THE SECOND ACT
The Scene represents a room in Mr. Allingham’s cottage at Epsom. On the left-hand side is a fireplace, with a fire burning; above this is a door giving on to the hall; while below it is a similar door, over which hangs a portière, drawn aside, admitting to the dining-room. Facing us is a large open French window; and beyond is a view of a pretty garden with trees, laurels, etc. On the right, also facing us, but nearer, are a few balustered steps leading to an arched opening which is about three feet from the ground. The opening, across which runs a rod supporting a portière, admits to a small room, which, although containing no books that are visible, is called the library. All the furniture and accessories are characteristic of a well-to-do bachelor’s residence. It is twilight.
Denzil Shafto and Peter Elphick, two well-groomed, smart-looking men of about five-and-thirty, dressed for dinner, are shown in by Quaife, a manservant. Quaife is carrying a banjo in a case.
Shafto.
What time did Mr. Allingham get down?
Quaife.
[Placing the banjo on the table.] Half an hour ago, sir; I’m now dressing him. [To Elphick.] Glad you brought the banjo, Mr. Elphick.
Elphick.
[A heavy-looking man with staring eyes, taking the banjo from its case with great care.] Nearly made me lose the train, Quaife, puzzlin’ whether to bring it or not.
Quaife.
[Laying the case aside.] Do Mr. Allingham a load of good, sir—a little melody after dinner.
Shafto.
Mr. Allingham rather fatigued?
Quaife.
Never saw him so played out, sir. [Closing the windows.] Oh, Mr. Allingham’s compliments, Mr. Shafto, and he says he forgot to inquire whether you and Mr. Elphick would sleep at The Lichens to-night.
Shafto.
Not to-night, thanks. I’ve arranged to take Mr. Elphick on to my father’s place at Leatherhead.
Elphick.
We shan’t keep you up here till the last train, Quaife, or anything like. Dessay Mr. Allingham’ll be glad to turn in early.
Quaife.
Not much good him turning in, Mr. Elphick.
Shafto.
Queer nights lately, of sorts?
Quaife.
Shockin’, Mr. Shafto.
[Quaife goes out.
Shafto.
[Looking round.] Here we are again, Peter.
Elphick.
’Pears so.
Shafto.
[Wandering about.] This is my first visit to this box since Jack came back here after his split with his wife.
Elphick.
And mine; thought he’d sold it.
Shafto.
He merely let it, when he married—let it to a stockbroker. Peter, Jack must have had some sort of a premonition——
Elphick.
Some sort of what?
Shafto.
Premonition——
Elphick.
Stoopid ass of a word.
Shafto.
Some sort of a premonition of his speedy return to single life. [Looking out of the window.] Same spotless white gate, I rejoice to see; same elms; same laurels—[Ascending the steps.] The library——! [Entering the room.] My heart sinks within me. [From within.] No, by Jove! Peter! Peter!
[Elphick goes and looks into the room through the balustrade.
Elphick.
What’s wrong?
Shafto.
[From within.] Nothing. I breathe again. All the essential features of Jack’s library are undisturbed. [Coming down the steps.] A luxurious sofa, Ruff’s Turf Guide, and the Stud Book.
Elphick.
[Drearily.] Blessed if there’s anything to make fun of in that.
Shafto.
[At a table, examining bottles.] Delightful! Same soda water, same——
Elphick.
[Sitting, nursing his banjo.] No, hang it!
Shafto.
[Pouring out a glass of Vermouth.] Vermouth. Peter, I was totting up things this morning, gently and quietly, in my bath.
Elphick.
[Blowing a speck of dust from his banjo.] Not really?
Shafto.
[Seriously.] Yes. You weren’t at Jack’s weddin’?
Elphick.
No, I was up at Mahabaleshwar that spring with Sandington. You stood best man, didn’t you?
Shafto.
I did. And look here—Jack Allingham is the seventh I’ve been best man to in nine years.
Elphick.
[Abstractedly.] Good figgers.
Shafto.
[Frowning.] And they’ve all managed to get into the Divorce Court since, one way or another. [After a pause.] How’s that?
Elphick.
Good figgers.
John Allingham enters, a simple, boyish man, of about thirty, looking pale and worn. He is dressed for dinner.
John.
[Shaking hands with Shafto.] Halloa, Denzil! [To Elphick, shaking hands with him.] Well, Peter! It’s awfully good of you fellows proposing to see me through this evening.
Elphick.
Not in the least.
Shafto.
Speak for yourself, Peter.
John.
I couldn’t have endured my own company to-night, I can tell you. Sorry you can’t sleep here, though.
Shafto.
My governor hasn’t seen Peter since he’s been home this leave. It’s an old promise——
John.
I understand. [Taking the banjo from Elphick.] And you’ve actually brought the banjo.
Elphick.
Well, when a man’s a bit low, sometimes a little music——
John.
Thanks. [To both of them.] Warm, yesterday and to-day, in that Law Court, wasn’t it?
Elphick.
Agra in June.
John.
Warm in every sense of the word, eh?
Shafto.
Hell.
John.
[With his hand to his brow.] Gurrrh!
Shafto.
[Sharply.] Now, then?
Elphick.
It’s done with now.
John.
[Recovering himself.] True; that cursed nightmare of an approaching trial isn’t waiting for me upstairs, in that bedroom of mine, any longer. And to-morrow morning I shall wake with a start to find—what’ll the feeling be like!—that I’ve no lawyers to interview. Besides, I haven’t much to complain of. You two fellows have kept close at my elbow throughout the whole business—hardly ever left me. Well, that’s friendship—[shaking hands abruptly, first with Elphick, then with Shafto]—God bless yer!
[He walks away and sits on the settee, looking into the fire. Elphick and Shafto stand together, eyeing him uneasily.
Shafto.
[In a whisper, to Elphick.] Peter, our bags are here. What d’ye say to not leaving him to-night, after all?
Elphick.
[In a whisper.] Yes, I don’t suppose your guv’nor wants to see me so desperate bad as all that comes to.
Shafto.
No, I don’t suppose he does—I mean, we can go over in the morning.
John.
[Looking up.] Eh?
Shafto.
Nothing.
John.
[Passing his fingers over the strings of the banjo.] You don’t remember, Denzil—nor you, Peter, I suppose; she used to thrum on this thing—well, hardly this thing—the guitar—much the same. Oh, yes, she used to play it very nicely.
Shafto.
[Puzzled.] Who? Mrs. Fraser?
John.
Mrs. Fraser! No! [Handling the banjo roughly.] My wife.
Elphick.
[Hurrying across to John, taking the banjo from him.] Excuse me, old feller.
John.
[Starting up.] I was close to her to-day; we stared each other right in the eyes. We didn’t mean to—we simply did it. We met in the corridor during lunch-time; I was getting out of the way of old Portwood; I turned sharply—and there we were, my wife and I, face to face. It might have been for ten seconds—it was like an hour.
Elphick.
Did she look angry?
John.
No. Downright ill and distressed. [To both of them.] You’ve seen her in Court?
Shafto.
Yes.
Elphick.
Yes.
John.
Yesterday?
Shafto.
We said “How d’ye do” to her yesterday.
Elphick.
We told you.
John.
Oh, yes, To-day?
Shafto.
Not to speak to.
Elphick.
She nodded to us this morning from the—what do they call it?—not the sink——
Shafto.
Well.
Elphick.
Well of the Court.
John.
Denzil.
Shafto.
’Ullo?
John.
She was very pretty when I married her, wasn’t she?
Shafto.
Undoubtedly.
[John sits, leaning his head upon his hands. Shafto walks away, quietly, to the window. Elphick sits on the settee, and, turning his face to the fire, strikes up a tune on his banjo.
John.
That’s right! tune up, Peter! If I had a savage breast this evening you might soothe it with your Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink, as Kipling says. But I haven’t—isn’t that odd? Boys, do you know, all the bitterness I’ve been feeling towards her seems to have died out of me; and she’s been dragging me pretty thoroughly through the mud lately. Isn’t that odd?
Shafto.
[Leaving the window, and coming to the back of settee.] Well, she’s lost the day, you see.
Elphick.
[Ceasing playing.] She’s beaten; got nothin’ for her pains.
John.
I suppose that’s it. Ah, but her face! I hadn’t seen it for months. And the silence between us was so strange.
Shafto.
Yes, there wasn’t much of that, old chap, between you two when you were together.
John.
No; didn’t we quarrel! And yet, this morning, during our little deadly-silent encounter, she seemed to say more to me than she’d ever said in her life before. By Jove, she has suffered—[starting up]—oh, damn it!
[He paces to and fro; Elphick hurriedly resumes his playing.
Shafto.
[Seating himself on the back of the settee, speaking with a drawl.] Ah, I shouldn’t worry myself too much, if I were you, about that. Other people have suffered.
John.
[Pausing in his walk.] Mrs. Fraser——?
Shafto.
[Indifferently.] Oh, she amongst ’em.
John.
[In a low voice.] Poor little Theo Fraser! I’m forgetting her.
Shafto.
Forget all round, my dear Jack—that’s the ticket; for the future, cultivate a single-minded devotion to yourself——
John.
And the horses! You’re right, Denzil. By the bye, I had a line from O’Halligan yesterday—where is it? [Going to a writing-table and rummaging among the litter there.] He fancies Kildaowen very strongly. The mare’s feeding well; that’s always been their difficulty, you know——
Shafto.
[Quietly, looking towards the window.] Jack.
John.
Eh?
Shafto.
Who’s that woman out there?
[Elphick ceases playing.
John.
Where?
Shafto.
In your garden.
[John looks towards the window; Elphick rises and makes one of the group.
John.
[After a pause.] I don’t see anybody.
Shafto.
She’s behind the laurels now.
John.
[About to go to the window.] One of the maids——
Shafto.
[Laying his hand on John’s arm.] Wait a bit. [Goes cautiously to the window, peeps out, and comes away.] I say, old chap.
John.
What’s the matter?
Shafto.
I thought so. It’s your wife. [There is a moment’s pause, then an excited movement from John.] Stop! [A pause.] What are you going to do?
John.
[Dazed.] Do!... do!...
Shafto.
Not anything stoopid, Jack?
John.
[Excitedly.] Clear out for a minute, you two fellows.
[Shafto goes up the steps and into the library, drawing the portière across the door as he disappears.
John.
Get out, Peter!
Elphick.
[Going up the steps and pausing at the door.] Jack.
John.
What is it?
Elphick.
[With an empty expression of face and voice.] Don’t do anything weak.
John.
Get out! [Elphick disappears. John hurriedly glances round the room and arranges a displaced chair. Then he discovers that Elphick has left the banjo upon the settee, and he seizes it impatiently.] Oh—— [Going to the door of the library and drawing aside the portière.] Here! Peter! catch! [He throws the banjo into the room, and readjusts the portière. The instrument is heard to fall with a crash to the floor. He looks into the library, hastily.] I beg your pardon, old fellow. [He descends the steps and goes to the window and opens it, speaking in a low voice.] Is any one there? [A pause.] Someone’s there.
Olive.
[From a little distance.] Yes.
John.
Who is it?
Olive.
Olive.
John.
[Sternly.] Well?
Olive.
Are you by yourself?
John.
Yes. [After a pause.] Come in.
He draws back to allow her to pass him. After a short delay she enters, and, without looking at him, comes right into the room. He closes the window, but remains at that end of the room. Olive Allingham is a fashionably and richly dressed woman of a little over thirty years of age—pale, worn red-eyed, but still handsome. In manner she is alternately beseeching and gentle, angry and imperious. The twilight now gradually deepens into dusk.
Olive.
You have some men here?
John.
Shafto and Peter Elphick. I asked them to clear out for a moment.
Olive.
What will they think?
John.
[With a shrug of the shoulder.] They can scarcely know what to think.
Olive.
[Walking to the mantelpiece.] What do you think yourself, of my humbling myself in this fashion? [Turning to him.] What do you——? [As she has crossed to the left of the room, he, still at a distance, has moved over to the right. Speaking with a catch in her breath.] Oh, don’t do that! I’m not poisonous, John. [He approaches stiffly and silently. She advances towards him plaintively.] John, I am quite worn out—[putting her hand to her bosom]—burnt out here. This desperate lawsuit has been my last bolt. I’m finished—spent. I know my regrets won’t avail us much at this time of day; the future has a most melancholy look-out for both of us; but I want to tell you I am truly conscious, at last, of the evil my jealousy has wrought. [Sitting weakly.] Yes, John, I—I am quite reasonable at last.
[Quaife enters.
Quaife.
Dinner is s——
[He breaks off, staring at Olive.
Olive.
Good evening, Quaife.
Quaife.
[Aghast.] Good evening, ma’am.
John.
[To Quaife.] Tell Mrs. Quaife to delay dinner for—for——
Olive.
[Rising and turning away—in an altered tone.] Oh, five minutes—ten at the outside.
John.
For a quarter of an hour. [Sharply.] The lamps.
[Quaife withdraws, as if in a dream.
Olive.
[Bitterly.] I much regret keeping you and your friends from your dinner. It’s an exceptionably elaborate entertainment to-night, I suppose?
John.
No, no; it’s of no consequence——
Olive.
Dinner! dinner! if every woman in the world was weeping her heart out, men would be found dining—feeding—feasting! What was I saying when Quaife blundered in? Where was I?
John.
[Looking at her steadily.] Quite reasonable at last.
Olive.
[After a brief pause, speaking gently again.] Oh, John——! [Advancing a few steps.] It was inconsiderate of me to break out in that way. But I don’t mean half the brutal things I say; I never did.
John.
You couldn’t have done so.
Olive.
Any jealous woman will tell you what a slave she is to her paroxysms. Oh, they are dreadful, while they last! [Agitatedly.] The flame behind one’s eyes, the buzzing in the ears, the dry tongue, the thumping of the heart——! [Calming herself, breathlessly.] Thank God, I’m cured!
John.
You’ve said something like this to me on other occasions.
Olive.
Never, under such extraordinary circumstances. [Going to him.] The fact that I can drag myself to you, in this spirit, after my defeat, for the sake of a few words with you, must show you what an altered woman I am. [Sitting.] John, I felt I couldn’t go back to that lonely flat of mine to-night without first proving to you how thorough my remorse is. [Looking round.] That dismal flat! [In an altered tone.] You appear to be extremely comfortable here.
John.
Oh, it’s a little place—very cramped——
Olive.
This is where you gave me and papa tea once, when we were engaged to be married.
John.
I remember.
Olive.
And now——[Excitedly.] Ha, I suppose I’m a fool not to indulge myself just as luxuriously, just as——! [She meets his eye and breaks off shamefacedly. Faltering, with her hand to her brow.] Where was I—again?
John.
You were engaged in demonstrating how thorough your remorse is.
Olive.
Oh, yes. [Weakly.] After the case ended this afternoon I walked about the streets quite light-headed, till I summoned up resolution to try to find you. [With an effort.] John, that—that lady——
John.
What lady?
Olive.
[Agitatedly.] Mrs. Fraser of Locheen.
John.
Yes?
Olive.
[Repressing her agitation.] Of course, the judge fully justified my action by the very severe way he spoke of her.
John.
His remarks were infamous! I could have taken him by the throat and thrown him into the body of the Court. No right-thinking person would have blamed me for doing so.
Olive.
However, he gave her the benefit of the doubt——
John.
[Scornfully.] The benefit of the doubt!
Olive.
And paid me the compliment of believing that I would, as one woman to another, prefer such a course being adopted.
John.
[Pacing to and fro.] Poor, wretched little Mrs. Fraser!
Olive.
Wait! Even I see the injustice of it.
John.
[Eagerly.] You do?
Olive.
Haven’t I told you I am reasonable at last? For whether she be innocent or guilty is no longer the question.
John.
I’m glad that is no longer the question!
Olive.
The point is, this woman is entitled to the benefit of the doubt. [Rising and walking to and fro.] But how can she ever receive the benefit of the doubt if those words, which imply the doubt, are always to hang over her?
John.
That’s it!
Olive.
And they will hang over her—for ever.
John.
For ever.
Olive.
For ever. [Turning to him.] Unless I cancel them—remove them.
John.
You!
Olive.
I could, John—by my attitude towards her in public—in society.
John.
[Staring at her.] Why, certainly you could.
Olive.
[Leaning over a chair, and speaking almost into his ear.] Would you like me to?
John.
Like you to!
Olive.
I want to atone to you, if I can, in some measure, for the suffering I’ve caused you. Would you like me to right Mrs. Fraser?
John.
Oh, Olive!——
Olive.
John!
John.
[With emotion.] If you were always so generous—so good!
Olive.
[Drawing back, suddenly.] Ah!
John.
[After a brief pause.] I’ve offended you by saying that.
Olive.
[In a hard voice.] You are evidently very keen concerning her.
John.
[Blankly.] Keen!
Olive.
She’s a vulgar, common little thing, I’m afraid.
John.
That’s not true.
Olive.
Her people are common—excessively bad tone.
John.
Her people are now her husband’s people. She is married to a gentleman.
Olive.
Mr. Fraser has been away from her as much as possible—[her eyes flashing]—you know that better than anybody.
John.
[Indignantly.] Why do you come here—after all our struggles and failures, after the injury you’ve endeavoured to do me! Why do you torture me, and insult me, by trying to repeat the old heart-breaking scenes?
[He throws himself into a chair, distractedly. There is a pause; then she slowly goes to a chair, drags it towards him, and sits beside him.
Olive.
[Panting.] Torture you? Oh! oh, I suffer too! [Rocking herself to and fro.] Well, there can be no punishment for jealous women in another world; we are damned in this.
John.
[In a muffled voice, with his head on his hands.] And the fire has burnt out in you, you tell me!
Olive.
I suppose the cinders still retain a little heat, dear.
John.
[Brokenly.] Dear!... dear!...
Olive.
Yes. I know my actions are contradictory, but—[her hand stealing towards his]—in my heart, John—always—in my heart—— [The banjo suddenly strikes up an air. John and Olive raise their heads and stare at each other; then Olive slowly backs her chair to its original position. Speaking in a whisper.] What’s that?
John.
Peter.
Olive.
Peter——!
John.
He brought his banjo with him.
Olive.
[Aghast.] Why——!... Oh!
John.
[Blankly.] Eh?
Olive.
If we hear the banjo with such distinctness——
[They rise. He hurriedly ascends the steps and disappears through the portière. The music of the banjo stops abruptly, and the sound of voices comes from the library. Quaife enters, carrying a lamp which he deposits on the table; then, always watching Olive, he lights the standard-lamp and draws the window-curtains.
Shafto.
My dear fellow——!
Elphick.
My dear Jack——!
John.
Sssh!
Shafto.
You might have remembered——
John.
Sssh! sssh! [The voices in the library are hushed.
Olive.
[Commanding herself, and crossing to the fireplace.] And how are you, Quaife?
Quaife.
Very well indeed, I thank you, ma’am.
Olive.
And your wife?
Quaife.
Exceedingly healthy, ma’am, for a stout person.
Olive.
I hope you look after Mr. Allingham thoroughly, all of you.
Quaife.
[Dropping his voice, impressively.] We regard him as a trust, ma’am, if I may make use of the expression.
Olive.
[Sharply.] A what?
Quaife.
A solemn trust, ma’am.
Olive.
[Turning away.] Stuff and nonsense!
Quaife.
I beg pardon, ma’am, if I have gone too far.
[John returns.
John.
[Coming down the steps, a little flustered.] Quaife.
Quaife.
Sir?
John.
Er—Mr. Shafto and Mr. Elphick don’t dine.
Quaife.
Not dine, sir!
John.
They have to go on to Leatherhead at once. Is the boy ready to carry their bags to the station?
Quaife.
The boy can be worried till he’s ready, sir.
John.
All right.
[Quaife withdraws. John and Olive now speak in whispers.
Olive.
I don’t wish this.
John.
They offered to go; they’d rather go.
Olive.
Have they heard much?
John.
Er—next to nothing; a syllable or two when we were sitting there. That’s why Peter struck up a tune. [Laughing a little wildly.] Ha, ha, ha!
Olive.
[In the same way.] Ha, ha, ha! [Glancing towards the door.] Shall I slip into the dining-room while they pass out?
John.
Please don’t. They’re old friends of both of us; they understand perfectly——
Olive.
[Returning to the fireplace.] I’ll face it out, if you wish it.
John.
[Calling.] Denzil—Peter——
[Shafto and Elphick sedately emerge from the library, and descend the steps. Shafto bows to Olive.
Olive.
[Advancing, shaking hands with him across the table, graciously.] Oh, Mr. Shafto, I am so sorry to upset everybody in this way——
Shafto.
Not at all. I—ah—we—er—my father—at Leatherhead——
[Elphick, encumbered with his banjo and the banjo-case, joins Shafto. John goes to the door.
Olive.
[Shaking hands with Elphick across the table.] Why should you lose your dinner? I have really finished all my—my business with my—with—Mr. Allingham.
Elphick.
[With an effort, earnestly.] No, you haven’t, Mrs. Allingham. Take it up, when we’ve gone, where you broke off. [Wringing her hand.] Do everything you’ve offered to do; try and square things——
[John comes to him and draws him away towards the door.
John.
[To Olive.] Excuse me; one moment——
[The three men go out, leaving Olive staring before her. John, Shafto, and Elphick are heard talking together in the hall.
John.
[Outside.] My dear Denzil! my dear Peter——!
Shafto.
[Outside.] My good fellow, we are not, at present, in the least hungry.
[Olive runs up the steps and disappears in the library.
John.
[Outside.] No conveyance of any kind to get you to the station——!
Elphick.
[Outside.] Much prefer walking, I assure you.
Shafto.
[Outside.] Good-bye.
Elphick.
[Outside.] Enjoyed seeing the cottage again enormously.
[The sound of the voices dies away; a clock in the library strikes nine; John returns.
John.
[Looking round.] Olive—Olive——
[She reappears.
Olive.
You didn’t tell me the truth. You can hear the slightest sound in there.
John.
I beg your pardon. Those men went clean out of my head. I was an ass.
Olive.
[Descending the steps.] And that idiot offers me his advice! Take it up where you broke off!
John.
At least, it’s good advice.
Olive.
Where did we break off?
John.
At Mrs. Fraser——
Olive.
[Walking up the stage, beating her hands together.] Mrs. Fraser! the eternal Mrs. Fraser! Oh!... oh!... [Throwing herself into the chair facing the window.] I shall be quite calm in a moment. [Faintly.] Those men upset me.
John.
[Going to her, solicitously.] To-day has been as exhausting for you as for the rest of us. Of course, there’s a dinner prepared here——
Olive.
[Quickly, half-frightened.] Oh, no, dear; I couldn’t sit down to table with you; I’m not entitled to do that. Fetch me a glass of wine and a biscuit—[appealingly]—don’t let a servant bring it, John. [He goes to the dining-room door, she rises, and calls him.] John!—[her head drooping]—do you think we shall ever sit at the same table again, you and I?
John.
[After a pause, sitting, looking away from her.] Oh, Olive, Olive! remember——!
Olive.
[Fidgeting with the cigarette-box.] Not for many years, of course—three or four years, at least. Time makes the oddest things possible.
John.
[Thoughtfully.] I suppose so.
Olive.
It would appear supremely ridiculous to the world, you’re afraid?
John.
Pish! the world don’t matter a damn.
Olive.
[Softly.] Ah, that’s delicious!
John.
What is——?
Olive.
I haven’t heard a man swear since I turned you out of Pont Street. [Dreamily, almost inaudibly, as she plays with a cigarette.] Damn! [He looks round at her; she is lost in thought; suddenly she crushes the cigarette, and flings it from her fiercely.] Ah! Theo Fraser smokes!
John.
[Starting up in a rage.] Hah! hah!
[He goes out of the room.
Olive.
[Following him a few steps, penitently.] Oh, John!—— [There is a knock at the upper door.] Yes?
[Quaife enters, with some cards on a salver.]
Quaife.
[Looking round.] I beg pardon, ma’am; a lady and two gentlemen would like to see Mr. Allingham, if it’s not disturbing him.
[She goes to the table and examines the cards.
Olive.
[In a hard voice.] Are these people friends of Mr. Allingham’s? Have they ever called on him before?
Quaife.
No, ma’am. [Hesitatingly.] I fancy the eldest of the two gentlemen came once, if not twice, to Pont Street in—in—in your time, ma’am.
Olive.
I’ll give those to Mr. Allingham. [He lays the cards out on the table.] You’ll be rung for. [He goes towards the door.] You haven’t mentioned that I am here?
Quaife.
Oh, no, ma’am. I simply said Mr. Allingham was engaged for the moment.
Olive.
Quite right; thank you.
[He withdraws. She eagerly scrutinises the cards, re-arranges them upon the table, then goes to the fireplace and stands waiting impatiently. John re-enters, carrying a decanter of champagne and some biscuits in a silver dish, which he places on a side-table.
John.
This is the Moet we had just begun to drink when we—— You rather liked it, I fancy.
Olive.
Some people have called; they’re waiting to see you.
John.
[Turning.] People—so late?
Olive.
[Pointing to the table.] These are their cards.
John.
[Picking up the cards.] “Mrs. Cloys,” “Mr. Claude Aylmer Emptage,” “Sir Fletcher Portwood.” Mrs. Cloys—that’s an aunt.
Olive.
[Stonily.] An aunt——?
John.
An aunt of Mrs. Fraser’s. What can they want with me?
Olive.
Isn’t it curious!
John.
I assure you I haven’t the slightest idea. I suppose nothing has happened to her!
Olive.
To Mrs. Fraser?
John.
Yes.
Olive.
Oh, no, nothing ever happens to these women with fair hair and heavy eyelids.
John.
[Biting his lip.] Really?
Olive.
You will see them, I suppose?
John.
I can’t refuse to see them.
Olive.
May I—may I wait till they have gone?
John.
Oh, Olive——! [She walks to the dining-room, he following her.] I won’t let them detain me very long.
Olive.
[Rapidly, agitatedly, facing him, her hand on the door-handle.] This is a most extraordinary visitation. These three people—her relatives—to come down on you like this, at such an hour!
John.
I am sure you will find that their visit admits of a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Olive.
I’ve no doubt!
John.
You shall have the fullest account of what passes between us.
Olive.
How shall I know it is a full account?
John.
[Leaving her.] Oh——!
Olive.
[Advancing quickly.] No, I don’t mean that! [Her hand to her heart.] Oh, do make some allowance for me, for my state of mind!
John.
[Turning abruptly.] Have you the courage to meet these people with me? If so, you can begin to-night to carry out your promise to serve Mrs. Fraser; you can tell her relatives now what your intentions are towards her.
Olive.
[Falteringly.] Certainly, I have the courage to meet them. [Advancing, tremblingly, breathlessly.] But do you know where you are drifting, John?
John.
Where I am drifting——?
Olive.
Yes. I mean—what position are you willing to give me before these people?
John.
Position——?
Olive.
I couldn’t submit to be treated as a culprit; and there is only one other possible position for me.
John.
What is that?
Olive.
The—the—the wife.
John.
[Slowly.] The wife.
Olive.
[Tearfully.] Oh——! oh, I would try!
[He leaves her, and walks about agitatedly. She sits on the settee, weeping.
John.
[Rather wildly.] Well, I—I only want to cleanse the slate. My cursed stupidity has smeared poor little Mrs. Fraser’s character; I want to put that right. It cuts me to the heart to see how wretched you are, Olive; I want to put that right. Oh, if we fail again——!
Olive.
We c—c—can’t fail again—it’s impossible!
John.
[Desperately, throwing himself into the chair.] All right! Heaven have mercy upon us—we’re reconciled! Ring the bell. [She rises and touches the bell-press, and with the aid of the mirror over the mantelpiece attempts to adjust her hair and straighten her bonnet, he watching her.] By Jove, you have pluck!
Olive.
To face these people?
John.
[With a short laugh.] I call it true courage.
Olive.
It’s nothing; I am so happy. Oh, John, you shall never regret this.
[Quaife enters.
John.
[Rising.] Show Mrs. Cloys and the two gentlemen in here.
Quaife.
Yes, sir.
John.
Tell them that Mr. and Mrs. Allingham are now disengaged.
Quaife.
Yes, sir. [He withdraws.
Olive.
[Turning sharply.] Mrs. Allingham——?
John.
It wouldn’t be quite fair to spring you upon them suddenly——
Olive.
You’ve given them warning; they may hurry away, to avoid me!
John.
No, no——
Olive.
If they did do such a thing——! [Agitatedly.] Gurrrh! I can’t get my bonnet to sit straight. May I take it off, and receive them as if I were—at home?
John.
If you would rather do so——
Olive.
[Going to the dining-room door.] Is there a mirror in here?
John.
Yes. [She goes out hurriedly.] Let me hold the lamp for you——
[He follows her. After a brief pause, Quaife re-enters, showing in Mrs. Cloys, Sir Fletcher Portwood, and Claude. Quaife withdraws.
Mrs. Cloys.
[After looking round the room.] The wife.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
The wife!
Mrs. Cloys.
Who could have anticipated anything so extraordinary.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Walking about uneasily.] Harriet, your theories and suspicions have involved us in an entanglement of—ah—an unexpected kind.
Claude.
[Moodily.] A reg’lar mess, I call it.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I wish your choice of expressions was a little happier, Claude——
Mrs. Cloys.
The boy is right; and we must get out of this as quickly as possible.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Yes, yes; yes, yes.
Claude.
But I don’t believe the woman will have the daring effrontery to show her face to us; to me—the brother!
Mrs. Cloys.
If she does appear, Fletcher, how on earth are we to explain our visit?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Never explain, Harriet. I once explained in the House——
Mrs. Cloys.
Devil take the House!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Harriet!
Mrs. Cloys.
Heaven forgive me!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
You are unhinged—not yourself. No, no, we must simply avail ourselves of any topic that presents itself.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mercy on us! there’s only one topic that can present itself.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I am not often nonplussed. You had better watch me closely; follow my lead—tsch!
John enters with Olive, who is now without her outdoor
apparel.
John.
[After bowing to Mrs. Cloys.] How do you do, Sir Fletcher? [Nodding to Claude.] How are you, Emptage?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[With a wave of the hand towards Mrs. Cloys.] My sister, Mrs. Cloys.
John.
Mrs. Cloys, Sir Fletcher; there have been some most unhappy differences between my wife and myself in the past, as you know too well. Unfortunately, she and I have not been the only sufferers from these differences; we have dragged others along with us. However, we met this evening, half an hour ago, and are—reconciled——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[In a murmur.] Very proper—very sensible——
John.
And I have my wife’s authority for saying that her feeling towards Mrs. Fraser are now considerably—in fact, entirely—— But she will speak for herself. [Presenting Olive, awkwardly.] Er—my wife.
Olive.
[To Sir Fletcher and Mrs. Cloys, graciously.] Pray sit down. [Mrs. Cloys sits again.] Sir Fletcher, we knew each other years ago——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I am delighted to renew—[pulling himself up uneasily]—that is, of course——
[Olive sits on the left and Sir Fletcher on the right of the table.
Olive.
[Addressing Mrs. Cloys.] Mrs. Cloys, it is only fair to you that I should say at once that I don’t expect Mrs. Fraser’s relatives to treat me at all tenderly over the painful proceedings which terminated to-day. [Mrs. Cloys bows stiffly; Sir Fletcher eyes her anxiously.] So I beg that you will speak before me entirely without reserve. [Looking at John.] It is my husband’s wish that you should do so.
John.
Certainly.
[Mrs. Cloys and Sir Fletcher Portwood sit staring before them in a glassy way; Olive again glances at John, puzzled.
Olive.
[A little impatiently.] Naturally, Mrs. Cloys, I can’t think that you have taken this inconvenient journey to-night without some very special, some very definite object.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Er—so far as I am concerned, the object of my visit is in a great part attained when I have given Mr. Allingham my assurance that only absolute proof of his unworthiness will ever induce me to withdraw my friendship from him. I am nothing if not a just man——
John.
Genuinely obliged to you, Sir Fletcher.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Oh, I am not ashamed of my simple faith in young English manhood and in the efficacy of a training at one of our most honoured public schools. True, I was never a public-school boy myself——
Claude.
[Leaning on a chair near the window, with his back to those in the room.] Ha!
[All turn their heads towards Claude, surprised.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Rising, and going to Claude.] No, but I am still capable of rejoicing when I see the traditions of popular British institutions worthily upheld. The world was my public school——
Olive.
[Changing her position.] Mrs. Cloys——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Eyeing Olive, and returning quickly.] Er—is there a question more vital, more absorbing, than this great vexed question of Education? Is there a question which calls more imperatively upon the attention of thinking men——?
Olive.
[Turning to him with a forced smile.] But, Sir Fletcher, you surely haven’t brought Mrs. Cloys all the way to Epsom that she may hear you discuss Education with my husband?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Disconcerted.] No, no. Good! ha, ha! good! Excellent! Er—— [Suddenly.] Now, this cottage—I wonder whether I may ask how many rooms?
Olive.
How many rooms!
John.
Twelve.
Olive.
[Between her teeth.] Twelve.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
The reason I put the question is this: my dear brother-in-law, the bishop——
Mrs. Cloys.
[Under her breath.] Eh?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Looking at Mrs. Cloys significantly.] The bishop often suffers from the effects of severe intellectual strain, and it has more than once struck me that for a few weeks in the year this peculiarly invigorating air—— [Going to the dining-room door.] The arrangements appear to be most convenient. May I?
John.
The dining-room.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Opening the door and peeping into the room.] Delightful! I can picture the bishop sitting there, my sister there, myself, perhaps, over there—delightful! [Closing the door and moving away, pointing to the upper door.] The hall and the little card-room I have seen. [Rapping the table.] But the grand question is, Mrs. Allingham—would you let? That’s the point, Allingham—would you feel inclined to let?
John.
Oh, if his lordship did us the honour of expressing a wish——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
That’s extremely good-natured. [Trying to catch Mrs. Cloys’ eye.] You hear, Harriet?
Mrs. Cloys.
[With a gulp.] Yes.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Pointing to the steps.] And here?
Olive.
[Struggling to suppress her anger.] The library—the library.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Have I permission?
Olive.
Oh, by all means.
[Sir Fletcher bustles up the steps and enters the library.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Out of sight.] Cheerful—very cheerful. A paucity of volumes, but the bishop would bring his own books.
Olive.
[Quickly.] Sir Fletcher, while you are there, do examine the little clock on the mantelpiece. The case is modern oriental.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Out of sight.] Ah, yes, yes.
Olive.
I gave it to Mr. Allingham some years ago. Count those curious stones round the dial. [To Mrs. Cloys, rapidly but forcibly, dropping her voice.] Mrs. Cloys, I confess I find it difficult to accept Sir Fletcher’s suggestion that you are engaged at this time of night in hunting for fresh air for the bishop. I——
[Upon Sir Fletcher’s disappearance, Claude advances and stands waiting for an opportunity to speak.
Claude.
[Breaking in in a hollow voice.] As Mrs. Fraser’s brother——
[All turn their heads towards Claude again.
Olive.
[With clenched hands.] Oh! I am endeavouring to speak to Mrs. Cloys——
Claude.
Pardon me. As Mrs. Fraser’s brother, and as, perhaps, the chief sufferer from the result of to-day’s proceedings——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Appearing suddenly on top of the steps, no longer carrying his hat.] What’s this? What’s this?
Claude.
I refuse to be silenced. As Mrs. Fraser’s brother, I desire to say that I did not expect to be received to-night by the lady who has done her best—her utmost——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Sssh! sssh!
Mrs. Cloys.
Be quiet, Claude, please!
Olive.
[Rising and going to John.] John, really——
John.
[Hotly.] Look here, Emptage, you’re a boy—at any rate, a very young man——!
Claude.
I am a truly unfortunate young man. A blight has been cast upon my name at the very outset of my career——
John.
[Bluntly.] What career?
Claude.
Well, when I am turning various careers over in my mind——
Mrs. Cloys.
Enough, Claude——!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Coming down the steps.] Why, when I was five years younger than he I had already applied my lever to the mountain. I first saw light in ’forty-four——
Olive.
[To John.] Oh——!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
’Forty-four; an easily remembered date—two fours. And what was I doing at his age?
Olive.
Mrs. Cloys——
Mrs. Cloys.
Go away, Claude!
Claude.
[Retiring.] Ha, at least I have had the courage to speak out——!
[He throws himself into a chair at the back, and in course of time falls asleep. His head is seen to drop back upon his shoulder; an arm hangs over the side of the chair.
Olive.
[Advancing to the table, imperatively.] Mrs. Cloys——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
I——
Mrs. Cloys.
[Firmly.] Excuse me, Fletcher; I believe Mrs. Allingham is looking to me for some further explanation. [Sitting.] Mrs. Allingham, happening to become acquainted to-day, for the first time, with several features of this disagreeable business, I thought—it was a fancy of mine—that I should like to—to meet Mr. Allingham—to talk over—to——
Olive.
[Sitting.] To talk over——?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
To thresh it all out with John—with Allingham.
Olive.
[Quickly.] It has not been sufficiently threshed out, then, in the Divorce Court?
Mrs. Cloys.
[Hastily.] Quite sufficiently. [Eyeing Sir Fletcher reprovingly.] My brother doesn’t interpret me correctly. Er—as I have told you, it is a fancy of mine—to meet Mr. Allingham.
Olive.
Just to make his acquaintance?
Mrs. Cloys.
[Steadily.] Just to make his acquaintance.
John.
[Uncomfortably.] Very pleased—very gratified——
Olive.
[With a hard smile.] This is rather an odd hour for such a call.
Mrs. Cloys.
It would have been earlier but for a little difficulty in discovering Mr. Allingham’s whereabouts.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Genially.] When ladies have fancies they don’t study the hour before indulging them.
Olive.
I am afraid it is so, in your family, Sir Fletcher.
[Mrs. Cloys makes a movement, but restrains herself.
John.
[In a low voice.] Olive——!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Er—the fact is, my sister shares with me the Lavater-like faculty for judging character at sight.
Olive.
Judging character by face, manner?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Yes. I possess it in a remarkable degree. I remember——
Olive.
[To Mrs. Cloys.] Oh, I see! You are here to—to form an impression of Mr. Allingham?
Mrs. Cloys.
Sir Fletcher a little exaggerates my powers; but I confess I am, like many people, very sensitive to receiving impressions through such mediums.
Olive.
I hope your impressions of my husband will be to his advantage.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Looking at John.] I think I may say at once that they are not unfavourable.
Olive.
Because the necessity you find for estimating my husband’s character shows—you know what it shows?
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Allingham——?
Olive.
It shows, obviously, that if you are uncertain as to my husband’s innocence, you must be equally doubtful of the innocence of your niece, Mrs. Fraser.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Rising.] I—I beg that you will not put such a construction on what I have said——
Olive.
[Rising.] What other construction——?
John.
Olive, you are not keeping your promise——
Olive.
[Passionately.] I will keep my promise when I am treated openly and fairly. [Walking away.] I feel something is going on here that I don’t understand, that I am not allowed to understand.
John.
[To Mrs. Cloys and Sir Fletcher.] I am extremely sorry. But my wife is very fatigued and unstrung to-night——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Quite so, quite so. We are most inconsiderate, Harriet. Come—come; another time——
Olive.
[Turning.] No, no! Mrs. Cloys——
Mrs. Cloys.
[Facing Olive firmly.] Mrs. Allingham, I think, when we look back upon this evening, that you and I will be able to congratulate ourselves upon a considerable exercise of politeness. But there are signs that neither of us is equal to a prolonged strain.
Olive.
I beg your pardon; I will be patient. You need have no misgivings on my account.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Formidably.] Perhaps not; but I am beginning to be acutely conscious of my own weakness. [Looking round.] Fletcher——
Olive.
[Angrily.] Oh, oh!
[She paces the room; John joins her, and is seen expostulating. Mrs. Cloys joins Sir Fletcher.
John.
Olive, Olive, be reasonable!
Olive.
I will be, when you and your friends are honest with me.
[She leaves him, as Quaife enters with a note upon a salver.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Looking at his watch.] Oh, Allingham, the hotel people were to send a carriage up for us; perhaps you’ll get your servant——
John.
Certainly. [To Quaife.] Quaife—what’s that?
[Upon entering, Quaife has encountered Mrs. Allingham; her eyes fall upon the letter on the salver.
Olive.
[Under her breath, staring at the letter.] Ah-h-h!
Quaife.
Ma’am?
Olive.
[Drawing back and speaking to Quaife.] Well, give it to Mr. Allingham.
Quaife.
A boy has brought this, sir—waiting for an answer.
[John is about to take the letter; when he sees the writing upon the envelope he hesitates for a moment and draws his hand back; then he picks up the letter deliberately.
John.
[To Quaife, calmly.] Wait; I’ll ring.
[Quaife retires.
Olive.
[Pointing to the letter.] Isn’t that letter from Mrs. Fraser?
John.
[After opening the letter.] Yes. [He reads the letter to himself.] Poor little lady! This is bad news.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Agitatedly.] Really, Mr. Allingham, really?
John.
Don’t you know? She has left her husband.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Er—yes, sir, we do know it—certainly we know it. I was almost the last person she spoke to before she quitted her mother’s house. She is deeply attached to me. [Buttoning his coat.] Where is she? Where is she?
John.
I gather she is waiting not very far from this house——
Olive.
[Breathlessly.] Waiting——!
John.
She—she wishes to see me.
Olive.
[In a low voice.] Oh, yes. [Sitting, her hands tightly gripped together.] Oh, yes.
John.
[Going to her and handing her the letter.] Read it, please, Olive.
Olive.
[After a pause, holding the letter between her finger and thumb, reading.] “Station Hotel, Epsom. My dear old Jack”—— [Hastily returning the letter to John, with a shudder.] Take it from me!
John.
[Reading aloud.] “My dear old Jack”—[looking round, simply]—we have known each other many years—[reading]—“oh! I have had such a job to find you. I shall plant myself at some quiet spot near your cottage and get a messenger to bring this to you. The messenger will show you where I am, if you will only consent to see me for a few moments on—[looking round]—on a matter of business.”
[Mrs. Cloys, concealed from the others by Sir Fletcher, sinks on to the settee.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Ha, a matter of business! Of course, a matter of business.
John.
[Resuming.] “I have left my husband. He turned against me at the end and crushed my one hope of being able to whitewash myself.” The cur! [Resuming.] “Am off to Paris the first thing in the morning. Very likely this is the last chance you will ever have of a word with your poor little friend, Theo.” [To Sir Fletcher.] Sir Fletcher, I congratulate you on finding your niece; please tell her that it is impossible for me to grant her request.
Olive.
[Calmly.] Oh, but wait. [Rising.] Surely it would be rather uncivil to refuse what Mrs. Fraser asks.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Rising.] I can be trusted to explain——
Olive.
But she is apparently in need of some business service which my husband can render her.
Mrs. Cloys.
Now that she is again in the hands of her relatives there can be no necessity for troubling Mr. Allingham.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Not the slightest; not the slightest.
Olive.
Perhaps not. But before such a very curt message is sent to Mrs. Fraser, will you do me the favour of letting me have two or three minutes’ conversation with my husband alone?
Mrs. Cloys.
I—I am anxious to go to my niece.
Olive.
Two minutes. Please, John.
[John goes to the dining-room door and opens it. After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. Cloys goes to the door.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Turning.] I beg that I may not be detained longer.
[She passes out; John follows her, leaving the door open.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Standing over Claude, shaking him.] Wake up, sir! wake up!
Claude.
[Waking.] What is it? eh? [Rising.] Hullo, Uncle!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
You’ve been sleeping, sir; your manners are appalling.
Claude.
[Stupidly.] Where’s aunt?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Leading him towards the door.] In the next room. Come, sir! You are deficient in tact, delicacy——
[John re-enters. Sir Fletcher passes him and goes out.
Claude.
[As he passes John.] The dining-room?
John.
[To Claude.] I shan’t keep you more than a minute or two.
Claude.
[In the doorway, turning to John.] Allingham, of course you and I can never again be the same to each other as we have been in the past; but may I take the liberty of foraging for a piece of cake?
John.
[Laying a hand on his shoulder.] Certainly.
[Claude goes out; John closes the door and turns to Olive.
Olive.
[Facing him.] Well?
John.
[Advancing to her.] Well?
Olive.
Oh, could anything be clearer? It’s easy enough now to see through the twaddle these people have been talking! Mrs. Fraser runs away from her husband, who believes her guilty; her relatives go in pursuit; they look for her and find her—where?
John.
Her relations chance to be here when Mrs. Fraser sends for me——
Olive.
[Mockingly.] Yes!
John.
[Referring to the letter.] Desiring to see me “for a few moments, upon a matter of business.” That is all that can be made of it.
Olive.
A matter of business!
John.
This letter is not quite ingenuous, you infer.
Olive.
You’ve caught the tone of the lawyers exactly.
John.
[Hotly.] “A matter of business” is a lie, you mean?
Olive.
Her arrival to-night is a remarkable coincidence.
John.
A perfectly natural one.
Olive.
Why are you so eager, then, to avoid granting her the interview she asks for?
John.
Eager——!
Olive.
You send word to her that it’s impossible.
John.
Don’t you make it impossible?
Olive.
No, I do not; I do not. I want you to meet her to-night; you’ve heard me say I wish it.
John.
You mean that?
Olive.
If ever I meant anything in my life.
John.
[Referring to the letter.] “I shall plant myself at some quiet spot near your cottage——”
Olive.
Ah, no! never mind the quiet spot near the cottage. Why can’t you have your business interview here?
John.
Here?
Olive.
[In a low voice, her head drooping.] Where we are now, while I—[glancing towards the library]—while I take my place in there?
[There is a pause; he stands looking at her for a moment silently.
John.
And this is how you propose to carry out your undertaking to make amends to Mrs. Fraser?
[He turns away from her.
Olive.
Everything is altered since—since——
John.
Since we were reconciled! reconciled!
Olive.
Since I promised to aid Mrs. Fraser. The arrival of these people—that letter—has undone everything. [Throwing herself upon the settee despairingly.] Oh, they knew well enough where their bird would fly to! [Burying her face in the pillows.] Oh, John, you’ll kill me!
John.
Ha! and so you would like to try Mrs. Fraser twice in one day! And there would be no mistake this time, no doubt whatever! Innocent or Guilty—guilty for choice!
Olive.
No, no, innocent. But I want to be satisfied. Only satisfy me?
John.
Satisfy you! My heavens!
Olive.
Satisfy me! satisfy me!
John.
And what a model judge of this lady you would make, of any woman you are jealous of! How scrupulously fair! how impartial! how——
Olive.
I would be just, John; I would be!
John.
[Savagely taking a cigarette from the box on the table and sticking it between his teeth.] Women of your temperament detect a leer in the smile of a wax doll.
Olive.
I give you my word that I will make every allowance for you both, if you will let me hear you together. You are old friends—“chums” was her expression for it in the witness-box to-day—and you are Jack and Theo to each other, naturally; I am prepared for all that kind of thing. She can kiss you good-bye when she parts from you—[beating her brow]—I can comprehend even that. Only—only let me be satisfied by her general tone and bearing, by that unmistakable ring in the voice, that she has never been the arrant little profligate I once thought her.
[John now sitting staring at the carpet and chewing the end of his cigarette.
John.
Supposing I—consented, and you were—satisfied——?
Olive.
[Rising and speaking earnestly and rapidly.] We are in June; I would have her to stay with me. My friends, her own friends, should see that we were close companions. She should go everywhere with me; my arm should always be through hers. I would get a crowd together; she should receive my guests with me. Oh, by Goodwood week her reputation should be as sound as any woman’s in England! Come! think of the dreadful days and nights she’s given me, whether she’s good or bad! Come! wouldn’t that be generous?
John.
[In a low voice.] Look here! you would swear to me you’d never use against her anything that might arise during our meeting—I mean anything that your cursed jealousy could twist into harm?
Olive.
Solemnly. If she proclaimed herself openly in this room to be your—[with a stamp of the foot he rises]—she should go scot-free, for me. If she behaved as an innocent woman, she might walk over me in the future, trample on me; I’d be a slave to her. Only satisfy me!
[He goes to the writing-table, and rapidly scribbles a note. She watches him with eager eyes. When he has finished writing, he takes an envelope, rises, comes to Olive, and holds the note up before her.
John.
“Come to the cottage.—J. A.”
[She inclines her head. He touches the bell-press. Then he encloses the note in the envelope, which he fastens, and hands to Olive.
Olive.
Why?
John.
Take it. [She takes it wonderingly.] I have met your demands so far. Now, if you wish to do a womanly thing, you’ll throw that on the fire. [Quaife enters; Olive stands staring before her. Speaking in measured tones, keeping his eyes on Olive.] Quaife, the note which Mrs. Allingham will give you is for the messenger.
Quaife.
Yes, sir.
John.
If a lady arrives, ask her to sit down in the card-room; let me know when she comes. I am alone, should the lady make any inquiries.
Quaife.
Very good, sir.
John.
Olive, Quaife is waiting for the note. [There is a pause; then Olive turns suddenly and hands Quaife the note. He goes out. There is another pause.] And after this—after this!—you and I! Upon what terms do you imagine you and I will be after this?
Olive.
Oh, if she comes out of it well, I will be so good to her——
John.
[Contemptuously.] Ah——!
Olive.
[Clutching his arm.] I will make you forgive me for it; I will make you! [He releases himself from her, almost roughly, and moves away, turning his back upon her.] Of course, you will not mention to Mrs. Fraser that you and I are in any way—in any way——?
John.
Reconciled! [Sitting on the settee, laughing wildly.] Ha, ha, ha——! [Turning to her.] Why not?
Olive.
Naturally, she wouldn’t open her lips to you at all if you did.
John.
[Waving her away.] Faugh!
Olive.
[Her hand to her brow.] You are—very—polite—[She walks slowly and painfully towards the steps, pausing in her walk, and referring to her watch.] John, when the talk between you and Mrs. Fraser has—gone far enough, I will strike ten on the bell of the little clock in here. You understand?
John.
When you are satisfied!
Olive.
[Beginning to ascend the steps, with the aid of the balustrade.] When I am satisfied.
John.
Olive——! [She stops.] It’s not too late now for us to think better of playing this infernally mean trick upon her.
Olive.
[Steadily, in a low hard voice.] Why, nothing can arise, during this interview, injurious, in the mind of any fair person, to Mrs. Fraser’s reputation?
John.
[Starting to his feet.] Nothing! nothing!
Olive.
Then I am clearly serving Mrs. Fraser’s interests by what I am doing.
[She disappear into the library. After a brief pause, John hastily goes to the dining-room door, and opens it slightly.
John.
Mrs. Cloys! Mrs. Cloys!
Mrs. Cloys.
[From the dining-room.] Yes.
John.
Let me speak to you? [Mrs. Cloys enters; he closes the door sharply, speaking hurriedly and excitedly.] I—I have altered my mind about meeting Mrs. Fraser——
Mrs. Cloys.
Altered your mind——?
John.
I have sent a note to her by her messenger asking her to see me here.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mr. Allingham, I protest against this as quite unnecessary.
John.
Pardon me. [Producing Theophila’s letter, and speaking disjointedly, uneasily.] On—on consideration, it seems to me that—that—for everybody’s sake, I have to satisfy my wife that Mrs. Fraser’s presence is due solely to the most innocent causes.
Mrs. Cloys.
Mrs. Allingham has, I take it, arrived at certain conclusions as to the motive of my visit?
John.
She has.
Mrs. Cloys.
And now, Theophila following upon our heels——?
John.
It is a most unfortunate accident——
Mrs. Cloys.
[Eyeing him penetratingly.] Mr. Allingham, you have no doubt whatever of the absolute genuineness of my niece’s excuse for calling upon you?
John.
Oh, Mrs. Cloys——!
Mrs. Cloys.
[Sitting.] Yes, I admit that I came here to-night to ask you to pledge your word to us that Theo should run no further risk from her—her acquaintanceship with you; to entreat you, if she should be so base, so abandoned——
John.
You mean you thought it possible, probable, that this lady had run away from her husband and friends with the deliberate intention of joining me—me! [Mrs. Cloys covers her eyes with her handkerchief.] Great Heaven, I suppose there is no living soul who will believe in an honest friendship between a young man and a young woman!
Mrs. Cloys.
There are certain rules for the conduct of friendship, Mr. Allingham——
John.
[Excitedly.] Rules! The world is getting choked with rules for the conduct of everything and every body! What’s the matter with the world that a woman has to lose her character and paint her face before she is entitled to tell a man her troubles, and hear his in return, across a dying fire, by lamplight, when the streets are still and a few words of sympathy and encouragement stir one like a sudden peal of bells——?
[He stands by the fire, bowing his head upon the mantelpiece.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Looking at him, and speaking in a low voice.] Ah! a dying fire, the lamplight, the still streets——! The world is what it is, Mr. Allingham.
John.
Yes, and it’s a damnable world!
Quaife enters.
Quaife.
The lady has arrived, sir.
Mrs. Cloys rises.
John.
[To Quaife.] When I ring, show her in here.
Quaife withdraws.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Agitatedly.] Mr. Allingham, you will not let Theo slip through my fingers; you won’t let her escape me——? [Looking at him.] Oh, I will trust you so far.
John.
You may. I only ask you to allow me to have my interview with Mrs. Fraser undisturbed.
Mrs. Cloys.
Ah, if you knew how I hate the idea of this meeting between you two! [Turning sharply.] I’ve a feeling that something evil is going to result from it——!
John.
I can only repeat, you’re wrong in what you think of me—[turning away]—wrong, every one of you.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Coming to him, her manner gradually changing to harshness, almost to violence.] Well, understand me, Mr. Allingham! I’m inclined to—to half-believe in you; you’ve an honest face and air—not that those things count for much; but understand me: if you bring, in any shape or form, further harm to her——!
John.
[Indignantly.] What further harm can I bring to her? You find me here with my wife——!
Mrs. Cloys.
Sir, you had a wife round the corner when you were engaged in destroying my niece’s reputation in Lennox Gardens! [Recovering her composure.] But enough of that. [Calmly, amiably.] We do understand one another, do we not?
John.
[Shortly.] Oh, perfectly.
Mrs. Cloys.
That’s right. [Arranging her bonnet-strings, which have become slightly disordered.] Excuse me for breaking out in this fashion. [She goes to the door, he following her. At the door she turns to him with grave dignity.] I’m afraid I’ve impressed you as being rather a tigress.
[She goes out. He closes the door after her and stands staring at the ground for a moment; then he gently turns the key in the lock and carefully draws the portière across the door. He is about to put his finger upon the bell-press when he pauses.
John.
[In a low voice.] Olive. Olive. I have not yet rung the bell. Do you stop me? [A pause.] Won’t you stop me?
[He waits; there is no answer; with an angry gesture he rings the bell. After a brief pause Quaife enters; Theophila follows. She is dressed as in the previous Act, but is now thickly veiled. Quaife gives a puzzled look round the room and withdraws.
Theophila.
[Advancing and speaking in a weak, plaintive voice.] Oh, Jack——! [They shake hands, but in a constrained, rather formal way.] Of course, we could have had our talk very well in the lane; but it’s kind and considerate of you to ask me in.
John.
Oh, not in the least. [Confusedly.] I—er—I—Do sit down.
[She looks at him, expecting him to find her a chair. In the end, after a little uncertainty, she seats herself on the right of the table. In the meantime he ascertains that the door by which Theophila has entered is closed.
Theophila.
[Lifting her veil.] I’m afraid you’re a little angry with me for hunting you up.
John.
Angry? Why should I be angry?
Theophila.
Well, I suppose it is another—what d’ye call it?—injudicious act on my part. But it seemed to me, if I thought about it at all, that we came so badly out of it to-day, that nothing matters much now. At any rate, my character’s gone.
John.
[Advancing a step or two, but avoiding her eye.]
No, no——
Theophila.
Oh, isn’t it? And yours has gone too, Jack; only a man gets on comfortably without one. [Facing him, her elbows on the table.] Well, what do you think of my news?
John.
[Looking at her, startled.] By Jove, how dreadfully white you are!
Theophila.
[With a nod and a smile.] The looks have gone with the character—[putting her hands over her face]—both departed finally.
John.
[Coming a little nearer to her.] Er—when you’ve had a little rest you will see everything in a brighter light——
Theophila.
I should have kept my appearance a good many years, being fair and small. [Removing her hands—looking up at him.] You used to tell me I should last pretty till I’m forty-five. Do you remember? [His jaw drops a little, and he stares at her without replying.] Do you remember?
John.
[Moving away.] Oh—er—yes——
[Theophila.
Is there anything wrong with you, Jack?
John.
Wrong—with me? No.
[She shifts to the other side of the table, to be nearer to him. He eyes her askance.
Theophila.
Why don’t you tell me what you think of my news?
John.
Your news?
Theophila.
[Impatiently.] You’ve read my letter, Jack. I’m a—what am I?—a single woman again; a sort of widow.
John.
You are acting too hastily; you’re simply carried away by a rush of indignation. Perhaps matters can be arranged, patched up. You mustn’t be allowed to——
Theophila.
Arranged! patched up! You don’t realise what you’re proposing! You wouldn’t make such a suggestion if you had been a fly on the wall this afternoon while Mr. Fraser and I were—having a little talk. [Struggling to keep back her tears.] Alec—my husband—he was very much in love with me at one time! I never doubted that he would stand by me through thick and thin. He has done so pretty well, up till to-day, up till the trial, and then, suddenly, he—he——
[She produces her handkerchief, rises, then moves away abruptly, and stands, with her back to John, crying.
John.
[Turning to the fire.] Mr. Fraser was taken aback, flabbergasted, I expect, by the tone adopted by the judge to-day; there’s that poor excuse for him. But a little reflection will soon——
Theophila.
[Drying her eyes.] Oh, don’t prose, Jack! [Turning.] On the whole, I think it’s better that he and I have at last managed to find out where we are.
John.
[Turning to her.] Where you are?
Theophila.
You know, there’s always a moment in the lives of a man and woman who are tied to each other when the man has a chance of making the woman really, really, his own property. It’s only a moment; if he let’s the chance slip, it’s gone—it never comes back. I fancy my husband had his chance to-day. If he had just put his hand on my shoulder this afternoon and said, “You fool, you don’t deserve it, for your stupidity, but I’ll try to save you——”; if he had said something, anything, of that kind to me, I think I could have gone down on my knees to him and——[Coming to John excitedly.] But he stared at the carpet, and held on to his head, and moaned out that he must have time, time! Time! Oh, he was my one bit of rock! [Throwing herself into a chair on the right.] If he’d only mercifully stuck to me for a few months—three months—two—for a month——!
John.
[Going to her slowly and deliberately, and standing by her.] Mrs. Fraser. [She looks up at him surprised.] Of course, whatever future is in store for you, nothing—no luck, no happy times—can ever pay you back for the distress of mind you’ve gone through.
Theophila.
Nothing, Jack—Mr. Allingham. [Her hand to her brow.] Oh, nobody knows! Oh, Jack, some nights—some nights—I’ve said my prayers.
John.
I’ve found myself doing that too—in hansoms, or walking along the street.
Theophila.
Praying for me?
John.
[Nervously.] Y-yes.
Theophila.
Oh, don’t make me cry again! Oh, my head! oh, don’t let me cry any more——!
John.
Hush, hush, hush! What I want to say is this. You knew young Goodhew?
Theophila.
Charley Goodhew—the boy that cheated at baccarat?
John.
He didn’t; he was innocent.
Theophila.
I’m sure he was, poor fellow.
John.
Well, he told me, one day in Brussels, that he managed to take all the sting out of his punishment by continually reminding himself that it was undeserved, that there wasn’t a shadow of justification for it. I suppose it would be the same with a woman who—who gets into a scrape; an innocent woman?
Theophila.
It’s good, under such circumstances, if you can feel a bit of a martyr, you mean?
John.
That’s it. So, in the future, you must never tire of reminding yourself of the utter harmlessness of those hours we used to spend together in Lennox Gardens.
Theophila.
They were harmless enough, God knows.
John.
[Earnestly, eagerly.] God knows.
Theophila.
And they were awfully jolly, too.
John.
[Blankly, his voice dropping.] Jolly——?
Theophila.
You know—cosy, comforting.
John.
Yes, yes—comforting. It was the one thing that kept me together during those shocking Pont Street days of mine.
Theophila.
Our friendship?
John.
Our friendship. When I was in the deepest misery, the thought would come to me: “Well, I shall see my little friend to-day or to-morrow.” And then I’d go through our meeting as I supposed it would be—as it always was——
Theophila.
“’Ullo, Jack! good morning—or good evening. Oh, my dear boy, you’re in trouble again, I’m afraid!”
John.
“Dreadfully. I shall go mad, I believe—or drink.”
Theophila.
“Mad—drink; not you. Sit down and tell me all about it.”
John.
And so on.
Theophila.
And so on. I had my miseries too.
John.
Yes, you had your miseries too.
Theophila.
And then you invariably came out with that one piece of oracular advice of yours.
John.
Ah, yes. “Don’t fret; it’ll be all the same a hundred years hence.”
Theophila.
Which you couldn’t act upon, yourself. How vexed it used to make me—and the ponderous way you said it!
John.
Well, it was a good, helpful friendship to me.
Theophila.
And to me.
John.
[Standing a little behind her; speaking calmly, but watching her eagerly.] Because, all the while, there was never one single thought of anything but friendship on either side.
Theophila.
Why, of course not, Jack.
John.
You’d have detected it in me, if there had been?
Theophila.
Trust a woman for that.
John.
And if you had for a moment fancied that I was losing sight of mere friendship——?
Theophila.
You!
John.
What would you have done?
Theophila.
Oh, one day, the usual headache; not at home the next—the proper thing. But, Jack dear, I never felt the slightest fear of you—and that’s what makes an end like this so cruel, so intolerably cruel.
John.
Never felt the slightest fear of me——?
Theophila.
No, never; oh, of course, a woman can tell. Somehow, I knew—I knew you couldn’t be a black-guard.
John.
[About to seize her hand, but restraining himself.] God bless you! God bless you! [He walks away and pokes the fire vigorously, hitting the coal triumphantly.] Ah, ha, ha! [Turning to Theophila.] I beg your pardon; you’re in the most uncomfortable chair in the room.
[She rises and crosses the room.
John.
[Arranging the pillows on the settee.] You must be so weary, too. I’m confoundedly stupid and forgetful to-night.
Theophila.
[Sitting on the settee.] Fancy! a fire in June!
John.
[Walking about elatedly, dividing his glances between Theophila and the library.] I love to see a fire.
Theophila.
[Suddenly.] Of course. [Dropping her voice.] I remember. [He stops, staring at her.] Do you recollect? [Steadily gazing into the fire.] That night when we were sitting over the fire in that little room in Lennox Gardens——
John.
[Hastily.] Oh, yes, yes——
Theophila.
“I shall always burn a fire, Theo,” you said, “to bring back these nights, these soothing, precious talks in the quiet hours. Wherever I may be, I shall only have to light my fire to hear you and to see you—to see you sitting facing me——”
John.
Ah, that evening—yes, I was terribly—terribly down that evening [Wiping his brow.] By-the-bye, we—we mustn’t neglect the—the—the matter of business—the little matter of business——
Theophila.
[Rousing herself.] Matter of——?
John.
The matter of business you mention in your letter——
Theophila.
[Rising.] Oh, yes. [Sitting on the left of the centre table.] Jack, I—I do hope you won’t hate me for asking you. You see, if I went to any one else, I should run a chance of having all my arrangements upset. I—I want to borrow a little money——
John.
Ah, yes, certainly—anything—I shall be most happy——
Theophila.
This is exactly how I am placed. Mr. Fraser wanted to hurry me off abroad—ah! that’s done with. Instead of that, you see, I’ve taken my travels and my future into my own hands. I’ve telegraphed to Emily Graveney, who was at Madame MacDonnell’s with us girls in the Rue D’Audiffret-Pasquier. Emily is teaching in Paris now—I hardly know how she scrapes along; she’ll be mad with delight to have my companionship. But till the lawyers settle my position precisely as regards Mr. Fraser, I’m practically broke, penniless. It’s a little ready-money I want.
John.
[Who has seated himself at the right of the table while Theophila has been talking.] You have only to tell me how much——
Theophila.
Well, I think I could tide over with fifty pounds. I’m afraid you haven’t got it in the house, though. I don’t want a cheque.
John.
[Taking out his keys and going to a table.] I believe I can just make it up——[He opens a drawer in the writing-table, finds some bank-notes, counts them, then empties his sovereign-purse and screws the gold up in the notes.] Within a pound——
Theophila.
That’s of no consequence. [Rising.] I’m awfully obliged to you; I knew you would—I—I——
[He returns to her, and finds her clutching the table unsteadily.
John.
[Placing the money on the table.] What’s the matter?
Theophila.
Nothing. [Sinking back into the chair, with closed eyes.] I shall be all right in a minute.
[He brings her a glass of water, and places it to her lips. She sips the water for a little while, then gives a sigh.
John.
Better?
Theophila.
I think so.
John.
When did you last eat? [She shakes her head feebly. He puts the glass of water aside and fetches the biscuits.] Get two or three of these down. Come—try——!
Theophila.
[Taking a biscuit.] Thank you.
[He places the biscuits on the table by her side, and goes back to the other table.
John.
A glass of this champagne would pull you together.
Theophila.
[Nibbling the biscuit, her eyes still closed.] Would it? [He brings the decanter of champagne and a small tumbler. She, speaking faintly, and opening her eyes.] Oh, do let me off this, Jack.
John.
[Pouring out some champagne.] No, no; stick to it—do.
Theophila.
[Watching him.] That looks nice. [She puts the remains of her biscuit on the table and stretches out her hand for the wine. He gives it to her; she drinks.] Oh! oh! oh—h—h—h! [There is a pause; there she shakes herself, looks up at him, and breaks into a low, childlike little laugh.] Ha! ha, ha, ha! I’d nearly gone, hadn’t I? [Emptying her glass.] Oh! oh!... Fetch yourself a glass, and we’ll drink luck to each other. Then I really must be off. The porter said the trains run every—every what was it? [He brings a glass, which she fills, speaking animatedly.] A tumbler! oh, fie! [Filling her own glass.] Oh, mine’s a tumbler too! [Nodding to him.] Ourselves! [Touching his glass with hers.] Our two poor unfortunate selves! [They drink.] Ha! I don’t care! do you?
John.
Care——?
Theophila.
A hang. For anything; for what the judge said; for what people think. Puh. Here’s to our friend, the judge——! [Drinking, nearly emptying her glass.] I hope his wife’s a cat who leads him a——! [Jumping up suddenly, her eyes dilating, holding her glass high in the air.] Happiness and prosperity to Mr. Fraser! [Loudly.] Mr. Fraser!
John.
Sssh! oh, hush!
Theophila.
Fraser of Locheen! [She goes to the fireplace and flings the contents of her glass into the grate.] Ha! well, that’s throwing good stuff after poor, isn’t it? [She places her glass on the table; the cigarette box is open; she takes a cigarette.] The old sort?
John.
[Quickly.] No, no——
Theophila.
[Striking a match.] Only a whiff. [Lighting her cigarette.] Sure I’m not in the way, Jack, if I rest here a minute or two longer?
John.
[With a glance at the library.] C—certainly not.
Theophila.
[Throwing herself upon the settee in a careless attitude, smoking.] Oh, thank God for this rest! [Looking round.] So this is the little place you used to tell me about——
John.
[Standing, watching her, apprehensively.] Um——
Theophila.
Phew! Your fire’s all right to look at——! [She removes her cape from her shoulders and flings it away from her; he picks it up, and places it over the back of a chair.] Never mind that rag. Are you likely to be in Paris?
John.
I—I’m not fond of Paris.
Theophila.
[Jumping up, and speaking volubly, excitedly, boisterously.] Suppose that wire don’t find Emily, and she doesn’t meet me at the Nord to-morrow night. Ugh! cheerful! She may be dead, No, no; not Emily. Poor old Emily! Be sure you look me up if you should pass through. Rue Poissonnière, 18. You’re bound to be rambling soon. How lucky a man is! Does just as he chooses. Good chap, So-and-so—awfully rackety—but the world would be a dooced deal livelier if there were more like him! That’s what they all say of a man!... phew!... [As she rattles on, she takes off her bonnet and clears her hair from her brow.] But a woman! Well, look at me. Not that anybody will look at me, in Paris or elsewhere. I used to know several smart people in Paris! Now! Oh, my stars, won’t they stalk distant objects when they see me coming along! [Angrily.] Ah, a gay time I shall have of it, shut up with Emily Graveney, with her red nose, and her poor, narrow chest, and her perpetual sniffle! [She flings away her cigarette. Her hair is disordered, her breath comes quickly, there is a wild look in her eyes. Her bonnet falls to the floor. He paces the room distractedly.] By Jove, I won’t have a dull time though! I shall only hang out with Emily long enough just to turn round. Then I’ll take a little appartement of my own. Uncle Fletcher will make me an allowance; I won’t touch a penny of—puh—his money. I’ll let the world see how happy I am without the character I’ve been robbed of! Yes, robbed of! [Laughing noisily.] Ha, ha, ha! [Snapping her fingers.] Pish! I shall burst out laughing in the face of the whole world, Jack—put my tongue out at the world, your wife, my husband! After the solemn farce we’ve all gone through. [Between her teeth.] Y—y—yes, they shall have a pretty picture in their minds of me, t’other side of the Channel, with my finger to my nose like a cheeky urchin! Oh, my heavens, how I hate ’em—hate ’em—hate ’em!
John.
Mrs. Fraser——! Mrs. Fraser——!
Theophila.
Oh, the devilish injustice of it! To think that we’re still married, Jack—you and I! Hah! the mockery! To think that we wander about the world still with our owner’s marks branded upon us! Ha, ha! I believe I’ve an “F” branded upon my shoulder—burnt in! [Running to him.] Oh, I won’t bear it! I can’t bear it!
John.
Hush, hush!
Theophila.
I shall go mad if I can’t pay out that wife of yours! [Shrilly.] She’s ruined me! I will be even with her!
John.
Hush——!
Theophila.
And with him!—that fish!—that cold, flapping fish! [Clinging to him, suddenly.] Jack——! I wouldn’t bore you! I wouldn’t bore you, Jack——!
John.
Bore me!
Theophila.
Ah-h-h-h! take me away! Let’s you and I go together——!
John.
[Putting his hand over her mouth.] Ah, for God’s sake——! [The clock in the library is heard to strike.] It’s too late! too late!
Theophila.
[Drawing back, looking into his face.] Too late——? [There is a sharp knocking at the dining-room door.] What’s that? [The knocking is repeated.] Who is it?
John.
Mrs. Cloys is here.
Theophila.
[Her hand to her brow.] Mrs. Cloys—aunt——!
John.
Mrs. Cloys, Sir Fletcher, and your brother were with me when your note arrived. They want to see you.
Theophila.
See me—See me——
John.
[Gripping her wrist.] Pull yourself together, Mrs. Fraser——[The knocking is again heard. John goes to the door.
Theophila.
[In a whisper.] Jack! [He pauses; she seems dazed.] They—they haven’t heard—a word of—oh, of what I’ve said to you?
John.
Heard——! N-no. Are you ready?
[He pulls aside the portière, unlocks the door, and opens it. Mrs. Cloys enters; Sir Fletcher and Claude appear in the doorway.
Mrs. Cloys.
You have tried my patience long enough, Mr. Allingham. [She goes to Theophila; John walks away, and stands with his back to those in the room.] Come! you have had ample time for your business interview. [Staring at Theophila.] What’s wrong with you?
Theophila.
[Sinking into a chair.] N-nothing.
Mrs. Cloys.
Where’s your cape—and your bonnet?
[Theophila looks round vacantly.
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Cape? cape? Here’s a cape.
[He hands the cape to Mrs. Cloys; she snatches it from him, and puts it round Theophila’s shoulders. Claude picks up the bonnet, and brings it to Mrs. Cloys, then goes to the upper door, and stands there waiting.
Mrs. Cloys.
[Raising Theophila.] You are not well; you are ill. Fletcher——! [Sir Fletcher goes up to the steps leading to the library.] Where are you going?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
My hat——[He pushes the portière aside, then draws back.] Mrs. Allingham——! [Hesitatingly.] Er—I believe I have left my hat here, Mrs. Allingham. May I——? [He enters the library.
Theophila.
Mrs. Allingham! Mrs.—Allingham——!
Mrs. Cloys.
Yes, yes.
[Sir Fletcher comes out of the library, carrying his hat.
Theophila.
[To Mrs. Cloys.] Mrs. Allingham! his ... wife!
Mrs. Cloys.
Mr. and Mrs. Allingham have arranged their differences. [Looking from Theophila to John.] Why, don’t you know?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Coming down the steps.] Haven’t you seen Mrs. Allingham?
Theophila.
Seen her——?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
This evening—here——?
Theophila.
Here!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Your interview with Mr. Allingham has taken place in this room?
Theophila.
In this room? Yes——
Mrs. Cloys.
Come——
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Wait, Harriet, please! Allingham—Mr. Allingham—pardon me for putting such a question: surely you have not allowed—allowed—been a party to——?
Mrs. Cloys.
Allowed[Allowed]—what?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Looking towards the library.] Harriet, you can hear most distinctly, in the library——
Mrs. Cloys.
Hear——!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Overhear—certainly, overhear——
Mrs. Cloys.
No, no! [Going to John.] Preposterous! [After a pause.] Mr. Allingham, why should Mrs. Allingham—be there? [John is silent.] What has passed between you and——? Your wife has not been—listening?
John.
[Desperately.] Mrs. Fraser—has said—nothing to me that a—a just woman can bring up against her——
Mrs. Cloys.
Listening!
John.
[Almost inaudibly.] Yes. [Passionately.] But you don’t know——! [Calling in a loud voice.] Olive! Olive——!
[Olive comes out of the library and stands at the top of the steps. Theophila regards her for a moment blankly, then goes to the balustrade, and stares up at her. After a brief pause Theophila joins Mrs. Cloys, but seeing John, she comes unsteadily towards him and looks him in the face. Then as she turns away to Mrs. Cloys, she utters a groan, and tumbles to the floor at John’s feet.
END OF THE SECOND ACT.