The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith

by Arthur Wing Pinero

THE FOURTH ACT

[The scene is an apartment in the Campo San Bartolomeo. The walls are of plaster; the ceiling is frescoed in cheap modern Italian fashion. At the end of the room is a door leading to AGNES'S bedroom; to the left is an exit onto a landing, while a nearer door, on the same side, opens into another room. The furniture and the few objects attached to the walls are characteristic of a moderate-priced Venetian lodging. Placed about the room, however, are photographs in pretty fanes and knick-knacks personal to GERTRUDE, and a travelling-trunk and bag are also to be seen. The shutters of the two nearer windows are closed; a broad stream of moonlight, coming through the further window, floods the upper part of the room.]

[HEPHZIBAH, a grey-haired north-country woman dressed as a lady's maid, is collecting the knick-knacks and placing them in the travelling bag. After a moment or two, GERTRUDE enters by the further door.]

GERTRUDE. [At the partly closed door, speaking into the further room.] I'll come back to you in a little while, Agnes. [Closing the door, and addressing HEPHZIBAH.] How are you getting on, Heppy?

HEPHZIBAH. A'reet, Miss Gerty. I'm puttin' together a' the sma' knick-knacks, to lay them wi' the claes i' th' trunks.

GERTRUDE. [Taking some photographs from the table and bringing them to HEPHZIBAH.] We leave here at a quarter to eight in the morning; not a minute later.

HEPHZIBAH. Aye. Will there be much to pack for Mistress Cleeve?

GERTRUDE. Nothing at all. Besides her hand-bag, she has only the one box.

HEPHZIBAH. [Pointing to the trunk.] Nay, nobbut that thing!

GERTRUDE. Yes, nobbut that. I packed that for her at the Palazzo.

HEPHZIBAH. Eh, it won't gi' us ower much trouble to maid Mistress
Cleeve when we get her hame.

GERTRUDE. Heppy, we are not going to call—my friend—"Mrs Cleeve."

HEPHZIBAH. Nay! What will thee call her?

GERTRUDE. I'll tell you—by-and-bye. Remember, she must never, never be reminded of the name.

HEPHZIBAH. Aye, I'll be maist carefu'. Poor leddy! After the way she treated that husband o' hers in Florence neet and day, neet and day!

GERTRUDE. The world's full of unhappiness, Heppy.

HEPHZIBAH. The world's full of husbands. I canna' bide them. They're true enough when they're ailin'—but a lass can't keep her Jo always sick. Hey, Miss Gerty! Do forgi'e your auld Heppy!

GERTRUDE. For what?

HEPHZIBAH. Why, your own man, so I've heered, ne'er had as much as a bit headache till he caught his fever and died o't.

GERTRUDE. No, I never knew Captain Thorpe to complain of an ache or a pain.

HEPHZIBAH. And he was a rare, bonny husband to thee, if a tales be true.

GERTRUDE. Yes, Heppy. [Listening, startled.] Who's this?

HEPHZIBAH. [Going and looking.] Maister Amos. [AMOS enters briskly.]

AMOS. [To GERTRUDE.] How is she?

GERTRUDE. [Assisting him to remove his overcoat.] More as she used to be—so still, so gentle. She's reading.

AMOS. [Looking at her significantly.] Reading?

GERTRUDE. Reading. [He sits, humming a tune, while HEPPY takes off his shoes and gives him his slippers.]

HEPHZIBAH. Eh, Maister Amos, it's good to see thee sae gladsome.

AMOS. Home, Heppy, home!

HEPHZIBAH. Aye, hame!

AMOS. With our savings!

HEPHZIBAH. With our savings!

HEPHZIBAH. Thy savings—!

AMOS. Tsch! Get on with your packing.

[HEPHZIBAH goes out, carrying the travelling-bag and AMOS'S shoes. He exchanges the coat he is wearing for a shabby little black jacket which GERTRUDE brings him.]

GERTRUDE. [Filling AMOS'S pipe.] Well, dear! Go on!

AMOS. Well, I've seen them.

GERTRUDE. Them—

AMOS. The Duke and Sir Sandford Cleeve.

GERTRUDE. At the hotel.

AMOS. I found them sitting together in the hall, smoking, listening to some music.

GERTRUDE. Quite contented with the arrangement they believed they had brought about.

AMOS. Apparently so. Especially the Baronet—a poor, cadaverous creature.

GERTRUDE. Where was Mr. Cleeve?

AMOS. He had been there, had an interview with his wife, and departed.

GERTRUDE. Then by this time he has discovered that Mrs. Ebbsmith has left him?

AMOS. I suppose so.

GERTRUDE. Well, well! The Duke and the cadaverous Baronet?

AMOS. Oh, I told them that I considered it my duty to let them know that the position of affairs had suddenly become altered—[she puts the pipe in his mouth, and strikes a match.]—that, in point of fact, Mrs. Ebbsmith had ceased to be an element in their scheme for re-establishing Mr. Cleeve's household.

GERTRUDE. [Holding a light to his pipe.] Did they inquire as to her movements?

AMOS. The Duke did—guessed we had taken her.

GERTRUDE. What did they say to that?

AMOS. The Baronet asked me whether I was the chaplain of a Home for [angrily]—ah!

GERTRUDE. Brute! And then?

AMOS. Then they suggested that I ought hardly to leave them to make the necessary explanation to their relative, Mr. Lucas Cleeve.

GERTRUDE. Yes—well?

AMOS. I replied that I fervently hoped I should never set eyes on their relative again.

GERTRUDE [Gleefully.] Ha!

AMOS. But that Mrs. Ebbsmith had left a letter behind her at the Palazzo Arconati, addressed to that gentleman, which I presume contained so full an explanation as he could desire.

GERTRUDE. Oh, Amos—!

AMOS. Eh?

GERTRUDE. You're mistaken there, dear; there was no letter.

AMOS. No letter—?

GERTRUDE. Simply four shakily-written words.

AMOS. Only four words!

GERTRUDE. "My—hour-is-over."

[HEPHZIBAH enters with a card on a little tray. GERTRUDE reads the card and utters an exclamation.]

GERTRUDE. [Taking the card and speaking under her breath.] Amos! [He goes to her; they stare at the card together.]

AMOS. [To HEPHZIBAH.] Certainly! [HEPHZIBAH goes out, then returns with the DUKE OF ST. OLPHERTS, and retires. ST. OLPHERTS bows graciously to GERTRUDE and more formally to AMOS.]

AMOS. Pray, sit down. [ST. OLPHERTS seats himself on the settee.]

ST. OLPHERTS. Oh, my dear sir!—If I may use such an expression in your presence—here is the devil to pay!

AMOS. [To ST. OLPHERTS.] You don't mind my pipe. [ST. OLPHERTS waves a hand pleasantly.] And I don't mind your expression—[sitting by the table]—the devil to pay?

ST. OLPHERTS. This, I daresay well intentioned, interference of yours has brought about some very unpleasant results. Mr. Cleeve returns to the Palazzo Arconati and find that Mrs. Ebbsmith has flown.

AMOS. That result, at least, was inevitable.

ST. OLPHERTS. Whereupon he hurries back to the Danieli and denounces us all for a set of conspirators.

AMOS. Your Grace doesn't complain of the injustice of that charge?

ST. OLPHERTS. [Smilingly.] No, no, I don't complain. But the brother— the wife! Just when they imagined they had bagged the truant—there's the sting!

GERTRUDE. Oh, then Mr. Cleeve now refuses to carry out his part of the shameful arrangement?

ST. OLPHERTS. Absolutely. [Rising, taking a chair, and placing it by the settee.] Come into this, dear Mrs. Thorn—!

AMOS. Thorpe.

ST. OLPHERTS. Come into this! [Sitting again.] You understand the sort of man we have to deal with in Mr. Cleeve.

GERTRUDE. [Sitting.] A man who prizes a woman when he has lost her.

ST. OLPHERTS. Precisely.

GERTRUDE. Men don't relish, I suppose, being cast off by women.

ST. OLPHERTS. It's an inversion of the picturesque; the male abandoned is not a pathetic figure. At any rate, our poor Lucas is now raving fidelity to Mrs. Ebbsmith.

GERTRUDE. [Indignantly.] Ah—!

ST. OLPHERTS. If you please, he cannot, will not, exist without her.
Reputation, fame, fortune are nothing weighed against—Mrs. Ebbsmith.
And we may go to perdition, so that he recovers—Mrs. Ebbsmith.

AMOS. Well—to be plain—you're not asking us to sympathise with Mrs.
Cleeve and her brother-in-law over their defeat?

ST. OLPHERTS. Certainly not. All I ask, Mr. Winterfield, is that you will raise no obstacle to a meeting between Mr. Cleeve and—and—

GERTRUDE. No!

[ST. OLPHERTS signifies assent; GERTRUDE makes a movement.]

ST. OLPHERTS. [To her.] Don't go.

AMOS. The object of such a meeting?

ST. OLPHERTS. Mrs. Cleeve desires to make a direct, personal appeal to
Mrs. Ebbsmith.

GERTRUDE. Oh, what kind of woman can this Mrs. Cleeve be?

ST. OLPHERTS. A woman of character, who sets herself to accomplish a certain task—

GERTRUDE. Character!

AMOS. Hush, Gerty!

ST. OLPHERTS. And who gathers her skirts tightly around her and tip-toes gently into the mire.

AMOS. To put it clearly: in order to get her unfaithful husband back to London, Mrs. Cleeve would deliberately employ this weak, unhappy woman as a lure.

ST. OLPHERTS. Perhaps Mrs. Cleeve is an unhappy woman.

GERTRUDE. What work for a wife!

ST. OLPHERTS. Wife—nonsense! She is only married to Cleeve.

AMOS. [Walking up and down.] It is proposed that this meeting should take place—when?

ST. OLPHERTS. I have brought Sir Sandford and Mrs. Cleeve with me.
[Pointing towards the outer door.] They are—

AMOS. If I decline?

ST. OLPHERTS. It's known you leave for Milan at a quarter to nine in the morning; there might be some sort of foolish, inconvenient scene at the station.

AMOS. Surely your Grace—?

ST. OLPHERTS. Oh, no, I shall be in bed at that hour. I mean, between the women, perhaps—and Mr. Cleeve. Come, come, sir, you can't abduct Mrs. Ebbsmith—nor can we. Nor must you gag her. [AMOS appears angry and perplexed.] Pray be reasonable. Let her speak out for herself— here, finally—and settle the business. Come, sir, come!

AMOS. [Going to GERTRUDE and speaking in a low voice.] Ask her. [GERTRUDE goes out.] Cleeve! Where is he while this poor creature's body and soul are being played for? You have told him she is with us?

ST. OLPHERTS. No, I haven't.

AMOS. He must suspect it.

ST. OLPHERTS. Well, candidly, Mr. Winterfield, Mr. Cleeve is just now employed in looking for Mrs. Ebbsmith elsewhere.

AMOS. Elsewhere?

ST. OLPHERTS. Sir Sandford recognised that, in his brother's present mood, the young man's presence might be prejudicial to the success of these delicate negotiations.

AMOS. So some lie has been told him, to keep him out of the way?

ST. OLPHERTS. Now, Mr. Winterfield—!

AMOS. Good heavens! Duke—forgive me for my roughness—you appear to be fouling your hands, all of you, with some relish!

ST. OLPHERTS. I must trouble you to address remarks of that nature to Sir Sandford Cleeve. I am no longer a prime mover in the affair. I am simply standing by.

AMOS. But how can you "stand by"?

ST. OLPHERTS. Confound it, sir, if you will trouble yourself to rescue people, there is a man to be rescued here as well as a woman; a man, by the way, who is a—a sort of relative of mine.

AMOS. The woman first!

ST. OLPHERTS. Not always. You can rescue this woman in a few weeks' time; it can make no difference.

AMOS. [Indignantly.] Ah—!

ST. OLPHERTS. Oh, you are angry!

AMOS. I beg your pardon. One word. I assure your Grace that I truly believe this wretched woman is at a fatal crisis in her life. I believe that if I lose her now there is every chance of her slipping back into a misery and despair out of which it will be impossible to drag her. Oh, I'll be perfectly open with you. At this moment we—my sister and I—are not perfectly sure of her. Her affection for this man may still induce her to sacrifice herself utterly for him; she is still in danger of falling to the lowest depth a woman can attain. Come, Duke, don't help these people. And don't "stand by!" Help me and my sister. For God's sake!

ST. OLPHERTS. My good Mr. Winterfield, believe me or not, I—I positively like this woman.

AMOS. [Gladly.] Ah!

ST. OLPHERTS. She attracts me curiously. And if she wanted assistance—

AMOS. Doesn't she?

ST. OLPHERTS. Money—

AMOS. No, no.

ST. OLPHERTS. She should have it. But as for the rest—well—

AMOS. Well?

ST. OLPHERTS. Well sir, you must understand me. It is a failing of mine; I can't approach women—I never could—in the missionary spirit.

[GERTRUDE re-enters; the men turn to face her.]

AMOS. [To GERTRUDE.] Will she—?

GERTRUDE. Yes. [ST. OLPHERTS limps out of the room, bowing to GERTRUDE as he passes.] Oh, Amos!

AMOS. Are we to lose the poor soul after all, Gerty?

GERTRUDE. I—I can't think so. Oh! but I'm afraid.

[ST. OLPHERTS returns, and SIR SANDFORD CLEEVE enters with SYBIL
CLEEVE. SANDFORD is a long, lean, old-young man with a pinched face.
SYBIL is a stately, handsome young woman, beautifully gowned and
thickly veiled.]

ST. OLPHERTS. Mrs Thorpe—Mr Winterfield. [SYBIL and SANDFORD bow distantly to GERTRUDE and AMOS.]

AMOS. [To SANDFORD and SYBIL, indicating the settee.] Will you—?
[SYBIL sits on the settee; SANDFORD takes the chair beside her.]
Gertrude—[GERTRUDE goes out.]

SIR SANDFORD. [Pompously.] Mr Winterfield, I find myself engaged on a peculiarly distasteful task.

AMOS. I have no hope, Sir Sandford, that you will not have strength to discharge it.

SIR SANDFORD. We shall object to loftiness of attitude on your part, sir. You would do well to reflect that we are seeking to restore a young man to a useful and honourable career.

AMOS. You are using very honourable means, Sir Sandford.

SIR SANDFORD. I shall protest against any perversion of words, Mr.
Winterfield—

[The door of the further room opens, and GERTRUDE comes in, then AGNES. The latter is in a rusty, ill-fitting, black, stuff, dress; her hair is tightly drawn from her brows; her face is haggard, her eyes are red and sunken. A strip of linen binds her right hand.]

ST. OLPHERTS. [Speaking into SYBIL'S ear.] The lean witch again! The witch of the Iron Hall at St. Luke's.

SYBIL. [In a whisper.] Is that the woman?

ST. OLPHERTS. You see only one of 'em—there are two there.

[SANDFORD rises as AGNES comes slowly forward accompanied by GERTRUDE.
AMOS joins GERTRUDE; and they go together into the adjoining room,
GERTRUDE giving AGNES an appealing look.]

SIR SANDFORD. [To AGNES.] I—I am Mr. Lucas Cleeve's brother—[with a motion of the hand towards SYBIL]—this is—this is—

[He swallows the rest of the announcement and retires to the back of the room, where he stands before the stove. ST. OLPHERTS strolls away and disappears.]

SYBIL. [To AGNES, in a hard, dry, disdainful voice.] I beg that you will sit down. [AGNES sits mechanically, with an expressionless face.] I—I don't need to be told that this is a very—a very unwomanly proceeding on my part.

SIR SANDFORD. I can't regard it in that light, under the peculiar circumstances.

SYBIL. I'd rather you wouldn't interrupt me, Sandford. [To AGNES.] But the peculiar circumstances, to borrow my brother-in-law's phrase, are not such as to develop sweetness and modesty, I suppose.

SIR SANDFORD. Again I say you wrong yourself there, Sybil—

SYBIL. [Impatiently.] Oh, please let me wrong myself, for a change. [To AGNES.] When my husband left me, and I heard of his association with you, I felt sure that his vanity would soon make an openly irregular life intolerable to him. Vanity is the cause of a great deal of virtue in men; the vainest are those who like to be thought respectable.

SIR SANDFORD. Really, I must protest—

SYBIL. But Lady Cleeve—the mother—and the rest of the family have not had the patience to wait for the fulfilment of my prophecy. And so I have been forced to undertake this journey.

SIR SANDFORD. I demur to the expression "forced", Sybil—

SYBIL. Cannot we be left alone? Surely—! [SANDFORD bows stiffly and moves away, following ST. OLPHERTS.] However, there's this to be said for them, poor people—whatever is done to save my husband's prospects in life must be done now. It is no longer possible to play fast and loose with friends and supporters—to say nothing of enemies. His future now rests upon a matter of days—hours almost. [Rising and walking about agitatedly.] That is why I am sent here—well, why I am here.

AGNES. [In a low, quavering voice.] What is it you are all asking me to do now?

SYBIL. We are asking you to continue to—to exert your influence over him for a little while longer.

AGNES. [Rising unsteadily.] Ah—! [She makes a movement to go, falters, and irresolutely sits again.] My influence—mine!

SYBIL. [With a stamp of the foot.] You wouldn't underrate your power if you had seen him, heard him, about an hour ago—[mockingly] after he had discovered his bereavement.

AGNES. He will soon forget me.

SYBIL. Yes—if you don't forsake him.

AGNES. I am going to England, into Yorkshire; according to your showing, that should draw him back.

SYBIL. Oh, I've no doubt that we shall hear of him—in Yorkshire!
You'll find him dangling about your skirts—in Yorkshire!

AGNES. And he will find that I am determined—strong.

SYBIL. Ultimately he will tire, of course. But when? And what assurance have we that he returns to us when he has wearied of pursuing you? Besides, don't I tell you that we must make sure of him now? It's of no use his begging us, in a month's time, to patch up home and reputation. It must be now—and you can end our suspense. Come, hideous as it sounds, this is not much to ask.

AGNES. [Shrinking from her.] Oh—!

SYBIL. Oh, don't regard me as the wife! That's an unnecessary sentiment, I pledge you my word. It's a little late in the day, too, for such considerations. So, come, help us!

AGNES. I will not.

SYBIL. He has an old mother—

AGNES. Poor woman!

SYBIL. And remember, you took him away—!

AGNES. I!

SYBIL. Practically you did—with your tender nursing and sweet compassion. Isn't it straining a point—to shirk bringing him back?

AGNES. [Rising.] I did not take him from you. You—you sent him to me.

SYBIL. Ho, yes! That tale has been dinned into your ears often enough, I can quite believe. I sent him to you—my coldness, heartlessness, selfishness sent him to you. The unsympathetic wife—eh? Yes, but you didn't put yourself to the trouble of asking for my version of the story before you mingled your woes with his. [AGNES faces her suddenly.] You know him now. Have I been altogether to blame, do you still think? Unsympathetic! Because I've so often had to tighten my lips, and stare blankly over his shoulder, to stop myself crying out in weariness of his vanity and pettiness? Cruel! Because, occasionally, patience becomes exhausted at the mere contemplation of a man so self-absorbed? Why, you married miserably, the Duke of St. Olpherts tells us! Before you made yourself my husband's champion and protector, why didn't you let your experience speak a word for me? [AGNES quickly turns away and sits upon the settee, her hands to her brow.] However, I didn't come here to revile you. [Standing by her.] They say that you're a strange woman—not the sort of woman one generally finds doing such things as you have done; a woman with odd ideas. I hear—oh, I'm willing to believe it!—that there's good in you. [AGNES breaks into a low peal of hysterical laughter.]

AGNES. Who tells you—that?

SYBIL. The Duke.

AGNES. Ha, ha, ha! A character—from him! ha, ha, ha!

SYBIL. [Her voice and manner softening.] Well, if there is pity in you, help us to get my husband back to London, to his friends, to his old ambitions.

AGNES. Ha, ha, ha, ha! your husband!

SYBIL. The word slips out. I swear to you that he and I can never be more to each other than companion figures in a masquerade. The same roof may cover us; but between two wings of a house, as you may know, there often stretches a wide desert. I despise him; he hates me. [Walking away, her voice breaking.] Only—I did love him once . . . I don't want to see him utterly thrown away—wasted . . . I don't quite want to see that . . . [AGNES rises and approaches SYBIL, fearfully.]

AGNES. [In a whisper.] Lift your veil for a moment. [SYBIL raises her veil.] Tears—tears—[with a deep groan]—Oh—! [SYBIL turns away.] I —I'll do it . . . I'll go back to the Palazzo . . . at once . . . [SYBIL draws herself up suddenly.] I've wronged you! Wronged you! O God! O God! [She totters away and goes into her bedroom. For a moment or two SYBIL stands still, a look of horror and repulsion upon her face. Then she turns and goes towards the outer door.]

SYBIL. [Calling.] Sandford! Sandford!

[SIR SANDFORD CLEEVE and the DUKE OF ST. OLPHERTS enter.]

SIR SANDFORD. [To SYBIL.] Well—?

SYBIL. She is going back to the Palazzo.

SIR SANDFORD. You mean that she consents to—?

SYBIL. [Stamping her foot.] I mean that she will go back to the
Palazzo. [Sitting and leaning her head upon her hands.] Oh! oh!

SIR SANDFORD. Need we wait any longer, then?

SYBIL. These people—these people who are befriending her! Tell them.

SIR SANDFORD. Really, it can hardly be necessary to consult—

SYBIL. [Fiercely.] I will have them told! I will have them told! [SANDFORD goes to the door of the adjoining room and knocks, returning to SYBIL as GERTRUDE and AMOS enter. SYBIL draws down her veil.]

GERTRUDE. [Looking round.] Mrs. Ebbsmith—? Mrs. Ebbsmith—!

SIR SANDFORD. Er—many matters have been discussed with Mrs. Ebbsmith. Undoubtedly, she has, for the moment, considerable influence over my brother. She has consented to exert it, to induce him to return at once to London.

AMOS. I think I understand you! [AGNES appears at the door of her room dressed in bonnet and cloak.]

GERTRUDE. Agnes—! [AGNES comes forward, stretches out her hand to
GERTRUDE, and throws herself upon the settee.]

SYBIL. [To SANDFORD, clutching his arm.] Take me away. [They turn to go.]

GERTRUDE. [To SYBIL.] Mrs Cleeve—! [Looking down upon AGNES.] Mrs. Cleeve, we—my brother and I—hoped to save this woman. She was worth saving. You have utterly destroyed her. [SYBIL makes no answer, but walks slowly away with SANDFORD, then stops and turns abruptly.]

SYBIL. [With a gasp.] Oh—! No—I will not accept the services of this wretched woman. I loathe myself for what I have done. [Coming to AGNES.] Look up! Look at me! [Proudly—lifting her veil.] I decline your help—I decline it. [To GERTRUDE and AMOS.] You hear me—you— and you? I unsay all that I've said to her. It's too degrading. I will not have such an act upon my conscience. [To AGNES.] Understand me! If you rejoin this man I shall consider it a fresh outrage upon me. I hope you will keep with your friends. [GERTRUDE holds out her hand to SYBIL; SYBIL touches it distantly.]

AGNES. [Clutching at SYBIL'S skirts.] Forgive me! forgive—!

SYBIL. [Retreating.] Ah, please—! [Turning and confronting SANDFORD.]
Tell your mother I have failed. I am not going back to England.

[LUCAS enters quickly; he and SYBIL come face to face. They stand looking at each other for a moment, then she sweeps past him and goes out. SANDFORD follows her.]

LUCAS. [Coming to AGNES.] Agnes—[To AGNES, in rapid, earnest undertones.] They sent me to the railway station; my brother told me you were likely to leave for Milan tonight. I ought to have guessed sooner that you were in the hands of this meddling parson and his sister. Why has my wife been here—?

AGNES. [In a low voice, rocking herself gently to and fro.] You wife— your wife—!

LUCAS. And the others? What scheme is afoot now? Why have you left me? Why didn't you tell me outright that I was putting you to too severe a test? You tempted me, you led me on, to propose that I should patch up my life in that way. [She rises, with an expressionless face.] But it has had one good result. I know now how much I depend on you. Oh, I have had it all out with myself, pacing up and down that cursed railway station. [Laying his hand upon her arm and speaking into her ear.] I don't deceive myself any longer. Agnes, this is the great cause of the unhappiness I've experienced of late years—I'm not fit for the fight and press of life. I wear no armour; I am too horribly sensitive. My skin bleeds at a touch; even flatter wounds me. Oh, the wretchedness of it! But you can be strong—at your weakest, there is a certain strength in you. With you, in time, I feel I shall grow stronger. Only I must withdraw from the struggle for a while; you must take me out of it and let me rest—recover breath, as it were. Come! Forgive me for having treated you ungratefully, almost treacherously. Tomorrow we shall begin our search for our new home. Agnes!

AGNES. I have already found a home.

LUCAS. Apart from me, you mean?

AGNES. Apart from you.

LUCAS. No, no. You'll not do that!

AGNES. Lucas, this evening, two or three hours ago, you planned out the life we were to lead in the future. We had done with "madness", if you remember; henceforth we were to be "mere man and woman."

LUCAS. You agreed—

AGNES. Then. But we hadn't looked at each other clearly then, as mere man and woman. You, the man—what are you? You've confessed—

LUCAS. I lack strength; I shall gain it.

AGNES. Never from me—never from me. For what am I? Untrue to myself, as you are untrue to yourself; false to others, as you are false to others; passionate, unstable, like yourself; like yourself, a coward. I —I was to lead women! I was to show them, in your company, how laws— laws made and laws that are natural—may be set aside or slighted; how men and woman may live independent and noble lives without rule, guidance or sacrament. I was to be the example—the figure set up for others to observe and imitate. But the figure was made of wax—it fell awry at the first hot breath that touched it! You and I! What a partnership it has been! How base, and gross, and wicked, almost from the very beginning! We know each other now thoroughly—how base and wicked it would remain! No, go your way, Lucas, and let me go mine.

LUCAS. Where—where are you going?

AGNES. To Ketherick—to think. [Wringing her hands.] Ah! I have to think, too, now, of the woman I have wronged.

LUCAS. Wronged?

AGNES. Your wife; the woman I have wronged, who came here tonight, and —spared me. Oh, go!

LUCAS. Not like this, Agnes! not like this!

AGNES. [Appealingly.] Gertrude! [LUCAS looks round—first at GERTRUDE then at AMOS—and, with a hard smile upon his face, turns to go. Suddenly AGNES touches his sleeve.] Lucas, when you have learnt to pray again, I will remember you, every day of my life.

LUCAS. [Staring at her.] Pray! . . . you! . . .

[She inclines her head twice, slowly; without another word he walks away and goes out. AGNES sinks upon the settee; AMOS and GERTRUDE remain, stiffly and silently, in the attitude of people who are waiting for the departure of a disagreeable person.]

ST. OLPHERTS. [After watching LUCAS'S departure.] Now I wonder whether, if he hurried to his wife at this moment, repentant, and begged her to relent—I wonder whether—whether she would—whether—[looking at AMOS and GERTRUDE, a little disconcerted]—I beg your pardon—You're not interested?

AMOS. Frankly, we are not.

ST. OLPHERTS. No; other people's affairs are tedious. [Producing his gloves.] Well! A week in Venice—and the weather has been delightful. [Shaking hands with GERTRUDE, whose expression remains unchanged.] A pleasant journey! [Going to AGNES, offering his hand.] Mrs. Ebbsmith—? [She lifts her maimed hand.] Ah! An accident? [She nods wearily.] I'm sorry . . . I . . .

[He turns away and goes out, bowing to AMOS as he passes.]