THE FIRST ACT
The Scene represents a drawing-room in Mrs. Emptage’s house near Regent’s Park. At the back are double doors, opening on to a further drawing-room, and these face a window, over which the blinds are drawn, to moderate the glare of the sun, which nevertheless streams through them, for it is a fine afternoon in early summer. The rooms are furnished and decorated in a costly and tasteful fashion.
Mrs. Emptage is reclining upon the settee, her eyes closed, a bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. Justina is pacing the room between the door and the window. Mrs. Emptage is a pretty, carefully-preserved woman with dyed hair and “touched-up” face: she is old enough to be the mother of a daughter of nine-and-twenty. Justina is of that age, good-looking, “smart,” and already somewhat passé. Both are fashionably but sombrely dressed.
Mrs. Emptage.
Tell me the time once more, ’Tina.
Justina.
[Referring to her watch.] A few minutes to four, mother.
Mrs. Emptage.
Does the judge of the Divorce Court invariably rise at four o’clock?
Justina.
He may sit a little later under special circumstances.
Mrs. Emptage.
To have done with a case if it’s very near its end?
Justina.
So I’m told.
Mrs. Emptage.
They must all be here soon, whether that happens or not.
Justina.
Yes, yes. Oh, but if the confounded thing should last into another day!
Mrs. Emptage.
A third day’s suspense will kill me.
Justina.
Ma, I suppose, really, we ought to be reading our Church Services or something.
Mrs. Emptage.
I can’t concentrate my attention in the least; I have been glancing at “The Yellow Book.”
Justina.
Hark! what’s that?
Mrs. Emptage.
I don’t hear anything.
Justina.
It is somebody!
[Horton, a manservant, appears.
Horton.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Mrs. Emptage struggles to her feet as Mrs. Quinton Twelves enters. Horton retires. Kate Twelves is a lively, handsome young woman, brightly dressed.
Justina and Mrs. Emptage.
[Throwing themselves upon her.] Kitty!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Kissing them.] Well, well, well, well!
Justina.
Is it over?
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Not quite; that is, it wasn’t when I came away. It’s all over by now, I expect.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Hysterically.] Oh, Kitty——!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Sssh, sssh! everything has gone swimmingly, I tell you.
Justina.
For Theophila?
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Of course, for Theophila.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Sinking back on to the settee.] I felt sure it would.
Justina.
But what was happening when you left?
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
The dear old judge was just beginning to deliver his decision—his judgment.
Justina.
Oh, how could you come away then?
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Certainly, it was a wrench. Only, Theo wrote little notes to Sir Fletcher Portwood and to Claude and me. [Taking a screw of paper from her glove.[glove.]] Here’s mine. [Reading.] “I won’t have anybody I am fond of, except my husband, in Court at the finish. They tell me they are sure I am cleared, but it frightens me to think you are all waiting. Go to mother’s.”
Mrs. Emptage.
[Taking the note.] My poor child! [Reading it.] “... they are sure I am cleared....” ’Tina, she’s cleared!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Cleared! I wish you could have heard Sir John Clarkson’s opening speech for Theophila this morning. There was quite a murmur of approval when he sat down.
Justina.
He let that wretch, Mrs. Jack Allingham, have it—eh? He did!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
He said that a morbidly jealous wife is one of the saddest spectacles the world presents; but that when her jealousy leads her to attempt to blacken the reputation, the hitherto spotless reputation, of another woman—in this instance, a young lady more happily married than herself—then that jealous wife becomes a positive danger to society.
Mrs. Emptage.
I ought to have been there, ’Tina. I said it was my duty, if you remember.
Justina.
I might have gone.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Certainly; and yet you have both sat at home, quaking; behaving, for all the world, as if you have a lurking suspicion that Theophila really may—really has—really did——
Mrs. Emptage.
Kate, I will not permit you to say such a thing!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Why these miserable-looking gowns then? You are dressed more funereally to-day than you were yesterday!
Mrs. Emptage.
[Tearfully.] If you live to see a daughter of yours, however innocent she may be, dragged through the Divorce Court——!
Justina.
We haven’t been quite certain what we ought to put on.
Mrs. Emptage.
I considered half-mourning rather a happy thought.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
To my mind, it looks as if you had deliberately prepared for all emergencies.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Rising, in a flutter.] ’Tina, pin some flowers in your dress at once! I’ll get Bristow to stick a bit of relief about me somewhere. And I’ll wear some more rings——
[She goes out. Justina selects some cut flowers from a vase on the pianoforte.
Justina.
Oh, Kit, we were dreadfully in the dumps. Bless you for bullying us!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Taking a pin from her hat.] Come here.
Justina.
[Going to Mrs. Twelves.] By Jove, though! it would have been too rough on us if—if—wouldn’t it?
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Attaching the flowers to the bodice of Justina’s dress.] Pray complete your sentence.
Justina.
Well—if Mrs. Allingham had made out her case against Jack Allingham and Theo.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
For shame, ’Tina!
Justina.
Oh, you’re awfully prudish all of a sudden, Kate. You’ve very soon forgotten—— Mind that pin!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
What are you saying?
Justina.
I mean, it isn’t as if we hadn’t all been just a leetle rapid in our time, we three girls—Theo, you, and I. You needn’t be quite so newly-married-womanish with me.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Shut up!
Justina.
[Glancing round.] No one’s there.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[In an undertone.] We always knew where to draw the line, I hope.
Justina.
Of course we did. Only, when you’re married, as Theo is, to a cold, dry mummy of a man like Alexander Fraser, the line’s apt to get drawn rather zigzag.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Finishing with the flowers.] Go away!
Justina.
Thanks—they’re jolly. [Picking up a little mirror from the table, and making a wry face at herself.] I haven’t had a night’s sound sleep for weeks.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
I should think not, with such thoughts in your head. Poor Theo! I’ve been fretting about her too, in a different way.
Justina.
[Adjusting the flowers with the aid of the mirror.] Yes, but it isn’t only Theo. I’ve been doing a bit of lying-awake on my own account, I can tell you.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Why?
Justina.
[Moistening her eyelashes as she again surveys her face.] Why, if this business had gone against my sister, it wouldn’t have bettered my chances—eh?
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
No, perhaps it wouldn’t.
Justina.
I’m twenty—oh, you know——
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Nine.
Justina.
Ugh, dash it, yes! And this beastly scrape of Theophila’s has been no end of a shocker for me. From to-day I turn over the proverbial new leaf.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
So glad, dear.
Justina.
Just fancy! I’m the only single one out of we three musketeers. Great Scot, Kate, suppose I got left!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[With a laugh.] ’Tina!
Justina.
But I won’t, you mark me! From to-day I’ll alter—I take my oath I will! No more slang for me, no more swears, no more smokes with the men after dinner, no more cycling at the club in knickers! I’ve been giving too much away——!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Listening.] Take care!
Justina.
[Glancing round.] Claude—back.
Claude Emptage, a plain, stumpy, altogether insignificant young man enters—a young man with a pale face, red eyelids and nostrils, a dense look, and heavy, depressed manner.
Justina.
What news? Any?
Claude.
It’s finished.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Finished!
Justina.
Don’t tell me! How?
Claude.
It’s all right for Theo. Mrs. Allingham’s petition dismissed.
Justina.
Ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha! All right for Theo! [Clapping her hands, almost dancing. Mrs. Twelves embraces her.] All right for Theo!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Isn’t it splendid?
Justina.
Ha, ha, ha! All right for——! Mother! ma! ma!
[She runs out.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[To Claude.] You did wait then, in spite of Theo’s orders?
Claude.
No, not in Court. I hung about outside, with Uncle Fletcher, to hear the result. [Sitting, with a little groan.] Oh!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
I must say, Claude, the victory hasn’t left you very cheerful.
Claude.
Cheerful! Think of the day I’ve spent!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
You’ve spent!
Claude.
Theophila’s brother! [Pointing into space.] The brother of Mrs. Fraser of Locheen! The brother of the witness in the box! Every eye upon me!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Drily.] I see.
Claude.
Oh, Kate, I’ve felt this business in more ways than one. It has been a terrible lesson to me.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Smiling.] My poor Claudio!
Claude.
[Not looking at her.] No, don’t pity me—despise me. Kitty, how easy it is for a fellow to imperil a woman’s reputation!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Amused.] Yes, isn’t it?
Claude.
We attach ourselves to a pretty married woman; we lounge in her drawing-room, her boudoir; we make her our toy, our pastime. Do we allow a single thought of the scandal we may involve her in to check us in our pursuit of pleasure?
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Demurely.] No, I suppose you don’t.
Claude.
Never!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Perhaps you had better not come to tea with me quite so frequently in the future, Claude.
Claude.
You are right; you, and others, must see less of me. [Turning to her.] And yet, Kate, I am not all bad!
Sir Fletcher Portwood enters. He is fifty-one, amiable, pompous, egotistical, foolish.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Why didn’t you wait for me, Claude, my boy?
Claude.
Sorry; my brain was reeling.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Meeting Mrs. Twelves.] A very proper, a very satisfactory termination of this affair, Mrs. Twelves.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
It has been awfully reassuring to see you beaming in Court, Sir Fletcher.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Ha! I daresay my attitude has been remarked. Beaming; why not? I’ve had no doubt as to the result.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
No doubt of Theo’s innocence—of course not.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Innocent; that goes without saying—my niece. But the result, in any case, would have been much the same, I venture to think.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Really?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
You see, my own public position, if I may speak of it——
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Oh, yes.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Smiling.] And I happen to know the judge—slightly perhaps; but there it is.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
But judges are not influenced by considerations of that kind?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Heaven forbid I should say a word against our method of administering law in this country. The House knows my opinion of the English Judicial Bench. At the same time, judges are mortal—I have never concealed that from myself; and Sir William and I have met. [To Claude.] You saw the judge look at me this morning, Claude?
Claude.
No.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
No? Oh, yes, and I half-smiled in return. Yesterday I couldn’t catch his eye, but today I’ve been half-smiling at him all through the proceedings.
Justina runs in, seats herself at the pianoforte, and thumps out the Wedding March.
Justina.
Well, Uncle Fletcher!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Ah! ha!
Justina.
What price Mrs. Allingham?
Mrs. Emptage returns. She has relieved the heaviness of her dress by a fichu of crêpe de soie.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Embracing Claude.] My darling! [Embracing Sir Fletcher.] Oh, my dear Fletcher! Be quiet, ’Tina!
[Justina plays the air of a popular music-hall melody, softly; Mrs. Twelves comes to her.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I told you so—hey!
Mrs. Emptage.
We all said so.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
But I’ve been the most emphatic——
Mrs. Emptage.
Where are Theo and Alec?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
They went over to Sir John Clarkson’s chambers directly the case concluded—I fancy, to consult him on some little point that had arisen. I managed to get one word——
Mrs. Emptage.
[Impulsively kissing Mrs. Twelves.] I’m so happy!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I contrived to get just one word with Alec as he was putting Theophila into the carriage. I wanted to tell him——
Mrs. Emptage.
[Pacing the room, humming the air played by Justina.] Tra, la, la! la, la! tra, la, la!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I wanted to tell him an amusing story I’d heard during the luncheon interval, but he hadn’t time to—— Ha, ha! It’s a legal anecdote. It appears that a fellow of the name of Babbitt once brought an action——
Mrs. Emptage.
Did the judge apologise, Fletcher?
[Justina stops playing.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Apologise!
Mrs. Emptage.
To Theophila?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
A judge never apologises.
Mrs. Emptage.
He might do worse, where such undeserved distress is occasioned a young wife and her husband——
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Hear, hear!
Mrs. Emptage.
To say nothing of her mother!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I surmise that the judgment of my friend Sir William was very strongly worded, and I daresay an expression of regret followed from Mrs. Allingham’s counsel. But I had quitted the Court, you know——
Mrs. Emptage.
Oh, yes; Theo wrote you a note——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
But you are losing my anecdote. It appears that a man of the name of Babbitt—— One thing, Muriel, I will stake my reputation upon.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Peeping out at the side of the window blind.] What’s that?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
That the public applauded the decision roundly.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Pacing the room again.] I can hear them doing it! Bravo, Mrs. Fraser! Eh, girls?
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Plucky Mrs. Fraser!
Justina.
How jolly to have been there just then!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
As a matter of fact, I talked with several strangers of a humble rank of life, and hinted that a few cheers—so regrettable and unseemly in a court of law as a rule—I hinted that a few cheers would undoubtedly be justifiable in the present instance, as well as peculiarly agreeable to me. It seems that Babbitt——
[Horton enters with a card.
Mrs. Emptage.
[After glancing at the card.] Oh——!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Eh?
Justina.
What’s up?
Mrs. Emptage.
[To Horton.] Where is Mrs. Cloys?
[Sir Fletcher, Justina and Claude rise precipitately.
Horton.
In the morning-room, ma’am. She preferred——
Mrs. Emptage.
[Taking the card.] I—I—some one will come to her.
[Horton retires.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Harriet here!
Justina.
By Jove!
Claude.
[Making for the door.] No; she is too impossible.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Intercepting him.] Claude, I dare you to leave the house!
[Sir Fletcher also moves towards the door.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Stopping him.] Fletcher, you mustn’t!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Muriel, I distinctly prefer not to meet——
Mrs. Emptage.
But I must have[have] every support; I am unequal to it otherwise. Who will fetch her upstairs? Fletcher, dear!——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
In your establishment! Singularly inappropriate!
Mrs. Emptage.
[Turning to Justina.] Justina——
Justina.
No thanks, ma.
Mrs. Emptage.
Brutes, all of you!
[She hurries out.
Justina.
Confound her!
Claude.
I shall submit to none of her airs. What is a bishop?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Why does she select this occasion——?
Justina.
It’s nearly ten years since she washed her hands of us.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Exactly eleven years have elapsed since my sister Harriet placed it out of my power to continue on a footing of brotherly intercourse with her.
Claude.
[To Mrs. Twelves, in a whisper.] I know the story.
Justina.
[To him.] Sssh!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Her behaviour on that one memorable afternoon proved that her marriage to a dignitary of the Church was something worse than a fluke—a sacrilege.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Quietly to Claude.] What is it?
Claude.
[Quietly to her.] She called him a Bore.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Going to Justina.] Do you think I could steal downstairs and get away? She used to tell me I was an empty-headed little fool.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Outrageous!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
And predicted I should end badly.
Justina.
Well, you haven’t.
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
No, but there’s time, she’d say. [Going towards the doors.] I’m off.
Justina.
Sneak!
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Returning hastily.] They’re coming up!
Justina.
Let ’em!
Mrs. Cloys enters, and stands surveying the room. Mrs. Emptage follows her. Mrs. Cloys is about fifty-three, handsome, dignified in bearing, richly but soberly dressed, in manner a mixture of sweetness and acerbity.
Mrs. Cloys.
Justina—is it?
Justina.
[Going to her.] How do you do, Aunt Harriet?
Mrs. Cloys.
[Kissing her, then eyeing her keenly.] H’m! you’re not married yet, I believe?
Justina.
No, I haven’t the slightest inclination that way.
Mrs. Cloys.
Oh, my dear, you still tell fibs, then?
Justina.
Indeed, aunt?
[Justina retires; Sir Fletcher advances. Mrs. Cloys kisses him, then looks him up and down.
Mrs. Cloys.
Well, Fletcher, so they’ve knighted you, have they?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Lord Cranbery was gracious enough to recommend——
Mrs. Cloys.
How much did it cost you?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Cost me!
Mrs. Cloys.
Well, you’ve made money; I suppose you could afford it.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Pray let us——!
Mrs. Cloys.
Don’t puff yourself out at me, Fletcher.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I am doing nothing of the kind, Harriet.
Mrs. Cloys.
Then don’t.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Er—how is the bishop?
Mrs. Cloys.
Old.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Old? Let me see—my marvellous head for figures should serve me——
Mrs. Cloys.
Very old.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Born in——
Mrs. Cloys.
We’re all getting old; that’s why you have the pleasure of seeing me amongst you once more. [Turning to Claude, who bows stiffly.] My nephew? [Shaking hands with him and looking him in the face searchingly.] You’re rather old too. [Sharply.] Who’s that there?
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Who has been hidden by the flowers on the piano-forte, advancing, with a nervous outburst.] Oh, I hope you remember me, dear Mrs. Cloys—Kitty Twelves. I was Kitty Powis, if you recollect.
Mrs. Cloys.
I recollect. Weren’t you at school in Paris with Justina and Theophila, and afterwards——?
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
Yes. Isn’t this interesting? Quinton, my husband, was confirmed by the Bishop of St. Olpherts! I never discovered it till we’d been married for ages—I mean, weeks and weeks—[gradually quailing under Mrs. Cloys’s gaze]—and then one day—he—he happened to see me kissing the sweetest photograph of you—and and—and——
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Twills, I understood from my sister there was a purely family gathering here this afternoon——
Mrs. Quinton Twelves.
[Offering her hand.] I—I have to go on elsewhere——
Mrs. Cloys.
[Detaining her hand.] My dear, you were extremely old when I last saw you, during your first season, in eighty-something; I pray, now you’re married, that you are—younger.
[They look at each other for a moment longer, then Mrs. Twelves withdraws her hand, and, after nodding to the others in a scared way, goes out silently. Claude follows her.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Sitting on the settee.] Muriel. [Mrs. Emptage comes to her.] We have been on bad terms for many years; let us have done with it. I suggest mutual concessions to disposition and temper.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Sitting.] I am sure I have been more than desirous——
Mrs. Cloys.
You have brought up your children abominably; that was always our most serious point of dissension——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I may remind you, Harriet, that Muriel’s cheerful method of training her children has received my sympathy and sanction. On the death of the late Mr. Emptage——
Mrs. Emptage.
My poor dear Herbert——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
It naturally devolved upon me——
Mrs. Cloys.
Sssh!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I am not one of those——
Mrs. Cloys.
Sssh, sssh, sssh!
Mrs. Emptage.
Your twenty years of married life may have taught you how to manage a husband, Harriet, but——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Heaven has blessed you with no offspring.
Mrs. Emptage.
And the world isn’t all deans, and canons, and bishops and things——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
A department of society you were thrown headlong into——
Mrs. Emptage.
By the merest chance, as you well know——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Without, I fear, possessing every qualification for the—ah—the exalted station which—which——
Mrs. Emptage.
And—and—and——
Mrs. Cloys.
[To Mrs. Emptage.] There, there! Don’t, I say. Have done with it? At any rate, we’re grey-haired women now—I am, and you ought to be——
Mrs. Emptage.
Now, Harriet——!
Mrs. Cloys.
And judgment has overtaken you——
Mrs. Emptage.
Judgment!
Mrs. Cloys.
This terrible calamity that has befallen your girl Theophila. Oh, how is it going to end?
Mrs. Emptage.
My dear Harriet, it has ended.
Mrs. Cloys.
Has the case——?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Mrs. Allingham’s petition is dismissed—dismissed.
Mrs. Emptage.
My daughter has emerged triumphantly——
Mrs. Cloys.
Thank God! [Rising.] Muriel——
[Mrs. Emptage rises; Mrs. Cloys kisses her on both cheeks, then turns away.
Mrs. Emptage.
You will see Theo and her husband in a few minutes. They are staying with me just now. “Weak, giddy mother,” am I, Harriet? My child flies to me in her trouble, nevertheless.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Wiping her eyes.] The dear bishop will be so rejoiced. Not a newspaper has been taken at the Palace this week. [Resuming her seat.] It has hit us hard. How did it all come about?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
In this way. I——
Mrs. Emptage.
[Sitting again.] Why, we’ve all known Jack Allingham for years——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Sitting.] A good fellow—little dull, perhaps—little prosy——
Mrs. Emptage.
[Glancing at Justina.] At one time we thought he was rather inclined to pay ’Tina——
Justina.
What rot, mother!
Mrs. Cloys.
Oh!
Mrs. Emptage.
However, he married this creature, Olive Harker—daughter of a Major Harker——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
“Crummy” Harker—stout man——
Justina.
Four years ago this month.
Mrs. Emptage.
Yes, in the summer of the year in which Theo was married to Fraser of Locheen.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
My extraordinary chronological faculty ought to serve me here. Theophila and Locheen were married in the March, Jack Allingham and Miss Harker in the following June; I took the chair that year at no less than three public dinners——
Mrs. Emptage.
Of course, when the two couples settled down in London the usual exchange of visits began. But from the first it was quite evident that Mrs. Allingham resented her husband’s friendship for Theo.
Mrs. Cloys.
Why should Mrs. Allingham have resented it?
Justina.
Olive was always a jealous cat—person.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
John is some months younger than his wife, I may tell you. No marriage can turn out happily when the balance of age drops ever so slightly on the woman’s side. My observation——
Mrs. Cloys.
Rubbish!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I know my world, Harriet.
Justina.
What was it that Olive said about that, ma?
Mrs. Emptage.
When the wife is older than the husband every fresh little line in her face becomes an acute pain to her, just as if it were cut into her flesh, and renewed daily, with a knife. Those are Mrs. Allingham’s own words.
Mrs. Cloys.
Poor wretch!
Mrs. Emptage.
In her storms with Jack she used to rave out these things, and Jack would repeat them to Theo.
Mrs. Cloys.
What business had he to do that, pray?
Mrs. Emptage.
Well, his home had become such a hell that he fell into the way of rushing round to Lennox Gardens, to Theophila and Alec, to obtain relief from his worries.
Justina.
He gradually became a sort of third in Lennox Gardens, you know, aunt.
Mrs. Cloys.
A sort of third?
Mrs. Emptage.
The house-friend who is continually running in and out——
Justina.
The man who has dined with you almost before you know it, as it were.
Mrs. Cloys.
Oh! And is this all?
Mrs. Emptage.
All?
Mrs. Cloys.
All the justification a jealous woman has for seeking to divorce her husband?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Not divorce, Harriet; she wasn’t entitled to ask for that. Mrs. Allingham has been suing for judicial separation.
Mrs. Cloys.
Well, well——!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Accuracy with me is a perfect mania. Oh, yes, that’s all. With the exception of the—the——[With a wave of the hand.] However——!
Mrs. Cloys.
Exception?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I was thinking of the bézique part of the case.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Impatiently.] Yes, yes; but that’s of no consequence now.
Mrs. Cloys.
Bézique?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Allingham and Theophila happen, both of them, to be fond of cards. And when Fraser was away in Scotland——
Mrs. Cloys.
Away in Scotland? Not with Theophila?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
No, no; she loathes Locheen.
Mrs. Cloys.
I see. When Mr. Fraser was in Scotland and his wife was by herself in London——
Mrs. Emptage.
Then a little harmless bézique helped to kill the time.
Mrs. Cloys.
Theophila and Mr. Allingham killed time together?
Mrs. Emptage, Justina, Sir Fletcher.
[In various tones.] Yes—yes—yes.
Mrs. Cloys.
Where was the time killed?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
In Lennox Gardens.
Mrs. Cloys.
At Theophila’s house, in her husband’s absence. Is that all?
Mrs. Emptage.
Absolutely all.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
All the bézique part of the case. You see, the lawyers separated the case against Theophila into three divisions.
Mrs. Cloys.
Three! Number One?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
The House-friend, as aforesaid.
Mrs. Cloys.
Two?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Bézique—as aforesaid.
Mrs. Cloys.
Three?
Mrs. Emptage.
I repeat, surely all this doesn’t matter now!
Mrs. Cloys.
Number Three?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Tannhäuser.
Mrs. Cloys.
In Heaven’s name, what——!
Justina.
That was nothing. Alec Fraser was in Scotland as usual——
Mrs. Cloys.
As usual!
Mrs. Emptage.
No, no—as he is often obliged to be.
Justina.
Alec was in Scotland, and Theo had been to the opera with pals——
Mrs. Cloys.
With——!
Justina.
Friends, to hear Tannhäuser. She had sent her servants to bed, and let herself in with her latchkey. As she was closing the front door she caught sight of Jack Allingham on the other side of the way.
Mrs. Emptage.
He had had one of his terrible scenes with his wife; they lived round the corner, in Pont Street——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
And a most charming house theirs was. I always say, with regard to Pont Street——
Mrs. Cloys.
[Sternly.] Fletcher!
Mrs. Emptage.
Jack was in a dreadful state of distress; pacing the streets like a maniac, in fact——
Justina.
He’s a very old friend of all of us——
Mrs. Emptage.
More like a brother than a——
Justina.
And Theo begged him to come in——
Mrs. Emptage.
To calm himself. Simply an impulsive, warm-hearted act on her part.
Justina.
And it wouldn’t have mattered in the least if that devil of a wife hadn’t suspected——
Mrs. Emptage.
And planted her maid outside Theo’s house—set of spies!——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Till three in the morning——
Mrs. Emptage.
When Theo turned Jack out.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Not four in the morning, as Mrs. Allingham’s blundering counsel tried to establish. Ha, ha! Sir John Clarkson bowled him over there! Three, sir—not four!
Mrs. Cloys.
[To Sir Fletcher.] Be quiet! be silent!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Upon my word, Harriet——!
Mrs. Cloys.
[To Justina, who rises.] Go away! You can sit by and assist at the telling of a story of this nature, single woman that you are! [Justina walks away.] What did I prophesy? Years ago, what did I prophesy? [To Mrs. Emptage.] Now, pray, how do you like seeing your children dabbling their hands in this—this pig-pail?
[Claude enters.
Claude.
Fraser and Theo——
Mrs. Emptage.
[Rising.] Ah!
Claude.
Just come in.
[Mrs. Cloys walks away; Claude joins Justina.]
Mrs. Emptage.
[Repressing her excitement.] Sssh, sssh, sssh! Let nobody make a fuss; Alec hates a fuss!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
No fuss, but some one ought to play “See the Conquering Hero——!” Theo is so fond of a little fun—genuine fun!
[He seats himself at the piano and fingers out the air laboriously. Theophila and her husband enter. She is an elegantly-dressed, still girlish, woman of seven-and-twenty; he a good-looking, undemonstrative man of about five-and-thirty. Both are pale, weary-looking, and subdued. Fraser is gloved and frock-coated; Theophila is in her bonnet and cape.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Her hands twitching.] Well, pet?
Theophila.
[Kissing her mother in a spiritless way.] Well, mother dear?
[Theophila goes to Justina and Claude and kisses them, silently.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Shaking hands with Fraser.] A hundred thousand congratulations, Alec.
Fraser.
[Biting his lip.] Thanks. [Standing at the further end of the piano, to Sir Fletcher.] Do you mind not playing?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Rising and singing.] “See the Conquering He—ro co—o—o—o—o—o—um—ms—!” Not hero—heroes. No, hero and heroine!
[Theophila comes to him and kisses him in the same impassive fashion.
Theophila.
[Quietly.] Much obliged to you for sticking to me, the last two days, uncle.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
My dear, as a matter of fact, I’ve enjoyed myself in Court. I am not exaggerating—enjoyed myself.
Mrs. Emptage.
Theo, your aunt Harriet——
Theophila.
[Turning.] Aunt——! [Advancing slowly to meet Mrs. Cloys—a little dazed.] I saw a figure; I—I thought it was Kitty. Why, aunt——!
[They shake hands.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Looking into her face, earnestly.] You’re tired—quite done.
Theophila.
[With a nod, sitting on the settee.] Alec——[Fraser advances.] My aunt Harriet, Mrs. Cloys—my husband.
[Fraser and Mrs. Cloys incline their heads to each other. Fraser then turns away and joins Claude and Justina, Sir Fletcher Portwood following him. Theophila strips off her gloves.
Mrs. Emptage.
Let mother take your bonnet, pet.
Theophila.
[Her head falling backward, faintly.] Oh, do!
Mrs. Emptage.
[Removing Theophila’s bonnet.] In your bonnet all day again; your head must be splitting. I know. Do you remember my head at the flower-show at Eastbourne?
[Mrs. Cloys bends over Theophila and helps her to get rid of her cape.
Theophila.
Thanks, awfully.
[She takes her bonnet from Mrs. Emptage, and fiercely begins to roll it in her cape, as if about to crush them together.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Uttering a little scream, running round the settee to her.] What are you doing?
[There is a general movement.
Theophila.
[Looking round.] It’s all right. [With an attempt at a laugh.] Those things are to be destroyed.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Taking the bonnet and cape from Theophila.] Destroyed! They were new for the case!
Theophila.
Sniff them, mother.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Doing so.] Perfume.
Theophila.
Phew! I intend to burn every thread I’m wearing, and to have a bath before dinner.
Fraser.
[Constrainedly.] We were rather unfortunate in the case that is to follow ours.
Theophila.
Yes. [Looking straight before her.] There was a patchouli business waiting to come on after us.
Mrs. Emptage.
[Holding the things at arm’s length.] Oh, dear!
Theophila.
It had been flitting about since the morning. It sat down beside me at last.
Mrs. Emptage.
It?
Theophila.
It, it, it. And it was wearing a bonnet almost precisely like mine; and it looked to be about my own age, and could have had my sort of complexion if it had chosen——
Mrs. Cloys.
Hush, Theophila——!
Theophila.
[Hysterically.] Ho, ho, ho! these last two days!
[Horton enters with tea.
Mrs. Emptage.
Here’s tea! Claude, help Justina with the tea-table. Tea is what Theo needs.
[She hurries out with Theophila’s bonnet and cape. Claude and Justina carry the tea-table and place it before the “cosy-corner.” Mrs. Cloys sits with her head bent. Horton places the tray upon the tea-table and withdraws. Justina sits in the “cosy-corner” and pours out tea.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Bustling up to the tea-table.] Tea is what we all need. A most exciting day! I’ve often observed how welcome one’s tea is on a Derby Day——
Theophila.
[In a whisper to Fraser across the table.] Alec, will you tell them what the judge said of me, or shall I?
Fraser.
I suppose it’s necessary.
Theophila.
People heard it. Then, the papers——
Fraser.
Of course. [Agitated.] I—I’ll tell them, if you like.
Theophila.
Thank you. [Quickly.] No, no—I’ll tell them. You couldn’t do it—how could you?
Mrs. Emptage returns.
Mrs. Emptage.
Tea, tea! [Sitting.] Alec, come and sit by me. [Fraser sits at a distance, his lips compressed, his hands gripped together.] Oh, fie! all that way off! You will persist in treating me as an ordinary mother-in-law! [Fraser moves his chair a little nearer.] That’s better. [Triumphantly.] Well, Harriet, you see all my children round me—a happy family!
[Claude brings tea to Mrs. Cloys.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Bringing a cup of tea to Theophila.] I make no excuse for devoting myself to Theo—on this occasion. [Theophila takes the tea and gulps it.] You looked charming in the witness-box—piquant. [Returning to the tea-table.] Piquant—just the word—piquant.
Mrs. Emptage.
Now, Alec dear, tell us. Did Mrs. Allingham’s counsel, Mr. What’s-his-name, express regret when it was all over?
Fraser.
Regret——?
[Sir Fletcher brings tea to Mrs. Emptage; Claude brings tea to Fraser, then returns to the tea-table.
Mrs. Emptage.
Regret at finding himself made the—the thingamy—the vehicle—for such a malicious attack on Theo’s character—the poor child.
Fraser.
[With an effort.] No; no regret was expressed.
Mrs. Emptage.
Not by the judge either?
Fraser.
The judge!
Mrs. Emptage.
The judge never said he was sorry to see a nicely bred girl, so recently married too, subjected to such a—such a—such an unwarrantable ordeal? [Fraser is silent.] Eh—h?
Theophila.
[After a brief pause.] No, mother.
Mrs. Emptage.
You were wrong, then, Fletcher, you see.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Holding up his hand.] Wait, wait, please! I don’t think I am very often out in my calculations. [To Theophila.] What sort of demonstration occurred at the close, may I venture to ask?
Theophila.
Demonstration?
Mrs. Emptage.
Did they cheer you much, darling? That’s what your uncle means.
Theophila.
Cheer me, mother——?
[Fraser rises abruptly, placing his cup, with a clatter, on the piano.
Fraser.
I—I feel as Theophila does. I must dip my face into cold water. The atmosphere of that place stifles one even now. Do excuse me.
[He goes out; all, except Theophila, look after him, surprised.
Theophila.
Mother dear—Uncle Fletcher—you seem to have a wrong impression——
Mrs. Emptage.
Wrong impression?
Theophila.
Oh, Mrs. Allingham’s petition has been dismissed—yes. But Sir John Clarkson and Mr. Martyn, my other counsel—all my friends in fact—were a little too sanguine.
Mrs. Emptage.
Too sanguine?
Theophila.
Oh, much too sanguine. The judge was rather rough on me.
Mrs. Emptage.
What on earth do you——?
Theophila.
Rather down on me—severe. My behaviour—my conduct—has been careless—indiscreet, he says——
Mrs. Emptage.
[Under her breath.] Indiscreet?
Theophila.
Hardly characteristic of a woman who is properly watchful of her own and her husband’s reputation—honour.
Justina.
[Coming forward a few steps.] Theo!
Theophila.
[Disjointedly.] But at the same time, he said, Mrs. Allingham had scarcely succeeded in establishing conclusively to his mind ... oh!... and he thought that even the petitioner herself, on further reflection, would be desirous that I should receive the—the benefit of the doubt ... and—and something about costs....
[She breaks off; they all remain silent for a time.
Mrs. Emptage.
This—this will appear in the papers! Won’t it? Won’t it? [No one replies; Sir Fletcher sinks into a chair, with a blank look.] Can’t anybody answer me? Fletcher, will this be in the papers?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Confused.] The papers—! No strong-minded public man ever looks at the papers. When I have spoken in the House I never——
Justina.
[In a hard voice.] Why, of course, a dozen papers will have it. What a silly question to ask, ma!
Mrs. Emptage.
[Advancing to Mrs. Cloys.] I hope you’re quite satisfied, Harriet. You came here, after these many years, on purpose to witness this——[Mrs. Cloys rises]—to see disgrace and ruin brought on me and my family.
Mrs. Cloys.
Muriel, how dare you say it?
Mrs. Emptage.
I’m only a widow! Everybody is entitled to stab at me!
Mrs. Cloys.
[Turning away.] I’ll not listen to you!
Mrs. Emptage.
[Weeping.] Oh, oh, oh! how glad our friends will be! [Going towards the door.] Here’s a triumph for our friends!
Justina.
[Following her.] Mother——
Mrs. Emptage.
[Pushing her aside.] Go away! I don’t want you near me!
Justina.
Ho!
Mrs. Emptage.
Bristow shall attend on me. I shall lie down on my bed. I shall have my corsets taken off——
[She disappears.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Going towards the door.] Muriel——!
[She goes out, following Mrs. Emptage.
Justina.
[With a grating laugh.] That’s ma all over; she always goes through this process when there’s a family crisis. [To Theophila.] Do you remember, Phil?
Theophila.
[Stonily.] What?
Justina.
Directly the news of poor pa’s death came, ma took off her corsets.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Rising.] I shall go out; people shall see me walking boldly through the streets: Portland Place—Regent Street—[in agitation]—Fletcher Portwood, with his head up—his head up, they’ll say. [He paces the room, and comes upon Claude, who is sitting at the writing-table, writing a telegram, his eyes bolting and a generally vacuous expression on his face.] And you! when are you going to do something in the world besides idling, and loafing, and living upon your mother——?
Claude.
[Rising, disconcerted.] What’s that to do with it?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Do with it? Why, at eighteen I was earning twenty shillings a week, and maintaining myself. Now look at the position I have achieved, from sheer brain-force! [To Theophila.] I shall not turn my back on you, my poor little girl; don’t be frightened of that. You were always my favourite niece——
Justina.
[Laughing, a little wildly.] Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I beg your pardon, ’Tina; I’ve no favourites. Can I buy you anything, either of you, while I’m out? I may look in here again before I go down to the House. The finest assembly of gentlemen in the world. No patterns, or new music, wanted—eh?
Theophila.
[Feebly.] Oh, no.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I shall dine at the House, and then sup at the club. All London shall see me. “Look at Portwood!” everybody will say. “Then there can’t be the slightest foundation for this scandal about his niece——!”
[He goes out.
Claude.
[Looking after him.] Transparent old egotist! How do I know whether I’m in his Will or not? And yet I stand here and allow him to lecture me! Me! Ha, compare his education with mine! And what real knowledge has he of Life, of Men and Women——? [Showing Justina his telegram.] Is that the way you spell Bernhart?
Justina.
[Reading the telegram.] No; h-a-r-d-t. What’s this?
Claude.
[In an undertone.] The Wartons wanted to take me to see Bernhardt to-night. Of course, I can’t go now. A marked man! every eye upon me! her brother! [Going to the door, he meets Fraser.] ’Ullo, Fraser!
[Claude goes out; Fraser, who is carrying his hat and gloves, walks across the room, eyeing Justina.
Justina.
[To Fraser.] Do you want to speak to Theo?
Fraser.
Oh—just for one moment——
[Theophila rises; Justina goes to her.
Justina.
Never mind, old girl. [With a little laugh.] Ha! I suppose this has queered my pitch for a season or two, but—[kissing her]—never mind—[going to the door]—these things will happen in the best regulated——
[She disappears. There is a brief silence, during which Theophila closes the doors.
Fraser.
Have you told your people?
Theophila.
Yes.
Fraser.
How do they take it?
Theophila.
All right—pretty well. Mother is lying down for a bit. She’ll be quite herself again in a few days.
Fraser.
[Thoughtfully.] A few days—will she? [Partly to himself.] In a few days?
Theophila.
She’ll have a week at Worthing. She’s always had a week at Worthing when we’ve been in any trouble. You’ve got your hat, Alec; do you mean to dine out?
Fraser.
To-night!
Theophila.
[Weakly.] Oh, don’t be so sharp with me! All the way home from the Strand you’d hardly speak a word.
Fraser.
[Sitting on the settee.] I was thinking over what we’d been listening to.
Theophila.
Yes, the things sounded much worse in Court than they did out of it, didn’t they?
Fraser.
[His head bowed.] Awful!
Theophila.
How cruel it was of them to buoy us up by telling us the case was going right for me!
Fraser.
Many believed it. Martyn was sure the judge was on our side.
Theophila.
When one comes to think of it, her counsel managed to put such a very queer complexion——
Fraser.
Awful.
Theophila.
Oh, I don’t know what I felt like at some moments! I—I felt like a woman caught with bare shoulders in daylight.
Fraser.
Awful.
Theophila.
[Looking at him curiously.] Alec, you seem to be—different to me, now the trial’s over.
Fraser.
[In a muffled voice.] Do I? I—we’re worn out.
Theophila.
[After some hesitation, going to the back of the settee.]
I say! I want to tell you—I am—truly sorry.
Fraser.
[Raising his head.] Sorry——!
Theophila.
[With an effort.] And I humbly beg your pardon.
Fraser.
[Rising and facing her.] For what?
Theophila.
Why, for all the bother I’ve caused.
Fraser.
[Resuming his seat.] Oh——!
[She stares at him for a moment, surprised and disappointed, then turns away.
Theophila.
[To herself.] Oh——! [To him.] Alec, I’ve had the idea that the trouble we’ve lately gone through, both of us, over this horrid business, might help to bring us together. We haven’t got along over-well, have we?
Fraser.
Not too well, I’m afraid.
Theophila.
A good deal my fault, I dare say. Oh, I hated Locheen——!
Fraser.
Yes.
Theophila.
As heartily as you hate London. I’m a town girl, a thorough little cockney—you knew it when you married me!—and—Locheen!——
Fraser.
Locheen is a beautiful place.
Theophila.
London’s a beautiful place.
Fraser.
No.
Theophila.
[Hotly.] No to you, then. [Sitting.] I beg pardon again; I didn’t mean to be rude. I understand how you feel. You were born at Locheen.
Fraser.
I was.
Theophila.
[Pointing towards the window.] I was born in Chester Terrace. I admit, Locheen is all very well at a certain time of year. But to be stuck there when London’s full; when nobody but a poor relation, whose railway ticket you send with the invitation, will come and look you up! Oh, that summer you made me spend there just after we were married!
Fraser.
I was very happy that summer.
Theophila.
You were in love. And then, the pipers! those pipers!
Fraser.
Duncan and Hamish were supremely ridiculous to you, I remember.
Theophila.
Not ridiculous, as you say it—great fun for a time; but four or five months of Duncan and Hamish and their pipes! To and fro on the terrace, for a whole hour in the morning, those pipes! To and fro, up and down, all round the house, in the afternoon, those pipes! At dinner, from the trout to the banana, those pipes. And then, the notion of your persistently dining in a kilt! A Highland costume on the moors—yes; but in the lamplight—at dinner——!
Fraser.
It is my dress; I don’t vary it.
Theophila.
Think of it! A man and woman dining tête-à-tête, for months and months; the woman hypped, weary; the novelty of her new clothes gradually wearing off; she feeling she was getting lean and plain with it all, salt-cellary about the shoulders, drawn and hideous—[staring before her, her eyes dilating]—and, every blessed night, the man in a magnificent evening kilt!
Fraser.
Surely that, too, was “great fun” for a time?
Theophila.
It might have been, if you had the smallest sense of humour, Alec; but one soon tires of laughing alone. No, there was never any fun in that kilt. It got on my nerves from the beginning—the solemn, stupid stateliness of it. Girls are subject to creeps and crawls; I grew at last to positively dread joining you in the hall of an evening, to be frightened at giving you my arm to go into dinner—the simple sound of the rustling of my skirt against that petticoat of yours made the chairs, everything, dance. At those moments old Duncan and his boy Hamish seemed to be blowing into the blood-vessels of my head. And during dinner even the table wouldn’t help me; I was weak, hysterical—I declare to goodness I could always see through the thickness of the board—see the two knees! [With a backward shake of the head] Ha!
Fraser.
Well, Duncan and Hamish—poor fellows—and their pipes, and the objectionable kilt—those things need never trouble you again; at any rate, we can decide that.
Theophila.
Oh, no, Alec, we will go up to Locheen in August——
Fraser.
Locheen——!
Theophila.
Wait! you haven’t heard. [She changes her position, sitting beside him; he not responsive, almost shrinking from her.] Alec—Alec dear—[leaning her head against his shoulder]—I intend to be good in the future, so very good.
Fraser.
What do you mean—good?
Theophila.
I intend to get on well with you, wherever we may be—I will get on well with you. I’ve been babyish and silly all my life; I’m seven-and-twenty; I’m an old woman; I’ve sown my wild oats now.
Fraser.
Wild oats?
Theophila.
Forty-four pounds to the bushel. And so, directly we’ve fought our way—oh my, it will be a fight, too!—directly we’ve fought our way through the Season in London, we’ll be off to Locheen——
Fraser.
The Season—here——!
Theophila.
Yes.
Fraser.
Theophila, there will be no Season for us in London, and no Locheen even for me, for two or three years at least. [Rising] We’re going abroad——
Theophila.
Abroad——!
Fraser.
Directly, directly. There will be only to-morrow to settle everything, to make all arrangements. [Pacing up and down.] The servants at Lennox Gardens will be discharged, the house let furnished—perhaps it would be better to let Marlers sell the furniture, and have done with it. [Pausing in his walk.] I am returning to Lennox Gardens now, at once; will you come back with me, or dine with your people and let me fetch you later on? [She sits, staring at him, without speaking.] Theo, please let me know your wishes.
Theophila.
[Quietly.] No, no—you mustn’t do this.
Fraser.
Why not?
Theophila.
Why, don’t you see? We’ve got to sit tight here in town; we’ve got to do it, to win back my good name. [Fraser agitatedly resumes his walk.] Of course, we shall be asked nowhere, but we must be seen about together, you and I, wherever it’s possible for us to squeeze ourselves. [Rapidly and excitedly.] There’s the Opera; we can subscribe for a box on the ground tier—the stalls can’t help picking you out there. And there we must sit, laughing and talking, Alec, and convince people that we’re a happy couple and that you believe in me implicitly. And when the Season’s done with, then Locheen; we must have Locheen crowded with the best we can lay hands on—many that wouldn’t touch me with the tongs at this moment will be glad of a cheap week or two at Locheen in the autumn. And we must let ’em all see that I’m a rattling good indoor, as well as outdoor, wife, and that you’re frightfully devoted to me, and that what she charged me with—well, simply couldn’t have been. And afterwards they’ll go back to town and chatter, and in the end the thing will blow over, and—and——Oh, but to go abroad now! [Going to him, and slipping her arm through his.] Alec, dear old boy, how could you dream of cutting and running now?
[He withdraws his arm.]
Fraser.
Theophila, I—I am sorry to distress you—if it does distress you, but I—I’ve quite made up my mind. [Passionately.] We are going abroad.
Theophila.
I’ll not stir!
Fraser.
Would you let me go alone?
Theophila.
[Recoiling.] Oh——!
Fraser.
[Following her.] You see, you will have to come with me.
Theophila.
You’d be a brute to do it, Alec! [Stamping her foot.] Don’t you hear me? Can’t you understand me? You’re not a fool! I tell you we’ve got to try to convince people——
Fraser.
People! People shall not see me play-acting——
Theophila.
Play-acting——!
Fraser.
Yes, before I go among people, to try to convince them, I have to try to convince myself.
Theophila.
What!
Fraser.
[Sitting.] People! people!
[There is silence; she slowly retreats from him.
Theophila.
You—you think there’s some—some truth in it then? [He makes no answer.] It’s true, you believe?
Fraser.
I want time—I want time——
Theophila.
Time?
Fraser.
To shake it off.
Theophila.
To shake it off?
Fraser.
It was awful in Court.
Theophila.
[Partly to herself.] Awful.
Fraser.
As you say, her counsel twisted and turned everything about so. When he cross-examined you to-day, and made you say ... and then the judge ... the benefit of the doubt ... awful....
Theophila.
[Under her breath.] I see.
Fraser.
[Rising.] Yes—that we must go away and be, quietly, together. For the present, there’s something even more important than regaining the good opinion of others—there is ourselves. Will you come back to Lennox Gardens now, or shall I return for you by-and-bye?
Theophila.
[Mechanically.] By-and-bye.
Fraser.
[Going to the door.] Nine o’clock? or ten?
Theophila.
Nine or ten.
Fraser.
Which?
Theophila.
It doesn’t matter. [He goes out. For a few moments she remains quite still; then she rouses herself, and, with a blank look, wanders about, her arms moving restlessly. Suddenly she presses her hands to her brow and sinks into a chair, with a low half-cry, half-moan.] Oh! oh! [After a short burst of crying she examines her wedding-ring, removes it from her finger, and giving a little laugh, flings it on to the settee. Then she rises, and with an air of determination goes to the writing-table.] Very well! very well!
[She sits before the writing-table and writes rapidly. At intervals she utters an exclamation; then sings as she writes. The doors are opened, and Horton enters.
Horton.
[Collecting the tea-cups.] Beg pardon, ma’am.
Theophila.
[Writing.] Mr. Fraser has gone out, hasn’t he?
Horton.
He have, ma’am.
[Horton places the tea-cups on the tea-tray, lifts up the tray, and is about to carry it out.
Theophila.
Oh, Horton, what became of the bonnet and cape I came in with?
Horton.
[Looking off.] Mrs. Emptage lay them down in the next room. Here they are, ma’am.
Theophila.
Just give them to me. [Horton goes off and immediately returns with the bonnet, cape, and gloves.] Thanks.
[Horton arranges the cape over the back of a chair, places the bonnet and gloves on the table, and withdraws. Having finished her letter and addressed an envelope, she rises and searches for her wedding-ring; finding this she slips it into the letter, and fastens the envelope. Then, keeping the letter in her hand, she puts on her bonnet and cape, standing before the mirror. Sir Fletcher enters, looking disturbed and dejected; Claude follows, downcast, silent, and morose, and walks about aimlessly, staring at the carpet.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Discovering Theophila.] Oh, going out, my dear?
Theophila.
I want a little walk—alone.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
To walk it off, eh? [Ruffling his hair.] I find I can’t walk it off; I’ve been into the Euston Road; I don’t think I can be well. Fortunately, I have a box of most remarkable pills at my chambers. They are prepared by Gilliburton of 88 Piccadilly. Don’t forget the number—eighty-eight. Two eights. That’s my system of artificial memory. Eighty-eight—two eights.
Theophila.
[Going to him, and kissing him, leaning across the settee.] Good-bye, uncle.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
We shall meet again by-and-bye, dear. I shall dine here quietly, after all.
Theophila.
[Going to Claude, kissing him.] Good-bye.
Claude.
Oh, you’ll see me at dinner too.
Theophila.
[Handing him the letter.] Give that to ’Tina, will you? Claude—take care of mother.
Claude.
[Mildly surprised.] Take care of mother!
Theophila.
Yes, be a good boy, and look after her. Ta, ta!
She goes out.
Claude.
Boy! my boyhood is long past. [Pinching the envelope.] There’s a coin in this—money.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Sitting on the settee, fatigued.] Eh? Don’t forget, Claude—Gilliburton. Think of Gilly, corruption of Gilbert. Gilbert, a well-known sculptor—or writer; I forget which. Burton, man I jobbed two horses from—bays—Burton. There you have Gilly and Burton—Gilliburton. My own system of mnemonics. Memoria technica.
Claude.
It’s not a coin; it’s a ring.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Irritably.] What are you talking about, my boy? You always appear to be masticating some commonplace or other.
[Horton appears.
Horton.
Beg pardon, Sir Fletcher. Mrs. Cloys wants to wish you good-day, Sir Fletcher. I wasn’t aware where you was, Sir Fletcher.
Claude.
[Giving the letter to Horton.] Miss Justina.
[Horton withdraws.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Rising.] I’d quite forgotten your aunt. Do, please, look unconcerned, Claude. Let her see that men can display courage and decision at such moments.
[Humming an air, he unbuttons his coat and throws it back, sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. Some newspapers fall from the breast of his coat; he is hastily picking them up when Mrs. Cloys enters.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Meekly.] You are going, Harriet?
Mrs. Cloys.
Fletcher, you’ve been out to buy evening papers!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Putting them into his tail pockets.] The malicious utterances of the judge are not in these editions.
Mrs. Cloys.
I thought you never——!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
It is somebody’s duty to overlook the reports of this case. I see that one vile placard announces, “Lively cross-examination of Mrs. Fraser.”
Mrs. Cloys.
Lively!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Producing a newspaper.] Here’s a rag which dares to give illustrations—“Sketches in Court.”
Mrs. Cloys.
Have you contrived to get among them?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Opening the paper.] I happen to be among them. But the fool of an artist has completely missed my salient points——
Justina runs in with Theophila’s letter, opened, and the wedding-ring.
Justina.
Aunt! oh, I say! What do you think? Theo’s gone!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
She’s gone out for a walk. [To Mrs. Cloys.] Here it is. That’s from an old photograph; I don’t wear that sort of collar now.
Justina.
[Advancing between Mrs. Cloys and Sir Fletcher.] What are you talking about? Look here! [Reading.] “’Tina, hand enclosed to my husband when he comes back for me to-night after dinner.” [Showing the ring.] It’s her wedding-ring. [Reading.] “He believes that what that creature charged me with is true, and wants to take me away and hide me. All is up with me. Oh, those pipers at Locheen are playing into my brain again. Good-bye all.—Theo. P.S.—Jack Allingham would not treat a woman so like dirt.”
Mrs. Cloys.
[Agitatedly.] I can’t hear you. [Taking the letter from Justina.] Let me see it.
Justina.
What shall we do? We must do something. Uncle!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Confused.] We must certainly do something, at once. Er—it is her wedding-ring, I suppose?
Justina.
[Impatiently.] Oh——! Aunt!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Encountering Claude.] Don’t stand there, Claude, looking precisely like an owl!
Mrs. Cloys.
[Returning the letter to Justina.] Jump into a cab; you must take that to Mr. Fraser.
Justina.
[Hurrying to the door.] All right. [Pausing.] What shall I do if I don’t find him at home?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
If, if, if! Why throw obstacles?
Justina.
I’m not throwing them. I merely say, what if he’s out, or hasn’t gone back to Lennox Gardens at all?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
This is a moment for action!
Claude.
[Sitting at the writing-table.] Ha, ha! what a hideous mockery the whole world is! Life——!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Let us have none of your sickening optimism, sir! and in the presence of your aunt and sister.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Holding out her hand for the letter.] Show it to me again. [Justina brings the letter to Mrs. Cloys, who begins reading.] “Hand enclosed to my husband when he comes back for me to-night after dinner.”
Justina.
Ten or eleven o’clock. Where, on earth, will she be by ten or eleven o’clock?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Going to the door.] I’ll tell her mother——!
Justina.
[Intercepting him.] For goodness’ sake, not yet. Mother’s no use.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Reading.] “P.S.—Jack Allingham would not treat a woman so like dirt.” Jack Allingham——[Suddenly] Justina! [Justina again comes to her.] There’s only one very great danger.
Justina.
Why, you don’t think Theo would—take poison—or——!
Mrs. Cloys.
No, I mean a worse danger than that. [Pointing to a sentence in the letter.] That one.
Justina.
[Reading.] “Jack Allingham would not treat a woman——” [Staring at Mrs. Cloys.] Oh——!
Mrs. Cloys.
This Mr. Allingham? Exceedingly kind and gentle to women—is that the class of man he belongs to?
Justina.
Y—yes.
Mrs. Cloys.
Suppose—suppose this wretched girl lets her mind dwell too much just now on Mr. Allingham’s—kindness!
Justina.
Aunt!
Mrs. Cloys.
[Again returning the letter to Justina—with decision.] Where does he live? Where is he likely to be found?
Justina.
It’s in the Red Book. [Pointing to the writing-table.] Claude——!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Bring me the Red Book! [Claude finds the Red Book; he and Sir Fletcher Portwood search for the address.] Allingham—A—A—A—[finding the letter] A!
Claude.
You’re looking at “Ashley Gardens”——
[Mrs. Cloys and Justina join Sir Fletcher Portwood and Claude impatiently.
Justina.
I know it’s there. He went into lodgings when he parted from her. And he has a little cottage in Surrey——
Claude.
[Finding the name.] “Allingham——!”
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Taking the book from him.] “Allingham, John Crawshaw, Esq., 11 Bentham Street, W., and Turf and Garrick Clubs.—The Lichens, Epsom, Surrey.”
[Mrs. Cloys takes the book from Sir Fletcher. She tears out the page and throws the book upon the settee.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Folding the extracted page, and slipping it into her glove.] Fletcher, Claude, you had better come with me. I may want you both. Claude, whistle a four-wheeled cab. You hear me!
[Claude goes out.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
But, Harriet, do you seriously, soberly, entertain the notion?
Mrs. Cloys.
Get your hat! [Sir Fletcher goes out. Mrs. Cloys turns to Justina.] Telegraph to the Bishop of St. Olpherts, The Palace, St. Olpherts: “Detained here to-night. Return, D.V., forenoon to-morrow. Get to bed early. Affectionate messages.—H.”
[The sound of a cab-whistle, twice or thrice repeated, is heard.
Justina.
“Detained here to-night. Return forenoon to-morrow——”
Mrs. Cloys.
“D.V.”
Justina.
“D.V. Go to bed early——”
Mrs. Cloys.
Say, “Be in bed by eleven.”
Justina.
Yes. “Love——”
Mrs. Cloys.
No, no—“Affectionate messages.”
Justina.
“Affectionate messages.—H.”
Mrs. Cloys.
Thank you.
Justina.
Aunt! When I see Alec Fraser, am I to say anything—about what you are doing?
Mrs. Cloys.
For mercy’s sake, don’t put any idea into his head that isn’t there already! Not a word to a soul——
[Claude appears in the doorway, hat in hand.
Claude.
Cab, aunt.
Mrs. Cloys.
I’m coming. [Claude withdraws.] Not a word, except that we’ve gone out, blindly, to try and find her.
Justina.
Wait! you must tell me; do you suspect that Theophila is—guilty?
Mrs. Cloys.
[Looking at her steadily.] Woman, what do you suspect?
Justina.
[Falteringly.] Then I can’t understand you.
Mrs. Cloys.
Why not, pray?
Justina.
I’ve always taken you for one of those who pick up their skirts and stalk away as far as possible from this kind of thing.
Mrs. Cloys.
Ah, you don’t—[moved]—oh, my dear!
Justina.
What?
Mrs. Cloys.
You don’t know what was really at the bottom of all my quarrels with your mother. I’ve no children. I’d have given the world if Theo had been mine.
Justina.
[A little bitterly.] Theo! Theo!
Mrs. Cloys.
[Taking her by the shoulder, almost shaking her.] You, too! [Kissing her.] Bless you, you’d have been better than nothing!
[She goes out. Justina stands, her lips parted, staring into space.
END OF THE FIRST ACT.