaw’s a
good fellow, just one of my own sort; that’s all I mean. [_HUGH turns
away impatiently._] May I beg to know who’s the lady?

HUGH MURRAY.

Miss Leslie Brudenell--an orphan--my partner’s ward.

LORD DANGARS.

Money? I needn’t ask.

HUGH MURRAY.

If Miss Brudenell were penniless I should describe her as a
millionaire. She is very sweet, very beautiful.

LORD DANGARS.

You’re enthusiastic.

HUGH MURRAY.

No, barely just. [_Speaking half to himself._] I thought the same
the moment I first saw her. She was walking in the grounds of the
old school-house at Helmstead, and I stood aside in the shade of the
beeches and watched her--I couldn’t help it. And I remember how I
stammered when I spoke to her; because some women are like sacred
pictures, you can’t do more than whisper before them. That’s only six
mouth’s ago, and to-day---- God forgive us if we are doing wrong!

LORD DANGARS.

[_To himself._] I’m dashed if my pious young Scotch solicitor isn’t in
love with the girl himself.

  [_EPHGRAVES comes from the clerk’s office._]

HUGH MURRAY.

Mr. Renshaw?

EPHGRAVES.

Yes.

LORD DANGARS.

Dunstan!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

[_Speaking outside._] Why, George!

  [_DUNSTAN RENSHAW enters as EPHGRAVES retires. He is a handsome young
    man with a buoyant self-possessed manner, looking not more than
    thirty, but with the signs of a dissolute life in his face; his
    clothes are fashionable and suggest the bridegroom._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Congratulate you! So the law has turned you into a jolly old bachelor?

LORD DANGARS.

Yes, my boy--on condition that my solicitor offers a young fresh victim
to Hymen in the course of this morning.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Hallo! You know all about it, do you?

LORD DANGARS.

Mr. Murray broke the news as gently as possible.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

[_Shaking hands with MURRAY._] My best man. Good morning, Murray. Was
it a shock, George?

LORD DANGARS.

Terrible! You might have knocked me down with one of Clotilda Green’s
lace fans.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Shut up, now! I’ve played that sort of game out; so no reminiscences.

LORD DANGARS.

Trust me, my dear boy. Make me a friend of your hearth and edit my
recollections.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Then all you remember is that at Cambridge I was a diligent but unlucky
student.

LORD DANGARS.

Quite so--I recollect that perfectly.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

And that from boyhood I have suffered from a stupefying bashfulness
before women.

LORD DANGARS.

Done. You’ll recall the same of me when I next have occasion to marry,
won’t you?

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

It’s a bargain. I--[_Puts his hand over his eyes._] Oh, confound this!

LORD DANGARS.

What’s the matter? Are you ill?

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

No. Wait a minute. There were some fellows at my lodgings last night
assisting at the launching of the ship--I mean, saying good-bye to me.
[_Supports himself unsteadily with the back of a chair._] They set
light to a bowlful of brandy and threw my Latchkey into it--awful fun.
And then they all swore they’d see the last of me, and they stayed and
stayed till they couldn’t see anything at all.

  [_He sinks on to the chair, with his head resting on his hands. HUGH
    brings him a glass of water._]

HUGH MURRAY.

Here.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Thanks. [_Gradually recovering._] I’m all right. Did I look white or
yellow?

LORD DANGARS.

Neither--green. Fortunate the lady was not present.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Oh, Miss Brudenell doesn’t know why rooms sometimes go round and round.

LORD DANGARS.

No? Perhaps her relations are more penetrating.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Thank goodness there are no such incumbrances. Leslie is an orphan; I’m
an orphan. I’m alone in the world; she has only a young brother who
doesn’t count. So we start at even weights.

  [_He drains the remainder of the water and shivers._]

LORD DANGARS.

Met her at a ball, of course. I really will be seen at dances again
by-and-by.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

A ball--nonsense. Her only idea of a ball is a lot of girls sitting
against a wall pulling crackers. She’s a “little maid from school.”

LORD DANGARS.

Charming! But how----

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

How--I’ll give you the recipe. Go down into the country for a couple of
days’ fishing.

LORD DANGARS.

Often done it--caught fish, no girls.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Wait. The stream must run off your host’s property through the
recreation grounds of a young ladies’ school.

LORD DANGARS.

Times are altered--there was always a brick wall in my day.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Brick walls still exist, but a heavy fish on your line breaks down your
notions of propriety and you paddle along mid-stream. You soon discover
some pretty little women with their arms round each other’s waists, and
you apologise profusely.

LORD DANGARS.

But you risk rheumatism.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

So Leslie thought, and that won me her sympathy.

LORD DANGARS.

And sympathy is akin to love.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

And love, occasionally, leads to marriage. [_Holding out his hand to
DANGARS, who buttons his glove._] Help deck me for the sacrifice,
George. As luck would have it, Leslie’s guardian, Mr. Cheal, was my
people’s lawyer years ago, and he knew I was a gentleman and all that
sort of thing. So Cheal got my affairs into something like order,
made me settle everything on Leslie, and now you behold in me a happy
bridegroom with a headache fit to convert the devil. Thanks, old man.

  [_MR. CHEAL comes from his private office. He is an elderly man with
    a pompous manner and florid complexion._]

MR. CHEAL.

Hasn’t Miss Brudenell arrived yet? Ah, good morning, Lord Dangars.
Mr. Renshaw, pray don’t be late. I believe it is customary for the
bridegroom to receive the lady at the Registrar’s. Who is a married man
here? Oh, Lord Dangars, perhaps _you_ can tell us.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

No, no! Ask him something about the Divorce Court.

MR. CHEAL.

Good gracious, I quite forgot! Pray pardon me.

  [_DUNSTAN laughs heartily._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I’m waiting for Mr. Murray, my best man.

MR. CHEAL.

[_Rather testily._] Mr. Murray! [_HUGH is gazing into the fire._] Mr.
Murray, please.

HUGH MURRAY.

Eh?

MR. CHEAL.

Mr. Renshaw is waiting.

HUGH MURRAY.

I beg your pardon, Mr. Renshaw. I must ask you to dispense with my
assistance this morning.

  [_He sits at his table and commences writing, while CHEAL, DUNSTAN,
    and DANGARS exchange glances._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Oh, all right--don’t mention it.

LORD DANGARS.

[_To himself._] Thought so.

MR. CHEAL.

You place us in rather an awkward position, Mr. Murray. I have to
escort Miss Brudenell, and I hardly wish to send a clerk with Mr.
Renshaw.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Look here, don’t bother. Where does this Registrar chap hang out?

MR. CHEAL.

Twenty-three, Ely Place--very near here.

LORD DANGARS.

I’ll walk with you, my boy, and lend you my moral support.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Thanks. But, excuse me, George, I think we’ll part company at the
Registrar’s front door.

LORD DANGARS.

You believe in omens then, eh?

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Well, every man does on his wedding morning.

LORD DANGARS.

All right. Do you think I want to assist at your wedding? You never
came to hear my divorce case.

  [_DANGARS leaves the office followed by DUNSTAN._]

MR. CHEAL.

Really, Mr. Murray, this is scarcely business-like.

HUGH MURRAY.

I think it is all cruelly business-like. Mr. Cheal, don’t you think it
possible, even at this moment, to stop this marriage?

MR. CHEAL.

Stop the marriage! Good gracious, sir, for what reason?

HUGH MURRAY.

The marriage of a simple-minded trustful school-girl to a man of whom
you know either too little or too much.

MR. CHEAL.

I know a great deal of Mr. Renshaw. He comes of a very excellent
family--excellent family.

HUGH MURRAY.

Are the members of it at hand to speak for him?

MR. CHEAL.

They are all, I hope, beyond the reach of prejudice, Mr. Murray. They
are unhappily deceased.

HUGH MURRAY.

Then how can you weigh the dead against the living? Here are two lives
to be brought together this morning or kept apart, as _you_ will; for
upon you rests the responsibility of this marriage.

MR. CHEAL.

I beg your pardon, Mr. Murray. I should have thought that a young
gentleman of your severe training would scarcely need to be reminded
that marriages are----

HUGH MURRAY.

Made in Heaven?

MR. CHEAL.

Yes, sir, certainly.

HUGH MURRAY.

This one, sir, is the exclusive manufacture of Holborn.

MR. CHEAL.

That’s rather a flippant observation, Mr. Murray.

HUGH MURRAY.

I doubt whether Providence is ever especially busy in promoting
the union of a delicate-minded child with a coarse gross-natured
profligate.

MR. CHEAL.

Mr. Murray, you are speaking of a client in terms to which I prefer
being no party. Mr. Renshaw may have yielded to some of the lighter
temptations not unknown even in my youth--except to those employed in
legal studies. But the world is not apt to condemn the--the----

HUGH MURRAY.

The license it permits itself!

MR. CHEAL.

You are bullying the world, Mr. Murray. I don’t attempt, sir, to be
much wiser than the world.

HUGH MURRAY.

But it costs so small an effort to be a little better. I tell you I
have stood by and heard this man Renshaw laughing over his excesses
with the airs of a vicious school-boy.

MR. CHEAL.

Tut, tut, that’s all past. Marriage is the real beginning of a man’s
life.

HUGH MURRAY.

No, sir, it is the end of it--what comes after is either heaven or hell.

[_EPHGRAVES enters._]

EPHGRAVES.

Miss Brudenell is here with her maid and Mr. Wilfrid.

HUGH MURRAY.

Don’t bring them in till I ring.

MR. CHEAL.

Really, Mr. Murray----! [_EPHGRAVES retires._]

HUGH MURRAY.

Mr. Cheal, I make a final appeal to you with my whole heart.

MR. CHEAL.

I am a man of business, Mr. Murray!

HUGH MURRAY.

I know that; and I know that this child is an unremunerative
responsibility of which you would gladly be rid.

MR. CHEAL.

Frankly, the trustees were most inadequately provided for under the
Will.

HUGH MURRAY.

Very well--relieve yourself of the trust and throw the estate into
Chancery, and from this moment I undertake to bear on my shoulders the
responsibilities of Miss Brudenell’s future.

MR. CHEAL.

My dear sir, you talk as if the young lady were not deeply in love with
Mr. Renshaw.

HUGH MURRAY.

What judge is a school-girl of the worth of a man? Of course she falls
in love with the first she meets.

MR. CHEAL.

Nothing of the kind. Why, for that matter, Miss Brudenell knew _you_
before she met Mr. Renshaw.

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes, yes--I know!

MR. CHEAL.

You have been down to the school at Helmstead often enough--why on
earth didn’t the child fall in love with you?

HUGH MURRAY.

No--true, true. But I have no pretensions to---- of course--I---- [_He
strikes a bell._] I fear my argument has been very poor.

  [_EPHGRAVES ushers in LESLIE BRUDENELL, a sweet-looking girl,
    tastefully but simply dressed, who is accompanied by her brother
    WILFRID, a handsome, boyish young man of about one-and-twenty, and
    her maid PRISCILLA, a healthy-looking country girl._]

LESLIE.

Oh, Mr. Cheal, am I late?

MR. CHEAL.

Late, my dear--no. Good morning, Mr. Brudenell.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Leslie was ready to start at seven o’clock this morning and broke the
hotel-bell ringing for breakfast.

LESLIE.

Oh, don’t tell about me, Will, dear.

MR. CHEAL.

Let me know when the carriage arrives, Mr. Ephgraves.

EPHGRAVES.

Yes, sir. [_EPHGRAVES goes out._]

LESLIE.

[_Offering her hand._] Mr. Murray.

HUGH MURRAY.

Were you very frightened lest you should be late?

LESLIE.

Yes, _very_.

HUGH MURRAY.

Of course you were.

LESLIE.

For _his_ sake--he would suffer so if I kept him waiting. Where is he?

HUGH MURRAY.

At the Registrar’s.

LESLIE.

Why aren’t you with him? You promised.

HUGH MURRAY.

I am busy.

LESLIE.

Oh, how unkind to be busy on such a morning! Will, Mr. Murray won’t
come to the wedding.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

That’s a shame. How d’y’r do, Mr. Murray?

MR. CHEAL.

H’m! _I_ shall be there.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Yes, but Leslie wants her London Mother as well as her London Father.

MR. CHEAL.

Eh? What’s that?

LESLIE.

Nothing--be quiet, Will!

MR. CHEAL.

What is the meaning of a London father and----

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

I’ll tell you----

LESLIE.

No, no--you tell things so roughly. My London Father is a name the
school-girls gave you, Mr. Cheal, because you are my guardian in
London and look after me. And when Mr. Murray began to come down to
Helmstead about once a month to see that I was happy, they set about to
invent some title for him too. And as I couldn’t have two fathers and
I already had a real brother they called Mr. Murray my London Mother,
because he was so thoughtful and tender, just as my school-fellows told
me their mothers are.

MR. CHEAL.

H’m! Well, my dear, all that is very nice for school-girls, but it is
what practical people call stuff and nonsense. I’ll go and get my hat.

  [_He goes out._]

LESLIE.

Mr. Cheal is angry.

HUGH MURRAY.

No, no.

LESLIE.

He is. He said “stuff and nonsense” the other day when I begged him to
let me be married in a church, and now----

HUGH MURRAY.

Ah, don’t think of Mr. Cheal’s very business-like manner.

LESLIE.

I can’t help it. Tell me, Mr. Murray, does everything simple become
stuff and nonsense when you get married?

HUGH MURRAY.

How should I know, my child? I am an old bachelor. [_PRISCILLA beckons
LESLIE._]

PRISCILLA.

Missy--Miss--you’re untidy again!

LESLIE.

Oh, no, don’t say that!

  [_PRISCILLA arranges LESLIE’S costume._]

LESLIE.

The little mirror, Priscilla. [_Surveying herself critically as the
sunlight enters at the windows._] Priscilla, I’m getting uglier as the
day wears on.

PRISCILLA.

I’m sure you’re quite good-looking enough for London, Miss.

LESLIE.

I’m not thinking about London.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

[_Addressing HUGH._] That’s an odd picture for a lawyer’s musty office.

HUGH MURRAY.

Ay--imagine what would become of a plain matter-of-fact lawyer, sitting
here scribbling day after day, if he could never get that vision out of
his eyes.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Rather bad for his clients, eh?

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes, and bad for the lawyer.

LESLIE.

I hope the Registrar’s office is very dark, Mr. Murray. I particularly
dislike my face to-day.

PRISCILLA.

[_Whispering to HUGH._] Ain’t she sweet and pretty, sir?

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes.

PRISCILLA.

A lucky gentleman Mr. Renshaw, sir.

HUGH MURRAY.

Ay.

LESLIE.

I heard that. Indeed Mr. Renshaw is not lucky at all.

HUGH MURRAY.

I think so. Why not?

LESLIE.

Because I am not worthy of him. You’re his friend, Mr. Murray, and you
know how generous and true he is. I can tell you, my London Mother,
that every night and morning since I have been engaged, I have prayed
nothing but this, over and over again--“Make me good enough--good
enough for Dunstan Renshaw!” [_HUGH moves away._] [_Looking at herself
in the mirror._] I wish now I had added “make me a little prettier.”

  [_EPHGRAVES appears at the door._]

EPHGRAVES.

The carriage is here, sir.

LESLIE and PRISCILLA.

Oh!

HUGH MURRAY.

Tell Mr. Cheal.

  [_LESLIE is a little flurried, and PRISCILLA at once busies herself
    about LESLIE’S costume._]

EPHGRAVES.

A young lady is in my room waiting to see you, Mr. Murray. She brings a
card of Mr. Wilfrid’s with your name on it in his writing.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Oh, I am so glad she has called! Mr. Murray, I’ve found your firm a new
client.

HUGH MURRAY.

Indeed--thank you--thank you. In a few moments, Mr. Ephgraves.

  [_EPHGRAVES goes into the inner office._]

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

It’s quite a romance, isn’t it, Leslie?

LESLIE.

Oh, don’t speak to me, please, dear.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

When Leslie and I arrived at Paddington Station last night, a solitary
young lady got out of the next compartment. Les, wasn’t she gentle and
pretty?

LESLIE.

Yes--yes. There’s a button off my glove.

  [_PRISCILLA hastily produces needle and thread and commences
    stitching the glove._]

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

The poor little thing seemed quite lost in the crowd and bustle and at
last, pushed about by the porters and passengers, she sat herself down
to cry. We asked if we could help her. Do you remember how pretty she
looked then, Les?

LESLIE.

I can’t remember anything till I have been married a little while. Do
be quick, Priscilla.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Well, what do you think the poor little lady wanted? She wanted to find
the cleverest man in London, some one to advise her on an awfully
important matter. Leslie said _I_ was clever, didn’t you, Les?

LESLIE.

Yes, but I _thought_ of Mr. Renshaw.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

But, said I, “I know what you really need--a lawyer,” and I gave her my
card to present to Mr. Hugh Murray, of Cheal and Murray, Furnival’s Inn.

HUGH MURRAY.

Thank you--thank you.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

[_To himself._] I wish I could find her here when we come back. [_CHEAL
bustles into the room._]

MR. CHEAL.

Now then, my dear, are you ready?

LESLIE.

Ready! You had better say farewell to Miss Leslie Brudenell, Mr.
Murray; you will never see her again.

HUGH MURRAY.

Good-bye.

LESLIE.

Come to my wedding.

HUGH MURRAY.

I--I am busy.

  [_He turns away and sits at his desk._]

LESLIE.

[_To herself._] I wonder whether the world will be of the same colour
when I am married? Mr. Murray seems changing already.

MR. CHEAL.

My dear!

  [_CHEAL offers his arm to LESLIE, who, as she takes it, looks
    appealingly at HUGH, but he will not notice her._]

LESLIE.

Mr. Murray! Mr. Murray!

  [_She leaves the room on CHEAL’S arm, attended by PRISCILLA._]

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

I say, we shan’t be long getting married. I wish you could detain the
young lady till I return.

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes--yes.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

It’s of no consequence, you know.

  [_WILFRID runs out after the wedding party._]

HUGH MURRAY.

She is going. [_He goes to the window and looks out._] Ah! They have
taken her away. The Inn is empty.

  [_EPHGRAVES enters._]

EPHGRAVES.

H’m! Mr. Murray.

HUGH MURRAY.

They have gone, Ephgraves.

EPHGRAVES.

Yes. [_Handing him a slip of paper._] Will you see the young lady now?

HUGH MURRAY.

Certainly. [_EPHGRAVES goes out._]

HUGH MURRAY.

[_Reading._] “Miss Janet Preece, introduced by Mr. Wilfrid Brudenell.”

  [_EPHGRAVES ushers in JANET PREECE, a pretty, simply-dressed girl of
    about eighteen, with a timid air, and a troubled look._]

JANET PREECE.

Are you Mr. Murray, sir?

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes. Sit down there. You wish to see a solicitor, I understand?

JANET PREECE.

A lawyer, sir.

HUGH MURRAY.

That’s the same thing--sometimes. In what way can I serve you?

JANET PREECE.

I--I thought you would be older.

HUGH MURRAY.

Mr. Cheal, my partner, is older than I, but he is out. Can’t you
believe in me?

JANET PREECE.

It isn’t that I think you’re not clever.

HUGH MURRAY.

Come, come, that’s something.

JANET PREECE.

But you don’t know why I--what I have to--Heaven help me!

HUGH MURRAY.

You know, people bring their troubles to men like me quite as an
ordinary matter----

JANET PREECE.

Yes, sir--ordinary troubles. I could tell a woman: I could tell your
wife if she was as kind as you seem to be.

HUGH MURRAY.

My dear young lady, I have no wife. Come now, don’t think of me as
anything but a mere machine.

  [_He listens without looking at her._]

JANET PREECE.

I--want--to--find somebody who has disappeared.

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes? A man or a woman?

JANET PREECE.

A man.

HUGH MURRAY.

The task may be very easy or very difficult. Is he a London man?

JANET PREECE.

Yes, a town gentleman who does ill in the country.

HUGH MURRAY.

Shall I begin by writing down his name?

JANET PREECE.

I don’t know his name--I only know the name he called himself by away
down home. Mr.--Lawrence--Kenward. Lawrence--Kenward--Esquire.

HUGH MURRAY.

How do you know the name is assumed?

JANET PREECE.

Because I once came softly into the room while he was signing a letter;
he wrote only his initials, but I saw that they didn’t belong to the
name of Lawrence Kenward.

HUGH MURRAY.

What were the initials?

JANET PREECE.

D. R.

HUGH MURRAY.

[_Scribbling upon a sheet of paper._] Ah, you may have been mistaken.
The letters “D. R.” and “L. K.” have some resemblance at a distance.

JANET PREECE.

No--no, no--no!

HUGH MURRAY.

[_Scribbling again._] Now, making the “D. R.” in this
way--[_thoughtfully_] D. R.

JANET PREECE.

I’m not mistaken, for when I charged him with deceiving me he told me a
falsehood with his lips and the truth with his eyes. And that night he
broke with me.

HUGH MURRAY.

[_To himself, looking at his watch._] It is _her_ name now. Why do I
let everything remind me of it? D. R. [_To JANET._] Have you any letter
from this man?

JANET PREECE.

No. He was always too near me for the need of writing, the more’s the
shame.

HUGH MURRAY.

Have you his portrait--a photograph?

JANET PREECE.

He always meant me too much ill to give me a portrait.

HUGH MURRAY.

Describe him.

JANET PREECE.

A man about your age, sir, I should guess, but with a boy’s voice when
he speaks to women. I--I--I can’t describe him.

HUGH MURRAY.

[_To himself._] Great Heavens! If by any awful freak of fate this poor
creature is a victim of Renshaw’s--and _she_ at this moment standing
beside him----! What a fool I am to think of no man but Renshaw!

JANET PREECE.

Don’t ask me to describe him in words, sir,--I can’t, I can’t. But I’ve
taught myself to draw his face faithfully. I’m not boasting--I can’t
draw anything else because I see nothing else. Give me some paper I can
sketch upon, and a pencil.

  [_HUGH hands her paper and pencil, and watches while she sketches._]

HUGH MURRAY.

[_To himself._] If the face she sketches should bear any resemblance to
his, what could I do, what could I do?

JANET PREECE.

[_To herself._] That’s with his mocking look as I last saw him. He is
always mocking me now.

HUGH MURRAY.

[_To himself._] I could do nothing--it’s too late--nothing. Shall
I look now? No. What a coward I am! Yes. [_He looks over JANET’S
shoulder._] Renshaw! [_He struggles against his agitation._] The
wife! I must think of the wife. [_To JANET._] My poor child, the most
accurate portrait in the world is poor material towards hunting for a
man in this labyrinth of London.

JANET PREECE.

Oh, but take it. His face must be familiar to hundreds of men and women
in London. I know that he belongs to some of your great clubs and goes
to the race-meetings in grand style--he has told me so. And take
these. These papers tell you all about me and give an address where you
can write to me when you’ve traced him.

HUGH MURRAY.

I--I can’t undertake this search. It’s useless--it’s useless.

JANET PREECE.

No, no--don’t refuse to help me! Your face says you are clever--it’s
easy work for you. He isn’t in hiding; he is flaunting about in broad
sunlight in your fine parks, maybe with another poor simple girl on his
arm. Find him for me! He isn’t a murderer stealing along in the shadow
of walls at night-time--he is only a betrayer of women, and men don’t
hide for that!

HUGH MURRAY.

I--I’ll look through this bundle of papers. You shall hear from me
to-morrow.

  [_He is showing JANET to the door when WILFRID enters._]

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Oh, I’m so glad you’ve found your way here! How strange that we should
meet again!

JANET PREECE.

Yes. Thank you, thank you for your kindness. Good-bye! [_She goes
hurriedly from the room._]

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

There now! After my hurrying off on the chance of seeing her, and being
nearly run down in Holborn--only “thank you” and “good-bye!”

HUGH MURRAY.

Have they left the Registrar’s?

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

He was congratulating them when I stole away.

HUGH MURRAY.

[_To himself._] If the poor girl should come face to face with Renshaw
this morning!

  [_HUGH looks out of the window._]

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Come now, Mr. Murray, isn’t she sweet?

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes, yes. [_This to himself._] She is crossing the Inn.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

And don’t you thank me for sending you such a pretty client?

HUGH MURRAY.

[_Turning away from the window._] She’s gone.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Do tell me about her. What’s her name? I should like to think of her by
some name.

HUGH MURRAY.

A lawyer talks of everything but his clients, my boy. So--your sister
is married, eh?

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Married! She was married before one’s eyes became used to the darkness
of the gloomy little office.

HUGH MURRAY.

Married--fast married!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

The older I grow the more positive I am that nothing in life takes any
time to speak of. You’re born in no time, you’re married in no time,
you live no time, you die in no time, you’re forgotten in no time----

HUGH MURRAY.

But you suffer all the time.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Suffer! Leslie and I intend never to suffer. We sat up together late
last night, hand in hand, and we entered into a compact that we’ll
remain to each other simple, light-hearted boy and girl for ever and
ever. That’s the way to be happy. Hark! [_He opens the door._] Here
they are! Hallo, Dunstan!

  [_RENSHAW enters, followed by his man, WEAVER, who carries his
    travelling coat and hat._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

It’s all over, Mr. Murray. Ha, ha! Leslie was on the verge of tears
because the Registrar wouldn’t read the Marriage Service. What do you
want, Weaver?

WEAVER.

If you mean to get to Cannon Street, to catch the 12.37 for Folkestone,
you haven’t any time to lose, sir.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Oh. [_To WILFRID._] Leslie is affixing her signature, with a great deal
of dignity, to some legal documents in the next room. Ask her to omit
the flourishes, Wilfrid; there’s a good fellow.

  [_WILFRID goes quickly into the clerk’s office followed by WEAVER._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

[_Hums an air and yawns._] I say, Murray, if you ever marry, take my
advice--patronize the Registrar; the process is rapid and merciful.

HUGH MURRAY.

Mr. Renshaw, I don’t stand in need of your counsel on the question
of marriage, but less than half an hour ago you might with profit to
yourself have asked for mine.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

What’s the matter? What’s wrong?

HUGH MURRAY.

I tell you to your face, you have done a cruel, a wanton act!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

What do you mean?

HUGH MURRAY.

I know your past! I know that your mind is vicious and your heart
callous; and yet you have dared to join lives with a child whose
knowledge of evil is a blank and whose instincts are pure and
beautiful--God forgive you!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Mr. Murray, the tone you’re good enough to adopt deserves some special
recognition. But you’ve always, I understand, been very kind to Leslie,
and I don’t choose to dispute with one of her friends on her wedding
morning.

HUGH MURRAY.

You can’t dispute with me because there is no question of truth between
us!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Oh, as to my past, which you are pleased to wax mightily moral about,
well--I have taken the world as I found it----

HUGH MURRAY.

You chant the litany of these who rifle and wrong! You have simply
taken the world’s evil as you found it! I warn you!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

And I warn _you_ that you’ll do badly as a lawyer. Try the pulpit.

HUGH MURRAY.

I warn you! As surely as we now stand face to face, the crime you
commit to-day you will expiate bitterly!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Thank you for your warning, Mr. Murray. It is my intention to expiate
my atrocities by a life of tolerable ease and comfort. [_Looking at his
watch._] We shall really lose our train.

HUGH MURRAY.

[_Turning away in disgust._] Oh!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

And it may surprise a sentimental Scotch gentleman like yourself to
learn that marriages of contentment are the reward of husbands who have
taken the precaution to sow their wild oats rather thickly.

HUGH MURRAY.

Contentment!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Yes--I’ve studied the question.

HUGH MURRAY.

Contentment! Renshaw, do you imagine there is no Autumn in the life of
a profligate? Do you think there is no moment when the accursed crop
begins to rear its millions of heads above ground; when the rich man
would give his wealth to be able to tread them back into the earth
which rejects the foul load? To-day, you have robbed some honest man of
a sweet companion!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Look here, Mr. Murray----!

HUGH MURRAY.

To-morrow, next week, next month, you may be happy--but what of the
time when those wild oats thrust their ears through the very seams of
the floor trodden by the wife whose respect you will have learned to
covet! You may drag her into the crowded streets--there is the same
vile growth springing up from the chinks of the pavement! In your
house or in the open, the scent of the mildewed grain always in your
nostrils, and in your ears no music but the wind’s rustle amongst the
fat sheaves! And, worst of all, your wife’s heart a granary bursting
with the load of shame your profligacy has stored there! I warn
you--Mr. Lawrence Kenward!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

What! Hold your tongue, man; d----n you, hold your tongue!

  [_LESLIE enters with WILFRID and CHEAL._]

LESLIE.

[_To DUNSTAN._] Have I kept you waiting? You’re not cross with me, Dun,
dear?

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Cross--no. But--[_looking sullenly at HUGH_] let us get on our journey.

LESLIE.

Good-bye, Mr. Murray. [_He takes her hand._] Won’t you--won’t you
congratulate Mrs. Dunstan Renshaw? Do say something to me!

HUGH MURRAY.

What can I say to you but this--God bless you, little school-girl,
always?

  [_She joins DUNSTAN and goes out, followed by WILFRID and CHEAL. HUGH
    is left alone gazing after them._]


END OF THE FIRST ACT.




THE SECOND ACT.

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.


_The scene is the Loggia of the Villa Colobiano, a beautiful old
    Florentine villa on the road to Fiesole, with a view of Florence
    in the distance. It is an artistic-looking place, with elegant
    pillars supporting a painted ceiling, coloured marble flooring,
    and a handsome balustrade and steps leading to the road and garden
    below, while noticeable on the wall of the villa, between the two
    entrance windows, is a glass case protecting the remnants of an
    old, half-obliterated fresco._

_WEAVER is gazing down the road through a pair of field-glasses, and
    PRISCILLA is bringing in the tea things, which she proceeds to
    arrange on a little table._

WEAVER.

Pris.

PRISCILLA.

Hush! [_Pointing towards the inner room._] Mr. Wilfrid has gone right
off, tired out with his travelling.

WEAVER.

I’m very sorry, but what am I to do? Here’s a carriage, with some
ladies, coming up the road; of course they’ll pull up here to look at
our blessed cartoon.

PRISCILLA.

Well, whatever folks can see in them few smears and scratches to come
botherin’ us about, passes my belief.

WEAVER.

_You_ don’t see nothing in it, of course--a country-bred girl. But
there’s a real bit of Michael Angelo under that glass. When he was
stayin’ in this ’ouse some time back he amused himself by drawing that
with a piece of black chalk.

PRISCILLA.

Why don’t he send and fetch it away?

WEAVER.

It’s on the wall of the villa--how can he fetch it? And then again,
he’s dead. [_A bell rings._] I said so.

PRISCILLA.

Bother it! It’s sp’iled my dear little missy’s honeymoon. Jest as
master is stroking the back of her little ’and, or dear missy is a’
goin’ to droop her head on master’s shoulder, in comes Weaver with
“Somebody to look at the wall!” Lovin’ master as she do, why don’t she
wipe it off and a’ done with it!

  [_MRS. STONEHAY’S voice is heard within the house._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

There is a step there, Irene--I have already struck my foot.

PRISCILLA.

Hush! Don’t show it ’em, Weaver.

WEAVER.

I must. The villa was let to us on condition that all visitors was
allowed to see the cartoon. This way, please.

  [_He shows in MRS. STONEHAY, a pompous-looking woman with an arrogant
    and artificial manner, and her daughter IRENE, a handsome girl of
    about twenty, cold in speech and bearing._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

I hope we have not toiled up two flights of stairs for nothing. What is
there to be seen here?

PRISCILLA.

[_Pointing to WILFRID._] Please, ma’am, the young gentleman has just
travelled right through from England, and has fallen asleep.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Oh, indeed. This is surely not _all_.

WEAVER.

[_Opening the glass case._] Here is the cartoon, ma’am.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Cartoon--where?

WEAVER.

A allegorical design, by Michael Angelo, ma’am; done when he was
stayin’ in this very ’ouse.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Quite interesting! [_Pedantically_] Michael Angelo.

WEAVER.

Michael Angelo.

MRS. STONEHAY.

How superior to the cartoons in our English comic journals! Irene.

IRENE.

Yes, mamma?

MRS. STONEHAY.

Come here, child. [_To WEAVER._] What is the subject?

WEAVER.

The Break of Day, ma’am. The black cloud underneath is departin’
Night--the nood figure reclinin’ on it is Early Morning.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Ugh! Never mind, Irene.

IRENE.

Mamma, do you remember a girl who was at school at Helmstead during my
last term--a little thing named Brudenell?

MRS. STONEHAY.

No--why?

IRENE.

I am certain that the boy asleep there is the brother who came down
every Saturday to visit her.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Dear me! [_To PRISCILLA._] My good girl. Is that young gentleman’s name
Brudenell?

PRISCILLA.

Yes, ma’am. It’s Mr. Wilfrid, Mrs. Renshaw’s brother.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Mrs. Renshaw! Miss Brudenell is married?

PRISCILLA.

A month ago, ma’am.

MRS. STONEHAY.

At home, I hope?

PRISCILLA.

She’s with Mr. Renshaw in the garden, ma’am.

MRS. STONEHAY.

[_Giving PRISCILLA a card._] Your mistress will be delighted to see
Mrs. Stonehay and her daughter. She is well and happy?

PRISCILLA.

As happy as the day is long, ma’am.

  [_PRISCILLA disappears down the steps._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

Irene, this will save us the expense of tea at Fiesole. [_To WEAVER._]
Oh, you will find a young lady outside--my companion; be good enough to
tell her to walk on to Fiesole--we will follow in the carriage.

IRENE.

Oh, no, mamma--not walk! The girl looks painfully delicate.

MRS. STONEHAY.

My dear, I will _not_ overload poor dumb animals.

WEAVER.

Excuse me, ma’am, but it’s a terrible up-hill walk to Fiesole, and the
sun is very hot at this time of the afternoon.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Thank you. The young lady is in my service.

WEAVER.

Oh, I beg pardon, ma’am. [_WEAVER goes._]

IRENE.

Here she comes, mamma--little Leslie Brudenell. She is quite a woman.

MRS. STONEHAY.

I forget her entirely. We won’t waste much time here; we’ll just
ascertain their position, take tea, and leave.

IRENE.

Oh, mamma, will you never admit that one may know people out of pure
liking and nothing further!

MRS. STONEHAY.

My dear, do remember my creed! Men and women are sent into the world to
help each other. Unfortunately I can help nobody, but it is none the
less the solemn duty of others to help me.

  [_LESLIE, looking very bright and happy, runs up the steps, meets
    IRENE and embraces her affectionately._]

LESLIE.

Dear Irene!

IRENE.

You remember me?

LESLIE.

Remember you! You were kind to me at Helmstead.

IRENE.

I think you saw my mother once.

  [_LESLIE bows to MRS. STONEHAY, and is joined by DUNSTAN RENSHAW, who
    has lost his dissipated look, and whose manner towards LESLIE is
    gentle, watchful, and tender._]

LESLIE.

This is my husband. [_DUNSTAN bows._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

Very happy.

LESLIE.

You will let me give you some tea?

MRS. STONEHAY.

It seems barbarous to intrude upon people so recently married.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

On the contrary, Mrs. Stonehay, you may be able to console my wife in
her first small grief.

MRS. STONEHAY.

So soon?

LESLIE.

Dunstan is obliged to leave me for two or three days.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I am just off to Rome to furnish some lodgings we have taken there, in
the Via Sistina. Poor Leslie was to have accompanied me, but Doctor
Coldstream forbids the risk of a Roman hotel.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Leaving this delightful villa!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Yes, the Villa Colobiano is delightful. At any rate Michael Angelo must
have thought so at one time, when, in a moment of misapplied artistic
ecstacy, he made his mark upon our wall.

LESLIE.

Oh, yes, we’ve suffered dreadfully. Dunstan didn’t know when he took
the Villa that it is honourably mentioned in Baedeker.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

The irrepressible Tourists have made our life a martyrdom. With
guide-book, green spectacles, and sun-umbrella, they look for traces of
Michael Angelo in every corner of the house.

LESLIE.

If we’re dining they almost lift up the dish-covers.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

At first the servants hinted at a desire for seclusion on the part of a
newly married couple.

LESLIE.

That made matters worse; they wanted to see _us_ then.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Just as if we had been tatooed by Michael Angelo.

LESLIE.

[_Taking IRENE’S hand._] But it is such a relief to see real friends.
How did you discover us?

  [_IRENE and MRS. STONEHAY look at each other._]

IRENE.

We were driving out to Fiesole--and----

MRS. STONEHAY.

The coachman told us we ought to see Michael Angelo’s cartoon.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Oh, of course--delighted--we’re awfully pleased----

LESLIE.

We didn’t mean that we don’t like showing the--the----

MRS. STONEHAY.

What a magnificent view you command here!

LESLIE.

[_Whispering to DUNSTAN._] Oh, darling, what a muddle!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Don’t fret about it, sweetheart. I must go and dress for my journey.
You will drive with me to the railway station?

LESLIE.

No, no. I couldn’t part from you with people standing by. Not that I
mean to cry.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Cry! You must never shed tears. [_He kisses her fondly while the others
are looking at the view._] Why, there’s old Wilfrid asleep. Make him
help you with these Stonehenges.

  [_He leaves her and she wakes WILFRID._]

LESLIE.

Will! Will!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Eh! What is it? I think I must have dropped off to sleep.

LESLIE.

We’ve accidentally hurt some people’s feelings. Assist me in being very
nice to them.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Yes--but wait a minute. I’m not quite sure--where----

  [_She drags WILFRID over to MRS. STONEHAY and IRENE._]

LESLIE.

This is my brother, Wilfrid. [_Quietly to WILFRID._] Rattle on, Will,
dear. Wilfrid, you recollect meeting Miss Stonehay at Helmstead.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

[_Only half awake, seizing MRS. STONEHAY’S hand._] O yes, I recollect
you perfectly. You left school some time ago, I suppose?

MRS. STONEHAY.

Yes--five-and-twenty years ago.

LESLIE.

Wilfrid! I want some more teacups. And brush your hair. You’ve made it
worse!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

I’m afraid I am not quite awake.

  [_He retires, the rest sit at the tea-table._]

IRENE.

You make me feel quite old, Leslie--to see you so much a woman.

LESLIE.

I am trying to be a woman, but I don’t get on very quickly.

IRENE.

Why try?

LESLIE.

Because I am ashamed that my husband’s wife should be so insignificant.

IRENE.

You seem very fond of him.

LESLIE.

Fond of him! Fond is a poor weak word. If I could realize my dearest
desire I would be my husband’s slave.

MRS. STONEHAY.

All new wives who have money and many domestic servants say that.

LESLIE.

Ah, but I would, truly. Do you know what it is to suffer keenly from
over-kindness?

IRENE.

I thought that was a malady the Faculty had succeeded in stamping out.

LESLIE.

I suppose it lingers yet in some odd old-world corners; it is within
the crumbling walls of this Villa, for instance. My husband is too
devoted to me. I fear to have a wish because I know he cannot rest till
it is gratified. If I look here, or there, his dear eyes imitate mine;
if I rise, he starts up; if I walk on, he follows me. When he takes my
hand he holds it as if it were a flower with a delicate bloom upon it;
when he speaks to me he lowers his voice like one whispering into some
rare shell that would break from too much sound. And all for one who is
half a school-girl and half a woman, and so little of either.

  [_A man is heard singing a characteristic Italian air to the
    accompaniment of a mandolin._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

What’s that?

  [_LESLIE runs to the balustrade and waves her hand._]

LESLIE.

That’s Pietro Donigo, one of my husband’s _protégés_. Dunstan wishes
him to sing to me every day.

MRS. STONEHAY.

[_Sotto voce._] Good gracious, what next! What is there in this girl to
be sung at!

LESLIE.

Dun has been very good to Pietro, who is poor, with an old blind
mother. Oh, he is good to everybody--good to everybody!

MRS. STONEHAY.

But, my dear Mrs. Renshaw, a wife ought not to be astonished at her
husband’s good-nature in the early days of their marriage. What else
did you expect for the first month?

IRENE.

Hush, mamma dear; all Leslie means is that she is proud of her
husband’s goodness. What wife would not be?

LESLIE.

Yes, that is it--I am both proud and humble. Why, look! Directly we
came here he sought out all the poor; in a few days they have learnt
to bless his name, and when I pray for him I think I hear their chant
echoing me. I tell you, sometimes I hide myself away to shed tears of
gratitude, and it’s then that I think a woman’s heart might be broken
less easily by cruelty than by too much kindness!

MRS. STONEHAY.

[_To herself._] This girl’s parade of her model husband is
insufferable; it is time I ended it.

  [_WILFRID returns._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

By the way, Mrs. Renshaw, I hope that out of your vast contentment you
can spare some congratulations for my daughter.

IRENE.

No, no, mamma.

LESLIE.

Congratulations!

MRS. STONEHAY.

During our visit to Rome, Mrs. Renshaw, Irene has become most
fortunately engaged.

LESLIE.

[_Embracing IRENE._] To be married?

IRENE.

Yes.

MRS. STONEHAY.

The combination of qualities possessed by Mrs. Renshaw’s husband is
rare. Nevertheless I think that some of the finest attributes of heart
and mind are bestowed in an eminent degree upon Lord Dangars.

LESLIE.

Dear Irene, I hope you will be--oh, you _must_ be, as happy as I am.
Tell me about him. Wilfrid, point out San Croce to Mrs. Stonehay,
and--and show her our little garden.

  [_WILFRID escorts MRS. STONEHAY towards the garden._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

[_To herself._] The chit has no rank to boast about, at any rate.

LESLIE.

Go on. Do make me your confidante.

IRENE.

No, no.

LESLIE.

Lord Dangars, your mother said. Have I the name correctly? Lady Dangars!

IRENE.

Leslie--I--I can’t talk about it.

LESLIE.

Can’t talk about your sweetheart?

IRENE.

Hush! Lord Dangars is simply a man who wishes to marry me and whom my
mother wishes me to marry. We are poor and she has her ambitions; there
you have two volumes of a three-volume novel.

LESLIE.

You don’t--love him?

IRENE.

Love him!

LESLIE.

Then you mustn’t do this. Dear, can’t I help you?

IRENE.

_You_ help me! Child, my small corner in the world is hewn out of
stone; there’s not a path there that it would not bruise your little
feet to tread.

MRS. STONEHAY.

[_To WILFRID._] I am in ecstacy! The moment Lord Dangars arrives in
Florence I shall bring him to the Villa Colobiano.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

This is the way to the garden.

MRS. STONEHAY.

[_Watching LESLIE and IRENE._] I thought so. We shall not be patronized
by Mrs. Renshaw again.

  [_WILFRID and MRS. STONEHAY go down the garden steps._]

LESLIE.

But perhaps you will learn to love Lord Dangars. Is he young?

IRENE.

Sufficiently so to escape being taken for my--grandfather.

LESLIE.

Handsome?

IRENE.

There is no accepted standard for man’s beauty.

LESLIE.

Oh, be more serious. Is he a bachelor or a widower?

IRENE.

Neither.

LESLIE.

Neither?

IRENE.

Lord Dangars is a _divorcé_.

LESLIE.

A _divorcé_? At least, then, he deserves your pity.

IRENE.

For what?

LESLIE.

For his sorrow. He must have suffered.

IRENE.

No, it was scarcely Lord Dangars who suffered.

LESLIE.

[_Shrinking from IRENE._] _His wife?_

IRENE.

Yes.

LESLIE.

And you will--marry him! Oh! For shame, Irene!

IRENE.

Leslie!

LESLIE.

I can’t think of it!

IRENE.

Be silent! I have the world upon my side--what is your girl’s voice
against the world! I shall have money and a title--I shall have
satisfied my mother at last. Why should you make it harder for me by
even a word?

LESLIE.

I want to save you from sharing this man’s hideous disgrace.

IRENE.

Oh, the world has a short memory for a man’s disgrace. It is only with
women that it lays down scandal, as it lays down wine, to ripen and
mature.

LESLIE.

But _you_ will not forget; you will die under the burden of your
husband’s past.

IRENE.

I! oh, no! What is a man’s past to the woman who marries him!

LESLIE.

It is her pride or her shame, the jewel she wears upon her brow or the
mud which clings to her skirts! It is her light or her darkness; her
life or her death!

IRENE.

You’re too young a wife to lecture me like this! The only difference
between me and other women will be that Lord Dangars’s story is public
and their husband’s vices are unrevealed!

LESLIE.

That is not true! You have no right to defend yourself in that way.

IRENE.

It _is_ true! What woman who doesn’t wish to be lied to would ask her
husband to unfold the record of his life of--liberty?

LESLIE.

What woman would----! _I_ would!

IRENE.

Simpleton!

LESLIE.

A thousand times, I would! Oh, under my dear husband’s roof how dare
you think so cruelly of good men!

  [_She runs to DUNSTAN as he enters dressed for travelling._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

[_Rejoining them with WILFRID._] Irene, we are forgetting our drive to
Fiesole.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

[_To LESLIE._] What’s the matter? Have I been away too long?

LESLIE.

It is always too long when you are away.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Good-bye, dear Mrs. Renshaw.

LESLIE.

[_Distantly._] Good-bye.

MRS. STONEHAY.

My dear Mr. Renshaw, everything here is too charming!

IRENE.

[_To LESLIE._] Forgive me. My life has made me bitter. Sometimes I am
nearly mad.

LESLIE.

Come and see me again, Irene. When you know my husband better you will
realize how little your world has taught you. [_LESLIE kisses IRENE._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

Irene, I believe I can see that obstinate young woman sitting down in a
vineyard--not a quarter of a mile from this house yet. There is a limit
even to my forbearance.

  [_WILFRID, MRS. STONEHAY, and IRENE go out. LESLIE gives DUNSTAN a
    cup of tea._]

LESLIE.

The stirrup cup.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

You will think of me in the toils of the Roman furniture and
_bric-à-brac_ dealers, won’t you?

LESLIE.

Think of you!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I shall fight through the worry of it in a couple of days and
then--there will be the first home of our own making. Just imagine when
we skip up the stone stairs in the Via Sistina and I throw open the
door----

LESLIE.

Our own door!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Our own door--and we see our own chairs and tables, our own pictures,
our own----

  [_He pauses suddenly._]

LESLIE.

Dun! Dun, dear?

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

This separating, even for a day or two, is a heavy-hearted business.

LESLIE.

It shall always be so, dear, always.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

While I’m gone you’ll not forget the lame girl in the Via Vellutini--or
Pietro’s old mother----?

LESLIE.

No, dear, no.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

And--and double the allowance to those little children we helped
yesterday.

LESLIE.

If you wish it; but the father is working here now in our garden----

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Never mind--double it, treble it! I don’t spend enough, half enough, in
conscience money.

LESLIE.

Conscience money!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

That is the name I give my little charities.

LESLIE.

Do you call all charity conscience money?

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

No. But, Leslie, no man is good enough for a good woman, and so I’m
trying to buy my right to possess you----

LESLIE.

To possess _me_! Worthless me!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

My right to your love and--your esteem.

LESLIE.

Oh, Dun, you are sad! As if anything in life could rob you of my
worship.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Nothing that could happen?

LESLIE.

Husband, what _could_ happen!

  [_HUGH MURRAY enters unseen by LESLIE, but DUNSTAN stares at him, as
    if in terror._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Murray!

HUGH MURRAY.

Pardon me. Wilfrid told me to----

LESLIE.

Mr. Murray! Oh, dear Mr. Murray!

  [_She takes his hands._]

WILFRID.

[_Joining them._] The very last man we expected at the Villa Colobiano!
And, what do you think, Dunstan--he hasn’t come to see the old fresco!

LESLIE.

Dunstan!

  [_HUGH and DUNSTAN look significantly at LESLIE, and then shake
    hands._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

As Wilfrid says, you are the last man we looked to see in Florence.

LESLIE.

But, oh, so welcome!

HUGH MURRAY.

You must not, I’m sorry to say, consider this the visit of a friend,
Mr. Renshaw.

LESLIE.

Have you travelled so many miles to talk only about business?

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes.

LESLIE.

Ah, be a friend first and let the business wait.

HUGH MURRAY.

I leave here to-night, and I must speak to Mr. Renshaw without delay.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I can give you only five minutes. Leslie.

LESLIE.

I shall make a nosegay for my dear, and bring it when the five minutes
are gone. [_Tenderly to DUNSTAN._] You have made me forget there is
anything in the world called Business.

  [_She follows WILFRID down the garden steps. DUNSTAN watches her for
    a moment, then faces HUGH._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Do you come here, may I ask, to take up our acquaintance at the point
where it was broken a month ago?

HUGH MURRAY.

I regret that I must do so.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

As a friend--or as an enemy?

HUGH MURRAY.

Neither--as a man who feels he has a duty to follow, and who will
follow it.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

What do you consider your duty?

HUGH MURRAY.

This. There is no need to remind you of my knowledge of the doings of
Mr. Lawrence Kenward.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Murray!

HUGH MURRAY.

I did not use your name.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

You know the poor creature who--you know her?

HUGH MURRAY.

She came to me, in ignorance of my association with you, on the very
day, at the very moment, of your marriage.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

What did she want of you?

HUGH MURRAY.

My aid in searching for her betrayer.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Don’t tell me she is the girl whom my wife and her brother encountered
at the railway station in London!

HUGH MURRAY.

She is the girl.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

That’s fatality--fatality.

HUGH MURRAY.

Before she had been with me ten minutes, I discovered the actual
identity of the man Kenward.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Oh!

HUGH MURRAY.

And I deliberately and dishonestly concealed my knowledge from her.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

For _my_ sake?

HUGH MURRAY.

No--for the sake of the child you had made your wife.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

My wife. Janet Preece can have her revenge now. My wife--my wife.

HUGH MURRAY.

The girl left me on your marriage morning upon the understanding that I
would write to her.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Yes.

HUGH MURRAY.

I did write, the day following, to an address she gave me, in the
country. I wrote instructing her to take no steps till she heard from
me _a month thence_.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

That is a month ago!

HUGH MURRAY.

Exactly a month ago.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

What do you intend to do now?

HUGH MURRAY.

Write to her once more, confessing that I have done nothing, and intend
to do nothing to aid her.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Oh, Murray!

HUGH MURRAY.

Man, don’t thank me! For the sake of one poor creature, your wife, I
have been dishonest to another poor creature, your broken plaything!
For one month I have lied for you in act and in spirit. In the race
between you and your victim I have given the strong man a month’s
start; to her a month of suspense, to you a month of thoughtless
happiness. You have taken it, enjoyed it, steeped yourself to the lips
in it; and now, from this day, you play the game of your life without a
confederate. Our paths divide!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Murray! Listen to me! You are the only man who may have it in his power
to help me!

HUGH MURRAY.

I have done so--for a month.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I don’t ask you to pity the girl I have ill-used or the girl I have
married--that you must do. But, wretch that I am, you might do a
greater injustice than to pity me.

HUGH MURRAY.

Pity _you_!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Murray, a month ago I married this child. Perhaps, then, I was really
in love with her; I hardly know, for loving had been to me like a tune
a man hums for a day and can’t recall a week afterwards. But this I
_do_ know--I have grown to love her now with my whole soul!

HUGH MURRAY.

[_Contemptuously._] Oh!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I married her, as it were, in darkness; she seemed to take me by the
hand and to lead me out into the light. Murray, the companionship of
this pure woman is a revelation of life to me! I tell you there are
times when she stands before me that I am like a man dazzled and can
scarcely look at her without shading my eyes. But _you_ know--because
you read my future--_you_ know what my existence has become! The Past
has overtaken me! I am in deadly fear! I dread the visit of a stranger,
or the sight of strange handwriting, and in my sleep I dream that I
am muttering into her ear the truth against myself! And, oh, Murray,
there is one thing more that is the rack to me and yet a delight, a
paradise and yet a torment, a curse and yet a blessing, my wife--God
help me!--my wife thinks me--Good!

LESLIE.

[_In the garden below._] Dunstan! Dunstan!

HUGH MURRAY.

Your wife! Be quick! Tell me--how can I help you?

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Ah, Murray!

HUGH MURRAY.

For her sake--for her sake!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

The moment you reach London send for Janet Preece--tell her the
truth--entreat her to be silent. Tell her I will do all in my power to
atone if she will be but silent--only silent--silent!

LESLIE.

[_From the garden._] Dunstan! The five minutes are gone.

  [_LESLIE runs on carrying some flowers. WILFRID follows, leisurely,
    smoking a cigarette._]

LESLIE.

Have I come back a minute too soon? [_To DUNSTAN._] You have had bad
news; ah, don’t send me away again! You are troubled.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Why, of course I am troubled.

LESLIE.

About nothing worse than leaving me?

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Isn’t that bad enough?

LESLIE.

[_Giving him a bunch of flowers._] For you. [_To HUGH._] Is it
unbusiness-like to give you a flower?

HUGH MURRAY.

Thank you.

  [_WEAVER enters dressed for travelling._]

WEAVER.

The carriage is at the door, sir.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Send it round to the gate. I will walk with Mrs. Renshaw through the
garden.

  [_WEAVER retires._]

LESLIE.

Wilfrid is here to amuse you, Mr. Murray, if I am poor company. Must
you leave us too?

HUGH MURRAY.

Thank you--yes. I turn my face homeward to-night.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I have something more to say to Murray. [_To HUGH._] Will you drive
down with me?

  [_HUGH assents silently._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

[_Pointing into the distance._] Leslie, when the carriage gets to that
little rise stand here and beckon to me till I am out of sight.

LESLIE.

Beckon to you?

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Yes, I want to remember it while we are apart as the last sign you made
me--beckoning me to return.

  [_They go down the steps together._]

HUGH MURRAY.

Wilfrid, don’t ever tell her--your sister--that I asked you this. She
is--quite happy?

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Oh, she’s awfully happy. But, I say, isn’t she a lucky girl?

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes. Why?

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

To have the best fellow in the world for her husband.

HUGH MURRAY.

Look--they’re waiting for me. Good-bye.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Good-bye. [_He shakes hands with HUGH, who descends the steps._] No,
I sha’n’t assist at Dun’s departure. I’m afraid Les will cry, and I
can’t bear to see a girl cry; it makes me feel so dreadfully queer in
the chest. Dun is saying good-bye to her now. Oh, well now, she is a
brick! She’s rolled her handkerchief into a ball and put it in her
pocket. There’s Murray. In he gets! Away they go! Poor Leslie’s head is
drooping. Confound it, she’s taking out her handkerchief! I can’t stand
it.

  [_PRISCILLA enters from the villa, crying._]

PRISCILLA.

Mr. Wilfrid.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Well? Oh, now, what are _you_ crying about?

PRISCILLA.

The young person, sir, who was with the two ladies who came to see our
cartoon, has been sent back on foot, and she’s downstairs begging for a
morsel of water; and, oh, Mr. Wilfrid, the poor thing looks so weak and
ill!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Ill! Where is she?

  [_He goes into the villa, as LESLIE slowly ascends the garden steps.
    The serenade is heard again._]

LESLIE.

No, Pietro mustn’t sing to me while he is gone. My home shall never be
bright and cheerful when its dear master is away.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

[_From the house._] Leslie! Leslie!

LESLIE.

Will? [_WILFRID comes from the villa with JANET PREECE, who looks weary
and feeble. Taking JANET’S hand._] Oh! Wilfrid!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

It’s our little friend of the London railway station!

JANET PREECE.

No, no--I am only Mrs. Stonehay’s servant--little better. She has
threatened to send me away, because she says I am self-willed and won’t
obey her. But I--I can’t walk; I’m not over-strong. What shall I do!

  [_She falls back fainting; WILFRID catches her in his arms. LESLIE
    kneels beside her, loosening the strings of her bonnet._]

LESLIE.

Oh, poor girl! Why, she is no older than I. Ah, Will, she sha’n’t want
a shelter! Priscilla! Priscilla!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Priscilla!

LESLIE.

Oh! the carriage! [_She runs quickly to the balustrade and looks out
into the distance._] It’s there! [_She beckons thrice._] Dunstan--come
back to me! Come back to me!


END OF THE SECOND ACT.




THE THIRD ACT.

THE END OF THE HONEYMOON.


_The scene is still the RENSHAWS’ Florentine villa. JANET PREECE is
    lying upon a sofa, and WILFRID is sitting on a footstool by her
    side reading to her._

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Miss Preece, I hope you’re tired of my reading.

JANET PREECE.

Why?

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Because you’ve heard all that Galignani has to remark.

JANET PREECE.

I’m afraid I haven’t heard much.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Not heard much! oh!

JANET PREECE.

Not much of Galignani. I’ve never been read to before, and I only
know that your kind voice has been rising and falling and rising and
falling, and all for me. I didn’t want to hear the words.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

By Jove! You’re quite yourself this morning, aren’t you?

JANET PREECE.

No--not myself. I feel so happy. But I am dreadfully puzzled. Tell
me--have I been very ill?

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

[_Holding her hand._] Just near enough to brain fever to be able to say
“How do you do?” to it and go off in another direction.

JANET PREECE.

Have I been ill long?

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Long enough to make me--to make us desperately anxious.

JANET PREECE.

How long is that?

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Three days.

JANET PREECE.

Three days--three days. How strange to have lost three days out of
one’s life! I seem to have died and to have come into a beautiful new
world.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

That’s a great compliment to the Villa Colobiano and its mistress.

JANET PREECE.

Ah, she is the Angel of my new world!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

One angel is very little to do all the work of a beautiful new world.

  [_JANET timidly withdraws her hand._]

JANET PREECE.

Oh, she has her brother to help her, of course.

  [_LESLIE enters, and JANET embraces her._]

LESLIE.

The post brought me a letter from my dear one--my husband--and I hid
myself away to read it.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

When does Dun start for home, Les?

LESLIE.

I don’t know; this was written the day before yesterday.

JANET PREECE.

Your husband? You--you are married?

LESLIE.

Married! Ah, I forget that my poor invalid knows nothing about her
nurse. Let me tell you. I mustn’t blame you for not guessing it; but I
am that exceedingly important person, a newly-married lady. I am Mrs.
Renshaw.

JANET PREECE.

[_Taking LESLIE’S hand._] Mrs.--Renshaw. I shall say the name to
myself over and over again that I may seem to have known you longer.
Mrs.--Renshaw.

LESLIE.

Yes, and my husband is in Rome preparing our first real home. You will
see him soon--oh, I hope very soon.

JANET PREECE.

I should like to see one who is so precious to you, of course--only----

LESLIE.

Only--what?

JANET PREECE.

Only I know that when your dear companion comes back I shall lose you.

LESLIE.

Hush, hush! You mustn’t distress yourself; you will be ill again.

JANET PREECE.

I would be ill again, gladly, if I could see your face constantly
bending over me as I have seen it for the last three days. Oh, Mrs.
Renshaw, why have you been so good to me, a stranger?

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

I say, Leslie, aren’t Dun’s letters furious about Mrs. Stonehay’s bad
behaviour?

JANET PREECE.

Mrs. Stonehay! I can’t go back to her! Oh, don’t send me back to Mrs.
Stonehay! Oh, don’t, please don’t!

LESLIE.

No, dear, no--of course not. [_To WILFRID._] Why, I haven’t written a
word to Dun about our little visitor and Mrs. Stonehay’s resentment at
our sheltering her. If I had, the dear fellow would have flown home to
fight my battles for me, and left his business unfinished. I know Dun.

JANET PREECE.

Mrs. Stonehay’s resentment at your giving me shelter! Oh, why should
she be so cruel to me!

LESLIE.

Hush, dear--it is Mrs. Stonehay’s nature to be jealous and arrogant.
When she discovered that her dependent, as she called you, was
installed here as my friend, she indignantly reproached me for enticing
you from her service.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

I never saw a woman so angry. I had the honour of bowing her out at the
front door, and she declared she shook the dust of the Villa Colobiano
from her feet; luckily, it was only a figure of speech, for her feet
are very large.

  [_PRISCILLA enters._]

PRISCILLA.

Miss Stonehay is here, ma’am.

  [_PRISCILLA retires._]

JANET PREECE.

Oh, Mrs. Renshaw!

LESLIE.

Don’t be alarmed, Janet. You don’t know that during the last three days
the face you have seen bending over you has often been poor Irene’s.

  [_IRENE enters, and appears agitated._]

LESLIE.

Irene. You are trembling--there is some trouble?

IRENE.

[_Quietly to LESLIE._] Yes--I’ve come to tell you. Janet, I am glad to
see you almost well again. Don’t you believe me?

JANET PREECE.

[_Shrinking from her._] Yes--I--I am better.

IRENE.

Ah, don’t be frightened of me--not of _me_! Janet!

  [_JANET looks at IRENE, then goes to her._]

IRENE.

[_Kissing JANET._] Thank you. [_Giving LESLIE a letter._] A letter,
Leslie.

LESLIE.

From your mother?

IRENE.

From my mother. Read it.

LESLIE.

[_As she reads._] Oh--oh! Irene, do you guess the drift of this?

IRENE.

Better than you do, Leslie. It is a humble apology from Mrs. Stonehay
for her unintentional rudeness upon misunderstanding the motive of Mrs.
Renshaw’s extreme kindness to poor Miss Preece.

LESLIE.

Yes, it is an apology.

IRENE.

Followed by an entreaty that Mrs. Renshaw will permit Mrs. Stonehay to
call at the Villa Colobiano immediately to make peace in person.

  [_WILFRID and JANET go down into the garden._]

LESLIE.

You know the letter almost word for word.

IRENE.

I know my mother better day by day. Leslie, you don’t see what that
means?

LESLIE.

That your mother is sorry.

IRENE.

No--it means that she has just heard from Lord Dangars that he is an
old and intimate friend of your husband’s, and that they chanced to
come together again two days ago in Rome.

LESLIE.

I am grieved to pain you, Irene, but I am sure that my husband can’t
be aware of the true character of Lord Dangars.

IRENE.

Possibly not, but my mother sees that Lord Dangars may hear of her
conduct through Mr. Renshaw, and is therefore anxious to conciliate you
without delay.

LESLIE.

Oh! [_She tears MRS. STONEHAY’S letter into pieces._]

IRENE.

Oh, Leslie, the meanness of my life is crushing me! I can’t be faithful
to my mother, and yet I loathe myself for being a traitor to her. I
seem to bring a worldly taint even into your home, and yet your home is
so sweet and pure to me that I haven’t the courage to shut myself out
of it. How you must despise me!

[_WEAVER enters._]

LESLIE.

Weaver!

WEAVER.

I beg your pardon, ma’am; I wasn’t aware you were engaged.

LESLIE.

Why have you left your master in Rome? He is--well?

WEAVER.

Quite, ma’am. I haven’t left the master in Rome; we got back to
Florence this morning.

LESLIE.

He is in Florence!

WEAVER.

Master finished his business in Rome a little sooner than he expected,
and we made a rush, ma’am, for the night train. Getting in so very
early this morning, master thought it best to go to the _Hôtel de la
Paix_ for an hour or two.

LESLIE.

Thought it best to go to the _Hôtel de la Paix_! Oh, there must be some
reason!

WEAVER.

[_Handing a letter to LESLIE._] The reason is, ma’am, that master is
bringing a visitor home with him and didn’t think it right to take you
quite unprepared.

LESLIE.

A visitor?

WEAVER.

Yes, ma’am--Lord Dangars.

LESLIE.

Lord Dangars here! Oh! Dunstan, Dunstan!

IRENE.

[_To herself._] So soon--so soon; so short a respite!

  [_WILFRID and JANET come up the steps from the garden._]

LESLIE.

[_To herself as she reads the letter._] Ah, I knew it! My poor Dun, to
be victimized by such a companionship. I quite understand, Weaver. Mr.
Renshaw will be here almost directly?

WEAVER.

He and his lordship were at breakfast when I left, ma’am; in less than
half-an-hour, I should say.

LESLIE.

Tell the servants. [_WEAVER goes out._]

IRENE.

Leslie, the thought that you are to be thrown into the society of this
man is unendurable to me.

LESLIE.

And yet you are speaking of the man you are going to marry.

IRENE.

Certainly, but by my marriage I hope to lose much of his society. But
you--oh, your husband is to blame, to blame!

LESLIE.

Hush, Irene! You do Mr. Renshaw an injustice. Look. [_She hands IRENE
DUNSTAN’S letter._] Will, Dun has come back! Janet, be glad for my sake!

IRENE.

[_Reading the letter._] “Dear One. Weaver will explain my mode of
arrival. Dangars I once knew fairly well, and somehow he won’t be
shaken off now. As there appears to be an engagement between him and
your friend Miss Stonehay I have asked him to be our guest for a
couple of days, thinking you may consider it a kindness to her; but
please don’t extend the term, as he is not quite the man I wish my wife
to count among her acquaintances.”

  [_JANET and WILFRID stroll away._]

LESLIE.

[_To herself._] My husband home again--home again--home again! But, oh,
why hasn’t he come back to me alone!

IRENE.

Leslie, I perceive I _have_ done Mr. Renshaw an injustice. But
surely you had some further motive in sharing with me the privilege
of enjoying Mr. Renshaw’s estimate of the gentleman who is to be my
husband?

LESLIE.

Yes, I had. I _will_ convince you of the contempt in which honest men
hold such as Lord Dangars.

IRENE.

[_Crushing the letter in her hand._] Thank you--I---- Leslie! you are
right--save me--save me!

LESLIE.

Irene!

IRENE.

I knew that my next meeting with Lord Dangars could not be long
delayed, and I taught myself to think of it coldly and callously.
But, now that the moment has come, and I am to lay my hand in his and
look him in the face--a woman willing to sell herself--every nerve in
my body is on fire with the shame of it and I can’t, I can’t fall so
utterly!

LESLIE

Dear Irene, I knew I should save you!

IRENE.

Ah, but can you? I am such a coward; I haven’t the courage of your good
instincts. If you don’t help me I shall falter and be lost!

LESLIE.

But I can help you. _I_ will make an appeal to your mother.

IRENE.

That’s hopeless, hopeless!

LESLIE.

Then I will face Lord Dangars himself.

IRENE.

You!

LESLIE.

Yes, with my husband. Ah, Irene, there are good men still to fight the
battles of weak women, and I promise you my dear husband’s aid.

  [_WILFRID and JANET re-appear, talking earnestly._]

IRENE.

Hush!

LESLIE.

[_Quietly to IRENE._] Go back to your mother and tell her I will see
her in answer to her letter.

  [_LESLIE and IRENE go into the villa._]

JANET PREECE.

[_To WILFRID._] No, no, please, don’t speak to me like that! I mustn’t
listen to you, indeed I mustn’t.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

I never thought I should hurt you by what I’ve said. What I was foolish
enough to think was--that perhaps you--didn’t dislike me.

JANET PREECE.

Dislike you! Why, there’s no book in the world that’s long enough, and
no poetry ever written that’s sweet enough, to match what I think, but
can’t say, in gratitude to you and Mrs. Renshaw.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Ah, we don’t want you to thank us, Janet--unless it’s by a tinge of
colour in your white face. You make me feel how mean I’ve been to ask
for your love.

JANET PREECE.

Oh, stop, stop! I can’t bear you to say such a thing.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

I’ve no right to press you for the reason you can’t love me.

JANET PREECE.

No, no--don’t, don’t!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

I can only guess what’s in your mind. Is it that we’re such new friends
to talk of love and marriage? Because, Janet, if we know each other for
years I can never alter the truth, that it took only a minute to fall
in love with you.

JANET PREECE.

No, it isn’t that you’re a new friend; for the matter o’ that, after
Mrs. Renshaw, you’re my only friend. It isn’t that--it isn’t that.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Then, if we’re your only friends, at least I know that you don’t love
any other----

JANET PREECE.

[_Starting up and hiding her face from him._] Any other!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Any other--man.

JANET PREECE.

No--no. I don’t--I don’t love any other man.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

And yet you can’t love _me_. I’m answered. Ah, Janet, a man who isn’t
loved had better never seek the reason, or if he does he should look
for it--in himself. My brother-in-law will be home in a few minutes and
I can very well be spared here. So there’s one thing I beg of you, that
you won’t let this--stupidity of mine shorten your stay at the Villa
Colobiano.

JANET PREECE.

[_Bursting into tears._] I can’t bear it! My heart will break!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

You seemed in bitter trouble when we first met; don’t leave us till we
have helped to make life easier for you.

JANET PREECE.

Oh, if we never had met--if we never had met!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Why, I’ve done nothing but love you, Janet. Come, you’re not cruel
enough to wish you had never seen me?

JANET PREECE.

Ah, no! No! Believe me, the only happiness for such as I is in such
wretchedness as this. Bid me good-bye--I am going.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

No!

JANET PREECE.

Let me steal away quietly. Tell your sister that I pray God to bless
her, her husband, and her children when they come to make her life
perfect; say I am only a poor creature never worth the love I’ve stolen
from you both, but that my thoughts will be only of you and her till I
die.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

No, you must not leave the house till you have seen Leslie.

JANET PREECE.

Don’t keep me here! If I see her again I must tell her why I run away
from the one sweet prospect my life has given me!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

You do love me then! You _do_ love me!

  [_He draws her to him, but she breaks away with a low cry as LESLIE
    enters._]

JANET PREECE.

Let me go! let me go!

LESLIE.

Janet!

JANET PREECE.

[_To LESLIE in a low whisper._] Mrs. Renshaw! You don’t know what a
base, wicked girl you are sheltering! I’m not fit to be in your house!
Oh, I’ll tell you--I’ll tell you!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Leslie, there have been no secrets between us ever, and there’s a
promise that there never shall be any.

LESLIE.

Will?

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

I--I have told Janet that I love her, and I have asked her to be my
wife. But Janet is in some distress and wishes to leave us. So, Les, I
want you to do me a service.

LESLIE.

What service, brother dear?

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

I want you to help her--and me.

  [_He leaves them together._]

LESLIE.

Janet! Janet Preece. I love my brother very dearly, and long ago I
determined that the moment his heart went out to a good girl I would
call her my sister without a murmur. But you have said something to me
which has--frightened me. Oh, Janet, what is it that’s wrong--what is
it that’s wrong? [_JANET kneels humbly at LESLIE’S feet._] Why do you
kneel, Janet?

JANET PREECE.

Because it’s my place in the world for evermore; because I’m of no more
worth than the clod of earth you turn aside with your foot; because the
time has been when I was one of the tempted and not one of the strong.

LESLIE.

[_Turning away._] Oh, Janet, Janet.

JANET PREECE.

When I found that your brother loved me I wanted to run away without
the dreadful shame of confessing the truth to you. But I’m a little
happier for having told you, and I’ll go out of your house now quickly
and quietly, and you’ll never see me nor hear of me again. [_Kissing
the edge of LESLIE’S dress._] Good-bye--my dear. Good-bye, oh my dear,
my dear. [_She rises, and is about to go._]

LESLIE.

No, no! Stop! What you have told me seems to have stunned me. I--I
can’t realize it yet.

JANET PREECE.

Don’t try to--it’s better you should never realize it.

LESLIE.

A few minutes ago you and I were like simple girls; now we have
suddenly become sad grown women. Will--my poor Will! What shall I do?

JANET PREECE.

Nothing but let me go.

LESLIE.

Let you go! You have come into my life now, and your weakness and
loneliness make it my task to protect you. Put on your hat--quickly.
[_JANET hesitates._] Quickly! Throw that shawl over your shoulders.
[_JANET obediently puts on the hat and shawl. LESLIE begins writing
hurriedly at the table._] You mustn’t re-enter this house; you and my
brother must never meet again. My poor brother! I am going to send you
to a friend who will gladly render me a service. This afternoon I will
come to you. “The Villa Lotta, Viale dei Colli.” Are you ready?

JANET PREECE.

Yes.

LESLIE.

Present this--and here, here is some money. Come, we will go through
the garden.

  [_They go together to the garden steps. Suddenly JANET utters a cry
    of horror._]

LESLIE.

Janet!

JANET PREECE.

[_Dragging LESLIE from the steps._] Come away--come away! Look there!
Look there!

LESLIE.

[_Looking into the garden._] My husband and Lord Dangars.

JANET PREECE.

It’s the man--the man!

LESLIE.

The man! Lord Dangars!

JANET PREECE.

He lied to me; I have never known his true name till now. That’s the
man who called himself Lawrence Kenward.

LESLIE.

Great Heavens! They are coming this way into the house.

JANET PREECE.

Ah, hide me, hide me! I haven’t the courage to meet him. Ah, hide me!

  [_She staggers to the sofa and sinks down beside it._]

LESLIE.

Janet!

  [_LESLIE crouches down by JANET and puts her arms round her
    protectingly, as DUNSTAN RENSHAW and LORD DANGARS ascend the
    steps._]

LORD DANGARS.

Phew! I’m smothered with dust; you would walk.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I’m very sorry. Shall we restore the perfection of our appearance
before looking for Mrs. Renshaw?

  [_They go into the villa._]

LESLIE.

Janet! Do you know that this is the man to whom Irene Stonehay is
engaged to be married?

JANET PREECE.

I--I’ve heard them speak of him; I never suspected who he was. Heaven
pity her! He’ll kill her, body and soul.

LESLIE.

No, no. It is you who must help me to save her.

JANET PREECE.

I!

LESLIE.

You must. If you do your utmost to rescue this weak woman from the
dreadful life that is before her you’ll do something to make you
happier in the future.

JANET PREECE.

What can I do! I couldn’t shame him.

LESLIE.

But you could shame her mother--you could drive any remaining feeling
of irresolution from this poor girl’s mind.

JANET PREECE.

They wouldn’t believe me; why should they?

LESLIE.

Then, if they doubt you, will you face this miserable libertine before
their eyes?

JANET PREECE.

Ah, no, no! For months I’ve been seeking him to beg him to make
reparation to me, but now that I’ve found him I want to put miles
between us, for I feel I’d rather go down to my grave what I am than
live what he could make me!

  [_PRISCILLA enters._]

PRISCILLA.

Mrs. Stonehay and Miss Stonehay are here, ma’am.

JANET PREECE.

Oh!

LESLIE.

I’ll see them. [_PRISCILLA retires._]

JANET PREECE.

Let me go--give me leave to go.

LESLIE.

You are free to go, Janet--go. But you are going from your duty.

JANET PREECE.

My duty--my duty. If _he_ came to hear of it, would he think a little
better of me for it?

LESLIE.

He?

JANET PREECE.

Wilfrid--your brother.

LESLIE.

I think he would.

JANET PREECE.

I’ll stay. I’ll try and do my duty.

  [_She sinks upon the sofa as MRS. STONEHAY and IRENE enter. MRS.
    STONEHAY advances to LESLIE with outstretched hands._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

My dear Mrs. Renshaw!

LESLIE.

[_Coldly._] Mrs. Stonehay.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Dear child, what can I say to you in reference to
our--misunderstanding, shall I call it?

LESLIE.

Say nothing, please, nothing.

MRS. STONEHAY.

We will say nothing. The passing ill-humours of a crochetty but not
unamiable old woman are best forgotten. Ah, my dear, remember I am
about to lose my daughter. But I have yet to make my peace with our
little friend here. You have been indisposed, my poor Janet? Let it be
a lesson to you--never mistake firmness for unkindness. Don’t stand, in
your weak state. [_JANET sinks back upon the sofa._] I am positively
in ecstasies, dear Mrs. Renshaw, to learn that Lord Dangars is to be a
guest at the Villa Colobiano.

LESLIE.

To my surprise I find that my husband and this gentleman are acquainted.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Are old and close friends. And you weren’t aware of it! Delightful!

LESLIE.

I say again I am _surprised_.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Naturally. You will like Dangars. He has suffered, poor fellow, but he
has come out of the furnace a very refined metal.

LESLIE.

My husband--knowing Lord Dangars, I venture to think, but slightly--has
indeed invited him to this house.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Charming! It brings us all so closely together. Will Lord Dangars, may
I ask, remain with you very long?

LESLIE.

No.

MRS. STONEHAY.

No?

LESLIE.

Because, Mrs. Stonehay, I cannot, I regret to say, consent to receive
Lord Dangars.

MRS. STONEHAY.

I confess I don’t understand. Your husband’s friend----

LESLIE.

No, Mrs. Stonehay; my husband has only to know Lord Dangars as
thoroughly as I do to consider him an unfit companion for any reputable
man or woman.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Do you forget that you are speaking of one who is to be my daughter’s
husband? Irene! are you dumb?

  [_LESLIE turns to IRENE, who is sitting with her head bowed and her
    hands clasped._]

LESLIE.

Irene! Irene!

  [_IRENE rises, supporting herself by the table._]

IRENE.

Mother--don’t ask me to marry Lord Dangars! Oh, don’t make me do
that--don’t make me do that!

MRS. STONEHAY.

Oh, I see--I quite see. [_To LESLIE._] How dare you tamper with my
daughter--how dare you? [_To IRENE._] We will go home. You shall never
enter this house again; our acquaintance with this lady has terminated.

LESLIE.

Irene!

MRS. STONEHAY.

What! Do you think by your mock-morality to upset my calculations
for Irene’s welfare? If so, you can have this satisfaction for your
pains--that one word, one look, from me will do more with this weak,
ungrateful girl than a month of your impudent meddling. Good morning.

  [_MRS. STONEHAY and IRENE are going._]

LESLIE.

Irene!

IRENE.

I--I told you I was a coward. Good-bye.

LESLIE.

Oh, Irene!

IRENE.

You have done your utmost to save me----!

LESLIE.

No! I have not yet done my utmost. Janet! Janet!

  [_JANET rises from the sofa with an effort, and LESLIE takes her by
    the hand._]

LESLIE.

Look here! This poor child is a living sacrifice to a man whose history
is a horrible chapter of dishonour. He is a man who preys upon the
weak under the mask of a false name; who stabs but has not the mercy
to kill; and who leaves his victims to bleed to death in their hearts,
slowly but surely.

MRS. STONEHAY.

I always feared this was a worthless girl. But pray, what has her
depravity to do with us?

LESLIE.

Only this. Janet has just discovered the whereabouts of the man she has
been seeking.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Really this is no concern of ours.

LESLIE.

There you are mistaken, Mrs. Stonehay.

MRS. STONEHAY.

Mistaken?

LESLIE.

Yes. Because, if this man were willing to atone to Janet Preece by
marrying her, he could not fulfil his engagement to your daughter.

IRENE.

Oh!

MRS. STONEHAY.

This is an infamous fabrication!

LESLIE.

[_To JANET._] Is it the truth?

JANET PREECE.

It is--the truth.

  [_JANET sinks back upon the sofa burying her face in the pillows._]

IRENE.

Oh, Leslie!

MRS. STONEHAY.

A girl of that character lives upon her lying romances, and the woman
who harbours such a creature becomes a partner and not a protector.
[_To IRENE._] Come--do you hear me!

IRENE.

No, no! Leslie!

LESLIE.

Dunstan!

  [_DUNSTAN RENSHAW and LORD DANGARS enter._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

[_Tenderly._] Leslie. [_He bows to MRS. STONEHAY and IRENE._] Leslie,
dear, let me introduce Lord Dangars to you. [_JANET raises her head
with a startled look of horror._]

LORD DANGARS.

[_Offering his hand._] Mrs. Renshaw, I----

LESLIE.

No, Dunstan; forgive me--I cannot make the acquaintance of Lord Dangars.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

[_In an undertone._] Leslie!

LESLIE.

If Lord Dangars wishes for an explanation, Dunstan, I have only to
recall to him the existence of this unhappy girl whose story is known
to me.

  [_She reveals JANET._]

JANET PREECE.

No, no!

LESLIE.

Janet Preece.

  [_DUNSTAN stares at JANET helplessly and horror-stricken._]

LORD DANGARS.

I should not be so impolite as to disturb Mrs. Renshaw’s prejudices
against me were they founded upon less illusory evidence. But I can
assure Mrs. Renshaw that I believe I have never seen this young lady
until the present moment.

  [_LESLIE looks aghast at JANET._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

Janet, do _you_ say you know Lord Dangars?

JANET PREECE.

No, no! It’s not he I know! It is a mistake--I----

MRS. STONEHAY.

A mistake!

JANET PREECE.

Ah! Let me go! let me go!

  [_LESLIE grasps her by the arm._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

Girl, do you mean that you know _Mr. Renshaw_?

  [_DANGARS and LESLIE turn to DUNSTAN, who is staring blankly before
    him with his hands clenched._]

LESLIE.

Janet! Janet! [_As the truth dawns upon her._] Oh!

JANET PREECE.

Ah! What have I done to you! I’d have died to save you this. God
forgive me! I’m not fit to live! Kill me! Kill me! Ah!

  [_She rushes down the garden steps, past LESLIE, who is as one turned
    to stone._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

Lord Dangars, may I trespass upon your good nature so far as to beg
your escort home? Poor Irene is naturally much distressed.

LORD DANGARS.

[_Looking from DUNSTAN to LESLIE._] This is perhaps not the time to
express regrets----

MRS. STONEHAY.

Regrets! Regrets that the character of an honourable man is cleared
from a gross and vindictive slander! It is not from _us_ that regrets
should come. I am ready.

IRENE.

[_Weeping._] Leslie--Leslie! [_She takes LESLIE’S hand and kisses it.
LESLIE stands, with staring eyes, immovable._]

MRS. STONEHAY.

Irene, give your arm to Lord Dangars.

  [_IRENE gives her arm helplessly to DANGARS. MRS. STONEHAY shrugs her
    shoulders and goes out, followed by DANGARS with IRENE._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

[_In a hollow, changed voice._] Leslie--Leslie! [_He staggers towards
her._] You hate me--you hate me. [_He looks into her face._] How you
hate me!

LESLIE.

[_Speaking with great effort._] Deny it--deny it.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Deny it!

LESLIE.

Deny it.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I--I--Ah, God! I’m guilty! I’m guilty! I’m guilty! Don’t ask me to tell
you the story of my life--I can’t--I can’t. It’s one of sin--all sin.
Till I met you--till I met you. Can you hear me?

  [_She nods her head twice, still with the wild dazed look in her
    face._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Then everything altered. I love you--I love you! In all the world there
is nothing for me but you--you make my day or my night by the opening
or the closing of your eyes. There is nothing for me but you! I worship
you!

  [_The man is heard again singing to the mandolin. LESLIE shudders and
    tries to go._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Don’t leave me! You won’t leave me! I can’t live away from you. Have
mercy on me! Have mercy on me! Mercy! [_He kneels to her._] I repent!
Help me to begin a new life! I’m young; I won’t die till I’ve made
amends. I won’t die till I’ve done some good act to make you proud of
me! Oh, give me hope!

LESLIE.

[_As if in a dream._] Deny it!

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I’m guilty--you know it! Have mercy! Give me a faint hope! A year hence
you’ll pardon me? Two years--ten? A little hope--only a little hope!

LESLIE.

Deny it.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I can’t deny it!

LESLIE.

Go!

  [_After a moment he goes quietly away, then she falls to the ground
    in a swoon. The voice of the singer rises in the distance._]


END OF THE THIRD ACT.




THE FOURTH ACT.

THE BEGINNING OF A NEW LIFE.


_The scene is HUGH MURRAY’S private sitting-room in an old-fashioned
    Holborn hotel, comfortably and solidly furnished, but with an
    antiquated look about the place. It is evening, the lamps are
    lighted and the fire is burning. HUGH is playing a plaintive melody
    upon the piano, and watching LESLIE, who sits with a listless air._

LESLIE.

Mr. Murray.

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes?

LESLIE.

Wilfrid is very late.

HUGH MURRAY.

He will be back soon.

LESLIE.

With the worn, hopeless look upon his face which makes my heart ache
so. Do you guess why the poor boy is out and about from morning till
night?

HUGH MURRAY.

Do I guess?

LESLIE.

Ah, you _do_ guess. You know that my brother is searching for Janet
Preece.

HUGH MURRAY.

Something of the kind has crossed my mind. Why does he look for her
here?

LESLIE.

He ascertained that she left Florence before we hurried out of that
dreadful city; but she has not returned to her home in the country, and
so he prays that the whirlpool has drawn her to London again and that
he may find her.

HUGH MURRAY.

Does he confide in you?

LESLIE.

No, poor fellow--but I know, I know, I know. Oh, it’s horrible that he
can’t forget her--horrible!

HUGH MURRAY.

Hush! you must try not to think.

LESLIE.

I do try--I do try. How long have my brother and I been here? I can’t
reckon.

HUGH MURRAY.

You left Florence ten days ago; you’ve been sharing an old bachelor’s
solitude almost a week.

LESLIE.

Dear friend, your solitude must be far better than such dismal company.

HUGH MURRAY.

Better! No.

LESLIE.

Ah, yes. I wanted Wilfrid to be with me when I told you--but, I leave
you early to-morrow.

HUGH MURRAY.

To-morrow!

LESLIE.

Yes. I’ve written to my old schoolmistress at Helmstead begging her to
take me again--not to learn; I’ve nothing more to learn! But I want to
sit amongst the girls again, to walk with them, and to run down to the
brook with my hands in theirs as I did--only six weeks ago. Only six
weeks ago.

HUGH MURRAY.

And Wilfrid?

LESLIE.

Wilfrid has promised to visit me very often, as he used to. So
everything will be as it was--just as it was.

HUGH MURRAY.

I knew you could not remain in this dreary hotel, but still--why so
suddenly?

LESLIE.

Because I’ve been thinking that if _he_ should try to see me--you know
whom I mean?

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes.

LESLIE.

If he should try to see me again it is to you he would first come to
ascertain my whereabouts.

HUGH MURRAY.

And surely you would grant him an interview?

LESLIE.

Not yet! I’m not cruel--I used not to be cruel--only I’m not ready to
meet him yet.

HUGH MURRAY.

When will you be prepared to meet him?

LESLIE.

How can I tell? I am like a dead woman dreaming after death. What good
would it do him to look upon a soulless woman!

HUGH MURRAY.

Is there no hope left for him?

LESLIE.

Yes, a miracle--when there is hope for me.

[_WILFRID enters, looking very weary and careworn._]

LESLIE.

Wilfrid dear.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Well, Les. [_He kisses her listlessly._]

HUGH MURRAY.

You look fagged, my boy.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Hallo, Murray. I am a bit done to-night.

HUGH MURRAY.

Walking?

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Flying like a blind bat, from one quarter of London to another. I’ve
got some business in hand, and no one will do more than gape or laugh
at a fellow when he’s in terrible earnest. This cursed city! It soaks
up the poor and the helpless like a sponge; but I’ll wring it dry
yet--you’ll see if I don’t--you’ll see----

  [_He twists the arm-chair round and sits facing the fire._]

LESLIE.

[_To HUGH, in a whisper._] I told you so--he is searching for her.

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes.

LESLIE.

What should I do if he found her!

HUGH MURRAY.

Nothing. Leave everything to chance.

LESLIE.

Chance!

HUGH MURRAY.

Chance is a fairer arbiter of our lives than we imagine. You are
terribly ill. [_She shakes her head._] I have written into the country
for some fruit for you; it should have arrived by this time, with this
morning’s bloom on it. I’ll go and enquire. [_She offers her hand,
which he merely touches._] Poor Will’s fast asleep. [_He goes out._]

LESLIE.

[_Bending over WILFRID._] Tired to death. Will, my dear brother, you
are the only one left me now and you are drifting away from me. Your
heart is no longer mine and your thoughts are no longer mine. It’s so
hard to lose husband and brother at once! Come back to me--come back to
me!

[_JANET, looking very poor and ill, appears at the door._]

LESLIE.

Oh! Janet!

JANET PREECE.

Mrs. Renshaw.

LESLIE.

How do you come here?

JANET PREECE.

I’ve been keeping near you since you left Florence. Days ago I found
out you were here, through watching your brother and Mr. Murray. If
I’d sent my name up to you you’d have refused to see me, so I’ve been
waiting my opportunity to steal into the hotel while the porter was
absent. Don’t turn me away till you’ve heard me!

LESLIE.

Sit down, while I think for a moment.

JANET PREECE.

Thank you.

LESLIE.

[_To herself, looking at the arm-chair in which WILFRID is sleeping
concealed from view._] Chance has brought them together again and Mr.
Murray says that chance is a just arbiter. I’ll neither unite them nor
keep them apart. Chance shall do everything for me. Well? Speak low,
please.

JANET PREECE.

[_Pointing to door._] Your brother is not in there?

LESLIE.

No. What do you want of me?

JANET PREECE.

To tell you this. I’m going out to Australia in company with some poor
farming people from down near home; I met them by chance here in London
and it’s settled. We sail from Plymouth the day after to-morrow, and
there’s an end o’ me.

LESLIE.

Can I--do anything--to help you?

JANET PREECE.

Oh, no, no. But before I go I’ve got to ease my mind of something that
you must listen to. It’s this. I’ve parted you from your husband.
Haven’t I? Haven’t I?

LESLIE.

Yes.

JANET PREECE.

Well, then, its only just to him that you should know this. It’s
_I_ that tempted _him_, not he that led me on; and I’ve lied to you
in letting you think the man was to blame instead of the woman. I’m
worthless, part of the rubbish of the world, and was so before I met
him, and he’s a better man than you think for. There!

LESLIE.

Janet, do you think I don’t see through the falsehood you’re telling
me?

JANET PREECE.

The falsehood!

LESLIE.

You’re trying to heal my sorrow with a fable. It’s useless; I have
heard the truth from my husband’s lips.

JANET PREECE.

Ah, then, in pity for me, take him back! Don’t let me go to my grave
knowing that I’ve ruined your life for you. Try to blame me more! Try
to blame me more! [_WILFRID stirs in his sleep._]

LESLIE.

Hush!

JANET PREECE.

We’re not alone!

LESLIE.

My brother.

JANET PREECE.

[_In a whisper._] He has not heard me. I’ll go.

LESLIE.

Janet, I’ll not keep the truth from you! Wilfrid loves you still.

JANET PREECE.

Oh, no!

LESLIE.

He has been searching for you for days past, and he is there now worn
with trouble and anxiety for you.

JANET PREECE.

Oh, don’t tell me! don’t tell me!

LESLIE.

It would be a reproach to me if I let you go in ignorance; and now,
Janet, I--I leave the rest to you.

JANET PREECE.

God bless you for the trust you place in me! You needn’t fear me.
Good-bye.

LESLIE.

Ah, Janet, I am so perplexed. We are both in trouble--both in trouble.

JANET PREECE.

In years to come, when I am only a mere speck in his life, you’ll tell
him, won’t you?

LESLIE.

Yes, yes.

JANET PREECE.

[_Irresolutely._] You’ll let me look at his face once more for the last
time? [_LESLIE nods her head. Looking at WILFRID._] Good-bye. [_To
LESLIE._] He need never know.

  [_She slowly bends over WILFRID and kisses him upon the forehead. As
    she draws back behind the chair WILFRID opens his eyes and sees
    LESLIE standing before him._]

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Leslie, dear, I was dreaming and you woke me with your kiss. [_JANET
steals out._] What’s that? [_HUGH enters, carrying a basket of fruit._]
Oh, it’s Murray.

LESLIE.

[_In an undertone to HUGH._] Lend me some money--some money. By-and-by
I’ll tell you why I want it.

HUGH MURRAY.

[_To LESLIE._] Gold or notes?

LESLIE.

Either--both.

  [_He hands her some money from a cabinet, and she goes out._]

HUGH MURRAY.

Wilfrid.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Yes?

HUGH MURRAY.

Quick, man; before your sister returns! I must tell you. Renshaw is
coming here to-night.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Renshaw!

HUGH MURRAY.

I received this note from him five minutes ago--a few lines telling me
he has returned to England and entreating me to see him to-night.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

You’ll not meet him!

HUGH MURRAY.

Why not? The man is suffering; I can read that in his handwriting.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Suffering! Let him taste such suffering as he has dealt out to others.
Is my sister not suffering? Is Janet Preece not suffering? Am I not
suffering?

HUGH MURRAY.

Wilfrid, my boy, Wilfrid; there’s something better to do than to be
revenged.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

How easy it is, Murray, for an onlooker to be charitable!

HUGH MURRAY.

Hush, my boy! Don’t you see that there is no future for her except one
of reconciliation with her husband?

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Reconciliation!

HUGH MURRAY.

Her ideal is destroyed, her illusions are gone, but time will send
Renshaw’s sins further and further into the distance, and habit will
teach her never to look back.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Murray, you don’t know! You argue like a lawyer who has to patch up a
mere wrangle between husband and wife.

HUGH MURRAY.

I don’t know!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

You don’t know what it is to have the heart plucked out of you and
trampled upon!

HUGH MURRAY.

Wilfrid, be silent!

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

How can you, living your level, humdrum life, gauge the penalty paid
by those who love what is worth so much and yet so little! Ah, Murray,
wait till you love and lose, as we have lost!

HUGH MURRAY.

Wait! [_LESLIE enters unnoticed._] Wait! Do you think you can read me
a lesson in despair? Come to me when your boy’s passion has grown cold
and I’ll describe to you the agony of a man’s hungry, hopeless, endless
devotion.

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Murray!

HUGH MURRAY.

I love your sister! I have loved her from the moment I first saw her
in the school-garden at Helmstead; but I loved her too reverently
to disturb the simplicity of her childhood, and I waited. I waited!
Waited for him to scorch into her cheeks the first flame of
consciousness--waited for her to make him her idol--waited for him to
break her heart! Waited for this!

  [_He sits with his face buried in his hands._]

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

Murray--forgive me. I never thought of this. If we could have been
brothers!

HUGH MURRAY.

Sssh! It is always as it is now, Will. Women love men whose natures
are like bright colours--the homespun of life repels them. They delight
to hear their fate in the cadences of a musical voice, thinking they
are listening to an impromptu; it’s too late when they learn that the
melody has been composed by Experience and scored by other women’s
tears. [_LESLIE reveals herself._]

WILFRID BRUDENELL.

My sister!

HUGH MURRAY.

Mrs. Renshaw! I fear--you have heard.

LESLIE.

Yes.

HUGH MURRAY.

I never meant you to know; I meant to carry it with me silently and
patiently. The sorrow is mine--mine only.

LESLIE.

I--I can say nothing--nothing. Good-night. We will not meet
to-morrow--I shall be gone early.

HUGH MURRAY.

Good-night.

LESLIE.

I shall never cease to pray for your good fortune. God bless you, Mr.
Murray!

  [_LESLIE gives HUGH her hand, then she and WILFRID go out together.
    There is a knock at the door. A servant brings HUGH a card._]

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes. [_The servant goes out._]

HUGH MURRAY.

Renshaw.

[_The servant ushers in DUNSTAN RENSHAW, who looks broken and walks
feebly._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Speak to me, Murray.

HUGH MURRAY.

You look ill. Sit down.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I have been ill, in Florence, and haven’t had strength to struggle back
to England till now.

HUGH MURRAY.

I’m sorry. What do you want of me?

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Friendship. If you’re not my friend I haven’t one in the world. Murray,
you know where _she_ is?

HUGH MURRAY.

Yes--I know.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Tell me--tell me!

HUGH MURRAY.

I can’t tell you. I--I may not tell you.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Ah! I appeal to you. Exact any promise from me--be as hard on me as
you please--only tell me, tell me! [_HUGH is silent._] Ah, you don’t
know what you’re doing. I am mad. Night and day I see nothing but her
face as it looked on me when she sent me from her; night and day I hear
nothing but that one word “Go,” the last she spoke to me. The word
won’t let me sleep; it beats so on my brain. Another word, a simple
message, from her might drive it out. Only tell me where she is! My
wife, Murray--my wife!

HUGH MURRAY.

I would tell you of my own will. But I can’t break faith with her.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

She has not softened towards me then a little--a little, Murray?

HUGH MURRAY.

Man, you must have patience.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Patience!

HUGH MURRAY.

You must wait.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Wait! It is a hundred years since I lost her--a hundred years, and she
has not softened towards me just a little.

  [_He sits gazing vacantly upon the ground._]

HUGH MURRAY.

[_To himself._] Surely she would pity him if she saw him now, and if
I can reconcile them it is my duty. I’ll do my best; it will be my
consolation to have done my best. [_To DUNSTAN._] Where are you going
when you leave me to-night?

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Let me rest here, in your room, for a few hours.

HUGH MURRAY.

Have you left your hotel?

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I am staying nowhere; I have been walking the streets till I came here.

HUGH MURRAY.

I’ll order you a room in this house.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

No, no. It’s only here I can rest. I shall rest here.

HUGH MURRAY.

Why here?

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Because I shall feel sure that a friend’s eyes will look on me in the
morning.

HUGH MURRAY.

Ring for what you want, otherwise the servants won’t disturb you.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

[_To himself._] Won’t disturb me--won’t disturb me. No.

HUGH MURRAY.

I’ll leave you now. Good-night.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

You will not tell me where she is?

HUGH MURRAY.

Till I have her permission, I cannot.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

You mean that, guessing I should follow her, she has taken precautions
to avoid me--to avoid me? Your face answers me.

HUGH MURRAY.

[_To himself._] She will relent--I know she will relent.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

I shan’t see you again to-night, Murray.

HUGH MURRAY.

No--you’ll not see _me_. Good night.

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Good-bye.

HUGH MURRAY.

[_To himself._] But you shall see _her_; I know she will relent. [_He
goes out._]

DUNSTAN RENSHAW.

Fool! fool! Why couldn’t you have died in Florence? Why did you drag
yourself all these miles--to end it _here_? I should have known
better--I should have known better. [_He takes a phial from his
pocket and slowly pours some poison into a tumbler._] When I’ve
proved that I could not live away from her, perhaps she’ll pity me.
I shall never know it, but perhaps she’ll pity me then. [_About to
drink._] Supposing I am blind! Supposing there is some chance of my
regaining her. Regaining her! How dull sleeplessness makes me! How
much could I regain of what I’ve lost! Why, _she knows me_--nothing
can ever undo that--_she knows me_. Every day would be a dreary,
hideous masquerade; every night a wakeful, torturing retrospect. If
she smiled, I should whisper to myself--“yes, yes, that’s a very
pretty pretence, but--_she knows you_!” The slamming of a door would
shout it, the creaking of a stair would murmur it--“_she knows you_!”
And when she thought herself alone, or while she lay in her sleep, I
should be always stealthily spying for that dreadful look upon her
face, and I should find it again and again as I see it now--the look
which cries out so plainly--“Profligate! you taught one good woman to
believe in you, but now _she knows you_!” No, no--no, no! [_He drains
the contents of the tumbler._] The end--the end. [_Pointing towards
the clock._] The hour at which we used to walk together in the garden
at Florence--husband and wife--lovers. [_He pulls up the window-blind
and looks out._] The sky--the last time--the sky. [_He rests drowsily
against the piano._] Tired--tired. [_He walks rather unsteadily to
the table._] A line to Murray. [_Writing._] A line to Murray--telling
him--poison--morphine--message---- [_The pen falls from his hand
and his head drops forward._] The light is going out. I can’t see.
Light--I’ll finish this when I wake--I’ll rest. [_He staggers to the
sofa and falls upon it._] I shall sleep to-night. The voice has gone.
Leslie--wife--reconciled----

  [_LESLIE enters softly and kneels by his side._]

LESLIE.

Dunstan, I am here. [_He partly opens his eyes, raises himself,
and stares at her; then his head falls back quietly. LESLIE’S face
averted._] Dunstan, I have returned to you. We are one and we will
make atonement for the past together. I will be your Wife, not your
Judge--let us from this moment begin the new life you spoke of.
Dunstan! [_She sees the paper which has fallen from his hand, and reads
it._] Dunstan! Dunstan! No, no! Look at me! Ah! [_She catches him in
her arms._] Husband! Husband! Husband!


THE END.

  Printed by BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD
  Tavistock Street Covent Garden London




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Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation and format of stage directions have been made consistent.
Differences in formatting between the introduction and main text have
been preserved. The use of “Wilfred” in the introductory material
and “Wilfrid” throughout the main text has also been preserved. All
original spelling and hyphenation in the original has been preserved,
except for the following apparent typographical error:

Page 122, “steathily” changed to “stealthily.” (I should be always
stealthily spying...)





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Profligate, by Arthur Wing Pinero

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